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“You can't be serious, Sam.”Steve was digging in hard, pinching his eyebrows together, puffing out his chest, and shaking his head like a fifth grader refusing to eat his vegetables.Actually, no.Sam lived with a fifth grader, and comparing Steve to somebody Sylvie’s age was an insult to ten-year-olds everywhere. Steve was acting like a spoiled three-year-old spitting half-chewed chunks of broccoli at his mama.“Look at my face. Does it look like I’m kidding?” Sam straightened his spine to make it crystal clear that he ate his Goddamn vegetables. “‘Cause I’m not, Steve. I know this situation sucks—believe me, I do—but that doesn’t explain why you’re shutting down a solid idea.”At this point, you’d expect a trusty co-captain to open his mouth and explain himself, but this was Steve, and Steve had a very thick skull. “You’re really just gonna stand there in your Speedo, shrugging your shoulders like an asshole?"Glancing down at his own swimsuit, Sam sighed. They should’ve dealt with this shit in the locker room before they'd ditched ninety-nine percent of their clothes. It didn't matter that Sam had been swimming with Steve for the better part of three years, arguing with your best friend when you could see the outline of his balls was disturbing. And being ignored in a Speedo was even worse.“In case you’ve forgotten,” Sam said, imagining himself in a baggy white t-shirt and basketball shorts, “the entire reason we’re having this extra practice—as opposed to the extra practice we had at 5:30 this morning—is to get this shit settled.” Steve crossed his arms, which was his way of doubling down.“It’s Friday, man. The one day of the week where, if I'm lucky, I get to squeeze in a nap." Sam rubbed his forehead to try and wipe off some of the stress. “And I need one, Steve. I slept like shit, swam like shit, and bombed my first big chemistry test. And Tony calling me a beautiful Black man at lunch got on my last nerve. He said that shit at least fifty times.”“Tony was just being Tony,” Steve said as he flexed his massive pecs. “And it’s true. You are a beautiful Black man.”“And you’re an annoying white boy who needs to get his pecs under control. Who do you think you are? The Terminator?” Steve laughed. Not on the outside—but Sam was more than a little familiar with the telltale twinkle in Steve's eyes as they changed from your average, everyday white-boy blue to something straight out of Finland. Was it annoying? Hell yes. But the way Steve kept switching between flexing his right pec and flexing his left pec was more good-natured asshole than passive-aggressive dick.Make no mistake, Sam wanted to laugh—on the outside—but somebody had to fix the roster before Coach Fury stormed into the natatorium with his clipboard and whistle. The last thing Sam needed was another long-winded lecture from a retired Marine with a short fuse. One a day was all he could handle.Last night’s meet had been a disaster—a point Fury had driven home by making the team swim double relays this morning. Normally, Sam got to sleep in on Fridays. Hit snooze a few times. Eat a decent breakfast. Take a shower that lasted ten minutes instead of two. But when you lose the second meet of the year, you practice six days a week instead of five. And when your ‘trusty’ co-captain drags his feet about recruiting an alleged “game changer” who could keep the team from losing next week, you practice after school.Without Devin to anchor their relays, Steve and Sam had gotten their asses handed to them in the 200-yard medley and the 200-yard freestyle. Bye-bye first place, hello second and third. It wasn’t Harry’s fault—Fury had plugged him into Devin’s spots with barely any warning—but after he'd blown their lead in the medley, team morale had taken a nosedive and everybody had been thrown off their game. Well, everybody but Kuba. That kid was a machine. As the only junior who’d been on varsity last year, nothing was going to stop Kuba from landing the captain spot next year. Not Harry making excuses after he’d choked in the medley. Not Frank pushing Harry against the diving platforms after Harry had choked even worse in the free. And not Brock screaming that the entire team “fucking sucked” in front of the opposing team’s coach. To prove it, Kuba had kicked it into high gear, touching the wall before Jack and Ezra in the 50-yard free for the very first time.Man, they’d been pissed. And they’d been even more pissed when Kuba had done it again this morning.Looking past Steve’s shoulder toward the locker room, Sam said, “The whole team is about to bust through that door, and when they do, we have to have a plan.”“You mean beyond taking a nap?”Steve knew damn well that adrenaline and disappointment had kept Sam awake until three o'clock in the Goddamn morning, making Steve's shitty little smirk even shittier.“Careful, man. I’m not responsible for what I do when I've had less than two hours of sleep.”If Sam had done something productive like reading the third chapter of Great Expectations for Kuzinski’s class or studying mass and volume for chemistry, he might not be on the verge of pushing Steve into the pool. But like a dumbass, he’d helped his sisters Sylvie and Breonna film a bunch of goofy dance videos—costumes included—and spent hours on the couch with a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, watching cat videos, dog videos, prank videos, and memes. Somewhere around three, he’d finally crawled into bed, but instead of getting two solid hours of sleep, he’d tossed and turned, sweating as he'd dreamt about dancing to "Juju on That Beat" and flunking his chemistry test in the nude. And the icing on the cake? Twenty minutes before his alarm was supposed to have gone off, his sisters’ cat Snuggles had woken him up by aggressively humping his face. Long story short, Sam didn’t want to deal with Steve being weird about replacing Devin. He wanted to go to sleep.Trying not to think about Snuggles’ sex drive, Sam squared his shoulders to match Steve’s. “C'mon, man,” he said, traumatizing himself with the image of Snuggles’ fuzzy cat balls, “it's not like we've got a lot of options here. We can’t pull Kuba from his events to fix our relays. Ezra and Timo are fast, but not fast enough. And Harry and Charlie can’t handle the pressure. We’re all good swimmers, Steve, but not everyone can be a Goddamn Olympian.”“Devin wasn’t an Olympian. He just had really long arms.”“Okay, that’s some bullshit, and you know it.” Steve shrugged because—surprise, surprise—he’d switched back to being a passive-aggressive dick.“I’m not down for a repeat of last night,” Sam said, letting the frustration pour out of his "beautiful Black" pores. “My parents had to watch us lose those relays, Steve. My mama said Breonna cried when they announced the times.”“Your sister wasn’t crying.” Steve rolled his eyes. “I saw her waving at Reggie.”That was true. Breonna might only be in seventh grade, but the way she crushed on Reggie was just as bad as the senior girls who crushed on Steve. According to Breonna, Reggie looked like Bruno Mars if Bruno Mars were Asian American and ripped, which might be funny if she didn’t spend all her free time listening to "Uptown Funk" and drawing Reggie’s six-pack.Ignoring the way Steve was raking his fingers through his chlorine-blond undercut, Sam conceded.“You’re right,” he said just as Frank kicked open the locker room door. “Breonna had a great time learning about Reggie’s anatomy as she chowed down on popcorn and Milk Duds. But that’s not the point, Steve. Second best isn’t something I plan on getting used to, and Coach Fury says Barnes is really good.”Never one to pass up an opportunity for deflection, Steve pretended to be highly invested in the way Brock and Jack were pushing the juniors onto the pool deck like they were wearing football jerseys instead of Speedos.“We’ve got sixteen guys honing in on this conversation like flies on shit." Sam poked the center of Steve’s chest. "Are we doing this or not?”“Doing what?”Steve had the audacity to squint at Sam like he hadn’t been sitting in the chair next to Sam in Fury’s office this morning. Like Sam hadn’t been bugging him about making a decision about Barnes all day. And worse, Steve started rubbing the corners of his eyes like he'd just woken up from a nice, long nap and had no idea why he was standing next to a pool.“Yo, Sammy Boy! What’s shakin’?” The voice hadn’t come from any of the guys on the team, and it sure as hell hadn’t come from his co-captain. It had come from the one person in Sam's life who gave him more ulcers than Steve.Tony wasn’t supposed to be here. And he definitely wasn’t supposed to be standing in the doorway at the top of the bleachers, shouting, "You’re just delaying the inevitable,” into a megaphone. There was nothing unusual about Tony turning on the megaphone’s siren and pacing back and forth on the top row—or the fact that he was doing it in his ridiculous red-and-black striped suit—but Sam was highly concerned when he set the pace at a brisk jog. It wasn’t that Tony wasn’t nimble. For a guy who didn’t play sports, he was surprisingly sporty. It was just— Sam cringed when Tony hopped down a bleacher. There were... other problems.Switching off the siren, Tony got dangerously close to the edge when he stopped at Sam’s end of the bleachers. So close, in fact, that the toes of his rose-patterned Gucci sneakers were hanging over the edge when he said, "Just pull your cell phone out of your banana hammock, lick off the ball sweat, and punch in Eddie Vedder’s digits, lickety-split."One wrong move and Sam would be rushing Tony to the hospital.Again."Five K says that poor poor guy—seriously, I bet Oliver Twist trades food stamps for tramp stamps—has one of those old-fashioned flip phones. Or, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, maybe even a beeper!"In retrospect, it had been a big mistake to tell Tony about Barnes at lunch. But in Sam’s defense, Tony was supposed to have left after “social hour” to get a, quote unquote, “real education.” “Why the hell aren’t you at Columbia?” Sam asked, throwing some extra bass into his voice. “Don’t tell me you skipped out on those genius-level college classes just to harass me at work.” “Pfft. Work schmerk.” Tony took a swig from his ‘water bottle’—meaning he downed a shot of something a hell of a lot stronger than H2O—before stumbling down two entire rows. “Haven’t you heard, Sammy Davis Jr? I got myself a flashy new assistant from across the pond. A tall one with panther hair. So now, instead of rolling up my sleeves like a peon, I get to do whatever the fuck I want.” “Like interrupting my practice?”Dropping the megaphone, Tony took another swig. “I’m the manager of Lolo Kitty—heavy on the man—and I’m the manager of this team. So here I am, Sam-I-Am, gettin’ my drink on and managing things.”“You’re full of shit, Stark."Great, just what Sam needed. Brock Rumlow and his big mouth. Brock loved drama. Creating it. Sticking his nose in it. Stirring it up like a bratty kid smashing a wasps’ nest with a stick. And sure enough, Brock waited for everybody to make a loose circle around Steve and Sam—juniors in the back, seniors in the front, like always—to say, “The only thing we need Stark to manage is this weekend’s pussy. Right, Cap?”Sam cringed when Brock slapped Steve’s back. There was no denying that Brock was their friend. They partied together, ate lunch together, and shot hoops after school. But in addition to being the guy you called when you needed to move a bunch of kegs into the basement, Brock was the kind of guy who picked fights, broke beer bottles, and said shit like “manage this weekend’s pussy.”Taking another swig, Tony said, “I’ll manage Brock’s pussy,” which to the untrained ear, probably sounded more like “Ali Baba Bra’s goosy.”In other words, the shit show was only getting started.If Sam had to guess what was in the bottle, he’d go with Stoli Elit and Sprite. It was Tony’s go-to drink for partying undercover—or in this case, partying with an audience. “I’m not sharing my cougars with anybody. Especially you!” Tony pointed in Brock’s general direction. “Ever since you messed with my mermaid’s blowhole, my cougars growl for me and me alone!”There were chuckles all around because the majority of the team had made it to Tony’s Fourth of July party at his parent's house in the Hamptons. And those who hadn’t had definitely heard about it secondhand. Tony’s name was synonymous with over-the-top parties, and "Mermaids and Meatheads" had been no exception. In typical Tony fashion, he’d made his assistant hire ten exceptionally attractive ‘college girls’ to dress as mermaids and splash around in inflatable kiddie pools. Misogynistic, yes. But everything had been relatively fine until Brock had jumped into a mermaid’s ‘lagoon’ without her permission, officially reducing Tony’s mermaid count from ten to nine. Good times.“Wax on, motherfucker!”Everybody turned to look at Tony, who—against all odds—was holding the crane pose from Karate Kid. Well, everybody but Steve because Steve was too busy staring at the diving boards to worry about drunk billionaires, objectified mermaids, or fixing the Goddamn team. Was he daydreaming about Sharon doing cartwheels in her blue-and-white cheerleader skirt? Mentally organizing beer pong teams for Ezra’s party tomorrow night? Pretending that Devin had never left? God only knew.Breaking away from the pack, Rhodey said, “Tony, sit down before you die," as he walked up the first few rows of bleachers. “We have major problems, and you acting like a clown in that Prada suit isn’t helping.” Sam smiled. He could always count on Rhodey to have his back. Aside from being the only other Black swimmer on varsity—not counting Coach Fury—James Rhodes was an enigma in a room full of hotheads. A rational guy who, instead of breaking beer bottles and spouting off about women’s “pussies,” actively campaigned for Hillary Clinton and volunteered to be the designated driver. But it wasn't Rhodey's unwavering dedication to women's rights and sober driving that had just lifted the weight of a very small, very drunk teenager off Sam's back. It was the fact that Rhodey was one of only two people at Eaton who could get Tony to stop doing the crane pose.Why Tony’s enormous ego bowed to Rhodey and Peggy in particular was—Actually, Sam didn’t care. He was just happy that the drunk clown had given up karate.Rhodey had gotten Tony to lie on his back—a major accomplishment in itself—but he wasn't able to stop Tony from kicking off his gaudy sneakers and pedaling his legs like he was riding a bike. “Clowns need unicycles,” Tony said, pedaling as fast as his short little legs would allow. “Be a dear, Rhodey Rhodes, and fetch me a one-wheeled bike!”Was it funny? Hell yes! Was Sam going to laugh? Hell no! He’d save that for next week when Tony inevitably rode into school on a fusion-powered unicycle that he’d built in his workshop with robot scraps and a screwdriver. Coach Fury was going to be here any second—if he wasn’t spying on them from his office already—and if Steve wasn’t going to stop staring at the floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the pool and help Sam fix this mess, Sam had to take the co out of co-captain and do it his damn self.“Rhodey’s right.” Sam snapped his fingers in front of Steve’s nose. “We do have a problem, and we have to fix it today. I know you’ve all heard Fury’s idea, so we just need to agree—”“The problem is Devin fucked us!” Brock stepped into Sam’s personal space like he was two inches taller—instead of two inches shorter—than Sam’s five foot eleven. And that pathetic attempt at intimidation? Sam swallowed. Quite frankly, it pissed him off almost as much as the pussy comment.“Fury’s idea is bullshit," Brock said, curling his upper lip. "We don’t need a fuckin’ outsider to prop up this team. And even if we did, there’s gotta be somebody besides that freak.”Brock might be looking at Sam, but he wasn’t talking to Sam. It was a familiar tactic. Get loud. Rile people up. Make them agree, even when they don't.“To be clear"—Sam forced Brock backward with one easy step—"Devin didn’t fuck us. His dad got transferred to Oregon. Big difference.”Crossing his arms, Sam put his biceps to work as he made eye contact with each and every member of the team. Well, each and every member except Steve because Steve was too busy staring at the water fountain to appreciate Sam's gains from his recent foray into fifty pound hammer curls. “If we don’t want a repeat of last night's fiasco, we have to replace Devin with someone that can keep pace with me and Steve. And I’m sorry”—Sam flexed twice as hard—“but that’s not anybody currently standing here in a Speedo.”Brock scoffed because Brock always scoffed. Then he checked to see if Frank and Jack scoffed, which, of course, they did. In the past, the mobster mentality had never really bothered Sam, but lately? Watching Jack whisper something into Brock’s ear, Sam was definitely—“Hey, guys,” Scott said, jumping between Brock and Sam like they were holding the ends of a jump rope. “Not to interrupt— I mean, I am interrupting. Duh. But I’ve got some questions about this whole sitch. And by sitch, I mean situation.”Sam loved Scott almost as much as he loved Tony, but the guy was clueless. Facial cues. Context clues. Body language. None of it made a difference to Scott Lang. The running joke was that Scott would be so hyperfocused on collecting coins in Mario Kart that he’d burn alive if his house ever caught fire... or so distracted by a lightning bug that he'd fall into an open manhole... or so captivated by a girl with pretty hair that he'd step into a pit of snakes. You get the picture.And now he was standing too close to Brock.It wasn’t that Brock was bigger than Scott—they were both on the small side, with lean, muscular frames—it was that Scott was as ditsy as Brock was ruthless. And in this particular “sitch,” Brock was scowling so hard that his thick Italian eyebrows were touching in the middle.“So, I’ve been listening to this whole convo,” Scott said, rocking back and forth like the spikes in Brock’s overly gelled hair weren’t sharp enough to use as weapons, “and I don’t get it. I mean, it’s definitely possible that I missed something”—Scott laughed—“or missed a lot of somethings ‘cause I just chugged, like, two and a half Red Bulls in the locker room and I really have to pee.”Sam checked to see if his ‘trusty’ co-captain had sensed the danger, but unless Brock was about to throat punch Scott by the kickboards, Steve was oblivious.“Did you know that for some people with ADHD, caffeine works like a chill pill?” Spinning around, Scott gave Sam a thumbs-up. “Red Bull, espresso, Mountain Dew, Rockstar, 5-hour ENERGY, Kickstart—which is kinda like Mountain Dew but different. But the caffeine trick's never really worked for me. I’m more of a—”“Scott!” Everybody jumped because Jack had shouted loud enough to explode Sam's eardrums.Actually, no.Everybody but Steve jumped because Steve was too busy staring at the pennants that hung above the pool.“Whoopsie. Guess I got a little off track there, huh?" Scott rubbed his hair until it turned into a big brown poof. "I ate three bags of Peanut M&Ms with the Red Bulls, which, you know… squirrel. Anyways, is Bucky, like, good and stuff? I know he’s great at handstands ‘cause I always see him walking around the halls.”“On his hands?” Sam didn’t know who’d asked, and he didn’t care.“Yeah, bro. It’s a handstand, not a footstand.” Scott made a sound with his mouth that Sam could only describe as a mixture between a fart and a motorboat. “This one time, I saw him skateboarding with that stoner guy—you know, the one with the mohawk that looks like a rake—and he only fell on his face once. It was rad. Even with all the blood and stuff, he managed to pull off a pretty sweet kickflip.”“Was there a question in there?”At some point Frank had wandered over to the bleachers and sat down—not that Sam cared. It was only relevant because Scott tripped over Sam’s feet when he ran over to answer the question.“Right. Question.” Scott went in for a fist bump—which Frank totally denied. “Who told Coach Fury that Bucky can swim?”“Isn’t it obvious?” Brock said, rubbing his hand across his stubble like he was trying to coax out his beard. “It was his fuckin’ dad.”Between Steve staring at whatever the hell he was staring at, Tony snoring like a professional alcoholic, and Brock’s particular brand of bullshit, the holes in Sam’s stomach were gonna double in size before he even got into the pool.Sighing, Sam said, “I’m sure his dad put in a good word,” because how else would Fury have known when and where Barnes practiced? “But it doesn’t matter what his dad says, Coach Fury thinks he might be faster than Devin.”“Yeah, right.” Brock pushed Kuba, who fell into Harry, who fell into his brother Charlie. “He obviously heard that shit from the creep’s dad.” It was like talking to a wall.Sam just wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and snuggle with his sisters’ horny cat. But thanks to Steve, he was stuck refereeing the Super Bowl of superiority complexes.“No,” Sam said as Charlie pushed Harry, who fell into Timo, who fell into Ichiro. “Coach Fury went to the Brooklyn YMCA before the meet to watch him swim, and—”"I’m sure he did.” Jack cracked his knuckles. “If Fury wants to keep his job, he has to do whatever Mr. Barnes says. That’s how it works when daddy is the principal.”Between losing Devin, losing the meet, and losing his sanity from dealing with sixteen jackasses and a nonexistent co-captain, God was clearly sending Sam a message about skipping church on Sunday. Sam needed God’s help to sort this shit out, and God—despite Sam’s prayers being desperate and plentiful—was nowhere to be found.Whispering under his breath, Sam said, “I’ll volunteer at the soup kitchen. I'll help with the can drive. I'll do double duty with Sylvie’s Sunday School class. Just please… make it stop.”Unfortunately for Sam, God really didn't like it when he skipped church.A hand popped up in the very back of the circle, followed by a high-pitched voice that asked, “Is this really up to the team? I mean, it seems pretty high stakes for Coach Fury to leave it up to us.”Sam could only see his forehead, but there was no doubt that Peter Parker was the one doing the talking. As the only sophomore who’d been good enough to move up to varsity—not that he’d been good enough last night—Parker was the only guy on the team whose voice still cracked. Usually, Parker was hesitant to speak up around the team, but Sam knew for a fact that the kid had a big mouth when it came to his tenth grade buddies.And Sam knew how to hold a grudge.Fury's unfaltering philosophy about the importance of“team unification outside of the pool” had inspired Steve and Sam to organize a tubing trip down the Delaware River over the summer. But the only thing Peter had unified was the entire sophomore class with the knowledge—video included—that Sam had gotten his swim trunks stuck on a tree branch and ripped a hole in the ass.In other words, Peter Parker might look like the Upper East Side’s version of Harry Potter—minus the glasses—but the kid couldn’t be trusted."Great question," Sam said in the spirit of 'team unity.' “Coach Fury wants everybody”—he glared at Steve—“and I mean everybody, to be on board.”“This is a democracy.” Sam could deal with Peter. He was annoying, but—Actually, no.Peter was annoying, period.But Sam could not—in this life or the next—deal with Ezra’s nasally, I’m-better-than-everybody-and-their-mothers interjections.Claiming a solid eight feet of the bleachers next to Frank, Ezra stretched out into one of his new age yoga poses. “Sam’s trying to be diplomatic, but let’s get real. Competitive swimmers don’t just fall into your lap. It’s a miracle that this guy even exists.” “Should we thank God or Allah?” It was a ‘joke’ Brock had made a million times in a million different ways, and every time, without fail, it made Sam want to break at least two of the Ten Commandments.But Ezra wasn’t fazed. He just fanned out the curly black hair that had earned him cult leader status with the Coachella crowd and said, “Allah is God,” because Ezra was the most confident motherfucker Sam had ever met.Not only did he stand to inherit one of the biggest real estate fortunes in the Middle East, all his father expected in return was for Ezra to embrace American decadence as a means of making solid connections with the city's one percent. And embrace it he had. American women. American drugs. American yoga. And the American tradition of spending hundreds of thousands of dollars to sleep in a dusty tent at Coachella.“And besides"—Ezra pulled a pair of sunglasses out of nowhere—“we need some fresh energy around here. Ever since last year’s seniors bailed, this team has lacked... shall we say… a certain amount of spice.”“Nobody but you likes curry,” Brock said, because, sure. Why not add some thinly veiled racism to Sam's list of problems?"I'm Lebanese, not Indian. Plus, your mom ate curry off my dick last night."“Enough,” Sam said when he heard Fury’s keys rattle by the office door. “Fury didn’t just say that Barnes was faster than Devin. He said he might be as fast as Steve.”Fury had waited until Steve had left the office this morning to drop that juicy tidbit into Sam’s lap. Maybe to give Sam some extra incentive without bruising Steve’s ego. Maybe because he’d anticipated certain team members getting their panties in a twist about Barnes. Either way, Sam had been saving it for an emergency. But nothing happened.Steve just stood there like a deer in headlights, or—in New York City terms—a pedestrian about to get hit by a bus. "Looks like Cap’s afraid of a little competition." Brock snapped the back of Steve's knee with a towel. "Is that the problem, buddy? Worried about losing clout?”The chuckles were back, which was the equivalent of a bunch of kindergarteners laughing at an astrophysicist. Sam was a great swimmer, but Steve Motherfucking Rogers? He was a Goddamn legend! Built like Poseidon—or peak Ryan Murphy—Steve dominated every stroke. Freestyle? He was the fastest. Backstroke? He was the fastest. Breaststroke. He was the fastest. Butterfly? Don’t even get Sam started. Even if Barnes could keep up with Steve—which Sam highly doubted—there was no way he could compete in all four strokes. Sam groaned because Fury had just flipped on the light in his office.“Coach Fury made it perfectly clear that we need Barnes, so that’s what we—”“Need him my ass,” Jack said, matching Frank’s scowl, which—not surprisingly—was a carbon copy of Brock’s. The only real difference between the three self-proclaimed "Italian Stallions" was that Brock was short, Jack was tall, and Frank was built like a bulldozer. “If Barnes is so great, why the fuck isn’t he already swimming for us?”“‘Cause he’s a fuckin’ twink.” Brock laughed like he’d told the funniest joke in the history of homophobic comedy. But that shit wasn’t funny on any level. Not in 1952. Not in 1985. Not in 1999. And definitely not in 2016."Maybe it’s because assholes like you say shit like that!” Steve didn’t need a megaphone to get everybody’s attention. He just had to stand up straight, flare his nostrils, and drop a dose of righteous anger like a grenade.If this were any other situation, Sam would've tossed some confetti into the air to celebrate Steve’s sudden resurrection, but unless Steve had a sleeping bag and pillow stashed beneath all that bravado, Sam wasn’t in a confetti kind of mood.“Would you look at that, the man can speak,” Sam said, forgetting all about Fury and Barnes, because, really? Now Steve was gonna jump in and save the day? “You’re the best, man. A real lifesaver.”“He is the best!” Scott put his arm around Sam’s shoulders—or as much of Sam’s shoulders he could reach. “You too, Sam. You’re great. But seriously, guys. Why the heck would Bucky wanna swim at the Y instead of with us? I mean, the actual reason. Not, like, Brock being a dick.”“Seriously,” Steve said, making everybody aware that he’d shot past six foot two over the summer. “I think the actual reason Bucky doesn’t want to swim with us is that he actually thinks we’re all assholes.”If Sam weren’t so annoyed, he’d be proud.“I don’t care what Barnes thinks,” Frank said. “That loser makes me mad just looking at him. Always has, always will.”“Oh, c’mon, Frank." Scott tried for another fist bump. "Didn’t you see that cool Bob Ross shirt he had on the other day? It was amazing! It had the ’70s afro and the happy little trees.” Sam could deal with Steve’s sarcasm, Ezra’s snark, and Frank’s constant negativity, but he could not—and would not—deal with Scott rubbing his nipples to show Frank the location of said “happy little trees.”“People!” Sam clapped his hands together just as the light went off in Fury’s office. “You're missing the point.”“Redirect us then, Mace Windu!” Great. Steve had pulled off a double resurrection. Himself... and the drunk seventeen-year-old without any shoes."Did you just call me Mace Windu because I’m Black?”Stumbling to his feet, Tony swung his empty bottle like a lightsaber. “No way, Jules. I called you Mace Windex because you're a beautiful Black Jedi who loves a good Royale with Cheese.” That was it. The final straw. The straw that broke the camel’s back. The straw that Sam, under any circumstances, wasn't going to pull out of Tony’s nose. Even if Tony fell off the bleachers and broke his tailbone, Sam wasn’t gonna carry him anywhere. Not to the nurse’s office. Not to the hospital. And definitely not to Steve’s truck to sleep it off like he had last week.“I see you rolling your eyes, Mr. Glass.” Tony snorted. “Get it? ‘Cause Jules is eating his Royale with Cheese in a wheelchair.” “Listen,” Sam said because Fury had just walked out of his office with his mouth already on the whistle. “His dad says he’s good, his sister says he’s good, and—”“Yo, Mace! Have you had it up to here with the motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane?” Closing his eyes, Sam promised to pick up an entire week of shifts at the soup kitchen if God fast-tracked a miracle.“Fine,” Steve said. “You win.” Miracle granted. “But I’m not asking him.”Miracle partially granted.Fury might be twenty feet away and closing, but there was no way in hell Sam was gonna let that slide.“No. You don’t get to stare at the diving boards, the rafters, the water fountain, and whatever the hell else you’ve been staring at for the past fifteen minutes, then pawn off the job. You’re the motherfucking co-captain—”“Of the motherfucking plane!” It was inevitable. Tony was going to turn Sam into a gray-haired, ulcer-ridden version of his father whose “beautiful Black skin” was full of wrinkles from raising too many damn kids!“I know, Sam. I just—” Steve rubbed the back of his neck like he was trying to exfoliate an entire layer of skin. “But he doesn't like me… like… at all. He always looks at me weird and—”“I told you he’s been looking at us weird!” Jack pointed at Sam like he'd won the lottery, and Sam—“Maybe he loooves you,” Tony said, dragging his tongue the full length of his ‘lightsaber.’ “Loves you looong time.”Sam could feel the gray hairs sprouting from his temples.“I’m sorry,” Steve said like he wasn’t sorry at all. “I just… I think it will go better if you’re the one who asks him. Everybody likes you, and—”“God, Rogers.” Brock had the nerve to throw his towel at Steve's chest. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a fuckin’ homo.” “Shut up!” Steve and Sam had yelled the exact same thing at the exact same time. And more than that, they’d taken a collective step in Brock’s direction. It was the first time they’d acted like co-captains all day.“Listen,” Sam said just as Fury blew his whistle. “I’m gonna take one for the team—this time—but you owe me. You’re gonna help me study for my chemistry retake, be a top-tier wingman at Ezra’s party, and score us two tickets to Kanye’s sold-out show in December. And that’s only the beginning.” Sam looked Steve dead in the eye. “‘Cause, man. Right now, you suck.”* And that’s how Sam ended up on the roof of the school, standing in front of Bucky Barnes like a Goddamn fool while Clint Barton—and his towering mohawk—smoked a joint and gave Sam the stank eye. Up until twenty minutes ago, Sam had been thrilled to get out of practice. But now? He held his breath as another puff of smoke blew across his face. Not so much.Steve had talked Sam into a lot of stupid things with his rousing “It’ll-be-fine” speeches and puppy dog eyes, several of which had left permanent scars. Three guesses whose idea it had been to challenge the wrestling team to a game of tackle football in a gravel lot. Sam rubbed the pebble embedded in the skin just above his ass. And three more to figure out whose idea it had been to play shirts vs skins, calling skins like he’d wanted his friends to get road rash.The answer was Steve and Steve.And don’t even get Sam started about the time they’d been jogging around the reservoir in Central Park and Steve had convinced him to catch a squirrel that had gotten a bottle stuck on its head. Sam shivered. It had been two years since he'd saved that stupid squirrel’s life, and he could still feel those tiny little claws digging into the meat of his thigh. But this—whatever this was—was worse. It was bad enough that Barnes had made Sam squeeze past the mops and brooms in a fourth-floor janitor’s closet, climb a rickety old ladder, and weave his way across a roof that had more patches than the JFK Expressway. Now he had Sam standing here like a deadbeat dad on an episode of Dr. Phil. If Steve didn’t come through on Kanye, Sam was never gonna forgive him.Barnes had made himself comfortable in a green plastic chair, putting his feet up on a concrete block like he was chillin’ in his crib with a bowl of popcorn. But this was about as far away from a living room as you could get. Not only was Barnes sitting in front of a brick chimney that was the size of two refrigerators, the damn thing was covered with soot stains that looked like they’d been there since 1892. But this wasn’t about the chimney. As soon as he’d sat down, Barnes had unhooked a pair of pink Ray-Ban knockoffs from the collar of his t-shirt and slipped them on with a level of smoothness that made Sam think he’d been taking lessons from Ezra—or vice versa. And those ’80s shades—combined with the way Barnes kept tipping the chair back on two legs—made it impossible for Sam to get a read on things.Menacing? Mysterious? A major asshole? Sam had no idea.Barton, on the other hand, was as easy to read as one of Sylvie’s library books. After parkouring his way to the top of the chimney, Barton had hung his legs over the side like he lived there. Combat boots. Eyeliner. Black nail polish. A skull t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Everything you needed to know about Barton was plastered on the outside, just like the blond mohawk he'd plastered into a series of spikes. But the thing that really drove Barton’s feelings home was the way he was slowly and deliberately scratching his eyebrow piercing with his middle finger. “Leather pants, huh?” Sam crossed his arms. “It's, like, ninety-five degrees today, man.”Barton’s pants had more zippers than Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video. Zippers on the thighs. Zippers on the shins. Zippers on the knees. And a zipper on the fly that was reflecting the sun into Sam’s eyes.“Thanks for the weather report,” Barton said, scratching his piercing and his balls at the same damn time. And it wasn’t a quick scratch. No... Barton was taking his sweet ass time, scratching them with—you guessed it—two middle fingers.Shielding his eyes, Sam tried a different approach.“Who waters that plant?” The plant next to Barnes’ chair was in a yellow pot, and it wasn’t scraggly or overgrown like Sam would have expected from a random rooftop plant. The thing looked healthy, like somebody climbed up here with a watering can twice a week and fed it Miracle-Gro.Barton took a hit off his joint, blowing the smoke at Barnes, who—instead of answering—made himself busy unraveling a yellow thread from the smiley face patch on his knee. And Sam—whose brand-new Air Jordans had tar all over the bottoms—was at a loss.“What do you want?” Barnes asked, wrapping the thread around his middle finger until the smile was gone. “You said it was important.”“It is. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have climbed—”“‘Cause we’ve already broken the number one rule of the Sanctuary:”—Barnes snapped off the string—"Don’t talk about the Sanctuary.”Everything told Sam to shout, “You didn’t have to drag me up here! We could’ve handled this downstairs when I found you in the office!” But instead, he asked, “Sanctuary?” because, sure, why not?The tip of Barnes’ finger looked like a grape, but that didn’t stop him from using it to push his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose.“Yes, Sanctuary,” Barnes said, hitting menacing right on the nose. “And since you’ve never spoken to me directly until, let’s see”—Barnes looked at an imaginary watch—“seven and a half minutes ago, I’m just dyin' to hear what you could have to say to little ol’ me.”Grunting like a caveman, Barton took a rip off his joint, which would’ve been a halfway decent intimidation tactic—or at least a step up from Brock—if he hadn’t started coughing like he’d wrapped his mouth around an exhaust pipe. But Barnes didn’t notice—or care—that his friend had asphyxiated himself with marijuana smoke. He was too busy staring into the depths of Sam’s soul like a serial killer.If Sam made it out of here alive, Kanye wasn’t gonna cut it. Steve was gonna have to score Drake tickets, Future tickets, Big Sean tickets, and VIP tickets to the NBA Finals—including transportation via his stepdad's private jet—because Bucky Barnes was downright scary.“C’mon, Wilson." Barnes licked his lips. "Out with it.”Suddenly the squirrel didn’t seem so bad.Taking a deep breath, Sam puffed up his chest like Steve. “I'm here representing the swim team.”Barton snorted. And Sam—Sam ignored him because the faster he got this out, the faster he could get off this Goddamn roof. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but our second fastest swimmer moved to Oregon—like, here on Tuesday, gone on Wednesday—and we need to fill his spot. There's a lot of talent on the team, but none of them have the right combination of speed and power to anchor the relays like Devin could. Word on the street is that you’re good—like, really good—and Coach Fury wants us to recruit you.” Sam widened his stance. “So here I am, recruiting you.” Relaxing his shoulders, Sam gave himself props. That had been a damn good speech. Authoritative but cool. A hint of flattery without kissing ass. Steve had sent the right man.“No.” “What? What do you mean 'no'?”“Easy. I mean no.” Unraveling the string, Barnes pushed the sunglasses back into place. “No way, José. Nope. Nada. Nyet. Nein. Not happening. Never in a million years, fuck you very much.”Barton laughed so hard that the joint fell out of his mouth. It didn’t matter how many rings Barton had sticking out of his eyebrow, it was impossible to look tough when you were digging a lit joint out of your crotch. And—apologies to Jesus—Sam was enjoying the hell out of watching Barton flail around on top of that chimney.“Fucking hell, dude! You made me burn a hole in my favorite pants!”Sam was about to laugh in Barton’s face, but before he could open his mouth, Barnes tipped back his chair and said, “If it’s so fucking important, why didn’t the King of the Jocks ask me himself?” It was clear that Sam should just leave—cut his losses, climb down the ladder, and rush home to play UNO with Breonna and Sylvie—but curiosity was a bitch.“King of the Jocks, huh? That's cute. You come up with that on the spot?”“No.”If Sam were to give somebody a visual description of the word deadpan, he’d hand them a picture of Bucky Barnes and his potted plant staring at Sam with matching expressions. “Whatever, man. I’m starting to understand Steve’s decision to sit this one out.”Barnes raised an eyebrow, which was the first genuine reaction Sam had seen since he'd found these jerks stealing candy in the main office.“Listen,” Sam said in a last ditch effort to sound open and inviting. “Steve thinks you hate him. He’s been acting like a big baby ever since this whole thing came up. And I didn’t get it. In fact, I gave him a really hard time. But after dealing with you two, I understand completely. You guys are assholes.”“No, you’re the asshole.” Barton wasn’t looking for his joint anymore, he was looking for a fight. “You and Steve Rogers.”“Okay, I’m done,” Sam said, backing out of the situation as fast as he could. “The sooner I tell Coach Fury we’re screwed, the sooner I can collect my Kanye tickets and pet Snuggles.”Sam made it halfway to the ladder before—“Wait.”There wasn't a bone in Sam's body that wanted to wait, but then he pictured Harry destroying their leads... and Brock throwing a temper tantrum... and Steve staring at the Goddamn pennants above the pool.Trying to convince himself to turn back, Sam said, “For the team.” And when that didn’t work, he followed Tony’s lead—minus the megaphone—and said, “For the motherfucking team.”Sam was full prepared for another round of bullshit, but when turned around, what he saw was completely unexpected.The chair was on four legs, and Barnes' feet were firmly on the ground. But that wasn’t it. He’d taken off his sunglasses, and the way he was untangling a chunk of hair from the hinges was—Sam squinted at him to be sure.He seemed... quieter, like somebody had power washed the asshole right off of him.Bending over to pick up the plant, Barnes said, “I don't hate him." "Sure seems like you do. I mean, with all the middle fingers flying around, I’m sure as hell not feeling the love.”“What do you expect?” Barton stood up, and, for a second, it looked like he was going to launch himself off the top of the chimney. “Your dick friends have been fucking with Bucky for years. Rollins. Castle. That cunt Rumlow. And those are the names that stand out. Your buddy Steve might not be the one calling Bucky a faggot and spitting on him in the hall, but he sure as fuck hasn’t done shit to stop it.”“Come to think of it”—standing up, Barnes kicked over his chair—“neither have you.”Until this very moment, Sam had been under the impression that he and Barnes were about the same size—give or take an inch—but as soon as Barnes stomped across the roof with his plant, it became frighteningly clear that he was almost as tall as Steve.“So tell me, Sam.” Barnes shook the plant in Sam’s face. “Why the fuck would I want to join a team full of homophobic, homogenized, spoiled jock dicks who get off on making my life a living hell?”“Good question, cupcake.” The metallic bang when Barton kicked the bird spikes around the top of the chimney made Sam long for the slurping sounds of Tony licking his ‘lightsaber.’ Gritting his teeth, Sam said, “Not helping, man.”“Not trying to.”There was sideways, and there was sideways, and if Sam didn’t get this conversation back on track, there’d be no salvaging the situation. He tried to relax his posture.“You should join the team because Coach Fury says you’re wasting your talent at the Y. I know some of the guys can be dicks—believe me, I was this close to punching Brock before I came up here—but they’re also a good team. We win. And, deep down, I'm sure you'd like to win too.” The instant the words came out of his mouth, Sam realized that he had no idea if Barnes gave a shit about winning. For all he knew, watering plants and smoking weed were the guy's top priorities in life.“I know it sounds like a cop out”—Sam relaxed his muscles until he was pretty much a puddle—“but I didn’t know the guys were giving you so much shit. Trust me, if Steve and I had known, we would’ve put a stop to it a long time ago.”“Bullshit.” Barton kicked the spikes hard enough to make a brick fall off the chimney. And the look in Barnes’ eyes— Sam swallowed.The look in Barnes’ eyes made it perfectly clear that Sam had fucked up.“I’m sorry,” Sam said, reaching around the leaves to rest his hand on Barnes’ shoulder. Then he waited, making sure Barnes believed him before he said the rest. “I promise, I’ll do whatever it takes to make it right. Steve too. Because, bottom line”—Sam squeezed just enough to let Barnes know he was serious—“we need you.”*** Looking up at the big blue sky, Bucky took a minute to let those three little words sink in. We. Need. You. What a weird concept.Then he pushed Sam Wilson’s grubby mitt off his super sweet t-shirt (shout out, Twilight Sparkle) ‘cause Steve Rogers’ right-hand man might be chillin’ on the good side of bad, but he was still a fuckin’ jock.“The clouds are mega puffy today, don’t you think?” Bucky slipped on his shades 'cause afternoons in the Sanctuary were hella bright. “Like a bunch of Stay Puft Marshmallow Men floatin’ around in a bright-blue swimming pool.”Hangin' out on puffy little clouds with his little group of non-puffy friends was Bucky’s favorite thing in the whole wide world. Clint puffed up the clouds with secondhand smoke. Daisy scented the edges with Little Debbie Zebra Cakes. And Skinner, with his brown bag lunches, kept the rain away with a steady supply of scrumptious salami sandwiches. Without his friends, Bucky’s puffy little cloud would be three times less puffy.“Did you hear what I said?”Sam had a gap between his front teeth. Not a big one. Just enough to give him some extra personality in the dental department. And it was hot as fuck. Bucky’d never seen it up close and personal until…Bam!...Sam had stormed into the office and shouted, “Where the fuck is Bucky Barnes?” He’d also never noticed how ultrabright Sam’s teeth were. Swear to god, they were brighter than the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man’s ultrabright belly.“I heard you,” Bucky said, squinting so Sam’s teeth didn’t blind him. “Clint’s the one who’s deaf, not me.”Clint threw something at Bucky’s back. Maybe it was a rock, maybe it was a pile of petrified pigeon shit. Either way, when Clint said, “I heard that,” it was Triple H hilarious. And Sam (with his preppy-ass polo, preppy-ass khakis, and preppy-ass fade) looked like he wanted to spread his preppy-ass wings and fly off the roof.Bucky did a lil’ hop, skip, jump back to the base of the chimney, and Clint did a lil’ squat, plop, bend to hold a freshly lit joint up to Bucky’s lips. “So,” Bucky said, taking an itty-bitty hit so his dad didn’t ground him for 547 years, “lemme give you a weather forecast, live from the Sanctuary.” He blew the smoke at Mr. Plant to give his buddy a lil' bud for his buds. “Joining your stupid swim team would be like throwing my puffy little clouds into a Category 5 hurricane. And I don’t know about you, Sam, but I happen to like the sunshine.”“You lost me at the clouds, man.”Sam was cute. A little dumb. A little grumpy. But cute. And maybe that’s why Bucky took another puff and…Whoosh!...blew it straight up Sam’s ass.“I’m making an analogy. The superstar swimmer with boulders for biceps—that’s you—and his dickwad friends—no translation needed—are the hurricane, and my life is a tranquil Caribbean island. Palm trees. Seashells. Parrots. Paradise. And lemme tell ya, I’m not down for waterspouts and two hundred mile-per-hour winds. And not just ‘cause it’ll fuck up my hair.” Bucky tapped the toe of Clint’s boot. “Me and my bestie love the shit out of our puffy little cloud, don’t we?”“Sure do, cupcake.”“And Daisy and Skinner love the shit out of their puffy little clouds, don’t they?”“You know they do.”Bucky probably (definitely) shouldn’t tip his head back so Clint could give him another hit, but smoke added authenticity to the clouds.Blowing a perfect smoke ring at his bestie’s face, Bucky said, “I don’t give a flying fuck if your team finishes last in your division. You’re not fucking up my cloud.”Real talk: Bucky was putting up a good front, but, flying coconuts aside, he’d kill for a chance to find out what was lurking beneath Steve Rogers’ all-American persona. And more than that, he’d love, love, love to spend long stretches of time (key word: long) staring at Steve Rogers’ all-American dong.“And that co-captain of yours…” Bucky tried to hide his chub with his t-shirt before he remembered that Twilight Sparkle barely covered his happy trail. “That motherfucker’s more than a hurricane. He’s the tres leches superstorm in The Day After Tomorrow. You know, the one where Jake Gyllenhaal's about to freeze to death inside the New York Public Library and his dad, aka Dennis Quaid, is the only man in the Northern Hemisphere with the balls—and the snowshoes—to trek through the most dangerous storm in human history to ‘rescue’ his son.”“Steve is a snowstorm?” Sam was lucky he had a bubble butt straight out outta Sir Mix-a-Lot video ‘cause he sure as fuck wasn’t ample in the brains department.“I mean, if you want to simplify the shit out of my Jake Gyllenhaal analogy, sure. Steve is a fucking snowstorm.”Bucky had a lot of top-secret ninja skills. Walking on his hands. Hanging spoons off the end of his nose. Swimming really fast. Sucking dick. But his ability to read people like a New Jersey medium was the only one that applied in this particular life-or-death situation. In the thirty-six months, two weeks, and four days (last night included) that Bucky had jerked off while fantasizing about Steve Rogers fucking his brains out, Bucky'd come to the come-covered conclusion that there was a hell of a lot more to Mr. Popularity than a gazillion dollar truck, dick friends, and a package that looked bigger than a porn star’s in a swimsuit.Unlike Sam and Stark, who (for the most part) acted like Bucky was invisible, Steve—Well, Steve ignored him too. But every once in a while, Bucky would catch Mr. All-American staring at him in the hall, or the library, or the cafeteria, or in front of the school by the bushes. And it wasn’t a hot-jock-with-an-attitude kind of thing or a "I'm-gonna-gay-bash-the-shit-out-of-you" kind of thing. Steve always looked sad, like his pet goldfish had died or he’d accidentally run over a penguin with his pimped-out truck. But Mr. All-American staring at Bucky like a dead goldfish wasn’t the reason he thought Steve might have more going for him than great hair and a big dick. A couple of times last spring, when Brock and his Merry Band of Pricks had been shoving merriment (cough, homophobic slurs) down Bucky’s throat, Steve had distracted the homo-hating fuckfaces with hockey stats to get the homo-haters to shut their homo-hating mouths.Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.“The jury’s still out,” Bucky said, shooting Sam a look that said he didn’t appreciate Sam’s lack of appreciation for Jake Gyllenhaal. “Is the King of the Jocks a knight in shining armor who rides up on his white horse and…Kapow!...beheads the homophobes with his really big sword? Or is he one of those mead-swilling assholes who only pulls out his weapon when he wants the castle wench to clean his sheath?”Rubbing his temples like he was D.O.N.E., Sam asked, “Are we still talking about swimming?” which was fair. At Camelot, the only in-ground pool was a shit-filled moat.“Yeah.” Clint kicked Bucky’s shoulder. "Are we?”“I’m talking about a lot of things,” Bucky said, shoving Lancelot’s boot away from his ear. “Swimming. Survival. Swords. I mean, homo-hating dragons and dick-sucking whores aside, I have to consider the temperature of the pool, the grueling practice schedule, and Steve Rogers’ stance on conversion therapy. Fun fact: I like sleeping in until my bladder’s about to explode, especially on Saturday.”“Pizza Saturdays are holy.” Clint was right. The destruction of Pizza Saturdays would be a deal-breaker.Inhaling the scent of hot, gooey cheese, Bucky said, “Saturdays without pepperoni pizza and porn would be a fuckin’ travesty. Not to mention, Coach Fury’s probably gonna make me shave my chest hair.” Bucky pulled down the collar of his t-shirt. “It’s finally starting to come in around my nipples, and—”“No it’s not.” Was Clint a homo-hater? Obviously not (duh). But he was an asshole with a capital A.“Fine, it’s not. But I still don’t wanna shave the rest.”Ignoring Bucky’s critical question about his Hasselhoffian chest hair, Sam said, "I don’t know what else you want me to say, man. I can't ask any nicer."There were 879 zillion cloud-killing cons in Captain Wilson’s proposal, but when you factored in the intensity of Bucky’s blue balls, there were also a fuckton of pros.Bucky could spot Steve in the weight room, adding plate after plate to make him sweat. And once they were both dripping wet, they could strip off their salty clothes and share a protein shake (one cup, two straws). At first, it would be the muscle-building kind (with pasteurized egg whites and whey protein), but if Bucky pulled out all the stops, aka worked his fuckboy magic, they could (maybe) work their way up to the dirty kind. You know, where they relaxed their throats and swallowed. “I’m leaving.”“Hold on,” Bucky said, adjusting his sunglasses for maximum shade. “I’m almost there.”There was a question on the table. A big one. And there was a hell of a lot more at stake than Jake Gyllenhaal’s frozen Popsicle.Did Bucky want to hurl himself into The Perfect Storm for the chance to ogle Steve Rogers’ perfect ass at close range?Yes.Bucky snorted. Then, trying really, really, really hard to get his hormones under control, he backed that shit up and tried again.Did Bucky want to hurl himself into The Perfect Storm for the chance to ogle Steve Rogers’ perfect ass at close range?No. It would be emotional suicide. Everybody knows what happens to Batman and Marky Mark at the end of that movie. Spoiler alert: They die.Flipping his hair behind his shoulder for the ultimate ’90s Pitt effect, Bucky dredged up his Russian accent to say, “So I’m just supposed to ignore three years of bullying, judgment, and suffering because you suddenly need me?” Pausing, he switched to an accent more fitting for Louis de Pointe Du Lac. “What if all I have is my suffering… my regret?”Handing Mr. Plant to his Cajun bestie, Bucky sauntered towards their guest. One, because he wanted to be nice and close for the grand finale, and two, because the most terrifying vampires always spoke in a whisper.“And you claim that you didn’t know?” Bucky brushed his fingers across Sam’s chest. “Ah, Sam… but I know you did. I know. And as much as your invitation may appeal to me, I must regretfully decline.”Ending with the fanciest vampire bow he could pull off in these jeans, Bucky knew in his undead heart that Brad and Claudia would be so fucking proud.“Hell yeah!” Clint jumped up and down like Bucky’d won an Oscar. “I fucking love it when you do Louis! It's so damn sexy!” He pointed at Sam like he was the lamest vampire in Paris (which, duh, he totally was). “Dude, you just got Armanded!” Sam mumbled something about Kanye West, but Bucky was too busy basking in the moonlit glow of his Oscar-winning performance to give a shit about Yeezy (or Yeezy in Paris).“I mean, look at his face,” Clint said, takin' the world's fattest hit of his fatty. “His big brown eyes are practically oozing with Armand’s unexpected rejection.”“It’s like you’re talking in code.” Sam squinted at Clint like— Well, like he was talking in code. “Interview with a Vampire?” Clint asked.Blank stare.Lifting Twilight Sparkle to show Sam his sparkling abs (#TeamEdward), Bucky said, “Brad Pitt at his sexiest and most gay?” Blank stare.Clint set down Mr. Plant. “A horribly miscast Antonio Banderas crying like a little bitch after Louis rejects him?” Blank stare.If Bucky knew Clint (which he most definitely did), Señor Sam was about to get one hell of an undead education.“Have you been living under a rock?" Clint popped a squat like New Orleans' hottest punk-rock professor. “Interview with a Vampire is a must-watch piece of cinematic history. Get out your phone—I mean it, get out your phone right now—and google 'Tom Cruise and Antonio Banderas are gay for Louis.’ I swear, when you see Antonio’s tears, you’re gonna think he’s your gay vampire twin.”"Yeah," Bucky said, "your gay white vampire twin from Spain."“Thanks for your time.”Sam (who from this moment forward would be known as the Vampire Armand) took his boulder biceps and bootylicious butt (#BabyGotBack) back to the ladder.“Don’t forget to water your plant.” Glancing over his shoulder, Bucky assessed Mr. Plant’s hydration. Sure, Clint had set him dangerously close to the edge of the chimney, but he didn’t look thirsty (for water or dick).“I’m gonna kill Steve,” Sam said as he stepped onto rung número uno. “Makin' me lose sleep for this shit. Gay vampire, my ass.”“Hey.” The only thing left was the tippity-top of Sam’s head.“Tell the king I'll do it.” Kapow! Clint jumped off the chimney in a single bound, shouting, “What the fuck are you doing?” directly into Bucky’s ear.“Fucking up our puffy little cloud. What does it look like?” Bucky half expected Clint to tackle him and get him into a headlock so he could shake some sense into him they were on WWE SmackDown! But instead, he stumbled backwards like Bucky’d already punched him in the nuts. “But I want some guarantees,” Bucky said when Sam’s head popped up like a gopher popping out of a hole. “Steve keeps those assholes under control. And I’m not just talking about the homophobic pricks. I’m talking about the cybernetic twins that give Clint shit about his scholarship—their Caesar haircuts are the worst of the ’90s—and that snobby motherfucker who keeps hitting on Daisy. I don’t give a flying fuck that he wears killer shades and has hair like Zayn's when he went shaggy. She’s told him to fuck off 987 times, and he still comes up to her and brags about his daddy’s superyacht on the Mesopotamian Sea.”“Mediterranean. But, sure. No problem.” “And he keeps a muzzle on Brock.”“Difficult, but whatever. We'll figure it out.”Shaking his head, Clint signed “Don’t do this,” which was worse than a piledriver (or a sharpshooter, or a backbreaker, or a figure four leglock). Like, way, way, way worse. And when his fingers made the sign for “please,” Bucky had to look away.Clint was the only person who knew every last detail of what the homo-haters had done. Natasha knew some of it. Skinner and Daisy too. But Clint— Bucky closed his eyes. Clint knew it all.Freshman year: Frank Castle had made it his mission to slam into Bucky like a fucking freight train every time they’d crossed paths in the hall. And Clint had been there, cursing Frank’s name as he’d iced Bucky’s bruises with frozen corn.Sophomore year: Jack Rollins had snapped a picture of Bucky kissing TJ Campbell underneath the bleachers during a pep rally, posting it on Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, Discord, and fucking Facebook for everyone from Eaton (parents and teachers included) to enjoy. And Clint had been there, spoon-feeding Bucky Superman ice cream as he’d wiped the snot off Bucky’s nose. Bucky dragged his hand across his face. Two days. Two months. Two motherfucking years. It didn’t matter how much time had passed, thinking about that picture fucking sucked. One flash. That’s all it had taken to ruin Bucky’s first relationship (not that they’d made it past grabbing each other’s butts), out TJ, and…Gay Denial!...get TJ’s parents to inform him that he “wasn’t gay,” “wasn’t allowed within five hundred feet of that degenerate homosexual," aka Bucky, and that his twink ass would get sent straight to military school if he didn’t “straighten up.” The excitement of holding someone’s hand. Of sneaking a first kiss behind a yellow school bus. Of feeling wanted. All of it had been stolen by Jack Rollins and his fucking iPhone. Not to mention the absolute nightmare Picturegate had been for Bucky’s dad.Cue Deep Voice Guy:
The principal of prestigious Upper East Side school Eaton Academy faced heavy criticism today after his queer son stuck his tongue down the throat of notorious right-wing senator Thomas Campbell’s son on school property. Sources say Principal Barnes will be lucky to keep his job.
It was a stupid idea to look at what Clint was signing, but when it came to Clint’s hands, Bucky was stupid.Case in point...Junior year: Brock Rumlow had upped his game, accosting Bucky with a never-ending stream of homophobic fuckery from the moment Bucky walked into school to the moment he left. And Clint had been there, making everything better with a hell of a lot more than ice cream.Bucky had PTSD from all the shit Brock had pulled. And worse, he had PTSD from all the shit Clint had done to make it better.“Are you still coming up with demands, or can I go now?” Clint signed "Stop, Bucky," which—“Fuck off, Clint! I know what I’m doing.”“No, you don’t!” Clint had gone from silence to shouting in the blink of an eye. “You’re blinded by Steve Rogers’ ass.”“Of course I am! It’s beautiful! And Sam’s right. I am sick of losing.”"No, you're sick of being single. And I can guarantee that Steve Rogers isn't gonna switch teams for you, if that's what you're thinking."Sam cleared his throat, but Bucky didn’t care if Sam fell off the side of the fucking building.“It’s time to make some changes,” Bucky said, making the universal sign for "fuck you." “Reach for the stars. Wear a varsity jacket in my senior pictures. Make—""A play for a straight guy."“Oh, that’s fucking rich. Believe me, pal, I learned my lesson the last time.” Bucky wanted to kick Clint in the nuts, spit on his face, and tell him to shove a metal stop sign up his ass. But Bucky chose the 'high road,' making a move that would make a much bigger mark.“I choose my events,” Bucky said to Sam. “No seniority bullshit. If I'm the fastest, I get the spot.”“Fury’s the one who makes that call.”“No exceptions. If I'm the best, the spot’s mine.”Bucky’d spent too many meets sitting on the sidelines so his coach could give shitty swimmers a “learning experience.” If he was gonna cannonball into a motherfucking hurricane with Marky Mark, he wasn’t gonna lounge around on the fucking bench.“Fine,” Sam said, moving down a rung. “Anything else?” Bucky had one more request, and Clint had pissed him off just enough to ask for it. “Yeah. I want him to ask me himself.”*** The plant. The chimney. The lawn chair. The tar. Sam had warned Steve about all of it. But nothing could have prepared him for the reality of standing in front of Bucky Fucking Barnes on the edge of a four-story building. Vertigo had set in the second Steve had stepped off the ladder, but the spinning had nothing to do with the height. It was the way Bucky Fucking Barnes was commanding the space from his faded green lawn chair, twirling the ends of his long, wavy hair around his finger.The longer Steve stared at the never-ending spiral, the dizzier he got. And the dizzier he got, the closer he was to puking up the carton of Muscle Milk he’d chugged after Coach Fury had let him out of practice early. Steve could handle the nausea. It was par for the course when he was stressed. And he could handle the blur of the surrounding buildings as they spun counterclockwise around Eaton’s footprint. But there wasn’t a cell in Steve’s body that could handle the way Clint Barton was leaning against an industrial-size air conditioner, leering at him as he tossed a tennis ball up... and down... up… and down. Sam’s call had come when Steve had been halfway to the penthouse. Halfway between Hell and the vertigo-inducing anxiety that was Bucky Fucking Barnes. Even without Sam’s impassioned plea, it had been an easy choice to turn the steering wheel right, then right again. Not because recruiting Bucky was what was best for the team, but because avoiding the penthouse was what was best for Steve.Sam had been right about the plant. It did look like somebody climbed up here twice a week to water it with a mixture of Miracle-Gro and love. There were new leaves peeking out between the older ones—lime green against rich emerald hues—and there wasn’t a bug in sight. Steve smiled because the late afternoon sun was hitting the leaves just right, making them shine like wax-coated jewels.It belonged in a painting.In sharp contrast, Bucky’s boots looked like he’d spent his day shoveling horse shit instead of sitting in a classroom. The leather was covered with something that looked like dirt, but could just as easily have been cocoa powder, and there was silver duct tape wrapped around the toes. It was impossible to tell whether the loops of tape were a fashion statement or purely utilitarian. Either way, Bucky’s boots were the opposite of shiny. And the funny thing? They belonged in a painting too.A bead of sweat dripped down Steve’s temple when Bucky leaned back in his chair, and his entire face turned into a furnace when Bucky spread his legs like an invitation.Up… and down. Up… and down.Steve had no idea why the juxtaposition of shiny green leaves and dirty black boots was making him so nervous, and even less of a clue why it made him say something as stupid as, “Nice plant.”Up… and down. Up… and down. Clint was rubbing the back of his mohawk against the metal, bending the spikes like the tips of freshly sharpened fencing blades. And the way he was tossing that ball—Steve cringed. It was worse than waiting for Bucky to react to him saying “nice plant.”“You like my plant?” Bucky gestured at the leaves like they were his most prized possession.“I mean… plants are nice.” Clint snorted, but he never stopped flicking the tennis ball up… and down... up… and down in a perfectly timed rhythm. “Jesus Christ,” Steve said as he bit the inside of his cheek. Clint Barton was just a guy with a ball. And Bucky Barnes was just a guy with a plant. There was no reason Steve's fingers should be going numb. No reason his stomach should be regurgitating Muscle Milk. And no reason a swan dive off the edge of the building should be looking like a viable option.Whispering under his breath, Steve said, “You’re just a dude with a plant,” but when Bucky Fucking Barnes raised his eyebrows, he suddenly looked like something more.After meeting Sam in the parking garage, and getting a serious lecture about being a shitty co-captain and an even shittier friend, Steve had heard all about the “King of the Jocks.” Steve knew it was supposed to be an insult—he was nervous, not stupid—but as he marveled at the way the gentle arch of Bucky’s eyebrows framed his cerulean-blue eyes, Steve couldn’t help but see a golden crown with pink and purple jewels materialize on the top of Bucky’s head.“Plants are good for the soul,” Bucky decreed, tickling the edges of the emerald leaves with his silver rings. The King of the Plants? No, that was stupid. The King of Weed? Steve looked at the guy with the ball. No, that title belonged to Bucky's court jester, who, in accordance with the king’s wishes, was still tossing the ball up… and down... up… and down. The King of Making Steve Nervous? Steve shoved his sweaty hands into the pockets of his jeans. Yeah, that one fit.Steve had always been impressed by Bucky’s ability to throw a mishmash of colors and patterns into an outfit and never clash. Blue boots with red-and-pink plaid pants. Lumberjack flannels over striped shirts. Dozens of leather cuffs encircling his left arm with no rhyme or reason. No matter the combination, the colors and patterns always mingled with the wild waves of Bucky’s hair to make sense as a whole.Today was no different. Bucky’s lavender t-shirt had a cartoon pony on the front, his bright-pink sunglasses were tangled in his hair, and his ripped jeans had more patches than denim. Steve didn’t recognize all the bands, but the red-and-black Daft Punk patch on Bucky’s thigh was impossible to miss. And the Nirvana patch? That was no-brainer, even without the smile. But the thing that stood out the most, the thing that made Steve’s armpits sweat even more than his palms, was the rainbow flag stitched just below Bucky’s left knee. God, he'd make a beautiful painting. Bucky Barnes and his much-loved plant, ruling the canvas with an unexpected mash-up of High Renaissance majesty and candy-colored punk.“Has my plant mesmerized you, Captain Rogers?”“What?”Looking at Bucky’s smirk, it was clear that Steve had been analyzing his outfit for a minute. Maybe two.Up… and down. Up… and down. If only Clint would stop tossing that fucking ball.Steve took his hands out of his pockets, realized he had no idea what to do with them, and quickly shoved them back in. Ignore the periphery. Get his imagination under control. Focus. Taking a deep breath, Steve gazed at Bucky Fucking Barnes and instantly knew his name.Whispering the title with reverence, Steve said, “The King of the Misfits,” because Bucky was patches and pins, color and questions, and a candy-colored prism, all rolled into one. There was a pause. A beat where the jester stopped tossing his ball, the roof stopped spinning, and Steve felt something other than nothing on a Friday afternoon. At least until Clint shouted, “Think fast!” and blasted the tennis ball at Steve’s head.Normally, Steve would have caught it, no problem. But since his hands were jammed into the very bottom of his pockets, his only option was to duck. Anger. That’s what Steve felt when the ball smashed into the ledge next to the ladder. And when it ricocheted, kicking up a considerable amount of dust before rolling to a stop within arm’s reach, Steve picked it up with every intention of knocking the jester off his high horse with a well-placed throw.But before Steve could do any damage, Bucky said, "I believe you're here to ask me a question.Right. Steve wasn’t here to kick Clint Barton’s ass—and he wasn’t here to talk about plants, assign royal titles, or muse about Michelangelo adding Bucky to the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel—he was here to get the King of the Misfits to join the stupid swim team.Steve did his best not to stutter when he said, “Will you… um… fuck.”“That’s mighty forward of you, Captain." Bucky spread his legs even wider. "Usually guys spring for dinner and a movie—or, if they’re a cheap motherfucker, a scoop of ice cream—before bringing up penetration.”If Steve, in any way, acknowledged what had just come out of Bucky's mouth, he'd have to do a hell of a lot more than take a swan dive off the edge of the building.“Right. Um… What I meant to say is”—Steve cleared his throat—“swim team. Will you join the swim team?”If Clint had another ball, Steve was positive that he wouldn’t miss a second time. In fact, judging by the way Clint’s fists were clenched, he might even take it a step further and decapitate Steve with a brick.But Bucky just sat there.And Steve just stood there.And the Rooftop Kingdom went silent, respectfully waiting for the judgment of its king.It took forever for Bucky to say something, but when he did, he spoke with authority. “Yes.”Steve almost tripped over his own feet. “Yes?” “Yes.” Bucky chuckled as he tapped his heel on the edge of a concrete block. “Really?"Jesus Christ. Why did Bucky Fucking Barnes always turn Steve into a nervous schoolgirl with curly blonde pigtails and an oversize lollipop? The guy was wearing a t-shirt with a cartoon pony, for Christ’s sake!“Sam told you my conditions?” Trying not to count the holes in Bucky’s jeans, Steve said, “Yes, I'll do my best.” There were eight. And that was just the right leg.“No,” Bucky said before Steve could count the ones on the left, “not your best. I can't deal with that shit all the time. And neither can my friends.”The tick in Bucky’s cheeks as he set his jaw. The way his breath shifted to the top of his chest. The tension in his shoulders. This close, Steve could see it all. And just like that, the throne dissolved into a garage sale reject, the crown disappeared, and the kaleidoscope of color faded away until all that was left was a broken boy on a rooftop, asking if he could trust Steve to do the right thing. Steve was a good guy, wasn’t he? Bucky rubbed his temples like he had a migraine.God, maybe he wasn’t.Steve’s mother had raised him to take a stand, to do what was right even when it was hard. But just the other day, Jack had thrown a bottle of water across the cafeteria and hit Bucky’s back. And what had Steve done? He’d sat there like an asshole, eating grilled chicken and broccoli while Sharon had rambled on and on about her new cheerleading routine.If Steve's mother were here, she’d take the ball out of Steve’s hand and toss it to Clint, inviting the jester to shatter Steve’s nose with his perfect aim. Or if she was looking for real justice, she'd toss it to Bucky and invite him to do the same.“I’m sorry,” Steve said, digging his fingernails into the meat of his palms.Leaning forward, Bucky rested his elbows on his knees. “Sorry for what?”The spinning stopped. Not slowly, but fast, and everything that wasn’t tied down launched itself into oblivion from the inertia.Steve had always felt weird around Bucky Barnes. The tingly fingertips. The sweaty palms. The overwhelming desire to run in the opposite direction. All of it had started on the very first day of ninth grade, when Steve had seen Bucky run up the main staircase wearing skintight jeans and rainbow suspenders.Nothing subtle about that.Steve didn’t care that Bucky was gay, and unlike most kids at Eaton, he didn’t give a shit that Bucky and Clint—and Bucky's sister Natasha—were only there because Mr. Barnes was the principal. Wealthy parents shelling out fifty thousand dollars a year for tuition didn’t make a kid special. It made them lucky.Staring at Bucky’s duct tape boots, Steve had an urge to drag his white Nikes through the sticky black tar.Lucky? Who the fuck was Steve kidding. It made them spoiled.Once upon a time, Steve had known exactly what it was like to survive on ramen noodles and Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup. Bucky's beat-up boots were just another reminder that Steve had been a better person before he'd stuck a monogrammed fork into a fucking filet mignon.Taking his hands out of his pockets, Steve said, “I’m sorry for doing nothing.”"You didn't do nothing.” Bucky pushed his hair behind his ears. “You did something… sometimes."There were tiny wrinkles in the corners of Bucky’s eyes, and, this close, Steve could see the sadness between the laugh lines. “Don't give me credit for that," Steve said. "I should have done more. And even if you decide not to join the team, I promise... I’ll do more from now on.”Promises had weight. Heft. And when Bucky closed his eyes, the building began to shake. Brick, mortar, glass, and stone. The imperceptible vibration rattled Steve to his core. It was only a matter of time before Bucky’s rooftop sanctuary collapsed beneath his feet.But just as the roof began to buckle, Bucky leapt to his feet and extended his hand. “Then we have a deal,” he said with a flourish. “I’ll swim for your team, and you’ll do more.”Steve was so startled that he gave himself the hiccups. And when the crown reappeared on Bucky’s head, bathing the rooftop with its pink-and-purple glow, Steve got lost in the Misfit King’s smile. God, it was pretty. The glow and his smile.Grasping the king’s hand to seal their deal, Steve hiccuped as they shook on their brand-new alliance. And when Bucky laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling with nothing but happiness, Steve had the feeling that he'd just done a hell of a lot more than recruit Bucky Fucking Barnes for the swim team.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Bucky was outrageously thankful that the Steve Rogers Event (as he was now calling it) had burned through the atmosphere and slammed into his world on a Friday. It didn’t matter that the shockwaves had stopped and the air had cleared, Bucky still needed a fuckton of digestion time to process the impact. Speaking of which...Bucky was horny (and hungry) from watching Captain Steve Rogers squirm around in his seven-hundred-dollar jeans. But his mouth was empty. No Doritos. No dick.“What time is it?” Bucky asked, sinking further into his favorite dumpster-dive chair. The skyscrapers were stealing a solid chunk of the Sanctuary’s sunshine, so it had to be getting late.“Look at your phone, dipshit.” FYI: Clint was salty as fuck. The two of them should’ve bailed on Bucky’s dad and taken the subway back to Brooklyn immediately after the fiery explosion (fallout be damned), but neither of them had made a move for the ladder. Instead, they’d glossed over the fact that they were fighting about Bucky’s puffy-little-cloud destruction, split a piece of OG Bubblicious, and pelted the air conditioner with broken bricks for over an hour (more like ten minutes, but sixty-plus made for a better story).But instead of being cathartic, Bucky's brain had gone gonzo on the ganja and gum, shouting, "Why the fuck did you say yes?" the entire time they'd been throwing hard shit at metal shit.Sighing, Bucky let his body turn to Jell-O, sinking lower and lower until he'd slid all the way out of the chair."I'm too lazy to dig my phone out of my pocket," Bucky said when his ass made contact with the hot tin roof (shout out, Marilyn). "I want you to dig your phone out of your pocket."Clint was sittin' in the rubble with his back against the air conditioner, and...Wham! Bam! Shazam!...his head was surrounded by a shit-ton of spankin'-new dents. If Bucky didn't know about the brick bombs, he'd totally think Clint's mohawk had pierced the metal. Liberty spikes versus air conditioner? Bucky laughed. No fuckin' contest.“I’m not moving, dude.” Kicking Bucky’s wiggly foot (lime, if you were wondering), Clint started fiddlin’ with his gauges. “But if you want a guess, I’d say six, six-thirty?”Clint’s plugs were black acrylic with purple centers, which, in Bucky’s opinión profesionales, were pretty much the coolest. And not just because Bucky’d wrapped 'em up for Clint's birthday with a blow job and a bow.“I think my dad forgot about us.”“Yeah”—Clint sniffed his fingers—“I came to that conclusion a while ago.” Was it gross to sniff your fingers after touchin' your crusty gauges? Abso-fucking-lutely. That shit smelled like Parmesan cheese soaked in pickle juice. But Pickle Rick aside, Bucky didn’t give a flying fuck about ear cheese (just like he didn’t give a flying fuck about the time). He just wanted to crawl through the rubble and rest his head on Clint’s lap, musing about ice cream and birthday sprinkles while they talked about anything other than how Bucky had shoved a shit-covered rainstick into their puffy little cloud.Step one: Crab walk across the roof, do a one-eighty, pop a squat.Step two: Make boot to boot contact, heavy on the contact.Step three: Say, “It looked like you had fun flirting with my sister on the way to school.” When Bucky cringed, the tension went all the way from his face to his taint. There was an entire universe of peaceful topics at his fingertips. Sumo wrestlers. Kung Fu Panda. Orange chicken from Panda Express. The Cheeto trying to infiltrate the White House. But no. Bucky'd blasted the fuck out of the asteroid crater with a confrontational comet and…Kablam!...destroyed the planet a second time.“Let’s stop for tacos on the way home," Clint said, poking the burn mark next to his nutsack. "Whatever you want, I’m buying.”Bucky glanced at the burn.As far as tactics went, Mexican food was a solid choice. Tacos were Bucky’s Achilles’ heel (just ask Brad Pitt), especially when they were shaped like hot dogs. But Bucky wasn’t fooled. The only reason his 'bestie' was offering to foot the bill was because Bucky was 999 percent right about Natasha.The drive from Clint’s apartment to Eaton was less than thirty minutes, but Clint had made the most of it, squishing against Bucky in the back seat so he could get a whiff of the taco riding shotgun. Not even eight inches from Papa Barnes, Clint had complimented Natasha’s lipstick, poked her earring with his cheese-scented finger, given her a piece of his poppy seed bagel, asked if her feet were sore from ballet rehearsal, and flexed his stupid archery muscles 347 times.Bucky scoffed. “You’re the one who likes tacos, not me.”It had been going on all summer (the drool, the gooey heart eyes, the unnecessary flexing), meaning Bucky should've gotten used to it by now. But the only thing he’d gotten used to was pretending that everything, in the words of Princess Peach, was peachy-fucking-keen.When Clint had ‘spontaneously’ decided to tag along to Natasha’s hip-hop showcase in June, Bucky’d put on his peachiest smile and saved him a seat.When Clint had shoved Bucky into a bush so he could open the door for Natasha at the YMCA, Bucky'd smiled as he’d picked peachberries out of his ass.And when Clint had flashed his nipple rings at her when the Puffy Cloud Crew (plus Natasha and her friend Addie) had gone to the McCarren Park pool, Bucky'd waited to puke up his peach cobbler until he’d flipped the lock in the handicapped stall.Piercings weren’t even Natasha’s thing! She liked Coldplay, for fuck’s sake!Groaning, Bucky hooked his pinky on the lock around Clint’s neck.“Fine,” he said, shoving his finger where it didn’t belong, “you can buy me a stupid taco. But only because—green sauce and vagina analogies aside—Carmen's tacos are fucking delicious.”Bucky’s stomach growled, but it wasn’t because he was hungry. It was because his sister had smiled at Clint when he’d handed her that fucking bagel. And that, King Arthur fans, was what was called a ‘happy ending.’ Whether Bucky liked it or not, if Natasha ever decided to hop into Clint’s saddle (it was fifty/fifty at this point), Bucky was gonna have to suck it up, swallow it down, and give the traitors his blessing because, Princess Peach aside, Clint would treat Natasha like a fucking queen.Letting go of the chain, Bucky said, “I’m sorry I pushed you.”"Apology accepted." Clint scooched over until boot to boot turned into hip to hip. “I’m sorry I threw a tennis ball at Rogers’ head.”“No you’re not.” “You’re right. I’m not.”Back in middle school, Clint and Bucky had sat on the roof of Clint’s apartment building at least once a month, mixing Coke with Pop Rocks as they’d lined up their legs to see whose growth spurt had been winning the race. Sometimes Yakov’s had been longer. Sometimes Clint’s. But once they’d hit high school, Bucky’s bones (including his dick) had taken the lead and never looked back. But now?Bending his knees to make their legs match, Bucky leaned his head against Clint’s rock-hard shoulder. “I think we should stay up here all night,” Bucky said, thinking about puffy sleeping bags when he should be thinking about puffy little clouds. “Just a couple of rebels breakin’ the law like Judas Priest.”“Where would we sleep?”“Sleep?” Bucky scoffed. “Who needs sleep when you’re having an all-night sing-along with your best friend? I’ll sing Bowie’s ‘Moonage Daydream,’ you'll sing Ozzy’s ‘Bark at the Moon,’ and we’ll both howl like werewolves when los lunas de moonas pops out from behind our puffy little cloud.”Who could resist a Sanctuary sleepover? Not Ozzy Osbourne, that's for damn sure.“Tempting,” Clint said as he wiped his nose on Bucky’s hair, “but my mom’s working a double, so I’ve gotta get home and walk Lucky."That was bullshit. One text and Clint’s neighbor would happily walk Lucky around the entire perimeter of Prospect Park. Larry loved dogs. Poodles. Goldendoodles. Doodlenoodles. And he had a special soft spot for Clint’s mega chonker of a golden retriever because Lucky (like Larry) lived for Golden Oreos and mostaccioli. Whatever. Clint passing up an opportunity to bark at the moon was a sure sign that (snotty snuggles or not) he was still pissed about the Steve Rogers Event. And that, wolverines and werewolves, sucked big-ass donkey balls. Bucky hated it when Clint was capital M.A.D. He hated it more than homework, hornets, headaches, hangnails, homo-haters… Bucky squished up his forehead to try and squeeze more words out of his brain. And when that didn’t work, he heaved Clint’s humongous nose out of his hair and said, “Name something annoying that starts with the letter H.” “I’m not in the mood for the Alphabet Game.”“Tough shit.” Bucky punched Clint’s humerus. “Fine. You when you’re hangry.”“That’s fair." Bucky gave Clint’s hammy a lil' slammy. "What else ya got?”“Hannah Montana.”“What? Miley’s the bomb-dot-com!”Had Bucky shouted directly into Clint’s ear? Oh yeah, at maximum volume. And did Bucky deserve it when Clint shoved him into the impact crater like a rabid bat on Bikini Atoll? Survey says…“Motherfucker! You made my hearing aid feed back!” Ding-ding-ding! Based on the way Clint was pressing his hand against his ear, Bucky went ahead and stretched out his neck so Ozzy (or Lestat) could...Chomp!...bite off his head. There was a long list of things that Clint had hated, clowns being number one. But coming in a close second was the electrical screech of his hearing aids as they liquified the center of his brain.Lowering his voice to a whisper, Bucky meant it when he said, “I’m sorry.” The only problem was that he didn’t know if he was apologizing for the feedback or the asteroid. Wait. Did Bruce Willis save the planet from an asteroid or a comet at the end of Armageddon? Brushing the space dust off his jeans, Bucky determined after a scientifically appropriate amount of time (three seconds) that it didn’t fucking matter. Big-ass objects hurtling towards Earth at a gazillion miles per hour, regardless of their physical composition or fancy-schmancy scientific names, had the same impact. Cue Deep Voice Guy: The asteroid/comet slams into Earth, coating the survivors with a thick layer of dust and soot. In the aftermath, they wander the streets aimlessly, terrified that an even bigger asteroid/comet might be following on the heels of the first. Will Bruce Willis sacrifice himself to save humanity from an extinction-level event, giving the survivors an opportunity to restart civilization without the mistakes of the past? Or will he say, “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfuckers,” and ride the asteroid/comet straight into the ground? Lying flat on his back in the middle of the crater, Bucky stretched his legs across Clint’s lap. “Do you ever feel like you’re running up the side of a midsize mountain, dodging a shitload of trees while a tsunami's destroying half the country?”“I guess.” Clint touched the spot where Bucky'd unraveled Kurt Cobain’s smile. “When I’m watching a disaster movie.”Bringing up the Steve Rogers Event was a terrible idea. Horrible. Heinous. Hellacious. Horrific. Halitosis. “Fuck it,” Bucky said, whippin’ out his sunglasses to prepare for the inevitable shade. “I’m freaking out.”“Because of the tsunami?”“No, dickhead. Because I just raced up the side of a mountain on a shitty Yamaha as the Atlantic Ocean poured into the Ohio Valley—sharks included—and now I’m supposed to ‘man up’ and repopulate the planet with a sixteen-year-old blonde chick who’s already got a baby strapped to her stomach!”Clint snorted, which was a shit reaction to Bucky becoming a father at seventeen. “Are you comparing joining the swim team to Elijah Wood at the end of Deep Impact?” Clint laughed. “‘Cause if that’s the case, I’m not sure who Steve Rogers is supposed to be.”“He’s the asteroid.”“Then who’s the chick?”Bucky bent his legs so his butt was right up against Clint’s hip. “I think that’s Steve too.”“And the baby?”“That’s easy,” Bucky said, squeezing his eyes shut so he didn’t have to look at the lock. “You’re the baby, 'cause no matter how many bottles I shove into your mouth, you won’t stop whining about the Statue of Liberty getting beheaded by the ginormous wave.”Analogies were a useful tool when you sucked at authentic communication, but this one was giving Bucky a headache.“First of all," Clint said, "it’s a comet in Deep Impact. Armageddon is the asteroid. And second of all—” Clint smacked the smile off Cobain’s face (oh wait, it was already gone). “Dude, open your eyes.”“No way. Tsunamis are scary.”During the ensuing trough, Bucky could only assume that Clint was neck deep in a flashback about how, not that long ago, in a galaxy that was really fucking close, the two of them had been obliterated by a shark-filled tsunami of their very own. And while Bucky, aka Elijah Wood, hadn’t given that asteroid a catchy name, if he had, he would’ve called it Cocksucker. “What time are you coming over tomorrow?” Clint asked, steering the conversation away from anything having to do with cocks, space rocks, and Captain Steve Rogers. “We can figure out how to play that new Twenty One Pilots song you like.”Pizza Saturdays were ride or die. Barring illness, funerals, and that one time Bucky’s brain had jumped directly from Friday to Sunday, Clint and Bucky had shared two pepperoni pizzas every single Saturday since before either of them had sprouted pubes.“‘Heathens’?” Bucky opened his eyes. “Yeah, you can sing it while I figure out the chords.”They locked eyes (blue to blue), which made it easy for Bucky to say, “Can we drink a bunch of Monsters and play Metallica as fast as we can?”“You wanna play ‘Master of Puppets’ at double speed?” Clint laughed, and when he did, his piercing sparkled in the sunshine like a star. Flash! That was stupid. Bucky rubbed his temples. The sun was a star, with hydrogen and helium and the power of a bazillion nuclear bombs. “Can we play ‘Seek & Destroy’ instead?”Bucky wasn’t afraid of the riff in “Master of Puppets.” He could play those power chords in his sleep. It was just that “Seek & Destroy” would be more useful when it came to obliterating the motherfucking space rocks.“Anything for you, cupcake,” Clint said, usin' one of his MMA moves to...Bam!...get Bucky into a headlock. And when his bestie ruffled Bucky's hair, the captain's armpit smelled like asteroid dust and B.O. And that’s where they left it, waving their white flags as they wrestled on their sacred rooftop. Knee drops. Armbreakers. Guillotine drops. Atomic bombs. Clint and Bucky did their best to kick the shit out of each other before climbing down the ladder to repopulate the world.* One hour later...Bucky looked at the clock on the microwave.Correction: One hour and thirty-four minutes later, Bucky started thinkin' about Steve Rogers in a swimsuit.The Steve Rogers Event hadn’t crossed Bucky’s mind as he’d...Swoosh!...raced Clint to the subway station. And it hadn’t tickled Bucky’s control center as the two of them had done 497 pull-ups on the Q train as it had clickety-clacked its way beneath the East River. Even when Clint had bought Bucky a big ol’ bag of salted nuts at the bodega (to make up for the lack of tacos), Bucky’s Geiger counter hadn’t made a sound. But the most impressive example of Bucky not thinking about Steve Rogers’ salty, non-chocolate balls (stick ‘em in your mouth and suck ‘em) had come after Clint and his sexy leather pants had jogged up the steps to his apartment. Left to finish the trek solo, Bucky (with a nuclear assist from Bruce Willis) hadn’t thought about Steve Rogers at all.But now that he was sitting at the kitchen table eating leftover lasagna with his dad and Natasha? Whoo-ee! Opening his mouth as wide as it would go, Bucky went down to town on an extra-thick baguette.The name Steve Rogers was flashing behind Bucky’s eyeballs like one of those obnoxious LED billboards on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Steve in a Speedo. Flash! Steve swimming the butterfly. Flash! Steve stroking his sizable bulge.“Bucky, did you hear me?” His dad’s principal voice was a boner killer. Not that Bucky wanted to pop a bone while he was sharing buttered bread with his sister, ‘cause ew. It was bad enough that they might end up with way, way, way less than Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon when it came to Clint’s sausage.Letting a glob of sauce drip down his chin (for reasons), Bucky said, “Huh?” Fun fact: Playing dumb was Bucky's specialty, especially when it involved secret sauce."I asked if Coach Fury talked to you today.”“Oh,” Bucky said, slurpin’ up a noodle in slow-mo, “I thought you were asking about my Españolo Rolo quiz, which I totally killed, by the way. I even got the extra credit questions right, and you know how hard Señorita Lauter goes when it comes to bonus points. We’re talkin’ muy complicato del gato.”Natasha chuckled, which was the opposite of cool. Bucky hadn’t spilled the beans when she’d bombed— Oh wait. Natasha never bombed anything.The checkered tablecloth was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. Captivating, really. Red checkers that had been infiltrated by little specs of Parmesan cheese (not ear cheese). White checkers that had been splattered with saucity-sauce-sauce. Red and white checkers that looked exactly like the ones on the tables at Anthony’s.Starting on red, Bucky let his index finger jump from one to the other. Diagonally up, diagonally down, now swing yer partner all around.Switching teams was a big deal. Bucky touched three in a row, easily winning a round of tic-tac-toe.And his dad was gonna ask a gazillion questions. Skip three squares, don’t touch the cheese. And Natasha was gonna see right through Bucky’s bullshit. Even without looking, he knew there was a smug little smirk on her face that said, “I know you’re thinking about strapping on your knee pads and sucking some royal dick.” Touch two more, hit the diagonal slide, then…Whoosh!...jump over Kevin Bacon and his pickle-filled moat.“Bucky, is everything okay?” His dad took a sip of root beer. “You seem more distracted than usual.” Root beer was fucking delicious, especially when you plopped a big ol’ scoop of vanilla ice cream right on top. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh, what a relief it is to have a superhot bestie who loves to spoon. Whammo! Papa Barnes slammed the bottle on the table (not really) 'cause it was his life's mission to interrupt root beer float fantasies with a heaping dose of parental concern. “Son,” he said, takin' the whip cream out of Bucky’s sails, “is there something you'd like to talk about?”A gazillion potential answers blasted through Bucky’s brain (none of which should be said out loud). Por ejemplo: “Yeah, Dad. I can't stop obsessing about unachievable relationships. I flunked my Spanish quiz. I scratched your car last week when I was screwing around on my Razor scooter. I stole forty bucks out of your wallet to buy that Jared Leto Joker figurine. And last but not least, my best friend wants to date my sister even though I’ve spent a solid amount of time sucking on his balls.” Natasha kicked Bucky's ankle, which, rude. But he knew better than to kick her back. What his sister lacked in the height department (she was up to Bucky’s nips on a good day), she made up with big dick energy was ten and a half inches and thicc. “It’s obvious something’s up,” Natasha said, slicin’ through Bucky's bullshit with her butter knife. “And you have sauce in your hair.”A saucy boy with saucy hair. Bucky laughed as he took another bite. And when lasagna wasn’t enough to calm his nerves, he shoved six inches of bread into his mouth.Bucky was Elijah Wood, pissin' his pants ‘cause he didn’t wanna be a teen dad in a post-tsunami world. He was Frodo, standing at the edge of the volcano, struggling to throw the Ring of Power into the molten lava. He was Bruce Willis, freaking the fuck out because he couldn’t blow up the asteroid/comet with a malfunctioning nuke."You can tell me anything, Bucky.” Shoving his plate across the tablecloth like a ginormous checker, his dad took off his glasses. “You know that, right?”“What if I got a girl pregnant?”His dad raised his eyebrows. “Did you get a girl pregnant?”“No. Vaginas are gross.”Instead of big dick energy, Natasha used supercharged vagina power to blast a hole through Bucky's ankle.Did it hurt? Yeah, like a motherfucker. But Bucky was too distracted by his dad’s understanding eyebrows to check for damage.The slightly bushy brows were making it clear that even if Bucky'd stolen a case of beer, impregnated multiple vaginas, and puked in the back seat of his dad's car, it would be okay. And that was his dad in a nutshell. Concerned, supportive, loving, and...Slurp!...cool with Bucky gettin’ busy with the buttholes. He’d been that way since the day he’d swooped in with his American checkbook and plucked Natasha and Bucky (code names: Natalia and Yakov) out of the Russian Gulag (code name: orphanage). And in five years, he’d never wavered.“Okay,” Bucky said, pumpin’ sperm into vaginas galore, “I scratched the fuck out of your car with my Razor scooter.”Bucky told them everything. Well, except for the part about wanting to run his tongue over the bulge in Steve's Speedo, and the part about Clint putting Bucky into a figure four leglock, and the part about the Vampire Armand, and the part about Kevin Bacon and Clint’s balls. Taking a deep breath, Bucky put his socked foot on top of Natasha’s bare one, knowing in his heart that rain or shine (or asteroids and tsunamis), his dad and Natasha were always gonna have his back. Just like Clint.Walking over to the fridge, Bucky’s dad said, “I have some concerns,” before trading out his root beer for a real beer. “Chiefly, the other guys on the team.”Yes, Principal Barnes knew about the homophobes; but only the parts that Bucky'd told him, which (in the grand scheme of homo-hater bullshit) was roughly thirteen percent. It was bad enough to be known as “the middle-class gay kid” in a sea of private chefs, private security, and private planes, but to be known as “the middle-class gay kid whose middle-class daddy fought his battles for him”? Bucky knocked over the cheese. Fuck that. Bucky’d let Frank Castle clothesline him morning, noon, and night to avoid that label.“Let’s talk scholarships,” Bucky said, changing the subject by appealing to his dad’s middle-class sensibilities. “You make good money at Eaton, sure, but we both know it’s not enough to pay for two bright kids to go to two bright-kid colleges at the same time.” Bucky didn’t even know if he wanted to go to college, let alone what the fuck he'd study. Paleontology? Volcanology? Bruce Willis’ filmography? But selling his dad on the idea that Bucky could earn a PhD by pimpin' himself out to a top-notch swim team was the opposite of a deal breaker. It was a deal maker. Without moving her face, Natasha switched her foot to the top position (duh), communicating telepathically through Bucky’s foot that he was destined to work at Subway. And it was shitty. If Bucky wanted to dig around in ginormous asteroid craters with a tiny shovel, searching for boners, then that’s what he was gonna do. And when he ended up on the cover of TIME magazine holding Steve Rogers’ fossilized erection, he was gonna—“Ultimately, it’s your decision,” his dad said, interrupting Bucky’s record-breaking discovery, “but I need you to be honest with yourself. Can you really handle that kind of pressure?”Drop the mic, ‘cause that, right there, was the twenty-five-thousand-dollar question. Could he handle it? Was he fucking insane for wanting to handle it? And if Steve Rogers ever let Bucky handle ‘it,’ could Bucky handle that?Switching back to the top position ('cause he was into that sometimes), Bucky reached across the table and snagged his dad’s beer.“Don’t let my My Little Pony shirt fool you”—Bucky took a big ol' swig—“I’m almost an adult, and adults can handle anything.”Technically, Bucky was still grounded for—he glanced at the microwave—three hours and forty-six minutes for stealing not one, not two, not three, but four bottles of beer exactly one week ago today. And it was totally worth it. Coors Light might not be known as the Beer of Champions, but its mediocre alcohol content had been enough to turn last Saturday’s Kubrick marathon into a space-themed rave.Bucky’s dad reclaimed his beer.“You’ll be spending a lot of time with Wilson and Rogers,” Natasha said, trading foot telepathy for a blunt-force kick to Bucky’s Steve-inspired chub. As a dancer, Natasha had tons of dancer friends at school. And because dancers could move their bodies like sexy snakes, they were all mega popular; meaning they cozied up to the other mega popular, mega rich, and mega spoiled people, including the mega muscular jocks on the swim team. And if you smashed all those megas together, you ended up in a dimension where Bucky’s sister was halfway decent friends with Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers.Natasha had been listening to Bucky gush about Steve’s ass for the better part of a century. No joke, Bucky’d spent an entire decade talking about how you could...Plink-plink!...bounce quarters off Steve Rogers' juicy peach. And while his sister's friendship with Steve wasn’t exactly a conflict of interest, it sure as fuck made things iffy when it came to 'casual' dinner conversation over lukewarm lasagna.Natasha was staring at him. His dad was staring at him. And Bucky, who wasn’t staring at anything, had the sudden desire to put the bread basket over his head.The key to this conversation was making it seem like Bucky wasn’t laser focused on bouncing a quarter into Steve’s cup, aka Steve’s butthole. Which was why, after readjusting his dick, he pushed Sam into the spotlight.“Sam was cool when he asked me,” Bucky said. “I Armanded the fuck out of him, and he didn’t bury me alive for rejecting his vampire advances.”Bucky’s dad always tried to set a good example. When he drank, it was always in moderation. One beer on school nights, two on the weekend. And he sipped that shit like a centenarian nursing an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of sherry. But now? Chuggin' his Coors like a himbo, Papa Barnes waited for a solid spike in his blood-alcohol level to ask, “How much weed did you smoke today?” “None.”Natasha laughed. And it wasn’t a polite lil’ chuckle. It was a full-on pig snort.“Fine, I smoked a bunch of weed. But that’s not the point.” Bucky shoved more bread into his mouth, which probably didn’t score him points for clarity when he said, “I wanna see what happens when I wipe off the asteroid dust.” It was blank stares all over again."I wanna trudge into Mordor with the blonde chick from Deep Impact, throw the Ring of Power into the volcano, and high-five Bruce Willis."“You have to take this seriously, Bucky. It’s a major commitment.”“You don’t think Frodo took the Fellowship of the Ring seriously?”“Bucky.”There was a limit to his dad’s patience. Using Clint’s mom as a reference, most parents maxed out around seventy-five miles per hour. But lucky for Bucky, his dad didn’t flip the switch on the red and blue lights until Bucky was close to the speed of sound (#SonicBoom).Driving his Yamaha out of Mordor, Bucky made a quick stop at the Shire before hightailin’ it back to his quaint lil’ kitchen in Brooklyn.“I wanna see if I’m good enough to beat those assholes at their own game, and not just to rub in their faces—although that’s gonna be an excellent perk. I wanna do it for myself.” "And Rogers?"Oh, Natasha, Natalia, Natasha.Bucky shrugged. "I'm not gonna lie. You know I like him."Bucky’s dad cleared the dishes, wiped the Parmesan cheese (and comet dust) off the checkers, and cracked beer número dos before patting the tippity-top of Bucky’s head. And that, hobbits and heroes, was what was known in the Barnes Family household as a certified stamp of approval. One down, two to go.“Why do you always go looking for heartbreak?”Bucky’s dad had evacuated the blast area, aka the kitchen, but Natasha was standing at the edge of the volcano, dangling her stamp of approval over the molten lava. They’d never talked about Clint, but Natasha wasn’t stupid. In fact, she was the smartest person Bucky knew.“I don’t know,” Bucky said, drifting away to a magical land where Legolas’ Fellowship was more than pixels on a screen. “Maybe I’m just a sucker for sad love songs.” Power ballads. Breakup songs. Taylor Swift singing about being fifteen. Fuckin' Coldplay. Bucky loved them all.“You know that’s not all there is, right?” Natalia brushed Yakov’s hair out of his eyes like she’d done when they were kids. “There are happy songs too.”Chocolate chip cookies. Airplane rides. SpongeBob Squarepants.“I know,” Yakov said, smiling as they flew across the ocean towards America. “I’m making a playlist of those too.”* Pizza! Bucky’d woken up with visions of pepperoni and cheese swimmin' around in his head, and it was awesomesauce (pun intended). Shoving the comforter down to his belly button, Bucky rubbed his rumblin’ stomach. He could already taste the greasy goodness on his tongue... feel the gooey cheese as it got stuck to the dimple in his chinny-chin-chin... smell the tomato sauce as it blended with the scent of dirty socks and weed... Pizza heaven. That’s what it was called. And Bucky couldn’t wait to roll around in the sheets with his bestie and an extra large.Bucky rubbed his lasagna belly (so round), his morning wood (so hard), and his chest (so fuzzy, excluding his nips).Clint was pretty much hairless (except for his junk). Skinner had a cookie-size patch of hair that grew in the center of his chest like a fairy circle. And Daisy, being a certified boob owner, was exempt from Bucky’s morning chest hair analysis (so sad).Gettin’ some friction going on his nips, Bucky said, “Maybe I should buy some Flintstone Vitamins to stimulate my hair follicles."Then again, a kids’ vitamin probably wouldn’t turn him into David Hasselhoff (no matter how many he took).The sooner Bucky got out of bed, the sooner he could turn his lasagna belly into a pizza belly. So, without further ado, he somersaulted to the edge of the mattress, ditched his vampire bat pajama pants, and flicked the head of his dick.It wasn’t jerk off time. It was pizza time. Bucky could take care of his dick (or have his dick taken care of) after he’d demolished 669 pepperonis. But first, he had to cover his erect nipples.Grabbin' his Prince t-shirt off his desk, Bucky slipped it over his head. One, 'cause Prince was on a motherfuckin’ motorcycle (hot), and two, 'cause the soft cotton teleported Bucky back to the rainy spring day when Prince had...Poof!... appeared in a cloud of purple glitter between two argyle sweaters at Value World.There was pizza heaven, and there was thrift-shop heaven. And that day, Bucky and his besties (sans Skinner) had found themselves on the right side of Macklemore’s pearly gates. On top of scoring Purple Rain perfection, Bucky'd found an Olivia Newton John shirt from 1982 (let’s get physical), a holey (not holy) REO Speedwagon t-shirt from 1984, and two One Direction shirts from somewhere in the new millennium.Side note: Harry Styles was a cutie patootie and the not-so-secret inspiration for Bucky’s ‘casually’ tousled hair. Wrapping his hand around his dick, Bucky gave it a few Harry-inspired strokes. “No Flintstones Vitamins needed here,” he said when his dick reached maximum length. “Just a high-quality hand job usin' pizza grease and spit.”Speaking of which, the only thing Clint had scored at Macklemore’s thrift shop that day was a ratty Circle Jerks tank top with a suspicious stain. Bucky did the helicopter with his erection, ‘cause circles, duh. “I wish I had Daisy’s jacket,” he said, doublin' the speed. “Then my outfit would be perfect.”Clint may have struck out at Value World, but not Daisy. Bucky’s beloved Japanese American Princess of Vintage— No, that was too long. Pulling on a pair of boxer briefs to contain his dick, Bucky tried again. The Princess of Vintage had hit the fuckin’ jackpot when she’d discovered a leopard-print coat from the ’50s buried behind a puffy ski jacket from the ’80s. No lie, the knee-length coat looked like Macklemore had poached fifteen African leopards on safari and sewn it especially for her. The collar framed Lil' Miss Daisy’s face like a lion’s mane, the dark-brown buttons matched her eyes, and her long black hair looked fan-furry-tastic against the faux fur. Whether the Princess of Vintage had her hair in fancy braids, fancy pigtails, or slicked back into a fancy-ass bun, Macklemore’s custom coat (mixed with Daisy’s manga makeup, chunky shoes, and motherfucking feminine essence) was fuckin’ magical.Bucky cracked up. Not 'cause of Daisy's leopard-print lion's mane...Roar!...but because Prince was ridin' up over Bucky's lasagna belly and the head of his dick was playing peek-a-boo over the top of his undies. It was super pervy, super Prince, and, if Bucky felt like soupin' up the seduction, exactly the kind of look he’d need to lure a certain blond into his proverbial pants. But first, Bucky had to put his pants on.Bucky scanned his bed (no jeans), the floor (no jeans), his dresser (no jeans), and his closet (lots of jeans that he’d worn way, way, way too many times), coming to the conclusion that, in addition to getting his erection handled, he needed to do a fuck-ton of laundry. It took forever for Bucky to find a pair of jeans that didn’t reek of eau de ballsack. But when he did, he was off like the Flash, throwin’ his softest black beanie over his ‘casually’ tousled hair (cough, rat’s nest) and jogging down the stairs. “Pizza, pizza, pizza,” Bucky chanted as his feet landed on each step. “Pepperoni, pepperoni, pepperoni,” he chanted as he sat on the bench in the hallway and tied his baby-blue Chucks. “Cheese, cheese—”“Bucky, what are you doing?” His dad’s voice had come from the kitchen, and it sounded extra grumpy.“Rappin’ about cheese. What does it sound like?”The best course of action would be for Bucky to zoom out of the house in a red-and-yellow jumpsuit, avoidin' the marijuana drama with lightning-powered speed. But there was a problem. Peeking his head into the kitchen, Bucky smiled like an angel. “Mornin’, pop,” he said, making a halo with his hands. “Can I borrow forty bucks?” Financial statement: Bucky had a whopping zero dollars and zero cents in his wallet. And while he was highly skilled at getting things for free, he didn’t think the guys at Anthony’s would be down for trading two large pizzas and a six-pack of Coke for a lap dance from an underage dude in a Prince shirt. As predicted, his dad took a bite of his egg salad sandwich (ew) and said, “You got high yesterday. Why would I give you money?”“For Pizza Therapy, duh.” Bucky smiled like he’d never even smelled marijuana. “I swear on Snoop Dog’s life that I won’t indulge in anything stronger than energy drinks and high-quality Coke.”“Really, Bucky?”“Coca-Cola, Dad.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Get your mind out of the ’80s.”Bucky wasn’t sure if his dad was highly susceptible to Jedi mind tricks or he was just too annoyed to argue. Either way, Papa Barnes didn’t ask any more questions (drug-related or otherwise) before ponying up two tens and a twenty.And with that, Bucky was off to the races. “Coke, Coke, Coke,” Bucky chanted as he hopped down the front steps. “North, north, north,” he chanted as he did a disco spin and spun his compass towards Anthony’s.High energy. Danceable. Disco heavy. Pizza Saturdays had a very specific soundtrack. Which was why, after doin' a little shuffle, Bucky popped his headphones over his beanie, hit Pizza Hits on Spotify, and cranked up the volume.First up: “Raspberry Beret,” which…Zoinks!...went with Bucky's Prince t-shirt and…Double zoinks!...was the second song about a secondhand store that had tickled Bucky's eardrums (inside and out) since he’d woken up from his pizza dream. Coincidence? Bucky thrust his hips at a lamppost. More like cosmic.It was a beautiful day (shout out, Bono), and the sunshine was pushin' Bucky’s mood up, up, up. Was it the serotonin? The vitamin D? The promise of gooey cheese drippin’ down the back of his throat? Bucky shimmied across a subway grate. Who the fuck cared why Bucky’s brain was bubblin’ with happiness. He was just happy to be happy.The snaggletoothed cat chillaxin’ in the window of the book store? Bucky blew him a kitty-cat kiss. The empty two-liter of Dr. Pepper rollin’ around by the bodega? Bucky tossed it in the trash to save the planet. The homeless guy hangin’ with his pit bull by the record store? Bucky gave him ten of his dad’s hard-earned dollars.Bucky fuckin’ loved these headphones. They let him drown everything out while he took everything in. But according to Alanis’ definition, it was hella ironic that he was wearin’ ‘em to talk to Clint about—Red light.Bucky stopped in the middle of the crosswalk.Post TJ/pre Clint (when Bucky’s Steve Rogers obsession had hit its second peak), Natasha had wrapped Bucky’s Christmas gift in red-white-and-blue paper to match the gift inside. And while the symbolism of the headphone's patriotic paint job (stars on the speakers, stripes on the band) hadn’t registered when Bucky'd taken the Beats out of the box, Natasha had cleared things up, whispering, “I thought these were right up your alley since you're head over heels for Rogers' all-American ass.”
Honk!
Was Bucky blocking traffic? He hip checked a Charger, Magic Miked the hood of a Kia, and rubbed his butt on the bumper of a Bronco. Not anymore.Hoppin’ onto the curb, Bucky smiled when Spotify shuffled to “Stayin’ Alive.” Poof! He was John Travolta, struttin’ like he had Saturday Night Fever on a Saturday morning, aka Saturday afternoon.Real talk: Peeps on this route were familiar with Bucky’s traditional Morning Dance Party. He’d been running, jogging, skateboarding, roller skating, Rollerblading, Razor scootering, and dancing back and forth on these same eleven blocks for three years. And it showed. The wrinkly old folks (pre-gentrification) and manscaped hipsters (post gentrification) barely noticed when Bucky revved up his Travolta duck lips, folded Prince into an honest-to-goodness crop top, and did the Brooklyn Shuffle all the way to his favorite old-school pizzeria.And damn, did it smell good.Twenty minutes later...Bucky had a problem. Carrying two large pizzas, two Monsters, a six-pack of Coke, and the ginormous bag of breadsticks Mike the Pizza Guy had thrown in for free (no lap dance required) was really fucking with Bucky's dance-party tempo. Clint’s place was five blocks north of Anthony’s, and while Bucky'd trekked through thunderstorms, ice storms, blizzards, heatwaves, and tornados to make it to Pizza Saturday, right now, all he wanted to do was dance. His favorite new jam, aka “Starboy” by The Weeknd, was stimulating Bucky’s boogie button, and not dancing when you felt like dancing was just sad. Red light.Stopping at the corner, Bucky stretched his quads with one of Natasha’s ass-sculpting plies. There were four blocks left until Bucky reached the Sanctuary 1.0. Four blocks until Bucky could take a load off and drop off his load. He stared at the little red man on the crossing sign. Blink! Why the fuck had he let Sam Wilson infiltrate the Sanctuary 2.0? Blink! Only Clint, Skinner, Daisy, Floyd the maintenance guy, and (once in a blue moon) Natasha were allowed to breach its walls.
Blink!
