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Bucky (he was using that name again, even if it didn't always feel like it belonged to him) wandered out of the bedroom still half-asleep to find Steve busy in the kitchen. He still wasn't adjusted to this life with its warm overhead lights, soft blankets, and sunny windows cracked open to let the fresh air in. The only times he could get any good sleep were times like these, when daylight made the world seem safer than it was and Steve was alert and awake.
Just in case.
He wasn't sure of a whole lot of things, yet, but he was sure he trusted Steve.
“How'd you sleep?” Steve asked with an easy smile, like there was nothing complicated about their relationship at all.
He shrugged. He was wearing pajamas. Before the last couple weeks, he hadn’t worn pajamas since 1942. It was the little things that made him feel like a person again— like having something comfortable to sleep in. Comfort hadn’t been a priority, or even an option, since those hazy before memories. If Steve hadn’t thought about it, he’d still be sleeping in his coat and boots, but of course Steve had thought about it. When he brought him back here, the stack of cotton t-shirts, tanks, and flannel pants had already been folded with military precision and left on the foot of the only bed in the apartment. Bucky understood that the clothes were for him. There was a piece of paper with Steve’s handwriting taped to the door. On it was written, “You are James Buchanan Barnes. You’re called Bucky. You are with Steve. You are safe.” and then he understood that Steve meant to give up the bedroom, too. He tried to argue, but it was no use.
Words materialized in his mind, dusty artifacts of a life he didn’t quite remember living. We could push the couch cushions together, like when we were kids.
He didn’t say them out loud. Actually, he didn’t say anything. He felt like a mangy stray brought inside out of pity; simultaneously grateful and scared he’d fuck it up before he learned how to be a good boy.
The t-shirt on top of the stack was an aggressively joyful shade of light blue and smelled like soap. The fabric was soft between his fingers, clearly made for rest and not work.
“I hope they’re okay,” Steve had said, apologetically. He had nothing to apologize for. “Hanes is still around, but nobody makes anything like they used to.”
“Th— “ Bucky’s voice faltered around a phrase he hadn’t willingly said in a long time. “Thank you.”
“You’ll let me know if you need anything, won’t you, Buck?” He asked, eyes all big and blue.
Bucky nodded.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” He clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “Help yourself to anything in the apartment. If you need me, I’ll be on the couch.” Noticing the worry behind Bucky’s eyes, he added, “I promise, I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Not after— “ He didn’t finish his sentence, but Bucky could guess. ”not after I just got you back.”
And Bucky didn’t say that it wasn’t just himself he was worried about. That was another thing that was left over from before. When he looked at Steve, he wanted to keep him safe. That was something older than a memory— something more like instinct.
But he also wanted to be normal, and a normal person would sleep at night. So he showered in hot water, scrubbing his skin raw before he realized there was some dirt that would never go away, changed into clothes that had never been stained with blood, tucked himself into Steve Rogers’ too-soft bed and waited for sleep that did not come until he heard the other man stir the next morning. That’s the schedule they settled into. Bucky took the night shift, and Steve got the day, and for a few hours in the evening they were both awake.
“What’s for dinner?” Bucky asked, stepping into the kitchen.
“Steak and potatoes,” Steve answered, then glanced down at the printed recipe and added, “hopefully. The potatoes are in the oven, but it’s still going to be a while. I didn’t want make it too early and your food get cold while you were sleeping.”
“I wouldn’t have minded,” he said.
“I would have.” Steve’s brows furrowed almost imperceptibly before his expression went back to normal. “Do you want to help?”
He nodded again. Steve handed him a knife. “Will you chop that onion?”
Bucky’s fingers curled tight around the handle before his brain made the decision to take it, and Steve turned his back to check on the potatoes. He looked down at the blade in his hands, then back at Steve. He knew exactly how to angle the blade to put the tip straight through his heart. He knew exactly how much force it would take to sever his spinal column or slit his throat.
“Are you sure you trust me with this?” He set the knife down on the counter with a metallic clink.
Steve looked over his shoulder. “With chopping an onion?”
“With a weapon,” he clarified.
“Yes,” Steve said, without hesitation, “And it’s not a weapon if you’re only using it to cut vegetables. It’s just a tool.”
