Rosemary Bushes
November 1st, 1941.
The next morning, Steve awoke to the sound of rain. It didn’t take long for him to realize he wasn’t home; there were no moth-holes to slip his fingers through when he pulled the blanket to his chest, no red-tinted light painted on the walls when he opened his eyes, no muffled arguments coming from neighboring apartments, and, in short, no signs of the hovel. He was at Bucky’s, he remembered, he’d gone to Bucky’s for Halloween. He let his limbs sink into the luxury of Bucky’s soft bed as he stared at the light pouring through the windows. After a while, his vision began to blur, so he closed his eyes again, searching for another moment of sleep, but after-images of sunlight and raindrops polluted the quiet. He remembered, dully, like a memory filtered through a fog, the feeling of his skin brushing Bucky’s in the night—the sight of Bucky lying so close to him, how he moved so beautifully even when asleep. He stretched, hoping to feel Bucky still sleeping near him, but all he felt were cool sheets.
Steve found Bucky in the living room. He was lying on the floor, arms stretched above him, holding open the book Steve had seen on his nightstand. Steve tried in vain to remember the title, but the radio was droning on about the health benefits of smoking Camel brand cigarettes, and every time he tried to picture the book cover in his head, a camel sprang up in its place.
“I don’t know how you can read like that,” Steve said, voice still dripping with sleep. Unwilling to leave behind the warmth of bed, he had wrapped Bucky’s blanket around his shoulders. A thought dampened by drowsiness likened his current look to that of his cape-clad one from the night before.
Bucky, unstartled, tucked a finger into his book to keep his place, closed the book around it, and sat up. He smiled when he looked at Steve, “Like what?”
“With the radio on,” Steve answered, shuffling into the living room. The house was once again spotless, uncanny in that almost any sign of Halloween had been torn from the place. Only one reminder remained: a couch with the cushion covers stripped. Steve sat on the floor across from Bucky and pulled his knees to his chest, asking, “What time is it?”
“Still morning,” Bucky chirped. He paused, then amended the statement, “Well, nearly noon. Late morning.”
“Hm,” Steve hummed, realizing he didn’t care much to know an exact answer anyway. He watched Bucky reach for a scrap of paper on the coffee table, and it wasn’t until Bucky picked it up and it caught the light that Steve realized it had once belonged to the mummy. Bucky wedged the paper between the pages of his novel.
“You’ve got wildbedhead, punk,” Bucky said, pulling Steve away from thinking about Gio. His blue eyes flicked back and forth between Steve’s eyes and his hair.
“You’re just a hair-watcher.” Steve retaliated, yawning. He noticed that Bucky, while only in boxers and a soft t-shirt, had already tamed his hair.
“You’d be watchin’ mine too if it looked like that crow's nest,” Bucky replied, pointing to Steve’s hair. Steve could see the wheels turning in Bucky’s head, so he wasn’t surprised when Bucky leaned over and mumbled, “Here, ‘lemme just.”
“Buck,” Steve smiled, squirming away as Bucky attempted to pat down his wild hair, “Quit it; my head hurts.”
“Oh yeah?” Bucky asked, both hands now attempting to smooth Steve’s hair, “You’ve got The Irish Flu, haven’t ya?”
“Oh, come on,” Steve croaked, rolling his eyes and earning a grin from Bucky. He lazily reached up and slapped Bucky away from him.
Talk of ‘The Irish Flu’ was far from new and staunchly never something that sat right with Steve. They were fourteen when Bucky started talking about the so-called flu (Steve was never sure where the expression came from), and he only kept talking about it when he realized how much it bothered Steve. Bucky seemed to enjoy that after nearly a decade, it ruffled him just the same: "You really oughta stop with that one, Buck. It ain’t a good joke.”
Bucky’s grin stayed, “Stevie, tell me it’s not even a little bit true.”
“It’s not. It’s a stereotype, Bucky.”
“Okay. But tell me it’s not even a little bit funny.”
“It’s not.”
“Mfhm.” Bucky exhaled. He admitted defeat in his body language alone as he mimicked Steve’s knees-pulled-to-chest look. “Well, was I right, at least? Are you hungover?”
