#and bobby being a sainttttt

[chronicowboy]

worship like a dog (at the shrine of your life) | 6.8k

"Y-you're thinking about moving?" Buck asks, words turning to ash in his mouth.

"Starting to think about it anyway," Eddie says, braced like he's waiting for Buck to snap his tablet in half.

But Buck is a good dog, really. Or, he tries to be. Tries so hard. So, he doesn't do anything he wants to. Doesn't throw up on the living room carpet. Doesn't piss in every corner of the house. Doesn't scratch his presence into all the furniture—it's there already, he thinks, I'm there already, aren't I?

No, instead, he plasters on a smile, thinks about plastering all the walls in every grocery list with three mismatched but equally illegible handwritings, every drawing of Christopher's he and Eddie have accumulated over the years—the cardboard box at the bottom of Eddie's wardrobe, the accordion folder under Buck's bed— every ticket stub from the aquarium, the arcade, the zoo, the movies, the museum. He imagines sketching a hundred more hearts in every colour the Diaz boys have made that ball of glowing light in his chest turn, imagines pasting them to the windows of the house, so that the light seeping into the kitchen was filtered through Buck's love like, like, like.

Like stained glass.

Buck doesn't believe in God, but he has his faith. Buck doesn't believe in The Holy Trinity, but he believes in The Father and The Son. Buck doesn't believe in a higher power, but he knows what it is to worship.

(OR: eddie's house is home, buck finds worship there)