Chapter Text
“Get in here, Rogers.”
“Say Cheese!”
Steve smiled awkwardly, Sam’s arm slung around his shoulders as Natasha snapped a picture of the four of them in the mirror behind the barre. Bucky laughed and winked, and Steve’s heart gave a little flip--just like it always did.
Natasha checked the pic, letting out a little hum as she considered her approval. “You look like a putz, James,” she said, her tone dry to anyone who didn’t know her well enough to hear the tease.
“Impossible,” Bucky said, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m so charming it leaks through even to cameras. They love me. I’m very photogenic. It’s almost a curse.”
Rolling her eyes, Natasha handed her phone off to Sam so he could see the pic. “Photogenic? Charming? It that what you call it?”
“I’m incredibly charming. Steve, tell Nat how charming I am.”
“He thinks he’s very charming,” Steve said, glancing over Sam’s shoulder to see the shot of the four of them. His comment resulted in Bucky and Nat dissolving into some good-natured bickering, but he had long ago learned to block them out. Besides, it was hard to pay attention to much of anything when staring at a picture of Bucky where he looked so--charming. Perfect. Everything about Bucky Barnes was perfect. Always had been. When they were little, in the early days of classes and training, Bucky’s perfection had been what drove Steve to try to be better, to achieve more. Now, it was just what he wanted.
“Steve. Stevie.” Bucky gave his shoulder a light shove, breaking the spell of thoughts that had taken Steve elsewhere for a moment.
“Yeah? What?”
Bucky laughed. “Stop zonin’ out, man.”
“Sorry.”
Sam handed Natasha’s phone back to her. “Good one. Send it to me, yeah?”
Nat nodded, tapping the screen a few times. “I’ll send it to all of you. The perfect memento of our last class together. Here, that is. Though possibly forever.”
“Way to be a downer, Tasha,” Sam said, stretching out his feet as their instructor entered the room.
“A realist,” Natasha said. “I’m a realist.”
“Fuckin’ downer,” Bucky said.
Natasha stuck out her tongue at him.
“Phone away, hair up, Miss Romanoff,” their instructor called from across the room. “And watch your language, Mr. Barnes.”
“Sorry, Miss Alina,” Bucky said, all smiles. Miss Alina was ordinarily tough as nails, but even she found it difficult to resist that Barnes Charm.
“Save it for someone else,” she said, but one corner of her mouth had quirked up a bit just before she turned away to speak with the pianist, and Steve knew Bucky knew he had won.
It was a comfortable, familiar atmosphere that Steve would sorely miss. Because, while it was the last class of Bucky and Natasha’s senior year, Steve and Sam were only juniors. They were going their separate ways--some to careers, others to more school and training. As Steve took his place at the barre, with Bucky’s steady presence at his back, he tried not to dwell on how nothing would ever be the same again.
#
James Buchanan Barnes was an expert on three things:
Women, ballet, and Steve Rogers.
Which is why he knew something was up as they went through barre, then adagio, petite allegro, grand allegro, and finally reverence with Steve only cracking a smile if Bucky sent one his way first.
Natasha had apparently picked up on it as well, because the look she gave Bucky as she untied her pointe shoes was a clear “I assume you’ll deal with this.”
From anyone else, it would have been a slightly softer “You got Rogers?” kind of expression, but Nat tended to be harsh even when she was being sweet. Bucky gave her the ever appropriate “I got this” nod, which satisfied her as she freed her no doubt aching toes, and headed over to Steve who was finishing his water bottle.
“Hey, Steve-o.”
“Hey, Buck.” Steve capped the now empty bottle and tossed it into his bag.
“Make sure you refill that thing.” They were all headed to separate rehearsals now for the remainder of the day, and Bucky would never be able to concentrate on his showcase piece for tomorrow if he was worrying about Steve.
“Thanks, ma. Never would have thought of that.”
“Don’t sass me, punk. You have actually forgotten before.”
At that Steve’s cheeks turned a bit red. Not the pink flush he got when he was flustered or embarrassed, but the deeper shade that meant he was annoyed because Bucky was right. And so Bucky elected not to ask about Steve’s inhaler--but only because he could see it in the side pouch of his bag. “What time is your rehearsal over?”
“Three o’clock.” Steve brushed his hair back out of his face. “Guess they want us off the stage so you grads can have at it.” This time when he smiled it was bittersweet. Only the right side of his mouth quirked up. “Sam and I were planning on heading out for a bit afterwards, until you and Nat are done.”
