Work Text:
Historians will call them anything but.
The rolling train tumbled on the tracks, crackling in its energy with torn courage and strength, its speed slowing as the rickety metal screeched under its weight. Passengers glided through the doors, feet skipping over the gap bridging between the platform and the vehicle, his leg managing to get unstuck before the doors gritted against into a close. Loud, blaring lights fingered dots in his vision, and the dirty gold tangles of his hair fell on his face. Steve felt the foreign surroundings, regaining his posture as he advanced towards the open staircase leading into the city, raging thoughts comforting his mind, cradling its very logic.
Bucky with his long dark hair, fulfilled grin and eyes shimmering with kept promises, his voice buckling warm and homely in the range of extraneous warfare. There was am embrace of strength hidden under tearing layers of concrete, honour stripped with kindness, bitter replaced with sweet. Bucky with his hair tangling the cutting rounds of tucked up strands too long, scissors bruising away to fit shaven styles under tight fitting caps. Bucky with his body wrapped in cockiness and pride, navy green rocketing in his wardrobe, black scars cursing his bones and tying up laughs.
The heavy bows of worry consumed Steve’s mind, heavy weights and ginger sliced, onion’s scents pressuring the limits of his tears. A block away, and his feet could carry him through the fractured walls, old cravings of loneliness, understanding from broken hearts, yet the hesitation in his actions preceded him. There in his head, a familiar hum blew over, the crackling fire in tune with his sick health, coughs heeding in and choking out. Bucky was there, watching him with care, helping him with love.
He needed Bucky then.
Bucky needs him now.
Guilt tugged in the brash material of his heart, sugar coated gestures of alien understanding breaking in his skin, surfaces ripped away in the endeavour for connection. His hand wavered over the cold glass of the door handle, the fragile jingling of the key resting in the lock keeping him grounded.
The greedy, gremlin voice in his mind consulted him, a confrontation of his achievements, a confrontation of all helped. But the nagging pursue of Bucky resided, reigning in its corruption. There was a sudden spur, flicking his head up, chin pointing to the ceiling.
A sudden jerk in his mind, golden sparks of memories floating in his eyes, the blue crystal gaze of his sky trapped in the engaging sea, filtering waters of brazen plains and empty hills clashing in. A cave of his feelings fumbled over the key, breaking the stride and gripping apart walls, a thought hinged in a sudden stigma. The grappled feelings, of love, of resent, of hiding, released all at once. A flooding gate broken through like the wall in a dam, pressure building and heavily pursed over years, mouths empty and greed abrupt.
The once sickening feeling of wanting Bucky’s hand in his, lips on his, being with him, resurrected with careful consideration, the feeling soft and comfort. There was no once ill intent hidden in his words to himself, no remarks that bit at his own taste. He felt freed by its burden, modern world in his grasp.
He felt the image of his mind, crafted when he first felt it, of Bucky holding him tight, words pressed against his ear. Of the warm whispers in his tone, the way his hair would muffle his face, his grip strong and steady.
The door in front of him clicked, and his reflexes brought him to forward, the creaking of the wooden material scratched in his ears. Etched in his perception, he recognised the temporary quarters, the stench of chains, and he licked his lips at the drag into reality. Smoke hazed him.
He trapped the thoughts again, bubbled, and locked them away in its own cage.
But history hates lovers.