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When Eddie wakes, it’s to Buck’s arm slung across his chest, Buck’s ankle hooked over his, and Buck’s erection pressing into his hip.
Two out of three of those aren’t unusual.
It’s six weeks since the lightning. Five weeks and two days since Buck woke up. Four weeks and three days since he was released from hospital. Four weeks exactly since he came home, came to stay at the Diaz house while he recuperates, like he should have from the start.
It’s been three weeks and four days since they started sharing the bed.
Initially, Eddie had slept on the couch, some strange inversion of when Buck stays over, some odd mirror of when Buck had moved in to help him recover from the bullet wound. But after a few days of nightmares for one or both of them — Eddie finding himself at his own bedroom door much the way he used to find himself at Chris’ after the tsunami, looking in on the shadowed lump of Buck under his covers, staring long enough to convince himself he’s breathing, and then longer still; or waking to Buck’s heavy, uncoordinated footsteps stumbling down the hall to peek in on Chris and then come to the lounge, come to Eddie — and Buck starting to make noises about moving to the couch himself because, really, he’s fine, Eddie, he swears, Eddie had caved and allowed himself the comfort of sleeping beside Buck, the assurance of knowing that Buck wouldn’t do himself further damage by moving to the couch before he’s properly healed.
So, it’s not been unusual for Eddie to wake these past few weeks with Buck pressed against his side, arms and legs cuddling him close, face tucked into his neck. Or to wake curled into Buck’s side himself.
Honestly, the erection isn’t something Eddie hasn’t experienced before either. It’s just been a while. Eddie’s woken up hard several times since he returned to his own bed, even just the previous morning — thankfully with Buck spooned up against his back, not slotted along his front, and so well out of range. But Eddie hasn’t felt the poke of Buck’s morning wood since quarantine, when four people in the close quarters of the loft had Eddie the one in Buck’s bed.
It’d been a little awkward the first time it happened, but they’d laughed about it, accepted it was going to be a normal part of their new normal. After that, whenever Eddie had woken with the hot line of Buck’s cock against his thigh or his own pressing into Buck’s ass, they’d rolled away from each other and, depending on the time, gone back to sleep, separated, or one of them had snagged the first shower, before Chim could use up all the hot water.
Now, Eddie thinks to go back to sleep himself, not bothering to roll away. He doesn’t want to disturb Buck’s rest, and he can tell from his internal clock and the flavor of the light only just starting to permeate the room that it can’t be later than 6. It’s a Sunday, so Chris won’t emerge from his bedroom seeking sustenance until at least 10, so unlike not even a year ago when he’d be up before 8, raring to go and begging for Buck’s pancakes for breakfast. And Eddie’s on a 48 off, has a bit over 24 hours to go; there’s no need for him to get up.
It’s cozy in his bed, Buck bundled up into him, the fabric of his hoodie soft against Eddie’s bare chest, the sock on his foot the slightest tickle where it’s catching in Eddie’s leg hair. In fact, it’s so comfortable for a moment Eddie doesn’t know what has woken him. There’s no sound in or outside the house, save the soft whir of the bedroom fan and the occasional faint chirp of birds. Eddie doesn’t need to pee, isn’t too hot or too cold, and hunger pangs are not yet upon him.
But Buck is still at his side. Not the still of sleep, deep and even breaths causing his chest to rise and fall slowly, but the still of someone awake and holding themself stationary. And that must be the thing that has Eddie, normally well attuned to everything Buck and hyper so in the past weeks, alert before the full dawn.
He figures Buck, similarly attuned to him, knows he is awake too. But just in case Buck isn’t sure and is scared to move in case he wakes him — and makes him aware of the current predicament — Eddie brings up his hand to set over Buck’s where it’s splayed on his chest, covering his scar. He pats once, twice, then leaves it there, just touching, not holding, not keeping Buck from pulling away, rolling over like would be their established usual for this scenario.
And Buck does pull away, but not before he makes a soft sound, not quite confusion, not quite wonder, and when he turns it’s only onto his back — not the full flip onto his other side that Buck would execute if he was going back to sleep, nor the roll to sitting if he intended to get out of bed.
The blankets rustle and then Buck says, low, surprised, “Oh.”
Eddie’s already broken protocol by touching Buck, by acknowledging that there was anything happening at all, so he decides that it’s alright if he goes a step further. Besides, he’s worried about everything to do with Buck of late, can’t help himself from fearing the worst about every little thing. So, when he turns his head to look over at him, it really is only concern that drives him.
