Chapter Text
Bucky Barnes had always assumed desert nights were cold. At least, that's what the BBC scientist said. But now, standing in the middle of the Nevada desert, half a can of beer in hand, sweat streaming down his back, he began to doubt whether those documentaries were just made up, despite the late hour.
Burning Man spread around him like a nightmare from someone who'd inhaled too much spray paint. In the distance, art installations glittered, and massive sculptures looked like angry metal deities. On a dozen different stages, the music was deafening, each trying to outdo the others. To his left, someone was chanting slogans of liberation. To his right, a person dressed as a unicorn was improvising to electronic dance music.
Bucky both loved and hated it all.
"Damn it, where's Rumlow?" he muttered, squinting through the dust that seemed to cover everything. His band had disappeared twenty minutes ago; Rumlow claimed he needed to "seek enlightenment," or maybe "go pee on a cactus." For Rumlow, it was hard to say which possibility was more likely.
Hydra had arrived at Burning Man three days earlier, and Pierce made it clear this wasn't a vacation. "Networking," he said. "We need to make people remember our importance. Remember that we are the future of rock and roll, not those S.H.I.E.L.D. imposters."
Bucky nodded in agreement, because Pierce always had to do that—nod to show agreement, without pointing out that S.H.I.E.L.D. might just be another band trying to get ahead, like them, and certainly without saying they'd never actually met any of them or had any personal grudges against them.
Pierce had a very clear opinion of S.H.I.E.L.D. He felt they were "packaged commercial traitors," "who wouldn't recognize a real rock band biting their perfectly sculpted ass." Bucky suspected this was more because their new album had outsold Hydra, but he certainly wouldn't tell Pierce that.
The beer started to get warm. Bucky downed the beer in one gulp, then immediately regretted it. The alcohol surged through his already dehydrated body like a freight train. Maybe he should have found some water, maybe he should have gone to his tent. Maybe he should have—
He rammed straight into a support pole.
But it wasn't a support pole. Support poles don't groan when you bump into them. They don't reach out to steady you. And they certainly didn't smell of sandalwood and clean cotton—a miracle, frankly, considering everyone at Burning Man reeked of a mixture of dust, sweat, and terrible habits.
"Sorry," Bucky mumbled, staggering back. His vision blurred. Okay, maybe he'd had more than one beer. Maybe four. Who counts in the desert?
"It's alright," a voice said, a pleasant, deep, warm voice, like honey in tea. "Are you alright?"
Bucky blinked, looking up at the person he'd bumped into, his mind going blank for a moment. The man was tall, with unnaturally broad shoulders and arms so thick they could lift a small car. But that wasn't what instantly shut Bucky's alcohol-numbed brain down.
He was shirtless—not uncommon at Burning Man. He wore only tattered jeans that dangled from his hips and a bandana around his neck. Even in the strange, multicolored light of the nearby art installations, Bucky could see his physique was like a Greek statue, his muscles perfectly defined and proportioned. He had a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and deep blue eyes that seemed to invite the most intimate secrets.
In short, he was unfairly handsome.
"Yeah," Bucky managed, his voice hoarser than expected. "Yeah, I'm fine, great, um, absolutely fantastic."
The man's lips curled into a slight smile. "Are you sure? You look a little lost."
"I'm not lost," Bucky protested, though he certainly was. “I was just… strategically wandering around.”
“Strategically wandering around,” the man repeated, a smile spreading across his face. “That’s something new. You came alone?”
“My band dumped me,” Bucky admitted. “He’s either reached Nirvana or he’s throwing up behind a portable toilet, either way.”
The man laughed, a hearty, genuine, and frank laugh. “Well, I can’t help you with Nirvana, but I can give you some water. You look like you really need it.”
Bucky knew he should refuse. He should find his campsite, his tent, his bandmates. Pierce would be furious if he found Bucky with a stranger. But this guy’s eyes were really, really blue, Bucky’s mouth was really, really dry, and his judgment seemed to be completely failing him tonight. “Water sounds good,” he heard himself say.
“Okay. My campsite is this way.” The man started walking, and Bucky followed, because he obviously had to now. “By the way, my name is Steve.”
Bucky stopped. “Steve?”
“Huh?” Steve turned around, looking confused. “Is there a problem?”
