Chapter Text
The first time, Steve’s sixteen years old and trying not to retch at the smell of the sweaty, cramped school gymnasium. He’s standing awkwardly in the middle of a swarm of people, hands tucked behind his back against the stiffly pressed suit Bucky had dragged out of his closet just for tonight. It fits a little too loose on Steve, so if he doesn’t cuff the sleeves, it drapes around his fingers like a glorified window curtain — which he hates, because it means he’s still too small to be of use to anyone, but it also means that Bucky can hang his arm around Steve’s neck and let his fingers brush across his bare shoulders and give a devilish laugh when he finds Steve’s ticklish spot. Steve can’t lie and say he’s not a fan of that.
“Ma’d kill me if she knew I was letting you borrow my good church suit,” Bucky had said, three hours earlier. His fingers toy with the lapel and eventually find their way to Steve’s collar; Steve’s grateful, because if he’d had to figure out how to wear it himself, he’d just as soon have put it on inside-out and backwards. He doesn’t have the experience with dressing all fancy and acting like a gentleman that Bucky does, even if they do come from the same side of the tracks, and when half his clothes end up torn and soiled with dirt from the backalley fights he keeps picking, there’s no point in paying extra for those spiffy, too-expensive suits.
“Said you didn’t have to lend it, Buck,” Steve says for what has to be the fifth time, which earns him a swift punch in the shoulder and an indignant look from Bucky. Steve feigns an exasperated glare; Bucky’s face melts into a smirk just mischievous enough to make Steve mutter jerk under his breath.
“Stevie. Hey.” Bucky tugs at his own suit sleeves and smooths a hand down the front of his chest. “Enough of that. You barely leave home ‘cept for your classes, and I’m not gonna be the one who lets you wither away from lack of social interaction.” He gives Steve a poke in the chest, eyes crinkling at the corners like they always do when he knows he’s got him right where he wants him. “C’mon. It’ll be fun.”
Steve rolls his eyes fondly, because maybe he doesn’t look forward to the uncomfortable emptiness in the pit of his stomach from Bucky’s ever-adored outings, but there’s something about being cared for that makes his head go all fuzzy and his heart clench in some twisted sort of longing. He’s just not quite sure how to do it — let someone pay attention to him. It’s symptomatic of his only-child loneliness, maybe; he’s used to his ma working long shifts, in and out of the factory all day and stumbling home well past eleven at night in the heels he knows she hates to wear, and so he’s had to get used to fending for himself, especially after Bucky picked up a part-time shift of his own down at the docks. Not that Steve minds, necessarily — being alone is something he’s mastered, and occasionally, he even likes it — but.
But it’s been Bucky there when Steve’s insides feel like they’re going to spill all over the linoleum after a particularly bad coughing fit, when he’s left bedridden for days with scarlet fever burning at his eyes and throat and chest, when his heart is pounding too fast for his weary lungs to keep up. Steve’s lucky to have Bucky, luckier still that he sticks around when things get bad, and it’s knowing that he’s there to care about Steve even when Steve forgets to care about himself that finally urges him to tilt his head in a subtle yet agreeing nod. “Fine, but if you get suckered into buying all the girls drinks afterwards, I don’t want a word about it tomorrow morning.” To that, all he gets is a chuckle as Bucky turns away to comb back his hair, but it leaves Steve with a cheeky grin on his face that doesn’t disappear until well after Bucky tosses him a teasing glare.
That’s how Steve finds himself alone at his very first high school dance, trapped between two dance partners that are refusing to look one another in the eye and a couple that’s so publicly intimate that Steve feels like he should look away out of respect. He’s used to being the odd one out, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it — somewhere deep inside his gut there’s an undying urge to feel known, understood, wanted, hold the room with the same magnetism as Bucky, who’s encircled by a gaggle of giggling girls and grinning with flushed cheeks and disheveled hair. It isn’t until Bucky finds his eyes from across the gymnasium and turns up the corners of his mouth ever so slightly that he acknowledges the sick jealousy that clouds his brain. Because Bucky’s so good, and Steve is so Steve, all disfigured, knobby limbs and clumsy, stumbling sentences and ever-feeble body that can never quite seem to stitch itself back together, and he doesn’t know what keeps Bucky coming back, but he’s terrified that one day, it won’t be enough. And if Steve’s not enough for Bucky, he’s not sure that he wants to be anything at all.
Steve’s back has gone rigid and stiff and his fingernails are digging shallow crescents into the palms of his hands, so he barely realizes that Bucky’s materialized right behind him until he feels another shoulder knock lightly against his own. “S’posed to be dancing, punk.”
