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Every time Gene Whelan reaches up to lift a box down from a hook on the loading dock, his shoulder muscles bunch, skin rippling. Bucky watches without letting on that he’s watching. Gene wouldn’t mind, of course, he’s queerer than Bucky is, but you can never be sure which other guys on the docks’ll beat your head in for looking at another man. Bucky’s been lucky so far. He knows how to be subtle, how to keep packing crates without missing a beat even though he’s got his eyes on the glorious stretch of Gene’s back.
The thing is, Bucky’s been practicing being subtle since he was twelve years old. He was sitting next to Steve in class, as usual, watching him draw while the nun droned on, as usual, when all of a sudden the sun came through the window just right and lit Steve up all in gold. He was scrawny, and his breaths kept wheezing, and he still had leg braces then, but to Bucky he looked like he’d just strolled out of a stained glass window. Bucky fell hard.
But you can’t tell your best friend you’re queer for him, especially not if your best friend is Steve Rogers, who’ll probably be Saint Steven in a hundred years. He’s a good Catholic boy, and good Catholic boys aren’t sodomites. If Bucky put the weight on his heart into words, he’d lose Steve. At worst, Steve would panic, move out of Bucky’s apartment, and then where would Steve be? He’s too sick to hold down a job. At best, things’d forever be stilted between them, an awkwardness neither of them would know how to bridge. Bucky can’t stand Steve’s disappointment. It makes his skin crawl.
So he’s subtle. Every time his eyes linger on Steve’s back while Steve’s standing at the stove, Bucky covers up with stories about the latest dame he’s taking to the pictures. Whenever Bucky notices the furrow between Steve’s eyes when he draws something beautiful, he asks obnoxious questions about Steve sketching nudes until Steve throws his pencil at Bucky’s face. If Steve’s shivering too hard in the middle of winter, sure, Bucky’ll crawl into bed with him, but it’s just because his toes are cold, too. He keeps his back to Steve so Steve can’t tell if he gets morning wood.
Okay, maybe Bucky isn’t as subtle as he wants to be, but he’s trying, okay? He’s got no intention of making Steve uncomfortable. The punk already gets the shit kicked out of him because people think he’s too much of a pretty boy. Bucky can’t tell him how gorgeous he really is. Steve’d panic and give him a shiner, and he’d be right to do it.
Gene huffs out a breath, lifting down an especially heavy crate and dropping it at Bucky’s feet. “Hey, Barnes, going out dancing this weekend?”
“Always, Whelan.” Bucky tips Gene a wink when Gene grins at him. “Too many pretty girls in this city for me to pass up any dances.” Too many handsome men, too. Gene doesn’t go out as much as he used to, but when he does, he always shows Bucky a good time.
“Well, I heard Greenwich is going to be good.” The hook rattles over to Gene again. He reaches up for the crate and hauls it down just as Bucky passes his box down the line. “You find your friend a dame?”
Bucky fumbles with the next crate for a moment. “Not yet.” He tightens the crate’s lid, making it won’t pop off when he hands it off to the next guy. “It’s not like I haven’t been trying. I’m great at convincing girls to go to the pictures with him. He’s one of their dreams on paper. You know, he’s always honest, he’s loyal, he’s even a damn artist. If he’d just smile at them every once in a while, sure, he’d be going steady with someone by now. He just gets so uptight when he’s around ladies. It’s a damn shame.”
When Bucky looks up at Gene, Gene’s got both eyebrows raised. Bucky frowns at him, trying to get him to say what’s on his mind. Gene shakes his head. “I see, said the blind man,” he says. Bucky scowls. Gene rolls his eyes. “But he didn’t see at all.”
#
The bars in Greenwich Village are hopping when Bucky gets there Friday night. There’s always a crowd, sure, but some weekends are wilder than others. The police stay away for a while, people get complacent. Tonight, the drinks run freely and cheaply, too; the booze isn’t great, so Bucky guesses the Mob’s running the business. Not that he cares too much. Steve would hate it, but what he doesn’t know won’t kill him, and he definitely doesn’t know about this.
The second Bucky sits down at a bar, a fairy all dolled up with red lipstick sits beside him, leaning in close to rest a hand in the crook of his elbow. Bucky tilts his head back and smiles. He loves going steady with dames, treating them with flowers and twirling them on the dance floor, but sometimes he needs everything to move fast. Everybody at the bars moves fast because nobody knows how long they’re going to be safe. The fairy kisses Bucky, all hot want, smearing his lipstick on Bucky’s lips. Soon enough, Bucky’s abandoning what’s left of his drink, letting himself get dragged to the back.