“No problem.” Bucky forced himself to keep walking. Steve. The name felt vaguely familiar, a distant sense of déjà vu, but his beer-soaked brain couldn’t quite place it. There seemed to be something special about the name. Something important. But the thought slipped through his fingers like water. “My name is Bucky.”
“Buchanan,” Steve repeated, as if testing the sound of the name on his lips. “A cool name.”
“Short for Buchanan,” Bucky explained, but it was a lie. It was actually a nickname he’d had since childhood. However, it sounded more dignified to say “Buchanan” than to admit that his sister called him “Buchanan” because he always carried a plush deer with him as a child. “To be formal, my name is James Buchanan Barnes. Of course, we don’t need to be so formal.”
They weaved through the chaos of Burning Man, passing oddly named campsites like “Disco Hell” and “Agree to Be Hippies,” and one that looked like a giant ball pit, illuminated by black lights. Steve moved with ease and confidence through the frenzy, occasionally nodding to those who greeted him. He seemed to know about half the festival participants.
“Do you come here often?” Bucky asked, then immediately wanted to slap himself. You come here often? What was he doing, using some outdated 1985 pickup line?
But Steve just turned and grinned. “Actually, this is my first time. What about you?”
“Me too.” Bucky ducked under a string of colored lights hanging between two campervans. “My band is here to… network, I guess. My manager’s really into networking.”
“Really? How’s your band?”
This was a perfectly normal question, but it sent a jolt through Bucky. How was their band? Objectively speaking, they were pretty good. Bucky played guitar like it was part of his body, and Rumlow’s voice was decent, provided he wasn’t so drunk he couldn’t sing off-key. Ward’s bass was solid, and Rollins’ drumming was powerful. But a good band and smooth teamwork were two different things.
“We’re doing alright,” Bucky said cautiously. “And you? You’re in the band too?”
“Yeah, we are. We’re playing on the main stage tomorrow night. Yeah, one of the main stages. I think there are about fifty main stages here.” Steve stopped in front of a cluster of tents that looked neater than most of the camps they’d passed. “We’re here.”
The camp was simple, but well-maintained. Several tents were arranged in a circle, with a common area in the center furnished with camping chairs, a cooler, and a portable barbecue grill. A banner hung between two poles, but it was too dark to read. Steve took a bottle of water from the cooler and handed it to Bucky, who gratefully accepted it.
The water was icy cold and sweet, and Bucky drank half of it in one gulp. “Wow, that’s delicious.”
“Feeling better?” Steve asked, looking at him with his bright blue eyes.
“Much better.” Bucky put down the bottle, suddenly realizing how close they were, and that Steve was shirtless. The desert night had finally cooled, and goosebumps rose on his own arms. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Steve reached for his own water bottle, a movement that made his muscles involuntarily tense—a feeling that felt rather unnatural. “By the way, what band are you in? I think I’ve heard of you.”
This was bad. Bucky took another sip of water, buying himself some time. “Hydra,” he finally spoke, “we’re called Hydra.”
Steve’s hand, which had been hovering near his mouth, froze. “Hydra?”
“Yeah.” Bucky’s heart sank. It’s here. He recognized him. Judgment. And that inevitable “Oh, so you’re one of them” exchange. “I guess you’ve heard of us.”
“I… um.” Steve carefully put down his water bottle. “You are—”
“I know, the guys who beat people up at the MTV Awards,” Bucky interrupted him. “I have to say, Rumlow started it, not me. I just wanted to get him away from—” He stopped. “Wait, your expression is like you’ve seen it all before?”
Steve’s expression was complex. “I’m Steve Rogers.”
The name struck Bucky like a punch. Steve Rogers. The lead singer of S.H.I.E.L.D. The guy with the cardboard box on his head with “Brooklyn Kid” scribbled on it in marker. Bucky reluctantly admitted that his voice was indeed quite good, though Pierce would surely kill him if he knew he said that.
“Oh,” Bucky said weakly, “oh, no.”
“Yeah.” Steve ran his hand through his hair, and even as Bucky grew increasingly fearful, he couldn’t help but notice the slight twitch in Steve’s biceps from the gesture. “So, this is a little awkward.”
Awkwardness simply didn’t do it justice. Bucky stood in the S.H.I.E.L.D. camp. Like a lost puppy, he followed Steve Rogers, Pierce’s number one enemy, through his increasingly hysterical roars, back to his tent. He had accepted water from the enemy, just for the sake of water.
