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Winter sunlight streamed through the dirty window onto the threadbare area rug, upon which was scattered a manila envelope and three photo albums. Steve’s blond head was bent in concentration, a pencil stub absently dangling from his pursed lips as he gnawed on its end. He was examining a photo album, which lay open in his lap. Although his twiggy legs looked like they might break under the slightest pressure, something about Steve assured Peter that his pictures were safe. There was a sturdy confidence about Steve, a sureness that filled the room.
Even in the cozy familiarity that had settled around them, Peter still found it amazing that Steve Rogers was sitting cross-legged on his dorm room floor. He watched nervously as Steve flipped the plastic-lined page once more, revealing a new set of photos. Steve’s blue eyes drank them in, one by one. Peter had these albums memorized; he knew exactly which faces Steve was studying as his eyes traced the familiar patterns, one to another. “Who’s this?” Steve asked, pointing.
Peter barely needed to look in order to answer, “That’s MJ.”
At Steve’s crooked eyebrow, Peter elaborated: “She was my best friend growing up. -Well, her and Harry.” Peter shifted closer and pointed at the tall grinning brunet with his arm around MJ.
“Are they dating?” Steve asked quietly, examining the picture where Peter’s fingertip still rested.
“Yeah.” This close, he could feel the body heat radiating off of Steve. He fought the urge to press closer. “They got together when I was in high school.” His voice cracked.
Steve glanced up at him. His expression was stoic, his eyes calculating. Questioning.
Peter laughed self-consciously. “I used to have a crush on MJ, but after I saw how happy she was with Harry…” He fell silent for a long moment. He felt Steve’s eyes on him.
Peter cleared his throat. “That was when I was fifteen,” he explained.
“Rough year,” Steve commented.
“You could say that.” Peter’s voice cracked again.
Steve leaned their shoulders together and flipped the page. There were more photos of Harry and MJ together. In one of them, MJ was blowing out candles, her birthday hat askew. Harry was grinning behind her.
Peter remembered that day. How jealous he’d been of Harry, how bitter and hurt he’d been that even after being MJ’s closest friend for over ten years, she’d ended up with his best friend. Harry had been his best friend since fourth grade. He’d counted himself lucky to have two best friends. But then they’d gone and fallen in love with each other. “I was always scared they were gonna end up leaving me behind,” he confessed.
Steve glanced up at him.
Peter laughed self-consciously. “You know the song-- I can see what’s happening, ” Peter sang badly. “And they don’t have a clue! They’ll fall in love, and here’s the bottom line: our trio’s down to two.”
There was a curious mixture of warmth and pain on Steve’s face. “I wonder if Peggy ever felt that way…”
“Who’s Peggy?”
The corner of Steve’s mouth turned up as he flipped another page. “Another friend of mine,” Steve explained. “I had a crush on her in middle school. We dated for a while, but then my mom got sick. And Peggy tried to help, but I was always too worried she’d catch it, if she stayed around me too long. TB’s contagious; I’d had the shot, but my ma… And Peggy insisted she’d be fine, but the sicker my ma got… I ended up spending all my time at home, taking care of her. And Bucky…” Steve trailed off. Peter would give anything to kiss away the hurt on his face. He leaned closer, clumsily brought himself behind Steve and rested his chin on his shoulder. Steve leaned back into the contact. He continued, “Bucky said it was bullshit that I had to care for her alone. Said he lived next door and if he hadn’t caught it by now he wasn’t gonna. He… he was there with me when I found out.”
Steve didn’t need to explain. Peter knew: when Steve had gotten the call from the hospital. That his mom was dead.
Peter wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist. “I’m sorry,” he muttered into his neck.
Steve silently flipped the page. “She’s beautiful,” he said in reference to a smiling picture of MJ. That one was from the day Peter had given her and Harry his blessing. That was the day he’d finally admitted he’d rather see them happy together than try to force MJ to be happy with him. He’d set himself free. And it had been so touching, the way Harry and MJ admitted they’d been so careful, that they’d been holding back so they wouldn’t hurt Peter. And Peter had just said ‘nah. You guys go ahead. I’ll take pictures.’ And he’d held up his camera. And smiled.
