Chapter Text
The heat was a physical thing, a malevolent presence in his new room. It pressed in from all sides, a suffocating weight that made the desperate hum of the window unit feel like a last rite. Back in Hershey, heat had been a welcome guest, the scent of summer, freshly cut grass, and chlorine-scented pools. It was the comfortable warmth that settled in after a thunderstorm, leaving the air clean and alive. Here in El Paso, it was a jailer, an alien force that shimmered off the asphalt and baked the very air he was supposed to breathe. It never relented, not even at night, just transformed into a thick, syrupy warmth that clung to his skin and made sleep a restless, sweaty ordeal.
Evan Buckley, who insisted everyone call him Buck because "Evan" was the ghost of a son his parents actually paid attention to, had been a prisoner in this beige-walled cell for three weeks. The moving boxes, still taped shut and stacked against one wall like a cardboard barricade, served as a monument to a life he hadn't asked to leave. They were a mausoleum, and inside lay the relics of a dead boy: a football worn smooth from years of backyard catches with Maddie, its laces frayed from her clumsy, laughing throws; a shoebox full of photos, faded Polaroids of faces he was starting to forget, their smiles mocking him from a life that felt a million miles away; a stack of graphic novels with cracked spines, their heroes' journeys a bitter contrast to his own static existence. He couldn't bring himself to unpack them. To do so would be to admit that this was real, that this was home, and his heart rebelled violently at the thought.
He flopped back onto his bed, the springs groaning in protest. Loneliness was a constant, bitter taste in his mouth. It wasn't just the new address; it was the gaping, Maddie-shaped hole in his universe, a hole that seemed to grow wider each day. In the first month after she’d moved to Boston, she had called every other day. Now, the calls had slowed to a weekly, then bi-weekly trickle. Her texts, once a constant stream of inside jokes and "miss you's," had slowed to a trickle. The long, rambling emails he lived for, the ones full of detail about her new life, were becoming shorter, more rushed, filled with new names of friends and colleagues that meant nothing to him. He was losing her, piece by piece, to a life he had no part in. It sharpened the fresh wound of his parents’ betrayal. He remembered the dinner vividly, the cold meatloaf sitting like a stone in his stomach as his mother had announced, "Your father's been offered a wonderful opportunity in El Paso." His father had nodded, adding, "It's a big step up for us as a family." Us. The word had echoed in the silent dining room. They hadn't asked him; they had informed him. His life in Hershey, his friends, his senior year—none of it had even warranted a discussion.
He reached for the one object in the room that wasn't coated in a layer of dust and apathy: a silver iPod Classic. Its mirrored back was a spiderweb of fine scratches, the click wheel worn smooth from thousands of hours of use. It was his armor. His shield. His portable fortress of solitude. He untangled the white wires of his headphones, slipped the earbuds into place, and scrolled to a playlist titled "Static." The opening chords of a loud, angry rock song flooded his senses, the drums a frantic heartbeat against his own. For a moment, the silence in his head, the one that was so much louder than the silence of the house, was gone.
He padded out of his room and into the living area. His mother was at the kitchen table, her face hidden behind a newspaper.
"Going out," Buck said to the back of the paper.
"Dinner's at six," she replied, her voice distracted, automatic. She didn't ask where he was going. She never did.
That night, he put a theory to the test. He walked out of the silent house, the music a roaring wall of sound in his ears, and just kept walking. He wandered the strange, sleeping city, his own personal soundtrack turning the empty streets into a music video. The city was alien, all low-slung adobe buildings and spiky, unfamiliar plants that looked like they belonged on another planet. He watched the moon trace its slow arc across the vast desert sky, a canopy of stars so bright and clear it felt like he could fall right into it. When the first hints of dawn painted the eastern horizon, he finally made his way back.
He slipped through the front door. The house was still, exactly as he'd left it. His mother’s coffee cup was still on the table. No missed calls. No worried notes. No one had noticed he was gone. The confirmation didn't hurt anymore. It was just a fact, solid and cold. He was a ghost in his own home.