Steve spins with a start, flicking up an eyebrow. “Oh, haven’t you heard?” Bucky’s watching him intently, and it puts a funny feeling in his gut that makes him want to squirm away. Steve hates his mind for that. “Impossible to dance with two borrowed left feet.” The words are playful until they’re hanging in the air between them; he can practically taste their bitterness. This feeling is foreign and unfamiliar, but it feels uncomfortably intimate all the same, and Steve isn’t quite sure how to react when he can barely even discern who it’s directed at.
If Bucky notices, though, it doesn’t slip past his composed façade. One of his hands lands on Steve’s shoulder, and the other tugs them both towards the middle of the room, and that charismatic smile has found its way back to his face. Some rendition of a song Steve only remembers faintly is drifting through his ears. “Sure you haven’t gotten any girls to fall for you yet, Stevie?”
He’s only danced with one, and she wasn’t nearly as sure-footed or charming as Bucky, but Bucky doesn’t need an ego boost, and Steve prefers to avoid saying sappy, embarrassing things at all costs. “More than you, I’m sure,” he tells him instead, reciprocating Bucky’s half-teasing tone. “When I’m not stepping on both their feet at once.”
Bucky snorts. “‘S part of your charm. Break their toes first, then bat your stupidly long eyelashes at them to make them swoon. Irresistible.” Steve cuffs him on the shoulder, but a grin has crept onto his face, and Bucky gives him an exaggerated wink. “Just like that, Stevie. Is that how you do it?”
“Sure, Buck.” Steve ducks his head to hide his foolish smile, stares at his hands for a long second. He’s almost embarrassed, until he thinks on it, because this is Bucky. Just about anything Steve does would humiliate him in front of someone else, but Bucky’s been his best friend since before Steve had any memories at all. If Steve’s making an ass of himself, he can all but guarantee that Bucky will be doing the same, and maybe that’s why he regains his composure and says, “Teach me to dance.”
“What?” Bucky doesn’t look completely taken aback, only mildly perturbed, which is a relief. “Dunno, you might be a lost cause.” But his fingers tighten around Steve’s shoulder, other hand slipping easily around his waist. A bout of nerves flutters through Steve’s stomach, because he knows how this must look, and some sinful part of him doesn’t mind, and he has to force himself to shove that thought so deep down that he couldn’t fish it out if he tried. Fortunately, no one seems to be giving them a second glance, and so maybe this isn’t as weird as Steve thinks, two mismatched boys poking fun at conventional gender norms and acting just dumb enough to make them seem endearing. He has got to stop being so self-conscious.
“Look. I think that girl is checking you out.” Bucky’s voice brings him back to earth; it always does. Steve tosses a furtive look behind him, and sure enough, a pretty girl is eyeing them from across the room. Steve’s pretty sure that she’s looking at Bucky — he doesn’t blame her, really — but he doesn’t argue. Bucky’s already anticipating his disagreement, anyway. “I see that look on your face, Rogers,” he warns. “Don’t worry. You’re a cutie. A real catch.” He accentuates the words with a pinch on Steve’s ass, and Steve squeaks loudly.
“Like what you see, then?” he asks with a smirk, and Bucky raises a suggestive eyebrow. “Better be quick, Barnes. I won’t be on the market for long. All this’ll be snatched up real fast.” He gestures up and down his figure, almost wishes he wasn’t joking, but Bucky’s eyes are sparkling and suddenly Steve is happy. And if Bucky’s the only person that smiles because of Steve tonight, well. He can’t say he’ll be too disappointed.
“Damn right it will.” Bucky says the words with so much conviction that Steve wants to believe them, too. He allows himself to relax into Bucky’s touch, anxiety dissipating with their playful banter. At first, it’s awkward, because Bucky isn’t teaching Steve so much as he’s making him figure out the moves, so when he pulls Steve into a ridiculously dramatic turn, they’re sent stumbling into one another — Steve, ever true to his word, tramples all over Bucky’s feet with his too-big dress shoes. Easily-spilt laughter falls from Bucky’s lips. “You’re terrible at this.”
“I have a terrible teacher,” Steve corrects, and Bucky shoves him away in mock offense.
“Keep talkin’ like that and you won’t have a teacher at all,” grumbles Bucky, but he pulls Steve back to their previous position and twines his fingers through that of Steve’s opposite hand. Now, dancing comes so naturally to Bucky; Steve has to work to remind himself that this is the same person who spent six years in lessons because his skills were practically non-existent. Sometimes, Steve still wonders if his captivating coordination is really a product of the classes or if Bucky was just so insistent upon becoming the center of attention that he finally put effort into learning. Either way, it worked, and still Bucky’s here with Steve, goofy grin and all, so he’s not sure why that growing resentment in his chest is so unrelenting.