“Just a tool,” he repeated to himself, picking up the knife again. He set the onion down on the cutting board and sliced it in half. Or, he tried to slice it in half, but his hand was shaking too badly and one “half” ended up twice as big as the other. He took a deep breath and switched the knife to his metal hand, thinking he’d be able to keep it more steady that way and cut again. He could do this. That other voice in his head had been quiet for a while, and even if it wasn't, he knew he was strong enough not to listen to it.
He chopped the onion into fourths, then eighths, and nobody died. Things were still going well when he started dicing, but then his hand slipped, and the blade cut into the side of his thumb. Pain was such a stranger to him now. An asset had no reason to ache. Even now, with the blood dripping down his hand, he didn’t know how to react. He felt the sting, but only distantly, like he was just remembering an injury. A drop fell onto the hem of his shirt and he knew it would leave a stain, and he thought, maybe now it’ll feel like mine. He stared blankly at his injured hand, knowing it should hurt, knowing why it didn’t, wondering if he should pretend it did.
“Woah, there,” Steve wrapped a wet paper towel around his thumb. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He followed Steve to the bathroom, clutching the paper towel if for no other reason than to stop from bleeding on the floor and waited awkwardly in the corner for him to dig a box of Band-Aids out of the drawer.
“Can I see your hand?” Steve asked.
Bucky offered it wordlessly. Steve held his hand over the sink. “This will sting, but not for very long,” he said, before pouring antiseptic on the cut. It was that same muted pain from before, but he feigned a wince anyway. Then Steve wrapped a bandage around his injured thumb and smoothed the adhesive down with his own.
“Better?” He asked.
Bucky nodded, wishing the whole ordeal had taken longer. He tried to remember the last time someone touched him gently.
In the kitchen, the oven timer went off. Steve squeezed his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go save the potatoes.”
“If you still cook anything like you used to, it might already be too late.” The words came out of nowhere. Or at least, out of a different life.
For a moment, Steve looked like he might cry. “What’d you remember?” he asked.
“Nothing,” He ran his index finger over the bandage on his thumb. “It’s hard to explain. Sometimes I just know what I would have said. It’s like there’s three voices in my head: mine, his, and mine from before.”
“You did most of the cooking back then,” Steve explained, filling in the gaps for him. “You were pretty good at it. Any time I had to cook, I burnt everything.” Then he added, “I’ve gotten better at it.”
“I think I’ve gotten worse,” he held up his thumb. “But you still better go check on those potatoes.”
Steve went back to the kitchen, leaving him alone in the bathroom. He leaned against the counter and pressed into the cut on his finger. It was nothing more than a dull ache. He'd been evaluated, somewhere down the line, and someone had offhandedly mentioned nerve damage, or the possibility thereof. He'd spent so much time frozen. Doesn't cold dull the senses? He pressed into the cut again, this time with his nail, and—
Steve's voice snapped him out of the spiral, like it had so many times, calling him to dinner. When he returned to the kitchen, his place was already set, and his plate was piled high. Usually, by the end of their meals, he’d eaten everything that might have been left over. Now, Steve spared him the effort of asking. Bucky sat down and took a bite. It was the kind of meal he might have had once or twice a year as a child, salty and full-fat and indulgent. Maybe Steve wasn’t a great cook, but Bucky wasn’t sure he’d know the difference. What a privilege it was to eat as much as he wanted without having to worry where the next meal would come from. What a privilege it was to savor the taste of anything.
“Was this something I liked, before?” He asked. “It’s good.”
Steve laughed a little. “Between the depression and the war, we didn’t have that many steak dinners.” Then he leaned forward. “It’s something you used to talk about, though. When we were on our fifteenth straight meal of canned and dehydrated whatever, you’d tell everyone that if you lived through the war, you were going to go to the nicest restaurant in Brooklyn, order the biggest steak on the menu, and eat the whole thing.”
“Is that what this is about?” Bucky pointed down at his plate.
“You lived through a whole lot more than you should have ever had to,” Steve’s voice got quiet like it always did when he thought about all he couldn’t do to save him.
“Wasn’t really living,” he said between bites. “Wasn’t really me.”
“But it is now?”
Bucky was fairly certain that the hopeful, wide-eyed look in Steve’s eyes had made him ache just as much in 1942 as it did now. It made him wonder what exactly he felt for him back then.
“Yes,” He answered after a while. “I think so. Most of the time.”
