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He’d grown a beard because he hadn’t been able to get used to the feel of a razor in his hand. He trimmed it up with clippers to keep it neat, but he couldn’t have the blade in his hand and not have a flashback to slicing open someone’s throat.
He’d taken to wearing long sleeved T-shirts to hide the arm, to cover the glint of metal every time he passed under a light.
He’d tried to get his hair cut.
He’d almost walked into a barber shop, but the thought of a stranger standing behind him with a sharp object made him feel twitchy and vulnerable.
He’d considered taking his clippers to it himself, clipping off the long hair, trimming it down to the old army regs they’d never really paid any attention to during the war, after they’d shipped out from home, anyway.
But they’d be laying on the couch, Steve’s big, warm, solid body wrapped around his, and Steve would run his fingers through Bucky’s hair, fingernails lightly scraping his scalp, and he couldn’t bring himself to cut it that short.
But the long hair… that had been theirs. Bucky’s pretty sure they just never bothered to cut his hair, because he was an asset and not a person, but still. There it was – long and in his face and brushing his shoulders and he wanted it gone. He wanted to erase everything about them, wash himself clean of it.
So he takes a pair of scissors into their kitchen one day, hands them to Steve, and sits down in one of the chairs. “Like you used to do it,” he says, his voice grating a little because it hasn’t been one of his more verbal days.
“You sure, Buck?” Steve had asked, once they’d draped a towel around Bucky’s shoulders, and Bucky had nodded just once, sharp and sure.
The first snick of the scissor blades sliding against each other had sent him straight back in time.
+++++
Neither of them had grown up with any money, really. Bucky had done odd jobs down at the docks before he’d gone down to the recruitment office. Steve did drawing for ads in the paper, but they didn’t pay well. After Steve’s ma was gone, Bucky’s pops had lost his job and Bucky figured if he left there’d be one less mouth to feed. He and Steve had got a one-bedroom. They didn’t have any furniture to speak of, except two wooden chairs, a card table, and a couple pallets on the floor for sleeping. It wasn’t much, but the rent was cheap and Steve didn’t worry too much about gettin’ mugged if he was walking after dark.
They didn’t have money for extras, like barbers. So they’d taken to cutting each others’ hair. Steve was better at it, which was why his hair was always flopping over his eyes. Bucky’d tried to cut it shorter for him one time, and he’d ended up looking like a resentful hedgehog.
He really was a terrible barber. But Steve wasn’t bad, and there were even a few other guys in the neighbourhood who came up to Steve and Bucky’s apartment for trims, because Steve charged less than the barbers and did a good enough job for guys between jobs.
Bucky was sitting in one of their kitchen chairs (not the wobbly one), flipping through yesterday’s paper. Steve usually got to take yesterday’s home, if he was working that day, if they hadn’t sold. So Bucky was reading yesterday’s news. More about the war in Europe. The Dodgers had sent Lefty Mills back to the Browns.
Stevie was cutting his hair.
Bucky was trying not to think too hard about Stevie’s slender fingers running over his head. The way his hand would cradle Bucky’s skull to move it, his skin warm and soft and dry.
He wasn’t very successful in his endeavour. Every time he thought he could ignore the way Steve’s fingers felt on his skin, Steve would place gentle fingers on his scalp and tilt his head down to work on the back. His fingers would brush over the back of Bucky’s neck, and Bucky would shiver.
He knew it was wrong. He knew it wasn’t legal, knew he shouldn’t, but god, everything about Steve made him want.
He’d known since they were kids, so he’d made a point of flirting with every girl in the vicinity, and he’d managed to earn himself a bit of a reputation. But he didn’t want those girls, with their perfume and their rouge and their artfully curled hair and skirts. He wanted – it didn’t matter. What he wanted, he’d never have. He’d resigned himself to it.
So Stevie was cutting his hair, and Bucky was trying not to think about his best friend inappropriately.
Steve had moved around to the front, pulled the wobbly chair over, and sat directly in front of Bucky. He’d spread his knees wide so he could get closer, fingers carding through Bucky’s hair to test the length in the front, and all Bucky could think about were Steve’s spread thighs, his plush pink lips right there, and the scrutiny of his eyes, blue as the sky in summer.
Bucky’s breath caught, his heart pounding in his chest as Steve leaned forward. He was still staring at Bucky’s hairline, but he was close enough that his hot, moist breath puffed across Bucky’s cheek. Bucky swallowed, the sound a dry click in the quiet room, and Steve’s eyes had darted down to meet his.
They’d stared at each other, caught in some moment Bucky couldn’t give a name to.
Steve’s cheeks flushed, and he jerked back, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushed away, dropping the scissors on their little card table as though they had burned his hand.
“Guess that’s as good as I can make your mug look,” he said after an awkward moment, but his voice sounded strained and his cheeks were strikingly pink.
“Stevie,” Bucky breathed, because this was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. But Steve’s eyes flicked to Bucky’s mouth, and his cheeks and ears were red, and he looked stricken and beautiful and Bucky took leave of his senses and took the chance.
He reached forward, wrapping his fingers around Steve’s thin wrist to keep him from pulling away. He stepped into Steve’s space, close enough to feel the heat of him. Steve was so much shorter than him, he had to tip his chin down, but Steve tilted his head up like a string had been pulled, and before Bucky knew what hit him, his lips were on Steve’s, and they were kissing.
It was too hard for a moment, rough and forceful and almost belligerent. But after a moment, it smoothed out, and Steve’s lips were slick and warm and pliant and a little chapped under his. Bucky took a sharp breath in, pushing closer so his body was pressed against Steve’s. Steve made a creak of a sound that could have been a moan if there was more air behind it, and then the hand that Bucky wasn’t hanging onto slid up Bucky’s neck, working its way into gripping the hair at the back of Bucky’s head.
Bucky tore away, his lips tingling and his cheeks hot, and stared into Steve’s eyes, searching for something he hadn’t dared to hope for.
+++++
“All done,” Steve says, placing the scissors down on the marble-topped counter with an audible click.
Bucky blinks, staring uncomprehendingly at the little hand mirror that Steve holds up for him.
It’s just like those haircuts from 1941, when he and Steve had finally pulled their heads out of their asses. It reminds him of hard times, sure. But it also reminds him of cold December nights wrapped up in the warmth of each others’ bodies.
It reminds him of hot July nights they’d slept with the blankets thrown off, Steve’s toes brushing the side of Bucky’s calf because they needed to be touching.
It reminds him of hot, sweaty bodies moving frantically together in the night, muffled sounds of pleasure against one another’s skin to keep the noise down so their neighbours wouldn’t report them as they sobbed and gasped pleasure into each other’s skin.
It reminds him of falling in love, and he gives Steve a besotted smile before pulling him down by his thick, muscular neck for a sweet kiss.