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“This is probably your worst idea to date.” John mumbles, throat tight with dread. He taps his floor against dull wooden floors with increasing impatience, looking down at Yelena who’s sitting on the floor and scribbling madly on a sign.
Yelena doesn't even look up to give a lick of dignity to John’s dragging snarks, as she’s much too focused on her work. Her fat black maker glides across the massive board, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.
“You’ll be thanking me later when he says yes.” She grins sly, capping her pen triumphantly with a deceive click. She holds back the sign with both hands, tilting her head to admire her majestic masterpiece. “And I’ll appreciate two free vodka shots from you when it happens.”
On the largest board she could find at the mall, one so large it looks more fitting for a picket line than a stadium, the sign reads in bold, messy letters,
“BUCKY BARNES, WILL YOU MARRY MY BROTHER?”
“We aren’t even related.” John laments weakly, dragging a hand over his face.
“You're practically the shitty and neglectful brother I’ve always dreamed of.” She flashes him a sunny smile that doesn't completely mask her mischief.
“I am not neglectful.” John shoots back far too quickly, bristling.
Yelena lets out a choked snicker at the fact he couldn’t even defend himself from the whole statement. She stands from her comfortable seat and moves to elbows his side, but the board slams into his chest first
John lets out a short hiss, before taking a second to shoot her an offended look. “Going to this concert was a mistake.”
“Oh, can it, Walker,” Yelena smirks, placing the sign delicately down as if it was made of the most fragile of glasses. “You’ve been dying to see this band since high school, and suddenly you're dragging your feet when you’re about to meet your soul mate in real life.”
“Haha.” John says humorlessly. “I had a little crush on Bucky in junior year of high school, and you’ve clung onto it like the shit you are.”
“Just in high school? You’re forgetting your pining in senior year. And in all four years of college. And when you start working. And now.” Yelena rattles off quickly, her sly smile stretching longer much to John’s growing displeasure.
John’s head falls dramatically in his hand with a groan, burying his face in both his hands. Yelena scoots a bit closer, slinging a taunting arm across his shoulders.
“Aw, don’t be like that.” Yelena coos teasingly, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Get yourself together, you're about to see your hubby.”
John’s elbow sharply snaps sideways and jabs into her abdomen with enough force to cause the wind to leave her smug smile. She lurches forward with a quiet wheeze that quickly morphs into uncontrollable giggles.
“God, you are the worst.” John mutters, ears turning pink in a confusing mix of teenager-like embracement and bubbling rage.
Yelena hums, the last parts of her laughter still escaping her as she straightens up. “But come on, this is your last time to see them– or him, rather.” Her eyebrows wriggle as John’s ears change from soft pink to deep red. “It’s their comeback tour after, what, almost seven years of disappearing off the face of the earth?”
John throws his head back, exhaling sharply and shutting his eyes closed as tight as he can. “Let’s just get this over with. Come on, let’s go.”
John surges to his feet, too quickly and desperately, causing his chair to screech backwards. Without another beat wasted, he moves towards the door with almost-military precision and stiffness.
“You can just say you don’t want to be late to see your husband.” Yelena purrs, drawing out and thoroughly enjoying the word husband as it leaves her lips.
John doesn’t break stride. “Not my husband.”
“Future husband.” She corrects with a pleased expression, taking her time as she stands and follows John out the door.
***
Despite the overwhelming popularity of this comeback tour, Yelena somehow managed to snag VIP standing seats for the both of them. She claims she got it through sheer willpower and charm, but the dark shadows under her eyes and residual sticky anger from bargaining with scalpers tells a much different story.
As if this wasn’t a dream come true already, they manage to find a spot in the dead center at the center of the barricade. Part of it was because of their stupidly early arrival at the venue due to Yelena’s unyielding insistence and odd punctuality, but it was mostly in part due to John. Even in the sea of strangers, John managed to stick out like an intimidating thumb, causing people to instinctively flinch and shift backwards as they crept closer.
It was a strange feeling, almost disorienting, knowing he’s about to be so close to a band he practically idolized for a good half of his life. For years they lived in his cheap headphones, peeling posters, and grainy music videos. Now the stage and them loomed only a few feet away.
His heat pounded alongside his adrenaline running through him, each beat growing louder and louder. He feels like a coil compressed tight, itching to be released. His itching nerves don’t waver as the pre-recorded music of their greatest hits booms across the stadium, rattling in his ears and chest.
“I forgot how sweaty these things are.” John bemoans, tugging his t-shirt’s collar as the crowd compresses and slams against them carelessly. He wrinkles his nose as he a cloud of the worst stink waffs to near nose.
