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Bucky's a great dancer. Always has been. Steve? Not so much. It's not that he's terrible, as much as Bucky likes to joke that he has two left feet. If Steve took some lessons, put some time into it, and actually relaxed a little, he'd probably be just fine. But Steve hasn't taken lessons--they don't have the money for anything professional, and he's never been able to work up the nerve to ask one of the dames down the hall for help. Whenever he's on a double date with Bucky, he just seizes up. His mouth gets dry, and his heart pounds its way into his throat. He can hardly talk to his date, let alone try to dance with her.
"Loosen up," Bucky yells at him over the blare of the band's horns. It's the Saturday before Bucky's nineteenth birthday, and they're at a bar in Harlem, one of the ones with the jazz bands Bucky loves so much. Bucky's been twirling the same girl around the dance floor for the past hour and a half. Her curls are plastered to her sweaty skin, and her face is red from booze and from laughing. Steve's date abandoned him two hours ago. He's not sure if it's because he started coughing or if it's because he wouldn't leave the bar.
Steve shrugs at Bucky. He means to respond, but Bucky's already gone, sweeping his girl off her feet. She shrieks, laughing. Her drawn-out drawling "Jaaaames!" floats back to Steve as the two of them spin away. Steve watches them go. He can see every line of Bucky's back through his white cotton shirt. Heat rises from his chest to his cheeks. He takes a long drink of his beer, hoping no one's noticed where he's looking. Doubtful. Nobody's giving him a second glance anyway.
Bucky and the girl slip out sometime before midnight. Steve doesn't even notice until the bar's owner starts ushering people out. Steve looks and looks for Bucky, even going on tiptoe--though he hates it--to peer over people's shoulders. His heart's jackrabbiting when he sticks his head outside. He's just about to yell Bucky's name when he sees him creeping out of the alleyway, face and neck smeared with lipstick. He looks up and down the street, then whistles. At that, the girl darts out of the alleyway. She goes up on tiptoe to kiss Bucky's cheek before she slips away into the night.
"Have fun?" Steve says loudly. He's halfway to Bucky before he knows it, hands balled into fists. Bucky gives him that lazy smirk of his, the one that makes Steve want to--no, dammit, he's not going to think about that. He's not going to haul off and hit Bucky, either, though he sorely wants to. He knocks into him instead. Bucky always complains about how bony he is, how getting elbowed by him leaves bruises for days. Steve digs his elbow into Bucky's ribs before he stalks past him.
Bucky swears. "Jesus, Rogers, watch where you're going." Steve keeps walking. He's going a little too fast, he knows. If he keeps up this pace, he'll be wheezing before he knows it. He walks a little faster. He can hear Bucky's nice shoes hitting the sidewalk behind him. "Steve, wait up. C'mon. What's eating you? Hey!" Bucky jogs past Steve, getting in front of him, walking backwards to look at him. Steve glares at the front of Bucky's nice cotton shirt. His buttons are in the wrong holes. "Hey, ya punk. Talk to me."
"Nothing," Steve mutters. He has to take in deeper breaths now. His lungs don't ache yet, but they will soon.
"Sure it's nothing," Bucky drawls. "C'mon. Is it that girl I set you up with? I keep telling you, you got to talk to them, pal. Make some conversation." Steve shrugs and huffs out a breath through his nose. A second later, he's crashing face-first into the solid wall of Bucky's chest: Bucky's stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. When Steve stumbles, Bucky catches him by the collar of his shirt. "Quit it. You're making yourself sick on purpose."
Steve snorts. "Why would I do that?"
"I dunno. You tell me."
Steve's jaw tightens. He plans on keeping his mouth shut like it's wired that way. How'd he explain what he's feeling anyway? Sorry, Buck, it's just that I don't like you dancing with girls because I'm a fucking fairy? Steve trusts Bucky, sure, trusts him with his life, but he can't trust him with that. Not because Bucky would turn him in. He wouldn't. Because Steve loves Bucky in all kinds of ways, and he can't stand to be rejected. He's a goddamn coward is what he is.