Well. That’s not true. Steve just wishes he didn’t have to admit it. Showing vulnerability isn’t exactly his forté, but he is vulnerable; for as long as he can remember, he’s been the same skinny, asthmatic kid who tries too hard to prove himself, littered with black eyes and bruises that Bucky makes him press ice over even though it hardly subdues the swelling. They’ve been friends for so long that Steve shouldn’t even be questioning the stability of their relationship — which only worsens his guilt — but he can’t help but be anxious. Bucky’s been turning heads ever since he could walk, giving that dazzling smile to anyone who would look, and Steve’s wondered more than once if all this is too good to be true. Any day now, Bucky’s going to find some pretty girl who loves him like he deserves, and Steve will be a long-forgotten souvenir, his too-headstrong best friend from some lost, indistinguishable point in time. It’s melodramatic. Unrealistic, considering Bucky’s nothing if not fiercely loyal, even when Steve doesn’t think it’s deserved. He knows that, but the thought has occupied his mind so frequently that he’s stopped trying to convince himself it’s not true.
And anyway, Bucky deserves to be the center of attention. Steve loves the thrilled flush that rushes to Bucky’s cheeks when every eye is on him, even if Steve only gets to see it from a distance. It’s not fair to expect that he’d forget about that for Steve’s sake, doubly unreasonable that Bucky should sacrifice a good time to indulge Steve. Steve decides that he won’t let his dampened mood ruin Bucky’s night — they’ll finish this dance, Steve can quietly slip away, and Bucky will be free to have fun.
With renewed resolve, he focuses on the steps Bucky is patiently trying to help him remember. They’ve fallen into an easy pattern, and if he weren’t so wracked with intrusive thoughts, Steve might even be relishing this. After all, it isn’t every day that he gets to dance with anyone, least of all Bucky Barnes. Bucky’s face is glowing in amusement, though, so maybe all of this is worth it.
He realizes a beat too late that he’s overselling his own enjoyment, and it figures that it happens to be right then when Bucky picks up on it. Probably, Steve realizes, he’d noticed far earlier, but kept his mouth shut; Steve’s never been much of an actor. Bucky’s head dips, grip tightening on his arm. “You okay, pal?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Steve says, somewhat unconvincingly. If he can’t even persuade himself, there’s no way that Bucky’s fooled.
“Really.” Bucky stares at him. Steve’s impressed by the fact that his feet are still shifting easily to the beat of the song that’s playing. “That’s why you’re pretending to have fun, then?”
Steve opens his mouth to speak, but nothing spills out aside from embarrassed stammering. The ease at which Bucky can read him should frustrate him, but it’s mostly a relief; save for the occasional animated speech about freedom and justice and the shortcomings of the American legal system, Steve isn’t used to expressing his emotions verbally, so Bucky’s interpretations are more than welcome. Still, for the sake of their dynamic, he has to let out a discontented groan, which extracts an involuntary laugh from Bucky.
“Punk.” Bucky tousles his hair, nudges his shoulder, doesn’t say anything further even though Steve knows he wants to.
“Jerk.” The response is a reflex, but it gives him the chance to take a much-needed breath nonetheless. Despite all of his instincts pressuring him to deny the help that Bucky provides, he takes guilty comfort in the way that Bucky grounds him.
Bucky studies him for a second, all false solemnity and deep concentration. Before Steve can say anything, Bucky’s slinging an arm around his shoulders, letting out a bright laugh and affectionately pulling him closer — Steve, all of a sudden, remembers the perks of being so small.
“C’mon, Stevie.” Bucky’s voice is impish and sing-songy. Steve lets himself be dragged towards the exit, despite the fact that this is very much not the plan that he’d had in mind. Selfishly, he loves it when Bucky’s eyes are trained on him, so he doesn’t protest. “Heaven awaits.”
Bucky’s version of heaven, as it turns out, is a familiar diner tucked just behind a colossal building that Steve has to squint to see the top of when New York is awash in broad daylight. He’s hesitant, and he knows Bucky can tell; he hovers a beat too long outside the entrance before Bucky tugs him through the doorway. When the smell of greasy fried food greets his senses, though, he lets out a breathy, satisfied sigh, and Bucky elbows him in the side. “Told you. Pure paradise.”
Steve hums in agreement. “This where you take all your dates?” He realizes what it sounds like he’s insinuating as soon as he’s asked the question, harshly chides himself for that — then, worried about how Bucky might take it, lets his gaze flicker indiscreetly to his left.