Exactly three weeks after Clint and Bucky had infiltrated Eaton Academy (and three hours after they’d been caught skateboarding in the locker room), Principal Barnes had handed over the key to the Sanctuary, along with a long list of rules. No skipping class to chillax with the pigeons. No drinking. No smoking. No drugs. No sex (straight sex, gay sex, or anything in between). And absolutely no “tomfoolery” (Bucky still didn’t know what tomfoolery meant, but since he’d never fooled around with a guy named Tom, he figured he was good to go). Green light.For the most part, Bucky’d honored his dad’s rules. Well, except for the drugs (Clint’s fault) and a little bit of sex stuff (mostly Clint’s fault too).Okay, so Bucky was shit at following rules. Sue him.Readjusting the pizzas, Bucky ran into a mailbox, stubbed his toe, and cursed The Weeknd for whippin' up such an irresistible dance beat. Bucky liked stars. Star Wars. Star Trek. The Starman. The Starchild. Vincent van Gogh's Starry Night. All of them were awesome. And now, thanks to The Weeknd, Bucky was adding “Starboy” to the list.There were two and a half blocks left, but Bucky’s arms were about to…Plunk! Plunk!…onto the sidewalk. No arms meant no pizza delivery. No pizza delivery meant no Pizza Therapy. And no Pizza Therapy meant Bucky was doomed to go the way of the dinosaurs, chokin' on ash until he transformed into an archeologist’s wet dream. Red light. This time, Bucky used a newspaper box to give his burning biceps a break. The Wall Street Journal. The New York Times. The Daily Bugle. While Bucky and Spider-Man waited for the little red man to turn green (#HulkSmash), Bucky seriously considered downing a couple of slices to lighten the load.Green light.The song ended (but not the mood), so Bucky pulled his phone out of his pocket to play it again. And that, disaster lovers, was what physics geeks called a "weight-distribution mistake." The breadsticks slid across the top of the pizza box as soon as Bucky tapped The Weeknd, and when he overcorrected, all he could do was watch as one of the Monsters rolled into the street and...Splat!...got run over by a Jeep.“Motherfucker!” Hitting reverse, Bucky dumped everything onto the bench by the bus stop. He wasn’t pissed about the Monster (he’d just steal Clint’s), but he was fucking furious that the Vulcan part of his brain had told him to stop.Logic said it was impossible to disco strut when your buttery breadsticks had slid into a Kevin Hart look-alike’s hip. Logic also said that you shouldn’t grind your ass on a stop sign, even when it had super sexy nipple rings.“Fine,” Bucky said, sliding the pizzas over so he could sit on the bench. “You want me to stop? I’ll fucking stop.”“I didn’t ask you to stop.”Kevin Hart was staring at Bucky like— Well, like Bucky was talking to himself at a New York City bus stop.Life hack: When you fling a bag of bread at a guy, it’s only right to offer him some, especially when the scent of butter, garlic, and carbolicious goodness is wafting in front of his nose.“Sorry, dude,” Bucky said as he opened the bag. “Want one?”At first, Bucky was salty about the unwelcome intermission. But the longer he sat there, eating breadsticks with Kevin Hart as they stared at the hipster restaurant across the street, the more Bucky’s brain desalinated, thanking him for the distraction from Steve—Bucky blinked.The restaurant was on the newer side, and every weekend the hipsters congregated underneath its bright-red awning like they were going to hipster church. They’d wait hours for a table, snapping their suspenders and stroking their beards in front of a neon sign that hiply said Toast. And when they got thirsty, they’d pray that Hip Jesus would pull up in his refurbished hearse and turn their six-dollar waters into eighteen-dollar Bloody Marys.“Do you ever wish you could grow a hipster mustache?" Chompin' on his free breadstick (key word: free), Bucky turned to his new friend. "You know, the kind with the curls on the ends?”“I can grow any mustache I want, but my wife likes me smooth.” Bucky nodded. He liked his guys smooth too. Well, at least on the face. Everywhere else, he liked things hairy (think hairy Superman, aka Henry Cavill, mixed with Wolverine). Divin' in for breadstick número tres, Bucky was hit by a big ol' wave of nostalgia 'cause...Splash!...Toast used to be all about makin' things smooth. “Remember when that used to be Leon’s Barber shop?” Bucky held out the bag. “When I first moved here, I thought the barber pole was super cool. It twirled around like a psychedelic candy cane”“Yeah, I remember. My father got his hair cut there for years.” Lickin' his fingers, Kevin Hart went in for another stick o' bread. “So, where you from, kid?”“Russia. My sister and I moved here when we were twelve.”One of Bucky’s favorite things about Brooklyn was that people were cool with pretty much anything. And Breadstick Buddy didn’t disappoint. He just nodded, chewin’ his breadstick as the two of them judged the hipsters for standing in the spot where Leon’s barber pole used to be.“I wonder if they know they’re desecrating the remnants of Brooklyn history by paying twenty-seven dollars for a breakfast burrito.” Bucky pointed at the tallest hipster like Mr. Bowling Shirt was animal at the hipster zoo. “I mean, look at that guy. It’s obvious that he uses Murray’s wax on his walrus mustache.""Walrus mustache?""Yeah, and I bet Leon would be pissed if he knew they replaced his barber chair with kitschy tables for rich millennials with—”“Leon’s dead.” Bucky choked on his breadstick. “Oh yeah. Diabetes got him.” The bus arrived right on time (for comedic effect), spewing carbon monoxide at Breadstick Buddy as he said, “My father used to say Leon’s shaves were the best in Brooklyn. The number one place to get nice and smooth before heading to the strip club for a night on the town.” And with that, Breadstick Buddy was gone, leaving Bucky with an empty bag, two cold pizzas, and a whole lot of confusion about what any of this had to do with Steve Rogers.“Two more blocks,” Bucky said, flipping off the hipsters before he got back to strutting (sans music).Green light.Philosophizing about gentrification had sapped Bucky's brain cells, so he made it a point to not think about anything. Not about giving Clint’s share of breadsticks to Kevin Hart. Not about Steve’s big breadstick bulge. Not about dipping Steve’s big breadstick into ranch dressing. Not about Steve’s big breadstick thrusting in and out of Bucky’s bread basket. And not about whether Steve’s crust had been cut off, or his crust, aka foreskin, was intact like Bucky’s. Oh, look. He was here.Bucky love, love, loved Clint’s worn-down building. He loved the rusty railing that led up to the door. He loved how Mrs. Jackson’s window boxes were always full of colorful flowers (real in the summer, plastic in the winter) and how her cat Jamison liked to stick his nose through the hole in the screen. And he loved how instead of calling the police when somebody was having a party, Clint’s neighbors would just knock on the door with a case of beer and invite themselves in. But the thing Bucky loved the most was when Clint’s guitar was blaring out of his third-floor window (like now). Brutal punk riffs. Classic Elton John melodies. Hair metal solos from the ’80s.Real talk: Bucky would never, ever get sick of watching Clint’s magical fingers bust out Slash’s solo from “Sweet Child O’ Mine” (#GunsN’RosesRulz).Currently, Bucky’s favorite axe man was tearin’ up some mid-tempo Foo Fighters. The question was, was he doing it with or without a shirt?Striving to keep the sole surviving Monster alive, Bucky maneuvered up the steps and rang the buzzer with his nose. And while he waited for Clint to stop fingering the fretboard and buzz him in, Bucky realized something weird. Steve Rogers was being weird. When you low-key stalk somebody for a solid chunk of time (minus the month of TJ and the sexually charged spring when Bucky’d thought a certain somebody, whose name may or may not rhyme with flint, might’ve actually wanted him), you learn their default settings. And Steve’s default settings were strolling down Eaton’s hallowed halls with perfect posture, dating perfect girls with perfect posture (while maintaining his perfect posture), and perfectly exemplifying perfection as he ruled the fucking school. Mushing his nose against the button, Bucky kept it there so Flint would unlock the fucking door. The perfect girl that had been sinking her claws into Steve’s perfectly sculpted biceps since their return to de los esquela was Sharon Carter, and Bucky hated everything about her. Her bouncy blonde hair. Her sky-high heels. Her sweet smile. Her pastel cardigans with coordinating brooches. Her super short cheerleader skirt. Her enormous pom-poms. The way she ate fat-free yogurt. The ancient intercom crackled to life. “That better be you,” Clint said, saving Bucky from the image of Sharon Carter going down on Steve’s buttery breadstick. “You plus pizza.” "Who the fuck else would it be?"
Buzz!
It wasn’t weird that Steve’s girlfriend swallowed (or spit) endless loads of ranch dressing. That’s what perfect girlfriends were supposed to do with their perfect boyfriends’ perfect penises. But Slouchy Steve stumbling over his words as he’d fawned over Bucky's plant? That shit had been weird as fuck.There were two flights of stairs between Bucky and the Sanctuary 1.0. Two flights before Bucky could throw the pizzas at Clint, pet Lucky, and flop onto Clint’s bed like the good ol’ days (minus the ranch).Shirt update: Clint was wearing one when he opened the door, which...Spoiler alert!...wasn’t at all like the good ol’ days. "Lucky, get off of him!"Clint always cut the sides off his tank tops, which was more slutty than punk. But for some reason, the Ramones tank top he was wearing was fully intact. No nipple ring access. No six-pack access. No belly button access. And worse, it was new. “Nice shirt,” Bucky said as Clint attempted to rescue him from seventy-five pounds of pizza-loving fur. No answer. Clint just grabbed Lucky’s collar and held him back so Bucky could make a run for the bedroom. And while it was fun watching Clint’s freshly washed hair fly all over the place (seriously, he looked like that hot filmmaker chick from T he Hunger Games ), it wasn’t fun knowing that Clint had gone shopping without him.How many tries did it take for Bucky to balance everything on the dresser? Uno, dos, tres. And how many times did Clint have to push Lucky backwards before he could safely slam the door? Cuatro, cinco, seis.Pizza Saturdays were a tradition, and within that tradition, it was traditional for Clint to lean back against the door and say, “Sorry about that, bro.”And because traditions were sacred, Bucky adjusted his dick and said, “It’s not Lucky’s fault. Everybody knows how good I taste.”Red light.Clint didn’t look at Bucky when he moved pizza número uno onto the corner of the bed. And he sure as fuck didn’t look at Bucky when he flipped open the lid and ripped off a slice.“Dude, this is ice cold.”Bucky rolled his eyes. "Says the guy who ate two-day-old pizza he found underneath his bed.” “That was one time.” “Yeah, and who kept your hair out of your face while you puked for eight hours straight?” Bucky used Prince to wipe Lucky's slobber off his stomach. “You totally ruined my Baywatch shirt.”Bringing up David Hasselhoff could send Pizza Saturday in one of two directions: straight down to the Mordoresque pits of Hell or not-so-straight up to the puffy little clouds of Pizza Heaven. Cracking open the Monster, Clint chugged half the can before he said, "Baywatch, huh? You’ve been holding that against me all this time?”“Of course I have! The Hoff's the God of Hairy Chests!”When you’ve low-key crushed on somebody for a solid chunk of time, you learn their default settings. Por ejemplo: Clint takin' a bite of his freezing cold slice without any additional complaints meant that Bucky’d won the argument. Por ejemplo número dos: Clint chuggin’ the rest of the Monster like a fuckin' champ was the equivalent of a thrist trap, aka the opening chapter of the Bros Being Bros Handbook.And Bucky was thirsty as fuck.Licking his lips, Bucky said, “Toss me a Coke.” And Clint, an avid reader when it came to dehydration, was happy to oblige.The Coke exploded when Bucky popped the top ('cause disco strutting and carbonation don't mix), spraying fizz all over his face, which—Bucky closed his eyes.Let's just say that it wasn’t exactly an unfamiliar feeling in this room.But Clint didn’t give a flying fuck about Bucky’s PTJD (post-traumatic jizz disorder). If he did, he wouldn’t have crawled across the bed like a sexy pepperoni and…Zip!...dropped a slice of pizza onto Bucky’s bare stomach. Bare because Bucky, like a fucking dumbass, hadn't pulled Prince back over his breadstick belly after he'd used him as a fucking napkin.“How’d we get lucky enough to have the best pizza in Brooklyn right down the street?” Clint took a bite from a slice that wasn’t three inches from Bucky’s breadstick.“It’s, like, seventy-five blocks.” "It's eleven."“Yeah, dickhead, that's what I said.” Flexing his abs, Bucky took the pizza for a ride. “One hundred and seventy-five."Clint was laughing when he said, “You’re ridiculous.” But there was nothing funny about the way he lifted the slice off Bucky’s stomach and said, “Now shut up and shove this into your mouth."Green light.Bucky stuffed the slice down his throat so fast that he almost choked, which…Déjà vu!...also wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling in this room.It was bad enough that Bucky’s mouth had opened without his permission, but his dick swelling up without so much a consultation? Bucky cringed. A chub would be easy to hide. He could just pinch his balls between his thighs and make it go away. But this was the kind of boner that made a distinctive line in your jeans. The kind that had to be tagged NSFW on Tumblr. The kind that wasn’t going to deflate no matter how many times you imagined your dick getting obliterated by a meat grinder."Dude, what's wrong with your face?"Prince was too short to conceal the purple eggplant in Bucky’s pants. Covering his crotch with one of Clint’s pillows would be too obvious. And he couldn’t exactly put a slice of motherfucking pizza on his dick, now could he? Grinding the top of his head against Clint’s sticker-covered headboard, Bucky put a slice of motherfucking pizza on his dick because he didn’t have a better idea. “So, Netflix first?” Clint asked, flipping on the TV.As far as anti-boner questions went, you couldn’t get less effective than “So, Netflix first?” (And not just because it was the universal code for S.E.X.) When you flipped through the official Bros Being Bros Handbook, “Netflix and Chill” was featured prominently in chapter two, aka the chapter where Clint and Bucky took their dicks out of their pants.But looking at Clint’s grumpy eyebrows, thin lips, and big-ass nose, it was clear that he’d meant “Netflix and talk about the swim team.” And that, castle wenches and whores, made Bucky want to disguise a hell of a lot more than his dick with pizza.At least until he noticed the chub in his bestie’s jeans. Green light?“For fuck’s sake!” Bucky smacked his head against the headboard. “Why can’t I just stay in my fucking lane?”“What?”Bucky wanted to say, “You know, obsessing about straight boys in Speedos instead of ‘straight’ boys who shoot arrows into willing targets,” but he didn’t. He just pinched his nuts between his thighs, imagined his dick turning into ground beef, and said, “Netflix is the bomb-dot-com.”After a truly awkward silence where they watched the preview for How to Train Your Dragon 857 times, Bucky chucked his beanie at the window and grabbed a rubber band off the nightstand to tie his hair into a topknot. The dicks would get soft again. They’d watch something that wasn’t about dragons. It would be cool.And by the time they’d finished the rest of the Cokes (without further ejaculation), devoured both pizzas, and watched Weird Science for the zillionth time, everything was, for the most part, as cool as a medium-size cucumber.Clint was smoking a joint by the window. Bucky was sitting in the corner of the weed-scented couch, strumming Guns N’ Roses “Patience” on Clint's acoustic. And Lucky was licking the empty pizza boxes that Clint had tossed onto the floor. It was calm. Too calm.“Monday’s gonna be here before you know it,” Clint said, blowing a halfway decent smoke ring at the ceiling. “What time do you have to show up for practice?”Bucky strummed the chords in reverse. “Ready to swim by five-thirty.” “So that means you’ve gotta pick me up at what”—Clint scoffed—“four forty-five?”Let the destruction of their puffy little cloud begin. “Yep. Maybe even earlier in the winter.” Whistlin’ along with Axl Rose, Bucky couldn’t help but wonder if Brooklyn would be a happier place if Leon (and his peppermint pole) were still makin’ Breadstick Buddy’s dad look sharp ‘n’ smooth for a night out on the town. Bucky strummed the chords in the right order. Or were hipster mustaches and twenty-dollar vegan sausages the way to go?Clint kept staring at whatever was happening outside the window, pushing his hair out of his face just to have it fall back down. And Bucky, who wished his hair was still covering his eyes, kept strumming backwards and forwards, pretending he was Axl and Slash rolled into one magnificently monstrous musical being.Mental note: Bucky wasn’t sure if Pizza Therapy was therapeutic today, and neither was Slash.The joint was pinched between Clint’s index finger and thumb. And when he held it up to his lips and asked, “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Bucky didn’t know if his ‘bestie’ was talking about the swim team or a Halloween surprise.“I dunno.”It was a pathetic answer, but it was the truth. Bucky didn’t know.“Can you stop playing ‘Patience’?”“I don’t think I can.” Bucky's left hand kept rotating between the D and the G. “I’m really fucking nervous, and—”“Of course you’re nervous! You’re about to jump into the deep end with a bunch of assholes.”Slash let the G chord ring so it was extra dramatic when Bucky said, “The assholes aren’t the part I’m worried about.” Clint raised his eyebrow and, by default, his piercing. But Bucky couldn’t stop staring at the joint. It had burned down to nothing, singeing the tips of Clint’s fingers and making them sizzle. Bucky dropped the guitar pick.“If you’re not worried about the assholes, then what the fuck are you worried about?” “I don’t know. Swimming?”“C’mon, man.” Clint took the guitar out of Bucky’s lap. “You know you’re good enough to kick those assholes’ asses.”“Assholes’ asses?” Playing the opening chords to “Moonage Daydream,” Clint smiled. “I’m standing by that, bro.” Bucky’d eaten too much pizza. His waistband was too tight, Prince was too small, and his heart was being crowded out of his chest by melted mozzarella.“Can we do something else?” Bucky asked because Clint playing Bowie was almost as sexy as Clint fingering Slash.“Sure.” Clint leaned the guitar against the bed without washing his fingers. “Wanna dye my hair? I picked up some Manic Panic the other day, and I need your skillful hands to dye my tips.”Bucky shouldn't make the joke, but dick jokes were hard to deny.“You want my skillful hands on your tip, hmm?” In a flash, Clint teleported across the room, tripping over the pizza boxes as he leapt onto the dresser (not really) because…Shocker!...Bucky shouldn’t have made the fucking joke.“I don’t want a purple dick. So, no.” Bucky’d never been good at following traffic laws. Jaywalking. Blowing through stop signs. Taking his dick out when the little man was flashing red. Which was why he said, “You’re right,” and spread his knees to give Clint an unobstructed view of where he’d been. “If you ever manage to weasel your way into my sister’s pants, a purple dick would probably freak her out.”Bucky shouldn’t have made the first joke, and he definitely shouldn’t have made the second one. But Clint’s only reaction was to grab the jar of dye off the dresser, kick the pizza boxes, and say, “C’mon, dipshit,” as he walked out of the room.It was super anticlimactic, which (aside from Bucky’s deep and enduring love of climaxing) was a good thing. Maybe. God, he was horny.“This isn’t the Climax Zone,” Bucky said, even though he’d come dozens of times in this exact same position on this exact same couch, “it’s the Friend Zone. And friends wait until they get home to shoot semen across the room.”Everybody knew that Bucky wasn’t patient (Axl and Slash included), but if he didn’t wanna end up in the Ex-Friend Zone, he had to pump the brakes, clench his butt cheeks, and respect the signs. And Bucky was cool with that. When he got home, he could get naked and sprawl out in the middle of his bed, staring at his Velvet Goldmine poster (#BestMovieEver) as he thought deep thoughts about Steve Rogers’ non-purple cock. Por ejemplo, was it more on the brown side or the pink side? Bucky guessed pink, like Steve’s rosy cheeks.“Are you coming or not?” Clint's voice had come from the general direction of the bathroom. And Friend Zone or not, Bucky couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Yeah, dickface. But not until later.”Ten minutes later…The plastic gloves were covered with purple goo, and while Bucky’d tried really, really, really hard to slather it on “just the tips” (as instructed), he'd gotten dye all over Clint’s forehead, his ears, his neck and shoulders, and (#Drool4Dayz) his hairless chest. And that was just the body parts. Bucky’d also squirted dye all over the toilet, the rug, the sink, the shower door, and…Drip!...his baby-blue sneakers.“Motherfucker!” Bucky tried to flick the goo off the laces, which, duh, made everything 479 times more purple. “My new Chucks!”Clint laughed. “Those are over a year old, dipshit. And I know for a fact that they’re too small.”That was true. Bucky’s toes hurt whenever he wore them for too long. “Whatever. I’m taking off these stupid gloves.”“What?” Clint squinted up at him from the toilet. Fuck. Clint had taken out his hearing aids before they’d turned the bathroom purple, and Bucky (like a dick) had totally forgotten.Story time: When Clint was four, he’d caught bacterial meningitis, spent a week in the hospital, and ended up with partial hearing loss in both ears. The end.Clint didn’t make a big deal about it, and neither did anyone else. He read lips, used ASL, and had taught everyone he cared about how to sign, including Bucky, Natasha, Skinner, Daisy, Larry, Mrs. Jackson, and Bucky’s dad. He’d even taught basic signs to the Richie Riches on the archery team, some of his teachers, and (because Clint actually loved gettin’ down on some beefy tacos) the waitress at the Mexican joint across the street from school.Making the sign for, “Sorry,” Bucky held up his hands. “I’m taking off the gloves.”“Dude, you’re gonna dye them purple.”“Don’t care.” Ripping off the gloves with a…Snap!...and a…Snap!...Bucky tossed them into the trash and got back to work. Life hack: Slathering dye on “just the tips” was a gazillion times easier without gloves (#CondomsSuck). Would he regret it later? Guess that depended on if he caught an STD.Bucky made sure to face Clint when he said, “You look like that purple McDonald’s monster.” “Hamburglar?”“No. That’s the striped one that steals hamburgers. How high are you?”“Very.” Clint smiled like the Cheech to Bucky’s Chong. “Are you talking about Barney?”There was high, and there was Snoop Dog high. And any stoner who didn’t know the difference between Grimace and Barney was barkin’ up a California palm tree (#RIPTupac).“I love you, you love me,” Clint sang, trapping Bucky between his knees as he summoned the Barney theme song from Satan’s asshole. “We’re best friends like friends should be—”“Knock it off.” “With a great big hug, and a kiss from me to—”“Fuck you!” Barney. Hamburglar. Grimace. He crushed all three between the palms of his purple hands. “Maybe it’s time I got myself some new friends!”Bucky blinked.They’d been joking about hamburger heists... laughing about condoms... singing nursery rhymes that had nothing to do with wolves or Wolverine. Purple tips. Purple drips. Purple rain on the laces of Bucky’s baby-blue shoes. They’d been joking... but now Clint was picking burnt skin off his fingertips as he leaned against the edge of the shower.“I didn’t mean it,” Bucky heard himself say. “Barney just gives me the creeps.”A purple drip snaked its way past one of Clint’s nipple rings, going lower, and lower, and—“It’s my fault,” Clint said, blocking the dye with his thumb before it could stain his happy trail. “I should’ve listened when you told me to stop.”Red light.Bucky was good at more than handstands and blow jobs. He could moonwalk, touch the tip of his tongue to the tip of his dick, and draw some pretty badass cartoons. But he sucked at staying in the motherfucking Friend Zone. Turning the water on full blast, Bucky stuck his hands into the sink.There were a lot of things about this situation that sucked. First and foremost, watching Clint wipe his purple thumb across his overdeveloped deltoid. But coming in a close second was the way Clint let his fingers graze Bucky’s wrist when he said, “And I shouldn’t be giving you such a hard time about the swim team. I just—”Bucky had two options. He could splash water on Clint’s stupid face, expressing his motherfucking feelings with a fuckton of purple H20. Or he could relax his throat, suppressing his gag reflex and swallowing it down like he always did.“I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”It was 892 percent intentional when Bucky turned his neck as far as it would go so Clint couldn’t read his lips. “Again,” he said, flipping the cross in Clint’s living room upside down with the power of Sauron (shout out, Linda Blair). “You mean you don’t want to see me get hurt again.”The water stopped, and Bucky had to check to see if he was the one who’d shut off the tap. According to the Exorcist Handbook, demons were tricky, tricky, tricky.“It’s crazy that you’re wearing your Prince shirt,” Clint said, talking to Bucky through the mirror. “It’s not crazy.” Bucky flicked holy water at Clint’s face. “The weather report called for purple rain.”Jokes. They were another one of Bucky’s top-secret ninja skills. Making everybody laugh when nothing was funny at all. “After what I did—” Moving closer, Clint touched Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m just—”Slouchy Steve Rogers was a lot different than Slouchy Clint. First of all, Clint didn’t slouch physically because that wasn’t his MO. He slouched emotionally. And, unlike Steve, Clint didn’t stutter. He stopped.Truth Bob-omb: Clint was more likely to switch gears and rant about the new GTA update than finish that sentence. And that was fine. For Clint, getting that close to admitting that he’d fucked Bucky in every way but physically was almost as good as a full-blown confession.Relaxing his shoulders, Bucky said, “You’re getting Grimace goo all over my shirt,” because as much as Bucky hated Barney, he could never hate Clint.“I don’t think Prince would mind.” Clint wrapped his arms around Bucky’s pizza belly, staining the skin that Prince was too short to cover. “Purple's kind of his thing.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
As was often the case, the early hours of Monday morning brought a sense of relief. A respite from the suffering. And while Steve hated everything about this truck—from the leather seats to the gas-guzzling engine—he was grateful for the relative peace it provided. The sweeping violins coming through the speakers. The cans of spray paint rattling in the back. The seatbelt that held him in place when all he wanted to do was fly through the windshield.Turning on the blinker, Steve made another right-hand turn.He’d left the penthouse forty-five minutes earlier than usual, taking the service elevator down to the parking garage for the sole purpose of driving aimlessly in the dark. It was easy to do in Manhattan, where the streets and avenues were arranged perpendicularly in the lines of a grid. And while turning down one-way streets in an endless box wasn’t making anything better, at least Steve wasn’t stuck in the box that was his bedroom, turning in endless circles in his mind.Starbucks opened at five. Usually, Steve pulled up just as they flipped the sign from closed to open. But not today. Today, the windows were dark. And why wouldn’t they be? At this hour, the manager was probably hitting snooze on her alarm, trying to avoid the sound of frothing milk for as long as she could. And Steve was fine with that. He had no illusions that freshly brewed coffee and pre-packaged banana nut bread would make the visions of his mother go away. Christ, he’d be lucky if the hot coffee burnt a layer of guilt off his tongue. “Black,” he said, rolling down all four windows at the same time. “No cream. No sugar.” The air wasn’t fresh. It didn’t possess the properties to clear one’s mind or clarify one’s purpose. If anything, it smelled like garbage. In any other city, the majority of the inhabitants would be snug as a bug in their beds, hitting snooze like the Starbucks’ manager or snuggling up to their partners as they awaited the arrival of the sun. But Steve existed in the city that never slept. Horns. Sirens. Garbage trucks that spent more time idling than doing their jobs. All of them together conspired to make the four o’clock hour as loud as New Year’s Eve in the center of Times Square.Steve stuck his hand out the window, spreading his fingers like they possessed the power to trap the sounds. All he wanted was a moment of quiet... a night where he could lay his head on his pillow and sleep like he had when the walls of his bedroom had been too crooked to call it a box. But his life, like the city, was nothing but noise. Bucky Barnes was the loudest person Steve had ever met. Even at lunch, when the cafeteria was swarming with more than two hundred rowdy seniors, Bucky’s voice rose above the din. How else would Steve know that Bucky had ‘accidentally’ dipped Skinner’s tie in ranch dressing on the first day of school? Or that Bucky’s sweet tooth celebrated with a wide variety of sound effects whenever his friend Daisy opened her lunchbox? In just the past week, Steve had learned that Great Expectations was on Bucky’s list of “bullshit books,” that Bucky was counting the days until Deepwater Horizon came out so “Skinner could watch himself on the big screen,” and that Bucky and Clint had gotten into “hella big trouble” for stealing Principle Barnes’ beer.Blowing through the stop sign at the end of the block, Steve left jet-black coffee and banana nut bread in the dust. It wasn’t just the cafeteria. Steve knew from experience that a person could be working in the computer lab on the fourth floor and hear Bucky’s laughter floating up the stairwell from the first. “Because he never shuts up.” Steve gripped the wheel with both hands. “Because he’s the only person in Eaton’s history to have been permanently banned from the fucking library.”Bucky was loud. He was obnoxious. He said fuck more than anybody Steve had ever met. But Friday, when Steve had shaken Bucky’s ring-covered hand, the electricity surging through the metal had made Steve’s entire world go quiet. And what had Steve done?“Nothing,” he said, inviting the garbage to settle in his lungs with the disappointment. Then, because it was important to speak the truth to the dead, he looked in the rearview mirror and said, “I’m nothing but a failure with a counterfeit pedigree.” “You know that's not true, Steven.” Normally, Steve welcomed his mother’s visits, opening himself to whatever whispers he could grasp. But she'd been different since his formal audience with the Misfit King. Instead of coming to Steve in her normal comforting way, cooling his fever with a cold compress or taping his latest drawing of their neighbor’s Dalmatian to their refrigerator, she’d appeared as she had in her final months, pale and weak, with her new husband looming in the shadows.Slapping the blinker, Steve made another meaningless right-hand turn.If touching Bucky’s hand had made everything quiet, the act of letting go had amplified the banal. The texts had started almost immediately after Steve had retraced his steps through the janitor’s closet. Sam, Sharon, Brock, Tony—who, unfortunately, had only been getting the party started at practice—Sam again, Sharon again… and again… and again. Steve hadn’t answered any of them. But even without consummating the connection, the strobing light had triggered the darkness, blackening the sky long before the setting sun had blipped on the horizon. After Sam’s fifth text—and Sharon’s seventeenth—Steve had ‘lost’ his phone in the pile of books by his bed, stripped down to his boxers, and rolled to the very edge of his mattress, pressing his body against the floor-to-ceiling windows like he had so many times before. Disappointment. That’s what had been etched into his mother’s cheeks when her silhouette had appeared in the reflection. Disappointment as she’d said, “I taught you better than this, Steven. After everything we went through—everything I went through—why haven’t you become the man I raised you to be?”“Daddy issues,” Steve said, moving the mirror so he didn’t have to watch the strands of his mother’s long blonde hair disappearing in the wind.It was bullshit, of course. You had to have a dad to have daddy issues, and in Steve’s world, dads were in short supply.Steve pushed the button for the side mirrors, changing the angle so all he could see was pavement. And when that wasn’t enough to block the whispers of the only parent he’d ever known, he bit the inside of his cheek as hard as he could.Saturday conditioning was always a challenge, but this weekend, Coach Fury had tortured the team for five and a half hours. They’d run laps at the outdoor track in Queens, run more laps in the gym at Eaton, run up and down the bleachers at both locations, and spent more than two hours in the weight room. And from the first lap to the final deadlift, Steve had tried to burn away his mother’s words with lactic acid. But no matter how fast he’d run or how much he’d lifted, the gate had remained open like the blackened void of a six-foot hole.Yes, his mother had taught him better, but his father? Steve scoffed.The only thing his father had taught him was that genetics were more powerful than a nurturing hand.Self-care had never been at the top of Steve’s list, but after a workout like that, he’d known better than to go back to the penthouse. For every exercise-induced high, there was an equally powerful low, and if Steve had stuffed himself into that glass-and-metal box, he would have broken ground with something a hell of a lot sharper than a shovel. So instead of turning right when he’d left Eaton’s parking garage, Steve had turned left, spending Saturday afternoon with an Xbox controller in one hand and a vodka martini in the other. Tony never talked about his own epic daddy issues, and he never pushed Steve to talk about his, making their friendship the perfect partnership of denial. Killing zombies in Nightmare mode. Customizing weapons with Tony’s cheat codes. Throwing grenades in an alternate reality where guilt was a handicap. For a few hours before Ezra’s party, Call of Duty had been the perfect distraction from the distractions. And the entire time, Steve had been happy to let Tony think that his excessive kill count had been due to the regular shit with Alexander.It had been easier than the truth.Should Steve turn right? He flipped on the blinker. Left? He flipped it the other way. Or, in lieu of shooting his enemy with a military-issued Glock, should he turn off the headlights and drive straight through the light? Closing his eyes, Steve dared the wheel to decide. “How could you?” Steve pulled the wheel to the left. He’d come within inches of hitting a parked car. Milliseconds from putting his seat belt to work. But instead of his hands shaking like a man with a healthy fear of the inevitable, Steve’s grip remained solid, his fingers cradling the wheel just like the Xbox controller as he centered the truck between the dashed yellow lines. It would be easy to pretend that his mother had been talking about crashing the truck. Dead or not, no parent wants to see their child rooted in the dirt of Dante’s seventh ring. But Steve knew better. She’d been talking about Sharon.Steve had put on a good show at Ezra’s party, laughing at Tony’s jokes about Peggy’s “big tits,” tipping his head back when Brock had brought out the beer funnel, and celebrating with boisterous chest bumps when Sam had bounced the ball into the cup to beat Rhodey and Scott in beer pong. Steve had even smiled when Sharon had asked if they could “spend some quality time alone,” grabbing her hand and leading her upstairs like a good boyfriend should.Making a hard right, Steve didn’t bother checking his blind spot. Pedestrians. Bicycles. Fucking horses. Steve had no idea if he’d run over one—or all—of them, because he was suddenly back in that bedroom, reliving the humiliation of yet another failed attempt to take their ‘relationship’ further. “Jesus,” Steve said because the devastation on Sharon’s face had been— “How could you?” Steve slammed on the brakes. He didn’t care that the tires screeched, marking the pavement with his mother’s disappointment. And he cared even less when the cars behind him started honking their horns.“Because I’m an asshole, that’s how.” Jumping on the bandwagon, he punched the center of the steering wheel. “A selfish, stupid asshole.”After stumbling down Ezra’s back stairs, Steve had slammed another beer, ditched Sam and Tony, and hailed a taxi to ferry him across the River Styx.And the cost for safe passage to hell on earth?The ferryman may have told Steve to keep his wallet in his pocket Saturday night, but for future trips, he'd made it abundantly clear that the fare would be a single coin placed beneath the tongue of one dead soul.Taking his foot off the brake, Steve laughed. When it came to storytelling, his decision to go back to the penthouse instead of sticking around for “big tits” and beer pong should tell you everything you needed to know about how badly things had gone with his latest ex-girlfriend."Which brings us to Sunday." Steve stomped on the gas pedal. "The best day of them all."As bad as the party had been, at least Steve had picked out his own clothes. Were a grey Henley and black jeans peak individualism? God no. That required something daring, like pink plastic sunglasses or a lavender t-shirt that was two sizes too small. But when Alexander's assistant Jade had marched into Steve's bedroom at ten o'clock sharp—with her equally sharp black bob swinging against her jaw—she'd erased whatever autonomy he'd had left.Hangover or not, Alexander’s prize pony had been scheduled to appear at a “very important” business brunch at noon. And because show ponies had to be prompt, Jade had stood outside the bathroom door while Steve had taken a three-minute shower and inside the bathroom while he’d shaved. Deodorant. Aftershave. Toothpaste. Moisturizer. Floss. Q-tips. Cologne. Jade had cracked the whip before and after each step. And once she’d deemed the show pony’s grooming satisfactory, she’d dressed him in a light-grey suit with a dark-grey tie, forced him to slick back his hair, and given him an Altoid. “Ponies have to be pretty,” Steve said, clutching the wheel hard enough to make the veins in his forearms rise to the surface. “And when they whinny, they have to smell like they belong.” Jade had escorted Steve into the elevator, hustled him through the lobby, and straightened his tie before pushing him into the limousine at precisely eleven o’clock. From there, Steve had engaged in stilted conversation with Alexander for exactly twenty-two minutes, nodding politely as the limo had navigated the bumper-to-bumper traffic on its way to Lower Manhattan. Over the course of the ‘conversation,’ Steve had been given a set of specific instructions. He was to be pleasant, talk about his swimming and academic achievements—with a focus on his intent to enroll in the business program at Harvard—and, direct from the stablemaster’s mouth, “For Christ’s sake, Steven. Don’t embarrass me!”Embarrassing was letting a sixty-year-old man shove you into a steel pole because you’d been “useless and distracted” at the fucking brunch. Embarrassing was the enormous bruise that had blossomed next to Steve’s spine as evidence of his “failure to perform.” Embarrassing was the fact that Steve had stood in front of his bathroom mirror, staring at the black-and-blue line as he’d thought about Bucky Fucking Barnes. As much as it pained him to admit it, the bastard was right. Steve was distracted.The proof was directly in front of him.There was a Starbucks on the corner, but it wasn’t the one where the cashier knew that Steve liked his banana nut bread cold. He glanced at the street signs. It was the one on East Twenty-Third, all the way down by Gramercy Park.“For Christ’s sake.”Not only had Steve stopped making right-hand turns, he'd driven halfway across the grid, subconsciously following a route that he had dubbed "his slow escape to the Brooklyn Bridge."The bridge was a beacon, reminding Steve with its sturdy cables and massive towers that life had been better once. That there’d been soft flannel sheets and footie pajamas, healthy houseplants on hand-me-down shelves, and patches on Steve's jeans that his mother had sewn with no regard for Nirvana or Daft Punk.“Just go,” Steve said, his foot heavy on the gas pedal. “Don’t stop until you feel the bumps beneath the wheels.”He made it three blocks before he ran out of road. Construction in New York was a given. Summer. Fall. Winter. Spring. There were always detour signs forcing you in directions you didn’t want to go.Steve’s seat belt locked when he hit the brakes, but instead of gratitude, there was nothing but anger. Anger that the windshield was intact. Anger that the road was not. And anger that the fucking bridge was forever out of reach.“Fuck!” Steve stared at the orange-and-white construction barrels. “God-fucking-dammit!”The inertia had thrown his backpack into the glove box, his gym bag into the back of the driver’s seat, and his duffle bag—filled with dozens of cans of spray paint—into what was left of the boy his mother had raised. The cans were begging Steve to take off their caps, shake up their insides, and tag the construction barrels with candy-coated swirls of neon pink and electric blue. But instead of painting a picture for his dead mother to tape to an imaginary refrigerator, Steve smacked his hand against the blinker and made another right-hand turn. The sooner he admitted that escape was an illusion created by cowards too afraid to wield the blade, the sooner he could square up with the ferryman.“One coin.” Rolling up the windows, Steve sealed himself inside a box that was nothing if not familiar. “One fucking coin.”Before his mother had started working as Alexander’s assistant, Steve had slept soundly, dreaming of Legos, paper airplanes, and only the friendliest of monsters from his favorite childhood books. Even after Alexander had turned business into pleasure, Steve had counted sheep in his brand-new bed, mystified by a strange new world where the paper planes had evolved into private jets. But Steve didn’t have access to a plane that reverted back to paper. He had access to this truck. Which was why he jerked the wheel to the right and skidded onto a grid line that would take him back Uptown.Steve had barely slept last night, let alone soundly. After turning his back on the bruise, he’d tried everything he could to trigger a dream about a tiny apartment made of Legos. He’d forced himself to drink a glass of milk, drawn seven sheep in his sketchbook, and put on his softest blue sweatshirt, making himself small as he’d pulled the blanket up to his chin. And when that hadn’t worked, he’d put his pillow over his face to see if a steep decrease in oxygen would produce an invoice for a single coin. The cruelty of an inescapable box was one thing, but robbing somebody of their ability to escape through their dreams? Glancing down Eighty-Fourth Street at the Church of Saint Ignatius Loyola, Steve added blasphemy to his list of sins.“Fuck you,” he said to anybody who was listening. Saint Ignatius. The Blessed Mother. The fucking doves. And when that wasn’t enough, he addressed the cross directly. “I fucking hate you.”It had been six long years since Steve had slept soundly through the night. Six long years since his mother’s God, with His rituals and rules, had forsaken him, leaving him to fend for himself in this alien world. In the shadow of the church, Steve watched the steam from the sewers turn green. He was an alien. An interloper. A fucking shape-shifter whose survival was entirely dependent on his ability to wear an upper-class disguise. And as ashamed as he was to admit it, he’d gotten really good at it. So good, in fact, that some days he wasn’t pretending at all.After his mother’s funeral, Steve had returned to the penthouse with a hole in his chest. But instead of offering Steve a hug—or, Christ, even calling somebody else to do it—Alexander had locked himself in his office, forcing Steve to mourn alone in a big glass box. Steve had spent hours staring at the doorknob, believing that if he waited long enough… waited patiently enough… waited quietly enough… the knob would eventually turn. But Alexander had never opened that door. Not that night, and not in all the years since.“A bed doesn’t make it a bedroom," Steve said, closing the vents to occlude the toxicity of the saints. “And the word house doesn’t make something a home.”Steve had destroyed his brand-new bedroom that night, throwing everything that hadn’t come from Brooklyn into a pile by the door. The shiny toys. The matching furniture. The rug without any stains. Steve had rejected it all. At twelve years old, Steve had ripped the mattress off the bed like the man he’d just become, shoving it into the corner where the floor-to-ceiling windows hugged the corner of the high-rise. Then—still encased in the suit that had been tailored for his mother’s demise—Steve had pressed his nose against the glass for the very first time.The bed hadn’t changed, and neither had its position. At some point, one of Alexander’s “people” had put the box spring underneath the mattress and taken away the contents of the corner. But other than that, Steve’s box remained the same.Eighty-Fifth. Eighty-Sixth. Eighty-Seventh. As the numbers climbed, Steve began to see bits and pieces of Central Park at the western end of the horizontal lines. But instead of joyful green and cherry-blossom pink, the trees were nothing but a blackened void. A place where the city simply came to an end.“Maybe that’s the mouth of the River Styx,” Steve said. Not because he believed in Dante’s bullshit, but because last night, he’d tested the penthouse's windows with one-hundred and ninety-five pounds.Wedging his body between ninety degrees of glass, Steve had added pressure to the panes—first with his feet, then with his back—listening for cracks as he’d searched the spaces between the trees for echoes of a more distant past. His mother buying him a hot dog from the vendor next to the Butterfly Gardens. The two of them sitting in the grass by the Boathouse, counting turtles as their heads popped up between the rowboats. A flash of his mother’s yellow sundress as she danced around the fountain on Cherry Hill. But Steve hadn’t seen any of that. “Fucking carriages.” Glancing down Eighty-Ninth Street, Steve clenched his jaw to stop himself from turning left for reasons more malicious than escape.It wasn’t the horses he hated. It was the way the carriages lined up on Fifth Avenue, enticing tourists to hop in and out with no regard for those that pulled them. It was the drivers who worked the horses in blistering heat and pouring rain, holding their coffers as they hustled dollars on the backs of their charges. It was the deafening crack of the whips, forcing the horses forward when all they wanted to do was go back home. Teetering at the edge of oblivion, Steve would have welcomed his mother in any form. Young and beautiful. Young and withered. Young and dead. But instead, Bucky Fucking Barnes had run up to the biggest horse and kissed its brown-and-black nose, flipping off the driver—and the tourists—before releasing the horse’s bindings with a magical snap of his fingers. One after another, the horses had been freed by Bucky Fucking Barnes, Savior of the Horses…. Equine Defender… King of the Misfits.Steve looked at the clock on the dash. Four fifty-two. If he hurried, he could probably run a couple of carriage drivers before the Starbucks’ manager flipped the sign. Murder. Blasphemy. Hara-kiri. Steve laughed. Lucky for him, the number of broken commandments didn’t jack up the ferryman's fare.Leaving the park behind, Steve made the right-hand turn that would take him back to Starbucks. And when he couldn’t find a parking spot big enough to fit the fucking truck, he ‘parallel parked’ at a forty-five degree angle and backed into a trash can.He could pretend to give shit, but between the mirrors, the horses, and the fucking glass, Steve couldn’t—and wouldn’t—add any more layers to his disguise. He liked the sound of the Escalade’s pristine veneer getting scratched to holy hell by one of the dirtiest things in the city. The scrape of metal on metal. The lurch of the suspension when the can toppled. The sound of what Steve could only hope had been the bumper breaking off. Giving it a little more gas, Steve smiled. He’d already fucked everything else up, so why stop now?Why, indeed?The entire weekend had been one giant fuck up, and at the center of every failure had been Bucky Fucking Barnes. Somewhere between winning at beer pong and holding the funnel for Brock, Steve had ruined Rhodey’s shoes. Steve had been sitting on Ezra’s couch with Rhodey and Frank, drinking one of Bruce’s citrusy IPAs when, out of the blue, he’d started thinking about the patches on Bucky Fucking Barnes’ jeans.Downing the first beer, Steve had accepted a second as he’d imagined Bucky Fucking Barnes sitting cross-legged in the center of a cozy bedroom, surrounded by needles, patches, and errant threads. And because Steve’s visions never lacked detail, he’d chugged the second beer—and accepted a third—as he’d imagined Bucky Fucking Barnes pushing a sewing needle in and out of the denim in the soft glow of a yellow lamp, adding a Nine Inch Nails patch next to a newly smiling Nirvana.Steve distinctly remembered wondering if Bucky Fucking Barnes used a thimble as the beer had slipped out of his hand. He also remembered being drunk enough to say, “Party foul. Looks like I ruined your high-tops with barley and hops.” Shifting the truck into drive, Steve dragged the can forward and blamed everything on Bucky Fucking Barnes.Peggy had handed Rhodey a towel, somebody had handed Steve another beer, and somewhere in between, Sharon had wriggled her way onto Steve’s lap with her dewy-eyed desire to please. And what had Steve done? He’d slid his hand underneath his girlfriend’s skirt, rubbing her thigh as he’d questioned the origins Bucky Fucking Barnes’ mysterious plant. How had Bucky carried the plant—not to mention the chair—up that rusty ladder without killing himself? Had Clint anchored himself to the chimney with a rope, hanging over the edge while Bucky had passed it up, pot and all? Or had Bucky—with his rainbow flag and dirty boots—started from scratch, pouring soil into the sunny-yellow pot and nurturing the plant from a seed?Slamming the truck into park, Steve slapped the wheel.Somewhere between Sharon trying to lick the wax out of Steve’s ear canal and Steve bolting out the back door with his pants unzipped, he’d found himself lying flat on his back with Sharon’s boobs in his hands. But instead of thinking about the shape of her nipples or comparing the size to Peggy’s double D's, he’d been trying to figure out where Bucky Fucking Barnes had found a My Little Pony t-shirt in his size. The boys’ section wasn’t big on cartoon ponies, and even if it were, Bucky would never fit into a kids’ shirt. He had muscles. Lots of them.Distracted. That’s what Steve had been as he’d stared at the ceiling fan, watching the blades spin around and around as Sharon had done her best to figure out the art of the blow job. Teeth. More teeth. A close call with the gag reflex. It hadn’t taken long for Steve to realize that the motion of the fan had been infinitely more interesting than whatever the hell Sharon had been trying to do with her tongue.Now he was single, and he was blaming it on Bucky Fucking Barnes.Killing the engine, Steve kicked open the door and shouted, “Free Cadillac Escalade! Do me a favor, New York, and make it disappear.”Who breaks up with a girl when their limp dick is in her mouth? Assholes, that’s who. Assholes who don’t respect women. Assholes who say things like, “You’re a nice girl, Sharon, but this just isn’t working out.” And, apparently, Steve.Steve’s dick was broken, and he was blaming it on Bucky Fucking Barnes.It didn’t matter that Steve had left the keys in the ignition—or that he’d made sure to turn his back while he’d pretended to pour cream and sugar into his coffee. The fucking truck was still there when he walked back outside.“C’mon!” Steve kicked the pile of garbage. “The rims alone are worth nine grand!”Nobody cared about Steve’s custom rims. Not the jogger who’d jumped over the trash can like a hurdle. Not the businessman wading through yesterday’s food wrappers. And not the Starbucks’ manager who’d followed Steve outside with a sandwich board. And Steve didn’t blame them. Aesthetically, the metal discs were as garish as the man who’d had them made. Wallowing in the dirty napkins and empty cups like a piece of garbage should, Steve had no idea what to do next.He could drive to practice. Get there early. Be a good role model.He could also take a nap in the back of the truck. Steve was exhausted, and he was blaming it on Bucky Fucking Barnes. As co-captain, it was his job to make Bucky feel welcome, but what was he supposed to say? “Hi, Bucky Fucking Barnes. Glad you could make it. Before we hop into the pool, I was wondering if we could talk about your plant?”Perfect.Steve took a sip of his coffee, burned his lips, and threw his banana nut bread at the dashboard like he was throwing the opening pitch at a Yankees game. He was seconds away from blowing the whole thing off. Practice. School. Life. All he had to do was open Google Maps and find a way around the construction.“Get in the truck,” he said before burning his tongue with intent.If Steve wanted to become the person his mother had always wanted him to be, he couldn’t hide beneath a black hoodie, tagging the places he’d once called home. He had to drive to Eaton, strip off his disguise, and welcome Bucky Fucking Barnes to the team. And more than that, if he wanted to bring back his mother’s smile, he had to find a paintbrush, stare into the mirror, and paint it on himself. * Chugging the rest of his coffee, Steve sprinted down the hallway that led to the locker room. The coffee was cold, he’d forgotten to eat his banana nut bread, and he was four minutes away from being late.He shouldn’t have tagged the dumpster in the alley by the gym, but the thing with his mother and the trash can had really—“I can’t,” Steve said, jogging down the stairs two at a time. He couldn’t think about cold coffee, scratched bumpers, security cameras, construction barrels, toxic radiation, limp dicks, or the pink and purple specks all over his hands. His stomach was already in knots from trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to say when he opened the door.“It’s about damn time!”As it turned out, he didn’t have to say anything. “You had me convinced I was gonna be on my own again.”Sam had been waiting for Steve on the other side of the door, and judging by his posture, the two of them wouldn’t be celebrating with boisterous chest bumps anytime soon.Steve did a quick head count. Ezra was sound asleep on the bench in the back corner. Frank and Jack were getting changed by their lockers. Brock was ranting about something to a bunch of the juniors. Rhodey, Scott, Zarif, Harry, Charlie—Steve did a three-sixty—Peter, Timo, Ichiro, Ari, Kuba. Everybody seemed to be here except—“Are you fucking kidding me?” The sepia-toned vignette of Bucky sewing. The bullshit with the ponies. Steve’s unnatural obsession with the Misfit King’s potted plant. All of it had been for nothing because Bucky Fucking Barnes wasn’t even here! Storming over to his locker, Steve tossed his gym bag onto the bench and unbuckled his belt. Bucky Fucking Barnes or no Bucky Fucking Barnes, he had to fix this stupid team by Thursday’s meet, and that meant suiting up—literally and figuratively.“I’ll probably get suspended for that fucking tag.” Steve yanked his black polo shirt over his head. “So stupid.” “He did it again, huh?”“What?”Sam nodded at Steve’s back. “It’s a bad one.”Steve was usually so careful about the bruises, hiding what he could with strategically placed towels, but, in the words of Steve’s stablemaster, he was fucking distracted. And he was blaming it on Bucky Fucking Barnes.“I’ve had worse,” Steve said, angling his shoulders so the bruise was out of Sam’s line of sight. “Like that makes it okay?” The conversation was so familiar that having it was pointless, which is why Steve shut his mouth and took off his khakis.“I’ve said it a hundred times, and I’ll say it a hundred more.” Sam lowered his voice when Scott walked within earshot. “You need to report him.”“You know I can’t do that.”"You can't, but you should.”Life with Alexander meant winning at all costs. Building a perfect body with chicken breasts and casein powder at three o’clock in the morning. Steve’s name in big, bold letters on the banners that hung above the pool. A 4.2 GPA. Dating the most beautiful girls with the most prestigious last names. Smiling like a prized pony, even when the stablemaster cracked his whip in the pouring rain."Steve."He should have stayed in the alley, vandalizing school property with something darker than a smiley face without a smile. And, smushed or not, he should have eaten his banana nut bread and taken a nap in the back of the truck.“I should do a lot of things,” Steve said, checking his dick for teeth marks before switching into his Speedo. “Like driving across the bridge and never looking back.”There were only two people in Steve’s life who knew the truth about Alexander. Tony and Sam. At one point, Peggy had known most of it, but—Steve slammed his locker shut. That had been before he’d blown that relationship to hell.There were rumors, of course. Elaborate stories that had taken on a life of their own because nobody believed that Steve Rogers, star athlete, was an accident-prone klutz. Coach Fury interrogated him monthly. Principal Barnes called him down to the office to ‘talk’ at least four or fives times a year. And Steve was on a first-name basis with the school counselor, the school nurse, and, after a particularly nasty run-in with a ‘mugger,’ the school’s police liaison. But Steve had always managed to manipulate the cuts and bruises into something tangible. Dog attacks. Squirrel attacks. Bike accidents. Angry cats. Angry birds. Angry ex-girlfriends. Low-hanging chandeliers. Pillow fights that had gotten out of control. You name it, Steve had spun it. When it came to everything else in his life, Steve was a terrible liar, but he'd lied so much about Alexander Pierce that the lies almost felt like the truth.“Are you okay?” Sam blocked the path between the bench and the lockers. “I mean, besides whatever went down with Alexander.”Steve clenched his jaw, hoping that Sam would take the hint.He didn't.“You blew me off on Friday, you were a lunatic at Saturday conditioning—Seriously, man. How much did you deadlift?—and you bailed from Ezra’s party without telling anybody. One minute you were trashing Rhodey’s shoes, and the next you were gone. People worry, Steve. I worry, and—""I'm fine.""Yeah, you look fine." Crossing his arms like a prison guard, Sam stepped into the radioactive fog. "You wanna know who didn't look fine?”“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”“Sharon.”Boxed in by the endless grid of the city. Boxed in by steel and glass. Boxed in by his best friend and a motherfucking bench.“She was crying in the kitchen, Steve. And don’t mean pretty crying where she was dabbing the corners of her eyes with a Kleenex. She was ugly crying for over an hour.”Steve shrugged because anything else would have made him crumple into a ball on the floor. “It wasn’t cute, especially when I had to stop Jack from ‘comforting’ her with tequila." “I don’t know what you want me to say.”“You could start by telling me what happened.”“Nothing happened.” Steve pressed the bruise against his combination lock. “We broke up. End of story."There was a specific look Sam got when he was done with Steve’s bullshit. His head tilted to the side, his shoulders shifted to counterbalance his hips, and his forehead got deep wrinkles, exactly like his dad's. And Steve appreciated it. He really did. But right now—Steve sighed.Right now, all he wanted to do was bury the lock in his fucking spine. If Steve could blame everything on Bucky Fucking Barnes, he would. But there was only one person responsible for the way he’d treated Sharon. And that was the man his mother hadn’t recognized in the glass.Everybody was headed up the stairs that led to the natatorium, which meant it was five twenty-nine. And if it was five twenty-nine, Steve—and the rest of the team—were fucked.“Fine,” Steve said, more to get Sam to move than anything else. “I messed up.”Scott, Rhodey, Ian, Kuba, Brock. One after another they made their way through the doorway, their feet rattling the metal brackets on the landing as they waited their turn.“But I don’t want to talk about it.”When Sam tilted his head the other way, Steve released the pressure on the lock, knowing damn well that he’d made a fresh bruise next to the first.“I can’t, Sam. I just— I can’t.”Ezra, Frank, Timo, Reggie. Every person who’d been counting on Steve to steal an ace from the Brooklyn YMCA disappeared through the gateway until there was only one left.Straddling the threshold, Peter asked, "Are you guys coming?" with a smile that said he had no idea that Steve had failed.“Yeah,” Sam said. “Tell Coach Fury we’ll be out in five.”The second the door swung shut, Steve’s hands went numb. And it wasn’t a slow crawl like usual. It was instantaneous. His fingernails. His knuckles. His palms. His wrists. Every part below Steve’s forearms was just… gone.Was it the lack of banana nut bread? His mother’s leisurely stroll into the earthly dimension to call Steve an asshole? The adrenaline crash—or the paint fumes—from tagging school property six feet away from a security camera? Getting his coin ready, Steve said, “Bucky’s not coming.”"I'm not?"Sam jumped. Steve jumped. And both of them spun around to find Bucky Fucking Barnes leaning against the wall by the main door, blowing a bright-pink bubble like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Dude, you should’ve seen your faces. They were like…Ahh!...terrified.” Bucky took the gum out of his mouth, rolled it into a ball, and tossed it back in. “Can we redo it for YouTube? A high-quality jump scare with high-quality muscles? Whoo-ee! A million hits by sundown, guaranteed.” Steve wasn’t having a panic attack. He was having a heart attack."Sorry I didn’t make my entrance sooner, but taking my dick out in front of a bunch of homo-haters didn't seem like a healthy part of a well-balanced breakfast."“Okay, then,” Sam said, backing away from the boy with the bubblegum. “I’m just gonna—” He pointed at the stairs. “I’m just gonna go.”Sam leaving Steve alone with Bucky Fucking Barnes was the ultimate betrayal. And Steve would have told him that if his vision had gone dark around the edges, narrowing little by little until there was nothing but a black tunnel pointing directly at an ever-expanding piece of gum.Bucky was here in the flesh, but instead of saying hello—or saying anything—Steve just stood there like a Speedo-wearing statue, staring at the Misfit King’s hair. The loops and curls were twisting and turning in every conceivable direction. Burnt Sienna, Yellow Ochre, and Vandyke Brown mixing together with the prettiest hint of Venetian Red. Steve could practically see the brushstrokes where the tendrils came together into some sort of… topknot? Nest? Deconstructed bun? Steve had no idea what to call it, just like he had no idea what to make of the polar bears and peppermints dancing across the legs of Bucky’s pajama pants. The pants were at least three inches too long, with holes where Bucky’s feet must have worn away the fabric. And something about the way the fabric was dragging across the tiles— Steve swallowed.Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to kneel at the Misfit King’s feet, rolling up the hems so they didn't get dirty."Steve, you need to get up here. Fury’s head is about to explode.”Sam was standing at the top of the stairs, saying something that was probably important, but Bucky's Guns N’ Roses hoodie was unzipped, and—“Jesus Christ,” Steve said under his breath, because Bucky, with his unruly hair and bright-pink bubblegum, wasn’t wearing anything underneath."I'm telling you, Fury’s gonna make us practice after school again."Steve was used to seeing guys naked. Hell, he’d just spent five minutes arguing with Sam wearing nothing but a skimpy piece of spandex. But something about the swath of Bucky’s skin was… not like Sam.The stack of towels by the showers. The practice schedule on the whiteboard. The pile of clothes in front of Scott’s locker. Steve looked at anything and everything so he didn’t have to look at— “You’ve got to be kidding me.” There were purple splatters on Bucky’s light-blue shoes. And not just that. His hands were purple, all the way from his fingernails to his wrists. “No fucking way.” “‘No fucking way’ your super mean coach is gonna make you swim after school? Or ‘no fucking way’ I’m gonna save your stupid team?” Stepping into the tunnel, Bucky blew a bubble that was bigger than the first. “‘Cause lemme tell ya, Captain Asteroid. My bestie said I’m ready to kick all you assholes’ asses.”Purple hands and purple splatters. Tingling fingers dotted with pink and purple specks. Steve smiled as his mind supplied the word synchronicity. There were only feet between them, but it was a gap Steve desperately wanted to close. Allowing his eyes to travel across the divide, Steve traced a path from the tips of his own speckled fingers to the tip of Bucky’s purple thumb, following the edges of Bucky’s index finger… the middle… the ring… and finally, the pinky. Then, drawing from the same magic that had conjured the crown, Steve illuminated the path with trails of light, connecting the dots with organic bands of fuchsia, purple, and bubblegum pink.Popping another bubble, Bucky sucked the gum back into his mouth and said, “Hi,” like Steve wasn’t fixated on their hands.Words. Steve needed some. But the only thing he managed to squeak out was, “Hi.” Sam clapped his hands together. “What Steve meant to say is welcome to the team. Coach Fury is giving you Devin’s old locker… which is over there. Number thirteen."Sam was probably pointing, but Steve couldn’t drag his eyes away from the ribbons of light.“My lucky number,” Bucky said, stretching the gum between his teeth and his finger. “Must be my lucky day.”“Yep. I’m out.” Steve heard the door slam. Then he heard his heartbeat. Then he heard the wetness of the gum as Bucky smacked it between his teeth.Compared to the inescapable noise of the weekend, Steve had never heard anything so quiet. Closing his eyes, Steve listened to the motion, stepping into a bubblegum sphere where everything that wasn’t made of sugar simply dissolved.“I like your gum,” Steve said, inhaling the purified air.“As much as you like my plant?” When Bucky smiled, the garbage in Steve’s lungs began to sink, moving through his organs and limbs until a thick, toxic goo started oozing from the soles of his feet. Black. Grey. Poisonous green. The sickness pooled around Steve’s feet, stinking like rotting trees until the ribbons of light forced it down the drain.“I see you’re diggin’ my shoes too.” Bucky spun on his heel like he’d been taking dance lessons from his sister. “I could totally make you a pair. All you’ve gotta do is let me dye your tips.”“What?”Shrugging, Bucky pointed at his feet. “My shoes? You’ve been starin' at 'em like they’re made of pepperoni and cheese.”Steve didn’t know what it was about Bucky Fucking Barnes that made him feel… something. He only knew that a person with the ability to flush out years of toxic sludge with nothing more than peppermint pants, purple hands, and bright-pink bubblegum was a person that Steve wanted to know.Failure. Disappointment. The River Styx. All of it faded to background. And when Steve asked, “Are you ready for this?” there was nothing fake about his smile. A pause. A breath. A bubble.“Oh, I’m ready.” Bucky smiled before he spit his gum across the room. “The question is, are you?” * “This is entertaining as hell,” Sam said, leaning over just enough to chuckle into Steve’s ear. “Hands down, the best thing I’ve seen all year.”After what Steve could only describe as a total shitshow, Coach Fury had confiscated everybody’s towels—with the exception of a chosen few—and ordered the entire team to sit on the first row of the bleachers. From Steve’s vantage point at the end of the line, the dominant emotion seemed to be fear as Eaton’s ‘elite’ swimmers shivered and squirmed. Fear and— Steve looked at Brock. Fear and rage. Coach Fury, on the other hand, kept vacillating between elation and, well… fury. In the three years that Steve had been swimming for Coach Fury, he’d never witnessed a tirade like this. Not when Jack’s older brother had been caught vaping on the bus ride back from states. Not when Scott had eaten three chili dogs before practice and puked in the pool. Not even when Brock had called Dalton’s team captain a “cocksucker” last year and gotten them disqualified from a meet. Covering his mouth with his towel, Steve tried not to laugh. There had been rumors about Coach Fury hitting Brock over the head with a kickboard after the "cocksucker" incident, but since neither party had talked, the story had faded into the annals of urban myth. But now, watching Coach Fury smack his clipboard against one of the blocks, Steve felt confident reshelving The Cocksucker Incident in the nonfiction section.Coach Fury was one hit away from breaking his clipboard in half, and it was fantastic. After frowning for more than two days straight, Steve wanted to smile until his cheeks hurt. He wanted to embrace the joy of his goo-free form. But, like it or not, Steve was the co-captain, and in situations like this, co-captains were supposed to look stern.Straightening his shoulders, Steve set his jaw as he pretended to towel off his hair. And it worked. He was appropriately stone-faced and—“They’re like prisoners on death row”—Sam giggled into his towel like he’d farted in church—“but instead of lethal injections sending them to meet their maker, a righteous Black man in an Adidas tracksuit's gonna drown them in a pool.”Steve bit the inside of his cheek. Not because he was reverting back to his banana-nut-bread bullshit, but because it was the only way to stop himself from snorting.“Um, Coach.” Scott raised his hand halfway up, then put it back down. Up… then down. Up… then down. Exactly like the rhythm of a fellow jester. “The bell’s about to ring, so shouldn’t we, like, I don’t know, get dressed or something?” Coughing into his fist, Sam said, “Wrong move.”Scott was right. There were only six minutes before the first bell. But even if there were only six seconds, he never should have opened his mouth.“You worried about the clock, Lang?” Throwing his clipboard at Scott’s feet, Coach Fury scanned the bench. “Is that the number one concern on everybody’s list? Getting to class on time?” The majority of the team understood the concept of self-preservation, which explained the chorus of nos, no sirs, and Peter’s over-the-top, “Absolutely not, Coach Fury, sir.” But not everybody was that smart.“Actually, Coach,” Brock said like he was looking forward to round two with the kickboard. “I’m worried about getting to class on time. Perfect attendance record, you know."The prisoners sucked in a collective breath as the executioner marched past Ezra, past Rhodey, and past the juniors who were shaking in their Speedos. It was common knowledge that Coach Fury used to be Staff Sergeant Fury of the United States Marine Corps. In addition to the nasty scar on the side of his head, there were pictures from his tours in Desert Storm, Kuwait, Iraq, and Afghanistan hanging on the walls in his office. But, make no mistake, trading fatigues and rifles for Adidas tracksuits and whistles hadn’t made the man any less formidable.“Bells are the last thing you should be worried about, Mr. Rumlow!” The shouting had attracted a handful of students who—unfortunately for the longevity of Coach Fury’s teaching career—had peeked their heads through the doors at the end of the natatorium. “The only thing you should be worried about is getting your ass handed to you by the new guy!”Jack made a sound that Steve could only qualify as a cackle.“You think that’s funny, Rollins?” Coach Fury took a step to the left as Brock eyed the kickboards at the far end of the pool. “‘Cause, from where I’m standing, your ass didn’t fare much better. You, who as I recall, marched into my office just this morning to tell me how you deserved Devin’s anchor positions.” When Coach Fury blew his whistle in Jack’s face, everybody—including the growing crowd by the door—winced.“Well, son. I’m about to dish out some solid career advice, so drop the attitude and pay attention.” He blew the whistle again. “The only anchor position your ass should be applying for is the kind that sinks a fucking ship!"Bumping Steve’s knee, Sam said, “I need some popcorn for this.” “And Parker!”Peter jumped so high that Steve was sure the kid had pissed in his swimsuit.“Call your nanny and tell her to tuck your ass back into your cradle. ‘Cause from where I’m standing, you need a nice, long nap to keep up with somebody like Barnes.” Coach Fury picked up his clipboard just to throw it back down. “Or maybe, instead of sending you back to bed, I should put you in a diaper, give you a teddy bear, and send you back to JV.”Steve was enjoying the drama, but when Coach Fury took off his jacket and threw it at Peter’s head, it was concerning. The white t-shirt underneath was completely saturated with sweat. The pits. The stomach. The chest. Coach Fury was in good shape for a man pushing sixty-five, but the man was pushing sixty-five. The last thing the team needed was for him to have a stroke—or get fired for saying fuck too many times. Flying clipboards or not, he was a great coach.“As a matter of fact,” Coach Fury said, pointing at Steve’s end of the row, “none of you so-called ‘first-class athletes’—with the exception of Wilson and Rogers—should’ve even bothered showing up today.” It was a compliment, but with the amount of sweat dripping off Coach Fury’s forehead, it could easily be misconstrued as a threat.Stomping down the line, Coach Fury pointed two fingers at Harry and Charlie—one for each twin. “If I knew some hotshot from the motherfucking YMCA was coming to my pool”—he flicked Scott’s ear—“trying to take my spot”—he kicked the bleachers between Ezra’s feet—“you bet your ass I wouldn’t show up like a prima donna and let him make me look like a fool.”Up until now, Steve had avoided looking past the row of hairy legs to the opposite end of the line. But after listening to Coach Fury's incredibly accurate synopsis, Steve couldn’t help himself.And there, rubbing his temples with his purple fingers, was the only other person with a towel. God, he could only imagine what Bucky was thinking.Steve didn’t know why, but it felt wrong to look. Wrong to watch Bucky’s eyes get bigger as Coach Fury set his sights on Kuba and the rest of the juniors. Wrong to wonder how Bucky had brushed his tornado topknot into a tight bun at the nape of his neck. Wrong to notice how Bucky’s muscular calves were doing their own kind of nervous dance.Leaning forward, Steve wrapped his towel around his neck. The way Bucky’s cheekbones flexed as he worked his jaw reminded Steve of orange marmalade flowing over the edges of a perfect piece of toast, the brightness of the citrus lighting up the preserves from the inside out.Steve closed his eyes—just for a moment—and when he opened them, Bucky had mirrored Steve’s pose. His towel was around his neck, his elbows were resting on his knees, and his feet were solid on the tiles. Then, like he’d sensed that he was being watched, Bucky Fucking Barnes slowly turned his head in Steve’s direction.People tell you about moments when time slows down. You're crossing the street with a bag of groceries when a Cadillac Escalade blows through the light. You hear a distant bark and turn to see your long lost Pomeranian running down the sidewalk. The Disney Prince spots his one true love twirling down the grand staircase at a masquerade ball, only to have her disappear before the stroke of midnight.Well, time slowed down all right, but Bucky’s expression had absolutely nothing to do with Disney.Meeting Steve’s gaze, Bucky parted his lips ever so slightly and licked the edges of his crooked front teeth. Slowly… slowly… the tip of his tongue danced across that tiny flaw. Then, as the orange marmalade dripped down the cleft in his chin, Bucky Fucking Barnes lowered his eyelids, sending Steve a smile that would make even the most innocent of Disney princesses drop her animated panties.Holy shit.Steve broke eye contact immediately because—Holy fucking shit!“This boy right here made all of you look like you were drowning in a bathtub!”Coach Fury was pointing at Bucky, but Steve was still trying to process the fucking marmalade.“As far as I’m concerned, Barnes just earned all of Devin’s spots. Sam. Steve. Say hello to your new anchor.”Steve didn’t need to say hello. He’d already been introduced via the jolt of electricity that had just shot up his spine.“And anyone who’s been sniffing around the 100- and 200-yard freestyles—I’m talking about you, Charlie—is gonna have to put their dreams on hold until they remember how to doggy paddle.”The bell put a quick end to the ‘conversation,’ and one by one, the wet, hairy legs got off the bleachers until—Shit. Shit, shit, shit.Only two sets of dry, hairy legs remained, and neither one of them belonged to Sam.It was loud. Harry and Charlie were shouting about their parents paying for the pool renovations, Peter was panicking about being sent back to JV, Ezra was bitching about the clipboard stubbing his toe, and Frank—Actually, everybody was yelling about everything, and Steve was really hot.“It’s done,” Coach Fury said, picking up the clipboard without throwing it back down. “Wilson. Rogers. Barnes. Meet me in my office for a pass. The rest of you can work on your speed by trying to make it to first hour on time.” On a normal day, Steve would have moved, following Sam to the locker room to take a two-minute shower and get dressed. But today was anything but normal.Orange marmalade. Polar bears and-peppermints. Ribbons of light dancing to a synchronous beat.But the second he heard Brock say, “So you think you’re hot shit, huh?” Steve fucking moved.Steve was fast—in the water and on the ground—but Brock’s mouth was faster. “I don’t care what Fury says. There’s no way I’m letting a charity-case faggot ruin this team.” Brock had boxed Bucky in from the front, while Jack had walked up the bleachers to stand behind him like he planned to strangle Bucky with a garrote.As fucked up as it was, it made sense. Bucky had demolished Brock and Jack in the water, crushing their egos in less than twenty-five yards. What didn’t make sense was Bucky just sitting there like somebody had duct taped his legs to the bleachers. Maybe back in ninth or tenth grade, Bucky hadn’t had the size to stand up to people like Brock and Jack, but he sure as hell did now.“Hey,” Steve said, forcing Brock backward with one easy step. “When somebody makes you look like an idiot, you should at least try to have some dignity about it.” “Dignity?” Brock scoffed. “Like prancing around school with a pony on my shirt?”One punch. That's all it would take for Bucky to knock Brock flat on his ass. But instead of clenching his fists, Bucky turned his head toward the windows at the far end of the pool, suffering with the horses as they circled the park.It was so familiar that it hurt.“Go,” Steve said, pointing at the locker room. “Now!”“Oh, c’mon, Cap.” Brock had the audacity to smile. “It’s just a little hazing.”
How could you?
After Alexander’s money had facilitated the switch from a public school in Brooklyn to a private middle school on the Upper West Side, Steve’s mother had repeated the same proverb every morning before he’d left for school. "Remember, Steven," she'd say, squeezing him tightly against her chest. "You are the company you keep.”
Looking at the beads of sweat in Brock’s hairline, Steve
felt s
ick.
Sarah Rogers didn’t need glass and mirrors to communicate her disappointme
nt. An
d Steve didn’t need otherworldly forces to tell him that
he
was the fucking problem.
Nobody had he
ld a
gun to Steve’s head and forced him to drive Brock to
the tu
bing trip over the summer. Nobody ha
d kidn
apped Steve
las
t week and made him share a si
x-p
ack with Brock as they’d watched Monday Night Fo
otball in Fran
k’s basement. And nobody had threatened to smash Steve’s kneecaps with a sledgehammer to get him to invite Brock to something as special as a Radioh
ead co
ncert.
But none of those transgressions held a candle to Saturday night at Ezra’s party, when Steve had poured beer into that fucking funnel like Brock
hadn’t
said all of those horrible things about Bucky at Friday’s practice. Like Steve
hadn’t
promised Bucky that he’d do better.
“Oh, and before I forget,” Brock said, smacking Steve’s shoulder. “Sharon. You're over that, right? I'm not big on sloppy seconds, but that girl’s got a great ass."If Steve hit him just right, he could send shards of bone directly into Brock’s brain. One punch, and he'd be done. Then—after the commandment-breaking elimination of the company he’d once kept—Steve would extend his hand to the Equine Defender and invite to do the same to Jack.Clenching his fist, Steve heard the crunch of bone on bone... the sound of the carriage driver hitting the pavement... the squish of the whip as it landed in a pile of horse shit...But the tardy bell saved them all."Thanks a lot, faggot.” Jack bumped Bucky’s arm as he jumped off the bleachers. “Now I'm gonna get written up." It wasn’t a decision when Steve caught Jack by the wrist. And neither was the pressure of his grip when he said, "Talk like that again, and you’re off the team. Touch him, and you’re done."“Okay, we get it. You don't want us to fuck your ex-girlfriend.” Laughing, Brock patted Steve's bicep like he was comforting a toddler. “It’s no big deal, buddy. That's why I asked."The tears streaming down Sharon’s face as she’d searched for her bra... the sound of Steve stumbling into the nightstand as he’d tried to zip his pants... the tilt of Ezra’s bedroom as Steve had tried to escape the fucking box...Releasing Jack’s wrist, Steve cringed. Not because he’d left a mark, but because the hopeful void was shrinking with an influx of monochromatic goo."We done here, Rogers?"
Who stands by and lets a bully crush a beacon of hope? Assholes, that’s who. Assholes who break bread with bigger assholes. Assholes who don’t know how to keep a promise. And as
s
holes whose actions speak louder than words.
As Bucky walked toward the windows with every bit of bubblegum pop missing from his step, Steve put an X in all three boxes. His mother was right. Steve was the company he kept. And until he did something to change that, he was no better than Brock.“Yeah,” Steve said, making another right-hand turn. “We’re done.”Steve had failed. Not by Alexander’s standards, not by his mother’s standards, but by his own. And there was nothing more shameful than watching the Equine Defender reattach the horses to the carriages, handing the drivers their whips as they rolled by the glass.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Bucky could think of five or six movies off the top of his head where a high school student was twitchin’ in his seat at the end of the school day, willing the minute hand to move faster. The Breakfast Club. Three O’Clock High. Fast Times at Ridgemont High. All of them had a shot of a kid staring at the clock, sweatin’ like crazy as he tapped his pencil on his desk. Maybe they were excited to give a hottie a hickey in the janitor’s closet, maybe they didn’t wanna take a dump at school, or maybe (and this was purely hypothetical) they were planning on hightailing it outta Dodge before Brock Rumlow could stab them in the schoolyard. Shit. Sex. Bullies. The trope was always the same. Just before the bell was about to set them free…Tick!...the minute hand went backwards.“Do you have to take a piss or something?” Tristan Lawrence, aka the basketball hottie with the kick-ass afro that smelled like Acqua di Gio, was staring at Bucky like he had Agua de los Poopás on his face. Had Bucky spun around in his desk so he could watch the tickety-tock of the clock? Sí, Señor. Was he using Tristan’s Españo Gato folder as an elbow rest? Sí, Señor Gato. But Bucky’s nonconsensual elbow-to-folder contact wasn’t (in Bucky’s nonconsensual opinion) intrusive enough to deserve Tristan’s glare de los poopás. Fun fact número uno: Tristan sucked at jugar de los Spañishito too. Fun fact número dos: Tristan had three nipples. Fun fact número tres: Bucky knew that nipply lil’ tidbit because he’d been in the same gym class as Tristan last year, and—“Bro, stop staring at me.”“I’m not staring at you,” Bucky said, staring deep into the depths of Tristan’s poopás café eyes. “I’m staring at Daisy.” Fun fact número seis: Daisy’s assigned seat was on the opposite side of the room.Doublin’ down on the eye contact, Bucky sighed. Giving Judd Nelson a hickey would be fucking epic, but ’80s broom-closet romance wasn’t the reason Bucky needed the minute hand to tick forward. He needed the clock to tickety-toc so he could talk to the tres amigos about the Sex-Bob-omb.A lot of things had gone right this morning (swimming being at the tippity-top top of the list), but a lot of things had gone wrong. Bucky exploding his apple cinnamon oatmeal in the microwave, Clint flirting with Natasha in the car, Brock bustin’ out the slurs. But none of it had been as bad as accidentally dropping a Sex-Bob-omb on the hottest of the hotties.“I hate Mr. Kuzinski,” Bucky said, inhaling a delicious whiff of Tristan’s cologne. “So what if I strolled into his class fifteen minutes late? He didn’t have to stand over me like a fuckin’ taskmaster while I pretended to read Great Expectations.”“And you’re telling me this because…”“Because I can’t text my friends, duh.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “And Mrs. Craft was all up my ass in second hour about some online math thingamajig I was supposed to have done over the weekend, which…Surprise!...I totally blew off in favor of blue balls and pepperoni.”“Dude, I couldn’t care less.” “And you saw Señora Lauter make me delete that text. It took me ten fuckin’ minutes to type out the nitty-gritty details of the Sex-Bob-omb for Clint, then…Poof!...gone. All I got to send was a four word synopsis:”—Bucky held up his fingers so he could count along—“Accidentally eye-fucked Steve Rogers. Wait. Was that five words? Does eye-fucked have a hyphen.”Fluffing up his extra-crispy hair (Pro tip: Chlorine plus drama equals split ends), Bucky looked up at the clock and— Tick! The bell rang.Fucking finally. Leaping out of his desk, Bucky pointed at Tristan’s tres de los boobes and said, “I’ve always wanted to have a threesome. You know, with your trio de los nips.” Then, shouting across the Mexican border to Japan, he said, “Yo, Daisy, I’ll meet you at the table,” and booked it out the door. Turns out, Bucky really did have to take a shit (no irrational fear of school baños here), and a big one at that. Plop-plop-plop! There was nothin’ like droppin’ the kids off at the pool. Then he ran up to the third floor to grab his lunch out of his locker, remembered that he hadn’t packed one, and ran back down to the cafeteria to get some motherfuckin’ advice on the Steve Rogers Event 2.0. Code name: Sex Bob-omb.Why Sex Bob-omb? “That’s easy,” Bucky said, joining the mob of hungry seniors trying to squeeze their way through the door. “I’ve already used asteroids, comets, Bruce Willis,”—he hooked arms with his sister’s friend Jude—“motorcycles, tsunamis, Elijah Wood, and the Vampire Armand, so Scott Pilgrim’s the obvious choice.” “Bucky, stop being weird.”Jude was a smart chick, but she didn’t know shit about Scott Pilgrim. “It’s a bomb-ass movie, Jude.” Bucky stopped in the doorway, forcing a Buffy with a Balenciaga to bump into a dude with a Bugatti. “Chris Evans eyebrows alone are worth the price of admission. They’re super bushy, super mean, and super hot.”Jude unhooked her arm.Whatever. Bucky wasn’t gonna let Jude Candino, Eleonor Rigby, Lucy Diamond, or Yoko Ono’s shocking lack of enthusiasm stop Scott Pilgrim from rockin’ out in the battle of the bands. And he sure as fuck wasn’t gonna let it stop Bucky from gettin’ help with the Sex Bob-omb.Three minutes later…Bucky’s desire to talk about the Sex Bob-omb had fizzled like a wet firecracker. One, it was impossible to ask for advice when his besties weren’t at the table, and two, Bucky’s lack of lunch (and lack of cash) was a certified bummer. Sure, he could run down to the office and ask his dad for a Benjamin (or mosey over to Natasha’s table and beg for a fiver), but Bucky was too sweaty to move.Daisy was by the salad bar, paying thirty-two dollars for iceberg lettuce, gourmet croutons, and a splash of honey vinaigrette. Skinner was chattin’ up the computer nerds at the computer-nerd table. And Clint—Bucky looked over his shoulder.Clint was by the condiments, laughing with Will from the archery team. Will was super tall with bright-red hair, which was a mandatory distinction because…Free Willy!...the other Will on the archery team had short brown hair, skinny legs, and an unsightly mole.Digging a half-empty pack of watermelon Bubblicious out of his hoodie (#AxlRulz), Bucky laughed. Skinny Will didn’t actually have a mole, he just looked like one when he took off his glasses.“Gum isn’t lunch, sweetie,” Daisy said, setting her tray and her lunchbox next to Bucky’s pathetic excuse for food. “Here, share my salad while you tell me everything—and I mean everything—that happened with Steve.” Parmesan croutons were posh as fuck, but they were also muy delicioso, which is why Bucky grabbed dos (to represent Steve’s fuzzy nipples) and said, “Your makeup’s on point today, boo.”Truth Bob-omb: Daisy’s makeup was always on point, but today her eyeliner was serving Lady Gaga/Tokyo Ghoul like one of her drawings, but more...Pow!...in your face on her face.“Thanks, boo,” she said, holding an itty-bitty tomato up to her shiny lip gloss lips (yes, they be poppin’). “But you’re stalling.” “No, I’m not.” (Yes, he was.) “Artistry like yours should be appreciated, and iridescent-blue cat eyes are killer cool. Plus, I’m diggin’ all the glittery pink shit that’s stuck to your eyelids.”“You mean eyeshadow?”Stealing a handful of lettuce, Bucky shrugged. “Whatever you wanna call it, it’s looking all CrazySexyCool. Like, early ’90s condom earrings, don’t go chasing waterfalls, RIP Left Eye.”“So, about Steve…”Bucky swiped his thumb across Daisy’s eyelid (Swiper, no swiping!) and transferred a bunch of glittery pink shit onto his cheek. “I think I’m finally gonna take you up on that makeup lesson,” he said, goin’ in for swipe número dos. “You know, up my game from heavy-metal vampire to glam-metal vampire, a la Lestat.” Maybe Cis God Steve Rogers would be into Bucky if he had bright-red lips like the Queen of the Damned, aka the Queen of Lipstick, aka Peggy Carter.Shaking her head, Daisy checkity-checked Bucky out from his Prince-approved Chucks to his lipstickless lips. Then, because she was emotionally CrazySexyCool, she gave his cheek a solid smooch and let the shit with Steve slide.“You’ve got the best superpowers,” Bucky said, swipin’ a slice of cucumber. “Badass intuition. Superhuman empathy. A bottomless basket of sugary carbs. And your art?” Bucky grabbed a chunk of egg. “I mean, boobs aren’t my thing, but when you draw ‘em…Boing!...I always wanna touch ‘em.” Daisy laughed. “I’ll be sure to put that on my application to Pratt.”“I’m serious, boo boo. You speak 137 languages—”“I speak two and a half.”“More like two and three quarters.” Licking his thumb, Bucky tried to smooth out the spot where he’d fucked up Daisy’s eyeshadow. “You’re way better at Expédia de los Tacobello than me.”As a preemptive apology for obliterating Daisy’s glittery pink shit and her eyebrow shit, Bucky smooched her chin, her cheeks, her forehead, her dangly earrings, her—“Are you going to lick her next?” Skinner dropped his brown-bag lunch across from Daisy, pulled out his sandwich, and unzipped his computer bag. FYI: Skinner’s superpower was superhuman sandwich making. Turkey subs. Roast beef on rye. Salami with mayo. Ham and cheese. Classic PB & J. Skinner rocked 'em all.“I’m not gonna lick her,” Bucky said, eyeing Skinner’s forearms as he pulled a beefy BLT out of a baggie, “but I might lick that bacon.”Skinner did this thing with his dress shirts that made Bucky wanna lick a hell of a lot more than his bacon. And since Skinner wore dress shirts every day (including Halloween, Ugly Christmas Sweater Day, and Beach Day at Brighton Beach), Bucky had a lot of experience wanting to lick his meats.Today’s shirt had blue and white checkers, and, per usual, the sleeves were rolled up just past Skinner’s elbows (functional, but sexy), the bottom was tucked into his jeans (boomer, but sexy), and the top two buttons were unbuttoned to show off his cookie-shaped patch of chest hair (tasteful, but sexy). Raising an eyebrow, Skinner took a big bite of bacon. “Like you wanted to lick my salami last week?” “Dude, you’re the one who wore that sexy black shirt the same day that you packed salami. You know how horny I get when I look at those silver snaps”“I thought I made you horny.”Clint pulled out the chair across from Bucky (like always), spun it around so he could sit on it backwards (like always), and threw a couple of bags of chips and a Coke onto the table (like always). But something was off. Was it the size of Clint’s nose? Bucky squinted at Clint’s schnoz. No, that was still slightly bigger than average. Was it the size of the bulge in his purple plaid pants? Bucky squinted at Clint’s dick. No, that was still slightly bigger than average too. “Oh snap!” Bucky threw a crouton at Clint’s mohawk. “I forgot about your tips.”Had Bucky seen Clint in the car this morning? You bet your ass he had. Had Bucky been too busy drowning in an Olympic-size pool full of his 'bestie's' Natasha-inspired drool for the purple tips to register? Abso-fucking-lutely.Trying not to think of the way the purple dye had snaked its way past Clint’s nipple rings, Bucky said, “It looks like Grimace rubbed your mohawk up and down his asscrack.” “Is that right?” Clint ripped open a bag of Ruffles with his teeth. “‘Cause as far as I know, your asscrack is the only one that’s been anywhere near my tip.”Grimace. Barney. Prince. Tres purple monsters laughed along with besties one, two, and three, because, as far as secrets went, Clint and Bucky had always hidden theirs in plain sight. “So, what the fuck happened this morning?” Clint asked, dumping the chips onto the table. “I peeked my head in, and your new coach was screaming like the drill sergeant in Full Metal Jacket.”Bucky looked at his purple hands. In a galaxy far, far away, Bucky’d been totally pumped to tell his friends about the Sex-Bob-omb, but now? Bucky squinted at Skinner's glasses, trying to figure out how he always kept them so clean.“Mr. Kuzinski’s a pervert.”“What?” Clint flicked a chip at Bucky’s forehead.“During first hour, he kept staring at Rose Marino’s ankles. Like, dude, we get that you’re having a midlife crisis, but driving a red Mustang and running marathons for clout doesn’t make teenage girls wanna suck your cock.”But shooting arrows and playing guitar? Reaching across the table, Bucky stole a piece of Skinner’s bacon so didn’t drop to his knees and swallow Clint’s salami.“We were supposed to be copying these fancy-ass quotes off the whiteboard, but Kuzinski kept drooling over Rose’s ankles and Sam Wilson kept staring at my head.” He cringed. Not because Sam’s blindingly white teeth had blotted out the quote from Oscar Wilde, but because Bucky's mouth had filled with saliva. “One of the quotes said something about exquisite things exploding out of tragedy… or volcanos... or jack-in-the-boxes… or Civil War cannons. Fuck if I know.”“Here,” Clint said, sliding the chip pile to Bucky’s side of the table. “Eat these.”It was a nice gesture, but a handful of Ruffles didn’t pack enough carbohydrate power to stop this runaway train.“Then I lost my pencil, and all I could think about was the homo-haters and Grimace and Steve’s glistening abs and”—Bucky sucked in a breath—“fucking Frodo and the motherfucking Sex Bob-omb and—”“Sex Bob-omb?” Skinner tossed half of his BLT on top of the chips. Half a sandwich was better than a handful of chips, but when Bucky sunk his teeth into the bread, a drop of mayonnaise landed on Kermit the Frog.The good news: It was the Kermit on Bucky’s t-shirt, not the living, breathing Kermit the Frog. The bad news: The mayo explosion coincided with Clint saying, “Bucky told Steve that he wanted to suck his dick with his eyes.”“How do you suck someone’s dick with your eyes?” Skinner's delivery was so deadpan that he sounded dead. Clint snorted, launching an aerial assault of spitty chip bits at Daisy’s salad. And Daisy? She just rolled her iridescent-blue cat eyes as a ginormous glob made a direct hit on the biggest cherry tomato because, as sad as it was, this wasn’t the first salad (garden or tossed) that Bucky’s ‘bestie’ had destroyed with flying goop.“No,” Clint said, grabbing a chip to replace the ones he’d sent on to greener pastures. “Bucky looked at Steve with his eyeballs, telepathically communicating his dick-sucking desires by looking.”“Don’t you minimally need a hand gesture to get that kind of thing across?" Skinner hadn’t bothered to look up from his computer to deliver that zinger, and he wasn’t looking now. He was just typing away, clickety-clackin’ the keys as he pounded out paragraph after paragraph about Bucky’s proclivity to spit instead of swallow."You mean like this?” Clint winked at Daisy, which was never a good sign. And when Clint elbowed Skinner, Bucky knew he was screwed.The ‘joke’ was coming (pun intended). And that, teabaggers and tonsil ticklers, was why Bucky grabbed the spit-covered tomato and popped it into his mouth. He’d rather have a single red ball rolling around on his tongue than two pink ones that smelled like sweat and weed.Bucky loved assholes. Smooth ones. Hairy ones. The kind that Pornhub tagged as tight. And he was usually a fan of collective acts of assholery. But when Clint started flicking his fist back and forth, recruiting Daisy and Skinner before adding the corresponding there’s-a-dick-in-my-mouth tongue against the inside of his cheek, Bucky wasn't laughing. Not on the outside. Not on the inside. Okay, maybe a little bit on the inside ‘cause Daisy’d never had anything in her mouth. And Clint—Well, there’d been that one time (cough, two times).“You’re not sucking hard enough,” Bucky said, hoping that shaming their dick-sucking skills would get them to stop. But they just picked up the pace. Faster. Harder. Deeper. When Clint paused to spit on his hand, Bucky wanted to thank him and punch him at the same damn time. Extra lubrication was always appreciated (especially when Clint’s guitar calluses were stroking Bucky’s tip), but even if Clint’s hands were as dry as the motherfucking Sahara, it wouldn’t stop the headache from coming. It was gonna pound, piss him off, and make Bucky punctuate his sentences with plenty of P words. And that was just from the combined stress of accidentally eye-fucking Steve Rogers and watching his dipshit friends purposely tongue-fucking their cheeks. The bullshit with the homo-haters hadn't even entered into the equation.Spitting out the dick (shocker), Clint leaned across the table and said, “The Buffys are staring at us. Wanna have some fun?”The Buffys and fun were like mayonnaise and Skittles (they didn’t mix), but Bucky was too curious not to peek over his shoulder. And sure enough, Regina George and the Heathers were emitting some extra sizzly bitch vibes from the table next door.Same shit, different day.Skinner and Daisy had stopped, filling their mouths with salad and sandwiches instead of imaginary dicks, and Bucky should stop too. He should. But when Clint rocked his crotch against the edge of the table, he couldn’t help but open his mouth. And when Clint switched from giver to receiver, moaning as his lips formed the perfect O, Bucky turned his head so the spray didn’t sting his eyes.Like most bad habits, the whole scene was detrimental to Bucky's health."Oh, Buffy…" Clint wiped his hand on the bottom of his t-shirt. “I just came so fucking hard."Like, really detrimental. Knowing exactly how Clint looked when he came was weird, but it was even weirder now that he’d declared himself ‘straight,’ ‘cis,’ ‘not a fan of Bucky’s dick,’ and ‘into Natasha.’"You’re a pig," Buffy said, flipping her Barbie-blonde hair over her shoulder. “You and your friends.”"And you're a bitch."It wasn’t Daisy’s usual MO to clap back, but when she did, she did it with the kind of casual cool that gave words real power. That’s why Bucky loved her. That, and she gave him rainbow-sprinkle cupcakes.Speaking of cupcakes, Bucky needed to eat. A stack of Oreos. A toasted Asiago bagel. A stalk of celery. Frodo’s magical lembas bread. A spit-covered tomato with a drizzle of salty mayo.Grabbing another tomato, Bucky tossed it into his mouth with a hunk o’ lettuce, three slices of cucumber, and 747 carrots because he needed to shove a bunch of vegetables into his mouth to keep himself from having a mental breakdown.
Poof!
"Here, sweetie," Daisy said, cuttin’ the one-sided tension with a Cosmic Star Crunch Cookie. "I know how much you love these."The salad had been replaced by Lil’ Miss Daisy’s Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox, aka the ’80s time capsule she’d found in the corner of a thrift shop in Queens, and it was filled to the brim with Little Debbie Zebra Cakes and Oatmeal Cream Pies. “Thank fucking god,” Bucky said because it was true. They had gooey caramel, puffy rice, fudgy chocolate—"Yeah, you look like you’re about to pass out." Skinner hit the space bar. “If you’re going to be swimming before school, you have to eat a good breakfast.”Had he eaten this morning? Bucky ran things back. Spit salad. A quarter of a BLT. A handful of Ruffles. Watermelon gum. Oatmeal?“I was too nervous,” Bucky said, rippin’ off the protective plastic. “I nuked some apple cinnamon oatmeal before I left the house—you know, you've gotta power up if you wanna be a power bottom—but it exploded in the microwave while I was thinking about Steve powering up to be one hell of a top.” Skinner stopped typing. "I still don’t understand how you solicited Steve with your eyeballs. Conveying that you’re looking for a sexual encounter typically takes more than one dirty look.""Maybe for a straight guy." Bucky took a moon-size bite out of the Cosmic Cookie. "Gay boys know how to get it done."Not that Bucky stereotyped. Blastin’ Bucky with a pair of finger guns…Pew pew!...Clint said, “He’s not kidding, you know. This boy's big blue peepers can reel in a fish with one carefully crafted look."“Steve’s the captain of the swim team, not a swordfish!” Bucky rolled his big blue peepers at his bestie. “And even if Steve was open to trying a new kind of bait—which he isn’t—it was an accident. I didn’t mean to go fishing.”Chomping into his Cosmic Cookie, Bucky prayed that the intergalactic sugar infusion would save him from this shitty fishing analogy, but it was too late. Before he had a chance to leap over the rail of the Andrea Gail, the moral of the story stabbed him in the chest like a stingray (RIP Steve Irwin). In the words of the late, great Crocodile Hunter, you shouldn’t try to catch the biggest swordfish in the ocean when the only reason you cast your line into the Atlantic was because the fish in Brooklyn had started nibbling on vaginas.He took an even bigger bite."It doesn’t matter if it was an accident,” Clint said as he gave the chain around his neck a teeny-tiny tug. "Once you drop the look, there’s no going back.”Bill and Ted would disagree, but when it came to nipple rings, Clint was right. And that— Bucky rubbed his temples. He just wanted to drift away on his puffy little cloud. Smoke some weed, hide under Patrick Star's rock (or under the bridge with Anthony Kiedis), dive into the Underworld with Kate Beckinsale (Vampire vagina in black latex? He’d definitely take a bite.). Full disclosure: Bucky didn’t give a flying fuck where he went. He just wanted to go someplace where he could forget all about roast beef sandwiches, sexy swordfish, and thick-dicked dickheads wearing motherfucking locks. Pulling up his hood, Bucky tried his hand at telepathy, silently willing Clint to shut the fuck up or throw him a joint. Preferably both.It didn’t work.“You’ve spent years staring at yourself in the mirror,” Clint said, revealing another one of Bucky’s not-so-secret secrets. “I think it’s about time you showed Skinner and Daisy the look. I mean, showing Steve Rogers before two of your best friends?” Clint scoffed. “Dude, where are your priorities?”Clint was right about the mirrors (Bucky’d locked himself in the bathroom for a decade to perfect the lip nibble alone), but he was wrong about Bucky’s priorities. Swear to the Little Debbie gods (and Darth Vader), Bucky hadn't rolled out of bed with an elaborate plan to turn Steve Rogers to the gay side with his homosexual midichlorians. It had been an oops. A screwup. A tongue gone Rogue One. It wasn’t his fault that Bucky’s brand-new captain had such lickable abs.Disguising peer pressure as a massage, Daisy rubbed Bucky’s arm. “Show us, sweetie. Maybe I’ll learn something.”“Do it,” Clint said, pumping his fist in a way that had everything to do with peer pressure and nothing to do with getting Bucky off. “Do it! Do it! Do it!”It was a classic tactic, used for millennia to get kids to fart on their sisters, stage dive into ‘crowds’ of five at underground punk concerts, and stick ripe bananas into homophobic pricks’ tailpipes (Brock’s lack of dying had been a real disappointment). And, sure, it was probably (definitely) the sugar from the Cosmic Star Crunch Cookie doin’ the talking, but the chanting was really starting to work, especially now that there were uno, dos, tres dickheads shouting, “Do it! Do it! Do it!”"I'm not gonna do it," he lied.“Do it! Do it! Do it!”Running his fingers through his hair, Bucky tried to loosen some of the extra-crispy knots. If he was gonna do this (which he wasn't), his grungy waves were a critical element of the look, aka the cherry on top of his sexual sundae. "I don’t care how much you chant”—Bucky took his sweet-ass time leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees—“it's not happening."Freeze frame: Three dickheads. Three peer-pressuring fists hanging in the air. Three seconds of silence."He's gonna do it," Clint whispered, barely moving his mouth."He's gonna do what?" Skinner whispered right back."The Sex Stare."Bucky didn’t care that his besties were dickheads, because…Spoiler Alert!...he really, really, really loved them. And he wasn’t talkin’ about the kinda love that made you do a double tap on Insta. Bucky loved his besties like kittens loved strings, cults loved spaceships, and people loved smartphones.A ginormous belly laugh exploded from Bucky's belly (duh) as a nostalgia tsunami crashed into his funny bone (Side note: He really needed to cut back on the disaster movies). The asteroid-caliber wave (like, really cut back) reminded him of his favorite bedtime story. The one where Clint, Daisy, and Skinner had…Dun-dun-dun!...become Bucky's squad. Ugh. Bucky hit pause on the nostalgia train because squad was an awful word. T-Swift had ruined it for humans and Swifties alike. Even if that cat-lovin’ gal wrote ten zillion irresistibly catchy pop tunes on her acoustic guitar (shout out, Meredith Grey) and dedicated them all to Bucky’s quad, Bucky was never ever getting back together with the word squad. Okay. New word. Gang? Too Tupac. Homies? Bucky wasn't down for cultural appropriation. Clique? Gross. That was a Buffy thing, not a Bucky thing. Looking at their smiling faces, fists suspended in their air like Judd Nelson (#HottieInFlannel), Bucky decided to go back to basics.The story of how they'd all become friends was one of his favorites, but it was also long, and lunch was short (not to mention he’d frozen his Breakfast Club buds with their fists in the air). Leaning back, Bucky ran through his options for optimal nostalgic impact. Speaking chronologically (and emotionally), Clint was nostalgic option número uno. They’d become friends before Bucky'd become Bucky, and their origin story was jam packed with the kind of shit that would make a killer Lifetime movie. Acid trips. Near drownings. English lessons via ’70s porn. Lunch would be over before Bucky’d made it even a quarter of the way through middle school. Which was why, after two milliseconds of contemplation, Bucky shoved the good ol’ YMCA, fucked-up haircuts, and Yakov’s OG bestie onto the back burner until the next nostalgia tsunami rolled around.Bucky pushed his extra-crispy waves (shout out, KFC) behind his ears and smiled at nostalgic option número dos.Besides the office staff, the head custodian, and a couple of teachers, Clint and Bucky had walked into their freshman year at Eaton without knowing a single soul (Natasha and Dad didn’t count). Zip, zero, zilch. But three minutes into Bucky’s first hour, that number had gone from zilch to uno, aka odin, turning Bucky’s duo into an unofficial trio.After rolling into his digital citizenship class (Syllabus: Don't send naked pictures) with a Pop-Tart and a pencil, Bucky’d taken his alphabetically assigned seat. Ayaka Ban. Bucky Barnes. Destiny at play. She’d told him Ayaka meant “colorful flower” in Japanese (hence, the nickname Daisy). He’d gone gaga over her vintage overalls. She’d given him a Japanese cookie made with ginger. He’d eaten the whole thing in one bite. She’d said, “You’re funny.” He’d said, “You’re cool.” And they'd become #friends4eva. Of course, there was much more to the story, but tick-tock, tick-tock.Which led him to nostalgic option número tres.Dramatic buildup aside, Skinner was the clear winner of Bucky’s nostalgic storytelling competition. Not because his story was the shortest, but because his unexpected arrival had completed their fellowship. So put on your jammies, archers and dwarves, because the day Sean Skinner had wandered over to their lunch table with a salami sandwich and a tucked-in shirt, their fun threesome had become a magical foursome and all had been right with the world.Not that their gang had ever had a gangbang. No foursomes. No threesomes. No—Bucky glanced at Clint. No, three was the minimum requirement for a gangbang (and that was pushin’ it). Pornhub said so.Anyways, back to the salami. It had been a perfectly ordinary Monday in December (much like today, minus the snow and acne), and Clint and Bucky had been sitting in the exact same spots, watching Daisy split a cupcake into three semi-equal pieces with her fingers. Daisy fingering cupcakes had been a regular thing (Lemon. Chocolate. Matcha. Daisy had fingered them all), but the skinny dude approaching their cupcake-eatin’ trio with a brown-bag lunch had been anything but.Eaton wasn’t a massive school, so Bucky’d seen Skinner around. But back in those days, Skinner had been tight with the brainiacs, aka the people who followed Tony Stark around like minions; the popular kids, aka the people who followed Tony Stark around like high-end whores (cough, Steve); and the computer geeks, aka the people who followed Tony Stark around like he was a mash-up of Bill Gates, Stephen Hawking, and Elvis. Not that Bucky stereotyped. Bucky’s alert system had gone straight to DEFCON 3 (ready to mobilize) because, in three short months, Bucky’d taken enough shit from Stark and Company to know that Skinny Sandwich Guy had been headed their way to add to the pile."Bucky," Current Skinner said. "Are we doing this or what? My arm’s half asleep.""Yeah, give me a sec. I'm thinkin’ about how scrawny you used to be."Scrawny Skinner had plopped down next to Clint with no explanation, opening his MacBook and taking a bite out of his sandwich like it had been a perfectly normal thing to do. Bucky's exact thought process had gone a lil’ something like this: I like his glasses. Is he lost? He looks like Dylan O’Brien. He must be lost. Not Teen Wolf Dylan O’Brien. More like The Internship Dylan O’Brien. Is that salami? Salami is delicious.The OG Three had stuffed Daisy’s lemony cupcake into their mouths, agreeing via sneaky sign language that Dylan O’Brien had wisely chosen cupcakes over the fuckwads in Stark's posse. Posse! How the fuck had Bucky forgotten about posse?"C’mon, cupcake,” Clint said, which, holy superpower, had been hella psychic on a dessert level. “I’ve got a tournament this weekend, and I need this arm to hit the targets."Bucky opened his mouth to say, “You only need that arm to jerk off,” but then he remembered that Clint had rescheduled this week’s Pizza Saturday to Pizza Sunday because (duh) he had a fucking tournament. “Fine,” Bucky said, grabbing an Oatmeal Creme Pie out of Daisy’s lunchbox. “Drop the Judd Nelson act and…Cowabunga!...catch a ride on my nostalgia tsunami."“But the look…” Clint stuck his lip out like a Pouty McPouterton.Bucky had two choices. Acknowledge Whiny Clint or ignore him. Decision coming in three, two, one…“Remember when that arctic blast froze all those pigeons in ninth grade?” Bucky tore the plastic with his teeth. “I’m pretty sure it was January. Or February. Or January.”“It was January,” Daisy said, stabbing her untossed salad with a fork (ouch). “The day after Martin Luther King Day.”“That’s right.” Bucky laughed. One, because he was imagining Martin Luther King standing in front of that big-ass crowd in Washington D.C., saying, “I have a dream of getting my salad tossed,” and two, because Bucky’d abso-fucking-lutely let a certain somebody pour ranch dressing (or honey vinaigrette) into his asshole if it made his salad taste better. Pounding his fist on the table like a proper politician, Bucky said, “The day after Martin Luther King Day—which shall forever be known as Pigeon Popsicle Day—was a critical day in American History. More important than Ghengis Khan goin’ ham on China. More important than Joan of Arc takin’ over an aerobics class. More important than Napoleon Bonaparte piggin’ out at the Ziggy Piggy. More important than—”“We get it, dude,” Clint said, interrupting Bucky’s history lesson like a total douche. “Bill and Ted. Now what’s your point?”Fun fact: Clint and Bucky had watched Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure for the zillionth time on Saturday.Fun fact número dos: After Bill and Ted’s teacher had given the Wyld Stallyns an A on their history report, Clint had given Bucky an A on his dick-sucking report.Bucky cleared his throat like Lincoln gearin’ up to give the Gettysburg Address. “Let it be known that Pigeon Popsicle Day was the day that Sean Skinner—after spending a month and a half swallowing his salami sandwiches in silence—finally spoke.”“I mean, that’s a bit of an exaggeration”—pushing up his glasses, Skinner rubbed his cute lil’ nose—“but sure. Let’s go with that.” To be clear, Bucky wasn’t exaggerating. Skinner had said exactly two words between that perfectly ordinary day in December and Pigeon Popsicle Day, and both of them had been “no, Bucky, you can’t have my sandwich.” But this wasn’t about semantics, it was about pigeons. Which is why Bucky shoved the rest of Skinner’s BLT into his mouth, chewed uno, dos, tres times, and said, “Pigeon extinction aside, the OG Three were really fuckin’ excited that you finally invited us to hang at your pad, even though you gave us, like, zero details. That shit was cryptic as fuck, bro.”“I told you my parents were going to Paris to see La Bohème and texted you to bring Doritos.”“Yeah,” Bucky said, leaning his head against Lil’ Miss Daisy’s shoulder, “but you left out the part about your humble abode having a fuckin’ elevator. Daisy may have grown up around five-story townhouses and gargoyles, but me and Clint? Not so much.”At some point between rejecting T-Swift and imitating Abraham Lincoln, Bucky had unwrapped a muy delicioso Oatmeal Cream Pie. He knew this because Clint had just swiped it out of his hand.“And you really should’ve warned us about the dumbwaiter.” Clint took a big ol’ bite. “It was easy getting Daisy in, but—”“Okay, how about instead of making me relive the most claustrophobic twenty minutes of my life, we get back to what all of this has to do with this morning.”Present Daisy wasn’t mad, she was antsy. But Past Daisy? Whoo-ee! She’d been mad as fuck when Clint and Bucky had ripped her favorite babydoll dress on the dumbwaiter dismount.“What doesn’t it have to do with this morning?” Bucky asked, giving Daisy’s cheek an extra-smoochy smooch. “Reminiscing about Sandwich Skinner, Dumbwaiter Daisy, Cobain-Era Clint, and Pre-Hasselhoffian Bucky raiding Sean Sr.’s well-stocked bar is makin’ me feel better about the disaster that is My So Called Life."When Bucky gave Daisy’s cheek another smooch, she smelled like lemons. Lemon tarts. Lemon cupcakes. Lemon meringue pie."Did you just refer to yourself in the third person?"Ah, Skinner. Always a sticker for attendance.“Maybe,” Bucky said because he was too amped up to run things back, “but don’t let it tarnish the moment.”Sometimes Bucky pushed fast forward, sometimes he pushed rewind, but right now, he just wanted to stay in the place where Clint (with shoulder-length, bleach-blond hair that only Courtney could love) was reading poetry in Skinner’s library with a shitty Russian accent, Daisy was pouring puke-inducing concoctions into crystal shot glasses, and Skinner was rambling on and on about how Daisy, Clint, and Bucky were sooo much better than Christina Peabody and her toy poodle.To paraphrase: “You peoples are the most interesting peoples. All those other peoples just wanna play polo and hang around Prince Harry and be stupid. And”—pause for vomit—“I hate ‘em.”Or something like that.“That was the night I tried to kiss you,” Bucky said, referring to bestie número tres instead of bestie número uno. “Remember, after you puked on the rug?”Long story, short: Skinner's mom was French. Skinner was fluent. And when Drunk Skinner had crawled across the floor and told Bucky to “ferme la bouche,” Drunk Bucky had tried to jump French Dylan O’Brien’s bones. The end. “I remember,” Skinner said. “And all these years later, you still never shut your mouth.”Skinner had said it with a smile, but the lemony buzz in the back of Bucky’s brain was starting to sour like the lemons in their tequila.“All I remember is Bucky freaking out about Daisy’s vagina.” Clint laughed. “Swear to god, I’ve never seen you look so pale.”It was true. After Skinner had pushed Bucky’s tongue back into his mouth with his finger, Skinner had stumbled to his feet and scooped Daisy up into a ginormous bear hug. From Bucky’s vantage point on the puke-covered rug, he’d clearly (oh, so clearly) seen Daisy’s underwear disappear into her asscrack, giving Bucky his first (and only) real-life view of lady parts. Truth Bob-omb: Bucky was not down for lady parts. Repeat: Not down for lady parts.“I don’t know what your problem is,” Clint said like he’d been licking clits for years (Spoiler alert: He hadn’t). “Vaginas are beautiful.”“Oh, fuck off. Saying that you wanna stick your dick into a roast beef sandwich doesn’t make you a vagina expert, it makes you a liar.”Clint stared at Bucky. Bucky stared at Clint. Skinner stared at his computer. And Daisy, with her lemon-scented intuition, said, “It’s now or never, boo. Do we get to see the look you gave Steve or not?”Bucky blinked. Losing a staring contest sucked, but it sucked even more to remember that he’d totally forgotten about accidentally eye-fucking Steve Rogers.Steve Rogers, who, for the fucking record, ate roast beef sandwiches every fucking day! “You wanna see how I looked at Steve?” Bucky was looking at Daisy, but his words were directed at the roast beef ‘connoisseur.’ “I’ll fucking show you how I looked at Steve.”Resting his elbows on his knees, Bucky rolled his shoulders forward just enough to suggest intimacy (but not enough to call it a slouch). Then he shook his hair into his face to add mystery (but not enough to look like a member of Metallica). If two members of the OG Three wanted their first full-throttle demonstration of the Sex Stare, then Bucky was gonna give them the juiciest version of the Sex Stare this side of triple-X porn.Bucky cracked his knuckles one by one. A look like this took effort, concentration, and a certain level of horniness. And if Bucky was gonna make this happen, he had to drive his fishing boat back to the source of the swordfish drama.Beautiful Steve Rogers with his beautiful blond hair, beautiful earlobes, beautiful collarbones, and beautiful armpit hair, sitting at the opposite end of the bleachers with every ounce of his beautiful authority on display. Shifting in his chair, Bucky took a deep breath as his own hidden parts started to pay attention.“Oh man, he’s powering up.” Clint tapped the heels of his boots like Bucky was about to drop to his knees. And he was. Just not for Clint.Bucky lowered his chin just enough to add some mystery (roughly a forty-five-degree angle, give or take nothing), dragging his thumb across his mouth as he made slow and deliberate eye contact.Daisy and Skinner gasped, but Bucky wasn't done. This was seduction, not summer camp. And Bucky was about to take everybody for a ride.Now that he had their attention, he spread his legs a little wider and nibbled on his bottom lip. A flash of tongue. The shine of fresh spit. A naughty little smile playing at the corners of his mouth.“Holy shit,” Skinner said, yanking off his steamy glasses (not really).“Holy shit,” Daisy said, fanning her lady parts (not really). "Holy shit," Clint said, grabbing his crotch (really) because he was a fucking comedian.Daisy was the first to break the spell. "You weren’t kidding when you said you practiced that in the mirror? It’s—”“Dirty.” Okay, scratch that. Skinner’s glasses actually were a little steamy."I was going to say powerful.” Daisy squeezed Bucky’s knee, which was fuckin’ awesome! Aside from the time his sister had gotten so mad about Bucky hoggin’ the bathroom that she’d picked the lock, Bucky’d never tried the Sex Stare on a girl before. Bonus points for it being gender inclusive. “Powered by his penis.”Gender inclusive except for Clint, who, bestie or not, was one shitty comment away from Bucky turning him into a Ken Doll. Chop-chop the salami, chop-chop the cherry tomatoes, and…Zip! ...throw ‘em into a Ziplock bag labeled Dick Parts.It was becoming really fucking clear that nobody was gonna help him. Not his posse. Not his crew. Not his squad (fuck you, T-Swift). Not his gang. Not his homies (sorry, Tupac). Not his besties. Not his buds. Not his ‘bestie’s’ bud.At this rate, Bucky was gonna have to lock himself in his bedroom, raging to Rage Against the Machine all day and crying to Morrissey all night. Mini-Slash was gonna be Bucky's only friend until his mini ass got sick of Bucky listening to The Smiths, packed up his mini top hat, mini Les Paul, and mini bottle of Jack Daniel’s and strutted back to the jungle in his mini leather pants. Then Bucky would starve to death, knowing that he'd never see Steve Rogers (or the dickless dick) ever again. “I’m doomed,” Bucky said, wishing the bell would ring…Tick!...wishing he had another Cosmic Cookie…Tick!...wishing that Steve Rogers had followed him into the locker room after practice instead of wherever the fuck he’d gone after telling off his homo-hating friends.Bucky must've looked sad and gloomy (like Morrissey) because Daisy started running her fingernails up and down his left arm. "Oh, sweetie,” she said, fiddlin’ with his leather cuffs. “What did Steve do when you smiled at him like that?”Finally, some genuine concern! If Bucky’d known that Morrissey was the key to sympathy, he would've fuckin’ led with “How Soon is Now?” because Bucky did just want to be loved, just like everybody else does. And he was the sun… and the air… and he was the fucking sommelier of nothing in particular, even if he didn't know what sommelier meant—“Bucky?”Blinking a few times to clear out Morissey’s English rain clouds, Bucky opened the cargo bay doors and dropped an all-American Truth Bob-omb. “Captain Steve Rogers looked away so fast that his all-American ass almost fell off the bleachers.” "So it worked." Clint threw a carrot at Kermit for no reason in particular, which, aside from being anti-frog, anti-carrot, and anti-Steve, definitely wasn't how a sommelier was supposed to act. "Did he look mad?"“What?” Daisy was patient. Daisy was kind. And Daisy never got mad when Bucky needed her to rewind. Sliding her finger beneath the red leather cuff Bucky wore just above his elbow, Daisy asked, “Did he look mad?” The way she was rotating the snap, adding pressure as she spun the leather around his bicep, helped Bucky to slow down. Morissey fucked off back to England, Mini-Slash disappeared, the Sex Bob-omb fizzled out, and Bucky was finally able to roll things back with a little more objectivity. After a quick replay of the event in question, Bucky decided against mad.“I’d say he looked more… confused? Or like he was gonna throw up." Bucky rubbed his eyes, trying to get the headache to fuck off back to England too. "I don’t know. It was weird.”“Sex pollen.” “Shut up, Clint,” Daisy said, which, aside from being awesome, was Boss Bitch with a capital BB. “Go ahead, sweetie. What do you mean weird?” “I don’t know. Usually, Steve's all confident and stuff with the broad shoulders and the great ass, but he seemed really flustered. Then Brock and Rollins got rolling, and it was all testosterone and bullshit from there.”“But he wasn't mad?” Daisy’s smile made Bucky hippity-hop into the phone booth with Bill and Ted, rewind the clock to 7:20, and rethink how the whole thing had gone down.Without question, Steve Rogers (with his heaving chest and hairy nipples) had been pretty fucking close to knocking the homo-haters heads off, but none of that Rambo shit had been aimed in Bucky’s direction. Shrugging, Bucky said, “Weirdly, no.”“Oh, pumpkin. If he wasn’t mad, then there’s hope.”“Hope for what?” Skinner was either dense (which he wasn't) or not paying attention (which he was). Bucky scrunched his eyebrows together. Had that been a double negative? Skinner was not not paying attention?Daisy brushed the hair out of Bucky’s eyes. "Hope that he likes you.” “Steve’s straight,” Bucky said, spittin’ facts like Biggie Smalls spit bars. “All of us watched him romance the shit out of Peggy Carter, who—sorry Daisy—is the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. And now he’s boinking her cousin Sharon, which”—Bucky stuck his finger down his throat—“gross. But Steve fucking his way through the Carter family tree isn’t the point. The point is that they both have boobs, they both look great in high heels, they're both smart, they both have lady parts with aromatic au jus, and they're both abso-fucking-lutely perfect.""You're smart," Clint said with a shrug.Nice. Real fucking nice.Glancing across the cafeteria towards the big table by the even bigger windows, Bucky immediately picked Peggy’s Mary Poppins laugh out of the bling-filled flock. The Queen of Lipstick was perched on the edge of Steve’s table like a proper lady, wearing a blue dress with white polka dots, strappy red heels, and her signature bright-red lipstick. If there were a leader of the ladies around these parts (not lady parts), Peggy Carter would, as Tony Danza liked to say, be the boss. In addition to having ginormous boobs, Peggy held the record for Steve Rogers’ longest relationship. She’d left her perfect lip prints on Steve's perfect cheekbones for most of junior year, holding his hand, squeezing his ass, and smiling like she’d been gunnin’ for Queen Elizabeth’s throne. From September to May, Bucky’d hated her, wanted to be her, hated her some more, taught himself to walk in heels, hated her for doing it better than him, then hated her some more.Sharon, the girl Bucky currently hated for boinking Steve’s bone, was sitting in her usual spot, staring out the windows with her bouncy blonde hair bouncing all over the fucking place. She looked sad, which was weird. Usually, she was full of cheerleader pep, running around in her itty-bitty cheerleader skirt, spreading joy with her exposed asscheeks. Sharon was the only girl on the squad (Dammit, Taylor!) who could pull off back handsprings without using her hands (Back springs? Back no-hand springs?). Pepper Potts leaned over and whispered something into Sharon’s ear, which was weird times two. Why was Pepper sitting next to Sharon? Steve sat next to Sharon. Wait a minute.“Where the fuck is Steve?” When Bucky spun around, Daisy was shake-shake-shakin’ her head like T-Swift shakin’ a Polaroid picture because Steve Rogers was standing right next to her.Of course he was."This is revenge for this morning, isn’t it?” Bucky squeezed Kermit, hoping for a rainbow connection. “When I scared you half to death in your Speedo."“That wasn't what I was going for, but, sure… I'll take the credit."