"Hang on," Bucky says slowly. There's something in his voice, this dawning realization, that makes Steve look up at him sharply, heart pounding in his chest. Bucky's frowning at him, obviously turning something over in his head. Did he read Steve's mind somehow? Does he know? There's no way. But what Bucky says next makes Steve sure he did read his mind. "Stevie, are you jealous?"
"What? No." Steve says it a little too quickly, too loudly, and he knows it. He knocks Bucky's hand off his shoulder and tries to step around him.
Bucky blocks his path. "Yeah, you are. You're jealous. That's it. I know that look, Rogers. I've known you since we were kids. You can't lie to me. That frown you've got, that little line right there--" Bucky points at Steve's forehead, almost touching him. Steve can feel the heat from his skin. "That's jealousy."
Steve shoves his hands in his pockets and glares at Bucky. "What would I even be jealous of?" he snaps. He can barely hear his voice over the pounding in his ears. He's stopped walking, he should be able to breathe fine, but instead his breaths are coming faster and faster. He's not prepared to answer Bucky's questions on a sidewalk in Harlem in the middle of the night. He's not ready to tell Bucky the truth.
Bucky shrugs. His easy smirk comes back. "My dancing."
Steve's chest tightens and hands unclench all at once. "What--" No, he wants to yell. No, Jesus, Bucky, don't you get it? How come you can see that I'm jealous but not that I'm in love with you? He looks away from Bucky's triumphant expression and stares at the headlights of passing cars until his vision blurs.
"Aw, Steve, don't take it so hard," Bucky says, voice light and teasing. Steve needs to tease back and wants to hit him. He can't get his voice or his hands to work. He takes a deep breath and shoulders his way around Bucky, walking as fast as he can down the sidewalk again. Bucky huffs out a laugh. "C'mon. Hey, wait! Wait!"
He jogs to catch up with Steve again. At least this time he doesn't block Steve's way. If he did, Steve really would punch his face in. He wouldn't be able to help himself. He's shaking. Just asthma, he tells himself firmly. As long as he believes that, it's true. "Steve--" Bucky says. All at once, he stops. He's silent for a good minute as they cross street after darkened street on the way to their neighborhood. Steve concentrates on blinking until his eyes stop burning. He's almost got himself back to normal when Bucky has to go and say "I'm sorry" all soft and careful.
Steve shrugs. "Doesn't matter." At least his voice comes out gruff instead of squeaky like it used to. He already feels too much like a dame, almost crying over some guy he can't have.
"Sure it does," Bucky says immediately. "You're my best friend, all right, I'm supposed to watch out for you."
Steve snorts. "This isn't a back alley, Buck. I'm not getting beat up. Some hurt feelings won't kill me."
"Might kill me a little," Bucky says so softly Steve almost thinks he's imagined it. More loudly, Bucky says, "I'll think of something, okay, pal?"
"Like what? I'm not a--I'm just not a dancer." Steve forces himself to smile. "Two left feet. You say it all the time."
"We'll figure something out," Bucky says firmly.
"Like what?" Steve asks, but Bucky's already walking ahead of him. They're a block away from their apartment now. Steve could jog to keep up, but he's lost enough of his dignity for the night. He lets Bucky go and take whatever the hell he's planning with him.
Steve wakes up the next morning with the faintest of headaches. He rolls over, ready to sleep through church--he hasn't gone as much since Ma died anyway--when he hears the music. It's big band stuff, like the music playing in Harlem last night. All the shame from last night creeps back into Steve with the sound of it. He buries his face in his pillow and groans. A couple feathers sneak their way out of the pillow and into his mouth. Steve coughs.
The music stops. The floorboards creak. "You awake?" Steve holds his breath, praying Bucky will leave him be, but holding his breath means Bucky'll know he's awake with one look at him. Sure enough, Bucky calls, "Get up. I got something to show you."
"'Nless it's the inside of a church, don't wanna see it," Steve mumbles into his pillow. "Keep holy the S'bb'th."
"Says the guy who's still in bed at noon. Come on, punk, you're already sinning. At least get up and enjoy it." The floorboards creak again. Steve grits his teeth. He knows what's coming. Sure enough, with a squeak of the mattress springs, Bucky jumps on top of Steve. All of Steve's breath comes out in a woosh. Bucky rolls off right away but starts shaking Steve instead. "Look alive. I've got something to show you."