“Don’t you love the smell of dusty nostalgia, overpriced merch, and middle-aged alcohol poisoning?" Yelena tuts, though John barely registers her voice as it’s almost completely drowned out by the crowd.
“I don’t love the smell of whoever’s pre-game beer vomit I’m smelling.” John borderline yells.
Yelena’s laugh is cut short as the pre-recorded music slams to an abrupt end.
The crowd goes dead silent for a half-second.
Then the whole stadium erupts with yells and cheers, filling the whole stadium up with roars of wild anticipation.
Then sharp lights blink on. Slashes of red and white cut across and light the stage, sending the crowd into an even more exaggerated frenzy. The pair couldn’t care less at the fact people are bumping into them recklessly to reach the barricade while yelling till their throats go hoarse right beside their ears, as they’re doing the same with equal energy and excitement.
The band steps out with perfectly practiced drama. Sam, Yelena’s unabashed favorite, greets the overflowing sea of fans with a wide grin, which is met by a screech of giddy cheers. Sharon follows with a smile that earns its own shrill wave of screams.
And then– Bucky.
The lights land on him at last, piercing and merciless. The crowd explodes into deafening cheers and yells. John is flooded with old memories of embarrassing, teenage pining and crushing over an unreachable celebrity of his dreams. And yet now, years later, he lives right there. Flesh and bone, not paper and bluetack.
His chest pounds even harder at the weight of it, falling back into those impossible feelings and feeling like a dramatic teenager all over again.
Yelena, who’s barely managing to peel her eyes away from the illuminated stage, gives John a toothy and cheeky grin as she notices John’s flustered reaction to Bucky. He only hurriedly rolls his eyes as response, before his attention falls back onto the band.
Sam strikes the first note on his guitar with a characteristic flair and the sound rips through the crowd, electrifying the stadium with palpable energy. The speakers roar, the floor shakes, and the crowd responds immediately with a surge of dizzying screams. John can feel the energy echoing through his ripcage.
Bucky grips the mic close with one hand, brings it close, and sings into it. His voice is rougher and much more mature now compared to the recordings on John’s bootleg CDs, but it’s still the same devastating force that wormed into his hormonal heart back then.
Without realizing it, John’s already signing along with all his chest. The lyrics stream out of him before his brain processes it, throat feeling raw as it’s ripped free. Sure, it’s almost screaming and definitely off-key at some places, but it still feels like a fantasy come to real life.
When the first song comes to a blazing end, he cheers loudly though his throat somehow is already dry. His gaze is still embarrassingly locked onto Bucky. The man dips his head with a somber nod, and a small smile as he scans the crowd.
His head is spinning. Maybe it’s the fact that piercing speakers blare across the whole stadium, and that the thunder of the crowd fills each space. Or maybe the fact it feels more like a fever dream than real life, with the only tether to reality being Yelena’s accidental bumps against him.
John feels himself fucking swoon and the quickly following wave of hot embarrassment. He’s starring, really starring, at Bucky, who’s now roaming across the stage like it’s his and his alone.
By now he’s completely captured by the enchanting live music and completely oblivious to the crowd around him that it blends to a messy haze in surrounding his vision, so he’s somewhat surprised to see that Yelena’s sign is dangerously low. Instead, she dangles her phone into the air, precariously wobbling in one hand as she records in the messiest way possible. Her carefully mischievous plan dissolves in a matter of moments.
Yelena bends over to yell something into John’s ear, probably another jab, but the crowd swallows it whole this time.
Her head snaps back to the stage as Sam speaks. “Good evening everyone!” He beams into his own mic while grinning wide. Sharon waves behind him from the drum set, picture of instinctual charm.
“Are we doing alright tonight?”
The crowd explodes in response, and the duo shriek alongside.
Sam laughs easily. “Well, the good times are only gonna get better tonight. This is 1945.”
Sharon slams into the drums as the lights flare again.
As Bucky begins to sing again, John can’t help but smile goofily. Wide and unrestrained. In truth, a part of him worried that Bucky would be rusty after years, or his voice wouldn’t hold compared to the record. But he was so far from the truth, he’s better live as it turns out. Magnetic and stocked to the teeth with a charm that reawaked something dormant in John from long ago.
John feels his heart tighten before soaring. He forgets how to breathe.
Soon the song fades out and the next begins without a second for over-extend applause.