“Yeah,” Peter agreed. “She is.”
“She looks like someone I know,” Steve said as he flipped another page. “A girl named Pepper. She was on student council.”
“Pepper?” Peter felt like he’d heard that name before.
“Yeah. Pepper Potts. She’s-”
“-the head of the debate team!” Peter finished. He laughed. “Oh man! I knew there couldn’t be two girls out there with a name like Pepper!”
“There might be,” Steve granted, not judging.
“Okay, but Pepper Potts? Come on! That sounds like a joke name. Like Robin Banks or something.”
“Or Seymour Butts?” Steve suggested.
“Right! Or Harry Balls!”
Steve snorted. “Mike Rotch.”
Peter laughed into Steve’s neck. “Hugh Jass.”
“Ophelia Balls.”
Peter squawked with laughter.
“Sharon Cox,” Steve said without missing a beat. “Amanda Hump. Anya Knees. Dixie Normous.”
Peter laughed harder. He was trying to think of a name, but Steve was too fast. “Dick-- Dick-- I don’t know, just the name Dick!”
“Dick Cox.”
Peter laughed so hard he fell over.
Steve grinned at Peter. “You gonna be okay?” he asked with one eyebrow raised as Peter caught his breath on the floor.
“How do you come up with that so fast!”
“I go to a lot of drag shows,” Steve replied easily.
Peter sat up, wiping his eyes. He was still loosely curled around Steve. “And they really have names like that?”
“Yup.”
“Oh man. You have got to take me to one of those!”
“Sure thing.” Steve closed the photo album in his lap and turned around to face Peter. “Just be prepared-- I like to dress up.”
Peter swallowed. “ Do you.”
“Uh huh.” Steve wound his arms around Peter’s waist and maneuvered his way into his lap. “I probably look like something out of Rocky Horror.” He nipped at Peter’s bottom lip.
Peter was having a hard time imagining the straight-laced Steve Rogers dressing up in something so… so… So not like the Steve Rogers everyone thought they knew.
Steve cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t look so surprised,” he said, voice low.
“I know, I’m not, it’s just..!” Okay, he was surprised.
But this was Steve Rogers. Outspoken political activist, firm by-the-rules golden boy, all-American sweetheart. The guy who everyone wanted to be like, because he was just so good. If he radiated good ness any harder, Peter might start to believe he was a Jedi, channeling the Light side of the Force and all that. The guy was just sunshine through and through.
But this was also the guy who had given him a handjob before they’d even had their first official date.
So maybe the wholesome doe-eyed hipster look he had going was just a disguise.
The mischievous curl to Steve’s full bottom lip certainly seemed to support this theory. “It’s just what?” he said softly, a breath away from Peter’s mouth. “You want to see me in fishnets?” Steve traced the underside of Peter’s bottom lip with his tongue.
“Yeah,” Peter said in a strangled, breathy voice.
“Good.” Steve made out with him and abruptly moved away. “You got anything to eat around here?” he asked in a cool, clear voice as though he hadn’t just left Peter on the floor with a raging hard-on.
“Uh… there’s ramen.”
Steve tch’d. “Guess I’m taking you out.”
*
Peter supposed his first clue that this wasn’t his night should’ve been when he slipped on the icy concrete not two steps away from his dorm building. Sure, Steve had caught him, and when that surprisingly low voice had asked him if he was all right- he swore he’d never get used to Steve’s gorgeous voice- and being set upright by those firm, steady hands had set his heart fluttering, but he’d been worried from then on out that one of them was gonna slip and break something. But neither of them had slipped on the way to Peter’s car… which hadn’t started.
