the first night eddie and chris are home, chris has gone to bed, and buck and eddie are in the kitchen nursing their second beers. "so," buck says, "ballroom dancing?" he's smirking, but there's bite to it, like he's poking at eddie, forcing them closer to an edge to prove they won't fall off. and eddie groans, but he's saying "fuck off, it's actually hard. you'd suck at it." and that gets buck, he knew it would, lights the competitive fuse that never seems to run out. buck says "oh yeah? teach me then," and eddie says "your funeral." and he pulls buck into his arms, moves his hands where they're supposed to go, and maybe it's closer than they're used to but they haven't been in the same room in so long, it's barely satisfying. buck isn't letting it feel intimate, anyway, with how focused he is, how rigid. eddie tells him rigidity is not helping, but. that doesn't help either. and after a while of buck stumbling through different styles and stepping on eddie's feet, buck is pouting and eddie is laughing at him, and eddie says, "god, you're hopeless. just, fuck off, come here." and he pulls buck closer, puts buck's arms around his neck and wraps his own around buck's waist. "think you can handle this? just a little sway back and forth, barely a step." and maybe buck is just tired, but the tension and rigidity finally melt away, and they're swaying. and buck's eyes are big and wet and his cheeks are pink and his lips are bitten red with frustration. and maybe this worked better than eddie planned.
dailybridgerton
ellievsbear
theartofmadeline
pixelskylines