Snap!
Bucky did a double take ‘cause that snappy lil’ response had been sassy as hell, and sassy didn't typically go with khakis.Outfit check: Steve was wearing a really, really, really tight black polo shirt (we’re talkin’ visible nips) with an actual polo player embroidered on the left pec (Holy shit. Was that why they were called polo shirts? Mind. Fucking. Blown). And he was sportin’ some sporty white Nikes with a pair of ridiculously expensive-looking khaki pants. Question: Why the fuck would a person spend big bucks on khakis? They’re fucking khakis! If they make your ass look halfway decent, who the fuck cares if they cost twenty-nine ninety-nine on the sale rack at Target?Scratching the back of his neck, Steve smiled a little when he said, “So… you were looking for me?”Think fast."Um..."Think faster."Yeah, I wanted to thank you for asking me to join the team."Bucky cringed because that had sounded like something a five-year-old would write in a thank-you card after his babushka had sent him a hand-knit sweater for his birthday. Not that Bucky would know… Dear Nonexistent Birth Grandma, Thank you for knitting me a sweater. I can't wait to wear it while I’m milking the cows.
Love, your grandson Yakov
P.S. I live in America now.
P.P.S. And people call me Bucky.
P.P.P.S. It's a long story.
“Um… yeah,” Steve said, upgrading from scratching the back of his neck to rubbing it really fucking hard. “I'm glad I asked you too." Like, seriously, the skin was starting to look like a boiled lobster."That’s why I’m here, I guess. I… um. I wanted to tell you how impressive you were this morning.”Clint snorted. But instead of launching spitty chip bits into Daisy’s salad, a bunch of miniature arrows flew out of his oversized schnoz.“Hey, Roger Waters! Why on Earth are you talking to David Gilmour on the dark side of the Moon? You know his ego’s out of control, right?”It wasn’t Clint screaming across the cafeteria (although, with the amount of arrows headed for Steve’s eyeballs, Bucky wouldn’t put anything past the dickless dick). It was Tony Stark.The richest of the rich was standing on the chair across from Sharon, wearing a maroon suit that was so shiny that it looked like Stark had just flown in from Ibiza drenched in stripper au jus and KY Jelly. But the worst part wasn’t the vag juice (or the vintage Aerosmith t-shirt underneath), it was the way Stark was wiggling his finger at Steve like Patrick Swayze had wiggled his finger at Baby in Dirty Dancing. Nobody puts Baby in a corner, and, apparently, nobody lets Steve Rogers talk to gay boys holding watermelons.Ugh. He was the worst. The color was racing up Steve's neck like a five-alarm fire, turning his entire face pink before Bucky could say uno, dos, tres. But it wasn't mini-pig pink (which would've been cute and kinda endearing), it was angry-sunburn pink, like Steve had slammed too many beers on spring break and passed out on Miami Beach. Watching Steve turn into a full-blown crustacean, Bucky wanted to hug him, squeeze him, and rub aloe vera all over his boiled-lobster skin until Mr. Krabs switched back to his normal peachy beige.“O Captain, my Captain! Wilt thou grace us with thy presence today, or must we endure these waters unattended?” Instead of paying attention to the douche from Ibiza, Bucky honed in on Steve’s breathing. He was sucking in big breaths and holding them in for a really, really, really long time. No joke, Mr. All-American was turning blue underneath all that red (So purple?). And worse, Steve kept waiting until his eyeballs were bulging out of their sockets (think, Total Recall in a cafeteria instead of on Mars) to expel the carbon dioxide with an almost imperceptible hiss. Decompression. Exploding eyeballs. The Terminator. Bucky's brain beamed the two of them onto the deck of the Titanic, where Céline Dion (in a stunning pantsuit) was belting out “My Heart Will Go On” in her soaring French Canadian soprano. Bucky looked around. It was dark and cold, and even though the Titanic was slicing its way through the Atlantic Ocean, there wasn’t a fishing pole in sight. It was just Steve, standing at the very back of the ship in a pair of sparkly slippers. Holy fucking shitballs! Bucky got it. He got the sunburn. He got the Titanic. And, holy fuck, he even got the weird-ass flute at the beginning of the stupid song. Céline had been trying to show him all along. Steve was Rose!The King of the Jocks was surrounded by ginormous heart-shaped diamonds, gun-wielding butlers, and money-hungry mothers who didn't give a shit about his happiness. And now he was about to jump off the back of the ship because his mom was forcing him to marry Billy Zane. And that meant— Laughing, Bucky said, “I’m Jack Dawson,” because he was exactly like the broke guy dancing around in the bottom of the boat with the rats. And Steve—Steve wanted to learn how to spit!“Um… okay,” Steve said, backing away like Bucky introducing himself as Jack Dawson had been weird as fuck. "I’ll see you in the morning, I guess.”"Oh Captain, my heart!"Tony Stark was a fucking menace. Not a phantom menace or a menace to society, but the kind of menace Bucky wanted to hit over the head with a frying pan so he could steal his kick-ass t-shirt. Vintage Aerosmith? Seriously, fuck that guy.“Hath thou forsaken me for Harry Styles?”Steve hissed like a snake (or an angry opossum) when he said, “For Christ’s sake,” giving Bucky the distinct impression that Steve would be totally cool with Bucky’s frying-pan plan. And not just so Bucky could stretch the shit out of Stark’s wicked-cool t-shirt. But before Bucky could ask Steve if he was down for a smidge of ultraviolence, Céline’s voice faded into the night and Steve disappeared into the North Atlantic fog. Not really. He’d actually just walked over to his table and high-fived Sam, but you can’t end Titanic with something as anticlimactic as two super muscular dudebros slappin’ palms.Cue Deep Voice Guy: The Titanic, which sailed from Southampton yesterday on its maiden voyage, is the largest vessel of the world, carrying notable passengers across the open ocean toward their new futures in America. Closing her lunchbox (bye bye, Cosmic Cookies), Daisy said, “I think he likes you.” "No," Bucky said, talking to his inner Leo more than anyone else. “I think he’s Rose.”*** Mistakes had been made. Not at the meet (‘cause Bucky’d killed that shit), but post meet when Bucky had moved like a fuckin’ sloth in slo-mo. It was almost ten o’clock, and Bucky was all alone in Eaton’s old, abandoned locker room, trying to get dressed before the Creature from the Black Lagoon breached the crumbling walls. But a sea creature from the ’50s wasn’t the only monster with a hankerin’ for a bite of Bucky’s booty. On top of Jaws, Godzilla, and a shipful of dead pirates (shout out, Johnny Depp), the fluorescent lights were flickerin’ like a gaggle of ghosts were gearin’ up to scare the shit out of Aaron Goodwin and Zak Bagans (#GhostAdventuresRulz). “I’m not scared of you,” Bucky said as goosebumps shot up his arms. “I’m tough, like Jamie Lee Curtis.”You could probably make a graph about the correlation between survival and nudity, which is why Bucky gave his balls another pat with his towel and pulled on his jeans. It was his own fault that he was the last one here. After the meet, Daisy and Skinner had run down the bleachers to give Bucky props for abso-fucking-lutely dominating his events (fifteen minutes). Then his dad and Natasha had given him a gazillion happy hugs before buggin’ out on an emergency mission to grab one of Natasha’s sparkly costumes from her dance studio in Harlem (ten minutes). Then Bucky’d been sucked into a surprisingly cool conversation about aerodynamic fish with Scott and Peter, including a few tuna-inspired high-fives (thirteen minutes). But the thing that had really put Bucky (and Bucky’s liver) on Hannibal Lecter’s menu had been the thirty minutes he’d spent sitting on the toilet in the handicap stall, texting Clint a shitload of emojis (unicorn, poop, pizza, poop, pizza, pizza, heart) to make him feel better about being stuck at home with a sore throat. There were two working theories as to why Bucky’d dove headfirst into a bowl of emoji soup. One, he’d really missed seeing Clint’s stupid face in the crowd, and two, he hadn’t wanted the homo-haters to watch him dry off his asscheeks. Bucky zipped his zipper over his half-hard dick. Okay, so maybe he’d holed up in the toilet so he didn’t have to change in front of Steve, because this week had been—“Unreal,” Bucky said to Casper and his gang of unfriendly ghosts. “That’s what it’s been. Un-fucking-real.” When Steve, aka Rose, had walked away from Bucky’s lower-class table to join the highfalutin snobs by the first-class windows, his trans-cafeteria crossing had only been the beginning of their journey. Like it or not, the rest of the week had passed with a fuckton of Titanic scenes sprinkled throughout and Céline Dion hollering into Bucky’s ear the whole fucking time.Post Sex Stare demo, Bucky’d almost made it through the rest of Monday without another incident (key word: almost). Fourth hour physics. No issues. Fifth hour astronomy. No issues except Bucky’s lingering confusion about the whole asteroids-versus-comets thing. Sixth hour. Ding! Ding! Ding! Bucky'd been chillin’ on the couch outside the art room with Daisy, staring at the Picasso posters as he’d mentally deconstructed Steve’s body into kinky cubism. Three eyeballs? Pfft. How about three dicks? Ms. Yeager had given Daisy one job. To quote: “I’ll exempt you from the next sketchbook assignment if you help Bucky brainstorm for the sculpture project.” But instead of helping Bucky figure out how to sculpt Steve’s penis out of plaster, Daisy had spent the majority of the hour lacing (and relacing) Bucky’s shoelaces in a bunch of crazy-ass ways she'd seen on YouTube. You know, the usual. Then...Whoosh!...Steve (accompanied by the airy notes of Céline’s mystical flute) had appeared out of nowhere, interrupting Bucky’s cubist chillaxation with his ass-enhancing khakis.Bucky smoothed back the sides of his hair. His man bun was already dry, which meant the chlorine would have molded his hair into something half Italian stallion/half Predator. Speaking of big-game hunters, the locker room had a ton of places where the Predator could hide. Beneath the stairs. Inside the ceiling. In the back corner of the shower room. Under a pile of towels. In the back seat of Bruce Banner’s Porsche 911.Instant replay: When Steve had sailed past the art couch, he’d been flanked by Bruce Banner, aka Stark’s science buddy with the poofiest hair this side of Bob Ross, and Eaton’s dedicated student body president Pepper Potts. The Brain, The Hottie, and The Ponytail hadn’t even considered looking in Daisy and Bucky’s direction as they’d floated by, walking and texting like true pillars of Generation Z. At least not until The Unsinkable Molly Brown had summoned a mid-Atlantic miracle.Just before Steve had rounded the corner at the end of the hall, he’d glanced over his shoulder and given Bucky the cutest little smile.Céline had started to howl, and Rose, surrounded by a squadron of rich bitches in their fancy dresses and pettiboat things, had wrapped her hands around the railing of the upper-class deck. Kate Winslet was a great actress (with even better hair), and when she’d spotted Leonardo DiCaprio on the poor-person deck with his ’90s bowl cut, sexy suspenders, and his buddy Fabrizio, her secret smile had made it perfectly clear that she’d been D.O.N.E. with supertight corsets and socioeconomic segregation.Historical fact: Two seconds after Steve had disappeared around the corner, Bucky'd googled where he could buy a pair of vintage suspenders.Digging around inside locker número thirteen, Bucky checked for black cats and broken mirrors before he pulled out his belt. Luck was fickle like an indecisive pickle (ew, pickles). One minute, you’re on top of the world, makin’ moony eyes at the girl of your dreams, and the next—Bucky snapped the belt like a whip, slamming the buckle against the bench with maximum force. If Michael Myers charged out of the showers with a butcher knife and a pair of coveralls, Bucky had to be ready to whack that rubber mask like Zorro, aka the Vampire Armand. And if a hellhound charged out of Brock’s locker with flames where its eyes should be, Bucky had to be ready to thread the belt through his belt loops so his jeans didn’t fall down while he ran for his fucking life. Using the edge of his thumbnail, Bucky scratched a Z onto his chest. Z for Zorro. S for hope. F for faster than the speed of sound.Tuesday morning, Bucky’d swam even faster than the day before. His secret to success? Número uno— “Nyet,” he said, switching from Spanish to Russian for a lil’ variety.Odin, Bucky hadn't let his apple cinnamon oatmeal congeal. Dva, Clint had kept the middle-school flirtations to a minimum. And tri, his dad had swung by Starbucks to hook Bucky up with a Mocha Frappuccino with extra whip. Steve had still kicked Bucky’s ass in the butterfly (duh), but he’d easily kept pace with Sam as the three of them had annihilated the rest of the team. News from the natatorium: Outswimming serious competition like Ezra, Kuba, and Rhodey had felt fucking amazing. Even better, Brock’s homo-hating thugs hadn't said a word.Bucky slipped the belt into the loops, imagining how it would feel for Steve (and Steve alone) to slip it back out.To say that Fury had gone ballistic would be like saying that the iceberg had only caused a little scratch, but Steve had heroically rescued Bucky from round número dva by pulling him into Fury’s empty office to ‘talk about the relays.’ Shazam! Céline had appeared (in an even cooler pantsuit), and Bill and Ted had used the power from her vocal cords to teleport Steve and Bucky into the Titanic’s turn-of-the-century gym. You know, the one where Rose and Jack had hidden from Billy Zane’s slicked-back hair. Steve had smiled as he'd actually talked about the relays (lame-o-rama), but Bucky’s brain had been too busy shouting, “They’ve got you trapped, Rose!” to pay attention to the itty-bitty bits of chapped skin on Rose’s rosy-pink lips. Unfortunately, Steve’s reaction to Bucky droppin’ lines of Leo's dialogue had been even lamer (lame-o-rama-rama). Por ejemplo, when Bucky’d looked deep into Steve’s ocean-blue eyes and said, “You’re no picnic, Rose, you’re a spoiled little brat even,” Steve had turned mini-pig pink and made a hasty exit, running back to his first-class cabin where the Picassos were real.Bucky buckled his belt. A lucky hand of poker. An invitation to a first-class dinner. A tuxedo that was magically his size. Bucky should’ve known better. Sure, the homo-haters had kept their mouths shut during practice, but that had been a purely strategic move. Instead of talking shit in front of Steve, Brock and Jack had waited until lunch was over to corner Bucky in the bathroom.Jack had blocked the door (Rollins, not Dawson) while Brock had shoved Bucky up against the wall. And…Whoosh!...Céline's angelic voice had risen from the pipes, freezing the toilet water as she’d provided the soundtrack for Brock Rumlow's first official physical attack. That wasn’t to say that Brock had never touched Bucky before, he’d just employed objects instead of his hands in their previous close encounters. Ejemplo número odin: Brock had thrown a wide variety of balls at the back of Bucky’s head (basketballs, footballs, volleyballs, gumballs). Ejemplo número dva: Brock had dumped a plate of nachos into Bucky’s lap (heavy on the beans). Ejemplo número tri: Brock had stolen Bucky’s bomb-ass bomber jacket in tenth grade (Theft Bob-omb!) and shoved it into a bucket of formaldehyde in the science lab. The ejemplos went on and on, but Brock had never—“I’ll kick your faggot ass all the way back to the YMCA, you dick-sucking pussy!” Bucky yanked the belt back out of the loops. Belt. No belt. What the fuck did it matter? Nothing was going to erase the memory of Brock's belt buckle digging into Bucky’s thigh.“You’re right,” Bucky said, letting his jeans slide down enough to expose the top of his ass. “I am a pussy.”Canadians were usually chill as fuck, but even Céline had screamed, “Kick him in the nuts and shove my flute down his throat!” But the part of Bucky that always froze in shitty situations had frozen, locking Bucky in a loop where sweaty Billy Zane (and his equally sweaty manservant) had chased him down the tilting passageways of the Titanic, the angle getting steeper and steeper as ice-cold water had poured in from all sides.Moving his backpack so he could grab his blue-and-white striped hoodie out of his locker (#NauticalGrunge), Bucky knocked over one of his zapatos. Muy boomo! His high-top hit the floor, which…Muy shito!...reminded him that he had a motherfuckin’ España Del Taco quiz tomorrow. Maybe it was because Billy Zane was scarier than Freddy Krueger (or maybe it was because Bucky didn’t want his dad to ground him again), but Bucky shoved his fear of finger knives into the back of his brain, took a deep breath, and leapt out of the locker room in a single bound, flying up the stairs to the third floor to grab his Bueno Españito notebook out of his locker.It was then, enveloped by the darkness of the empty hallway, that Bucky realized he was barefoot and shirtless. No zapatos. No él shirto.Movie fact (horror edition): The shirtless hottie was always the second one to die (Or was it the third?), especially when he didn’t have a fucking belt to use as a weapon. Just ask Johnny Depp and his crop top.“You don’t need a belt,” Bucky said, pressing his back against the lockers. “You’ve got Rose and her axe.”Bucky had no idea how Steve had found out that Brock and Jack had metaphorically shackled Bucky to the bathroom pipes and not-so-metaphorically barked homophobic threats at him. But Wednesday morning, Steve had stormed into the locker room with a motherfuckin’ fire axe raised above his head and...Kablam!...shattered Bucky’s handcuffs with a perfectly aimed blow. A quarter inch to the left (or the right), and Steve would’ve chopped off Bucky’s hand, but instead of nonconsensual amputation, Steve had stormed into Fury’s office and chopped off Brock’s and Jack’s homophobic dicks with a two-day suspension, courtesy of Principal Barnes.But Steve wasn’t here now, and due to the instability of American teenagers, fire axes weren’t something you could just grab off the wall.“Fuck you, Freddy Krueger!” Bucky made a run for it, nosesliding down the banister with his ass. And he probably would have made it, if not for the fact that he had to stop on the landing to pull up his fucking pants. In the words of horror guru Stephen King (not really), it was a classic horror-movie way to die. Of all the scary movies Clint had made Bucky watch, A Nightmare on Elm Street was the absolute worst, beating out The Exorcist, Amityville Horror (the version with Thanos’ dad, not Deadpool), and, Bucky’s número dva, Sharknado. Bucky’s dreams were bad enough without some child-molesting pervert trying to disembowel him, and Freddy Krueger’s burnt skin made Bucky—
Woah!
By the time Bucky crashed through the locker room door, sending splinters galore into the nightmare dimension, his pantalónes had fallen all the way down to his ankles. Ay, caramba! Muy peniso! Speaking of penises, tonight’s meet had been the bomb.com (even without any Sex Bob-ombs). With Asshole and Asshole suspended, Fury had stuck a bunch of the juniors (plus Peter) into Brock’s and Rollins’ events where…Wham! Bam! Shazam!...they’d kicked some serious ass.And Bucky? Pullin’ up his jeans and bucklin’ his belt, he said, “That would be a win, a win, a win, and a win.” The crowds at the good ol’ Brooklyn YMCA had averaged ten to fifteen bored parents (plus Clint), so tonight had been a brand-new experience. Eaton’s bleachers had been packed to the gills with people who (for the most part) hated Bucky’s guts. But homophobia and persecution aside, when Bucky had touched the wall in the 200-yard medley relay a full two seconds before the Zac Efron clone in the next lane, even the high-society Trump fans had jumped to their feet and cheered.That’s when the penises had come into play. In a blaze of glory, the one and only Captain Steve Rogers had run over like a big, bouncy puppy and wrapped his bulging biceps around Bucky’s waist in a very wet, very tight, and very sudden hug. Going for the instant replay, Bucky said, “Don’t get a boner,” as he searched for his socks.When Steve had tucked his chin over Bucky’s shoulder and said, “You did it,” the tickle of Steve's supersoft chest hair against Bucky's hairless nipples had caused a massive short circuit in Bucky’s brain. Bucky'd frozen solid (sorry, the Titanic was unstoppable in more ways than one), meaning his only hope for salvation had been tapping out the anti-boner mantra on Steve’s back in Morse code.SOS. Don't get a boner. SOS. Don’t get a boner.It hadn’t taken long for Steve to realize that Bucky'd been standin’ there like a Popsicle, tryin’ not to pop his Push Pop (translation: pop his penis out of his foreskin). And once he’d figured it out, Steve had turned into the Flash, zooming over to Sam and Rhodey, whose dicks (unlike Bucky’s) had been as soft as soft-serve ice cream on a sunny day.“So stupid,” Bucky said, sitting on the bench to put on his high-top zapatos. And that, scholars and savants, was when it dawned on Señor Bucky that he hadn’t grabbed his motherfuckin' Españada Erik Estrada notebook out of his locker. He’d just run upstairs, shit his pantalónes, and run back down like the biggest idiot on planet Idiot.“Whatever,” Bucky said as he threw on his t-shirt and zipped up his hoodie. It wasn’t like he’d planned on studying for longer than an alcohol-free Quinceañera. Real talk: If Bucky somehow managed to make it past Pennywise, Annabelle, and the late-night crew on the Q Train, his Thursday-night plans started and ended with a Ham & Cheese Hot Pocket and some high-quality masturbation.Butt stuff. That’s what Bucky was thinking about when he cracked the locker-room door. Not the Blair Witch, not Leatherface, not the Teletubbies, not Steve’s dad.A shiver ran up Bucky’s taint, and not just because butt stuff and Steve’s dad went together like dry-docking and fisting. Who the fuck wears a three-piece suit to a swim meet? Seriously, even President Obama knew how to rock a pair of dad jeans (#HotPrez). And who has their bodyguard carry a special chair (with a special cushion) into a natatorium so they can sit in a special spot next to the bleachers? Either Steve’s dad was a total douchebag or his ass was allergic to wood.Whitney Houston needed a bodyguard (shout out, Kevin Costner). John Connor needed a bodyguard (shout out, Arnold Schwarzenegger). Obama and his dad jeans needed 872 Secret Service agents and a bodyguard. Ariana Grande. The Dalai Lama. The Dalai Lama’s llamas. Those were the kinds of people who needed a muscle-bound MMA fighter with a sidearm and an attitude. Not some bazillionaire businessman who’d spent the entire meet glaring at his son.“Fuck that guy,” Bucky said, pushing open the front doors and jogging down the steps. “Fuck him with an unlubed fist.”Bucky didn’t like how Steve’s dad looked kinda old (think Sean Connery in The Hunt for Red October), but also like he could snap a person’s neck with his pinky finger (think Sean Connery via Bruce Lee in Fist of Fury). And his hair was even worse. Was it gray? Blond? Both? And more importantly, was it real?
Red light!
Bucky stopped at the corner, smoothin’ out his man bun while he waited for the glowing red man to turn green.The suit. The chair. The hair. The stare. Everything about Steve’s dad had annoyed the fuck outta Bucky, but nothing had annoyed him more than Sean Connery using his geriatric Kung Fu muscles to drag Steve out of the natatorium before Bucky’d had a chance to make up for the erectionless hug.Bucky snorted.He hadn’t wanted to redo the hug with an erection. He’d just—Actually, scratch that. He’d fuckin’ love to redo the hug with dos erectióñes, just not with Kung Fu Douche (and Kung Fu Douche’s bodyguard) anywhere in this time zone.
Green light!
The walk from Eaton to the subway was only two and a half blocks, so it was only a hop, skip, and a jump before Bucky was slidin’ into the underworld for a bloodletting session with Kate Beckinsale and her vinyl vampires. And by the time his feet landed at the bottom of the steps, he’d come to a very important conclusion.“I should’ve asked Rose out for pizza,” he said, taking his wallet out of his back pocket. “Or snuck him down to steerage to dance with me and Fabrizio.”Not that Bucky’d ever ask Steve Rogers out on a date.Three seconds later…“I’m an idiot.”Bucky was standing in front of the turnstile, watching humans and vampires alike swipe their MetroCard and…Green light!...walk right on through. But Bucky didn’t have his MetroCard because…Red light!...Bucky didn't have his fucking wallet.Before the meet, he'd tucked it inside his beanie and shoved it into the back corner of his swim locker for ‘safekeeping.’ And that’s where he’d left it, choosing to rock an extra-crispy man bun instead of his cozy hat.It was bad enough that Bucky was gonna have to retrace his steps, avoiding Jigsaw, Samara, and that creepy spider lady from Coraline as he made his way back to Eaton, but the extra trip meant he wouldn't have time to jerk off before he went to sleep.“Sorry, butthole,” Bucky said, moonwalking back to the stairs, “it looks like we’ve hit another red light.”Moonwalking (while fun) wasn’t an efficient mode of transportation, so Bucky did a Michael Jackson spin, checkity-checked his belt, and ran like the wind.Five minutes later…“Are you fucking kidding me?”Shaking the door handles, Bucky tried not to choke on the bitter pill of defeat. Of course the front doors were locked. Why wouldn’t they be? The hooligans on the Upper East Side were fucking legendary (think The Purge, but replace the guns and knives with Rolexes and Rolls-Royces). Riotous ultraviolence. Aristocratic anarchy with a side of arson. Looting in Louboutins.“If only I had an axe,” Bucky said, taking a step backwards. “Or a lightsaber.” He had only one hope (and it wasn’t Obi-Wan). As long as Randy Randazzo, aka Eaton’s infamous night janitor, hadn’t bailed, the door on the roof of the parking garage should still be unlocked. Adjusting his backpack, Bucky crossed his fingers and jogged over to the garage, doing his best to convince his empty stomach that it had enough juice to propel him up three flights of stairs. His main argument? If Bucky didn’t make up some time, more than his asshole was gonna suffer. His stomach was gonna stay empty too. “For the Hot Pocket,” Bucky said as he ran up flight número uno.“For two minutes of butt stuff,” Bucky said, doubling his speed on flight número dos.“For five minutes of butt stuff with the rounded end of my flashlight,” Bucky said, quadrupling his speed on flight número tres.When Bucky reached the top, he slipped on some pebbles and fell flat on his ass. And there, directly in front of him, was the motherfucking iceberg. Bucky knew it. Jack Dawson knew it. And Céline Dion, with her overblown vocals and high-fashion pantsuits, knew it too. And when it hit, it wasn’t a bam, a boom, or a shazam. It was an impact so loud that it didn’t make a sound. Bucky pressed his hands against the concrete, feeling the shudder in the crust of Middle Earth as the chunk of asteroid Bruce Willis hadn’t nuked sent a tsunami racing across the Atlantic at the speed of sound.“Fuck asteroids,” Bucky said as he righted himself. “And fuck James Cameron.”The sight of Steve Rogers slumped against the front tire of his Cadillac wasn’t cute or clever, and it sure as fuck didn’t belong in a movie by the guy who directed Avatar.There were only two cars on the roof. Randy’s beat-up pickup and Steve’s SUV, featuring (for one night only) a beat-up Steve. And even in the pale glow of the security lights, Bucky could see blood… and tears… and ice.Apparently, Céline Dion hadn’t gotten the telegraph that Bucky had told James Cameron to fuck off, because she kept shouting in French Canadian that Bucky should race across the splintering bow and toss Steve into a lifeboat.But Bucky knew better. If he ran, he might scare him.A few years after Yakov had come to America, Bucky’d watched a Titanic documentary with his dad, learning all sorts of shit about how not to sink an unsinkable ship.Nomer odin: Slow the fuck down.Nomer dva: Don’t forget the binoculars.Nomer tri: Leave your ego on the gangplank.A fuckton of bad decisions had put those two-thousand-and-something souls on a crash course with the iceberg, but it had been the First Officer’s decision to try and turn the Titanic that had doomed them all. If William Murdoch, aka Willy Murdick, had hit the iceberg head-on, they might've had a chance. But sideswiping the underwater mountain had ripped the ship wide open, ensuring a final bon voyage to the bottom of the deep blue sea.Bucky didn't know if it was reckless, stupid, or the best decision of his entire life, but he pushed Céline over the side, grabbed the wheel, and steered the ship straight into the motherfucking iceberg. Bam! Balls to the wall.There was no way that Steve hadn’t heard Bucky running up the stairs (and he’d abso-fucking-lutely heard Bucky wipe out on the concrete), but that didn’t mean Rose Dewitt Bukater was ready for a high-speed rescue. Instead, Bucky tiptoed across the concrete like Natasha in her pointe shoes, approaching like Steve was a wounded swordfish with a hook in stuck in its tail fin. Slow and steady. Calm and quiet. Sneaky sneaky in his high-top sneakers. And when Bucky got close enough to get a good look—“Jesus fuck! Did Freddy Krueger get you?”Steve laughed, but it wasn’t a normal “ha ha” kind of thing. It was a slow-motion snort that sent a bunch of blood shooting out of his nose.“Or was it Johnny from The Shining,” Bucky asked because redrum (duh). “You know, ‘cause of the axe.” Steve didn’t confirm or deny, which was even scarier than the blood drippity-drip-drippin’ off the bottom of his chinny chin chin. Plop! A drip landed on his leather jacket. Plop! Plop! There was a puddle in one of the folds.“It’s okay,” Bucky said, even though he had no idea if it was true. The engineer in the Titanic documentary had gone over a bunch of diagrams and computer-generated reenactments, but the head-on crash scenario had been purely hypothetical. Without Céline Dion (and her magical pantsuit) to ensure Rose and Jack's survival with song, the ship could still split in half, stranding Bucky on the stern with the violin guys and Steve on the bow with Captain Edward J. Smith. Bucky sat down. Not because he was a hero, but because he was legit about to pass out (#2Legit2Quit). Clint was the one with the Band-Aids and Bactine. Clint was the one with ice cream on a spoon.“Do you like ice cream?” Bucky asked, crisscrossin’ his legs as he scooched across the poop deck. One scooch, two scooch, three scooch, four, the laces on Bucky’s high-top Converse bumped Steve’s white Nikes as Jack Dawson grabbed hold of the floating door. “Superman, I mean. You know, the kind where the red, yellow, and blue are all swirled together into a single heroic dessert.”It wasn’t just Steve’s nose that was bleeding. There was a McNasty cut above his eyebrow that was the opposite of CrazySexyCool (don’t go chasing bloody waterfalls), and his right eye was pretty much swollen shut (RIP Right Eye). Imagining himself with nipple rings, Bucky straightened his shoulders. “Who did this?” he asked, trying to decide between sterling silver and black titanium.“Not Freddy Krueger, that's for damn sure.” Steve laughed, revealing a perfect row of bloody teeth.Instead of huffing and puffing and blowing Yakov’s house down, the wolves in the woods growled in the shadows of the trees, exposing their blood-stained teeth. Wolves. Wolverines. Wolverine with his Adamantium claws. Bucky shook his head because the shit with the pigs wasn’t helping anybody. Not Bucky. Not Yakov. Not Rose and Jack. And certainly not Steve. Edward J. Smith wasn’t the captain right now, and neither was Steve. He was. And it was up to him to steer the fucking ship.“You need to tell me who did this.”It had been an order, not a request, but the former captain chose not to comply.“Don’t wanna talk about it,” Steve said, staring up at the moonless sky. The patient’s lack of eye contact made the possibility of a concussion all the more likely. And a concussion, no matter what the cause, required an executive decision.“You don’t have to talk about it, but you can’t stay here.” Drip! The puddle had turned into two puddles, flowin’ across the folds of Steve’s leather jacket like an upside-down cone of Superman ice cream. Or Superman himself after Lex Luthor had...Squish!...put him through a Kryptonian meat grinder.“Dude, I’m lowkey sure you’ve got a suburban hematuba. There’s no way in hell that I’m letting you drive.” Taking a leap of faith (sans cape), Bucky channeled Daisy and got all touchy-feely with Steve’s knees. “Like it or not, you’re coming home with me.”Steve leaned his head back against the tire. And when he said, “Home,” it was one of the saddest sounds that Bucky’d ever heard. Sadder than a baby cryin’ about a lost binky. Sadder than a whiny divorcée wailing into her wine. And way, way, way sadder than Superman’s scream after Lois Lane had suffocated underneath all that dirt (shout out, sad Christopher Reeve).
Tick!
Reverse the engines. Reverse the rotation of the Earth. Reverse time until Bucky was able to save Lois (and Rose) from falling into the fissure.“C’mon, Steve.” Bucky held out his hand, palm side up. “Give me the keys.”It took six drips for Steve to mirror Bucky’s hand, but instead of telling Steve that he'd neglected to include his keys, Bucky studied Steve’s heart line like a Staten Island palm reader, pressing his index finger directly in the center. Bucky had no idea why he’d done it (other than to see if Steve’s heart would go on), and even less of an idea why Steve whispered, “Symbolic stigmata,” like he’d seen the ghost of Jesús Christo on the roof of Eaton High.“I ain’t afraid of no ghost,” Bucky said ‘cause, straight up, Bill Murray was the kind of hero who grabbed the world by the balls. Just like Dan Akroyd, Kate McKinnon, Bruce Willis, Scott Pilgrim, Frodo, Superman, Mini-Slash, and Elijah Wood. And if Bucky wanted to be anything like those planetary saviors (with or without the nipple rings), he had to do what felt right. Even if that meant kidnapping the captain of the swim team in his own gazillion dollar truck.“Okay, Lois, let’s get you up.” Squeezing Steve’s hand, Bucky was extra, extra, extra careful that he didn’t…Crunch!...Steve’s bones with his super strength. “I’ve got you. I promise." Steve didn’t move. And for a second, Bucky really thought that the King of the Jocks would rather freeze to death in the North Atlantic than let somebody like Bucky Barnes take him home. Cue the dramatic third act twist: The echo of a weird-ass flute. A flash of an icy-blue pantsuit. The sound of paddles slicing through the water. Suddenly Céline floated by in a lifeboat, serenading the dead and dying as Bucky’s version of Rose pulled himself onto the ginormous floating door. “I can’t feel my left arm,” Steve said, returning the squeeze. “And my heart—”“Don’t worry about your ticker.” Bucky smiled as he helped Steve to his feet. “Céline promised that your heart will go on.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Left. That was the direction Bucky Fucking Barnes had turned onto Fifth Avenue. Left instead of right. South instead of north. Away from horses instead of toward them. And Steve—“Where the fuck is the turn signal?” Sighing, Steve slouched down as far as his seat belt would allow. The Escalade was full of levers, switches, and knobs, and Bucky Fucking Barnes was touching each and every one of them. On… then off. Up… then down. In… then out. For every button Bucky pushed, there was a coordinating “fuck,” “shit,” or “damn.” And there wasn’t anything Steve could do about it.Even if he wanted to help, the pain was too much. The vein pounding beneath the swollen skin of his temple. The bruises forming beneath his clothes. The embarrassment of being buckled into the passenger seat by the boy with the patches.Hawking a loogie out of the back of his throat, Steve rolled down his window and spit the bright-red glob at the southernmost corner of the park. And Bucky, for reasons Steve was too tired—or too injured—to understand, rolled down his window and did the same.Bucky was a mystery. An escape. But now that the King of the Misfits had seen the truth?Scoffing, Steve spit blood onto the side mirror in a last ditch effort to circumvent reality.Pain radiated through Steve’s eye socket when he turned to look at the Misfit King's crown, but it was nothing compared to the pain of looking within. Every time Steve closed his eyes, he saw the door handle… felt Alexander’s hand on the back of his head… heard the thud of his forehead making contact.“Fucking fucksauce," Bucky said when the windshield wipers roared to life. “How the fuck does Captain Kirk do this without shittin' his space pants?”Steve wanted to laugh. Desperately. But the rhythmic thump of the rubber blades was filling his throat with something infinitely more acidic than coagulated blood. Bile. Poison. A Shakespearean witches’ brew. Steve could hear the witches whisper, “Double, double toil and trouble,” as their potion dissolved the soft flesh of his esophagus, silencing his laughter with shame.“Motherfucker!” A stream of wiper fluid flew across the glass. And Bucky—whose name had become synchronous with synchronicity—pushed the button for the hazard lights. Steve hated this truck, but that didn’t mean he let other people drive it. Peggy had driven it once, after Steve had picked up a stomach bug on a weekend trip to her parents’ estate in Westchester. Sam had taken the keys a couple of times when Steve had been too drunk to drive. And last year on Good Friday, Tony had stolen the truck from its designated rectangle in the underground parking garage, returning it three days later—on Easter Sunday—filled to the brim with rosaries, pink and yellow Peeps, and 3D printed Mel Gibson figurines.On… then off. The orange glow of the hazard lights illuminated the surrounding cars, and Steve, torn between orange marmalade and the gates of Hell, tried to decide if he had any intention of crawling out of the tomb.Closing his eyes, Steve pressed his finger into the gash above his eyebrow, destroying his body’s pathetic attempt to heal. One ex-girlfriend, two best friends, and Bucky Fucking Barnes. Four people besides Steve had driven this truck, but only one of them had driven it with Steve's blood splattered all over the passenger-side door.There was a big difference between Steve puking into a trash bag because he’d caught a virus, Steve puking into a trash bag because he’d mixed tequila and Guinness, and Steve puking into his hands because Alexander had ruptured his fucking spleen. Steve may have spent the week musing about orange marmalade and synchronous ribbons of light, but that didn’t mean he wanted Bucky Fucking Barnes to scrape him off the sidewalk. On… then off. On… then off. The lights continued to flash, even after Bucky had figured out how to make everything stop.Steve didn’t need to flip down the visor and gaze into the mirror to know that the ghost of his mother was nowhere to be found, just like he didn’t need a fucking mirror to tell him that his eye was almost swollen shut. It was simple cause and effect. The pressure building inside the socket told him that the surrounding tissues were filling with fluid, and Steve's mother was shunning him because, dead or alive, she disapproved of the decision of death.“Red light!” Bucky slammed on the brakes at the corner of Twenty-Third and Fifth. Not because the light had turned from green to yellow to red, but because the omnipresent traffic had backed up through the intersection. It was a familiar inconvenience. Predictable, like the pattern of the grid. And while the grid was different at night—noisier, brighter, slower—the air was the same, even with Bucky Fucking Barnes behind the wheel. Pressing the back of his skull against the headrest, Steve stared through the windshield at the hordes of tourists aiming their lenses at the unusual architecture of the Flatiron Building. Day or night, they were always there, snapping pictures of moments in time. It seemed innocent enough—a visitor capturing a memory to share with their friends and family when they got back home—but innocence was rarely what it seemed. A little boy, holding his mother’s hand. A puff of cotton candy waiting to melt on his tongue. The Wonder Wheel, spinning in the background as a stranger pushed the button on a disposable camera.Each two-dimensional image was a reminder that they’d never again regain that second. It was gone. The reality of the present diluted into pixels that could be conveniently stored on a memory stick or stuffed into a minimalistic frame from IKEA.Filling his lungs with the toxic air, Steve studied the faces that had cameras for eyes.Mementos were one thing, especially when they doubled as a memento mori. But it was a failure of humanity that progress had altered perception, dictating that life’s most important moments should be viewed through artificial lenses, existing on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram as synthetic memories of things never seen.“Yeah, he’s super fucked up. Think Rocky at the end of Rocky via Friday the 13th. That’s why I’m bringing him home.”Bucky had been talking on the phone for a few minutes, but nothing—aside from his unironic use of the word Dad—had stood out from the static. The lingering metronome of the hazard lights. The shouts of the street vendors peddling their wares. The rumbling mufflers and honking horns. All of it had blended together into a meaningless din until Bucky Fucking Barnes had said the word home.Steve’s eyelashes may have clamped together like a Venus Flytrap, but that didn’t stop him from looking at the person holding the keys.“But you have to be a dad,” Bucky said as the traffic crept forward. “Not a principal. Not a narc. Not a fireman. Not a—”Bucky was steering with his knee, holding the phone with one hand as he made intricate symbols with the other. And those symbols— Steve swallowed.They meant everything and nothing at the same time.“I swear, Dad. He’s not gonna die.” Glancing at Steve, Bucky cringed. “But I’m not gonna lie, he’s gonna need a shit-ton of Band-Aids and Bactine.” Suspicion was one thing, but Bucky had just laid the groundwork for a full-scale reveal. And not just about Alexander. If Steve told Mr. Barnes the truth, he’d be admitting what he himself had done—or not done—all the times it had happened before. And symbols or no symbols, that wasn’t something Steve could do.In Steve’s world, the bloodletting was ritualistic. Alexander would split the skin, and Steve, in an effort to rebalance the scales, would sit in the corner of his glass-and-marble shower and watch the rivers of red run down the drain. No Band-Aids. No Bactine. No effort to stanch the flow. Running his finger across his eyebrow, Steve picked at the evidence that clung to the hairs.The day the mortician had sealed Sarah Rogers’ eyes with glue had been the last time Steve had let another person see his wounds. He’d never called Sam to ask if he could curl into the fetal position on the Wilson family couch. He’d never texted Tony to ask if his talent for wiring electrical circuits translated to sewing stitches. And he’d never snuck into Peggy’s bedroom on a school night, snuggling up against her as she’d cleaned his cuts with something stronger than hot water and free-flowing blood.Left. Right. North. South. Go. Stop. Steve didn’t know if he wanted Bucky to stomp on the gas pedal, slam on the brakes, or use the Escalade's overpriced tires to send him down the River Styx to meet the man whose boots he’d never had the chance to fill.Clarity. That’s what Steve was searching for when he turned to look at the King of the Misfits. Instead, he got a monocular view of Bucky Fucking Barnes thrusting his hips at the steering wheel.“Damn, my ass is hot!” Cutting off a tow truck, Bucky pressed his crotch against the wheel. “Like, fire with a capital H.O.T.”Steve’s life was nothing if not predictable. The cookie-cutter girls he was supposed to date. The business associates—and business associates’ wives—he was expected to charm. The specific subset of friends whose resumes met Alexander’s criteria for a Pierce ‘family’ association. “Sorry,” Bucky said, bouncing up and down on the seat. “I’ve never flown anything this big.”But there was nothing predictable about Bucky Fucking Barnes steering Steve’s truck with his penis.Nothing.Dragging his one good eye away from Bucky’s crotch, Steve aimed it at the sky. He might not know when Alexander was going to strike, but the manifestation of Steve’s wounds was as predestined as the rising tides, ebbing and flowing in accordance with the moon. And Bucky—Steve searched the spaces between the clouds, seeking that which he could feel.Bucky was a brand-new moon. Steve didn’t know if Bucky used his hands or his penis to make a second left-hand turn, and he didn’t care. Beyond the light of the dueling moons, Steve could hear the ravens gently rapping, rapping the sharp edges of their scythes. What had begun as a lecture by the trophy cases—in clear view of last year’s state championship cup—had quickly escalated into a rant as Steve had been herded down Eaton’s front steps and into the Bentley.One of the benchmarks of Alexander’s abuse was that he always kept up appearances in public, but tonight, the facade had slipped. Not enough to draw outside attention, but enough that when Alexander’s bodyguard had slammed the car door, Steve had been mulling over which corner of the shower he was going to sit in this time around.North? South? East? West?Steve spread his fingers to expose his moon-shaped scars.Why the fuck did it matter when the water always spun counterclockwise as it circled the drain?Money might not buy happiness, but it sure as hell bought loyalty. Steve expected it from Chase. He’d been Alexander’s bodyguard for over a decade, turning his back enough times to afford a Hummer H3 and a beach house upstate. But Dominic was new. Not to Alexander—he’d been driving the night shift for more than a year—but to the business of beatings.In a shining example of money-driven morality, Dominic had circled the block until the last of the parents and students had left the building, waiting for the natatorium windows to go dark before pulling Alexander's $300,000 carriage to the top of the parking structure.Steve didn’t know how many zeros it had taken to convince Dominic to park behind the Escalade, effectively boxing in the truck between the Bentley and the chest-high wall. He only knew that Dominic had three daughters at home—with a fourth on the way—and that when Dominic wasn’t driving the Bentley, the BMW, the limousine, or the McLaren, he drove a tiny four-seat sedan.Lining up his fingernails with the crescent moons, Steve unraveled the scars. Not because he was angry, but because he understood. As much as he respected his mother, Sarah Rogers never would have turned her back on the red flags if there hadn’t been zeros involved.The parking garage had cameras. Alexander knew that just as well as Steve. But unlike the ones aimed at the brick and mortar of the Flatiron Building, Eaton’s cameras were unmanned. Without question, their lenses had captured a series of pixels proving that Alexander Pierce had punched his stepson hard enough to buckle his knees, but there was an unspoken understanding that Steve, no matter how much he bled, would never ask anybody to look. Steve clenched his fists, concealing the warmth and wetness as a reminder that living in a world without options didn’t limit the lies he could tell.He could tell Principal Barnes that it had happened in the alley across the street. That it had been a drug deal gone bad. That he'd catcalled the wrong girl and gotten his ass kicked by her boyfriend. That he’d walked into an open manhole and landed in a cesspool of shit and piss. Anything to stop Principal Barnes from searching the memory stick for a screenshot of Steve doubled over in pain, because that—Touching his ribs, Steve winced.That wasn’t the kind of memento mori that would look good in a minimalistic frame from IKEA.After Alexander had landed the first punch, Steve had laughed in his face. Not because there was anything funny about internal bleeding, but because a pair of ravens had swooped down from the silence of the night sky.Steve was used to visual poetry. Sounds. Colors. Words. They were, as Peggy liked to call it, “the synthesis of his creative mind.” But the shit with the ravens was fucking ridiculous. Synesthesia or not, the only way that moment could have delved any further into English 101: Intro to Symbolism would've been if Poe himself had risen from the grave and picked up his fucking quill. Allowing the moons to run red, Steve whispered, “Quoth the Raven ‘Nevermore.’” To which Bucky replied, “Don’t be a douchebag,” before punching the gas to pass a bright-yellow Mustang. Steve didn’t know if the douchebag was the grey-haired man driving the eight-cylinder show pony or the idiot comparing his twenty-first-century beatdown to a nineteenth-century poem. Either way, Bucky was right.Only a douchebag would drive a bright-yellow Mustang with neon-green lights attached to the undercarriage, and only a douchebag would see a flurry of inky-black feathers in the midst of pain. Alexander had punched him. Period. And when Steve had laughed in his face, Alexander had grabbed the back of Steve’s hair and shoved him face-first into the door handle. It wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t literary. It wasn’t anything other than what it was. The hours in the gym, curling one-hundred pound dumbbells. The hours in the pool, whittling away the milliseconds on the 100-meter fly. The hours on the track, running four-minute miles. Steve used his thumb to reopen the wound. None of it had made a fucking difference when his forehead had slammed into the metal. Steve had gone down, and he’d gone down hard. And in that moment, he’d been powerless to stop Edgar Allen Poe from crawling out of his grave and writing the ravens into existence with looping lines of ink. The blood snaking its way past Steve’s eyebrow was warm, and when it dripped down the side of his nose like Poe had plotted its path with his fucking quill, Steve used his tongue to taste what Alexander had done.“What you let him do,” Steve said, whispering so only the ravens could hear. The birds had landed on Steve’s shoulders as he’d slid down the side of the truck, their talons digging into the leather as the metal had undulated in strange, light-absorbing puddles. And when Alexander had grabbed the collar of Steve's jacket and blasted him across the temple, their beady black eyes had tracked the actions of the reaper.Dipping his finger into the inkwell, Steve drew a question mark on his thigh.Why Poe had added a second raven to the verse was a mystery. Was it an upgrade for the modern age? Double the reapers, double the damnation. Or was he doubling down on the douchebags, unleashing doppelgangers to fly in the moonlight of the macabre? Steve plugged the hole with the heel of his hand, trying to stop himself from revisiting the next line. But it was useless. He’d already dug too deep. The hit to Steve’s temple had doubled his vision. Four ravens, two Alexanders. And for the first time in his life, Steve had seriously considered that the wall, with its four-story drop to the sidewalk below, might have been the better option.It would have been easy.Steve painted over the question mark.It also would have been easy to throw Alexander over the side.Everything Poe wrote was dark. Men being bricked into walls. Jesters setting fire to the King’s court. A Raven driving a grief-stricken man to madness with the singular answer “nevermore.”And tonight had been more of the same.The difference between first and second place in the 100-meter butterfly had come down to a fraction of a second. To some, a photo finish was exciting—something to get the blood pumping during an otherwise Eaton-dominated meet—but any race that required the referee to check the video wasn’t up to the standards of Mr. Alexander Pierce.And therein lies the third act twist.Alexander hadn’t drawn blood because Steve had lost, he’d drawn blood because Steve had won. He just hadn’t won by enough.Painting a dollar sign over the remains of the question mark, Steve started adding zeros. And when he was done, there were three more than Dominic would need to buy a minivan for a wife and four girls.Money-driven morality. That’s why Steve hadn’t thrown Alexander over the wall. Without Alexander’s signature on the checks, Steve had nothing. No money. Nowhere to live. No way to graduate from Eaton. No way to pay for college. And that—Steve covered his ears so he didn’t have to listen to his mother’s whispers about ramen noodles and a good used book.Alexander’s money paid for Hummers, speedboats, and beach houses, just like it paid for the life to which Steve had become accustomed. And Steve's willingness to use hundred-dollar bills as bandages meant he deserved Dante’s fourth circle as well as the seventh.“Why the fuck are you listening to something so cool?”Bucky Fucking Barnes was drumming his fingers on the wheel, adding sixteenth notes and triplets over a simple beat of four. “I mean, not to be a dick, but I pictured you as more of a DJ Khaled guy.”Steve’s eyes darted to the stereo.Every time somebody climbed into the truck—be it Sam, Tony, or the latest girl on Alexander’s pre-approved list—Steve immediately switched the playlist. Even with Peggy, Steve had put on Drake or Calvin Harris instead of the electronic rhythms of Radiohead or the emotional soundscapes of Mogwai. But Trent Reznor's latest soundtrack had been playing the entire time they'd been driving, inadvertently sharing Steve’s musical truth with a punk rock Muppet.A Muppet who loved Kermit the Frog.“These speakers are the bomb.com,” Bucky said, turning on the air conditioner, the rear defroster, and Steve’s seat cooler before he finally managed to turn up the volume. “Seriously, dude, is there a fuckin’ subwoofer in the back?”Steve was tempted to say, “Top of the line,” but the way Bucky was nodding along with the rhythmic click of the singular drum made it clear that he wasn’t looking for an answer, sarcastic or otherwise.For his sixteenth birthday, Steve had asked Alexander for something small and practical like a Prius. Instead, he’d received a custom-built $93,000 Cadillac Escalade with a $10,000 rim package, $12,000 sound system, and the expectation that Steve would smile for the professional photographer during Alexander's disingenuous birthday presentation. No cake. No candles. No homemade apple pie. Just Alexander’s arm around Steve’s shoulders as the bastard had pretended to be stepfather of the year.Two days later, Tony had texted Steve a link to a ‘family-friendly’ feature in the business section of the New York Times. And there, hovering above the lie the lens had created, had been the real present. In big bold letters, the headline had read Renowned businessman Alexander Pierce teaches his son the importance of buying American. Happy fucking birthday. “This is Trent Reznor, right?” The volume went up… then down... up… then down before Bucky said, “Not, like, ’90s Trent with the pigs and the starfuckers, but the new shit that’s been winnin’ him Oscars.”It was such a simple thing, sharing an interest in a band. But when Bucky smiled, a halo appeared above the Misfit King’s crown, illuminating his features like a gilded manuscript. The curve of his ear. The sharp line of his cheekbone. The motion of his lips as they moved to match the beat of his fingers.“Jesus,” Steve said when the throbbing in his temple transferred to someplace entirely new.Aside from the hair, Steve never would have compared Bucky Fucking Barnes to the lily-white version of Jesus that he’d learned about in his mother’s church. But the halo, with its flecks of silver and gold, reminded Steve that salvation didn’t have to crawl out of a tomb. There was a bleeding heart hiding behind My Little Pony and Kermit the Frog, and its chambers burned brighter than anything the Catholic Church had glorified in its eight-hundred years. Fuck the designated Savior. Fuck the church. And fuck Edgar Allen Poe. Bucky’s brand of salvation was infinitely better than a whitewashed carpenter preaching penance, a perverted priest preaching pedophilia, and a dead poet preaching predestination with an outdated quill.Blasphemy or not, for the first time in a long time, Steve felt something akin to faith.Leaning to the left to bask in his savior's tell-tale glow, Steve was about to step into the light when Bucky gripped the wheel with both hands and shouted, “Tres, dos, odin!” in an accent that spanned a multitude of continents.Had Steve equated Bucky with the all-knowing God like a blasphemous douchebag? Yes, with the fervor of a convert in a cult. But Steve didn’t remember saying anything about the ravens. Or at least not anything that would have led Bucky to connect them to Norse mythology.“Energize!”The wheels thumped over the first joint of the Brooklyn Bridge, and suddenly Steve’s concern that Bucky Fucking Barnes had a psychic connection to the Vikings was as irrelevant as the island’s toxic fog. The hazard lights. The ravens. Odin. None of it mattered because the King of the Misfits, with his fur-lined hood and nine inch nails, had made enough left-hand turns to reach Steve’s late-night escape route.Every time Steve snuck out of the penthouse with his backpack full of spray paint, he counted the rhythm of the bridge. There were thirty-seven bumps from beginning to end. Thirty-seven bumps to leave Manhattan and make some moments count. Thirty-seven bumps to create something tangible. And while Steve understood that his bold outlines and organic shapes were fleeting, at least they existed in the three-dimensional world.Closing his eyes, Steve relaxed his jaw as they crossed the East River. The thirty-seven bumps felt different with Bucky Fucking Barnes in the driver’s seat. Calmer, despite the fidgeting. And that shift—that hint of serenity—made Steve wonder if Bucky paid attention to the cadence of the road when his tires bounced across the bumps on his way to school. Did he dread the forty-nine bumps that led to Manhattan like Steve did? Did he close the vents when he reached the center of the bridge, conserving the Brooklyn air until his face turned blue?Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. When the wheels rolled over bump thirty-three, Steve took a deep breath and really looked at the boy behind the wheel. It wasn’t just Bucky’s heart that was glowing. It was the moonbeams coming out of his cerulean-blue eyes… the sunlit marmalade on his lips… the open pores of his sparkling skin…Bouncing over bump thirty-seven, Bucky said, “Close the portal, Keanu.” And Steve—“Shazam!” Bucky snapped his fingers.Steve was just really fucking grateful that Bucky was weird instead of pompous.For as long as he could remember, Steve had loved the Muppets. As a child, he’d snuggled up to his mother as they’d watched Sesame Street and The Muppet Show on her outdated laptop. And every time the video had stopped to buffer, they had mimicked the frozen expressions of Elmo, Miss Piggy, and Big Bird, holding the silly poses until their cheeks had hurt. Steve wanted to tell Bucky that he loved the Kermit shirt he’d worn on Monday. That in Steve’s book, Kermit was second only to Mr. Snuffleupagus and Mr. Snuffleupagus’ long, furry trunk. And blood and feathers be damned, Steve wanted to tell Bucky Fucking Barnes that the fur on his hood reminded Steve of the stuffed Snuffleupagus his mother had tucked beneath his chin on the morning of his sixth birthday. But when faced with a Muppet who might actually hug him back, the only thing that came out of Steve's mouth was, “Snuffleupagus.”One word when he wanted to say a thousand. A body powerless to move when all he wanted to do was reach across the truck and gently pull the rubber band out of Bucky’s hair, releasing the waves to mingle with the Muppet fur. Letting his gaze linger on the boy without strings, Steve took a deep breath, blowing out six invisible candles as he wished for a pair of scissors to cut his own.*** Driving this monstrosity was like driving a fuckin’ spaceship. And not, like, an easy-peasy Star Trek escape pod or a lunar lander in 1969. No way, Buzz (Aldrin, not Lightyear), this shit was like steering the USS Enterprise through the wicked-scary asteroid belt in The Empire Strikes Back. Bucky didn’t drive on the regular. Reason número odin (shout out, Mother Russia): He’d only passed his driving test because he’d whipped out the Sex Stare (cougar edition) and told the tester lady he’d been too distracted by her “bodacious bod” to park between the cones. Reason número dva: The only cones in New York City's subway system were ice cream cones, and if Bucky happened to run one over, nobody would die. Reason número tri: He was lazy.But superheroes didn’t sit in the back seat, eating waffle cones full of Superman ice cream while the person they’d rescued from certain death flew the motherfuckin’ spaceship. Superheroes had to suck it up, buckle the victim’s seatbelt, and figure out how to work a keyless ignition. FYI: Steve had been (and continued to be) zero help.Zip, zilch, zéro, cero, nul'.Por ejemplo, at this very moment in the space-time continuum, the recently demoted Steve Rogers was picking chunks of blood out of his eyebrow and sprinklin’ it around the spaceship like confetti. As pathetic as it was, Bucky’d only driven one car in his life (just like he’d only sucked one dick). Translation: This Pimp My Ride bullshit was way out of his league. Toyota Corollas didn’t have bells, whistles, or superhot swimmers strapped to the passenger seat. They had easy-to-use instruments, aka intuitive controls.Compared to the rest of the futuristic buttons, knobs, and thingamajigs sticking out of the dash, the keyless start had been child’s play (sans Chuckie). After firing up the plutonium core, Bucky had tried (and failed) to find the lever that moved the seat up (‘cause Steve Rogers drove like a P.I.M.P.), tried (and failed) to find the holographic buttons that controlled the fucking mirrors, and tried (and failed) to turn off the nuclear-powered brights after he’d accidentally turned them on. News from outer space: Captain Barnes had been blinding every Klingon, Jedi, and Vulcan in the posh part of the Milky Way ever since Bucky’d turned the wrong way out of Eaton’s parking garage.Bucky needed to get into the left lane, but the blind spot on this spaceship was fucking titanic (Idea: Titanic in space). Plus, it was impossible to look over his shoulder when the seat warmer was meltin' his asscheeks like a Kraft Single on hot pavement. Channeling Luke Skywalker, Bucky trusted the Force as he eased the wheel to the left. And when they didn’t die…Yippee!...he said, “Damn my ass is hot. Like, fire with a capital H.O.T.”Why, exactly, was Bucky frying his nutsack like a pair of sunny-side-up eggs on a red-hot griddle? Easy. The fucking controls weren’t intuitive!If Clint were here, he would’ve slapped Bucky’s ass and said something like “hot enough to cook a hot dog,” even though he’d never stuck his wiener between Bucky’s buns. If Daisy were here, she would’ve kissed Bucky cheeks (the ones next to his nose) and told him his Nicki Minaj squat routine was really payin' off. And if Skinner were here— Bucky snorted. Skinner would’ve told him to “ferme la bouche.”But Steve didn’t say shit. He just stared out the window, fermeing his bouche like Bucky hadn’t said a word, which… fair. Beatdowns and ass jokes weren’t a natural combo unless you were a stand-up comedian doubling as a sadist.“Sorry,” Bucky said, relaxing his asshole to prepare for docking. “I’ve never flown anything this big.”Question: Could you call yourself a size queen if you’ve never had a living, breathing penis in your butthole?Unfortunately, when Bucky snuck a peek at Steve’s package, the bulge was covered with a fuck-ton of blood, which, gross, but also… hot? Did Bucky have any unhealthy obsession with vampires? Yes, just ask Blade, Dracula, Angel, Edward, and Count Chocula. Had he fantasized about turning a certain hot blond jock to the dark side with two itty-bitty punctures to the tip of his cock? Yep, twice already this week. But Bucky was trying his damndest to be a halfway-decent captain, which meant telling Horny Bucky to put away his fangs, clench his sphincter, and get his mind out of the gutter.Easier said than done.Once the Sex Bob-omb was in play, it was almost impossible to put out the fuse. We’re talkin’ Mission Impossible-level vampire hunting, and as far as Bucky knew, Tom Cruise had never set foot in Sunnydale. If Bucky really wanted to stop thinking about vampires, there were odin, dva, tri things he could do. One, punch himself in the dick. Two, punch himself in the fangs. Three, punch the steering wheel. And while option número tri seemed like the most logical choice (#SpockRockz), the gazillions of buttons covering the wheel made it a clear case of risk outweighing reward.Speaking of risks… Bucky snuck a peek at Steve’s face instead of his crotch. It was a risk bringing home the equivalent of a 190 pound stray cat, but the reward—Bucky licked his lips. Blow jobs were Bucky’s specialty, and he was ass deep in a fantasy about gagging on the stray cat’s meowzer when Steve mumbled something that sounded like, “Float the Rangers on the door.” There was no getting around it. Steve had brain damage. Which is why Bucky went with option número odin.Flicking the head of his half-hard dick, he said, “Don’t be a douchebag,” and...Whoosh!...blew past an enemy TIE fighter.Mother Teresa hadn’t spent her life feedin' poor kids in Indiana because she’d wanted to fuck 'em, she’d done it out of the kindness of her heart. And Superman hadn’t rescued Lois Lane 379 zillion times 'cause he’d wanted to fuck her, he’d—Bucky snorted. Superman had totally wanted to fuck her, and with muscles like that, Bucky was 999 percent sure Lois Lane had been more than happy to bend over for Clark Kent’s supercock twenty-four seven. ADD. ADHD. ASS (aka the inability to focus on anything but Steve’s glorious gluteus maximus). Bucky had them all. And if he didn’t get his hormones under control, they were gonna crash headfirst into the asteroid, which (shout out, Bruce Willis) was gonna be a helluva lot worse than the iceberg.Blow jobs weren’t the only way Clint helped Bucky focus. Sometimes he gave Bucky a bagel. Sometimes he gave Bucky an edible. Sometimes he got Bucky into a headlock and said, “Finish your math or I’ll fuck you up.” And sometimes he got out the guitars.But Bucky didn’t have any bagels in his pocket, so he tried the next best thing, aka the music coming from the spaceship's speakers.Stereotypes sucked. Sometimes they were right. Sometimes they were wrong. And sometimes they stuck like Gorilla Glue on fly paper. Por ejemplo: Even if Daisy’s brother Kaito had a ginormous schlong, Bucky was always gonna picture him with a teeny-tiny dong, which was, like, so unfair.Bucky didn’t know what kinds of jams he’d expected from Steve Rogers’ playlist (That was a lie, he’d expected DJ Khaled), but it sure as fuck hadn’t been the mature version of Nine Inch Nails. Moody piano. Moody bass. Moody sound effects. If Steve weren’t staring out the window like a zombie (blood and gore included), Bucky would’ve initiated a deep dive into Trent Reznor’s genius. It would be a dick move for Bucky to say, “I pictured you as more of a DJ Khaled guy,” so he settled on “Why the fuck are you listening to something so cool?”Bucky laughed, but Steve—Steve looked like he was gonna throw up.Puking was terrible, especially when you were trapped in a car. Once, Bucky'd drank a bunch of Wild Cherry Capri-Suns on a road trip and puked all over Natasha, which…Holy projectile!...had been no bueño de los volcano.Fumblin' around the dash until he found the volume, Bucky said, “These speakers are the bomb-dot-com. Seriously, dude, is there a fuckin’ subwoofer in the back?”Bucky’d always wanted to sit on top of a subwoofer and see if the vibration made him horny. True story: At the Pierce the Veil concert, two security guards had kicked Bucky out of the pit after he'd climbed over the barrier to give it a whirl (#lame-o-rama). Luckily, Clint had been there to save the day, cheerin' Bucky up with a cock-flavored Popsicle in a dirty bathroom stall, no vibration required.But bathroom BJ's aside, it was cool to get confirmation that there was more to Steve Rogers than a great ass, mega-blue eyes, a great ass, bouncy pecs, and a great ass. Steve had layers. Like, super deep mood-music layers that made Bucky wanna eat him like a seven-layer cake.“This is Trent Reznor, right?” Bucky turned the volume down when he’d meant to turn it up. “Not, like, ’90s Trent with the pigs and the starfuckers, but the new shit that’s been winnin' him Oscars.”Silencio. Clint let people punch him in the face for fun (#MMABadass), a rival mathlete had bitch-slapped Skinner in ninth grade, and Natasha had been knocked out cold by a rogue leg in ballet class, but Bucky? Aside from skateboarding accidents, roller skating accidents, wrestling accidents, and that one time he’d fallen backwards off Clint’s bed, Bucky’d never experienced a certified…Kapow! That's why he decided to give Steve a break. Bucky’s brain needed a bagel. Maybe Steve’s brain needed Bucky to shut up about Nine Inch Nails.It worked for a while. Bucky swerved around a Klingon warship and a Star Destroyer without sayin' a peep. But as he approached the Brooklyn portal, his role as captain forced him to break his vow of silence. The portal was small, which meant the timing was critical. Center lane. Adjust the flaps. Wait for it…“Tres, dos, odin.” Sulu fired the thrusters. And when the nose of the ship breached the event horizon, the captain shouted, “Energize!”
Whoosh!
Hell to the yes! Being the captain of a gazillion dollar spaceship was fuckin' awesome! Not only did he get to hang out with Daddies like Captain Kirk and Han Solo, he got to wear a tight uniform that showed off his abs. And once he figured out how to overpower The Collective, Starfleet would promote him to Fleet Admiral and put him in charge of everybody. But for now, Bucky had to control what he could. And that, Martians and mall rats, was why Captain Barnes said, “Close the portal, Keanu,” the instant they'd cleared the wormhole.Bucky blinked. One, because he was pretty sure he’d just run over a rat, and two, because Steve was staring at him like Cupid had blasted an arrow through the hole in his forehead (no Sex Stare required).Captain’s log, stardate 6969: After 293 lightyears of monosyllabic communication, the injured Captain Steve Rogers said, “Snuffleupagus.”It was weird, and not just because Steve had gooey heart eyes. There was no follow-up explanation. No clarification with a capital C. And no logical reason for a wooly mammoth to be on the lower-class deck of the Titanic. But Bucky was a hopeless romantic with a weakness for gooey heart eyes (especially when Cupid and Kate Winslet were involved), which is why he reached across his hand across the helm to test the waters. At first, he just tapped Steve’s leg with his pinky finger. Just a lil’ poke-poke in the North Atlantic. But when Steve didn’t freak the fuck out, Bucky threw caution to the wind and squeezed with all five fingers.Bucky loved movies as much as Clint, but in their movie-lovin' duo, Clint was the director. In fact, Clint wanted to film school just to show James Cameron how Gen Z handled big blue aliens (Titanic rules, Avatar drools). But the instant Bucky’s fingers made first contact with Steve’s glorious muscles, Bucky switched up the credits, adopting the dual role of French director (beret included) and lead actor in his very first arthouse film.In this scene, Bucky would be playing the role of Bucky, the horny gay teenager with anal aspirations. -Establishing shot: Bucky reaches over the center console and places his hand on Steve's thigh.-Cut to Bucky’s face: Emotional shift as Bucky realizes he’s touching Steve’s big, strong muscles (Motivation: “Oh my god, why the fuck am I thinking about unzipping Steve's pants right now? So inappropriate!”)-Close-up on Bucky's eyes: Bucky grows angry at himself for getting an erection.-Cut to Steve looking at Bucky's hand: Steve holds his breath, his expression blank.-Quick cut to Bucky’s face: Panicking, Bucky jerks his hand away, offering stammering apologies.-Wide shot: Steve looks Bucky in the eye, holding his gaze as the seconds turn into… multiple seconds. (Insert swelling soundtrack) -Zoom in towards Steve’s hand: Reaching out, Steve grabs Bucky's hand with confidence, returning it to its original position on his strong, muscular thigh. He leaves his hand on top (as it should be). (Romantic theme rises in score)-Closing shot: Steve looks out the passenger window while Bucky, in shock, continues driving with their hands intertwined.-End Scene. Bucky's directional debut was, hands down, the most romantic piece of cinematography since Leonardo DiCaprio whipped out his pencil to draw Rose’s boobs. Step aside James Cameron (and Clint Barton), there was a new director in town, and his flick deserved a bazillion Certified Fresh tomatoes. No Hollywood script. No fancy costumes. No adorable ’90s heartthrobs. Bucky’d just pulled off a real life “I’ll never let go” moment, and there wasn't an iceberg (or tsunami) in sight.Turning into the alley behind his house, Bucky said, “I’ll never let go, Steve.” And Steve, who looked more like Jake Gyllenhaal at the end of Southpaw than Rose, squeezed Bucky’s hand like it wasn't ice cold.*** Snuffleupagus was magical. The puppet Steve had watched as a child with his mother. The stuffed toy Steve had snuggled in his Brooklyn bedroom. The personification of Sesame Street innocence who’d just wrapped his fingers around Steve’s upper thigh. Steve swallowed, counting the inches between Bucky’s pinky and the button on his jeans.Okay, maybe not so innocent.“Fuck, dude. I’m so fucking sorry.” Bucky took his hand away, which was the opposite of what Steve wanted him to do. “I was thinking about Jake Gyllenhaal and Rose’s boobs, and— Fuck. I shouldn’t have done that.”Bucky’s words weren’t making any sense. Shouldn’t have done what? Touched Steve without permission? Touched him at all? “That was the opposite of cool,” Bucky said, gripping the wheel hard enough to turn his fingers white. “And I don’t mean hot. I mean rude.”As a child, Steve’s favorite book had been Where the Wild Things Are. Soft toys. Soft monsters. His mother’s soft voice leading him to an imaginary world with soft leaves and even softer friends. And now, as the Wild Thing apologized with a series of shits and fucks, the colorful illustrations of Steve’s childhood expanded off the page, mixing with the present as the friendly monster—with the not-so-friendly language—pulled Steve into the jungle where he could be himself, Wild Rumpus and all.And just like that, Bucky Fucking Barnes wasn’t Bucky Fucking Barnes anymore. He was just Bucky. And Bucky—terrified that he’d offended Steve with one simple touch—looked… beautiful. Steve’s breath caught in his throat. And when he glanced at the spot where Bucky’s hand had been, he immediately missed its presence. Not because the jungle was calling Max’s name, but because Bucky had just given Steve the most authentically caring touch he’d felt since his mother had died.The story of Max was simple on the surface. Angry that his mother had sent him to bed without his supper, Max had escaped into a jungle of his own making, sailing to an island full of ‘ferocious’ monsters where he could be king. But unlike Max, Steve couldn’t ever imagine wanting to leave the crackling bonfires and pounding drums of the Wild Rumpus to return ‘home’ for a hot supper. In the crumpled pages of Steve’s book, the possibility of a bowl of piping hot vegetable soup waiting for him by his bedside had disappeared the day the voice reading the story had ceased to exist.Without a word, Steve untangled Bucky’s fingers from the wheel, placing them on his thigh before covering Bucky’s hand with his own.It didn't matter that the crescent moons were stamping the Wild Thing's skin with self-inflicted patterns, when Bucky glanced at him with the worried button eyes of a cherished toy, Steve finally felt like he was in a moment worth living.*** Captain’s log, stardate 6969.69: Docking the USS Cadillac in Bucky’s janky-ass garage was a maneuver exceeding Captain Barnes’ skill level.Steve's truck was barely fitting down the alley that led to the garage, so how the fuck was Bucky supposed to make the sharp turn into the garage without scratchin' the shit out of the sides? Spoiler alert: He wasn’t.As awesome as it was to hold Steve’s hand (really awesome), and as awesome as it was to touch Steve’s leg (really, really awesome), Bucky wasn’t stupid enough to attempt the impossible docking maneuver with one hand. So, putting safety before his schlong, Bucky let go of Steve's thigh (sorry, Céline) and tried not to plow into the brick wall on the other side of the alley.Closing his eyes, Bucky trusted the Force to help him squeeze between his dad’s Toyota and the shit-ton of boxes that were stacked against the wall. The bad news: Bucky took out the recycling bin, Natasha’s hula hoop, and the rake. The good news: Bucky could blame it on Luke Skywalker.Bucky pushed P for park, off to shut down the hyperdrive, and honked the horn (not necessarily in that order) before realizing that…Shocker!...the fucking boxes were three inches from the driver’s side door.“Classic,” Bucky said because what else was he supposed to do? Back the spaceship out and try again? Hell to the no!Steve had gone back to staring out the windshield like a zombie. Not like one of the decomposing corpses that stumbled around on The Walking Dead (Side note: Bucky’d give his left kidney to munch on Norman Reedus’ stubble), more like— Shaun of the Dead ? No. Day of the Dead ? No. Zombieland ? No. World War Z ? No. 28 Days Later ? No.Okay, so maybe Steve didn’t look like a zombie at all. Unbuckling his seatbelt, Bucky did a thorough assessment of Steve’s condition (no zombies allowed). Ten seconds later…It had taken some serious brain power (not brain-powered brain power) for Bucky to land on a solid description. His conclusion? Steve was staring at the wall like a super depressed guy who’d gotten his face bashed in.“Okay, let’s do this,” Bucky said, psyching himself up for phase two of Operation Stray Cat. Then he scratched his nuts 'cause the chlorine (and asteroid dust) had made 'em hella itchy. “You ready, Meowzer?”Eaton's parking garage had been lit by a couple of security lights and the luna de los werewolf (shout out, Scott McCall), the flight from the Upper East Side to Brooklyn had been lit by… Jupiter? Candles? A medieval torch? How the fuck would he know? Captain Barnes had been too busy trying not to crash the ship into the Brooklyn Bridge for Bucky to analyze the fucking lighting. But Bucky's garage? Bucky cringed.Let's just say that the fluorescent lights were making it really fucking clear that Bucky should’ve driven Steve straight to the hospital.Steve’s eye was a zillion times more swollen than when Bucky’d pushed him into the truck, and his forehead—“Holy fuck! How'd the cut get bigger?” Band-Aids could do a lot of things. They could hold a broken pencil together, splint a slightly fractured toe, and act like a cock ring if you were feeling experimental (Warning: They also did a bang-up job of ripping out pubes). But even if the Band-Aids were extra sticky, they didn’t have the power to seal a cut that looked like the mouth of a fucking shark!Instead of answering, Steve pressed the heel of his hand against the hole, which, in terms of solutions, was really fucking stupid. But not as stupid as Bucky's decision to crawl over the center console and...Kablam!...flop headfirst into the back seat.“Motherfucking fucker,” Bucky said when his face met the floor mat. "Fuckity fuck fuck!"Bucky tried to push himself up, but all he managed to do was give himself an upside-down view of an empty Muscle Milk carton and a bunch of roaches tucked beneath the passenger seat. Learning about Steve Rogers' Trent Reznor obsession had been a real eye opener, but finding out that Mr. All-American got down with the ganja? Bucky laughed. Then he choked on his own spit. Then he got out his lil' notepad and added pothead to the list of things he’d recently discovered about Captain Steve Rogers.Fun fact número 420: Bucky hardly ever smoked on his own (we're talkin' once or twice since his bestie had introduced him to the bud), but that didn’t mean he was gonna pass up an opportunity to score a roach or two, especially when the hottest hottie in Hot Town had sucked on the ends. Uno cucaracha, dos cucaracha, tres cucaracha. Bucky shoved three roaches into his back pocket before initiating the emergency escape plan, aka wriggling around like a fish out of water. How many wriggles did it take for Bucky to wriggle his way out of the Upside Down? That would be 223 wriggles, plus an accidental kick to the back of Steve’s head.Once Bucky was upright, he wasted no time opening the back-seat airlock and—Bam! The door smashed into the side of his dad’s trusty Toyota.
Bucky didn’t know if he should laugh or cry, but he was abso-fucki
n’-lu
tely certain he could kiss his allowance goo
dbye.
Icebergs. Asteroids
. P
ur
pl
e din
osaurs with unavoidable dongs
. A
pparently, crashing into shit was Bucky’s specialty. His modus operandi. His signature move. Hi
s—
“Bucky?”
Steve hadn’t said it, because Steve hadn’t moved. Brain damage was a definite possibility, but so was gay shock. You know, the whole “I held your homosexual hand and now I’m gonna pretend like it never happe
ned” a
pproach.
At least this time around Bucky didn’t have jizz on his face.
“Bucky, what are you doing? Just open—”
Full stop.
Bucky's dad had stopped in front of the hood like Elsa had blasted him with a full-throttle freeze ray, which, yeah. Teenage zombies had that effect on people, especially when they had arrows sticking out of their foreheads.“I need to get him out,” Bucky said, which, duh. Obvious much? But that shit was easier said than done.
Fun fact: Eight inches was more than enough to get Bucky off, but it wasn’t anywhere
close
to the size required to squeeze Steve Rogers out of a starship.
“How can I help?”
His dad had telep
ort
ed to the passeng
er-si
de mirror, and Bucky could tell by his frown that he already knew the answer.
He couldn’t.Compressing his internal organs, Bucky opened Steve’s door, putting dent número dvi in Papa Barnes’ car before he leaned across Steve’s lap and unbuckled the seatbelt. And when Bucky said, “Let’s get you inside,” he tried his best to sound like Clint.
Bucky did a lot of push-ups. Fifty when he got out of be
d. O
ne hundred and one after he took a pis
s. T
hree sets of twenty-five before
he
masturbated (not really
).
But his chest was nowhere as broad as Steve’s. So when the buffest z
om
bie in Zombieland tried to follow Bucky out of the truck, it was like tryi
n’
to squeeze a pineapple through a pinhole.
And the blood from his jacket—
“Fuc
k…” Bucky st
umbled backward
s
because the blood was smearing across the glass, and—
“Mission complete.”
“Mission?” Na
ta
lia asked as she closed the door.
“
Da
,”
he
said, getting a better grip on Steve’s
be
lt as he dragged him into the kitchen, “the stray cat is home.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Bucky’s kitchen wasn’t big, but he’d never once thought of it as small. Sure, the table was pushed up against the window so the Trio de Barnes didn’t start a mosh pit when they were unpacking groceries. And, sure, they kept the fourth chair, aka chair número chetyre, in the basement to save space. But it didn’t feel cramped, if that made sense.But now?Pressing his back against the fridge, Bucky said, “It’s crowded,” because with Captain Steve Rogers standing in the center, the room had never felt so small.Bucky loved this kitchen. The walls were this pale yellow color, and the yellowish bulbs in the retro (cough, old) chandelier made it feel like you were chillin’ inside a big ol’ tub of butter. But Bucky’s favorite thing (by far) was the self-portrait Daisy had given him for his quinceañera. The little painting of… well… daisies hung between the window and the counter next to his dad’s chair, and Bucky loved starin’ at it while he was gettin’ down on some buttery corn on the cob.Apparently, Steve dug it too, ‘cause his eye (singular) was locked on Daisy’s manga-style bouquet like the petals were slathered with butter and salt. But Steve wasn’t in any condition to get down on anything shaped like a cob. Not a kebab. Not a corndog. And definitely not a buttery dong.Not that Bucky planned to dip his dick in butter.“You should sit down, Steve.” Pulling out a chair, Bucky’s dad pushed it towards the back of Steve’s knees. But chair número tri wasn’t just any chair. It was the chair where Yakov had learned a brand-new language while trying a bunch of brand-new foods with his brand-new sister. The chair where Yakov, aka soon-to-be Bucky, had bonded with his brand-new friend Clint as they’d flipped through comic books and devoured Totino’s Pizza Rolls. The chair where Bucky’s brand-new dad had taught him how to chop garlic and onions for his brand-new family’s secret-recipe spaghetti sauce.Sighing, Bucky bounced his man bun on the ladybug magnet that lived on the fridge, aka the Keeper of the Grocery List (#GotMilk?).Bottom line: Everything new and awesome in Bucky’s life had passed through this kitchen, but Steve— Bucky gave his bun another bonk. Steve’s sadness clashed with the buttery goodness, and all Bucky wanted to do was make him match.“You should wash your hands.”Natasha pressed a wet paper towel against Bucky’s hand, which was stupid. Steve was the one who needed a wet paper towel. In fact, he needed the whole fucking roll. And when that one ran out, they’d have to get tri more out of the basement to scrub the blood and soot off the black-and-white checkered floor.“Take it,” she said, jamming the paper towel between his fingers. And Bucky took it. Not because he wanted to, but because Natalia wanted him to. And everybody knew that Natalia was always right. She was right about the borscht being the best on Tuesdays, about Sandy being the best character on Sponge Bob, and…Pizza alert!...about Bucky’s hands bein’ greasy as fuck. So Bucky scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until Papa Barnes busted out his Dad Voice to say, “Natasha, get a bowl of warm water and a cloth. Bucky”—he pointed at the iceberg—“get the frozen peas." Poof! Céline appeared in a flurry of snowflakes, cozyin’ up to Steve in her sparkly pantsuit. But before she could sing a single note about frozen peas, frozen icebergs, or frozen boyfriends, Bucky said, “On it,” and ripped the freezer door off its hinges (not really).The cold hit him like a blizzard, freezing his fingers and toes as he searched for a place to hide from—“What are you doing? You’re supposed to be getting the peas.”Natasha was holding a bowl of water, and Bucky— He looked at his hands. Bucky was holding a tub of butter.Teleportation was cool. Not only did it go along with the whole Star Trek/Titanic-in-space theme, but it helped with global warming, reducing the number of tsunamis Frodo (and the blonde chick) had to outrun with their brand-new baby. But carbon footprints aside, teleporting dads, teleporting chairs, and teleporting butter were hella iffy when it came to stray cats and zombies.“Steve, can you tell me what happened?” Bucky’s dad had pulled out chair número odin and was sitting knee to knee with the zombie in question.“I can’t.”There’d been no hesitation. No “let me take a minute to think about it.” Steve had just shut that shit down like...Pow!...not in this lifetime, Principal Barnes.It was impressive. Ditching the butter next to the ice cream, Bucky searched for the peas as he listened for his dad’s next move. Would he go for calm and authoritative? Quiet and logical? Full-fledged freaked-out dad? Every option had always made Bucky feel safe and loved, and he really, really, really hoped that, whatever his dad chose, Steve would feel a little bit of that too. “I need to call the police.”Where the fuck were the peas? Bucky shoved the butter into the breadsticks. There was mint chocolate chip ice cream. Ham & Cheese Hot Pockets. A frozen pizza that had more ice crystals than pepperonis. A bag of tater—“This is too bad not to report, Steve. We have to—"“No!” Steve’s voice echoed across the bow of the Titanic, shattering Leo’s eardrums and…Feedback!...scarin’ the pantsuit off of Céline.“It’s not what you think.”Blueberry Eggo Waffles. Totino’s Pizza Rolls. A Tupperware container full of borscht.“Motherfucker!” The ice tray had gone overboard, smashing into Bucky’s foot and…Hard to starboard!...shooting sixteen miniature icebergs at Steve’s sneakers like the tail of Frodo’s comet.Natasha said something about Bucky’s grip strength. Steve said something about an angry boyfriend. And Bucky’s dad said something about his “legal obligations as an educator.” But all Bucky cared about was finding the fucking peas. It wasn’t like they’d eaten them (peas were for injuries, not consumption). And Bucky knew for a fact that he’d put ‘em back (#PoetryAttack) after using two outta three bags to ice his shoulders after kickin’ Clint’s ass in yesterday’s subway pull-up competition. He remembered ‘cause Natasha had called him a dumbass when he’d stuck the soggy bags on his head and said, “Look, my hat pea-d on my head.”Speaking of Natasha, she was crawling around on the floor, scoopin’ up itty-bitty icebergs, which…Spoiler alert!...would’ve been hella helpful to Jack ‘n’ Rose in 1912.“Got ya!” The peas had been playin’ peek-a-boo like a Pea-kachu behind a container of spaghetti sauce. And while hiding behind a Tupperware container full of pulverized tomatoes wasn’t as effective as playing hide-and-go-hide behind a poplar tree in a dark forest, Bucky had to give the peas props. Papa Barnes’ secret recipe had kept the wolves at bay for a really long time. “Odin, dva, tri,” Bucky said as he grabbed all three bags, ‘cause, family-size or not, one bag wasn’t gonna cut it. And when he turned around—Cue Deep Voice Guy: Two men—one young, one not-so young—sit toe to toe in the center of the ring, eyes locked in the staredown of the century. Blue versus brown, the young man clenches his supernatural jawline, crushing the competition’s slight double chin with nothing more than the suggestion of strength. But it wasn’t the power of the young man’s mandible that granted him his inevitable victory; it was the bite of the words when he said, “I’m over eighteen, Mr. Barnes. We’re not calling anybody.” Staring contests were fun. One, because Bucky always won, and two, because Bucky always won. Daisy refused to participate (she said prolonged eye contact ruined her makeup), Skinner’s eyes turned into Niagara Falls the second he took off his glasses, and Clint— Bucky swallowed. Winning against Clint was easy. All he had to do was initiate the staring contest before…Gulp!...swallowing the tip of his bestie’s dick.“I know how old you are.” Principal Barnes touched Steve’s shoulder, but instead of kickin’ him out of class (or handing him a detention slip for being a defiant zombie), he said, “Which is why—as much as I hate to say it—this is your decision. But we’re photographing your injuries.”"But—""No buts.” Switching to forthright and logical, Bucky’s dad laid down the law. “Police or no police, we need documentation. I don’t care how old you are, Steve. It’s not up for debate.”Juggling the peas from one hand to the other, Bucky chuckled. His dad had said the exact same thing, word-for-word, when Clint had walked out of Bucky’s room with his shirt off and…Bam!...ran smack dab into Papa Spock’s chest. Vulcan logic dictates that when you pierce your nipples at sixteen, Papa Spock will ask if your mom knows, call bullshit when you slap your hands over your nips and say, “Of course she knows!” and insist that you dial Mama Barton’s digits and put her on speaker so you can rat yourself out while he listens. And when you argue, he’ll bust out the Vulcan death stare and say, “It’s not up for debate.”Steve didn’t cave as fast as Clint (roughly forty-five seconds to Clint’s fifteen), but he caved, proving once and for all that Vulcans were the dominant species when it came to human teenagers and Captain Kirk. Switching to calm and authoritative, Bucky’s dad took his phone out of his pocket. “Do you need me to call anybody and let them know where you are?” Translation: “Do you need me to call your dad, aka the man who probably (definitely) beat the shit out of you?”“No,” Steve said with a big, fat period. And not the kind that ruined your underwear (even though Steve had a fuck-ton of blood on his thighs). The kind where—“This is insane.” Damn right, it was! And not just because Natasha had poofed into existence holding a big-ass metal bowl. Bucky squinted at the bubbles. Water? Soap? Washcloth? They were ready to… wash Steve Rogers?Bucky was a horny motherfucker, but even he knew that he was an asshole for wanting to scrub Steve’s washboard abs with more than a washcloth. Or was he? Fantasy fact: Licking hot, sticky come off Steve Rogers’ twelve-pack abs was número seventy on Bucky’s bucket list, right after número sixty-nine. “He should’ve let somebody help.”Bucky wasn’t sure why Natasha kept whispering into his armpit (or why she’d put her hair up with a scrunchie that was straight outta the ’90’s), but he was sure that his sister knew everything about everything (#Nosy). She knew about Bucky’s unhealthy obsession with Jake Bass’ bubble butt in CockyBoys’ artsy porn (#VersGoals), that Skinner had wet the bed until he was fourteen (not really), that Clint was ‘secretly’ afraid of clowns, and that Daisy had accidentally knocked over Natasha’s goldfish in ninth grade, even though Bucky’d taken the blame (#RIPMartha). And based on the way that Natasha was huffin’ Bucky’s BO, she knew exactly why Steve Rogers was bleedin’ all over the butter.
Flash!
When Bucky jumped, the water sloshed over the edge of the bowl like an itty-bitty tsunami, drenchin’ Bucky’s shoes and Frodo’s fuzzy feet. Thankfully, no goldfish were involved, ‘cause nine times out of ten, when a goldfish lands on the floor, they don’t survive.“This can’t continue, Steve. You know that, right?”A flash for the hole above Steve’s eyebrow. A flash for the crusty blood stuck to his nose hairs. A flash for the swelling on his cheek.“Yes it can.” Standing up, Steve pushed back Yakov’s chair. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes, but eight months is nothing compared to six years.”Natasha made her own mini tsunami when she said, “Oh my god,” and it was easy to see why. Steve had unzipped his jacket and lifted up his shirt, and the bruise— Bucky squeezed the peas against his chest. The bruise on Steve’s rib cage looked like Barney, but worse. “It’s like Barney got brutalized by a biker gang”—Bucky opened his eyes wider when he should’ve sealed them eyes wide shut—“or a Balrog… or a Brontosaurus. And not just any Brontosaurus.” Bucky saw a man on a bridge, eating another man’s face. “A Brontosaurus that gobbled up a boat load of bath salts and lost his fucking mind.”
Fla
sh!
Bucky’s dad sounded disappointed in himself when he said, “You can stay here tonight, on one condition.” Which, yeah. He was probably gonna get fired or sued (or arrested) for aiding and abetting a child abuser. “If you feel up to going to school tomorrow—which I doubt—I want you in my office first thing in the morning. If not, I need you to wait here until I get home.”Steve wasn’t looking at Bucky’s dad when he said, “Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” he was looking at Daisy’s daisies. And it made sense. Daisy’s daisies were soft and puffy, and no matter how cold it got outside, they were always in bloom.“Bucky, did you hear me?”“What?”“I asked if you can handle patching Steve up?”The phone was on the table. Natasha was making a fresh bubble bath for the goldfish. Bucky was still holding the peas. And Steve—“Bucky. Are you listening to me?”Steve was just standing there. One shoe on a white checker. One shoe on black. Taking a deep breath, Bucky said, “Yep, I’ve totally got this,” even though he was 999 percent sure he didn’t. “Bubble bath, Bactine, Band-Aids, bedtime.” Bucky shoved the peas into the crook of his arm so he could give his dad two thumbs up. “Easy-peasy."“Easy-peasy?” Steve stopped looking at the daisies. “Was that a pea pun?” Rolling things back for the instant replay, Bucky determined that, yes, he’d definitely make a pea pun. “Sure was. Did it ap-pea-se your sense of humor?” Jokes were easy. They rolled off Bucky’s tongue like butter. But the truth?Smiling, Bucky said, “C’mon, let’s go upstairs so I can patch you up like Patch Adams,” when he should have said, “How the fuck am I supposed to patch a ginormous arrow hole with a fucking Band-Aid? That shit needs stitches! Lots of ‘em! And even if I bust out my sexy nurse costume from Spirit Halloween, I have no idea where we keep the first-aid kit because Natalia always gets the Band-Aids and Bactine when Yakov has a boo boo!” “Okay… um…” Steve was really red when he took the peas from Bucky. “That’s… yeah. That ap-pea-ls to me.”Bucky blinked. He didn’t know a lot about concussions, but he was pretty positive that reciprocated pea puns weren’t one of the symptoms listed on WebMD. Smiling for real, Bucky took the bowl from Natasha, letting the buttery brightness of the bubbles wash away the bruises ‘n’ blood. And it was cool, leading the King of the Jocks upstairs to his bedroom. At least until Bucky remembered that he was leading the King of the Jocks upstairs to his motherfucking bedroom! According to WebMD, Nurse Bucky had more important things to worry about than the nuclear holocaust that was dormitorio de los Bucky (concussions, blood loss, and internal bleeding, to name a few). But if Steve was alert enough to make a motherfucking pea pun, he was alert enough to notice Bucky’s comprehensive collection of Walking Dead Pops.Bucky stopped in front of his door. It wasn’t just his Daryl Dixon fixation. It was his sparkly pink guitar, the plastic stethoscope hanging from the hook on the closet, the David Bowie and Iggy Pop posters, the ginormous bottle of lube on the desk, the round-ended flashlight that he may or may not have left out on his bed. Everything in dormitorio de los Bucky outed Bucky as a mega horny, mega gay, mega buttery bottom (unless he was feelin’ like a top), and the idea of Steve Rogers coming face to face with Bucky’s Jared Leto Joker figurine was—“Fucking embarrassing.” Bucky bonked his forehead against the Freddie Mercury poster on de los puerta a la porte because…News flash!...concussions (and mustaches) were all the rage. “Um… I like Queen.”Steve had said it quietly, like he didn’t want Freddie to hear. And that was cool. Nurse Bucky would rather nurse a closeted Queen fan back to health than an out-and-proud Freddie-hater.“Well, if you like Queen”—Bucky turned the knob—“wait until you see my Velvet Goldmine poster. It’s got Obi-wan Kenobi making out with a dude.”The porte swung open, exposing Captain Concussion to a radioactive tornado of dirty laundry, empty food wrappers, and unfinished homework. “Make yourself at home,” Bucky said, cringing as he kicked a path through the 292 zillion DVDs that had fallen off the bookshelf. “Don’t mind the lube.”Chernobyl comparisons aside, Bucky’d always considered his room to be ground zero when it came to sanctuaries. Flashlight or no flashlight, Clint always took his shirt off and…Cowabunga!...leapt headfirst onto Bucky’s bed. And, sure, Daisy ‘n’ Skinner made a stink about Bucky’s skid marks, but that had never stopped ‘em from snugglin’ up to Bucky’s boxer briefs when the squad had squished together for one of their legendary Sci-Fi Spectaculars. But Steve wasn’t Daisy or Skinner, and he sure as fuck wasn’t Clint. He was the King of the Jocks, and Bucky’s bed wasn’t anywhere close to good enough for royalty from— Ditchin’ the bubble bath on the desk, Bucky turned to face the king.“I have no idea where you live.”“What?”“In my late-night jerk-off fantasies, I’ve always pictured you in one of those swanky apartments at the Dakota. You know, with the claw-foot bathtubs and the four-poster beds with the canopies and courtesans.” Turning around, Bucky tried to smooth out the sheets, aka locate the evidence. “I know John and Yoko imagined a world without possessions, but, c’mon. There’s no way a fuckin’ Beatle lived in a building with shitty chandeliers.” “Um…”“Did you know that John Lennon was murdered in front of that building? Shot dead like Biggie ‘cause some psycho got pissed when Lennon said the Beatles were bigger than Jesus. Not that I’m thinkin’ about that part when I’m—”Bucky spotted the flashlight on the far side of the bed (next to Clint’s Circle Jerks tank top), and that? Scoffing, Bucky threw a pillow on top. That was evidence of something a hell of a lot dirtier than an unsterilized dildo.Bubble bath, Bactine, Band-Aids, bedtime. Bucky was blowing this, and not in any of the ways he was good at.“Sorry,” Bucky said, brushing an armload of laundry off his pink plastic chair (#IKEA). “Have a seat.”Lucky for Bucky, Steve listened, sittin’ on Bucky’s cheap-ass chair like it didn’t have a pitted-out Prince shirt hangin’ over the back. And when Bucky pushed his Blade Runner: Special Director’s Cut DVD out of the way so he could pop a squat on the edge of his bed, Steve didn’t seem bothered when Bucky replicated the replicant, leaning close to say, “All these moments will be lost in time… like tears in rain.” It was strange (and cool) to watch Steve’s sole surviving pupil expand like a real-life boy. One, because the expansion coincided with Steve checkin’ out David Bowie, aka the King of the Mismatched Pupils, and two, because Bucky’d just set the ice-cold peas on his own thigh. Scoochin’ over just enough to squeeze out the washcloth, Bucky said, “That’s David Bowie, aka the Thin White Duke, aka Ziggy Stardust.”“I know.”“He’s got this song called ‘Life on Mars’ that’s totally life changing.” Bucky pressed the cloth against Steve’s cheek. “I’ve seen videos of him singing it live, and—”“Where’d you get a My Little Pony shirt in your size?”Bucky was confused with a capital C until…Sherlock!...he followed the pupil’s singular gaze and saw Twilight Sparkle’s lavender mane peekin’ out of the hamper.“Oh,” Bucky said, loosening the blood around Steve’s nostrils. “Daisy found it over the summer at a flea market. She said it matched my eyes.”“But your eyes are blue.”Steve wasn’t looking at Twilight Sparkle anymore, and he wasn’t looking at the Thin White Duke. He was looking directly into Bucky’s eyes… blue to blue.“And the poster at the foot of your bed?” Steve pointed at Obi-Wan and Henry VIII. “Is Velvet Goldmine a movie?” Bucky had two options. He could go full fanboy and bombard Steve with the nitty-gritty details of Todd Haynes’ ’70s glam masterpiece, like how Jonathan Rhys Meyers played a singer named Brian Slade who was so Bowie-esque that the writers should’ve been copyright claimed…Fuck it like Beckham!...and how Ewan McGregor played a punk rock disaster named Curt Wild who was the best (and queerest) parts of Iggy Pop and Lou Reed rolled into one leather-pants wearing, Batman-fucking superstar. Or he could just say, “Yeah, it's my favorite movie of all time. Obi-Wan dicks down on young Christian Bale and pre-Tudors Henry VIII, which, if we’re talking gay awakenings, was a defining moment for my asshole.”The water turned pink when Bucky dunked the washcloth. And not, like, Pretty in Pink pink. No, Duckie fans. We’re talkin’ bloody-steak pink with bloody lil’ boogers swimmin’ around like tadpoles.“The one in the gold top hat is Brian Slade.” Squeezin’ out the lil’ Kermys, Nurse Bucky wiped the edges of the arrow hole. “I know it looks like he’s about to make out with Curt—who, I think you’ll agree, is rockin’ that sparkly gold trench coat—but really, he’s about to shatter Curt’s heart into a gazillion pieces with a vagina-shaped axe.” The guts ‘n’ gore on Steve’s chin had come off pretty easily, but this shit on his forehead? Bucky scratched his fingernail across Steve’s eyebrow. It was like zombie goo mixed with Super Glue.“And it sucks because Curt loves Brian in a ‘let’s-make-music-together-and-raise-some-chickens’ kind of way. But when you’re David Bowie—Bucky leaned back to check his work—“it’s easy to lose track of your priorities.”“Like being happy?”“Mm-hmm.” Bucky brushed Steve’s hair away from the cut. “Like being happy.”Knee to knee. Blue to blue. Bucky barely noticed when his toes bumped the peas. And when Steve tipped his head like Brian Slade (sans top hat), leaning in to—“Holy fuck, Steve!” Bucky was down for heartbreak. Making out with boys who fingered (or wanted to finger) vagina-shaped axes was his specialty. But Steve’s neck looked like he’d been attacked by a vampire, or stabbed with a steak knife, or fucking decapitated. And not, like, a little bit decapitated. We’re talkin’ a historically accurate Henry VIII-level beheading (aka the real Henry VIII, not Jonathan Rhys Meyer), with the guillotine, and the mistresses, and the non-vagina-shaped axe.Pointing at his own neck, Bucky said, “Um… you’ve got a little blood…”Steve didn’t hesitate. Unzipping his jacket, he dropped it on the floor like a decapitated stripper dancing to “Drop it like it’s hot.” Then…Bam!...he was taking off his shirt, and there were muscles on top of muscles (on top of muscles), and Bucky was squeezin’ the fuck out of a dripping wet washcloth (when he wanted to be squeezing the fuck out of Steve’s dripping wet dick) because he was supposed to be Steve’s nurse. Steve’s nurse in a tight little uniform.“Um… maybe you should start at the top.” “Huh?”It took a minute (or tri) for Bucky to figure out that he was makin’ figure eights around Steve’s nipples with the washcloth. Acknowledge or ignore? “Deny, deny, deny,” Bucky chanted, trying not to get a boner as he scrubbed a heart around Steve’s Adam’s apple. “Deny that shit till the day you die.”"I think you missed a spot." “What?” Bucky did a quick scan. There wasn’t any blood on Steve’s collar bones, his his pecs, his eight trillion abs, his happy trail, his—Wait a minute. Steve’s eye (singular) was all twinkly, and the corners of his mouth were turned up in the flirtiest lil’ smile since Rose deWitt Bukater donned the Heart of the Ocean and took her boobies out for Jack. And Bucky loved boobies. Kate Winslet’s boobies. Brian Slade’s boobies. Blue-footed boobies. Boobies that had been pierced with surgical steel. But before Bucky’s tongue could introduce itself to a brand-new pair, a fresh trail of zombie goo squirted out of the gash above Steve’s eyebrow.“Jesus, Steve!” Without thinking, Bucky slapped the washcloth on top (way too hard) and said, “You need stitches!” (way too loud). “This cut looks like a mouth!”Steve laughed, which made his boobies jiggle around. And those jiggly nips? Whoosh! Bucky’s dick inflated like a modern-day life raft. “Well, I hate hospitals,” Steve said, increasing the knee to knee contact by 375 percent, “so how about you just butterfly bandage the shit out of it, and we’ll hope for the best.”That could work too.After dumpin’ out the first aid kit that somebody, aka Natalia, had dumped by the door, Bucky used eight butterfly bandages and a fuck-ton of gauze to seal the cut. Then he stuck a full-size Band-Aid on top, added a couple more pieces of tape, and prayed to Baby Jesus (and Meredith Grey) that the medical monstrosity would hold.Medical analysis: Bucky had the legs (and the ass) to look fan-fucking-tastic in a slutty nurse outfit, but his professional nursing skills started and ended with a pair of white fishnets and a plastic stethoscope.“Okay, slugger, you’re good to go.” Bucky slapped Steve’s shoulder like a total dude bro because that’s what baseball players did. It had nothing to do with the fact that Bucky’s dick was harder than a Louisville Slugger. And it definitely had nothing to do with the fact that Bucky wasn’t sure if his balls wanted to play ball beca use of Steve’s jiggly nips or…Foul!...because Bucky was balls deep in a memory about what had happened the last time he’d worn a pair of fishnets. Hint: Clint sucked Bucky’s dick. Steve needed nipple covers, so Bucky did a dive roll off the bed (not really) and grabbed his Jaws t-shirt (the movie, not the mandibles) out of the pile of laundry that he’d knocked off chair número rosado. “Think fast,” Bucky said as…Strike!...he executed the perfect curveball. Nurse Bucky knew better than to hit his patients in the chest with a great white shark (especially when they had Barney-colored contusions), but when Bucky was in the mood to pitch, he went all out. Hopefully, Steve was down to play catcher.After a quick search through the laundry pile, the dresser, the other laundry pile, and the closet, Bucky determined that Downy Fresh pj pants were a no-go, so…Bam!...he dumped out the hamper (sorry, Twilight Sparkle), dug around like a hamster, and slow-pitched Steve a pair of semi-dirty vampire bat pajama pants.“To go with the theme,” Bucky said, tossing Steve zip, zero, zilch, nul’ pairs of underwear. No boxers. No briefs. No tighty-whities to hide the bat beneath the bats.Was it cool for Bucky to be thinking about tossing Steve’s salad as he tossed (or didn’t toss) clothes at him? Bucky tried to get a read on Steve’s face, but between the gauze, the tape, and the swelling, the best he could figure was… maybe?Grabbing his scary bunny slippers out of their top-secret hidey-hole, Bucky said, “You’re gonna wanna change in the bathroom,” before gently placing the fuzzy lil’ critters on Steve’s lap. “‘Cause, straight up, my dick’s gonna explode if you take off your pants.”Bucky made a triangle with his fingers, but without the cheese and pepperonis, it was useless when he put it on top of his dick. “It’s next to the stairs,” Bucky said, turning the triangle into a pizza-size circle. “There’s Extra Strength Tylenol in the medicine cabinet, extra toothbrushes… somewhere, and, if you’re feelin’ frisky, extra-large condoms on the shelf behind Daryl Dixon.”Bucky pointed at his comprehensive collection of Walking Dead Pops. One, because there actually was a box of extra-large condoms hidden behind Daryl Dixon’s bow, and two, because Bucky had a sneaking suspicion that Steve’s dick was big enough to fill them.“Um… I think I’ll start with the Tylenol.”