John reverts back into the teenager that yelled these songs at the top of his lungs before school football games to amp himself and his team up, or that spent the cash from his older brother to buy large posters to proudly cover his walls.
Time whirls by as the band shreds out hit after hit, with John and Yelena both losing themselves to the overwhelming nostalgic fun, bobbing along with the lively audience and singing until they lose every bit of breath kept in their lungs.
Before long, John realizes that a full hour has already passed.
Sam laughs into the mic as he finishes another song, wiping sweat that glimmers under the stage’s light from his brow. “Man, do you think they missed us?” He asks, turning to Sharon in the back.
Sharon twirls a drumstick in her hands as the crowd hollers madly– a clear and obvious yes.
Signs begin to pop into the sky. Yelena quickly follows, proudly presenting her work much to John’s chagrin.
And because the universe has a funny sense of humor, when she sticks it into the air, Sam is right in front and catches a look. He halts in his track, and cracks a laugh into the mic.
“Are you seeing this Bucky?” He points at Yelena’s sign. By now, Yelena is yelling frantically until her voice turns into a whisper, barely managing to keep it stable and from wobbling as Bucky leans forward to read it.
Meanwhile, John can’t process a single thought. Every muscle locked and so did his mind, coherent thoughts turning to spluttering panic. He felt like a pathetic deer in headlights as his teenage idols peer down at him. If he went back in time and told his teenage self that this would happen, he would probably call himself a liar.
Then of course it got worse. The camera suddenly panned and the pair were blasted onto the sprawling LED screens for the entire stadium to see. His own face, wide eyed and tinted an embarrassingly deep shade of red, beaming down at him.
“Very bold.” Bucky says at last, voice smooth over the crackling speakers and explosive crowd. Spotlights track Bucky and Sam as they step closer to the edge of the stage and to them. John doesn't know what to do with his very blushed face, trying composure but ending on pushing his lips flat into an awkward smile. Yelena’s smiling ear to ear, eyes flicking between the duo on stage and a very much uneasy John.
“What's your name?” Bucky asks, still holding onto the mic and crouching slightly.
John takes a second to swallow, his throat itching. “John!” He yells over the crowd, wanting to crawl out of his skin.
“Nice to meet you John.” Bucky's smile is devastating, the same smile he wears in multiple pictures that John would cut out from gossip magazines. That alone makes every base function of John’s stop working.
“Well, Bucky?” Sam nudges his shoulder with his elbow, smiling wickedly.
“You know what,” He says, dropping his voice into something quieter but the crowd is already yelling in crazed anticipation. “I do.”
The stadium erupts, detonated into screams.
“You better take me somewhere nice for our honeymoon!” Bucky adds, aiming for dry but his smile doesn’t completely hide. And if John wasn’t completely out of his mind, he swore he might have caught the faintest trace of pink dusting Bucky’s cheeks.
John couldn’t breathe, think, or stand.
In the center of other fans, yelling congrats and others groaning in jealousy, John felt this was all too good to be true and had to be some fucked up, social experiment on him.
John can’t make out the rest of the band’s banter, far too lost in his own spinning head. Suddenly, despite being shoulder to shoulder with sweaty strangers, he’s never felt more ungrounded and disconnected. The words, the world, wash over him. He holds onto the barricade desperately, knuckles whiting as his head violently buzzes.
He only makes out the tail end of it, and of course it doesn’t help his worsening case.
“This is Dirty Disgraced Dogfight.” Bucky says smoothly into the mic before turning his head in John’s direction, finding him shockingly fast in the mob of shoving fans like he’s the only one there, before fucking smiling.
John’s stomach ties into tight bundles and knots as he hears the title. Of course it’s Dirty Disgraced Dogfight, out of all the songs in their vast catalog. It has to be the song drenched in dramatic, romantic imagery and aching that left him gutted after every listen back in junior year.
Instead of pathetically rewatching the gritty music video on his home computer while his parents were gone and rewinding the frames with Bucky in it, Bucky is right there leaning to the edge of the stage, dripping closer to the barricade and him. He looks at John as if every word and the whole song is meant for them alone.
And John is completely ruined. From inside to out. He feels like he’s going to collapse any second. He doesn’t ever care that Yelena’s going to say ‘I told you so’ later.
***
If you ask John what happened last night, he won’t be able to give you a straight answer.
The concert felt like a fever dream squared. Recalling that night felt like a ghost of a fantasy, one he could barely believe himself. Each note pulsed through him, until it didn't feel real. But it wasn’t the music that stuck to him. It was Bucky.
Bucky and his infuriating grin.
