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“Keep your hands up, what are you doing? C’mon!” Val yells, circling outside the ring to get a better view of Bucky’s gloves. Brock grins like a feral animal and rewards Bucky’s uncharacteristic sluggishness with a nice uppercut jab combo.
“What are you trying to be Rocky Balboa now?” Val yells outside the ring, making more than a few heads turn away from their own training to eye up Bucky’s sloppy form with mingled disgust and pity. “You think the only way you can block punches is with your face now? Get your fuckin’ hands up boyo!”
Bucky snarls, properly enraged now, and dances away from Brock’s next attack and then slips in real quick with a flurry of combinations that forces Brock back onto the ropes.
“Oh did someone finally wake up this morning? You have a nice nap?” Val shouts. He may be an asshole chain smoking kosher vegan but Val is the best in the world at goading Bucky and getting him in the right headspace for the kind of focused violence that translates into big wins and purses that keep the rent paid.
Bucky and Brock don’t spar much longer once Bucky finally starts moving in peak condition. Brock’s a high caliber fighter even with his knee injury taking him out of commission for professional matches. But whereas Val is an asshole that Bucky likes and respects, Brock is an asshole that Bucky respects but personally loathes.
“Come ‘ere kid,” Val says, thumbing a tin of chew while Bucky mops the sheen of sweat from his brow. Bucky uses the cover of the towel to hide his face behind as he rolls his eyes. Val’s friendly advice tone of voice frequently leads to humiliation and occasionally felony misdemeanors which Bucky’s extremely beautiful and extremely angry lawyer then has to find a way to disappear.
“What is it, Val?” Bucky finally says reluctantly. He’s worked out pretty hard this morning and he’s actually a little overdue for his pre-portioned lunch of chicken on a bed of quinoa and kale. The days of pro athletes drinking raw eggs are thankfully long gone for fighters under Val’s tutelage.
“Listen, Jim,” Val says, clapping Bucky on the shoulder and looking off into the distance as if they aren’t in the same sweat and bleach smelling gym they’ve been training in for the past three years. Bucky settles in for a performance but all he gets is, “I think you should stop pussyfooting around and ask out the stacked blond across the street. It’s distracting you and you’ve got a hard bout coming up next week against that prick from Boston.”
“What?” Bucky says dully. There’s only one blond that works in the florists across the street and he might be stacked but he is most definitely a man. Bucky’s out of the closet bi but it’s not something he and Val have ever talked about except for the one mortifying time that Val had told Bucky,
“If you’re gonna play ball the week before a match just make you’re you’re the one pitching, capisce? And no sex for three nights before. You need the frustration or you won’t be motivated enough.”
“I was a young man once,” Val reminds his charge. “I know what hormones do to a young buck’s head.” Ha fucking ha Bucky thinks at the man. “Go buy some petunias,” Val says, slapping a crumpled ten into Bucky’s still taped hand. “My wife loves petunias. Even if the mook turns you down, at least I’ll get some tonight.” Val waggles his bushy brows and Bucky mimes doubling over and vomiting beside the ring.
“Alright, alright,” Val says with a smile. “Shower, change, eat, and then go see if you can find a good pansy across the street.”
“You are a revolting human being,” Bucky tells his trainer seriously, almost able to keep the smile off his face.
“Funny, that’s what the wife said when I proposed,” Val shoots over his shoulder as he walks away.
…
Bucky tugged on his t-shirt, absently straightening it out. He wishes he’d brought something nicer to wear. He’d considered just going in a wife beater but he didn’t want to look like a thug. He had a reputation around the neighborhood already. He's the best boxer Brooklyn had seen in generations, and he is self-aware enough to know he's handsome and charming and everything the cable and premium networks are looking to put on air. There was more than one blustering idiot who saw all that and the fact that Bucky was bi and decided it was all hype. Rigged.
Bucky never let them keep that delusion alive for long. But it didn’t exactly help the image of him as a violent brainless thug.
The florist's shop is much more welcoming than the gym (even though they had just renovated the entire building and it was one of the hottest places for top tier athletes in the city, Bucky notes to himself with pride). The sign is green with purple Irises blooming around the lettering interspersed with springs of white Ivy tendrils.
