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This thing is, Tommy’s not stupid.
He’s gotten top scores on every exam he’s taken during his career, flies complicated machines for a living, gets paid to make life and death decisions. Big stuff. Not nothing.
And he’s pretty good at crossword puzzles, too. He can usually get through the Wednesday New York Times one. Most people can’t even finish the Monday, you know? So, he’s not dumb, is the point.
But also.
He’s a total fucking idiot.
Because when he first started hanging out with Diaz—first let his eyes linger a few seconds too long on the thick, round curve of the guy’s ass during a pick-up basketball game—Mario from 118 B-shift had laughed and said, “Save yourself the trouble, he and Buckley are attached at the hip.”
And Tommy knew who Evan Buckley was, of course. The guy who replaced him at the 118 and then got crushed by a fire truck. But he didn’t really know him know him. And he didn’t really understand why Mario’s laugh sounded like you’d need a few hours and more than a few beers to get to the bottom of everything behind it. Tommy didn’t think too hard about it at the time because, well, Diaz’s ass in those basketball shorts was right there.
“And I think he had a wife who died,” Mario had added, like it was an afterthought.
And maybe if there hadn’t been a droplet of sweat snaking its way through Diaz’s chest hair and disappearing into his loose tank top right that second, Tommy would have clocked that Mario told him about Evan Buckley before mentioning Eddie’s dead wife. Maybe he would have thought a little more about that and tried harder to work out the clue at the center of this Saw trap puzzle he would eventually entangle himself in.
Two down.
Three words.
Twelve letters.
Buck and Eddie.
So obvious, in hindsight. Monday crossword puzzle shit, and somehow it still took him months to solve.
Or, maybe.
To admit.
Like he said, he’s a total idiot.
A total idiot with absolutely no sense of self-preservation, it should be noted.
Not one fucking iota.
Tommy’s not completely oblivious. He notices Evan Buckley crashing out spectacularly when Diaz starts spending more time with him. He’s got the best seat in the house for it, actually. Front and center, even better than those Vegas fight night seats he’d tried to woo Diaz with. And yet, he still shows up at Evan’s door. To apologize, he lies.
Because Tommy could say he didn’t know what he was doing, but he absolutely did. Evan is hot—almost as hot as Diaz. And someone told him that this kid’s nickname used to be Firehose, so like, of course he’s curious about that. If Evan Buckley is crashing, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for him to land on Tommy’s lap.
But Evan is such a gaping open wound about this whole Diaz business that for one fleeting second, Tommy almost starts to feel bad. He tries to give the guy an out—my attention? with a dubious lift of one eyebrow. But then Evan steps in close and flutters those long lashes. And Tommy decides, screw it. Diaz was a pipe dream, but Evan is ready and willing.
So, Tommy kisses him and sets up a date for Saturday night. And he’s actually excited for the date, is the funny thing. Not funny like haha. Funny like pathetic, in hindsight.
Because dinner provides him with a front row seat to yet another shit show, this time involving Diaz. He’s got this girl, Marisol, with him. And apparently they’re moving in together, which is surprising, because Diaz didn’t mention her once in all the times they hung out together. So that’s…something.
The other something is how indisputably weird both Evan and Diaz are acting about running into each other like this. Evan looks like he’s been caught with his emotional pants down, and Diaz seems like he’s smiling his way through a stroke.
And Tommy suddenly has the distinct feeling that he’s been dropped in the middle of a love triangle. A love square, he supposes, if Marisol even counts. Which she doesn’t, based on the way Diaz can’t keep his eyes off Tommy and Evan even though they’re on the other side of the restaurant now. So, a love trapezoid? One of those wonky, uneven shapes with the sides that don’t quite match. Tommy’s too old to remember middle school geometry.
He’s too old for any of this, actually. His knee is starting to hurt when it rains, for fuck’s sake. And he’s not Evan’s therapist. He’s not here to help this man untangle and examine whatever the hell he’s got going on. Which seems like a lot, honestly. A whole assload of red flags stitched together into one very beefy himbo.
