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Steve woke up to the smell of dirt and cat vomit, which he guesses isn’t very new for him, living in Brooklyn and all. Still, though, it was disgusting—and it usually wasn’t this strong or earthy smelling. Like it was trying to coax him to let it stay just because it smelled like some disgusting-yet-pure version of nature.
He is perfectly fine with the smell of gasoline and cat piss, Steve thinks, kicking the sheets off of him with some difficulty (he almost knees himself in the face). It's familiar—he's used to it. One of his apartment windows is even situated over a dumpster, for chrissake. It wouldn’t be the same if he didn’t wake up in the lazy, summer, afternoon heat to the smell of old garbage juice sizzling in the sun some whatever feet below. Believe it or not, it smells a little like home. The cat vomit nature smell doesn't, however, and if it’s here to stay, he at least wants to know where it’s coming from. Give it a proper welcome, or something.
Speaking of the window—the one with the garbage juice—it’s open right now. There’s a figure leaning out of it, and he can’t see his face, but it’s probably Bucky. He does this sometimes. Steve gave him the key ages ago so that he wouldn’t have to get up from his bed just to let him in.
Steve rubs his eyes so hard they water. He winces, takes a moment. “Buck?”
His voice sounds hoarse—definitely like he had just been sleeping. It was that 60% breath, 30% groan, and 10% actual-voice thing that happens when you’re talking half-asleep.
Bucky looks over his shoulder, smiles. “G’morning, Stevie.”
“It is not late enough in the morning to say that,” Steve grumbles, suddenly cranky. Here he was, in his pajamas, hair probably sticking out everywhere, looking like a mess, and Bucky—well, he also pretty much looked like a mess, honestly. But he was a well-put-together mess. An artful mess. Nicely tousled, and stuff. He kinda looked like some dame had been running his fingers through his hair, and he thinks Bucky might be a little drunk, because his smile’s a little more lopsided than usual.
“Isn’t it?” Bucky asks. Steve rolls his eyes.
“It’s 2:30AM,” Steve says, walking up behind him. “Did you just come in from the bar, or somethin’?”
The smell was getting stronger, and Steve briefly wondered if it was Bucky. Which, if it was, he’s not sure he wants to know what new stuff they’re selling at that bar he goes to. He knew alcohol smelled kinda gross, but jeez.
“Nah, I got in like an hour n’half ago,” Bucky says, lifting a cig—which Steve hadn’t seen before, okay—up to his lips. Watching Bucky take a drag, Steve’s tongue felt suddenly dry in his mouth, like his saliva had turned to sand. Bucky looks back out the window, blows through his nose, and Steve briefly thinks about dragons and how much cooler smoking looks that way.
“What is that smell?” Steve asked, squinting, because it didn't smell as cool as it looked.
Bucky smiled sheepishly, examining it self-consciously. “It’s, uh. Y’know. Pot.”
Steve blinked. Did he hear that right? “Pot?” Okay, so it wasn't a cig.
“Yeah. Some guy sold it t’me at the bar, and I, uh…” He was scratching his head, looking away from Steve again. “I kinda thought maybe we could smoke it together, maybe."
Now Steve’s really not sure he heard him right. I mean, sure, he’s pretty happy that Bucky thought of him—pretty fuckin’ over the moon, if he’s being honest—but it’s not like Steve’s ever done this before? He’s not even all that sure he wants to.
Steve looks at the joint, then back at Bucky, then back at the joint. “You, uh—you want—with me—?” If he wasn’t already sweating, he might have started to.
Bucky rolls his eyes, not unkindly. Because he’s the kind of person who could pull that off. “Come on, Stevie. It’s not a big deal,” he cajoles, and Steve felt like he was hovering, so he was thankful when Bucky made more space for him to squeeze in besides him on the windowsill. They were shoulder to shoulder. “S’easy.”
Steve swallows. “Okay,” he says, a little unsteadily, because he'd probably do anything Bucky asked him to. Because he trusts him. Unless it was something stupid like peeing off a roof into a trash can, or—well. Actually, there was that one time. Never mind. “But we have to keep the smoke as far outside as we can. It fuckin’ stinks.”
Bucky smiles at him, lopsided and a little lazy and still stupidly attractive. “Okay.”
Yeah, Steve thinks. He’s gonna regret this.
“Okay, so, just,” Steve starts, his voice raspy.
He’s dimly aware of the joint in Bucky’s hand—which is probably dangerously close to Steve’s ear—but that’s definitely at the bottom of his list right now. So, there might be an open flame near his ear, sure, okay, but Steve is also about half an inch away from cracking his skull on the edge of this window, and he’s got a knee between Bucky’s thighs. Priorities.