"Don't want to look alive," Steve grumbles. "Want you to get off of me--God!" He'd feel worse for taking the Lord's name in vain on a Sunday if it weren't for the fact that Bucky's just swept him off his feet. He's cradling him in his arms now like he's--like he's some dame or fairy or child, the way Bucky knows Steve hates. Steve thrashes and opens his eyes. Bucky's grinning down at him, the complete asshole. "Put me down," Steve snaps.
"Then get up," Bucky counters. Steve honest-to-God gets ready to hit him. Bucky knows better than to make Steve feel small like this. He knows how miserable Steve feels when he feels weak.
But then Steve remembers the music. The curiosity's just barely enough to get him to restrain himself. He slithers out of Bucky's arms and stands up. The wood floor's cold on his bare feet. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Happy?"
Bucky beams. The asshole. Steve's going to murder him after he figures out what's going on. He's ready to tell him that when Bucky actually takes his hand in order to drag him into the kitchen. Steve's heart thunders in his chest. He can hear it in his ears just as surely as he can feel all of the blood making his cheeks bright red. His palms are clammy by the time Bucky lets go of him.
The radio's sitting on top of the kitchen table. Bucky turns up the volume until big band music is blaring from it. The sound's scratchy, not anything as full as the live band in Harlem, but Steve gets the idea. "You got that old thing working again?" He yawns. "Thought the battery'd gone out." Not worth getting up for, not by a long shot, but he gets Bucky's excitement, especially if they can somehow suddenly afford new batteries.
Bucky shrugs. "Never was broken. Just wanted to keep it to myself. No, here, listen." He takes a deep breath and shifts from foot to foot. Steve frowns at his uncharacteristic nervousness. "I know you, Rogers. You're never gonna work up the courage to ask a dame to teach you to dance. No, don't argue with me," he says when Steve opens his mouth. "You're a brave guy, I'm not saying that, I'm just saying you don't know how to talk to girls. I always do all the talking for you. Which is fine, I'm not saying that either. I'm just saying--if you can't talk, you at least need to know how to dance. Let your body do the talking for you."
Steve can't help but to roll his eyes. "You've been telling me for years that I've got two left feet, Buck."
"See, I don't think you do. You just need practice." Bucky swallows. Steve watches his Adam's apple bob. Purple bruises litter his neck where the girl's lipstick was last night. "So I--aw, it's stupid. Never mind."
"You did not wake me up for never mind, James Buchanan Barnes, or I will kill you," Steve says sternly. "Just tell me."
"Okay, all right. I was thinking--" Bucky takes a deep breath and makes eye contact with Steve. Steve's stunned at how much nervousness is plain in Bucky's face. "I could teach you how to dance."
Steve's mouth goes dry. He blinks around sudden dizziness. "What?"
"You trust me, right?"
There's so much desperation in that one sentence that Steve has to say, as vehemently as possible, "Yes." Because he does, all the way down the line. Bucky's always had his back, and he always will. That's a fact of life as surely as Steve's weak lungs are.
Bucky nods sharply. "C'mere." Steve doesn't have a chance to protest before Bucky grabs both of his hands. He rests one on his shoulder, right by his suspenders, but he keeps the other clasped tightly in his own hand. Steve's secretly pleased to find that Bucky's hands are as sweaty as his are. At least he's not the only one who's nervous.
Bucky takes a deep breath. "Now. When you're dancing with a dame, your hand's going to be on her waist, not her shoulder, but I figured since you're smaller than me you could just...."
"Yeah, yeah, I got it." The heat in Steve's face is creeping down his neck. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He's been way closer to Bucky than this before. They wrestle all the time. Hell, they share a bed for warmth through the winter. Keeping a hand on Bucky's shoulder and holding his other hand should be nothing. But this is dancing. It's intimate. Sweethearts do this. People who are in love.
Bucky's just doing you a favor, Steve reminds himself. Just a favor. Don't be an idiot, Rogers. Then he can't worry about anything because Bucky's moving. He's talking, too, explaining the steps, but Steve's not listening. It's all he can do to not trip. He stares at Bucky's feet, trying not to step on them. Bucky's wearing his fancy shoes from last night. They're already a little scuffed.