So Tommy leaves Evan standing on the curb at the end of the date.
He’s not getting involved with this shit.
He ends up getting involved with this shit.
An idiot, no self-preservation, etcetera, etcetera, right?
He’s not Evan’s therapist and he’s definitely not Diaz’s, but he still gets stuck helping them unpack their bullshit all the same.
Abby would laugh. She’d say it serves him right for the way he didn’t even blink as he handed her a ring and a bald-faced lie that he wanted to be with her forever. It’s his punishment for the way he was too far down his rabbit hole of repression to even feel guilty about watching gay porn in the bathroom so he could get it up before they consummated their engagement.
Abby would say he deserves every bit of pain coming his way.
She’d probably be right.
And Tommy knows he’s got no sense of self-preservation, but he does have a deep well of self-defense mechanisms. So he keeps calling Buck by his first name, Evan. Because he wants one single thing to just be his. Buck is clearly Eddie’s, but maybe Evan can be Tommy’s.
He also takes to calling Eddie by his last name. In his head, usually, and in conversation sometimes. Because there’s just something about the way Evan says the name— Eddie, like it’s something sacred; Eddie, like there’s the kind of love they write poetry about hidden in the sharp stroke of every letter; Eddie, like no one else could possibly compare.
Buck and Eddie are a lost cause.
But Evan and Diaz?
Probably still a lost cause. But Tommy knows from experience that you can fool yourself for a long, long time if you really want to.
So. Yeah. He goes into this knowing full-well there’s something between Evan and Diaz. Something they haven’t even fully realized.
Yet.
Some stupid, sick part of him kind of likes that at first. If Evan Buckley needs a place to direct all his confusing, all-consuming, horny gay urges, Tommy is more than happy to oblige. The guy is so eager in bed—a golden retriever of a man with no gag reflex and a praise kink visible from space. Sometimes, Tommy likes to picture Diaz watching them fuck—likes to imagine the way his brown eyes would grow darker with every thrust until he finally couldn’t take it anymore. Tommy likes to imagine Diaz roughly pushing him aside to take his place, his bare dick sliding into Evan with no resistance to finish the job Tommy started. He comes like a freight train on those nights, and when he collapses onto the bed in a sweaty heap, Tommy doesn’t let himself think too hard about whether Evan’s fantasies are hitting all the same notes.
They’re just having some fun.
It’s casual.
Until it’s not. Until he starts to actually like Evan fucking Buckley. With his bright, easy smile. With the way he’s so open with his emotions—so unabashedly affectionate with the people he cares about. Sure, it’s annoying sometimes. Like he’s dating a slobbering puppy. But it’s also kind of…charming? Refreshing. Tommy had beaten back that kind of sincerity within himself years ago. It was too hard to let himself feel when he was spending so much mental energy trying to conceal.
The point is, he can see why Diaz likes Evan. Why he’d realize he’s in love with the guy if he’d just pull his head out of his ass. Tommy finds himself thinking about it constantly. He spends hours obsessing, wondering what will finally push Eddie Diaz off the cliff of queerness he’s teetering on.
For Tommy, it was the wedding. A looming date on the calendar. Thick, pale blue invitations with embossed gold lettering sitting on the counter. And the worst part (well, not the worst part), was that he’d paid good money for these godawful physical representations of how utterly full of shit he was. It was kind of hilarious, if you thought about it. Which he had finally—finally—started to do. Better late than never, right? (Abby would disagree.)
But Diaz was already married, so it doesn’t seem like that will be his big gay come to Jesus moment. So, it’s gonna be something else. It nags at Tommy, the wondering. The waiting. He doesn’t mean to start giving Evan the little tests. Really, he doesn’t.
The first one happens accidentally. It’s not even a test, really. Evan tells him about the theme for Han’s bachelor party, and Tommy says he doesn’t do costumes. Which is true. He doesn’t like dressing up just to look silly. But when he shows up to the party and finds Diaz in that fucking pink suit, well, Tommy does feel a flare of competitive annoyance. He knows which one of them looks like Evan’s date, and it’s definitely not him.