He is resolutely not meeting Bucky’s eyes.
“Just hand me it. The drug. Joint,” Steve stammers out, holding out his palm determinedly.
Bucky chuckles. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Stevie. It’s supposed to be relaxing.”
Steve is still not making eye contact, but the skin stretched over Bucky’s collarbone is red and splotchy, stretching up his neck and probably onto his face. He focuses on those little red patches because if he doesn’t focus on something he’s probably going to pass out, or do something worse. Like kiss him.
He wobbles a little bit, then, and Bucky steadies him with a hand on his hip.
“Y’good?” he asks, an amused twinkle in his eye and a small smile on his spit-shiny lips. Jerk.
“Peachy,” Steve chokes out. “Can we just—"
Bucky’s three steps ahead of him. He still has one hand curled around Steve’s hip when he holds the joint out to Steve. He hesitates a little before going to grab at it, but misses. Or, well, he doesn’t miss. Bucky pulled it back last minute. He shoots him a look before he could stop himself.
Steve swallows. He examines the cut of Bucky’s jaw, the bow of his mouth. And it’s—it’s fine. He huffs at him.
“What’d you do that for?” He holds back the urge to let go of the windowsill and cross his arms in front of him. It’s a go-to defensive gesture that, in this case, will only help further gravity’s evil plot to hurt and humiliate him. Not today, buddy.
Bucky lifts his arms defensively at him, letting go of Steve and somehow not losing his balance in the process, because of course he wouldn’t. “Hey, pal, no need to get defensive. Just wanna make sure y’really wanna do this and it’s not just you thinking you need to prove somethin’ or whatever.”
Steve looks at Bucky incredulously, because seriously? This was his idea.
"This was your idea, Buck,” he reminds him.
“You still didn’t answer the question, punk.”
Steve rolls his eyes, grabbing the joint out of Bucky’s hand himself. He places it between his lips, gesturing at Bucky for the matches impatiently.
Bucky raises an eyebrow, and Steve tries not to think about how stupidly attractive his face is. He watches as Bucky strikes the end of the match, casting his features in a gentle, warm light. The bloodshot look, of course, somehow inexplicably suits him, and the half-lidded thing he’s doing with his eyes should be illegal.
“Remember: inhale slowly,” Bucky says, to which Steve replies with an aborted, flippant, half-gesture.
As soon as the joint is lit, Steve sucks in eagerly. There’s a moment where he flails wildly and Bucky has to steady him again—because he’s choking and it feels a little like he’s dying. He begins to cough violently, the distinct feeling of having swallowed molten ash stinging his chest.
He never wants to do that ever again.
Okay, that’s a lie. He needs to conquer it.
“Woah, woah, woah,” Bucky says, taking the joint from Steve, who was going in for another drag. “M’not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“I can handle it,” he huffs, indignant.
“I’m sure you can, buddy.” That amused twinkle reappears, this time with a hint of mild concern. “I’m just not so sure about your lungs, is all. This stuff can be a little strong if you inhale it too quick—I don’t want you gettin’ an asthma attack.”
Steve hates that he’s probably right. He kinda wants to punch his lungs a little.
Bucky settles a strong hand on his shoulder, which he definitely did not jump at because he was completely expecting it. “Hey,” he says softly. “D’you trust me?”
Seriously? “Don’t be cheesy, Buck.”
“Don’t be a punk, Steve,” Bucky retorts.
“Anyway,” he says, bringing the joint to his mouth—which looks especially good between his lips when he smiles around it. “I hope y’do, because I’m gonna do somethin’.”
Steve steels himself before he glances up at him. It’s fine. He can definitely handle this. He is at least 65% confident that he can handle watching his friend take a hit. He’s seen him take lots of hits. Hits of all varieties. Though, admittedly, never of the drug kind.
Steve is still silently freaking out when a hand touches his cheek and Bucky starts to lean in and Steve nearly single-handedly lands them both in the dumpster two stories underneath his window.
“What’reyoudoing?” Steve chokes out in a hurry, rubbing the back of his head after having banged it on the edge of the window in his desperation to get away. Did that even just happen at all? Is he seeing things now?
Bucky puts a hand over his heart in mock hurt. “I thought you trusted me, Steve.”
“Well, I technically never confirmed that.” Steve hopes he’s not sounding as hysterical to Bucky as he sounds to himself. Bucky rolls his eyes fondly. Or is he? Keep it cool, Rogers.
“Look, it’s no big deal, I promise.” He gestures at the joint. “I inhale, then I exhale into your mouth. Same idea as before, but, y’know, not as hard on your lungs.”