“Good plan.” The studio was clearing out, everyone off to their respective rehearsals. Natasha and Sam were just outside, hanging in the hallway, waiting for them. Steve was shoving his extra shirt into his bag. Bucky took the opportunity to count Steve’s breaths without him knowing, study the color of his cheeks . . . He seemed fine. So whatever the problem was, it wasn’t health related.
They were the only ones left in the studio. It was now or never. “Everything okay?”
Shouldering his bag, Steve fixed Bucky with a confused look, and damn if he wasn’t so adorable that way, hair falling in his eyes, forehead crinkled . . . “What do you mean?”
“You seem off today, is all.”
“Oh.” Steve shook his head, then immediately had to brush his hair back again. “I’m fine. You okay? You’re the one with the big performance tomorrow.”
There it was. The way he ducked his head, looked away, shuffled his feet. Classic Steve Rogers avoidance technique.
Truth be told, Bucky was almost tempted to do the same. The performance tomorrow would determine at least the next few years of his life--if not the rest of it. If he did well, he would be offered a spot in a company. And that company could be anywhere in the country--the world. Tomorrow could take him far from New York. Far from home.
Far from Steve.
“Steve, tomorrow won’t--”
“Hey, Bucky!” A bright voice called from the doorway. It was Clara, his partner in the showcase. She waved when he looked over, smiling excitedly. “Don’t dawdle too long, okay?” she said. “I’d like to practice that lift before everything gets started.”
“Sure thing.”
She chirped a thanks and skipped off arm in arm with her friend, Nora.
Steve’s laugh drew Bucky’s attention back to his best friend. “You’re too charming for your own good, ya know.”
“Didn’t we already have this conversation today?”
“Careful where you flash that grin of yours, Barnes,” Steve said, heading towards the door. “Sometimes I think the girls’ leotards will fall off of their own accord.”
“Har har. You’re a funny man, Rogers.”
“It’s a gift.” Self-deprecating snark. Which was his real gift. A gift Bucky wished he could snatch away, throw off a cliff and watch it smash against the jagged rocks below. But in ten years of friendship he had yet to be successful.
“Hey, Steve.” Bucky reached for his elbow, but Steve turned casually, preventing him.
“You’d better not be late, Buck.”
He didn’t want to talk about it. It was written all over his stupid, beautiful face. He knew Bucky wanted to get to the root of whatever it was that was bothering him, but he also knew Bucky would never push him in front of the others. So he kept heading towards the door.
Damn him. Stubborn punk.
Sam pushed away from the wall as they reached the door. “Ready to go?”
“All set,” Steve said. He took up his place at Sam’s side, already heading to the right. “We’ll see you later. I’d wish you luck, but I know you’ll both be great.” This directed at both Bucky and Natasha.
“Fill your water bottle,” Bucky called after him as he and Sam went on their way. Steve stiffened for a moment (almost certainly irritated by the reminder, and more so because Bucky was positive he had already forgotten), then proceeded to pull the empty bottle from his bag before continuing on.
Natasha bumped her shoulder against Bucky’s. “So?”
“So what?”
“Did you talk to him?”
“As much as anyone can talk to the stubborn punk when he doesn’t want to talk. I don’t know what his problem is today.”
“Seriously?”
“What?”
Nat sighed, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder. “You’re dumber than a bag of bricks sometimes, I swear.”
“Where the hell is this coming from? Do you know what’s wrong with him?”
“Yes.”
Bucky threw up his arms. “Are you going to tell me?”
“I just might. I thought you could figure it out for yourself, but apparently not. Too stupid.” She headed towards the large rehearsal studios, most of their classmates already out of sight.
Bucky followed. “Really not cute, Nat.”
“Cute’s not really my thing anyway.”
“You got a point?”
“Sure. Why did we break up last year?”
“You broke up with me.”
“You eventually agreed with me. Why?”
“Um . . . because you clearly didn’t want to be my girlfriend anymore. What does this have to do with Steve?”
“Wrong.”
“Jesus, Nat.” He moved to the side when a group of underclassman girls filed through. “Why don’t you just tell me my own mind then, huh? Since you clearly know better than I do.”
There were certain times when it became obvious that if Nat ever failed as a dancer she could have a shining career as an international spy. Now was one of those times. She fixed Bucky with a gaze that rivaled a cold Russian winter, and he felt it all the way down to his toes.
“You’re in love with Steve.”