They ate in silence for some time after that— these two strangers who’d known each other their entire lives— until Steve finally spoke again. “What do you want to know tonight?” This was also part of their routine now. Bucky wasn’t much for conversation yet, so he just asked questions (about himself, about the past, about everything he’d missed), and Steve did his best to answer.
“Tell me more about all that food you burnt,” He said, and Steve laughed again.
“Well, you were a good sport about it.”
Bucky smiled, just a little, at the idea that he used to be kind.
“Or maybe,” Steve continued, “You were just so dog-tired and hungry by the time you got home from work that it didn't matter that much. Honestly, I don't know how we made it work back then. God knows we never could have made it that way now. You had an okay job, and I picked up things here and there, but you paid the rent. If I knew you'd be home late, I wanted you to have a hot meal waiting. I figured that's the least I could do, but the oven in that apartment was like a damn incinerator. You had it figured out, but I could never get it. It didn't matter how many times I checked on it, I’d always leave it in there too long. You gave me shit for it, but you were grateful, too.”
“Sounds like you took care of me,” Bucky said.
Steve shook his head. “It was the other way around. You did more for me than anyone else in my whole life.”
“You can be honest.” He poked at another chunk of potato. “You don't have to make me out like some kind of saint.”
“You were, to me.”
“I'm sure as hell not anymore.”
“You could be.” There was that unwavering, blind optimism that had been a part of Steve Rogers long before Captain America.
“I killed people,” Bucky reminded him, knowing that when Steve looked at him, he was looking into the past, too.
“So did I.” Steve said darkly.
“That's different.”
“Do you think it made a difference to their families?”
Neither one of them had much to say after that. Bucky washed all the dishes while Steve folded his laundry and he wondered for the thousandth time if he'd ever feel like he deserved this kind of domestic mundanity. He couldn't remember what he used to dream about, couldn't even speculate on the dreams of a boy from the forties. Steve told him he'd been hopeful, that he looked forward to some utopic future where cars flew. It seemed stupid now. The reality of the future was nothing like what they were promised, and he hadn't had much use for dreaming in a long time. This— the two of them playing house and trying their best to pretend nothing was wrong— was the best thing he could come up with anyway.
Well…almost.
There were other memories, just flashes really, of hands in his hair and skin under his lips, that he hadn't worked up the courage to ask about yet. He remembered pressing open-mouthed kisses to someone's flat, narrow chest, or maybe he'd just imagined it enough times that it survived.
Or maybe his brain was just scrambled.
His thoughts went back to an hour earlier, when Steve had wrapped the bandage around his thumb. He balled his hand into a fist until that dull ache came back before he kept going with the dishes.
--
“Hey, Buck?” Steve called out from the living room.
“Yeah?” He answered, drying off a plate.
“I think I want to go for a run in a little bit. You going to be okay while I'm gone?”
He stepped into the living room and tried not to sound disappointed. “I thought you ran in the mornings.”
“I usually do, but I didn't get to go today.”
Bucky imagined asking him to stay.
“Yeah, I'll be okay,” he said instead and went back to his dishes, though there weren't enough dirty ones left for him to keep playing at nonchalance. He was still looking for something else to do when Steve passed him on his way out. “It's just thirty minutes,” he reassured him, squeezing his shoulder again. “You can call me if you need me to come home.”
“Steve, it's fine,” he insisted. “I'm not going to fall apart while you're gone.”
“I know. I'm just reminding you.”
It was still strange for someone to even consider leaving him alone. Before, things were done to him, and around him, and he didn't know whether he was going to be shaved or fed or tortured or put back into cryo at all until it had already happened. The only thing he was trusted to do independently was fight. As much as he didn't want Steve to leave, he still appreciated the idea of thirty minutes without someone looking down his nose.
…Even if it was just thirty minutes to try and remember what he would have done with thirty extra minutes before all of this.
He sank down on the couch and thought maybe he'd watch TV. They'd been saving up for a color one before the war. Of course, phone screens now were just about as big as the tv they could have afforded back then. Steve's was small, by modern standards, but it would have looked like a movie screen to them when they were kids. When he turned it on, it started playing some God-awful made-for-TV documentary about the corruption of Sargeant James Barnes. As if he'd had a choice in any of it. As if it had come down to anything other that one too many inches between his hand and Steve's that day on the train.
