do you know where the wild things go?

buddie | T | 2.2k | first kiss, idiot4idiot, drunk eddie, jealous buck, the water/juice metaphor actually being used, alternating povs, tooth-rotting fluff, mutual pining, they’re both so silly here, so in love it makes them look stupid <3, some mild angst because they’re stupid

"There's steam coming out of your ears," Hen says drily, taking a sip out of her very vibrant cocktail, and Buck blinks, eyes dry like he hasn't blinked in a very long time.

"What?" he asks, trying to turn to look at her, but just as he's about to, Eddie throws his head back laughing and Buck feels himself sitting up straighter, ears perked up even though it's impossible for him to hear what they're talking about from all the way across the club. He should probably go check on Eddie. It's been so long and he really does need that drink.

"I'm gonna go see what's taking Eddie so long," he says, still not taking his eyes off them.

"I think we can see just fine from over here."

"I'm just gonna check on him."

"He looks perfectly fine."

"You don't know that, we can't see his face."

"We can, you've just been staring at his ass all night."

Buck's eye twitches, but he ignores her. "Yeah, let me go see what's going on."

(Or, Eddie chooses juice. Buck chooses him right back.)

buddie | T | 2.6k | post s8, pov buck, pining buck, hurt eddie, pre-relationship, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, love confessions, don’t let the tags fool you they’re actually really soft here, they’re so in love

He looks, and looks, and looks, then he goes back home—Eddie’s home—where the sunlight is catching the soft strands of Eddie’s hair as he sits hunched over the kitchen table, poring over some paperwork. Where Christopher’s laugh sneaks out of his bedroom and bounces off the walls. Where Buck’s toothbrush sits pressed close to Eddie’s in the bathroom.

And he gets it, a little bit, why nothing feels right. Why nothing feels like home.

Buck never felt like a visitor in Eddie’s home. He never questioned it, whether or not he belongs here. It’s always been so easy, so natural.

It’s simple: Buck’s not a guest; he has a key. He knows where that active dry yeast jar is, shoved all the way in the cabinet. He knows where the good, expensive pan goes, on top of the other pans and pots so it doesn’t get scratched. He knows which air freshener to get, one that doesn’t make Christopher’s allergies act up.

So yeah, Buck gets it, little by little, and a little more every day, why nothing feels right.

(Or, Buck tries to move out. The universe screams, and Eddie falls.)

Maybe he can blame the way his chest flutters and twists when he looks at Buck on the few drinks he’s had. The way the smile on his face hurts his cheeks as he watches Buck struggle and curse as he tries and fails and tries again to get the key into the lock to open the door—maybe Eddie can blame the hazy state of his mind for that.

The way everything feels weightless and light and floaty, because Buck keeps throwing looks at him, like he knows Eddie is laughing at him and decidedly refusing to help; like he wants to be a little mad about it but can’t, betrayed by the way his lips keep twitching, his smile too bright and too strong to hold back. Maybe it’s all because of the alcohol.

“Buck,” Eddie grumbles, because he does enjoy this. “Come on.”

Buck huffs. “I’m trying!”

“Try harder.”

A scoff. “You try, then!”

“I can,” Eddie says, with way more confidence than he feels, as he takes a step closer.

“You couldn’t even walk to the door. I basically had to carry you.”

That is technically true, and it makes Eddie’s belly do this weird flutter thing, like a swarm of butterflies taking flight. The alcohol, he thinks, again, almost desperate with it. It’s a weird thing, because his whole body feels like a long line of heat, and he knows if he gets closer to Buck, he’s going to burn brighter, burst into flames.

He sways closer still.

prompt from this list

Buck isn't sure how long he has been sitting where he is. Time has become warped, stretched out and meaningless, and Buck can feel every single bone in his body ache, every muscle a little numb, every nerve ending buzzing with electricity, and it doesn’t feel like his body is his own anymore, like maybe he has left it behind, right where he last saw Eddie's eyes open, his fingers twitching where they grabbed at Buck’s clothes.

Now, Eddie's hand is limp in his, and Buck keeps running his thumb over the knuckles, where the skin is a little stretched and dry and cracked and cooler to the touch than usual.

