Chapter 1
Bucky hasn't gone out in a while.
Being absolutely honest with himself, he shouldn’t have been that upset about Brock's confession. But maybe it was because he didn't seem that beaten up about it on the other side of the Skype screen, like that asshole didn't just go and declare that he fuck some girl, and from what it seemed like, not for the first time. And then he just hung up.
Eventually, Bucky knew Brock would go back to his skirt-chasing, knew their ‘thing’ wasn’t meant to be permanent, just not that it would be over the second Bucky’s out of the frame. Some people have the decency to break up first when they go for a year abroad and then decide dick isn’t their thing anymore.
Bucky should have known. Except — and that is the tragedy of his miserable existence — he fell for the one with great promises of opening the closet doors together without meaning one word of it. Natasha knew, but it's not like he ever listens, and Steve, best friend and all, just changed the topic whenever they came across it, as furious as it made Bucky that he never seemed to care about this part of his life.
Well, Bucky did spend a lot of breath on that fucker. And now he's downing something that is predominantly vodka with some addition of strawberry syrup and wonders whether it would matter if he didn't wake up tomorrow. His father wouldn't care; guy’s not home until next week, currently somewhere on the East Side. New York, probably. Not that Bucky cares about him all that much.
Peggy's parents leave their beach house unattended for most through the summer (thus eradicating its purpose entirely) and scatter across Pacific Islands and eastern countries, leaving their youngest daughter to her own accord, because she is a straight-A student after all, hanging out with all the right people. Well, it’s not the opposite, but parents are admittedly deluded about what really goes on in their kid’s heads.
The fancy house on the outskirts of The City – followed by a row of many more – is a perfect place to get wasted, because liquor becomes water and its mostly good people around, because the ones Peggy doesn't tolerate get their nose reshaped pretty quickly around here.
Natasha freed herself down to her bikini and Bucky knows if she shifted at least a little, Clint's boner would be visible from any corner of the room, and Bucky understands too well. But he had his chance, and if he were up to a rebound, even plastic surgery wouldn’t be of help when Nat would be done with him just for offering. She definitely knows how to hold a grudge, but she’s reasonably careful around him, and deep down, they still cling to each other in their own way. He’s just not so much into sharing-with-the-pot-guy-Clint thing. Then again, all hypothetical. Nat and he are one-hundred-percent done. Same as Bucky and Brock, but now he’s running in circles again.
Something reggae is playing, fuck knows what or who, and they're passing on the bong in the patio. The smell waves over through the open glass door, only source of air at the moment. Bucky empties his cup and swallows the emptiness in his heart. It still hurts. He never should have believed that motherfucker in the first place. "We both will risk way too much if someone finds out. We keep this low profile, we have our fun. That okay, Jim?"
Chances are high he wasn't even faithful back then. Bucky tried to ignore the constantly buzzing phone and questionable messages from his cousin Olivia or study buddy Alexis he couldn't help but glance over. Brock had tried to keep it a secret, but thinking back, he had been horrible at it. And doesn't that just make Bucky twice the idiot he could have been? Well, Steve and Nat both could write him a book about that one. It’s bucking Barnes again, off to the land of the sandtraps and relationships with a minor success rate.
Steve nudges his shoulder with his, looking up to him. Despite Bucky’s general drowsy state, that sends a positive spark through his system. He stares back, waiting for him to initiate a conversation. But it doesn't happen; they don't talk, just stare at the occupied pool table as another point goes to Tony and the audience cheers. Thor's laugh echoes through the house, and Bucky’s positive the windows just shook.
"Something up?" Bucky wonders, speech slurry from the drinks. Steve shrugs, thin arms crossed over his chest. He looks more relaxed than usual, but still very out of place. He's not used to going out drinking, and this is considered one of the small gatherings. Bucky counts about twenty heads, knows them all by name on a good day.
Steve always seems out of place. For as much as Bucky likes, loves him even, the short skinny blonde is nothing but trouble and fish on dry land. Then he stayed behind one year, and while he doesn't have it easy now one grade beneath them, it seems he's doing okay for now. He has his issues concentrating on things like class, but he surely isn’t dumb. And neither is he lazy like Bucky.
"You don’t look so good," Steve replies, voice deep and throaty. It's nothing like his skew and meager looks. Bucky laughs dryly at his patronizing concern.
"I'm drunk, what do you expect?" he snaps back, seeing Steve shift a little uncomfortably.