Shazam!
Steve disappeared faster than an archer with an average-length (albeit beefy) arrow. And when the bathroom door clicked shut, Bucky flicked the head of his dick and said, “You need to change.”Was he talking about his clothes? Bucky wiped his greasy hands on the front of his blood-stained hoodie. Or was he talking about his unwavering dedication to getting railed by a straight guy?Two seconds later…Bucky was naked. Ass out, boner on point, chanting, “Straight guys suck,” as he dug through the dirty laundry for a pair of Steve-appropriate pajama pants. Tacos? No. Pride hearts? Definitely not. Sombrero-wearing llamas? Maybe? There was a plaid pair by his closet, but when he took a whiff, they smelled like balls.In the end, Bucky went with his Empire Strikes Back pajama pants ‘cause you can't go wrong with Darth Vader lookin’ all tough, Yoda lookin’ all wrinkly, and Luke Skywalker lookin’ all buff ‘n’ sexy while he’s liftin’ swamp rocks with the Force. So. Fucking. Hot.You know what else was hot? The sexy beige tank top that Bucky had tucked in the back of his dresser for Jedi role-play. Why wear Luke Skywalker when you could be Luke Skywalker? Bucky pulled the tank top over his head, the pants over his chub, and did a quick breath check (Need a Tic-Tac, you do. Repulse him, you shall). But it wasn’t until he started fluffin’ up his pillows that it hit him. The asteroid. The comet. The tsunami. The iceberg. The motherfucking Death Star. He was fluffing up his pillows for Steve Rogers! He was about to tuck Steve Rogers into his bed! And Bucky’s bed wasn’t ready for the likes of Steve Rogers. Not now, maybe not ever, because Bucky’d totally left his makeshift dildo under the spare pillow and when you turned off the lamp, you could abso-fucking-lutely see the come stains on the wall in the light of de los lunes. And besides that, Captain Rogers probably hated Star Wars as much as Star Wars fans hated Jar Jar Binks. You know, ‘cause of all the evil dad shit and the fact that Darth Vader had…Whoosh!...chopped off Luke’s hand.“The ears move.”Steve was standing in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he took a few experimental steps. But it wasn’t the way the scary bunnies’ ears were movin’ up and down that made Bucky wanna hop assfirst onto Steve’s carrot. It was the high-definition factoid that the Easter Bunny wasn’t wearing a shirt. Repeat: Not wearing a shirt.“I didn’t want to get blood on it,” Steve said, setting the neatly folded Jaws t-shirt on Bucky’s desk. “In case the bandages leak.”A quick look at the hull determined that the patch was sound. No blood. No gore. No ice-cold water from the North Atlantic. Damage assessment: The only thing leaking was the head of Bucky’s dick.Licking his lips, Bucky said, “I think you’re good,” as he imagined how it would feel to kiss the Captain’s throat… his nipples… his big purple bruise.“Thank you,” Steve said, smiling up at Bucky like a lovestruck burrito.Steve was tucked snug as a bug in Bucky’s bed, complete with a bag of peas on his forehead. Bubble bath, Bactine, Band-Aids, bedtime. Bucky’s head was pounding like a bomb had detonated inside his skull. And not a sexy Sex Bob-omb with heart-shaped shrapnel; an atomic bomb with the power to vaporize everything in its path.“I forgot the Bactine,” Bucky said, squeezing his temples as he grabbed his cow-print blanket off the end of the bed, “but other than that, I think Nurse Bucky nailed it.” “No costume required.”Bucky turned towards his closet. The stethoscope was there, hanging from its usual hook, but the fishnets— When Bucky closed his eyes, they were black instead of white.“I’ll see you in the morning,” Bucky said, flipping off the light switch.“Wait.”Bucky flipped it back on."Where are you going?" It was a confusing question. Much like “What came first, the chicken or the egg?” or “If a guy goes down on you while you're wearing a dress, does it still count as gay?”"Um… I’m gonna go to sleep on the couch, so—"“Will you try something with me?" The logical side of Bucky wanted to say that his head hurt. That he was tired. That he knew from experience that ‘trying’ something with a straight guy was 357 percent one-sided ninety-nine percent of the time. But logic didn’t matter when the straight guy looked like Steve Rogers.Shirt on. Shirt off. It didn’t matter. Steve Rogers could tell Bucky to stick a lampshade on his head, eat a handful of ghost peppers, and sing Justin Bieber’s “Baby” (all at the same time), and Bucky would jump at the chance. “I just… I don't want to be alone right now…” Steve winced when he tried to roll onto his side. “I know your bed isn’t big, but I think we can both fit. I mean, without touching… or whatever.”To recap: Bucky’d just been invited into his own bed by Steve Rogers, who…Double recap!...wasn’t wearing a shirt.Bucky dropped the blanket.Logistically speaking, Bucky’s bed was sandwiched between three out of four walls, meaning his only option was to flip off the light (without turning the lampshade into a hat) and climb Mount Steve to get to the other side. The question was, should he aim his ass at Steve’s mouth or…Whoosh!...present him with the Yoda-covered dick?“BJs before butt stuff,” Bucky said, respecting the laws of foreplay as he threw his leg across Steve’s hips. But it mattered not. Stare at the ceiling, Steve did. It was lame. And not just because Bucky’d always fantasized about slinkin’ his way across a guy’s rock-hard abs like he was slinkin’ between a bunch of lasers to steal the Mona Lisa (or a big-ass blue diamond). It was lame because Bucky wasn’t seductively rolling his ass for Sean Connery like Catherine Zeta Jones in Entrapment. He was seductively rolling his ass for nobody. Collapsing into his usual spot, Bucky shouted, “Fuck!” when he accidentally smacked his hand against the wall. Not because his hand hurt (even though it did), but because his brain was buzzin’ at a zillion miles per hour, like…Buzz!...and when he closed his eyes, he could smell chlorine and electricity and—“Are you okay?”If Clint were here, he’d pop Armageddon into the DVD player, fast-forward to the part with Liv Tyler’s mountainous peaks, and feed Bucky a bunch of animal crackers while they made fun of Ben Affleck for being the worst Batman.“Who do you think is the worst Batman?” Bucky asked, trying to be smooth like a smoothie. Smooth like smooth jazz. Smooth like creamy peanut butter on a spoon. “Keaton? Bale? Affleck? Adam West?”The invisible force field (not to be confused with Force field) between the two of them was exactly the length of Bucky’s dick (# EightIsEnough). Gay boys on one side, straight boys on the other, or else… Zap!...you could kiss your pubes goodbye.“I’m not sure.” Steve said, wigglin’ his hand across the barrier like he was daring Vader to chop off the other one. “But based on what you said about that poster, I’m guessing Christian Bale is your number one.”Bucky looked up at Curt Wild, his hand tenderly cupping Brian’s jaw as they kissed beneath the spotlight. Curt, who had no idea that the love of his life was slowly being devoured from the inside by a rock ‘n’ roll alien named Maxwell Demon.Taking a deep breath, Bucky expected to smell singed ball hair (or a burnt sausage) when he rolled towards Steve, but the only thing he smelled was… sexual tension?You know, ‘cause of the hand holding thing in the car.“Can I ask you something?” Bucky retracted his dick in case the…Zing!...turned into a…Zap! “Did I imagine the hand holding thing in the car?” “What?”Steve wasn’t Curt Wild, and he wasn’t Brian Slade. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t exactly like Clint.“Because it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen make-believe hearts in an ocean of blue.”*** The bed was soft, the star-covered comforter was fluffy, and Bucky’s worn-in pajama pants were squeezing Steve’s legs like a never-ending hug. Steve couldn’t imagine anybody else in the world… anybody else in the universe… trying to cheer him up with a variety of bloody mammals. The black and purple bats with blood-tipped teeth. The monstrous rabbits whose flip-flopping ears offset the savagery in their bloodshot eyes. The great white shark. Bucky’s unconventional approach to medicine was both clever and endearing. And the fact that Bucky actually owned a stethoscope? Steve’s heart rate doubled from the implication alone.“I’ll see you in the morning.” The overhead light went out; and with it, Steve’s detailed vision of Bucky bending over to listen to the sound of Steve’s telltale heart.“Wait,” Steve said, struggling to get his arms out from underneath the covers. “Where are you going?”It had been a long time since Steve had been tucked into bed, and never in his life had he been tucked in so tightly. But Bucky had been insistent, laying two bags of peas directly on Steve’s rib cage—and one diagonally across his forehead—before tucking the blankets around Steve’s body like a tightly spun cocoon."Um… I’m gonna go to sleep on the couch, so—" “Will you try something with me?" Bucky stopped in the doorway, blanket in one hand, stethoscope in the other, turning the light switch on and off as Steve tried to figure out what the fuck he wanted to try. The truth was, Steve had no idea what he was doing. Just like he had no idea why Bucky stored his condoms behind a plastic toy.“I just… I don't want to be alone right now…” Freeing one arm, Steve grabbed the peas before they could slip off his forehead. “I know your bed isn’t big, but I think we can both fit. I mean, without touching… or whatever.”Steve could hear the sound of his own heartbeat as he waited for Bucky to answer. No stethoscope required.For the first time in a long time, Steve was letting his actions flow from one to the next without an objective. Without worrying about the consequences. And while it was exhilarating, it was also—“Fuck yeah!” Bucky threw the blanket across the room, turned off the light, and kicked the door shut in less than a second. And before Steve knew it, the Misfit King was standing next to Steve’s head, swinging the stethoscope like a pendulum as he adjusted the waistband of his pants.Steve may have rejected his mother’s religion, but the Bible verses were still there, complete with a booming male voice and a choir of fucking angels.
As
k, a
n
d ye shall receive.
Well, Steve had asked alright, but now that he’d received, he had no idea what to do with the package. “Um… should I move over, or…”As it turned out, he didn’t have to do anything.Bucky released the stethoscope at the peak of its swing, declaring, “BJs before butt stuff,” as it flew toward the heavens. And the angelic choir? They were all Steve could hear as Bucky climbed onto the bed and paused, nibbling on his bottom lip as his body hovered only inches above Steve’s hips. “Jesus,” Steve said, staring at the miniature disco ball hanging above the bed. Not because he didn’t want to look at Bucky’s mouth, but because— Steve swallowed.The last time Steve had been in this position, he’d being staring at a fan, watching the blades spin around and around as Sharon had done whatever the fuck she’d been doing to his limp dick. But this wasn’t anything like the last time. Steve didn’t know what to do with his hands. Or his eyes. Or the copious amount of spit pooling in the back of his throat. And he sure as hell didn’t know what to do when Bucky said, “You need to watch Entrapment,” and flung himself onto the far side of the bed.“Fuck!” Bucky had smacked something against the wall. His foot? His hand? His head? Steve had no idea because his eyes were still firmly on the disco ball. “Are you okay?” Steve asked, praying that the sound had been unintentional. That he hadn’t fucked everything up before it had even begun.“Yep.” Bucky waved his hand in front of Steve’s face. “Just a lil’ hand to wall contact. No big deal.”Steve didn’t need to look at Bucky’s face to know that he was telling the truth. The smile was evident in the cadence of his voice. The singsongy timbre. The pop of the P. The missing letters that somehow gave the words more meaning. “Good,” Steve said, relaxing into the pillow as he let his eyes drift across the galaxy of glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to Bucky’s ceiling. Orion’s Belt. The Big Dipper. Aries… Taurus… Sagittarius… Steve smiled when he spotted a pair of googly eyes stuck to Canis Major, the dog.It was crazy that they were lying side by side. Crazy that Bucky, with his dick jokes and indecipherable references, had warmed Steve’s heart with a little bit of kindness and three bags of peas. But it was even crazier that Steve wanted to hold hands with his celestial muse, listening to the Starboy’s otherworldly hums as Steve contemplated the origin of the stars.Steve imagined Mr. Barnes climbing a ladder to place the plastic stars in just the right spot, translating the names of the ancient constellations into English for his newly-adopted son. Or maybe Bucky had climbed the ladder himself, setting an astronomy book on his star-covered blanket as a guide. “Who do you think is the worst Batman?”Steve laughed, which made the peas fall off his forehead, which made him realize that he was more than a little enamored by Bucky’s unpredictability.“Keaton? Bale? Affleck? Adam West?”Bucky’s transitions were like puzzles, his paragraphs like mazes, and every other word was a riddle, just begging to be solved. If only Steve’s mind were up to the challenge.“I’m not sure,” Steve said because, in addition to being tired, hungry, and suffering the effects of a possible concussion, he knew more about Brontë than Batman, “but based on what you said about that poster, I’m guessing Christian Bale is your number one.”“Número uno. Si.”“You speak Spanish?” The disco ball was bouncing moonlight across Bucky’s face, revealing a dusting of freckles across the bridge of Bucky’s nose. “Can I ask you something?” Bucky turned toward Steve, and the intensity of his stare—Steve didn’t know whether to look away or fully commit to the connection.“Did I imagine the hand holding thing in the car?”“What?” “Because it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen make-believe hearts in an ocean of blue.”Bucky was, by far, the loudest person Steve had ever met. His voice. His laughter. His clothes. But right now, Bucky was quiet and still. And it was in that stillness that Steve really saw him. “You didn’t imagine anything,” Steve said, sliding his hand across the rift. “This”—he intertwined their fingers—“is utterly and blissfully real.”Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe. And for a second, Steve thought that maybe he’d imagined the hand holding thing in the car.But then the weight shifted on the bed, altering the tide as Bucky slid his tongue into Steve’s mouth.Steve has kissed a lot of people. Cheerleaders. Volleyball players. Girls that he may or may not have loved. But he’d never experienced anything like this. And when Bucky threw back the comforter and pressed their bodies fully together, everything clicked. Everything. The tantalizing curve of Bucky’s lips. The fluidity of Bucky’s body. The very real fact that Bucky was the most beautiful creature that Steve had ever seen.Steve didn’t care that Bucky kept bumping the bandages on Steve’s forehead, he wanted more. More contact. More skin. More—“Oh my God…” Bucky had reached around and grabbed the top of Steve’s ass. “Oh my fucking God.”Steve didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Not because Bucky had grabbed his ass—although in this context, that was definitely… new—but because Steve’s cock was getting hard. And the erection wasn’t soft or waning. It was solid… and pulsing… and wet!“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Steve said, pulling Bucky against him. And the pressure… the pleasure… Bucky chuckled into Steve’s mouth, grinding their hips together as he said, “No kidding.”Steve knew Bucky was talking about the size of his cock, but to Steve, it was so much more. It was all the times Steve had tensed every muscle in his body, trying to force himself to come. It was all the times Peggy had said, “Steven, please, tell me what I’m doing wrong.” It was all the times Steve had cried in the corner of that fucking shower, staring at his drooping cock as the blood had swirled around the tip.Tenderly cupping Bucky’s jaw, Steve kissed him like he was the most precious thing in the universe, because, under the galaxy of glow-in-the-dark stars, he was. Pisces. Aquarius. Delphinus. Bucky moved like water, his muscles ebbing and flowing like waves. And when Steve slid his finger beneath the rubber band in Bucky’s hair to pull them closer, the Wild Thing— “Shit!” One of the bags of peas had split open, spilling water and peas all over Steve’s back.“Jesus fucking—”“Did I hurt you?” Bucky broke every point of connection. And the loss made Steve realize that there were worse things than getting pea juice in your ass crack.“You’re doing the opposite of hurting me.” Steve twisted around to fling the fucking peas off the edge of the bed.“But your ribs—”“I don’t care.” Embracing the pain, Steve kissed Bucky’s cheek, his ear, the hollow of his throat, trying to convey just how little he cared about his fucking ribs.“But Sharon—”“It’s over with Sharon.”“But, Steve.” “Shh…” Steve ghosted his fingers across Bucky’s lips, dragging some of the wetness down to the dimple in his chin. The tiny divot was just big enough for Steve's thumb to catch, resurrecting images of orange marmalade and bright-pink bubblegum as he caressed Bucky’s chin with the softest of strokes. “I don’t care,” Steve said, kissing the candy-coated cleft. “Do you hear me, Bucky? I don’t care.”*** Bucky thought of himself as a pretty smart guy. He got good grades (sans Españoli Ravioli), had the street smarts to navigate Brooklyn at night, and knew how to manipulate Italian himbos into giving him free breadsticks. So there was no way he was gonna pull the wool over his own eyes and nix the nagging feeling that he was taking advantage of Steve’s concussion.At first when Steve said, “I don’t care,” Bucky thought he was talking about his fucked-up ribs, fucked-up forehead, and fucked-up eye. ‘Cause, duh. But when perfect Steve Rogers latched onto Bucky’s neck like a bloodthirsty vampire moonlighting as a horny pirate…Argh!...Bucky remembered that Steve had a fucking girlfriend whose perfect posture (and perfect tits) were Bucky’s nemesis. “But Sharon—”“It’s over with Sharon.”“But, Steve.” It was a confectioner’s dream when Steve dragged his thumb across Bucky’s lips like he was scraping buttercream frosting off a carrot-cake cupcake. Hell, Bucky probably even would’ve let the shushing slide if Steve weren’t serving himself up like a homosexual Prince Charming on a silver platter of bullshit.But he was. So Bucky didn’t.First thing tomorrow morning, Captain Steve Rogers was going to race to the nearest grocery store, buy the Vagina Princess a dozen long-stemmed red roses, and present them to her on bended knee like an adulterous Prince Charming (Correction: an adulterous Prince Charming with an aversion to dicks) because Bucky was (and always would be) a butterfly bandage sealing a hole that needed a fuck-ton of stitches.Bucky opened his mouth to tell Steve that shushing people was hella rude (at best) and très Dr. Evil (at worst), but then Steve upped the ante, rubbing his thumb in tight little circles on Bucky’s chin. And that? Whoo-ee! Suddenly Bucky didn’t give two shits that Steve’s swollen brain had convinced him that he was gay, because Bucky’s brain thought the lil’ circles were the hottest precursor to anal fingering this side of American Pie.“I don’t care,” Steve said, kissing Bucky’s chin like he was lickin’ a lollipop (or probin’ a butthole). “Do you hear me, Bucky? I don’t care.”Bucky heard him alright. One, because Steve had pretty much Super Glued his lips to Bucky’s earlobe, and two, because Steve had just rubbed his super hard cock against Bucky’s super hard dick. Instant replay: Steve Rogers, aka the hottest hottie in Hot Town, had just rubbed his super hard cock against Bucky’s super hard dick, and from what Bucky could tell from the cock-to-dick contact, Steve’s rooster was no joke. Thick dicks were one thing. Bucky had loads of experience chokin’ down those kinds of breadsticks. But dicks that were thick and long?Bucky was good at a lot of things. Voguing. Milking cows. Burping on command. But he was 927 percent positive that his explorations into teenage titillation hadn’t prepared him for something the size of Steve’s cock-a-doodle-doo.Bucky’s sexual resume: Never had a real boyfriend.Virgin (except for the flashlight and a couple of cucumbers).Expert at sucking his best friend’s cock. It was a complicated story, full of twists and turns galore, too many ups and downs to count, and lots of days when Bucky’s jaw had been really fucking sore. But since Steve was currently lifting up the bottom of Luke Skywalker’s tank top, Bucky was gonna stick with the crib notes.On a dark and stormy night (not really) after the whole TJ/Photogate thing, Clint and Bucky had gotten fifty shades of stoned. Out of the ordinary? No way, José. Bucky was the Cheech to Clint’s Chong. The water in Clint’s bong. The…Bang!...to Clint’s gong. But then they’d whipped up a plate of nachos with extra sour cream, put on Top Gun, and touched each other’s dicks.You know, ‘cause they hadn’t been getting any action anywhere else.Crush the expert level on Guitar Hero, platonically lick Clint's balls. Jam “Pennyroyal Tea” on their guitars, platonically deep throat Clint's cock. Play fetch with Lucky in the living room, platonically swallow Clint's load. Once, in the very beginning, Clint had tried to return the favor, but the second Bucky'd hooked his ankles around the back of Clint’s head, his ‘bestie’ had decided that dick sucking wasn't his jam. But hand jobs? He'd been totally down. Speaking of hand jobs… Steve’s fingers were getting dangerously close (Translation: deliciously close) to the tip of Bucky’s cock-a-doodle-doo.
Green light
!
“Look at me,” Steve said as he untangled the rubber band in Bucky’s hair. “I want to see your eyes when I touch you.”
Red light
!
Hand jobs were one thing. The man on the job could watch Tom Cruise buzz the tower or stare at empty pizza boxes to avoid looking at Bucky’s dick. But real-deal, cherry-poppin’ eye contact in the back of a steamy Coupe de Ville? Bucky not only closed his eyes. He squeezed them shut as hard as he could.Clint had been looking at empty pizza boxes for a year (cough, a year and a half) before Bucky’d made that mistake.Pulling away from the straight guy, Bucky kept his eyes closed when he said, “You like girls.” Bucky had gotten really fucking good at giving head. Zero gag reflex. Exceptional edging skills. Knowing when to twist and when to pull. And Clint had gotten really fucking good at playing head games. “Hot ones… like my sister.”Loosening Bucky’s hair with his fingers, Steve very slowly and very, very, very deliberately poked Bucky in the stomach with his cock.“I think it’s pretty clear that I don’t like your sister.”
G
re
en light?
Bucky opened one eye (and one eye only).Steve still looked like a horny pirate, but he didn’t look anything like a bloodthirsty vampire or a queerbaiting asshole. He looked like he was telling the truth.Steve kept his eye wide open when he pulled some of Bucky’s extra-crispy waves over Bucky’s shoulder. And he kept his eye wide open when he bumped their noses together, bandages and all. But the most surprising thing was when Steve kept his eye wide open and whispered, “I like you,” before kissing Bucky like one of his French girls (heavy on the French).There was an entire chapter in the Bros Being Bros Sucking Each Other’s Cocks Handbook dedicated to Bucky fucking up a good thing . Next to the paragraph about TJ Campbell was a picture of the picture. Next to the 357 bar graphs, pie charts, and Venn diagrams about Clint Barton was a full-page spread featuring step-by-step instructions on how to recreate the world’s most intimate kiss. And in the newly created addendum, next to a picture of Rose sailing away in a fucking lifeboat, was a direct quote from the one and only Bucky Barnes, aka the King of Fucking Things Up.“Oh my god, Steve. Can I suck your cock?”*** Every cell in Steve’s body was lighting up with a rainbow of colors. Bubblegum pink where Steve’s tongue was gliding across the exquisite curves of Bucky’s lips. Royal blue where their hips were connected, ebbing and flowing with the power of Bucky’s waves. Jungle green where Steve’s fingers were untangling the strands of Bucky’s hair.“Oh my God, Steve.” Bucky’s moan was long and loud. “Can I suck your cock?” Sometimes a color is so bright that its intensity blinds you, creating black spots that make the obvious invisible. Or, in simpler terms, sometimes you're so enamored by a person’s lips that you forget that they're a guy.“Umm…” Steve let go of Bucky’s hair, which in turn, put an end to Bucky’s chromatic exploration. But instead of fading, the colors tripled in intensity. The greens. The blues. The pinks. All of them lit up like neon signs as Steve allowed the reality of the request to sink in.Sliding his cock between his lips. His. "Bucky, I—""Don't worry about it,” Bucky said, grabbing a pillow to cover his erection. “I get it.”Steve had no idea where it had come from, but Bucky was suddenly holding a flashlight, turning it on and off… on and off… as he directed the beam at the man in the golden top hat.“It’s like when you go to Cold Stone Creamery and ask for a free sample of caramel apple ice cream ‘cause the name sounds cool.”On and off… on and off…“Like, ‘Hey, that looks fun and different. Lemme give that apple pie a shot.’”"Bucky."“But then…Ugh!...its in your mouth and you fuck in’ hate it ‘cause… Shocker!...you should’ve stuck with vanilla and—”"Bucky, stop."The flashlight turned off. And Steve, in every way possible, regretted his hesitation.Steve knew panic. Intimately. The rapid breaths. The clenched fists. The urge to run.“Hey,” Steve said, taking the flashlight out of Bucky’s hand. “That’s not what I meant. I just…” The moonlight was highlighting Bucky’s stubble, creating shadows across his throat that emphasized the distinction. “I need a minute.”Filling his lungs with air, Steve ignored the pain in his ribs. Taking it all in. Breathing into the idea. Bucky’s shoulders were strong and wide. And the tank top he’d chosen to replace the Muppet fur was entirely too small. Steve could see every curve, every ripple, every sharp line where the muscles folded over bone. And it wasn’t just the stubble. There was armpit hair, chest hair, and a hint of hair beneath Bucky’s belly button where his tank top had ridden up. And it was in those tiny hairs that Steve found his answer. The perfect Muppet didn’t need a fur-lined hoodie or the sparkling strands of a lavender horse’s mane because Bucky’s hidden hairs were, in every way, softer than Steve’s imagination.“Hey, Bucky.” Shining the flashlight on the disco ball, Steve relit the stars. “I think you should come back over here.”“Seriously, dude. Vanilla’s a totally respectable flavor.”Steve flicked the beam to Bucky’s lap. “And you should definitely get rid of that pillow.”“Why?”There was an old adage that it was better to give than receive. So Steve put his faith in the Extra-Strength Tylenol and rolled onto his hands and knees.“Because,” Steve said, lifting the pillow to reveal that which Bucky had hidden. “While my answer to your question is yes, Bucky, you can suck my cock. Right now, I think I’d rather suck yours.”Steve wasn’t a stranger to talking dirty. It had been one of the tricks he’d used to distract Peggy from his broken dick. But it had never flowed off his tongue like warm molasses.“Would that be okay?” Straddling Bucky’s body, Steve kissed the cotton covering his chest, then his neck, waiting for Bucky to nod before planting the sweetest, slowest kiss on his beautiful lips. Then he dragged his nose along Bucky’s stubble, just to see how it would feel.“You’re still wearing the slippers,” Bucky said, sliding his feet up the sides of Steve’s shins.“If that’s what’s stopping you from saying yes, I can take them off.”Steve laughed. But the best part was when Bucky laughed too.“No”—Bucky sucked his bottom lip between his teeth—“you should definitely keep them on.”“So that’s a yes?” Steve made sure not to hesitate as he hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of Bucky’s pants.“Fuck yes, that’s a yes!”“Are you sure?” Steve felt compelled to ask one more time. Maybe for Bucky, maybe for himself. “If this is too fast, we can just go to sleep.”Lifting his ass off the bed, Bucky said, “Shut up, Steve. I’m sure.”It was all the permission Steve needed.With Peggy, Steve had always removed her clothes slowly, kissing his way up and down her thighs as he’d pulled down her panties. But Bucky didn’t give Steve that option. Kicking his legs into the air, Bucky almost gave Steve a second black eye as he took off his own pants and threw them at the wall.“I just realized something,” Steve said, pausing for all the right reasons. “First of all, you’re incredible. Seriously, Bucky. You take my breath away.”Bucky’s smile lit up the room.“And second, your dick just confirmed that I’m totally gay.”When Bucky snorted, his dick bounced against Steve’s hand. But it wasn’t weird or off-putting. It was exactly the inspiration Steve needed to—as Bucky had said—try something new.In addition to talking dirty, making Peggy’s toes curl with nothing but his tongue had been Steve’s go-to solution for his waning erections. But figuring out that you’re gay and knowing what to do with another guy’s penis were on two completely different levels.Steve knew what he liked because Peggy had been patient and kind, even when he hadn’t been able to finish. But Steve’s hands were a lot bigger than Peggy’s, and he wasn’t sure if he could fit all of… that… into his mouth.Licking his palm, Steve wrapped all five fingers around Bucky’s dick, sliding them up and down one time before—“You’re uncircumcised.”“Yeah.” Bucky lifted his head off the pillow. “Mutilating babies’ penises is primarily an American thing.”Nerves. Adrenaline. The erect penis in his hand. None of them excused Steve from saying something as stupid as “Your dick is Russian.”Steve expected Bucky to laugh at him for being awkward and weird, but the sentence that rolled off Bucky’s tongue was deep, and rich, and foreign. The vibration in the back of Bucky’s throat. The openness of the vowels. Steve didn’t need the translations. He only wanted Bucky to say the words again, and again, and again.Running his thumb through the wetness on Bucky’s tip, Steve said, “I’d like you to take off your shirt.”“Da.” Bucky removed it in one smooth motion. “But I’m still gonna look like Luke Skywalker, no matter how naked you get me.”In any other situation, Steve would have asked a follow-up question. Like “Are you implying that your penis is a lightsaber?” or “Do you usually role-play the first time somebody gives you head?” But Steve was too busy staring at the three-dimensional reality of Bucky’s balls. “Do I still look like Mark Hamill?” Bucky asked, spreading his legs even wider. “I don’t know. Does Mark Hamill have hairy testicles?” There were words coming out of Steve’s mouth. That much he knew. But Steve had no idea what they were because he could see Bucky’s asshole. Yes, it was dark. And, yes, the disco ball wasn’t bright enough to show all the details. But it was there, and Steve—“One second,” he said, squeezing the tip of his own dick. Steve was a gentleman. A person, who—aside from Sharon—treated people with respect. And a gentleman shouldn’t think about that the first time they saw a guy’s asshole.Scooching onto his stomach, Steve whispered, “You’re more than a guy,” before he licked Bucky from base to tip. “You’re everything I’ve been looking for and more.”There was definitely a learning curve, especially when Bucky locked his ankles around the back of Steve’s head. But even when Steve gagged, he wanted more. More sweat. More salt. More of Bucky’s delicious moans filling the Milky Way and beyond. “Oh, fuck… I’m gonna come.” Bucky arched his back, trying to pull himself out of Steve’s mouth. But Steve was all in. Holding him down, Steve looked directly into Bucky’s eyes as he nodded, taking everything that was offered as Bucky orgasmed underneath a blanket of glow-in-the-dark stars.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It was exactly five a.m. when the alarm on Natasha’s phone started playing the chorus of Rihanna's new song. And because she was in love with the throwback melody, she let it play for a few minutes instead of swiping her finger across the screen. Normally, mornings were Natasha’s favorite part of the day. She’d wake up, stretch, and head downstairs to start the coffee while the house was quiet. But for the past four days, her alarm had gone off at 4:15 instead of five so Bucky could get to swim practice. And that, on top of long afternoons at the dance studio, late nights keeping up with schoolwork, and even later nights responding to texts that probably should’ve been ignored, had been enough to make even the most chipper morning person want to throw their alarm across the room. Natasha grabbed her phone off the nightstand, but instead of throwing it, she reminded herself that it was Friday. Friday was Natasha’s early day. Instead of getting out of rehearsal at seven or eight, she was done by six. There was no worrying about riding the subway by herself after dark. No rushing home to study. And for the first time since the texts had turned from silly and sweet to something more, Natasha had time to do something she shouldn’t.Silencing the alarm, she pulled up the message. Sloppy Joes at Slopey Joes in Park Slope? My treat. Suddenly a little snippet of “Love on the Brain” just wasn’t enough. She wanted to hear the whole thing. Opening Spotify and hitting play, Natasha settled back into her pillow, thinking about sloppy joes and onion rings as she listened to the rough edges of Rihanna’s voice owning the classic ’50s groove. Like most songs, the melody made her want to sink into the character and dance. Sandy from Grease. The Fonz from Happy Days. Frankie and Annette in Beach Party. Even before she’d known the words for chassé or pas de chat, Natalia had pointed her toes and leapt into the air, hovering near the edge of the dirt yard to listen to the worker’s radios as they’d smoked cigarettes in their cars. And now, hovering near the edge of a different border, Natasha wanted to ditch her yoga pants and sweatshirt for a poodle skirt with a wide crinoline, a midriff cardigan, and a pair of saddle shoes. Then she could pull her hair into a high ponytail, add a pop of cherry-red lipstick, and find herself a handsome rebel to slow dance with. Sighing, Natasha folded back her blanket.She had someone special in mind. Someone who’d look devilishly handsome leaning against a 1957 Thunderbird with a box of cigarettes rolled into his sleeve. But attraction wasn't the issue. It never had been. The issue was the history, the risks, and Bucky.Yakov was more than her brother; he was her person. Her best friend. Her luchschy droog. The notion of love could Twist and Jive across the surface of Natasha’s brain all it wanted, but she’d never choose love over her brother. Never. “Moving on,” Natasha said as she began her daily ritual of stretching her limbs one at a time, focusing on the movement of the muscles to identify any lingering sore spots. Her toes still hurt from breaking in two pairs of pointe shoes last weekend. Her upper back was tight from the hip-hop choreography she’d reworked before Bucky's meet yesterday. And there was a kink in her neck from sleeping on her pillow wrong. Overall, not too bad.Swinging her legs out of bed, Natasha raised her arms above her head, expanding her rib cage before folding her body in half.“Well, that’s gonna fall off.” The nail bed on her right big toe was completely black. And worse—she poked the center—it was already getting loose around the edges.Natasha had lost quite a few toenails in the four years since she’d transitioned to dancing en pointe. It was to be expected. An annoying, but inevitable, hazard of her craft. And like every other dancer who tortured themselves for their art, she’d just added extra padding in her pointe shoes, worn her Ugg slippers at school, and kept her socks on for the year and half they’d taken to grow back.But this time was different. The poppy seed bagels. The stupid selfies. The Sloppy Joes. All of it had seemed innocent enough until a certain rebel had started dropping hints about Homecoming. Walking her hands away from her toes, Natasha stretched into a downward-facing dog.As a person who danced six—sometimes seven—days a week, Natasha didn’t give a shit about school dances. She’d gone to a few. Junior Prom. Last year’s Snow Ball. Homecoming sophomore year. Not because she enjoyed getting her toes stepped on by a bunch of amateurs, but because her friend Jude lived for sparkles and heels. But unlike Jude—and every other girl who went to Eaton—Natasha had always kept the sparkles to a minimum and worn shoes that favored function over style. Which was why she wanted to kick herself for thinking about the open-toed stilettos in Jude’s closet.Natasha lowered herself into a plank, vowing to hold the position until she stopped thinking about how her luchschy droog’s luchschy droog had ripped a Homecoming poster off the wall and asked if her dad would cut him a deal on a pair of tickets.The song ended, then played again. And still, Natasha waited.“Crushes are for children,” she said as her core began to shake. “And love?”Supporting herself with one arm, Natasha nixed Rihanna.“You shouldn’t shit where you eat.”Natasha’s patience gave out before her muscles, so she grabbed a pair of leggings and a lightweight sweater out of her dresser, along with her thickest pair of socks. Function over style. That’s what she needed. For her toenail. For her sleep schedule. For the person who’d been—and always would be—her very first dance partner.Rihanna might have time for fussy crinolines and cherry-red lipstick, but if Natasha wanted to have time to dry her hair, she had to get in and out of the shower before her dad finished his first cup of coffee. They had a schedule. Natasha got the bathroom first, then her dad, then—“Rogers.”Natasha paused with her fingers wrapped around the doorknob. Every muscle that she’d stretched contracted. The kink in her neck. The tightness across her shoulders. The tension in her quads. But there was more. A sudden tenderness in her abdominal oblique. A sting on her cheek. A sharp pain above her eyebrow. Sympathetic pains for a friend whose suffering had finally come to a head.Bucky made fun of Natasha for being nosy, but she wasn’t nosy; she was observant. It was a trait developed out of necessity. A way to survive within a system. But after last night, it was clear that Natasha should have stuck her nose into Rogers’ business a long time ago.She didn’t know everything that was going on with the people around her, but one thing was for sure: Rogers’ stepdad beat the hell out of him on a regular basis. At school, it was the dirty secret nobody talked about. Not Rogers’ friends. Not the teachers. And, unless he’d been playing his cards close to his chest, not her dad. The reasons for turning a blind eye were obvious. Ignoring the consistent pattern of bruises allowed everybody to continue prioritizing Instagram likes, theme parties, and shopping for the perfect Homecoming dress. Not to mention, keeping Eaton’s swim team at the top of the national rankings without any of that pesky guilt. Or maybe she was giving people too much credit. Natasha opened the door. Maybe they just didn't care.Natasha was friends with Rogers, but they weren’t close. Sure, they’d worked together on the occasional group project, made small talk at parties, and waved at one another in the hall, but she’d never been to his house. They’d never had a deep, meaningful conversation about their goals and aspirations. And aside from the spring of sophomore year, when Rogers had ‘politely’ told her to fuck off, she’d never said anything about the bruises.The bruise on the back of Rogers’ neck hadn’t been any worse than any of the others she’d seen. If anything, it had been on the small side, easily mistaken for a hickey or shadow. But Natasha had been trapped in the desk behind Rogers during the PSAT, trying to calculate algebraic equations with that bruise not two feet in front of her nose. For three solid hours, Natasha had observed the shape, the size, the color, and—most tellingly—the concealer where Rogers had done a shit job blending the edges. Instead of going downstairs to start the coffee, Natasha pressed her palm against her brother’s Queen poster.She would move mountains for Bucky. For her dad. For Clint…But she couldn’t save everybody. If Natalia had stolen blankets and cookies for every traumatized orphan with ice-cold toes and a rumbling belly, she would’ve been caught. So she’d made the hard decision. Hardening herself, Natalia had saved one.One try. That’s how far she’d stuck her neck out for Rogers. One blanket. One cookie. One step out of her four-person circle.After the test, Natasha had pulled Rogers aside and tried to talk some sense into him. She’d told him to talk to her dad. He’d gotten defensive. She’d told him to call in an anonymous tip. He’d ‘politely’ thanked her for her concern. She’d told him it was only a matter of time before somebody called the police. He’d make it perfectly clear that it was none of her fucking business.Sighing, Natasha flattened the bottom of the poster where the tape had come unstuck. It had been a year and a half since Natasha had relegated herself to observer. A year and a half that she’d been telling herself that Steve Rogers had a tight circle of friends with more power, resources, and knowledge than she—or her dad—could ever hope to possess. Stark was Stark. Money. Connections. More money. And Wilson was a stand-up guy. If he hadn’t said anything, there had to be a reason. Something Natasha didn’t know. And while Peggy Carter had never waved at her in the hall, Natasha knew enough about her character to trust that if something needed to be done, she would have done it.But the reason Natasha had never mentioned her suspicions to Bucky had nothing to do with any of that. The jokes about Rogers’ ass. The all-American headphones she’d bought to make her brother blush on Christmas morning. The countless pictures of Rogers in a blue-and-white Speedo saved on Bucky’s phone. Crushes might be for children, but like most things made for kids, they were fun.“Why would I ruin that?” Natasha asked, whispering as she ran her finger across Freddie Mercury’s sideburn. “It’s not like I thought this would happen.”Natasha could pretend she was talking about Rogers; but she wasn’t. And she could pretend the pit in her stomach was strictly from the pesky guilt of seeing just how much damage an observer could cause; but it wasn’t. And because pretending was just as repulsive as open-toed stilettos on a girl without toenails, Natasha stopped thinking about twisting the rebel’s hair into a modern-day pompadour and moved the fuck on.Dropping her modern-day outfit next to the bathroom door, she tiptoed to the top of the stairs. Here, silence required technique. A precise set of motions learned by trial and error. It was bad enough that Natasha had made Bucky sleep on the couch instead of telling him he could sleep in her room. She wasn’t going to add insult to injury by running down the stairs.When Natasha placed her foot on the first step, it started to creak. Unacceptable. Immediately reversing the trajectory of her toes, she shifted their position two inches to the left before lowering her weight again. The step didn’t make a sound.Being observant wasn't the only trait Natasha had learned out of necessity. In the winter months at the orphanage, being able to move silently across cold, creaking floors in the middle of the night had kept Yakov and Natalia full and warm. She’d taught her body to blend into the sounds, sneaking past janitors mopping the hallways, night watchmen smoking cigarettes, and sleeping children shivering in their beds to steal food from the kitchen and blankets from the laundry room. In the summer, she’d done it for the challenge. Lighters from unattended coat pockets. Money from purses that, to Natalia, had been as useless as a handful of gum wrappers. Car keys out of desk drawers, just to see the workers’ faces when they’d realized they hadn’t been able to leave. At the time, Natasha hadn’t understood the compulsion. But looking back, she saw how it had helped her stay sane. There was power in moving around unseen, and in a place where everything had been beyond her control, a little agency had gone a long way. The funny thing was, even after finding herself in a house with a well-stocked refrigerator and an overabundance of blankets, she’d never really broken the habit. On the third step, Natasha slid her toes all the way against the wall to avoid the loosest part of the board. One inch to the left, and the entire banister would creak. If Natalia had been caught at the orphanage, her winter coat would’ve been given to someone who’d known how to behave—or worse, they would’ve taken Yakov’s. If Bucky caught her sneaking down the staircase, Natasha would have to acknowledge a different compulsion. One where she was the person slowly stealing her brother’s warm winter coat.A poppy seed bagel was just a bagel until the person sharing it let you braid—then unbraid—his hair. A stupid selfie was just a selfie until the person sending it took off his shirt. And a morning nap was just a nap until your brother’s best friend fell asleep on the floor of the drama room, not two feet away as Natasha had curled up on the couch behind the costumes.The fourth step was the loudest. No matter where she stepped, there wasn’t a spot that allowed silent passage. Natasha had always thought her brother’s crush on Rogers was an unachievable dream—like Bucky marrying Jared Leto or turning into a “non-sparkly vampire” so he could have “sexy teeth.” But last night, when her brother had offered to dress up as a nurse, that dream had turned into a real possibility. Even catatonic, when Bucky had bent over to pick up an ice cube, Rogers had glanced at his ass.Instead of skipping the step, Natasha hopped down with both feet, telling herself not to cringe when the creak revealed her position.Observer. Matchmaker. Exploiter. Luchschy droog or not, Natasha had been all three when she’d left the first-aid kit by Bucky’s door. If her brother had shown up with Skinner or Wilson—or one of the Wills from the archery team—Natasha would have helped Bucky clean and disinfect the cut, shown him where to stick the Band-Aids, and made everybody a late-night snack. Then she would have grabbed three extra pillows out of the linen closet and made a wall down the center of her bed so Bucky couldn’t spoon her in her sleep.But Bucky wasn’t the only one with an unachievable dream that suddenly seemed achievable. And, right or wrong, walking away from that first-aid kid had been an even bigger rush than stealing the headmistress’ car keys. Maybe because this time, Natasha was old enough to drive.The edges of the fifth step were loose, just like her toenail. If she didn’t want it to squeak, she had to press firmly in the center.“Or rip off the entire board,” Natasha said because Rihanna, with her poodle skirts and saddle shoes, was relentless.Bucky was too big for the couch. His feet had been hanging off the end for years. And if Yakov had outgrown the furniture, maybe it was time for Natalia to stop sneaking around.Letting go of the banister, Natasha danced her way to the bottom, pirouetting as she glanced into the living room.“What the hell?”The couch was empty. No blankets bunched up at the end. No half-empty Cheetos bags stuffed in the corners. And in what could potentially be Natasha’s greatest accomplishment—or biggest downfall—no feet hanging over the armrest.Reversing her path, Natasha ran back up the stairs without making a sound. She had about five minutes before her dad’s alarm went off. And less than that to get Bucky into her room, start the coffee, and pretend like none of this had ever happened. Love on the brain was great… until your dad caught you in bed with the object of your affection. Then you were fucked.The object of Natasha’s affection may have chosen to nap on the floor, but the odds that Bucky had fallen asleep in a pile of dirty laundry were less than zero. Not with the way Rogers had looked at his ass.Suddenly it all made sense. Rogers dumping Sharon. Wilson’s attempt to trade two Nutri-Grain bars for inside information about why his co-captain had been acting “like a Goddamn airhead” around Bucky. The rumors about Rogers getting Rumlow and Rollins suspended.Natasha slid to a stop in front of Bucky’s door, her toes landing in the exact same spot where they’d been only minutes before. But this time, she wasn’t thinking about Freddie Mercury’s sideburns; she was thinking about Clint’s. Observer. Thief. Without a doubt, Natasha’s attention to the latter had distracted her from the first, because of all the things Rogers kept hidden from the world, Natasha had never suspected that one of them was a thing for her brother. She opened the door without knocking, and what she saw—“You’ve got to be kidding me.”Natasha had expected some tentative spooning, maybe a missing shirt or two, but this?Bucky was completely naked, with his arms wrapped around Rogers’ equally naked chest. But the worst part wasn’t seeing her brother’s ass gleaming in the moonlight. It was thinking about the list of potential substances that could have adhered Bucky’s hair to Rogers’ chin. Spit? Drool? Come? Natasha shivered and laughed at the same time. The only reason Natasha didn’t slam the door—aside from the car keys jingling in her pocket—was the fact that Bucky hadn’t kicked the last remaining corner of the comforter off Rogers’ bottom half.Shutting the door behind her, Natasha switched on the lamp. “For fuck’s sake.”The last remaining corner of the comforter was only covering part of Rogers’ bottom half. And it wasn’t the part that mattered.Natasha tried not to look. She really did. But the majority of Rogers’ penis was sticking out above the waistband of the stupid bat pants she’d given Bucky for his birthday and—Natasha swallowed.Let’s just say that her brother had really good taste. But she already knew that, didn't she? Her dad’s alarm went off. And because his morning routine started with an immediate trip to the kitchen for a fresh cup of coffee, Natasha knew her window for stashing Bucky in her bedroom had closed. Trying not to look at Rogers’ pubes, Natasha stepped forward to shake her brother’s shoulder and—“No.” Her toes sunk into something squishy and wet. “No, no, no, no, no…”It didn’t matter that Bucky would be grounded for life, Rogers would be banned from their house, and Natasha would have to forget all about sparkles and stilettos. If she’d just stepped on a used condom full of Rogers’—or her brother’s—cold come, she was going to wake up the entire neighborhood!Frantically wiping her foot on the carpet, Natasha looked down.It was a pile of peas.Wet, mushy peas.“Mudak!” She smacked the top of Bucky’s head. “Wake up, asshole.”Bucky did not wake up.Ever since Yakov had found himself in a soft bed with plenty of blankets, waking him up had been an ordeal. He bitched. He moaned. He hit snooze on his alarm too many times to count. Once in a blue moon, her brother popped out of bed like he was ready to take over the world. But most days, their dad had to spray water on his face to get him to open his eyes.Yes, they kept a spray bottle in the bathroom. No, Natasha didn’t have time to get it.Trying another tactic, Natasha said, “Rogers, you’ve got to wake up.”She tapped his shoulder. Lightly, then a little bit harder. But when Rogers turned his face toward the light and moaned, Natasha regretted everything. The way she’d jumped onto the noisiest parts of the steps. The way she’d fallen asleep listening to the sound of Clint’s breathing through the phone instead of cuddling up to a wall of pillows. The way she’d put a pair of open-toed stilettos before Rogers’ need to heal.The bruises that had developed overnight were shocking. Even with Bucky’s hair covering most of Rogers’ chest, Natasha could see the black-and-purple splotches that had crept around Rogers’ side. And it wasn’t just his ribs. Bucky had done a terrible job with the cut on Rogers’ forehead. There was gauze dangling off his eyebrow, pieces of tape that didn’t make any sense, and, at some point during the night, the bandages had come loose and Rogers had bled all over the pillow.“What?” Rogers swatted at the gauze. “What’s going on?”Regret. Guilt. The desire to tell Rihanna to go fuck herself.If Natasha could reverse her trajectory, she would.“My dad’s awake, and my brother’s naked.”“What?”Rogers tried to sit up, but all he managed to do was rip Bucky’s hair off his chin and say, “Ouch,” at the same time as her brother said, “Ow.” And Natasha, surrounded by naked dumbasses, facepalmed.It took a few seconds for Rogers to grasp the magnitude of the situation, but when Bucky said, “Go away… mmm… sleepin’,” and reached around to squeeze Rogers’ ass, he figured it out real quick.“Oh shit!" “I mean, that’s a bit of an understatement, but—” “Bucky! You need… shit! Pants! Where are his pants?”“I don’t know.” Natasha shrugged. “I’m not the one who took them off.”Anyone else would have shoved Bucky off to the side and thrown a blanket over his ass, but Rogers was chivalrous to a fault.“They had Luke,” he said, doing his best to inch his way into a sitting position without moving Bucky’s head. “And Darth Vader… but pants. Vader on pants.”Her brother’s ass. The peas. The fact that Rogers’ vocabulary was currently limited to the word pants and short phrases relating to the word pants. It was the stupidest thing she’d ever seen.Natasha could easily grab the comforter off the end of the bed and hide her brother’s mess, but, the truth was, she was tired of fixing everything. Boards came loose. Nails fell off. Relationships changed. Maybe if Natasha let things break, somebody else would figure out how to stick a Band-Aid over a wound.“Shit, Bucky! You're on my… oh God…”Bucky’s face had slid all the way down to Rogers’ crotch. And Bucky—taking the word hummer literally—had mumbled, “Mmm… cock-a-doodle-doo," directly into Rogers’ pubes.Accepting defeat, Natasha said, “My dad’s gonna kill you.” “I’m going to kill him for what?”The door swung open, and Natasha, standing center stage in the mess she’d chosen not to fix, laughed out loud.Her dad stood there for a full minute, taking it all in. His son happily snoring on Rogers’ penis. Rogers’ hands hovering above Bucky’s head like he was trying to decide whether to remove Bucky’s face from his pubes or leave it firmly attached. The pile of wet, mushy peas. It was a lot, especially before her dad’s first cup of coffee. Looking at Rogers’ face—and only his face—her dad said, “Your forehead looks horrible.” Bucky called it the Mask of Denial. The distant eyes. The smoothing out of his forehead wrinkles. The slow, even breaths. Their dad put it on whenever he was blocking out the worst parts of a situation, and in this case, it applied in more ways than one.“And that bruise is serious.” He glanced at Rogers’ rib cage—and only his rib cage. “We should’ve taken you to the hospital. We should still take you to the—""I’m fine.”“Steve…”“I just need some Tylenol."Natasha and her dad exchanged looks because Rogers’ understanding of Tylenol’s capabilities was way off.“Then you need to stay here.” Pushing his glasses out of the way, her dad pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need time to figure out how to handle this, and—”“There’s nothing to handle. I got into a fight. End of story. By Monday, it will look fine.”Rogers didn’t use the words fuck off, but the meaning was the same. “As soon as I figure out how to move him”—Rogers dropped his gaze to Bucky’s head—“I’ll get out of your hair.”Oh. My. God.Natasha had tried to keep it together. She really had. But there comes a point when a person has to surrender.“Oh, Rogers.” Natasha snorted. “You mean you’ll get out of Bucky’s hair.”Stealing rubles out of purses. Picking locks to ensure that when the time came, she’d be able to open any door. Tearing Band-Aids off instead of sticking them on. It felt good to laugh, just like it had felt good to dangle her arm over the edge of the couch and run her fingers through Clint’s hair.When her dad shouted, “Natasha!” in a voice used exclusively to yell at her brother, she kept right on laughing. Screw the poodle skirt! Suddenly she was the one leaning against a 1957 Thunderbird with a pack of cigarettes rolled into her sleeve.But her dad had bigger problems than Natasha listening to Rihanna. Namely getting Rogers to ‘stay put.’Running his fingers through what was left of his hair, her dad said, “Please, Steve. Just stay here and rest.” He glanced at Bucky’s ass like it pained him. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Bucky can stay home with you. But you’ve got to put clothes on. Both of you. And once they’re on, they need to stay on. Got it?”In all the years Natasha had known Rogers, she’d never seen him look so embarrassed. And that included the day before Junior Prom when Stark had filled Rogers’ locker with custom-printed condoms that had read Good luck losing your virginity, Steve!Her dad waited for Rogers to nod before making the biggest mistake of his life.“Did you hear me, Bucky?”“Mm-hmm.” Bucky lifted his head just enough to expose Rogers’ penis, which, as penises tend to do when somebody hums on them, was more than a little erect.Love on the brain. Rebellion on the brain. Penises on the brain. When Natasha had woken up to the sound of Rihanna’s voice owning that classic ’50s groove, she never would’ve guessed that she’d be kicking off her day with an unobstructed view of her brother’s nose touching the tip of Rogers’ penis. But then again, it wasn’t the first time she’d seen her brother’s face attached to somebody’s crotch.“Get dressed,” her dad said before walking into the hall. “And, please, Steve. Be here when I get home.”Relationships changed. Friends became lovers. Lovers became friends. Observers became matchmakers. And caretakers learned that it was okay to care for somebody else.Dragging her loose nail across the carpet, Natasha said, “His pants are stuck between the mattress and the wall. Next to the flashlight.” If the toenail fell off, Clint would bandage her toe. All she had to do was let him.“But don’t worry,” she said, picking the lock to see if Rogers would open the door. “I’ll tell my dad that I saw the two of you get dressed.” ***** The cacophony of sounds drifting into Steve’s subconscious pulled him out of a deep sleep, his mind remembering something that he couldn’t quite reconcile. He’d been dreaming about garbage men banging metal cans against curbs, pigeons cooing through cracked windows, and sirens echoing in the distance. Dreaming of someplace safe… someplace where he’d like to stay.Instead of fading, the sirens got louder, creating layers upon layers of sound until their shrieks overtook everything. But the noise didn’t send Steve to a place of worry or fear. On the edge of lucidity, the sirens sounded like a long-lost favorite song, their melody carrying Steve back to a place that almost felt like home.But Steve had to pee, his stomach was growling, and his head hurt. All basic human concerns that had nothing to do with dreams. So when the sirens reached their inevitable peak, passing just below the window, Steve opened his eyes to his new reality.It took a moment for the curving contour of Bucky’s shoulder to come into focus, but when it did, Steve questioned his consciousness. Only in his dreams would he be able to stretch out his hand and sense the heat radiating from a celestial being. The skin, the warmth, the unfamiliar familiarity. It had to be a projection from a duplicitous pane of glass. Touching his eyelid, Steve cringed.The swelling was a fucking nightmare. And for that, Steve was grateful. Pain was the stuff of reality. A truth-teller in a world of smoke and mirrors. And the fact that Steve had to pry open his eyelid to fully expose his lens was all the confirmation he needed that, for once in his life, he’d done more than play make-believe.Bucky was sleeping on his side a few feet away, but Steve could tell by the pattern of the blankets, the wonderful warmth, and the sheen of sweat on Bucky’s back that they’d been squished together only moments before. And the thought of that contact… the idea that they’d been drawn together without conscious choice… more than made up for Steve’s face.With Bucky’s body stretched to its full length, it was clear that every curve and dip was worthy of Botticelli’s brush. The powerful muscles that supported his spine, the unexpected loops and spirals of his hair, the enticing tones of his summertime skin. Even the dust particles, dancing like tiny snowflakes as they swirled through the air above Bucky’s hills and valleys, were beautiful.God, Steve itched to draw him.“Him,” Steve said, whispering into the softness of the snow. “Him.” Beautiful or not, that was going to take some getting used to. If Steve had woken up amongst the stars, weightless and without boundaries, the distinction wouldn’t matter. Him, her, they. The Starboy could have a prehensile dick and a talking vagina for all the stars cared. But the constellations were plastic in the light of day, and Steve’s jaw was sore from something that had absolutely nothing to do with Alexander’s fists. Steve opened and closed his mouth, remembering just how much he’d wanted it. How turned on he’d been when Bucky had made him gag. And that— Steve smiled when his dick twitched. That was something that was going to take more than a little getting used to. So this was the morning after. Swallowing the saliva that had pooled in his mouth, Steve shifted his eyes to the ceiling. He didn’t care that the phosphorescent stars were plastic; he still thanked them for leading him here. The Big Dipper, Sagittarius, Cepheus. Hell, he even thanked Corvus the Raven, because while Steve had technically made it to this part before, unintentional and awful didn’t count. It just didn’t.Peggy’s parents had always made Steve sleep in the guest room—with the door open—when Peggy had brought him on family trips to their house upstate. He’d never stayed past ten at Peggy’s Upper East Side brownstone, even on the weekends. And just like every other person that Steve considered a friend, he’d never let Peggy set foot in the penthouse, let alone woken up next to her on his frameless mattress. That wasn’t to say that they’d never slept in the same bed. They had. But Steve had always owed Peggy an apology the next morning. If not about his broken dick, then about the vomit in the trash can from Steve slamming half a dozen tequila shots; the vomit all over the toilet from Steve mixing cocktail shrimp, orange juice, and Johnnie Walker Blue; or the vomit on the end of the bed from Tony, who—in addition to drinking his weight in vodka—had downed a handful of Xanax and passed out by Steve’s feet at Bruce’s Saint Patrick’s Day party. Steve wiggled his toes. Not because he was reminiscing about waking up with vomit-soaked socks, but because, even with his feet buried in blankets, he could tell that one of Bucky’s scary rabbit slippers had stayed on overnight. And that softness… that unconditional hug… was infinitely better than waking up with Tony’s shamrock-green tie wrapped around his ankle.For the most part, his friends' experiences with the morning after had been better than Steve’s. But there hadn't been any glowing reviews. Sam was tight-lipped when it came to girls, but the word awkward had been used on more than one occasion. Ezra had advised Steve to set an alarm so he could “sneak out before the chick wakes up.” And Tony’s morning-after stories were too crazy to even consider. Waking up handcuffed to a bed with a five-thousand dollar charge on his credit card, shaved testicles, and a foggy memory of three leather-clad women snorting MDMA off his dick just wasn’t something Steve could relate to.Ignoring the dull ache in his rib cage, Steve rolled onto his side.He had every reason to feel awkward. Not only was he at the principal’s house, but the principal—and the principal’s daughter—had seen Steve’s penis. But there was nothing awkward about watching the subtle expansion and contraction of Bucky’s waist. No reason to escape from a bed with a sturdy frame. And, as crazy as it was, Steve had no regrets about running his tongue across a pair of testicles that hadn’t been shaved. Steve laughed. And when Bucky arched his back, grumbling something that sounded like “Shhh… shut it, dipshhh…” Steve succumbed to a magnetic pull that he didn’t understand. “Does the Moon understand why it circles the Earth?” Steve asked, inching his way into a lower orbit. “Does Mother Earth understand that the Moon’s gravity controls her tides?” “I said, shhh… sleepin’...”Bucky swatted at him, but Steve wasn’t deterred.“Does understanding even matter when the symbiotic relationship is so natural?”Steve felt the vibration of the poles as he mimicked Bucky’s form. Touching him without touching him… connecting without a physical connection… Steve’s heart accelerated from the promise alone.But Steve had to pee. And lovestruck soliloquies didn’t have the same effect when their subject was lying in a puddle of piss.Escaping for reasons that had nothing to do with escape, Steve pushed back the comforter, and there, just below his left pec, was a black hole.Gravity was great when it pulled you toward the boy beneath the stars, but it fucking sucked when the blackness accentuated the gravity of a situation.The bruise was dark. Too dark to hide with a towel or a triple layer of waterproof concealer. “How the fuck am I going to hide this?” Steve ran his hand across the mess on his forehead, cringing when he felt the thickness of the scab. “How the fuck am I going to hide any of this?”Getting out of Bucky’s bed, Steve grabbed the t-shirt Bucky had given him last night and walked out of the room.“Rabbit, no rabbit,” Steve said as the singularity’s ears popped up and down in time with his steps. “Rabbit, no rabbit,” he said as he made a right-hand turn into the bathroom and flipped the light switch. On… then off. Off… then on. Steve knew that he’d stood in this exact same spot last night, surveying the damage in the mirror, but the room only contained the faintest hints of déjà vu.There were extra rolls of toilet paper stacked on the shelf above the toilet, a candle on the windowsill with a plastic flamingo sticking out of the wax, and a sticky note on the mirror that read Bucky, wipe the sink after you shave. It was signed with a heart.Closing his eyes, Steve gripped the edge of the sink.Once upon a time, Steve had stood in another tiny bathroom where the medicine cabinet mirror had been exactly the same, chipped edges and all. But Steve wasn’t the same. When his mother had stood behind him as they’d brushed their teeth, smiling as she’d reminded him to brush his tongue, Steve’s face had barely cleared the bottom. But now?Stretching to his full height, Steve was confronted by a mirror that cut off the top of his head.“Where did you go?” Steve shrunk down to try and find the boy who, in addition to brushing his teeth three times a day, had looked forward to flossing.He wasn’t there.Searching for the boy’s reflection, Steve squatted even lower. But even at the right height, he couldn’t make the two Steves correspond.“Get it together,” Steve said, yanking open the mirror and grabbing the Tylenol off the middle shelf. It was bad enough that he was seeing black holes and talking to a rabbit, he didn’t need his mother showing up with a toothbrush and a container of floss.Steve swallowed two pills dry before throwing a third one down his throat, just for the hell of it. Then he took his dick out of Bucky Fucking Barnes’ pajama pants and aimed it at the toilet. And there, taped next to the handle, was a note that read Bucky, put down the seat.Legally, Steve was an adult. He could vote, join the Army, and tell Principal Barnes—and Child Protective Services—to go to hell. But that didn’t stop him from sitting on the toilet like a fucking preschooler so he didn’t have to look at Natasha’s tiny blue heart.It was a mistake. By turning his back on one thing, Steve had set himself up for something much, much worse.The plastic shower curtain was covered with tiny turquoise unicorns with funny blue helmets, and they were flying through outer space with rainbows shooting out of their asses. Jupiter. Saturn. A smattering of lopsided stars. They were all there, along with pink graffiti-style letters that spelled out Space Unicorn! Holding his dick down so he didn’t defile Bucky’s bathroom, Steve laughed, pissed, and cried, all at the same time.There wasn’t a doubt in Steve’s mind that Bucky Fucking Barnes had picked out the curtain, or that he’d made multiple Uranus jokes when he’d talked his dad into paying for it. And that was the problem. No matter how much Steve wanted to shower with a bunch of cartoon space unicorns, this bathroom wasn’t his, this reality wasn’t real, and Bucky Fucking Barnes was going to wake up wishing that Steve had set an alarm. “Enough,” Steve said, wiping his eyes with the same hand he’d used to shake off the piss.Lucid dreams or not, Steve was destined to end up naked in the corner of a big glass box, shivering as he watched Bucky’s rainbows go down the drain. And the sooner he wrapped his head around that, the sooner he could get off this fucking toilet.But there was a whisper coming from behind the curtain, telling Steve that Bucky had pulled the edges of his cut together, not Bucky Fucking Barnes. That Bucky, after tearing the backings off the bandages with his teeth, had introduced Steve to the catharsis of healing. Was it his mother? The unicorns? The rainbows themselves? Or—and this was the most likely scenario—was a cerebral hematoma reducing the blood flow to Steve’s brain?Either way, it was a problem. Standing up, Steve scanned the room. The shower curtain was a problem. The two-ply toilet paper was a problem. The sticky notes were a problem. The flamingo. The places where the paint was peeling from the steam. The toothbrush holder with three toothbrushes originating from the same base. Everything in this perfect Brooklyn bathroom was a fucking problem, but instead of leaving—or jumping out the window—Steve went back to the mirror.“The catharsis of healing,” Steve said as he ripped off the bandages that had survived the night.And when his vision went black—“Jesus Christ.” Steve was holding two blood-soaked Band-Aids, half an eyebrow, and the entire scab. And worse, the blood was flowing freely, traveling through the hairless gap like Steve had demolished a levee in the middle of a hurricane.Grabbing a roll of toilet paper, Steve stuck a square of two-ply over the hole. And when that turned red, he said, “Five-hundred-ply,” and used the entire roll.There had been other bruises. Other cuts. But Steve hadn’t gotten it this bad since last December, when Alexander had one-upped Ebenezer Scrooge and set Steve’s sketchbook on fire.It had been a careless mistake. Stupid. Dumb. Amateur. But in Steve’s world, careless mistakes led to unexpected gifts.Adding pressure to the fissure, Steve flattened the cardboard tube. Alexander’s temper was unpredictable, but his schedule was not. He golfed on Saturdays when the weather was warm and worked out with a personal trainer when it wasn't. He had a standing Friday-night dinner reservation at Le Coucou, a personal masseuse that came to the penthouse Monday and Wednesday mornings before he left for the office, and, unless one of his rotating stable of personal assistants had announced a deviation, there hadn’t been a time since Steve’s mother had died that Alexander had returned from work before six o’clock in the evening.When school was in session, it gave Steve time to get a snack, sit on something that wasn’t his mattress, and stare at the park through a different set of windows. When it wasn’t, Steve had the whole day to wander around the perimeter of the penthouse, trying to come up with a way to get the fuck out.Staring at his reflection, Steve said, “Three fifty-two,” because that’s when Alexander had walked out of the elevator. Three fifty-two, the day before Christmas Eve.Steve had been looking down at a Salvation Army Santa, eating an apple and texting back and forth with Peggy about going to see a five o’clock movie. The Force Awakens? Four fifty-five. The Revenant? Five fifteen. Krampus? Five twenty-five. But Steve hadn’t made it to a movie that day—or any day for the rest of Christmas break—because Steve hadn’t just eaten the apple, he’d drawn the apple. It had been a quick sketch. A touch of red. A cast shadow with tones of green. The words An apple a day keeps the depression away written in cursive off to the side.“An apple a day doesn’t keep the beatings away,” Steve said, using his free hand to pry apart his eyelids, “and it sure as fuck doesn’t keep your eye socket from looking like a rotted plum.”Less than a week after Steve’s mother had died, Alexander had explicitly ordered Steve to stop “wasting his time on art.” The drawings that Steve had made to remind himself of what he’d lost had been thrown into the trash, the colored pencils his mother had bought him had disappeared, and when he’d gone back to school, his schedule had been changed from art to gym. And Steve had ‘obeyed.’ For years, he’d washed the graphite off the side of his hand before going anywhere near Alexander. He’d hid his pencil shavings in a shoe box, kept his graffiti clothes in a duffle bag in the back of the Escalade, and paid cash for his markers and spray paint. And he’d always made sure that his sketchbook was in the very bottom of his backpack, hidden by an empty folder with the zipper shut.“But you got distracted,” Steve said, flicking the flamingo’s pink plastic beak. The Salvation Army Santa, Peggy pushing him to see The Revenant, the fucking apple. Steve had wandered over to the windows and left his sketchbook wide open by the fucking fruit bowl. If the sketchbook had been full of nothing but apples, Alexander still would have burned it. That was a given. But tucked between the charcoal drawings of the rock formations in Central Park, the intricate drawings of the horses without their fucking carriages, and Steve’s unhinged collection of pigeon portraits had been a loose sketch of a woman with cherry blossoms woven into her golden-yellow hair. Steve hadn’t pissed blood for a week for drawing an apple. He’d pissed blood for a week for daring to sketch a memory of his mother.The sound of the pages ripping out one by one. The noise of Alexander crumbling them into little balls. The nausea as Steve had curled into the fetal position on the rug after collapsing from a punch to the kidney. Beneath the stockings that the decorator had hung by the mantle with care, Steve had listened to his drawings become fuel for Alexander’s fire, choosing to just lie there and watch them burn. Throwing the toilet paper into the sink, Steve put on Bucky’s t-shirt so he didn’t have to look at the bruise.His forehead was still bleeding. The roll of toilet paper looked like a used tampon. And Steve was spiraling. And once he started, it was almost impossible to make it stop.After his mother had been promoted to executive assistant, it hadn’t taken long for Alexander to notice her pretty blonde hair and effervescent personality. In fact, Steve was pretty damn sure that was the reason she’d been promoted in the first place. A twice-divorced billionaire falling for a humble secretary? Using his thumb as a temporary dam, Steve scoffed. “That’s what you called a fucking fairy tale.”Maybe Alexander had loved her, and maybe she’d loved him. But after the newly minted Mrs. Pierce had gotten sick, everything that had been hiding beneath the surface of Alexander’s personality had started to bubble and boil. Watching his beautiful new wife wither away to nothing—especially when all the money in the world hadn’t been able to save her—had awakened something evil in Alexander. Something cruel. And getting stuck with her son? Steve may have only been twelve years old when Alexander had hit him for the first time, but he’d been smart enough to know why. Sarah Rogers was gone, and Steve wasn’t.Letting the blood drip wherever the fuck it wanted, Steve turned away from the mirror with every intention of never stepping foot in Bucky’s bathroom again. And that’s when he saw it.The day Steve’s mother had moved him into the penthouse, Steve had stood on the counter in his very own bathroom, marveling at the size of the mirror and how, even with his arms stretched toward the ceiling, he’d been able to see his entire body. The day they’d moved his mother into the cemetery, Steve had stood on the counter in that very same bathroom, missing everything about their chipped Brooklyn mirror and the homey space that had housed it, including the tiny towel rack and the ‘frustrating’ way the towels had never been dry the next day. Next to the light switch were three towels crammed onto one tiny bar. One white. One striped. And one with SpongeBob SquarePants dancing around with a bunch of jellyfish.“Don’t do it,” Steve said as his fingers hovered above Bucky’s towel. “Don’t—”The cotton was still damp.Everything about Bucky’s rabbit slippers had been charming—from the matted grey fur to the bloodshot eyes—until Steve found himself running from SpongeBob Squarepants with the fucking ears flopping up and down.Rabbit, no rabbit. Steve ran down the stairs two at a time. Rabbit, no rabbit. Steve tripped on the rug at the bottom, hitting the wall hard enough to leave a dent.And still, the rabbit hung on.Synchronicity was fucking magical until your fingers went numb. Then it was a curse. The mirror. The towel rack. The fucking fireplace next to the Barnes family couch.Steve stopped at the edge of the living room. Not because he was hyperventilating, but because there was a half-empty bottle of root beer on the coffee table and there wasn’t a coaster in sight.If Steve forgot to use a coaster, Alexander would probably break his leg.That was it. The thing that pushed Steve over the edge. Not the mirror. Not the unicorns. Not SpongeBob. But the knowledge that nobody in Bucky’s family used a fucking coaster.Picking up the bottle, Steve started sobbing like a baby. And when he saw that a pattern of rings covered the entire table, his entire left arm went numb.This was the life Steve wanted. This right here.A mom to scold Steve for putting a dent in the wall? The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.A dad to drink root beer with while they watched baseball on the couch? There wasn’t a verse in the Bible to explain why God had fucked Steve over twice on that one.Steve didn’t give a shit that the root beer was flat and warm, he drank it down like Sacramental wine. And when the numbness spread to his lips, he stumbled toward the hideous blue-and-red plaid couch and collapsed into the cushions.There was an obvious dip in the center. Padding that had been crushed over time by the weight of a family. And Steve couldn’t breathe.Ignore the periphery. Get his imagination under control. Focus.That might be possible if the periphery weren’t full of multicolored throw pillows and water rings.Deep breath. Hold it for ten motherfucking seconds. Blow it out really fucking slow.The fireplace looked like it hadn’t been used in years, but the mantle—Shallow breath. Hold it for zero seconds. Hyperventilate until you pass out or die.The mantle was covered from end to end by the kind of picture frames you couldn’t buy at IKEA.In no way did Steve think that getting up close and personal with Bucky’s family pictures would bring the feeling back to the left side of his body. And maybe that’s why he did it.Using Bucky’s t-shirt to wipe the snot off his nose, Steve said, “Rabbit, no rabbit,” as he picked up a ceramic frame shaped like a Christmas tree. Green glitter. Tiny beads that looked like lights. A gold pipe cleaner at the top in the shape of a star. Bucky and Natasha were standing with their dad in front of the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree, smiling like families were supposed to during the holidays. From the length of Bucky’s hair, Steve guessed that it had been taken last Christmas, right around the same time that Steve’s sketches had been roasting like chestnuts on an open fire.Steve pulled the collar of Bucky’s t-shirt over his mouth like a mask because, while his breathing had slowed, his desire to inhale had become nonexistent.There was a wooden frame with a picture of Bucky diving off the block into a pool. A brass frame with a picture of Natasha dancing on the tips of her toes like she belonged in a Degas. A crooked frame with a picture of Bucky and Clint at twelve or thirteen years old, petting a Golden Retriever puppy. A random Polaroid of Skinner, Daisy, and Clint wearing party hats and smashing cupcakes on Bucky’s head.“His birthday,” Steve said, trying to remember the last time he’d eaten a cupcake.In the center of all the happiness was a frame that was nicer than the rest. Not because it looked like it came from Tiffany’s, but because the silver was reflective, like somebody picked it up once or twice a week and polished it to a shine.Lifting the frame by the edges, Steve was careful not to get fingerprints on the glass.Much younger versions of Bucky and Natasha were standing on either side of Mr. Barnes in front of a concrete building. Bucky’s hair was shorter. Natasha’s was longer. And Mr. Barnes’ hairline was slightly closer to his eyebrows. And their smiles—Steve touched the tip of his pinky to the cleft in Bucky’s chin.Sometimes a person possesses knowledge with no recollection of having received it. That’s how it was with Principal Barnes. Steve knew that Mr. Barnes had lost his wife in a car accident and that, not long after, he’d adopted Bucky and Natasha from an orphanage in Russia. But Steve couldn’t for the life of him remember how he knew. He just did.Tap-tap-tapping the glass, Steve whispered, “What did it feel like?” because even in his wildest dreams, he couldn’t fathom the joy of suddenly finding himself wanted… of finding out that a perfect stranger had traveled across the ocean to make him a part of a family.Excited. Overwhelmed. Scared shitless. The smiles told Steve that he was holding something precious. “Your first family picture,” Steve said, putting the frame back in its place.Once upon a time, Steve’s mother had shown him a handful of photographs that had proved that he’d once had a father, even if Joseph Rogers’ end had come before Steve’s beginning.But those pictures were long gone. The crumbling macaroni-noodle frame that Steve had made for his mother for Christmas, complete with a crayon drawing of his beloved Snuffleupagus. The cheap metal frames with Steve’s school pictures from kindergarten to fifth grade. The faded photo album filled with pictures of people that his mother had called Grandma and Grandpa… pictures of people that had made her cry.Alexander had thrown them into the trash, along with everything else that had once belonged to Sarah Rogers.Well, everything but Steve.Laughing so he didn’t cry, Steve pulled Bucky’s t-shirt even higher, turning it into a turtleneck to stop the memories from touching his skin.Only one picture had survived Alexander’s purge. Not from the beginning, not from the end, but from the middle, when Steve had been his happiest. And only because Steve had kept it hidden beneath the corner of his mattress.“Coney Island,” Steve said as the ocean breeze cut through the t-shirt and lifted the hairs on the back of his neck.Steve’s mother had surprised him with a trip to Luna Park for his birthday, spoiling him with snow cones, arcade tokens, and a single-use camera to commemorate their day. After buying him an enormous puff of pink cotton candy, she’d asked a father from another family to take their picture in front of the Ferris wheel. A tall one, with a beard. And while Steve had squeezed his mother’s fingers with one hand and grasped the cotton candy with the other, the two of them had smiled with the untarnished happiness that not knowing the future provides.Steve wasn’t sure how long he stood in front of Bucky’s picture-perfect mantle, hiding from his dead mother as he suffocated himself with his overripe pits. Five minutes? An hour? A day? Steve scoffed. Even if he’d been standing in this exact same spot for a week, it wouldn’t have been long enough for his feet to make an impression in the carpet.“Rabbit, no rabbit,” Steve said as he stomped his feet in the invisible sand.“Mother, no mother,” he said as he left the Ferris wheel behind.The plaster archway next to the front door led to the kitchen. That much Steve knew. But just like his knowledge about Mr. Barnes’ wife, Steve had no idea h ow he knew. There were bits and pieces. The black-and-white checkered floor. The shame of lifting up his shirt for Mr. Barnes. Bucky putting the butter into the freezer. But Steve had absolutely no memory of passing beneath the handcrafted curve. Touching both sides of the opening, Steve laughed. Not because he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but because he’d been struck by an undeniable truth.He must have walked through the archway. Otherwise, how would he have given Bucky a blow job?“Gay, not gay,” Steve said as he rummaged through the cupboards. “Gay, definitely gay,” he said when he spotted a family-size box of Lucky Charms.Before Steve could pick up the box, he had to convince himself that the synchronicity of the motherfucking leprechaun had nothing to do with the four-leaf clovers on Tony’s Saint Patrick’s Day tie and everything to do with Bucky’s phosphorescent shooting stars. Then he had to convince himself that God wasn’t mocking him with the gallon of whole milk in the refrigerator. Whole, because Bucky’s dad gave a shit if his son grew up with strong bones and healthy teeth. At the penthouse, they only had skim.Steve found a bowl and a spoon—and a drawer full of nothing but ketchup packets and Taco Bell mild sauce—and before he knew it, he was pouring sugary marshmallows into a chipped bowl that screamed the word home.“Hi there.”Steve dropped the box.The King himself was leaning against the doorframe with his Muppet hair sticking up in all directions. “I got worried that you woke up and made a run for it.” Bucky quirked up the corner of his mouth. “But I guess you were just busy stealing all my cereal and adding authenticity to my t-shirt.”“Shit.” Steve hadn’t realized that he’d poured so much. The cereal was literally falling over the edge of the bowl.Bucky laughed. “I’m kidding, Cinderella. Here, I found your glass slipper.”The missing rabbit landed next to Steve’s non-furry foot.If it weren’t for the marshmallows morphing into the colorful jewels of the Misfit King’s crown, Steve would have told Bucky that fairy tales were bullshit. That there was always a princess stuck in an unbreachable tower, a princess getting the shit kicked out of her by a wicked stepmother, or an innocent baby deer trying to get over the death of his mother. But this particular prince was wearing a pair of Grumpy Cat pajama pants and a t-shirt that said Knife Party. And when he leaned over to pick up the spoon, Steve had a burning desire to boop the end of his nose.“Man, you really did a number on my t-shirt.”Bucky opened his mouth to fill it with marshmallows and milk, but all Steve could see was the tiny gap between his slightly crooked front teeth. It had been there in all the pictures—from the first to the most recent—and it had been there last night when Steve had run his tongue across Bucky’s teeth. Watching Bucky chew and smile at the same time, Steve was more than a little grateful that an orthodontist hadn’t ‘fixed’ the gap with wires and rubber bands. It was the most perfect imperfection Steve had ever seen. “I mean, it’s totally cool,” Bucky said with a mouthful of pink hearts and purple horseshoes. “Stains are punk rock. Plus, it goes with the shark.”Sunlight was streaming through the kitchen window, illuminating the crown and bouncing a rainbow of colors across the checkered tablecloth like a prismatic disco ball. Every color that had lit up when Steve had pressed his body against Bucky’s was there. The blues, the greens, the— “If you’re up for it later, maybe we can add a third bodily fluid to the collar.” Bucky dipped his finger in the milk. “You know, like the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Blood Sugar Sex Magik, except we’d call it Blood Boogers Come Magik, emphasis on the jizz.”“What?”Bucky dropped the spoon, splashing oats and milk all over Steve’s imaginary rainbows.“If it fits, you have to call me Prince Charming.” Kneeling down, Bucky slipped the fuzzy rabbit onto Steve’s foot. “And I don’t mean just today. I’m talkin’ tomorrow, next Tuesday, the next time you get me naked…”Bucky talked in riddles, but there was nothing misleading or puzzling about the way he was sliding his hand up and down Steve’s leg.“There,” Bucky said, settling back onto his ankles. “It’s official.”“What’s official?”“You’re a princess.”Fairy tales were bullshit. That was an indisputable fact. But Bucky wasn’t offering Steve a castle in the sky; he was offering to take off his clothes. And as far as Steve could tell, there weren’t any hunters or wicked stepmothers hiding in Bucky’s pants.Hopping to his feet, Bucky spun his chair around, sat on it backward, and scooped up another spoonful of sugary jewels. And his smile?Shooting stars and bright-blue moons. Purple horseshoes and red balloons. There wasn’t a frame in the world strong enough to contain it.The last remnants of Steve’s anxiety were chased away by that delicious smile, and when Bucky winked and said, “But your peach, aka ass, blows Princess Peach’s peach outta the water,” Steve understood that the ridiculous riddles and multicolored marshmallows were gifts that Bucky was giving freely. And for that, Steve was more than grateful. He was beholden to a whimsical lucky charm.Picking a rainbow out of the bowl, Steve said, “Thank you.”“For not throwing a shit fit about you getting blood and boogers all over my one-of-a-kind, vintage Jaws t-shirt? Bucky laughed. “My pleasure.”“No, for everything. For this.” Steve gestured at the marshmallows, the checkered tablecloth, the entire sunshine-filled kitchen.“The Lucky Charms?” Bucky scrunched his eyebrows together like he was confused, but his eyes told a different story. He was playing dumb, and Steve wasn’t going to let him get away with it.“No,” Steve said, getting milk all over his arm when he reached out to touch Bucky’s hand. “Thank you for taking me home.”The kitchen was suddenly quiet, like the sounds of the street had conspired to give poignancy to the moment. But instead of responding with a smile, a hint of uncertainty flashed across Bucky’s face, like Steve’s words had stripped him of the protection that jokes and teasing provided.“I mean it.” Steve intertwined their fingers because the sun should never doubt the warmth of its rays. “Thank you.” It took a minute for the sunshine smile to return, but when it did, it was bright enough to light up the entire kitchen.“Can I ask you a question?” Picking up the Lucky Charms, Bucky shook the box from side to side.“Anything.”“Do you think we can finish this whole box?”Four-leaf clovers. Purple horseshoes. Red balloons. Steve would eat marshmallows until his stomach burst if he could eat them with Bucky.“I know we can,” Steve said, pushing the bowl into the center.Then, because he’d never wanted anything more, Steve stood up and grabbed Bucky another spoon.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin: Where the fuck r u bro? Bucky: Home eating Lucky Charms Pushing Daisies: Are you sick, boo? Not Dylan O’Brien: He’s ditching. Bucky: I’m not alone Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin: That sounds like u’ve got a serial killer in ur house Not Dylan O’Brien: Porn doesn’t count as a friend, Bucky. Pushing Daisies: ??? Bucky: Steve Rogers just ate an entire box of Lucky Charms at my kitchen table. Does that make him a CEREAL killer? Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin: ... Pushing Daisies: Are you serious? Bucky: Yep. He’s wearing my pants Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin: ... Pushing Daisies: What!!?? Not Dylan O’Brien: I don’t even know how to respond. Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin: The question is, did u get IN those pants? Bucky: No. But he got into mine Pushing Daisies: What!!!!???? Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin: ... Bucky: He’s coming. GTG Bucky dropped the phone (cough, ditched the evidence) just as the cereal killer strolled into the room with 479 zillion question marks floating around his freshly bandaged forehead.There was nothing intrinsically wrong with Bucky chillin’ on his bed, texting his buds while the topic of said texts cleaned the blood off his face. But revealing that the cereal killer’s modus operandi had included Bucky’s dick? That was iffy at best. “What are you laughing at?” Steve asked, trippin’ over a half empty two-liter of Coke.Bucky snorted. One, ‘cause tripping was always funny, and two, ‘cause the scary bunnyritos on Steve’s feet made it extra, extra, extra funny with a side of Bugs Bunny. Hop!...Steve tripped over the Coke. Hop!...he slipped on Bucky’s Beetlejuice DVD. Hoppity-hop!...he stumbled through the mountain of clothes from Bucky’s upside-down hamper."Well, for one thing,” Bucky said, shovin’ his phone underneath one of the pillows, “I’m laughing at the apocalyptic disaster that I call my bedroom. In particular, you standin’ on a pair of my dirty underwear."Dormitorio de los Bucky was bad enough in the light de los lunes, but in the light de la sol? Bucky cringed when he saw just how dirty the underwear were (#SkidMark).His room was post nuclear. DEFCON negative 7. Radioactive to the max. We’re talkin’ three-headed chickens, three-headed wolves, three-headed Daryl Dixon with a three-headed dick. Bucky’s only hope (besides Obi-Wan) was that somebody as highfalutin (rhymes with Putin) as Captain Steve Rogers would buy into the idea that taping a bunch of shit to the walls, tossing a bunch of shit onto the shelves, and throwing a bunch of shit on top of that shit was, as Martha Stewart and Snoop Dog would say, high-quality interior decorating (emphasis on the high).But Steve didn’t acknowledge the radioactive underwear or the three-headed cock-a-doodle-doo. He just parked his cute lil’ ass in Bucky’s pink plastic chair, flexed the muscles in his jaw, and grabbed Bucky’s brand-new Jared Leto Joker figurine off the desk.Movie fact: Suicide Squad wasn’t even out yet, but based on the trailer, Jared Leto with green hair and grillz was gonna give Bucky masturbation material for a millennia. And that, Jokers and Juggalos, was why Bucky’d burgled two twenties out of his dad’s wallet and booked it to Cosmo’s Comics the day he’d spotted Jared’s tattooed abs in the window.“I'm talking about a minute ago." Steve gave Jared’s face a not-so-gentle poke. “When you were on the phone.”“I was on the phone?”Suddenly Jared was upside down, danglin’ from the stand like Steve was gonna drown him in the bowl of bloody water unless Bucky came up with a better answer. Which, yeah. Bucky would’ve called bullshit on himself for that one, especially since his phone was—
Ding!
Since his phone was—
Ding!
There were two options in this kind of situation. The truth (You can’t handle the truth!) or mostly the truth. And since Bucky had a sneaking suspicion that “I was texting my squad (Suck it, Taylor!) that you sucked my dick” wasn’t gonna fly, Bucky went with option número dos y dva.“You know, the usual,” Bucky said, trying (and failing) to silence his phone without moving the pillow. “I was textin’ my peeps about why I’m skipping school.”Instead of drowning the Joker (or waterboarding him like they did in Gitmo), Steve tapped Jared’s perfectly gelled hair on the edge of the desk. Tap!...Steve looked at the ceiling. Tap!...Steve looked at Brian and Curt. Tap!...Steve looked directly at the pillow and asked, “What did you tell them?” “That I was eating Lucky Charms.”
Ding!
Steve flipped Jared around like he was spinning a drumstick.“And maybe that you were—” Ding! “Motherfucker!” Bucky threw the phone over Steve’s shoulder with Clint-level precision, sending it flying into the hallway like Robin Hood (or angry Steve Jobs). As a short-term solution, it was pretty good. Get rid of the evidence. Deny, deny, deny. But in the long term, not so much. The dings kept dinging, the Joker kept spinning, and…Crack!...if the screen had shattered, there was no way Bucky’s dad was gonna pay to replace it for the third (cough, fourth) time this year.“Fine. I said you were here, enjoying a delicious bowl of… Lucky Charms?”Jared was a goner. Steve was gonna tap the fuck out of his head until…Pop!...the Joker’s chemically addled brain exploded all over Bucky’s half-finished homework, putting a quick (and gruesome) end to all of Jared’s awesome movies, awesome music, awesome music videos, awesome magazine covers, awesome Gucci ads, awesome—“Did you tell them I got beat up?” “No. That’s none of their business.” Scooching back against the wall, Bucky leaned on Brian and Curt for extra support. “But even if I did—which I didn’t—they won’t tell anybody.”Steve tossed Jared into the air like he was flipping a fucking water bottle. And that? Brain bombs and Sex Bob-ombs be damned, aerial acrobatics was where Bucky drew the fucking line!“Dude! Take your frustration out on something less expensive and less hot!” Diving across the bed, Bucky rescued Jared from the circus. “Did I imply that you swallowed a hell of a lot more than a bowl of Lucky Charms? Fuck yes, I did! You’re the hottest guy at school! But they won’t say shit, I swear.”
Ding!
The blood on Steve’s face was gone (he’d washed it off when he’d taken Natalia’s first-aid kit to the bathroom), but he was still wearing the bloody t-shirt, and the shark—
Ding!
“I don’t even know what’s going on here, Bucky. And—”
Ding!
Steve sighed. “I’m just not ready for all that.”Great. Not even twenty-four hours into this ‘thing’ with Steve, and Bucky’d blown it all to hell with his big, fat mouth.Hot off the presses: Bucky Barnes adds a brand-new record to the Bros Being Bros Sucking Each Other's Dicks Handbook: Shortest relationship. “I’m not lying, Steve. They’re the most trustworthy people in the world.”Steve laughed out loud. “You’re telling me Clint Barton is trustworthy?”Bucky didn’t hesitate. “I’d trust him with my life.”
Ding!
As far as timing went, it didn’t get much better. Comedy gold, one might say. But Steve didn’t crack. Instead of laughing, Steve glared at Bucky like he was fixin’ to dip Bucky's ass in toxic chemicals (à la the Joker), which really, really, really made Bucky wanna punch him in the other eye.
Ka
pow!
Ten minutes later…Bucky still wanted to punch Steve in the other eye. Maybe just not as hard. The glare had turned into a stare, then a bear, then a pear, before Steve had ditched his perfect posture and sunk into the chair. Straight up, the guy looked like a stick of melted butter. Real talk: It was hard to be mad at butter. Not only was it delicious on popcorn, corn on the cob, corn off the cob, and cornbread, it was a solid addition to any pantry. You could use it to make muffins, cupcakes, buttercream frosting, and (if your name was Daisy) miso butter cookies and butter mochi. Bucky was driftin’ somewhere between Daisy’s miso butter cookies and his bestie’s butter chicken casserole when Steve blew out the longest breath in the history of breathing.“I can’t believe you told your friends about my Lucky Charms addiction,” Steve said, puttin’ his feet up on the edge of the bed. “Those sugary marshmallows are worse than heroin.”A Jedi like Obi-Wan Kenobi would never mess with heroin. As Yoda would say, “Once you start down the dark path, forever it will dominate your destiny. Consume you, it will.” But Ewan McGregor? Bucky tipped his head back to gaze at the loveliest man in Europe. Curt Wild and Mark Renton had both crawled into the worst toilet in Scotland to get their opiate-flavored marshmallow fix.Switchin’ the channel, Bucky set his sights on the loveliest man in Brooklyn.“Am I gonna have to do an intervention? ‘Cause, delicious or not, we can’t have you mainlining purple horseshoes in the bathroom.” Steve’s eyes got all twinkly, which (if you ignored the dead baby on the ceiling) was the cutest thing since Brian Slade got real-deal va-va-voom heart eyes for Curt Wild in Velvet Goldmine.“Aww,” Steve said with a smile cuter than kawaii. “You’d care enough to drag me back from a pink heart addiction?” “Yeah, Stevie, I would.”Full fucking stop. It was one thing to turn Trainspotting’s drug-fueled surrealism into a sickly sweet romantic comedy, but tossing a fucking nickname into the plot? Cringing, Bucky wished for a dirty toilet, a shit-covered suppository, and a plane ticket to fucking Scotland because that shit was the kiss of death!But Steve didn’t bolt. And he didn't impale Bucky with a fucking stop sign. He just wiggled the scary bunnies closer to Bucky’s toes and said, “Shucks, Buck. You really know how to make a guy feel special.” Bucky blinked. A nickname for a nickname? A Stevie for a Buck. Did that mean they were gonna fall in love and trade a suck for a suck?Survey says… reply hazy, try again.“So I’m gonna go ahead and break the ice on this whole sleepover situation,” Bucky said, grabbin’ bunny número uno y odin’s ear with his toes. “It’s weird, right? This is the most we’ve spoken, like, ever, and you totally had my dick in your mouth.”Steve choked on absolutely nothing (unlike last night).“And I’m down to return the favor.” Powerin’ up the Sex Stare, Bucky primed his mouth for a lip nibble in T-minus three… two… one… “‘Cause I’m big on mutual pleasure, especially when the operative word is big.”Steve turned Pepto-Bismol pink (with a side of Gilbert Grape), which, in layman’s terms, was a clear indicator that Bucky’d gone overboard with the Sex Stare.“Or”—Bucky flipped the bunny like a pancake—“we could just sit here and play footsies and see where that takes us.”Sizewise, Steve’s feet were a teeny-weeny bit bigger than Bucky’s (just like his dick), but they still looked good together. Like Harley Quinn and the Joker. Or Kurt and Courtney. Or Ewan and a speedball.“I like that plan,” Steve said, curlin’ his toes over the top of Bucky’s de los dedos zapatos. “Just like I like your feet.”“You like my feet?”Steve nodded, but he didn’t elaborate, leaving Bucky to wonder if Mr. All-American had a foot fetish hidden beneath all that vanilla. Shakin’ the Magic 8 ball like a Polaroid picture (#OutcastsLuvOutkast), Bucky was more than a little excited when the lil’ window said signs point to yes.Bucky didn’t know how long they sat there, holding feet instead of holding hands. He just knew it was nice. The phone had stopped dinging, meaning the ding-a-lings had gotten bored, gotten their phones confiscated by the authorities, or gotten their intel from another source, aka Natasha.
Flash!
