Chapter Text
1 -The Artist and the Apartment
Charcoal committed the echo of memory to paper before it had time to dim. Darkness and light played together across the planes of his face, catching on thick lashes, accenting the angle of his nose. Dark hair rested in messy twists against his forehead, ruffled gently with each slow breath. Soft shadows danced a lazy waltz beneath those curls. Fading daylight erased every blemish, every crack in that perfect porcelain skin and he suddenly found himself wishing he’d had more than just charcoal. There was not a single flaw to be found on that beautiful dozing face. Not as though he’d even notice them.
Fingertips traced by, smudging here, softening there, shaping each curve and angle. He held the black stick in his lips and kneaded the soft eraser a moment before adding a bit of light to the lips, brightening them and giving them a glossy shine. Sunlight flared like golden fire across his subject’s cheeks and for a moment all he could do was stare at the irreproachable beauty of the creature before him. He was no mere human. Bathed in the oranges and reds of the dying sunset, the artist’s eyes showed him what his heart already knew. He was something perfect, pristine, elevated to the very pinnacle of humanity and propelled past it. Here was Eros, Apollo, here was Lucifer, most beautiful of all the angels. Here was his absolution from the wages of sin.
He sat transfixed and mesmerized, terrified that one wrong breath, one errant twitch would break the spell. Or worse, would reveal the ember of longing in his heart. One wrong move and it could flare, catching on his spirit like dry leaves and starting a roaring wildfire that couldn’t be quenched. It had almost happened before.
It could happen again.
Patience , he coaxed himself. Patience. But it was too late. He was tired of ‘patience’, and recognition of that ember simply made it pulse with a heat he was all too familiar with. What harm would it do? He asked himself. I could touch that golden skin, that silky hair. He wouldn’t notice. He wouldn’t even wake. His heart was pounding now, but he dug his heel into the rod of the bedframe, pushing himself harder into his chair as if he could physically restrain the stubborn wants of his spirit. I could do it… How soft would those lips be? How sweet would it be to steal his breath for my own?
The idea set his blood racing, and he felt his heart flutter. His lips parted slightly, imagining that singular, forbidden kiss in the magic of this twilight -- and from them fell his charcoal stick. He cursed, pawing at the air to try and catch it as it tumbled through his fingers. It struck the ground and snapped neatly in two with a sharp crack.
Steve froze, glancing over at Bucky, but the other man continued to snore softly. He waited one heartbeat, then another, before he let out his breath in a low rush and leaned to pick up his broken tool. As he did, his sketchbook slid sideways off his lap with a noisy clatter.
Bucky jolted awake at the sound, pale blue eyes swimming and unfocused as he tried to remember who and where he was. Steven grimaced slightly, the spell so unceremoniously shattered. The fire in his veins retreated to a pulsing flame, suppressed back down into an ember. He felt the glow warm his cheeks.
Leaning awkwardly to the side, one leg still propped against the side of the bed, he tried to fish up his book. “...Sorry…” he murmured lamely.
“Shit… Ah shit did I fall asleep?” Buck asked, sitting up and rubbing the balls of his palms into his eyes.
“You were tired,” Steve excused with a shrug. “You keep pickin’ up those extra shifts, they’re catchin’ up to you.” He said, sighing as he closed his book, holding it close to his chest. The spell may have been broken, but he had captured at least a glimpse of that magic on parchment. Gently he cracked the book to peek at it. Bucky’s peaceful face, relaxed in slumber, lips half parted with one hand awkwardly propped against his head. He’d loved how graceful and weightless those fingers looked dangling above his cheek. Given another ten, maybe twenty minutes, he knew there would be a thin line of drool from the corner of his lip running down to his bicep. This wasn’t an image that would win any dames, but it wasn’t meant to. It was honest. It was real. And somehow that made it so much more important to him.
“--I said lemme see.” At some point Bucky had sat up, one bare foot pressed to the cold wood floor as he reached over for the sketchbook. Steve snapped it shut on his fingers and Bucky drew them back as if they’d been slammed in a door. “Ah c’mon, why you gotta be bashful about it?”
“I ain’t bashful ,” Steve lied, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks again. In a moment his face would be red and the pink splotches would start up on his neck and chest. Buck didn’t blush like that, he thought, but it wasn’t with jealousy. Not really. When Bucky blushed, his skin turned a high, even pink. It was handsome, even radiant. At least when he blushed it couldn’t be mistaken for a fever. “It ain’t ready yet.”
“I don’t care if it’s ready, I wanna see.” Buck said, smiling that charming smile. He moved closer again, but this time Steve brought up a foot to the center of his chest, holding him at bay as he clutched his sketchbook to his breast.
“I said no, James Buck!” he said, and Bucky simply leaned into him, letting Steve hold him up with one leg. His hands, rough from work, rested across the back of his bare skin and he felt himself break out in gooseflesh. He was so warm…
“You’re cold,” Bucky observed, rubbing slowly up his ankle. The ember flickered and spat, but Steve forced it down again.