Bucky leaning on the mic stands like a prop in a terrible romantic movie flick.
Bucky singing lyrics bubbling to the brim with cheesy romance while never breaking eye contact with him.
John lets himself freely float back to 24 hours before, while whipping down the tops of the bars in Alexei’s place.
Who wouldn’t?
The rag squeaks shrilly against the counter for maybe the tenth time, almost reflective with how long John's been working the one spot, snapping John out of his haze. Across him, Yelena, who is decidedly not working, sits perched on a bar stool. She takes the two shots from John hastily and throws them back back-to-back with even more speed like it’s water from the alps. She exhales, smug, and leans forward on her elbows.
Her mouth opens, face already teasing. John clearly notices and doesn’t even let her get her words out. “Don’t. I know what you’re going to say. You’ve been berating me this whole damn shift.”
Yelena just grins, completely unbothered, and slides the empty glasses across the bar with a lax shove. “I expect you to load me up with shots every night now.”
“You explain to Alexei why all his stock is suddenly missing.” John snorts, picking the glasses up to dry them with the rag.
Completely unfazed, she tilts her head faux-innocently and leans in closer to John with her whole upper torso almost parallel with the tabletops. “So, where are you going to take him for the honeymoon?"
John freezes, then puts down the glasses stiffly and pinches the bride of his nose like he’s keeping his brain from leaking out. “Yelena, somehow in a bar I’m too sober for this.”
“I’m thinking somewhere grand,” She hums, ignoring him and tapping on her fingers on the counter to unconsciously recreate a beat from last night, “You two deserve it. Paris, a classic romance. Venice, gondolas and a cliche hit. Maybe he’s a beach guy? I’m thinking of Bali, Boracay.” She sticks out her fingers proudly, counting each of her destination suggestions on them.
They’re much too wrapped into their conversation to notice the three customers that just have entered the bar.
“Or what if he likes the cold? Scandinavia could be fun. I can already see it, you two bundled close together for warmth.” Yelena rattles off. John turns his back to her, slipping the vodka away from her and moving over to slide the bottle back into the shelf.
Her voice travels like smoke,though, clinging onto him as he feels a rush of annoyance fill him. “Spain could be good too since their food is great. You know, tapas and stuff. Date possibilities for years.”
He lets out a sharp groan, tuning out her voice for the sake of his own dignity. He’s given her enough satisfaction tonight. But then, he picks up the other voice.
Well, voices. A trio. Two male, one female. Their voices are familiar. Way too familiar.
John doesn’t want to believe but the second he turns, the fever dream slams back into play.
There they are. The band. All three of them. Completely casual and making boisterous conversation, like they hadn’t flipped reality on its head last night. They slink into bar stools like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Yelena notices a half-heartbeat later. Her eyes go comically wide, and she starts madly jerking her head towards them in silent alarm, like John somehow missed the spectacle a few feet away.
He definitely didn’t. He feels the blood leave his face in one crashing exit, heart doing flips and somersaults in his chest.
You got to be fucking joking.
Sam flags him down first calmly, and John has to blink a few times before he can process that he’s being called over.
“One Guinness and,” Sam says breezily before turning to others and snapping them out of their conversation. John feels like he’s watching them throw a thick layer of glass.
“Old fashion.” Bucky says automatically, cutting perfectly through the static in John’s head. Before he can twist back to Sharon, he looks. Really look at John. He furrows his brow before his face lights up.
“Oh. Oh.”
Bucky’s expression turns into a cocktail of shock, excitement, and something else he couldn’t quite read. He leans forward in his stool, just a little. “It’s John, right?”
Yelena stares at John madly, barely keeping herself together. Her head bounces between them like a bird that’s just spotted two shinny objects, eyes almost popping out of her sockets and grin barely concealed.
John somehow pales and reddens in the same second. Bucky somehow remembers him.
Behind him, Sam and Sharron give each other a synchronized look, one clearly meant to be quiet and conspiratorial like they’ve seen this before. A private joke that Yelena and John weren’t privy too.
“Yeah.” is all John can respond with, but his voice already comes out far too tight and thin.
“Enjoyed last night?”
“Hard not too.” John croaks.
It’s surreal. It had been weird to be noticed by him at the show last night. But him, even closer and maybe only a couple of inches away, felt like the nail in his coffin. John notices little things about his face, the lines around his eyes and mouth, the little cut underneath his chin. Little markers of someone who’s lived, reminders of how he was more than a figure.
“Guinness, Old Fashion and,” John has to force himself to look at Sharon, who, in every other timeline, would be causing him another freak out but is the least of his concerns right now.
