Bucky comes home with his skin sun-warm and shirt un-tucked. He smells like spun sugar and sea spray, laughs like he’s drunk, makes the old springs beneath the couch cushions creak as he collapses onto them. There’s the red imprint of a kiss on his cheek.
Steve with his sketchbook is sitting by the open window, sleeves rolled up but sweater on; it’s hot out but he’s still thin.
“You should’ve come.” Eyes closed, head back. Bucky’s collar is open. His voice sounds drowsy and soft.
“What, and trail around after you and your date like the saddest third wheel in the world?”
“It wasn’t a date,” Bucky says, mildly. “We’re pals, that’s all.”
“Yeah, sure.” Steve scoffs, but gently. He closes his book. “Her lipstick’s on your cheek.”
As he passes by Bucky catches him by the wrist. He kisses him so quick he’d have missed it if he’d blinked. Looks at him for a long moment after, sunburned or blushing or both. Each of them as stunned as the other. The air is still and the sun-setting summer light is golden. Words come slow.
“Yeah, but. Mine’s on your mouth.”
“Guess I win, then, huh.”
“Guess you do.”