Bucky saw Clint climb into the freshly dented Toyota... heard him say his usual “Good morning, Mr. Barnes” as he buckled his seatbelt… saw him lean forward so Natasha could tell him exactly why Bucky wasn’t next to him in the backseat.“He already knew you were here.”“What?”Steve had sunk down so far that the only thing stopping him from sliding off the chair completely was the back of his skull. But this time, Bucky wasn’t thinking about butter; he was thinking about being with somebody who wasn’t a liar.Lifting the Joker out of his weed-scented cloud (which in this scene, would be played by Bucky’s jizz-scented comforter), Bucky stared at his stupid tattoos.Damaged. Check. Joker. Check. A smile to hide his scowl. Check.“I know you probably feel like shit,” Bucky said, plunging the toy headfirst into the crack next to the bed, “but are you up for playing a game?”“Like Monopoly?”Bucky wanted to laugh, but there was an opportunity here, and, man, oh man, was it gonna be good. “No,” Bucky said with a perfectly straight face. “Like Dungeons and Dragons.” Judging by his unbandaged eyebrow, Steve was picturing Bucky in a dark, musty basement, wearing a cape as he wielded polyhedral dice, ate stale pretzels, and wove epic tales of barbarians pillaging villages and devouring the young. “Dude, I’m fucking with you! What are you, like ninety?” Bucky pulled off bunny número dos y dva with his do-si-dos. “Monopoly? Jesus!” “Um...” “I bet you play Scrabble too.”“I mean, I have. But—”“C’mon, Grandpa.” Bucky patted the mattress like he was calling a geriatric labradoodle. “Climb up here with your backgammon board and tell me something about the legendary Captain Steve Rogers that I don’t know.” Steve didn’t move, so Bucky pulled up his t-shirt and patted his abs.Success.Steve crawled onto the bed very, very, very slowly. And while Bucky would love, love, love to think Steve was imitating a sloth to be sexy (#Succeeding), it was abso-fucking-lutely because his dad had probably (definitely) broken a rib.After his sloth-slow ascent, Steve made a pillow out of Bucky’s cow-print blanket and leaned against the headboard… which just so happened to be beneath Bucky’s Iggy Pop poster… which just so happened to show the punk rock legend (and partial inspiration for Curt Wild) crawling around on stage in black leather pants like a… (wait for it)… dog.Starin’ up at the ceiling like it was chock-full of fun facts, Steve said, “I like whole milk better than skim.” “Yeah, I figured with the way you polished off that gallon.”“What? I didn’t drink the whole thing.”“I mean… you kinda did.”Sheepish wasn’t a word Bucky used in his everyday vocabulary. Clint wasn’t sheepish about anything (especially when it came to trying to hook up with Bucky’s sister); Skinner didn’t care enough about herd mentality to be sheepish (or a sheep); Daisy’s makeup was too killer cool to let any sheepish expressions express themselves (shout out, Madonna); and Natasha would probably kick a sheep in its face if it got anywhere near her pasture. But Steve? Based on his nervous laughter (and the way his head was bowed like a Shih Tzu who’d just shit on the rug), Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if Steve revealed that he’d been raised on a farm by Shaun the Sheep. “You’re supposed to share something the other person couldn’t possibly know.” Bucky nudged, aka kicked, Steve’s ankle. “And since all I know about you—aside from your weird obsession with milk—is that you swim really fast and you’re a quick study on blow jobs, this should be pretty easy.”“Oh my god, Bucky.” Steve covered his face with his hands.“No. Oh my god, Steve. You swallowed me down like a fucking pro.”Was there a word more sheepish than sheepish ? Super sheepish? Sheepish squared? Sheepish-plus? Fighting the urge to say, “Baa!” Bucky said, “I’ll go first.” Steve peeked between his wooly fingers.“I love to sing. And I don’t mean in the shower—although my bathroom’s got surprisingly great acoustics—I mean I’m Russian Idol’s número odin export.” Bucky threw up the devil horns to verify his status. “Clint and I both play guitar, but he’s 666 times better than me. I’m not kidding when I say he can play most of Slash’s solos—minus the uber-fast part in ‘Paradise City’—which, if you know anything about Guns N’ Roses, is some seriously boss-level shit.”“Boss-level?”“Yeah. Like Bowser. I love ’80s hair metal. Clint loves punk. Which means I can sing a mean Axl Rose—snake hips included—and do a pretty legit Bradley Nowell.”Bucky thought about demonstrating Axl’s snake hips until…Slither!...he remembered he was sittin’ down.“But I’m versatile,” Bucky said, tossin’ out that lil’ tidbit in case Stevie wanted to catch it. “After bustin’ out Sublime, I can get down with Twenty One Pilots, Elton John, David Bowie, Madonna—”“Madonna?” Steve chuckled. “Oh, yeah. Madonna, Britney, Christina, Gaga, Beyoncé. I can handle all the ladies.” Hitting pause, Bucky rolled things back to clarify that he was Team Pole, not Team Hole (Unless it was a butthole. Then he was all in.).“Vocally, I mean. ‘Cause, as you know, I love dicks.”Farm fact: Stevie the Sheep could look sheepish and horny.“Plus, I’m hella entertaining on road trips. Playlists. Props. Sing-alongs galore. The only downside is that nobody ever invites me to karaoke.”“Why not?”“I dunno.” Bucky shrugged. “Maybe ‘cause every time I touch a microphone, I grow a mustache and turn into Freddie Mercury.” Steve smiled like he thought mustaches were the bee’s knees (minus the bees).“Now listen up,” Bucky said, rub-a-dub-dubbin’ his tootsies all over Stevie’s beeless knees, “‘cause this is the most important part. If you’re gonna hang with me ‘n’ Axl, you have to participate in the Morning Sing-along. It’s mandatory.”“The morning sing-along?”“No excuses.” Bucky tried to crawl off the bed like a sexy panther…Meowzer!...but his leg got caught in the comforter, turning what was supposed to have been a tribute to the MCU’s sexiest panther into a stop, drop, and roll maneuver. “Rule número odin,” Bucky said, makin’ a quick recovery (Recover, you will. Seduce him, you shall.). “You can’t laugh. And if you do, it better be because I’m funny as fuck.”Retrieving his phone from de los hallway, Bucky checked to see if Stevie was taking the rules seriously (he was).“Rule número dva.” Bucky plugged his phone into the aux cord. “You have to sing along, even if you don’t know the words.”“But if I don’t—”“Then you sing even louder!” Hitting play, Bucky hopped onto the bed with a big ol’ bounce. “Now, Stevie. I picked this song ‘cause it’s a certified classic, performed by the legendary Lionel Richie back in 1977 when he was makin’ super smooth jams with the Commodores. You’ve gotta listen to the lyrics, ‘cause Lionel’s gonna tell you all about how I think we should spend the rest of our day.”At some point in the not-so-distant past, Bucky'd cranked his speakers up to eleven (#SpinalTap). Normally, eleven was muy perfecto, but when it came to Lionel Richie’s super soothing piano melody…Pow!...eleven was about ten numbers too high. Yelling over the intro, Bucky said, “I know it's Friday, but just roll with the lyrics and pretend it’s Sunday. Oh, and ignore the first verse ‘cause it talks about dumpin’ a chick—unless, you know… Sharon—but the rest of the song’s about reading newspapers in your pj’s and eating pancakes, which—after I give you a BJ—is exactly what I think we should do.”Steve’s eyes got super-duper wide when Bucky sang, “Know it sounds funny, but I just can’t stand the pain…” And they got even wider when Bucky sang, “Girl, I’m leaving you tomorrow” (‘cause, you know… Sharon). But his ever-expanding eyeballs were nothing compared to his smile.It wasn’t one of those “I’m-humoring-you-so-you-don’t-strangle-yourself-with-the-microphone-cord” kind of smiles. It was a Sunday-morning-with-cream-‘n’-sugar kind of smile, heavy on the cream. As it turned out, Stevie’s tooth-filled caffeine injection was exactly the…Zing!…Bucky needed to wave his hands in the air (like he just don’t care). Back and forth, Lionel Richie (via Freddie Mercury) led the arena-size crowd, puttin’ his heart and soul into the chorus as he sang, “That’s why I’m easy… easy like a Sunday morning…” like Stevie was a VIP (very important penis) in the front row of Madison Square Garden.Then it got weird.Steve got all misty eyed when Bucky sang, “Everybody wants me to be what they want me to be… I’m not happy when I try to fake it…” Which, sure, Lionel was an emotional singer. Lots of oomph in the badoomph. But when Bucky sang, “I wanna be free… just me…” Steve squished up his face like he’d swallowed a handful of those Justin Bieber ghost peppers.Did Steve not want to eat pancakes with Bucky on a Sunday morning? Did Bucky need Auto-Tune? Or worse, did Steve have a problem with Lionel Richie? ‘Cause, big dick or not, that would be a deal breaker.Bucky finished the song ‘cause, ghost peppers or not, the show must go on (Sing it, Freddie!). But when Lionel put down the microphone, Bucky found himself in an all-too-familiar situation. Hot guy. Indecipherable expression. A voice in Bucky’s head telling him to learn the fucking difference between green and red.“Wow,” Steve said after record-breaking pause (also known as a full fucking stop). "I had no idea.”“That’s the point, dork.” Dorks and dicks. Dipshits and dumbasses. Dunces and doormats. First they give you a nickname, then they convince you to sing, then they smash your heart with a fucking hammer.“No, Bucky. I mean, you’re really talented.” Steve wiped his eyes with the bloodiest part of the shark. “Impressively talented. So, so talented, and—”"Thanks, Paula Abdul," Bucky said, saving Steve from himself. "You always were the nicest judge.”“I’m serious.”“So was the Joker.” Steve chuckled, which would’ve been hella rude if he hadn't coordinated it with a pretty sweet foot rub. “Is it my turn?” Steve asked, rubbing Bucky’s arches like he’d rubbed Bucky’s butt chin. “Yeah, just like Scrabble. I showed you mine, now you show me yours.”Was Bucky talking about their dicks…Schwing!...or the Scrabble tiles he’d lined up on the bed to spell S.E.C.R.E.T.S.? Magic 8 Ball says… concentrate and ask again.What grand mystery would Steve reveal? Could he juggle knives without stabbing his friends (unlike Bucky)? Did he have an itty-bitty tattoo on his left butt cheek? Was it a rose? A tiger? Peggy Carter’s initials? And if Steve didn’t have a boatload of booty ink, would he bend over and let Bucky draw a heart around his asshole with a Sharpie?The anticipation had Bucky on the edge of his seat.“Um… okay… I’ve got something.” Steve scratched the back of his neck like a swarm of bloodthirsty mosquitoes (#MiniSharks) were eatin' him alive. “But you’re going to have to trust me.”“Is it a trust fall?”Steve stopped scratching. “Or a trust fund? ‘Cause everybody and their mother knows you've got more money than Paris Hilton.”"No,” Steve said. “It's something I have to show you."“Is it your dick?”Steve laughed, which wasn’t exactly a no. Crawling off the bed like a sloth in reverse, slowly… slowly… Steve started digging around in the massive pile of shit on Bucky’s desk. “Do you have any paper?” Steve asked, moving the bowl of bloody tadpoles to a safer location, aka next to the empty two-liter on the floor. “Any kind will work.”Bucky’s brain buzzed through a zillion options. Were they gonna play tic-tac-toe? Hangman? Was Steve a paper plane expert? A master of origami? Maybe he was gonna make Bucky one of those paper crane things… or one of those jumping frogs.“Um… I’m pretty nervous about this,” Steve said as he smoothed out a few sheets of wrinkled copy paper on his thigh, “but I’ve been thinking about it since I woke up, and, well… since you’re asking—”“Spit it out, Steve. I trust you.”“Take off your clothes.”Steve looked at Bucky. Bucky looked at Steve. And the only thing Bucky could think to say was, “Guess you’re not making me a paper crane.”“Shit.” Steve’s face went from Pepto-Bismol pink to ketchup red faster than Bucky could say origami orgasm. “That came out wrong. I didn’t… I shouldn’t have said it like that.”The color of Steve’s face was a pretty clear indicator that he wasn’t looking for a quick fuck (or if he was, that he was really fucking embarrassed about it), so Bucky crawled off the bed like a sexy panther (Take that, Chadwick!) and reached behind his head to pull off his t-shirt.Nips revealed, Bucky stopped to check for any signs of R.E.G.R.E.T. (Sing it, Aretha!), but all he saw was R.E.S.P.E.C.T. The way Steve’s mouth was hanging open made Bucky feel beautiful… or empowered… or wanted, which made it incredibly easy for Bucky to slide his pants down his legs and kick them off to the side.Then he was naked.Nude.Au naturel.Nips. Balls. Soft dick (with its decidedly un-American foreskin). All of them were on display for Mr. All-American, and Bucky—He glanced at his turtleneck.Bucky had never felt so exposed.“Beautiful,” Steve said, looking Bucky up and down like Bucky was one of those fancy-ass marble statues at the MoMA. “Now lie on your side at the edge of the bed, facing the wall.”Well, that was oddly specific.Pointing at the pencil in Steve’s hand, Bucky said, “You’re not planning on sticking that Ticonderoga up my ass, are you?” “Why? Is it tight enough to sharpen it?”Bucky gasped. Steve gasped. And Jared Leto, who, according to a vast majority of his music videos was a kinky motherfucker (#Hurricane), gasped from his upside-down prison behind the bed.“I don’t know why I said that.” Steve stared at the pencil like it had betrayed him. “That was fucking awful.”Never in a gazillion years would Bucky have guessed that a straight shooter like Steve Rogers had been hiding a dirty sense of humor beneath all that khaki. But now that he knew? Whoo-ee! You bet your ass (and your asshole) that Bucky was gonna encourage the King of Kink to sharpen a hell of a lot more than his pencil.Lying on the bed as directed, Bucky put the sex in sex appeal when he looked back over his shoulder and asked, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” What was redder than ketchup? A fire engine? A clown nose? A stop sign?“Oh my god,” Steve said, covering his eyes with the paper. “Can we just pretend that never happened?”“Nope.” Bucky adjusted his hips for maximum peach. “From now on, every time I touch a pencil, I’m gonna clench my cheeks.”Steve might be redder than a stop sign, but the light had never been greener.Exhibit A: Steve groaned, but he didn’t put down the pencil.Exhibit B: Not even when he adjusted his cock.“I’m going to move you.” Leaning across Bucky to grab a pillow, Steve poked Bucky’s back with his chub. “And I’d like you to stay exactly where I put you. Is that okay?”Oddly specific. Hella bossy. Bucky was officially turned on.“Yeah, dude. That’s more than okay.” Steve rotated Bucky’s shoulders until his left arm was dangling over the edge of the bed. Then he slipped a pillow beneath Bucky’s head, running his fingers through Bucky’s hair like he was stylin’ a celebrity centerfold in one of Clint’s vintage Playboys. Whoosh!...Bucky was Pamela Anderson. Swoosh!...he was Farrah Fawcett. Skadoosh!...he was Dita Von Teese in a ginormous martini glass with three olives and a twist. “Perfect,” Steve said as he arranged the comforter into fluffy little clouds. “Stay just like that for me.”Like, really turned on.There wasn’t any second-hand smoke in these clouds. No spikes and chains hiding just below the surface. And even though Bucky was in his birthday suit, it didn’t feel like he was supposed to blow out the candles on the cupcake. In fact, it didn’t feel like Bucky was supposed to do anything besides lie completely still.Bucky didn’t move an inch when he heard the Ticonderoga scratch the surface of the paper. And he didn’t move a centimeter when he noticed Clint’s wadded-up Circle Jerks t-shirt on the far side of the cloud. Even when Céline whispered into Bucky’s ear that Steve was drawing him like one of his French girls, he didn’t move a millimeter.Maybe he fell asleep, or maybe he just drifted, thinking about absolutely nothing as the bees went silent. “Hey, sleepyhead. Sorry that took so long.”“Chyvoh?”“What?” Steve asked, brushing the hair out of Bucky’s eyes.“That’s what I said. What.”“You said it in Russian.” Chuckling, Steve set two pieces of paper in front of Bucky’s nose. “Or at least I think it was Russian. It definitely didn’t sound like Spanish.”Bucky had two choices. He could admit that he had zip, zero, núl memory of saying anything in any language, or he could focus on Steve’s skills with a lube-free Ticonderoga.Steve had drawn Bucky’s buck-ass naked body from head to toe. And he hadn’t drawn it like some dipshit who doodled dicks on his worksheets when he got bored in math class (cough, Bucky). He’d draw it like Leonardo (da Vinci, not DiCaprio), with shadows, highlights, and super realistic shading on Bucky’s ass.“Holy fuck! Look at my ass!” Bucky propped himself up on his elbow. “You gave me a museum-quality derribear!”“You mean derrière?” “That’s what I said. Derrièclaire.”Resisting the urge to poke his asshole (the paper one), Bucky said, “This is way, way, way better than singing in the shower.”“Not really.”“Are you fucking kidding me? This is like that Greek shit I saw at the MoMA!” Bucky pointed at his ass (the real one). “How the fuck didn’t I know you could draw like Picasso?”“Nobody knows.” Steve disappeared. Well, not actually disappeared. He just bent over to grab something off the floor. “Just you.”“Well, that’s stupid.” Bucky sat up (soft peen and all) ‘cause Steve sayin’ that Bucky was the only one who knew he could draw juicy butts like Michelangelo (the artist, not the turtle) was like Leonardo (the artist, not the turtle) saying he’d only shown the Mona Lisa to some random guy at a pizzeria.Shrugging, Steve slipped the Knife Party t-shirt over Bucky’s head, helpin’ him get his arms through the holes (#HellaHelpful) before kneeling down and holding open the Grumpy Cat pants so Bucky could step into them (#TooHellaHelpful?).Real talk: Bucky’d never been treated like this by anybody (cough, Clint), and it was weird with a capital W.T.F? But it was also wonderful and worshippy, and…Wowzers!...a big step up from gettin’ a box of Kleenex (or a dirty sock) tossed into the puddle of come on his lap.“Your turn,” Steve said, planting a big ol’ smooch on Bucky’s knee (and, by default, Grumpy Cat’s grumpy lil’ face).As far as transitions went, it had been a pretty good one. A solid seven out of ten. But Bucky had questions. Big ones that had nothing to do with Steve’s big dick.“Why doesn’t anybody know you can draw?” Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Bucky set half of Steve’s masterpiece on each knee. Head and torso on one side, ass and legs on the other. Bucky’s body was whole when the papers were touching, but when the weren’t—Bucky spread his knees further apart.FBI profile: According to Clarice Starling, it was a good thing that Steve was a cereal killer and not a serial killer ‘cause…Rip!...the split down the middle was very Black Dahlia.“It’s complicated,” Steve said, kissing Bucky’s other knee.Bucky’s bottom half was dying to belt out some early 2000’s Avril Lavigne (Why’d you have to go and make things so complicated?), but the top half overrode the Sk8er Boi, whispering, “I’m learning that most things about you are.”There were lots of things Steve the Cereal Killer could’ve done next, including (but not limited to), bustin’ out a butcher knife, makin’ a still-life with Bucky’s intestines, and carvin’ a smile into Bucky’s cheeks à la the Joker (Ledger, not Leto), but spinning around to sit criss-cross applesauce in what looked to be puddle of pea juice definitely wasn’t on Bucky’s list of possibilities.And yet here they were.“Alexander made me quit when I was in middle school,” Steve said, squeezing his extra-large shoulders between Bucky’s knees. “He wanted me to focus on swimming.”“But you’re so good.”“Because I didn’t quit.” Steve leaned back until the top of his head was touching Bucky’s balls. “I just started doing it in secret.”“Why would your dad make you quit something you’re—”“Stepdad.”“What?”“Your turn,” Steve said with a big fat period.The amount of questions Bucky had were infinite (Stepdad? Top-secret art? Head-to-ball contact?), but Bucky didn’t wanna be like the asshole who gets a seventy-two inch flat-screen TV for Christmas, then, two seconds later, points at the tree and asks, “What’s next?”Questions or not, Bucky had to respect the period.Setting Steve’s Ticonderoga masterpiece on the bed, Bucky hippity-hopped over Michelangelo’s head like they were playin’ Leapfrog. “I’m about to introduce you to the Morning Dance Party,” Bucky said, grabbin’ his phone for round dva. “Which…Spoiler alert!...is even better than the Morning Sing-along.”“I don’t see how that’s possible.” “Oh, it’s more than possible. It’s a fuckin' guarantee!” Opening Spotify, Bucky started scrolling through his playlists. “Plus, as far as I know, the Morning Dance Party has never made anybody cry.”Bucky had curated a lot of playlists in his time. Some to blast him back to the past (#Y.M.C.A.), some to pump him up in the present (#PumpUpTheJamz), and some to have handy in the future, when somebody like Steve Rogers wanted to do more than stare at empty pizza boxes while he touched Bucky’s dick (#Songs4Fucking).Too fast. Too slow. Too romantic. Bucky flicked his thumb across the screen until he landed on the sexiest of the sexy. The crème de la come. “This is by Kiiara,” he said, hitting play. “It’s called ‘Gold.’”Did Mr. All-American need to know the name of the singer? No. Just like he didn’t need to know the name of the song. But a show like this required silence. No questions. No comments. No cute lil’ quips with extra twinkly eyes. And if filling the captain’s ears with useless information was what it took to get him to use his eyes instead of his mouth, then Bucky was going to fill them, and fill them well.The song was sparse. A bass line with just the right amount of funk. A female vocal with the perfect mix of mystery and sensuality. The ticking beat of a clock. It was a classic case of less is more. More space to move his body. More space to show the captain exactly what his hips could do. More space to teach the King of the Jocks how to sit still and watch.Natasha was the dancer in the family, but Bucky—Licking his lips, he straddled Steve’s knees.Bucky knew how to fucking dance.At first, he only gave the captain a taste, just enough to tease, as he pulsed his hips in time with the bass. But when the beat kicked in, he moved closer, lifting the bottom of his t-shirt as he showed Mr. All-American exactly what it meant to move.“Jesus Christ…” “Not quite.” Stepping between Steve’s legs, Bucky forced his knees apart. “It’s Bucky. Miss Jackson if you’re nasty.”He could tell Steve was trying to be good. His hands were by his sides, his tongue was in his mouth, and his eyes were firmly on Bucky’s—Scratch that. He wasn’t being that good.“God, you’re beautiful,” Steve said, tracking the movement of Bucky’s hips.“You think I’m beautiful?” Dropping his center of gravity, he stepped close enough that Steve could lick him. All he had to do was open his mouth.Bucky had learned a thing or two about Captain Steve Rogers over the course of the game. Some trivial, like the biggest, baddest boy at school having a weak spot for ’70s power ballads. Some serious, like Stevie's super serious stepdaddy issues. And some critical to their mutual pleasure, like sexy dancing being a direct line to the fuckboy’s cock.One thumb beneath the waistband of Bucky’s pants. One tug to reveal the top of his pubes. That’s all it took to get Steve to say, “Get down here,” and pull Bucky into his lap.And it wasn’t a little pull. No, strippers and sluts, it was a down ‘n’ dirty, “I’m-gonna-drill-you-till-you-can’t-walk-straight” kind of pull that made Bucky want to shove Clint’s Circle Jerks t-shirt down the Joker’s throat.When Steve kissed him, there was spit, and tongue, and a not-so-gentle bite to Bucky’s lip that lined up with every vampire fantasy he’d ever had. Blade. Dracula. Edward. Selene. Kiefer. Spike and Angel (mostly Spike). Bowie. Count Chocula. Lestat. Louis. Armand. Fucking Akasha.The song was over, but it was followed by another… and another… and another until Bucky’s undead desires, aka his dick, rose from the grave.“Please…” Bucky said, grinding his hips against Steve’s in a way that was two percent dancing and 342 percent sex. “Let me suck your cock”“We promised your dad we wouldn’t take off our pants.” Steve wrapped his hands around Bucky’s neck, adding the perfect amount of pressure as he kissed the center of Bucky’s chest.Loopholes existed for a reason (just like wormholes). And if there was one area in life where Bucky was consistent, it was the fact that he wasn't the type of guy to pass up jumping into a hole.“Who says I have to take off your pants?” Reaching down, Bucky snapped Steve’s waistband. “Elastic… for easy access.”Bucky was known for exaggerating (it was kind of his thing), but he wasn’t exaggerating in the slightest when he said that Steve growled like a horny badger when he grabbed the meat of Bucky’s ass. Grrr! This was it. The moment Bucky added Expert at swallowing Steve Rogers’ cock to his sexual resume. The moment he got to suck on Steve’s balls, choke on a couple of Steve’s pubes, and maybe (and this was a big maybe) lick Steve’s taint. Doing what he’d been wanting to do for the past three years, Bucky reached into Steve’s pants and took out his massive cock. And make no mistake, it was massive.“No wonder girls love you,” Bucky said, spitting into his hand.“Bucky, I—” Steve’s mouth snapped shut the instant Bucky wrapped his fingers around the shaft.Hand jobs were one thing. A twist here, a tug there. But where Bucky really excelled was with his lips and tongue. Sloppy, seductive, slutty. On a scale of one to ten, Bucky’s blow jobs were a sixty-nine.Bucky didn’t break his dad’s rules when he told Steve to sit on the edge of the bed. And he didn’t break his dad’s rules when he pulled down Steve’s pants just enough to swallow him to the base. Where it got iffy was when Steve pulled Bucky onto his lap and took Bucky’s dick out of his pants, jerking both of them off as he stared directly into Bucky’s eyes.That's when Bucky realized The Bros Sucking Each Other’s Dicks Handbook was obsolete. Done. Finito. Over with a capital O.R.G.A.S.M. One, because Bucky’s dick had never touched another dick, and two, because the intensity of the dick-to-dick contact completely erased the word bro from the fucking equation.“I want us to come together,” Steve said, letting go just long enough to grab Bucky’s hand and wrap it around both of them. “You and me.”Holy fuck. Holy shit. Holy moly. Holy guacamole. A million holys were bouncin' around Bucky’s brain (along with Lady Gaga’s rapturous “You and I”), but the main holy fucking shit was that Steve wasn’t staring at empty pizza boxes and ’70s porn as he guided Bucky’s hand up and down; he was looking back and forth between Bucky’s face and their dicks. Face, dicks. Face, dicks. And that?Swallowing the lump in his throat, Bucky said, “Fuck…” because now he was gonna cry. “Oh fuck…”Steve kissed him, tears and all. And when Bucky came, Steve came too, saying, “Fucking beautiful,” as both of them squirted jizz all over everything. Their hands. Bucky’s t-shirt. The corner of the drawing. Steve’s chin.And Steve was right. It was one of the most beautiful things Bucky had ever seen. * They didn’t make pancakes (because Bucky didn’t know how), and they didn’t read newspapers (‘Cause who the fuck does that?), but they did watch Napoleon Dynamite, because Napoleon Dynamite was the funniest movie this side of The Hangover, Caddyshack, Superbad, American Pie, 21 Jump Street (Magic Mike, not Depp), Step Brothers, Pineapple— Chop! Bucky cut himself off ‘cause the list was endless (Fast Times At Ridgemont High, Porky’s, Borat ), and also ‘cause he really, really, really wanted to shout, “Vote for Pedro!” and run his hands over the stars ‘n’ stripes on Stevie’s thighs.Why, you ask, was El Capitán de los Americano wearin’ a pair of American flag pajama pants? The answer was as easy as Lionel Richie on a Sunday morning. In addition to Steve’s alter ego being Mr. All-American, a comedy classic like Napoleon Dynamite dictated a costume change. Not because Napoleon was a dictator (#Bonaparte), but because Comedy Night at the Copacabana was a patriotic-tie event, especially at two o’clock in the afternoon.“We need to finish these tots,” Bucky said, provin’ once and for all that he was a shit juggler. Knives. Oranges. Tater tots. The object didn’t matter. If Bucky tried to juggle it, it was gonna end up anywhere and everywhere but his hot little hand. Boom ! Tot número uno landed on the coffee table. Shaboom! Tot número dos landed by the fireplace. Va-va-voo m! Tot número tres landed directly on Steve’s crotch. “Don’t touch it!” Somersaulting across the couch (not really), Bucky gobbled the tot directly off Steve’s sac.The King of Mutual Hand Jobs (wordy, but true) laughed harder than he’d laughed when Napoleon (Dynamite, not Bonaparte) had zapped the fuck out his tot-free nuts with his brother’s mail-order time machine. Which, yay! Three cheers for tater tot testes!“Man, we really burnt the fuck outta these,” Bucky said as he somersaulted backwards (really) into his corner of the couch. “They’re black around the edges.”“I was too distracted by your ponytail to notice.” Stevie smiled like extra crispy tots were peak potatoes.Had Bucky pulled his hair into a side pony like Dot, aka Napoleon’s número dva love interest? Does a chicken have large talons? And had Bucky forced Stevie to change into patriotic pj’s so Mr. All-American would look like Rex, the roided-up inventor of Rex Kwon Do?Bow to your sensei! And last but not least, had Bucky dug his Vote for Pedro t-shirt out of the back of his closet, stretching it over his muy muscular pecs even though it was three sizes too small? Do llamas love casserole?“We should change your Band-Aids,” Bucky said, shovin’ the last of the tots into his mouth (Eat them, you shall. Enjoy them, you will.). “They’re probably gettin’ crusty with all that oozy shit again.”“You’ve already changed them three times.” Steve pointed at the empty box of Band-Aids on the armchair. “And while I appreciate your dedication to infection prevention, that was already three times more than necessary.”They might be sitting on opposite ends of the couch, but that didn’t stop the cutest pirate since Orlando Bloom from runnin’ his bare feet along Bucky’s calves. Fun fact: Bucky’d changed into a pair of basketball shorts (sans underwear) so Steve could have easy access from a completely different direction. Horny fact: The horny badger had gotten the hint.“Can we just stay here?” Steve asked, sliding his feet into Bucky’s shorts. “Where everything feels like a teenage dream?”“I mean, I’d love to, but I don’t think Katy Perry’s down for plagiarism.” The head of Bucky’s dick emerged from its turtleneck as soon as Steve’s feet reached his upper thighs. “I know you and Orlando have the whole pirate thing in common, but the ‘Dark Horse’ lawsuit was a really, really, really big deal.”
Ding!
Bucky’d left his phone upstairs, where Clint and Co. could text him 797 frowny face emojis, 392 question marks, and eighteen characters of complete and utter bullshit (#WhereTheFuckRUBro?) without pissing Steve off. Unfortunately, Steve hadn’t followed suit, taking an unsanctioned field trip to the garage to grab his phone out of his spaceship while Bucky’d been burning the fuck out of the tots.
Ding!
"When that thing makes noise, you're supposed to pick it up and look at it." "What if I throw it out the window instead?"“Bad idea.” Bucky gained an inch as Steve’s toes inched closer to his dick. “My dad would be furious if you sucked my dick and smashed the window. No bueno los mega complaino."Steve’s fucked-up forehead got all scrunchy like he was gonna argue (or take a massive shit), but instead of goin’ for puerta número A or B , the horniest badger in Scotland picked número C and started rub-a-dub-dubbin’ the bottom of Bucky’s feet.“Do you really speak Spanish?” Steve asked, givin’ Bucky’s arch the three-finger bunghole treatment. “Da. Do you really have a foot fetish?”“What? No!”“‘Cause if you’re tryin’ to come up with dirty things to do with my feet to get out of checking your texts, you should suck on my toes. You know, just to see if you’re into it.”
Ding!
Steve let go of Bucky’s foot.
Ding!
Suddenly Bucky’s side pony and pocket full o’ tots didn’t matter; Steve went from theoretical toe-sucker (so hot) to stressed-out teenager (so not) faster than you could say podophilia.“Who is it?” Bucky asked, pulling out Dot’s rubber band.“It’s a lot of people.” Sighing, Steve scrolled… and scrolled… and scrolled. “And I don’t want to talk to any of them.”“You should let me do it.” Bucky held out his hand, palm side up. “Not to blow smoke up my own ass, but I’m great at texting. It’s my fourth language.”“After English, Spanish, and Russian?”“Oui.”Despite Bucky’s muy excelente sales pitch, Steve didn’t hand over the phone, choosing stress over solutions, stupidity over smarts, and dings over the sound of silence (hello darkness, my old friend).
Ding!
Not-so-fun fact: Stressed-out Steve stressed Bucky out. And not like the Twenty One Pilots song (#Blurryface). Stressed-out Steve turned Bucky’s armpits into mini tsunamis that screamed, “Bro, let me fix it!” Shazam! The phone was in Bucky’s hand, and he was scrolling… and scrolling… and scrolling.“Who’s Jade?” Clicking the name at the top, Bucky scanned the thread. “She wants to know why you didn’t come home last night, and— Holy shit, dude. She’s texted every hour on the hour since seven a.m.”“Alexander’s assistant,” Steve said, fucking with the Band-Aids on his forehead. “It’s her job to keep tabs on me, especially when she thinks I’m dead or dying.”Bucky loved dark humor (Trainspotting, duh), but when you threw in a heaping dose of child abuse, dark humor was just dark.Pulling up the keyboard, Bucky said, “Stayed with a friend last night. See you whenever. Send.”“Did you really just text that?”“Yep.” Bucky tapped the second name. “Next up, we’ve got Sam. He wants to know why you’re not at school… why you’re not answering your phone… why I’m not at school… Geez, there’s a lot of these.” “Sam worries,” Steve said with a shrug. “Aside from Tony, he’s the only one who really knows what’s going on.”Bucky stopped scrolling. Officially, Bucky’s get-to-know-you game had ended with dueling O faces and a double dose of jizz, but Steve had just initiated a bonus round, revealing something infinitely more important than a foot fetish.The question was, did Steve want to talk about it?Assessment: Stevie was peelin’ back the edges of the Band-Aids like a rotten banana, exposing the crusty chasm like a Krusty Krab.Focusing on the task at hand, Bucky said, “Speaking of Stark… Sam wants to know if you’re going to Tony’s”—Bucky squinted at the screen—“incredibly offensive party tonight. Incredibly offensive is underlined.”Steve shook his head.“Message received.” Moving his thumbs with lighting speed, Bucky said, “Problem last night. Stayed at Bucky Barnes’ house. I’ll tell you about it later when I don’t—all caps—go to Tony’s party. Send.”“There’s no way he doesn’t call.”
Ding!
“Is it Sam?” From the looks of it, Stressed-out Steve was about to pop a vein (or three) in his temple. Kaboom! Banana split with a side of Bad Brains.“No, it’s Stark.” Bucky kicked Steve’s feet out of his shorts (sad, but essential) so he could…Hoppity-hop!...onto the coffee table.A quality Stark impression required artificial height, artificial intelligence (along with actual intelligence), and a touch of A-plus asshole. In other words, Bucky was gonna kill this shit. Reading in double time to keep up with the dings, Bucky said, “Captain Underpants! Sammy Davis Jr. says you’re not dead. Hallelujah!”
Ding!
“Movie night tonight! Be there or be hip to be square!” Pausing to tally up the punctuation marks, Bucky said, “Man, I thought I used a lot of exclamation points.”“I’m surprised he’s not texting in all caps.” Steve rolled his eyes, which, according to the Stressed-out Scale, was a considerable de-escalation from the crusty banana split.
Ding!
“New Star Trek! Hot alien chick! Hot alien tatas! Seven o’clock sharp!"
Ding!
“You’re the Kirk to my Spock! Respond or I’ll sick Khan on you!” Bucky snorted. “That’s actually really funny.”“Oh, Tony’s definitely funny,” Steve said, melting into the corner of the couch, “and intense, and persistent, and obnoxious.” Ding! “White trash attire! Cheap beer and bologna sandwiches provided! No mullet, no entry!” Covering the R in Pedro with Steve’s next-generation iPhone (shout out, Jean-Luc Picard), Bucky asked, “Is he serious?”“Completely.” Steve smiled. But it wasn’t his normal, cute-‘n’-shy-with-a-side-of-sexy; it was mischievous with a side of D.E.V.I.O.U.S.“Why does your face look like it’s April Fools’ Day?” Shazam! Space travel was cool. Not only had Bucky teleported back to the couch (beam me up, Scotty), Stevie’s foot (singular) had teleported back into Bucky’s shorts.“We should go,” Steve said, makin’ first contact with Bucky’s balls (plural).“You mean you should go.”“No. I mean we.” Sneakin’ his toes underneath Bucky’s sac, Steve gave it a lil’ wiggle. “As in you and I.""That's my favorite Lady Gaga song," Bucky said, trying not to picture (but definitely picturing) a meat dress made of testicles. “For real, Buck. Let’s go.”There was no way of knowing whether Steve’s concussion, Bucky’s unparalleled dick-sucking skills, or a combination of both were to blame for Steve losing his fucking mind (shh, it was the blow job). Whatever the reason, there was no way in hell he was going to allow himself to be thrown into the lion’s den with Steve’s asshole ‘friends.’“And how exactly are you going to explain my presence to your ‘friends’?” Bucky tripled up on the air quotes. “Your ‘friends,’ who—in case you’ve forgotten—fucking hate me.”“They don’t hate you.” Sitting up, Bucky disconnected Steve’s foot from his balls. “Okay, fine. Some of them hate you. But they don’t know you. As soon as you sit down with a couple of beers and have an actual conversation, everything will be fine.” In the interest of making this ‘thing’ with Steve more than a one-off encounter, Bucky imagined himself at a picnic table, sharing a bowl of potato salad with Brock and Jack as they discussed the ins and outs of cyberbullying versus bullying in the flesh.“You’re so full of shit.” It was one thing to be optimistic, but Steve was fucking delusional. Even if Ice Cube held an AK to Bucky’s head (#TodayWasAGoodDay), he’d never in a million years sit down with Brock and talk about anything, especially over a bowl of fucking potato salad!“You know how you said you’d trust Clint with your life?” Leaning forward, Steve touched Bucky’s hands instead of his balls.“Well, that’s Sam for me. He’s the epitome of good people. And Tony—” Steve cringed. “You’re right. Tony’s a handful. But he’s also ride or die.”“Did you just quote Jay Z?”“No.”“DMX?”Squishing up his forehead, Steve said, “I don’t know what that means,” like DMX was a type of dirt bike. “What I’m trying to say is that it’s usually just Tony, Sam, Ezra, and Scott at these things. Once in a while, Rhodey or Bruce show up, but—”“Bruce drives a Porsche.”“I don’t know what that means either.” “It means your ‘friends’ are fucking gazillionaires and I don’t even own a bike!” Somersaulting off the couch (not really), Bucky stormed over to the fireplace and ate the misjuggled tot off the floor (#FifteenMinuteRule). “And if I did have a spare three hundred dollars to buy myself a bicycle—which I don’t—I’d get one with a sissy bar and a banana seat, and paint it like a fucking rainbow. Maybe throw in a sparkly tassel or two, just to make my shit real clear.” “You’re worried that you’re gay.”Bucky snorted. “No. I’m worried that you’re gay. And if you show up with me, aka your friendly neighborhood Twilight Sparkle enthusiast, those fuckers are gonna know something’s up.”“Oh.”“Yeah. Oh.” Whenever things got heated between Clint and Bucky, one of them would inevitably break the tension with one (or more) of the following: a full-contact tackle, a figure-four leg-lock, an atomic noogie, an atomic wedgie, a Dutch oven, a nut tap, and/or a gallon of ice cream (preferably Superman). But Steve didn’t look like he wanted to share a gallon of ice cream (#GrumpyCat), and he sure as fuck didn’t look like he’d be cool with Bucky smashing a folding chair over his head.“Sure, going to Tony’s is a little out there, but—” “A little?” Bucky scoffed. “It’s fucking bonkers.”With zip, zero, núl fireplace tots to gobble off the floor, Bucky had no reason to be standing ten feet away in the opposite corner of the ring, sizing up the WWE’s hottest new wrestler (emphasis on hot). But here he was, adjusting his singlet as he tried to figure out his next move. Should he blast Captain All-American (not to be confused with Captain America) with a Diving Elbow Drop or…Tag team!...tag somebody in.Cue Deep Voice Guy: Hailing from somewhere in Manhattan, Captain All-American hides a series of unconventional moves behind a conventional mantle, surprising teammates and opponents alike with radical holds and implausible Powerbombs. Less than a day after signing his contract with the GWWE (Gay World Wrestling Entertainment), the Captain’s willingness to leap off the top rope has earned him the nickname Captain Bonkers. “I can’t hide on your couch forever,” Steve said, grabbin’ the final tot off the coffee table and…Pop!...poppin’ it into his mouth. “Yes you can.” Bucky backed into the corner. “I’ll camouflage you with American flags and feed you tots three times a day.”Steve laughed, which, rude. Bucky’s flag/tot combo was a legitimate idea (#2Legit2Quit). Peak protection for an upper-class runaway.“The truth is, I’ve had an amazing day”—Steve patted the couch like Bucky was the labradoodle—“and I’m not ready for it to end.”“Even if you’re queer by association?”Steve shrugged.“Even if I’m queer by association.”Tater tot solidarity was a step in the right direction, but tots ‘n’ labradoodles were totally different from spoonfuls of ice cream and a back full of tacks. That shit was natural, easy like a Pizza Saturday morning (sing it, Lionel), and…Dun-dun-dun!...toxic as fuck (#FreeBritney).Leaping over the coffee table, Bucky shouted, “Free Bucky!” as he reclaimed his spot on the couch.Ice cream was overrated. Not only was it hella messy, but if you stuffed too much in your mouth at once, it triggered a Slurpee-caliber brain freeze with a capital S.T.O.P. Sure, Steve’s treat-free approach was new (and different, and scary, and…Bonus trait!...sexually fulfilling), but if Bucky went balls-to-the-wall and leapt off the top rope like Rey Mysterio, maybe his life could be easy like a Sunday morning seven days a week.“But is it okay if we don’t say anything yet?”Correction: Steve’s treat-free approach fucking sucked!“You’re on the team now, so it won’t be that suspicious that I invited you, especially when Sam and Tony see my face.”“You don’t want to tell them.”“Is that okay?” Steve looked at the floor. “Like I said, Tony can be a lot, and—”Bucky burped. And it wasn’t, like, a little burp. No, Juggalos and jerks. It was a big-boy burp chock full of regurgitated tater tots and all-American pubes.“It’s fine,” Bucky said, burpin’ out the letters, “F.I.N.E. But if Bruce is there, I’m tellin’ Mr. Porsche 911 that his car makes me think he’s got a half inch micropenis. Which, if you’ve ever done a deep dive on Google, is really fuckin’ disturbing.”“Fine by me,” Steve said with a cute lil’ chuckle (#Kawaii).“And I’m gonna kick Ezra in the nuts for nutting all over my sister’s friend Jude and bailing without saying goodbye.” Channeling Optimus Prime, Bucky transformed his hand into a pair of scissors. “And when that asshole is writhing around on the floor like a little bitch, I’m gonna chop off a chunk of his hair and turn it into a Voodoo doll so I can stab him in the dick every time he fucks over a girl.”Practical question: Does YouTube have Voodoo doll tutorials? PETA question: Do Voodoo rituals always include chicken murder?“And Stark?” Pulling up the keyboard on Jean-Luc Picard’s communicator, Bucky said, “Changed my mind. See you tonight. Send.”“Are you sure?” “As sure as Sunday is the day after Saturday. But if Stark starts running his mouth, I—”"When.” Steve grabbed Bucky’s foot, smoochin’ the bottom like Bucky hadn’t been walking barefoot in the worst toilet in Scotland. “When Tony starts running his mouth. It’s a guarantee.”Bucky closed his eyes.Seven days a week instead of one. Seven days a week instead of none. It tickled when Steve kissed Bucky’s big toe, and it tickled even more when he sucked the entire thing into his mouth.“Steve!”The King of Kink laughed, but he didn’t let go. Not when Céline helped Bucky heave two large pizzas over the side of the ship. Not when Jack dragged his frozen ass onto the floating door, proving once and for all that the two of them could fit. And not when Bucky said, “Just so you know, if Stark calls me a fag, I’m gonna steal one of those fancy egg things. Faberéy. Fabiolé. Fab—”“Fabergé?”Had Steve corrected Bucky with a toe in his mouth? No way, José, he’d corrected Bucky with dos dedos en la boca (Translation: two toes in his mouth).Sneakin’ in a third (just to see if Steve could take it), Bucky said, “And if Stark calls me a twink, I’m gonna steal his watch, hop a train to the pawn shop, and get myself a new amp.”Steve not only took it, he smiled like he wanted a fourth.“There’s an entire drawer of watches in Tony’s closet,” Stevie said, suckin’ Bucky’s baby toe like a Tootsie Pop. “Second drawer down. Left side. That’s where he keeps the Audemars Piguet. Steal that one and you can buy yourself an amp, a banana-seat bicycle, and a gently used car.”Pancakes with extra sticky syrup. Newspapers with nothing but Garfield comics. Foot fetishes galore. Everything was easy like a Sunday morning when Bucky scooched across the couch and said, “An accomplice to burglary, huh?”“Mm-hmm.” Trading toes for lips, Steve kissed Bucky like grand larceny was an even bigger turn-on than sexy dancing. “And as a reward for coming with me, I’ll show you exactly where it is.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“This is going to be a spectacular night!” Tony threw open the double doors to the white trash party palace, just so he could kick them shut and do it again. “A Great Gatsby extravaganza if Gatsby tossed on a trucker cap and snapped into a Slim Jim!”“You’re going to dent the wall.”Sam-I-Am was terrible at themes. And fun. And being a white trash Black man who loved NASCAR and PBR. Even when Tony had gone out of his way to host a double feature of Madea's Family Reunion and Madea Goes to Jail, Samuel L. Jackson had blown off Tyler Perry’s dress code—Dress to impress in a dress!—and shown up in a light-blue button-down like a strip-mall accountant from H&R Block.“That’s the point,” Tony said, kicking the keg instead of the doors. “You’re not trailer trash unless you’ve got holes in your trailer.”“It’s rude to call people trash.”“And it’s rude to show up to my white trash party in a six-hundred dollar Burberry polo shirt. In Alabama, that kind of money buys three back-alley abortions and a tramp stamp!”Procuring a pig in a blanket from the sideboard, Tony confirmed—in one juicy bite—that Chef Philippe had earned a gold-plated Michelin Star for white trash authenticity. The man had put up one hell of a fight about deep-fried Twinkies and Jell-O shots being “beneath his station,” but in the end, Chef Philippe had whipped up a hillbilly feast—Complete with franks ‘n’ beans and Spam!—that would make Honey Boo Boo and Jacques Pépin feel right at home. Or in Honey Boo Boo’s case, sweet home Alabama.“Hot damn, these are good!” Tony double-dipped the cozy pig into the Crock-Pot of bubbling Velveeta. “Yo, Sammy Boy, remind me to tell Margarita to tell Daddy Warbucks to give Chef Boyardee a raise!”Sam-I-Am rolled his eyes.“You told her she could go home,” he said, shuffling a stack of W-2s around the corner of the couch. “Right after you downed your fifth beer.”“I did no such thing!”“Yes, you did. You told her you were ‘too poor’ to afford a personal assistant.”Tony was great at themes. And fun. And drinking enough Pabst Blue Ribbon to do something as stupid as throwing lunch meat at Mommy’s life-size statue of Venus—Bologna tits!—or sending his billion dollar babysitter back to—Tony ripped the blanket off one of the pigs.“But, Sammy,” Tony said, whining like a baby who’d never been breastfed. “If Margarita’s gone baby gone back to wherever she lives, who’s gonna tuck my winey hiney into bed?” Margarita muttering “two-thousand dollars a week” as she rolled Tony onto his side was always the cherry on top of Tony’s tequila-flavored sundae.“And who’s going to follow me around with the little garbage can so I don’t puke all over Mommy’s priceless Persian rugs?” Sammy Davis Jr. didn’t answer because the tax man was bad at a heck of a lot more than being a white trash Black man. He was bad at paying taxes, chugging Pabst Blue Ribbon, and keeping track of Tony’s personal assistants. Monique. Barbara. Chassidy. Iyanna. Paige. Vinnie. None of them had lasted more than six months. But beautiful Margarita with the poofy brown hair and excessive student loans? The two of them were about to celebrate their one year anniversary!“Yo, Sammy Boy, remind me to tell Margarita to order Margarita flowers for our anniversary.” Tony traded the naked pig for a fresh PBR. “And a tennis bracelet, and a real bed—no assistant of mine should be sleeping on a futon—and maybe a Hep C vaccine. Can you believe that Margarita’s been shoving Playtex tampons up my nose for an entire trip around the sun?”“It’s been three months." Putting his penny loafers up on the ottoman, Sammy Davis Jr. rolled his eyes. "And at the rate you’re going, I doubt she’ll last four.”That was the attitude of a sober person, and sober people—while great at avoiding beer-goggle booty calls and DUIs—were the worst when it came to erecting engineering marvels out of beer cans.Glancing at the pyramid he’d been building with Scotty-Poo, Tony did some preliminary calculations. Ten cans wide at the base. Four cans on the second layer. Ezra had contributed three. Sam Adams had contributed two. Which meant—“Scott! You’re falling behind!”“He went to the bathroom.”“What?” Tony aimed his pecker at Mommy’s Philodendron. “Rednecks don’t go to the bathroom! They piss on the side of the shed!”“If you take your dick out, I’m leaving.”Sam Adams hadn’t said it, because Sam Adams was sipping his PBR like a colonial pussy. Scotty-Poo hadn’t said it, because instead of using the hose behind the outhouse to give himself a white trash enema, Scotty-Poo was blasting poo off his hiney with one of Howard’s top-of-the-line Japanese bidets. Steve-o hadn’t said it, because Steve-o was late for their date. By process of elimination, that left—“Ezra!” Shaking the piss off his Peter Piper picked a pecker, Tony made a beeline for the piggy-wiggies. “You have to try one of these bundled-up pigs! They're surprisingly moist!" "I'm making a kamikaze.”The sidebar—with the bumpkin buffet—was on the opposite side of the white trash party palace from the bar bar—with the affluent alcohol—but Tony made sure that Ezra could hear his eyes roll when he said, “Congratulations, Ezra-E. You just proved to MAGA militants from sea to shining sea—minus the Pacific Northwest and the Northeastern Seaboard—that your Dreamer status doesn’t come with a built-in understanding of white trash hooch.” “That’s because my father doesn’t believe in the ‘American Dream.’” Flipping his oil-black locks out of his face—not to be confused with oily black—Ezra-E added a twist of lime. “He believes in profiting off American billionaires like your dad.” “Ooo, snarky,” Tony said, testing out a Twinkie. “I like it when you put the dubious in Dubai.”The Lebanese lothario didn’t give Tony the satisfaction of a response, so Tony didn’t give Ezra-UAE the satisfaction of seeing how sad that made him. So many one-liners, wasted on a Manwich of a Middle Eastern man whose petroleum-drenched bank account defused every incendiary insult, big, small, and backpack size.The Twinkie’s outer shell wasn’t crispy enough to reignite Tony’s internal flame, so he dunked his arm elbow-deep into the plastic cooler—It had wheels!—and grabbed his sixth—Or was it his seventh?—ice-cold PBR.“At least Ezra-UAE dressed to impress,” Tony said, cracking the red-blooded Pabst Blue Ribbon next to Sam Adams’ blue-blooded ear. “Just to be clear, Sammy Boy, you were supposed to dress to impress the Trailer Trash Boys, not the Founding Fathers.”Ezra-E’s Ralph Lauren Henley, black Saint Laurent skinny jeans, and red-and-black checkered Balenciaga flannel were more poser grunge than corn-fed—especially because Serj Tankian had tied the flannel around his wisp of a waist like Sub Pop Records was the capital of Kentucky—but at least Ezwaldo had made an effort.Chugging half the can—and then some—Tony leaned over the back of the couch and whispered, “Ezra borrowed those muddy work boots from his gardener Enrique,” into the shell of Sammy's ear.Sam-I-Am wasn’t having it. The chugging. The whispering. The sloppy smooch Tony planted on his cheek.“There’s a big difference between working class and white trash.” Pushing Tony sideways, Sammy Davis Jr. stamped Tony’s tax return with a big red Denied. “And I think it’s—”“My uncle Solomon's working class.”“Scott!” In the ten-something years Tony had been looking eye to eye with Scotty-Poo, he’d never been so excited to see Austin Power’s vertically challenged son! “You’re just in time to save me from Sammy Sosa’s shocking lack of appreciation for pork rinds!”Heading straight for the franks ‘n’ beans, Tony’s favorite bubeleh said, “My Grandpa Sal isn’t down with tattoos ‘cause we’re, like, Jewish and stuff. So when Uncle Solomon’s high school buddies talked him into get a tattoo of a topless mermaid, Grandpa Sal was like, ‘Good luck getting me to pay for college with a pair of fish tits on your arm.’”“Fish tits!” Tony snorted. “To go with your fisherman hat!”Samuel L. Jackson and Ezra-UAE were too politically correct and bourgeoisie—respectively—to understand the ins and outs of white trash fashion, but not Scotty-Poo. Tony’s midsize matzo ball had come to the backwoods ball in a floppy Kangol hat and an oversize Fresh Prince of Bel-Air t-shirt because Tony may or may not have texted DJ Jazzy Scott that tonight’s theme was fresh-out-of-the-projects Will Smith.Speaking of the Fresh Prince…“Where in the Waldo is Steve-o?” Grabbing a PBR out of the cooler, Tony threw it in Scotty-Schmoe’s general direction. Maybe he caught it, maybe he didn't. Tony didn't care. He was too busy wiping his hands on the bottom of his white trash Van Halen tank top. Look, Mom! No sides!“I put on this douchey Ashton Kutcher trucker hat just for him. And, in case you haven’t noticed”—Tony spun the cap around—“I'm wearing it backwards.” "Did you even try to throw that at him?" Based on Sammy Boy’s tone—and the hole in the wall next to Howard’s Lichtenstein—Tony guessed that Scotty-Schmoe had missed the quarterback pass. “Oopsie,” Tony said, adjusting the flask in the back pocket of his jorts. “Mommy said I can be anything I want to be when I grow up—including a raging alcoholic—but I guess that everybody can’t be Micheal Vick. Even you, Sammy Davis Jr.”“I told you to knock it off with that racist—”“I’m not racist!” Tony threw a loaf of Wonder Bread at Sam’s head. “I just know how much you love dogs!”The soft thud of the Wonder Bread smacking the side of Sammy Sosa’s head proved that Tony could be a Black quarterback if he wanted to. Mommy said so! Not to mention, lobbing the whitest of white breads at an angry Black man during a white trash party was—if you’d drunk six or seven PBRs—peak commentary on race relations in the good ol’ U.S. of A.Sammy Sosa was ranting about the Chicago Bulls and pit bulls, but to Tony it sounded like "blah blah blah" because Tony was concentrating on using his Find My iPhone app to find his phone so he could text his favorite golden retriever.“Steve-o’s never this late,” Tony said, trading Find My iPhone for Find My Jell-O Shots. Lime for Jules. Orange for the magic carpet. Lime for the magic carpet’s tchotchke Scotty Schmidt Langberg. Orange for Tony.“Down the hatch!” Tony squeezed the shot into his mouth.Make that orange and lime for Tony.The party had moved to the couch, which, if semantics were involved, was basically a C-shaped king-size bed when you included the ottomans. Which is where Scotty-Poo and his yarmulke came in.Attempting to toast a real-life descendant of the Ottoman Empire with his tiny plastic cup, Scotty-Poo said, “Maybe he’s still sick.”Unfortunately for peace in the Middle East, Ezra-UAE did not reciprocate“Steve didn’t say he was sick,” Sammy Sourpuss said, swallowing his shot without swirling his tongue around in the bottom of the cup—Cunnilingus!—because Sammy Suck-up sucked the fun out of everything, including sour pussies. “He said some shit went down and he needed the day off.”Jell-O shots were great—especially when they were made with 100 proof Smirnoff vodka from a plastic jug—but unless Chef Philippe had added benzos to the powdery mix, they didn't qualify as a “shit went down” libation. Jello-O shots, be gone!Tony popped a squat in his custom-made jorts, shouting, “Tequila!” as he grabbed Pee-wee’s favorite bottle out of Howard’s sub-zero freezer. According to Margarita’s research, Jose Cuervo Gold was known for its painful burn, nasty hangovers, and authentic white trash affordability. In other words that a Beverly Hillbilly with a third-grade education could understand, Jose Cuervo was the perfect poison for days... and nights... and mornings... when “shit went down.” “We should start the movie,” Sammy Spammy said, slapping two slices of Wonder Bread on a shit sandwich. “As much as I hate to say it, we have conditioning in the morning.”“Conditioning, smoodishining.” Tony lined up four shot glasses on Howard’s bar. “Nothing screams white trash authenticity like a bunch of hungover athletes prepping for the Olympics. Tonya Harding would be proud.”Unscrewing the cap, Tony took a swig from the bottle before pouring triple Axels all around.One for the most beautiful Black man in the room. A swig for Tony. One for Scott Baio—whose name wasn’t Charles or Charles in Charge. A swig for Tony. One for the Patron Saint of Versace, who—garden boots or no garden boots—wouldn’t be caught dead imbibing anything less than Patrón. A swig for Tony.Shouting, “For Pee-Wee!” Tony handed out the shots like a working-class waitress—See, he knew the difference!—before going in search of the working-class worm.“Tony…”“For Steve-o!” The Fiddler on the Roof and Aladdin were more than happy to join Tony’s quest for amnestic inebriation, but Sam-I-Am was a worrywart. Or a worryworm. Or a worm with warts.“Tony, don’t.” Sam-I-Am started to get off the couch, but the ottomans were too big and Tony was too slippery. “For the worm!” Tony was good at being drunk. Top-shelf. Bottom-shelf. It was all the same to him. All he had to do was wait ten minutes, and—“Ouchie!” Mommy’s greyhound statue had stubbed his stubby-wubby toe!“Look, Jules!” Hopping on one foot, Tony addressed his fellow dog lover. “It’s life-size for maximum pets!”Most of the time, Mace Windex put friendship before Star Trek. But now wasn’t one of those times. Or was it?Lowering the blackout curtains, Mace Windex dimmed the lights and hit play—all from Howard’s state-of-the-art remote—allowing Tony to drink away Steve’s pain as he pet the nonhuman dog.Lucky for Tony’s liver, the doorbell rang before Tony could swallow the worm.“I’ll get it!” Tony grabbed a bag of pork rinds in case his human dog was hungry. “Poor people open their own doors!”The theater room wasn't far from the foyer, so Tony didn’t have far to stumble. But when he threw open the door, he didn't see his favorite golden retriever; he saw Ronnie James Dio and a pair of acid-washed jeans.“Steve-o?”No amount of PBR, Jell-O shots, and tequila could explain why Steve was standing on Howard’s front stoop in a Dio jersey and skintight jeans. “That bandana makes you look like Bret Micheals," Tony said, pushing the pork rinds against Ronnie James' satanic scowl, "except your hair is short and it’s not a wig.”“Tony, I’m—”“And that shiner?” Tony took two swigs of Pee-wee's poison. “Don’t you know it’s rude to outshine the bride at her shotgun wedding? Just ask the Georgia Satellites.” “I’m sorry we’re late. I wasn’t sure about the jeans, and—”“What the fuck?” Ronnie James was all but forgotten because the principal’s kid was standing behind Steve! And not just that! He was wearing a Coors Light baseball hat!“He’s on the team now, and—”Tony slammed the door in Steve’s face.A Coors Light baseball hat was whiter than white trash! It was a white smash! And shit sandwich or not, there was no way in L.A. Tony was letting Fucky B. Barnes make him look like a Hollywood poser!“Help me, Sam-I-Am!” Leaning on Mommy’s marble Venus for support, Tony took a bite of her dangly meat curtains. “There’s an honest-to-goodness piece of white trash at the door, and I think he's gonna run me over with his four-wheeler!”The door had only been open for a fraction of a second, but Fucky Bucky’s outfit had been permanently burned into Tony’s retinas. The dingy wife beater Fucky B had stolen from Kid Rock’s trailer in Detroit. The tattered jean vest he’d nicked from Joe Dirt’s chicken farm in Silvertown. The low-slung jorts that were sooo much cooler than the ones Tony had made with his circular saw. “He looks like a Metallica roadie from 1985!” Tony reached down to unbuckle his belt. “And I’m taking off my pants!”‘Somebody’ was pounding on the door like he’d snorted a kilo of powdered Muscle Milk, but Tony had a zipper to deal with. And shoes. And socks. And the belt he couldn’t unbuckle without the assistance of his faithful servant Margarita.“Just open the Goddamn door!” Steve-o wasn’t the one shouting, because Steve-o was too busy breaking down Howard’s Italian bespoke door with his fists of fury. Ezra-E and Scotty-Poo didn’t know enough about Metallica—or powdered Muscle Milk—to shout about raging roadies and bus accidents. Which meant the tax man cometh, shouting from the strip mall, and Tony was wearing one shoe.“Fine,” Tony said to the finest set of bologna tits money could buy, “but I’m not sharing Pee-wee’s tequila.”Steve-o was midpound when Tony threw open the door, perfectly demonstrating what happened when a muscle-bound milkhead put Newton’s first law to the test. “Ha!” Tony said, stumbling in the opposite direction. “You fell!”Physics was fun! And Steve-o’s inertia gave Tony the perfect opportunity to stir up some friction with Fucky B. Barnes.“Hey there, Fucky Bucky. Mind if I ask you a question?”“Tony. Leave him—”“Since you’re actually white trash, does your outfit count?” Demonstrating Newton’s third law, Tony leaned against Howard's doorframe as he checked Fucky B for a tramp stamp. “Me? I’m thinking no.” Contrary to expectations, Fucky B didn’t stumble—or mumble—when he said, “Since you’re actually an entitled asshole, do your insults count?” He straightened his shoulders like he was about to toss Tony into a pit of wild gators. “Me? I’m thinking yes, which is why you can go fuck yourself.” This was a new look for Fucky B. Barnes. And Tony wasn’t talking about Eddie Vedder’s knee-high athletic socks—With stripes!—he was talking about Fucky Bucky wrestling ten-foot gators in the swamps of Louisiana.Flicking the slithery snake pin on Joe Dirt’s vest, Tony said, “I like your Whitesnake button. Did you steal it from Walmart?”Fucky B didn’t flick the head of Tony’s snake, but he definitely thought about it when he said, “I like your underwear. Did you steal them from your mom?”As it turned out, Tony could unbuckle his belt without Margarita—Yay!—and now his subpar jorts were slippity-sliding down his thighs like a white trash Slip ’N Slide.Snorting, Tony aimed his wangdoodle at Fucky B. “I put on a banana hammock so my sausage could be white trash. Look, they’re cheetah!”“For Christ’s sake, Tony. Pull up your pants.”“Not until you fix your bandana.” Turning his fingers into a pair of glasses, Tony let it all hang out. “I can see that Band-Aid loud and clear through these tequila goggles.”Acid-wash jeans and holy divers were one thing, but Steve-o’s battered-wife look was taking the white trash theme ten hectares too far into Sasquatch country. And when Bigfoot crossed the Mississippi to beat up Tony’s honey boo boo, Tony had no choice but to run back to his homemade still and bust out the moonshine. Tequila, be gone!Putting away his cheetah cub, Tony retrieved his flasky-flask from the back pocket of his jorts.“So... Fucky Bucky from Kentucky”—Tony unscrewed the lid with his teeth—“are you going to own up to breaking into Kid Rock’s trailer to assemble these bona fide white trash ensembles, or do I have to call the cops?”Bob’s second cousin raised an eyebrow like he didn’t understand that breaking and entering was a crime in Detroit.“Are you confused as to whether or not you, Fucky B. Barnes, are the person responsible for putting Captain Fancy Pants into a satanic Dio shirt?”“Captain Fancy Pants?”“Did I stutter?” Aiming his ass at Steve-o, Tony took a healthy swig. “No, it’s just—”“The gator wrestler can stay!” Stealing the pork rinds from Steve-o, Tony handed them to Fucky B. “But just to be clear, it was the Whitesnake button that won me over, not the nefarious superiority of your white trash shorts.”* The movie was fine. Definitely not worth the sweat and tears it had taken Margarita to get an advanced copy of the DVD from Paramount, but it was fine. Rubbing his ethanol belly, Tony sunk further into Howard’s couch.Sam-I-Am spitting watermelon seeds into an empty shot glass instead of spitting them into a bucket of pig slop was fine. Ezra-E mixing top-shelf kamikazes instead of sucking milk directly from a cow's teat was fine. Scotty-Poo pooh-poohing Chef Philippe’s cozy pigs after Sammy Spoilsport had told him that white trash hot dogs were made from ground-up pig parts, not ground-up cow parts, was fine. But you know what wasn’t fine?Steve-o falling asleep twenty minutes into the movie!Tony was drunk. Actually, Tony was more than drunk. He was in desperate need of Margarita’s portable garbage can. But mixing PBR with tequila, Jell-O shots, and the magical moonshine in his flasky-flask hadn’t made Tony blackout drunk. At least not yet.The girlish giggles. The ‘secret’ glances. The way Captain Obvious had shared a single PBR with Sergeant Hot Pants as they’d passed the pork rinds back and forth. Something sketchy was going on between Captain Speedo and his new recruit, and Tony was Furiosa.“You lied to me,” Tony said, leaning against Sam-I-Am’s big, burly shoulder. “You knew about—”Tony burped up a mouthful of tequila-soaked Twinkie. “You knew about Steve’s face.”“I didn’t know anything about anything.” Sam-I-Am glanced across the Ottoman Empire at Ezra-E and Scotty-Poo. “Now, be quiet. You’re ruining the movie.”“Pfft. Those horndogs aren’t listening to us gossip about Steve-o’s dramarama. They’re lusting over alien poontang.” “I said, be quiet.”Tony knew why Sam-I-Am was shushing him. Ezra-E and Scotty-Poo were on a need-to-know basis, and Steve-o didn’t want them to know anything about anything.“But, Sammy,” Tony said with a whine and a burp. “My favorite punching bag is this close to coating the Bowl God’s luscious locks with a thick layer of drool.”It had started innocently enough. Steve-o had hunkered down in the back corner of the couch—because his manly muscles needed the extra real estate—while Fucky B. Fleas had crawled into the opposite corner like a junkyard dog whose owner had given him permission to lay on the furniture.“I hate his socks,” Tony said, staring at Fucky B’s feet. “There’s a hole in the bottom and they smell like poor people.”“Then don’t look at his socks.” Sammy Spoilsport confiscated the flask, which was waaay too little, waaay too late to spoil anything. “Look at the movie.”Tony wanted to look at the movie. He did. But by the pricking of his thumbs—and the inevitable dicking of Fucky B’s buns—something wicked this way comes. Steve-o sinking into the corner of the couch ten minutes into the movie had been understandable. Getting punched was tiring stuff. But stretching out until his holeless socks had been three inches from the Fruit Loop’s hole?Tony scoffed.A little bit of fruit was fine. A kamikaze with a twist of lime. A Cherry Vodka Sour. A lemon wedge after a shot of tequila. But somewhere between Chris Pine giving Ol’ Blue Eyes a run for the mob’s money and Spock and Sulu being fruity in space, the fruitiest fruit since Rock Hudson had sprawled out in front of Steve like a puddle of piss.“How does he breathe like that?”Fucky Bucky’s hair wasn’t just covering his face, it was his face.“It’s only a matter of time before that flea-ridden heavy metal Sasquatch suffocates Steve with Aquanet and shame.”“Let it go, man.”“I don’t want to let it go!” Tony pointed at Cousin It. “They're supposed to be comrades, not Russian nesting dolls!”The space between Steve-o and Michail Baryshnikov was shrinking faster than Tony’s liver! “Seriously, you’ve got nothing to say about that?” Making a grab for the flasky-flask, Tony’s hand landed on Sam-I-Am’s big, beefy thigh. So taut! So firm! “No questions? No concerns? No fire-and-brimstone bible verses from your Baptist preacher?” Sammy Spoilsport turned toward Captain Kirk as he dropped Tony's flasky-flask over the side of Howard’s couch, but not before Tony saw the smirky-smirk on his tea-loving face. “I saw that!” Tony tried to slap the wind out of Sam Adams’ sails, but Tony was three sheets to the wind. And drunk. And nauseous. And full of Twinkies and Totos and twinks, oh my! “You’re a liar, liar, pants on fire! Just like Howard’s accountants!” “Shush. You're going to wake them up.”“I want to wake them up! That’s why I’m shouting!”Tony stuck out his foot to kick the Golden Retriever’s dog off—“Gay!”Toto’s socks were touching Steve-o’s ankles! Steve-o’s arm was touching Toto's waist! And Sam-I-Am wasn’t doing anything to stop it!”“Ezra-E! Do you see this?”Unfortunately—Or fortunately?—Ezra-X had slipped himself a handful of Tony's Xanax, meaning he was five Mediterranean sheets to the wind on a boatload of benzos.“Scott!” Tony threw a throw pillow at his favorite dreidel. “Get out your yarmulke so we can pray away the gay!”Unfortunately—Or fortunately?—Scotty-Poo had passed out face-first on Ezra-E’s lap. But not in a gay way. In a drunk way that may or may not have something to do with the Prohibition-era contents of Tony’s flasky-flask. Speaking of flasky-flasks, where, oh where, had his flasky-flask gone? Was it in Tony’s pants? No. But a cheetah was! Was it in Sammy Spammy’s—Suddenly “Sabotage” blasted out of Howard’s top-of-the-line speakers, enhancing Tony’s high with CGI space explosions, classical music, and the superior use of the Beastie Boys’ catalog. Seriously, somebody needed to give that music director a raise! Chef Philippe. Margarita. Fucky B’s hairdresser. The escort Tony had ‘taken out to dinner’ last night. The ‘friend’ she’d called for dessert. Raises for everyone! The room was only a little bit spinny when Tony sat up, but when he turned to tell Steve-o what Candy and Coco had done with the cock ring—“M. Night Shyamalan!” Dio and Whitesnake were spooning! There was a big spoon and a bigger spoon being gay as fuck on Howard’s couch! “Shut up and watch the movie.” Sam-I-Am used his big, beefy man hand to turn Tony’s head toward the Russian on the screen instead of the Russian nesting on Steve-o’s wood. “You’re ruining the end.”“But—”“I said, let it go! Steve has enough to worry about without dealing with your bullshit. He’s tired. He’s sleeping. And as far as I’m concerned, who he’s sleeping with is a moot point.” Something about that made sense, but Tony was too drunk to recalibrate his calculations. Or exacerbate his ministrations. Or fabricate more libations.“Give me back my flask.”“No.” “Then give me back my heteronormative movie night!”The screen went black because Samuel L. Jackson had had it up to here with the motherfucking gays on the motherfucking couch!“Time for bed,” Sammy Samson said, hauling Tony off Howard’s Italian-leather couch like a Scott-friendly side of beef.“Ha! You’re bald!”“And you’re wasted.” Samson manhandled Tony across the room in a way that made Tony feel less manly and more handled. “And I’m not drunk enough to deal with whatever bullshit you’re gonna say next.” “Well, aren’t you considerate of your gay best friend and his satanic whatever.” "Okay, man. That’s it.” Sammy Samson was strong—even without the hair—but that didn’t stop him from dropping Tony onto Mommy’s illegally imported rug. “I should’ve cut you off hours ago, so I’m gonna let that last sentence slide. But say another one like it, and we’re going to have a serious problem.”“But, Sammy.” Crawling past Sam-I-Am’s big feet—Ha! Bigfoot!—Tony grabbed the back of Howard’s cushions. “This is a clear-cut case of accidental cuddling. Pierce scrambled Steve’s brain, and he thinks that fruity fleabag is Sharon.”“He broke up with Sharon.” “I know, I was there!” With a wing and a prayer, Tony got himself upright. “That’s how I know Steve-o’s subconscious just reached out willy-nilly and grabbed the nearest warm body. His horny hypothalamus misses Sharon doing backflips onto his dick!”Tony didn’t know if it was all the shouting or all the gay bashing that made Steve open his eyes, but one thing was for sure. He hadn’t opened them for Tony.Nuzzling closer to the flea-ridden Fruit Loop, Steve whispered, “Night, Buck,” as he kissed Bucky’s ear.It was sickly sweet, like fried Twinkies and Sex on the Beach.“Do you think the gay is contagious?” Tony spit a mouthful of regurgitated Twinkie onto the rug. “Because I’m feeling really sick.”***** “Hey, man. You’ve gotta get up.”The hand shaking Steve’s shoulder wasn’t soft and delicate; it was rough and strong. And the voice pulling him out of the softest of dreams wasn’t tempered with amusement; it was insistent and annoyed.Steve had been dreaming about something big and furry. Possibly a yeti. On the cusp of consciousness, there was an echo of the winter wind. A feeling of being sheltered from the cold. The sensation of warmth in Steve’s fingertips versus the sharp sting one would expect at the height of a Himalayan storm.But it didn’t last. The second Steve realized that the yeti was Bucky, the lingering softness was replaced by soul-sucking panic. Not only was Steve’s hand tucked inside Bucky’s tank top, clutching the hair between his pecs, his morning erection was pressed firmly against Bucky’s ass.“Are you hearing me?” The hand shaking Steve’s waist jostled the black hole.“Tony’s having a field day with this, so you need to get your ass off the couch, fix what I can only assume is Bucky’s bandana, and get upstairs to run some interference.”Steve squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could. Then he squeezed them even tighter.So this was the morning after the morning after. If everything weren’t completely fucked, Steve would have laughed. At how badly his ribs hurt. At Sam’s passive-aggressively attack on—of all things—Bucky’s soft cotton bandana. At the utter insanity of waking up two days in a row to the sound of somebody telling him to get his dick away from Bucky Barnes. This wasn’t déjà vu, it was a fucking carbon copy. The only difference was that today’s repercussions were going to be ten times worse than dealing with Bucky’s dad.Burying his face in the back of Bucky’s hair, Steve said, “At least we have clothes on.” “What was that?”Steve didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Sam had cupped his hand around his ear. Just like he didn’t need visual confirmation to know that Sam’s next move would be to put his hands on his hips.A glow-in-the-dark galaxy. A dense jungle where the Wild Thing roamed free with Snuffleupagus. A red-and-white checkered table overflowing with whole milk and marshmallows. Steve wanted to be anywhere but here. Hell, he’d rather wake up with Bucky in a back-alley dumpster, surrounded by rotten food and rats, than wake up to the sound of Sam being a dick about a fucking bandana.It was one thing to figure out that you were gay. There was relief in the weight of Bucky’s body. A tangible pressure that was comforting in both dreams and reality. But it was another thing to accidentally out yourself to your friends, especially when one of those friends was Tony.“So you’re just gonna ignore me?”Sam’s voice had gone from agitated to annoyed, but instead of pushing Bucky away, Steve pulled him closer, trying his damndest to think of a place where the two of them could wake up without the intervention of hands. A bedroom with a dead bolt. A hotel room with a Do Not Disturb sign. A mountain cave, just big enough for a lap dancing yeti, a crackling bonfire, and Steve. “Whatever, man.”Steve didn’t need to leave the safety of Bucky’s cave to know that Sam rolled his eyes.“Tony’s loaning everybody workout clothes, so unless you’re planning on running in those jeans, you’d better get up there. It’s almost 7:30.”There were footsteps. The sound of shoes moving from carpet to marble. A pause.“And, heads up, I think he’s still drunk.” Steve could tell that Sam turned left toward the kitchen, not right toward the curving staircase in the foyer. Left toward whatever fresh ingredients Tony’s chef was preparing for breakfast, not right toward the chaos that was undoubtedly happening upstairs.“Fuck.” Steve pressed his nose against the back of Bucky’s skull until it hurt. “Fuck my fucking life.”Normally, Steve looked forward to Coach Fury’s military-style workouts. They were an outlet. A chance to sweat out some of the rage. But rage didn’t exist in the loops and curls of Bucky’s hair. There was only softness and the subtle scent of something sweet.“You smell good,” Steve said, wishing he could wake Bucky with a flurry of morning-breath kisses instead of the news that they’d fallen asleep in hostile territory. “Like roses… or maybe jasmine.”“Shh.” Bucky clutched Steve’s hand through the tank top. “Sleepin’.”“That doesn’t mean you don’t smell good.”Taking a deep breath, Steve got as close as he could to the starboy without physically climbing inside of him.Steve was learning that assumptions were useless when it came to Bucky. An assumption was the reason Steve had reached for the economy-size bottle of Dove 2-in-1 Strengthening Shampoo for Men in Bucky's shower instead of the pale-pink bottle with the flowery label. An assumption was the reason Steve’s hair smelled like avocados and tea tree oil instead of roses and jasmine.After an incredibly uncomfortable conversation with Bucky’s dad about how “disrespectful, irresponsible, and—considering your injuries—reckless” it had been for Steve to get naked with Bucky under Mr. Barnes’ roof, Mr. Barnes had handed Steve a bottle of root beer, told him he was “more than welcome to take a shower,” and offered to drive him to the police station. “It’s not too late to report this,” he’d said, covering Steve’s hand with his own as he’d popped the cap with a bottle opener. “After you get cleaned up, I’d be more than happy to drive you to the precinct and help you file a report.”The dichotomy had been shocking. What kind of person yells at you for taking your clothes off, then—in the very same breath—says he'll risk his job to help you go toe-to-toe with one of the most powerful businessmen in New York? And what kind of person trusts that very same “disrespectful, irresponsible, and reckless” eighteen-year-old abuse victim to take their son to a white trash party at Tony Stark’s house?Swallowing the lump in his throat, Steve whispered, “A good one.” But Steve didn’t want to think about the tiny beads of condensation dripping down the bottle of root beer, or how they’d left a water ring on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. And he didn’t want to think about the sadness in Mr. Barnes’ eyes when Steve had pushed the bottle across the table and said, “Thank you, but no.” The only bottles Steve wanted to think about were the ones in Bucky’s shower.“There’s vanilla too," Steve said, inhaling the memory of cosmic unicorns and impossible rainbows. “Like that ice cream… vanilla bean.”“I knew you liked vanilla.” Bucky rubbed his ass against Steve’s erection. “Vanilla-flavored sausage with a side of Axl Rose.”Steve chuckled. Two simple sentences. One stupid joke. That’s all it took to put a smile on Steve’s face. “So I’m guessing the economy-size bottle of Dove 2-in-1 Strengthening Shampoo for Men isn’t yours.”“Some days it is.” Maneuvering Steve’s hand until the tips of his fingers were sticking out of the top of his tank top, Bucky kissed Steve’s pinky. “But I like to mix things up. Ten pumps of my dad’s bargain-basement shampoo when I’m feeling economical. A hefty dollop of Natasha’s flowery shit when I’m feelin’ flowery. Some days I don’t even wash it. I just get it wet and throw on a fuckton of conditioner.”“So... you smell like your sister?” “Ew gross! Don’t say that!”“Why not?”“‘Cause I washed my pubes with it too!”The idea of a jasmine-and-vanilla scented blow job was… intriguing? Tempting? Tantalizingly taboo? But even if Steve dove face first into Bucky’s flowery pubes, it would only be a temporary solution.Coach Fury didn’t give two shits if you’d stayed up late playing Call of Duty, studying for a test, or watching Star Trek with your favorite new person. The entire team was to be present and accounted for by zero nine hundred hours or Coach Fury would add miles, stairs, and burpees to their already grueling workouts. And no matter how good Bucky’s dick smelled, that just wasn’t something Steve could pull off in skintight jeans. Sighing, Steve untangled his hand.“As much as I’d like to sniff your dick garden, we have to get up.” “Dick garden?” Bucky snorted. “Like, a big-ass garden full of dicks?”“And worse, we have to borrow clothes from Tony.”“But he’s tiny.”“I know. It’s going to be—”“Except for his ego.” Breaking every point of connection, Bucky flipped and flopped across the sectional until he went right off the edge. “That’s fuckin' ginormous!”When somebody falls off a couch, the typical response would be to ask if they were okay, but before Steve could open his mouth, Bucky leapt up and grabbed a random cracker off the armrest.“You know, at the Y, our coach trusted us to do this shit on our own.” Bucky shoved the entire cracker into his mouth. No hesitation. No pause to see if there was dust—or worse—was stuck to the spiral of fake cheese that somebody had sprayed on top. No obvious concern about food poisoning. Bucky just saw, grabbed, and ate, chewing as he wandered over to stare at the abstract shapes in the painting next to the bar.“And when she did make us come in on the weekend—which was almost never—it was always in the afternoon ‘cause Jamie—unlike Fury—isn’t a fucking sadist.”“He’s not a sadist, he’s military.”“Same thing.”Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Then two.“Buck?”“The last time I stayed out all night without telling my dad, I stared at Clint’s Misfits poster for fifteen minutes before I finally got the balls to pick up the phone.”Oh God. Steve hadn’t even thought about that.“And you know what?” Bucky poked the center of the canvas, cracker crumbs and all. “I like that shitty poster a hell of a lot more than this ugly-ass painting.”“It’s an original Kandinsky.”“And the Misfits were the original punk rock gangsters.”Steve should stop the King of the Misfits from adding spray-cheese fingerprints to the million-dollar painting. He should. But he didn’t. Not even when Bucky slid his finger across Kandinsky’s signature.“Hey, guys!”Scott jogged into the room holding a pair of Tony’s running shoes.“I was kinda listening just now. Not in, like, a creepy way. More in, like, a I-didn’t-wanna-interrupt-in-case-you-guys-were-doing-stuff kind of way. But you’re not doing stuff, so that’s cool.”“Super cool,” Bucky said, leaning closer to the overlapping black lines.“I know, right? ‘Cause awkward.” Scott laughed. “But what’s even cooler is that when I was changing my socks into Tony’s socks, I overheard Sam telling Tony that he texted Natasha last night.” “Sam texted my sister?”“Yep.” Balancing on one foot, Scott put on a shoe. “So I’m pretty sure you’re cool in the dad department. I mean, you're probably not cool cool—‘cause you’re, like, here, instead of there—but at least your dad doesn’t think you’re missing.”The never-ending string of texts from Jade, checking to see if Steve was bleeding out in a ditch...“And Tony told me to tell you—and I’m quoting here—‘If those cuddly kittens aren’t up here by the count of sixty-nine, those douchebags can chafe their taints on their acid-wash jorts.’ He actually said ‘douchefags,’ but I’m not saying that.”“Douchefags.” Bucky pressed his nose against the center of the painting. “That’s a good one.”No, it wasn’t. It was fucking terrible. Sitting up faster than he should have, Steve said, “Stay here,” as he started to climb over the back of the couch. “I’ll deal with—”Steve froze, one foot on the floor, one leg over the back of the couch, because Bucky’s bright-red bandana was wedged between the cushions. On instinct, Steve slapped his hand over his forehead. “Tony said cuddly kittens, plural.” Scott hopped across the room—one shoe on, one shoe off—joining Bucky in front of the million-dollar chunk of cheese. “He was real specific. Two douchefags, not one.”Steve wasn’t stupid. He knew it was pointless to try and hide what had already been seen. But that didn’t stop him from running his fingers across the Band-Aids, checking to see if all eight were still in place.“If Stark wants two douchefags”—Bucky flicked the corner of the Kandinsky— “then two douchefags he shall get.”It was just like the cracker. No hesitation. No second guessing. No pause to ask where he was going. Bucky was out the door before Steve could get both feet on the floor."Bucky..."Making a hard right, Bucky's socks slipped on the marble floor as he ran toward the foyer. “Bucky, wait.”The Band-Aids were a problem—just like the bandana, the skintight jeans, and the fact that Steve was more than a little bit dizzy. But none of that stopped him from running after the Wild Thing, his socks slipping in the exact same spot. “Shit!”Steve slid sideways into the wall and knocked the bronze Henry Moore off its pedestal."No, no, no..."End over end, the sculpture toppled, crashing into the marble with a sickening thud. And it was perfect, really. A cosmic illustration of Steve's morning thus far. Spray cheese on the Kandinsky. A mid-century masterpiece on the floor. Steve should put his shoulder through the Lichtenstein and make it a fucking hat trick.Disrespectful. That's what Steve was. Disrespectful, irresponsible, and—considering the art collection in this house—reckless enough to sprint down the hallway in a pair of socks. Disrespectful enough to leave a museum-quality sculpture next to an empty bottle of tequila as he did it again.Desecrating the Henry Moore had taken an extra twenty seconds, thirty seconds tops, but by the time Steve slid to a stop next to the life-size statue of Venus, Bucky was already making quick work of the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. But worse than that, Ezra just so happened to be coming down as Bucky was going up. “Where’s Stark?” Bucky asked without slowing down.Ezra was holding onto the banister a little too tight. And that, combined with the sunglasses, the man bun that looked like it had been secured by a five-year-old, and the track pants that were at least four inches too short, told Steve everything he needed to know about Ezra's hangover.“Third floor on the right," Ezra said, squeezing his temples as Bucky ran past. "Just listen for the temper tantrum.”There was no reason for Steve to picture himself throwing Ezra over the banister, snapping his spine in half on Venus’ head. Bucky had asked a question, Ezra had answered. It had been a neutral interaction, devoid of malice or bullshit. Simple. Easy. But here Steve was, his fists trembling as he stood motionless on the first step."Good luck with that.""Huh?"While Steve had been busy transforming Venus into the Goddess of Death, Ezra had made it safely down the stairs."The shitshow." Ezra gave Steve’s back a condescending little pat. “You're gonna need all the luck you can get.”It was funny how quickly you could go from wanting to impale somebody on an ancient statue to forgetting that they even existed. Ezra was nothing. A nobody. A shell in the way of a goal. But Bucky?"Move," Steve said, taking three steps at a time instead of two.Bucky was already halfway to the third floor, meaning Steve's chances of catching him before he got to Tony were zero. But that didn't stop Steve from pushing past the pain in his ribs... the ringing in his ears... and the very real fact that the scab on his forehead was pulling apart.“Bucky, stop.”In a perfect world, Bucky would have slid to a stop on the third-floor landing, turning back toward Steve with a shit-eating grin."Told you I was faster than you," he'd say, stripping off his sweaty tank top. "It's only a matter of time before I beat you in the pool."But this world was far from perfect, and Bucky was long gone.Steve could hear Tony yelling about Margarita. Yelling about loaning Scott his “fifteenth favorite pair of running shoes.” Yelling about Ezra “hijacking his wardrobe.” Any second now, Tony would switch his focus to Bucky, calling him a douchefag… or worse.But nothing happened. The yelling stopped. The stairwell went quiet. And Steve, stuck halfway between the second and third floor, dug his fingernails into old wounds to avoid making new ones. Rabbit, no rabbit. Gay, not gay. Concussion, no concussion.Steve scoffed.With the way his head was pounding, the brain damage was irrefutable."Are you okay?"Scott was at the bottom of the pit, picking lunch meat off the Goddess of Love."I saw you crash into that ugly statue thing, and it was, like, whoa, dramatic."Dramatic? Steadying himself on the railing, Steve laughed. Dramatic was getting his head smashed into a door handle… or getting shoved into a concrete pillar… or getting the wind knocked out of him in front of a roaring holiday fire. Dramatic was Steve standing here like a fucking baby instead of chasing down the only drama-free thing in his life.“No way, homogay! You’ve got cooties!” Tony's voice echoed down the stairwell, lighting a fire under Steve's ass that should have already been lit. Unclenching his fists, Steve ran the rest of the way up the stairs. Past the elevator. Past Margarita’s office. Past the bathroom. Past the gaming room. Past the room dedicated solely to Tony’s collection of African fertility sculptures and turn-of-the-century porn. By the time Steve charged into Tony’s suite, Bucky was standing in the doorway of the walk-in closet, blocking what could be perceived as Tony’s only exit. “Cooties?” Bucky widened his stance. “Are you fucking kidding me?”“I’d never joke about cooties! They’re on par with HPV!” It was clear that neither one of them had heard Steve come into the room. That, or they just didn’t care. “Hey,” Steve said, which was almost as bad as saying nothing at all. Not because of the word itself, but because Steve had said it like he was greeting a New York City transit worker on the fucking subway.“Hark! Is that Steve-o I hear?” Tony stepped into the line of sight between Bucky’s legs. “Hath thou come to rescue me from Fucky B. Fleas?” With Tony, you always had to expect the unexpected. But never in a million years had Steve expected Tony to be wearing nothing but a pair of Versace boxer briefs.“Are those Ezra’s?”“Obviously.” Snapping the patterned waistband, Tony pointed at Bucky. “Is this your junkyard dog?”Words. Steve needed some. But all he had were questions. Why was Tony wearing Ezra’s black-and-gold underwear? Why did the room smell like cheap incense and expensive cigars? Why hadn’t Bucky turned around?“Earth to Sanford and Son, tell your junkyard dog that no matter how much he barks, I’m not loaning him the shirt off my back or the shorts off my booty. He’s got butt fleas!”Adrenaline was good for a lot of things. Running up stairs. Blocking the effects of a concussion. Temporarily overriding Steve’s fears about being gay. But apparently, adrenaline didn’t do shit when it came to blatant homophobia.Bucky leaned against the doorframe, waiting for Steve to say something. To do something. To keep his promise to do more.“For fuck’s sake, Tony. Just give him a shirt.”It was the bare minimum. A whimper when he’d needed a roar. Steve knew it. Tony knew it. And based on the disgust in Bucky’s voice when he muttered something that sounded like, “Zalki,” he knew it too.Even if Steve put Tony into a headlock and told Bucky to clean out the entire watch drawer, Bucky’s deep Russian accent said that it wouldn't be enough. The diamond-encrusted Rolex... the Audemars Piguet... the Chopard. Those three alone would buy Bucky a bicycle, a car, and pay for his first two years of college, and still, Steve would be forever labeled by a word he didn’t understand. “Bucky, I—”“I’m hungry,” Bucky said, walking past Steve like he wasn’t even there, “and Anthony’s doesn’t open until eleven.”Then he was gone. Rabbit, no rabbit. Bucky, no Bucky.“You should be thanking me.” Yanking a t-shirt off its hanger, Tony made a big show of pulling it over his head. “Fucky B’s gonna look scrumdiddlyumptious circling the track in that white trash wife beater. It’ll give your fruit-flavored wangdoodle a better view of his man muscles, if you know what I mean.”It was bad enough that Tony winked, but the fact that he was pointing at Steve’s dick—“Are you fucking serious?”“As serious as Mike Pence’s stance on conversion therapy.”Steve closed his eyes. He had to. The tingling was moving quickly. Through his wrist. Past his elbow. Racing toward his telltale heart.“Did you get butt cooties in your eyes?” Tony stepped close enough that Steve could smell the tequila coming off his skin. “Is that why you’re standing in my closet—as opposed to your closet—with your eyes wide shut?”Steve clenched his teeth as the tingling reached his jaw.“I’m just trying to get everybody to practice on time.” “And I’m just trying to keep my clothes from getting contaminated. Douchefag cooties are worse than bedbugs. Once they infiltrate the cracks and crevices—yes, I’m talking about buttcracks—there’s no getting rid of them.”When Steve opened his eyes, Tony was wearing a seersucker jacket. No pants. No socks. Just a casual blazer with Ezra’s dirty underwear. And something about that combination—“You know what?” Tearing off Bucky’s jersey, Steve made sure to give Tony a clear view of the bruise. “Since you’re incapable of being a decent human being, you can loan me a Goddamn t-shirt!” Now it was Tony’s turn to close his eyes.Tony was a lot of things. A genius. A drunk. A pill-popping, sex-addicted asshole who collected wooden statues with saggy tits and enormous cocks. But he was also a good friend.“Are they broken?” Tony ran his fingers along the edge of the bruise. “One call and I can have a doctor here in twenty minutes. Fifteen if I sweeten the deal.” “No.”“No, they’re not broken? Or no, you don’t want me to sweeten the deal?”Tony wasn’t just touching the bruise; he was palpating what was underneath. Feeling to see if Alexander had broken the machinery. Checking to see if Steve needed new parts.“I just need clothes.”“And I just need a support group in the basement of a dusty church.”The two of them had been here before. Tony playing doctor, Steve underplaying the pain. But this time felt different. Like Tony was palpating more than Steve’s internal organs.“They don’t feel broken,” Tony said, opening a drawer, “but I’d be worried about that spleen.”“My spleen is fine.”“Said the man with an entire box of Band-Aids stuck to his forehead.” Taking out two pairs of track pants, Tony tossed one to Steve before quickly stepping into the other. “Somebody call Mary Shelley because you, my friend, look like Dr. Frankenstein fired up the lightning and made a second-generation monster out of an Abercrombie & Fitch model.”“It’s just a cut.”“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize we were being dirty, dirty liars with our pants on fire.” Tony handed Steve a faded red t-shirt and a pair of socks. “Speaking of liars, Sam-I-Am is furious about the whole Bret Michaels bandana charade. He’s one splenic rupture away from outing you to the police.”Humiliation. Anxiety. Shame. Steve’s body was too overwhelmed to do anything but shrug.This was usually the point where Tony would herd Steve into the gaming room and hand him a controller. Bloody Marys for breakfast. Steak and vitamins for lunch. A doctored doctor’s note for Coach Fury, courtesy of Tony’s doctor on call. But instead, he put a pair of shorts on top of the pile. “These should fit Bucky. And by ‘fit,’ I mean strangle his cootie-covered gonads.”“Tony, I—”“The socks are for him too. We can’t have Fucky B running around in holey socks. Butthole blisters are bad enough.”Steve stared at the shorts. The weave of the navy-blue fabric. The orange stripe down the side. The way they appeared to belong to somebody half Tony’s size.“And, like it not, I’m coming with you.”“What?”“Think of it as a functional field trip.” Tony poked the center of the bruise. “If you drop dead on the track from a ruptured spleen, I’ll be there to revive you with my homemade defibrillator.”“You’re too drunk to go out in public.”“I’m always too drunk to go out in public, but I’m not too drunk to know that you, Little Orphan Annie, are about to kick the bucket. One bad sit-up and you’re headed for a family reunion.”Sometimes Tony said things just to shut Steve up. Words designed for disarmament that left Steve no choice but to surrender.This was one of those times. Rabbit, no rabbit. Bucky, no Bucky. Dead, not alive.Squeezing the pile of clothes, Steve simultaneously backed out of the closet and stepped back in, waving a white flag instead of a banner of rainbows.*** On the apocalyptic DEFCON scale, Stark calling Bucky a douchefag was hovering somewhere between a three and a four (four being above normal readiness, and three being ready to mobilize the fucking Air Force in fifteen minutes). On one hand, it had been hella funny (like Bucky calling Clint a faghag). On the other hand—Bucky adjusted his dick in Stark’s itty-bitty shorts.On the other hand, it had been shitty enough to make Bucky’s inner badass do a shitton of cardio without so much as a pre-confrontation snack.Steve was walking somewhere behind Bucky on the sidewalk, taking his sweet-ass time as Stark and his Merry Band of Assholes (plus Bucky) headed for the fucking spaceship. Bucky wasn’t sure if Steve was mopin’ ‘cause Bucky’d told him he looked like a ballerina in Stark’s track pants (#CockLake) or because Scott had snatched the best-looking banana out of Steve’s hand. Either way, Bucky wasn’t down for a Morning Mope. He was down for a Morning Dance Party, heavy on the Cha Cha Slide.“Do you like to dance?” Slidin’ up to Scott, Bucky did a little demo. “Disco on a Saturday morning? Breakdancing on a Saturday afternoon?”“I’m more of a get-high-and-watch kind of guy, but get me high enough and I’ll do the Riverdance.” Scott trumped Bucky’s Saturday-morning Disco with an Irish-flavored hop, skip, and a jump. “This one time, I did the Riverdance at Lollapalooza, and Steve got so pissed that he disappeared for two hours.”Taking a peek over his shoulder, Bucky laughed. Steve had told him the exact same story on the way to Stark’s last night, swappin’ out Scott’s Riverdance for a Tolkien-level tale of a Lynyrd Skynyrd-loving bully and a big-breasted cheerleader being annoying as fuck. But the general gist had been the same.Spinning around, Bucky pointed not one, not two, but three finger guns at Steve (Check out that double barrel!). “Yo, Stevie! You didn’t tell me about the Riverdance at Radiohead.” Strutting backwards like a bewildered Bee Gee…Kablam!...Bucky shot his load. “That’s crucial information.”Steve scrunched up his forehead, which scrunched up the Band-Aids, which reminded Bucky that Stevie might be mopin’ around like a moped about more than his purple testicles. His horror-show forehead, por ejemplo.“Do you like to dance?” Scott asked with a hearty dose of Irish Spring. “Maybe it’s the hair—or the handstands in the hallway—but you look like the kind of guy who can bust a move.”“Fuck yeah, I do!” Bucky spun back around, takin’ that itty-bitty affirmation as a sign that it was time (shout out, Prince) to reconsider the 397 page report (Authors: Clint, Daisy, Skinner, and yours truly) about why Steve’s friends were the biggest assholes on planet Asshole. Scott, in particular, was being rebranded as mega cool, occupying the número uno spot on Bucky’s newly printed Steve’s Asshole Friends Who Aren’t Actually Assholes list. The guy liked tacos, weird Irish dancing, pork rinds, handstands, and the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Seriously, if it weren’t for Scott’s association with the King of the Jocks, aka the Fresh Prince of Eaton, aka Stevie, Bucky would’ve convinced his actual número uno, aka Clint, to invite Scott over for his world-famous taco casserole 397 years ago.And Sam? Bucky had a nice little giggle watching him herd Stark around the pedestrians on the sidewalk. Sam was a gem. A diamond in the not-so-rough. A bestie to rival all besties, including Bucky’s méringue à trois of cupcake-loving cuties. Bucky’d seen it in the flesh when Sam had handed Steve a fresh bandana (rejected), a loose-fitting hat (rejected), and a ginormous Ace bandage to wrap around his fucked-up forehead (rejected).Speaking of Sam…“Are you coming, or what?” Doing his very own backwards walk (sans Disco), Sam didn’t skimp on the volume as he yelled at his unbandaged boo. “We can’t take your truck if you’re three blocks away with the keys.”It was a solid dose of encouragement, semi-supportive with a hefty spoonful of truth, but Steve kept right on walking at the pace he’d been waking, which, in douchefag’s terms, was really fuckin’ slow.“I’ll get there when I get there,” Steve said, kicking the side of a garbage can. “And I never said I’d drive.”Bucky’s brain wasn’t always quick on the uptake, but on this particular pizzaless Saturday, his neurons shouted ding, ding, ding! Last night, after Bucky had used the Force on his dad (Go to the party, we shall. Forget the police, you will.), Bucky had raided his closet, teased Steve’s hair, and planted a big ol’ smooch on Stevie’s swollen cheek. Then they’d headed out to the garage where…Bam!...Steve had closed the dampers, reversed the engines, and pulled a full stop.Bucky had crashed into Steve, Steve had crashed into a rake, the rake had crashed into a snow shovel, and the snow shovel had…Whack!...taken out the weed whacker.“If you’re not driving, why are we walking toward your truck?”Sam was a sensible guy, asking a sensible question, but if this was anything like last night (Don’t do it Céline!) Steve wasn’t gonna just toss out a sensible answer. At least not in front of every Tom, Dick, and Stark on their way to get morning coffee.“Because I’m driving,” Bucky said, smiling so Sam didn’t see Steve’s frown. “I’ve got this thing about being in control. My psychiatrist says it’s ‘cause I’m adopted, but I think it's ‘cause Clint crashed his neighbor’s car into a lamppost on our way back from the Pierce the Veil concert.”“Ha!” Swerving across the sidewalk, Stark forced Ezra into the street. “You mean crashed it into your lamppost… with his mouth!”If Scott was número uno on Bucky’s newly printed Steve’s Asshole Friends Who Aren’t Actually Assholes list, and Sam was número dos, Stark was (by default) número tres y tri. Bucky laughed when Ezra ran into a parking meter.Fact: Ezra was lame. The only thing Bucky liked about him was their unspoken agreement to ignore each other. Hell, Bucky’d put Peggy Carter higher on the list than Ezra. Maybe even Sharon with her big bouncy boobies and— No. Scratch that. Sharon was even lamer than Ezra. Lame with a capital B.O.O.B boob.“Move it, Captain Concussed!” Taking off his jacket, Stark threw it on the ground. “Even if RuPaul’s in charge of transportation, he can’t take off—or get off—until your key is firmly in his slot.”Bucky wanted to laugh, but Steve looked like he was searching for garbage can número dos y dva. Maybe to kick it. Maybe to crawl inside it. Maybe to put it over his head and pretend to be a ‘straight’ robot like C-3PO.Whatever the reason, Bucky found himself slowing down, leaving Stark and his Merry Band of Assholes (who weren’t actually assholes) to find the Millennium Falcon on their own. ***
Tradition.
The word was occupying Steve’s thoughts as he trailed behind everyone on the sidewalk. Pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving. Fireworks on the Fourth of July. Posing for a picture in front of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. The act of handing Bucky the keys to the Escalade…Steve squeezed the key fob against the scabs, grounding himself with pain. Traditions only became traditions if everyone involved agreed, and Bucky hadn’t agreed to shit.When Steve had come back downstairs, Bucky hadn’t said anything about what had happened—or hadn’t happened—in Tony’s closet. He’d just taken the shorts and socks—along with the dirty Dio jersey—and changed in the bathroom by the kitchen, laughing when he’d seen Steve in Tony’s track pants.“And I thought these were small,” Bucky had said, snapping the navy-blue fabric next to his dick. “But those suckers? Holy nutcracker, buddy! Those ball-huggers belong on a ballerina!” Picking the fabric out of his asscrack, Steve looked further down the sidewalk, watching Bucky’s shoulders bounce up and down as he laughed with Scott. Were they joking about the visible outline of Steve’s dick? Making fun of Ezra for having to wear his gardener’s work boots to practice? Or—the most likely scenario—were they laughing about Steve’s inability to own up to the fact that he was head-over-heels in love with the smell of Bucky’s hair?Whatever it was, Steve had never been so far removed from a joke.“Yo, Stevie! You didn’t tell me about the Riverdance at Radiohead!” Suddenly Bucky was dancing in reverse, moving his body in a way that had nothing to do with rivers… or Radiohead. “That’s crucial information!”It took a second for Steve to figure out what Bucky was talking about—especially because Bucky was shooting him with a pair of imaginary guns—but once he did, Steve’s stomach dropped, exploding like stomachs did when somebody hurled them to the bottom of the pit. The idea of Bucky betraying Steve’s trust had never once crossed Steve’s mind. Not when he’d kissed his way across Bucky’s jawline, tasting the texture of his stubble. Not when he’d wrapped his hand around two cocks, getting lost in the tides of Bucky’s eyes as they’d come. And not when he’d hit play on the new Radiohead album on the way to Tony’s, trusting the sweetness of Bucky’s smile with the untold story of the space suit. But now?Haunted by his own betrayal, Steve stretched the bottom of Tony’s t-shirt to try and cover his stomach. English. Russian. The language didn’t matter. Bucky had made himself perfectly clear. Steve had fucked up with Tony, obliterating any semblance of trust by doing less when he’d promised to do more.Steve closed his eyes when Bucky turned back around, walking blindly in a desperate attempt to get back to the music.The way Bucky had steered the truck over the Brooklyn Bridge last night on the way to Tony’s had been a far cry from the first time he’d ferried Steve across the River Styx. Gone was the white-knuckle concentration and endless stream of fucks and motherfuckers, replaced by a soothing confidence where Bucky had reclined the seat a few inches, allowing his limbs to sprawl out like tenacious vines reclaiming a post-apocalyptic landscape.The emerald-green expansion. The motion of Bucky’s hand as he’d stuck it out the window. The altered melody of the bumps. All of it together had inspired Steve to put on the new Radiohead album, turning up the volume as he’d waited to see how Bucky would respond.“Watch it!”Steve crashed into somebody’s shoulder, hitting hard enough that he felt the spray of hot liquid on his arm. “Space suit,” Steve said, muttering under his breath. “Space suit… space suit… space suit…”He’d never told anybody the truth about what had happened at Lollapalooza. Not Sam. Not Tony. Not any of the other people who’d searched for him—or any of the people who hadn’t.But he’d told Bucky.Opening his eyes, Steve looked at Bucky’s backward baseball cap… at the number 666 emblazoned across his shoulders… at the way he was playing Hopscotch without the restriction of a box. Everything about him screamed liberation, yet here Steve was, wrapping chains around his own ankles.Steve could paint a pretty picture about why he’d put on the new Radiohead album, dressing it up with foliage and sentiment because Bucky had pressed his knee against the driver’s side door, or he could tell the fucking truth.Radiohead was an important band, and if a person didn't understand their musical genius, Steve had a hard time respecting them. Was it snobby? Yes. Did he care? Ask Sharon.Steve yanked the shirt so hard that he ripped a hole in the hem.Everything Steve had learned about Bucky—from his excessive use of Band-Aids to the way he’d called himself a “sexy vampire” when he’d sucked on Steve’s neck—had said Bucky would pass Steve’s stupid test. But that hadn’t stopped Steve from turning up the volume, watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye to see if sexy vampires liked staccato violins and intricate drum beats.“The King of the Assholes,” Steve said, remembering how Bucky’s smile had lit up the interior of the Escalade, painting the leather and chrome with the same blissful blue that had illuminated the stage at Lollapalooza. Five simple words. That’s all it had taken for Bucky to rip Steve’s rubric into a million tiny pieces. A nod of his head. A superfluous drum fill on the steering wheel. A purse of his lips as he’d said, “This shit’s a bop!”Instead of ripping another hole in Tony’s t-shirt, Steve laughed. In the history of the world, nobody had ever described a Radiohead song as a bop. Depressing… weird… pretentious… Those were the common descriptors. But the combination of letters that spelled common were something the boy beneath the stars had never once captured in his orbit. Common people didn’t make brushstrokes with spray cheese or clean blood off passenger-side windows with McDonald’s napkins and spit. And they sure as hell didn’t honk the horn in time with foreboding synthesizers.Bucky had honked the horn all the way up FDR Drive, inspiring a flurry of angry New Yorkers to do the same. And that noise? That inexplicable reorchestration? Steve released the tension in his jaw.The simplicity of Bucky’s chaos was the reason Steve had felt safe enough to recline his seat a few inches, telling the Wild Thing a truth that had never been told.At the end of July, Tony had thrown together a belated birthday trip for Steve, recruiting anyone who was available—and willing—to climb aboard Tony’s private jet with less than two hours' notice. Tony, Sam, Scott, Ezra, Sharon, Brock. All of them had answered the call, flying to Chicago for the weekend just so Steve could see his favorite band. “Yeah, right,” Steve said as the birthday candles melted away the facade. Drugs. Booze. Sharon’s desire to see her “all-time favorite singer” Alessia fucking Cara. The only one who’d actually given a shit about Steve seeing Radiohead had been Sam, and Sam—“Are you coming, or what?”Steve tripped on a crack in the sidewalk.“We can’t take your truck if you’re three blocks away with the keys.”Sam was far enough ahead on the sidewalk that he’d had to yell for Steve to hear him. Far enough ahead that fireworks on the Fourth of July seemed impossible to reach.“I’ll get there when I get there,” Steve said, kicking a garbage can that looked exactly like the one he’d run over at Starbucks. Then, catching Bucky’s eye, he added, “And I never said I’d drive.”It was a Hail Mary. A lifeline thrown toward Bucky as the Escalade came into view. “If you’re not driving, why are we walking toward your truck?”For a fleeting second, Steve saw himself step off the curb without the protection of a crosswalk… saw himself tear a hole in the space suit and freeze from the outside in.“Because I’m driving.”Suddenly Bucky was smiling, thawing Steve with the promise of warm pumpkin pie. And while Steve didn’t catch the rest of what he said to Sam, the bounce in Bucky’s step was like a strip of silver duct tape sealing in the air.“Ha!” Stumbling sideways, Tony pushed Ezra into a parking meter. “You mean crashed it into your lamppost… with his mouth!”It was just like the concert. Tony and his big mouth destroying the opening notes of something perfect, something pure, with a steaming pile of bullshit.Not two chords into Radiohead’s first song, Tony had stripped down to his boxers and started rolling around in the grass because the handful of magic mushrooms he’d swallowed—along with two ecstasy pills and a vodka-laced Red Bull—had hit their peak. And it had only gotten worse from there…Scott giggling uncontrollably as he’d passed a joint back and forth with a group of middle-aged stoners. Sharon touching Steve’s waist, grabbing Steve’s ass, and standing on her tiptoes to shout ‘sweet nothings’ into Steve’s ear. Brock yelling “Free Bird!” every time there’d been a lull in the melody. Sam trying to keep them all under control.Without a word, Steve had walked away from the noise, pushing through the crowd in a desperate attempt to find a place where he could hear. Over 70,000 people had been in Grant Park that night, but Steve had only needed to escape his friends to feel blissfully alone. A tiny patch of grass. A gap between the bodies. Finding solitude among strangers, he’d floated weightlessly in his space suit, lost among the stars until the final note of the final encore had faded away into nothing.Steve had no memory of the space suit’s origin—no idea if he’d invented it before or after his mother had died—but inside the helmet, anyone who mucked up the silence became irrelevant. Friends, teachers, annoying girlfriends, Alexander. Inside the helmet, they were nothing more than moving mouths without oxygen to feed them.“Move it, Captain Concussed!” Tony threw his jacket in Steve’s general direction. “Even if RuPaul’s in charge of transportation, he can’t take off—or get off—until your key is firmly in his slot.” Walking away without walking anywhere, Steve whispered, “Space suit,” as he looked ahead. First at the boy whose sturdy shoulders could easily support a space suit of his very own, then at a future where Steve wouldn’t need an air-tight suit to walk down the fucking sidewalk. Last night, when Bucky and Steve had traded the safety of soft pajamas for the uncertainty of the garage, Steven had stopped dead when he’d been confronted by the Escalade. The hulking black mass towering over Mr. Barnes’ tiny car. The smear of blood across the passenger-side window. The beady-eyed ravens perched on the hood. And Bucky, distracted by his sister, or his dad, or the very real fact that Steve was dragging him to the inevitable clusterfuck at Tony’s house, had slammed into his back. “Bam!” Bucky had shouted, laughing as they’d crashed into a pile of boxes. “You’re even bigger than the iceberg!”Steve still had no idea what icebergs had to do with anything—or why Bucky had started humming a vaguely familiar song—and he didn’t care. Bucky’s noise was the quietest thing Steve had ever heard. When Steve was with Bucky, he didn’t need 70,000 bodies to shield him; he only needed one.Squeezing the key fob against the scabs, Steve said, “Tradition,” just loud enough for the starboy to hear.The boxes had knocked over half a dozen garden tools, Natasha had shouted at Bucky not to shout, and the ravens had taken flight, crashing through the roof in an ascension of feathers. But somehow, in the midst of all that mayhem, the kinetic transfer had sparked the solution. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, Steve had waited for the tingling to recede before transferring the keys into Bucky’s hand. And Bucky?Steve released the pressure on the scabs.It said a lot that Bucky had taken them without question.“Did Stark murder your space puppy?”“What?”It took a second for Steve to realize that everybody had stopped next to the Escalade, and even longer to realize that Bucky wasn’t with them. “This should really piss him off.” Brushing their hands together for the briefest of seconds, Bucky scratched his nuts with Tony’s jacket. “But not as much as if he knew I was freeballin’ it in his shorts.”Tony and Scott were trying to open doors that were obviously locked; Ezra was bent over next to the hood, spitting out mouthfuls of saliva; and Sam was raising both eyebrows as he pointed at an imaginary watch. But Steve didn’t care about any of that. All he cared about was that Bucky was walking beside him, holding the ground that Steve couldn’t.But still, the question lingered… Stopping on the slats of a subway grate, Steve asked, “Did you tell Scott about the space suit?” even though his heart already knew the answer.“Did you tell Stark that my ass is tight enough to sharpen a Ticonderoga? Or that tater tots are my favorite form of potato?”“No, but—”“Fun fact: We can’t be secret lovers if we don’t know how to keep secrets.” Holding out his hand, Bucky wiggled his fingers. “Secret’s literally in the name.”“But—”“Give me the keys.” Steve stared at the lifeline that ran across Bucky’s palm. The same one the boy beneath the stars had extended on the moonlit roof of the parking garage… the same one the King of the Misfits had extended with a laugh and a smile in the Barnes family garage… And God. Having a person in his life who just got it? Who naturally caught the nuances and readily accepted Steve’s needs? To put it simply, it was a gift.“Are you sure?”“As sure as I am about blueberry Bubblicious being the ultimate breakfast bubble gum.” Pulling a piece of gum out of nowhere, Bucky popped it into his mouth. “Want some? I’ll split it in half and we can share.”Suddenly Steve didn’t care that he had an audience, or that Tony was pinching his nipples behind Bucky’s back. He let the keys fly, unfettered and weightless, into Bucky’s waiting hand. And because Bucky was Bucky, he didn’t just catch them; he caught them one-handed behind his back.Fireworks on the Fourth of July… the scent of nutmeg wafting from a slice of warm pumpkin pie… an annual picture in front of an unhaunted tree... With one catch, Bucky solidified their first tradition, effortlessly closing the seal with a pop of blueberry bubblegum.*** “Let’s go, bitches!” Bucky’d totally smashed mission número uno: Getting Stevie to turn that sad, sad frown upside down. And now he was on to mission número dos y dva: Getting the Merry Band of Assholes (who, for the most part, weren’t actually assholes) to the track on time so they could do a fuckton of push-ups and run around in ovals.“I already called an Uber,” Sam said, holding up his phone. “Look. It says Tariq is four minutes away.”“Cancel it.” Bucky did a lil’ hop, skip, and…Gross!...over Ezra’s puddle of pre-puke. “I’ve officially acquired the keys!”Slappin’ the hood, Bucky slapped his ass with Stark’s jacket (just for fun) before…Click!...unlocking the doors to the spaceship. Then he slid behind the wheel, double checkin’ for blood, snot, tears, and trauma (not to be confused with Blood Sugar Sex Magik) before company arrived. “No way, man. I’ve been riding shotgun since the day you got your license.”Sam had opened the passenger-side door, which, sure, Bucky was down for an alternate co-captain for their journey to Queens (#VarietyIsGood4TheSoul). But a certain hunkalicious hottie, aka co-captain número uno, didn’t seem so keen.“You want me to ride in the back of my own truck?” Steve was staring at Sam through the open door like his bestie had stolen his binky. Or his bottle. Or…Holy commitment, Batman!...his boyfriend? “You bet your ass, I do.” Bucklin’ his seatbelt like a boss (no assistance required), Sam said, “Just because you decided to add a member to our carpool doesn’t mean I have to give up my seat. If Bucky’s driving, you’re sitting in the back.”The staredown was epic. Frodo versus Samwise Gamgee. Han Solo versus Lando Calrissian. Scott Pilgrim versus the world. Any second now, Stevie was gonna challenge Sam to a game of rock paper scissors and—“So that’s how it is?” Stepping away from the door, Steve folded his arms across his chest. But not like he was fixin’ to go full Schwarzenegger with some Terminator-style arm wrestling (#OverTheTop). Stevie’s eyes were all twinkly like he was fixin’ to give Sam a noogie.Confirming Bucky’s twinkly suspicions, Sam chuckled, giving Stevie a definitive, “That’s how it is,” before…Whammo!...he shut la puerta de la soul.News flash: Noogies were fun. Every time Clint pinned Bucky down like Macho Man Randy Savage and rubbed the shit outta his head, it made crazy knots in Bucky’s hair. But Sam's hair was a different story. Sam was hella friendly with his barber (shout out, Breadstick Buddy), aka basically bald, so chances were a WWE-style noogie would leave a bruise.Adjusting the rearview mirror, Bucky took a peek at the cutie who’d just climbed into the jump seat.Not a bruise like the one around Stevie’s eye (#RockyBalboa). More like one of those adorable little red marks that you got from a butt pinch or a hickey.“Immigrants go in the trunk!”Co-pilot doin’ pre-flight checks in the co-pilot seat. Check. Co-captain pullin’ at the collar of his itty-bitty t-shirt in the back. Check. Three puckered assholes arguing on the sidewalk. Check, check, and…Racism alert!...checkity-check-check.Bucky was ninety-nine percent sure that Stark wasn’t actually a tier-one racist, just like he was ninety-nine percent sure that Stark wasn’t actually a homophobic prick. But that didn’t mean the guy didn’t need somebody to shove a bar of soap into his mouth and douse him with a heavy dose of Ludovico. “It's not my fault that Steve-o doesn’t believe in third-row seating!” Stark was standing on his tiptoes, yelling semi-directly into Ezra’s ear, but his attitude (and his finger) were aimed directly at Bucky. “And it’s definitely not my fault that Captain Likes-Cock-Now's cock is in love with our third wheel’s badonkadonk!” Badonkadonk was a funny word. So funny, in fact, that Bucky would’ve had himself a good laugh if a certain someone (cough, Steve) didn’t look like he was about to projectile vomit all over the back of Bucky’s seat.“Yo, assholes!” Bucky laid on the horn with more than a little oomph. “Get the fuck in the truck!”Homophobic humor (that Bucky was ninety-nine percent sure wasn’t actually homophobic) got lost in translation for the newly gay. And since the hottest jock at Eaton had only made the transition from tacos to hot dogs roughly thirty-six hours ago (give or take a few inches), the experienced gay, aka Bucky, had to whack-a-mole Stark with a double-sided dildo, aka a super loud horn.Bucky kept right on honking until the Merry Band of Assholes listened. Five honks for Ezra to flop over the back seat into the cargo hold, kicking Steve in the head with his mega muddy boots before...Poof!...disappearing completely. Three honks for Scott to bounce, bounce, bounce into the middle, squishin’ up against Stevie’s big, sexy muscles (#Jealous). And seventeen honks for Stark to plant his tiny ass next to Scott, flippin’ Bucky off with both hands before…Whammo!...he slammed la puerta de la porte.“And we’re off!” Firing up the engine, Bucky pulled out into traffic. Did he look both ways? No way, Captain Gay. They had places to be. People to see. And Bucky had a sweet little cinnamon roll who needed to puke up a few rainbows behind a tree.News flash: Bucky didn’t want Steve’s green light to turn red because a jackass like Stark didn’t understand the phrase too much too soon. Bucky’d straight up crash this spaceship into a motherfuckin' lamppost before he let that shit happen again.“Why are you letting Anderson Cooper drive?” Leaning across Scott's lap, Stark slapped Steve’s thigh. “He’s a shit chauffeur, and according to TMZ, he's supposed to be giggling uncontrollably with Kathy Griffin in Times Square!” “Knock it off,” Sam said with enough authority to make Bucky’s soldier peek out his head, which, as far as interventions went, was five out of five stars. Very boss bitch without the bitch. Unfortunately for Bucky’s chub, guys like Stark ate interventions for breakfast.“I’ll knock it off when Grunge Liberace stops cruising through traffic like it’s a demolition derby in Boystown! He’s knocking down pedestrians like he knocks down dicks!”One peek in the rearview told Bucky everything he needed to know about Co-Captain Steve Rogers’ bright-yellow traffic light. He was picking at the Band-Aids on his forehead, liftin’ up the ones at the bottom before sticking 'em back down. Lift. Stick. Lift. Stick. Any second now, Steve was gonna shout “Stop the truck!” and run for the heterosexual hills. “He’s driving because I want him to.”Steve was a big guy. Big muscles. Big dick. Big voice. But he’d whispered that shit like a teeny-tiny mouse with a serious case of laryngitis. And, sure, Bucky’d agreed to the whole what-happens-on-Brokeback-stays-on-Brokeback thing (Stay in the closet you will. Support you, I shall), but the whole red-light/green-light thing was starting to feel like Jake Gyllenhaal’s arc when the Joker stopped returning his calls. “What was that, Steve-o?” Stark cupped his and around his ear. “I couldn’t hear you over all the denial and shame.”Story time: When Heath Ledger hadn’t been able to own up to the fact that he’d been fishing for ass, Jake Gyllenhaal had packed up his lube and gone looking for fish (cough, dick) south of the border. And when Clinton Francis Barton hadn’t been able to deal with Bucky wanting more than a come-filled car crash in his mouth, Bucky’d watched from the sidelines as his ‘bestie’ had made a play for the socially acceptable fish in the bedroom across the hall.Slamming on the brakes, Bucky shouted, “Red light!” even though the traffic light was green. Sam’s seatbelt locked, which was good (co-pilots were useless when they flew through the windshield at a gazillion miles per hour). Scott and Steve stayed put (#SnuggleBuddies), which was extra, extra, extra good with a capital Y.A.Y. But Ezra and Stark? Bucky snorted. Ezra was moaning like Bucky’d broken the guy’s legs…Ten points!...and Stark had flown forward like an itty-bitty bully on the Coney Island Slingshot, crashin’ into the back of Sam’s seat with a delightful twenty-point thud.“Here. Hold the wheel.” Grabbing Sam’s hand, Bucky turned the controls over to his brand-new number two.“What the hell, man?”“It’s time for the Morning Sing-along.” Bucky made uno, dos, tres attempts to plug his phone into the spaceship’s aux cord before he finally got the dongle in the hole (no lube required). “And if you fuckers don’t suck, we'll follow it up with the Morning Dance Party.”The GPS was shouting instructions that Sam was struggling to follow. Scott was trying to help the recently injured Stark. Ezra was— Actually, Bucky didn’t give a flying fuck about Ezra or his broken legs. He just wanted to sing!“Bucky, take the wheel!” Sam didn’t sound anything like Carrie Underwood, so Bucky ignored him, searching the alphabet for the muy perfecto song.AC/DC. No. Alice in Chains. No. Avril Lavigne. No, no, no. “Take it!”Bassnectar. Maybe later. The Bee Gees. Maybe for the Morning Dance Party. Billy Idol… Takin' the wheel like Carrie Underwood’s Jesus, Bucky swerved into a ginormous pothole. Not because he wasn’t paying attention (which he wasn’t), but because he was a rebel who wanted to yell, “Bingo!” with the proper punctuation.Bucky’s chub made a serious rebound when Stark buckled his seatbelt with genuine fear in his eyeballs. Like, straight up (pun intended) the head was almost peeking over the top of the waistband. “Attention, rich people,” Bucky said with what, from this point forward, would be trademarked as Dick Confidence. “What’s about to happen requires mandatory participation.” Bucky narrowed his eyes at the hottest hottie in the rearview. “Did you hear that Steve? Man-da-to-ry.”“The only thing that’s mandatory is that you pull your head out of Steve-o's starfish and pull over!” Stark took a swig from his stupid flask. “First you try to kill us with your gaybies, then you hit me with that Russian death stare in my closet. Seriously, Ellen. Your whole aura is the opposite of From Russia With Love!” There was a lot to unpack in that sentence. First and foremost, the fact that Bucky’d never seen the inside (or outside) of Stark’s closet, let alone given him the “Russian death stare.” But that Mystery Science Theater 3000 mystery would have to wait because Billy Idol and his leather codpiece were pumped up and ready to roar.Merging onto the 495, Bucky said, “Full disclosure: Steve sucks at the Morning Sing-along. Like, hardcore sucks ginormous ice cubes through a skinny straw. But if he can remember the rules, I’m willing to give him another shot.”“I love games!” Scott did a drumroll on the side of Bucky’s seat. “Every day in math, Pepper and I play Hangman.” Fun fact: Fun facts were fun, unless they fucked up the flow.Ignoring Scott, Bucky set his sights on the cutie in the crop top. “So, Steve, what’s the first rule of Fight Club?" Stark scoffed. "Ed Norton doesn't sing, and neither does Tyler Durden.”Lots of words came to mind when it came to Stark: rich, jerk, rich, short, rich, drunk, rich, rude, rich. But right now, the one rising to the top of the pack was clever, clever, clever.“Um…” Tuggin' on the collar of his itty-bitty t-shirt, Stevie’s cheeks turned the prettiest shade of piggy pink. "No laughing at Bucky… unless he's funny as fuck.”“Which I always am!” Bucky honked once in celebration. “And rule número dos?”“You have to sing, even if you don’t know the words.”“Ding-ding-ding!” Bucky hit not one, not two, but three potholes as he hit play because “Rebel Yell” was the ultimate anthem. Nobody could resist shouting “More, more, more!” with London gutter punk accents. Not the silent monks of Mongolia. Not the silent mimes of the Eiffel Tower. Not the silent spies sneakin’ around the bowels of the Red October.Nobody.Steering with his knee for maximum pumpage, Bucky sang, “In the midnight hour, she cried more, more, more,” with the classic Billy Idol sneer. It didn’t take long for one fist to turn into two, with Scott (who deserved a 957 soft tacos with extra cheese) being the first to join Bucky’s party. Scott sang. Scott sneered. Scott pumped his fist with extra pizazz. #ScottRulz Sam was next, rocking a shockingly spot-on accent with an epic duck face. #SecretSkillzEzra the Asshole didn’t hop on Bucky’s double decker party bus until the second chorus (lame), but he got bonus points for sticking his muddy boots on either side of Scott’s head and pumping with his feet. #FootPumpingAnd Stevie? That lil’ boo bear was mouthing the words and executing the world's tiniest fist pump, which…Whoosh!...skyrocketed Bucky all the way to the tippity-top of the London Tower. #PumpedAboutStevePumping Bucky cracked up. #PumpedAboutStevePumpingBucky’sAssFour out of five participants was a solid eighty percent, aka slightly above average, which was nothing to be ashamed of with this crowd. But still, Bucky (and Billy) almost came in their leather pants when Stark said, “Fine, fuck you guys,” and started begrudgingly pumping his fist. #BegrudginglyStillCounts“Fuck yeah,” Bucky said, steering the spaceship to London via the Manhattan Bridge. “One-hundred percent participation! An authentic understanding of the word mandatory! The undeniable power of Billy Idol’s leather codpiece turning assholes into rebels!”It was fucking awesome. And when Bucky sang, “With a rebel yell, he cried more, more, more,” the words couldn't have rang more true.*** Great, Anderson Cooper could sing.Tony groaned as Fucky B’s converts skipped happily across the rainbow bridge with their new leader Grunge Liberace. They were traitors. Benedict Arnolds in sequins and chiffon. And Tony wasn’t hungover enough—or drunk enough—to fall in line with this Billy Idol bullshit, even if it seemed like a truly excellent way to start the day.Doogie Howser’s ability to sing like Elton John was a major problem, especially because Doogie’s badonkadonk put the cake in Tony’s shorts. But Tony had bigger fish to fry than Ricky Martin’s rock-hard gluteus maximi. Namely the revelation that Grunge Liberace liked Billy Idol. Every time Tony re-engineered Columbia’s million dollar hydrogen reactor against professors’ orders—which was often—Tony made his minions cue up Billy Idol. “White Wedding.” “Mony Mony.” “Dancing with Myself.” “Rebel Yell.”Tony scowled at Fucky B’s ninety-degree jawline. A mutual love of Billy Idol meant that Tony had something in common with Gen Z Rock Hudson, and Tony didn’t want to have anything in common with a fruity pebble who sang like Eddie Vedder and looked better in Tony’s shorts than he did!Scowling at Scotty-poo’s Billy Idol sneer, Tony ‘snuck’ a sip from his flasky-flask.It was one thing for Scotty-poo to shove his poo-covered fist up Elton’s ass. After all, experimentation was the key to discovery. But brandishing his pearly whites like fisting was his new favorite sport? Any second now, Scotty-Poo was going to ditch his yarmulke for a gimp mask and kiss the toes of Elton’s platforms.And Ezra? When Tony’s Muslim Manwich stuck his sand-covered boots over the seat like a Lebanese Judas, Tony was ready to backstab the betrayer like a senator during the Ides of March.Muttering into his flasky-flask, Tony said, “Et tu, Brute?”Brute was Lebanese Judas. Brute was Scotty-poo’s fistful of poo. Brute was Sam-I-Am’s rainbow flag. Brute was Steve-o’s butthole-loving cock-a-doodle-doo. But most of all, Brute was Tony himself.“Fine,” Tony said, cursing his treasonous fist. “Fuck you guys.”As much as it hurt to admit it, Billy Idol was—and always would be—more powerful than Tony. Just like the magical concoction in Tony’s flasky-flask and Tony’s penchant for pussy-by-the-hour.For a brief second, Tony was able to sit back and enjoy Ruby Rose’s post-punk party, singing along with Billy Idol, Eddie Vedder, and their incomprehensibly cool coiffures. But then Neil Patrick Harris ruined it by grinning at Tony like a future Tony winner named Hedwig.Infusing his voice with the justifiable rage of a five-foot-nine man with an angry five-and-a-half inches, Tony yelled, “Eyes on the road, Chris Cornell!”Fucky B smiled twice as wide. “Thanks for the compliment, Stark.” “It wasn’t a compliment! I was talking about your greasy hair, not your angelic singing voice!”"Either way”—Fucky B took his sweet time blowing (and popping) a bubble—“it's a top-tier compliment from an asshole like you."All four members of Fucky B’s Rainbow Brigade—Steve-o included—had a hearty laugh at Tony’s expense. Normally, Tony’s angry inch would’ve grown even angrier, but somewhere between Fucky B cackling like a hyena—no mock penis required—and Steve-o covering his smile with his hand, it dawned on Tony like Red Dawn that Ruby Rose might be more than just a pretty face. Unbuckling his seatbelt, Tony said, “I have an idea,” just as Billy Idol let out his final “more, more, more.” “And not just any idea. This one’s Newtonian. I’m talking, gravity changing and bold! Apples everywhere!”“I like apples.” Tony could always count on Scotty-Poo to glaze over context clues in favor of food. And apples were fine. Particularly at Halloween. But, in this case, Tony wasn’t bobbing for apples, he was bobbing for Bucky.Wedging himself between the seats, Tony disconnected Fucky B’s sing-along nonsense so he could spew some nonsense of his own.“But before I reveal my idea—you’re gonna love it, by the way—I have a bushel full of questions about your Georgia peach’s intentions.”‘Somebody’ yanked the back of Tony’s t-shirt, but Tony was too close to Fucky B’s earlobe to worry about Steve-o.“Why, oh why, Priscilla Queen of the Desert, were you and Steve-o snuggled up on Howard’s couch like Disney kittens in a warm, toasty basket?” Tony blew a puff of air across Fucky’s cheek to jog his memory. “Are you a couple? Or, dare I say, a throuple? And by throuple, I mean have you and your punk rock boyfriend decided to experiment with an open relationship?”The second puff of air was pushing it—as was the third and fourth—but Tony couldn’t drop the apples without confirmation that the muscular kittens were scratching each others’ Brown-Eyed Susans with their ten-inch poles. Instead of punching Tony in the throat—or turning the throuple into a quadruple with a quick peck on the lips—Ruby Rose initiated rearview mirror communication with Steve-o via a series of head shakes. And if there was anything Tony hated more than standing next to Captain Maybe-Likes-Cock-Now in a bathing suit, it was being left out of a conversation.“Oh, I get it," Tony said, deflecting Sam-I-Am’s party-pooper push toward the back door. “You’re using homosexual Morse code, spelling out the letters LGBTQ, followed by the message If you wear your sexy sailor uniform, I'll wear mine. Seriously, Fucky B, the way you two are staring at each other would get you kicked out of Utah.”‘Somebody’ wasn’t messing around when he pulled Tony’s t-shirt a second time. But Tony’s favorite golden retriever should know better. When people told Tony to stop, it was his nature to double down."What, Steve-o? Too much to ask? Too personal?" Tony might be talking to Steve, but his interrogation light was aimed directly at Fucky B Fleas. "What do you say, Lance Bass? Do you think it's too much to ask for a little clarification on the R-rated Disney kitten cuddles? I'm betting no, since it seems like you actually talk to your friends."“I like him," Steve said. No follow up. No admission of sweet kitten kisses or penile penetration. There was just the sound of Fucky B breathing like an asthmatic dragon in a truck full of dead air.“You ‘like him’ like you want to share a Fruit Roll-up?” Tony leaned close enough to Fucky B that he could snort a line off his shoulder. “Or you ‘like him’ like you want to insert your penis into his bunghole?” Fucky B cut off a cement truck—and a Volkswagen Beetle—as he followed the GPS’s instructions off the 495 because Steve’s penis-loving paramour expressed his emotions with excessive eyeliner, Jabberwocky imitations, and ‘driving’ on par with Face s of Death. Steve on the other hand…“I like him as more than a friend.”Every passenger in Fucky B’s Deathmobile gasped—Tony included—because homosexual revelations were a big deal. Oh wait… Everybody but Sam-I-Am gasped because Sam-I-Am was a dirty, dirty liar who was too busy grinning at Steve to bother with something as banal as faux shock.“So let me get this straight.” Detaching himself from Fucky B’s ear, Tony gave Steve-o’s knee a hearty slap. “You have one accidental cuddlefest with an oddly attractive fruit loop and suddenly you’re confused about your sexuality?"Speeding down the exit ramp like his sole mission in life was to beat Tony at the physics game, Fucky B used the undeniable power of centrifugal force to slam Tony against the door. It hurt. A lot. But Fucky B’s reaction was just what the doctor ordered—Tony, not Doogie—because getting the cuddly kittens to bare their claws was Tony’s objective. “C’mon, Steve-o,” Tony said as he offered the golden tiger a sip from his flasky-flask. “There's no way the gay contaminated your brain cells that fast. It's your sexuality, not Ebola!”If Steve-o’s clenched fists and flared nostrils were any indication, one more push was all it was going to take to get some real answers.“You’re just upset because you blew it with Sharon."Fucky B accelerated through a light that was redder than Red Dawn.“She’ll take you back if you buy her a necklace and munch her muff. No harm, no foul. Even Laverne Cox is smart enough to know that this—whatever this is—is just a temporary lapse in judgment.”Tony took a celebratory swig from his flasky-flask as a flurry of homosexual Morse code flew back and forth between Siegfried and Roy. Raised eyebrows. Angry scowls. Five-o’clock shadows booking happy endings for five o’clock. The rearview mirror saw more action than Tony’s wangdoodle on New Year’s Eve—fifteen coochies to ring in 2015—before Steve-o finally unclenched his sphincter and gave Fucky B a little nod.In hindsight, Tony should have been more prepared for what came next.Newton’s laws dictated that when a fully-grown Russian tiger careened into a parking lot, slammed on the brakes, and spun a seven-thousand pound SUV 380 degrees, that said SUV was going to flip. Tony’s first thought as he flew across Scotty-Poo’s lap was that he wasn’t upside down. His second thought—generated in tandem with the GPS’s perfectly timed “You’ve arrived at your destination"—was a classic bar joke: A Catholic, a Jew, a Christian, a Muslim, and an Atheist—along with whatever butt-munching religion Emo Knievel prescribed to—hop into an SUV, surviving a near-death donut with nothing but the power of multicultural prayer.When all four wheels screeched to a stop, Tony found himself plastered to the side of Fucky B’s seat, which, according to the law of total probability, was the absolute worst place he could be.“You know what?” Throwing the truck into park, Siegfried—Or was it Roy?—lunged at Tony like he had every intention of slashing his jugular. “Steve didn’t seem at all confused when he was fucking my face and coming down my throat!”Sam-I-Am did a spit take with nothing to spit, Scotty-Poo clapped his hands together like Steve-o had blown out sixteen dick candles on a penis-shaped cake, and Ezra was probably dead. But the only thing that mattered was the width of Steve’s smile.In the six years that Steve-o and Tony had been getting drunk at parties, getting drunk during movie night at Howard’s crib, and getting drunk at high-society events with their respective high-society ‘parents,’ Tony had never seen Steve smiling like he was right now.It took Tony all of two seconds to realize that he was hurt—and he wasn’t talking about the whiplash. What the hell had Bucky BJ done in less than a week to inspire that kind of smile? One stellar blow job didn't have that kind of power.Unless it was more… Retrieving his flasky-flask from between Steve-o’s feet, Tony drained what was left. If Steve-o put on a toga, he could play Brute in Wonderland at Tony’s party. Easy access in the Caligula room for Romans far and wide. But why focus on Brute when Sir Isaac Newton was still on the table?“Now that we know Ricky Martin is a swallower”—Tony wiggled his way onto Scotty-Poo’s lap—“it’s time to drop the apples.” “Apples? We almost just died!” Sam-I-Am’s attention to minutiae was an unwelcome distraction from the task at hand. A task from which Tony could not be deterred.“You’re squishing my nuts!”Not even if it cost Scotty-Poo his sperm apples.“So, Sucky B. Since Steve-o here is such a big fan of your mouth, I'm assuming he’s already invited you and your nonexistent gag reflex to tonight’s soirée. There won’t be a penis cake, but my party planner promised magic mushrooms and a Cheshire Cat.” Bucky blinked a bunch of times, which would’ve been distracting even without the eyelashes.“You’re joking, right?” Bucky BJ’s laugh had the faintest hint of Moscow. “You torture me, bully Steve, and throw out more homophobic insults than I can count—and I’m just talking about the last hour—and suddenly you’re inviting me to a fucking party?”“Exactly!” Trading Scotty-Poo’s lap for a securely buckled seat belt, Tony said, “That is, if Captain Likes-Cock-Now wants you to attend.”Invitations to Tony’s shindigs were a coveted commodity. He was the Hugh in Hugh Hefner. The Chuck in Charles Bass. The wonder in Alice’s WonderBra. So, good-natured hazing aside, Tony never expected a Downworlder like Fucky B to kick open his door and exit the opportunity.“Nice job,” Sam-I-Am said, going heavy like Samuel L. Jackson in both eyebrows and tone. “Very welcoming.”“What? I invited him to my party!”“Yeah, after pissing all over Steve’s legs for the past fourteen hours!”Tony would have told Sam-I-Am that his bladder was empty, but Sam-I-Am was long gone. Just like Steve-o, Scotty-Poo, and Ezra-UAE. Tony was all by his lonesome with an upset tummy, an empty flasky-flask, and a dealer that wouldn’t be back from DC until sundown.There was a moment of silence where Tony considered taking a nap, but then Fucky B yanked open Tony’s door like he had a hatred for hinges.“Get out.”Hiccuping, Tony said, “That’s a terrible idea.”“Now.”The drops of pee pee in Tony’s panties turned into a puddle, especially when Fucky B grabbed Tony’s ankle and pulled.Tony was a fan of consensual non-consensual activities. That’s why he paid extra for handcuffs. But finding himself in front of two bristling kittens, claws fully unsheathed, was the opposite of titillating. It was titi-terrifying.“I swear, Adam Lambert, I just want you on my team for my semi-annual Rock Band tournament. With your voice, we’ll finally be able to kick Peggy’s allspice-fueled girl group back to jolly ol’ England."“Was that a Spice Girls reference?” Taking a step backward, Fucky B resheathed his claws.“Obviously. At my Saint Patrick’s Day party, Steve-o pretended to be David Beckham so Posh Spice would make like Princess Diana and puke up his come.”Steve-o didn’t laugh, but Elton did. "Scout’s honor, Rob Halford.” Conjuring all the sincerity he could muster on a stomach full of vodka, Tony crossed his fingers and toes. “I'm just a boy having a party, inviting another boy to my house to get wasted." Fucky B rolled his eyes. “Like you're not going to drop a bucket of pig’s blood on my head the second I walk through the door.”"Ooo, a Carrie reference.” Slurring more than talking, Tony leaned against the truck. “Who knew Ruby Rose was a cinephile?”“Let’s just go.” Steve-o tapped Bucky BJ’s elbow. “Coach Fury is already going to make us run an extra mile.” Ignoring Steve-o’s pathetic attempt at de-escalation, Tony said, “I’m a cinephile too, which is yet another reason that you, Sissy Spacek, should get your period panties out of your badonkadonk and come to my shindig. We can talk about Fight Club”—Pressing his finger against his lips, Tony gave Bucky BJ a serious shush —“even though we're not supposed to."“I don’t know…” Steve-o crossed his arms like didn’t play Rock Band drums worse than Ringo Starr played real drums.“Well, I do! And I promise a blood-free rave.” Winking at Fucky B, Tony lowered his voice to a whisper. "Unless it's your first time."Kitten claws exploded out of the kitten paws as Manhattan’s newest butt buddies took a perfectly choreographed step forward. Tall and taller. Hot and hotter. If Steve-o ever grew a set of cojones, Team S & B would be unstoppable."Based on that reaction, I'm guessing the two of you are still firmly rooted in the licky-licky sucky-sucky phase of your relationship, which is a respectable choice. A safe choice. That is, unless Captain Likes-Cock-Now needs some pointers on not using teeth."Tony had to triple his size if he was going to get away with that one, but, sadly, he’d run out of chest to puff. The solution? Talk faster.“It’s a simple equation,” Tony said, sucking the pee pee back up his urethra with nothing but willpower and fear. "You put me in my place, Elton. The intensity of that face-fucking reveal was legendary. And calling me an asshole? That takes enormous elephant balls.” Tony pointed at Fucky B’s crown jewels. “I mean, look at that testicle-to-thigh ratio! You're practically all gonads!"“For fuck’s sake.” Steve-o slapped Tony’s hand. "Stop pointing at Bucky's balls." Pointing at Steve-o’s slightly smaller balls instead, Tony said, “Contrary to popular belief, I like people with spines. Ass-kissers bore me, and you, George Michael, are anything but boring. Speaking of which, I need you to invite the Sid to your Nancy.”“You want me to invite Clint?” “Absolutely! And tell London Calling that he’s free to do business in Wonderland, especially if he brings something more exotic than ganja. Capiche?"Tony had no need for Barton’s low-rent weed, but it sure was fun to manipulate the kittens’ claws.“Wow,” Siegfried said—Or was it Roy? “You almost had me there.”“Had you where? At my party?”When Fucky B smiled, his teeth caught on his bottom lip like a saber-toothed tiger.“If you think I’m letting you use Clint as a drug hookup, you’re out of your fucking mind. And if your unoriginal plan is to try and get under my skin by calling me every gay celebrity in the book, you’re gonna run out real fucking quick. The closet’s still large and full, asshole.”Steve-o was suspiciously quiet for a tiger trainer who’d lost control of his tiger. Siegfried—Or was it Roy?—should at least try to get a collar on Mantacore before Tony was nothing but a pile of shredded long pork on a Vegas stage! But one look at Steve-o’s hands told Tony that Fucky B’s lack of training was the least of his worries.When Tony’s emotions got too emo, he turned to powders, pills, poontang, and a variety of top-shelf liqueurs.When Steve-o’s emotions got too emo, he jumped directly to self-flagellation. Even drunk as a skunk, Tony could see how deep Steve-o’s fingernails were digging into his palms. “You’re right,” Tony said, unpuffing his chest. “I’m a terrible person. But, personality defects aside, the invitation to Wonderland is genuine.” Bowing to his own ego, Tony got down on one knee.“Please, Bucky Barnes, come to my Chemical Brothers party—without bringing any chemicals—because I've never seen Steve smile like he is right now." “I’m frowning.”“Well, now you’re frowning. But after our near-death experience with Emo Knievel, your megawatt smile was shining bright like a diamond.” Tony poked Fucky B’s knee. “Sing it with me, RuPaul. I know you love sing-alongs."Fucky B didn’t sing like Rihanna, but he did raise his eyebrow whiskers. Which, in feline terms, was a clear-cut indication that Tony should continue his indecent proposal.“Steve-o, I know that pretending your life is hunky dory is your modus operandi, but the truth is written all over your face.” Instead of looking at Steve’s bruises, Tony focused on S & B's dueling anacondas.” You, my friend, are in desperate need of some happy juice. The kind that doesn’t out of a flasky-flask. And if you’re going to smile bright like a diamond whenever satanic Freddie Mercury is around, I’m a full-blown ally of Freddie’s extra-salty brand of organic juice.”“You’re apologizing with a semen joke?” Fucky B did the cutest little nose scrunch.“Yes. And you should try eating pineapple. From what I’m told, it adds a note of sweetness.” Tony got off his knees because he was this close to revealing the secret ingredient in Chef Phillip's smoothies. “And I’m adding Clinton Francis Barton—yes, I know his real name—Sean Skinner, and Ayaka Ban to the guest list because, party favors or not, your friends look like they could get down to some Crystal Method.”"You know who The Crystal Method are?" "Vegas, baby."Fucky B’s smile shined brighter than The Hope Diamond when he asked, "'Keep Hope Alive' or 'High Roller'?""You know I'm a 'High Roller.’"As far as sales pitches went, bonding with a client over early EDM was a surefire way to close the deal.“What do you say, Nancy?” Tony extended his hand to the coolest cat in the parking lot. “Come out and play?" His hand remained unshaken.Shrinking like Alice, Fucky B dipped his chin. “It’s up to Steve if he wants me there." “Of course I want you there!” Steve-o shook his head like he thought Bucky BJ was a ludicrous little deer for suggesting otherwise. “But, Tony… I’m not ready to… Shit.” “Not ready to shit? Because I have some laxatives for—”“I’m not ready to come out.”Tony didn’t need to intercept any homosexual Morse code to know that Siegfried and Roy—Or was it Siegfried and Mantacore?—were having a moment. It was all there. From the way Steve-o was shuffling his toes toward his pet tiger to the way Fucky B was rubbing his bottom lip with his paw. “Woah… I just said that out loud."“You sure did! It’s official, Steve-o. You’re—” Tony scratched his head because he had no idea how Steve identified. “You’re whatever you are, and—”“I’m gay.”Fucky B snorted, setting off another round of megawatt smiles. And Tony joined them, shining bright like a diamond even though he was smart enough to know that Steve hadn't said it for him.