Steve exhaled shortly, “Yeah.”
Bucky always made coffee the same way—an Eastern European way, the way his ma taught him. While Steve couldn’t entirely understand the importance of the process and would argue that instant coffee was a much easier method, he did appreciate watching Bucky make it. So, he sat at the edge of the kitchen, still wrapped in Bucky’s blanket, as Bucky stood at the stove, hovering around a tiny copper pot with a long handle. ‘It’s called an ibric,’ Steve’s memory supplied in Bucky’s voice, complete with how Bucky’s tone softened around the word ibric as it did anytime he spoke his mother’s language.
“You want the foam on it?” Bucky asked, already digging a spoon under the foam collecting at the top of the boiling coffee.
“Mhm,” Steve hummed, watching Bucky carefully transfer the foam to their waiting cups and return to the stove. “Thanks.”
“‘Course.”
The pure domesticity of the morning felt near saccharine: the rain pattering on the windows, the music on the radio, the blankets, the scent of coffee. Steve had Bucky’s uninterrupted company and attention, and he even had his adoration—the wafting smell of delicately brewed coffee served as proof. To futilely want more still, as he did, left Steve feeling hollowed out with a quiet guilt.
“Here,” Bucky said in a soft voice as level as the coffees he held. He carefully moved to give one to Steve. “This one is for you. I messed up the foam on mine.”
“You don’t have to give me the good one.”
“You can just say thank you.” Bucky teased, extending the coffee with unbroken foam toward Steve.
“Thank you, Buck.”
“‘Course, pal.”
After Bucky reminded Steve to let the grounds settle to the bottom of the cup, they wordlessly moved to the living room and sat on the floor. The tree outside Bucky’s window, a wise old London Plane, bent under the tormenting wind and rain as they sipped their coffees.
“Did you like my friends?”
Steve turned and looked at Bucky, who kept his eyes on the window. Bucky’s face was closed to Steve, not neutral, but unreadable. Steve answered honestly, “I did.”
“Good,” Bucky said softly, relief percolating through the words, “I’m glad. They like you, too.”
“Even the mummy?”
“Gio?” Bucky smiled, “Yeah, even Gio.”
“How do you know him?”
“Mm,” Bucky hummed, sipping his coffee, “We met at a bar.”
Steve’s imagination filled in the gaps; he thought of Bucky dancing, sweating as he smiled under the dim lights of some back alley bar. He thought of Gio, who he could only imagine wrapped in paper, watching Bucky and grinning that daring grin he had seen the night before. A little pin of pain burrowed into his chest.
“What bar?”
“I don’t think you know it.”
“Mm,” Steve paused to let his assumptions run wild before asking, “What about Mary and Clara? They’re your neighbors, right? I liked them.”
“Oh, yeah,” Bucky replied, smiling again, “Man, Clara loved you. I knew you’d hit it off with her. She’s smart, like you. And into art, too.”
“How come we haven’t had a double date with them?”
Bucky raised an eyebrow, “With Mary and Clara?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re together, Steve.”
“Like, roommates?”
“No,” Bucky laughed, shaking his head a little. He put his coffee cup beside him and wrapped his hands around his shins, “They’re together. Goin’ steady kind of together.”
“You’re messin’ with me.”
“I ain’t.”
The rain had picked up outside, and deep gray clouds began to shut out the sun. The room grew dark. Steve sat with Bucky’s blanket wrapped around his shoulders and said, “Buck, they’re both dames.”
“So?” Bucky asked, playing like it was an entirely unremarkable fact. But Steve didn’t miss the note of defensiveness in Bucky’s voice.
“I’m surprised, that’s all,” Steve’s headache tightened as he tried to reflect on his interactions with them. A flash-image of Clara’s smile at Mary shot through his brain. “I didn’t know girls did that.”
“Got together?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyone can get together, Steve.”
Steve thought of the borders he knew: friends, brothers, YOURS. He thought of Bucky’s blue eyes and dark hair, the feeling of Bucky’s quick fingers brushing against his skin, a touch that could never be more than just a touch. He thought of moving through the night together, how the unspoken agreement to keep contact chaste was nearly nullified when half-asleep. He thought of a reckoning, and he thought of becoming. He looked at Bucky and said, “That’s not true.”