Bucky used to get drunk when he went out, but it bothers Steve—scares him a little, maybe, the thought of Bucky stumbling home alone in the dark. Bucky tried convincing him that he should come along dancing so he could walk him home safe, but Steve just narrowed his eyes at him. Bucky teased him, said maybe he needed a drink to loosen up, but underneath all the jokes, his stomach clenched at the thought of disappointing Steve. Nowadays, Bucky drinks just enough to feel his blood buzz. Then he scrubs as much of the fairy’s lipstick from his skin as he can before he walks, whistling, through the night towards home.
Usually Steve waits up for him. He’ll sit on the fire escape, sketching pictures of the building across the street or else trying to copy art he saw back when they could afford art school. Once or twice, Bucky’s found him fast asleep out there, head resting against the building, lips parted slightly. Bucky’s always consumed with the urge to lift Steve up, cradle him to his chest, and carry him to bed, but Steve’d kill him for that. Instead, every time, Bucky has to force down the urge to protect Steve and shove his shoulder instead, laughing at him when he lurches awake.
Bucky’s surprised, then, when he pushes open the door to their apartment and finds Steve waiting just on the other side. Steve’s fingers are stained grey, so maybe he was sketching on the fire escape, but he’s staring Bucky down now with that determined expression that always means trouble. Bucky slowly closes the door behind him and raises an eyebrow, pretending the weight of Steve’s blue eyes doesn’t make his mouth go dry. He swallows when Steve’s gaze rests on his jaw where he must have forgotten a smudge of lipstick. He resists the urge to wipe it off. “What’s the matter with you, Rogers?”
Steve grabs Bucky by the lapels and shoves him against the door. Bucky’s head bangs against the wood. Pain cracks through his skull. He opens his mouth to cuss at Steve, and that’s when Steve kisses him.
Bucky never in a million years would have expected Steve to crowd him against the door, to kiss him so hard their teeth clack. He doesn’t think Steve’s ever kissed anybody before—he’d know if he had, wouldn’t he? Steve tells him everything. He doesn’t kiss Bucky like he’s ever kissed anybody before. He kisses like he’s hungry, though, like nothing in this world tastes sweeter than Bucky’s lips. It’s all Bucky can do to grab his shoulders and hold him there.
Steve pulls back abruptly, face flushed. He stares Bucky down with sharp eyes. The stubborn look cuts right through Bucky, strips him down to his very heart where he’s tried so damn hard to hide how much he cares. He runs his tongue over his lips. His pulse hammers in his ears. “Jesus Christ, Steve.”
Steve’s forehead gets that little crease it always does when someone takes the Lord’s name in vain. Bucky half-thinks he’s about to get scolded. He’ll have to drag Steve into a headlock and screw up his hair if he does that because honestly, Rogers has just as much of a dirty mouth. A dirty mouth that’s bright red from kissing Bucky into a door. Bucky licks his lips again and shifts his weight, trying to figure out how the hell he’s supposed to respond.
Steve’s shoulders hitch. He looks away, jaw tight. “Never mind. Just—I shouldn’t have taken advantage. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound too sorry. He just sounds miserable.
“No. Hey. Hey!” Bucky grabs Steve’s arm before he can make a break for it. Steve tries to twist away. Usually, Bucky’d let him go—Steve gets in enough fights without Bucky instigating any—but he gets the feeling that letting Steve bolt now will screw up everything. He tightens his grip on Steve’s arm. There’s just a thin layer of muscle between skin and bone. Steve scowls up at Bucky, all fire, ready to punch. Bucky takes a deep breath and tries to find words. He can’t. He kisses Steve instead.
Maybe Steve’s never kissed anyone before, but Bucky’s kissed plenty of girls. Kissed plenty of queers, too. The guys by the docks have faces rough with stubble. Steve’s mouth is more like the fairies’: clean-shaven, the only roughness coming from chapped lips. Bucky knows how to kiss slow and soft and careful. He can feel the heat coming off of Steve’s face.