Steve looks back at the billiard table, sighing. "I'm done for tonight, I was wondering whether you want me to take you home."
Bucky doesn't want to. Another hour or two he might spend here, get a little more drunk until he passes out on the couch and Peggy throws him out in the morning, but then he considers how embarrassing it would be and how little he actually wants to be around people right now, so he nods at Steve and leans on him a little too much on his way out. Steve gets behind the wheel and automatically hands him a water bottle when Bucky finds inside as well. He finishes it before they arrive at Bucky's house, empty in a semi-permanent state.
Wordlessly, Steve gets up to open up the car door for his friend and gets him to the porch, and Bucky leans against it, sobered up just a little.
"This is the part where you kiss the girl goodnight," Bucky jokes, giggling stupidly. On the inside, he shivers at the thought, not thoroughly in aversion. Yes, it’s the dumb things his drunk self considers sometimes.
"Jerk," Steve mumbles, fishing out Bucky's keys from his jean pockets, brushing against his crotch unintentionally, at which Bucky jolts in surprise. Steve either acts like he didn’t notice or he really didn’t, opens up and gets them inside.
Bucky plunges on the couch, and Steve rests his elbows on the armchair to its right. Silence takes over from there again, only now missing the buzz of plenty other people around. Bucky checks his phone, expecting any sign from a certain someone, though knowing it’s a lost cause. That chapter is done for the next few months, at least until he returns from France.
"If it’s any comfort, you deserved better," Steve mumbles, honesty sticking to slight annoyance directed clearly at Brock. Bucky snorts, turning to the side. Bucky is surprised he picked up what the checking was about, but then again, it’s him who’s drunk and obviously bad at hiding his sulk.
"Probably not," he mumbles back. It’s funny Steve chooses to talk about it now. Until now, Bucky strictly assumed Steve just didn’t care about what Bucky had and lost. "I'm a goddamn idiot for buying dust."
Steve leans forward, seeming unsettled, and fucking keen on addressing the subject a month later. "There's so many people who'd just die to have you and Brock isn't worth a single thought you waste on him, never was." The last words he almost spits, and Bucky wonders how so much hatred for someone he barely knew can fit into those lungs.
Bucky, knowing he's being a jerk, snorts again. "You know shit about him,” he defends the guy who screwed him over, and as he realizes it, he adds, “Alright, he’s an ass.”
Steve comes closer, placing a hand on Bucky's shoulder as he sits down next to him. “Maybe find yourself someone else?” he suggests, and Bucky’s head tilts up. He actually considers it. And he thinks about it once again, realizing how miserable he must look, moping about this. He sits up on the couch, head still spinning a little.
“Stay, please?” Bucky mumbles, throwing his arms around Steve a bit uncoordinatedly. Steve’s lungs release a huff and he turns his face to the side so his nose touches Bucky’s cheek. Steve’s breath tickles, so Bucky buries his chin deeper into the crook of his neck. Steve nods just slightly.
“Ever noticed how sweet you get when you’re drunk?” Steve remarks. Bucky pouts, which Steve can only notice from the corner of his eye, but of course he does. The drumming he hears underneath Steve’s skin must be his heartbeat, and it’s pretty wild at the moment.
“Else I’m just made from bitterness and sarcasm,” Bucky assures him.
“I like both versions, and the ones in between. I like the way you are, Buck.” Bucky hides his face impossibly deeper in Steve’s chest. He’s tearing up now. He never minded crying, but right now, the reason is just too dumb. No one’s told him the routine condolences and comforting words, but that was more his fault than anyone else’s. He was pretty sure he didn’t need them at all, he avoided them on purpose for a whole month.
It took two calls from Natasha to get him out of his shell. As for that, she didn’t exchange a word with him all night after leaving two life-threatening messages on his voicemail if he chose not to come by the beach house. Now the words he’d secretly been dying to hear are filling him up with warmth again, and he shifts away just enough to meet Steve’s eyes, his warm smile. Steve is sober and he’s saying those words so earnestly that it hurts.
His friend doesn't flinch when Bucky strives forward and their lips meet, a chaste contact developing into slow movements. Bucky's heart never slows down the whole time. It's strange he never acted on this weird impulse before (weird, not new, for the record), doesn't know why he is doing it now. Steve lands on the cushions and silently pleads for more, and Bucky doesn't notice the wheezing in Steve's lungs until he's stealing air from Bucky's.