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Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin: U want us 2 do what? Bucky: Bust out raver pants and go 2 Stark's party Pushing Daisies: You’re joking right? Not Dylan O’Brien: He’s lost his mind Bucky: Me and Natasha r gonna snatch u up around 8/8 :30 Not Dylan O’Brien: No Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin: Nat’s going? Bucky: Like u don’t already know. I’ll bring glow sticks, u google Kandi Kids Not Dylan O’Brien: Do not come to my house, Bucky. I mean it. Bucky: Too late! Raves r mandatory! Bucky's legs were killing him (like, full-on throbbing) because Coach Fury, aka The Sadist, had made the entire team run four fucking miles. Not one. Not two. Not three. But fucking four! And sitting shotgun in his dad's itty-bitty Toyota while his sister battled her way through Upper East Side traffic was only making things worse. The sore parts of Bucky's body were getting stiff, and stiff appendages (excluding his dick) were gonna put a serious damper on tonight's festivities. “We should’ve gone to that skeezy massage parlor on Fulton after we hit up the Dollar Tree.” Bucky kicked the plastic bags of glowing goodies at his feet. “My legs are fuckin’ killing me.” “The pain will go away as soon as you see Steve.”Daisy smiled at Bucky from the back seat. Not like a diamond (shout-out Rihanna and Stark), but like a diamond-encrusted Moon Pie who always knew the right thing to say.“Until he ditches you for his asshole friends.”Unlike Clint, who’d recently made it a habit to say things that stung.Clint had kept the salt to a minimum since they’d scooped him up at his apartment. Bam!...a couple of pinches as they’d jogged up and down the aisles at the dollar store, filling their baskets with bargain-basement rave supplies. Bam!...a passive-aggressive pinch (heavy on the aggression) as they’d pulled up to Daisy’s building in Greenwich Village. Bam!...a present-tense pinch right in the eyeball as Clint’s non-Idol sneer overpowered the sugary sweetness of Daisy’s super supportive smile.Grabbing one of the bags, Bucky dumped the treasure trove of 90s party favors onto his lap. Glow sticks, glowing bracelets, glowing necklaces, glowing pacifiers on zebra-print strings (#TheseAreAFewOfMyFavoriteThings), Ring Pops that didn’t glow, but provided important clues about a person’s oral abilities, aka their ability to suck the head of a dick. Financial fact: Forty bucks went a long way at the dollar store.“Do you think Skinner’s gonna dress up?” Tearing the top off a ten pack of glow sticks with his teeth, Bucky didn’t skimp on the volume, shouting, “Snap, crackle, pop!” as he snapped all ten and threw them at Clint’s face.“Bro!”Directing his attention to Daisy and Daisy alone, Bucky said, “I brought an extra Crystal Method shirt in case he decides to flake.”“Did you bring me a shirt?”Yes, Bucky’d brought Clint a shirt. A badass Prodigy t-shirt to be exact. But Bucky wasn’t ready to pour sugar on his bestie’s salty stick. At least not yet.Taking a peek over his shoulder, Bucky sighed. The glow sticks that had landed on Clint’s lap had started to glow, lighting up the extra-thick Ring Pop tucked inside his jeans.Tonight was supposed to be fun. A celebration of the newly revised Assholes Who Weren’t Actually Assholes List, with a bonus toast for the moment Steve had kissed Bucky goodbye in front of Stark’s squad (Suck it, Taylor!), the mail lady (#PostalAlly), and Bucky’s dad (who’d been peepin’ the peep show from the kitchen window).It wasn’t a big kiss. No tongue. No groping. Just a sweet little peck after Bucky’d handed Sam the keys after practice. But Steve had kissed him, gently pressing their lips together for two beautiful Mississippis. One Mississippi…Two Mississippi…Keeping his eyes on a real Ring Pop, Bucky said, “I hate to break it to you, dickface, but Stark’s gonna slam the door in your face as soon as he sees that Sublime shirt. It’s totally off theme.” “No shit. That’s why you were supposed to bring—”“I mean, look at Daisy! Her outfit’s the perfect mix of Dolly Parton and Portishead!” Bucky smiled extra, extra, extra wide at his Zebra Cake boo. “Nobody but the Princess of Vintage, aka the one and only Ayaka Ban, could pull off sparkly leggings, sparkly braids—shout-out to those extensions, boo—and a silky pink 9 to 5 blouse with a bigass bow!”Clint opened his mouth to spew a fresh batch of salt all over Bucky’s parade, but Bucky was more than ready to fill it with some salt of his own.“And look at Natasha! Her space buns are peak 90s!” Bucky gave each bun a lil’...Boink-boink!…as she stopped for a red light. “Black fishnets! Pink tutu! Homemade Kandi Kid bracelets! My sister’s a fashionista and a raveinista rolled into one Madonna-loving, Moby-appreciating party pill!”“Just give him the shirt.”Natasha wasn’t big on interventions, especially when it came to Clint/Bucky throwdowns. Example numero odin y uno: When Clint had obliterated Bucky’s shoulder with a particularly brutal Arm Bar after Buck’d ‘accidentally’ screamed “Cowabunga!” into his bestie’s hearing aid (Scream you cannot. Medium volume you must be.), Natasha had sat by, happily filing her nails on the couch. Example numero dos y dva: When Bucky had pushed Clint off the porch (into a particularly brutal bush) after Clint had obliterated Bucky’s face with a snowball (muy painful), Natasha had happily gone inside and locked the door. Por ejemplo número tres y tri: When Clint—Actually, fuck it. There were infinite examples, making Natasha’s interjection an outlier. An anomaly. A full-on declaration that something had changed.Bucky side-eyed his sister. Her hands were still at two and ten. Her space buns were still at one and eleven. But her intentions? The way her eyes were locked on the red light, waiting for that shit to turn green, made it crystal clear that Bucky wasn’t the only person in this car who thought his bestie looked hot as fuck.“Yeah, dickhead.” Clint kicked the back of Bucky’s seat. “Just give me the fucking shirt.”It wasn’t just the glow of Clint’s package. It was the way he’d rolled up the bottoms of his jeans to perfectly meet the tops of his oxblood boots (#PunkOCD); the way he’d replaced his gauges with silver stretching bars that had more in common with medieval weaponry than modern jewelry (#PunkLancelot); and the way he’d sharpened the tips of his liberty spikes to a point, twisting the ends with Elmer’s glue until they were more than capable of poking out a trifecta of jock dick eyeballs. Two each from Rollins, Castle, and Brock.Clint was dressed for war, and that—“Here,” Bucky said, yanking the shirt out of Natasha’s purse and tossin’ it over his shoulder like a grenade (shout-out Bruno Mars). “What good’s a wingman if he gets doused in pig’s blood at the door?”Wingman. Warrior. Heartbreaker with a capital W.H.Y? Whatever Clint was (or wasn’t) at this particular moment on the space/time continuum, the truth was, Natasha’s affinity for his idiotic dick face was the only reason Bucky’s dad had let him out of the house. Story time: Post-Stevie Rogers’ sweet ‘n’ sappy smooch, Bucky—high on endorphins and Taco Bell—had skipped straight into the kitchen to ask his dad about the party. So. Fucking. Dumb. Papa Barnes had added another hour of torture on top of Fury’s three, bombarding Bucky’s sweaty ass with a long-winded lecture about responsibility, not getting taken advantage of, not drinking or doing drugs, and if he did drink or do drugs, not being an idiot about it. There'd been a good twenty minutes about condoms, thirteen bazillion paragraphs about the past three days being “the exception, not the rule,” and an entire thesis about Bucky not being allowed to spend the night with Steve Rogers ever again because “Seriously, Bucky, how old do you think you are?”“You know what?” Adjusting the brim of his camo visor for maximum introspection, Bucky inhaled the scent of Band-Aids and Bactine. “We’re lucky as fuck to have parents that care about us. And, holy normal, Daisy. You’ve got two! Sure, your dad’s uptight and your mom freaks out about the boobs in your anime drawings, but conservative tendencies aside, Mama and Papa Ban are fuckin’ awesome!” Pointing at the tippity-top of the buildings, Bucky prayed to Baby Jesus (and Lil Baby) that Steve’s motherfuckin’ stepdad had flown off to Istanbul, or Madagascar, or Timbuk-fucking-tu for a permanent vacation.“And the rest of us?” Bucky glanced at Natalia’s wooly mittens… at his best friend’s grungy hair… “Our parents might not be the ones we started with—and we might not have two—but damn if they’re not always there, bitchin’ at us and makin’ sure we don’t get herpes.”Deep Bucky was rarely spotted in the wild, so the silence that followed wasn’t a shock. The only shock was how long it lasted.One Mississippi… Two Mississippi…Ten Mississippi… Twelve—“Speaking of herpes,” Clint said (because twelve Mississippis was his max), “I can't believe your dad let you out of the house after all the shit you've pulled this week.” “To be fair, he only said yes after I agreed that tea-bagging should be reserved for committed relationships.”Clint didn’t have any jizz in his mouth (duh), but if he did, he would’ve spit that shit all over Daisy’s super cute blouse.“That, and Natasha said she was already going.”His sister cleared her throat.“Fine.” Bucky groaned. “Natasha lied and said she was already going, because she’s the bestest big sis in the whole wide world.”“So she’s your chaperone?” Clint laughed like he’d never dipped his ballsack in Bucky’s tea.FYI: He had.“Yep. My tea-bagging chaperone, making sure that Steve isn’t the type to dip and run.”The tension in the air was like…Zap!...Krispy Kremes without the sugar, aka just plain crispy. The pubes on Clint’s nuts were fried, the glow sticks had died, and Bucky was naked in the locker room showers, ice-cold water freezin' his nutsack as Steve’s Merry Band of Assholes yanked bloody tampons out of their pussies.Dip and run? Bucky snorted. Make that dip and destroy. This shit was so close to the plot of Carrie that a fancy Hollywood lawyer (in a fancy Hollywood suit) was gonna show up at any second, lay the screenplays side by side on the hood, and sue Bucky for plagiarism. Synopsis: Bucky was telepathic and weird; the cool kids were luring him to the Senior Prom with the promise of fun, fun, fun; and Bucky, aka Mr. Naive, was stupid enough to believe that Eaton’s crème de la crème had gone from hating his faggot ass to wanting to take shots with him at a motherfucking Stark party.Not fucking likely.It was a trap, and Steve was the juicy man-bait hanging from the hook.
Drip!
Speakin’ of blood, Bucky’d be hella pissed if Stark and Co. actually flung bloody tampons at his de los ensembles. For one thing, used tampons were gross with a capital Y.U.C.K. For another, shed uterine linings (#Plural) would really fuck up Bucky’s vibe.Fit check: Three neon-green dots painted below each eye (courtesy of Big Sis)? Check, check, check. Thick black Jared Leto eyeliner via “The Kill” (#TheShining)? Video check. Super strappy, wide-legged raver pants that Bucky’d bought off the Hot Topic clearance rack for $12.99 in 2014? Bargain check. Mega-tight black Daft Punk tank top with the OG red logo? Vintage check. Checkered laces in his bright-blue ten-eyed Docs? Chubby Checker check. Camo visor with greasy Daryl Dixon-riding-his-motorcycle-on-a-hot-‘n’-humid night-in-Georgia hair? Zombie check. Studded leather belt that a certain somebody may or may not unbuckle with his teeth? Checkity-check-yum.Unzipping his black leather jacket, he ran his hand over the buckle, imagining the sound of it dropping to the floor. “Who’s gonna text him?” Natasha threw the car into park, ignoring the honking horns as she swiveled her head between Daisy, Clint, and Bucky. And Bucky—Blinking like a motherfucker, Bucky tried his damndest to remember the rules of teleportation.Captain’s Log, Stardate unknown: The USS Toyota was double parked in front of Skinner’s townhouse. Hazards on. Radio off. And Bucky had three empty Ring Pops, aka Ring Pop rings, wrapped around his middle finger.Bucky searched for the wrappers. Not because he didn’t believe he’d eaten them…Chomp!...but because he had no idea what flavor they’d been.Blue raspberry? Cherry? Grape… like Barney?I love you… you love me…“I’ll just call him,” Daisy said, which, yay! Three cheers for initiative! Lil’ Miss Daisy was a superstar when it came to mild manipulation, mild coaxing, and mild full-throttle bribery (aka the promise of ginger-infused cupcakes), makin’ her the perfect person to get Sean Skinner to open his overly embellished front door.Five minutes (and one promissory note for half a dozen cupcakes every other Wednesday) later…Mr. Frowny McFrownyton opened the port-side hatch, giving Oscar the Grouch a run for his money when he said, “I’m not wearing anything that glows, so don’t bother trying to convince me.”As expected, there was nothing EDM, Aphex Twin, Fatboy Slim, or Kandi Kid anything about Skinner’s blue-and-white checkered shirt/skinny tie combo. Maybe if you squinted really, really, really hard you could say his de los ensembles was the bastard child of Devo (#Whip It!) and Dylan O’Brien from The Intern, neither of which were remotely tied to the theme.Prediction: Stark would take one look at Skinner’s half-ass Frankie Goes to Hollywood impression, deem him unworthy, and slam the door in Bucky’s face for the third time in less than twenty-four hours. And, blood bucket or not, Bucky didn’t need that kind of déjà vu.Lucky for Bucky, Lil’ Miss Daisy was Team Theme. After scoochin’ to the center so Skinner could fit, Daisy pat-pat-patted the seat, held out her hand, and said, “Don’t be a spoilsport, sweet pea,” with the sugariest smile since Cookie Monster went down on Little Debbie’s MoonPie. “Yeah! Don’t be a motherfucking spoilsport!” Snatching a necklace off Bucky’s lap, Clint threw it at Skinner’s forehead. “Put on a pacifier and live a little!”“No.” Skinner folded his arms, grandpa-style. “I’m executing a peaceful protest.”“Dude, it’s free booze.” Laughing as he buckled Daisy into the center seat belt, Clint said, “Just take a deep breath, wear a stupid necklace, and act like a high school senior for one fucking night. Like it or not, Bucky’s getting boned by one of these morons now, so—”“I’m not fucking him!” Spinning around in his seat, Bucky knocked everything onto the floor. "I've only fantasized about fucking him!"Natasha groaned. Which, really? What the fuck was she worried about? Bucky fucking. Fucking in general? Clint wanting to fuck her?Flipping off his ‘bestie,’ Bucky mouthed, “Fuck you,” for no reason at all.Fantasy and reality were crashing together in spectacular fashion, like…Whammo!...because Bucky’d been so fixated on the whole asteroid/blow job/spooning thing that he hadn’t even considered the possibility of S.E.X.Was he actually going to fuck Steve Rogers? Lose his V-card? Pop his cherry? Rip the Band-Aid off his butthole? ‘Cause that was a big fucking step! A wild ‘n’ crazy “Hey, do you wanna stick your cock in my asshole” step that was—Swallowing, Bucky stared at the straps between his legs… at the zipper on his leather jacket… at the half-eaten Ring Pop on his finger… There was a question on the table.Did Bucky want Steve Rogers to fuck him?Of course he did! And based on the healthy chub in his kickass pants, his dick agreed. It was unanimous!Bucky wanted Steve’s ginormous penis in his butthole, fucking and pounding and making things raw.Rummagin’ around in the oodles ‘n’ noodles of shit by his feet, Bucky searched for the extra-special candy necklaces he’d bought for Steve. Because Bucky bought things for Steve now. That was something he did.Steve Rogers and his pretty cock.Try as he might (which wasn’t hard at all), Bucky couldn’t stop himself from wondering how Steve fucked. Was he a fast fucker? Like, a hard thrusting, hold-Bucky-down-and-let-him-have-it kind of guy? Or did he prefer to take it slow, rolling his hips like the super muscular dudes in romantic pornos? Bucky couldn’t imagine Steve fucking Peggy Carter like a wild animal (shout-out Trent Reznor), and Sharon was missionary with a capital B.O.R.I.N.G.“You okay over there?” Natasha pokity-poked Bucky’s shoulder as she made the final turn onto Stark’s 24-karat street.Fuck analysis paused.“Yepperoni. I was just thinking about how stellar your outfit looks. The itty-bitty Deadmau5 shirt. The tutu. The eyeliner straight outta Tron. We’re talking top-tier mandatory participation.”“God, I hope not!” She cringed. “You just moaned.”“I did?”There was no denying Bucky’d popped a boner (a big one, complete with a juicy drop of pre-come), but no way in hell had he fucking moaned!Unfortunately (for everybody), one glance into the back seat confirmed the worst. Dva out of tri amigos were nodding (vigorously), and Clint—Well, Clint looked like he’d swallowed 472 gallons of incest (#CruelIntentions). Deflecting like a motherfucker, Bucky said, “Outfit? What outfit?” as he jammed his fist against his dick. “I was actually thinking about lasagna. You know, like Garfield when John takes the lasagna out of the oven.” Bucky tried to mimic the moan he didn’t remember making.Nobody was buying the lasagna cover-up (obviously), so Bucky went with the always dependable option número dos y dva. Pretend it never happened.Excavating the Kandi Kid mountain surroundin’ his zapatos, Bucky didn’t stop until he’d found all five of Stevie’s treats especiales.“Uno,” Bucky said as he unwrapped the first one with his teeth, then, “Dos, tres, cuatro, cinco,” as he did the same with the other four. Info dump de los dinero: Bucky’d paid three dollars apiece for the nicer candy necklaces at the dollar store because…Spoiler alert!...the candies were bigger and the colors were brighter.Translation: Five three-dollar necklaces meant Bucky’d blown half his budget on bigger, brighter candies with extra-strong strings because...Posh alert!...he’d wanted Steve to have something nicer.Bucky snorted.There was no way Captain Steve Rogers, aka the King of the Jocks, was gonna be impressed by a couple of 'high-end' candy necklaces that had set Bucky back a whopping fifteen bucks. “Whatever,” Bucky said, stretching the elastic over his head.Steve would like them or he wouldn't. He’d wear them or he wouldn't. He’d whip a bloody tampon at Bucky's face or he wouldn't. Moving the fuck on. “Yakov, we’re here.”Somebody opened Bucky’s door, and…Holy confusion!...it wasn’t Bucky or Clint or Daisy or Skinner or Natalia). It was a guy in a gold-and-black jacket that said valet.“Seriously?”Of course Stark had valet parking for a motherfucking high school party. What else would a seventeen-year-old bazillionaire spend his allowance on? A private plane?“Fuck off!” Bucky grabbed the interior handle. “I can open my own fucking door!”The battle was epic. Stark’s hired hand versus the Kandi Kid too broke to tip him. And Bucky would’ve won, hands-fucking-down, if Clint hadn’t chosen that precise moment to say, “Guess it’s time to change,” like they hadn’t just spent an hour in the fucking car. Two nipple rings. Six abs. A happy trail that had always made Bucky crave a cup of tea. The handle was ripped out of Bucky’s hand the second Clint took off his shirt.And Clint?The fucker just sat there, basking in the light from the ginormous mansions like a horny lizard on a hot desert rock (if lizards wore silver chains and had their nipples pierced). Question: How many nipples do lizards have? Answer: No idea, but Harry Styles has four.“Get your armpit out of my face.” Daisy giggled (as only Daisy could), pushin’ the lizard sideways as she and Skinner were rescued by another valet.
Poof!
The lifeboats were gone, the Titanic was vertical (Fuck you, Céline!), and there was no way the scorned valet was gonna try and rescue Bucky (or Jack) a second time (Burn the bridge you did. Suffer you shall.), meaning Bucky was stuck watching his sister drool over Clint’s half-naked body as he ‘struggled’ to get the Prodigy t-shirt over his jacked-up hair.With nowhere left to run, Bucky had no choice but to accept his fate and bust out the motherfucking violin.Natasha'd been careful about letting it show, but lately there’d been a certain sparkle in her eyes whenever she got within twenty feet of Clint’s idiotic dick face (#SparkleFever). And now, in the shadow of her space buns, she was smiling wider than she ever had. Not on the outside of course (on the outside, she was rolling her eyes), but Bucky knew what was happening underneath.He’d known for a while.Sparkly eyes. Sparkly smiles. Sparkly padlocks shimmering in the fiery light of the comet/asteroid (#BruceWillis2.0). Pizza Saturday hard-ons aside, Clint’s one-sided ‘crush’ had evolved into a two-sided crush, sans air quotes. Was it hard to watch? Fuck yes! Especially with Bucky reminiscing about the happiness he’d felt on Clint’s happy trail.Bucky closed his eyes.There were a gazillion movies where the plot revolved around the whole “if I can’t have him, no one can” mentality. Fatal Attraction. The Bodyguard. Batman (shout-out Jack Nicholson). Every other episode of Law & Order: SVU. But Bucky wasn’t the fucking Joker, and Clint wasn’t a rich vigilante douchebag named Bruce Thomas Wayne; Clint was a stick of gooey butter that wanted to melt all over Natasha’s blueberry pancakes.And blueberry pancakes deserved gooey butter.They deserved to be happy.Swallowing, Bucky tried to shove the rave shit back into the bags and his own shit back down his motherfucking throat. He’d moved on. And he’d emptied his wallet buying cheap candy for the sweet, sensitive gay guy he’d move on with!“For fuck’s sake!” Bucky snapped Steve's candies against his throat. “Put your tits away so we can do this!” “What’s the rush, cupcake?" Leaning between the seats, Clint kissed Bucky’s cheek, which—“Get off!” In the ensuing tussle, the Joker may or may not have thrown a punch. And that punch may or may not have resulted in some serious knuckle damage from Bruce Wayne’s mega sharp medieval earring.“Fuck!" Bucky plugged the hole with his tongue. "Why do you always have to be so spiky?”“Gotta impress the ladies.” Turning to Natasha, Clint executed his own version of the Sex Stare. It didn’t work.Crush or no crush, Natasha wasn't gonna take that kind of shit.When Natasha pushed Clint backwards and said, “It takes a hell of a lot more than shoving pointy things through your body to impress me, Barton,” Bucky almost felt sorry for him. But when Clint grabbed his crotch and said, “I only need one of my pointy things to impress you,” Bucky didn’t feel sorry for him at all.In fact, Bucky’s appreciation for gooey butter went right out the fucking window.Clint was a lot of things. A slob. A dick. A pothead who always chewed with his mouth open. But in all the years Bucky'd known him, Clint had never once been vulgar around Natasha. “I’m sorry, I don’t why I—”“Save it.” Checking traffic, Natasha put one foot out the door. “You think you’re cute, Barton. But if you ever talk to me like that again, I’ll cut that pointy thing clean off your body.”And with that, Natalia slid out of the car, easily avoiding the fireballs as she crossed the street in her neon-pink tutu. Then there were two.Two best friends sitting in a dark car, staring at the towering mansions as the asteroid lit up the night sky.Bucky had no idea how long they sat there. Five hours? Five minutes? Five stretched-out Mississippis? All he knew was that there was an endless line of cars behind them, honking their horns and flashing their brights, when he heard himself say, “You know you’re a dick, right?" “And you know you don't belong here, right?"Two truths hanging in the smoky air.Two truths they'd probably never talk about again.Bucky stared at the half-eaten Ring Pop on his finger… at the grapey goodness, chomped right in half… As much as it hurt to admit it, Clint was right. Bucky was nothing more than a gullible schoolgirl, floating around in a candy-colored fantasy while Steve Rogers and his Merry Band of Assholes got ready to dump a bucket of pig's blood all over his super sweet raver outfit.Honestly, that would make so much more sense.* Bucky’d been in the danger zone for over an hour, and he was still blood free. No dead pigs. No improperly used feminine hygiene products. No need to set the place on fire with telekinesis.Studying the test tube in his hand, he could smell his fingerprints sizzling. Sizzling skin. Sizzling outfit. Sizzling emotions. Damn, Yakov was sizzling from the inside out! When he held the mysterious orange liquid up to his eyeball, he could see a bunch of hyperactive sea monkeys swimming around in the bubbles. Snorting, he slammed the shot (FYI: not a good combo). What was a sea monkey anyways? A monkey with fins? A mermonkey? Cracking up, Bucky leaned against the counter in what appeared to be a...um. Bucky had no fucking idea what this room was for. Tossing the empty tube onto the fancy-ass countertop, he took inventory: cupboards with fancy-ass glass doors that were filled with fancy-ass dishes, a machine that Bucky was 50% sure made espresso, 50% sure made high-quality crystal meth. A few fragile-looking bowls full of fancy sugar? Fancy salt? Fancy cocaine? Whatever. Bucky was sick of playing Clue.This party, if that’s what you'd even call it (The Rave? The Event? Ibiza?), was in full swing, and it was fucking insane. Bucky'd been right about the clothes. While he’d spotted a few valiant efforts (not really), nobody had nailed the 90s club kid aesthetic like he and Natasha had. Sure, Daisy and Clint looked good too (once he'd put on a fucking shirt), but their punk/stoner/vintage/goth vibes were too strong to be masked by glowing pacifiers and a couple of candy necklaces.Most of Stark's crew had pulled a Skinner, tossing on one or two neon bracelets and maybe a hat, but the Mad Hatter himself looked fucking awesome! Stark’s Mad Hatter hat (say that 3x fast) was legit! Not only was it enormous and velvety, but there were tiny LED lights sewn into the band that flashed to the beat of the music! And get this, Stark had followed through on the Crystal Method thing! For real, he was wearing a t-shirt with their logo, which begged the question: Had he run out to buy it special? Like, just for Bucky? Was that how Tony Stark made friends?Licking his finger, he dipped it into one of the bowls. Please be crystal meth, please be crystal meth, please be crystal meth... He popped it into his mouth. Nope. It was fucking sugar.Fun story: When they'd fallen down the rabbit hole and landed in Wonderland, aka walked through the front door, Stark had run up to them and given everyone a hug (even Clint), which had blown Bucky’s mind. Whoosh! Enemies to frenemies to hugs in 12 hours? Seriously, what the fuck?Bucky tried the next bowl. Ugh, it was salt! Gross.Anyways, the best part about the hug had been finding out that the Mad Hatter was already wa-wa-wasted. After kissing Daisy’s cheek, Natasha’s cheek, and Skinner’s earlobe (yes, earlobe), Stark had started bitching about the general lack of creativity, shouting, “Maybe this shot will make you a fun person,” and “You’re only here for my liquor! You don’t care about my vision!” In addition to being fucking hilarious, the whole scene had given Bucky a new understanding of why Steve put up with Stark in the first place. Dude was like Cirque du Soleil on wheels!Picking up a white teapot and peeking inside, Bucky whispered, "Hey, Dormouse. Are you in there, lil’ buddy?""Fucking freak."When Bucky spun around on his electric-blue heels, he found himself face to face with a short dude in a Party Monster shirt. Bucky had no idea who the fuck he was.Puckering like crazy, the asshole said, "It's bad enough that somebody let you in, but now I have to watch you talking to the china?""First of all,” Bucky said, pointing at the butthole’s shirt, “that movie is too good for you. Macaulay Culkin is home alone, crying his eyes out ‘cause you're tarnishing his legacy. And secondly, go fuck yourself." Bucky slammed down the teapot's lid (possibly a mistake).Short guy tried to look taller, but only succeeded in making himself look stupider. "No, you go fuck yourself!""I fuck myself all the time, sweetheart." Damn, Bucky was lightning fast on the comeback tonight. "You should try it. A good-size dildo might help you grow up to be a big boy!"The asshole stormed out of the room (good riddance), and Bucky found himself Home Alone with a broken teapot.Shit!“I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Dormouse,” Bucky said, gathering the shattered pieces into a pile. “Are you okay, lil’ buddy?”If only Clint were here to see this. Or Skinner. Or Daisy. Or Natasha. But nope. Bucky’s people may be here, as in, in the fucking mansion, but they certainly weren't here (wherever here was).After their hugfest with the Hatter, Natasha had taken Skinner and Daisy by the hand and led them up the stairway to Heaven. Maybe they’d gone to visit Robert Plant. Maybe they’d gone to some top-secret room to summon ghosts with a ouija board. Maybe they were doing keg stands in the attic. Whatever they were doing, Bucky and Clint sure as fuck hadn't been invited. And Clint? He'd taken one look at the naked statue in the middle of the foyer and disappeared into the movie room. True story: There’d been so much smoke billowing through the doorway that a person could’ve gotten a contact high from 50 feet away. Make no mistake, Bucky liked weed and Bucky liked Clint, but he didn’t like either of them enough at this (or that) particular moment to venture through that particular door.So here he was, hiding a shattered teapot behind a bowl of fucking salt while he waited for Steve to show up.If he was gonna show up at all.“Time for another drink,” Bucky said, abandoning the teapot destruction (sorry, Dormouse), and heading back towards the naked lady by the front door. Maybe Steve was staring at the boobies, missing Sharon’s ample mounds of flesh. Or maybe...Shocker!...he’d been here for hours and was touching the real thing somewhere upstairs.As Bucky pushed through the crowd, Steve was nowhere to be found. And neither was Sam. Or Peggy. Or Sharon. It was just Harry and Charlie, a couple of guys Bucky knew from the archery team, his sister's friend Rory and her boyfriend Remy (no joke), a fuckton of strangers, and the Key Master.Adjusting his visor and ignoring the boobs, Bucky leaned back against some sort of antique table and tried to slow his roll. Not that he was rolling. Rolling down the river. Rolling like a rolling stone. Rolling joints on a fire escape in Brooklyn."Good evening, and welcome to Wonderland."Yes! The Key Master. He was the fucking bomb!News at 11: The Buffys were strutting into the house like total bitches while the Key Master stood at attention next to his giant glass bowl. The guy was dressed as the six of hearts (complete with a pointy black staff) and he was spitting the same spiel, word for word, at every person who stepped over the threshold. Bucky was obsessed. Holding out his staff to stop the Buffy Brigade, the Key Master said, "Your host for the evening, the handsome and charming Hatter, although irresponsibly serving minors, is responsible enough to insist that all partygoers partaking in his magical tea party spend the night or take an Uber. I am the Key Master, and it is my sworn duty to see that all car keys are dropped into the bowl."It was funny watching him say it on repeat, and even funnier after Bucky’d grabbed another test tube off a passing silver tray. How much did it cost to hire a Key Master? And how the fuck had Stark explained the job description? “You're gonna dress as a card, make sure I don't get sued, and keep an eye out for the cops.” Cracking up, Bucky added more mermonkeys to the multicolored mixture in his stomach, deciding (once and for all) that Stark had written the speech himself and was paying the dude fat cash to read it verbatim.Out of nowhere, Buffy bumped Bucky's shoulder. "Oh, sorry, trash,” she said, flipping her fucking hair, “I didn't see you there on the ground." Trailing after here were Buffy #2, Buffy #3, Buffy #4, Buffy #5, and a girl dressed as a bunny who was carrying another silver tray (who hopefully wasn't named Buffy).Helping himself to two tubes (one blue, one red), Bucky slammed them down to help his head. Ha! He was a fucking poet! Ginsberg at a rave - acid + mermonkeys = Bucky."Hey, Key Master!" Bucky yelled over the Buffys’ heads. "Did Stark get this key idea from the swingin' 70s? 'Cause my bestie has this super sweet porno about a bored suburban husband and his big-bushed wife throwing a key party for the whole neighborhood. We toss it into the VCR whenever we need a reminder to trim our bushy pubes."The Key Master did not reply. He took his job as Key Master very seriously.And that got Bucky thinking. The bowl of key fobs—containing one set of actual keys belonging to a shitty Toyota—was almost overflowing, meaning that Stark actually gave a shit about his asshole friends. Snorting cocaine off a bunny rabbit’s ass? Hell yes! Drunk driving? Hell to the no!Bucky needed another shot.Picking a random hallway, he set off to find the honest-to-goodness bar with the honest-to-goodness bartender he'd spotted earlier, making a point of smiling at everybody who frowned at him (heavy on the everybody). It was reverse psychology. He'd learned about it in school. It took two more hallways and 69 fake smiles to find her, but when he did, he was a very happy man. Not only was the bartender down for breaking the law, but she had gorgeous dark skin, shiny lips, and beautiful braids that almost reached her waist. And to top it all off, she was wearing a pair of bright-orange cat ears and a tight black vest with nothing underneath. Her exposed cleavage was so pretty that even Bucky took a second look.That naughty boy.Tapping his fingernails on the lacquered wood, he said, "Hi there," to the age-inappropriate bartender. "Are you friends with the Cheshire cat?""I could be." She smiled. "For a cutie like you."“Well, how about you make me a drink.” Leaning further across the bar, he made sure that she saw him looking at what she was advertising. "Then later, maybe you can come find me underneath a magic mushroom.”Sucking the glowing blue concoction through a loopy green straw, Bucky blinked at the enormous glass. There was an itty-bitty plastic sword, lots and lots of cherries, and— Was that a fucking pineapple? Bucky squinted at the yellow triangle. Holy shit! It was a pineapple! That pretty cat must've snuck a wedge onto the rim before slipping her number into his hand. Boom! Bucky found himself in the kitchen doorway, and, holy shit, this had been a huge mistake. Clint was right. He didn't fucking belong here.Steve was leaning against the counter, and he was surrounded by stainless steel appliances and assholes. There was a bottle of beer in his hand, and he was talking to Ezra, Rhodey, Banner, the Mad Hatter, and, worst of all, Brock. It wasn’t a sausage party, it was a dick party. And not in a good way.Trying to focus on the hottie he was somehow involved with in a top-secret, undefined something-or-other kind of way, Bucky took another ‘sip’ of his drink.Steve had failed at the rave thing (obviously), but he still looked hot as hell. While polo shirts weren’t typically the kind of thing that revved Bucky's engine, the white cotton was hugging Steve's chest like fucking Saran Wrap. Rolling the end of the straw across his bottom lip, Bucky took a second to imagine Steve wrapped in Saran Wrap without a shirt, which, hot damn! Where the fuck did Stark keep the plastic wrap?Letting his eyes move up and down Steve’s body, Bucky took in every inch of his long legs and every inch of his sizable bulge. But when he got to Steve’s belt, Bucky started drooling. That strip of red canvas just looked like S.E.X., and Bucky found himself rolling his wrists in slow circles, imagining Steve pulling the belt out of the loops as he walked slowly towards the bed.And that’s when Steve noticed him. He was in the middle of saying something to Ezra when he stopped mid sentence and sucked in a quick breath. But there was no wave, no head nod, no “c'mon in, Buck, the weather's fine.” There was only Steve Rogers, staring at Bucky out of the corner of his non-swollen eye and swallowing hard enough to make his throat bob. Time slowed down. Cheshire cats dropped cherries into open mouths. Butterflies spiraled towards the pavement as the last of their wings turned to ash. And Bruce Willis pushed the fucking button. Part of Bucky wanted to run, to snap the candy necklaces and dive into a gallon of Superman ice cream, but the other part... He breathed out through his nose. The other part was remembering the soft kiss Steve had placed on Bucky’s cheek when they'd dropped him off after practice and the sound of Steve's voice when he'd whispered, "I can't wait for tonight.” But right now, Steve's eyes were telling five different stories, and none of them were as simple as “I can’t wait for tonight.” Scared shitless. Intrigued. Scared shitless. Turned on. Scared shitless. Using his tongue to pull the swirly straw into his mouth, he held Steve's gaze. Scared shitless or not, Bucky had a point to make. The point being: “Don't worry, Steve, I'm not coming into that fucking room with those pricks you call friends, but I look sexy as fuck, so if you're smart, you'll ditch the dicks and come find me.” It was up to Steve now.There was a killer beat coming through the floorboards, and Bucky needed to find it. Tipping his chin up (head held high and all that shit), he started to turn away. Sadly, he didn’t move fast enough.“Hey!" It was fucking Brock, and he was leaning over and spilling beer on Steve's sneakers. "Who the fuck was that? Don't tell me somebody let that fuckin’ fairy in here!”EDM. Now. Another drink with a pineapple. Now. Turning his back on his worst fucking nightmare, he heard Steve say, “I told you not to talk about him like that," which, sure, it was nice to know that Steve had brought his Titanic axe to Wonderland, but Bucky didn't need this shit. He just didn't.Joining the sea of bodies heading towards an unknown door, Bucky stuck his fingers into his glass, grabbed a cherry, and popped it into his mouth. Blocking out the homophobes with alcohol and house music? Great fucking idea! And when the bodies carried him down a set of stairs into a cloud of fog, Bucky smiled, the last of the embers losing their sizzle as he found himself in the center of a makeshift dance floor.Holy fucking shit!This was where the real party was at! This. Right. Here. Based on its location, aka underground, this was obviously a fucking basement, but there were no cobwebs, broken vacuums, or water heaters in sight. There were only exposed brick walls, shiny wood floors, and a boatload of fancy-ass furniture that had been shoved to the edges of the enormous room. But interior decorating wasn’t why Bucky was creaming in his raver pants. No, DJs and Dormouses, the pre-come party was directly linked to the crowd of people dancing to the heavy beat. There had to be at least a hundred people down here (maybe 150) and suddenly Bucky wanted to grab some colorful thread and make Tony Stark a fucking friendship bracelet. He'd never seen anything like it. There was fog! There were lasers! There was another bar and another hot bartender! And there were bubbles coming from somewhere! Fucking bubbles! And the DJ in the corner wasn’t some shitty $200-dollar-a-night hack job that Stark had hired off Craig's List. No. Bucky recognized her because he followed her on fucking Instagram! Eliza Zan was a club DJ who toured all over the East Coast, and Bucky was legit star struck. Like, legit, legit. Too legit to quit, legit.Appearing out of the fog like a warlock, Clint grabbed Bucky’s shoulder and said, “About time you got down here, cupcake. It's never a party until you arrive.”Warlocks might be sexy, but Bucky was still annoyed. Like, really fucking annoyed. Reaching his entire hand into his glowing blue drink, he grabbed the last cherry out of the ice, decimating it with his teeth before he said, "You sure know how to make a boy feel special.”Was Bucky surprised when Clint flicked the rollercoaster straw, gave him a tight-lipped smile, and changed the ‘subject’? What do you think?“What the hell are you drinking?” Clint asked, poking SpongeBob's house. "Is this a pineapple?”“Fuck if I know.” Bucky stumbled backwards into somebody. “Some chick with cat ears gave it to me. I think she wanted me to fuck her.”A purple laser hit Clint's purple spikes like he'd choreographed that shit (Bucky approved), but when he got all up in Bucky’s face and asked, "Are you drunk?" Bucky didn't approve at all."Nope.""You look drunk.""Listen, Warlock. The cat lady told me to meet her after the tea party, then handed me this drink, and that's all I know about that." When Bucky took a bite of the pineapple...Chomp!...it tasted like Bikini Bottom. Maybe Stevie would feed him pineapple (in the nude) if Bucky said pretty, pretty please with Squidward on top.“Whatever, bro,” Clint said, grabbing Bucky’s wrist to steady him like a fucking gentleman. “Can you believe this fog?”There was a lot of fog! And a lot of lasers! And a lot of lasers in the fog. And Eliza Zan was spinning some Crystal Method! Fuck yeah!Screw Brock and everyone else with their stupid, stuck-up, rude mouths. Bucky was here in Wonderland to have a goddamn good time, and a goddamn good time he was gonna have! Dropping the glass onto the floor, Bucky slid his arms around Clint’s waist and said, “Let’s fucking dance,” before disappearing into the music.*** Steve felt sick.The lights. The darkness. The noise. Things that were supposed to be magical and magnificent were twisting his ribs until he couldn't breathe.He was used to pain. It had followed him around like a shadow for years. But the agonizing wave ripping through his chest had absolutely nothing to do with Alexander's bruises and everything to do with the beautiful boy dancing in the arms of someone else.It had been ten minutes since Steve had claimed a Victorian chair in the darkest corner of Tony's basement, the velvet kind with brass pins that looked like it belonged in a painting of a fat man wearing too much blush and a powdered wig. Out of all the couches and chairs scattered around the edges of the room, Steve had chosen this one in particular because it was the perfect aesthetic for self-imposed torture. Staring out at the bodies swaying in the fog, Steve swallowed. If his stomach got any tighter, he was going to puke all over a piece of American history that had most likely been in the Stark family since 1859. Steve rubbed at his temples, the sides of his head, the sore spot on his cheekbone, his fucking earlobes. But nothing was helping. Nothing. Giving up, he leaned forward over his knees and covered his face.He'd been so excited for tonight, more excited than he'd been about anything in a long time, but then he'd fucked it all up by doing nothing at all.Why couldn't he reverse time until he was back in the kitchen, powering the minute hand back to the moment just before he'd seen Bucky? Steve searched for the excitement, the anticipation, the joy of before, but he was stuck in this red velvet chair with his failure.Finding the courage to kiss Bucky in front of his friends had sent Steve into the stratosphere, cartwheeling through space until he'd planted a pride flag on the Moon. He'd spent the afternoon walking the winding paths in the park—also known as actively avoiding Alexander—holding onto the bubble gum high and absorbing the sunshine until he'd reached his favorite spot. The bronze statue of Hans Christian Andersen holding his beloved children's book reminded Steve of better days, moments in time when gentle hands had tucked him into his bed and a soft voice had read The Ugly Duckling before turning off the light.Today, after claiming his favorite bench and pulling out his sketchbook, Steve had been overjoyed by the sheer number of tiny sailboats and well-fed ducks skimming along the surface of the pond.Overjoyed. Picking at his scab, Steve tried not to cast judgement on his own happiness, especially now that he'd ruined it.On a normal day, Steve would have drawn detailed portraits of turtles sunning themselves on logs, contour drawings of mothers sharing hot dogs with their kids, and geometric interpretations of the buildings on the eastern horizon. But not today.Instead of looking outward for inspiration, Steve had found his muse in memory, existing in a place where three hours had felt like three minutes. After his pencil had been sharpened down to a nub and the side of his hand had turned silver from the graphite, Steve's sketchbook had been filled with loose drawings of Bucky's jawline, his dimpled chin and five o'clock shadow featured prominently in each one. And not just that. An entire page had been dedicated to the curvature of Bucky’s lips: the way they bowed, the tiny uptick of the corners, the rough skin where Bucky nibbled on them with his adorably crooked teeth. Steve had drawn them at least twenty times, using the tip of his finger to smudge each and every one until they'd looked perfectly kissable. Twenty lips, twenty kisses, twenty seconds in a kitchen that Steve could never take back.Hours later, Steve’s rumbling stomach had brought him back to the real world, where a boy in a baseball jacket had been petting a bronze duck before chasing a real one across the grass. That’s when Steve had felt the first hints of a bubble-shaped hole in his heart, using the last of his pencil to write Bucky a poem about ghosts and colors. Because he'd missed him.Sighing, Steve ran his hands up and down the armrests, squeezing the polished walnut whenever his fingers reached the ends. It seemed impossible, cruel, and heavy, but with Bucky dancing only twenty feet away, Steve missed him even more."Dammit," he said, sinking deeper into a hole full of pencil shavings and regret. "Dammit, dammit, dammit!"When Steve had spotted Bucky standing just beyond the kitchen entrance, words had lost all meaning. Yes, this was a theme party, and yes, everybody was supposed to be in costume, but Bucky had stood out like a kaleidoscope against a white cotton sheet. In that moment, he'd been color and candy, beautiful and delicious, and Steve had just stood there, paralyzed like a bronze fucking statue. Steve should’ve dumped his beer on Brock's shoes and yelled, “I invited him! Bucky's here with me!” He should’ve walked up to Bucky like a normal human being and handed him a beer. He should’ve smiled for Christ's sake! But Steve hadn't done any of those things. And after Bucky had disappeared through the basement door, he'd waited five minutes before going after him. Five fucking minutes drinking his beer, pretending to give a shit about whatever Brock and Ezra had been babbling about, not looking at Tony, and feeling every bubble gum bubble popping beneath his beer-covered feet. He might as well have waited five fucking years.Lining up the crescent moons, Steve didn’t waste any time digging in.Watching Bucky and Clint dance together like they didn’t have a care in the world, Steve tried to believe the things he'd told himself at least fifty times. Bucky and Clint were friends. Best friends. Amazing friends. Friends who trusted each other with their lives. And there was no reason best friends couldn't dance together.Steve looked at them again.There was no reason best friends couldn't dance really close together.The entire room started shrinking, tunnel vision distorting the bodies into a fluid tube until the only thing Steve could see was Clint's hand looped casually around Bucky's waist.Bucky's hands looped casually around the steering wheel at nine and six. Steve's hand looped casually underneath Bucky's tank top when they’d woken up. The moons got deeper.Things are easy inside the pages of a sketchbook. You can draw what you want, be who you want, make yourself fly or float, and turn lips into whimsical beacons of love. But this was real life, and Steve couldn't bend reality to his will with a pencil or get rid of his mistakes with a Pink Pearl eraser.Muses dancing in the arms of someone else were more painful than inspiring.Today at the park, little kids had been running all over the place, families taking advantage of the sunshine as they strolled along the edge of the pond or let the children climb. Laughter. Giggles. Minor squabbles between siblings. A toddler having the time of her life chasing a red rubber ball. Watching Clint and Bucky jumping up and down to the music, Steve couldn't spot the difference. They had the same goofy grins and rambunctious energy as they rammed into one another like they were in a mosh pit. When Bucky punched Clint's shoulder, Clint retaliated by putting him into a headlock, messing with his hat before pulling him into a tight hug. It all seemed so easy...familiar...carefree.Suddenly Natasha was there, patting Clint’s cheek before standing on her tiptoes to fix her brother's hair. Family. Love. Bubbles. Why did Lucky Charms follow Bucky everywhere when Steve needed to be spoon fed in order to smile?"Hi, Steve, wanna dance?" It was Buffy Clayborn, and she was blocking his view."Go away.""What?"Slowly raising his eyes, Steve tried to school his features into something that wasn't a scowl. "I'm not feeling good, Buffy. I’m sorry, but I need to be alone right now." But instead of moving, she just stood there, forcing Steve to look at her belt buckle. It was a $350 sterling silver heart from Tiffany’s. Sterling silver. Steve knew because he’d bought the same one for Peggy for Valentine's Day. "Are you sure?" Buffy touched the side of his head like she cared. "I think I can cheer you up if you—""Maybe later."He just wanted her to fucking move!Standing up, Steve scanned the crowd. Only seconds had passed, but there were more people, more drinks in the air, more hands on asses, and more blissed-out smiles. Arms, legs, mouths, hips, all pushing together to erase the negative space that had provided a clear view of the muse and his jester only moments before. When Steve finally found him, Bucky was alone, wild tendrils of hair sticking to his cheeks as the bracelets covering his forearms glowed in the black lights.He wasn't alone for long.It was strange watching other people notice how Bucky moved. How his muscles rippled like they were part of the music, his feet slid across the floor in liquid waves, and the mystifying straps between his legs swayed back and forth in hypnotizing patterns whenever he rolled his hips. These people, most of whom Steve called friends, might have been talking shit about Bucky upstairs, but now, he could see their opinions changing in real time. The heads turning, the girls inching closer with their short skirts and Tiffany hearts, and the terror in the boys' eyes when they realized that Bucky Barnes could steal their girlfriends if he were so inclined.Funny how girls are attracted to boys who dance like they know how to fuck.Shifting his eyes from person to person, face to face, Steve dug his nails in deeper, searching for an absolution. He was about to sit back down in his penance chair to ask his mother’s God about Hail Marys when he caught a glimpse of TJ Campbell out of the corner of his eye. Sometimes the smallest abnormality catches your attention in a crowd: a color that pops, a size difference, something that doesn't quite fit. But this time, Steve's eyes locked on something disturbingly familiar. TJ was leaning up against a wall of his own, flirting with a girl Steve had never seen before. He was touching her neck, playing with her long brown hair, and grabbing her ass, but every few seconds, he would look over her shoulder at Bucky. Steve bit the inside of his cheek because he knew that look. Longing. Desire. Regret. He knew it because he was wearing it too.It had been so easy for Steve to touch Bucky’s knees, his thighs, to grab Bucky's hips and pull him into his lap when they'd been alone, but now that they weren't, Steve was fucking useless. When the tempo of the song sped up, and one of the girls got brave, breaking away from her crowd and sliding up to Bucky with a pretty smile. Steve knew her. Her name was Ainsley, and she was the only junior on the varsity volleyball team. She was a talented athlete—a nice girl who wrote masterful stories and played the violin—but nice or not, the second Ainsley slotted her ass back against Bucky's hips, Steve's molars threatened to crack from the pressure. Thousands of glowing circles lit up the back of Ainsley's shirt when Bucky grabbed her waist, leading her in a dirty groove when the drop hit. Steve blinked, then blinked again, because it wasn’t the kind of drunk, sloppy, teenage dry humping that usually happened at Tony’s parties. It was a sensual, perfectly synchronized motion that made it seem like they’d been dancing together—or sleeping together—for years. Bucky looked powerful, and Steve had never felt weaker. Judging by the sweat dripping down his temples, Steve knew that his blood pressure was out of control. Not because Bucky was touching Ainsley or because Ainsley was touching Bucky. No. Steve was about to have an aneurysm because he was acting like a jealous loser when he didn’t have the right.Bucky wasn't his. Steve needed to move. He needed to get out of this basement and catch his fucking breath. He needed to escape over the Brooklyn Bridge and spray crumbling buildings with nothing but purple and black paint. But most of all, he needed to get a grip.But just as he was about to run up the stairs, Bucky looked his way, spinning Ainsley in a circle as he sent Steve a kaleidoscope smile. And God, the relief was everything. Bucky wasn't avoiding Steve, trying to make him jealous, or shoving the fact that Steve was a coward in his face.He just loved to dance."Hey," Sam said, sliding up to Steve and shoving a drink into his hand. "I got you a Jack and Coke 'cause that glowing shit scares the hell out of me.”Steve didn't say a word, but he could tell that Sam was watching him out of the corner of his eye. Watching him watching Bucky."So, your boy can move, huh?"That was an understatement, but Steve let it slide, trying to maneuver the tiny straws into his mouth as he said, "Looks that way." Sucking on his own tiny straws, Sam gestured at Bucky, Ainsley, and by default the other two girls Bucky had added to the mix. "You know I love me some beautiful, curvy ladies. Love them with a passion. But I get it, man. He does have a nice ass.""It's not like that," Steve said, knowing damn well that it was and it wasn't.“I know. I'm messing with you.”Finally getting the stupid straws into his mouth, Steve sucked on them as hard as he could before saying, “Well, it’s not funny.”"Maybe not, but you trying to look tough while you're drinking out of baby straws is hilarious."Good point. Biting the ends with his teeth, Steve spit them toward the dance floor and took an enormous gulp. It was fucking strong. Jack with a splash of Coke was more like it. “Seriously." Sam put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing before he said, "If you're worried about talking to me because Bucky's a dude, I’ve got news for you. I've suspected that you might be something other than straight since things went south with Peggy. I mean, you spent the majority of the summer avoiding thirsty females."That was true.Once word had spread that Steve had been back on the market, girls had blown up his phone with a frenzy of texts, snaps, DMs, and unsolicited nudes. Sure, he’d made out with two girls at Rollins’ end-of-the-year party and let the majority of the girl’s volleyball team—including Ainsley—grab his ass on a dare at Tony's beach extravaganza, but Steve hadn’t followed through on anything. No phone numbers, no awkward first dates, no drunken attempts at getting laid. Nothing. Then Sharon had happened, and it had been Peggy all over again, except quicker and without the chemistry. In fact, now that he'd figured out that he was into guys, he was positive that he'd only asked Sharon out to make the frenzy stop.Sticking with the straws, Sam said, "It's not like I've been sitting around for the past few months, playing Uno with my sisters and pondering your sexuality, but let's just say that I wasn't exactly surprised when you showed up with Barnes last night.""That makes one of us." Steve downed the rest of the drink. The idea of talking about Bucky scared the shit out of him. It did. But Sam was waiting for Steve to say something, and he seemed to be okay with it. Ditching the glass on Tony’s antique chair, Steve said, “It’s all been really fast, but there's something about him that makes me feel...God, I don’t know...grounded?”Sam cracked up. "Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you don't look grounded. If I had to describe you in four words, they'd be ‘freaked the fuck out.’"Closing his eyes, Steve drifted back to a place where Bucky had danced in his lap, smiling against his neck when Steve had pulled him closer, and he missed it. "Listen, man." Sam bumped Steve’s elbow. "You and I need to sit down, drink a bunch of coffee, share an order of chili cheese fries, and talk. Really talk. But right now, if your plan is to just stand here and stare, we should take Crazy Hair up on his invite to smoke down in the back room.""Clint?"A hand looped casually around Bucky's waist."Yeah, he specifically said, and I quote, 'Dude, let's get baked. And bring Steve before the pining kills him.’" Steve laughed. He couldn't help it. "That obvious, huh?""You're so emo that I barely recognize you."Taking one last look at Bucky jumping up and down in the middle of the crowd, Steve knew he needed a little more time—a little more chill—and that’s why he left the velvet chair behind, bumped Sam’s elbow before he said, "Guess it's time to get high."* Staring at one of the black lights that had been screwed into the ceiling fixtures, Steve sighed. Buffy was back, and she was sitting really close to him on the couch. And no matter how many times Steve scooched toward Scott, trying to dodge her advances, she kept touching his leg and saying stupid shit like “that black eye makes you look tough.” It was a fucking nightmare.In theory, nothing about Tony's parties should surprise him anymore—not after the 'mermaids' he’d paid to frolic in the water at his beach blowout—but, for some reason, Steve was having trouble digesting the black lights, the black-light posters of evil queens abusing flamingos, and the copious amount of smoke. They were in Mr. Stark's basement poker room, a place where men smoked Cuban cigars, fat stacks of cash were pushed across round tables, and you needed a personal invitation to walk through the door. But tonight, everything had been rearranged and the ventilation system designed to suck out the smell of Havana was handling something else entirely. Something that Steve had inhaled one too many times.Even sober, this room would’ve been too much. Too dark. Too bright. Too crowded. Too empty. But he wasn’t sober. And the couches and chairs that had been arranged into a tight circle around a low table were all touching, just like Buffy.Spiraling her finger around his kneecap, she said, “I’ve never smoked out of a hookah before,” to which Steve replied, “You’re not smoking out of a hookah now.”Yes, there were three intricately crafted hookahs in the center of the table—one gold, one silver, one bronze—with curved metal bowls filled with flavored tobacco surrounding them like soldiers. But nobody was using them. Not Ezra, not Scott, not Pepper, not the Queen of Hearts. Nobody was using them because the jester had something better. Getting high had seemed like a good idea at the time, but after hitting Clint's shockingly potent joint, he'd remembered that good weed made him feel like he was having a heart attack...or that maggots were eating the inside of his brain...or that the fingers touching his knee were made of metal.Steve wasn’t even pretending to be nice to Buffy, so why the fuck was she still here? Oh yeah, Steve was 'single' and Clint Barton had good weed. Tracking the orange glow of the joint as it was passed from Buffy to Peter, Peter to Sam, Sam to Ezra, Ezra to Bruce, Bruce to Pepper, Pepper to Clint, and back around to Scott again, Steve bit the inside of his cheek. Sure, they were all smiling and laughing, but the instant camaraderie was bullshit. There was no way that these people—Steve's friends—were completely unfazed by Clint Barton’s presence. Sam, Scott, and Peter, maybe. But Pepper? Bruce? Buffy? No fucking way. Whispering into Scott’s exhale, Steve said, “Everybody loves the guy with good drugs.”“What?” Scott coughed into Steve’s ear. Snatching the joint out of his fingers, Steve stared across the circle at Clint fucking Barton as he hit it for the third time.Steve had questions. Lots and lots of questions. One: How the hell did he get his hair to stand up like that? Two: Did he keep his bow and arrows in the trunk of his car for emergencies? Three: Had he ever shown Bucky how to shoot paper targets on hay bales? Four: Had he ever shot a person? Wow, that got dark fast. Blowing the smoke into the cosmos, Steve tried again.Clint Barton.Wait, where the fuck did he go?Suddenly Clint was leaning over the back of the couch, stealing the joint out of Steve’s hand and poking Buffy’s face with his gravity-defying hair. "I don’t understand why,” he said, putting his lips right up against Steve’s ear, “but Bucky really likes you. Bucky, not Buffy, in case you're confused." Steve couldn't think. There was just Buffy sliding her hand up his thigh, smoke filling his lungs with pink flamingo feathers, and Clint Barton, bypassing Buffy to hand the joint directly to Peter. Shit. Maybe it was the weed, or the beer, or the drink with the tiny straws, but when the jester put his heavy boots on the table next to the silver hookah, Steve felt...intimidated. Clint’s hand looped casually around Bucky’s waist.Jester. Bodyguard. Lover?The joint was making its way back to its owner, and when Clint took it from Pepper and licked his lips, Steve realized that, for the first time in his life, he was really fucking jealous. In Steve's world, jealousy was an emotion reserved for families who went on road trips to the Grand Canyon. He was jealous when Sam's mom packed him a thermos of homemade chicken noodle soup for lunch. He was jealous when Sam’s sisters sent him funny GIFs of cats riding Roombas. He was jealous when Mr. Barnes cheered for Bucky at the swim meet. And he was jealous that Bucky’s macaroni frame held a picture of a loving parent who was still alive. But jealous of another guy? No fucking way. Steve was hot shit. Everybody wanted him. Peggy. Sharon. Fiona from creative writing who'd been slipping him beautifully composed love notes since the first day of school. Bruce's sister Bianca, who, despite being in 7th grade, wouldn't stop sliding into Steve's DMs. A bunch of chicks whose names he couldn't remember right now. And Buffy, who was currently grabbing his penis."Here," Scott said, holding the joint in front of Steve’s nose. "Your turn." And Steve fucking took it, wrapping his lips around the same thing that Clint Barton had been sucking on only minutes before.Shoving Buffy's hand off his cock, Steve stood up and said, “I didn't give you permission to touch me,” before throwing the joint at her stupid Tiffany heart. Suddenly there was yelling from the other room. Yelling that was loud enough to hear over the music.“...the fuck off me, you fucking prick!”Shit! That was Bucky’s voice! Spinning around, Steve climbed over the couch, jumping over Buffy's head before sprinting through the doorway.“Oh, honey, just look at you. I got confused and thought you were a chick. My bad. But, c’mon, who can blame me? You’re wearing makeup, you goddamn twink!”Fuck! That was fucking Brock, and Steve couldn’t see through the fog, or the lights, or the bodies. “I said, don’t fucking touch me!”“You don’t even belong here! Your faggot ass got me suspended, fucked the team by showing up late, and now you have the nerve to show up here? This is my turf. Mine!”Pushing past the last of the limbs, Steve ran into the center of the chaos. Brock and Bucky were chest to chest, and everything was moving too fucking fast. When Brock wrapped his hand around Bucky's wrist, smashing the glowing bracelets into unmarred flesh, Steve could see the tremor in Bucky's hand, the way his neck was twitching when he tried to pull away.Steve froze.Without warning, Clint barged through the other side of the crowd, yelling, "Hey, asshole!" before Brock turned into a beautiful right hook.The music cut out. Someone screamed. And Brock, spitting a glob of blood at Clint’s feet, said, “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me!”“Do I look like I’m fucking kidding?”He didn’t. He looked like he was going to take Brock’s head off. “Fuckin’ figures,” Brock said, daring to take a step toward Bucky. “Pussies like Barnes can’t stand up for themselves. They’ve gotta have freaks like you protecting their holes."There was a collective gasp, but when Bucky stumbled backwards like Brock's words had buckled his knees, nobody reached out to steady him.
Nobody.
“Shut the fuck up!” Steve yelled before he’d even processed the thought. Every head snapped in Steve's direction, every judgmental eye landing squarely on his face, but he didn't fucking care. Let them look! Stepping directly into a red beam of light, Steve said, “I don’t give a shit that you’re drunk. I warned you to stop running your mouth, Brock. I fucking warned you!” In his peripheral vision, Steve saw Sam shaking his head like a pitcher shaking off a fastball, Tony rubbing his hands together like he was watching prime time television, and a woman with long blonde hair, smiling wide in a summertime dress.Brock had the audacity to laugh. “Oh, I see,” he said, licking his tongue across his bloody lips. "The captain's stickin' up for the fruit. Ain't that cute. Maybe if you can get past the guard dog, he'll suck your cock later as a thank you.”Steve took one look at Bucky, his jaw set in a tight line as his hands vibrated at his sides, and made the clearest decision of his entire life. He punched Brock right in the fucking face.The crack of his nose breaking was like music, satisfactory and epic, and the asshole went down like a ton of bricks.There were screams, cheers, and more than a few people saying, "Is he dead?" But the voice that stood out was Clint’s."Fucking hell, Steve!" Clint was staring at him with something like respect, but Steve was too high, too shocked, and too busy watching Frank and Jack charge down the stairs to process much of anything.They looked like gigantic bulls rushing into the arena to gore the matador—not that Steve was a matador or supported bull fighting in any way. It was cruel and mean, and he hated everything about it. Jesus, he was high.Steve widened his stance as Frank and Jack pushed people to the side, flexing his fingers as they got closer and closer."You're about a minute too late," Tony said, throwing up his hands to block their pointy horns. "Sugar Ray Steve already went for the KO, or if you guys play Mortal Kombat, the fatality. Kitana? Scorpion? Jack, let’s get real. You look exactly like Johnny Cage.”Fact: When Steve and Sam went out for coffee and chili cheese fries, Tony needed to tag along because he was doing a damn good job running interference."My favorite is Sub-Zero. He's pretty unstoppable with that ice scepter."Pushing past Tony and his scepter, Frank kicked Brock's leg. He didn't move. “Fuck, maybe he is dead.” Tony kicked Brock’s other leg. “Steve, I told you that you’ve been drinking too much Muscle Milk!”Hauling Brock up by the armpits, Frank said, “You just make a mistake, Rogers. A big fuckin' mistake.""No, I didn't."Steve had spent the past six years getting punched, kicked, and beaten to a bloody pulp, and he’d never fought back. Not once. That was the fucking mistake! But this? This was who Steve was supposed to be. “You’re done hiding?” She was in the crowd, just behind Bucky.Bucky, who loved tossing tater tots into the air and catching them on his tongue.Bucky, who went through an entire pack of Bubble Yum before lunch.The speakers powered up with an audible hum, and Steve opened and closed his fists in time with the beat. The pain in his knuckles felt phenomenal, and watching Frank and Jack hauling Brock's limp body up the stairs, Steve was hit with an undeniable thought: Too bad he's not dead. “Steve! That was crazy!” That was Sam, a friend who deserved so much more than chili cheese fries and shitty coffee. For Christ’s sake, Steve had no idea how Sam's classes were going or who he was planning on asking to the Homecoming dance. Swaying on his feet, Steve felt a flamingo brush past his leg, then another, and another, and another...Woah. Okay, so he wasn't just high. He was really fucking high. “Yes! That finishing move was on point! And justified.” Tony landed in the middle of the herd, wearing a top hat and a monocle. “So it's your lucky day, Mike Tyson. I’m gonna give you a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card and cover the cleaning bill to scrub the blood out of Mommy's Persian rugs.”Bucky, who'd put up with Tony Stark's bullshit.As Steve listened to Tony ramble about Mortal Kombat and Monopoly, he realized something else. Something important. Tony deserved coffee, chili cheese fries, and a broken nose. If Brock deserved it, Tony did too.Bucky, who was still frozen, bodies moving all around him as Clint whispered something into his ear.Bucky, who nodded, hugging Clint tightly before the bodyguard walked away.Tony’s words lost all meaning as the crowd moved on from the temporary distraction, hundreds of limbs moving together and apart at the same time as the song built towards its apex. And there, in the center of it all, was Bucky.Often, when the world runs faster, spinning at an impossible pace, there's one thing that does the opposite: a still form in a sea of movement.When their eyes met, Bucky’s vines twisted into God's great tree right before Steve's eyes, expanding and growing into an Eden that was impossible to resist. There was black eyeliner smudged onto his cheeks like coal, and it looked dangerous, mysterious, and so fucking sexy. Steve wanted to drag his fingers through the thin sheen of sweat covering his muse’s neck and shoulders, following the shimmer of the shifting lights. He wanted to trace the veins on Bucky's arms with his tongue, tasting the spots where the neon bracelets created horizontal stripes on his skin. And he wanted to nibble his way up Bucky's arm until his teeth found the colorful treats around his neck.Bucky was dripping with candy, and Steve wanted to eat it all.The walls began folding inwards, chocolate waterfalls spilling over the tops as the lights became strands of green and blue taffy, their colors pulling and stretching into impossible shapes overhead. Cotton candy clouds were born from the fog, curling around swaying arms and gyrating hips as the music got louder, and louder, and louder. And there, standing in the center of it all like a beacon, was the prettiest treat of all. When Bucky blinked, the subtle curves of his long lashes accentuated the sugarcoated gumdrops beneath his eyes. And when Bucky ran his hand down the center of his stomach, pausing before he curled his lips into a warm smile, every cell in Steve's body just wanted. Turning on his heel, Bucky signaled with a tip of his head that Steve should follow, and Steve’s feet moved without hesitation, his hands pushing people out of the way as he slid between them to give chase. There was no way Steve was making the same mistake twice, even if it cost him everything.Bucky was leading him through a psychedelic tunnel of light, feathers, and hands, and Steve heard himself whisper, “I’ll follow you anywhere,” as Bucky disappeared into a hidden alcove behind the bar. It was dark—but not too dark—and when Bucky turned, leaning back against the maroon wall and nibbling on his bottom lip, Steve had to stop to find his footing. God, there wasn’t a stroke of a pencil or a smudge from a finger that could come close to the beauty of Bucky's mouth in real life."Is this real?" Steve asked, not certain if he'd said the words at all.When Bucky tipped his head back and parted his lips, he was enveloped by layers upon layers of red velvet cake. Creamy frosting, moist cake, the promise of heavenly sweetness as soon as you took that first bite. Steve was powerless to do anything but fall against the opposite wall and drink in Bucky's textures.Time stretched like taffy as Bucky pressed his shoulders back against the wall, and when a bead of candy-colored sweat rolled into the hollow of Bucky’s throat, Steve asked, "How can you be real?" The DJ started mixing the tempo down, slower and slower, until the vibrations from the bass line felt like caramel pouring into the space between them. Without touching, their connection reappeared, bands of taffy stretching and expanding to replace fear with the joy of Lucky Charms. And all Steve was doing was looking.Suddenly the party didn't matter. Steve being stupid didn't matter. In fact, nothing else mattered as the world disappeared around them, leaving only red velvet cake and electricity buzzing across their taffy bridges.Allowing Bucky's gravity to tug him through the caramel, Steve slipped his fingers through Bucky's belt loops, pulling his pants down just enough to expose a tantalizing hint of hair. God, he was beautiful. Lifting the hem of Bucky's tank top, Steve got lost in the color of his skin, the motion of his abs, and the way he was slowly pulsing his hips, pushing the growing erection in his pants towards the matching one in Steve's.Steve couldn't stop himself. He didn't want to.Surging forward and pressing Bucky against the wall, Steve let his mouth hover over the tiny candies around his neck; a sudden movement followed by a pregnant pause. And when Bucky started breathing in quick little pants, Steve waited, listening, feeling, and seeing what Bucky would do next.He didn't have to wait for long.With a delicious moan, Bucky’s hands were suddenly everywhere, magically avoiding the tender spots as they gripped the back of Steve's neck, slid down his sides, and pulled their hips together. The shockwave that rippled through Steve’s stomach made him woozy, and when Bucky ducked down to catch Steve’s lips between his own, Steve gasped. The touch of a muse was a gift. Something to be treasured, cherished, and loved.Opening his mouth, Steve let Bucky explore, smiling when he sucked on the tip of Steve's tongue like a lollipop. And before Steve knew what was happening, Bucky had grabbed one of the candy necklaces, flipping it over his head and transferring it to Steve in one smooth motion, the elastic catching on their tongues for a brief moment before finding its place.Then, and only then, did they start moving as one, a private dance in a crowded room.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Steve was a little bit tipsy and maybe a tiny bit high, but he wasn’t sloppy. He was very much aware that he had Bucky spread out a king-size bed in one of Tony’s infamous fourth-floor guest rooms. Very aware.And Bucky was a little bit tipsy, but he wasn’t sloppy. He was sexy. Leaning his knees against the foot of the bed, Steve adjusted his cock. And when Bucky licked his lips, making them shine with spit before doing that sinful little nibble, Steve adjusted it again.Since Mrs. Stark’s decorating style was Versailles via Versace, Bucky’s sugar-sweet face and scrumptious shoulders were surrounded by an overabundance of red and gold throw pillows. They were as beautiful as they were excessive, especially with Bucky’s hair looping and curling on top of an embroidered pillow with long gold tassels. The rich browns of Bucky’s hair looked darker in the soft yellow glow of the bedside lamp, and the sweaty strands sticking to the hollow of his throat looked like dark chocolate ganache melting from the radiant heat of his skin.Steve swallowed. One, because he had a serious case of the munchies, and two, because he had absolutely no idea what to do next. He knew what he wanted to do, but he didn’t know if that’s what he should do. The last time he’d been in this kind of situation, things had gone sideways in the worst kind of way.Oh, who was he kidding? This situation wasn’t anything like Peggy. For one thing, his erection meant business. He was painfully hard. Ready to go. No limp dicks in sight. And unlike Peggy, Bucky wasn’t wearing red lacy lingerie.His dick jumped in his jeans. Not because he was thinking about pretty Peggy and her perfectly smooth skin. No, sir. He was picturing Bucky in a pair of red lace panties and— Jesus Christ. That was too much to process. Like, way too much! Steve’s sex drive was trying to hop behind the wheel of a Lamborghini before he’d mastered a tricycle, and he didn’t want to wrap Bucky’s lace-covered dick around a tree! He needed to be rational. Responsible. On task. But seriously, were special panties for guys a thing? Was there a company whose entire business plan had been built around the idea of using heavy-duty thread and extra elastic to contain the bulging balls? Cracking up, Steve pictured Bucky’s throbbing boner popping out the side or, even better, straight through the lace. “You okay over there?” Bucky asked, tossing his visor across the room like a frisbee. It landed on a life-size ceramic greyhound.Steve had no idea how to answer because his imagination was fully dedicated to the idea of stripping Bucky’s clothes off piece by piece, revealing spun sugar skin and subtle hints of pubic hair peeking through lace. “Yeah, I’m...um…”Would Bucky even be into that kind of thing? Wearing panties? Jesus fucking Christ, Steve hadn’t even known that he’d be into that kind of thing until two seconds ago.Steve knew that he liked lingerie. That wasn’t anything new. But the night of Junior Prom, when he’d unzipped Peggy’s sparkly dress to reveal a red push-up bra and low-cut panties, he hadn’t felt anything like this. When Steve rubbed the back of his neck, he accidentally whistled, which made him feel like even more of an idiot for not knowing what to say. But Bucky just smiled, pushing his hips toward the ceiling as he ran his hand across his stomach.This time when Steve whistled, it was on purpose.The way Bucky was rocking his knees back and forth was making the mystifying straps attached to his pants sway like a web spun from sugar and black licorice, its delicate architecture magically erected overnight. And, God, Steve wanted nothing more than to be trapped in Bucky’s silken threads, relishing the feeling of the cocoon before eating his way out.Not that he actually wanted to eat Bucky. Unless he did...Jesus, this was different. And not just because of the cannibalistic rimming fantasies and freaky spider analogies. The entire mood was sweet and dangerous, like that crazy batch of Jungle Juice Tony had whipped up at his beach bash. So yummy. So much alcohol. But Jungle Juice and mermaids aside, the way Steve’s dick was throbbing against his hip made it pretty fucking clear that he liked different, and sweet, and dangerous. He liked it a lot.But they were both a little bit tipsy, and Steve was maybe a tiny bit high, and—“Steve, I can see you thinking.” The lilt of Bucky’s voice was so casual, and that sound, that ease, made a giant question mark appear above his crotch. Was this casual? It sure as hell didn’t feel casual.“Steve?”“I don’t know what to do.”“What?” Dropping his knees outward, Bucky pulled his web taut. And the question mark bounced up and down like it was on a taffy trampoline.Steve blinked, trying to focus on Bucky’s mouth instead of the drug-induced hallucinations. Brushing his fingers across his belt buckle, Bucky said, “That was some brutal honesty right there. I mean, I know I’m a guy—which is probably really fuckin’ weird for you right now—but it’s basically the same concept as a girl.”“Um…”It was the only word Steve could think of because Bucky was playing with his zipper, tugging it down a fraction of an inch before pulling it back up. Up and down...up and down...and, Jesus, that little tug was directly responsible for Steve saying something as stupid as, “It's just that...um. That’s the, um..." “Are you okay?” Bucky asked, cocking his head to the side. But Steve’s tongue felt swollen. His mouth felt dry. And nothing came out except another, “Um…”“Hey, it’s cool,” Bucky said, propping himself up on his elbows. “We can go back downstairs if you want.” When he brushed his hair out of his eyes, there were wrinkles on his forehead. Small, worried wrinkles that made the big, black question mark disappear.Yes, Steve was a little bit tipsy and really fucking high, but Bucky’s expression perfectly matched that mystical moment when the fuzzy Muppet had first revealed himself, wrapping Steve up in his cozy brown fur. There was a softness to Bucky’s shoulders that echoed the Wild Thing’s posture when he’d pulled Steve’s edges back together with Neosporin and butterfly bandages, allowing him to start the difficult process of healing.Without warning, Bucky folded inward and wrapped his arms around his knees. “I get it,” he said, shrinking in real time. “It’s been a crazy few days. Let's just go back—”"No way," Steve said, speaking clearly and firmly in an effort to unfold him. “I want to be here." And he did. Why the hell would he want to go back downstairs and deal with the hordes of people and all their shit? Steve wanted to do the opposite of “go back downstairs,” but first, there was something he had to say. "I just...this is really fast, Buck. And we’ve been drinking, and I might be a tiny bit high, and I don’t want to do anything—”“That you’ll regret.” Bucky’s hands covered his face as he fell back into the pile of pillows. "Of course,” he said, flattening his body like a paper doll, “the definition of insanity is doing the same fucking thing and expecting a different result, so don’t worry, Steve. This one's on me."“God, no!” Kneeling on the end of the bed, Steve wrapped his fingers around Bucky’s ankles, just above his boots. “That’s not what I meant. Not at all! I'm saying I don’t want to screw this up.”Suddenly Bucky was rubbing his ears like he was trying to block out the sound. Tugging on his earlobes. Sticking his fingers in the holes. And then, just as quickly as it had begun, Bucky snapped his fingers...one, two, three.“How could you possibly screw this up?” Bucky asked. “I mean, not to blow smoke up your ass, Steve, but you figured out how to suck my dick pretty easily, so—”“I’m a virgin.”Steve cringed, because, yeah. There it was.The silence was deafening, and he just knelt there like an idiot, squeezing Bucky’s ankles to keep himself from crawling under the fucking bed with the licorice spiders and dust bunnies. It was stupid. He was stupid. A stupid, eighteen-year-old loser with a malfunctioning cock who’d never been so embarrassed.When Bucky started to sit up, Steve ran his hands over his checkered shoelaces, allowing the strings, and the well-worn leather they were cinching together, to slip through his fingertips. Going, going, gone.“Hey, it’s okay,” Bucky said, catching Steve’s hands before he could pull away completely. And with those three little words, the unbearable silence gave way to something personal...something real. The air in the room lifted, the molecules pressing tightly against the ceiling as the space grew quiet and calm, Steve embracing the stillness of their space helmet as Bucky said, “So am I.”Wait. What? Steve was suddenly a lot more sober and a lot less high. “Are you serious? Because you seem like—” God, how the fuck was he supposed to say this without sounding like a total tool? “It’s just that you seem like you really know what you're doing.”Untangling his fingers, Bucky slapped the mattress hard enough to make himself bounce. “Oh, that’s rich,” he said, laughing as he slapped it again. “Thanks?”Yeah. So Steve was going to go right ahead and make a nice little house next to the spiders and never come out again.“I really, really, really think you should sit down.” Bucky patted the comforter like Steve was a toddler. “And not just because you’re freaking out.”“What?”Bucky scrunched up his nose. “I have a confession to make, and believe me, it’s a doozy. Sitting’s probably the way to go, especially since you’re already listing to the left.”It was true. Steve was extremely off-balance.The second Steve’s butt hit the mattress, Bucky poked his hip with the toes of his electric-blue boots. It was awkward, but it was a hell of a lot better than Steve kneeling at Bucky’s feet like an idiot. “So about that whole ‘seeming like I know what I’m doing’ thing, I, um...” Bucky jammed his toes under Steve’s butt. With force. “I don't really know how to say this, so I'm just gonna go ahead and spit it out. Clint and I..."Bucky looked at the ceiling. He was probably waiting for Steve to freak even more, but Steve just nodded, acknowledging something he already knew. "Yeah, so anyways, me and Clint, we kinda used to practice on each other. You know, as friends. Totally platonic. Just two bros being bros, sucking each other’s dicks for the hell of it. But that’s it. We never fucked or anything.” The way Bucky was blushing made Steve wonder why he’d put on such a convincing sexual facade in the first place. The seductive looks. The confidence. The way he moved his body and used his mouth.God, his mouth.Okay, this was too fast. Like, way too fast. Steve had only tasted the outer shell of Bucky’s horny green M&M, and Clint had only tasted Bucky’s outer shell, and nobody had tasted his gooey chocolate center. Not a guy with a silver nose ring and a Camaro from Bucky’s not-so-distant past, not a slightly older college student with a penchant for punk, and not...Clint. "Bucky, that's...wow. That's not quite what I was expecting." “You thought I was a slut.” “No, I didn’t! I just thought—”“It’s okay.” Bucky shrugged. “I thought you were a slut too."Steve snorted. Then he burped, which wasn’t romantic in the slightest. Was this too fast? Absolutely. Was the Clint thing...a thing? Oh yeah. And was Steve an idiot for making assumptions about the penetration of Bucky’s milk chocolate center? Yep, yep he was. But even high as a kite—and drunk—Steve knew his feelings for this funny, beautiful boy weren't fleeting. This wasn’t a whim or an experiment.Fiddling with the loops of Bucky’s laces, he said, "I want you to know how much the last week has meant to me.”An uncomfortable shadow crossed Bucky’s face. “Steve.”Rolling past the protest, Steve slid his hands up Bucky’s leg to grip the back of his knees. “You’ve taught me so much about myself in just a few short days. And I know it’s crazy, and weird, and way too fast, but it's true.” Steve squeezed a little harder. “I’m not sure what it is about you that makes every part of me scream, ‘I want to know you,’ but it’s something special. And that’s why I don’t want this to be slutty. I just—” He looked Bucky in the eye. “I don’t want to touch you with that type of intent.”It happened so fast that Steve didn’t understand what was happening until Bucky had already scrambled backwards, taking his boots and laces with him. “I’m sorry,” he said, getting further and further away. “I’m so fucking sorry.”“Don’t be.” Grabbing hold of the lowest silken thread, Steve desperately tried to moor him.“No, you’re right. I am a slut. And I’m sure you’re thinking that I’ll just fuck the first guy who wants me. But history is repeating itself, Steve. Nobody fucking wants me. Not even when I bend over and beg for it!” The strap was ripped from Steve’s grasp as Bucky dug his heels into the comforter, and every single pillow was thrown onto the floor, red and gold flying in all directions. But that wasn’t the worst part. Without warning, Bucky bashed the back of his skull against the headboard, slamming his doors shut when Steve had only wanted to open them.“Jesus. Bucky, stop.” Steve scrambled after him, touching his cheeks, his forehead, his neck...trying his damndest to fix the pain he’d caused. When Bucky stilled, Steve criss-crossed his legs, pressing his shins against Bucky’s blue boots and willing them back to their beginning. A ladder. A rooftop. A promise. Four stories up, the two of them sitting exactly like this on the cold, blood-splattered concrete. A déjà vu in reverse.With a big swoosh of air, Poe’s ravens landed on opposite ends of the headboard and dug their talons into the wood. But they weren’t here for Steve, and they weren’t here to cause harm. Steve didn’t know how he could tell, but the look in their beady little eyes told him they were here to help. “Look at me, Buck.” Tears were threatening to spill over blackened rims, the liquid barely holding on with the physics of surface tension. Tipping up Bucky’s dimpled chin, Steve whispered, “Look at me.”The light reflecting off the tears made Bucky look otherworldly, his eyes seeming that much bigger, his lips seeming that much softer, and every feature looking that much more. Steve knew damn well that he was way too tipsy and way too high for this kind of speech, but he had to say it. There was no other way. Staring directly into those alien eyes, he said, “I want you to know that I’m starting to see you, just like I know you can see me. And I'm not talking about the stuff on the outside. I'm talking about the things we hide underneath.” They inhaled simultaneously, like their lungs understood the importance of the moment. “I don’t know what it is about you that makes me want to show you everything, to tell you the secrets nobody else knows, but it’s a real thing, and I don’t want it to stop.” Steve leaned forward just enough to kiss Bucky’s forehead. One kiss. Soft. Sweet. Honest. “But I want you to do the same with me.” Keeping an eye on the talons, Steve dragged his thumbs across the remains of the neon-green dots. “Dig deep and show me the dirt and chocolate because the most beautiful things in the world have been gifted with imperfections: the unique, the rare, the flawed. And I don’t want you to think that I’m using you, or you’re an experiment, or this is just lust. Because it’s not, Bucky. It’s not. But if that's not how you feel—” Steve took a deep breath. “If that’s not how you feel, we have to stop.” When the tears spilled over, Steve caught them with his thumbs. That was his role. If he opened the floodgates, he had to be there to catch every last drop.It took a minute—maybe two—but Bucky finally whispered, “I feel it too.” And God, Steve felt a surge of something powerful—something more—as he pressed Bucky’s true face between his palms. “This isn’t just sex?”The last of the shell melted away as Bucky leaned forward into the pressure. “No. I promise. But can you—" His voice wavered. "Can you just hold me?”The answer was easy. Instinctive. Opening his arms, Steve said, “Of course, baby.” And just like that, the ravens were gone.Three black feathers floated in the yellow light as Bucky leapt on top of him, trying—and failing—to wrap his legs around Steve’s waist.“Fuck!” Bucky yelled directly into Steve’s ear. “The straps!” The web had blocked Bucky’s forward motion, and now they were tangled like total dumbasses. “Hold still,” Steve said, laughing as he tried to grab Bucky’s waist, but there were straps, and Bucky was really wiggly, and— Shit! They were falling off the bed!Steve hit first, and despite the plush carpet, it wasn’t a soft landing. The only good thing was that he somehow managed to curve around Bucky’s body, steering his head to land on his chest instead of hitting the side table.“Oh God,” Steve said, unraveling his body before sitting up to unravel the web. “I’m so sorry!” “Why? You knocked me down, just to pick me back up again.” Bucky cracked up. “Like Chumbawamba with a twist.” Now it was Steve’s turn to laugh. “I have absolutely no idea what that means, so I’m just going to go ahead and get rid of these.” A shot of adrenaline rushed through Steve’s heart as he unclipped the first strap from the silver loops, just behind Bucky’s knee. Then, with an easy flick of his thumb, he released another, and another, reducing the barrier until there was nothing stopping him from lifting Bucky off of the floor.“Jesus, Stevie. Do you train with Hulk Hogan and the Hulk? Like...Kablam! Biceps!”Looking down at his bulging arms, Steve seriously wondered if Clint’s weed had given him superhuman strength because deadlifting a fully grown man wasn’t exactly an everyday thing. When Steve dropped him on the bed, Bucky’s alien eyes were gigantic. Like the oceans of Neptune, if Neptune were made of oceans instead of gas.“Dude, you’re, like, Terminator strong!”“And you’re beautiful.”Bucky blinked, and his Neptune eyes looked nothing short of mystified. Which, yeah, maybe that hadn’t been one of Steve’s smoothest transitions. But shoddy transition or not, it was true. Bucky was beautiful. And he was sexy, and sweet, and funny, and his eyes really did look like Neptune. If there were more than one. Neptune and Neptune, next to each other in the gumdrop filled galaxy. Jesus, he was high.“Can we make out now?” Bucky stuck out his tongue and wiggled it around, and Steve… Well, Steve climbed onto the bed and straddled Bucky’s thighs. “Play a game with me?” he asked, scooching just high enough that the bulges in their pants were almost touching. “Stealing my tricks already, huh?” “Yes, and if you want me to suck on that tongue of yours, you’ll say yes.” Without the web keeping them apart, Steve had to be absolutely sure. When Bucky laughed, his entire body moved, and Steve moved with him. Which, in case you’d forgotten, meant that Bucky was taking him for a ride.“Sure,” Bucky said, distracting Steve from another thought that was way too much, way too soon. “Let’s play a game.” “Tell me something about yourself.” Steve caught the bottom of Bucky’s tank top with his thumbs, pushing it up just enough to grip the meat of his lower back. And God, the strength of him. How could someone feel so solid and soft at the same time? Folding over to kiss the spot just below Bucky’s sternum, Steve said, “Tell me something real.”It was so easy to rock his hips forward and kiss the makeup smeared across Bucky’s cheeks, so easy to get lost in the memory of finger painting in the corner of a tiny kitchen as he swirled the pigments around with his tongue just for the joy of the action. “Tell me something true.”Two blue boots found their way around Steve’s waist, locking in place before Bucky said something Steve couldn’t quite believe.“I’ve had a crush on you for over three years, and I fucking hated you for it. I hated you for standing by and letting your friends treat me like trash. I hated you for walking around with your nose up in the air like some kind of untouchable god. But most of all, I hated you because I still liked you. Fuck, and I hated myself for not being able to stop.”Burying his face in Bucky’s hair, Steve cringed. Then, moving his hands higher to feel the motion of Bucky’s breath, he took a moment to let that soak in. Three years. Steve kissed Bucky’s temple, catching a few hairs underneath his lips when he said, “Tell me something else, sweetheart.”There was a pause in the rhythm, Bucky’s breath catching somewhere between his chest and his throat.“I remember my real parents,” he began, relaxing a little as Steve’s hands ghosted over his shoulder blades. “I wasn’t a baby like Natalia when I was abandoned at the orphanage. I was four years old. I can remember my mother’s wavy brown hair, and sometimes, if I’ve eaten way, way, way too many carbs before bed, I can hear her singing Russian lullabies in my dreams. And my father? I’m pretty sure he had this dimple too.” Bucky flicked the divot in his chin like it was a scar. “But that's it. There's nothing else. And it drives me fucking crazy because I remember loving them, Steve. I loved them, and they still didn’t want me.”Easing the shirt up and over Bucky’s head, Steve used it to wipe away the smudges and tears, revealing the essence of Bucky Barnes with every swipe. And what he discovered was that the pieces that build a person are as diverse as the results. Love and loss, lullabies and longing, the terror of finding yourself lost tempered by the joy of being found.With his chest exposed, the candy necklaces and neon bracelets were more obvious—more invasive—hiding the pieces of Bucky that Steve wanted to see. To put it simply, they needed to go.“Tell me something else,” Steve said, kissing Bucky’s knuckles before pulling off the first bracelet. It was pink, and the glow lit up Bucky’s fingers as Steve slipped it over his knuckles and tossed it aside. Neon pink was followed by two orange, another pink, then green, orange, and two yellow. Tossing each one onto the bed around them, Steve rubbed his hand up and down Bucky’s empty arm, following the raised trails created by his veins. “Tell me everything.”There was no pause, no hesitation, before Bucky said, “I’ve spent the last six months—god, maybe more—being scared out of my fucking mind that I’d never find anyone who understands me like Clint does. Someone who’s actually gay.”There was so much fear in that revelation. So much pain. It wasn’t a question when Steve said, “You love him.”“Yeah.” Bucky closed his eyes. “I love him, and he loves me, but it’s not like that. And it’s okay. It really is.” The quiver in Bucky’s bottom lip was heartbreaking. Worse in many ways than blackened ribs or shredded skin. And that’s why Steve removed the last of the bracelets, kissing Bucky’s wrists with nothing but love and understanding.“I know you’re gonna think I’m fucking stupid for saying this,” Bucky said, his voice cracking the tiniest bit, “but, I swear, Steve, you make me think I was wrong about never finding somebody.”“I know for a fact that you were wrong.” Hooking his fingers under the elastic strings around Bucky’s neck, Steve watched the colorful candies slide back and forth as he added pressure. “And I don’t think you’re stupid. I think you’re real...and beautiful...and perfect. And believe me when I say that I want nothing more than to be the person who shows you just how wrong you are.”Capturing one of the necklaces with his teeth, Steve rocked his hips forward for the first time. And when the sugary beads started melting in his mouth, he chomped down, biting off a mouthful of candies before allowing the elastic string to snap back against Bucky’s throat. And with just that one little snap, Steve felt Bucky get hard. It was unbelievable. The fact that Steve could do that to Bucky’s body made him feel powerful and so, so certain.Steve opened his mouth, biting down on all three strings before thrusting forward and pulling back at the same time. And when the strings snapped—one, two, three—leaving pieces of candy on his tongue, Steve smiled. Even with the sugary beads falling off his neck to join the bracelets, Bucky was still candy. He would always be candy. Suddenly the neon bracelets and candies lifted off the comforter, circling them like glowing jellyfish caught in a hypnotic current, and Steve had never felt more alive. He couldn't wait anymore. Sliding his fingers into the Wild Thing’s hair, Steve kissed him deeply, transferring tiny pieces of candy onto Bucky’s tongue. And God, the waves of energy transferring back and forth between their bodies was insane, unstoppable, frenzied. Bucky was trying to catch his heels on the bed to gain more leverage, sliding his tongue even further into Steve’s mouth as he lifted his hips and opened his legs. And Steve was fucking throbbing. His heart. His mind. His cock.“Bucky,” Steve said, embracing him completely. “Are you sure?”The scrambling stopped, and the prettiest M&M melted into Steve’s arms, moaning before he answered, “Yes, I’m sure.”Suddenly things became very real. The grinding. The rubbing. The thrusting. Steve swallowed, then swallowed again, trying to slow himself down. This needed to be slow, easy...right.Breathing heavily against Bucky’s neck, he suspended all forward thrusts, making sure his cock wasn’t doing the talking when he said, “I want to do this right.”“Is there a wrong way?” When Steve lifted his head, Bucky was smiling. And, Jesus, the way he was nibbling his bottom lip with those crooked teeth was so damn charming. In fact, everything about Bucky was charming...and strong. It was something Steve had missed in the beginning, but he saw it now: the underlying strength. If he needed to, Steve would punch a dozen Brock Rumlows in the face and break a dozen noses, but it wouldn’t be because Bucky was weak. He’d do it because it was what Bucky deserved.“I want to appreciate you. Cherish you. Adore you.” Steve slipped the tip of his index finger between those crooked teeth before he asked, “Do you trust me?” Bucky moaned before swirling his tongue around the tip, biting down ever so slightly before giving Steve a wonderful, “Yes.”“Yes?”“Yes, I trust you.”No doubt, Steve was still a little bit tipsy and more than a little bit high, and he could tell by Bucky’s lazy eyes that he was still a little bit tipsy too, but there'd been no distortion in that declaration of trust. None. Quite frankly, it took Steve’s breath away.“I’d like to undress you, Buck. Slowly.”“How slowly?”In one smooth motion, Steve slid backwards, dragging his nose through Bucky’s chest hair and pausing just above his belly button. “Very slowly.”“Oh god.”It was the perfect response. Purposely avoiding the bulge in Bucky’s pants, Steve crawled backward until he was able to untie the laces he’d been dying to untie all night.The artist in Steve was delighted by the boots’ worn-in leather, the chipped red paint of the anarchy sign, and the black-and-white checkered laces. He loved the idea that Bucky had stood in front of a wall of shoelaces at a shoe store, deciding against black, white, and even solid grey. He could just imagine Bucky pointing at the loudest, craziest pair and yelling, “Those are the ones for me!” in the general direction of the salesperson.Gently setting the boots to the side, Steve understood that they were a treasure to be treated with respect. Art in their own right.When he carefully took off Bucky’s socks and applied pressure to the soles of each foot with his thumbs, the Wild Thing’s eyes grew impossibly wide. “Do you like my feet?” He wiggled them around. “I mean, I’ve been dancing all night and these boots are old as fuck, so I know they’re not exactly April fresh.”Leaning over to kiss the tip of each stinky toe, the words, “I love them,” slipped out of his mouth, surprising Steve even more than they surprised Bucky. But before he could die from embarrassment—or get cozy with the dust bunnies—he noticed something beautiful about the ten toes in front of his face. Instead of being arranged from tallest to shortest, Bucky’s second toes were longer than the rest. It was fitting anatomy for a muse. Smiling, Steve kissed the protruding digits like he was kissing Michelangelo’s David. “Did you know that in ancient Greece, feet like yours were the idealized standard used by the masters? There’s even a name for it. You have Greek toes, and—”“Do you have, like, a foot fetish or something?” Bucky’s eyebrows said that he was either intrigued or mortified. Steve honestly couldn’t tell. But still, there was a question on the table. Greek toes or not, Bucky’s feet did smell—like sweat, dirty jockstraps, and...steak?—but Steve still wanted to kiss them, so... “Maybe?”Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Okay, fine. I think I do. But I’ll suck your toes some other time. Probably after I give you a bath.”Bucky raised his eyebrows even higher. Since the sudden influx of weird fetishes was a lot to handle, Steve went for the deflection. “Um, yeah. So I’m just going to take off my shirt and distract you from my inner freak with my six-pack.” Bucky cracked up—which was so much better than the raised eyebrows—and Steve laughed too, ignoring the pain in his ribs as he carefully pulled his polo shirt over his head. Really, how could he not? Discovering an obsession with stinky feet while trying to lose your virginity was fucking hilarious.Tossing the shirt somewhere, Steve tugged on the bottom of Bucky’s ridiculously wide pants. They didn’t move. One, because they were still buttoned and zipped, and two, because Bucky was wearing a belt. A belt with a square silver buckle that had absolutely nothing to do with Tiffany hearts or vaginas.“Are you saying there’s more to you than your stinky feet? ” Steve asked, crawling back on top of Bucky and planting his ass firmly on his thighs. He had no idea what he was doing or what he was saying, but that didn’t stop him from giving the buckle a little tug. “Is there more I should be exploring? More that I should touch? Something else you’d like me to lick?” Suddenly Steve felt drunk in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with his questionable blood alcohol level. The sound of Bucky’s moans as the black leather slipped out of the buckle was delicious...scrumptious...intoxicating. “Would you like me to take off your belt?” Steve asked, curling his bicep enough to lift Bucky’s hips off the bed with the leather alone.“God, yes.”Bucky was panting, pulling in short little breaths as Steve added more pressure, and, good God, he was fucking beautiful. Purely driven by instinct, Steve ripped the belt out of the loops with one hard tug, tossing it toward the headboard before surging forward to kiss him, to suck on his tongue, to taste his fucking soul.Normally, Steve would’ve called himself out for that whole ‘soul tasting’ thing, but he was too busy dry humping a masterpiece to give himself shit. Plus, Bucky’s hands were all over Steve’s neck, grasping and pulling, until, in the space of a single breath, they weren’t. Sometimes, your body just does stuff, and this was one of those times. Steve had no idea why he’d grabbed Bucky’s wrists and pushed his arms above his head, but since he’d very clearly heard Bucky’s breath catch in his throat, he didn’t let go. In fact, he never wanted to let go.Placing a soft kiss on Bucky’s lips, he said, “I’d like you to keep these here,” before giving his wrists a tiny push. “Can you do that for me, baby?”Bucky nodded, a delicious moan reverberating through his entire body, and that wonderful sound—that passion—gave Steve the confidence to release his grip. And just as he'd hoped, Bucky's arms didn’t move an inch. “You’re so beautiful, sweetheart.” Steve shuddered as he ran his fingers through Bucky’s curly chest hairs. “Every piece of you. Every part of you.” Tracing the spaces between each rib, Steve could imagine the angle of the chisel as it had brought the dips and curves to life, feeling the words soft, masterful, and safe settling into the center of his heart. There were no more strings, no more questions, and no more rules when Steve bent over to kiss him. There was only the overwhelming feeling of his bare, bruised chest colliding with Bucky’s Renaissance muscles. Two words would set Bucky free. Two syllables. And Steve wanted it so fucking bad. Waiting two more seconds—two more breaths—Steve made them live with the anticipation before finally setting them free. “Touch me.” Just like that, there were hands everywhere, and Steve felt a jolt of electricity when Bucky’s fingers skipped across his ass.More. Steve wanted more. Rolling to the side, Steve tucked his fingers under the waistband of Bucky’s pants, looking into his alien eyes one more time to confirm that this wasn’t too much, that this wasn't too soon. He needed that reassurance for the both of them. “Please. I want to.” Bucky lifted his hips, pushing the button of his pants into Steve’s hand. “I want you to.”And so he did. Undressing his muse, Steve stripped him of everything except the rings on his fingers, waiting a beat before undoing his own belt and sliding it out of the loops. That’s when it dawned on him that what they were about to do was on a completely different level. Their first night together, Bucky had covered Steve with tiny bats and band-aids before touching him in a traumatic haze of pain and relief. And Steve had returned the favor with gratitude and blind desire. But they hadn't been completely naked together, physically or emotionally, and they definitely hadn't known they'd end up here.They hadn’t known.All of a sudden, Steve was so fucking grateful that he hadn’t had (or couldn't have) sex with Peggy or Sharon. That wasn’t what sex was supposed to be. For him or for them. This was what sex was supposed to be.As his eyes roamed up and down Bucky’s naked form, a flurry of images flashed through his mind. Steve was Max, surrounded by floating embers as the fuzziest Wild Thing danced and skipped around a midnight bonfire. Steve was a connoisseur of candy, swimming in a river of caramel as he licked the sugary coating off glowing green gumdrops. He was an astronaut, surrounded by marshmallow stars, multiple Neptunes, and endless rainbows as he drifted through outer space. And last but not least, he was The King of the Jocks, lovingly placing a jeweled crown onto the head of the Misfit King. Looking at Bucky, Steve saw it all, and every piece was stunning.When Steve stepped out of his jeans, there was a quiet moment where they were both completely themselves. No costumes. No facades. No symbols or barriers. Just two brains, admiring the perfection of the skin that covered the other. Two brains, wanting to express that attraction through physicality. It was odd, the nature of touch. But when Steve pressed their bodies together for the first time, every nerve—from the top of his head to the tips of his toes—fired at once, and Steve knew, without a doubt, that he was falling in love.“Front pocket of my pants,” Bucky said as he brushed Steve’s cock with his fingers. That was a confusing sentence, but he was far too distracted by the things Bucky was doing with his fingers to argue. Rolling away, Steve reached over the side of the bed to grab Bucky’s pants, but the second his eyes landed on the discarded straps, he started wondering how the licorice webs would look wrapped around Bucky’s wrists.Woah.Shaking his head, Steve tried to focus on the pants because...wow. Surprising fetish number three was a little too surprising.Okay, front pocket. Focus. Digging around in the enormous pants, Steve pulled out...something. Climbing off the bed to get a closer look in the light from the lamp, he squinted his eyes to read the label. Lube. Watermelon-flavored lube. “Holy shit.” “Steve, it’s okay. Come back.” Bucky sounded mildly amused and maybe slightly concerned.“Buck, I—”“Don’t worry, I’ll walk you through it. Porn and I are very good friends. Plus, I’m extremely well versed in sticking my fingers up my own ass.” Laughing, he said, “C’mere, I wanna feel you again.”Squeezing the little packet in his palm, Steve went over every torturous moment of Sex Ed like a checklist, and...shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! “Um...Bucky? Did you bring a condom?”“That's a negative, partner. To be honest, I didn’t even bring the lube. Clint slipped it to me after you demolished Brock’s face. Guess he thought we might need it. Oh, and apparently, that you like watermelon. He’s a good friend like that.” When Bucky laughed, it was so comfortable, so open. “I’m betting that he didn't give me a condom ‘cause he assumed you’d have one. I mean, straight up, Stevie, both of us thought you were a total slut.” He kicked Steve’s thigh with his Greek toes. “You do have one, right?”“I don’t.”He was an idiot. A totally unprepared, stupid, dumb idiot.Bucky definitely looked amused. “Why not?” “Because I’m not a slut!” When Bucky snorted, Steve didn't know what to do. So he just stood there, totally naked, holding a packet of watermelon-flavored lube.Wiggling his toes closer to Steve’s nuts, Bucky said, “Well, this is going against every safe sex lecture that we’ve ever gotten.” “What do we do?” Steve wanted to cry. Stupid, unprepared, stupid, stupid, stupid.“I’m clean. Clint's the only one I've fooled around with, and, believe it or not, he’s a member of Virgins Anonymous too, so...”“What?” Steve couldn’t believe what he was hearing.“I’m STD free. What about you?” Suddenly Bucky looked very serious.The reality that they were having a high-level, completely unsafe safe sex talk while they were both tipsy and Steve was really fucking high was no joke. But somehow, despite the red lights inside his head flashing, “Keep your dick in your pants!” Steve managed to say, “Um...I am too. Peggy was a virgin when I was dating her, and Sharon—” Steve swallowed because he was not going there. No way. “All of it was just oral, so...”“So?” Bucky raised his eyebrows.“So?” Steve was still standing there with a half-boner, stupidly holding lube. What the hell was he even supposed to do with this?Reaching out his arms, Bucky said, “Sooo...stop looking at that lube like it's gonna kill you and c’mere." Bucky made grabby hands, which Steve loved a little. "Just. Come. Here.”So he did. And wherever “here” was, it was a place he never wanted to leave.Steve memorized every piece of Bucky’s body as he learned how to touch him, how to relax his muscles, and how to make him feel good. And when it was time to push back Bucky’s knees and slide inside him for the first time, Steve couldn’t stop looking at his face, watching how his cock affected Bucky’s breathing, altered his expression, and, fuck, controlled the bend of his back. It felt like he was flying.After going as deep as he could go, Steve paused to really look at what was happening. And, um...wow. He couldn't believe he was living in a world where part of his body was inside Bucky’s and Bucky wanted it to be there. Folding over him, Steve kissed the tiny tears trickling down the sides of his face. “Baby, are you okay? Am I hurting you?”Bucky shook his head, a tiny moan escaping his lips as he grabbed Steve’s ass and squeezed, holding them together. “No, I’m good. It’s good. I just feel...a little overwhelmed.”Yeah, he could say that again.Suddenly Bucky rolled his hips, moving their connection, and...oh God. Steve was going to come in two seconds flat! "Bucky, holy shit, this feels...you feel...oh fuck.”He couldn’t think, so he stopped trying, getting lost in the motion, the breathy moans, the sound of skin on skin, and the all-encompassing feeling of Bucky. It didn't take long to find their rhythm, Steve tipping Bucky's hips just so and watching in awe as he made Bucky come. And seeing Bucky’s head curve back, the sweat beading in the center of his throat, was all it took for the orgasm to rock through Steve’s body, taking him to a place he’d never known existed. There were no words.Buried inside him in every way a person could be, Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky’s shoulders and simply breathed. Without the power of words, he tried to express how he was feeling with the tightness of his arms, the gentle pressure of his hips, and the intimacy found in silence.“Steve?” “Yes, baby?”Bucky blew out a soft breath. “I like it when you call me that.”“Well, I like it when you call me Stevie.”“We just had sex.”Planting one more kiss on Bucky's throat, Steve gasped before popping his head up. “We did?”“Oh my god, I’m serious. This is a big deal.”The endorphins flowing through his body were undoubtedly the reason Steve said, “No kidding, because I just realized that my cock is stuck in your ass and I have no idea how it got there!”Bucky cracked up, which had the unfortunate effect of shoving Steve’s cock out of his ass. "Oh Jesus, that’s um...okay, shit...hold on.” Steve ran to the bathroom as fast as he could because sex was a whole lot messier than he'd expected.Laughing, Bucky said, “Fuck. Stark's gonna fucking kill us! There’s so much...stuff.”In his desperate search for a washcloth, Steve knocked over a stack of monogrammed towels, a box of kleenex, and tripped on the rug. Then, after knocking over a bottle of soap as he waited for the water to warm up, he listened to the barrage of swear words pouring out of Bucky’s mouth.“...holy fuck, Steve! It feels like you shot ten gallons of jizz up my ass, and now— God, is this right? Jesus fucking fuck, it’s pouring out all over Stark’s fucking comforter!” Fact: Steve swore a lot, but Bucky swore a lot. Warm washcloth in hand, Steve ran back to the bed to wipe Bucky down and try to salvage the comforter. Tony would have a field day if they left a huge stain. No joke, the teasing would go on for years. Literally decades upon decades of jizz commentary.“Steve?” “Yeah?”Bucky smiled, big and bright, before he said, “You really take care of me.”“Huh?” Glancing at the washcloth, Steve realized pretty quickly that wiping come off of Bucky’s balls could be perceived as weird. Seriously, what the hell was he doing? His brain had said, “You made a mess on Bucky, and it’s your job to clean him up,” and he’d gotten right down to business. “Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry. That’s—”“I think I like it.” Bucky looked as shocked as Steve felt.“Really?”“I mean, yeah, it’s totally weird. You’re literally wiping a waterfall of come out of my asshole with Stark’s washcloth. But I’m just gonna roll with it and say, mm-hmm, I weirdly like it. Let’s not overanalyze.”A big smile found its way onto Steve’s face because the level of trust was amazing. Bucky, naked in every way, was allowing Steve to take care of him. And Steve, still a little bit tipsy and really fucking high, saw his future, and it was Bucky Barnes.“Bucky, will you go to Homecoming with me?”That certainly got his attention. “Like, as your date?” He sat up just enough to make his soft dick flop into Steve’s hand. “Aren’t you on Homecoming Court?”“Um, yes?"“Yes, you’re on Homecoming Court?” Bucky’s eyebrows were getting squintier and squintier as he looked back and forth between Steve’s face and Steve’s hand."Yes, as my date.”“Wow. I mean, I’d totally accept your invitation , but I’m not sure if you're asking me or my dick.”Steve dropped the penis.Laughing, Bucky said, “You know you’re gonna be the fuckin’ king, right? Roses. Crowns. Confetti. Sashes. The whole teen-movie tradition.” That was probably true.“The Homecoming King wants to take little ol’ me to the Homecoming Dance.” Tipping his head to the side, Bucky clicked his tongue. Contemplation. Click. Contemplation. Click. Finally, Bucky bounced his way to the end of the bed, swinging his legs over the edge and resting Steve’s penis on his hand before he said, “Well, this should be a real shit storm.”“Is that a yes?” Steve gave Bucky’s hand one good thrust.“I think you’re batshit crazy, but yes, it’s a yes.” The toothy sunshine grin returned as Bucky slid his hands around Steve’s butt and squeezed. And Steve felt wonderful and warm. So very warm.“Buck?”“Yeah?”“Will you be my boyfriend?” Steve held his breath, feeling Bucky’s lips ghosting across his hip and wondering if he could be lucky enough to call such a priceless treasure his own.But there was zero hesitation, Steve’s worry snuffed before it had even begun, because Bucky said, “Absolutely,” before giving his butt another squeeze.