“Right,” Steve says, slightly strangled. “Nothin’ to it.”
“Exactly,” Bucky agrees.
He’s going to die.
It’s really hard to distract himself from the effect Bucky has on him when Bucky’s jaw is doing that ticking thing again, the little muscle there working as he inhales off the joint.
“Nifty,” he mutters before he can stop himself. Shit. He hopes it sounds irritated, like he’s concerned about how much smoke Bucky is about to pass him. (If “nifty” can even possess the power to do that).
He figures there’s no avoiding it anyway, and tries to catch Bucky’s eyes before he regains his sense of self-preservation—just to see what they look like this close, in the middle of the night, through a haze of smoke. Just to see. For science. But Bucky’s eyes are closed, his eyelashes soft against his cheekbones. They’re long, Steve thinks idly. A little girly, even.
He wants to touch them, which is creepy. He doesn’t, which doesn’t make it any less creepy.
He leans back a little, though his knee is still firmly between Bucky’s thighs, and the top of his head grazes against the edge of the window. Bucky opens his eyes and stops inhaling.
Whatever bravery Steve felt earlier in regards to Bucky’s eyes withers away like a sad, wilting flower. His gaze flickers down to Bucky’s mouth, now that he knows it’s coming. He tries not to be obvious about it. Or creepy. He’s probably both.
He shifts again, feeling overheated. His palms are definitely sweating which is kind of embarrassing.
Steve says “Any time now, Buck,” because it seems like something he should say. He should be irritated and impatient and junk. It comes out hesitant, though. A little breathy.
Bucky grins at him. He cups the back of Steve’s neck firmly and draws him in. Steve sways forward, thinking I’m not going to survive this, wildly. I’m gonna die ‘cuz Bucky’s blowin’ some smoke in my mouth.
And then Bucky thumbs Steve’s mouth open with just a little bit of pressure against his bottom lip and he challenges anyone to survive that—challenges them to keep breathing when Bucky leans forward just a little bit, his eyes clear and focused—challenges them to keep their heart steady when Bucky meets their eyes for a split second—
And then just blows, releasing the smoke from his lungs in a breath against Steve’s parted mouth.
Instinctively, Steve inhales as Bucky exhales. Which is what Bucky told him to do, but somewhere along the way he had forgotten. It feels like it takes forever—it probably only takes ten seconds.
“Better?” Bucky eventually asks, his voice quiet.
Steve opens his eyes—which he had closed at some point, apparently—and feels the smoke gently scratching at his lungs, much softer than the first time. He clenches his jaw and counts down from ten (he gets to seven), blowing the smoke out above them, forgetting to aim more carefully out the window.
“Yeah,” he says. Then he shifts, just a change of his weight distribution has his knee knocking into the inside of Bucky’s thigh. “Sorry.”
It’s dark out and they’re sitting halfway out a window but the nighttime air still feels like a goddamn sauna around them.
Bucky grins at him, his expression growing wicked. It’s mildly terrifying. Only mildly. Probably because he also looks like he’s just two minutes away from clocking out.
“Wanna go again?” he asks, voice low and syrup-thick, and he really hopes Bucky’s plan isn’t to get Steve so high he can’t tell what he’s saying out loud and what he’s keeping to himself, because that honestly just sounds like a potentially extremely dangerous situation he definitely has no interest in being a part of.
The temptation of doing that lip-touching thing with Bucky again is admittedly too high for him to really measure out the pros and cons, though. So he nods, because he’s an idiot. Nothing new.
This time, before Bucky leans in again, he puts a hand on Steve’s knee—the one not preoccupied with the joint—and he lightly cradles the side of his face with the one that is (Steve hopes none of the ashes get caught on his ear). The corner of Bucky’s mouth is ticked up—an easy little half-smile Steve has come to not-so-secretly love—just as he presses it into Steve’s.
The whole process goes down less clumsily this time around. Bucky’s lips feel hot and soft against Steve’s own chapped ones, and he kinda wants to lick them. Which he doesn’t. And Bucky accidentally strokes his cheek with his thumb a little and makes Steve temporarily forget to inhale. He remembers in time, though, so a crisis was thankfully averted.
Steve and Bucky make a good team—no one would deny that. They’re good at getting out of potentially life-threatening situations; they’re good at keeping each other in check; they’re good at helping each other in fights; they’re good at arguing and friendly bickering and clawing themselves out of the holes they dig. They’re good at misreading basic cooking instructions, and they’re good at a speedy price comparisons in the grocery store. They’re good at reading one another, at knowing what they’re both trying to communicate even when words aren’t being used.
