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He feels like he's spiraling out of control. There's a pain in his chest and a desperate agony in his fingertips that tells him of all the things he once had and can no longer. The things they'd been close to and the things Bucky will, perhaps, never remember ever again.
They clash, the come apart at the seams. They come together, knit back into one seamless weave, and exist like the perfect comforting blanket. They fall apart and everything seems hopeless and then Buck's there again, in his periphery, running by his side. Another battlefield, another thing to combat in the nights to come, another moment he can breathe to the fullest extent because he knows Buck would die for him and he'd die for Buck in return.
It doesn't feel fair. That they come together like this and cannot seem to in any other way. Doesn't feel fair that once upon a time they were the fragile beginning of those words. Two men, helplessly entwined in one another's fates. Though, he supposes, they still are. Just not the way they used to be.
It takes what feels like eons before he finds himself there, at the precipice, feeling like together they could jump back over again. Bucky's back is against the wall and despite the mask, Steve feels like he can see it in his every mannerism that here, now, perchance, he has a shot. His body moves in of its own will and before he can think he's there, on the ground, on his knees where he's wanted to be even back then, and Buck's looking at him like he gets it. Like he's there, too. Standing on that edge in the whipping wind, deciding if he wants to jump or not.
Steve doesn't move. Barely dares to breathe. The faintest breeze picks up their hair and dries away some of the sweat of a battle hard-fought. It reminds Steve that adrenaline is a hell of a thing, that this could be cast away because of it, if it needs to be. If that's what will keep them from breaking again. He almost does it. Almost lets his voice whisper those words condemning what he's done to the adrenaline spike and nothing more. But he can't let them through, his tongue thick and his saliva all gone and his throat constricting to keep the lies down deep inside. Because he's nothing if not honest.
It's then that Bucky reaches for him. A hand on the back of his head, tense fingers drawing him in with a force Steve thinks he could never get by with using on anyone else. His nose meets fabric. His lips part and dust over think fabric. His breath is where his mouth want to be, his chest rising and falling in desperate rhythm. He almost asks. Almost lets it all slip out there, words instead of actions, unbreakable, unfathomable words.
Instead Buck's hand draws him in tight against the fabric, presses and holds and lifts one leg up up and hooks it over his shoulder, draws him in tighter. There's no escaping what this looks like, what it is, what it's meant to emulate. God help him, he wants that. Wants a lack of fabric and open air and his saliva slicking Buck's shaft. His hands skim up over toned thighs to the faint dip of Bucky's hips and then up over the leather of his vest. He explores buckles and clasps and details of Buck's outfit to commit it to memory the same way his tongue leaves behind the safety of his mouth and explores the taste, the feel, the press of Bucky's erection behind that fabric.
His legs spread and it brings him into perfect position, thighs and knees against legs and boots, locked in place, held. He feels captured in the only way he's ever desired capture. And when that hand threads through his hair and grips, he feels owned, possessed in the ways he's always wanted. He knows how he's looking up at Bucky. Sees how he's looking down at him. Dammed up want and frustrated longing and the fight, the one Steve's long-familiar with waging war in his eyes. He lets that war play out. Plays his part with his lips, his breath, his longing as evident as it can be.
Then Buck's lowering his zipper, freeing his straining cock from the confines of fabric and drawing Steve back in with the only grip Steve ever wants to feel in his hair again dragging him forward. His mouth opens, searches, and then he's in Heaven. He's settled in a way he's never been before. His body lax and easy and his cock stiff so stiff in his pants as Bucky's hips slowly press forward, feeding his length into Steve's waiting mouth. He goes so slow. Watches so attentively. Like he's worried Steve will change his mind. Like he's afraid he'll hurt him. And maybe, maybe, with their history, that will always be the case. But here, today, in this instant, Steve's living the best version of his life. The one where he's relaxing his throat, taking, taking, taking until his head is cradled in Bucky's grip and his nose is pressed to fabric that smells like Bucky and filled with all his dreams.
They stay like that for the longest time. Buck just holding him there, pressed down over his cock, feeling out this moment together. Making certain before it goes further or, perhaps, making the moment into a forever kind of memory. Maybe both. Steve swallows and that's the end of whatever fragile control it was taking to keep Bucky that still. His hand grips harder, curling in Steve's hair, and with a gasping moan, Buck draws him up to the halfway point and begins to thrust. Quick and desperate, so many eons of pent up desire waging war in his motions. His hand grows tight and insistent, grip holding Steve at his will and the jerks of his hips grow impatient, needy in a way Steve feels deep down in his bones.
He lulls there, on the other end of all of this want and desire and feels more like himself than he thinks he ever has before. Like Bucky makes him whole. Like being connected like this is his anchor in a stormy port. He sighs pleasantly into it and closes his eyes and lets his mouth be used. Fucked and humped and desperately used until Bucky is choking on half-formed words, his hips stuttering, his body going rigid. There, Steve opens his eyes, gazes up into Buck's eyes, watching him cum as much as he feels it happening. Right down his throat, Buck buried deep, throbbing there. He sees the emotions explode behind his eyes, sees the thousands of sparks of thought, the things they will maybe never be able to get out past their lips. But he sees them. He knows them. They are his thoughts as much as they are Buck's and he drinks them down the same as he drinks down every drop that Bucky gives him.
Bucky only eases his grip once his cock is going soft. Lets Steve ease off of him and then Steve gets to watch his cock fall back against his cargos, gets to watch one gloved and one ungloved hand tuck it away and zip back up.
He kneels there and he thinks about what enough would be. He knows it's not this. Knows it'll be so much more before it's enough. Knows just as much that this is a fragile kind of start.
He's ready to get up and do what they always do. Go their separate ways and dance around pretending they are where they wanna be. It makes his throat constrict, but he climbs to his feet and prepares himself. Looks up and locks gazes with the only man he could never say 'no' to and tries to make his feet work. He can't. He doesn't. He stays and Buck stays and then it's him against the wall. It's Buck at his feet. It's his zipper drawing down and his cock being swallows by a frantic mouth and his gloved hand unsteady in Bucky's long hair and Christ Above, he's gone. Sailing. Drifting away on the currents of a storm named Bucky Barnes.
His grip tightens. Draws Bucky in the same as Buck did to him. Holds him there, down, on until he can't stand it any longer, the need to move winning over this sensation of power over where they go from here. He lets go and before he can start to thrust Bucky's moving. Head bobbing, the sounds he's making sloppy and needy and so fucking good. Steve's eyes roll back in his head and he groans, long and loud, unabashed for the thrill of what he's doing here. Let the world see. Let the world know where his heart is. Let them come for him and see where it gets them. He's not afraid anymore. Thinks that with Buck at his side, he could learn what it is never to fear again.
He falls apart right there, right on the pinnacle of that thought. One breath to the next and then he's cumming, straining toward Bucky, watching Buck swallowing what he's giving him with rapt fascination until he's done.
When he slips free of Buck's mouth he half expects him to bolt. Expects empty air where Bucky used to be. But he's there. Solid and present and doing the opposite of leaving.
Bucky stands and watches as Steve zips up. Stands and waits, like he's just as desperate not to leave as Steve is.
He doesn't let himself think when he leans in and cups the back of Buck's neck and breathes his promises against Buck's mask. Not forever, but however long the world will let them have. That he'll be there. That he'll want and care and that Buck will be who he thinks about last thing before bed and first thing in the morning.
It's only when Buck leaves by his side that he lets himself believe it. Lets him take a deep breath and live it. All the things he's ever needed, right here by his side. All for the sake of giving in.