Fics like said that I was fine, said it from my coffin

Please, Buck, come home to us. "Eds," Buck sobs, raking a hand through his hair, pulling on the strands, "fuck, I'm so sorry." He's talking to an empty room, like a lunatic, the voice in his head a recording of Eddie's that plays on a loop inside his skull. After all, he knows his voice, his inflection, his cadence, could pick it out anywhere, so it's no feat to imagine the sound of it shaping that plea, the hollowness and ache and heartbreak edging each syllable he reads on the paper. I don't have a backup plan. You are my backup plan, Buck. The guilt is like barbed wire now, wrapping itself around his lungs, spikes embedding themselves in the flesh. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but it's nothing compared to what Eddie must have felt. I don’t know how to do this, Buck. I don’t know how to keep going if you’re not here. Or, Buck finds a letter in Eddie’s closet, written during his coma. Everything spirals from there.

Fics like said that I was fine, said it from my coffin

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