Bucky shrugged and looked out the dark window. The tree outside whipped its branches furiously, like a wave, a warning. “It is, though. People do it all the time.” He paused, watching the tree shake in the storm, “A lot of my neighbors are that way. Queer.”
Choppy flashes of visual memory played before Steve; he remembered Bucky moving on the fire escape with the mummy. “You’re not that way, though.”
Bucky just shook his head. “Does it bother you that Mary and Clara are together?”
“No, I like them,” Steve answered quickly and honestly. He watched Bucky run his fingers along the lip of his coffee mug, one nail digging into the rough spot where the enamel had chipped. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was saying as he added, “Bucky, you can tell me anything, you know.”
Bucky looked at the tree for a long time. Some stray sunlight squeezed out of the clouds and striped his face, illuminating his eyes, cheeks, and nothing more. In the sun, his eyes shone so blue they almost looked clear. “I know,” He said before turning and looking at Steve, the light flying over his shoulder. “I try not to keep anything from you, Steve. You know that.”
Steve wasn’t so sure it was true, “I do.”
“You know who I am. More than anyone. I let you see me.”
Steve felt like he was wading into a stream, a fast and unfamiliar current. He long thought to know Bucky as he did was a gift, but hearing the wavering vulnerability in his friend’s voice felt like falling. Unsure of what to say, he settled on, “Sure.”
“So, it’s alright.”
It wasn’t a question. Steve had nothing to say but, “‘Course, Bucky.”
Bucky nodded, not to Steve, just to himself. He picked up his coffee cup and took a swig. When he spoke again, it was louder, “Anyway, I been meanin’ to ask you about Thanksgiving. My folks want to pick us up. Can they get us from yours?”
“Thanksgiving?” Steve asked, whiplashed from the sharp turn in subject. Bucky nodded. “Are you inviting me?”
“I guess? I mean, I assumed you’d come. You always do.”
“Well, usually I get invited.”
“Okay, well, this is your invite,” Bucky replied, “Are you coming?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Good,” Bucky drank more of his coffee, then stared at the grounds at the bottom of his cup as he asked, “So, can my folks pick us up from yours?”
“Yeah,” Steve ducked his head into Bucky’s field of view to get his eyes back on him, “Why not here?”
Bucky didn’t look up. “It’s easier that way.”
“Alright.”
Outside, somewhere down the street, a dog began to bark. The radio sang on. The tree slapped against the window. Gingerly, moving in the warm dark, Bucky leaned closer to Steve. He pressed his head to Steve’s shoulder, face to his woven blanket. “My head hurts,” He mumbled, closing his eyes. Steve rubbed circles into Bucky’s back and thought of the borders he knew.
November 27th, 1941.
“And now I have to wear this god-awful sweater. I mean, ma will like it; she made it for me, but it itches like hell, Steve. Wool. Why even make a sweater if you’re gonna make it out of wool? It’s too itchy.” Bucky hadn’t found his favorite dress shirt that morning and thus had spent the last hour subjecting Steve to one of his longest laments to date. “Don’t tell my ma I called the sweater awful.”
“I won’t, Buck.”
Bucky spoke into the reflection of the mirror he stood in front of, running a hand over his Brylecreemed hair for the millionth time, “Be honest, does it look bad?”
“Your hair or the sweater?” Steve asked, standing a few feet behind Bucky, distractedly attempting to poke a new hole into his belt with the blunt prong of the buckle. He’d spent the better half of the month trying to tell Bucky he hadn’t been losing weight as his funds depleted, but the evidence was mounting against him.
“The sweater,” Bucky answered. When Steve didn’t instantly reply, he glanced over at Steve’s reflection, “You ain’t even lookin.’”
“Sorry,” Steve grumbled, looking up. While Steve couldn’t attest to the sweater's itch factor, he knew it suited Bucky—tightly knit wool dyed dark blue. “It looks good. The color brings out your eyes.”
Bucky’s face softened, and he smiled, “You’re just sayin’ that.”