Pierce would kill him.
“I should go,” Bucky said, taking a step back. “I really should go. Thank you for the water. It was nice meeting you. I’m sorry, it seems like we…”
“Wait.” Steve reached out, not touching Bucky, but close enough to feel the warmth of his skin. “Does it have to be this way?”
“What does it have to be this way?”
“The conflict between our bands.” Steve’s hand fell to his side. “I’m not against you guys. To be honest, I don’t even know why our managers hate each other so much.”
Bucky laughed, but there was a bitter taste in his mouth. “Because your new album sold better than ours. Because Pierce thinks you’re the kind of packaged commercial traitors who wouldn’t recognize you even if real rock bit your perfectly sculpted asses.” He paused. “That’s what he said, not me.”
“Perfectly sculpted asses?” Steve raised an eyebrow. “He really said that?”
“He probably used a different word. I’m just relaying it out of politeness.”
“So what do you think?” Steve asked. “Do you think we’re traitors?”
Bucky looked at him. Steve Rogers stood there in worn-out jeans and dusty boots, the calluses on his fingers indicating he could actually play guitar, not just pose for photos. His eyes were sincere, full of curiosity, awaiting Bucky's answer, without the slightest hint of the defensiveness Bucky had anticipated.
“No,” Bucky said honestly. “No, I don’t think so at all. I think you guys are probably just like us, wanting to make music.”
Steve’s expression softened. “Yeah. That’s us.”
They stood there for a moment, the Burning Man cacophony echoing around them, yet seemingly distant, as if they were in a bubble isolated from the noise. Bucky should leave. He absolutely should leave. It was a terrible idea, in every way.
“Do you want to stay?” Steve asked softly. “Just for a little while. We can… I don’t know, talk about things outside of the band. Pretend we’re just two ordinary people at a music festival.”
Every rational voice in Bucky’s head screamed that this was a bad idea. But his rational voice was now overwhelmed by the images in his mind of Steve’s smile, the infinite tenderness in his eyes, and the aura about him that Bucky wanted to lose himself in.
“Yeah,” Bucky heard himself say. “Yeah, I’d do.”
Steve’s smile seemed to light up the entire desert.
They eventually sat on camper chairs, talking about everything except music. Steve told him about growing up in Brooklyn, about how his mother worried about him even when he was twenty-eight. Bucky talked about his childhood in Indiana, carefully avoiding the topics of becoming an orphan at sixteen and Pierce taking him in but not really taking care of him.
“So you’ve never seen me play?” Steve asked suddenly, a hint of mockery in his voice. “You mean, you don’t know what I look like?”
Bucky shook his head. “I’ve heard your music. But the cardboard box disguise is quite effective.”
“It was just a joke at first,” Steve admitted. “I was so nervous before our first big show that I told my best friend Sam I wished I could hide my face. He showed up with a cardboard box and a marker. It’s been a habit ever since.”
“Sam Wilson? Your drummer?”
“Yeah. He’s my best friend. Since high school.” Steve’s voice was full of warmth. “He’s probably wondering where I’ve been.”
“Why don’t you go ask him?”
Steve pulled out his phone, tapped a few times quickly, and put it aside. “I told him I’m hosting a very beautiful guest, and he’d better not bother me unless the camp is on fire.”
Bucky’s mind went blank. Beautiful. Steve Rogers had just said he was beautiful. “I’m not—I mean, I just—”
“Of course you’re beautiful,” Steve said firmly, his unquestionable tone only making the words sting Bucky more. “And you’re funny, you have great taste in guitar picks.”
Bucky looked down at his hands, his favorite pick still tucked in his pocket, the edge sticking out. “You can tell my taste in picks just by looking at it?”
“I noticed it earlier. When we were walking.” Steve’s smile became a little awkward. “I always notice things about guitarists, it’s an occupational hazard, I guess.”
They talked for another hour, then another. Around two in the morning, Steve asked Bucky if he wanted to see something cool. They walked through the festival grounds to a huge art installation. A phoenix, made entirely of metal and light, was spreading its wings, pointing straight to the sky. Steve explained that it would burn on the last night of the festival, symbolizing rebirth and transformation.
“Everything here is temporary.”“That’s what it’s all about,” Steve said, looking up at the phoenix. “You create something beautiful, enjoy it, and then let it go.”