When Bucky pulls back, Steve’s breathing hard. His arm’s shaking in Bucky’s grip. Bucky loosens his hold and rubs his thumb there apologetically. Steve’s cheeks are red when he looks at Bucky. “Do you kiss the other guys like that?”
Of all the ways Bucky would’ve expected Steve to react to that kiss, envy isn’t one of them. He raises his eyebrows, trying not to look as smug as he feels. “You jealous?”
“Yes.” Steve’s voice is sharper than Bucky would have expected. Steve looks down and away, face flushing more. “I know you go out. I know what you do. I’ve known for years, Buck, you’re not exactly subtle about it.” Bucky’s sure as hell glad Steve’s not looking at him, because his face is burning now. If he was that obvious about going to all the queer bars, does that mean he was obvious about watching Steve? Steve’s jaw tightens. “I’ve got no right to be jealous. You don’t belong to me. We’re not—going steady.”
Bucky bites back a laugh. “Don’t think guys go steady, pal.”
Steve’s head shoots up. His voice is strong and sure when he says, “They do at the St. George. There was a couple I used to deliver groceries to. I mean a couple, Bucky, close as a couple of queers can get to being married.”
Bucky’s breath catches on something in his throat. “Steve.”
“I know you’ve got to date those girls. I know it’s safer that way. I don’t want you getting hurt. But damn it, I don’t want you kissing any man but me.” Steve’s hands ball into fists, all sharp knuckles. “I know it’s half my fault you do, me keeping quiet all this time when I can feel you watching me. I thought if I kept my mouth shut, I’d keep you out of trouble. But you’re going looking for trouble anyway, so I might as well be selfish.”
The blood roars in Bucky’s ears now, his nerves buzzing. No matter how much he stares at Steve’s defiant face, he can’t bring himself to believe this is real. “You mean all that time I was trying to tiptoe around you—trying to drag you out to go dancing with those girls—all that time I thought you didn’t have any idea how I felt about you—”
Steve makes an incredulous sound. “If you don’t know that I’ve loved you since we were kids, then I don’t know where you’ve been.”
Bucky swallows hard again and again, trying to fight the tightness in his chest and the way his eyes burn. Steve must get tired of waiting for him to say something because he grabs Bucky’s shoulders and kisses him again. He’s a fast learner, already gentler even as he’s just as insistent as before. Bucky can’t help the tiny, tight sound he makes when Steve’s tongue brushes his lips. It’s nothing like the noises he muffles when he’s in the back room of a bar or in an alley by the docks. It’s a whine that comes from nine years of thinking Steve would condemn him to Hell for looking at him like he puts the stars in the sky.
Steve’s blunt fingernails scratch through Bucky’s hair before he pulls away. His chest is heaving, damn asthma, but Bucky’s breathing hard, too. Steve inhales deeply. “If you want me,” he says, voice huskier than usual, “then I’m yours.”
If Bucky didn’t know Steve as well as he does, he wouldn’t recognize the fear lurking behind the bravado in his voice. But he does know Steve, knows him like he knows himself, and now he knows they carry the same scared hope: he doesn’t love me—but what if he does? Now he knows Steve loves him, and somehow losing the weight of that fear hurts just as much as it feels good. He grabs Steve by the back of his shirt and drags him into a hug. This, they’ve done before, a million times; Steve’s smaller than Bucky by far, but Bucky’s always felt more secure wrapped in his spindly arms. He tips his head down until their foreheads are pressed together. “God.”
Steve huffs out a breath. “You really didn’t know?” Bucky barely shakes his head, irrationally scared that too much motion will scare off Steve. “Dummy. We even live together. I feel like all I do is watch you.”
Bucky scowls. “Punk.”
Steve’s lips quirk. He shrugs. “Yeah, I am.”
Bucky chokes on a laugh. He covers up the awkward sound by kissing Steve, hands sliding down to Steve’s hips. He can feel Steve’s hands hovering near his waist. His first, instinctive thought is that Steve’s about to tickle him; he’s about ready to move his hands to catch Steve’s when Steve grabs his ass. Bucky jerks forward. Steve laughs against his mouth. “Twitchy, Barnes?”