Buck is lying with his chin tilted to look down himself, the comforter flipped back to uncover his body as low as mid-thigh, to expose where his cock is tenting his shorts. Or, trying it’s best to tent the shorts; they’re Eddie’s — there’s much less loose fabric than there would be if they were Buck’s, fit for his wider hips.
Eddie tears his eyes away from the obscene bulge and focuses on Buck’s face. There’s a crease in his forehead like he’s confused but then he blinks, rapid and repeatedly, and it clears out, something like relief settling in its wake.
“Buck,” Eddie says, and this is fully breaking their previous silent agreement over how they deal with this because they never talked about it during quarantine, not after the first time, but he needs to understand what’s going on, has to know that Buck is okay.
Buck looks to him immediately, and their eyes meet, but only for a moment before Buck’s directing his gaze down and to the side. “Uh,” he says, voice rough from sleep, and a pretty blush is rising high on his cheeks. “This, uh–” he clears his throat. “This is the first time I’ve– that I’ve, you know–” he breaks off, glances back to Eddie and away again, then nods down at his crotch. “I haven’t been– hard. Not since…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t need to, not when Eddie can see the flash of the lightning behind his eyes, can hear the crack of electricity in his ears, can feel the rumble of the thunder in his body, doesn’t know how to ever stop.
“I was worried,” Buck says, blush deepening. “That something was, um. That something was wrong.”
“Buck,” Eddie says again, and it must not be in the tone Buck expected, because it gets Buck to really look at him. Eddie can’t rib him, can’t be faux scandalized over the topic of conversation, not when he only feels sharp sympathy, sadness for Buck that he’s been going through this on top of everything else.
Because it makes complete sense that Buck would have this worry. In addition to the healing burns and bruises, he’s also suffering side effects from the shock. Headaches, a prickling sensation down his left flank, numbness in his fingertips and toes, confusion. He’s improving and the doctors have all seemed cautiously optimistic that they’re temporary issues, but that doesn’t make them any less unpleasant.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Eddie asks, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow, so he can look at Buck properly.
Buck has told him all about his other symptoms. Even when he had fled the not-quite comfortable, almost-oppressive presence of this parents, had complained Maddie was driving him crazy playing nurse, had threatened to block Hen’s number so she’d stop asking for updates, had said he couldn’t stand one more second of Chim’s fussing and Bobby’s mother-henning, he’d still tell Eddie.
Eddie didn’t even have to ask. Buck would say, can you please get me a Tylenol, I’ve a headache coming on? Or he’d ask Christopher to tell him something again, admit that it hadn’t stuck in his brain the first time and he needed a repeat — one Chris was always patient about providing. Or he’d plop his feet in Eddie’s lap, let Eddie distract him from the tingling in his toes by digging his thumb into his arch.
But Buck never told him about this. Eddie hadn’t even realized there was anything Buck wasn’t telling him, that he’s been worried about beyond the rest.
Buck snorts on a laugh. “Yeah, that’d have been a fun conversation. Hey, Eddie, I think my dick might be broken.”
But Eddie can’t laugh about it, can’t find any humor in Buck stressing over this alone, and it’s clear he has been stressing over it, the relief in his face before making much more sense now.
“Did you at least mention it to your doctor?” Eddie asks, but he knows the answer even before Buck sighs and says no, looking a touch sheepish.
“It’s just– It’s embarrassing, you know?” he admits. “And I know they’ve heard it all before, seen it all before, but I didn’t want this to be another thing about me that’s fucked up.”
“You’re not fucked up,” Eddie says, immediate, unable to check the defensiveness in his voice, incapable of letting Buck talk about himself like that. “You’re still healing. You’re injured. You died.”
“I know,” Buck says, gentle, acquiescing, like Eddie’s the one who needs soothed, “I know, Eds.” His eyes are soft on Eddie’s.
Eddie blows out a breath, tries to reset himself. Buck needs to be allowed to express his feelings, vent his frustrations how he wants, without curbing anything for Eddie’s sake. “Hey,” he says, trying for lighter, trying to inject some semblance of joking into his words, “At least you know this part of you is healed.”
Buck huffs but it’s not a proper laugh. “Yeah,” he says, “At least, it works for this part of the process.” He doesn’t look fully convinced, his brows drawing back in, his mouth turning down.
