"the problem is that i'm so angry all the time. and it's not at you, or the world - not necessarily, at least, because in some part I am, you know? i'm mad that bobby had to die, and that you all had to deal with it so readily in your face - and i'm mad at the system and people; God, people have never pissed me off more, buck," eddie admits, setting his hands on his knees. buck doesn't look away, he can't. it's impossible.
is that too much? perhaps it was strong, and too real - and because he understood this sadness, perhaps anger, buck cannot look away from him because eddie is a vessel.
"but most of all," eddie continues, "above all else, i'm angry at myself. and i'm angry at myself all the time. i could be working, or talking with my parents, or talking with you - and even now, even here; it's hard to... to verbalize."
he feels himself shrinking. buck begins to place his hand over eddie's, but retracts. he ponders. "this is all my fault," buck says, deciding to touch him. he looks at his lone beer on the coffee table. "i can see you shaking your head, eddie, but it's true. there were three hours, after bobby died, where i had forgotten about you." his grip tightens, softening simultaneously. "it was only as my shift had a couple hours left did i truly realize you weren't here - and you'd been in texas for months; and i just -"
"bobby's dead, buck," eddie sighs. he doesn't seem to care that buck's holding his hand. "it's been six months, and bobby's still dead."
eddie bites his lip, letting out a breath. he gazes at him, and buck gazes back.
he looks away, taking his hand back from buck's grasp. "the man that brought the two of us together is gone."
and buck thinks, so what does that now mean for us?
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