Peter had apologized profusely. The old, patchy, red-and-maroon piece of junk had an engine dating twelve years back and was badly in need of an oil change, and it always got cranky when the temperature dipped below 30, but there had been slush on the ground earlier so he’d thought maybe it would be fine. After the fifth time turning the key and hearing the labored wheezing and stuttering, and ultimately, a dying gasp, Peter had sighed and leaned his head back against the car seat and stared at his ceiling as though it was the fault of that particular water stain to his left.
But Steve had been very forgiving and said they could walk, with the lilting promise in that gorgeously low voice of his that they could warm each other up later.
Despite Steve’s bravado, it became clear during their walk that Steve’s layered winter coat and jean jacket, his dark gray beanie, and his knitted gloves weren’t enough to keep the cold out. Peter had huddled closer to him as they walked, but Steve had kept insisting he was fine. Steve’s breathing was a little rough once they got inside. Steve had leaned against a wall, his eyes half closed, while Peter requested a table. Peter hadn’t been able to relax until they were seated and Steve had removed his coat and gloves. He’d been aware of Peter’s eyes on him, and he’d snapped over the top of his menu that he wasn’t as fragile as he looked, and Peter had just said ‘sorry!’ and ducked behind his own menu, so he wasn’t sure how long it took for Steve to stop frowning after that. Probably sometime after they’d both ordered their entrees.
He’d felt Steve’s foot nestling against his ankle under the table, and when he’d looked up, Steve had been giving him a soft smirk and bedroom eyes, so Peter had reached across the table and they’d held hands until their food arrived.
It was a really nice place; Peter had never been here before, but the music was fresh and acoustic, the lighting was pleasantly warm, neither too dim nor too harsh, and the decor reminded him of grandmothers and gardens. Most of the food was either vegetarian or vegan. And despite roughly half of the tables around them being full, the place wasn’t too loud, either. A huge muscular blond guy with the man-bun unleashed a deep, booming laugh. The pale black-haired person sitting across from him looked vaguely smug. Peter couldn't hear what they'd just said, just murmured tones and a vague British accent. Another pair in the corner caught Peter’s attention because the short-haired blond guy, slouched over in an oversized gray hoodie, kept unsubtly looking in their direction, and the red-wavy-haired woman sitting across from him kept saying things which were too quiet to hear, but every time she spoke, it would cause the man to either stare at them or look away.
About halfway through their meal, the redheaded woman had excused herself and disappeared. Peter wasn’t sure where she’d gone; he assumed the bathroom, since the blond guy was still there. He cast his gaze around at the other tables; the guy with the booming laugh was shoveling chocolate dessert into his mouth and had fallen quiet, the black-haired person was smiling softly at a black-haired man who was currently draped over their shoulders, and who appeared to be saying something amusing. Peter recognized the guy because of his goatee; that was the guy who wanted to be head of the debate team and Pepper never heard the end of it, nor did anyone else.
The curiously silver-haired guy who had arrived maybe ten minutes ago was already done eating his entree; the long-brown-haired lady dressed in red sitting across from him was primly finishing her appetizer.
The red-haired woman was nowhere to be seen.
And then suddenly she was behind Steve, her breasts pushing into the back of his neck and spilling onto his shoulders, her arms wrapped around him like he’d been hers all along.
Steve tilted his head up to look at her upside-down. “Romanov,” he said coolly, with the faintest trace of a smile tugging his lips.
“Rogers,” she replied in the same cool tone, with an echoing barely-there smile.
They stared at each other for a long moment and their smiles slowly spread.
Peter watched them, his fork poised in the air.
The red-haired woman kissed Steve on the cheek and released him from her grasp. “Haven’t heard much from you lately,” she purred.
Steve shrugged one shoulder, his expression careless and lopsided. “Been busy.”
“Doing what?” the woman murmured. With a sharp, knowing glance at Peter, her mouth turned up in a smirk. “Or should I say, doing whom?”
“Nat, this is Peter,” Steve said, gesturing. “Peter, Nat.”