They’re good at this, too, Steve thinks. At breathing and stuff. Together.
Steve belatedly realizes that the kiss—the lip-touch, the drug-swap, whatever—couldn’t have lasted the hours it felt it did, because he couldn’t have realistically held his breath for that long. Which means he’s probably high. Maybe.
Bucky’s hand fall from Steve’s face to lie somewhere vaguely next to his knee, the other one folding up behind his head, scratching it idly. He stares at Steve. He blinks drowsily. The half-smile from before is still there, and his tongue keeps darting out to wet his lips. So Bucky’s definitely high, too. Which feels weirdly satisfying for some reason.
Bucky jerks his chin. “Y’feelin it yet?” His eyes are fixed on something beyond Steve’s shoulder, his attention split.
Steve snorts. “Probably. Pretty sure.”
“That’s good,” Bucky manages, albeit looking very much like he was entertaining just slumping over and dozing off right then and there. “‘Cuz that was the last of it, ‘m pretty sure.” Bucky looks over at Steve, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “I can double check, though, if y’want?”
Steve shakes his head and his vision lags. Woah. “Nah, ‘s fine. I just wanted—” Holy shit, stop. “Uh, nothin’. Nevermind.” He takes a deep breath through his nose. His eyesight doesn’t stabilize. Neither do his heart palpitations. Damn.
“What?” Bucky’s eyes are dancing.
Nope.
Nah.
He’s not falling to this bait. He’s too high for this to even be a fair question to ask him. Bucky scoots forward, and Steve’s knee slides real close to Bucky’s junk. He fidgets. “C’mon, Steve, don’t be a chicken. You can tell me.”
Bucky’s voice sounds kinda funny to him. Kinda like a girl’s. “You’re bein’ a jerk again, Buck,” Steve grumbles. He wants to laugh at Bucky’s voice, instead, but he’s too lazy. The laughter feels like it’s burning his chest.
“C’mon, Steve, no I’m not,” Bucky insists, scooting closer, somehow. The knee-to-junk situation was getting really uncomfortable and possibly a little impossible, physics-wise. Anatomy-wise. Bucky was on the same page, Steve guesses, because he swings his leg over Steve’s to get closer, which might be worse. Because now they are close. As in their pelvic regions.
Steve needs to lay down.
“Give me a break, will ya? I’ve never done this before,” Steve groans, a little breathy. His heart feels like it’s beating really fast. He closes his eyes.
Bucky’s face twists in concern, probably sensing Steve’s discomfort. “Hey, pal, are you okay?” Steve feels a hand at his forehead. He lets his eyes flutter open. “Y’keep touchin’ your chest. Does it hurt?”
“No,” Steve says, still pressing against his sternum. “My heart’s just… beatin’ really fast?”
“Oh,” Bucky says. “That’s normal. Don’t worry ‘bout it, it’ll pass.”
There’s a lull in conversation after that. Or… maybe it’s only been three seconds. Steve’s not sure.
“Why haven’t you done stuff like this before?” Bucky asks, quietly. Muffled. More to himself than to Steve, it sounded like.
He scoffs. “Not like there’s a line of people waitin’ to put their mouths that close t’mine.” He’s high enough that he’s not sure if that came out as sad or bitter as it sounded to him. He’s reallynot sad about it, though. Or bitter. It’s just a— a fact. A fact of his life.
Bucky frowns. He looks confused. Like a kicked puppy. “Why not?”
Now he’s pouting a little and Steve kind of wishes he’d asked Bucky to look for more pot so he could have an excuse to kind-of kiss him.
“Uh,” Steve says intelligently. “I dunno, it’s just, um, a thing? I mean, look at me.”
Bucky does.
“I don’ get it.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “Buck, please.”
Bucky’s eyes widen. “Wait a minute… haven’t you like… when I asked about you havin’ done this stuff…”
Steve’s brain is too muddled to follow Bucky’s train of thought, so he stays silent. Let’s him find his own way out.
“Haven’t you had your first kiss yet?” Bucky finally asks.
Ah. Well. “No,” Steve says cautiously, because he’s not sure how to proceed.
Bucky puffs out his chest, as if this was some weird bird mating ritual. Or maybe he just needed more oxygen to concentrate. Steve nods in solidarity—he’s been on that boat.
“Well how ‘bout I teach you,” he finally says. And now he’s scooting closer again, shit. Both of Bucky’s legs are over Steve’s, which means he is being straddled by Bucky.
“Teach me what?” Steve says, strangled. He knows what. Though maybe if he stays very still he’ll magically disappear.