So he turned it off.
Then he thought, indelicately, that he might take this time for himself. He wasn't a virgin or anything close to it, if his memories were accurate. He must have enjoyed this body at some point. Maybe, if he could make himself feel good, he might feel a little more in control. He sank his hand down the front of his pants, but that sensation was dulled, too— like someone palming him through layers of blankets. He sifted through all the pieces of memories, trying to conjure any image of a beautiful woman, but his mind kept replacing all these nameless, faceless girls with the same miscast actor. He didn't deserve to dream that dream, and the feeling wasn't enough to satisfy him anyway. He just stayed limp in his fist, frustrated and guilty, until he finally gave up.
In the end, he decided he'd just flip through one of the books on Steve's coffee table. At least that way he could look like he'd been relaxing. A yellowed Louis L’amour western was right on top of the stack, with a bookmark tucked halfway through. From what he could tell, it was about some soldier protecting his woman from all the conflict and strife of the old west. He wondered if Steve saw himself as the soldier. He wondered if that made him the damsel in distress. And he wondered again about those sweaty, bare-skinned memories he'd been running from all day. There were some things it would have been easier not to remember.
Beneath that were a few 20th century history books that Bucky couldn't have cared less about. That, and he was worried he'd find too many traces of himself among all the tragedies and assassinations that marked the latter half of the century.
On the bottom was a thin book stretched thick with page markers and sticky notes and dog ears. The cover showed some cheery, staged photograph of a young woman sitting at a table with an elderly man, a photo album open between the two of them. Written across the top in a basic, inoffensive font were the words ”Supporting a loved one through memory loss”
Bucky knew Peggy had lost a lot of herself there towards the end. Steve didn't talk about her very much. When he did, it was usually through tears, but he'd said enough to let Bucky know what happened. It hadn't been long at all since she died and Steve lost one of the only remaining ties to his past. Bucky knew he loved her, still. He didn't blame him for it either.
He didn't know what possessed him to open the book. He'd had enough grief lately and didn't feel like he'd earned the right to bear witness to Steve's yet. But he kept going. There was a portion highlighted at the top.
…Speak in short, direct sentences. Though it might be tempting to correct them when they are confused, it is better to avoid arguing with them or agitating them further.
He still wondered what Peggy thought when he suddenly showed up again, unchanged by all the time that now separated them. She was lucky, he thought, that he loved her for more than their short-lived romance, that he still loved and respected her as a bedridden elderly woman enough to buy this stupid book and try to learn how to be gentle with her dying mind.
He flipped to another page. There was a sticky note covering most of the words, and Steve had written “maybe it’s time to let go? He might not ever be ready to talk about that.” in his military handwriting. And that was when Bucky realized he'd gotten it all wrong.
He peeled the sticky note off the page and read the chapter title.
What do I do when my spouse or partner forgets me?
The book hit the floor with a soft thud. He drew his legs up to his chest and finally resigned himself to what he'd really been doing this whole time anyway— waiting for Steve to come back. And God, those last five minutes could have been years. He spent them all fighting the lump in his throat and trying to decide what to say.
--
He was still staring blankly at the wall when he heard the click of the door unlocking. Steve's footsteps got louder, and Bucky knew the first thing he'd do is check on him. He felt the hand on his shoulder before it landed there, because he knew it would. He also knew that Steve would sense that something was wrong, because Steve still knew everything he'd forgotten about himself.
“Are you alright?” Steve sat down on the couch beside him, brows furrowed with concern. Then, he watched Steve's face change as he saw the book on the floor. “I didn’t mean for you to find that.”
“I didn’t mean to find it either.” Bucky said, “But I think, maybe, I need to ask you something.”
“Okay.” Steve’s voice softened.
“I’ve got these flickers,” he began, “I thought they were dreams, or that some wires got crossed and maybe I remembered some things wrong. But now I think maybe they were real.”
“I don’t understand,” Steve said, “Flickers?”
Bucky steeled himself and cut to the chase. “Steve, I think I loved you.”
Steve took Bucky's hand in a way he hoped was reassuring, stroking his knuckles with his thumb. “Of course you loved me. You were my best friend. We loved each other.”
Bucky's skin burned where Steve touched it. “I don't think I loved you like a friend.”