Peter stared at this ‘Nat’, his grip tight on his fork. “Pleasure,” he said tightly.
“She’s an old friend,” Steve explained with a trace of amusement.
“No worries, Boy Toy. I’m dating that lug over there.” She pointed at the short-haired guy in the corner, who was obliviously playing games on his phone. He was completely average-looking and Peter couldn’t for the life of him imagine how he’d ended up with someone who rivaled even MJ’s beauty. Especially one who was wearing all black and looked like she’d be right at home in a Marilyn Manson concert.
“Clint,” Steve supplied. “Also an old friend.”
“Does he know about Bucky?” Nat murmured, just loud enough for Peter to hear.
Steve nodded.
“The three of us used to date,” Nat explained.
Peter frowned. He was very confused. Three…?
“Nat, Clint, and Bucky,” Steve supplied. “Bucky and I are polyamorous.”
“Or you were anyway,” Nat teased. “Once he started dating you, he didn’t want to share.”
Steve shrugged. “I have that effect on people.”
Nat smirked. “Aw, your Boy Toy doesn’t want to share?”
Peter glared at her.
And then Steve said something about how he didn’t want to share just yet, and then Peter was warm all over and he couldn’t stop smiling.
Their conversation wound to an end and Nat tossed Peter a “see you later” that Peter barely caught because he was still riding on the warm fuzzies of Steve not wanting to share, so Peter gave her an awkward smile good-bye just as she turned around, but other than that he didn’t pay attention to anything besides Steve Rogers and his food for the rest of the night.
That was probably where he went wrong.
High school hadn’t gone so well for Peter. Yeah, he’d had Gwen, and yeah, that swayed a lot of people to believing he was straight. But occasionally someone would catch a wayward glance in the locker room, and the next thing he knew, he’d be in the middle of a chanting group, being pushed around by big, muscular, homophobic guys, and no matter how many times Harry and MJ jumped to his defense, Peter always managed to find himself alone and getting beat up for being a ‘slut’ and a ‘queer faggot.’ Peter had eventually given up on trying to explain bisexuality to these guys and had just accepted that he was going to get the crap beaten out of him every so often.
But college had seemed such an accepting place about all that. There were at least three activist groups on campus, two of which Steve was members of, and if Peter’s schedule didn’t conflict with the meetings, he’d probably join. Gender and sexuality were protected in the school’s anti-discrimination code.
The guys who appeared suddenly from an alleyway didn’t seem to care about that non-discrimination code.
Peter’s heart had leapt to his throat. He’d frozen in fear. He barely had time to register that these guys were yelling slurs at them before he realized Steve had squared his shoulders and was standing in front of him. Steve made some calm threat about calling the police, since they were protected by the non-discrimination policy. But the guy at the front had said “But we’re not on campus now. Are we” and then he’d called Steve an all-too-familiar slur and Steve had thrown a punch and the rest of it was chaos.
Peter cursed how rusty his fighting skills had gotten. He cursed how weak he was, that he hadn’t been working out more, that he could barely even block the hits that just kept coming. He felt bad that Steve was trying to protect both of them, even though Steve was a full five inches shorter than him, and the exercise was making him wheeze and cough something awful. It wasn’t until he saw blood on Steve’s lip that Peter really tried to beat the shit out of these guys. But he barely got one punch in before his arm was being twisted behind his back, and he felt a burst of white-hot pain as he was forcibly lowered to the ground; something inside his arm snapped, leaving no doubt it was broken.
Steve threw a few more punches, all of which missed; his beanie had been thrown off in the scuffle and there was blood dripping down into his eyes. His breath rattled. He coughed and tried, weakly, to fight back, but eventually he stopped getting back up.
Peter stayed on the ground. He was pretty sure if he played possum, they’d leave him alone. And aside from a few kicks to the chest and face, they did. The two guys beating him up got bored and gravitated over to Steve, who was cradling himself and coughing weakly, blood spattering the snow by his mouth. Peter longed to call out to him, but he doubted his throat would work. He was in so much pain.