And maybe it’s still solely concern driving him, but that’s harder to make the case for when Eddie’s next words are, “Well, d’you want to check if it’s fully working?”
It doesn’t hit him what he’s said, what it implies, until Buck’s eyes flick down his body again and then snap back to Eddie’s, his lips parting. He’s silent for a moment, gaze locked with Eddie’s, then he licks over his lips, says, “What?”
Eddie should brush it off, say, I’m kidding. What he should absolutely not do is wave a hand in the direction of Buck’s crotch and say, “I mean, I don’t mind,” like this is the same as turning off the tv or the radio when Buck has a migraine, as making him a tea when he breaks out in a chill, as listening to him rehash a conversation they’ve had to see if any threads are missing, as helping him rub burn cream on the parts of his scar that spread down his back. But maybe the residual lightning strike or the fall scrambled Eddie’s brain more than any of the scans managed to pick up. Because that’s exactly what he does.
Buck continues to stare at him, blank, for several heartbeats, then breaks their eye contact, while his face starts to flush in earnest, red spreading, deepening. “Eddie,” he says, a little strangled.
“Buck,” Eddie says, then pauses long enough such that Buck looks back to him. “Whatever you need,” he offers when Buck meets his eyes. “Anything.”
Buck licks over his lips again, head twisted to the side to face Eddie. Then he turns it so he’s lying back, says, to the ceiling, “Uh, yeah. I wanna see that it’s working.”
“I can give you some space,” Eddie offers. That’s the only sensible option here. It’s too early for Buck to take first shower, at least two hours too early for a Sunday morning. And the idea of Buck shuffling off to the toilet to take care of business is just sad. So, Eddie’s fine to relocate to the couch, let Buck have some time alone.
And he expects Buck to take him up on the offer, maybe with a teasing what, you’re not looking for a show? first, before ultimately thanking him and promising to wash the sheets after — something Eddie will later insist on doing himself; Buck’s in no condition to be wrestling with a fitted sheet.
But that’s not what happens.
“No,” Buck says, too quick. Then again, “No. I’m not kicking you out of bed.”
“Okay,” Eddie says.
He’s not sure what he expects to happen now. He’s not actually sure there are any thoughts in his head at all, other than the totality of Buck: flat on his back in Eddie’s bed, telling him not to go, that first, hurried no an echo in Eddie’s skull. For Eddie to stay, it’s– definitely not within their previous parameters for situations like this. But then nothing between them ever seems containable to normal boundaries, the scope of their relationship always bursting at the seams.
Buck lifts his hand from the mattress, where it had been resting, not even on his belly, like he was afraid that touching any part of his own body would be misconstrued. He sets it momentarily on his hip, presses his eyes closed. Eddie watches his throat bob as he swallows and shift when he says, checks, “This is okay?”
“Yeah, this is okay, Buck,” Eddie assures him, tries to keep his tone even, tries not to sound as out of his depth or as eager as he feels, tries not to give away that his pulse is pounding, every artery in his body pulsing with blood that might be starting to redirect away from higher functions and to a lower part of his anatomy.
Buck lifts his hand again, sets it over the bulge in his pants, and Eddie doesn’t know what’s more erotic, the sight of his palm, his big, broad palm, not able to encompass the swell of his cock, or the little, sharp inhale that he takes when he presses down.
“Eddie, I–” Buck starts, uncertain, and Eddie feels a fierce kind of possessiveness that to any of Buck’s previous lovers this would probably be impossible to imagine — confident, cocky Firehose would have been anything but unsure of himself in the bedroom. But to Eddie it’s not. Not when Eddie knows all sides of Buck, every single facet of him, save maybe the one he’s about to uncover now.
“Does that feel normal?” Eddie interrupts him, and he doesn’t know where the question comes from, other than a chronic need to look after Buck, a desperate desire for him to be okay in all ways. It could almost be him asking after any other part of Buck’s body these past weeks, except for how he wants to follow it up with, does that feel good? He swallows those words back down.
Buck nods, his head shifting against his pillow, curls mussing even more than they already are.
“Good,” Eddie informs him, and it appears to instill enough confidence in Buck that he goes further, lifts his hand again and slides it past the waistband of his shorts. He inhales deep and slow, like it’s a concerted effort to not make some other sound. Eddie empathizes; he feels like he could moan at the pale strip skin unveiled where the fabric is lifted from Buck’s body.