Steve sighed, and for a moment it seemed like he actually felt the weight of all his years. Bucky could tell from that deepening crease between his brows that he was trying to figure out what to say. “We were…I don't know what you'd call it. We kept each other from being lonely.”
“Why didn't you tell me?” Bucky asked, his eyes glassy. “Did you want me to forget?”
“Of course not. Never.” Steve squeezed his hand tighter, though Bucky wasn't sure if he knew he was doing it. “It was just so complicated back then. We weren't… together… or anything. There was so much shame attached to things like that. I don't know that we ever even gave it a name. Then, I spent so long thinking you were dead, and all of a sudden you’re here and alive and I’m looking into exactly the same eyes that haunted me every time I closed mine. Of course I wanted you to remember, but I didn't know what to say. I didn't want you to feel like you had to be the same person you were when we were kids. God knows I’m not.” Steve took another deep breath. “You’ve been through enough already. I wanted you to be able to figure out who you are now without having to worry about my feelings. The world's a lot bigger than it was back then.”
“I’m not worried about your feelings, Steve. I'm worried about mine. Do you realize that nobody has touched me,” Bucky swallowed hard. “without hurting me, in seventy fucking years?”
If Bucky had to name the expression on Steve's face, he'd call it guilt. It wasn’t what he wanted. It just made him feel worse.
“Please just tell me what happened, so I can remember what it was like when I was still good enough for someone to love me.” His voice broke on love, and he let it.
Steve looked down at their hands, still woven together. It didn’t feel like he was doing anything wrong anymore. He unfolded Bucky’s hand and traced little circles on his callused palm. How many times had he wished he’d just been able to hold onto that hand a little tighter?
“I don't know how to talk about it. It's been a secret for so long. We never even talked about it with each other, when the sun came up. But you were my first everything, Bucky.”
“Oh,” Bucky said softly, pulling his hand away. “I'm sorry it was me and not Peggy. I know you still love her.”
“I'm always gonna love Peggy. She was so beautiful, and so smart. She had to be tougher than I've ever been just to get a fraction of the respect. I know she lived a good life, and a long one, without my help. But I think, you know, if things were different, we could have made a good go of it together. I mean, I really think she and I would have been happy.”
“Steve,” Bucky began, searching for the polite way to say please stop twisting the knife.
“But Bucky,” Steve waited until the other man gathered the courage to meet his eyes.,
“Before I ever wanted any of that, I wanted you. Even though it was impossible. Even though I thought it was wrong. For so long I just wanted to stay in that little apartment with you forever.”
“Why did you stop?” Bucky asked. “Wanting me?”
“Because I was scared.” It was the truth. Little Steve Rogers, who’d fight any man in Brooklyn, even when he knew he’d lose, was horrified of what it meant that he loved one.
“Things are different now,” Bucky said. “Even I know that.”
“Bucky,” Steve sighed, putting some distance between them.
“I could be good for you,” Bucky whispered, desperate. “I can be him again, just tell me what I was like.” I’ll cut my hair, he wanted to say. I’ll wear his clothes. Give me a script and I’ll read his words off the page. I’ll pretend until it doesn’t feel like acting anymore.
“I don't need you to be good. I just need you to be here.” It was the closest Steve had ever gotten to abandoning his principles.
“You know I don’t remember falling?” Bucky said quietly. “I just remember looking up at you until I couldn’t anymore.”
Steve’s fingertips landed softly on his shoulder, running along the seam where metal met flesh. That, he felt. If anyone else tried to touch him there, he’d break their jaw.
“Are you still scared?” Bucky moved infinitesimally closer to him.
Steve didn’t say anything for a long time, but his hands did, lingering in all the least damning places he could touch him.
“Steve,” Bucky knew he sounded pathetic. His voice was little more than a whine as that lump in his throat threatened to break loose for good. “Answer me.”
Steve set his jaw, but Bucky could see his larynx quivering too.
That first kiss was almost shy, a fake-out on the corner of his mouth.
“If you’re going to do that again,” Bucky breathed the words out, “you damn well better mean it.”
Steve was a soldier. He was good at following orders. The next kiss was square on his lips— unambiguous and true. Suddenly Bucky was worried about all kinds of ridiculous things, like the fact that he hadn’t brushed his teeth, or showered, and that he hadn’t shaved in a couple days because he hadn’t worked up the courage to hold the razor, and that he’d imagined this happening differently, what few times he’d dared to imagine it at all.