At last, flashes of red and blue, accompanied by a police siren, scared off the thugs and they scattered.
But as Peter’s luck goes, the cops continued cluelessly on their way, driving right past them two blocks down. The sirens faded into the distance. A winter wind blew.
Steve was far too quiet.
Peter pushed himself off of the ground. “Ste-” was all he could get out. He crawled towards him across the salty sidewalk. One of the rock salt chunks turned out to be a piece of broken glass. Peter winced and shook it off of his hand. The blood flowed freely. “Steve,” he whispered.
Steve didn’t respond.
Peter pulled his phone out of his pocket. Blood smeared on the screen. Shakily, he dialed 9-1-1.
*
Peter was confused when he woke up in an unfamiliar white room with his arm in a sling. He was even more confused when he lifted his head and found himself squinting at a tiny, bruised face, most of which was obscured by an oxygen mask or distorted by yellowish-purplish lumps. A heart monitor beeped steadily in a corner.
Peter sat up abruptly. Steve.
Sitting up abruptly turned out to be a bad idea. He was immediately dizzy and his neck hurt something awful. His mouth was cotton-dry and if his stomach hadn’t been so empty, it soon might have been. He tried to swallow, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
A sound behind him made Peter whirl around wide-eyed.
“Morning,” a blond-haired nurse greeted calmly. She offered Peter a water bottle, which he accepted gratefully. He was struggling to open it one-handed when she wordlessly reached over and popped the cap open for him. He would have thanked her, but his throat felt like it would tear itself apart if he attempted to say anything, so he brought the water bottle to his lips and gulped thirstily as her curvy frame bent over Steve and she studiously checked his vitals. Her movements were gentle, her expression cool. Her nametag read ‘Sharon’.
“Thanks,” Peter said once the bottle was half empty.
“Mind telling me how you boys ended up unconscious on the sidewalk at ten o’clock?” she asked without looking at him. She wrote something down on her clipboard.
“Guys,” Peter started, but his voice was rusty. He cleared his throat and took another drink. “These guys just jumped us out of nowhere. Kept calling us faggots. Steve tried to fight ‘em off, but…” Peter felt so bad that he’d slacked off on his martial arts skills. It was all his fault that Steve was beaten and bloody. He should have been able to protect him! “There had to be five or six of them. I don’t know, it was dark. I couldn’t tell.”
He felt the shift when the nurse went from disbelief to sympathy. “So you didn’t start the fight?”
“God, no! -Is he gonna be okay?” Peter asked anxiously. The nurse-- Sharon-- seemed to be done checking him over.
“He’ll live,” she said quietly. She made a mark on her clipboard, scribbled something down. Her hazel eyes locked with Peter’s. “Does he have a next-of-kin?”
Peter swallowed. “Not… that I know of.”
Her mouth narrowed to a grim line. “A roommate? A guardian?” She shifted her weight. “Is there anybody who I should notify about his condition.”
“Oh.” Peter gathered scraps of thought until he found something useful. “Sam. Sam Wilson. Uh… Hang on, he’s on my contact list--”
His phone was dead.
“Uh. ..heh. You wouldn’t happen to have a charger, would you?”
“Is that blood?” Sharon asked in reference to his phone.
“Yeah?”
Sharon reached into one of her many pockets and produced an anti-bacterial wipe. “Here. You’ll want that sterilized.”
Peter awkwardly accepted the wipe.
“I’ll bring you a charger.”
And then she was gone.
*
Sam Wilson arrived at the hospital two hours later, looking equal parts worried and chagrined. After Peter had explained what happened, Sam had sighed and said “He fought until he couldn’t stand, didn’t he.”
Peter learned this was not the first time.
As Sam listed Steve’s long history of getting into fights he couldn’t win, Peter’s resolve hardened.
That was the day he vowed to finish his martial arts training.