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As the closing ceremony comes, the hall packs in with delegates reeking of exhaustion, sweat, and hormones. The United Nations Security Council, or UNSC, committee shuffles in last, compressed in a tight cluster with John and Bucky among them.
They find their seats amongst the crowd, unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, right beside each other.
“Oh. Yay. You.” John drops to his chair with a quiet huff, undoing his suit jacket button before tugging on a suffocating necktie. “Can this day get any better?”
“You debate the Delegate of the USAfor three minutes because the chairs kept recognizing him for points of information and you tell me.” Bucky shoots back, equally drained. “I swear, every time you get the USA as your allocation your unbearableness increases tenfold.”
John groans like the actual UN personally wronged him. “Can you stop being so bitter about that, Russia–"
“We’re out of committee session, stop calling me by my allocation.” Bucky cuts in exasperated, not quite sharply but with the push of someone who’s had to repeat the same point multiple times before. “You can use my actual name–”
“Whatever. You just called me USA, damn hypocrite!” John waves his hand dismissively, slumping further in his seat and further crumpling his already wrinkled dress-shirt. “You were way worse when you tried to table two of my directives.”
Bucky scoffs under his breath, crossing his arms. “Yeah, well, you seem allergic to good policy. It was only right.”
Before John can launch another verbal attack that would have earned him a point of grievance if it was still committee session, a nearby usher shushes them for being far too noisy.
They settle for glaring at each other, albeit weakly. It’s the kind of glare that only is exchanged after the worst 72 hours of a person’s life, chalked full of watery coffee, passive aggression dressed as diplomacy, and the belligerent sound of a gavel banging.
The program starts as the two hosts burst onto the stage with far too much energy for anyone in the audience to catch on like a fever. Their voices boom through the hall, ricocheting off sluggish teens and dead spirits. The pair don’t register a word as they go on to deliver an obnoxious intro and script.
One committee at a time, each set of chairs per committee, in ascending order of difficulty, march onto stage. Applause rises and falls like a flat wave. Bucky’s chin keeps dipping towards his chest with half-lidded eyes, while John’s head lolls back against the back of the plastic chair every few minutes before snapping awake. They both wait impatiently and painfully for their committee, the lone advance committee and the last to be presented.
They’re only alive, awake, and alert whenever someone from their delegation wins an award. They happily and almost too energetically shoot fully conscious when they see Bob, Ava, and Yelena collect their deserved awards, hollering like embarrassing parents at graduation.
Finally, the UNSC chairs shuffle onto stage, phones out and with the swagger of people who just survived a gaggle of shouting teenagers. They launch into a dramatic retelling of what happened in the committee, misquotes, terrible inside jokes, and near riot at the last committee session, all of which makes their entire section yell with laughs and applause.
Then come the awards.
Almost in-sync, they bob their legs up and down– hoping with blind anticipation to finally snag anything and bring a beautiful certificate home alongside the rest of the team.
They call out verbal commendations first: The delegate of France and The delegate of the UK. Both polite and roaring applause follows. Although Bucky swears he hears the faintest scoff from John, followed by vague muttering about lacking substance in speeches.
Bucky jabs John’s side before leaning close and whispering back. “God, you are insufferable.”
“You know I’m right.” John replies, quiet but definitely smug. Bucky simply rolls his eyes in response, not bothering the energy to entertain him.
The Crisis Manger, a short woman with wide eyes, steps forward and plucks mic from the Rappeteur’s hands. She clears her throat once, and begins to speak into the mic.
“UNSC’s Honorable Mention award goes to a delegate who managed to stay consistently active throughout all three day of committee sessions, maintaining a fiery and biting spirit. Despite receiving a point of grievance early on, he did not grieve the fact, as he passed multiple directives that shaped the committee’s flow. With that being said, we would like to congratulate the delegate of the USA!”
John shoots up in his seat so fast it shakes on its already fragile legs. A grin, bright and shining spreads throughout his face in a cent of a second. He launches himself into the aisle, weaving around legs and bags with the eagerness of someone who’s been waiting for this moment for three terrible days.
The stage lights scorch as he climbs up the stairs but he doesn’t falter. He shakes each hand of the chairs with a proud, firm grip.
In the corner of his eye, he sees the rest of the delegation cheer furiously. In front of him, he catches a glimpse of Valentina, his delegation’s Secretary General, darting to the aisle with her phone open and her camera app selected, snapping pictures for promo for their club.
John hops off the last step of the stage and practically skips back to his seat, clutching the award like a precious, ancient, golden artifact.
“Congrulations, Walker.” Bucky says, jaw tensed, a tight little knot, one he hates to admit is the bud of jealousy, logged in his throat. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Thanks.” John beams. “And too late.”
“Should have known.” Bucky sighs, shaking his head lightly. “You know, the award is very shiny. Perfect for reflecting your already bloated ego.”
Another woman, far more serious looking with the perpetual look of someone who’s seen too many terrible motions, steps forward. The Vice Chair takes the mic from the Crisis Manager and inhales, protecting the most energetic voice they’ve heard from her this whole conference.