The ice from her stare was suddenly coupled with an entirely different brand of cold. She knew. She’d seen. His best kept secret, his longest kept secret, found out. She knew. Had he been so transparent? No. Not possible. He dated girls, all the time. Had a steady girlfriend fairly often to keep up appearances. It wasn’t all a façade. He liked girls, he did. He and Nat had been great together, but--
“And he’s in love with you.”
Bucky’s thoughts derailed completely.
“What? No. Steve doesn’t--Steve’s not--he isn’t in love with me.”
“Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” She started walking again, shaking her head. “Honestly, James, I gave you far too much credit.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just think about it for a few minutes. He hasn’t dated anyone--”
“Lots of people don’t date. That doesn’t mean--”
“He’s always with you. Always defends you, drops everything for you. Looks at you like the sun shines out of your ass.”
“He’s my best friend.”
“When he’s not dancing he’s drawing, and do you know what he fills that sketchbook of his with?”
“Steve is really private about his--”
“You.” Natasha stopped just outside the door that would lead to the studios, thumping her finger against his chest. “And he’s upset today because whatever happens tomorrow it’s going to take you away from him and he’s terrified. And so are you. You just hide it better.”
“Not well enough apparently . . .”
“I’m different. I know you better than most people.”
“He’s never done anything--I mean, why wouldn’t he say anything?”
A string of Russian curses was his answer. “James,” Natasha said, once finished admonishing him in a language he didn’t speak, “make a move. Take a leap of faith. Time’s short.” She grabbed the door handle and pulled. “More so because we’ll be late if we stay out here any longer. Come on.”
Bucky followed, but in a daze. He didn’t know how he was supposed to get through rehearsal now that all he could think about was Steve and the possibility that Natasha might be right. Clara cuffed him across the shoulder a few times for not paying attention, and more than once he missed her hand when the choreography called for a connection. During one of their short breaks Natasha smacked him upside the head, telling him to focus, which was entirely unfair as his lack of focus was her fault.
By the end of the day their instructors were giving him funny looks--it wasn’t like him to be so off his game--and Clara was threatening to ask for a new partner (not actually a possibility). But by the time they were rehearsing with the orchestra Bucky had settled, both in mind and body. He danced alongside Clara and the others with the grace and ease they expected of him and Clara had once again been won over by his smile and skill, declaring her luck at having the best partner in the school. Everyone was clapping him on the back, assuring him that tomorrow would be wonderful.
Bucky was only thinking about tonight.
He had a plan.
#
Bucky’s text was simple: Meet me on stage. 7:00.
Steve didn’t think twice, just typed the equally simple okay and hit send.
It was in the in between hours that his mind began to race, coming up with a thousand different scenarios for why Bucky could possibly want to meet him on the stage.
To show him something? Once, three years ago, Bucky had found one of the older girl’s spare pair of pointe shoes and--being that Steve was smaller than he was--insisted that Steve try them on.
The result had been unexpected.
“Ow! Holy shit!” Steve had exclaimed, holding onto Bucky’s forearms for dear life as he struggled to maintain his balance on the very tips of his toes. “How do they do this all day?”
Bucky had laughed, mostly at the fact that Steve--only thirteen at the time--had swore. And Steve never swore. At least, he hadn’t at that point.
After a few minutes Steve had gotten the hang of it, and the pain started to ebb from a burning to a reasonable numbness. “S’not so bad,” Steve finally decided, balancing on his own, but not daring anything more.
After that, Bucky made it his mission to find a pair his could fit his own feet into.
When he did, he cursed far more than Steve had.
But there couldn’t be much of anything on the stage that they hadn’t discovered together by now. So maybe Bucky just wanted Steve to meet him there because that’s where he would be when finally released from rehearsal.
Or maybe he wanted to tell him something and at that point the stage would be empty and private and they could . . .
Yeah right.
And then he was thinking of three years ago again, and how that had been the first time he had been so very aware of how Bucky’s arms felt under his hands--strong, hard, steady. Hot and trembling slightly with excitement. Or had that been Steve? Sometimes it was hard to know the difference, to know where he left off and Bucky began.
Other times it was painfully clear.
He didn’t want to think about the days to come, when he would look up and Bucky wouldn’t be beside him, when he would no longer trust that they presence at his back at barre was Bucky Barnes.