Bucky knows what’s coming. This time, he does have to grab Steve’s hands to keep from getting tickled. He shoves Steve backward. Steve stumbles a couple steps and then lunges forward, grabbing Bucky around the shoulders and trying to haul him to the ground. Steve’s strong for as scrawny as he is, and he can throw mean punches when he wants to, but he weighs ninety pounds, maybe. Bucky staggers forward, weaving when Steve lurches to the left or the right. They make halfway to Bucky’s bed before Steve leans all his weight on Bucky’s right side. The second Bucky crashes to the ground, Steve scrambles onto his chest, trying his damndest to pin him. Bucky’s laughing too hard to shove him off. “Okay, okay, you got me. You don’t have to tickle me or anything—no. No. Uncle, uncle!”
Steve’s fingers go still, finally leaving Bucky’s armpits. Bucky takes his chance to haul in as deep of breaths as he can with Steve sitting on his chest like the asshole he is. Steve’s hair is flopping over his eyes the way it always does. He’s smirking, too, long, thin fingers hovering over Bucky’s shoulders like he’s getting ready to tickle him again. Bucky grabs his hands and heaves, rolling them both their feet.
When Steve grabs him around the waist and butts his head against his chest, Bucky pushes him backward. He’d tickle back, but he’s got no chance of winning like that—Steve, for all his problems, isn’t one bit ticklish, not even on the back of his neck or the soles of his feet. Steve stumbles back, step by agonizing step, until the backs of his legs hit the edge of Bucky’s bed and he falls back onto the mattress. Bucky pins him, doing his best to keep his weight off Steve’s chest.
Then time seems to freeze. Bucky stares down at Steve, taking in his wild hair and his crooked nose and kissed-red lips, and his chest suddenly feels so tight he wonders if he doesn’t have asthma too. This is Steve, Steve who’s been there all the way down the line. He wakes up seeing him, he’s the last person he sees before he goes to bed. They wrestle in the kitchen and box in the hall until Mr. Carroway upstairs bangs on the ceiling for them to shut up. They’ve been to their parents’ funerals together, been Confirmed together, done everything together but this. Steve’s always been there, but all of a sudden he feels so new to Bucky that Bucky can hardly breathe.
Steve notices. His frustrated smile fades, his forehead wrinkling into worried lines. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Bucky shakes his head. “I can’t believe you actually….”
“Love you? Yeah.” Steve’s voice is rough. He frowns up at Bucky, hands clenching and relaxing. “What about you?”
Bucky bites back a pained laugh. “Kid, I’ve loved you since I was twelve years old.”
Something fierce flashes through Steve’s eyes. When he grabs Bucky’s wrists and yanks, Bucky lets himself be rolled onto his back. Steve straddles him, cheeks pink with effort. Bucky doesn’t roll his hips, not yet, but the urge is there. When Steve bends down to kiss him, Bucky lets his mouth fall open. Their kisses get sloppier, all tongue. Steve only pulls back to suck in gulps of air before he ducks his head and kisses Bucky again even more insistently. Bucky’s all too happy to follow Steve’s lead. Maybe Steve’s new to all this, but he sure knows what he wants.
Steve’s small, sure, but he knows how to keep Bucky pinned. The second Bucky thinks maybe he’ll roll over, tussle with Steve a little, Steve seems to sense it. He kisses his way across Bucky’s jaw, probably scraping his mouth on stubble, until he stumbles across the sweet spot just beneath Bucky’s ear that always gets him to gasp. Steve jerks back when Bucky does it, frowning. Bucky laughs a little and tilts his head back, showing off his throat. “Nah, no, that was a good sound.”
“Kind of thought it was a ticklish sound.”
“God, no, do not start with that again, Rogers, I swear—” Bucky’s words drop off the second Steve gets his mouth on his neck again. His thin fingers are running up and down Bucky’s sides, not quite tickling but not quite soothing, either. Bucky threads his fingers through Steve’s hair, then rubs his hands down Steve’s back as Steve kisses lower, lips over his fluttering pulse, and lower, pushing aside his shirt collar to get to his collarbone.
Bucky sucks in a breath when Steve’s teeth scrape against his collarbone. The walls are thin here, they can’t risk the wrong kind of noise, so Bucky presses a hand to his mouth to hold back the breathless sounds that trip from his tongue as Steve sucks the patch of skin he nipped. Steve’s tongue feels so damn good on Bucky’s skin. Maybe he doesn’t know for sure what he’s doing, but to Bucky his mouth feels better than Gene’s or even any of the fairies’ ever did. This is Steve unbuttoning his shirt with fumbling fingers, spreading his spindly hands across Bucky’s chest. Bucky knows Steve can feel his heart pounding away. Bucky keeps a hand over his mouth so he can’t say all the stupid sappy things he wants to say, like good God your mouth is heaven and don’t you know my heart always beats faster for you?
