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There is a box in Buck's closet. It sits on a shelf with a bunch of other shoe-boxes, some of them empty, some of them being used to store the shoes they had been bought with. It used to hold a pair of boots, nice enough that Buck wouldn't wear them so regularly as to keep them outside, with the shoes he wears most days. The boots don't live in that box anymore — they're now in a different box, a smaller one, one that used to hold shoes that didn't survive the last winter.
The box doesn't hold shoes at all, actually. (He's not quite there yet.) But it isn't empty, either.
It's a box that Buck only ever pulls out when he's alone, when he knows for sure that no one is going to appear at his door in the next few hours. When he takes it out, he locks the door from the inside, lets the key rest in it slightly off center so that Eddie or Maddie can't barge in, even if they tried.
The box is just for him. It's the one thing in his life that he keeps absolutely private, the one secret he guards with his life. His friends would probably say that he doesn't keep any secrets from them.
They're wrong. They don’t know about the box. If Buck has any say in it, they never will.
Inside of the box, there is a carefully curated assortment of clothes and other… vanity items. To Buck, they mean freedom.
There's a cropped, sheer shirt; a flowy skirt; a dainty bralette; a simple necklace with a flower charm; a pair of clip-on earrings; an eyeshadow palette; a liquid eyeliner pencil; and a wine red lipstick.
He'd stolen the lipstick from Maddie some time ago, silently guilty when he had heard her looking for it. He had never come clean about it, though. The eyeliner was Taylor's, forgotten at his apartment after the breakup (and god, what a feeling it had been, to find it in his bathroom cabinet one day, heart picking up speed at the possibilities). The rest of the items were his own purchases, or in the case of the crop top, his own doing.
Buck likes to think of himself as pretty self-assured. Someone who doesn't much care about what people like store clerks think about him. Still, the contents of the box are purchases that he made online, at home, where no one was around to judge him.
Because it's private .
And okay, maybe because it's a little scary. (But that’s a can of worms that Buck doesn't really want to open right now, so it's just private. )
Sometimes, when he knows he has some time for himself, he allows himself to take out the box, and lets himself get lost in it. It's almost like a ritual, something he celebrates and relishes in, something that makes him feel like he's floating.
Right now is one of those times.
He'd dropped straight into bed after his last shift, a gruelling 24-hour thing where they had barely gotten the time to sit down at all.
The good thing is that he now has the next two days off — and also, everyone else is tired enough to not bother him for a while. Normally, he loves having someone around. He isn't big on silence or being alone. It makes him feel a little lost and a lot lonely. But. But it allows him to do this, and he doesn't feel any of that uncomfortable tightness in his chest on days like these.
So, he starts his day like any other; putting on a pot of coffee and some music, having breakfast. He goes to take a shower and washes his hair, using the fancy conditioner that makes his hair extra soft and fluffy, that smells sweet and floral and makes him feel… delicate. It's stupid, really, how something as insignificant and small as the smell or texture of his hair loosens that tightness in his chest, but it does. It helps. So why would he not do it?
He ruffles his hair dry with a small towel and then uses a bigger one to dry himself off, slinging it around his waist when he's done. He locks the door just so from the inside, and only then does he make his way up the stairs.
The way Buck takes out the box is almost reverent, like it's something precious, like he has to handle it with care. He opens it, lets his fingers glide over the fabric of the skirt, folded neatly on top of everything else. He wishes he had a dress. God, Buck loathes that he's still been too much of a coward to buy a dress.
He'd seen one, the other day, when he was out with Maddie and Jee, passing by a shop display. A floral summer dress, flowy and bright and joyful, and his chest had constricted so tightly that he'd had to take a moment to get his breathing back under control. Maddie had looked at him weird, but she hadn't noticed what caused his distress — and thank god for that — so she'd just asked him if he was okay and then asked Jee if she wanted to get ice cream. Jee had said yes, because she’s a toddler, and when they went to sit down in one of the booths, Maddie had looked at him admonishingly. He hadn't necessarily figured that situation out, but he had been glad for Jee next to him, acting as a shield for all the prying questions Buck really didn't want to answer.
Buck shakes his head and takes the skirt out. It's wine-red purple-ish, a kind of satin-like, shimmering fabric, with pleats that open up when he spins in it. Buck loves to spin in it; to feel the soft fabric opening up around him. It makes him feel giddy, even though he can't really explain why.
He unpacks the rest of the box, laying out the contents of it on his bed. Allows himself a moment to bask in it. His heart is going faster than normal, but it's not a bad feeling. He’s excited. He's happy , he realizes with a surprised chuckle. This makes him happy .
