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Steve’s broad hands rest on Bucky’s waist. They stare at each other with bated breath, neither daring to make a sound, while their fancy new record player plays Etta James.
It’s the new electric kind. Steve misses the fuzzy quality he remembers in sepia tones. Etta James sounds like velvet, and he hums softly, breaking their silence.
It’s slightly off-tune, pushing sharp. Bucky just smiles, his eyes trained on Steve’s jawline. They sway slowly to the beat. It isn’t like the dancing they used to do, Bucky dragging their small broken-down couch out of the way and trying to teach Steve how to do all of the popular dances.
They had always ended up on the floor, laughing with kiss-bitten lips. They were so young then, a switchblade and a firecracker. They had changed a lot over the years. And now, Steve stares at his childhood sweetheart with fond eyes.
“Buck?” Steve whispers. He makes a noncommittal noise, “Will you look at me?”
“I am looking at you,” he says, and there’s a smile lighting up his words. He looks up anyway, meeting Steve’s eyes.
Steve is sunlight and sin, all of the terrible and beautiful things in the universe wrapped up in 240 pounds of unyielding muscle. Bucky still sees 100 pounds soaking wet.
“I’m always looking at you,” Bucky whispers, the corner of his mouth tilting up. He cocks his head, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.
“No you aren’t,” Steve argues, but Bucky just sakes his head.
Bucky has watched Steve Rogers for his entire life (not counting the Winter Soldier’s reign which Steve argues shouldn’t count. Bucky finally agrees). Bucky has watched him grow and fight and kill and love. He is the only person who has seen every iteration of Steven Grant Rogers. He is the only person who sees Steve.
“You still can’t dance for shit, Rogers,” he whispers, “You woulda let Carter down,” he adds, and Steve blanches.
“That’s harsh.”
“No one ever said I was nice,” Bucky says, jutting out his chin. It’s reminiscent of the expression he wore the day before he left for basic, pretending to be excited for Steve’s sake, trying to hide the terror.
“Everyone said you were nice, Buck,” Steve reminds him gently, and Bucky’s eyes darken.
“All those people are dead. No one thinks I’m nice now,” Steve is more surprised than he should be. Bucky’s blunt now in a way he never was before. He used to speak poetry into the hairs at the nape of Steve’s neck. He used to paint words on Steve’s bare thighs under their too-thin covers.
Now he’s nothing but an exposed nerve. Rubbed raw.
“I think you’re nice,” Steve argues, taking Bucky’s hand and twirling him before pulling him so that they’re chest to chest once again.
“Yeah, but you’re an idiot. What’s that thing Peter says? You drank your idiot juice today,” Bucky teases, sticking his tongue out at Steve.
Steve’s mouth goes dry, eyes trained on his pink lips. The memory of kissing Bucky’s sugar-spun lips causes Steve to stumble.
Bucky rolls his eyes, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to his cheek.
“When we were teenagers…” Steve begins, staring past Bucky at their wall. It’s painted a soft blue, “I hadn’t even considered losing you. In my brain, I had always assumed it would be me who died first. When you-”
Bucky kisses him surely, swallowing the rest of Steve’s words. He doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to relive the biting cold, the searing pain, the hazy drag of his body in the snow. He just wants to relive Steve, the way it felt to hold his body close on couch cushions or their bed or a tent or the forest floor.
“Shh. None of that. I’m here. We’re here. I’m not sure anything could keep us apart at this point. If death couldn’t do it, nothing can,” Bucky says, and Steve stares at him with glassy eyes.
They had lost each other so many times, but here they are, dancing in their living room, finally home from the war.