maybe love leaves paper trails
ps: i recommend starting over again even if you read the snippet bc i added and edited some stuff. love and light <3
Eddie proposes on a Thursday.
Nothing particularly notable about the day itself. No anniversary. No holiday. No grand orchestration of fate. No celestial alignment. No significance carved into the calendar. Just late evening sunlight slanting gold through kitchen windows; the kind of light that makes everything feel softer at the edges than it really is, Christopher's abandoned homework spread across the table amongst Theo's colouring pages all half completed, the distant hum of traffic from outside.
And Eddie—Eddie standing in front of him with nervous hands and unbearably soft eyes.
Afterwards, Buck will remember every detail with startling clarity. The way Eddie's thumb catches against the velvet edge of the ring box. The slight hitch in his breathing before he asks. The warmth of the light painting him amber and gold, like something holy. The tv on low volume in the living room, more presence than sound.
Outside, Los Angeles moves on without noticing anything is about to change. Then, Eddie kneels in front of him. Not as a best friend. Not as a partner in the fragile, long built architecture of their lives. But as something more certain than either of those words ever managed to be on their own.
It isn't dramatic. It isn't loud.
It's Eddie Diaz asking him a question like it has always already been answered. Buck says yes before the question is even fully formed in the air between them. Because of course he does. Because there is nothing else in him that thinks to respond differently.
Four nights later, Buck lies awake, staring at the ceiling, next to Eddie, listening to him breathe as he sleeps on his side, one arm thrown loosely across Buck's waist like even unconscious he refuses to let go completely.
Buck turns the engagement ring around his finger, feeling the metal slide against his skin. Slowly. Thoughtfully. As if attempting to map the weight of the future pressing gently into his flesh. And somewhere in that quiet, it lands in him with a kind of startling inevitability: He does not want to marry Eddie as Evan.
The thought doesn't arrive like lightning. It arrives like the tide. Patient. Certain. Already in motion long before he ever noticed it coming in.
Because Evan hasn't ever really fit. Not fully.
Evan belongs to Pennsylvania winters and a too-big house filled with oppressive silence. To unremarkable report cards slid across kitchen counters without much interest. To trying and trying to become someone worth keeping around. Evan belongs to a person Buck barely knows how to be anymore. Evan has always been a name that felt slightly out of reach, even when it was his, like it belonged to someone standing a few steps behind him in a hallway he could never quite turn around fast enough to see. Evan was an identity forged in total emotional neglect, the name heavily burdened with a lack of validation.
Evan is hospital wristbands that itch against skin too sensitive for permanence. Evan is teachers berating him for having too much energy. Evan is the version of him that learned early how to make himself smaller so he would not take up too much space in rooms that already felt full without him. Evan belonged to a person standing a few steps behind him in a hallway, untethered and crying out.
The name Evan is like an old hand me down coat. Something acquired in childhood, the sleeves are way too short, the zipper is completely broken, the material is scratchy against the neck, and it fundamentally doesn't keep warm. But it kept getting worn purely out of habit, worn for so long that the assumption is this is what coats are meant to feel like, that they're supposed to feel uncomfortable in some sort of way.
Buck is the name Christopher shouted in glee across a crowded school parking lot the first time he spotted him after a hard day. Buck was Bobby's steady hand against the back of his neck after a difficult call. Buck is Hen laughing fondly under her breath after calling him an idiot. He's Maddie saying his name like relief. He's Theo's third best friend after Chris and Eddie—in that order. Buck is Ravi's eye roll and Harry's groan and sigh. He's Chimney ribbing him for no reason other than he can.
Buck is Eddie, half asleep and rough-voiced in the dark, murmuring sweetheart, c'mere. It's Eddie saying his name like it's something worth keeping.
That's who he is. That's the life he's made.
The dichotomy is incredibly stark. Evan is a given name, assigned without consent by two people who never really knew him or cared enough to try, and saturated with neglect. Buck is an earned name, a title built on the foundation of chosen family, community service, mutual respect, and profound love—all encompassing love; platonic, familial, and romantic.
Buck is the name actively populated with positive meaning, a custom tailored suit. It wasn't bought off the rack; it was meticulously hand stitched together by the people who love him. The people who see his value and don't think he takes up too much space.
