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“Chicago Mix popcorn is a tourist trap and a gross sham,” Bucky found himself saying aloud to strangers, three wine coolers in by 3 PM on the Fourth of July, staring down the bowl next to the kitchen bar. “Caramel corn and cheese popcorn is just a shock value combination that has nothing to do with Chicago tradition or history.” A woman with short dark hair glared at him as she took a handful and went out on the back patio. Bucky took another pull of pink from his bottle.
“You from Chicago?” A blonde man was pulling a full watermelon out of the fridge, his ass in those salmon shorts alone more than worthy of a shift in attention. If Bucky thought so, he might blame the malt whatever-it-was that kept appearing in his hand whenever a bottle emptied. Natasha had seen to that and made sure it was never anything so dignified as an honest to god beer.
“New York,” Bucky replied. The blonde smiled down at the cutting board.
“Then why worry about it? It's good.”
“I’m not worried,” Bucky scoffed. “I’m just saying. It’s ridiculous.”
“Like New York doesn’t have food tourist traps?” The guy plunged a kitchen knife into the watermelon and looked up at him archly. He was of course, fucking gorgeous, because there was no god in heaven that would let Bucky live peacefully. His arm movements were sinfully rhythmic; Bucky wished to be that melon.
“I mean, whatever, we have trends,” he conceded. “Rainbow bagels, black ice cream, unicorn stuff. But that’s not the same.”
“How’s that not the same?” The guy was slicing watermelon like he had trained in a dojo for it. Perfect wedges fell from the blade. Bucky felt genuinely torn between watching the guy’s hands and the guy’s face, which occasionally glanced up at him and only with a sort of wry judgment.
“Uhh, obviously those foods are tasty ,” Bucky scoffed. Sam came in from the patio, barbecue apron with stars and stripes smeared with some marinade or other. He managed a piece of watermelon before the other guy took one of his fingers with it.
“Fuck, Steve, give a guy a chance,” he hissed. “This is what happens when you invite a chef to a backyard barbecue,” Sam said, looking at Bucky and elbowing the blonde squarely in the ribs. “He arguing with you about food?”
“Just defending Chicago’s shitty trends,” Bucky replied, folding his arms over his black t-shirt. He felt distinctly unpatriotic among the guests, everyone decked in blues and reds if not full blown flag prints. Steve, apparently a chef, had a red striped tank that revealed what appeared to be a full wingspan of some bird or other (an eagle, if he really committed to this shit, Bucky thought) tattooed across his clavicle. Sam dropped his spatula in the sink and, as usual, played devil’s advocate.
“Have you ever had Chicago deep-dish, Barnes? Don’t tell me that’s not tasty.”
“Chicago deep dish is just a bread bowl full of cheese and tomatoes. That’s not pizza,” the blonde gestured with the knife’s point.
“Put that down, old man, we’re not doing the pizza argument again,” Sam sighed.
“On that, we agree. New York pizza is the real deal.” Bucky smiled and Steve nodded. Sam rolled his eyes.
“Figured you two would get along. Steve, this is Nat’s trainer Bucky." Steve looked up then, blue eyes warmer than Bucky would have guessed.
“Nice to meet you, chef.” Bucky raised his shitty wine cooler.
“That’s Chef Birthday Boy to you. Another round of burgers’ll be ready in ten minutes, pizza-haters,” Sam said on his way back to the grill. Bucky raised an eyebrow.
“Fourth of July birthday, huh? How old?”
“Feels like 99,” Steve sighed, plating the watermelon on two large platters. “Honestly I don't mind sharing the celebration. Grab one of these for me?” Bucky obliged, surprising himself at how quickly he set his bottle aside and followed Steve out to the backyard. They set the fruit on the picnic table among the sides, beautiful salads and garnishes. “Thanks,” Steve said as Bucky wiped some errant fruit juice on his pants. He met Bucky’s eyes with a warm smile and in spite of the heat Bucky felt something of a chill, like you could wipe condensation off him suddenly. Natasha pulled Steve away to ask about the potato salad and Bucky joined Sam at the grill, his heart returning to a normal pace.
“How long have you known the chef?” Bucky asked, attempting nonchalance. Sam glanced at Bucky sideways, flipping a burger with a satisfying sizzle.