Bucky thought about his own life, about Pierce always clinging to everything—every resentment, every bit of contempt, every moment he perceived as unfair. “Sounds good,” he said softly, “Letting go of the past.”
Steve looked at him, really at him, and Bucky felt understood—a feeling he hadn’t had in years. “You know, you can let go of the past if you want.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yes,” Steve agreed, “but maybe.” They stood there silently, watching the phoenix shimmer in the night sky. Bucky's shoulder brushed against Steve's arm, and he didn't pull away. Steve's little finger gently hooked Bucky's, and Bucky didn't resist.
"I should go back," Bucky finally said, a hint of reluctance in his voice.
"Okay," Steve replied, his voice equally reluctant.
Neither moved.
"Unless," Bucky began, his heart pounding, "unless you want to—"
"Yes," Steve interrupted him. "Whatever you're about to say, I agree."
Bucky laughed, both surprised and pleased. "You have no idea what I was going to say."
"It's alright." Steve drew a circle on the back of Bucky's hand with his thumb. "I've been thinking for the past hour about how to invite you to my tent without sounding like a serial killer."
"That's what I was going to say," Bucky admitted. "I want to go to your tent. For—"
"Coffee?" “Steve suggested, his eyes sparkling. “How about a great discussion on music theory? Or an arm-wrestling match?”
“Sure,” Bucky grinned. “Either way is fine.” "
What happened afterward had nothing to do with those activities.
The next day, Bucky was awakened by the aroma of bacon, convinced he had made the best or worst decision of his life. Perhaps both.
Steve's tent was surprisingly spacious, a proper camping tent, unlike the cheap, shabby tent Bucky and the band had crammed into, where changing clothes required twisting into a pretzel. There was ample room to move around, and the air mattress, surprisingly, remained intact after a night of "activities," not deflated into a creaking mess.
Speaking of last night's activities…
Bucky's cheeks burned, memories flooding back. Steve's hands, his lips, the way he looked at Bucky, as if Bucky were both precious and heartbreaking. Steve had been so cautious at first, seeking Bucky's consent for everything, until Bucky finally grabbed him, saying, "Please, for God's sake, I'll agree to everything." Steve laughed, a laugh that utterly destroyed Bucky, making him incapable of ever falling for anyone again.
Besides, Steve Rogers was a superman in that area. Bucky was aching all over, and around three in the morning, the mattress made an unsettling crackling sound, but they both chose to ignore it.
He should feel guilty. He should feel terrified. He'd actually talked to his enemy—his band's archenemy, the guy Pierce would kill if he saw him talking to this guy, not to mention—
The tent flap opened, and Steve slipped in, wearing only an apron that read "Kiss the Chef," a smile that was almost unfairly glaring. He carried a plate of bacon and eggs, and somehow, incredibly, he looked more handsome in the blinding morning sunlight than in the soft darkness of the music festival.
"Good morning," Steve said, placing the plate on the makeshift table he'd apparently set up while Bucky was unconscious. "How's breakfast?" Bucky's mind short-circuited between the words "apron" and "just an apron." "I...breakfast, breakfast...it's good."
"Are you alright?" Steve asked with a smile. "You seem a little lost."
"You're wearing an apron," Bucky pointed, as if that explained everything. To be fair, it did make some sense.
"Yeah, I didn't want to get myself covered in bacon grease. Should I take it off?"
"No!" Bucky almost cried out, then quickly stopped himself. "I mean, no, it's okay. The apron is fine. You could even say it's great. Very practical."
Steve's smile widened. "I made you breakfast," he said, gesturing unnecessarily to the plate. "I thought you'd be hungry afterward...well, after that..." "
After they spent about six hours thoroughly exploring every inch of each other's most frustrating spots, and after Steve proved those muscles were real and that he absolutely knew how to use them, Bucky couldn't help but think that the scratches Bucky had left on his back would certainly be quite noticeable.
“You didn’t have to do this,” Bucky said, sitting up, then immediately regretting it as his muscles began to protest. He felt the pain would last for days, even weeks.
“I just wanted to.” Steve sat cross-legged on the air mattress, a position that should have been comical for a grown man in an apron, but now seemed strangely charming. “I drove you a little crazy last night, at least I could get you something to eat.”
“You didn’t…you know,” Bucky protested weakly.
Steve raised an eyebrow. “You said ‘Oh my god, I’m done for’ earlier.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You said it about twelve seconds after me.”