Bucky takes him through the waltz, the foxtrot, the Lindy hop. Steve already knows the Charleston; Mom used to do it, even when she was so sick, if the right music came on. He puts his hands on his knees and dances while Bucky laughs. Every inch of Steve has to be bright red by now. Dancing with a boy on a Sunday. If there was ever a moment God was going to strike Steve down for his sins, this would be it. But nothing happens aside from Steve tripping on Bucky's feet and Bucky grinning like a fool.
"Anything else you need to know?" Bucky asks when they've paused to chug water from the tap. Steve splashes water on his overheated skin. It trickles through his hair and down his spine. The cold makes him shiver. He doesn't miss the way Bucky steps toward him. A little protective, maybe? Like he is with those dames? He's sure been dancing with Steve like he's a dame. Steve doesn't think Bucky realizes it at all, but he's sure been turning on the charm.
Steve's dizzy from asthma and excitement. It makes him reckless. "The way you dance with dames," he says. "You know. When a slow song comes on." Bucky stares at Steve. Slowly, his cheeks turn red. Steve doesn't break eye contact. He stares Bucky down just the way he stares down every obstacle he meets. Nobody outstubborns Steve Rogers. Just one dance, Steve prays even though God's supposed to send queers straight to Hell.
Just like that, a slow song comes on the radio. Steve can't control the mischievous grin that spreads across his face. He holds out his hand. "Well, you're looking like the most beautiful woman in all of Brooklyn," he drawls, his voice a shaky parody of Bucky's charm. "May I have this dance?"
Bucky's eyes widen. Steve's expecting him to laugh it off, maybe shove him around a little. He's expecting to get his heart broken a little today, and that's okay. He'll make his peace with it. He's not expecting Bucky to step forward, eyes suddenly darker from pupils blown wide. He's not expecting Bucky grab his shoulders and roughly pull him to his chest.
Steve's arms start shaking the second Bucky touches him. He grabs fistfuls of Bucky's shirt to hide the trembling. He doesn't know that Bucky would notice anyway. He's got his arms tight around Steve, his face pressed against Steve's wet hair. They rock back and forth like that as the song spools out. The woman's voice is low and sultry. Steve's face is shoved against Bucky's chest anyway, so he doesn't feel too guilty for inhaling, taking in the smell of Bucky's cigarettes and the aftershave he saves for special occasions. It could be leftover from last night. Bucky probably didn't shower. For now, though, Steve's damn well going to pretend Bucky's wearing it for him.
They don't break apart right away when the song ends. Steve keeps his head rested against Bucky's chest, listening to the familiar thump of Bucky's heart. His own heart's still going too fast. Recklessness wells up in him. He has the words now, he thinks, to explain himself to Bucky. This is what I want, Buck, he'll say. This is what I want, this, the two of us, forever. Steve lifts his head to say it. He looks up into Bucky's wide blue eyes and parts his lips to speak.
Just like that, Bucky steps back, clearing his throat. "Well, yeah," he says, running a hand through his hair. It sticks up in a hundred different directions when he's done with it, tacky with sweat and oil. "Now you know how to dance. Definitely don't have two left feet, good job, you only stepped on my feet a hundred times. I'm--"
"Bucky," Steve says, heart in his throat.
"--going to--"
"Bucky," Steve says louder, voice echoing in the too-small room. "Let me tell you--"
"--going to church," Bucky says. He's staring at the stove. "Need to go to Confession. Can't go to Mass next week otherwise, and then you'll kill me, right?"
"You can do that next Sunday morning before Mass. Just let me tell you what I need to--"
"Be back by dinner," Bucky says. He backs out the door before Steve can finish his sentence. Steve runs to the hall, but Bucky's already down the stairs. Steve will never catch up with him.
It's fine, Steve tells himself. You should have expected this. Mother of God, Rogers, did you really think you'd get to tell him? You're better off this way. He's better off not knowing. He's telling himself the truth, but the hallway's still too wide and empty without Bucky. Steve goes back into the apartment, locking the door behind him. The radio's moved onto some Louis Armstrong piece. Steve switches it off before he climbs back into bed. His cheeks are still stained red when he drifts off to sleep.