“Well, it’s gettin’ late…” he replied, both statement of fact and excuse for his chill. Steve slowly drew his leg down and away, moving to rise from the chair. He went to the window and by the way the draft was cooling his face, he didn’t need to see his reflection to know how red he was. Looking out over the city streets, he watched the night suffocate the last few glimmers of warmth from the day. Darkness settled along the horizon. The moon peeked through the clouds, illuminating the clothes still out on the lines that criss crossed over the street. They fluttered like ghosts in the dim.
A second reflection came up beside his own and he could feel his friend standing behind him. The contrast was stark. Where Bucky was tall and dark haired with a body hardened from labor and eyelashes thick enough to rival Clark Gable, Steve was… well… Steve. He was over a full head shorter than Bucky, with narrow shoulders and blond hair that stayed messy no matter how much he tried to comb it. Bucky filled out anything he wore as if it were custom tailored to him, while Steve needed both a belt and suspenders to keep his stupid pants around his stupid angular hips. Bucky had a rakish smile that once got him confused for John Alvin and a boyish charm that could get him out of any scrape. Steve hated his own lopsided grin and his nose had been broken so many times it now had a permanent bend to it. Buck said it was hardly noticeable. And besides, he’d said, it gave him character.
Steve didn’t think he needed any more ‘character’.
It was hard not to stare at the difference in reflections, and it didn’t take an artist to recognize who was the more desirable specimen. Steve didn’t notice that while he was staring at Bucky’s reflection, Buck was staring right back. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and he looked away, finding the stumbling of a pair of drunks suddenly far more interesting. His cheeks felt hot again.
“Night seems darker than usual…” Bucky commented thoughtfully.
Steve perked a brow and looked out at the sky. It didn’t seem abnormal to him, but he nodded in agreement anyhow. “Yeah… Little bit.”
“Gettin’ colder too.”
This time he didn’t hesitate to nod. “Probably gonna snow sooner rather than later.”
Bucky was still staring out the window, his expression thoughtful as the moonlight bathed his features. Steve’s fingers ached for a pencil again. “...Ya know. S’no harm in just stayin’ here tonight. So you don’t gotta walk in the dark.”
Steve felt his stomach twist at the suggestion and he immediately cursed himself. Stop it. “Nah,” he said instead, turning away from the window. “It ain’t that far, I’ll be fine.”
“You thought any more on my offer?”
Steve bristled slightly. “I can make the rent just fine,” he growled. “I don’t need charity .”
“I don’t doubt that,” Bucky said, his voice full of doubt. “And it ain’t charity. It’s just… Ya know. Mutually beneficial.”
“Buck…”
“No, no, think about it. We split rent down the middle, it’s closer to downtown --”
“ Buck .”
But Bucky was talking faster now, eager to get his idea into the open while he still had the chance. “No -- no listen .”
“There’s barely enough room for one person here, let alone two.”
“I’ll make room. It’s closer to the doctor and the druggist if you get sick, and when you’re not workin’ you can keep the place neat and tidy!”
A stormcloud came over Steve’s eyes. “...So you want a maid. Is that what I’m hearing?”
Bucky stumbled for a moment, derailed. “What? What no, that’s not what I’m --”
“You want me to cook and clean and darn your socks?”
“What -- I mean, I wouldn’t mind --” Steve scoffed at him and Bucky backpedaled, his tone going high and defensive. “It’s not like you don’t know how -- you gotta do your own anyway, you’d just be helpin’ me out as well!”
“You want someone to keep you clean and fed, go get a gal, James Buck. It ain’t like you’re hurtin’ for options.” He bent to pull on his shoes, gathering up his belongings.
“Ah come on, don’t be like that Steve.” Bucky made in two strides the distance it had taken Steven four. “You know that’s not what I mean, you’re puttin’ words in my mouth.”
Steve whirled on him, jabbing a long finger into his chest. “I ain’t puttin’ nothin’ nowhere, James Buck. You want a dame? You go get a damn dame, don’t go shovin’ me into that slot.”
“I ain’t -- just listen to me, okay? You never listen! ”
“Goodbye, James.” Steve snapped, turning to grab his coat. His hand went to the doorknob but a heavier hand landed on his shoulder. He froze, feeling the anger surge inside him. But for a long moment, Bucky didn’t say anything.
“...I ain’t tryin’ to fight with you, Stevie.” He said softly. Steve didn’t respond, his hand frozen on the doorknob, nose wrinkled up in a grimace, eyes hard. “Just… we’ll talk about it more tomorrow, okay?” Still no response. Bucky gave a frustrated growl. “Answer me, will ya? Say we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Steve drew a deep breath, then let it out as his shoulders slumped. “Alright. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“ Thank you…” The hand didn’t leave his shoulder. “Be careful tonight, alright? There’s a bad moon out.”
To Steve, the moon had sat as it always had, nothing good nor bad about it. But again he relented, offering an tentative glance back at his friend. Bucky’s brow was furrowed, his eyes hard with concern and frustration. With pain from their quarrel. Steve sighed again, and again he felt the tension release in his shoulders and back. There was a brief pang of guilt as he realized that he was the cause of such a handsome face being twisted in such distress. In return, he offered a lopsided smile and roughly patted the hand on his shoulder. “Alright, Buck. I’ll be careful.” He agreed. And hugging his sketchbook to his chest, he pulled open the door and disappeared into the night.