The walks became his routine. A few days later, the midday sun was beating down, radiating off the pavement in shimmering waves. The loneliness was a physical ache in his chest, a familiar, crushing weight he couldn't shake. He pulled out his iPod, the silver metal hot to the touch from sitting in his pocket. He scrolled past playlists for sadness and anger, past the music Maddie had put on there for him years ago. He needed something else. He found a playlist titled "White Noise," one that was just pure, defiant, cathartic sound.
He pushed the earbuds in, cranked the volume until the beat vibrated in his bones, and shut out the world. Head down, he started walking, letting the rhythm dictate his pace, a deliberate march against the emptiness. He aimed himself toward a distant patch of surprising greenness, a place he hadn't yet explored, completely oblivious to anything beyond the roaring sanctuary in his ears.
***
For Edmundo Diaz, who only ever went by Eddie unless his parents were disappointed in him, silence was a rare and precious commodity. His house was a place of constant, chaotic, loving noise. It was the sound of his younger sisters, Adriana and Sofía, chasing each other through the living room, their high-pitched laughter echoing off the walls. It was the unconditional warmth of his Abuela humming in the kitchen, a soft, off-key tune that had been the background music to his entire life. But it was also the sound of his mother, Helena, her voice carrying a sharp, critical edge that always seemed to find him. "Edmundo, why are you always hiding in your room with a book? You should be out with your friends," she’d say, her words a stark contrast to his father’s heavy, stoic silence. His father’s expectations were a weight he could feel; his mother’s disappointment was a sound he could hear.
Eddie loved his family with a fierce, protective loyalty that was as much a part of him as his own heartbeat. But sometimes, the noise of their love and judgment felt like a physical pressure, a constant hum that vibrated in his bones and made it impossible to hear his own thoughts. He was the quiet center of their boisterous universe, the responsible older brother, the good son who was never quite good enough. He wasn't a big talker, not like his best friend Shannon. He was an observer, and he saw more than he let on. He saw the way his parents looked at him, and he knew he wasn't the son they'd expected.
This feeling of being slightly out-of-step followed him to school, even to the basketball court. He liked playing, loved the discipline of the drills and the clean, satisfying swish of the ball through the net. But he couldn't connect with his teammates. Their locker room talk, a constant, bragging loop of girls and parties and who-did-what, left him feeling cold and disconnected. He’d just nod along, a faint feeling of revulsion churning in his stomach, wondering what was wrong with him that he couldn't find any of it interesting.
That’s why he had this place. A small, hidden clearing in Keystone Park, a perfect circle of grass shaded by a canopy of ancient mesquite trees. It had taken him months to find it. Here, the noise of the city and the loving chaos of his home faded to a distant murmur. Here, he could just be Eddie. Not a son who had to live up to his father's stoic ideal of manhood while simultaneously failing his mother's ideal of a social, popular boy. Not a brother who had to be patient and watchful. Not a teammate who had to pretend to care about things that felt alien to him. Just himself.
He was sitting on his favorite spot, a large, sun-warmed rock, a well-worn paperback open in his lap but his eyes closed, just soaking in a rare moment of perfect peace. The air was warm, the light filtering through the leaves dappled his skin, and for the first time all day, the tight knot of tension in his shoulders began to ease.
Then, a branch snapped. Loudly.
His eyes flew open, his entire body tensing as if a switch had been flipped. The peace was shattered. A flash of movement from the edge of the clearing, and a kid stumbled through the brush as if he were being chased. He was tall and lanky, with a mop of blond hair that fell into his eyes and a bright blue t-shirt that was an obnoxious splash of color in the muted greens and browns of the park. White wires snaked from his ears, and his head was bobbing to a rhythm only he could hear.
Eddie’s first thought was a surge of pure, territorial annoyance. Great. Some dumb jock just crashed my spot.
The kid was completely oblivious, still lost in his own world, taking a few steps into the center of the clearing as if he owned the place, his long limbs moving with an uncoordinated grace.
Eddie’s second thought was an inconvenient observation. He's not even paying attention. Probably can't hear a thing over that racket. He's going to trip over his own feet.