Bucky, as usual, isn’t fazed. Not that he’d let it show if he was, but Steve will take the new satisfaction of knowing he can make those off-handed comments around Bucky without repercussions over the hot, wistful heartache that always follows like a punch to the gut. Even if it means acknowledging that Steve does nothing but put his foot in his mouth.
“Only the special ones,” Bucky says. They find a booth in the back of the diner, worn green seats a welcome relief to Steve’s legs after standing idly in the gymnasium all evening. Bucky sits across from him, propping an elbow on the table.
“You calling me special?” Steve swats at Bucky’s elbow, hears an echo of his mother’s voice inside his head: “Manners, Steve.” He’d grown out of his bad habits as a child, but he still remembers the words’ tenderness and silently repeats them to himself with the same fond inflection (and then to Bucky, who doesn’t acknowledge Steve’s slight shift in demeanor if he ever notices it).
“You’re special, alright.” Bucky rolls his eyes. Steve laughs, low and exhilarated, and kicks at him from underneath the table. He lands a shoe on his calf, letting out another snicker when Bucky’s face twists in indignation and contorting his body awkwardly to avoid the kick he knows he’s getting in return. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”
“It’s part of my charm,” Steve tells him innocently. Bucky presses his lips together to suppress a smile, but it slips out anyway, soft and lazy and yet radiant still. When they get like this, all tired eyes and teasing grins, they get quiet; it’s easy enough when entire conversations pass between them with a singular glance.
It’s a few minutes before a waitress makes her way to their table, but it takes less than thirty seconds for Bucky to put on a winning beam. Steve counts. It’s enthralling, and a little unnerving, the way Bucky can reconstruct his entire personality in a matter of seconds and turn on his charisma like he’s flipping a switch. He’s still Bucky, but not the Bucky Steve knows — he becomes the person the world wants to see, loses his good-natured giddiness in favour of sophisticated, smooth-tongued decorum and polished poise. Other Bucky is likeable enough, but Steve privately prefers the version of him that shows itself when no one else is around, full of fitful laughter and stupid jokes and knowing smiles. That’s the Bucky he doesn’t have any trouble making sense of in his head, and it’s always a relief to see him slip back into his natural persona.
Still. Steve can’t deny that this side of him is entertaining. He gets theatrical and ingratiating, and this time, he stretches an arm across the back of the booth, offering an amiable expression.
“Anything I can get for you?” the waitress asks, and Bucky tosses a glance to Steve.
“Two milkshakes, if it’s not too much trouble.” At that, Steve retaliates, gives Bucky a light kick under the table again and shakes his head firmly.
“Just one is fine,” he interjects, ignoring the glare that Bucky cuts him. Then, as an afterthought: “Chocolate, please.” Bucky’s favourite flavour.
If the waitress is put off by their exchange, she doesn’t show it, just scribbles their order onto the tiny white notepad she’s gripping in her other hand and informs them that they’ll receive it soon. Before she can turn away, Bucky speaks again, the disguised irritation in his voice all too familiar. “Vanilla, actually, would be great.”
The waitress tilts her head in affirmation. Bucky shifts in his seat, gives Steve a frustrated look. “If you would just let me-”
“Let you what, pity me?” They’re not the words Steve means to spit out, but that bitter tone is back just the same. “Bucky.” We are at a crossroads, but I am scared to make the turn. Your eyes are sickly sweet and I am addicted to sugar; and my walls crumble at the brush of a fingertip, but only ever yours. Steve bites hard on his tongue and wills his mind to quiet down, tries to ignore the way that they’re practically alone now and suddenly his jealousy has all but evaporated.
“Steve.” He can hear Bucky’s attempt to level with him hidden beneath his name. He wants to curse himself. Bucky’s spent the whole night trying to make sure Steve is happy, and all Steve has done is ruin yet another evening on behalf of his childish insecurities and his impulse to distance himself. He wishes he knew why Bucky keeps coming back anyway, dusting him off after he picks unfair back-alley fights and buying him too-expensive drawing pencils, but he isn’t sure how to ask that.
“You don’t have to do this, Buck,” Steve says finally, softer than he intends. And he means you don’t have to buy me a milkshake, but he also means you don’t have to be here and you don’t have to stay by my side no matter what and you do anyway and I can’t figure out why.
"It isn't pity to care about someone," says Bucky quietly, and Steve exhales in some faint form of recognition. He’s not good at accepting it, not yet, but hearing the words from Bucky — it helps.
When the vanilla milkshake comes, Bucky asks for two straws. Steve lets him.