And then Diaz grows that goddamn Freddie Mercury mustache—the gayest thing he’s ever seen, and he’s literally had sex with men—and Tommy feels like he’s the one being tested.
So he starts laying little traps.
He gets reservations at Gjelina on Chris’s birthday. He’s been trying to get a table there for months, and he tells Evan that. Many times. And, yeah, Tommy knows Evan is feeling down about the kid not being here to celebrate this year. He also knows that Diaz has something planned for that night. But he still feels like a fool when he has to cancel the reservation and lose his deposit just to attend the world’s most depressing Zoom birthday party.
When Evan develops those weird, cursed boils, Tommy casually suggests that maybe Diaz would be better equipped to help Evan treat them. He waits to see if his boyfriend will scoff. You’re a first responder too, Tommy, he could say. I know you fly helicopters now, but surely you can remember how to apply ointment. But Evan just nods like he’s relieved at the suggestion and calls Diaz, who shows up within 15 minutes even though he lives 20 minutes away.
And when he gives Evan the Lakers tickets on their anniversary—celebrating six whole months of waiting for Eddie Diaz to finally wake up and steal his man!—Tommy can’t stop himself from suggesting that he take Diaz to the game. He knows it’s a self-defense mechanism. It’s a passive aggressive, petty thing to say. But it still stings when Evan’s eyes get a little soft as he exhales, Really?
So yeah, Tommy doesn’t intentionally set out to constantly test Evan’s loyalties. There’d be no point in that, anyway.
He already knows where they lie.
Tommy has two drinks too many the night they break up and ends up texting Abby.
You dated Evan Buckley?
Maybe she doesn’t even have the same number, he thinks, his vision a little soft around the edges. Even though no one really changes their number these days. He’s still rocking that 904 Florida area code.
The reply comes in after a minute, short and to the point.
Yes.
How do you know Buck?
I’m dating him. Or, I WAS dating him, he types out, a manic, drunken laugh bubbling up in his chest. This cannot be his real life. This is something his Mamaw would have watched on The Bold and the Beautiful while smoking a cigarette on her plastic-covered couch.
This time, it takes Abby a much longer time to reply. Tommy is seriously considering falling asleep fully clothed on top of his comforter when his phone finally buzzes.
He’s a good guy. Deserves better than you.
Deserved better than me too.
Don’t text me again.
Tommy thinks about Diaz already sitting next to Evan’s bedside in the hospital, no visitor sticker on his chest. He thinks about the extra key on Evan’s keychain, and about how both Diaz boys are on his phone’s bypass list. He thinks about how Evan refused to tell him exactly what happened to make Chris move to Texas. Said it wasn’t his story to tell, but Tommy knows better. Evan would take Diaz’s secrets to the grave and keep on protecting them in the underworld.
Tommy closes his eyes, his stomach suddenly roiling with nausea. He briefly wonders who really deserves what, before finally passing out.
He tried to save these idiots from themselves. He really did. Tommy’s not looking for a prize or anything, he just wants to set the record straight.
About how very gay Evan and Diaz are for each other.
He phrased it so diplomatically when he broke up with Evan. I’m your first, not your last. Like he was leading the big bisexual horse to water but he wasn’t even trying to make him drink.
He was markedly less diplomatic when he fell back into bed with Evan—at Eddie’s house, of all places. Like, can someone please free him from whatever circle of repressed feelings hell he’s trapped in? Tommy was mad at himself, mad at that kid Ravi for calling him over, mad at Evan for still being the kind of hot that made you think the third degree burn would be worth it this time. So he finally took the inside thoughts outside—called Diaz the competition and watched with fascinated horror as Evan solved the puzzle in record time.
But by the time he’s actually in the same room with Evan and Diaz again, Tommy’s had just enough of this diplomatic, talking in half-truths bullshit.