The rest of the advanced students who weren’t graduating had made plans to get pizza after rehearsal, and so Steve and Sam went along. Steve forgot his ridiculous worry over meeting Bucky later, and managed to laugh and carry on with his other classmates. Until the girls (and some of the boys) started lamenting the impending loss of one James Barnes, then the world went a bit fuzzy.
Maggie would miss the way Bucky always held her steady during lifts, and the sweet smile she’d receive at the end of a variation.
Simone would miss the flirting. The fun exchange that came so easily with the promise of everything and the threat of nothing.
Caroline would miss the way he kissed. Soft at first, then more and more heated as permission was given.
Liam would miss the view, which he said with a wistful sigh.
The girl’s threw pizza crust at him. After all, they pointed out, they only had so many options. The ratio of straight (or even bi) boys to straight girls in the dance world was highly unbalanced.
Steve kept his thoughts to himself. He’d lamented the fact that Bucky only seemed interested in girls for years himself.
Six-thirty rolled around and Steve excused himself from the festivities, taking with him promises to pass along messages of luck and love to Bucky.
The stage was mostly dark when he arrived, lit by the work lights only, though as he moved through the wings he could feel the lingering heat of the stage lights. Bucky stood at the center, dressed in nothing by his black dance pants, chest slightly glistening with sweat as he marked through the hardest sequence of choreography. Steve had seen him do it before, he knew the concentration it took to execute.
Of course it would have been easier if Bucky’d had his partner with him, but Steve didn’t say anything, didn’t interrupt. Watching Bucky dance, seeing the muscles ripple along his back with each step, each turn, did funny things to Steve’s stomach.
Even beyond the physical view, watching Bucky dance had always been a rather ethereal experience. He moved with grace and controlled power, strength that guaranteed precision, and a surety that captivated audiences. For as long as he could remember Steve had been able to lose himself in watching Bucky dance. It had to be the single most beautiful thing that existed on this earth.
Bucky completed the grand jeté en tournant, landing just shy of Steve’s watching place, and stopped dead, his balance slightly off. There was a funny twitch to his mouth, and a fidgety tick to his hands that no one often saw. Steve saw it from time to time, but so rarely. Confidence usually oozed from Bucky’s pores; if he was slipping, something was up.
But just like that it was gone, hidden, cast aside, and the cocky smile and riveting charm were back. Everything was normal again. “Steve! Just in time. Get over here and help me figure this out.” He side stepped, his feet mapping out the first sequence of the pas de deux. With a grin, he executed a flawless triple tour, landed gracefully on one knee, and swept his hand out to Steve in invitation.
“Really, Buck?”
“Big audition tomorrow. Gotta practice.”
“You had rehearsal all day.”
“Don’t feel solid yet.”
“Why didn’t you call Natasha for this?” Steve kept to the wings. He knew that gleam in the eye--Bucky was up to something.
“She’s out with Clint.”
“The archery kid?” They’d met him two weeks back while out at a club. They were underage, but somehow they all got in. Steve didn’t want to know what had been done to get his 12-year-old-looking self in past the bouncers. Steve had clung to the wall awkwardly while Bucky and Nat entertained the entire crowd with their heated and passionate dance. That is, until Nat had caught sight of Clint, and deserted her first partner. Bucky spent the rest of the evening trying to get Steve to loosen up enough to dance to the heavy bass beat. Ballet was easier.
“The archery kid. Come on, Steve, hurry up. My knee is starting to ache here.”
“Buck--”
“You take my hand, I stand and pivot here . . .” Bucky went through the motions, then crooked his fingers to beckon Steve forward.
“I’m not a girl, Buck.”
“Didn’t say you were. Come on.”
Steve sighed, already feeling his resolve crumbling. He’d never been very good at resisting Bucky Barnes, not since that first day, when that grinning, front-tooth-missing boy had suggested they try to sneak up on the ducks in Central Park. His hand had been extended then too, just like it was now.
They’d both ended up bit.
Who knew ducks had teeth?
“I don’t know the part.” A last ditch effort.
“Sure ya do. Saw you helping Sharon just the other day. You know it.”
“The guys’ part.” Damn, damn, damn. This wasn’t gonna work. Bucky knew. Steve could see it in his eyes. He knew Steve’s memory--the talent he had for picking up, for learning things he hadn’t done himself but had only seen . . .
“Both parts.”
Steve sighed. “I’m in my jeans.” He’d changed before going out, and his dance bag was back in the dorm.
“It’ll be fine. Be a pal, Stevie. My whole future could be riding on this.”
