Work Text:
Chris is the one who texts Buck that day.
Abuela’s dead.
He stares at his screen for four whole minutes before it registers. Abuela’s dead. Eddie’s abuela. Buck’s abuela, he thinks selfishly.
He sits down on the couch, staring. Abuela’s dead. Oh.
He texts Chris back.
I’m so sorry, buddy. Are you okay?
Chris only replies with a 🤷 emoji.
The thing is, he didn’t know grief intimately until he lost Bobby. Until they all lost Bobby. He doesn’t think he’s good at it, though. He’s done a piss-poor job at moving on, so he has absolutely no idea how to help Eddie and Christopher. God, Eddie… Poor Eddie. He looked really happy lately, Buck wasn’t sure how or why, but he knew Eddie was lighter. No thanks to Buck, they’ve never been further apart.
Their friendship fell so out of sync he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t say anything; he waits. He used to take over things, insert himself in Eddie’s life, and give his opinion loudly. It doesn’t feel appropriate anymore, so he waits.
Of course, Eddie texts him, as everybody starts flying over and preparing the funeral.
Buck helps Pepa pick the flowers, but Eddie doesn’t show.
Buck stands three rows behind them at the funeral, but Eddie ignores his gaze.
Buck makes sure Christopher eats later on in Pepa’s backyard, but Eddie is sat silently on a chair, looking like he’s miles away.
He has no idea how to cross over that bridge without Eddie locking him out forever. There’s a big tall wall between them, and no matter how many times Buck tries to tear it down or climb it since their big fight, it doesn’t budge. It gets taller.
But Buck doesn’t want to make it about him again, so he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t cry as he says goodbye to one of the most important people in his life, his hand lingering a little on her picture. He doesn’t force Eddie to talk about his feelings. He doesn’t follow his boys home or show up with food.
Eddie shows up at his house with three bottles of tequila, and Buck understands immediately what he needs, stepping aside to let him in and following him to the couch.
They don’t even grab glasses in the kitchen.
They’re sitting in silence, drinking—Buck admittedly less than Eddie because he wants to be able to comfort him and use his words when Eddie is ready.
Then Eddie starts humming a song, and it evolves into telling Buck a story about his ballroom dancing era. A story ending, as always, with Abuela’s kind arms and Ramon’s hard glare.
“And she came to every single one of them…” Eddie says with a small wistful smile before breaking into sobs, his face crumpling.
“Oh, Eddie…” Buck leans closer, putting a hand on Eddie’s back, but Eddie’s faster, pouncing on Buck, connecting their mouths together in a wet, sobby mess.
Buck will hate himself his whole life for leaning into it for a whole second, but he turns his face away, deeply conscious of the fact that a drunk, grieving Eddie is not consenting.
“Please…” Eddie sobs, his nose against Buck’s cheek. “Please Buck…”
Buck holds him. He wraps his arms around Eddie and lets Eddie break and break and break in his arms. He tucks him under his chin, where he can be kept safe, and he rubs his back soothingly until the sobs quiet down.
Buck was born for sacrifice. His whole life purpose has been to help, to save, to fix. He has failed quite a lot at that throughout the years, but he realizes his biggest regret is that he cannot carry Eddie’s pain for him as he holds his whole world in his hands—his own tears streaming down his face quietly.
Eddie doesn’t let go. Eddie actually falls asleep on Buck, fitted in his arms like a baby. Like his baby. Buck carefully lays down on the couch, holding what’s most precious to him against his heart.
He wonders how Tommy could have even imagined it was a competition because, as he stares at his ceiling all night, gently drawing circles around Eddie’s sleeping back, the truth finally hits him. The unwavering, all-encompassing, never-ending love and loyalty he’s felt for Eddie for years is not typical best friend love. It’s not family love. It’s the kind of love they wrote all those books about.
“I wish you’d tell me what to do.” Buck mumbles at the ceiling. Two days ago, he had been convinced that Bobby was haunting his house, foolishly of course. Everyone thought he was an idiot to think so, but Buck just wanted to feel Bobby, to believe he could. Now he aches and aches and aches, wishing there was a ghost haunting his home. Wishing Bobby could appear and whisper the answers to him.
Buck’s always known he was vaguely suicidal until he wasn’t anymore. But for the past six months, he’s wished every single day it was him instead. Or that he died too so he’d be with his dad.
He doesn’t know how to exist in a world where Bobby doesn’t. He remembers his fingers shaking as he tied his own tie around his neck. He remembers how he looked for Bobby around the streets, waiting for him to show up before he realized he was already there. In a coffin.
He wants his Bobby so much he feels like rolling into a ball and never moving and whining like a child until they give him back to him.
Because how does he deal with the fact that the love of his life tried to kiss him all drunk and spilling with grief for the grandmother that raised him? He can’t. Tomorrow, Eddie will wake up and be horrified and take a step back and never hold Buck again…
That’s okay. As long as it comforted him, Buck thinks it was worth it. He held Eddie’s broken pieces together for one night. That’s always been his job, hasn’t it? Holding Eddie together whenever he lets him. He did his job. He held his Eddie.
He closes his eyes, feeling both emptier and fuller than ever. He doesn’t sleep a wink.