From their position, Eddie on Buck’s right and Buck’s right hand down his pants, Eddie can’t see any of Buck’s cock, shaft blocked from view by his hand and wrist, the head tucking into the waistband, but he can clearly make out the motion of Buck sliding his hand down and back up, repeating the motion, muscles in his strong forearm shifting. Eddie has the intrusive thought that if he can never have a taste of Buck’s dick, he’d take getting his teeth and tongue on that arm as a consolation prize — and he’d be happy about it.
“Oh, god,” Buck gasps and, this time, Eddie asks what he really wants to.
“Is that good?”
Buck nods again, says, “Yeah. Fuck, yeah,” and laughs. Maybe at himself, maybe at the situation, his hand working his cock in his shorts, Eddie literally propped up at his side, watching him. He probably should have laid back down, not remained on his side, elbow elevating him so that he’s effectively overlooking Buck as he jerks himself. But then, if he was laid on his back beside Buck, he’s not sure he’d be able to stop himself becoming an almost mirror of him, taking himself in hand too, what with the way his own cock is filling out.
Buck’s quiet, but every tiny sound he makes feels so loud. His teeth are set in his lower lip and he makes the smallest, muffled whimper around it, a shiver working through Eddie’s belly in response. The back of his hand rasps against the inside of his shorts and the noise of his palm sliding against the shaft is becoming more obvious, a tell-tale slick sound starting up. Eddie notes the small spot appearing just below the waistband of the shorts, the pale grey darkening to charcoal.
Buck must notice it too, or maybe just feels how much he’s leaking, how wet he’s getting, because he says, “Shit, Eds. Sorry, I’m making a mess of your shorts.”
“It’s fine,” Eddie tells him, and it’s such a bland statement when the reality couldn’t be further from. It’s not fine. It’s miraculous, it’s glorious, it’s spectacular. Buck is alive, and he’s in Eddie’s bed, with Eddie, touching himself inside Eddie’s shorts, feeling so good that he’s leaking all over them, and it’s so far beyond anything Eddie would, could, have even hoped for that he’s not sure he can fathom anything better. Except, maybe, being able to see Buck’s fist around his cock.
Slow enough that Buck could stop him if he wanted, Eddie reaches over and, careful not to touch Buck’s skin, hooks his fingers in the waistband of the shorts, where it’s already raised from Buck’s hip, extended up and over his wrist.
“But here,” Eddie says, as he tugs up and pulls the waistband down, uncovering Buck’s hand, and the base of his shaft, and his balls, and gently lets the elastic tuck under his sac. “This will be easier.”
Eddie wants to look his fill at the sight he’s been some kind of brave enough to unveil but he needs to check in on Buck first, make sure that this uncharted territory is as grand an adventure as it is for Eddie, not a perilous trip.
Buck’s eyes are closed, and his expression is twisted, but only in that pleasure that looks so much like pain, not true discomfort, his teeth back in his lower lip, biting so hard Eddie thinks he might split it. Though, he’s still again, frozen all over, muscles tensed, arm stationary, like he’s debating moving, whether he should, whether he’s allowed. Like maybe he’s waiting on a signal from Eddie again.
Eddie lets his eyes drop to Buck’s cock, the tip hidden in his fist, says, “Is that better?” to prompt Buck to carry on. And he does, slides his hand down and gives Eddie a look at his pink cockhead, shiny with the fluid beading from the slit.
“Y– yeah,” he stutters, pumping himself in long, slow strokes, “Yeah.”
Eddie maybe shouldn’t stare, but it’s impossible not to.
Buck’s dick is big, long and thick. Eddie already knew that, has glimpsed it before. But it’s different seeing it like this, hard and standing up from his body, red and slick, a vein lining the side. And it’s novel to see how Buck touches himself, the angle he holds his dick at, the strength of the grip of his fingers, the frequency with which he slides his fist all the way up to rub over the head. He’s leaking steadily, and his whole face and down his throat is pink, his upper lip starting to shine with perspiration, and his breaths are sucking gulps in and shuddering pants out.
“You need this, don’t you?” Eddie should bite the words back, keep them locked behind the cage of his teeth but he can’t. “You’re desperate for it.”
Buck whimpers, a shiver racing through his body in response to Eddie’s allegation. “It’s been weeks,” he defends.