“Damn right, I am,” Steve teased, returning his attention to his too-large belt, “At this point, I’d say anythin’ to try to get you away from the mirror.”
“Punk,” Bucky laughed, pulling at the neck of his sweater and scratching at the skin underneath. “Will you check the door again? They should be here by now.”
“I checked a minute ago. They’re not here yet.”
“Can you check again?”
“I just checked, Bucky.”
“Fine,” Bucky finally peeled away from the mirror, “I’ll check.”
“Alright, but I’m tellin’ yah, Buck, I just checked,” Steve murmured, continuing to fiddle with his belt buckle.
The front door creaked as if in response to the swell of cold air and sunlight that rushed in when it opened. Bucky stood at the threshold, grinning, the outlines of his hair and sweater catching the light. Steve thought the effect made Bucky look unreal; something about how the sun ran through him, weaving through his hair and hands, his unsubdued excitement. It was a sweet but fleeting image that would linger in Steve’s subconscious for the rest of the day.
“They here?” Steve asked, breaking the silence and stillness of the moment like the click of a flashbulb camera.
“Yeah,” Bucky replied, looking back at Steve before stepping outside, smiling as he called, “C’mon!”
Steve exhaled and looked in the mirror. His dress coat had seen better days; he could’ve sworn the hems hadn’t always seemed so frayed and the sleeves so thin. Shame anchored in his chest as he attempted to pull a loose string that dangled near his wrist and only unraveled the cloth. He clumsily tucked the string inside his sleeve, deciding to make an attempt at ignoring the issue, and grabbed his sketchbook from a nearby shelf.
Steve could hear Bucky greeting his sister when he reached the landing: “I missed yah, fool. Did you get taller? I swear you’re taller.”
“I saw you last week, sap,” Becca replied, amused, “Maybe you’re gettin’ shorter.”
“Right, I must be shrinking,” Steve was busy locking the door, but he could hear the smile in Bucky’s voice, “‘Cause that’s reasonable.”
“More reasonable than me growin’ in the last week.”
Steve hustled down the stairs, waving to James Barnes Senior, Bucky’s old man, who was too caught up in choking down a cigarette to wave back. When he reached the base of the stairs, Bucky turned toward him. Seemingly immune to the cold, Bucky was beaming as he asked, “Steve, have I been shrinking? Or is Bec taller?”
“Hi, Steve,” Becca said, peeking around Bucky and waving to Steve. She looked like she always did on holidays, with her dark hair curled and pulled back with a bow, how her ma liked it. She was a little taller than the last time he’d seen her.
“Hey, Becca,” Steve replied, accepting the hug Becca snuck by Bucky to initiate. He spoke over Becca’s shoulder as he answered, “I think you’re shrinking, Buck.”
“Alright, glad to hear you’re accepting conspiracy and lies now, Steve.”
Becca rolled her eyes at her brother as she separated from her hug with Steve. “It’s good to see you, Steve. You look good.”
Steve remembered the string tucked haphazardly in his sleeve and smiled at Becca’s misplaced kindness. He’d heard similar sentiments from her parents over the years, despite his continually bedraggled appearance. “Thanks,” he replied. “It’s good to see you, too.”
Having finished his cigarette, James Senior moved to ruffle his son’s hair, mumbling a gruff but loving greeting of, “Hey, kid.” Bucky ducked his father’s hand, muttering something about not touching his hair, and instead gave his dad a quick hug. James Senior patted Bucky’s back as they parted, “You wore the itchy sweater?”
“Ma likes when I wear it, alright?”
It wasn’t a long drive from Steve’s place to the Barnes family home, but it was tradition for them to be picked up for the occasion, so they piled into the car and took off. Becca insisted on the front seat, pushing Bucky and Steve to the cramped back bench. As the car sped towards Park Slope, the legs of their dress pants touched, Bucky leaning forward to keep up the conversation and Steve sitting back, in part to give Bucky space, but also to soak in the congeniality of the moment. For Steve, easy family dynamics like these were a pleasure usually relegated to memory, but in the familiar vehicle suffused with light, chatter, and laughter, he thought of his ma.