"Fucking asthma." Steve croaks, trying to get himself back to normal while Bucky pats his back, trying not to think at all, afraid to spoil it.
It's nice to not be lonely for a while. He's breathing a little heavier as well, kissing Steve's neck when the guy assures he's fine again, finding a soft spot behind his ear. The exploration is strange, because this is his friend, someone he knew since, what, first grade probably? Now he's gently pushing up the hem of his shirt and kissing the bony shoulders and tracing his ribs underneath his fingertips. Steve sits in his lap now, shallowly thrusting against him, as if unsure if it's okay — and damn right it is — while supporting himself on the back of the couch. Bucky palms Steve's crotch, watching him bite his lip as he's groping it, never too rough.
Bucky interrupts to get his own shirt off and place Steve on the couch to get him out of the swim shorts and his mouth on his dick. He gets his mouth around it and shifts up and down rhythmically, getting whimpers in exchange. He likes this, he likes being this close to someone, he likes the sounds Steve makes. Way too late he realizes a whimper slipped into the room that was no one’s but his own. Steve's legs tense when he gets to the tip he groans at the generous attention.
"Bucky... Fucking... Stop!" he exhales, so Bucky does. It throws him off immediately, out of the short timed bliss, the possibility that it could actually be this great for a second. He almost forgot how drunk he actually is. They exchange eye contact, but it doesn't last. How could it? There's too many questions in Steve's confused eyes, so many Bucky couldn't answer if he wanted to. He scared Steve off, he made him uncomfortable. Maybe he fucking hurt him.
“Are you…” Bucky doesn’t get to finish his thought. Goosebumps grow on his skin the second realization hits him. He's an idiot, he never should have... He shouldn't have done this.
“I can… I can bring you a blanket, you shouldn’t make your mom worry at this time.” His additional muttered apology doesn’t make it far and he doesn’t have the nerve to repeat it. There’s more loath in him than soul, more hatred towards whom he is and what he just did, and all he wants is to take it back. He returns with the promised blanket, drops it without looking at Steve. It’s been a mistake, and they should just pretend it never happened.
Bucky anticipated his hangover, but it doesn't hold him back from getting his hopes high that he dreamt whatever he thinks happened yesterday. But the blanket is still there; a plaid mix of a Bordeaux and Navy blue, only Steve missing under it. God, it was often part of their pillow forts when they were kids, and the colors are washed out from overuse, and suffered through millions of threats to be thrown out already. Around here, nothing is kept for that long; blankets, wives…
His head is killing him, and he drops on the bottom of the stairs, about to give in to his self-pity and cry. You're a fucking idiot, James. He launches his head weakly against the railing, do anything to distract him from his biggest mistake so far.
Steve. What could he possibly feel right now? God fucking knows what it meant, why Steve held on for quite a while if it was that insufferable the whole time. Bucky looks outside, noticing only his own car in the driveway. He goes for the bathroom, takes something against his headache and sits a good twenty minutes on the closed toilet seat, speculating whether he should go out or not. His hunger seems to have left him for the long round, so he tries to survive this day with loads of water and the TV permanently on, lowest sound setting so the sitcom laughs are only mildly distinguishable from a car passing by outside. His headache can’t handle much past that, despite Steve’s efforts back in the car to prevent it.
Sunday passes like this; he doesn't look at his phone, nor does he recharge it when it runs out of battery. He takes a few minutes to open the windows each of the following days to get some air into the stuffy house, but even with five fans pointing at his bed, he can't sleep. He’s falling back into his pattern before Saturday night. He never should have broken it in the first place. He’s better off like this. Where he can’t hurt anyone, where he can’t be hurt.
His father might have called home once or twice; it doesn’t matter. He spends an entire night getting to the next Prestige in Call of Duty, maybe two more (at some point, his brain shuts off), and he's completely disoriented by the time he wakes up on a Wednesday, plugs his phone in and is met by about twenty messages in total. Steve asked him to come over thrice, all of which were shrugged off with “okay nvmd” in the end (fucking hell, the guy texted him after all of it?) and Natasha sniffed out the entire situation and required Bucky’s explanation. Then one from Clint wanting to meet up at his place and some from his mother. Probably something about her holidays in Burma, without the kids.