“Yeah, it has. You’ve had to go weeks before.”
Eddie didn’t hear about it at the time, something he’s past feeling hurt about — understands Buck needed to work through in his own way, is aware he had Hen as a confidant. But he knows all about it now: Buck sharing his woes of how difficult it was to go without rubbing one out for so long, Hen sharing her woes of having to hear about it.
“You need it now like you needed it then,” Eddie states.
“No,” Buck says, somewhat strangled as he thumbs just under the crown at the same time. “This is not– that wasn’t like this at all.”
“How so?” Eddie asks, though he can imagine, figures that’s understandable. It was different then. Buck would have been hard and having to ignore it, will his dick to calm down, take cold showers, for weeks on end. And knowing Buck, he probably did a poor job of outright ignoring it, probably let himself touch, or woke up grinding against the mattress and didn’t immediately stop, essentially edging himself. It makes sense that it’s different. It makes sense if it was better before. But he wants Buck to keep talking, even if it’s a struggle against his gasps of ecstasy, never wants to hear the silence of Buck unable to talk to him again.
“Then I was…,” Buck exhales, shaky, as he circles the pad of his thumb around his slit, and Eddie is torn between watching its path and the way Buck’s eyelashes flutter in response. “I was in this, this sterile, windowless room. People outside on the desk and in the waiting room knowing what I was doing.”
Eddie knows what Buck is doing now, can see what Buck is doing, window or not. He doesn’t ask how it’s different though, he doesn’t want to interrupt now that he has Buck speaking, voice rough with want.
“I came hard, yeah,” he admits. “It’d been ages. But it didn’t feel good, shooting into a plastic cup, standing up so I didn’t have to sit in the gross chair with the paper cover. Watching the door the whole time, even though I’d triple checked I’d locked it.”
“You weren’t looking at the magazines they keep in those rooms?” Eddie jokes, and Buck laughs, more of a hiccup, with eyes squeezed shut as he twists his hand.
“They weren’t in the room. The lady on the desk gave me them on the way in. I was so fucking relieved to have finally made the appointment, I didn’t even register how weird it was until I’d shut the door. I tossed them on the table in the corner and I didn’t even have to try not to look at them. Not like now. Trying so hard not to look–” He breaks off, shaking his head.
And that– Eddie has to ask about that. Because Buck’s eyes have been shut almost since he started. Sure, now they might be pressed closed against the swell of sensation that must be coursing in waves through his body, but before that they were closed too.
What is he trying not to look at? Would he normally watch himself jerk off, eyes cast down, tracking the precome sliding down his cockhead, dripping over his fingers? Does Buck — usually open, almost shameless — think that’s not for Eddie to know about him, too much on top of how Eddie now knows he likes a tight grip on his cock and a nail scraped lightly over the frenulum, now knows what he sounds like drowning in pleasure, now knows what he looks like fucking his own fist?
“Buck,” Eddie starts, “What do you mean?”
Buck shakes his head again.
“What are you trying not to look at?”
Even as he huffs a laugh through his nose, Buck doesn’t stop touching himself. “Isn’t it obvious?”
It definitely should be, it probably is, but Eddie needs to hear Buck say it. “Tell me anyway.”
“You.” Buck presses his eyelids closed tighter. “I’m trying so hard not to look at you.”
“You can,” Eddie insists, urgent in a way he can’t explain. “Of course, you can look at me.” When Buck’s eyes don’t open, when the cerulean Eddie is so familiar with, which the world felt grey without for the endless days Buck was unconscious, doesn’t immediately appear, he tries again. “Please look at me.”
Buck’s eyes do flutter open then, and it’s heady how it feels like Buck’s powerless against his request, it’s intoxicating that Buck’s gaze seeks his like he’s compelled to, even if as soon as their eyes meet he groans and closes them again.
“Buck, please,” Eddie says and Buck moans this time, broken and desperate as his hips twitch up and his hand pulls down.
“I– I can’t,” he gets out, swallowing hard. “It’s too much, Eddie. You’re too much.”
“You can,” Eddie assures him. “Look at me. Watch me watching you.”
“Oh, god,” Buck groans again, but he peels his eyes open, and he keeps them that way.