Etched in the frosted glass of the door is a strangely beautiful pineapple motif (Bucky's mom is such an avid knitter he's convinced he could recognize a pineapple motif in his sleep). Over it in bold black lettering is the shop's name- Petal Talk.
A little bell above the door chimes as Bucky walks in.
The shop manages to combine modern design aesthetics with a sort of warm homeyness that makes Bucky’s shoulders relax as soon as he steps inside. It smells earthy and alive. There are elegant tables set up to display various bouquets and even a few teddy bears, boxes of chocolate and balloons that one could order with their gift. There's an entire wall of cards to choose from, including some that look homemade.
Bucky swallows nervously, glad that he’d brought his entire wallet and not just the dampish ten from Val’s gym shorts pocket. He has seriously underestimated what was he was getting himself into. The delicate trellises and heavy potted plants outside haven’t fully prepared him for a rack of dozens of different bows and ribbons nonetheless for a locked display case of crystal vases.
He was out of his element. Shit, he was out of his fucking league with this stuff.
“Hi, I’m Steve. Can I help you with something ?” the cute blond asks with a sunshiney smile. He’s come from the back room wiping the dirt off his hands and onto his too-small green apron.
“I, uh, need to buy some flowers,” Bucky says, begging the charming handsome devil from the promos he’d shot last month to come back and help him out of this mess he’s dug himself into.
“Well you’re in the right place buddy,” Steve says without missing a beat. “Have you ordered from us before?”
Bucky shakes his head. For some reason, the shopkeeper actually looks delighted about this.
“Our specialty is crafting artisanal bouquets using the victorian concept of the language of flowers in order to express complex sentiments using a common and traditional medium- flowers.” Although the spiel is clearly rehearsed and old hat he still sounds excited about it. “So what can I help you say to your friend or loved one today?” Steve asks, coming around the counter to join Bucky near a display that looked inordinately patriotic. A fourth of July special, Bucky guesses wildly.
He buys some time by tucking his hair behind his ear. He’ll have to cut it soon.
“I want to ask someone out,” Bucky starts, glancing up through his eyelashes to gauge the other man’s reaction. Steve’s smile drops a few Watts but kicks right back online as soon as Steve realizes it slipped.
“Old flame? Someone you’ve had your eye on for a while?” Steve asks, sounding almost nervous.
“A couple weeks,” Bucky admits, biting his lip and making sure to take his time dragging his teeth over it. “I’m pretty sure he has no idea I exist yet, though.”
“Oh?” Steve says sounding strangled and very pointedly not looking at Bucky’s mouth. There's a bit of color on Steve’s cheeks that hadn’t been there before.
“Yeah,” Bucky says, feeling smoother now, letting himself smile a little. “Tall guy, blond. Ripped as hell.”
“Oh?” Steve says glancing at Bucky, beet red now.
“You can tell me to fuck off if you want and you’ll never have to see me again, I promise,” Bucky assures Steve. “But I see you over here every day and you’re so fucking… happy.” Steve starts at that. Bucky's got the feeling that Steve’s happiness wasn’t why a lot of guys approached him. “Yeah,” Bucky says nonsensically. “I saw you smiling the other day as you cut the dead leaves off that big potted plant outside and even though I was just walking past it made me want to smile too. I thought to myself, I gotta get to know this guy. Maybe we won’t be right for each other. Maybe it won’t get past a first date. Maybe you aren’t even into guys. But I just figure if there’s even a chance I could wake up next to that smile for the rest of my life I’ve gotta take it.”
Steve swallows, looking at Bucky with something close to awe. It might even be hope.
“How does Saturday night work for you?” Steve says sounding a bit strangled.
“Perfect,” Bucky says letting his lips curl up into a small smile.
…
Bucky is the only boxer he knows of whose significant other gives them flowers after every match regardless of what purse, or title, or amount of respect was on the line.
Bucky had gotten pretty good at identifying them without Steve’s help (even if he still asked Steve to explain every bouquet on the cab ride home just to hear his voice).