With a sigh, Bucky gets up and downs about three cups of coffee to regenerate and meet Steve, who, according to his usual routine, should be at lunch with his mother at the hospital right now. Although she has two shifts today, both on Fridays and Sundays, Steve still wants to spend at least one meal per day with her. With the little courage up his sleeve Bucky has, he jumps into the car and drives to the hospital, or else he’ll never apologize, and it doesn’t seem right through text. If he's lucky, he won't get beaten up by Natasha after he solved the mess.
Bucky spends a good twenty minutes in the warm-up stages of the day with sunglasses on his nose and a cigarette between his teeth before he sees Steve leave the hospital. The flame of the grit dies under his shoe and he strives towards him, grabbing Steve's arm, attempting gentle. The second blue eyes register him, Steve flinches like he's touched a cockroach, and that's probably true, that's what Bucky is as from now. He stops in his tracks, shaking Bucky's grip off. The look Steve gives him is just surprised, nothing more. And that massively irritates Bucky. Not hurt, not anger, not disgust. The surprise of someone who didn’t expect a friend to snoop him out at the hospital, which is just logical, but in reality, isn’t it anything but that?
“What are you doing here?” Steve inquires, and apart from visibly turning a darker shade of red, isn’t acting all that unusual.
His black skinny jeans disappear under the way too big white band shirt, accentuating the tons of wristbands on both arms. His hair is messy, hiding some of the zits on his forehead. Bucky pulls the glasses off his face and frowns at the sun directly burning into his eyes. He doesn't know how to even start. Anything he could say might be the wrong thing, and with his luck it's hard to tell whether there is a right in this situation.
“I'm sorry,” is what makes it out. “I didn't mean to” — violate you, he wants to say, but if the words make it through his filter, it will become too real — “hurt you.”
Steve's eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, then he looks sideways, as always when he's not sure what to say. Whatever is on his mind, he shrugs off. Upset rises in Bucky's stomach, because all he needs is Steve to be angry at him, hate him even, not the sympathetic look that makes it so hard not to yell. “Bucky, it's alright. You didn’t.” Bucky almost buys it.
"I'm sorry,” he says again, hoping his voice doesn't shake too much.
And there it is, that excuse of a smile on Steve’s face again. Yet Bucky can't let it drop just like this. He needs to try and wash his guilt out, not allow Steve to think this isn’t what he was good for. Bucky meant his apology.
“Are you free tonight? House is still empty, we can grab a movie or play Halo. Got one more week,” he suggests. Steve looks back at the hospital building, where the sun reflects in the windows, and his eyes grow narrow by the brightness. He shouldn't be out here for much longer or he'll burn badly pretty soon.
“Sure, Buck.” The smile looks forced, heartbreaking and hurting all at once. So Steve is uncomfortable, despite being the one to text him afterwards. Bucky needs to do it all the same. To prove a point. Things are still okay between them, they'll laugh about it in a year, confess during a truth or dare and get over it.
On his way back, Bucky gets a six pack with a fake ID and cleans up his room, prepares the console and picks a random choice of movies. Not like it matters. It's a few hours into the afternoon, but he doesn't feel like doing anything productive until then. In the end, he sleeps off the caffeine breakdown that hits in and wakes up to Steve ringing the doorbell. Subsequently, his bladder nearly bursts. He curses the coffee, opens up first, excuses himself wordlessly and disappears in the bathroom, returning moments later. Standing in the hallway, the air is thick with awkwardness, but he tries to stir it up by easing the silence.
"I hope you seized the day for the both of us,” he tries to joke, running his hand through his probably awful looking bed hair, following Steve who is walking upstairs.
“Went to the library and grocery shopping, you can have forty percent.” Steve tells him matter of factly, cut a little too short for Bucky’s liking. At least one of them is trying here.
They reach Bucky's room and Steve drops on Bucky’s beanbag, and time seems to stretch as Bucky avoids looking at Steve. He has questions, on top of the list why they never talked about sex before, or anything surrounding it. He doesn’t even have any information on whether Steve has any particular preference, it was never brought up. Also he wants to know why having his tongue on his best friend’s dick didn’t feel awkward mid-process (more like the opposite, but hey, he doesn’t feel like two breakdowns in the past four days). But none of those seem like they could be answered any time soon.
Steve releases two beers from the back and rips one open with the other (using a considerable amount of effort) and handing it over to Bucky. “If you’re up to ‘clear’ your conscience, let me pick take-out tonight.” And with that, Bucky has the impulse to kiss him. It's absurd, a big question mark in his head blinking red, and he tells himself it's out of habit. He's more responsive to the sappy shit than he'd ever admit aloud. Fuck, he’s thinking about that with Steve, who just declared to forget the whole thing, clear and start afresh.