“Alright, alright!” Bucky's face must be burning right now. "I remember, my God, you didn't have to describe the process to me in detail."
"I can," Steve said, a sly glint in his eyes. "I can give you a detailed description, with explanations, and maybe even some illustrations."
Bucky grabbed a pillow and threw it at him. Steve caught it easily. Good heavens, that was so unfair. Nobody should be smiling like that in an apron at a desert music festival.
"Eat your breakfast," Steve said, pushing the plate towards him. "While it's still warm."
Bucky picked up a slice of bacon, and the first bite made him groan. The bacon was perfect—crispy but not burnt, seasoned with just the right amount of salt and pepper. The eggs were fluffy and soft, cooked to his liking, even though he'd never told Steve how he preferred them.
"This is delicious," Bucky mumbled, his mouth full, temporarily abandoning politeness. "Unbelievably delicious." “My mom taught me to cook,” Steve explained. “She said any decent Rogers man should be able to support himself and those he cares about.” He paused, a hint of hesitation in his voice for the first time that morning. “I’m not making a definitive statement—I mean, we’ve only just met, I’m not saying—”
“Steve,” Bucky interrupted softly. “It’s okay. I’m not making a fuss, are you?”
“A little,” Steve admitted. “I don’t usually do this…”
“Me neither.” Bucky put down his fork, suddenly becoming serious. “Last night was really great. Really, really great. But we both know it can’t mean anything more, right? After all, we still have the band…”
Steve’s expression was complicated. “Yes. Yeah, of course.” They were silent for a moment. Outside, Burning Man was awakening—the shouts of people rose and fell, music drifted from afar, and the rumble of art wagons began their daily journey across the desert.
“I should probably go back to camp,” Bucky said, motionless. “So no one notices I’m not here.”
“Yeah, probably.” Steve remained still.
“But this is really great.”
“I haven’t been this happy in a long time,” Steve echoed.
Another silence. Bucky finished his breakfast, too delicious to waste. Steve sat there in his comical apron, watching him eat, his expression making Bucky’s chest tighten.
“Can I ask you a question?” Steve finally spoke.
“Of course.”
“You—I mean, you—” Steve stammered, unable to speak, which, considering his confidence just hours before, seemed all the more endearing. “I want to ask you, are you out of the closet? Or are you still figuring it out?” "Because it doesn't matter which way it is, I just wanted to know if I need to pay attention—"
"I'm gay," Bucky interrupted, stopping him from continuing. "And hardcore gay, ever since I figured out what that meant. What about you?"
"Me too. Well, bisexual, actually, but yes." Steve relaxed a little. "I just wanted to make sure I'm not someone's experiment or anything."
"Absolutely not an experiment." Bucky himself was surprised and reached out to touch Steve's hand. "You are you. And I really like you, which is a little troublesome, but it's true."
Steve turned his hand over and intertwined his fingers. "I like you too. A little troublesome, too." They sat there in the Burning Man tent, hand in hand, the desert sun rising higher and higher, the temperature inevitably climbing towards the "surface" of the sun. It was one of Bucky's fondest memories.
His phone buzzed. Then it rang again. Then came the ringtone he'd specially set for Pierce—a somber organ tune, a hint of humor in Bucky's own misery.
"I really have to go," Bucky said reluctantly.
"I know." Steve squeezed his hand lightly, then released it. "Will I see you again? I mean, before we leave the festival?"
Bucky should say no. He absolutely should say no; things were complicated enough, no need to add fuel to the fire.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'd love to."
Steve's smile was radiant. "Give me your phone." Bucky handed him the phone, watching Steve type in his number. When Steve gave the phone back, Bucky noticed he'd saved himself as "Stephanie."
"Stephanie?" Bucky asked with a smile.
"Well, we can't exactly keep each other's real names in our phones, can we? What if someone looks?" Steve shrugged. "You can call me Jenny."
"Jenny," Bucky repeated. "Why Jenny?"
"You look like Jenny."
"I don't look like Jenny at all."
"Of course you do." Steve grinned. "Jenny, beautiful hair, and impeccable taste for late-night tent dates."
Bucky couldn't help but laugh. "You're hilarious."
"You like it."
"I do." Bucky stood up, a sharp pain shooting through his body, causing him to wince as if he were back in the previous night. Steve noticed and looked at him apologetically.
“Sorry,” Steve said, “I might have gotten a little carried away.”