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“I swear this climb will be worth it!” Tony grabbed the railing so he didn't fall backward and kick the proverbial bucket. A dead party host wasn’t a good party host. Just ask Bernie.He was pretty sure the blurry person crawling up the stairs in front of him was Sam. It was supposed to be Sam, but plastic Yeezy shades weren't good for accurate identification, especially when tequila was involved. Making a real effort to locate the next step without dying, Tony focused on the mission ahead."I'm tellin' you, Sammy Boy, Captain Milk and his favorite Fruit Loop are gettin’ it on like Donkey Kong in one of the sex rooms. I saw both of ‘em do a shit job sneaking up here with my own two superspy eyes. Fruity Pebbles first, then, because he's shit at keeping things on the DL, Steve-o ran up here, like, 60 seconds later. Even in these glasses, I saw it happen. How does Kanye see Kim's big booty through these things? I can't even tell I'm on the stairs!" Failing at his tenth attempt to connect his foot to a step, Tony gave up, tossed the shades over the railing, and shouted, “Fuck you, Kanye!”Four stories was a long way for Kanye to fall, but when someone screamed, “Ouch! What the hell?” Tony knew Yeezy and his ugly shoes had landed safe and sound."Whoopsie," he said to a pair of Jimmy Choos. Size 7. Strappy. Black with a bow on the heel. Tony laughed because he’d seen them from this view once before. “Hey, Isadore,” he said, making a grab for that gauzy bow. “Remember that time I chewed through your stockings to suck on your ankles?”Sadly, Isadore was long gone, and Tony was left staring at an empty bottle of beer.Connecting his hands to the winding steps, Tony pulled his uncooperative body toward the fourth-floor landing. Gorillas had the right idea. Bipedal locomotion was an ineffective mode of transportation for Homo sapiens who'd consumed more than their fair share of Gran Patrón. Going full silverback, Tony conquered the top step, which, yay! But then, in an ill-advised attempt to return to his regularly scheduled human form, he stumbled into Sammy Boy before crashing headfirst into the elevator door. And the elevator, having an excellent sense of humor, dinged right on cue."Why, oh why, Sir Elevator," Tony said, giving the copper etchings on the door a good slap. "Why hast thou forsaken me and maketh me taketh the stairs?""Dude!” Sam-I-Am was getting an assist from the railing, meaning his tequila-drenched body couldn’t stand up for shit. “You said the elevator was broken!""Did not! Why would I say it’s broken when I forgot it even existed?"The door suddenly slid open to reveal...dun dun dun...a bunch of people Tony didn't give a shit about and...dun dun dun...Ezra making out with Buffy in the back corner. Tony cringed. Ezra must be capital T trashed if he was driving his penis down that particular road.Not that Tony was one to judge."Hey, Sammy, remember that chick I screwed while she was wearing a mermaid tail?" Tony snorted. "She smelled like fish!"Sam didn't laugh. In fact, after a quick assessment, Tony deduced that Sammy Davis Jr. was gearing up to regurgitate some tequila and jazz into one of Mommy’s priceless Roman vases. He was as green as green could be, except being Black, he was more olive?"Don't you dare desecrate that vase, Sam-I-Am. The list of things Daddy Warbucks is gonna freak about when he returns from Gotham City can't get any longer. Did you see the blood trail winding its way through Mommy’s snow-white sitting room like a red rat snake? It’s not cute. Your best friend turned Brock's schnoz into a bloody fontaine that desecrated her Persian rug in the porte d’entree!""I thought Steve was your best friend," Sammy said, spitting a glob of pre puke into the vase. "At least that's what you keep tellin' me.""Not when he goes all Sub-Zero! The puddle next to my Key Master is huge!” Tony tried to make a circle with his arms, but only managed to make a straight line. “I bet Jack and Frank dumped Brock on the rug and screamed, ‘Find our fuckin’ keys before this dickwad bleeds out!’ at my Master of Keys! Speaking of which, I've gotta find my checkbook and give that card a bonus."Abandoning the relative safety of Roman antiquities, Mace Windu stumbled backward towards the stairs, which was the polar opposite of party-time fun. Although, looking on the bright side, if Tony added “accidentally killed Sam Wilson” to the bottom of his grocery list of sins, Daddy would probably let the pint of AB negative soaking into Mommy's rug slide.“Tony, this is a baaad idea.”Oh. Sam didn’t die. Yay!“We shouldn't be spying," Sam Jackson said, outing himself as the party’s goodie two-shoes just as Lola Price strutted by with her long brown ponytail and long sexy legs. "Not! It’s against bro code.”Lola kept walking because, being in possession of a hoo-hoo, she knew nada about bro code. Plus, she was too busy slipping into room #3 with Sean Skinner and his stupid business casual attire to care. Man, Bucky's crowd was DTF!“Shut up, Sam, and be the Sherlock to my Holmes, or the Holmes to my Sherlock, or the Jude to my RDJ, or the Uma to my Ralph Fiennes, or whatever. I didn't have Mistress Kitty Cat pour us that double shot of Patrón so you could be a useless, whiny detective spy. I had her bust out the good stuff so I could be the handsome Brit in the trench coat and you could be Uma Thurman in the skintight catsuit, which, by the way, was the only redeemable part of that movie.""Kill Bill?""No! The Avengers! Horrible movie. Hot Uma." Pushing off the wall, Tony started off on his very important MI6 mission. “Let's go, Uma. Watch my back.”“Why do I have to be Uma?” Uma asked, weaving from one wall to the other like that scene in Altered States where the dude was like, “This LSD is freaking me out, man!” Now that was a great movie! Psychedelic. Sci-Fi. William Hurt. Tony would bet three grand that it was in Fucky Barnes' Top 100. He looked like the kind of freaky freak who'd be down for a sensory deprivation tank or two. Mental note: build tank, buy stock in salt, take acid. Tony, as a tribute, started slamming back and forth too.“You're Uma ‘cause I didn't think I could pull off the sexy catsuit.”“Ha! You've got a duck butt!”“Fuck you, Uma. My duck butt is adorable!” Plastering his ear against door #1 (the white room), Tony listened for signs of man-on-man fornication. Caveman grunts. Balls slapping balls. Squelching assholes."Quack!"Tony spun around, discovering with his superspy eyes that Jules Winnifield was quacking at everyone in his general vicinity. Ezra making bad decisions? He got a quack. Columbia assistant #1 making bad decisions? She got a quack too. Columbia assistant #3 making really bad decisions with Columbia assistant #2. Or was it Columbia assistant #4? Tony couldn't keep track. They were like minions, if minions got wasted and sucked dick.Shouting, “At least I get to be a badass with this sword!” Uma lunged at minion #1 in some horrible approximation of swordplay. “And I look damn fine in yellow!”"That's Kill Bill!" Tony checked door #2 (the emerald room), which was a stellar choice for pornification. But all he heard was giggling chicks—peck, peck, pecker—so he moved on.When Mace Windu decapitated another minion with his lightsaber, Tony decided that Sam-I-Am could be yellow Uma if he wanted. Just like Steve-o could be balls deep in Fucky Barnes if he wanted. You only live once!Speaking of which, on with the mission!“C’mon, Sammy Boy, help me eavesdrop. Our best friend—yes, I'm in a polyamorous mood—has that authentic-looking raver with the Charles Manson hair in one of these rooms, and I want proof!”“Tony, this idea is the baddest.”Uma was failing at the mission! Uma was a horrible superspy partner! Tony wanted Dana Scully instead. She was always on point. Redefining mission parameters, he yelled, “Scully!” surprisingly right into Scully’s face. "Woah! When did you get so close? Do you need another shot, or can you handle this very important X-File at your current level of inebriation?”“I can handle the mission, Uma,” Sammy said, stumbling into Aubree Lennaway's bad decision, which, ew! Unibrow!“Nobody's Uma anymore! Keep up, Scully.” It was time for door #3 (the cobalt room), also a lovely choice for eggplant/peach penetration. But just as he was about to take a listen, Tony stopped, remembering that lovely Lola and her horse whip were in the cobalt room playing with Skinner's calculator.Math and fucking! Such a good combination!“One door, two door, red door, blue door. Why do I have so many doors?” Tony knocked on the wall, knocked on the painting of Grandpa Stark, knocked on his chest like King Kong, and knocked on Scully’s big booty. “Sam-I-Am! Are you even listening to me?”Surpassing slurring and graduating to super slurring, Dr. Sammy Seuss asked, “Whats are yous even talkin’ about, man?”Woo! What a successful party!“Red door, four door.” Tony smashed his ear against the final option (the red room) and, holy moly, yes, yes, yes! Bingo! "Sam!” he shouted very, very quietly. “Behind door #4, I hear—”When Sammy added his ear to the invasion of privacy, his mouth made a big O as Tony and Sam, RDJ and Jude, Ralph and Uma, and Mulder and Scully locked superspy, alien-hunting eyes.Uma was first out of the gate with the commentary. “Oh, man, that's—”“Steve just called him 'baby’! I heard it!” Tony shook his tail feathers to celebrate his successful mission! “Steve said, ‘Oh, baby.’ That's a direct quote.”“There's so much moaning, and pounding, and—"“Squelching!”"Dude, this is something we should not be hearing.”Now, church boy Samuel Thomas Wilson talked a good game, but Mr. Morality’s ear stayed firmly attached to The Green Door. It was common knowledge that underneath that squeaky clean Baptist baptism, Sammy Boy was a dirty birdie, just like Tony.Suddenly Tony heard something that made his jaw drop and his mouth open sooo wide. Tasmanian devil wide. Eyes Wide Shut wide. Wait. Tommy Cruise’s porny Kubrick film was about wide eyes, not wide mouths. Pee-wee Herman! Tequila!Tony’s eyes and mouth were stretched to capacity because, swear to the nonexistent god in Heaven, he'd just heard Steve say, “God, Bucky, you feel so damn good.”Sam’s eyes said he'd heard that shit too.“Oh fuck, Steve, I’m gonna come. You’re gonna make me come.”That naughty little gem had been heard loud and clear (no eavesdropping required) because Bucky Fucky’s voice had echoed down the hallway, past the elevator, and down all three flights of stairs, most likely resurrecting Kanye with the power of gay pornification.Tony listened as Bucky came with a shout, yelling Steve’s name like he really meant it. And he kept on listening when Steve told him he was “so, so beautiful,” which, three cheers for romance. And Tony listened some more as Steve shot the motherload into his Fruit Loop with a long, deep, and surprisingly alluring moan.Looking Uma right in the eye, Tony made sure he had his partner’s full attention before glancing down at his wiener. “Sam…”The sex den may have gone silent, but their ears were still plastered to the door (dirty birdies in sex shock), which was why it took Sammy Boy a minute to say, “Yeah?”“Dude, I’m super turned on right now.” He shook his chin towards his love hammer.“What the fuck?” Leaping four feet into the air (instantaneous dick fear), LeBron landed on the other side of the hall.“I have no clue," Tony said as his traitorous wiener leapt six and a half inches into the air. "It just beamed itself up!"Tony snorted. Mashing Star Trek humor, X-Files humor, Uma humor, and dick humor was hi-larious. Plus, it was true! He had no idea what his average-size penis was up to down there! It had a mind of its own, and, apparently, it was DTGF. Get it? Down to gay fuck.Sadly, Sam didn't appreciate phallic comedy. Dick fear had made him jump, and now, dick panic was making him flee the scene. Making a beeline toward the stairs, he screamed, “Get that thing away from me!” as he approached terminal velocity.“Sam, wait!" Dick panic, tequila, and a grand staircase weren't a winning combination in any situation. "Stop! You're gonna die."Tony tried to run, but since his willy was trapped in the no man's land between his thigh and his undies, it ended up as an awkward skip, hop, stumble over passed-out Columbia assistant #2, hop, hop, skip thing. "Sam, stop!"Scully was approaching the staircase at the speed of sound, and despite the fact that all the blood from Tony’s brain had been sucked into his pulsating peen, he was still able to calculate the exact point at which Scully would have to slam on the brakes to stop his forward momentum. And it wasn't lookin' good, folks. Actually, death was imminent.Rocketing towards the edge with one final declaration, Sammy said, “Tony, keep that erection away from me!”Not the best choice of final words.Shockingly—and with obvious alien assistance—Scully defied Tony's calculations and careened down the stairs. Tony took it as a challenge, running after him as fast as his pinched boner would allow.Laughing as he hobbled past the oodles and noodles of wasted teenagers, Tony said, "I can’t wait to tell Steve about this.""What?"Tony slid to a stop, and when he did, he found himself on the third-floor landing between his dead grandfather’s stately grandfather clock and the very much alive—and stately—TJ Campbell. Mr. Campbell had a drinkypoo in his handy and a sourpuss look on his political pout. This was an opportunity.Standing up on his tipsy tippytoes to grab TJ's skinny shoulders, Tony set the stage. "I said, when you hear ‘Fortunate Son’ on the classic rock station and John Fogerty yells, ‘I ain’t no Senator’s son,’ do you think, ‘Yes, I am, John Fogerty! Yes, I am,’ then ponder your silver spoon?”TJ just stared at him, his hazel eyes lookin' extra hazel, if you caught Tony's drift.“Creedence Clearwater Revival? How do you not know this?”TJ didn’t answer, and Tony was bored.Which led him to the next mission!Zeroing in on TJ's half-full drinkypoo, Tony said, "Mine!” and snatched it out of the Fortunate Son's hand, sucking it down as fast as he could as he fled the scene of the crime.
***** Oh. My. Fucking. God. I. Am. In. So. Much. Fucking. Trouble!The second Bucky woke up, those supersize letters of doom started flashing through his brain like he was having a fucking seizure. Oh, and they were flashing to the beat of his pounding headache. Cotton mouth. Nauseous. Spinny. Fucked.Yeah, that was the word. Bucky was well and truly fucked because Steve Rogers was drooling two inches from his face for the third morning in a row.Fuck!His dad was gonna kill him. Dead. Done. Finito. Fin. Bucky should just steal a shovel out of Stark’s 12-car garage, dig a grave in Prospect Park, and jump in headfirst to save his dad the fucking effort. Rolling onto his back, Bucky groaned. How the fuck was gonna spin this?Wait a minute.Bucky turned his head to look at the hottie drooling on the expensive gold pillowcase. The hottie who’d totally fucked him last night!Lifting the sheet, Bucky confirmed that, yes, he was buck ass naked, and, hell yes, Steve was buck ass naked too!Holy fuck! He'd lost his virginity to Steve Rogers!Let's hear that one more time.Bucky wasn’t a virgin anymore!Reaching down to check things out, he quickly discovered that his ass agreed. It didn’t hurt exactly, but it definitely felt a little funny. Sore. Wet. Chafed? Bucky laughed (quietly) because he imagined that was how every asshole felt after getting pounded by a giant cock.But this was great. Greater than great! It was fucking superb!Steve's messy S.E.X. hair. The smudge of green makeup just above the scab on his forehead. The empty packet of lube on the pillow next to his nose. The disgusting ass juice washcloth soaking the comforter next to his hip. All of it was fucking awesome! Plus, there were a million-zillion plastic bracelets stuck to Steve’s body like neon rave leeches (which was either super-duper cool or really fuckin’ scary).“Jesus!”There was an orange one on Bucky’s shoulder...Slurp!...and it was holding on with its little plastic suckers. Trying not to cringe (but cringing anyway), Bucky managed to peel it off without drawing blood. But instead of flinging it into the corner with the alien squid monsters and Annabelle, Bucky held it up and studied its anatomy like a scientist. And guess what? Despite having creepy-ass suckers and invisible eyes, it was actually pretty cute. Kinda like itsy-bitsy Claudia in Interview with the Vampire, except it had bloodsucking sucker things instead of bloodsucking fangs. Setting it down next to the lube (in case it wanted watermelon for breakfast), Bucky named it Serafima just because he liked the name. For some reason, it reminded him of his mother.When Yakov stuck his head underneath the sheet to hide from the big gray wolf, Bucky plucked two leeches off Steve’s arm before going for a pink one on his stomach, right above his cock.The cock that Bucky had totally gotten fucked with!Holy fuzz nuts, Batman! He had to let that one sink in for a second. Okay, more than a second. Like, maybe an hour, or a week, or a year, or a lifetime.First of all, Steve’s cock wasn’t anything like a small cucumber from the vegetable drawer. And secondly, looking at Steve's cock chillin’ nicely against his thigh (Yes, he was overusing the word cock. Fucking deal with it.), Bucky realized that the word fucked wasn't quite right. Fucking. Got fucked. He fucked me. Damn, that was a hot fuck.None of them were right.Lots of things about last night were fuzzy as fuck around the edges, but the tender way Steve had taken off the bracelets as he’d listened to Bucky's deepest, darkest secrets wasn't one of them. Yakov hadn’t talked about that hazy memory of his parents since the day he'd walked out of the orphanage with a brand-new dad and a brand-new sister. In fact, thinking back on it now, he couldn't remember saying it out loud to anyone but Natalia.But he’d told Steve.He’d also never told anyone about Clint. Not even Clint (at least not with something normal like words).Tossing logic and sanity out the fucking window, Bucky dropped the sheet over his head and mushed his nose against Steve’s hip. He knew he needed to stop his brain from hijacking itself, but right now, buried deep in the snow, Bucky was just a passenger with a bunch of leeches looped over his thumb.Rule #1 in the official Bros Being Bros, Touching Each Other's Dicks Handbook: No kissing after they'd come, or, more specifically, Bucky wasn't supposed to kiss Clint after he'd made Clint come.It was a pretty basic rule, but Bucky'd still managed to fuck it up royally. The correct order of things:
Eat lots of delicious, gooey pizza from Anthony’s before playing video games or jamming on their guitars.
Clint would eventually say, “I’m horny, are you?”
They'd kiss for a few minutes before Bucky'd blow him. Then Clint would jerk Bucky off.
Eat more delicious, gooey pizza from Anthony’s and watch a movie.
But that final time, Bucky'd decided it had been a fan-fucking-tastic idea to throw in a few extra steps:
They'd eaten lots of delicious, gooey pizza from Anthony’s before playing video games and jamming on their guitars (good so far).
Clint had said, “I’m horny, are you?” which, yes, Bucky had been incredibly horny (still on track).
They'd kissed for a few minutes (with tongue).
Bucky'd ruined everything.
They'd been making out on the couch to get things rolling, but instead of sticking to the basic moves, Bucky'd lost his fucking mind. First, he’d sucked on Clint’s neck, going extra slow as he’d run his tongue underneath the silver chain Bucky had given him once upon a time. Then, he’d nibbled on Clint’s earlobes, biting his gauges as he’d crawled onto Clint’s lap. But he hadn't stopped there. Oh no. After he’d been done, Bucky’d needed a shirt that said, “Why break one rule when you can break them all?”Sighing, he stuck Serafima to his forehead. Six months later, Bucky still couldn't explain why he'd chosen that particular night to power up The Sex Stare to 100%, unbutton Clint's rockabilly shirt with his teeth, and lick tiny circles around his nipple rings. He also couldn’t explain why Bucky’d nibbled his way down the center of his best friend’s stomach, unbuttoning Clint’s jeans and moaning as he’d kissed the head of his dick.Snuggling closer to Steve, Bucky tried not to think about it.It didn't work.Towards the end of the best blowjob in the history of the Dick Sucking Club, things had gotten extra crazy. Like...Pow! Shazam! Holy Fuck!...because Clint had tangled his fingers in Bucky’s hair (also against the rules) and come so hard down his throat that Bucky'd literally seen stars.That’s when everything had changed.Slowly untangling his fingers, Clint had sunk further into the couch while Bucky had stayed on his knees. There’d been no smile. No high five for a job well done. No “your turn.” Rules had been broken, and Clint, with his hair hanging over one eye and his cock still in Bucky’s hand, had just sat there, staring at Bucky through lowered lashes.And Bucky, being a total fucking idiot, had massively misinterpreted that look, climbing Clint like a fucking tree and leaning in to kiss him.
“Bucky, stop.”
Even with his nose squished between Steve's butt and the sheet, he could hear Clint's voice loud and clear. And why wouldn’t he? He’d replayed that life-shattering tsunami in his head a bazillion times. Bros being bros. Swallowing every drop. Straddling his best friend like a pornstar. Getting his heart broken.Bucky sighed (a challenge in his airless igloo), wiping the tears out of his eyes. Then he smelled Steve’s skin, inhaling, and inhaling, and inhaling.It had taken weeks for things to get back to ‘normal’ (if normal meant Clint’s sudden heteronormative crush on Natasha). The day they’d resurrected Pizza Saturday, Bucky had tucked his tail (cough, dick) between his legs and walked very, very, very slowly to Anthony’s, ordering pizza and pop with zero pizazz. And once Bucky’d been buzzed into Clint’s apartment, Clint had put on a wide variety of movies featuring bros acting like bros without sucking each other’s dicks: Lethal Weapon, Bad Boys, motherfucking Step Brothers. The whole thing had been real fuckin’ subtle.Eventually, after watching the 397th version of Wayne’s World, Clint had revived ‘sexually neutral’ nicknames (cupcake among them), they’d gone back to wrestling like the fucking Hardy Brothers to settle stupid arguments about meaningless shit, and Bucky’d been allowed to sleep over without being stuck on the naughty couch with Lucky.Needless to say, Clint had never said, “I’m horny, are you?” ever again.Bottom line: Clint Barton was, and would always be, the first person Bucky loved, and the rejection still hurt like a bitch.It was a secret he’d never told anyone.But he'd told Steve.Crawling out of the igloo, Bucky sucked in a massive amount of air before he folded the sheet back to Stevie's waist, and there, stuck to the nasty bruise on his ribs, was a giant purple leech.Gross! Why the fuck would a leech wanna suck on dead blood? It was fuckin’ dead!Whatever. It didn’t matter. He needed a delicious Frappuccino (Vanilla Bean), a hot shower (possibly an S.E.X. shower), a deep tissue massage (seriously, his legs hurt worse than yesterday), and to say, “Morning, boo,” to the handsome motherfucker who'd done something other than fuck him last night.Attempting to pry a green leech off Stevie's arm without waking him up, Bucky made a real effort to figure this shit out. If Steve Rogers hadn’t fucked him, then what the fuck would you call it? There'd definitely been a cock in Bucky's ass (that was for damn sure), but it hadn't felt like a deep dicking. Not that Steve's dick hadn't gone deep.The green leach had left an indentation in Stevie's skin, and Bucky wanted to kiss it. Right in the middle. Smooches for days.Suddenly Steve mumbled something that sounded like, "Maga don chilly nogaga," which probably wasn't the correct translation.For some stupid-ass reason, Bucky poked the leech on the bruise, and...Boom!...he was right back in that awful moment when Steve had called him a whore. The gut-wrenching embarrassment. The shame. The humiliation. For real, how the fuck had a healthy, horny, 18-year-old guy recognized that sex vs intimacy bullshit, let alone given a shit? And how the fuck had someone like Steve Rogers looked at the mess beneath Bucky's endless layers of bullshit and still wanted him?
“Bucky, stop."
He blinked.Then he blinked again.Steve was sound asleep, snoring a little, and adding to the puddle of drool with every breath. Steve, who was naked. Steve, who was going to wake up and throw a stop sign at Bucky’s head.Blowing a silent raspberry (which was tricky as fuck), Bucky yanked the purple leech off the bruise. It smelled like evil, so he chucked it into the corner with the rest of them: Negan, the Joker, the Emperor, Annabelle, Red Skull, Voldemort.You know what was funny? Clint giving Bucky lube. True story: After Bucky’d frozen in the face of homophobic danger and his bestie and Stevie had taken turns pummeling Brock’s face, Clint had wandered over, gotten real close to Bucky’s ear, and whispered, “Do you wanna get outta here?”For the record, Clint hadn’t meant “Do you wanna get out of here and really change the rules?” He’d meant “let’s get the fuck out of this stupid mansion and go back to our semi-normal lives in Brooklyn.”Either way, looking at Stevie in the middle of EDM Armageddon, Bucky hadn't wanted to go anywhere. Well, maybe he'd wanted to go to a tropical island with a sandy beach, but he hadn't wanted to go anywhere without Stevie. That hottie would look fuckin’ awesome holding an icy piña colada while he rocked a cock-hugging banana hammock.Anyways, Bucky'd been totally flabbergasted by his bestie’s next move. After Eliza Zan had re-dropped the motherfucking bass, Clint had slipped something into the front pocket of Bucky's jeans (no, not his hand) and said, “Okay, then this is for later, cupcake. Make sure he treats you right.”That lil’ packet of watermelon-flavored lube would forever be known as the cornerstone of the newly built Bros Being Bros, Helping Each Other Get Laid Club. To be honest, Bucky still wasn't sure what to make of it. For one thing, when the fuck had Clint start carrying an invisible fanny pack full of lube? It was like Wonder Woman’s jet, except instead of battling Ares, it lubed up the runway for butt sex.Questionable origins aside, Bucky’s asshole had been hella grateful because Steve’s cock wasn't anything like a medium-size cucumber either.Carefully setting a green bracelet on Steve's right pec, Bucky chuckled when it hovered on his chest hairs like a baby UFO. Every time Steve took a breath, it wobbled, and that cute little alien dance made Bucky want to add more. One at the bottom of Steve's throat. A matching set on his shoulders (pink and pink). Three yellows down the center of his abs."You did treat me right," Bucky said, neatly folding the sheet just below Steve’s nuts.He was hard (morning wood putting him at a solid half mast) and Bucky couldn't help but think back to the moment when the tip had made first contact.One teeny-tiny push, and reality had hit Bucky right in the rectum. He’d been lying flat on his back for the captain of the swim team, letting him push Bucky’s legs against his chest to penetrate his body.It was a real mind fuck. A wonderful mind fuck, but a mind fuck all the same. Leaning closer to the penis in question, Bucky studied the veins, the width, the length, and the curly pubes that had felt so good on his butt. It was fucking crazy that this thing had been all the way inside Bucky's ass. And, yeah, it had hurt like a motherfucker (because Steve’s cock was exactly like an extra-large cucumber from the vegetable drawer), but it hadn’t hurt for long.Steve had gone slow. He’d been sweet. He’d lubed up his cock like a perfect, watermelon-scented gentleman. And as soon as he’d rocked his hips forward and said, “God, you feel so good, baby,” Bucky and his asshole had relaxed.Then it had felt unbelievable.And not just that. After Bucky’s cherry had been thoroughly popped and they’d both come really, really, really hard, Steve had looked at Bucky with something like love.Love.Not S.E.X.Okay, that was it. Bucky couldn't wait one more second! Dropping a pink bracelet onto the most romantic cock in the world, he yelled, “Steve, wake up!”Steve's eyes popped open, and Bucky watched the Oh. My. Fucking. God. We. Are. In. So. Much. Trouble! thought process making its way through his brain. And all Bucky could do was twiddle his thumbs and wait for it to pass. He could be patient. Super patient. Super-duper-duper-duper patient!Bouncing a little on the mattress, he said, “Hi,” then bounced some more."Hi?" There were a zillion-bazillion questions in Steve’s voice, which probably (definitely) had something to do with the 24 hour party leeches doin' their thang all over his super-hot bod.Going balls-out with his balls out, Bucky said, “We had some awesome sex last night.”“Yeah.” Steve chuckled. “That’s, um...that’s very true.”They were both blushing, smiling, and swimming around in a pool full of romantic Jello (cherry, if you were wondering). The whole scene was really fucking exciting, which was why Bucky asked, “Can we do that all the time?” with more than a little pep in his step. Not that he was walking."On one condition." Steve’s grin got even bigger. "Tell me why there's an orange bracelet stuck to your forehead.""What?" Swatting at his face, Bucky sent Serafima flying...Whee!...and she landed right next to Stevie's pretty pink cock ring. "Oh, don't mind her," he said, adding Serafima to the Cock Ring Club. "I got bored waitin’ for a certain stud to stop drooling all over his pillow and wake the fuck up."Laughing, Steve asked, “What drool?” as he ‘covertly’ wiped his chin. “And to answer your question: Yes, Buck, I’d love to have sex with you all the time. In fact, we can do it right now if you’d—"“My butt hurts.”Bloop! That just plopped out.“Oh shit.” Steve made a totally useless attempt to smooth down Bucky’s hair. “I didn’t even think about that. Fuck, baby. Are you okay?”It was a little known secret (not) that Bucky woke up every morning looking like the victim of an aggressive bird (most likely an eagle) trying to build a nest in his hair. But Steve kept trying.Perseverance. That was Steve’s middle name. Steven Grant Perseverance Rogers“How can I make it better?” Steve asked, lookin’ all concerned as he got his fingers got stuck in the nest.Bucky snorted. “My butt? Um, lemme see. Maybe you could tuck it into bed, make it a cup of tea with lemon and honey, and give it a hearty dose of Robitussin. Chris Rock taught me that ‘Tussin’ will fix anything. My line is ‘Daddy, I’ve got a sore ass,’ then you say ‘boy, let me pour some Tussin on that. Let it really get up in there.’”Abandoning his career as a nest tamer, Stevie Grant Perseveres-For-Two-Minutes Rogers said, “I’m so lost.”“I’m just saying that my asshole needs a little recovery time before you rock my world again.” Bucky gave him a lil’ wink. “Like, 24 hours, max.”“I rocked your world?”“Yes. You rocked it hard enough to cause chafing.”Bucky smiled. Stevie smiled. And there were lots of shy little glances (and not-so-shy kisses) before Mr. Wonderful touched Bucky’s cheeks and asked, “Hey, have you been crying?”"Nope." Settling back on his sore butt, he dropped two more cock rings onto Stevie’s pole. Plink! Plink! "Boys don't cry. Robert Smith said so in the 80s."Steve set his jaw. "Cute Cure reference. Now tell me why you were crying.""You're bossy.""You're elusory."There was a naked staredown happening (obscure Cure references vs pompous vocabulary), and it was making Bucky horny."Does that mean adorable in fancy talk?" Bucky asked, climbing on top of the world’s sexiest Thesaurus to straddle his bookmark (it was on the page with the word stiff: rigid, hard, firm)."No, it means that you're shit at giving me a straight answer."It was 50/50 whether Steve was being cheeky or grumpy. But if his headache was even half as bad as Bucky’s, it was entirely possible that he was 50% grumpy and 50% grumpy.They both needed Advil, water, and a dry piece of toast. Maybe some crackers.“Okay, fine,” Bucky said, wiggling backwards and adding three more rings to the bookmark. “I was studying your cock and having some deep, introspective thoughts where I kinda realized that you, um...that we maybe…”“Buck?”“I realized that we made love.”Bucky’s heart dropped, landing somewhere near his shriveled ballsack, because that had sounded so fucking lame! This was Clint all over again! Bucky'd done something super sexual, and the guy he was super into was staring at him with a pair of pretty blue eyes, and he'd read it wrong, and—“That’s also very true.” Steve smiled, and it was so open and easy that Bucky’s nuts relaxed immediately.“It is?”Grabbing his wrists and pulling him forward, Steve said, “Mm-hmm," before sliding his tongue into Bucky's mouth.There was some French kissing that would make a Frenchmen hide behind his beret, some dry humping that would impress a humpback whale (aka wet humping), and a gentle back rub that made him feel like Steve's favorite bunny, getting stroked and brushed in the morning sunshine. It was wonderful. And even with the pounding headache, sore legs, and sore butt, Bucky pretty much felt like he was floating around on an enormous cloud of jock-scented happiness.But then he had a thought, and while it was sad, depressing, and shitty, it was also valid as fuck. “So, I totally understand if you wanna take the Homecoming thing back. You aren’t even out yet and—” Bucky tried to chuckle, but it came out as more of a scoff/choke/burp thing (so gross). “I mean, this thing with us has only been going on for a whopping four days, and let’s not even talk about the drama that taking my ass to the dance would cause. And it’s okay—it really is—as long as you don’t take the boyfriend thing back.” Looking right at Naked Steve’s naked pole, Bucky crossed all his fingers and all his toes. “You don’t wanna take the boyfriend thing back, do you?”“I don’t want to take anything back, Bucky.”“But your friends—”“Fuck them.”“But your stepdad.”“Fuck him.”“Steve…”Suddenly two strong hands were doing the bunny stroke thing on Bucky’s morning stubble. “Baby, stop," Steve said without any “Bucky, stop” vibes. "This past week has taught me who I really am, who I want to be, and I’m not hiding that anymore. I can't. And you’re crazy if you think I'm going to hide you. You're the best thing that's happened to me in—” Playing with the dip in Bucky’s chin, Steve gave him a super serious look. “Listen, I think we should just ride things out at school this week. Tell the people who already know to keep things on the down low, let me see where I’m at with Alexander, then just show up together at the dance on Friday.”Bucky slid backwards onto Steve's thighs because that kind of big dick energy deserved proper acknowledgement. “That’s ballsy, Steve.”"Well, my balls are out." Picking up a pink bracelet, Steve waved it around in the air. "And since we're pointing out the obvious, so are yours." Taking aim, he tossed the ring at Bucky's very own half-mast dick.He missed."Jesus, Steve. I'm not a carnival game!" Bucky slid the bracelet over his own twig and berries, scoring himself a gigantic stuffed tiger that barely fit inside his dad’s Toyota. Roar!"Says the guy who put seven bracelets on my cock while I was half asleep! Really, Buck, that could be interpreted as creepy.”Bucky looked down, and, yep, there were seven. El cuatro. Weird. He only remembered winning four goldfish when he'd taken his turn ringing Steve's Coney Island cock.“Well, maybe I am creepy.” Seven mysterious rave leeches stacked on the world’s prettiest cock. “Maybe you’re dating the creepy guy now.”“And we’re buying new suits.”Mystically multiplying cock rings. Mysterious tears. Baffling segues. Bucky needed some water or something because the hangover was eating his brain.Thankfully, when Bucky asked, “We are?” the number held firm. Real talk: If it had jumped to ocho or, god forbid, cinco, he would’ve freaked the fuck out in Españza del fútbol!"Mm-hmm. I have a Black American Express card that’s attached to Alexander’s account, so the sky’s the limit.”Okay. That was just silly. Silly string. String bean. Loop-dee-loop nuts! The idea of Steve Rogers buying Bucky a fucking suit when the extent of Bucky’s gift-giving abilities was a few candy necklaces from the dollar store was insane. Like, literally in-fucking-sane, but, hey, when you’re on a roll. “Okay, rich boy, I guess you can buy me a fancy-ass suit, but only if I get to cover the tab at McDonalds next time you’re craving an Oreo McFlurry.”A little giggle slipped out of Steve’s mouth, then...Pow!...Bucky was flat on his back with Steve straddling him. The flip-flop happened so fast that Bucky wasn’t sure how it had happened at all.Not that he was complaining.Truth bomb: Bucky was strong (he worked out like Fergie Ferg), but Steve was stronger. Like, way stronger, and he had Bucky totally pinned, arms and all.“I love Oreo McFlurries,” Steve said, stroking himself without taking off the bracelets, which was—Holy hell. It was kinky.And when a devious smile spread across Steve’s face, Bucky got very, very, very excited. There were some secrets behind that look. Kinky secrets, heavy on the kink.“Hey, Steve?” he said, relaxing into the softness of the sheets as Steve wrapped his hand around both of them."Yes, sweetheart?"Bucky swallowed. One, because he’d never been anyone’s sweetheart, and two, because what he was about to say was so goddamn true. “I’m really glad my first time was with you.”The smile that spread across Steve’s face was beyond awesome. Like, extra, extra, extra awesome, and it took Bucky a second to understand why.It was a boyfriend smile.Leaning forward, Bucky’s boyfriend kissed him, slow and sweet, before whispering, “I’m glad my first time was with you too.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Bucky surveyed the scene in front of him, adjusting his cape as he walked through the smoke-filled destruction. No joke, the house looked like the charred embers of Metropolis after Superman and General Zod had obliterated the buildings instead of taking the fight out back. Assholes.On the way down the never-ending staircase, he and Steve had passed 32 zillion empty bottles, cups, cans, and test tubes (plus two sleeping Buffys) before landing next to the no-longer-naked lady statue. Somebody had made her a dress out of bologna-sized spirals of spray cheese with globs of guacamole on her nips and vag. It looked better than it sounded. Like if Gordon Ramsay’s parents had forced him to double major in cooking and fashion. You know, condiment chic. “Watch out for the glass,” Steve said, steering Bucky around a rug that looked like somebody had died on it (hopefully Brock). “We should’ve put our shoes on.”“Question: Does Superman wear separate boots or are they connected to his tights?” Bucky gave the sheet he’d tied around his shoulders a lil’ swish, swish.Steve laughed. “Is that who you’re pretending to be? Superman?”“No way. My cape is gold, not red. I’m more like Superman’s black-sheep brother moonlighting as a Vegas stripper.”That got sweet Stevie Rogers to turn around, pausing their trek into enemy territory to say, “Stripper, eh?”“Yeah, a stripper with x-ray vision, so I can see how much money you’ve got in your wallet and how many inches you’re packing in your ‘pocket.’”There was blushing, smiling, and mutual glances at each other’s ‘pockets,’ aka penises, but there wasn’t any truth or justice. Well, maybe justice (based on the rug), but Bucky sure as fuck didn’t say that his cape was supposed to protect him from the Hatter and his clan of haters. Superman’s naughty brother could gather up his G-strings and fly the fuck away from, as Steve had put it, “Tony’s famous post-party pancakes,” if shit went south.Tiptoeing around an abandoned bong, Bucky tried to use his x-ray vision to see into the kitchen, but he was off his fucking game. It was the headache, the dehydration, the sore ass, and the fucking kryptonite. Everything was mixing together to sap his second-rate superpowers, meaning Bucky had no fucking idea what he was walking into.But hunger trumped fear (mmm, pancakes), and discount Superman, no matter how lowbrow, trumped Stark. Which was why Bucky followed Steve through a door he’d never seen before, holding his head high and—“Holy shit.” Forget Metropolis. This was where General Zod had torn shit up!Time for Deep Voice Guy:
After a terrifying night of chaos and destruction—fireballs blasting through the atmosphere, satellites crashing to Earth, and gravity-smashing, alien machines destroying half the city—the survivors have gathered at a long, curving counter in the mammoth kitchen of a narcissistic billionaire. Overcome by a sense of responsibility, Batman, aka Tony Stark, flips pancakes for the victims of Superman’s irresponsible destruction, wearing nothing but a pair of polka-dot boxers and the Hatter’s infamous hat.
“I can’t go in,” Bucky said, screeching to a halt next to an overturned couch. “There are too many of them.”Steve smiled, his cheeks still nice and pink from Morning Kinky Time (handjobs 'cause post-lovemaking dicks aren’t sanitary). “The pancakes are worth it. I promise.”Bypassing the couch, Steve walked towards the imposing row of hungover teenagers, overriding Bucky’s concerns with the power of his low-slung jeans. You see, Steve (being a respectable young man) had put on his jeans like a good boy, but Bucky (who was not a respectable young man) had made sure his boyfriend hadn’t put on anything else. How? Well, that was easy. Bucky’d kicked his boyfriend’s sexy red belt and preppy polo under the bed while Steve had been washing fresh jizz off his hands. And now (as planned) they were riding sinfully low on his hips, exposing the top of his ass in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with being respectful. So. Fucking. Hot.“C’mon, Buck. We can sit by Sam.”Questioning his decision to dress as a superpowered stripper, Bucky closed his eyes. Putting on Steve’s boxer briefs had seemed like a good idea at the time (boyfriend privileges), but showing up to a hangover breakfast with minimal coverage was sketchy at best. He should’ve put on pants. And a shirt. And two pairs of socks. And his boots. And his leather jacket. And a scarf, hat, and earmuffs. And, because he needed maximum protection, wrapped a sleeping bag around his entire body and zipped that shit up. Whatever. The cape was gonna have to do. Following Steve’s ass to the row of stools at the ginormous counter, Steve sat down next to Sam, leaving the first stool open for Bucky. It was pretty easy for Bucky to sit down and drape his cape over the back of the chair...Swoosh!...but then spotted the supersize stove, supersize refrigerator, and the regular-size doorway that he’d looked through last night. The one where Steve had seen him, ignored him, and failed to follow him down the motherfucking stairs. Suddenly Bucky was craving pineapple. And cherries.And...Pop! Focusing on Stevie's happy trail, Bucky asked, "Why’s there a fireplace in the kitchen?" When Bucky’s superhot boyfriend looked back over his shoulder, his eyes zoomed past the upside-down couch, the right-side-up coffee table, and the smoldering satellite shards. "Um, it's a sitting room," he said, shrugging like that explained everything. News flash: It didn't.Loveseat or not, it was a fireplace in a room with a stove. This room was fucking ridiculous. Not only was Bucky’s sore ass parked on the first of ten stools (yes, ten) at a bar/counter that divided the kitchen part of the kitchen from the sitting room part of the kitchen, all but two had been claimed by hungover, rich-as-fuck teenagers with nothing better to do on a Sunday morning.It was nuts that Bucky was even sitting here. Bizzaro world. Crazy town. Crazy train. Ozzy Osbourne. But after he and Stevie had destroyed the bottom sheet with those kinky, kinky hand jobs (Who knew plastic bracelets could withstand so much pressure?), Mr. Romantic had kissed Bucky's forehead, cheeks, and nipples, insisting between each and every smooch that Tony's pancakes were “to die for.” Sure, his dad was gonna kill him, but Bucky wasn't one to turn down free food or a personalized invitation from his brand-new, smokin' hot boyfriend. He was already eight hours past his curfew. Not two. Not tres. Not ocho. So what was an even ten gonna matter? Straight up, if he was gonna be grounded for the rest of his life (which he would be), he may as well walk into prison with a full belly and thoroughly sucked nipples.While Steve and Stark argued about the definition of golden brown, Bucky grabbed his phone out from under his cape and typed 6969 (mature passwords were his forte). As expected, there was an endless string of texts from Natasha, hilariously sent during his devirginization. 1:46 Where are you? It's almost 22:05 Never mind, just ran into Clint2:12 Dad's going to kill you2:24 You’d better be using a condom!2:30 I'm leaving. Skinner’s somewhere upstairs, Daisy's taking an Uber, Clint's with me. Will try to smooth things over with Dad, but no guarantees. Text when you see this.3:15 You’re an idiot It was almost eleven, but Bucky decided not to respond. Why the fuck would he? She obviously had everything under control.Without warning, Stark spun around and slid a plate of pancakes in front of the occupant of the seventh stool, the illustrious Pepper Potts. Her strawberry-blonde hair was twisted into two messy braids and she had a pair of glasses perched on her freckled nose. Bucky'd never seen her in glasses or braids. Come to think of it, he'd never even talked to her. When she smiled at Stark, her super-white teeth were, like...Pow! Blinding! They were super straight too. Braces? Good genes? God, her breakfast looked delicious.Just like Clint's gooey butter melting all over his sister's blueberry pancakes and—No! Screw that! He wasn’t going there. No fucking way!Ducking his head to stare at Steve's belly button, Bucky went back to pondering the overabundance of bar stools. For one thing, did furniture stores keep an infinite number of matching stools in the back room? Were you allowed to buy 27 stools or did you have to round up to an even 30? How many stools could you fit in the back of a trillion dollar Cadillac Escalade? So many questions, so few answers. Bucky poked his boyfriend’s shoulder, loving the feeling of his big-ass muscles. "Why is there a bar in the kitchen?""It's a counter," Steve said with a chuckle, obviously forgetting that Bucky's house had one living room, one kitchen, one bathroom, and one non-working fireplace. You know, like most American families."Does your place have a bar and a fireplace in the kitchen?” Bucky asked, spinning his phone in a circle. “Is that, like, status quota for rich people or whatever?"Sam said, "Stabusss quuuuo," which, after some mental interpretation, Bucky translated as status quo. Rude! Since when was Sam a shining member of the vocabulary police? Quota, quo, quokka...quiche. Bucky snickered as a quirky little quokka eating quiche in Queens popped into his imagination, like...Poof! He'd always wanted to pet a quokka.Anyways, Sam was parked on the other side of Steve and he looked rough. Not only was his forehead resting on the bar, but he'd been emitting a low-frequency moan at a pretty consistent rate. If they were on an episode of Ghost Adventures (best show ever), Zak Bagans (hottest ghost hunter ever) would describe the sound as a “Class A EVP with good tone,” which, in case you didn’t know, meant Zak could 'convincingly' speculate (with helpful subtitles) about what the ghosts were saying. Now, Bucky was no Zak Bagans, but he was pretty sure that Sam had just mumbled something along the lines of “I'm only communicating with Zak Bagans through this cheesy voice recorder thing because he's insanely hot in those nerdy black glasses.” Checking out his boyfriend's profile, Bucky came to the quick conclusion that Steve would look insanely hot in a pair of nerdy black glasses too. Maybe they could role-play? Ghost sex? Bucky almost lost it when he pictured Stevie, surrounded by scientific ghost equipment, blowing his load into Bucky’s transparent ghost ass. Just imagine how that would look on a static night vision camera.Go ahead. Take a second.Need another one?Bucky tried really, really, really hard to put the paranormal porn aside (not really), asking, "Is Sam okay?" in the most corporeal voice possible."Why are you asking so many questions?"Bruce. Ugh.Porsche 911 was taking up space on the stool next to Sam, and the guy didn't look tired, hungover, or vaguely interested in Bucky's answer. In fact, he didn't even bother to look at Bucky before he went back to reading his newspaper. And get this, not only was Bruce Banner reading a newspaper, he was reading the motherfucking business section! Really? Stocks, bonds, and bullshit? There were only two uses for newspapers in the modern era: catching cat piss around the litter box and paper-mache. The whole thing seemed like a trap, so Bucky kept his mouth shut and adjusted his cape.Believe it or not, the most surprising person in the row of teenage hooligans wasn't Bucky's sexy boyfriend, ghostly Sam, or the dicky businessman without a cat. It also wasn't Ezra (who was wearing sunglasses inside the kitchen/sitting room/bar like a total douche) or Pepper Potts, with her perfectly painted toes resting in Peter Parker's lap. Bucky chuckled. If those two ever started dating (in puny Parker's prepubescent wet dreams), they'd be known as PP and PP, or Pee Pee for short. Giving his phone another spin, Bucky landed on the winner of the most-surprising-person-at-the-bar-counter-kitchen award. The one and only Sean Skinner was sitting on the other side of Peter and, no fuckin’ joke, he looked like he'd been mauled by a hammerhead shark. There was a big-ass rip in the collar of his checkered shirt, his Karate Kid headband, aka white tie, was crooked enough to be venturing into pirate territory, and he had not one, not two, but three hella huge hickeys on the side of his neck. "Skinner," Bucky hissed down the row (exactly like Cobra Kai).No response.Bucky squished slightly closer to Steve (top-secret romance was hard) and tried again. "Yo, Skinner!""He can't hear you," Stark said, serving a plate of pancakes to the top of Sam's head. "I saw him with Lola last night. If he's lucky, he'll recover in a few days."Bucky had no idea who Lola was or why she had the DNA of a shark.
Chomp!
"Lucky for your boy, my special pancakes should put him on the road to health and wellness." Sliding a plate in front of Skinner (which was really fucking nice), Stark said, "Eat up, dog boy," which wasn't nice at all. ”You're gonna need to build up your strength if you’re planning on going for another walk."Based on the weird-ass smile Skinner aimed at Stark, Bucky was gonna go ahead and let that one go.Speaking of Stark, it was weird seeing him whipping up pancakes in the kitchen part of the kitchen wearing nothing but red-and-white polka-dot boxers and his Mad Hatter hat. More and more, Bucky was figuring out that he and Stark were on the same page when it came to themes (#ThemeBros), with the theme of this particular walk-of-shame afterparty being underwear. Real talk: Bucky's Sunday morning plans hadn't included checking out Tony Stark's body, but now that Stark was standing three feet in front of him, mixing another batch of batter, Bucky couldn’t help but look. For some reason, Bucky'd always assumed that Stark had been hiding an average ‘dude’ body underneath his fancy-ass suits. Not pudgy. Not scrawny. Not muscular. Just a normal body with a soft belly you could knead with your fingers. Well, Scooby Doo, Bucky couldn't have been more wrong ‘cause...Zoinks!...Stark was the opposite of soft. Seriously, there had to be a hot trainer hidden somewhere in this mansion who was on call 24/7, rain or shine. That was the only plausible explanation for Stark’s super compact Bruce Lee body. No, that wasn't right.Bucky took another look at Stark stirring his big bowl of batter. Squinting. Analyzing. Deciding. Redo: Stark looked like Cole Sprouse if he’d skipped carbs for a week."Oh, hey there," Stark said to somebody over Bucky's shoulder. "Back from South America so soon? Or was it Afghanistan this time?"Without turning around, Bucky knew exactly who it was, and it was someone he didn't need (or want) to see.When TJ Campbell slumped into the second to last stool, Steve took a really, really, really deep breath. And when Steve said, "Holy shit," it wasn't the kind of “holy shit” that meant somebody had crashed the Jock Squad’s fancy-ass pancake party. No, this was the kind of “holy shit” that meant TJ had crashed his silver BMW into the side of the Empire State Building at 125 mph.
Boom!
For as long as Bucky'd known him, TJ had always worn his wavy brown hair slicked back with vanilla-scented pomade. Even back in 10th grade, when Bucky's fingers had touched TJ's head exactly four times (for a grand total of 15.2 seconds), his hair had been carefully styled: neck shaved, crisp sideburns, not a piece out of place.But things change.TJ’s hair looked like he'd spent the night in a wind tunnel filled with mayonnaise. There were loopy curls sticking up in all directions like miniature chocolate donuts, which...Gag!...would be really fucking disgusting with windswept mayonnaise! It was fuckin’ crazy, but Bucky’d never suspected that TJ had been hiding curly donut hair underneath all that product. But, then again, why would he? They’d never spent any time together outside of school. They’d never gone on a date to the roller rink where TJ would’ve gotten sweaty and released the curls from their pomade prison. They’d never seen each other first thing on a Saturday morning.The sound of Skinner stabbing his pancakes with a spoon made black spots flash in front of Bucky’s eyes.“You okay?”Good golly, Miss Molly, Stevie was as sweet as sweet could be. That’s why he poked Bucky’s ankle bone with his toes. That’s why he said, “Food will help the hangover, I promise.” And that’s why he wrapped his ankle all the way around Bucky’s calf like a cobra. #CobraKaiRulz But TJ was wearing jeans with no socks and an oversized sweatshirt with a stretched-out collar. In three years, Bucky’d never seen him in a shirt without buttons.Maybe it was the hangover talking, or the low blood sugar (Pancakes, now!), or the shock of sitting six stools away from a person he’d been actively avoiding for two fucking years, but TJ rubbing his nose like he’d shoved an entire snowman into his sinus cavities was putting a real damper on Bucky's post-fuck afterglow. Sniff. Pinch. Sniff. Brood. Sniff. “Stereotypical much?” Bucky said, biting his lip to stop himself from screaming, “Enjoying that closet, kitty cat? How about your cocaine kitty litter?” “Everything all right over there, Barnes?”Female voice. English to the max. Fuck.He hadn't even seen Peggy walk in.Steve peeked at Bucky out of the corner of his eye like he was suddenly really fucking concerned, which wasn't reassuring in the slightest. And neither was Princess Peggy popping the cork on a bottle of champagne and hitting Ezra square in the chest. That was scary for three reasons:
Ezra barely moved, which meant he was dead underneath those douchey shades.
Bucky was 474% sure she'd done it on purpose.
There was a second bottle of champagne sitting on the counter/bar with Bucky's name written all over it.
Oh, and he'd almost forgotten.
Peggy was Steve's five-star ex-girlfriend.
Her silver robe looked like it had been woven by magical fairies using the fanciest silk to ever emerge from a worm's ass, her cleavage was classy (and looked soft as fuck), and her ponytail didn’t look like it had been styled by an overly aggressive eagle. Who the fuck showed up the morning after Superman’s shitshow with perfect hair, perfect diamond earrings, perfect skin, and perfect red lipstick? She was so fucking pretty, and here Bucky was, shaking his superhero ass for dolla dolla bills and drink tickets in Sin City. ‘Setting’ the bottle in front of Steve...Fizz!...Peggy glared at Bucky like an extra-posh version of Posh Spice. It was intense! The champagne was bubbling over, Steve was wrapping his foot around Bucky’s entire leg like a fucking pretzel, and when Stark snuck a gallon of orange juice underneath her arm, squeezing her hourglass waist (so fucking pretty), she didn't break eye contact. Bucky fluffed up his bird's nest and straightened out his cape. If Peggy Carter wanted to play like a motherfucking Spice Girl, then Bucky’d play like a motherfucking Spice Girl! Leaning his nipples against the bar, he took his sweet-ass time dragging his finger through the bubbles, leaving a long, wet trail before popping it into his mouth. “Everything's peachy, Peggy," he said, matching her Victoria Beckham smile, "but thanks for your concern.”Steve unwrapped his foot.And not just that. He cleared his throat, fake coughed, and twisted the lid off the OJ, all at the same time. It was a shitty diversion, but at least he was trying. "Peg," he said, adding both bottles of champagne to his beverage barrier. “How about you line up the glasses, and I'll pour?”"Pour what?" Yes, Bucky was a total dumbass with no sense of self-preservation. "Mimosas," Peggy said, incorrectly assuming that Bucky knew what the fuck a “mimosa” was.Oh, wait.Posh Peggy chuckled under her breath as she grabbed a bunch of glasses and lined them up in a perfect row, which, wow. Shade for days. The Hatter’s brand of bullshit was relatively easy to deal with because Stark threw shade in the middle of wide-open fields. What you see is what you get; what Stark said is what he meant. But Peggy was a different story. She knew damn well that Bucky didn’t know what a momobo was, and she was using it to her advantage. To quote a badass man who was about to be eaten by a Velociraptor: “Clever girl.”Bucky was impressed.He was also confused. A whole bunch of weird shit was happening behind Peggy’s back that involved Stark winking at Bucky, rolling his eyes, and throwing powdered sugar everywhere. But none of it was as weird as the smile on Peggy’s face when she said, “Of course, darling, I’d love to pour." The way her mouth was curving was less Posh Spice and more “I know you fucked this guy, Steven, and you're telling me that he doesn't even know what a bloody mimosa is!”Side note: The single pancake buried beneath a mound of powdered sugar that Stark had just served TJ proved that Bucky'd been spot on about Tony's style of shade. That shit was about as subtle as Scarface. Okay, so back to the Velociraptor in the bushes. Steve didn't move for a full minute. He didn't pour a damn thing, acknowledge a damn thing, or say a damn thing. Everybody just existed in the uncomfortable ‘silence’ while Bucky cringed at the sound of Sam's crackly EVPs, Porsche 911’s rustling newspaper, and the screeches of forks, knives, and razors scraping against plates."Mimosas are just orange juice and champagne."Bucky blinked, shaking his hair out of his face as Steve filled the final glass up to the halfway point. There were toes around Bucky's ankle again, five of them, and they were connected to Steve. Steve, who smiled before adding, "They're actually delicious.""Hair of the dog!" Stark yelled, pouring more batter into the pan. It sizzled, which reminded him of melting butter, which reminded him of gooey syrup, which made him wonder what the fuck had gone down with Clint and Natasha last night.Ezra scoffed. "Also known as Tony's favorite trick to get rid of a hangover without looking like an alcoholic." Side note #2: Bucky was 99.999% positive that Ezra was a total prick. The only thing the guy had to offer was shitty remarks, shit-stained shitty remarks, and shit-stained shitty remarks delivered in a pool of freshly shat shit."Hey now, Easy E,” Stark said, flipping the pancake without a spatula. “I'm a proud alcoholic! No shame, lots of pain. Speaking of which, top off those cocktails, Steve-o! If you go any slower, I'll think you're trying to kill me with the DTs.""Why would I kill the guy making me pancakes?"Adding champagne to the OJ, Steve smiled like a little shit, which sent a lovely tingle straight to the head of Bucky’s dick. It was a bad boy thing: snarky smiles, shirtless abs, bulging biceps pouring Bubblicious bubbly. It was all part of the mystique. "Hi," Bucky said, batting his lashes and waiting for a cute lil’ “hi” in return. But after a few seconds, Bucky realized he was flirting with Steve's 12-pack. FYI: Abs don't talk. Not that it mattered. Steve was too busy completing his assigned task to pay attention to Bucky’s eyelashes. Pour one. Pour a little more. Top it off and turn it sunshine-yellow (like Sunny D without the astronauts). And when he was done, Peggy started passing the drinks out one at a time because, apparently, meme-osas weren't a “help yourself” kind of thing. It wasn't a shocker when Stark got the first one (along with a big, red kiss on his cheek), but Peggy sliding the second glass in front of TJ sure as fuck was. If mimosaws were passed out according to popularity, why the fuck was TJ Peggy's number two? He lived on the fringe. A loner with a killer jawline. Popular, but not popular (if that made sense). Squinting at TJ’s brooding eyebrows, Bucky made a clear-cut casting decision. If TJ were one of those sparkly Twilight vamps, he'd be Edward. Rich as fuck. Moody as fuck. Broody as fuck. Secretive as fuck. And...Shocker!...a classically trained pianist.Bucky snorted (comedy, not drugs), and everyone (minus Porsche 911) swiveled their head in his direction. Top-secret boyfriend. Top-secret boyfriend's ex-girlfriend. Paranormal co-captain. The douche in the shades. Pee Pee. The shark-attack survivor. The Hatter. And Edward himself. All of them staring deep into Bucky’s mimosaless soul. But the thing that bugged Bucky most was the fact that TJ hadn't taken a sip of his melamoma. For real, he had to be dehydrated. TJ dragged his entire palm across his nose.Oh, that’s right. Hot vampires don’t drink mamositas; they snort coke and date girls named Bella to hide the fact that they’re gay.Bucky choked on his spit.Then he snorted again ‘cause, c’mon, that had been hella funny."Am I missing something?" Steve asked, acting all cute and concerned as Peggy pushed the second-to-last glass into her ex's very capable hands. And that’s when it dawned on Bucky that Peggy had delivered the molokomosos in order (stool nine to stool two) and he'd read way, way, way too much into the orange-juice hierarchy of the Upper East Side.Withholding the final mimosa, Peggy rested her elbow on the bar. "I think he’s fine, Steven," she said, maxing out her bitchy sizzle. "I mean, from my perspective, I’d say that a celebration is in order."Peggy raised her glass, which wasn't a good sign. Repeat: not a good sign. She was gonna out Steve, right here, right now, with a motherfucking mimosa!“To new friends and new adventures,” she said, clinking Steve’s unraised glass. “Here’s hoping that this one doesn’t end with Steven running out the door." Flipping a pancake high enough to hit the exhaust fan, Tony snorted. And it wasn’t just any old snort. No. It was loud, obnoxious, and fucking annoying. Whatever. Stark’s big mouth wasn’t Bucky’s biggest problem right now. After ‘politely’ nodding at her ex, Peggy set her sights on Bucky. "Bottoms up," she said, making sure that every single person in the kitchen/bar/sitting room caught her meaning before taking a dignified sip.Wow.Bitchy and clever.Bucky was kind of obsessed.It took a second for ‘Peg's’ superior shade to click for sweet Stevie Rogers, but once it did, he turned piggy-pink all the way from his happy trail to the tips of his ears. Embarrassment aside, Bucky had to give himself props. He was pretty sure that he’d just survived the rich version of a cat fight. Or was it the English version? Or the royal version? Whatever. Peggy Carter had just tried to pull out Bucky’s weave, and he wasn't even mad about it! Snatching up the final mimozima, Bucky said, “Bottoms up, bitches,” and took a completely undignified sip. When Stark snorted this time, Bucky wasn’t even pissed about it. And...Wowzers!...Stevie was right! Mimosas were fucking delicious!Speaking of Steve. His jaw wasn’t doing that tight, grindy thing. Good. His shoulders were nice and loose. Good. The bruise on his ribs was getting really black in the middle. Not good. General assessment: Steve didn't look mad, but he didn't look happy. Shit.But just as Bucky was about to cry about Peggy fucking up the afterglow with her mean-spirited orange juice, Steve gave Bucky's thigh a little squeeze. And...Boom!...that sneaky lil’ touch was all it took for Bucky to know that he was top bitch. Not that Bucky was a bitch, or Peggy was a bitch, or that being a bitch was bad (#OwnThatShit). But Steve’s fingers tickling his inner thigh meant that Bucky’d defeated Posh Spice, and, right now, that was all that mattered.Well, that and gobbling up the golden-brown pancakes that Stark just served Bucky with what looked to be a genuine smile.***** Go big or go home. That was Tony’s motto in life. For example, way back in 3rd grade, Mrs. Doonberry had told him to assemble a prefabricated remote-control car for the science fair. But that would’ve been stupid, small, and boring. Beneath him, if you will. So he’d rebelled, building a voice-activated robot named Autobot who’d been capable of driving a stick shift. Despite his blatant disregard for Transformer copyright law, Tony’s rebellion against Mrs. Doonberry’s corpus-callosum-stunting instruction had earned him a first-place ribbon over Gina Halford’s moldy bread experiment. Plus, let’s not forget, an invitation to the middle school robotics program. Go big or go home. Or, in that case, go Transformer and skip three grades.Heading out of his bedroom with an armful of goodies, Tony had himself a good chuckle. He may have gotten tall enough to look the robotics team in the eye—mostly—but nothing else had changed in the nine years since prehistoric Mrs. Doonberry and her dinky, tinky Tinkertoys. No matter how many ‘big idea’ people Tony worked with, his ideas were always bigger, brighter, bolder, louder, and just plain better. Take the ‘supervising’ faculty at Colombia. As far as they knew, Tony and his minions had spent the past eight months ‘trying’ to develop a clean energy source that could ‘potentially’ light up a skyscraper. In reality, they’d nailed the skyscraper thing in 10 weeks flat. And now that Tony had added the Queen of England and his silky black locks to the team, they were well on their way to powering an entire city.Go big or go home. Light up Albany or stick with Tinker Toys. Proposition Fucky Bucky or crawl back into a nice, warm vagina.Hopping over a ficus tree that had fallen over in the middle of the hall, Tony adjusted his hat. His idea was as simple as it was bold: drive himself mad with mercury, present Fucky Bucky with an elaborate gift, then recruit Steve’s boo for an adventure to brown town. That was the plan. The aha moment that had absolutely nothing to do with a Norwegian band named a-ha. The reason Tony was on a semi-sober solo trip to the red room.As he’d watched Bucky Fucky down a mimosa, half a gallon of orange juice, and two stacks of Wolfgang Puck-quality pancakes, something big had started to brew in Tony’s unsquashed corpus callosum. To the untrained eye, Bucky’s Harry Stylesesqe hair swinging into his syrup may have seemed like a benign event, but big ideas had to start somewhere, Einstein. There had to be a catalyst! A spark! Some razzle dazzle to get things rolling! And Bucky swirling his grungy boy-band hair around in syrup had been especially inspiring. Harry Styles: fashionably unkempt wavy brown hair.Fucky B: fashionably unkempt wavy brown hair. Harry Styles: sharp jawline, broad shoulders, roguish charm.Fucky B: sharp jawline, broad shoulders, roguish charm. Harry Styles: sings like an angel, sexually ambiguous, hot.Fucky B: sings like an angel, gay, hot. Stepping over a pile of puke—Mojitos and cheese cubes?—Tony said, “Going up,” as he climbed aboard his ride to Pride. The future of Tony’s sexuality was Fucky Bucky, and he was one floor up, getting squeaky clean as he dropped the soap.By Tony’s infallible calculations, Harry Styles and Bucky Barnes were basically the same person, which was excellent news for the Gucci button-up Tony had stashed in his reject closet last winter. Readjusting his pile of goodies, Tony gave the sheer fabric a good, hard look. It was a gem of a shirt. Ugly and beautiful at the same time. The cotton muslin was an earthy green with hand-painted flowers and a bunch of embroidered...twigs? Dead grass? Tony didn’t care. The shirt was luxurious, and lucky for Bucky Styles, Tony had opted for an oversize fit. The elevator dinged, which, yay! He’d arrived at his destination! The reason Tony had dropped a grand on a Gucci, worn it once and then shunned it like a dirty whore was because Harry Styles, pop superstar, had sashayed onto the stage at a One Direction show, wearing the same damn shirt! But he hadn’t worn it over a white t-shirt like Tony. Nope. Mr. Styles had worn nothing but his unfortunate tattoos, rolling up the sleeves and ignoring most of the buttons.Sticking out his foot to hold the elevator door, Tony sighed. Harry’s nipples—plus two—peeking through the sheer fabric had caused an internet sensation. TMZ. GQ. Just Jared. Teen Vogue! And it should go without saying that Tony didn’t share the spotlight. Ever. So he’d banished the tainted Gucci to the reject closet, never to be seen again. Until now. The time had come for Harry Styles’ second chance at life outside the closet. Pun intended.Tony stepped into the hallway, gearing up for the rainbow revolution! And what a revolution it was! There were lesbians rioting in the streets with Billy Eichner! Pansexual Peter Pans flitting around and falling in love with Wendy, Captain Hook, and/or the Lost Boys. Bisexuals chasing after Ke$sha and A$AP Rocky. Asexuals waving flags and drinking RC Cola. Not Coke. Not Pepsi. Just a nice, neutral, non-sexual cola. And, last but not least, Steve-o and Fucky B, wearing sequined short shorts and shouting, “We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it!” from the top of a police van in Greenwich Village. Retracing Mulder, Scully, and Uma’s steps, Tony “ho ho hoed” his way to Steve’s hot ho with his armful of presents. It was time to deck the halls with boughs of homos because times they were a-changin’ and Santa was coming to town with ulterior motives Tony turned left towards door #4, where he had it on good authority that Fucky B was washing off Steve-o’s special sauce. And how, pray you, might he know such a scandalous tidbit? Well, after Bucky Styles had stopped swimming in syrup, he’d politely asked Tony if he could use the “solid gold shower to wash off all the sweat and stuff before Stevie takes me home.” Yes, Stevie. “Kittens in a basket,” Tony said, weaving his way past the cleaning crew. “Whiskers, meows, and milky mouths, oh my.”It wasn’t just a Gucci that Tony had dug up for the ho, ho homo. Oh no, no nomo! After some serious searching, he’d found a pair of silk boxers that might fit over Bucky-Got-Back’s ripe peach and a pair of silk socks that might be big enough for his big-boy feet.Because Bucky was a big boy. Harry Styles: 6’Fucky B: 6’ If Bucky’s shoulders fit into this sheer masterpiece, it was gonna be softcore porn via One Direction, which, come to think of it, wasn't a bad idea. Mental note: Slide into Harry Styles' DMs, offer him a lucrative contract, revolutionize porn for Generation Z. But 1D porn had to wait because dicks don't lie.That was the spark! The razzle dazzle! The life-changing idea!Dicks don’t lie!"Good morning, Mr. Stark." Tony jumped. It wasn’t often that the help made small talk, especially when they were on their knees and Tony was in his boxers with a chubby sausage. Um, okay. Older woman with a bucket and a sponge. Mia? Melania? Mona? Mona Lisa? Tony wracked his brain, snapped his fingers, clicked his tongue, but it just wasn't gonna happen. "Sorry, what's your name again?""Myrna."He tried not to cringe. "What a lovely name," he said, double checking that everything that needed to be contained was contained. The generous bonuses/hush money Tony was handing out for this top-secret scrub-down didn’t cover sexual harassment. Intentional or accidental. "Are you a Shakira fan?" Tony asked, deciding that a little small talk could go a long way in guaranteeing Myrna’s discretion.Her smile lit up the hallway. "Yes! Oh my goodness, Mr. Stark. She's one of my favorites. I've always wanted to see her live, but—""Hips don't lie,” he said, cutting off Myrna’s life story. “And neither do dicks."She dropped her sponge. "I don't think that's how the song goes, Mr. Stark. I’m pretty sure—"Cutting off Myrna’s opinion, Tony said, “See you later. I’ll get you VIP tickets next time Shakira graces New York City with her wiggly hips. For you and your husband, boyfriend, father, whatever.” It was time to go big or go home. Tony barged through the red room’s door. His house, his rules. And knocking was so last year.The second he caught a whiff of the room, Tony wanted to put Steve on a pedestal, play The Star-Spangled Banner, and toss him a gold medal. Eat your heart out, Mary Lou Retton! You just lost your lucrative Wheaties endorsement because the gay rookie from Team USA has taken the top spot in the Sex Olympics! The red room smelled like raunchy, no-holds-barred sex. Sweat. Weed. Semen. More semen. And ‘peach’ juice. And not just that, Oksana Baiul! The sheets, blankets, and pillows had been thrown off the bed like the Olympians had gone 12 rounds in the boxing ring and the butt ring.No wonder Fucky B had needed a decontamination shower!Speaking of which.The water shut off, which meant Tony was losing his window. Barging into the bathroom—barging was his thing—he said, “Ruby, I need to talk to you,” like he was talking about the weather, not ambushing full-frontal Bucky Barnes.And full frontal he was.Mental Note: Slide into Bucky's DMs, offer him a lucrative contract, revolutionize porn for Generation Z."What the actual fuck, Stark?" Bucky was midstep, reaching for a towel, and Tony, overwhelmed by the razzle in Bucky’s dazzle, said, "My dick don't lie, and Shakira says you're gonna look even better than Harry Styles in this shirt.""What?"“Here.” Snatching a towel off the shelf, Tony tossed it at Buck Fuck (see, he had manners). “100% Egyptian cotton. The crème de la crème. That towel’s gonna feel great on your ass. Gentle. Unlike Steve.”Being an Olympian, Bucky caught it one handed, but he didn't scramble to hide his naughty bits with an Egyptian-cotton fig leaf—not that a fig leaf would do the trick! Lord have mercy, Tony needed taller shoes and a bigger sausage! Did all Russians have big wieners? Was that a trait associated with a person's Ancestry DNA results? If Tony learned the language, would he gain a couple of inches? 6 ½ to a solid 8? It was worth investigating.Drying off his arms—and just his arms—Russia’s pornographic version of Adam stared at Tony without shame. In fact, he looked defiant. And, boy oh boy, did Tony love a challenge!Tony hopped up and sat on the counter between the sinks, adjusting his hat for maximum jauntiness. "Are you putting on a show for me, Liberace?” he asked, staring at Bucky’s instrument and its cool turtleneck. “Showing off your big piano?”“You’re the asshole who stormed in here without an invitation, so that’s your fucking problem, not mine.”“Not much of a problem from what I can see.”“Are you seriously talking about my dick right now?”“Nooo.” Twisting around, Tony drew a giant cock and balls in the steam on the mirror. “I’m talking about your well-endowed piano.”“Get the fuck out!”Bucky looked capital P pissed, featuring, for one night only, two angry balls and one angry grand piano. Tony had to pretend to be sorry or he’d lose his shot. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry, Buckaroo. I got distracted. You know, like ‘squirrel,’ but replace ‘squirrel’ with ‘big dick’ and reconsider the attractiveness of nuts." Adding a few pubes to his excellent drawing—eat your heart out, Keith Haring—Tony said, “But I really do need your help.” He tossed Ruby a wink. “Your private help.”“Are you fucking hitting on me? ‘Cause, I swear, I’ll—”Tony yelled, "Squirrel!" because it was in his nature. And with that, Bucky put his piano under wraps, slinging the towel around his waist and making a break for it.“No. I'd never do that.” Tony stuck his legs out like a barricade. “You're the apple of Steve's suddenly queer eye for the not-so-straight guy, and bro code applies to gay bros too. But I’ve gotta be honest here, Liberace. You've triggered an awakening in my loins." Snapping his fingers, Tony pumped his legs up and down a few times to rev up the rainbow. “It’s the strangest thing, but when you wore that Kid Rock wife beater, it dawned on me that you’re a very attractive Homo sapien. And now, after our shirtless breakfast, I’m fantasizing about seeing if these Gucci buttons can contain those Gucci muscles, which, my gayest gay friend, is a bi-curious conundrum." Tony snapped a few more times to keep things exciting. And Bucky? Well, he had his abs and his claws out."Bear with me, Buck-a-roo. I’m just getting to the good part! After you and Captain LikesCockNow ruined Star Trek with your white trash cuddle fest, I realized that Steve-o’s a hottie too. Not on his own, per se, but the two of you together exude a certain irresistible perfume of bisexual pheromones. That’s why Harry Styles and I ambushed you in the shower. I've had a fabulous idea—a genius combination of 1970s sexual exploration and Studio 54 disco-era sin—and you, Rainbow Bright, are the perfect man for the job.” Tony pointed at Bucky’s fig leaf, even though he meant to point at his face.“You think Steve is hot?”“That’s all you got out of that paragraph?“No?”“Liar." Tony dropped his legs because holding up the rainbow gates was blasting his quads. "But don't you worry your pretty little head, Gianni Versace, Steve is yours to suck, fuck, and serenade. But if this is gonna work, I need you to pay close attention while I lay out my master plan.”There was a long naked pause before Bucky backed up, parked his peach on the toilet, and pushed his dripping wet hair out of his face. “Fine," he said, touching his moist, sexy face, "but only because I’m really fucking curious.”“That’s the spirit, Angelina!" Tony rubbed his hands together. "Last night, when you disappeared to play hide the bone with my favorite golden retriever, Sam and I set out on a Sex-Files mission to eavesdrop on your shenanigans. Now, before you lose your shit, Sam and I were beyond wasted and I thought it would be funny. Me, not Sam. And it was, Fucky B! It was! But then I heard Steve drive your ass to O Town, and my trouser snake wasn’t laughing." Tony pointed at his steam peen to illustrate his point. "My penis was just like this drawing. Rock hard. Painfully hard. Viagra-overdose hard, and—”"You listened to us having sex?" Bucky's eyebrows were out of control, but Tony was happy to report that his claws were still in the nice-kitty position."Just for a minute or two—or five—which, lucky for me, happened to be the right minutes, if you know what I mean." Tony winked.When Bucky dropped his face into his hands and said, "Oh my fucking god," Tony knew that he was losing his rainbow guide to the bisexual side. And without him, he'd never get to Studio 54!“To the point then!" In an attempt to erase Tony’s shocking erection from Buck-o’s mind, he swiped his hand across the mirror to erase the visual representation, but since he only got rid of the nuts, it wasn't an effective strategy. "You and Steve are hot together. I've realized it. I’ve acknowledged it. And now I'm doing something about it. Not that I'm forgetting about the fairer sex. I had one hell of a time screwing a gorgeous older woman dressed as a cat last night, and she—”"The bartender?"Tony pushed up his hat. "You know her?""No,” Bucky said, snickering behind his hand. “But if you need her number, I'm pretty sure it's still in my pocket."There were a few seconds where Tony could only stare at the puddle forming around Bucky’s feet. There was no witty comeback for that! That was the witty comeback! Steve’s boo started bouncing his knees up and down, asking, "Is there a point to any of this?" like he was gonna charge the barricade again.“Bisexuaity is my point! Pussies and penises alike! Don’t you see, Ruby? This could open up a whole new world for me. Just think of the opportunities.”“I'd rather not." Despite being wet, Bucky had a really dry delivery. Tony approved. "C’mon, Fucky B, you have to see the beauty of bisexuality! I can have sex with Bob or Betty, have a threesome with Rosie and Ronnie, Rosie and Rita, or Ronnie and Ralph, and—get ready for it—have an orgy with Rosie, Ronnie, Rita, Ralph, Betty, and—”"Tell me what you want or take your stupid shirt and leave.""What, this old thing?" Holding it up by the collar, Tony wiggled it around like Shakira. "You know you wanna wear it.""No, I don't.""Yes, you do."They were in the midst of an epic battle of wills, but it was cool. They were friends now. Tony could tell.“Okay, Harry, so here's what I'm thinking. After the dance, we take the limo to Howard's business apartment in Tribeca. I know some people who know the right people, and those people can get us into Therapy. It’s the hottest gay club in the city. I did my research. And they've got a bunch of DJs coming in from Chicago on Saturday. Top-notch shit. And with you and Steve-o as my wingmen, I can take my open-minded penis for a bisexual test drive.” Drawing in the steam, Tony made the nutless peen look like it was spraying come at his face. "So, what do you say? Be my wingman and the shirt is yours. You know you wanna look even more like Harry Styles than you do already. Pretty, pretty please."The wettest member of 1D pushed his hair back over his shoulders, unleashing a flurry of water droplets that slid down his chest.“So,” Bucky said, dripping, and dripping, and dripping some more, “you get one drunk boner and suddenly you want me to help you pick up a guy?”“Two drunk boners.”“What?”Pointing at his flagpole, Tony shrugged. “There’s water dripping down your chest, and it’s wildly attractive.”Buck-o stared at Tony’s bone-o."Sorry, Judy Garland," Tony said, holding out the boxers as a silky apology. "You're not in Kansas anymore, and dicks don’t lie."Grabbing another towel off the rack, Bucky made himself a hair turban to contain the sexy. “Great. You get two drunk boners and want me to help you pick up a guy.”“Yes!” Jumping off the counter, Tony ‘kicked’ Ruby's ruby-red slipper and said, "I’m a jump-head-first-into-a-pool-full-of-penises kind of guy.”“You do realize that Steve isn’t even out yet, right? That he’s been gay for about five fucking minutes?”“Details, details, Ruby-Dooby-Doo. Steve’s my boy. He’ll be cool with it. Plus, if you’d seen how much he was salivating over your dance moves last night, you'd know, as I do, that he’s gonna jump at the chance to interact with you in your natural habitat.”“I want Clint to come.”“Absolutely, Rosie O’Donnell.”“I want you to stop calling me gay celebrities' names.”“Absolutely not, George Takei.”“I want you to never spy on me and Steve again.”“I pinky promise," Tony said, pouting like crazy, "even though my 'pinky' thinks it’s sad.” “Fine.”Tony couldn’t believe his ears! "You're down?"“Yeah, asshole, I’m down.” Adjusting his turban, moist Harry Styles leaned back against the toilet. "It sounds fun. And I’ve never been to a gay club, so that pretty much sold it right there. I mean, if your rich ass can really can get me into Therapy—which is the hottest ticket in town—I suppose I can help you exploit the LGBTQ+ community for your personal amusement for one night.” Rainbow Bright’s judgy expression implied that Tony was no better than a sleazy pervert who’d stuck his average-size dick into a glory hole. “I shouldn’t agree to this shit,” Bucky said, judging like Judge Judy, “but my morals are being overridden by the image of Steve in a gay club. You should tell him to wear a tank top.”"Oh yeah? Now look who’s exploiting a member of the LGBTQ+ community for his personal amusement. And a brand-new member at that!" Tony had to push his boner down with Harry’s shirt. "But I get it. You want Steve-o in a tank top as your reward. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, seems like a fair trade. Do you want a red bow on his ding-dong too? Actually, never mind, I don’t think I can swing that.”“Can you leave now?”“Ugh, fine.” Straightening out his hat, Tony flipped the switch that made the lights blink because a successful rainbow revolution was cause for celebration! “I knew I could count on you, Bucky-Boobie-Boo! You won’t regret this. I promise—""Give me the shirt,” Bucky said, which, yay! Dreams do come true! Grinning from ear to ear—Bisexual fantasies do come true!—Tony handed Bucky Styles the Gucci, the socks, and the boxers. "By the way, Fucky B, I think you're my new best friend.” Tony started backing out the door. “But don’t tell Steve. He'll cry. I’m sure everybody’s already wondering why we’ve been steaming up the bathroom together for 20 minutes. I’m gonna tell Steve that I sucked your dick, just to see what he does.”“Don’t you fucking dare!” “Too late!” Tony ran out the door, cackling as he jumped over Myrna’s vacuum cleaner, Myrna’s bucket, and Myrna herself. Then he yelled, “Thanks for letting me suck your dick, Bucky!” just because he could. Tony couldn’t wait to see Steve’s face when he told him how much he liked Bucky’s turtleneck!“Excuse me?”Unfortunately, Tony’s excitement about bisexual exploration had prevented him from seeing Steve and Sam step out of the elevator until it was too late. Smashing into their collectively enormous chests. Tony decided he needed taller shoes, a bigger sausage, and a larger set of pectoral muscles. Gauging by their expressions—shocked and shocked—Cap and Cap had heard Tony boasting about his round trip to Siberia to suck some Russian dick.“So, White Cap, Black Cap.” Tony gave their overdeveloped shoulders an equal opportunity slap. “Are you ready to shake your contrasting asses in the sparkling light of the rainbow? I'll buy the tank tops, you bring the muscles." “What are you talking about?”That was Sammy Boy, asking pointless questions in the face of a revolution.“I’m talking about my bisexual awakening!” Squeezing between the Oreo Cookie wafer and the Double Stuf cream, Tony pushed the button to go down to brown town. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an adventure to plan!”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Steve was back in the same eight by six foot rectangle, huddling in the same corner of the same bed and pressing his spine against the same rectangular pane of glass.Nothing had changed. After ditching his dirty clothes next to the toilet, Steve had skipped the shower and slipped into his favorite pair of grey sweats. Like an idiot, he’d assumed that since they were soft like Bucky, they’d ease him back into a softer headspace. But they weren’t Bucky. They were just a pair of meaningless pants. And since Steve had neglected to put on anything else, the skin of his back was sticking to the magnifying glass, the cells sizzling like ants as the sun dropped toward the western horizon. Sighing, Steve kicked at the folds of his flannel sheets. Unlike Bucky, his feet were boring, the toes slanting downhill without a touch of Renaissance inspiration. They weren’t Greek. They weren’t special. They weren’t anything other than what they were.If only Bucky were here, tickling Steve’s ankles with his perfect toes.Steve didn’t know if his corner was bleaker than normal or if his psyche was just having an exceptionally shitty afternoon. But that was the question. Did having hope for the future make the reality of the present unbearable? Allowing his head fall against the window, Steve turned his gaze toward the south end of the park. And that’s when he heard them...drums beating low and heavy in the distance that had nothing to do with the Wild Things. They sounded like jet engines, doubling in power as the sun dropped below the black monoliths of the city. And when the steel beams that pierced the bedrock beneath the buildings began to resonate, Steve felt the shudder in his teeth. Soon after, the skyline became nothing more than black silhouettes, designated rectangles within rectangles within rectangles to which designated people returned day after day after day. It was a death march.
“Steven. If you stay here, you’ll die.”