Eddie would hate it. He would hate it so much. His hands are soft and warm, always so soft and so warm. You could be a hand model, someone once told him, and Eddie had laughed and rolled his eyes and Buck had secretly agreed with them, then pressed kisses to Eddie's knuckles on the way home, just because he could.

If Buck were stronger, if he were a better man, he would take Hen or Chim or Ravi or Maddie Or Pepa on their offer. He would go home, shower and eat and maybe grab the tub of lotion Eddie keeps in his nightstand and uses every night. He would scrub the dirt and grime off his face and from under his nails, because he doesn't think he has done that yet. He doesn’t remember.

But he isn’t stronger, and he isn’t a better man. He can’t be. All he can do is sit here and hold onto Eddie's hand tightly, listen to his heartbeat closely, make sure that it’s steady, that it’s right, beating that tempo Buck knows better than his own heart.

He keeps looking at Eddie, watching his face, frozen like a portrait, and he only looks away when Christopher walks in, takes the empty chair next to him, rests his head next to his dad’s knee, looking unbearably young with his lanky legs and golden curls and thin-framed glasses.

He’s not sure why he’s so nervous. It shouldn't matter; even if Eddie hates this place, Buck loves it. He chose it. It’s Buck’s place now, his house. His home.

Still, the air catches in his lungs, held there like it’s frozen, and Buck waits, and waits, then finally, Eddie looks at him, and the air rushes so quickly out of his chest, it almost hurts.

He feels like he can’t remember the last time Eddie looked at him, which isn't fair, because Buck’s the one who’s been looking away.

“I like it,” Eddie says, quiet and honest, the way people are when they have more to say, but won’t say it. “It’s— it’s warm. Feels like a home already.”

“That’s— yeah. Yeah. Thanks.”

Eddie hums, hands in his pockets as he turns away, eyes going over every little detail. There’s still not much, the house’s bare—bare floors, bare walls, bare windows; decorated mostly by the various cardboard boxes and Eddie’s jacket hanging off the back of a chair that’s sitting in a corner.

It’s dangerous, Buck suddenly realizes, having Eddie here. The way he stands before the window, looking out, the setting sun bouncing off him, painting him golden and glowing and glittering, it makes Buck’s heart races, skipping and stumbling, imagining a future that's not his, can't ever be.

But still, the image persists. Eddie in more comfortable clothes, ones that are just big enough to not be his own, his hair a mess on the top of his head, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands, and Eddie, eyes closed as he breathes the steam in, letting it warm him up, and Buck, wrapped around him like a hug, just as warmed up.

buddie | T | 1.1k | buck pov, first kiss, light angst, canon typical sexual and romantic buddie tension, noncanon typical resolved tension (in a way), theyre so in love it will make your teeth ache

It boils over once they're back in the hotel room they’ve been sharing.

There’s a buzz underneath Buck’s skin, an electric current that flows through him, like he’s still out there, ready for the next round of games. He's all adrenaline rush, making him feel hot and cold, shivering and shaking and restless as he watches Eddie, who seems to be in a similar position, flushed and buzzing, hair messy as he strips off his shirt and shakes his head, almost bouncing on the balls of his socked feet with the rush of it all.

Time slows, like molasses dripping down from Buck’s fingers to his wrist, sticky and sweet, as his eyes focus on Eddie's skin, on the flush that’s traveling down to his neck, his chest.

Buck looks up again, still nothing but potential energy waiting and wanting to burst out, and finds Eddie looking at him, eyes shining, glittering in the low light.

(Or, everything’s easier in a hotel room in Nashville. Even this. Even them.)

buddie | T | 1k | 9.15 coda, buck pov, pre-relationship, eddie takes care of buck, angst & hurt/comfort, buck and eddie are in love

“Buck?”

The word is a barely a whisper in the quietness of the room, but it lands like a clap of thunder during the night. It’s laced with so much softness, so much worry and concern, that Buck feels its sharp edge pierce right through his hollow chest.

He brings his hands up, wipes at his face roughly, tasting the salt of his tears and sweat just as the bed dips, a weight so inexplicably familiar it almost makes a bile climb back up Buck’s throat, burning and acidic.

“Buck,” Eddie says again, softer and gentler and quieter. Like a secret uttered into a starry night sky; like a prayer whispered into the confined space of a confessional.

Buck thinks it makes him shake harder.

(Or, Buck wakes up in the middle of the night. Eddie is there.)