"Go nuts, card is on the nightstand. I'm just going to shower real quick."
Bucky returns in a change of clothes and damp hair. Steve informs him Chinese is on its way — not that he's in the mood for it, but Steve included his usual favorites, which is a considerate gesture — and they start with the first chronological Star Wars movie, beers slightly touching and shoulders only few inches apart from the way they spread on Bucky’s bed. It’s their usual positions, or something like that, and yet Bucky is hyper aware of everything.
He doesn't eat much; the rice is slightly overcooked and some of the dishes are way too spicy. With Steve's horrible eating habits, it looks like they end up with more food than they had to begin with, so they return to the beer. The downside of this is that their semi-empty stomachs make them incredible light-weights, and Bucky is tipsy by the third one.
The movie ends, and Bucky doesn't feel like putting in the next one. Instead, a naive curiosity grips him, his restrains eased up by the beer as he leans forward to touch Steve's face with the back of his hand
"What is it?" Steve asks into the dimness of the room. “Do I have Sriracha on my face?” Bucky doesn't push it, laughs and gradually leans in, inclining his head until he's just a small breath away from Steve's lips.
“Bucky…”
There's no resistance when Bucky collides them into a kiss, and he's squeezing his eyes, unsure what to feel, but Steve's response gets his pulse up quickly, their mouths connect leisurely, almost without effort. He stops asking himself what he is doing, for all the questions in the world won't make him go 'hold on, back off' because this feels good. Steve is a good kisser, and each soft moan is tiny needle in Bucky's heart about to spill it all. And he is uncertain what the cause of this is; his grief, his anger, his frustration, his desire for intimacy or just a frantic collision of it all with some late hormonal peak in the late stages of his physical development. Either way, all of this only makes him go on, and none of it throws Steve off, which is soothing, but scary all the same.
“Tell me to stop if you need me to,” Bucky mumbles, considering it important enough to voice it, his fear left behind.
"Seems like they didn't teach you in Consent 101 that getting all serious all of a sudden tends to spoil the mood real quick," Steve complains, eyes half closed and smirking. Did Steve have a tutor or something? It’s surprising that Steve seems experienced.
But still, there’s no actual mood to speak of. Bucky doesn’t feel aroused, more anticipating and curious in which direction this can go. Past the weirdness of kissing the guy he borrowed pencils from and for whom he got punched into the pavement, this is new territory, and an entirely new sensation. He can't put an exact label on it just yet, because neither does he have romantic feelings for Steve nor does he leave Bucky completely cold, and he's struggling for a middle ground like finding the perfect temperature in the shower. Bucky's tongue moves past Steve's lips and it gets difficult to breathe, especially for Steve as it goes on.
“If you want to try, you can fuck me tonight,” Bucky mutters into a certainly needed break. He cleaned himself up, a little eager but also just curious. Steve nods weakly. It was never divided into bottom and top with Brock, they permanently switched during their time together. “But we don't have to, not at all.”
"S'okay, Buck. Just don't rush. It's okay." Bucky wants to bath in his soothing voice, and the fact that he didn’t say No. Steve could end wars with the calmness it possesses, whisper to the most hate filled demons until they are sent into a restful sleep and clear him of any sins from his last life. If Steve wanted to. Most of the time, he’s being the biggest jerk when he opens his mouth at Bucky.
When it leads to sex – after so much kissing, Bucky already forgot how to speak English – they’re so fucking careful, mostly because Bucky thinks he has to make up for yesterday, and because he hasn’t bottomed for quite a while. And it stings, he’s nervous and a little too tense for this to be perfectly enjoyable, but he isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to let go even.
Head dizzy and caught in the moment, he can't form a clear thought being spread for Steve, seeing his face red and sweaty. He doesn't know why they're face to face, Steve rocking in and out of him. It's scary but it's hot and Steve is so fucking gentle about it… Fucking him through the slowest he possibly can, a punishment all on its own.
Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck. He's chanting and whimpering from the little sensations, of being this close to him. He has Steve inside him, God, how could it ever come to this?
Steve shakes his head, tears in his eyes… Bucky reaches for his wet cheeks, wipes the thickest tear away before he pulls him down for a kiss. A reassurance. He doesn't know its meaning himself.