“To kiss. Keep up, Stevie.” Bucky’s eyes are bloodshot and watery, and despite the (misplaced) excitement in them now, they’re still kind of droopy, so Bucky looks pretty funny. “It’s a fantastic idea. I’ll teach ya all the tricks and then you’ll have all the dames linin’ up in no time.”
Steve doesn’t feel the need to point out that there is absolutely no way to broadcast this knowledge inconspicuously, so pretty much exactly the same number of dames as before will be lining up for Steve after this knowledge acquirement. Which is zero.
Steve wets his lips. “Fine,” he says despite himself. He wants to bury himself ten feet underground, sometimes. “Show me what y’got, coach.”
Bucky’s lips land northeast of Steve’s mouth, which is a fantastic start. Bucky's nose is digging into his cheekbone uncomfortably. Steve is not sure what to do.
“Uh,” he says, feeling Bucky’s tongue dart out a little. “I think you missed.”
"Wh—Shit," Bucky mumbles, but it comes out muffled. Since his lips are on Steve's cheek right now and all. "Fuck. Hold on."
He lifts himself up slowly, wobbly. He grabs hold of both of Steve's shoulders, trying to stabilize himself.
Bucky looks at Steve. He squints in determination. "Okay, pal. Round two, okay? It'll be good this time, I promise."
Steve wasn't so sure. He could tell Bucky kept trying to aim his mouth at his, and he wasn't so sure he was up to Bucky just catapulting forward and hoping he sticks the landing.
"D'you need me to, um... Meet you half-way?" Steve asks, unsure.
Bucky huffs. As if Steve's suggestion had been heinous and now he is offended. "No. I'm the teacher here, Steve, I should be able to pull most of th'weight."
"Um—"
"Shhh," Bucky insists, jamming a finger at Steve's lips clumsily. This time, when Bucky’s lips slot over Steve’s, the finger is still there.
Steve laughs at him—how could he not? Here they are, too high to tell up from down, Bucky’s trying to teach him how to kiss, of all things, and when he manages to at least get the lip-placement right, he can’t remember to remove his finger in time. Bucky’s a fucking mess.
(Steve thinks he might love him a little.)
“Okay, so I might still be a ‘lil drunk, too…” Bucky says.
Steve scoffs. “A little?”
“Hey—” Bucky starts, but Steve cuts him off by surging forward— well, more like swaying forward—and pressing his lips to his. Or, y’know. Colliding into them.
Bucky’s mouth is soft. He tastes like weed, mostly, but also something else that Steve can’t place. Maybe alcohol, but it tastes sweeter than that, so he doubts it. Steve relaxes against him slowly. It’s almost sweet, he thinks through his daze. He takes his hands off the windowsill and hesitates, second-guessing, hovering. Bucky must sense this, because he grabs Steve’s hands and places them firmly on either side of his face. There. Steve rubs gentle circles into the skin of Bucky’s cheeks with his thumbs slowly, a little awkward. Bucky’s skin kind of feels like heaven on his fingertips.
Bucky pulls back a little unwillingly, but maybe Steve is just projecting. He’s impressed at himself for holding back an annoyed whine. If they weren’t in such close quarters—and if it wasn’t a generally really weird thing to do—he’d pat himself on the back.
Steve clears his throat. He doesn’t want to seem to eager. “So, uh. How was’at?” His voice sounded about two octaves higher and croaky. Real casual.
Bucky nods. “Kinda wet.”
“I hear that happens, sometimes,” Steve says. Still casual.
“The start was also a lil’ rocky,” Bucky continues. “And boring.”
Steve snorts. “Still more than you could have managed, wise guy.”
“Hey, watch it,” Bucky swats his head affectionately. “I’ll mess you up in a second.”
“Oh, yeah—says the guy that cries like a baby in every romance picture we watch.”
“‘Scuse me, I cry next to you in confidence, Steve. Don’t say that stuff out loud,” Bucky says, feigning offense. “I’ll lose my rep.”
“What rep?” Steve laughs.
Bucky raises an eyebrow, his eyes gleaming with sudden mischief.
“I’ll show you what rep, punk,” Bucky says, moving in close. Shit.
Steve doesn’t know what it is, but something about the way Bucky’s expression changes makes him go immediately still. His eyes go wide as Bucky hovers over his mouth. This does not go unnoticed, and Bucky puffs out a light laugh—the heat of it bouncing off Steve’s lips. He swallows.
“Cat got your tongue, now?” Bucky breathes, and his voice is suddenly lower, raspier.
Steve’s fucked.