And then came the third thought, the one that made his stomach clench with a confusing mix of irritation and something else entirely, something warm and unwelcome. Why is my first thought that he's… attractive? In a clumsy, lost-puppy kind of way? Stupid brain.
He watched as the kid finally stopped, his head still moving to the silent beat. He was going to be loud. He was going to ruin everything. Eddie’s jaw tightened, the brief moment of peace now a distant memory. He had to get rid of him. Now.
Eddie pushed himself off the rock, his movements deliberate and coiled with irritation. He cleared his throat, a loud, pointed sound. Nothing. The blond kid was still lost in his own world, a faint, tinny beat buzzing from his earbuds like an angry insect. Annoyance hardening into resolve, Eddie took a step forward, then another, his shadow falling over the intruder like a net.
"Can I help you?" he called out, his voice sharper and louder than he intended, cutting through the afternoon stillness.
The kid jumped like he’d been shot, startled, and spun around. He yanked the earbuds out with a clumsy motion, and the tinny buzz instantly became a blast of angry, distorted guitar and screamed lyrics that assaulted the quiet clearing. He fumbled with the iPod in his pocket, his cheeks flushing slightly as he finally managed to silence it. The sudden, absolute quiet that followed was deafening.
"What?" the kid asked, his blue eyes wide and defensive, his voice a little too loud in the sudden silence.
"I asked if I could help you," Eddie repeated, slowly crossing his arms over his chest. It was a pose he’d seen his father use a hundred times, a wall built of muscle and disapproval. It felt both powerful and foreign on his own body. "This is a private spot."
The blond kid’s defensiveness immediately hardened into a sneer. He visibly straightened up, puffing out his chest in a subtle shift that made him seem even taller, a clear display of masculine posturing. "Oh, yeah? Didn't see your name on it. Is this your rock? Your blade of grass? Did you pee on the trees to mark your territory?"
The sarcasm grated on Eddie's last nerve. "Some of us come here for peace and quiet. Not to listen to... whatever that noise was."
"It's called music," the kid shot back, his voice dripping with condescension. He took a deliberate step forward, closing the distance between them and invading Eddie's personal space. It was a clear challenge. "You should try it sometime. Might loosen you up." He smirked. "Or is that against the rules in your special, secret clubhouse?"
They stood there for a long, charged moment, barely a foot apart, two teenage alpha dogs bristling in a silent standoff. The air crackled with unspoken hostility. Eddie could feel the heat radiating off the other boy, could smell the faint scent of sweat and sunblock. He could see the defiant spark in his eyes, and he hated him. He hated his stupid, loud t-shirt, his messy blond hair, and the fact that his brain was stubbornly refusing to ignore the intense, focused way the other boy's eyes were locked on his.
Buck stared back, his heart pounding with a mixture of anger and a strange, unfamiliar thrill. This guy, with his dark, intense eyes and the rigid set of his jaw, was everything he hated about this town—closed-off, judgmental, and territorial. He was trying to make Buck feel small, like an intruder, the same way his parents’ silence made him feel. And yet, there was something in his gaze, a flicker of something that wasn't just anger, that made Buck’s stomach do a nervous, sickening flip. He refused to be the first to look away.
Finally, feeling the standoff had gone on a second too long, Buck broke the stalemate. He let out a short, humorless laugh, a harsh sound in the quiet air, shaking his head as if the whole situation was beneath him. "You know what? You can have your precious clearing." He took a dramatic step back, throwing his hands up in mock surrender, the picture of sarcastic defeat. "Wouldn't want to interrupt your... quiet time."
He turned, and with a final, pointed glare over his shoulder, he shoved his way back through the brush he’d come through, leaving a wake of rustling leaves and simmering tension.
Eddie stood frozen, his breath caught in his chest, the silence of the clearing returning, but it was different now. It was charged, electric, filled with the ghost of the confrontation. His fists were clenched so tightly at his sides his knuckles were white. What a loud, arrogant idiot... with eyes that were way too blue.
Miles away, walking back towards a home that didn't feel like one, Buck jammed his earbuds back in, the music doing little to drown out the lingering image of dark, angry eyes. What a territorial, entitled prick... who had no right to look that intense while being such an asshole.