And by the same room, he means a helicopter. His helicopter, actually. A deadly virus broke containment after a fire at a lab rat facility, and now every first responder in the city has been working for three days straight to deal with the chaos. Which is how Tommy has ended up trapped in this way-too-small metal box with Evan and Diaz, flying them to pick up experimental antidotes from a nearby hospital.
“How long you been back from Texas?” he asks, because they can’t just ride in silence the whole time.
“Three weeks,” Diaz replies tightly, looking out the window. Evan’s looking out the opposite window, fussing nervously with a loose thread on his pants.
Oooookay. And maybe it’s because Tommy has barely slept four hours in the last 72, or because the only thing louder than the rotors in this helicopter is the unspoken tension. Either way, fuck it.
“You two living together now?”
Evan’s eyes widen and Diaz’s jaw tightens with a flat frown.
“How did you know Buck was living in my house?”
Tommy has to laugh so he won’t scream. “Evan didn’t tell you that we…” he hits every syllable of the word, “reconnected while you were gone?”
Diaz looks briefly betrayed before he schools his expression into something more neutral. “He…did not.”
“It was just one time,” Evan says weakly.
“In your bedroom,” Tommy supplies with a shit-eating grin. If he’s gonna be the villain in this story, he might as well play the part.
Eddie shoots him a murderous glare and Tommy thinks finally. He spots the big ‘H’ on the roof of the hospital and pushes forward on the joystick to land the helicopter. Diaz is still glowering in the backseat while Evan keeps casting fretful glances in his best friend’s direction. Best friend. HA.
“Well, this was a fun reunion,” Tommy deadpans as soon as the landing skid hits the helipad. Then he turns toward the backseat before either of the other two men have had the chance to take off their headsets. “I wanted to get back together, but Evan is in love with you, so he declined.” Evan’s eyes get comically wide, but Tommy barrels on, fully out of fucks to give. “And you—” He points at Diaz. “Are also in love with him. And it’s fucking exhausting and annoying and, frankly, embarrassing watching you both pretend like you’re not.”
Both of their mouths are agape now. Tommy lets his words sink in for a half-second before he turns back around to face forward and adds, “Now get the hell out of my helicopter and go save the city.”
Evan and Diaz don’t hesitate, both pulling off their headsets and unbuckling from their harnesses with record speed before wordlessly tumbling out of the copter. Tommy pulls back on the throttle as soon as the two men are clear and radios back to command, mission accomplished.
And maybe it has been. If they actually bother to listen to him. If LA doesn’t descend into a zombie apocalypse in the next 24 hours. Tommy spares one final glance back down at Evan and Diaz, who are still standing there, frozen next to the helipad, facing each other.
Then he pushes down on the foot pedal and steers himself up, up, and away into the night sky.
Tommy doesn’t hear anything about either one of them for months. And he doesn’t ask. He finds a new bar and a new basketball pick-up game and a nice mid-level studio exec from Grindr who he hooks up with every Wednesday and Saturday. It’s fun. Casual.
He really, truly doesn’t think about Evan and Diaz at all until he sees an Instagram post from Wilson one night. Tommy didn’t even realize he was still following her, to be honest. She almost never posts. But there it is, a little carousel of photos featuring Evan and Diaz in matching tuxedos, their smiles as bright as the sun. Captain Nash officiating the ceremony in a backyard. Chris holding two rings. Han crying while he cradles a baby dressed in a tiny black suit.
Wilson has captioned the photo with just a simple white heart, which is fitting. Words wouldn’t do the photos justice anyway; wouldn’t accurately describe the pure joy radiating from every snap.
Tommy swipes through the whole carousel, then taps out a like without thinking twice about it. He’s genuinely happy for them. Relieved they won’t be inflicting their dopey delusions on anyone else ever again. Or maybe he was the one who was actually deluded the whole time.
Because his versions of Evan and Diaz never really existed.
It was Buck and Eddie, all along.