He’d forgotten what to do with his hands, his mouth, his face. The last person he remembered kissing was a blond infantryman from London named Evan, in a ruined back alley in Paris in 1944. He’d known what he was doing then. Now, he just stared down the bridge of his nose at Steve’s face, wide-eyed and tight-lipped with his arms hanging limp by his sides. He only remembered he was supposed to close his eyes when Steve broke away and opened his.
“Do you remember the first time?”
He shook his head. Of course, that was still gone.
“God, we were so young. I'd asked Betty Matthews to the Christmas dance at school and she said no. I was…” he chuckled to himself. “…devastated, because she came over to talk to me, and I thought that was my chance. So I asked her, and it turned out the only reason she'd come to talk to me was to ask if you had anyone to go with yet. You found out and spent the whole night telling me all the things you liked about me.”
Bucky felt himself flush, even if he didn't remember.
Steve went on. “I said, ‘you sound like you wanna go to the dance with me.’ And you got real quiet, and you said ‘Maybe I wish I could.’ I still don't know how one thing led to another that night, but I know it was the first time anyone ever wanted me.”
He tucked Bucky's hair back behind his ears, and the look in his eyes could only be described as adoration. “You were never scared of anything.”
Then, he pressed a kiss to Bucky's forehead, just below his hairline. “Like I said, the world is a lot bigger now. It's my turn to be brave now, don't you think?”
“I wasn't brave,” Bucky whispered, and again he felt that itch in the back of his mind that meant the long-gone version of himself was breaking through. “I was just scared of losing you.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” Steve whispered against his jaw. “Not without you. Not ever again.”
After that, it was easy. He let Steve press him down against the couch cushions. As strong as he was, he was every bit as gentle. He held Bucky’s face carefully in his hands, stroking his cheeks as he kissed every inch of his skin twice. No one had been careful— or gentle— with him in a very long time. That was what finally made those tears that he'd been doing such a good job of holding back fall. He'd known he needed affection. That much was human nature. He just hadn’t realized how much. Steve brushed the tears away and kissed the tracks they left, and that only made him cry more.
You're okay,” Steve assured him. “There’s nothing to be scared of anymore.”
He was too choked up to explain why he was really crying, and too far gone to stop. He was crying because it was a tragedy that being treated like this still felt like a luxury. He was crying because he was so incredibly happy that he’d been able to keep this one vital thing from before.
“Come here,” He lifted Bucky’s arms from where they’d been folded against his chest and draped them over his shoulders. “You can hold me, too. It’s okay.”
An instant later, Bucky tried to move the arm Hydra had given him away. Sometimes it didn't feel like his. He still worried that it was dangerous, that this weapon that had been welded into flesh and his spine would act with a mind of its own and he’d have to pry that hand off of Steve’s throat, and by then it would be too late.
“Don’t do that.” Steve wove his fingers through the cool, metal ones. “It’s part of you. I trust you.”
Steve would have to forgive him for needing permission, but once he had it, he didn't stop. After Bucky wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him in again, his hands were in Steve's hair, splayed across his chest, snaking under the hem of his t-shirt to slide up the smooth skin of his back. He was rediscovering an appetite that hadn't been sated since before the war, and he was hungry.
His mouth opened under Steve's, and muscle memory took over. Those same flickers replayed in his head, and this time he could fill in more of the gaps.
“You sound like you wanna go to the dance with me.”
“Maybe I wish I could.”
Steve's eyes were still watery, even though he was trying to pretend like he wasn't upset anymore. It made them look even more blue, and it made his gut twist again. He put his arm around Steve's narrow shoulders— a brotherly gesture.
Except there was nothing brotherly about the way Bucky felt for him.
Steve leaned his head over on his shoulder, and Bucky wondered if he could hear his heartbeat thrumming. The next thing he knew, they were kissing, and Steve's chapped lips were the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted.
He thought he was being greedy, pulling Steve's sweater off even though it was freezing, but when he saw the rosy flush down his bare chest, he didn't care anymore.
He kissed him everywhere his mouth could reach, knowing he'd feel guilty in the morning, and Steve kissed him back.
Now, when they broke for air, he didn't feel guilty at all.