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“Alright,” Eddie shrugs, laissez-faire. He pulls Buck’s plate to the center of the table; pushes his own forward in kind. Then he begins a drawn-out circus routine of plucking an olive at a time up and out of the bowl and plopping them onto their respective dishes, one by one.
The delicate, repetitive movement of Eddie’s pinched fingers reminds Buck of picking the petals off of flowers. He loves me. He loves me not. He love—
An olive hits him square in the forehead.
“There,” Eddie says, resolute, as the pitted projectile tumbles to the ground at Buck’s feet. “Equal treatment.”
Or: Buck, Eddie, and the olive theory. Well, in theory.
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💯
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“Jus’—” Eddie pauses to attack the gums atop his molars, “—assumed you’d be a swallow kind of guy, that’s all,” he muses through bared teeth.
Face scrunching in distaste, Buck spits again. “What? Why would I be—swallowing toothpaste? Who’s out—oh.”
When he turns his head, Eddie’s incisors, canines, and premolars are all teaming up; their sole purpose to make Buck blush. Eddie’s grin is as squeaky-clean as it is cruel and flirtatious—he’s squinting with the depth of it, but the splashes of iris Buck can still see are all pupil.
“Not toothpaste,” Buck drones.
“Not toothpaste,” Eddie confirms, and resumes brushing his teeth. Then around a mouthful of bristles, he remarks, loud and deliberate, “I meant like bl—”
“Eddie,” Buck cuts in, wrapping his free hand around Eddie’s where he grips his toothbrush, halting his movements.
Eddie only laughs, still a bit tipsy. A slow drop of toothpaste cascades down the side of his chin. He stares up at Buck, pleased with himself, their fairly minimal height difference accentuated by their sheer proximity. The harsh overhead bathroom light bounces off his dark eyes, quelled and muted; reflecting back as a glassy twinkle that’s far less jarring to Buck’s senses.
Well—in some ways, anyway. Buck’s head still tingles at the sight before him, but at least Eddie won’t give him a migraine.
“You’re killing me,” Buck despairs. He retracts his grip from Eddie’s knuckles, slowly; a savoring slide of his fingers.
Eddie spits. “Sorry.”
“Ish fine,” Buck garbles, then follows suit. Rinsing his toothbrush, he says, “It’s—a good kind of murder.”
“Hm. Think they’ll acquit me?”
“With those doe eyes? I think you’ll walk,” Buck banters.
oh they are monumentally stupid. i love this eddie who slowly indulges himself into a relationship with the love of his life, without much conscious thought. also love this buck with his internal monologue of poetic anxiety. beautifully written while still being true to who these guys are AKA absolute fools. also the kitchen scene aaaaaa they kiss and they banter and they LOVE. i am undone.