Buck’s gaze feels like almost a physical touch and, despite the warmth of the room, Eddie feels gooseflesh breaking out over his skin, as Buck’s eyes track over his face, trace down his bare chest, slow over his pecks, his nipples, snag for a long moment — that has Buck panting open-mouthed and speeding up his strokes — on his abs, before dropping to where his hips are hidden by the comforter.
Eddie’s aroused, could lift the blanket and show Buck, moves to do so, but aborts at the last moment and sets his hand on his stomach instead, curls his fingers and scratches over the trail of hair there that disappears beneath the cover, into his sweats.
“Holy shit,” Buck gasps, and pumps himself harder, the sound of the slick slide entirely indecent.
Eddie repeats the motion just to watch Buck tighten his grip and then says, “Eyes up here.”
Buck obeys, tilting his eyes up to Eddie’s once more.
“Eddie, I’m– fuck. I’m gonna–” Buck gasps, and if Eddie didn’t already know how close Buck is — from how bright red his cockhead is, sliding out of his fist on every downstroke, how much precome spills out the slit in tandem; how tense the muscles of Buck’s thighs are, the lines of them strong and stark; how tight his other hand is wound in the bedsheet, knuckles white with it — how wrecked he sounds voicing the warning would give it away.
Reaching over, Eddie grasps the pocket of Buck’s hoodie, uses his grip on the fabric to tug it up Buck’s body, exposing his stomach, leaving a clear expanse of skin so when Buck gasps again, swears low and drawn out, ffuuuuck, and comes, it’s over his twitching abs that the ropes of semen fall and pool.
Buck continues to work himself through the orgasm, groans with sensitivity even as his cock blurts more, and Eddie tries not to file away the information: Buck likes overstimulation. He’s not sure he’s successful, but he won’t hold it against himself when he does succeed, miraculously, in fighting the urge to release Buck’s hoodie and run his hand down his stomach instead, trail it through the mess there and rub it into Buck’s skin, or go lower and replace Buck’s hand with his own, edge his softening cock with the wet slide of his come-coated fingers, or lift his hand to Buck’s mouth, feed him his release, or to his own, finally get a taste of Buck on his tongue.
Eventually Buck unfurls his fist, releases his cock, and lays his hand on his hip. He’s gorgeous like this, face and torso flushed, chest heaving with the comedown, even with the cooling come coating his abs — maybe especially with it.
But his expression is turning sleepy, the aftermath of the orgasm hitting him in a way Eddie is familiar with himself: heavy warmth settling in all your muscles, bones; your brain on low-power mode. So, Eddie forces himself to look away and gets up from the bed.
“Don’t move,” he tells Buck, before heading for the door.
When he enters the bathroom, he takes a moment to grip the sink and close his eyes and take stock of himself. He knew he was aroused by seeing, hearing, smelling Buck like that, but it was only on the walk from the bedroom that he realized how hard he is, how out of breath he feels, and when he opens his eyes, raises his head to face himself in the mirror, he sees how flushed he is, his cheeks scarlet, red spreading down his throat in blooming blotches.
Turning the tap on, he cups his hands under the cold water, scoops some up and rinses it over his face. He lets it sit, the evaporating water cooling his fever-hot skin, as he turns the tap hot and wets a washcloth under the flow, wrings it out. Then he rubs his face dry before he leaves the room, takes deep, even breaths, and tries to will his erection to fade.
He returns to the bedroom to find his instruction has been ignored. Buck is leaning up, swiping at his stomach with a tissue.
“I thought I told you not to move,” Eddie says, letting a little teasing chastisement color his words.
Buck looks over as he kneels back on the bed, takes in the wet washcloth in his hand. “Oh,” he says, smiles sheepishly, and drops the sticky tissue in favor of reaching for the cloth.
Eddie bypasses his outstretched hand and sets the cloth to Buck’s belly himself, dabs at the drying fluid.
“Eds, I can–” Buck starts, but Eddie doesn’t let him finish.
“I know you can. But can you let me? Please?”
After a beat: “Yeah, okay.” Buck leans back, permits Eddie to wipe him down until his skin is clean and pink, allows Eddie to hook his fingers in the waistband of the shorts once more and tug them fully down, all the way off, and toss them in the direction of the laundry basket.
Then Eddie gets up to walk the cloth there himself, less keen for it to accidentally end up on the carpet, before opening a drawer and tugging a fresh pair of shorts from it, Buck’s own this time. He’ll get cold without them, Eddie knows. That and he looks a little ridiculous in a hoodie and socks, no pants. It shouldn’t make Eddie want him more, but, of course, it does.