“Dry martini.” She hums, nudging Sam with an easy grin.
By now, Yelena has abandoned her comfortable chair and place as an easy bystander, throwing herself behind the counter alongside John. Without another second, she pours Sam’s Guinness in record speed like she’s been working this whole time. Before long, she’s already begun the martini.
“Got it.” she mutters under her breath, like she’s doing John a favor.
John doesn’t argue, he doesn’t have the mental capacity to right now. His hands already move with automatic ease as muscle memory kicks in to build the Old Fashioned. Every swish and motion is cleaner than usual, noticeably tighter and sharper compared to the rest of his shift.
He finishes with surgical precision, laying the drink down with a careful flourish in front of Bucky.
Bucky takes a long sip, posture relaxed. “Good pour. The place trains his bartenders well.” His voice is perfectly smooth and PR trained.
John lets out a short laugh, still reeling and completely disorientated from the whole situation. His mouth moves quicker than his brain, who's a few steps behind. “Didn’t realize your compliments were as generic as your setlist.”
Did he really just say that?
Christ, he really did.
He bites his tongue instinctively as soon as it leaves his mouth. Yelena stops whatever she's doing and elbows his side hard, almost causing him to trip over.
Bucky sets down the glass slowly, eyes cutting to him with anything but neutrality. Sam and Sharon also catch the stumble, turning to the pair.
Bucky’s eyebrow arches with a spark of something new, nothing he’s ever seen before in interviews or magazine shoots. “Thought you were too busy gawking to notice the setlight.”
John snorts. He’s in it now, no time to back out. “Please, I’ve seen better stage presence from drunk karaoke at 2am.” He tilts his head towards the stage with a too-tight smile.
“And yet you are still here, thinking about it.” Bucky leans over the counter daringly, expression sharpening.
John fires back before he can stop himself. He can feel Yelena’s stare burning holes into his side. “Only because it was the second hand embarrassment equivalent to a car crash. I just couldn’t look away.”
Bucky chuckles darkly, not missing a second beat. “Could’ve fooled me with the way you were blushing.”
John opens his mouth, another retort already in the chamber, before he notices a shift.
Bucky’s expression barely shifts, but John notices it. The tiniest softening around his mouth, the flicker in his eyes. It isn’t part of the act or the persona. It’s quieter and almost vulnerable, the kind you’d only catch if you were close enough and looking for it.
“Still glad it was you I was singing to.”
The words land heavy in John’s chest, deeper than any wound could cut. They silence through the cloud of dizziness and tiredness, hitting some place completely raw. He hates the way it makes his stomach flip, and leaves him hollow of anything to fire back.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Sam and Sharon trading the same kind of look they shared earlier.
Yelena, for once in her life of perfect improvisation, seems dumb struck. She looks torn between heckling and bursting into applause.
All John can do is stare back, rag clenched in his hand like it might anchor him to the ground. He can’t get anything out of his quickly drying throat.
It looks like Bucky’s about to say something else, another crack to break an already completely shattered John, but he winces as his phone lights up. Sharon and Sam, noticing his sour expression, peer over his shoulder, and echo his grimace when they see the caller ID.
John and Yelena get a quick flash of the name from behind the bar. Valentina – Manager
“Goddamnit, what does she want at this hour?” Sharon groans into her drink.
“Hell if I know.” Sam grumbles.
Hurriedly, she quickly downs her drink with ease, leaving John and Sam to stammer behind. The phone’s ring echoes throughout the empty bar, causing only their already clear annoyance to worsen. The trio share a knowing and tired glance, and it doesn’t take a genius for John to know they're being summoned for something persnickety by their manager.
Before they bolt out the door, Bucky wipes his mouth and shifts in his seat. He fumbles briefly for something in his jean pocket before pulling out some bills and an already uncapped pen. Then he grabs a nearby napkin, and scribbles something messy. When he slides it and the money across the counter, his hand lingers for a moment longer than it should.
“Look we have to go and we’re gonna be on tour for a few more weeks,” Bucky says, hesitating like the words would cost him. His voice has completely lost the edge, revealing something much more vulnerable. “Call me sometime?”
The napkin lands between them, his name and number scrawled out in jagged lines that barely resemble letters.
Heat creeps up the back of John’s neck, flooding his ears, chest, face– everything. He doesn’t trust his voice not to crack, nor does he trust his hands not to shake with the force of an earthquake.
“Sure.”
And somehow a simple sure felt more unbelievably than the concert itself.