It's a hot summer day and they've been listening to this band kind of in tandem for the past few years-- sending songs back and forth and playing albums in the car-- and they've had the tickets in hand for a little while. just long enough, in fact, that they got the tickets and planned a day out just the two of them before they each individually started to realize that days out just the two of them were starting to carry a certain weight that neither of them feels prepared to contend with.

They haven't talked about it, but it's there in the space between them in the crowd and at the overpriced concession stand and every time there's a lull between shows. They haven't talked about it, which makes being here without a proper buffer weird but they also can't acknowledge that it's weird without, indeed, talking about it.

It's just far enough outside of LA that they've booked a hotel room and everything, isolating themselves from their Real Lives just enough for it to feel so much more tangible and present without the intrusion of things like Christopher's summer school and their jobs and the nosy extended family who sometimes make it easier to ignore the very things they're being nosy about by being nosy about them. (as opposed to, for instance, sleeping in the same bed the night before and having to pretend it doesn't feel Newer than every time they've done so in the past)

and they do feel separated from the everyday out here. dehydrated in the sun. buck is pink with it and eddie hasn't even been snarking about sunscreen reapplication because it's right there. it's in the way. it's loud even over the earth-shaking beat of the drums up on stage. earth shaking. stage shaking.

when the stage collapses, they're actually kind of on their way out of the crowd, actually. because everything is Big here and people keep knocking them into each other in a way that wouldn't be anything to call home about on literally any other occasion but has both of them buzzing from something other than just the vibes and second-hand smoke.

eddie is saying he's out of here and buck is pointing out that it was eddie's idea to come in the first place and eddie is snapping about how you don't have to follow me, then and at some point in the middle of it all, the world caves in on itself.

the scaffolding of the stage buckles and that's a big enough deal all it's own but there's also the people. it's a wave all over again, except a different Diaz is getting separated from his buck, both of them losing sight of the sky, both of them collecting serious, serious injuries. broken bones and open wounds. buck ends up with a concussion so bad that eddie has to be the one find him eventually, rather than the other way around. and when eddie clocks how bad the concussion is in the middle of the ongoing chaos, that's a terror that breaks his already cracked ribs clean through, maybe even pierces a lung in the process.

they're in bad shape, is the point. in bad shape and not alone, by any means, but alone in the sense that they're not in LA. help may be coming but not their help, not their team. they know better than most that getting in the weeds of a mass casualty event like this means that if they stay where they are, they won't get the medical attention they desperately need and--

people are definitely dead. people are dying. something, somewhere is burning and buck can't hear out of one of his ears and eddie's vision is blurry, his chest tighter than tight.

they have to literally lean on each other. they have to make each other a priority, even over helping the people around them. in the middle of the chaos, they have to choose each other, but as it turns out? that's not as complicated or confusing or difficult a choice as they've been making it out to be. at least not right now, when either of them could collapse at any moment.

and they still aren't talking about it, the big and broad thing between them, but the bubble has popped. they touch each other of their own volition, now. they hold on. they keep moving and fighting and trying because there's no world where something as mundane as romantic tension stops them from saving each other.

they get separated at the triage tent to receive their individual care, but as they're forcing Eddie onto a gurney and Buck onto a cot, the former is saying wait, don't take him out of my sight, I have to stay with him and the latter is saying I'm right here before immediately seizing and anyways

something something a trip to the hospital something something look at this terrible thing we only just managed to survive (perhaps with some chronic health issues moving forward to show for it) something something--

I don't know if watching you like that would be easier or harder if we... if we faced it head-on, Buck.

Yes you do. You already know.

Really? What do I know, then? If you've got all the answers.

That it doesn't matter if it's harder. It's how it is, eyes closed or not.