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Bucky looked down at the measures of music on his wrist with clear contempt. The only reason he was in this stupid AP Music Theory class is because of those fourteen notes permanently written on his arm. Most people, if not every other person on Earth, had the first words their soulmate would ever say to them tattooed on their wrists. But no, not Bucky. Bucky had some sheet music that he couldn’t read staring at him every day.
How the hell was Bucky supposed to find his soulmate if he couldn’t read sheet music? So he enrolled in a music theory class, the only one his high school offered, as soon as he could.
Learning what the notes were wasn’t too difficult. It’s written in 4/4 time, in the key of A Major, and in the treble clef. That part he understands. He also recognizes the note values, the pitches, and the names of the notes. What Bucky doesn’t understand is how he’s supposed to recognize that specific combination of notes out in the wild.
Bucky takes a moment to appreciate the fact that the tattoo is at least written neatly, and observing all the rules his AP teacher taught him. The treble clef extends exactly one line above and below the staff, the bars are evenly spaced, the note stems are an octave high, and the key signature has the sharps in the correct spots. At least he doesn’t have to stare at incorrect music for the rest of his life.
Just to be obnoxious, Bucky decides to choose a pattern of notes to sing back to his soulmate. He figures that if he has to learn to read music, his soulmate has to, too. He spends the rest of the day thinking over his music. There’s a definite draw to choosing something he’ll actually remember and be able to sing, but he also sort of wants to be petty and create something overly complicated.
In the end, he decides to use a bass clef, since he definitely is not a soprano. Actually, the range of the notes convinces Bucky that his soulmate is probably a girl. He puts it in the key of E Flat Major, since he has a tendency to sing a little flat while moving upwards sometimes anyway. He ultimately decides to go a little more simple, favoring his singing ability over being petty.
***
God, ear training is impossible. Bucky is sitting in class, trying to identify the notes his teacher is playing, and it’s impossible.
“That was… an A5 to a D5,” he guesses.
“Not quite,” his teacher, Mr. Stark, says. “It’s a sharp G4 to a B4, the very first interval written on your wrist, there.”
Bucky sighs. He should definitely know that one by now.
“Let’s try another one,” Mr. Stark says, playing another short series of notes on the piano.
“B3 to E4?”
“Yes! I knew you could get it. Let’s do one more,” Mr. Stark says happily.
Bucky just groaned while Mr. Stark laughed at him.
***
Finally, finally, Bucky has his soulmate notes, the ones on his wrist and the ones he wrote, memorized, and he’s fairly confident he could recognize both while out in the real world.
About six months after passing the (eight hour!) Music Theory AP exam and graduating high school, Bucky hears a painfully familiar series of notes.
It is not, however, a woman singing. Instead, his soulmate is a man, whistling the series of notes Bucky has worked so hard to memorize. So, definitely not a soprano.
With his heart beating out of his chest, Bucky sings the notes he prepared almost seven months ago. He sings the notes on their numbers, afraid he wouldn’t be able to get the pitch right with words or anything else.
The whistling man startles and looks around for the tenor singing the notes on the staff set into his arm.
Bucky smiles, gets the man’s attention, and then rolls his eyes.
“I can’t believe you would make me sit through all those Music Theory classes just so I could recognize you whistling. Totally not cool,” Bucky says.
The man, a tall blond with seriously blue eyes, turns a little red as he hold out his hand for Bucky to shake.
“I just memorized those specific notes, honestly. I can’t read sheet music,” he admits.
Bucky shook the man’s hand with a lightly indignant glare.
“I’m Bucky, by the way. It seems we’re soulmates.”
“Steve,” the man says, smiling brightly.
“I totally thought you were going to be a soprano. I never even considered that my soulmate would be whistling when we met.”
Steve laughs. “I guess I was lucky that you sang the notes in the right range, then.”
“I specifically wrote those notes for you in revenge for making me take AP Music Theory. I thought I was forcing you into music classes too,” Bucky says.
“Well, sorry to disappoint you,” Steve says. “I stayed away from music classes. I’m terrible at it.”
“You have no idea how difficult those classes were,” Bucky laughs. “How about you buy me lunch to make up for it?”
“That sounds like a fair trade,” Steve says, and they walk off together, hand in hand.