Winifred, Bucky’s ma, was waiting for them on the stoop. She looked like she’d been plucked from a painting as her white dress and light blue apron contrasted the brick of their home, as she leaned over to wring water from a towel into the patch of grass beside the stairs. When she spotted them, she straightened and waved.
Bucky was the first out of the car. He jogged over to the stairs, easily hopped up the small flight, and swept his mother into a bear hug. She laughed and held him by the shoulders as she took in his appearance, complimenting his choice of sweater. Becca was second out, followed closely by Steve and, finally, James Senior, who was tucking his pack of cigarettes back into his shirt pocket.
Mrs. Barnes herded everyone into the house, ensured all four pairs of shoes were removed upon entry, and disappeared into the kitchen to poke a loaf of holiday bread. Steve linked the warm, cinnamon-y scent pervading the house to a word—cozonac—a Romanian treat he used to share with Bucky as boys. Now, Bucky trailed his ma like a loyal little dog, following warmth and the promise of snacks. Steve and Becca were still taking off their shoes in the entryway when they heard Winifred chastising Bucky for swiping at what she was preparing. They shared a look and then a laugh when Bucky returned, face flush with embarrassment as he licked the stolen chocolate filling from his fingers.
Summarily banished from the kitchen, the trio arrived at the next stop on the Thanksgiving tour, where they always ended up during the purgatorial hours before the long-awaited meal—Bucky’s childhood bedroom. Becca took up residence on Bucky’s old bed, pushing down her skirt as she sat cross-legged on the ancient floral quilt that stretched over the mattress. Bucky migrated from the door to the windowsill, leaned back, and pressed his weight into his palms. His itchy blue sweater, which he wore out of kindness alone, pulled tight across his shoulders.
Steve sat at Bucky’s desk, where he’d sat many times before. He watched newly stirred dust float through the sunlight, watched its trajectory as it rose and fell, and thought of the fantastical stories Bucky used to craft in this room: tales of heroes and villains, good versus evil. He half-listened as Bucky spoke with Becca, losing words but taking in the timbre of Bucky’s voice; it was wonderfully constant and welcoming. He would always follow Bucky’s voice. He knew this fact with such confidence that for it to be found false would take a total undoing of even the most basic truths, like if one day he were to wake up and learn the blue of the sky had always been black.
Steve looked over Bucky’s head to the highest panel of the window. Decade-old comic strips, ones he’d drawn to match Bucky’s stories, ones they’d deemed their best work, were taped up there. Though the edges of the paper curled and the colors had changed with the sun's bleach, their outlines still danced when the light came in.
“Whadda’ you think, Steve?” Becca’s question tore Steve away from the nostalgia-induced trance he’d fallen into. He realized, suddenly, that he’d missed an entire conversation.
“What?” Steve asked, shaking his head as he attempted to regain his bearings, “Sorry, what was the question?”
Bucky laughed, and for a moment, Steve felt like he was sixteen again; Bucky’s smile was the same as it had always been when at home: wide and unrestrained, sweet. Steve’s cheeks flushed pink as he bashfully watched his friend. He hoped that if Becca noticed his blushing, she would assume it was from embarrassment.
“See?” Bucky asked, “He’s not even thinkin’ about it.”
“You think Bucky is gonna settle down soon?” Becca spoke to Steve as if Bucky wasn’t in the room, “Or be single forever?”
“Single forever?” Steve repeated, inundated with a mental image of paper bandages. He was only fibbing a little when he replied, “Bec, your brother’s got a new girl every other week. That’s not single, ‘least not in my eyes.”
“Oh, ew!”
“Hey, that ain’t true, Steve,” Bucky argued playfully, shrugging as he added, “It’s more like every three weeks. Or a month, maybe. Depends on the person.”
Becca cut in, “See, Bucky, I don’t understand how you could enjoy that. I mean, I’m obviously not all doll-dizzy like you, but what about love? Ever thought of that?”
“What do you know ‘bout love, Becca?” Bucky quirked an eyebrow, turning all attention to her, “You love that boy you’ve been talkin’ about? You love Danny?”
“No,” Becca said firmly, but blushing cheeks betrayed her, “I just like him.”