He’s seen this before, this little game of Bucky’s. It’s what he uses on all the dames—hook, line, sinker. He’s asking himself where all of Bucky’s lazy clumsiness went when he tilts his head a little, touches his nose to Steve’s cheek. “Tip numb’r one,” he says, his lips brushing the skin next to the corner of his mouth, just barely, and now he’s nuzzling the side of Steve’s face. “Slow is good,” he says, quietly, the words forming against Steve’s jaw line—rumbling with closeness, breath hot, the smell of weed still sharp. “Dames like slow.”
Steve’s reply is a vague exhale, something that may have wanted to be a “yes” at some point before forgetting the pronunciation somewhere between his lungs and his mouth. All Steve can see is the stubbly patch of skin at Bucky’s temple, his earlobe, the line of his hair. He closes his eyes, the heat spreading down his neck and up, making him flush, and feels the cold tip of Bucky’s nose—holy shit—follow the path of his cheekbone. It bumps against his own nose, almost playfully, and then there’s a warm puff of air very close by. A mouth fitting itself to his bottom lip with a bit of pressure.
Bucky’s mouth on me, Steve thinks, dazedly, for the first time—despite having had it on him various times earlier that night—and does nothing.
Bucky eases up, a knowing smirk across his face. “Y’gonna kiss me back, or what?”
“Um—” Steve starts, but then Bucky’s lightly nudging Steve’s lips with his, as though to share a breath. It feels so affectionate Steve could choke. He actually does a little, maybe—his throat closes in on itself just as Bucky captures his upper lip, warm and still a little wet, and there’s nothing Steve can do to not kiss Bucky’s bottom lip with a bit too much concentration.
He feels Bucky smile, a low hum of approval, then moves to kiss Steve’s lower lip again, shorter this time. He tilts his head to the corner of Steve’s mouth, and Steve goes along with it, dragging his lips across Bucky’s almost drunkenly.
“You’re doin’ good,” Bucky murmurs. “Maybe try—”
Steve cuts him off, crashes his lips into Bucky’s again. Or, at least, that’s what he intended to do, but Bucky’s mouth is slightly open, and he bumps his nose painfully against Bucky’s upper lip. This earns him a throaty breath of a laugh right before Bucky pulls back, hand coming to push back at Steve’s collarbone, thumb at the base of his neck.
Steve is breathing a bit heavily. His skin feels hotter than ever, like he’s burning alive. He takes a small moment to thank god that it’s dark and Bucky can’t see how red his face feels.
“Take it easy, Stevie,” Bucky tells him, moves his hand up to smooth out his frown with his thumb. “You’re always actin’ like you’re in some race. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that goin’ slow wins those things?”
“Yeah.” Steve swallows. His voice sounds like someone took a cheese grater to his voice box. “It’s a load of shit.”
Bucky grins, amused. “Well, try to set aside your differences with the tortoise when it comes to kissin’, alright?” His hand is at the side of Steve’s face, pad of his finger pressing to Steve’s mouth, marking the exact space between their lips. Steve breathes shakily. He tries to tilt up for more contact.
“Remember your hands,” Bucky continues, brushing the syllables onto Steve’s lips. “Don’t hesitate like y’did earlier. Usually wherever your hands feel like goin’ is fine.”
Well, his hands definitely feel like going somewhere, but Steve has a feeling Bucky didn’t mean that.
“Except—” Bucky pauses, looking for words. “Maybe y’shouldn’t go for their butt or anythin’ right away, y’know?” He moves his lips against Steve’s, just barely. “Don’t wanna get slapped. Trust me, I’ve been there.”
Yeah, his butt isn’t exactly what Steve was goin’ for, but he assumes it’d have more or less the same reaction, probably. Common sense.
“Where’re your hands, then, Stevie?” Bucky asks him. “Where are you puttin’ your hands?”
Right. His hands. Steve doesn’t know where he’s putting his hands. They’re sweaty— clenched fists at his sides. He’d rather not put them anywhere right now, to be honest. Steve barely has any time to sneak a wipe when Bucky grabs them and puts one on the side of his neck.
It’s warm and the muscle is hard, the pulse steady and the skin scratchy below his jaw, soft along the line of his hair. Bucky is still holding his other hand. He shakes it a little.
“How ‘bout this one?” Bucky asks, nudging his nose against Steve’s.
“M’sweaty,” was Steve’s quiet answer, weakly trying to wiggle his hand out of Bucky’s.
Bucky grabs his hand more firmly and huffs, amused. “Yeah,” he replies, slipping his free arm behind Steve’s back, pulling him closer. “Might wanna do somethin’ about that.”
“Well I tried to wipe my hands on my clothes but you grabbed my hands too quick,” Steve says.
