The thing about bugs bunny is that he lives and dies by his bits. He’s fully capable of killing you if he wanted, but the thing is, not only is he a nice guy, he’s a funny guy. To beat bugs bunny, many people assume that you just have to not fall for the jokes. If he hits you with a pie, you don’t flinch, and eventually you’ll ware him down. The issue is, misery will only last you so long. There’s only so much bits to endure before it becomes funny. And whoever is getting laughed at is losing. Instead, to kill bugs bunny, you have to beat him at his own game. When he throws a pie, don’t try to sidestep or be a sourpuss, that’s playing into his hands. Instead, you comically open your mouth and swallow it whole. This is how you kill a god.
I am of the general opinion that the pandemic really broke everyone in a variety of ways and everyone is going on acting like 5 years on they haven’t been irreparably changed
Buck makes it all the way back to his loft before he breaks and texts Eddie.
Don’t do it, man, he says. Don’t let them get to you.
Sure, Eddie’s been getting nothing but shit from the entire 118 since he came back from Texas sporting a mustache. And sure, Buck has joined in on the teasing—he had to, even if he felt like he needed to have his fingers crossed behind his back the entire time. But after Eddie laughed off today’s latest round of 70s porn star jokes and promised he’d come in for his next shift clean-shaven, Buck felt—something a lot like panic. Churning stomach, shaking hands. When Eddie said goodbye in the locker room, thumping Buck on the shoulder, Buck almost reached out to stop him, reached to run his thumb across his upper lip, because—no. No.
I knew you didn’t hate it, Eddie texts back a couple minutes later. And Buck groans, even though he’s not shocked something gave him away—the flush in his cheeks or the way he laughed a little too loud at everyone else’s Freddie Mercury jokes or the way he couldn’t stop looking.
Come on. You know we all have to get on your case. But you should keep it.
The time has come, Buck. You’ll live.
And sure, Buck gets it. It was a—a crisis mustache, or whatever. A temporary change, and now that Christopher’s back and everyone’s together and everything is good, why does he still need it? But Buck just—he can’t explain it, can’t examine it, but it feels like he’ll be losing something if Eddie loses the facial hair. It feels like someone scooping up the last bite of a dessert he never got to try, or learning he missed the window on a museum exhibit he really wanted to see.
Please? Buck types it out and sends it before he can think too hard about it. Please. For me?
Eddie doesn’t respond to that. Ten minutes go by, then twenty. He probably got in the shower, probably is shaving it off right now, all that dark hair swirling down the drain. Tomorrow Buck will go over for dinner and video games with Chris, and Eddie will look…normal. Everything will be back to normal. Why does that feel like something Buck can’t handle, doesn’t want?
He’s halfway through prepping dinner, forcing himself to go through the motions so he’ll stop feeling shaky and fragile inside, when someone knocks at his door. He wipes his hands off, frowning, and goes to the door, and—it’s Eddie.
It’s Eddie, with a mustache.
“’For me?’” Eddie says.
Buck should feel ashamed, hearing his frankly unhinged message parroted back to him, but he’s too busy sighing with relief and—reaching, reaching out like he wanted to before, his palm cradling Eddie’s jaw and his thumb swiping across the hair at the corner of Eddie’s mouth. It’s better than he thought it would be, a little spiky at the ends but…soft too. Soft enough he wants to rub his lips against it.
So he does.
“Buck,” Eddie says, amused, his lips brushing Buck’s, the mustache tickling his skin. It’s not quite a kiss, not yet, but—it could be. It will be, soon.
“Shut up,” Buck says, heat flooding his face. Then, “Thank you.” And then he tips his head down a little and presses his mouth to Eddie’s in earnest, tonguing his top lip and groaning at the prickle, the newness, just what he wanted, what he asked for.
Eddie wraps an arm around his waist, iron band of muscle, and walks him backward into the loft, lets the door fall shut. “For you,” he murmurs against Buck’s mouth.
Buck moves his head left to right, lets the hair rasp across his cheek, his mouth, his chin. He licks again, kisses again, wants to burrow in and stay. “Thank you,” he says again. It’s silly. Stupid. But Eddie did this for him, and now Buck wants to give him everything, anything.
“Buck,” Eddie says, all fondness and gravel. “Just kiss me.”
Wait so you’re telling me my only options for letting people know I’m having a hard time in real life are 1) telling them (won’t happen, humiliating) or 2) public mental breakdown (also won’t happen, more humiliating)
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