The truth of the statement, of tomorrow, hit hard, but Steve left the safety of the wings, placing his hand in Bucky’s. “You’re a real jerk sometimes, ya know that?”
“Takes one to know one, punk. Okay, now, stand right there.”
His hand was warm as he pulled Steve around, placing him where he wanted him: center stage, facing the empty seats of the audience.
Empty, but Steve suddenly felt like every last one was staring at him. At them. Bucky had a hand at his waist, and Steve couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like against his bare skin, rather than his T-shirt.
Get your head on straight, Rogers. Ain’t like Bucky’s never touched you before. Hell, you’ve shared a bed (best and worst night’s sleep Steve’s ever gotten). Today is no different.
Except it was.
Because it was the last day.
Everything was going to change.
Without realizing it he was moving through the choreography. Bucky had been right--he did know both parts. Choreography came easily to him, always had. It was the prolonged exertion, the lifts, that caused him problems.
Chassé, and glissade, and tombé pas de bourrée. Piqué fuette, and hold, a balance through fié, and it just kept flowing. They passed one another, then met again, crossed center, then pulled back. The turn section was fast approaching, and Steve felt his brain kick back in when he and Bucky were finally together once again--centered, Bucky’s arms outstretched, ready for the next step, which Steve had not moved into.
“Steve, what’s wrong? This is the part I really need help with. I keep jumbling my feet and Clara threatened to break my leg if I do it tomorrow.”
“Then she should be here doing this. I don’t see how practicing with me is gonna do you any good. I can’t do the turns and lifts at this part.”
“Sure ya can.”
“Well, I’m not gonna.” Steve snapped, harsher than he had intended. Yes, he was small, light enough that Bucky could probably lift him no trouble at all--but he didn’t need the reminder. Not when just that day he had once again had to endure the glowering expression of Tara, who had the misfortune of being coupled with him in partnering class.
He could never complete any of the lifts. He sure as hell wouldn’t complete them from the other side.
His tone sobered Bucky, who dropped his arms and all pretences of not understanding. “All right, no lifts. Can we do the end though? The sequence always trips me up, and I had to stop today, couldn’t take Clara’s harping any longer. You always know the best way to break it down. Just help me with that. Please?”
Steve did. Of course he did. Even though his heart was pounding, and his palms were sweaty, and his chest felt tight--not asthma tight, thank god; though on second thought, at least he had an inhaler to deal with that. He stood side by side with Bucky, broke down each movement, clarified where his weight should be through each transition, each moment of balance. Bucky was a good student, took direction well, but Steve couldn’t help but wonder--
He’s seen Bucky perform this only two days before, he’d been pretty damn good. Graceful, on point, always right where he needed to be.
Nerves then?
Steve couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Bucky nervous about a performance.
The final sequence of the choreography was an assisted pirouette, followed by a promenade, a lift, all culminating in a very dramatic dip.
He didn’t see Bucky move until it was too late. He had been explaining the benefits of keeping your weight in the toe of your back foot when suddenly his balance was up-ended, turned around, and he found himself in Bucky’s arms, halfway to the floor, hands scrambling to hold onto those strong biceps while Bucky grinned down at him.
“Hey there, Stevie.”
“H-hey, Buck,” Steve stammered, too shocked to protest. “This, ah, this isn’t part of the choreography.”
“I know. I think, you and me, we don’t venture outside the lines enough.”
Holy shit. Did Bucky’s gaze just drop to Steve’s mouth? No. No. He imagined it. Just like he’s imagining the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest--so close to him--being faster than usual.
Steve wiggled, trying to get free. He couldn’t be this close, not with his thoughts the way they were . . .
But Bucky didn’t let him go. “Steve.”
Steve couldn’t get his feet under himself without pressing his hips against his best friend’s, and that was out of the question. He was stuck. “Let me up.” There was something between them, something crackling, a heat that didn’t usually fill the air.
God, what was this? He wasn’t sure he could take it.
“I wanna ask you something, Steve.” Bucky’s voice was half a whisper, as if he could feel it too.
Oh god, could he feel it too?
“Okay.” It seemed like too many words would shatter this mystery presence. “Can I stand?”
“Promise not to run?”
Run? “Promise.” He’d promise Bucky anything, even if he didn’t understand why.
Bucky was gentle as he set Steve back on his feet, and it was impossible to miss the hesitation before he took his hands away from Steve’s waist.
Steve almost grabbed his hands and put them back. Almost.