“Well y’should’ve moved faster, then, huh?” Bucky replies, mocking.
Steve looks up, sharply, sees nothing but a blur of Bucky’s lashes—the side of his nose—makes a weak attempt to pull back with a, “Sh’up,” but the hand on his waist keeps him in place, tightening his hold.
“Hold on, pal,” Bucky says, leaning in the small distance. “S’gonna get a lil’ wetter than before.”
And then the warm lips are back, quicker this time. Three kisses—one for each lip and another at the corner—moving his head to it. Bucky’s neck archs, helping Steve tilt into it at each go.
Steve was, admittedly, not entirely expecting this. Something in the back of his head had been telling him that he wouldn’t get to kiss Bucky like this—fast and strong, the way Bucky kissed most dames.
This makes sense, though, Steve thinks. Bucky is teaching him what dames like, after all.
Bucky opens his mouth slightly, sucks in Steve’s lip, and Steve forgets all about his sweaty fingers. He clutches at Bucky’s neck, grips at his arm. He’s pressing his tongue against the dip of Steve’s lip, now, and Steve makes a small, high-pitched, vaguely pathetic-sounding noise in the back of his throat. Bucky, thankfully, does not reply—only holds Steve tighter.
Steve gives a languid, close lick to Bucky’s upper lip, who replies by sucking harder, using more tongue, smoothing it over before biting down, lightly. Steve tries to do the same but gets too distracted. His mind feels like it’s going everywhere at once—the angles are too difficult, anyway. Maybe it’s a beginner thing. Before he knows it, however, they’re switching places—Bucky’s pressing open mouthed kisses to his upper lip while Steve boldly licks at his bottom one.
They do that once, twice more, and Steve’s hand is traveling up Bucky’s neck, nails scraping scalp. Steve can imagine them—can see them perfectly, still sitting miraculously on Steve’s rusting windowsill, blurrily intertwined, fingers in hair, digging at waists in the darkness.
Steve is tilting his head, trying for a new angle, rolling his tongue against Bucky’s with the filthiest of intentions. Suddenly, though, he feels it. Bucky’s hands travelling up his chest. His bare chest. Underneath his shirt.
Steve pulls himself away—more unwillingly than before—gasping and out of breath. “Buck,” he says.
“Yeah,” Bucky replies, distractedly, leaning in for more. Steve backs away, swallowing.
“Wait.” His eyes flit from Bucky’s eyes, to his lips, to the collarbone peaking out from underneath his shirt. He swallows. It’s weird, this, Steve thinks, sitting with his hands on the back of Bucky’s neck, brushing his thumbs at the line of his hair—lips swollen, eyes bloodshot, high off drugs they breathed into each other’s lungs.
Bucky immediately stills. His neck muscles go tense under Steve’s fingers, eyes snapping to Steve’s. “Steve, I’m—”
“What do you like?” Steve interrupts, sudden. That wasn’t at all what he meant to say, but the question tumbles through his lips before he could stop himself or think it through.
Bucky furrows his eyebrows in what’s probably confusion. “What?”
Steve steels himself. He’s nervous. Which is perfect—that’s exactly what he needs on top of an already accelerated heartbeat. Stupid drugs. “Well, you’ve been… teachin’ me what girls like, right?” He exhales, trailing his fingers up the line of Bucky’s hair absently. “So I was wonderin’ what you…” Stay casual, Steve. He swallows. “Um. Like.”
Steve cringes, because that was terrible. Maybe if he pretends he was completely 100% confident in what he was saying, Bucky will believe it. Despite the cringe. He clearly meant to do that, too.
Bucky says nothing at first, then smiles—slow, private. “Were you, now?”
Steve huffs, a bit like a laugh, relaxes. Bucky was teasing him. He could deal with that. Steve tries for a casual movement best he can when he bows his head—quietly rests his forehead on Bucky’s. He sighs, smiles slowly back at him, says, “Y’gonna tell me or will I have to live in suspense forever?”
Bucky’s fingers are doing something—absently mapping the paths of Steve’s rib cage. “Not forever,” he murmurs, looking at Steve’s mouth. “Why the sudden interest?”
“No reason,” Steve says. Then he has an idea, “Gotta know what to look out for when girls kiss me, y’know?”
“Ohhh,” Bucky says, still mocking, not buying it for a second. He presses a soft kiss to Steve’s lower lip. “Yeah, makes sense.”
“Yeah—” Steve pauses to kiss back. “So?”
“What?”
“Y’gonna tell me or whammf—” Cut off by Bucky’s mouth. Rude. He gives in for a short moment, then pulls away. Gasps for air, “—or what?”