“Wait, you’re seeing someone?” Steve asked, bewildered.
Becca let out a dramatic sigh as Bucky laughed and said, “I know, right? Makes ya’ feel old.”
“Sure does,” Steve replied, smiling through the shock; he’d known Becca best when she was young and found boys entirely repulsive. Some part of him was unwilling to believe Bucky’s younger sister, who for many years functioned like his own younger sister, was truly growing up.
“Steve, you’re barely older than me,” Becca said, putting on an air of calm, although still noticeably flustered, “And Bucky, I’m not seeing Danny. It’s different; I just like him.”
“It’s different,” Bucky mocked, jumping at the chance to play up a lovestruck imitation of his sister, “I’m sure it is, Rebecca.”
“Don’t be a jerk, James. Haven’t you ever been in love?”
Bucky’s smile softened, “Well, no. I haven’t. But, I’ve been in somethin’ like it, I think.” He paused, “S’enough for me.”
Though he hadn’t been in the direct path of the words, Steve felt like the soundwaves had shot his way and hit him square in the chest. He remembered the secret they shared, yours, a word pressed into walls and sandwiched between wood-pulp papers. Bucky had unintentionally taught him the way of secrets, and now Steve knew that giving a word shape, giving it a leg to stand on, also gave it shadows—and shadows, shadows gave way to greater secrets. Somethin’ like it.
Becca grinned the kind of grin that told Steve she knew precisely what Bucky meant. Still, she laughed and threw a pillow at Bucky, saying, “Then you have no room to talk! Somethin’ like it, what’s that mean? Huh?”
“Means what I said, Bec,” Bucky caught the pillow and pelted it back at her, “Somethin’ like it.”
There was no time to question Bucky further, as seconds after he spoke, Mrs. Barnes's voice rang through the house: “Rebecca? Jamey?” Steve saw them both perk up, forgetting the back-and-forth they’d established, “Poate unul dintre voi să vină să ajute în bucătărie?”
“I have someone over, so, not it,” Bucky whispered, “Your turn.”
“What are we, five?” Becca asked, sliding off the bed and walking to the doorway. She called out, “Doar un minut!”
Steve looked at Bucky, raising an eyebrow to ask, where’s she going?
“Ma needs extra hands in the kitchen,” Bucky replied, easily reading Steve’s expression. “You really just need to learn Romanian.”
“Do I, though?”
“You do,” Becca answered, voice no longer raised to call down the hall, “I’ll be back.”
Bucky and Steve muttered their goodbyes, and Becca took off. Her footsteps echoed as she descended the stairs.
When they were alone, Bucky added, “You do need to learn it.”
“Your whole family speaks fluent English, Buck.”
“So?” Bucky grinned, “Încă mai poți învăța, dragul meu.”
“Right, yeah, whatever that means.”
A comfortable silence blanketed them as they settled into a relaxed routine. Steve listened as Bucky dug through the old chest at the foot of his bed until he found a book, specifically his well-worn copy of The Hobbit. He smiled as he cracked it open and flipped through the pages, starting near the middle of the text, reading under the light of the window.
For a long while, Steve simply watched Bucky. There was nothing particularly spectacular about the sight; he’d seen Bucky read thousands of times before, but it still captivated him. Something about how Bucky’s hands nestled into the corners of the book to hold it, how his eyes darted back and forth, completely engrossed in the story. After some time, Steve picked up his pencil and began to draw the scene.
“This sweater is killin’ me,” Bucky’s voice cut through the quiet room.
Steve looked up from his sketchbook, his blonde hair falling in front of his eyes, “Itchy?”
Bucky nodded. He closed his book with a resounding thump and shuffled to the center of the room, stretching his arms out.
Steve tilted his sketchbook up to hide what he had drawn. He scribbled over a half-finished sketch as he said, “You could take it off for now.”
Bucky groaned. “I didn’t wear an undershirt.”
“I’ve seen you shirtless before, Buck.”
Steve looked up to see Bucky’s smile. “Hm. That is a good point, punk.”