Bucky could probably pick out a batch of Nasturtium blindfolded for how many times it makes an appearance in his fight night bouquets (the flower of conquest and victory in battle). Sometimes there are vibrant Gladiolus blossoms (the flower of gladiators, and those who were sincere). Every kind of Camellia has been represented at one time or another- sometimes multiple colors of the bloom in one mix (admiration, perfection, good luck, longing for you, you’re a flame in my heart). Bucky has always liked Bells of Ireland, even before he knew what they were, or what they meant, or how nicely they broke up the more intense colors and exotic perfumes of other flowers (good luck).
It's the dainty pink azaleas that always make his heart catch in his throat, though. He doesn’t give a shit what a bunch of punch drunk bastards said about him in or outside the ring for his choice of partners or their floral traditions. He loves azaleas, they warm him right through like a glass of good whiskey. Take care of yourself for me. It's such a Steve thing to say, especially when paired with the Gladiolus. Other people tell Bucky to win, or to fight hard, or to make them proud. Only Steve is stupid enough to tell a man going into a professional fight to be careful.
So, of course, six months into their relationship, Bucky gets the shit beaten out of him worse than ever before. He has such a bad concussion he can’t even remember whether or not he’d won. It certainly didn’t feel like he had though.
He can’t open his left eye. He wakes up on Steve’s couch, propped up on a bed of soft pillows. It's the perfect angle for his wrapped ribs. Bucky knows better than to try to move.
“Hey baby,” Steve coos. Bucky groans, reaching out a hand for his beau, careful not to lift it too much so that it might pull on his ribs. “I know, I know,” Steve soothes. He slides a hand between Bucky’s shoulder blades to keep his torso still as Steve tosses the pillows aside and slips in behind Bucky.
Bucky sighs even as his ribs ache. Steve’s chest is warm against his back, Steve’s legs are wrapped securely outside of his own. Bucky feels contained in the best way.
Steve’s fingers brush lightly at Bucky’s hair, collecting all the flyaways and combing them back away from his swollen eye and broken nose. Bucky feels a cool compress press lightly against the side of his face. He whines even though he knows the ice would eventually make him feel better.
“That’s my big strong man,” Steve teases gently, kissing Bucky’s ear just lightly. Bucky grumbles, gripping at his baby’s knee.
“You’re a big strong man,” Bucky mutters childishly. “I’m in pain.”
“Yeah, well whose fault is that?” Steve asks kissing the crown of Bucky’s head.
“That Russian brick wall,” Bucky says as Steve kisses his other ear. “Hey, speaking of that freight train, did I win?” Bucky feels more than hears the little, aborted sound in the back of Steve’s throat.
“Yeah Buck, you won. You’re the champion.” Steve kisses the crown of Bucky’s head again and Bucky guesses that he must look even worse than he’d figured. Steve puts on a good face but Bucky can always tell when he's really upset about how hurt Bucky is. If Bucky isn’t being called an asshole or a jerk, or being groped, or being needled to cook dinner, then odds are something was wrong with his sunshine.
“No more fights for seven months though,” Bucky says, rubbing circles on Steve’s knee with his thumb.
“The doctor said four to six,” Steve says quietly. The only thing they’d ever really fought about was Bucky’s career and then only after Steve’s best friend Sam had made the colossal mistake of mentioning a new article on multiple concussion research. The sport is safer than ever but two men going at each other with their fists for pride, glory, and money will never be painless. There is always a risk.
“Yeah, but in six months it’s our one year. We gotta celebrate. I’m taking you somewhere almost as warm and beautiful as you are. We’re gonna sit on some touristy beach and sip cocktails out of coconuts. Have sex in a hot tub under the stars. Gonna treat my baby right. You take such good care of me.”
“Yeah, well someone’s gotta do it asshole,” Steve says, a little too softly for their normal banter but it brings a smile to Bucky’s face all the same. He snuggles back into his baby and falls asleep in his warm embrace, secure in the knowledge that no matter what comes next they'll be there to take care of each other.