“Our next award is The Best Position Paper award. This was a difficult award since, while all were great, two stood above the rest. The Board of Dais was so conflicted about this, we had to consult different committees alongside the Organizing Committee’s Academics department. So, after much decision making, we would like to congratulate, once again, the delegate of the USA!”
For a moment, John is perfectly still.
Then he explodes afterwards.
For once, the universes treated him with kindness instead of cruelty. He crammed that paper in a day, editing Ava’s 30 plus comments with desperation, too much stress in his system, and whatever motivational technique Valetina was shouting at him over FaceTime.
He stumbles into the aisle, nearly tripping over someone in shock and does the same routine all over again: sprint, blinding lights, handshake parade. But this time, his handshakes are even more shaky and his smile even more disbelieving, all while he keeps mouthing the word “What?” at random intervals. Valentina is already in the aisle, snapping photos like she’s doing it for National Geographic. He can also hear, even louder this time, the rest of the team screaming and clapping madly.
When he returns to his seat, he collapses into his chair beside Bucky, clutching both of his awards now.
Bucky is frozen. Completely still.
Finally, he turns to John. “Congrats. Again.”
John grins stupidly back. “I didn’t think– I didn’t even–” He’s completely out of breath, his heart beating at a hundred miles an hour.
Bucky nods. “Very humble of you to out-perform us all.”
John smashes his elbow into Bucky’s side. “Shut up, you’re jealous. I can see it all over your always bitter face.” He giggles.
“My face is not always bitter. And I’m not jealous.” Bucky swallows, defensive. “I’m competitive. Big difference.”
“Sure.” John smiles. “Keep telling yourself that. Whatever makes you sleep at night, Russia.”
“Fine.” Bucky bites, squinting at him sharply. “Maybe I’m 5% jealous.”
John quirks an eyebrow.
“Six, if you push it.” Bucky groans into his hand. He pats a hand on John’s shoulder, firm and grounding. He swallows down his own feelings, it’s hard not to as John is practically beaming out sunlight and rays of pride. “No, but seriously, congratulations. You damn worked hard, Walker, both before and during the conference. You deserve both of them, I mean it.”
John blinks. “Thanks.”
He can’t think of a time Bucky was ever this nice to him.
Bucky groans into his hand, faux anger rolling onto his face. “But if you win a third, I’m quitting for good.”
But he’s smiling proudly behind his palm.
Before long, the Head Chair takes the mic. “Of course, our final award we will be giving out is the Best Delegate. We found it only natural to award this delegate, as their constant speeches egged with snark kept the whole committee hooked. His POIs and GSLs opened new doors of debate, sparking and uplifting others to pitch in. We would like to congratulate the delegate of Russia!”
Bucky blinks, trying to hear if he misheard but the applause swelling around him answers his question. He rises with disbelief, straightening out his blazer. He reaches the stage and follows the same routine, shaking each of the chair’s hands almost reverently before carefully clutching his award.
Off to the side, he can see Valetina visibly struggling to climb out of her seat for a third time, camera in hand and muttering something vaguely resembling praise.
When he returns to his seat, he’s met with a few supportive pats on the shoulder as applause dies down. He drops into the chair beside John, trying to regain composure.
John turns to him slowly, equal parts impressed and annoyingly smug, as he always is.
“Wow. Congratulations. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you half-smile this much.” John grins, voice dancing with mischief. “Star of the show. I’m surprised you didn’t ask for a national anthem.”
“Aren’t you cheery.” Bucky says dryly, still a little in disbelief and shaken up.
“Cheery? I’m glowing! Ecstatic, even. Beating you at the next conference will feel even sweeter.”
Bucky props an elbow on the chair back, a small smug smirk at the corner of his lips. “Maybe you're the jealous one here.”
John splutters for a second, trying to gain composure. “You’re insufferable. Please, if I wanted the award, I would have gotten it. God forbid I let my poor, rusty friend shine.”
“Didn’t know we were friends.”
“Asshole.”
“Jerk.”
John laughs quietly, almost too warm. “Aren’t you pleasant? If I knew you were going to be in such a good mood, I would be more generous more often.”
“I didn’t know your definition of charity came with this much grumbling and attitude.” Bucky shoots back quickly.
“Face it, you like the attitude and me. Even when I’m better than you.”
Again, they are shushed by an usherer, sharp and impatient with their nonsense. There’s no real edge or heat behind their words, nothing beyond petty jealousy or malice, just another current neither wants to name. Soon, the closing ceremony dissolves into another mess of blurry lights and droning speeches, leaving the crowd to endlessly shift restlessly in densely compacted chairs.
But somewhere between another redundant point about ‘future conferences’ and ‘improving global youth diplomacy’, Bucky feels his eyelids pull shut again. His body tilts, but instead of slumping downwards, he tilts to the side with his head dropping onto John’s shoulder.
John stiffens for a split second, surprised and most definitely caught off guard, but slowly relaxes. Bucky’s hair brushes his chair, warm and soft. His breath ghosts lightly across John’s neck.
And Bucky doesn’t just lean. He almost settles.
John exhales, barely, so quietly that no one but him hears it. His shoulders shift just enough to give Bucky more room but still leave him undisturbed. He pretends it's for stability, not softness.
Pretends he’s not smiling.
Pretends that this quiet moment doesn’t matter more than awards.