“Steve Rogers. We’re buddies. You know that; Nat’s wanted to set you two up on double dates with us for a solid year.” Bucky swallowed. He always turned down the offers; set-ups were always a disaster. His last boyfriend was garbage and being single was depressing but at least it wasn’t actively hurting him. “I get that you’re not ready. Steve’s good company, though. I’m glad you guys can hang out,” Sam said with an easy shrug. “He’ll kick your ass at bags.” That caught Bucky’s attention.
“That so,” he said idly. He watched Steve float between party guests with Nat, laughing easily as folks wished him a happy birthday. He looked bashful, almost brushing off the attention. It struck him that maybe he could make Steve show off a little, let him accept some good attention on his birthday. “We’ll see about that.”
Suffice it to say Bucky might have remembered more of the bags game if Natasha didn’t stop sending children up to him with new bottles of pink punch, and if he didn’t focus solely on making sure the spectacle of Steve Rogers was well-appreciated by everyone watching. Steve effortlessly sent a red bean bag at the opposite board, a lofting arc that landed with a succinct grace. The other team, young students of Natasha’s, Wanda and Pietro, groaned. Bucky whooped and hollered.
“Steve’s back must be getting tired from carrying your team, Mr. Barnes,” Pietro yelled, cuffing Steve on the shoulder. Bucky flipped him off from the opposite board, Wanda next to him.
“Maybe you should try to let your jealousy fuel your game, Pietro,” Bucky sneered. Pietro chucked a bean bag right at him. “Hey, nailed it that time!”
“He’s right, Barnes,” Steve laughed. “Pull your weight! Didn’t partner with you for your looks, you know!” Bucky landed a bag on the board for a winning point and grabbed at his dick with anything but class and grace.
“How’s that for looks, grandpa?”
“Looks like trophy husband material to me!” Steve yelled back with a grin, shaking hands with Pietro. Bucky watched him with bright eyes as he crossed the space between them, handsome somehow even in the swagger of flip flops. The flirtations, Bucky was pleased to report, were now easy and comfortable. “I hope you’re that mature when training Nat.”
“What else do you think motivates her lazy ass? She trains on spite alone.”
“Can I get you a beer?” Steve asked. Bucky laughed.
“God, I would kill for one. Nat keeps shoving these pink things at me because she thinks it’s funny and I’m gonna be throwing up red white and blue if I have to drink anything else with a palm tree on the label. Don’t let her see.”
“We can meet halfway,” Steve laughed, handing him a can from the cooler. “Revolution Rosa. Hibiscus beer, so it’s a little pink. I think she’ll allow it.” Bucky took a sip and nodded.
“Pretty good.”
“A Chicago beer,” Steve said with a smirk. Bucky rolled his eyes. “Did Chicago murder your parents or something? Honestly, what’s the problem?”
“I don't have a problem with---" An idea hit Bucky square between the eyes. "D’you want to know what Chicago’s worst food trend is?” He asked.
“It’s not the popcorn?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never tried the popcorn, it’s probably delicious,” Bucky admitted. Steve barked a laugh. “The worst one is Malört.” Steve nodded slowly, recognizing the name.
“I’ve heard of that,” he said. Bucky’s eyes widened.
“You’re a chef and you’ve never tried Malört? Oh, I am honored. This is a gift.” Bucky’s face split in a wolf grin. “Natasha made me try it. She’s got a bottle here somewhere. We’re doing a birthday shot.”
“You said it was terrible. Why would I want to do that?”