“Don’t apologize.” Bucky found his clothes, which had been scattered throughout the tent in their haste the night before. “I’m not complaining. My spine might be, but I’m not.”
He dressed, Steve watching with undisguised admiration. This should have made Bucky uncomfortable, but he felt a longing he’d never felt before—well, perhaps never. Pierce’s band was successful, but that lifestyle wasn’t conducive to meaningful relationships. Tour buses, hotel rooms, and fleeting romances.
This felt different. It was stupid, because it couldn’t be different. They’d only spent one night. A perfect, incredible, perhaps life-altering night. That was all.
“Text me?” "Steve asked as Bucky was about to leave.
"Yeah, I will."
"Really?" Bucky looked at him, trying to memorize every detail. Steve Rogers, in that silly apron, with gentle eyes and those magical hands. Steve Rogers, who should have been an enemy, had become the best person Bucky had met in years.
“I promise,” Bucky said, and he meant it.
The road back to Camp Hydra felt like a walk to the gallows. Bucky kept his head down, trying to look like an ordinary festival attendee, dragging his weary body back to camp after a long night. No one paid him much attention, which relieved him.
Until he returned to camp and found Pierce waiting for him.
Alexander Pierce looked exactly like him: a man who had spent thirty years in the music industry, the wrinkles on his face the best proof. He might have once been handsome, with sharp features and a calculating air. Now, he just looked tired and fierce, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Where have you been?” “Pierce asked, his tone trying to be gentle.
“Wandered around,” Bucky said cautiously, “the festival was too big, I got lost.”
“Eight hours?”
“I met some people, had a few drinks, and then lost track of time.” Strictly speaking, it was all true.
Pierce looked him over for a moment. “You weren’t with the S.H.I.E.L.D. band, were you?”
Bucky’s heart raced, but he tried to maintain a calm expression. “Why would I be with the S.H.I.E.L.D. band?”
“Because they’re here. Playing on Stage Six tonight.” Pierce’s eyes were icy. “And you seem to have a hard time understanding that they’re the enemy, Bucky, they’re standing in our way to the success we deserve.”
“They’re just another band,” Bucky blurted out, immediately regretting it.
Wrong answer. Pierce’s face darkened. “They’re thieves. They stole our musical style, our aesthetic, our fanbase.” “Now their sales are higher than ours because some people—” He gave Bucky a meaningful look, “don’t understand loyalty.”
“This—”
“Go take a shower,” Pierce interrupted. “We have rehearsal in an hour. And Bucky? Stay away from S.H.I.E.L.D. Stay away from all of them, and that’s not advice.”
Bucky nodded, too afraid to speak, and went straight back to the tent he shared with his teammates. His teammates were already asleep on their sleeping bags, snoring loudly, reeking of a mixture of alcohol and regret. Bucky carefully stepped over everyone and collapsed onto his own sleeping bag.
His phone buzzed. A text message from an unknown number—but now it was no longer unfamiliar.
Stephanie: Did you get home safely?
Bucky forced a smile, suppressing his unease.
Jenny: Yeah. Pierce interrogated me a bit, but I managed.
Stephanie: Sorry. It’s complicated, isn’t it?
Jenny: Very complicated.
Stephanie: But was it worth it?
Bucky remembered Steve's smile, his laughter, the way he looked at Bucky, as if Bucky were a special person in his life. He remembered him making him breakfast in just an apron, simply because he wanted to take care of Bucky. And then...
Jenny: Yeah, it was worth it.
The next three months were all text messages.
Bucky and Steve only met a few times: briefly at some music festivals where their bands happened to be performing together; and one unforgettable nightIn a Chicago hotel, they unexpectedly ended up on the same floor. (“Unexpectedly,” Steve grinned, making a quotation mark gesture.)
But most of the time, they were texting.
Stephanie: Just finished sound testing. The sound system here is terrible. It feels like singing into a cardboard box. Oh wait, I was actually singing into a cardboard box.
Jenny: How's your cardboard box? Need me to send you a new one?
Stephanie: This one's all tattered. I might need to upgrade it. Maybe I could punch some decorative holes in it.
Jenny: You live a thrilling life.
Stephanie: That's what you like about me.
He wasn't wrong.