A second later, Steve pulls out of him, an inadvertent grunt leaves Bucky’s chest. “Goddamnit, Bucky.” He wipes his running nose, and Bucky shivers at how wet it is. “Fucking shit, what is this supposed to…” he mumbles, and Bucky draws back against the headboard, alert and scared that he fucked it up again. He’s still hard, painfully close to relief, but he thinks about something else, because this situation isn't looking like anything good. Baseball, baseball, baseball. He doesn’t properly understand what just happened.
"I fucking can’t. I… Fuck.” Steve looks like he’s gathering what to say, so Bucky gives him the time. It helps him get back on track, flag down his erection, sure, but he had worse. Steve isn’t usually like that. It’s all the way and sucking it up, even if he spits blood on the grass in a park. Where hasn’t Bucky snatched him out of yet? Right now, he looks more hurt than any of those.
“You ignore me for three fucking days and randomly decide to pop up with a muttered apology and I really don’t know where you’re headed with this." The condom lands in the nearby bin, giving Bucky the mental note to empty it later. Steve gets dressed again, and Bucky just watches him pick up his clothes in a trance. Steve doesn’t open his mouth until he’s done.
“You ignored my texts. I was afraid you hated me, Buck, do you know what that feels like? Hated by your best friend?” Bucky almost jumps at it, ready to deny it all, but the words don’t make it past his lips, remaining in a bubble of sincere thoughts. But he doesn’t understand why Bucky would hate him for what happened, because it’s clear who made the first move. Who initiated it this time around. Bucky was right in the end. Steve pretended it didn’t bother him, for Bucky’s sake of course. Ever the fucking martyr.
“I don’t know.” Bucky grumbles back. “But why… I started it all, why aren’t you angry at me? I just, why you let it happen?" he spits out. Steve frowns and avoids Bucky’s gaze.
"I thought it might make you feel better,” Steve admits, regret swinging with the words. Bucky could have told him from the start he wasn't worth that effort. And he certainly didn't need to be patronized, not by his best friend, whom he hasn't ever seen that way until that night, who had refused to talk about Brock until it all boiled over. This is driving him insane.
Bucky draws back, grabs a pillow to cover his crotch. It’s all too revealing right now, and he doesn’t want to step on any more landmines. “Can you stop belittling me like I have no control over myself, like you’re the big bad wolf and I didn’t have a word to say? It’s just… For months, oh God, almost a year, all you were was Brock, Brock, Brock, Brock… And it only got worse when he announced his year abroad. You stayed in all the time, were usually to be found glued to your phone to text him while we were with you. And now he’s gone and all you can do is sulking about your loss, and honestly, I was ready to do anything to put an end to it. If I can ask you to do one thing, it’s to please get over him. He wasn’t worth it from the start. You didn’t deserve what you got, so stop trying to get it back. You’re hurting yourself. It needs to stop.”
Bucky remembers he isn’t supposed to apologize anymore. “So, what about this?” he asks instead. He’s trying to look forward, for Steve’s sake.
Steve returns to him, covering himself with Bucky’s blanket. His skin produces goose-bumps all over, and his heart shoots blood faster through his body than it’s supposed to. He doesn’t feel like finishing, but he’s indefinitely grateful that Steve isn’t that mad at him, and that there is a way to fix it. Maybe. Depending on Steve’s answer.
“I don’t know. If we find a middle ground, I’m okay with the way things have become now.” He shrugs. “All we did is adding doing to it.”
“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. There’s certainly hope that this isn’t a dead-end situation, they’ll just… Well, fuck knows where this is leading, but at least Bucky feels like he has a grip on something.
So, he found himself a fuck buddy. It’s ludicrous that out of all people, it turned out to be Steve. With his thin and pale, freckle-covered skin, his scoliosis and dirty blond hair he regularly bleaches; in the most absurd way, he’s great. Up to a point where Bucky envies his good qualities; his sense of duty and gratefulness, his self-awareness and bravery and his martyr complex that earned him more punches that acknowledgement in his life. Bucky knows he has to cherish every second, because it’s just the blink of an eye to graduation and Steve will have to fight himself through the exams to make it to the end of the year, and then…? There will be money for college, Bucky is certainly spoiled in that sense, but he doesn’t know where he wants to go, and whether he will, anyway. He’s not good enough to get anywhere, but he can’t stay where he is, either.