In two short strides, Bucky reached the bedroom door, which he promptly shut. Without hesitation, he crossed his arms, grabbed the bottom hem of his sweater, and pulled it over his head. Steve looked back down at his sketchbook.
“Here,” Bucky tossed his sweater at Steve, “Feel that.”
Steve closed his sketchbook and held Bucky’s navy blue sweater. He ran his fingers over the scratchy material and resisted the obscure urge to put it on, to share sensory experience with Bucky. He felt dull as all he could think to say was, “I could see how this is itchy.”
“S’been driving me mad,” Bucky responded, hands placed just above his hips, elbows jutting out in a way that enhanced his look of displeasure, “I should’ve worn an undershirt.”
Steve looked up, eyes catching on how Bucky’s fingers pressed into the soft skin of his sides. He thought about statues, figures, and what it would take to draw the effect. “Why didn’t you?”
“Sweater didn’t fit right with it on.”
“Mm.”
Bucky walked over to his bed and sat on its edge. He was quiet for a while, eyes tracing the lines of comics on the wall. Steve took the time to steal glances at Bucky, watching the minuscule movements of his chest and shoulders as he breathed. Finally, Bucky turned and said, “You didn’t ever read The Hobbit, did you?”
Steve looked up, “No.”
“I think you’d like it,” Bucky exhaled and laid back, “It’s about adventure.”
Steve sat up a little straighter to look at Bucky’s face, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Bucky replied, turning his head Steve’s way. Steve shrunk back down in his chair. “I feel like you’re the kind of person who’d wanna go on an adventure.”
“Do you?” Steve smiled, “I’ve never even left New York, Buck.”
“Sure, but—” Bucky cut himself off with a smile, “Maybe I’m projecting. It’s just—it’s somethin’ I like about you. You’re brave.”
Steve couldn’t help but chuckle, “Am I, now?”
“You really are,” Bucky said, turning his face back toward the ceiling. He spoke quietly, shrugging a shoulder, “I was thinkin’ about it ‘cause, well, don’t make fun of me, alright? But in The Hobbit, there’s a line about courage being found in unlikely places. First time I read it, I swear, I thought of you.”
“I’m hardly courageous.”
“I don’t think that’s true. I just think you don’t see it.”
“I’d argue you’re more courageous than me. You were always breakin’ up the fights I got into as a kid.”
Bucky smiled, eyes still on the ceiling, “But I wasn’t the one who got into ‘em. You’re the one who cares about things. I just care about you.”
“What did Becca call you earlier?” Steve teased, but his voice remained quiet and thoughtful, “A sap?”
Steve wasn’t looking at Bucky, but he could hear his smile. “Alright, pal.” Bucky said, “Forget it, then.”
By the time Becca came upstairs on her mission to wrangle the boys downstairs for food, Bucky’d fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the Thanksgiving day book, the illusion of a rejuvenating mid-day nap. Steve tossed Bucky’s sweater on top of him to wake him up, rousing a somnolent and slightly shy Bucky, who kicked his sister out of his room as she laughed at him for having fallen asleep shirtless with Steve over. Bucky’s once-perfect hair was a little tousled, but Steve thought he looked nice like that, and together, they ambled downstairs.
The Thanksgiving meal, as it was every year at the Barnes house, was a formidable feast. Steve was sure he’d never get used to the sight of it—the ornately decorated table, Winifred’s best glassware and polished silverware, the plates stacked with fresh vegetables and smoked meats. It was nothing like any supper his ma had ever prepared, nothing like five-cent chopped round steak mixed with stale breadcrumbs cooked in suet, but still, he thought of his ma. He stood in the corner of the dining room, closing his eyes as he listened to the slightly out-of-earshot rumblings of Bucky and Becca bickering at each other and remembered the quiet of his old home. He thought of laundry hung from the ceiling, their shoddy wood stove, the sheet that doubled as a tablecloth, the candles and matches kept on the mantle. When he opened his eyes and was met with the Barnes’s dining room, he felt like he’d been yanked through time.