“Because it’s an experience. It’s a Chicago thing,” Bucky said with a joyous grimace. “C’mon. Give me a thirty second lead or Natasha’s gonna know we’re up to something.” Steve was bewildered, searching Bucky's eyes for intention, and Bucky only winked at him and ducked inside. Steve took a look around the backyard and smiled, taking in the sight. The sun was just starting to dip and a couple of kids were skipping around with sparklers, already running on the sugar fumes from popsicles and candy from the parade. Their cheeks were red at the edges from the sun and Steve remembered birthdays that had passed him by, what felt like hundreds of years ago. He hadn’t celebrated in some time now; there was no need, really, when every year there were fireworks whether he wanted them or not. He had spent them alone, or he hadn’t, and it never made a difference. The night hadn’t felt special, hadn’t felt like his, in years and years. He never really got back that sugared rush of joy of a child running in someone’s backyard, celebrating a summer night just because. But there was something of a spark in his gut that he remembered, and it was tugging him in the direction of the kitchen, where a cute boy was rooting around Natasha’s personal alcohol. Steve snickered when he saw Bucky stick the bottle in question under his shirt. He gestured for Steve to follow, looking around to see if any other guests had seen him make the grab, and closed themselves in the master bedroom, where windbreakers and towels had been stashed from the beach outing that morning. Bucky was out of breath and a little giddy, keeping his voice low.
“Okay, here it is,” he said, pulling the bottle from beneath his shirt and presenting it to Steve as they sat down. “Happy Birthday, to the bags champion of Fourth of July.” Steve beamed at him before examining the bottle.
“Jeppson’s Malört,” he read aloud. “Why do I feel like we’re sixteen right now?”
“Because you’re afraid and a little excited,” Bucky chuckled, but it was only just as he was saying it that he realized how close he and Steve were, knees practically touching on the bed as if it were, in fact, some kind of teenage taboo at their parents’ party. Bucky swallowed the thought and produced two shot glasses from his pockets where he’d stashed them. Steve laughed out loud.
“Any other surprises? You got doves hidden in there somewhere?”
“Nowhere I’m letting you go before at least one shot,” Bucky said with a sloppy smile. He opened the bottle and poured two careful shots into the little tumblers, one in each of Steve’s hands.
“Why do I have to do two?” He asked, worried.
“One’s for me. I’d never make you do this alone. No honor in that.”
“Thoughtful.”
“Okay, birthday boy. From Chicago with love,” Bucky grinned, taking one of the shots, careful not to spill. “Look me in the eye. Don’t hesitate, throw it back, and come right back here.” Bucky pointed at his own eyes, and Steve had no trouble locking there. They clinked the glass and each put away the shot. Bucky’s mouth twisted but he kept his eyes open to watch Steve; it’s a special thing to see someone’s first Malort shot. Steve grimaced initially and then coughed at copper chase.
“Jesus Christ, why would you bottle this? It tastes like--- rust. And lichen, if lichen could bleed. Fuck!” Steve’s tongue darted around his mouth, trying to escape the taste. “Chicago, why?”
“Because they’re a tough fuckin’ city of people who love a challenge and strengthen their communities with shared negative experiences. Like one bullshit corrupt governor after another, and sports teams that fail as a rule.” Steve wanted to smile through the lingering venom.
“You sound almost fond of it.”
“I love Chicago. She’s a tough broad,” Bucky said, tongue flicking out over his lips as he grimaced. “It’s the aftertaste that gets ya.”
“What do you chase it with?” Steve asked hopefully, and as if the answer were obvious, Bucky smashed his lips to Steve’s, and they shared a wicked, lingering wormwood kiss. Fireflies and sparklers and bright summer sunlight streamed through every joint of Steve’s body, and the taste was truly medieval, multi-faceted in its bizarre tang.
“Fireworks,” Bucky said when at last he could pull himself away, regarding him softly through a haze of lashes. “Want to come see?” He took Steve’s hand and led him away, and they sat close on the back lawn with their eyes on the sky, colorful explosions raining down overhead as the local high school band played Sousa and the kids screamed with delight, covering their ears and pointing at the showers of sparkles against the darkness. Steve took a moment to recognize the odd tenderness, the energy sparking at his insides like the anticipation of a childhood summer night, and when Bucky, a stranger of hours before, laid his head on Steve’s shoulder and wished him a happy birthday, he felt for once that the night was his again.
Reclined on patio chairs, Sam snuggled into Natasha as they clinked bottles between fireworks, satisfied with the reception of their birthday gift. Natasha would credit the wine coolers, and Sam would credit the lawn games, and both would reconsider when they found the shot glasses on Natasha’s pillow later that night. For every birthday that followed, a bottle of Malört with a red, white, and blue ribbon would appear, and Steve and Bucky relived the bitter, the sweet, and the sparkle year after year.