Pierce was pushing harder. Their tour schedule was incredibly tight—thirty days, twenty cities, with almost no time to breathe between shows. Every night, Pierce would be backstage, scrutinizing everything with his critical eye, noting what they were doing wrong. He never remembered what they did right.
“You sang the last verse off-key,” he’d say to Rumlow, then he’d nod. “Bucky, your solo was a bit messy, work on it.”
Even though the audience loved it, even though Bucky could play that solo with his eyes closed, even though they were all exhausted, stressed, and nearly worn out, none of that mattered.
The only thing that gave him any solace was his phone. He was texting Steve, who was sending him silly jokes and photos he’d seen on the street. A cat in a little leather jacket stood outside a venue in Portland. A graffiti read, “Rock on, you beautiful disaster.” Steve had drawn a terrible sketch of Pierce on a napkin, with devil horns on his head, and next to it, “Am I right?”
Jenny: You were pretty close, weren’t you? Is there a mole in our group?
Stephanie: Just a gut feeling, my mom always says I’m good at judging people.
Jenny: How’s your mom?
Stephanie: She’s fine. She was asking about Jenny. Wanting to know if you've been eating well lately.
Bucky stared at the message for a long time. Steve had told his mother about him. When was the last time someone asked Bucky if he was eating well? When was the last time anyone other than Steve cared about him, cared about anything he could do for them?
Jenny: I told her I was eating well. The food on tour was alright.
That was definitely a lie. The food on tour was awful. Cold sandwiches, barely edible salads, and occasionally, if you were lucky, you'd get pizza. But he couldn't exactly tell Steve's mother that he was surviving on coffee at gas stations and snacks during rehearsals.
Stephanie: She doesn't believe you. She wants your address.
Jenny: My address?
Stephanie: She wants to send you some packages. I told her you were on tour, sending packages wasn't practical, but she insisted on having your home address.
Jenny: I don't actually have a home address.
The text message lingered for a moment before Steve replied.
Stephanie: What do you mean?
Jenny: I've lived in the Pierce family's attic since I was 16. When I'm not touring, I... stay there. It's not a home, just a place to store my things.
The three dots Steve was typing appeared and disappeared several times before finally appearing.
Stephanie: Buck, that's not good.
Jenny: It's okay, I'm used to it.
Stephanie: No, it really isn't good. But we'll talk about it later. Speaking of which, are you going to the Detroit area next week?
Jenny: We're performing at the Fillmore Theatre on Thursday.
Stephanie: We're performing at the Grand Theatre on Friday. Want to stay? I'll book a room.
Bucky knew he should refuse. After Burning Man, they had a rule: only brief meetings, nothing that could be traced back to them, and no lingering outside hotel rooms. But Detroit was Pierce's hometown, which meant Pierce would be busy visiting old haunts and networking. And Bucky was tired of sleeping in tour buses filled with the stench of feet and the smell of disappointment.
Jenny: Okay, okay, I can.
Stephanie: Okay. I miss you.
Bucky stared at those three words until the phone screen went black. Then he stared at the black screen for a long time.
—
This hotel in Detroit was better than anywhere Bucky had stayed in for months. Steve had booked a room at the MGM Grand—not a penthouse suite, of course, nor any fancy room, just a regular room with a king-size bed and normal water pressure in the bathroom. Bucky texted the room number to Steve, then spent twenty minutes frantically debating whether he should take another shower, wait for Steve, or just escape the state.
While he was still in a panic, Steve knocked on the door.
"Hey," Steve said as Bucky opened the door, and then they kissed, eager and impatient. Steve kicked the door shut behind him, but the kiss didn't end; his hands were already unbuckling Bucky's belt.
"I miss you," Bucky gasped between kisses.
"I miss you too," Steve whispered near his lips. "So much, you can't even imagine."
They practically struggled to get into bed. Steve's shirt fell to the floor, then Bucky's, then everything else, clothes and despair scattered along the way. Finally, only the two of them remained. The familiar warmth, Bucky had been dreaming of for weeks.
"My God, you're perfect," Steve whispered, his hands roaming over Bucky's body. "So perfect, Bucky."
Bucky wanted to retort, to point out all his imperfections, all his scars, his brokenness, all the places he clung to by resentment and guitar strings. But Steve was doing something incredible, all reason vanished.
Despite their urgency, they were unhurried. Steve seemed to be memorizing every inch of Bucky's skin, kissing every place Bucky had never imagined would be so beautiful.
"I miss you so much."