Steve’s not sure how he can see Bucky roll his eyes from this angle. “Well, if you stopped talking—”
“Hey.” Steve can feel his stupid smile, too. “I’ll talk as much as I like, asshole.”
“Y’wanna bet?” Bucky whispers back. And, suddenly, Steve realizes that if he were sober, he would probably be completely freaking out about this. All oh my god, oh my god, what? as he tends to get when things he’s not expecting to happen, happen. Well, granted—he’s still not completely free of anxiety’s clutches. He’s been thinking about this for a pretty long time, okay? The point is he’s not sober. He’s conscious, still aware, but a little less careful. Less concerned with the details.
And thank god for that, because he’s pretty sure it’s the only thing allowing him to still scoff at Bucky’s response rather than have a silent heart attack over actually understanding Bucky’s real implications.
“What a line,” Steve says, wheezing.
“Shut up,” Bucky breathes at Steve’s cheek, trailing down and seeking out his mouth. This time, it doesn’t stay quite so slow. Bucky’s mouth is more insistent, and Steve is eager and a little shameless as he falls into Bucky all the way, leverage forgotten, all of his hesitation gone at once. Which turns out was a little bit of a mistake, since Bucky has to tighten his grip on him so that he doesn’t tumble downwards, and Steve takes a moment to appreciate that they are still here, on the windowsill, alive and necking like there’s no tomorrow.
It’s hard to try and pace himself when Bucky’s trying to kiss the hell out of him, catching Steve’s bottom lip with his teeth and pulling him close by wrapping his arms around Steve’s body and curving upwards into the arc of Steve’s body.
Steve’s not even gonna bother wondering how physics has been working in their favour for this long. He’s not gonna wonder about Bucky wanting him either—wanting him a lot, actually—because it suits Steve just fine. He’s alright with pulling Bucky’s hair, feeling the softness of it and marveling that this jerk can— what? —just throw on whatever clothes are lying around and forego the usual hair routine and still be one of the most devastating people to look at that Steve has ever encountered?
Steve pulls his hair a little rougher thinking about it, and Bucky makes a low noise in the back of his throat—he’s got fond exasperation down to syllabics at this point. It makes Steve’s chest tighten. He’s too high to evaluate what it could mean or what it probably says about him, thankfully.
Bucky reels Steve in further with his hand between Steve’s shoulder blades and the other cradling the back of his head, like there’s any hope of them being closer together when Bucky is practically straddling Steve and their torsos are mashed together and so are their lips.
The best thing about being high is probably the way Steve manages to feel everything and nothing all at once. He can feel the way Bucky sucks on his tongue, scratches his fingernails against his scalp, and arches his body in tiny increments, forward and back. He can feel it, but he feels distant from it, like a spectator watching everything unravel.
He thinks making out with Bucky while sober might be a completely different ballgame, but he decides to worry about it later. Right now is good. Right now is perfect.
He’s just on his way to putting his hands on Bucky’s shoulders—his biceps, mostly because, uh, yeah—when Steve decides to open his eyes while Bucky’s are still closed. Just to see. For science.
He can’t help but press his thumbs to those girly eyelashes. Bucky cracks his eyes at that, and their faces are so close together that he looks like a cyclops.
Steve snorts to cover up the surge of affection he feels.
“Okay, m’good,” Steve assures him. “Go back to what you were doin’ before.”
“Bossy,” Bucky quips, but he’s already leaning back in, nose bumping against Steve’s cheek.
Steve squint at him, nudges back. “Does that do it for you?”
Bucky’s lips are not quite on his, but the hot breath brushing against his lips feels like a smile. “Yes.”
Steve whistles. “Didn’t take ya much for likin’ the dames with a bit of a mean streak, Buck.”
Bucky huffs. “A pain in the ass streak, more like.”
Steve can’t believe he’s attracted to this jerk. I’ll show you pain in the ass, Steve thinks, and twists, sending Bucky toppling off of his lap and onto his apartment floor.
Steve cackles.
Bucky does not look amused. But in, like, a cute way. The way a dog owner exasperatedly watches a puppy pee itself. Which Steve belatedly realizes might not be the best analogy.
Bucky is cradling his butt, and he’s looking at Steve with a mix of fondness and a hint of annoyance. Maybe even a little bit of love. “You are so gonna regret that, you punk.”
Oh, yeah?
"Why don't you come up here and make me?" Steve says, which was pretty daring of him, he'll admit. Even more daring than that one time he challenged a 6"3, 300 pound jerk to fight him in some alley after making fun of him.
Bucky gives him another wicked grin, makes his way over to him slowly.
Steve doesn't think he'll regret it, this time.