And then Bucky spoke. “What do you want, Steve?”
“What?”
“What do you--No. That’s probably not the best way to say it. Damn.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Had this all planned out. Now I’m stumblin’ all over myself. Heh. I’m turning into you.”
Steve punched him in the arm.
Bucky laughed. “Yeah. I deserved that.”
“Just say whatever it is you want to say.”
“Can’t seem to say it right. Heh . . . Maybe I’ll . . .” He stopped, looked at Steve, visibly thinking for a moment, then smiled. “Leap of faith, huh?”
“What?”
The word was barely out of his mouth before Bucky’s lips were on his.
Steve’s mind went blank, his body froze, he forgot to breathe, how to think--the only thing that existed was the heat of Bucky’s mouth, the soft press of lips--his hand on Steve’s hip.
Thought returned in a flurry, Steve’s heart stuttered in his chest before racing towards a finish line he couldn’t see. Bucky was kissing him. Kissing him. Kissing. Him. He tasted like peppermint and cigarettes and sweat--and god Steve had never wanted more of anything ever before in his life.
He parted his lips, not sure if he was about to say something, do something, or just remembering that he needed to breathe-- It didn’t matter. All things left him once again when he then felt Bucky’s tongue dart out into that new space, and Steve’s tongue instinctively moved to meet it.
The stage door creaked open, deafening in the silence, and startling both boys into breaking away from one another. Steve was shocked at how instantly cold he felt without Bucky’s body pressed against his.
Voices followed the sound of the door--male and female, vaguely discussing business-type things. Steve panicked, even though it wasn’t against the rules for them to be on stage, and it certainly wasn’t against the rules for them to be kissing, but--
God. They had been kissing.
Steve was fairly sure his brain wasn’t working.
Bucky grabbed him by the hand and pulled him off stage-right, folding their bodies into the curtains of the wings just before the footsteps from stage-left accompanying the voices hit the stage. Their bodies once again pressed together, Steve focused on clearing his head and remembering to breathe. He set a shaking hand against Bucky’s bare chest, feeling the steady heartbeat below all that muscle and set to work making his own pulse match.
Bucky looked down at him, silent worry all over his face. Steve could read him like an open book, wondering if Steve’s shock was born happy surprise, or disgust. Bucky’s hands had wandered back to Steve’s hips, but his fingers twitched, as if he was about to let go--
Which was the very last thing Steve wanted.
So he grabbed his best friend by the back of the neck, pulled him down, and kissed him.
He didn’t have a lot of practice, but he figured as long as their lips were pressed together Bucky would get the idea.
They kissed softly for a while, Bucky guiding him gently, a hand on his cheek there, the turn of his chin, and most remarkably, the tentative touch of his tongue once again. Steve opened his mouth, letting Bucky in, and his knees nearly buckled at the sensations that ran down his spine, into his stomach . . . and lower.
The voices faded, the stage door once again opening and closing, leaving them alone, and in silence.
Bucky broke their kiss, but only moved so far as to rest his forehead against Steve’s. They were both out of breath, despite the slow pace of their explorations.
Steve swallowed hard. “Okay,” he said, surprised his voice worked at all. “So . . . that’s what you wanted to tell me?”
A laugh, low and warm and only half completed rose from Bucky’s throat. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
“Ah.” Steve didn’t dare move, even just to do something as mundane as nod. “Well, good to know.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The uncertainty in Bucky’s voice made him smile a little. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”
“Didn’t know it was an option.”
Now it was Steve’s turn to laugh. “Idiot.”
“Oh, like you knew.” Bucky gave Steve’s side a little squeeze, then pulled him closer when Steve instinctively tried to move away.
“Nah,” Steve conceded, happily folding himself back into Bucky’s arms. “I didn’t know either.”
“Stupid.”
“You must be rubbin’ off on me.”
“Careful, Rogers, I can still change my mind.”
“No, you can’t,” Steve said, knowing there was no real threat behind his friend’s words.
Bucky gave a little tilt of his head. “Yeah, you’re right.” He kissed Steve again, and it was easier this time, having a basic idea of what the other liked, seeking out soft sighs and tiny moans.
“So,” Bucky said when they were forced to break for air, “we’re doing this?”
If he was dreaming, Steve did not want to wake up. “We’re doing this.”
“Good. What next?” He grinned that grin that had always done funny things to Steve, and Steve let himself imagine for a moment all the possibilities.
They were endless.
He started with another kiss.