Eventually, everyone made it to the table. Mrs. Barnes seemed considerably more relaxed now that the cooking was through, and Bucky and Becca appeared to have finished their bickering, so spirits were high. Mrs. Barnes said grace twice, once in Romanian and once in English, for Steve and James Senior. On the second round of prayers, the English round, Steve decided to be a bad Catholic and peeked across the table. Bucky had also quietly turned his attention away from God, and when their eyes met, he winked back at Steve. Steve clamped his eyes shut after that and blushed so hard that his cheeks were still red by the end of the prayer.
Later, after servings of cozonac and small but warm cups țuică, Bucky and Becca dipped out the backdoor to talk in the garden. James Senior took his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and went out to the stoop. With nowhere else to go, Steve landed in the kitchen, helping to do dishes by drying the plates.
“Thank you again for helping, Steve,” Winifred Barnes said, passing another soaked plate Steve’s way, “You would think my own family would help, but no, those kids are too spoiled. And James, well, he’s James. I don’t think I’ve seen that man in the kitchen once in all the years we’ve been married.”
“I don’t mind helpin,’” Steve replied, pouring the rinse water into a bucket. He meant what he said. The smell of Ivory brand bar soap and the sweat of the hot water’s steam washed him in nostalgia and comfort. “Livin’ alone, I got no one else to do my dishes. I’m used to it.”
“That’s good. You keep that up for your future wife, and she’ll thank you for that,” Winifred said, extending a spoon to Steve. “My Jamey? I don’t think he’ll be any help in the kitchen.”
“I don’t know.” Steve took the spoon and used his towel-covered thumb to absorb any water left in the bowl. “He keeps his place clean, at least.”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” Winifred passed a plate to Steve. “I wish he’d have us over. I understand he’s busy, and trust me, I’m proud that he’s an engineer. Of course I am. But he can’t be working all the time.”
“When was the last time you went over?”
“Oh, we haven’t been yet.”
Steve nearly dropped the plate he’d just been handed, “You haven’t been to Bucky’s?”
Winifred was too busy scrubbing at the dried remnants of a mustard dip in a saucer to notice Steve’s shock. “No, no, he’s always making excuses, that boy.”
Steve stood straight; he hadn’t been slouching before, but the comment took all the potential slack from his spine as he remembered a conversation he’d attempted to forget. How Bucky had said a lot of his neighbors were that way, how he’d said it would be easier to get picked up from Steve’s place instead of his.
It was then that Bucky and Becca barged through the backdoor, tumbling into the kitchen and laughing. Bucky flushed pink when he saw Steve, with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled to his elbows and hands lost in the sink. Steve blushed back, looking at the rosemary sprigs stuck in Bucky’s hair, their outlines making horns. It was a welcome leftover of an old childhood tradition. As children, blissfully unaware of the true need behind Great War victory gardens, Becca would pull out rosemary sprigs and stick them in Bucky’s hair to make him a horned devil when they played pretend. In some of Steve’s earliest memories of knowing Bucky, he smelled like rosemary.
Bucky gently patted the rosemary horns and asked, “Did we miss dish duty?”
The second half of the dishes were done to the sounds of the Barnes family gramophone, which Bucky made sure to play all the Broadway hits on to appease his ma. Predictably, Bucky did more dancing than washing, but no one was upset. Steve hung by the sink and smiled as he watched Bucky take his ma and sister's soapy hands into his own, pulling them into the jam. It stung to think of Bucky as hiding something as simple as where he lived from these people who obviously loved him so much, but that wasn’t the focus now. Steve let the moment be good, and even swayed a little when the songs he knew came on.
They got back to Steve’s place around dusk. After saying goodbye to James Senior, Bucky and Steve stood on the landing outside, watching the red car drive into the blue night. Steve reached into his pocket, fingers searching for his key, but only found another moth hole.
“Dammit,” Steve mumbled, stuffing his hand into his other pants pocket, “Ah, goddammit.”
Without a word, Bucky stepped past Steve and slid the brick near Steve’s door with his shoe, revealing the spare key.
“Pocket-hole?”
“Yeah,” Steve sighed, defeated. He reached down and grabbed the spare key. "It must’ve fallen out at your folk's house.”
“I’m goin’ back there this week. I’ll get it for you.”
“Shit. Thanks.”