Eddie thinks Buck might protest again, insist that he can dress himself when Eddie starts slipping the shorts over his feet, and he does sit up as Eddie is sliding them up his calves, but it’s only so he can plant his hands and feet and lift his butt from the mattress so Eddie can get the waistband settled correctly around his hips.
When Eddie looks up from smoothing Buck’s hoodie down, he realizes how close their faces are: Buck still sitting, Eddie kneeling, one knee between Buck’s — he’d be straddling Buck’s thigh if he lowered himself down.
Buck’s flush is fading but his cheeks are still pink, and his hair is a fluffy mess. His eyes are searching for Eddie’s and when they find them, in a role-reversal, Eddie’s the one to dodge him.
He leans in and tilts his head so his forehead touches Buck’s, so close that it’s awkward for eye contact to occur, impossible for Buck to read every emotion that Eddie knows is written plain in his gaze. He wonders if Buck can glean the love anyway, ever-present, in everything Eddie does or says around or for him or just with him in mind.
He wonders if Buck can feel it in his touch. It’s the first real skin-to-skin contact they’ve had since Buck rolled over and put a hand on himself. Eddie might have grazed Buck’s stomach with the side of his hand when wiping it clean, might have brushed his legs with his fingertips when pulling up the shorts, but only just, mostly blocked by fabric. A choice, a line Eddie couldn’t cross, lest Buck feel every iota of his lust, his longing, his love. For him. For Buck.
Eddie brings up his hand to cup the side of Buck’s face, brushes his thumb over the strawberry splash of his birthmark. And he knows if Buck couldn’t already feel it, he surely must now.
Buck inhales, slight, sudden, through his nose, then says, “Eds,” quiet into the space between them, breath feathering over Eddie’s lips, somehow still sweet, even stale from sleep.
Eddie would give almost anything to tilt his head again and fit their mouths together instead. And he thinks he might not have to give much, might not have to give anything at all. He thinks Buck might let him, might want him to, might want to, too. He thinks he could be allowed to have this.
But he won’t find out, not right now.
Eddie pulls back, pulls away, and knee-steps over Buck’s legs until he’s back on his side of the bed. He can sense Buck’s head turning to follow him, like, where before he was afraid to look at him, now he’s afraid to lose sight of him. But Eddie isn’t going anywhere, not really.
He lies down on his side and reaches for Buck, who comes willingly, despite the dazed, confused slant of his brow, crinkle of his eyes, purse of his lips.
Maneuvering Buck onto his side, facing away, Eddie settles his chest against Buck’s back, slings an arm around his waist, tucks his face close to the back of his neck, breathes him in. Though he tries to tilt his hips away, he knows Buck must feel the outline of his cock, still hard, bumping up against the outside of the crease where his thigh meets his ass.
Twitching his hips backwards, involuntary, and then away, deliberate, Buck mumbles, “Eddie, you’re…” Doesn’t finish the statement, but settles back against him, slow, purposeful.
“Go to sleep,” Eddie says. “I reckon we can get another hour or two before Chris is gonna to demand to be fed.”
“But, you need–” Buck begins, but it’s a feeble protest, with how it breaks on a yawn.
Eddie squeezes him close, gives up and untwists at the hips, and slots against him proper, knees to the back of knees, thighs to the back of thighs, his fading erection tucked against Buck’s ass. It’ll go down slower like this, but it’s worth it for the full cuddle, and, somehow, Eddie doesn’t think Buck minds.
“Pretty sure even getting struck by lightning only exempts you from pancake duty for so long,” Eddie teases, a soft murmur into Buck’s ear, the wispy curls there tickling his lips, “And I think you’ve exhausted your grace period. Best to be well rested for all the flips you’ll have to show off.”
“Alright,” Buck concedes, even that one word full of sinking sleep, demonstrating how close he is to falling. “But, later.” He doesn’t elaborate on what that means and within a minute his breaths have returned to the deep, slow pattern Eddie feels privileged to be familiar with.
Later sounds good to Eddie. Whatever it means. Whether it’s doing something about an erection that won’t exist by that point but will easily be regained where Buck is concerned, or talking about what happened or — more specifically — what didn’t happen, or even carrying on as they are, a family.
So long as later has Buck in it, that’s all Eddie needs.