Fics like in the knots of your hair

“I’m trying not to make it about me.” The words seem to stop Eddie in his tracks—but only for a fleeting moment. Then, “Okay, then let me.” Buck blinks, ignoring the feeling of a single tear fighting past the edge of his lashline. Instantly, he swipes it away. “What?” “Let me make it about you. Talk to me. I want to know what’s going on with you. I’m not gonna be able to focus on this god awful dinner if I’m worried that you’re alone, and upset, and—” “I miss you,” Buck confesses, abruptly, because anything else he wants to say right now is too raw, too real. Eddie exhales into the microphone of his phone. “Yeah. Yeah, I—I know. I miss you, too.” “No, I miss you. More than I’m supposed to, I think.” “I’m your best friend, bud,” Eddie tells him. “I think you’re supposed to miss me. We’re eight hundred miles apart.” Miserably, Buck shakes his head. “Not like this.” Or: Buck finally unpacks and stumbles across a box Eddie left behind, full of sketchbooks that Buck didn’t know he owned. He’s confronted, suddenly, with the fact that his best friend has been drawing him for years.

Fics like in the knots of your hair

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