He lets his eyes scan over the bed for a moment, deciding between his two options. He keeps getting stuck on the bralette. It's lacy, dainty, and similar in colour to the skirt, only a little lighter — maybe a bit more pink. He loves that the lace isn't scratchy, that he can have it on for hours, without it being uncomfortable. So he grabs it, taking the time to neatly fold the crop top and put it back. Then he grabs a pair of boxers (so what, if they're matching) and gets dressed. He revels in it, takes his time to run his hands over the fabrics, enjoying the way the textures feel under the pads of his fingers. By now, his hair is mostly dry, so he cards his hands through his soft curls as well, another texture, another sensation, that feels just right like this.
Next is the jewellery. It's always a bit tricky, to get the necklace clasped at the back of his neck. His hands are too big, his fingernails too short, and it takes a while; but he does manage it eventually. The silver settles against his skin, and it feels right, like it belongs there. The earrings are easier — they're clipped on in no time.
By the time he's picking up the makeup to head back down to his bathroom, he's smiling from ear to ear. He can't help it. It's just… it's nice.
Makeup is a lengthier affair than getting dressed. It takes a while for Buck to figure out what he even wants to do, and then plenty more time to figure out how to do it. He doesn't do anything complicated, not like anything he's seen on the women in his life; he's far, far too inexperienced for that. He ends up with a nice shade of pink on his lids, a bit of glitter in his inner corner, and, after far too many tries, a decently winged eyeliner. The lipstick is the easiest to do, and he does quick work of it.
Then, he steps back, to look at himself in the mirror, properly, and his heart does a happy little flip. God, he wishes he could look like this all the time.
The thought makes him pause for a second, and he decides to ignore it — still not interested in opening that particular can of worms.
Instead, he steps into his kitchen to pour himself another cup of coffee. His hands keep closing over the necklace, moving the charm around on it. It's a nice feeling, and he likes that his hands can fidget with it — an added bonus that he'd never considered before.
The sun is shining outside, and Buck feels a little brave; brave enough to take his cup of coffee out onto his balcony; to let the sun fall on his exposed skin, to bask in this feeling of rightness, of comfort; to allow himself to close his eyes and enjoy this moment. Draw it out as long as he can.
At some point, he sets his cup aside to step into the free space, and spins until he feels dizzy enough that he has to stop. It's exhilarating, and he couldn't stop himself from laughing, even if he wanted to. The music keeps playing faintly inside, and the sun on his face is warm without burning him, and his chest is finally relieved from the tightness it usually holds.
Buck laughs, and laughs, and keeps laughing; silently enough so that no one else can hear it, but that doesn't matter. This is his moment to have, his joy to feel, and no one can take it away from him.
And suddenly, something in him shifts. Something clicks into place and settles in his heart and knocks the wind out of him, and he knows.
This isn't something that he wants to ignore, anymore. This is something he wants to have. Something he is allowed to have.
There is something to be done about this. He needs to sit down, and think about it; needs to do a bunch of research and figure himself out. Because as he's sitting in the sun, smiling to himself, all he can think is “I want to feel like this all the time. I don't want to have to hide this feeling anymore”. And the thought is terrifying, it's scarier than anything he's ever done before, but it's so liberating, too. It feels so hopeful and promising that all the fear almost doesn't matter to him.
So there's a decision he needs to make. Probably more than one. There are sleepless nights in his future, and difficult conversations; 3 a.m. research rabbitholes and a whole lot of internalized issues to unpack and unlearn. And yeah, it's probably going to suck. Huge parts about this are going to be unpleasant — contrary to popular belief, Buck isn't actually stupid. He can acknowledge this road is going to be rough, and hard, and a struggle he's never faced before.
And still, he can't bring himself to care. Because whatever it might bring with, it also means to be free, for the first time in… maybe his entire life. It means that he can shed this burden that he knows has been weighing him down for years. He knows that it will be worth it.
He feels the sun on his skin, and the way the slight breeze ruffles through his curls and makes the skirt shift around his legs, and he feels so alive it almost makes him cry.
He opens his eyes. Looks around. Looks at himself in the reflection of his balcony door, at the way he almost seems to be glowing in the sunlight.
Yes. He wants this, more than he has ever wanted anything else.
He looks at his reflection and spins again, catches the way the skirt starts to float around him, and for a second, it feels like he's floating, too. He can feel a familiar pressure behind his eyes, a physical manifestation of the relief he feels.
He closes his eyes again, takes a deep breath. Then another one.
And so, he makes the first, but maybe the most important, decision: he's survived for long enough.
Now, it's time to live.