Then Bucky doesn’t have room in his brain for sickly sweet thoughts because Steve honest-to-God starts trailing kisses down his chest. Bucky’s back starts arching each time Steve kisses him. He’s already gotten off once tonight—and how the hell was that just tonight? It already feels like a million years ago, before that world-lurching moment when Steve pushed him against the door—but he’s getting hard again. He could go another round. If Steve keeps kissing lower—if he goes for Bucky’s fly the way Bucky thinks he will—
But Bucky suddenly doesn’t want that. Or he does, but not now, not yet. He thinks about what Steve said, about going steady, and it’s not that they couldn’t do both, but he wants to make everything special with Steve. Christ Almighty does Steve’s mouth feel good, but it’s late, and Steve gets sick so easy, and he deserves the best of everything and nothing less. Bucky thinks about that couple Steve talked about, the one that was as close to married as a couple of queers can get, and maybe Bucky wants that, all right. Maybe he wants that so bad all of a sudden that it makes his heart clench tight.
“Hey, slow down,” Bucky pants. His body practically screams what’d you say stop for, idiot? as Steve’s mouth leaves his chest, but he bites his lip and holds himself still.
Steve props his chin on Bucky’s chest and quirks an eyebrow. “You trying to be chivalrous, Buck?”
“Just figure we don’t have to do everything this second.” Bucky wants to tuck that stray strand of Steve’s hair back into place, so he does, smiling when it immediately flops into Steve’s eyes again. “If we’re, uh, going steady and all.”
It feels a little awkward to say it to a guy, let alone to the guy who’s been his best friend since they were both babies, but it’s worth it for the way Steve’s eyes light up. Steve surges forward to kiss Bucky, mouth slick against his. Time goes hazy, giving over to kisses and nips and hands in each other’s hair. Steve shakes in Bucky’s arms, and Bucky figures a lot of that has to do with him not getting a deep breath in, but he trusts Steve to tell him if they need to stop.
Sure enough, Steve does, eventually, his elbows shaking as he lets himself collapse against Bucky. His chest heaves with the effort to get air in. Bucky watches him worriedly, already reaching for the drawer where they keep the asthma cigarettes. Steve bats his hand away and bumps his mouth against Bucky’s jaw, the closest he can manage to a kiss at the moment. “Okay,” he pants, breath hot on Bucky’s skin. “M’okay.”
Bucky rubs soothing circles on Steve’s back. Usually, Steve won’t let anyone touch him when his asthma’s giving him trouble. Bucky guesses from the way Steve’s eyes narrow a little that he won’t let Bucky touch him during an asthma attack later, either. He touches Bucky’s cheek with clammy fingers, though, so at least he’s not angry or anything, just a little irritated the way Steve is always a little irritated. Bucky spreads his fingers out along Steve’s curved spine and smiles a lazy smile. “You look good, doll.”
Steve’s eyes narrow even more. “’m not even breathing right, asshole. I’m a mess.”
“Always thought you looked good. Even when you had your leg braces and everything.”
Steve snorts. “Never would’ve pegged you as a big romantic, Barnes.”
“Liar.” Bucky twirls a strand of Steve’s hair around his finger. Steve ducks his head and rests it against Bucky’s chest. His breath is still coming a little too fast for Bucky’s taste. “You had my number all along.”
“Damn right.” Steve smiles. The look he gives Bucky is so unexpectedly sweet that it knocks the breath right out of him. “And now you’ve got mine too.”
#
Bucky can feel Gene’s eyes on him all day as they unload crates. It damn near drives him crazy. Every time he looks over at him, ready to call him out on it, Gene’s looking away, this dumb smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Bucky waits and waits until he can’t stand the hairs on the back of his neck standing up anymore. “What?” he asks, sounding just as annoyed as he feels.
Gene looks down at him, his smile morphing into a lazy grin. “Did the blind man see?”
Bucky’s face heats up. He’s made sure to cover them up, but he can still feel the marks Steve left on his collarbone. “Shut up,” he says. Gene laughs, loud and sure. After a second, Bucky laughs too. He can’t help it: the joy bubbles right out of his too-full heart.