He closed his eyes. Even in his delusions, he didn’t want to admit that he’d been studying the monoliths for years, analyzing height, access, and pain. So he kept his mouth shut and peeled his skin off the glass. Standing up to face the rectangles beyond his own, Steve balanced on the edge of the mattress and stretched as tall as his bones would allow. It was stupid, but he was trying to mimic the American elms at the easternmost edge of the park. There, a few persistent rays were illuminating the yellow-orange hues at the tops of the tallest trees, like only those capable of stretching their branches high above the rest were worthy of the light.“Come on,” he said, lifting his arms to try to find the sun. And when the light finally hit his fingertips, his palms, his wrists, he almost let himself imagine a life beyond Alexander.Almost.But the drums were telling him what he already knew. That the crash was inevitable. Steve had taken ecstasy exactly one time, but, right now, he felt like he'd been rolling for days. He was tired, angry, sad, and disjointed, but also hyperfocused, like someone had sharpened his edges with a whetstone. It was a feeling Steve despised.The summer he'd turned sixteen, Tony and Ezra had dragged him to an electronic music festival just outside of Philadelphia. Not even three steps off the train, Ezra had pulled a baggie out of his pocket and given Steve a passionate speech about E being “crucial to the experience,” and Steve, being naive, had swallowed the pill dry and disappeared into a spiraling sea of lights and hands. Sometimes things seem like a great idea at the time. Like an opportunity to try something new. A chance to expand your mind.Then you come down.Steve could only remember bits and pieces from that night: a girl with intricately beaded dreadlocks rubbing his shoulders on a dewy patch of grass; an endless crowd of undulating bodies, growing and shrinking without altering its mass; the euphoria of his brainwaves aligning with the synchronized swings of a fire dancer's flames. Time had lost all meaning the instant he’d surrendered to the idea that the mind could bend and fold in unexpected ways.Groaning, Steve pressed the scab on his forehead against the magnifying glass.The high had been phenomenal—for a while—but then the memories grew dark: phasing in after parallel parking a Ford F-150 in an impossibly tight spot and realizing he didn't know the girl cheering him on from the passenger seat or who the fuck the truck belonged to; finding himself crammed into a corner booth at a diner with seven or eight kids he’d never seen before, chugging endless glasses of water as he’d scanned the room for Tony and Ezra; making out with a stranger in a dirty bathroom stall. Steve cringed. There were no memories of what the girl had looked like. Not the color of her hair. Not her height. Not her age. There was nothing but the taste of clove cigarettes and the panic of not being able to make it stop. Just thinking about it made his heart race, the thump of “stop, stop, stop, stop, stop,” taking him back to the moment when Ezra had placed a big, white pill on his tongue, laughing as he’d told Steve it would “slow his roll.”Sixteen years old. What the fuck had he been thinking?On the ride back to the city, Steve had crashed, and he'd crashed hard. And not just for a day or a week. For the entire month of July, his precious reds, blues, and greens had turned to grey, and he'd been too low to care. Compared to the pulsating power of the serotonin blast, everyday life had become meaningless, pointless, and pale.Steve lowered his arms as the sun left him in the dark, knowing damn well that the chemical drop from last night was the same fucking thing. He wasn’t stupid. He knew his family history. He knew exactly what he’d been burdened with from the beginning, but when you’re stuck in the thick of it, knowledge doesn’t matter. Nothing does.Suddenly the flames rose up from Dante’s fucking circles, filling Steve’s head with a bunch of allegorical bullshit that made him drop to his knees. And just like that, Steve was sinking beneath the surface of the river Styx, gurgling and choking with the rest of the wrathful sullen. Lie down. Hold your breath. Go to sleep. They were all rational acts for a person having a mental breakdown. And Steve, rolling over and burying his nose in his pillow, was pretty sure he fucking qualified.He felt sick, like he was about to spew pompous Italian poetry all over the fucking bed. But then he’d have to change the sheets, exchanging soft flannel for Alexander’s cold, calculated cotton. And if Steve was going to spew Dante’s rancid river water all over the place, it certainly wasn’t going to be on his special blue sheets!Steve crawled across the mattress, then the floor, waiting until he reached the center of the room to extend his branches and lie spread-eagle on the cold stone. “Bubblegum and peppermints,” he whispered, trying to find something—anything—to grab onto: a June day when it was light until ten o’clock, a circle that was just a circle, a song. He closed his eyes, singing, “I can’t feel my face when I’m with you, and I love it,” like a fucking prayer.It had taken a while for Steve and Bucky to get their shit together enough to leave Tony’s, but once they’d climbed into the spaceship, the ride to Brooklyn had been nothing short of joyful. During The Morning Sing-along, Steve had made a solid attempt to sing harmony with The Weeknd, and Bucky, blowing bubbles with a bubblegum smile, had laughed so hard that he'd swerved into a construction barrel, knocking it end over end into a guardrail. Thinking back on it, it didn’t even seem real.For the entire drive, they’d held hands without pause and laughed about nothing, flirting shamelessly as they’d debated the superiority of Kit Kats vs Milky Ways, lizards vs betta fish, and Daft Punk tank tops vs Gucci dress shirts. Not to mention they’d both gotten hard-ons when they’d talked about shaving each other's body hair when the State Qualifiers rolled around. It wasn’t a stretch to say that Bucky’s serotonin blast had expanded Steve’s pupils to their very limit.But the crash was inevitable. That was just how it worked.After Bucky had double parked the truck in front of his house, they’d shared a sweet goodbye kiss in the middle of the street. Bucky had given Steve’s crotch a little squeeze, Steve had grabbed Bucky’s butt, and there’d been just the right amount of tongue. No distortion, no phasing in and out of inexplicable scenarios, no fear because Steve had known exactly where he was and how he'd gotten there. Staring at the ceiling, Steve mouthed the word, “Spiderwebs,” and then, because self-loathing was his specialty, he reopened the crescent moons. It was incomprehensible that something as simple as Bucky running up his front steps in his strappy pants had triggered the drop, but it had, proving that things spun from sugar could spoil. Bucky had waved, sending Steve a toothy smile before saying, “See you later, boyfriend,” and slapping his own ass. All good things—silly, sexy, and sweet—gifted to Steve by an effervescent muse in a flowered shirt. But when the rust-colored door had slammed shut behind Bucky, leaving Steve alone with the truck, the road had rumbled beneath his feet, signalling the arrival of Dante and his motherfucking Inferno. There were nine concentric rings in Dante’s Hell, and Steve was destined to suffer all of them. In one Buckyless afternoon, he’d already plunged into the fifth circle. And now, drowning in his own anger, he was painfully aware that there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop the Devil from swallowing him whole.Steve cringed. One, because he was fucking furious at himself for reading The Divine Comedy! He was a fucking teenager! He shouldn’t be reading 14th-century Italian poetry for fun! And two, because God was punishing him for having a Goddamn library card! The instant Steve had slid behind the wheel, the mechanics of the fucking truck had thrust him into Limbo, leaving him powerless to go backward or forward. Buckling his seatbelt? Impossible. Pushing the button to start the fucking engine? Out of the question. Driving the Escalade back to his designated rectangle, which just so happened to be inside another rectangle, and another and another, the infinite shape shrinking more and more with each mindless repetition? No fucking way! It had taken Steve at least ten minutes to force his hands to readjust the seat and move the mirrors, effectively removing Bucky’s form from the memory of the machine.Biting the inside of his cheek, Steve gnawed on the flesh, knowing damn well that he was going to make it bleed. Bucky drove the truck! It was their first tradition! When Bucky drove the truck, Dante's sulfur-laden smoke couldn’t creep through the vents, asphyxiating Steve as he approached the Brooklyn Bridge. But Steve had choked, his lungs spasming when the tires had hit the second bump. Dante’s second circle of Hell was Lust, and Steve had done a shit job of trying to convince himself that the potential for love, not lust, had been the reason he’d slept with Bucky Barnes. Reaching down, he ran his hand over his soft cock.Bump nine: Bucky's stubbled jaw caught between Steve's teeth. Bump twenty-one: long, messy hair tickling Steve's nose. Bump twenty-nine: soft lips parting for Steve's tongue to slip between them. Bump thirty-three: sculpted abs covered with artistic splatters of come. Bump thirty-nine: the perfect round ass that Steve wanted to lick. Bump forty-nine: the feeling of fucking him. Squeezing his dick hard enough to hurt, Steve coughed, trying to rid himself of the sulfur and doubt. But the truth was, the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of the forty-nine bumps had accentuated his lust, reminding him of the physical distance he'd been putting between his cock and the object of his desire.Jesus fucking Christ.Steve flipped over, purposely crushing his penis with the weight of his thigh. “I realized that we made love.” It was easy to hear Bucky’s voice, and it was even easier for Steve’s heart to agree, but he didn’t lift his hips. In fact, he added more pressure, crushing the head until his eyes started to water. And then, because Steve was dedicated to self-flagellation, he revisited his fun-filled trip to the third ring.Steve would’ve expected Dante’s third circle to smell like the gluttonous aftermath of bottomless baskets of salty fries, all-you-can-eat steak, fourth and fifth helpings of German chocolate cake, and the maggots and worms that came later, but the only thing that had filled Steve’s nostrils when he'd twisted the elevator key had been the sickening stench of loss. The key hadn’t unlocked a rust-colored door, where Steve would’ve found a mountain of marshmallows and a pretty boy waiting for him with a spoon. And it hadn’t unlocked a door that had been painted Brooklyn-blue, where Steve's mother would’ve greeted him with a plate of sliced bananas and a cup of warm chocolate to dip them in. It had only taken one whiff of the penthouse for Steve to realize that he was a fucking idiot. French fries? Cake? Yeah, right. The smell of nothing had quickly reminded him that the punishment for gluttons was starvation. The third ring didn't give a flying fuck that Steve had spent the elevator ride imagining ropes of red licorice crisscrossing Bucky’s chest in intricate patterns, Hershey’s Kisses lining his thighs, and green gumdrops arranged in a sugary crescent across his forehead. When the door to the penthouse had slid open, Steve’s stomach had consumed itself from the inside out. Starvation, in every sense of the word.Like they were listening, Steve’s intestines grumbled against the mud-covered marble, reminding him that candy confections were only a dream in the real world.Then there was Greed. Steve laughed, sending drops of spit across the floor, because the fourth circle, with its monochromatic oppression, was exactly where he belonged. That’s where the hoarders lived, rotting in their glass castles with their riches, along with the bastards who’d squandered their blessings on Cadillac Escalades and three-hundred-dollar jeans. Spitting on purpose, Steve sneered, exposing his teeth exactly like he’d done to Clint Barton last night from the ‘safety’ of a velvet chair. Was it greedy for Steve to want Bucky’s colors all for himself? Yes, yes it was. And when Clint had been dancing with Bucky, touching the small of his back and making him smile, had it been greedy for Steve to want to shove Clint’s ass into a wood chipper? You bet your ass it had been. “But he’s so colorful,” Steve said, acknowledging that he’d gone well past greed. He’d been selfish and whiney, verging on psychotic. But even worse was the fact that he still wanted to use Bucky’s vibrant neons to paint over his own bullshit, and that, allegorical or not, made Steve a bad person.Second only to Satan himself.When the elevator door had slid shut behind him, Steve had made it two steps before he'd plummeted into the fifth circle with a devastating lurch.Two steps. That was as far as he’d gotten before he’d heard a loud bang in the study. Two steps, and he'd stopped, waiting for the Devil to speak. “Steven, we need to talk.” Alexander’s voice had come from his study. Not too loud, not too soft, or as Steve liked to describe it, the carefully measured tone of a narcissistic asshole.There were many things that could trigger wrath: the murder of an innocent child, a hungry dog chained to a tree in the dead of winter, the senseless destruction of skyscrapers in the name of God. But with smoke and hatred billowing out of the study, it had been two specific syllables that the Devil had dared to speak. Steve dropped his backpack at his feet, his hands shaking as he squeezed them into tight fists. He hated that Alexander called him Steven! Fucking despised it! It made him want to scream at the top of his lungs and shatter every pane of glass in this fucking box! Compressing his knuckles hard enough to make them creak, Steve dug his nails into his palms, digging deeper and deeper until eight blood moons rose on the horizon.
“Steven, this drawing is beautiful. I love the texture of the trees.”
“Could you please pick up your jacket, Steven? I almost tripped on it.”
“I love you, Steven.”
His mother had always called him Steven, which was why the moons were destined to scar.Over and over, he'd asked Alexander to call him Steve, but, according to Mr. Pierce, Steven was an appropriate name for a billionaire's show pony, while Steve was a name reserved for plumbers and garbage men."Now, Steven!"Eyeing the glass vase on the table next to the elevator, Steve straightened his shoulders. It was tall and thin, and if he broke the top off just right, it would make a wonderful weapon. If Alexander didn't have any vocal cords, he couldn't pervert the name that Sarah Rogers had written on Steve's birth certificate to honor the father he'd never known. Steve lifted it, just to feel the heft. And when the glass turned red beneath his fingers, he suddenly understood that any object touched by wrath absorbed the full power of the fifth circle. To be honest, he was having a hard time putting it back down.But not having a choice was a choice Steve had made a long time ago, one born of panic, desperation, and survival. “Someday,” he said, sucking every ounce of red back into his palms before releasing his grip. “Someday it will be your turn.”When Steve walked into the study, he found Lucifer sitting on the rigid leather armchair, surrounded by shelves and shelves of books that had never been read. Steve hated this room. He hated all the rooms in this fucking box, but this one was the worst.
“I do.”
Flicking his eyes toward the floor to ceiling windows, Steve could see her, plain as day.There was a single sprig of baby’s-breath tucked behind his mother’s ear, and she was wearing a simple cream dress that was shimmering in the sun. She looked beautiful. Radiant. Happy. And she was smiling, holding Alexander’s hands as a Justice of the Peace transformed her from Sarah Elizabeth Rogers into Sarah Rogers Pierce. Closing his eyes, Steve tried not to think about the desk in the corner where, not even two years later, Alexander had informed him that his mom had been moved to hospice care."Nice of you to show up."The bastard was staring at a newspaper and balancing a teacup on his knee, and the way he was holding it was fucking infuriating! Not even seventy-two hours ago, that same hand had slammed Steve’s forehead into a fucking door handle, and now Alexander was using it to grasp a porcelain handle like he was enjoying a proper afternoon tea with The Duchess of Cambridge.Steve wanted to scream. To scream at his mother to throw the stupid ring in Alexander’s face and run as fast as she could. To scream that she needed to go to the doctor right fucking now because the lump in her breast wasn’t “nothing.” To scream that she couldn’t leave him here alone.He swallowed—he had to—because for the first time in his life, Steve didn’t have control of the unbridled wrath that lived in the hollow place just behind his heart.It would be so easy. “I was informed that you haven’t slept here since Wednesday. Where have you been?”“Staying with friends.” “I see," Alexander said, his jaw tightening as he rustled his paper. "Well, now that you’re back from your little vacation, let me remind you that you have responsibilities.”Stand up straight. Smile correctly. Wear the right suit. Drive the right car. Date the right girl. Swim faster. Know how to take a fucking punch.Lining up the crescent moons and digging even deeper, Steve said, “Yes, I'm aware.”The Devil looked up, studying Steve’s face like the bruises were an inconvenience. “I needed you to attend a fundraiser at the Mandarin Hotel on Thursday, but I can see that won’t be possible. It's a shame; my new client is flying in from Japan, and his son is a diver."“Maybe next time we can plan better.”Steve knew he was pushing it, but Wrath didn’t give a fuck. Wrath wanted Steve to break Alexander’s teeth with the fucking vase.For some inexplicable reason, Alexander let it slide, choosing to say, "The New York City Ballet Gala is next week, and I expect you to attend,” instead of throwing a right hook. “The theme is more avant-garde than the usual black tie, so talk to Jade about getting fitted for a new tuxedo. Are we clear?”“Yes.”“The times at the next swim meet will be better as well?”“Yes.”“I hope so.”The Devil took a sip of his tea before looking down at his newspaper like Steve was invisible. Like he was nothing. And Steve, clenching his fists until the blood-red moons were leaking, coveted the feeling of Brock’s nose cracking beneath his fist. Wrath, it seemed, was well suited to his needs. Steve groaned because, murderous thoughts aside, his dick was really starting to hurt. And why the hell should his dick get smashed like a bug on a fucking windshield when Steve’s genetic bullshit was at fault?“Fucking ridiculous,” he said to nobody. And then, because he legitimately couldn’t feel his penis, he curled into the fetal position. Something inside told Steve to lie completely still, to allow the ash from the fifth circle to bury him like the petrified humans in Pompeii.
“Steven, if you stay here, you’ll die.”
“No shit,” he replied, barely moving his lips. And because he was trying to be more honest with himself, Steve didn’t even bother trying to pretend that he wasn’t dreaming of a Vesuvian end. “One...two...three..four...five...” He closed his eyes. Why stop at five when you can have all nine?Dante’s sixth ring hit Steve hard because he didn’t know if he had the balls to mingle with the other heretics. Come tomorrow morning, was Steve actually going to turn his back on everything that Alexander believed—everything he valued—and spit in the face of expectation to worship at Bucky’s feet? In theory, it sounded like its own kind of salvation, but in reality? Steve scoffed. In reality, he couldn’t even get off the fucking floor. Yes, Alexander was a fucking problem, but he wasn’t the only problem. Brock wasn’t the type of guy to let things go, so when Steve showed up at practice tomorrow morning, retaliation was a given. But the question was: Would he come for Steve or be predictable and go after Bucky again? Steve was starting to breathe too fast, which made everything ten times worse.Was he going to fail the economics test he hadn’t studied for? What about the paper he hadn’t written? And what new lie was he going to pull out of his ass to explain away the cuts and bruises this time? He’d gotten jumped by a meth head? Run over by a moped? Taken a spill down another staircase? Sure, Mr. Barnes had gone over the legalities of Steve getting beat to shit when he was over eighteen, but still, it was only a matter of time before somebody called the cops. Scrubbing at his eyes, Steve smashed his forehead against his knees, making his body into its own kind of circle.What if Mr. Barnes was yelling at Bucky right now? What if his dad was so pissed that he wouldn’t even let Bucky go to the dance? Jesus Christ, maybe he'd say that they weren’t even allowed to date! Steve knew that he was breathing too fast, that his hands were bleeding, that he’d decimated a huge chunk of skin on the inside of his cheek.But he couldn’t stop.Even if Bucky's dad was okay with them being a couple, then what? How the fuck were people going to react when they found out that Steve was gay?A sharp pain shot through his rib cage.What the fuck would Alexander do if he found out?Steve unfolded in an instant, the panic shifting to something much darker than wrath.“Fuck you!” he shouted, marking the marble with the phases of the moon. “Fuck your demands! Fuck your expectations!” He pushed up to his hands and knees. “Everything you’ve ‘taught' me since the day you put my mother in the ground has been a fucking lie!” Slamming into the shattered stones of the seventh circle, Steve wanted nothing more than to destroy Alexander with violence worthy of poetry.But he was alone. Lucifer had gone out with his ‘friends’ to feast on dead babies—or whatever the fuck the Devil ate for dinner—and Steve, consumed by visions of blood and war, was trapped.Slipping deeper into the seventh circle, his body stiffened, his arms and legs transforming into the gnarled limbs of a dried-up tree. Fucking Dante, dreaming up a forest where the souls who’d succeeded with blades and ropes were rooted in the ground. It was bullshit. If a person’s life had been horrific enough to end it, why the hell did Dante need to add insult to injury by conjuring a place where their faces were devoured by harpies for all of eternity. Steve scoffed. Ravens. Harpies. What the fuck was it with writers and birds? Why the fuck didn’t anyone write about polar bears?Oh, that’s right. The polar bears and peppermints were in Heaven. Also known as a place where Steve would never go.Clenching his fists, gnawing at his cheek, grinding his scabs against the floor, Steve might as well be a tree, or a log, or a stupid stick because there was nothing beyond Alexander’s Hell. There were only inky black wings folding over his eyes as he longed for the weightless sensation of falling. "Fucking stop!" Steve pressed on the black bruise, yelling at Dante and Poe as much as he was yelling at himself. He couldn’t go there again. He couldn’t. He had to get off the fucking floor. And he had to stop comparing his shitty life to Dante’s fucking Inferno!Imagine if Bucky walked in right now and saw Steve crawling around like an overread baby. He’d take his songs and his joy and run as fast as he could in the other direction. And rightfully so! Because—yes, Dante—Steve was a fucking fraud. But the bubble gum.And the peppermints.And the honesty in Bucky's touch.You know what? Fuck this shit! Steve didn't want to be a liar anymore, and he sure as hell didn't want to be stuck in a frozen lake at the bottom of the ninth circle with Judas fucking Iscariot! The cycle needed to be broken, the serotonin needed to be replenished, and Dante needed to go fuck himself with a Bible.Seriously.Hauling his ass up off the floor, Steve grabbed his sketchbook. Then, sitting cross-legged in the center of his bed, he started flipping through the pages. Tree, pigeon, tree branch, rock, pigeon, pigeon, pigeon. Steve sighed, then sighed again because a sketchbook was a diary in picture form and Steve’s was telling him that he needed to get a fucking life. After the tenth drawing of the same Colorado blue spruce, Steve finally found a blank page. At first, he saw white paper and nothing more. But then, because it was him, he saw a polar bear in a Heavenly snowstorm. And that’s when Dante’s bullshit started to make sense.Alexander wasn't the Devil in this story. He was the pompous, cruel, and absent father figure, whose irrational rules, impossible expectations, and unfair judgement had shoved Steve into the pit.He was God. Suddenly a hint of warmth licked at Steve’s diagonal toes and a fiery, orange glow lit up the floor. The radiant heat was coming from underneath the bed, like someone had turned on a toaster.As the room grew warmer, Bucky materialized at the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of shredded black jeans and a wickedly wonderful smile. Steve watched in awe as curved horns sprouted from his head, stretching and extending until they’d almost reached his back. It was the grand reveal. The twist. The ending Steve had always wanted, without knowing that it had been a possibility.When the heat melted the impenetrable ice of the ninth circle, Steve smiled, truly understanding that he’d been seeing everything upside down.The Bible had always described Lucifer as beautiful. The Power of Strange A transparent ghost sauntering through the halls.A crumbling brick hiding deep within a strong facade.A blank canvas of emptiness,not purity, not potential.But a void. But you hold a special powerbeing Strange.This power let you peek under my doorand made my skin opaque.When groups of ten or twelve or threewalked by right in front of me,you stopped,and saw my solid form. You hold a special powerbeing Strange.This power let you look between the mortarand see, that while I seemed strong like the rest,I was crumbling inside.My core was full of cracks,but still, you saw beautyand took the time to repair my pieces with your skill. You hold a special powerbeing Strange.A camel brush loaded with brilliant color,you took the void and showed me the lie of it all.Thick paint splashed across my skin,red blue orange and green,transforming what was nothinginto a new masterpiece. A solid man walking down these halls.A solid brick supporting your weight.A life full of color, potential realized.I’m so thankful that you took the time to see, that I’m Strange too.*****
“Are you ever gonna talk to me again without yelling? ‘Cause, real talk, this kind of stress is bad for my complexion.”The stress pimple thing was Daisy’s line. She said it all the time (especially around exams), but Bucky had no idea if it was true. Straight up, he didn’t give two shits if he got a big zit on the end of his nose (Steve would dig him anyways); he was just trying to fill the dead air. Just like every other Monday morning at the asscrack of dawn, Bucky and Clint were crammed into the backseat of his dad's Toyota, alternately bitching about being awake and whining about being awake, while Natasha put on her makeup in the front. But Bucky, aka the hot newsguy on News at 5, was sad to report that the atmosphere wasn't happy, happy, joy, joy like normal. Nope. Nada. Nyet. “No,” his dad said, staring at the back end of a Kia like its economical South Korean design was fucking fascinating. Fun fact: Phil Barnes dominated the short-sentence guilt trip. It was his superpower.Bucky sighed for a very, very, very long time before taking a bite of the carrot cake muffin he'd grabbed off the kitchen counter. It was stale. And judging by the chalky texture, odds were that it had been stale yesterday. Spitting crumbs everywhere, he asked, “Can we at least get Starbucks?”"We are going to Starbucks, but you aren’t getting anything.”
Snap!
Monday mornings were always bullshit, but this one was extra smelly with a fuckton of flies. Bucky still wasn't used to getting up at 4:30 in the morning to hustle to practice, and neither were the rest of the fam (Clint included). Plus, Bucky’s legs were still sore, he'd had a weird dream about goldfish nibbling at his eyelashes while he’d conju-grated parmésiañ verbs , this muffin fucking sucked, and since his phone had been 'stolen' by a certain authority figure who may or may not be driving the car, no Steve. Blowing out a sympathetic whistle, Clint gave Bucky’s shoulder a lil’ pat before ‘whispering,' “That’s harsh, dude. I know you've been craving the fall drink menu."That was true. Sweater weather was almost upon them, which meant two things: The Neighborhood/Weezer songs about sweaters were in season and Starbucks had busted out the glorious flavors of fall.Side note: Bucky was not wearing a sweater. It was supposed to be 80 degrees and sunny today, so he'd thrown on his super-shredded jeans and dug out his ancient “Prison Sex” t-shirt. You know, Tool. He'd had it since 9th grade and it was practically a crop top, but Bucky didn't give a flying fuck. Since he was grounded for life, he might as well make a statement and show off his belly button.Bucky squished up his face, realizing (sadly) that his fashion protest didn't make a lick of sense. His dad had put him on full house arrest (not Full House), so he'd be having no sex, especially not prison sex.Whatever. The shirt was hot. Bucky was hot. And even if Steve couldn’t lick Bucky’s balls, he’d at least have easy access to fondle his happy trail. Kicking at the back of the warden’s seat, Bucky cranked his whine up to maximum power. "Dad,” he said, blowing a fucking circuit breaker, “this is cruel and unusual punishment! I need a Salted Caramel Mocha Crème Frappuccino.""No, son. You need to come home when you're supposed to."Short. To the point. Probably true.Salted caramel tears poured down Bucky’s cheeks as his dad turned onto Flatbush Avenue. The coffee was getting closer and closer, and Bucky was getting sadder and sadder. No joke, even though the windows were rolled up, he could smell the pumpkin spice.Out of nowhere, Clint said, "I followed the rules," like a motherfucking Goody Two-shoes, which he fucking wasn't!At this particular moment in time, Bucky’d slouched so low in his seat that he was strangling himself with his seatbelt, but that didn't stop him from tossing back some Peggy Carter-level shade. "Yeah, dickface, you made curfew because my sister dragged your ass to the car. At least that's what Daisy told me."That was not what Daisy had told him. Not at all.Before his dad had confiscated his phone like a big ol' meany, Daisy had told Bucky all about Clint bringing Natasha glasses of sparkling water (with ice), Clint touching Natasha's mini bins like they were baby otters, Clint leaning over to kiss Natasha on the cheek when they'd been dancing together, and, last but not least, Natasha holding Clint's hand when they’d walked down the sidewalk towards the car.Clint was suddenly really invested in looking out the window at the other cars, and his stupid eyebrow piercing was catching the light like he was cool or something, which he wasn't! Well, he was, but Bucky was grumpy . And Natasha? She wasn’t an innocent little hamster either! Just because she hadn't gotten wasted and lost her virginity to a guy she’d only been talking to for a few days.Bucky snorted. Okay, so maybe it was pretty bad.Swinging into a spot in front of the Starbucks on 7th Avenue, Dad and Natasha hopped out of the car to order overpriced (but delicious) coffee for the 'rule followers.’ Bottom line: It sucked, especially when Clint rolled down his window and said, “Hey, Nat. Get me one of those salted caramel concoctions that Bucky loves so much. The biggest one they've got. And don't forget the extra whipped cream.”You bet your ass that Natasha paused, adjusting her little green jacket before she slowly turned back around. This was gonna be good."Would you like to try that again, Barton?" she asked, cocking her head to the side and blinking a bunch of times. It was obvious that she was casting some sort of love spell with her CoverGirl LashBlast magic wands. You know, like, Abracadabra! Expecto Patronum! Completely changing the tone of his voice (#WizardryInMotion), Clint said, “Please, Nat. I really wanna try it."The self-satisfied smirk that spread across his sister’s face before she jogged into Starbucks was so obnoxious that Bucky had to roll down his window to get some motherfucking coffee-scented air. Sticking his head out like a dog (he was feeling very doberman), he had a truly heinous thought.Guess a set of lady parts was all it took for Clint Barton to get whipped.Seriously? Fuck his brain for thinking about his sister’s lady parts! Fuck it with something that wasn't nearly as enjoyable as Steve Rogers' extra-large cucumber!"So," Clint said, nudging Bucky's black-and-white Converse with his boots like a total assface. "I can't wait to slurp down this Frappuccino. It's gonna be sooo good." Bucky kicked him in the leg. “What the fuck? You don’t even like caramel!” And if he kicked his bestie two more times, he'd totally admit it. Kick and kick!Clint laughed like evil Count Chocula...Mwah-ha-ha-haaa!...and since his hair was slicked back into some sort of Romanian vampire bun thing, it was mega convincing. “You’re right, cupcake,” he said (yes, he was doing the accent). “I only suck blood. But I thought it would be fun to rub it in your face.”It was such a dick move. Bucky was best friends with a total dick!Then, without the accent, he added, "I also was thinking we could share it."It was a super nice move. Bucky was best friends with a super nice dick.Blinking a few times (without the benefit of magic wands or lady parts), Bucky managed to shut his mouth and get his feet under control. And that, vampires and hamsters, was the theme for the rest of the drive to los éscuelos.Bucky didn’t say shit (or kick anybody) when his sister handed Clint the Frapp with an unwrapped straw sticking out of the mountain of whip cream. He didn't say shit (or kick anybody) when the smell of her pumpkin spice latte filled the car (yes, she'd gone there). He didn't say shit (or kick anybody) when his dad sipped at his Blonde Roast with a fuckton of passive-aggressive parental energy. And he didn't say shit (or kick anybody) when he almost choked to death on the last bite of his carrot cake muffin from 1994 because he was fucking choking! Not a fucking word.In fact, after surviving The Carrot Cake Catastrophe, Bucky decided to stick his head out the window like a grumpy miniature doberman (Clint’s whip-cream peace offering had downsized him) and growl every few blocks to express his fucking feelings.
“Grrrr.”
Five minutes later: “Grrrowl.” Five minutes later: “Hisss.” Yes, that was a fuckin’ cat sound, but he was getting bored.Five minutes later: “Oink!” Fuck it. They were almost to Eaton, Bucky’s hair was beyond windswept, and he was pretty fuckin’ sure that he’d swallowed a fly (Seriously, how did dogs do this?), so he gave up his life as a miniature doberman/cat/pig and slumped back into his corner. Life on complete and total lockdown fucking sucked. No phone, no hanging out with Steve, no internet, no hanging out with Steve, no coffee, no hanging out with Steve, and, worst of all, no hanging out with Steve! Bucky's only hope for a prison break was to nail every quiz, test, and assignment this week, plus figure out how the fuck to pull his el horriblé Espérolo grade out of de lá guttero (Expécto Patroñum Español!). Then and only then would his dad unlock Bucky's cell and let him attend the Steve Rogers Comes Out of the Closet Homecoming Dance.Seriously, it was gonna be real tricky for Steve to walk across the rainbow bridge when his shiny new boyfriend was stuck in Alcatraz without wi-fi. Cue Steve’s Homecoming King acceptance speech:
“Thank you, fellow rich and beautiful students, for electing me as your King. I was hoping to break the news that I'm hella gay by introducing my wonderful, middle-class boyfriend Bucky Barnes, but he’s grounded indefinitely for getting wasted, having awesome anal sex with me, and not going home until one o'clock the next day. To sum things up, I'm super gay and tragically alone for infinity.”
Kaboom!
Natasha swung her head around so fast that one of her hoop earrings flew off and hit the windshield. Then she proceeded to stare at Bucky like he was completely insane, which, yeah, he had been oinking out the window a second ago. But based on the fact that Clint was shooting Frappuccino out of his nose and his dad was violently steering the car around the corner by the parking garage, Bucky was guessing that he'd recited some (if not all) of Steve's speech out loud."Did I just say anal sex?" Bucky ‘whispered’ to Clint, who, Barney lovers, was turning a glorious shade of purple (just like his hair).His sister facepalmed, and Clint, more to the point, said, “Dude, shut up.”"Yes. Please, for the love of God, stop." Dad almost hit the gate as he turned into the garage. "Really, Bucky, how do you expect me to let you go with Steve tomorrow if you're talking about anal sex at 5:15 in the morning? I just—" Groaning, his dad pulled into his special first-floor principal spot and killed the engine. "You're making me question our deal."Ah, yes, their deal. Yesterday, not even 15 minutes after his dad had confiscated his phone, he'd come charging back into Bucky's room, holding it up like an accusation. “What the hell is this?" Shaking the screen in front of Bucky’s face, Dad kinda looked like he was having a seizure (or maybe an aneurysm). "Why is Steve texting you about going to a tailor after school on Tuesday?”Since Bucky was sitting in the middle of his bed with a bunch of Natasha’s highlighters, happily channeling Harry Styles (the shirt felt nice on his nipples) and working on his homework, Bucky, aka hairy Harry, was trapped. In this kind of situation, playing dumb was always the most viable option. "Going with a sailor?" he asked, highlighting something in his math book before remembering that he wasn't supposed to highlight stuff in his math book. Whatever. He started highlighting his fingernails instead. Orange, like a meme-osa."No, a tailor. It says it right here!" His dad squinted at the screen, then put on his reading glasses before squinting at it again. "This says 'All set for Tuesday. 3:30. My tailor is going to love fitting you!' What does that even mean?"Bucky shrugged, turning his thumbnail orange like Serafima. Maybe he should switch to pink for the other hand?Suddenly the phone was back in Bucky's face. "And do you think saving his number as ‘Steve, my hot-as-fuck boyfriend!’ is really necessary?”Giving it a lil’ ponder, Bucky flipped the orange highlighter in the air and caught it with his crotch (FYI: Stark’s silk boxers were very nice on the balls). "Yes, it’s totally necessary,” he said, going for basket #2 with the pink one. “His name is Steve. He’s fucking hot. He's my boyfriend. I mean, I think I pretty much nailed it."His dad’s long-suffering sigh was both long and full of suffering, which, rebels and rimjobs, made perfect sense. After Bucky’d waltzed through the door a week and a half past his curfew, his dad had steered him to the couch and given him an hour-long lecture about being irresponsible, reckless, stupid, inconsiderate, rebellious, insane...The list went on and on.Actually, that was total bullshit. What his dad had actually said was, “Bucky, I’m disappointed with your choices,” which had been a gazillion times worse. Real talk: Getting yelled at with a hangover sucks, but thoroughly disappointing your dad sucks even more. And, now, he was doing it again.“Bucky, I’m not kidding.” His dad was really freaking out: sweaty brow, steamy glasses...the works. "What does ‘tailor’ mean? Is it code for something? Is it a drug thing? Or a sex thing? Because, I swear to God, if you two—”“He’s buying us suits.” There was no reason to let his dad's thoughts linger on either of those completely true scenarios more than they already had. “Come again?” Shoving a fuckton of Españdi-ghañdi papers out of the way, Bucky scooched to the edge of the bed and dropped his legs over the side. Before his dad had stormed in, Bucky'd been making a real effort to study the conjugated verbages for el stúpido Español (no lie). So far, it had been going pretty well. Cumo estás blah blah zapatos, blah blah amarillos. Yeah, right. Fuckó Spañishito. Mé llama es Búcky de los suckéd! Whatever. Since he was destined to fail and never see his hot boyfriend again, he might as well tell the truth. “Steve wants to buy me a suit. You know, for the dance.”“Oh, Bucky.” Collapsing into the pink chair, his dad shook his head. “That's so wrong that I don’t even know where to start.”"I know you said I can't go out until the dance, but it'll only take a couple hours, and I'll come right home.""That's not what I'm talking about." The steamy glasses ended up in his dad's shirt pocket before he squeezed his temples like he was trying to juice himself. "Steve shouldn't be buying you something so expensive."“Why not? I already bought him a present. That's what couples are supposed to do, right?" Bucky did not, in any way, shape, or form specify that he'd done his shopping at the dollar store. "I mean, sure, I’ll admit that it’s kinda Sugar Daddy—without the 30-year age gap—but Steve just wants us to look nice and maybe stick it to his stepdad a little bit. He’s got a credit card, and—”“You’re making it worse.” This was going south fast. Like, all the way down to Florida where Bucky’s dreams of getting a pair of pants professionally hemmed would be devoured by a gang of angry pelicans. He couldn't miss out on the tailor! His normal method for hemming pants was to walk all over the bottoms until they got holes in them! “C’mon, Dad," Bucky said, bouncing up and down on the edge of the bed. "I won’t screw up again, I swear. I'm done being a fuckup. D.O.N.E. done. Being a fuckup sucks donkey balls, and nobody wants to suck on donkey balls. Not even other donkeys. I’ll do everything you say this week. I'll do the laundry, clean my room, wash the dishes, vacuum, dust shit—""Bucky—""Dad, I promise. Steve's a good guy; we just got lost in the moment. But we won't do it again." Grabbing a handful of markers, he held them out as proof. "Look! I’m already getting my shit together. I've got highlighters and everything! Just please, please, please let me go to the tailor.”When Bucky's dad got really stressed, he crossed some sort of invisible line where he relaxed his entire body and did some sort of weird, new-age yoga breathing. Natasha called it “parental denial.”His dad let out a ‘zen’ breath. “You realize how ridiculous that sounds, right?”Bucky hit reverse, going for the mental replay. Good guy. Lost in the moment. Won’t do it again. Highlighters = responsibility. Begging to go to the tailor.Well, shit.Owning up to it, he said, “You’re totally right. That was one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever said. But, still, can I go?”Suddenly there was a hand on his knee, followed by some hella serious father/son eye contact. And something about the feeling of his dad’s fingers squeezing Bucky’s kneecap made his chest hurt. Like, really fuckin’ bad.“I’ll be checking in with your teachers at the end of the day on Tuesday. If your grades are good—including Spanish—you can go. Straight to the tailor. Straight home. This is your chance to prove that I can trust you. To show me that you can make the right decisions for your own well-being. You're almost 18, Bucky, and there comes a point when—" His dad's fingers squeezed tighter, like he was trying to hold on to something. "There comes a point when I have to let you make your own choices, when I have to let you make your own mistakes.""Dad..."Brushing tears out of his eyes, Phil Barnes stood up and said, "I love you, son," like he’d been there from the very beginning. And that made Bucky’s chest hurt even more.It was easy to say, "I love you too, Dad,” because it was true. Bucky Barnes was the luckiest person in the world because the gray wolfie had come in the middle of the night and dragged little Yakov into the forest. But instead of being eaten, he’d found himself transformed."Don't let Steve spend a lot of money on you.”“What?” Bucky blinked, then blinked again, because his dad was already halfway out the door.“It's important for him to know that you're not for sale." The Russian ruble. The Gucci shirt on his back. Falling backwards into the mess of papers and highlighters, Bucky listened to the howls of the wolf, wondering if he’d already been bought. The sound of an engine turning off. The rattle of keys. One door opening, then two, then three. Natalia saying, “Let’s go losers,” before Clint said, “See you later, bro,” and put a cold cup in Bucky’s hand.Bucky blinked, feeling small and big at the same time.And when his dad opened his door and asked, “Are you coming?” Bucky heard himself say, “My hands are cold. Can I have a hug?”Suddenly there was the smell of freshly chopped wood and a melody. The deep voice was singing the words in English, even though Bucky knew that they’d never been sung that way before. “The gray wolfie will come. He’ll grab you by your tiny side and drag you to the forest, drag you to the forest, down under an aspen tree.” Sinking into his father’s arms, Yakov smiled. They hadn't hugged like this for a very long time, maybe since the first snow had fallen on their farm, but one thing was for sure: He had to duck down way more than last time. It was strange outgrowing the man who’d brought him into this world, but, right now, Yakov didn't care about that.He only cared about feeling loved.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Steve was late. He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep, but regardless of the time, it had been unintentional. No alarms had been set. No dinner had been consumed. In fact, Steve hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s pancakes. Shouldering his backpack, Steve quietly shut his bedroom door and looked at his phone. It was 5:05 a.m., which meant there was no time to visit Jennifer and Sergio for his morning coffee and banana nut bread. No time to drive the truck around in endless rectangles, turning right and right and right again. No time to shake his metal cans, spreading artificial color onto very real walls. And no time to feed his muscles so he didn’t pass out in the pool.Normally, Steve turned right in the morning, sneaking past Alexander’s room and taking the spiral staircase down to the service elevator. But not today. Today he had no choice but to turn left. After all that Dante shit, Steve needed coffee and carbs, and the only place he could get it quickly was the main kitchen. It was one of Chef Antonia’s duties to put a pitcher of iced coffee in the refrigerator for Jade every day before she left. Sometimes it was hazelnut, sometimes it was caramel cream, but it was always there, ready to power up the bastard’s assistant when she clocked in at six. Closing his eyes, Steve listened, trying to hear if Alexander was awake, but all he heard was the imposing silence of the penthouse. It was like a mausoleum.Right or left? Starve or take the risk? When Steve rubbed his forehead, his stomach growled its answer loud and clear. He was hungry, and the Lifesavers in his glove box just weren’t going to cut it. He would just run in and run out. Slop some coffee in a cup, grab a banana, and go. Quick and easy. No big deal.But nothing in Steve’s life was easy; a point that was proven the instant he rounded the corner to the kitchen. Alexander, you see, was already there, dressed in one of his charcoal-grey suits with a perfectly pressed tie, like he’d been standing there for hours...waiting. Steve should’ve let himself starve.The bastard was standing at the marble-topped island, bobbing a tea bag up and down in a white mug. Earl Grey. No milk. No sugar. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw the tea kettle hovering above the flames, shaking and rattling with the impending whistle. “Steven,” Alexander said, rotating the mug ninety degrees, “I received an interesting email from Maria Stark last night.”Reflexively touching his ribs, Steve skirted around the edge of the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. If only a magical gateway would appear, allowing him to escape through the soft fur of mink and marmot coats until he landed in fresh, white snow. But there was only almond milk, string cheese, and iced coffee. Nothing even remotely close to the warmth of chicken noodle soup, sardines on toast, or Lucifer. Mrs. Stark could have said anything, so Steve went ahead and asked, “About what?” just to get it over with. Then he grabbed the pitcher of coffee, feeling the heft of the glass and ice. If he threw it hard enough, it could almost work as good as the vase.Alexander didn’t respond, letting the question hang in the air as he turned the mug another ninety degrees. It was a familiar tactic, one Steve imagined Mr. Pierce had picked up in his years spent intimidating the suits on Wall Street. Pause. Let them stew. Sinister action. Let them stew some more.Finally, after waiting until Steve was thoroughly cooked, Alexander said, “She wants to know whether or not you’re bringing a date to the Homecoming Dance on Friday.” The mug made a scraping sound as it turned, and Steve could feel it in his spine. It was like Alexander was using it as a conduit, twisting Steve’s vertebrae one by one and breaking the bones without using his hands.“She's ordering party favors for the limousine, and she needs a correct count. Apparently, Tony is being cryptic on the subject.”“Well, I haven’t—”“Which I found interesting, considering that you haven’t mentioned a dance to Jade.” The mug hit three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, effectively cutting off Steve’s escape through warm, comforting fur and string cheese. Reluctantly returning the pitcher, Steve shut the wardrobe. “I was going to take Sharon Carter, but that didn’t work out, so—”“The Carter Family have an excellent reputation." Alexander dumped the contents of the mug into the sink, tea bag and all. "And you know as well as I do that Eaton dances are high-profile events. You need to reconsider.”Every cell, neuron, and muscle in Steve’s body screamed at him to say, “I'm taking Bucky, you bastard!” but he didn’t. Instead, he picked a pristine yellow banana out of the fruit bowl and said, "I’m going alone.”Making no effort to hide his disgust, Alexander scowled as he refilled his mug with water from the kettle. “You want me to tell Maria Stark that someone of your status can’t get a date? That’s your decision?” The box of Earl Grey remained untouched.Steve should backtrack. Shake his head, say, “No, sir, you’re absolutely right,” apologize to Sharon, and buy her a pretty pink corsage. He only had to make it nine more months.But as Steve squeezed the banana, he could almost feel a boutonnière between his fingers, Bucky smiling wide as Steve slid the pin into his lapel. Bucky would poke the center of a calla lily or touch the edges of a tiny succulent, laughing as he asked, “What the fuck is a succubus?” Steve could fucking see it, hear it, feel it, and if yesterday’s nightmare of allegorical bullshit had taught him anything, it was that pretending was far worse than the potential for pain.Straightening his shoulders, Steve said, “No. I don't want you to tell Mrs. Stark anything. My breakup with Sharon is none of her business, and going stag isn’t a big deal. So she buys some extra party favors. It’s not like they don’t have the money.”Animals can sense earthquakes before they happen: dogs hide under porches, toads jump out of ponds, and cows stampede down hills in unstoppable herds. Steve was no different. He knew what was coming, and all he could do was wait, thinking about miniature succulents as the countdown began.Three, two—Charging around the island, Alexander shouted, “It’s an embarrassment!” and dumped the scorching hot water onto Steve's wrist.Steve screamed. "You’re an embarrassment! A disgrace!” When the mug was smashed next to Steve’s boiling skin, shards exploded in all directions, and all Steve could do was watch in real time as his arm turned the color of a rose-filled corsage.It was over in less than a minute. He was still holding the banana. Alexander was gone. And Steve, lost in a three-dimensional vision of murder, was too much of a fucking coward to do a damn thing about it. * Steve was late. At the track on Saturday, Fury had been all over Steve’s ass about getting everybody into the pool by 5:30, not thinking about getting into the pool at 5:35. But making it to practice on time when you’d had a mental breakdown, woken up late, and gotten your arm burned off was impossible. Not to mention that Steve had spent a solid amount of time changing into a long-sleeved shirt, looking for the Extra Strength Tylenol, and convincing himself not to plow his truck into the corner of a building. No coffee. No banana nut bread. He hadn’t even eaten the fucking banana! Too mushy. Too many bruises.Steve was standing in front of his swim locker, trying to decide if he should take off his shirt. There was no way that Fury wasn't going to say something about his ribs. And if he caught sight of this burn, he'd dial 911 on the spot. Pressing his forehead against the dark-blue metal, Steve tried to swallow the pain. He should just say he was sick, that he'd eaten some bad string cheese and was feeling nauseous, but then Sam would start asking questions, and—Jesus Christ. What the fuck was he supposed to tell Bucky?Everyone except Ezra and Frank had already gone up to the pool deck by the time Steve had arrived, so he had no idea if Bucky was already here or if he was running late too. Actually, Steve didn't know anything about anything because Bucky hadn’t responded to the text he’d sent after leaving the fucking penthouse!You know what? Fuck it! Steve needed to swim; he needed to make his muscles burn exactly like his wrist because he needed to win at something. Shoving his jeans down to his ankles, he was about to kick off his shoes when Bucky sauntered through the door with a big grin and an even bigger Frappuccino. First, Bucky threw his bag in the general direction of his locker, the safety pins and buttons attached to the front clattering as they slid across the tiles. Then he started doing the wobble. "Mornin’, Ezra,” he said, leaning back and forth to an imaginary beat. “How’s your hangover hanging? No more puke today, I hope.” He wobbled twice as fast. “Mornin’, Frank. Did you have a nice weekend? Was it, you know, delightful and drama free?"Frank slammed his locker shut, flexing every muscles in his body when he said, "Fuck you, Barnes." The last thing Steve needed right now was another testosterone-fueled fight. What he needed was to swim as fast as he could to Narnia, where he could chill with the nice beaver family in their cozy den and eat something that wasn’t fucking bruised. But Bucky simply smiled when Frank pushed past him, wobbling like crazy when he said, "Thanks, Frank. Fuck you too." No adrenaline or fists needed.Toeing off his sneakers, Steve scratched his head. The whole interaction had been baffling. Possibly funny? Steve didn’t know; he was too fucking wound up to define anything. Which was why he focused on Bucky’s outfit.His jeans were so skinny and tight that Steve could hear the holes getting bigger with every wobble. And they were rolled up just enough for Steve to see the tops of Tony’s silk socks sticking out above Bucky's high top Converse.Oh, yes. Tony’s miraculous change of heart. How could Steve forget? It wasn’t like Tony had been subtle about staring at Bucky’s dick while he’d planned a night out on the town.Steve shook his head. Kicked off his jeans. Tried to get his shit under control.He’d deal with Tony’s boundary issues later. Right now, he needed to figure out what the hell was on Bucky’s t-shirt. It was hard to tell with all the dancing, but it looked like some kind of Venus of Willendorf thing? Maybe? Regardless, the shirt was too small, and Bucky’s stomach was peeking out every time he lifted his arms. It made Steve smile.But then he saw it.In big black letters on the side of Bucky’s cup, the name Clint was peeking out between his fingers.Suddenly it didn’t matter that Bucky was singing, “Hey, big girl, make ‘em back it up, make ‘em back it up.” God was an asshole. A motherfucking asshole! There was no other explanation for why Bucky’s ice-cold coffee had another guy’s name on it when Steve had literally burned for him this morning!Stripping off the rest of his clothes, Steve pulled on his trunks and slammed his locker. And when he turned around, Bucky was standing there in nothing but his t-shirt and Tony’s boxers, staring at him.You could hear a pin drop.The logical side of Steve wanted to jump over the bench and scoop Bucky up in his arms, kissing his cheeks while he told him how much he loved his skin-tight jeans. But he didn't.The logical side of Steve wanted to slide his hands underneath his boyfriend’s weird t-shirt, feeling the warmth of Bucky’s back as he told him that he was the very definition of vibrant.But he didn’t.He didn't do anything.He didn't say anything. Not even hello.It was 5:43 a.m. when Steve—who wanted to tell Bucky everything—told him absolutely nothing.* Steve fucking sucked.Everything felt off. Everything. His times had been the worst they'd been in years, his body robbing him of the one rhythm he’d always been able to count on. It didn’t matter that he’d pushed his muscles as hard as he could, he just hadn't been able to find his pace. Between the pain, the hunger, the stress, and the bullshit, Steve’s strokes had been short and uneven, verging on fucking amateur.Adjusting the towel that was covering his arm, Steve slumped down in the chair in Fury’s office, waiting for Fury to resume his pointless inquiry into Steve’s latest set of injuries. It was another pile of steaming-hot bullshit Steve didn’t need. The probing questions. The requisite lies. He should’ve just dove to the bottom of the pool and curled up by the drain. That's where assholes who didn't say hello to their boyfriends fucking belonged.The whole team had noticed that Steve sucked ass. First, because beating Steve was a fucking novelty—an accomplishment that more than half the team could now claim—and second, because Brock had made a point of shouting, “Nice one, Cap,” after every heat. In fact, everyone had spent more time watching Steve fail than swimming. Except Bucky.He’d stopped looking at Steve altogether. “So you’re not gonna tell me how you got that bruise?” Fury was sitting behind his desk, rolling a blue ballpoint pen across his knuckles. He’d already asked twice, but Steve, hopeless and hungry, had no plans to answer.The bruise on his ribs wasn't healing right. That much was clear. It should’ve turned yellow by now—or at least purple—but it looked like someone had injected him with tar. It was ugly. It was obvious. And it was bad enough that Fury wasn't buying any of the shit Steve was trying to sell.Normally, Steve was an expert at talking his way out of these situations, but not today. Today he was wound up, angry at the burn, angry at Clint, angry at God, and, most of all, angry at himself. To say that his lies weren't up to their normal standard of ‘authenticity’ was being more than generous."So, let me get this straight," Fury said, rubbing the pen back and forth like he was trying to start a friction fire. "The black eye, the nasty cut on your head, whatever the hell is wrong with your ribs. You're claiming all of that is from a fight with Brock?"Bouncing his knees up and down, Steve looked at the clock. 7:23. Almost time for the first bell."Yes, I broke his nose," Steve said, knowing damn well that he'd already fucked up the story. "So, what I want to know is why isn’t Brock in here getting the fifth degree about his face? He looks way worse than I do." Steve set his jaw. He had no regrets about dropping that asshole, and he wanted Fury to know it.The pen landed on the desk. "Well, that's easy. I believe that you broke Brock's nose—and you did a damn good job of it from what I could tell—but everything else that's come out of your mouth this morning is a lie. Your face was already messed up at the track on Saturday, and that ‘bruise’—if that's what you’re calling it—is more than two days old. So stop pretending and get real."The words hung in the air for a second, and Steve...He laughed. “Real” was swimming around in fucking chlorine for an hour and a half with a fucking burn. “Real” was having to go back to that same kitchen, slicing mushy bananas and insect-infested tomatoes like nothing had happened. “Real” was being too much of a fucking coward to turn the bastard in to the cops.Fury stood up and walked around the desk, putting his hand on Steve’s shoulder like a concerned father. And when he said, "I'm worried about you, Rogers," Steve’s laughter turned into something else. Something dark. It was bad enough that Bucky's dad, with his kind eyes and understanding soul, had shown him in just a few hours what Steve had been missing his entire life. "Steven, what's this?" His mother picked up the card he'd made with his brand-new crayons. He'd spent a really long time on it, drawing a pair of boots, a flag, and a funny dog on the front. Dads liked dogs. Steve had seen a bunch of dads walking big, furry dogs in the park. "It's a card, Mommy," he said with a big smile. "I'm pretty sure I spelled 'Happy Father's Day' right, but can you make sure before I put it in the mailbox?" Steve was excited, but Mommy had a funny look on her face. It made him feel worried. "Did I spell it wrong?" "No, sweetheart, it's wonderful."
"Then why are you crying, Mommy?"
Putting the card on the table, she wrapped him up in one of her warm hugs, kissing the top of his head before she reminded him that he didn't have a daddy anymore.
Steve hadn't gotten it through his thick skull that his dad was dead until he’d been five years old when well-meaning Mrs. McGregor had asked her students to bring some family pictures to preschool to tape to a construction paper tree. All of Steve’s classmates, with their carefree smiles, had brought shiny, new pictures of their daddies, while Steve’s mommy had cried herself to sleep after digging his daddy’s pictures out of a dusty shoebox. Only now, in the midst of Dante’s bullshit, was Steve starting to understand that his father had been destroyed by a war that had almost nothing to do with terrorism and everything to do with the unrelenting demons inside his own head. "Whatever’s going on, you can't ignore it anymore," Fury said, sounding soft like Mrs. McGregor, “and I can't either. It’s time to talk to Principal Barnes."Steve bit the inside of his cheek, staring at the rows of trophies on the shelves. His mother had never lied to him about his father, but she'd sugarcoated the truth in the way that mothers do, feeding him cookies and milk when she’d said, “Your father saw too many of his friends die, Steven. It was just too much for him.” Alexander, on the other hand, had been more blunt. Once, after Steve had spilled a glass of chocolate milk on the couch, he’d shouted, “You’re weak, Steven! Just like your father. Why don't you just get it over with and put a bullet in your brain like he did?”He’d been thirteen."Mr. Barnes already knows what happened," Steve said, shaking off Fury’s hand before he stood up."Is that so?" They were chest to chest, and Fury was too close, too tall, and too fucking loud. "I wish I could believe that, Steve."Charm. A perfectly timed smile. Holding his body at the right angle to conceal what needed to be hidden. It was all falling apart. Turning his back, Steve said, "Believe what you want,” and stormed out the door. He didn't need this shit! He just needed—Fuck!He just needed something else!He’d almost made it to the locker room when he heard footsteps coming up behind him. They weren’t slow or fast; they were deliberate. In an instant, Wrath consumed him because he knew exactly who it was. Who else would it be? Taking the bait wasn’t the smartest choice, but the taste of gunpowder on Steve’s tongue was erasing the last of his good decisions.Steve dropped the towel. And when he spun around to face Brock, the first thing he noticed was that he was fully dressed. Not that it mattered. Steve didn’t need superficial armor to put the bastard in his place. "What the fuck do you want?"When Brock stepped into Steve's space, the zipper on his bomber jacket got dangerously close to touching Steve’s chest. "You think I don't know, Rogers?” “What? That I broke your nose?”“Cute, real cute." He inched even closer. "I'm talkin' about the real reason you ratted me out to Fury. The reason you sucker punched me at Stark’s. I know.”Steve didn’t budge. “You think I care?”“I know you do,” Brock said, licking his lips as the zipper made contact. “You’re trying to hide the fact that you’re a fuckin’ faggot, just like you try and hide the fact that your stepdad gets his rocks off kickin’ your ass. Nice burn, by the way. Looks fresh." Nobody else had noticed. Not Sam. Not Ezra. Not Scott. Not Bucky."I bet it hurts, huh, big guy?"The words knocked the wind out of Steve more than Brock's fists ever could; not because they were true, but because someone like Brock had seen the truth that Steve had been working so hard to hide. And it did hurt! Everything fucking hurt! And Steve didn’t know if it was the adrenaline or the pain of his fucking skin sloughing off, but suddenly he felt like he was going to pass out."So, what do ya think, Cap? Should I spread the word?” Leaning against the wall, Brock ran his hand over his jet-black hair. “Let people know you've got a thing for a whore like Bucky Barnes?""Shut the fuck up."Brock's eyes lit up like discovering Steve's weakness was his ultimate joy. "Oh my. Does the pretty boy know you're ashamed of him? Maybe Jack and I should clue him in. Remind him what happens to faggots when their pimps aren't around to protect them."How the fuck had Steve played basketball with this guy? Picked him up for parties? Floated down a slow-moving river with him in a motherfucking canoe? Taken him to see Radiohead? Stepping backward, Steve felt sick.
“Stop pretending and get real.”
“What the hell happened to you, Brock?” Steve asked, cursing himself for not seeing this sooner. “You didn't used to be like this." When Brock smiled, Steve could feel the malice."Well, Cap, you didn't use to fuck guys."* Steve was late. Roughly tugging his burgundy Henley over his wet hair, Steve winced as the fabric dragged across the damaged skin. He shouldn't have gone in the water; the chlorine had made everything ten times worse, and now, tiny blisters were forming on the underside of his wrist.“Steve?”Bucky’s voice. God, could he just drown in it? Spinning around, he was confronted by a red leather cuff. Not a smile. Not a dirty joke about Steve eating pineapple to make his come taste good. Not the first notes of a ridiculous song to start the day. No. There was only an incomplete circle and Bucky's monochromatic voice asking, "Can you do me a favor and snap this on my arm? I can never get this one fastened by myself."There were already cuffs and bracelets stacked in concentric rings on Bucky's left arm: silver buckles, rusted snaps, frayed edges, and much-loved leather, and the ninth ring, overly ripe with the beauty of Lucifer's pleasures, dangling in the space between them.Frank was standing across the room, packing the last of his things into his bag. He was looking at Steve out of the corner of his eye.It was 7:33 a.m. on Monday morning, and time lost all meaning when Steve committed the worst sin of all.He hesitated.
“Stop pretending and get real.”
“Don’t worry about it, Steve." Bucky jammed the red circle and the happiness it promised into the front pocket of his jeans. "I'll get Daisy to do it. I mean, there’s no reason to deviate from the norm, right?"Then Bucky turned his back and disappeared into a magical wardrobe where Steve wasn't welcome. And Steve, broken, bruised, and burned, realized that he was a failure, in every sense of the word. * Wake up late. Get your arm burned off. Go to school. Ignore your boyfriend. Jump into the pool. Suck. Piss off Fury. Argue with Brock. ‘Talk’ to boyfriend. Piss off boyfriend. Go to class. Piss of teacher. Go to second class. Piss off teacher. Go to third class. Steve stared at the macroeconomics test in front of him. There were four pages, and thirty minutes in, he’d barely made a dent in page one. It wasn’t that Steve didn’t know the answers, he just couldn’t pry them out of his mind. Tapping the tip of his pencil on the staple in the corner, he thought about the fucking raven tap, tap, tapping on Poe’s fucked-up door.Any second now, Mrs. Geffen was going to walk by with her ever-present can of Diet Coke, see that Steve was still on question number four, and get pissed at him too. It was only a matter of time.Scoffing, he started writing something that might pass for the right answer if Mrs. Geffen was feeling generous or, better yet, she assumed that Steve had aced the test like usual and didn’t bother to grade it. Steve Rogers. A+ student. No analysis required. He just had to get through the next three pages, snag some painkillers from someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions—Ezra—and figure out how to travel back in time and snap that cuff around Bucky’s arm. Finish test. Numb pain. Time travel.When the lunch bell rang, Steve had only made it to page two.Fail test. Flunk macroeconomics. Fuck things up even more.Abandoning the test, Steve took off running. Most of the AP classes were on the fourth floor—literally as far away from the cafeteria as physically possible—and getting through the crowded hallways and stairwells was going to be a nightmare. Yes, he knocked over a freshman or two by the library, but this was an emergency! He didn’t have time to worry about bookworms who didn’t understand the word move. Steve shoved his way through the double doors, narrowly avoided a run-in with the condiment stand as he scanned the cafeteria. And God, being a total cunt, snapped his vengeful fingers and turned everything to salt. Fitting for a former Catholic who’d recently discovered sodomy.Race down hall. Flatten five freshmen. Search for boyfriend. Find boyfriend smiling and laughing with Clint Barton. Fucking cry.Honestly, Steve didn't know what he'd been expecting. Of course, Bucky was sitting with Clint, Daisy, and Skinner at their usual table. Where else would he be? Waiting like a fucking doormat for Steve to serve up more bullshit promises? Bucky’s back was to the door, but Steve could tell by the gentle shake of his shoulders that he was laughing. In fact, all four of them were laughing because that’s what happy people do. They laugh. They smile. They respond with these funny little things called words.It took about five seconds for Clint to spot Steve standing next to the mustard like a fucking idiot and roughly two more for him to flip Steve off when Bucky turned to kiss Daisy’s cheek.Time travel, it seemed, had been a misguided fantasy. Just like everything else. Get a boyfriend. Lose a boyfriend.Out of nowhere, Tony hopped in front of Steve, blocking his view of Bucky’s blissful cast of misfit toys. “Hey there, Mr. Rogers,” he said, straightening Steve’s collar before undoing one of the buttons. “Do you need a ride back to your neighborhood? ‘Cause you're looking a little lost, big guy, and people are starting to stare.” “I bet it hurts, huh, big guy?” “I brought family-style sushi—fresh out of the ocean this morning—so you might as well come and eat a spicy tuna roll to boost your stamina. Pining burns a lot of calories, or so I’ve been told." Tony was wearing his gold glasses with tinted red lenses—he had 20/20 vision—his red-and-white Jordans, and a black shirt underneath a silver jacket. But the thing that really pushed it over the top was the cappuccino. There were a lot of things Steve could say right now—one being “go away”—but then he spotted the Daft Punk logo. “Hey, is that Bucky’s shirt?”“Yeah, he gave it to me right after I sucked his dick. A reward for a job well done.” Chuckling, Tony took a sip of his coffee, pushing for a reaction. And guess what? He was about to get one.Not only had Steve kissed that shirt, nibbling around the edges of the cotton to get to the boy underneath, but yesterday morning Bucky had used it to wipe Steve's come off his hand!“Oh my god, I’m fucking with you, Captain Crunch.” Tony was backpedalling—literally and figuratively—tipping his mug in the process. “Oh great, now look what you did! Your angst made me spill my cappuccino.”Hot tea. Boiling water. Cappuccino. Lava. Steve didn’t see the difference.“Seriously, Steve-o. Friend to friend, you’ve gotta get this jealous stalker thing under control or Ruby Rose is gonna drop your ass faster than I sucked her big dick." Tony rubbed at his jaw like a total asshole. "Hey, was your jaw this sore after you went down on your boy’s piano the first time? ‘Cause I feel like I have TMJ."Steve squeezed his eyes shut. One, so he didn’t strangle Tony, and two, because he remembered exactly how wide he'd opened his mouth for Bucky to fit. Steve also remembered how his cock had jumped in his pajama pants as soon as his jaw had started to ache. "Anyways,” Tony said, oblivious to Steve’s second mental breakdown in less than twenty-four hours, “one of the maids—Regina, I think, or maybe Pearl—found it in the smelly sex den after you and Buckyboo took off. And before you ask—because I know you will—she washed it. Twice.” Pushing his glasses on top of his head, Tony squinted at Steve. “Why does your face look like that?”“Like what?”“Like you need to take a shit.”Tony was too loud and too blunt, but if you got past the bravado, he was also right most of the time. Pretty much every muscle in Steve’s body was clenched, including his ass. Making a futile attempt to relax his eyebrows, his shoulders, his back, and his butt, Steve glanced over at Bucky, and—“Oh my God.”He was leaning across the table, looking at something on Clint's phone, and, holy shit, his t-shirt was riding up, and his jeans were slipping down, exposing his perfectly straight spine and the curve of—"Earth to Steve.”“What?”Ditching his cappuccino next to the ketchup, Tony hooked his arm around Steve's elbow, barely missing the burn. “You, my friend, are experiencing a serious malfunction. Bad mojo. Stalker juju. Jealous Voodoo.” Tony tugged so hard that they stumbled into Ainsley and her volleyball friends, who were just trying to get some fucking relish. "Come, broken buddy,” Tony said, ignoring the relish disaster, “let me heal you with sashimi and seaweed."As Tony pulled Steve toward their designated table, Steve felt his armpits getting wet, which was something else he didn’t need to deal with today. If he pitted out this shirt, he was screwed. There were a few extras t-shirts in his swim locker, but none of them had long sleeves, and— "Hi, Steve." It took second to register that Sharon was sitting in the spot next to Steve’s empty chair, smiling like she belonged there. Like she was still his girlfriend. Like Steve hadn’t treated her like shit. "Do you want half of my panini?" she asked, tapping his chair with her hand. Steve was speechless. He couldn’t believe that Peggy—or anybody else for that matter—hadn’t said anything to Sharon about the pancake breakfast. Sure, Steve had asked people to keep things on the down low, but this was verging on cruel. The proper reaction would be to feel sorry for her, but Steve felt nothing but disgust. Her bouncy, blonde ponytail pissed him off. Her lilac cardigan, with its stupid lace collar, pissed him off. And her lilac nails pissed him off even more. It didn’t matter that Steve was starving, he’d never eat half of Sharon's motherfucking panini!Steve was about to refuse Sharon’s sandwich—once and for all—when Tony stood up, took off his jacket, and shouted, “Attention!" before tossing it over the back of his chair. He was swimming in Bucky's tank top."The Great and Powerful Wizard of Oz—that’s me by the way—is switching up the seating chart. There's new blood in Emerald City. Four gorgeous and diverse newcomers who've earned their place in Oz by raging in the wilds of Wonderland."Tony slapped Sam’s back and ruffled Ezra’s hair at the same time, laughing as he said, "Would you look at that! I'm doing Alice in Wonderland/Wizard of Oz mashups now. Ruby-red slippers. Ruby-red queens. Ruby Rose. That's a lot of rubies to keep track of. But, c’mon, munchkins, you’ve got to admit they're strikingly similar! They both have chicks running away from their problems, characters with striped tights, and plots about peddling drugs to children!”“Sit down, man.” That was Sam, but he didn’t stop eating his sushi. And Tony didn’t sit back down.Ruffling Scott’s hair next, Tony doubled his volume. “In case you didn’t see it trending on Twitter, Sugar Ray Steve went a little overboard when he broke Brock's face. That’s why Mr. Rumlow and his fellow Italian stallions have chosen to break bread elsewhere. But good news! That means there’s room to spare in the Emerald Palace!” Pointing at the three empty chairs at the end of the table, Tony said, “Time for musical chairs. Somebody cue up some Billy Idol, but not ‘White Wedding.’ We don’t believe in those around here."Steve looked at his empty chair, then across the room at Bucky. Tony was going to do something stupid, and Steve, pissed at the color lilac and fucking paninis, couldn’t handle it.Ever since ninth grade, there’d been an expectation as to who sat where. An order to things. A designated spot. Steve’s friends had always claimed the tables by the windows, and with only minor adjustments, they’d always sat in the same seats. Sam sat next to the window opposite Steve, and from Sam’s left it went Tony, Ezra, Scott, and Bruce, with Jack at the end. Then Brock, Frank, Rhodey, Steve’s girlfriend, and Steve rounded out the other side. Peggy and her friends sat at the table behind Sam, claiming that it was “more dignified.” One of the girls would pull up a chair once in a while—or a random girlfriend would earn a spot—but there’d been no permanent changes. Steve’s chair had always been Steve’s chair, like someone had slapped name tags on the seats before they’d arrived.When you build a box of your own design, then climb inside of your own free will, it’s your own damn fault.Suddenly Tony was sliding Rhodey’s tray down the end. “Come on down, James,” he said, pulling out a chair. “The price is right, and you’ve won the special showcase. Look! It’s Jack's chair and a jet ski!” “Really?” Rhodey asked as his plate of sushi moved to its new seat without him. “This is what you’re doing today?”There was no answer, and Tony, breezing past Steve, targeted Sharon next. “Sharon, Sharon, Sharon,” he said, patting her stupid lilac shoulders. “I’m moving you and your lovesick panini because the romance is dead, cold, embalmed, cremated, and buried. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but teenage boys can be fickle with their pickle, and Steve-o here is looking for something with a little more salt.” Tony picked up her tray. “But fear not, bearded lady, I'm upgrading you to a table that’s chock full of estrogen and beautiful breasts!" Tony blew a kiss toward Peggy at the next table."You're moving back in with the ladies, which, let’s be honest, is where you should’ve stayed. Seriously, Sharon, why the hell would you sit here? Steve dumped you over a week ago.”“Tony!” Peggy was on her feet immediately. “Stop being such an insensitive ass!” It was wildly inappropriate to smile, but Steve couldn’t help it. When a relationship falls apart, it’s easy to forget about the good things, but Steve had never forgotten why Peggy held a special place in his heart. Pointing a stern finger at Tony, Peggy said, "You need to apologize," before swinging her entire arm in Steve’s direction. "You too, Steven."Then he did smile, his panini rage settling to something manageable, because Peggy Carter was the one person on the planet who was allowed to call him Steven.
"You're impossible, Steven," Peggy said, trying and failing to get her winter scarf out of his hands. Unfortunately for her, Steve could skate faster than she could. And, if he was being honest, he liked it when she got a little bit mad. It made her cheeks turn pink.
Steve dug the toe of his skate into the ice, smiling back at her before taking off around the rink. "If you catch me, I might give it back. But no promises."
"Oh, I'll catch you all right!" Laughing, she cut diagonally across the ice. "And when I do, you're in big trouble, Steven Grant Rogers!"
“It’s fine, Peggy.” Standing up, Sharon pushed the ‘girlfriend’ chair into Steve’s hip. “I’d rather sit with you and Pepper anyway.” Then she squinted at Steve like he’d betrayed her. Like she really believed that they'd shared some kind of deep, romantic connection. It was bullshit.They’d never ice skated in Central Park on Valentine's Day! They'd never searched for rare books in the Village or gotten caught in a rainstorm, holding hands as they'd run through the flooded streets. He’d never met Sharon’s parents or written her a poem, and the only gift she’d ever given him had been a set of cufflinks. Cufflinks! There was no way he was letting Sharon paint him as the asshole because if he’d learned anything over the course of this fucked-up day, it was that Brock Rumlow knew more about Steve’s life than a girl who’d put Steve's dick in her mouth!“Delightful,” Tony said, stepping between them before Steve had the chance to say something he wouldn’t regret.
“Stop pretending and get real.”
Then, shooing Sharon away like a fly on shit, Tony said, "C'mon, Captain Crabby," and grabbed Steve's burnt wrist.From there, it was only pain.Steve was going to puke. He was going to pass out. He was going to shatter into a thousand pieces in front of everybody."Turn that frown upside down,” Tony said from somewhere far away. “I'm letting you keep your precious window seat. First class. Hot flight attendants. Salted nuts."When Tony pushed Steve into his chair, he bit his tongue, trying not to scream for the second time today.It was almost impossible. "Sammy Boy, give this man some sushi! He looks like he could use some raw fish." Laughing, Tony bent over and whispered, "Or not," directly into Steve’s ear.Twelve feet, six feet, water or dirt, the forest of human souls wasn't picky.Kissing the top of Steve’s head, Tony said, "Anyhoo, munchkin. Eat, drink, and be merry. I've got this handled."There was blood in Steve's mouth—hot and metallic—and if he spit on the window, it would be as red as a tomato, fresh from his mother’s garden."Man, what is up with you?" Sam. Being nice. Looking out for Steve when he didn't deserve it. "He's probably still hungover." Ezra. Biting a biscotti. "I think I'm still hungover, bro. But from the E, not the booze. I'm, like, not right in the head." Scott. Being Scott.Steve squeezed his temples, debating whether he should sleep in his truck tonight or drive full speed into the river."Well, whatever it is," Sam said, pushing his tray in Steve’s direction, "you'd better figure it out before Tony comes back.""Comes back from where?"In unison, Sam, Ezra, and Scott pointed toward the northeast corner, where—Oh God. Tony was tickling Bucky's armpits—fucking tickling him—and then, like the tickling wasn’t bad enough already, he pointed at Steve, pointed at the empty seats, and spun around to show Bucky his own damn shirt!"What the hell is he doing?" Sam didn’t mince words. "What you should be doing, man." People break things. It’s just a fact of life. Clocks. Phone screens. Ceramic bowls. Hearts. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you can reassemble the pieces with Scotch Tape or Gorilla Glue, but if Tony brought Bucky over here now, there’d be no fixing it. Steve could spend hours—or even days—gluing the pieces back together, but in the end, he’d still have nothing but a pile of rubble. But before Steve could do anything to stop him, Tony had led four souls across the cafeteria, the Brain, the Heart, the Jester, and the Muse arriving at the foot of the table with their trays and expectations.“Here we are, shiny happy people." Tony flicked one of Daisy’s pigtails and made it swoosh through the air. "It’s been a long, difficult trip down the yellow brick road— and I'm sure everybody's sleepy after skipping through those poppies—so go ahead, pop a squat.”Suddenly there were voices everywhere, every word, every syllable, intensifying the pain in Steve’s wrist. Scott said, “Nice to officially meet you,” and shook Daisy’s hand across the table. Rhodey bitched about sliding down another chair so Bruce could sit next to Skinner. Ezra laughed as he pushed the sushi tray toward Skinner, the plate scraping the table like a mug on fucking marble. And through it all, Bucky just stood there, staring at Steve with a blank expression. No toothy smile. No bubblegum pop. His silence feeding Steve’s fear that their storybook romance was already dead.Musical chairs. That’s what Tony had called it. Skinner sitting in Jack’s old seat, talking to Bruce like they’d never had a falling out. Daisy’s lighter energy filtering into Brock’s chair as she opened a He-Man lunchbox and tossed a Twinkie to Scott.But there were two left standing. One in desperate need of reassurance and love, and the other looking like he wanted to put Steve’s head into a vice and crank it down until his skull cracked.Without warning, Tony yelled, "Sid Vicious!" like Clint was still on the other side of the room instead of standing two feet away. "I know you can’t be too far from your Nancy without going into serious withdrawal, so this spot's for you.” He pulled out Frank’s chair, which was one spot away from Steve. “It’s gonna be fun. You and Steve-o can make a Bucky sandwich, heavy on the mayo."Clint stared at Steve. Steve stared at Clint. And the pause before anything happened gave Steve plenty of time to think about condiments.After a fucking lifetime, Clint spun Rhodey’s old chair around and said, “Fuck you, Stark,” before sitting on it backwards. It was an aggressive move, verging on hostile, but Steve was too distracted by the intricate braid in Clint’s hair to worry about Tony’s safety.Had Bucky done that? Was one of his secret talents braiding hair? And, Jesus fucking Christ, why the hell did Clint have a hearing aid? “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Clint said. Then, leaning across the empty chair, he whispered, "You and I are gonna have a little chat after school. Meet me on the roof or I'll hunt your ass down and put an arrow through your nutsack. Understand?"There was no smile. No “ha, ha, just kidding.” Which, sure, why not? What was one more threat in a day overflowing with violence? Nothing. In fact, a hole in his nuts wasn't the real threat. It was just a diversion. The real threat was when Clint smiled up at Bucky like he hadn't just specified how he’d destroy Steve's balls. “Stop pretending and get real.” One chair left. Tony threw his arm around Bucky's waist, touching his bare skin when he said, “And last, but certainly not least...” If this got around school before Steve figured shit out.If it got back to Alexander!They weren’t ready. Steve wasn’t ready!“This spot's for you, Richard Simmons," Tony said, yanking out the ‘girlfriend’ chair. "Steve Rogers, meet Bucky Barnes. Bucky Barnes, meet Steve Rogers. You both like cocktail weenies, Twinkies with extra cream—I see those, Daisy—and Harry Styles cosplay.”Steve’s fingers were tingling, and everything felt too big...too open...too sharp...“Tada!" Tony shoved Bucky toward the chair. "We are united! Wonderland and Oz have smashed magic mushrooms and poppies, birthing something on par with Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas . So let’s all get down on some sushi and feed drugs to kids!"It should be easy. Easy like Sunday morning. Easy like the “YMCA.” Easy like kissing Bucky’s lips when they’d made love.But Bucky just stood there. Waiting. And Steve couldn’t open his fucking mouth because he was lost in an image of boiling hot water splashing across Bucky’s stomach."Man, it's nice to have you here," Sam said because he was a better person than Steve.Everyone was staring, waiting for Steve to do something. To say something.But the kettle on the stove was about to whistle.The red cuff was snapped just below Bucky's bicep, squeezing the muscle as he held up his tray. And, Jesus, it fucking killed Steve that Bucky would always associate that piece of leather with his hesitation. “I get it, Steve,” Bucky said, taking a step backward. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”No. This was wrong. Steve was supposed to buy Bucky a suit! He was supposed to spend an hour in the flower shop picking out a boutonniére with lilies and tiny succulents! They were supposed to share their secrets and eradicate the fucking facade! They were supposed to fall in love!Steve opened his mouth, but nothing came out.“You've gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Clint said , standing up and clenching his fists. He was going to punch Steve in the face with all those rings—one, two, three, four, five—just like he'd punched Brock. And you know what? Steve fucking deserved it. “I’m just gonna go.” Bucky took another unbearable step backward.Too fast. Daisy's hand shot out, wrapping around Bucky’s leather-covered wrist as she whispered, “Oh, honey.” “Steve, c’mon,” Sam said, kicking Steve’s foot. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” And then there was Tony, leaning across the table to touch Steve's hand in a rare moment of complete sincerity. “Steve, snap out of it.” Too fast!Skinner's laptop slammed shut. Daisy’s lunchbox was closed. Bucky took another step away.“Stop!”Steve heard himself yell, but he was having trouble connecting the word to his body. Everyone was frozen in place, and the only thing he could hear was the sound of Clint’s knuckles cracking. They sounded like popcorn.“Please, just—” He tried to make Bucky understand with his eyes, to tell him that everything would be okay if they could just climb into their space helmet where everything was quiet, where they could be alone. “This is better than a Telenovela,” Ezra said, biscotti still in place. Steve wanted to shove it into his eye socket.Everyone was being cool, and Steve was fucking it up by having a full-fledged panic attack. Pulling in the deepest breath he could, he somehow managed to say, "Yes."“‘Yes’ what?” The skull on Clint’s shirt was staring at Steve, judging him for shitting on everything he’d ever wanted.Digging his fingernails into the crescent moons, Steve tried to hold back the tears, the screams, and the pain of not wanting to deal with anything anymore. “Yes,” he said, carving as deep as he could, “I want you here.”Clint pressed his knuckles together. “You want who here?” That’s when it clicked. The tone of Clint’s voice, the way Bucky was folding in on himself behind Clint's heaving shoulders, the clink of the rings.What Bucky had told Steve was true. Clint loved him, and Steve was falling pitifully short of that standard. Steve said, “I want Bucky here,” as fast as he could. “I want Bucky to sit here.”“Thank fucking god!" Tony shoved a spicy tuna roll into his mouth, not bothering to swallow before he said, "Steve-o, I swear, after you eat this sushi, you need to down a bunch of laxatives and shit out that drama queen. Drop her right in the bowl. Christ, I should be calling you Liberace, not Bucky.” Clint glanced at Bucky, waiting a beat before he sat back down. And Tony, ever the consummate host, whipped out his chopsticks and stuck a California roll in Clint’s face.“Have some sushi, Mr. Vicious. It’s delicious. My sushi chef is in-house every weekend. Flies in from Japan in a tuna-shaped plane. Oh, and by the way, you're really living up to your name. Have you ever considered a career in cage fighting? I could sponsor you."Without a word, Clint plucked the California roll out of the chopsticks and shoved it into his mouth.But Bucky didn’t move. Clint might have accepted Tony’s seafood peace offering, Daisy might have laughed when Scott sucked the cream out of the Twinkie, and Skinner might have delved into deep conversation with the “Science Bros,” but the person who mattered most was staring at his french fries as he balanced his tray. When Steve reached out to touch the empty seat, he tried to believe that glue and tape could make a difference. “Please, Bucky. Sit down.”“I shouldn’t have come over.”“That’s not true. It’s just…” Steve looked at the rips in Bucky’s jeans, at the hand-sewn stitches holding everything together, and knew that words would never be enough. “I don’t know how to—”The bell rang, cutting Steve off in every sense of the word. Everybody jumped to their feet, abandoning their paninis, spicy tuna rolls, and Twinkies to head for the door. But not Bucky. And not Steve. Even though Steve lowered his eyes to look at Bucky’s black-and-white shoes, he could feel the backward glances from Daisy, Skinner, and Clint as they slowly walked away. He could feel the arrow in his nuts already. “I’m sorry, Buck.” Steve scooched out his chair just enough to touch Bucky’s hand-sewn knee. “I’ll do better, I swear.”But there were no cherished button eyes, cozy Muppet fur, or neon rings circling in the air like hypnotic jellyfish. Every ounce of green had retracted into the jungle because Steve's hand on Bucky’s knee was nothing but another act of cowardice. Steve knew it, and it was obvious by the way Bucky was blankly staring out the window that he knew it too.Bucky had walked over here in front of everyone, head held high, and Steve was only capable of touching him when no one else could see."So, suits tomorrow?” Steve asked, breaking contact because he was pathetic.When Bucky smiled, his lips didn't part to reveal the charming angle of his teeth. Instead, they were tight and cold, their stillness worse than bubbling skin.With one last sliver of desperation, Steve said, “Right after school. We can grab some food on the way.”"Sure," Bucky said without inflection, without emotion, and without the slightest hint of bubblegum.It was Monday morning, and the clock on the wall read 11:03 a.m. when Bucky turned his back on Steve for the second time. And Steve, frozen solid at the bottom of the pit, couldn't unhinge his jaw to call out his name.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Clint's opinion on Steve Rogers was shifting so fast that he couldn't keep up. When Rogers had come begging about the swim team, Clint’s first instinct had been to build a protective wall around Bucky and file a restraining order. Rich assholes, regardless of their motives, must stay at least 500 feet away. No exceptions. But during the short chunk of time between the double punch at Stark’s and the clusterfuck at lunch, Clint’s hope that Steve could be Bucky's first win in the love department had soared. For fuck’s sake, he'd given Bucky lube! But after the bullshit at lunch, he was nothing but pissed.Digging around in the pocket of his leather vest for his lighter, Clint pulled the freshly rolled joint off his ear and stuck it between his lips. If he was gonna set Rogers straight without busting the guy’s teeth, firing up was essential. In one smooth motion, he flicked open the Zippo and lit the end, taking a nice, long drag before snapping it back shut. Then, because this was going to be a Guantanamo-style interrogation, Clint grabbed the mildewed captain’s chair from behind the chimney and tossed it in front of Bucky’s green plastic chair. He was ready. The scene was set. But Steve Rogers and his indecisive bullshit were nowhere to be found.It doesn't get more clear than “meet me on the roof after school.” It was a basic instruction. Easily understandable, even for a stupid jock. Scoffing, Clint rolled his eyes toward the ladder. Pissed or not, he couldn’t call Steve dumb. The guy had been hanging out with Stark, Banner, and Skinner at the top of the honor roll since freshman year. But book-smarts didn’t matter. If Steve didn’t climb up that ladder in the next five minutes, Clint was gonna make good on that threat to annihilate his nuts. He'd already been waiting ten.Lunch. What a shitshow. Stark had been shockingly cool, and so had the rest of them. But Steve? To put it bluntly, Clint would do anything to take back that watermelon-flavored lube.“Fuck him,” Clint said, running his hand over his hair as he sat down in Bucky’s plastic chair. Nat had braided it last night when she’d come over for dinner, which was… Taking another drag, Clint blew out the smoke as slowly as possible before settling on new. So new, in fact, that he wasn’t gonna think about it right now.Back to lunch. Or, more specifically, after lunch. He and Daisy had waited outside the cafeteria so they could talk Bucky down, hug him, or defend his fucking honor when he walked through the door, but the second Bucky had seen them, he’d said, “Don’t,” before they’d done a damn thing. Bucky shutting Clint out wasn’t a surprise. When shit went wrong, it usually took him a while to come around. Snacks. A good, solid hug. Maybe a stupid joke about Taco Bell farts. But this shit with Steve was more than a cold can of Coke and a Three Musketeers could cure. Way more.When Bucky had stormed out of the cafeteria, the look on his face had been…Grinding the bottom of his boot on the tar, Clint closed his eyes. He knew that face. Intimately. The last time he’d seen it, Bucky had been straddling Clint’s hips with their lips frozen half an inch apart. The last time he’d seen it, he’d just told Bucky to stop. Stop making me feel good. Stop making me laugh. And, most of all, stop seeing me as somebody to love. “Fucking hell.” Clint tipped the chair back on two legs, daring the plastic to give out as he took another drag. This kind of shit was why Clint needed to get high. This. Right. Here. He’d never forgiven himself for putting that look on Bucky’s face, and he never would. And there was no way in hell he was just gonna sit back and let Steve Rogers do the same damn thing!Actually, fuck that! What Steve was doing was worse! He'd slept with Bucky, for Christ’s sake! Stuck his dick in him, then treated him like a piece of dirty toilet paper stuck to the bottom of his $300 shoe! At least Clint had given a shit when he'd put that look on Bucky’s face! He still gave a shit! Every time he passed a stop sign, he pictured Bucky’s mouth shifting into a frown. Every time somebody said the word stop , he remembered the tears forming in the corners of Bucky’s eyes. The word fucking haunted him! And if Clint found out that Rogers had used Bucky for kicks, he was gonna use more than one arrow to decimate Steve’s nuts! He was gonna use the entire quiver! And everyone knew that Clint never missed.Letting the chair drop onto all fours, he tried to remember if there was any Superman ice cream left in his freezer. Not that it mattered. Bucky was on total lockdown in his dad's office, no ice cream allowed. And for what? Getting fucked by a dumb jock who’d flat-out ignored him when he’d gotten in front of his rich friends? Not gonna fly.The situation was clear: Clint was pissed, Daisy was pissed, Skinner was pissed, Nat was pissed, and, in a shocking turn of events, Stark and Wilson were pissed (score one for those guys). Oh, and Bucky’s ‘boyfriend’ was a fucking prick.Clint took another hit as he stared at the fire escape on the ten-story building above the bakery, holding it in his lungs until it burned. Steve had one more minute to show before Clint bailed. Just one. The only reason he’d waited this long was because Bucky fucking deserved Prince Charming. He deserved a white picket fence, free-range chickens, home-grown vegetables, and an old horse named Nite Owl. Okay, no. That was insane. Bucky would absolutely hate living on a farm! Even if he had a husband who treated him like gold, he’d bitch about getting dirt under his nails, having to wake up at the crack of dawn to feed the chickens, and the ever-present aroma of cow shit. Clint laughed, but not because he was imagining Bucky chasing smelly cows around a muddy pasture. No, he laughed so he didn’t cry. Not a day went by that Clint didn’t wish he could've given Bucky what he’d wanted. What he deserved. But he hadn’t—he couldn’t—and he’d loved him too much to let it continue.That was why he was sitting on the roof without Bucky, waiting for second-rate Prince Charming to show up. Seriously, if Steve Rogers whipped out his wallet and bought Bucky a flock of free-range chickens, he’d probably take them all back the next day. You like these chickens, Bucky? Watch me cut their heads off and deep fry them in oil.When the ladder started shaking in its brackets, Clint half expected it to be Nat—or Bucky after a successful jailbreak—but no dice. It was just the dumb jock who was gonna whip out a machete and slaughter Bucky’s chickens."About fucking time, asshole.” Clint planted his boots as Rogers and his stupid hair climbed onto the roof. “I figured you weren't gonna show since bailing on people seems to be your thing."Steve didn't answer. He didn’t react. And there was none of the nose-shattering intensity from Stark’s party. There was only a weepy-looking guy sinking into the interrogation chair like Clint hadn't just insulted his character. And like that wasn’t strange enough already, the first words out of Steve’s mouth were, “I fucked up.”Clint blinked. Then he took a nice, long hit because this was not what he’d been expecting. Not at all. Instead of his usual “I’m the shit” jock persona, Steve had this whole emo thing going on. Red-rimmed eyes. Quivering bottom lip. A general aura of sadness and despair. And, like it or not, it was really hard to point an arrow at a guy who looked like he was about to cry.But Clint was here to defend Bucky's honor, not give Steve a box of fucking kleenex. So he leaned back—Godfather style—and said, "Damn right, you fucked up!"That ‘slightly’ judgmental sentence was all it took for Steve to drop his head into his hands and start crying for real.“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Clint muttered,” because this shit was so fucking familiar that it hurt. Apparently, it was Clint’s job to drive his ice cream truck up and down the halls of Eaton, handing out ice cream cones to all the sad, gay boys.Leaning forward, Clint got out his scoop. Sure, he was pissed, but the dude was fucking crying.“Wanna hit?” he asked, starting off nice and easy.“No.” Steve wiped a shocking amount of snot onto the collar of his shirt. "But thanks.”"Wanna hug?"Steve’s entire forehead squished together, including the nasty scab. "You called me an asshole two seconds ago.""Yeah, ‘cause two seconds ago, I thought you were an asshole! Now I think you're a sad asshole. There's a big difference." The dejected look on Steve's face was concerning to say the least, so Clint dove right in, throwing scoops and scoops of Rocky Road at the situation. "What do you mean you fucked up?” he asked, touching Steve’s knee like they’d been best buddies since kindergarten.It took a minute for Steve to start talking, but once he did, he didn't stop. “I just want to travel back in time and start this day again,” he said, stumbling over his words. “I've done everything wrong, and I'm so fucking pissed that I wrote that research paper on Dante last year because now it's just symbolism, symbolism, symbolism, hell, hell, hell, and it never fucking stops! Have you read the Divine Comedy?”Clint wasn’t sure if he was supposed to answer.“Well, don’t! It will fuck with your head in ways I can’t even begin to explain! And that’s the fucking problem. I can’t explain. Whenever I open my mouth, nothing but overly dramatic bullshit spews out. And now, Bucky’s fucking furious with me, and I don’t know how to fix it! And even if I did know what to say—which I don’t—I can’t see him! I can't call him! And—" Steve was gasping for air, and Clint was getting really fucking concerned. "I just want to tell Bucky that I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry! I should have told him about all the awful shit that happened, but I didn’t have time, and then I panicked. I had a fucking panic attack at lunch, and I just—”“Hey,” Clint said, squeezing both of Steve’s knees because the dude was getting paler by the second. “Slow down, okay? I'm gonna spit some hardcore truth at you, and if you pass out, you're gonna miss it.” Clint paused, making sure that Rogers was dragging in some oxygen before he said, “I had every intention of kicking your ass when you got up here, but, dude, this is not what I thought it was.”"What did you think it was?”“Um...you fucking my best friend, then ditching him like a total prick.” “God, no!" Steve grabbed Clint’s elbow, shaking it so hard that the joint almost fell out of his hand. "Is that what Bucky thinks? Oh my God! I'd never do something like that!"Wrestling his arm back, Clint couldn’t help but think of Sharon Carter when he asked, "Are you sure? Because Bucky couldn't handle that. Not after what I—"Clint stopped because it was the pot calling the kettle black. Literally. He was the pot, Steve was the kettle, and Bucky was the one who got burned in the end. Putting out his joint on the bottom of his boot, Clint took a deep breath. It didn’t matter if he was a hypocrite. It needed to be said.“Not after what I did to him.”Clint expected a reaction. A gasp. A puzzled shake of the head. Something. But what he didn’t expect was for Steve to say, “Bucky told me," like it was old news. Quite frankly, it was bullshit.Other than ‘joking around,’ he and Bucky had never talked about it. Not once! And now, Bucky was bad-mouthing him to a dumb, emo jock? Fuck that! “Oh really? What exactly did he tell you? That I’m an asshole too?”“No,” Steve said, leaning closer as he looked directly into Clint’s eyes. “He told me something else.”It felt like Steve had punched him in the gut, breaking Clint’s stomach in half instead of shattering his nose.Bucky had never said it out loud, but Clint knew. He fucking knew!The night it had happened, Bucky had moved differently, kissing Clint’s neck like he’d been the endgame, not just a warm body to pass the time with on a lame Saturday night. And Clint had known. When Bucky had unbuttoned Clint's shirt, opening it slowly and gently tugging on his nipple rings with his teeth, Clint had known. When Bucky had taken his time sucking Clint off, swallowing him deeper than ever before, he'd known. And you bet your ass that when Bucky had climbed him like a tree, smiling before he'd leaned in for that kiss, Clint had fucking known! Their lips hovering together as they'd shared the same air, Clint had felt the love in Bucky's touch.That's why he'd told him to stop.Straightening his shoulders, Clint wiped at the corners of his eyes and handed himself a double scoop of Rocky Road. "I’m not gonna let you use him, Steve. After what I did, you can’t treat—”“Stop,” Steve said, flipping the script. “I'm a mess right now, but even I can see that he's lucky to have you.”That’s when Clint noticed that Steve was staring deep into his soul like they’d just bonded over treating Bucky like shit. It was weird, but something in Rogers’ eyes said that slipping that lube into Bucky’s pocket might not have been the second biggest mistake of his life.Suddenly the ladder rattled again, and Sam Wilson climbed over the edge like The Sanctuary had free tacos and an open bar.It was exactly what Clint didn't need. Here he was, getting deep and emotional with Bucky’s new boyfriend, and now, he was gonna have an audience. Punks had a rule about crying. Don’t do it. You could sneer, swear, shout, or slam full force into your best friend in a mosh pit, but you couldn’t fucking cry. Did Johnny Rotten ever get caught acting all emo with an overgrown jock on a New York City rooftop? No, he fucking didn’t. "I didn't invite you up here, Antonio Banderas,” Clint said, removing his hands from Steve’s knees, “so take your Brad Pitt-loving fangs back to the ground floor. This doesn’t involve you." The sneer Clint sent across the roof clearly said, “Kiss off,” but it had no effect. Sam stomped right over, practically breathing down Clint’s neck when he said, “Listen, man, I saw Steve come up here, and when he didn’t come back down, I got worried. And from the looks of it, rightfully so.” He pointed at Clint like he was the bad guy. "What did you do to make him cry?""I didn't make him cry!"Destroying his sleeve with another round of snot, Steve said, “It’s true. I made myself cry. Then I made Clint cry."There was no denying it. When he’d wiped at his eyes, Clint’s fingers had turned black from the goopy, black eyeliner. "Whatever," he said, pulling out his Zippo again. "You're already up here, so why don’t you just go ahead and hop right into our dysfunctional therapy session. There's another chair behind the air conditioner."Sam did as he was told, dragging the rusty metal chair that Clint had stolen from the janitor’s office into the fray. It was actually pretty funny. Three dudes sitting around in a circle, being deep and emotional on a fucking roof. But after a few minutes of silence, it was just awkward.“Fine, I’ll start," Clint said, flicking his lighter open and closed. "We’ve already established that shit went down, Steve’s freaking out, and he fucked up with Bucky. But we hadn’t gotten to the specifics yet.”Giving the lighter a few more flicks, Clint intentionally left out a huge chunk of the story. You know, the part where he broke his best friend’s—“Stop!” Steve snatched the Zippo out of Clint's hand. “That’s fucking annoying!” Um, okay. What the fuck?Sam sighed, completely ignoring the fact that ‘Prince Charming’ had just lost his shit over a lighter. “I’m worried about you, Steve. You were weird at practice, and lunch was..." He sighed again. "Man, I don’t even know what lunch was. Are you—”“Are you regretting Bucky?” Clint asked, getting right to the fucking point. Sure, he and Rogers had shed a few tears, but this shit wasn’t adding up. The lighter disappeared into Steve's back pocket—Really?—as he shifted his eyes back and forth between Clint and Sam. “No,” he said, pausing just long enough to swallow. “I’m regretting everything else.”Clint wanted his Zippo back. Actually, he wanted to tackle Steve and take it back by force, but Sam was giving him a look that practically screamed, “I need backup, man! Let that Zippo shit go!” It was hard, verging on impossible, but Clint kept himself in check as Sam asked, "What do you regret?" in the most soothing voice imaginable. Seriously, he could lull a baby to sleep with that tone.“I regret that my mom’s dead!”Or not.Steve’s hands started to shake, and if Clint had thought he’d been talking fast before, he’d been dead wrong.“I regret that everything in my life had been a Goddamn lie since she took her last breath! I regret that I’m stuck in a glass and steel box with a man whose only use for me is fake family-friendly press a few times a year!” When Steve squeezed the armrests, Clint could hear the wood creaking from the pressure. “I regret that I’ve stopped myself from bashing in that bastard’s skull when he's slapped me, kicked me, shoved me, and used my fucking face as a punching bag for the past six years! And right now, you better believe that I regret not throwing that kettle of boiling hot water in his face after he burned me this morning! I’ve got fucking blisters on my—”“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Clint said because shit just got extra real. “Who burned you?”“Like you don’t already know?" Steve stood up and kicked over the chair, jerking up his sleeve. Fucking hell, his entire wrist was bright red! "Give me a fucking break, Clint! Everybody knows!”That wasn’t exactly true. Bucky had been hush-hush about whatever had gone down with Steve’s face last week, and Nat had only mentioned that Steve had a shitty stepfather. But this? This was too much.Suddenly Sam was on his feet too, cringing as he grabbed Steve's hand. “How did I not see this?” He twisted Steve’s arm to get a better look. “You were standing right next to me at practice this morning!”Ripping his hand free, Steve backed himself up against the air conditioner. “Oh, I don’t know, Sam. Maybe you didn’t notice because you were too distracted by the black bruise on my ribs? It’s practically rotting. Or perhaps the disgusting scab on my forehead was sucking up all of your attention?" Steve yanked up his shirt, spinning around and slamming his fist against the metal. "Is the bruise on my back still there? That was a good one, wasn’t it, Sam? Nice and purple. I mean, with all that carnage, why the fuck would you to notice one tiny little burn?"It wasn’t tiny. It looked like he needed to go to the hospital."Or maybe you were distracted by my dismal performance at practice.” Steve was getting louder with every word. “That I was ‘acting weird,’ as you so succinctly put it. I mean, you're right. There's no excuse for being off my game. It shouldn't matter that Alexander attacked me because I’m not taking Sharon to the dance. I should always swim the fastest, no matter what!"Steve was migrating, pushing them backward with his body language. But one glance was all it took for Sam and Clint to silently agree to keep him contained."Oh, and don’t forget that Brock threatened me after practice. That was a nice little addition to my morning. But even better was when he threatened Bucky. That was fucking spectacular! So you tell me, Clint, what the fuck was I supposed to do when Tony brought you guys over at lunch? Kiss Bucky and announce that I’m fucking gay in front of everybody? You really think that wouldn’t get back to Alexander?"Spreading his arms like he was herding a spooked horse, Sam said, "C'mon, man. Take a breath.""I regret all of it!" Steve was screaming at this point, nostrils flaring, and every forward step pushed all three of them closer to the edge. "Do you hear me? I regret all of it because everything fucking sucks!” Following Sam's lead, Clint stretched out his arms and made some useless shushing sounds. Steve was pressed up against his chest, opening and closing his fists, and Clint had no idea what he was supposed to do if Steve decided to run him over. He knew what he could do, but ice cream was his preferred method of de-escalation. Want some vanilla? Coming right up. A scoop of strawberry? No problem. But what the fuck do you serve a guy who’s having a nervous breakdown on the roof of a four-story building? Butter pecan? “Steve, shh,” Sam said, inexplicably imitating Clint's shushing noises. And suddenly they were in an AU version of The Horse Whisperer. Steve was the horse, Bucky was Scar Jo, and Sam and Clint were Robert Redford. Horse whispering like crazy, Sam said, “Shh, Steve. Shh. I’m glad you told us, and we're gonna help, okay?” Herding him backward, Sam managed to get Steve all the way back to the air conditioner. “So let's just sit down, take a few breaths, and talk this thing through.”Steve did not sit down. In fact, he went right ahead and slammed the back of his head against the metal, scaring off every pigeon on the Upper East Side. It was so fucking familiar, and as Clint watched the birds fly up into the sky, he tried not to think about how many times he’d watched Bucky do the same damn thing.Trying to sound as soothing as Sam, he said, “Steve, if Bucky knew what was going on, he wouldn’t be mad at you. I promise, he's not like that. You’ve just gotta tell him what’s going on.”"How? I can't see him. I can’t call him. I can’t text him. I can't do anything to fix anything! Just because I’ve fucking ‘found myself’ doesn’t mean that I can suddenly do whatever I want!”When Steve hit his head again, Clint was tempted to slide his hands behind his neck to cushion the blow, just like he'd always done with Bucky.“I want to tell Alexander to go fuck himself! I want to get Brock kicked out of this school. I want to charge into Mr. Barnes’ office and give Bucky the biggest hug, holding him and telling him I’m sorry until he believes me. And, dammit, I want to kiss Bucky in the middle of the cafeteria—in front of the whole fucking world—because he’s the first thing that’s made me feel real in years. The first person who’s made me feel a sliver of hope. But I fucking can’t!”Superman. Strawberry. Butter pecan. It didn't matter. When a person was suffering this much, you cushioned the blow. Cautiously reaching behind Steve’s back, Clint moved him away from the metal. Then, in an epic feat of unexpected teamwork, Sam and Clint managed to get Bucky’s broken boyfriend back into the chair. Sam sat down. Clint sat down. Steve continued to hyperventilate. And Clint needed to come up with a fucking a plan.Over the summer, when Daisy had freaked out after losing her phone at the DIY Art Fair, Clint had made a plan to retrace her steps. Not even 10 minutes later, they'd found it at a glass blowing booth. Problem solved. When Clint's mom had freaked out after Lucky had swallowed a chicken bone from KFC, Clint’s plan had gotten them to the vet in less than 30 minutes. Problem solved. And when Bucky had freaked out on the 4th of July because Skinner had accidentally lit a bush on fire with a Roman candle, Clint had made an on-the-fly plan to put out the flames with water from the cooler. Problem solved.“Okay,” Clint said, suddenly confident in his plan-making abilities. “We need a plan."Shockingly, Sam and Steve both swiveled their heads in his direction like they were awaiting instructions. But there was a problem: Clint hadn't come up with a plan yet. He couldn't exactly dump a cooler full of ice water on Steve's head!"We're listening," Sam said, raising an eyebrow. And Steve, because he was still hyperventilating, said nothing.Clint took a minute to think, to formulate. “Okay, I've got it," he said, pulling out his phone and shoving it into Steve’s hand. "Put in your number, and I'll get Nat to let you text Bucky on her phone tonight. I'll message you when I have a specific time. Will that work?”Steve didn't answer, but since he typed in his number, Clint figured the plan was a go."You have Nat's number, right?"Nodding, Steve handed the phone back before saying one of the weirdest things Clint had ever heard.“I wrote him a poem."“What?” Ice cream man or not, Clint couldn’t even pretend to go along with that one. “What the fuck are you talking about?”“I wrote him a poem last night when I was sad. You know, about how he makes me feel. And I wanted to give it to him this morning, but..." From sad to depressed, depressed to angry, angry to wild horse, and wild horse to sappy poet. Steve was worse than Bucky! And when he looked at Clint with his big, blue eyes and asked, "Will you give it to him for me?” it was almost too much to handle.If Clint could shout, “Poetry’s not part of the plan!” without triggering the wild stallion, he would. But Clint had already pushed his luck with that horse whispering shit. Thankfully, Sam shook his head and mouthed, "No way," when Steve looked at his sneakers. Sonnets? Definitely a no-go. “Let's stick with texting for now.” God, Clint itched for another joint. “Poetry might be too intense for—"“You don’t think he’ll like it?” Fucking hell. “Dude, it's not that. Bucky loves sappy lyrics, so I'm sure he'll dig your...poetry." It was unbelievable. For the past three hours, Clint had been convinced that Steve had used Bucky for a good fuck, then dumped him like trash. But no, the guy had been holed up in a dark corner writing fucking poetry! Eyeing Sam, Clint tried to imitate Robert Redford when he said, "For now, let’s just put poetry on the back burner and stick to the plan. We need to get you and Bucky talking because based on what Daisy told me, he’s dead set on giving you the silent treatment until graduation.”Steve nodded, but that was it. There was no “good plan, bro.” No “your ice cream is the best.” No “thanks for going out of your way with the watermelon-flavored lube.” "That's a good plan," Sam said, tossing Clint some well-deserved affirmation, "but I’m adding something else. Something important.” Now it was Sam’s turn to put a hand on Steve’s knee. “I want you to know that you can talk to us anywhere, anytime, about anything. But this is way above my pay grade, Steve, and it’s way above Clint’s. I’m not screwing around when I say that we all know this is about a lot more than Bucky Barnes.”Clint was stuck on the word us, like he and Sam had become instant tag-team therapists. And, yeah, he knew it was weird, but he had the sudden urge to buy Sam his very own ice cream scoop for Christmas."You can't stay at Alexander's anymore.” Sam squeezed Steve’s knee, just like Clint had done. “You just can't. So pack a bag and come crash at my house. You know my mama would be thrilled to have another mouth to feed, and Breonna and Sylvie would be over the moon. It’s no secret that they both have a crush on you."The way Steve tipped his chin up and stared at the sky was defiant. Stubborn. He might be listening, but he sure as fuck wasn't hearing."Dammit, Steve,” Sam said, obviously picking up on the same vibe. “Just once, would you do what's best for you today?" Nothing. Sam sighed like he’d been through this a hundred times before. "Well, if you’re not gonna listen to me, you're gonna talk to somebody else. No excuses. You’re not leaving this building until you sit down with somebody who might help you get your head on straight. Coach Fury, the counselor, Mr. Barnes. Take your pick."“I don’t like talking about this.”"It's not an option, Steve. Clint and I aren’t letting you out of our sight until your stubborn ass is sitting in a real chair.”Turns out that Sam Wilson was a man of his word. After coaxing Steve down the ladder, the two of them stood side by side in front of the office window until Steve disappeared into the conference room with Bucky's dad. Then, and only then, did they let out a collective sigh."I'm sorry you got dragged into this," Sam said, rubbing his hands up and down his face. "Steve's just—” He sighed again. “I guess everybody has that one friend that they worry about more than the rest."Trying not to think about slipping a spoon between Bucky's lips, Clint said, “It’s okay, Sam. I've got one too."***** Tony was in the middle of welding a huge joint with his superstar team of budding mechanical engineers when the national anthem rang proudly from his pants.“Yo, Laufeyson," he yelled through his helmet. "Dig my phone out of my pocket.” Sparks were flying everywhere, threatening to set the state-of-the-art workshop on fire, which was badass, like Drew Barrymore in Firestarter. But add the sparks to the way Tony's triceps were bulging as he lowered his center of gravity to muscle the torch across the steel beam, and it was Firestarter squared. Hot stuff, buttercup. Let me melt your cheddar and grill your cheese.There was no question that Tony looked good in Bucky's Daft Punk tank top. It was a given, especially with the notes of “The Star-Spangled Banner” exploding out of his pocket like red, white, and blue confetti! Someone should take a picture and put it on an album cover. Think Scorpions, 1985. Metal! Fire! Tank tops! Speaking of which, he still had to order Bucky's tank top reward for Bisexualpalooza.Braving the sparks, Loki sounded capital A annoyed when he asked, “You want me to what?” It was music to Tony’s ears.Loki, you see, was a newly acquired gem, gifted to Tony by the gods of engineering when he'd scored an extra 750k to fund his clean energy project in July. Well, not given, per se. First, there'd been the hush-hush investigation about Tony’s fundraising methods. Apparently, leaked photos of coked-out donors having a blast in the Cayman Islands had raised some ethical concerns at Columbia. But once that little controversy had been cleared up—an extra 50k goes a long way—there’d been a short list of fellowship applications for Tony to sift through. And while all of them had been stellar in the brains department, there’d only been five lookers in the bunch. Tony had been the penultimate professional during the interview process, putting all five potential #2’s into distinct categories: brilliant/big boobs, brilliant/small boobs, brilliant/intimidating boobs (too pointy), brilliant/premature balding, and, last but not least, brilliant/intimidating cheekbones. Torn between boobs and cheekbones, Tony had pushed baldy out of the room, spun around three times with his eyes closed, and picked the first applicant he'd run into. Luckily, he’d crashed into the 6' 2" Brit and his dagger-sharp cheekbones, quickly learning that Sir Loki Laufeyson was deadly serious about his man bun, preferred black on black ensembles, and was preternaturally capable of spotting the flaws in Tony's near-flawless designs. Fate, it seemed, had served him well.Cranking up the torch, Tony smiled—at Loki’s accent, not the impossible corner— loving Mr. Tall, Dark, and Grumpy’s snark. Why did an English accent automatically ramp up the sass? Australians didn't sound like they had kangaroos stuck up their asses. They were all “surfing with the great white sharks” and “shrimp on the barbie, mate.” Italians’ vocal cords oozed sex, gnocchi, and gelato. And the French— Okay, the French sounded like they had stale baguettes stuck up their asses too, but in a sexy poodle kind of way. Tony tried another angle, realizing that he'd just stereotyped a healthy portion of the Earth's population, and guess what? He didn't care. His pants were still singing in an American accent, and it was his job to get the Queen of England to stick her hand into Tony's patriotic pocket and grab his potentially bisexual flagpole. “C’mon, Loki, get in there! It’s The Greatest American Hero calling.”“I am not reaching into—”“Just do it!” Tony lunged even deeper, shooting sparks all the way to the ceiling. One more inch and his duck butt was gonna split these jeans right up the middle, and potentially bisexual or not, Tony wasn’t ready to show Team Stark his ass. “Screw this,” Tony said, switching off the torch and flipping up his mask. This joint was an inaccessible, unweldable bitch, and Tony had to put the blame on somebody.The first person in his line of sight was Baseball Hat, also known as Columbia assistant #1. She was the biggest brain on the team—not counting Tony and Yorkshire pudding—but rules were rules, and the first one spotted always got the blame. “Hey, Baseball Hat! You did a horrible job designing this corner! Horrible! And if you don't fix it by tomorrow, I’m sending you back to the undergraduate basement to eat ramen noodles and drown in a sea of student loans!”"But, Tony, you designed—""Are you contradicting me, Baseball Hat?" Okay, so maybe, just maybe, the deep lunges with a fiery torch were 100% his fault. Designing with a hangover? Not his wisest decision.The patriotic notes blasted from his pocket again, and Tony switched the torch back on so he and Drew Barrymore could shoot sparks all over the workshop. It was dramatic! It was symbolic! It was America at its finest! "Oh say can you see," he sang, thrusting his pocket in Loki's general direction. “C’mon, Your Majesty! Get it! Get it! Get it! Get it!”“Oh for God’s sake, would you just shut up!” Queen Elizabeth reached underneath the protective apron—Oh my!—yanking the phone out of Tony's pocket with a wonderfully bad attitude. “Here! Take it! And turn off that damn torch before you ruin the electrical.”"But I'm welding this joint," Tony said, flexing his back muscles as he welded absolutely nothing. The joint was a total loss, so he might as well have a good time before taking the thing apart and starting from scratch. "Can't you see that I'm saving the world here? The polar bears are running out of ice, and those hurricanes aren’t getting any smaller. So be a doll and press the green button. Tell me what my puppy requires."Even through the fountain of sparks, Tony could see the exaggerated eye roll and hear the “go fuck yourself” sigh. God, he loved it! Sticking porcupine quills into Laufeyson’s ego was Tony's new favorite pastime.“Why is this person called Golden Retriever?”Success! Well, sort of. Loki hadn’t pushed the button, but he was definitely looking at the screen! Trying to contain his glee—Not!—Tony said, “If you saw him, you’d understand. He’s got this thick blond fur that says “pet my belly” and these intense blue eyes that say “Don’t you dare touch my bone!” at the same time. He even rolls over and puts all six of his nipples on display if you throw him a treat. He likes ballpark franks, or so I’ve been told.”The phone dinged in Loki’s hand.“That’s ridiculous,” Loki said, “but dog or not, this says ‘Answer, dammit, I need your help,’ so maybe you should stop screwing around."Tony finished welding the corner—or, more precisely, finishing pretending to finish the corner—and switched off the torch once and for all. Successfully manipulating the Queen of England was cause for celebration, requiring gloating, alcohol, and Skittles from the vending machine down the hall. After tossing his helmet and gloves onto the workbench, Tony was pleased as punch to find Loki staring at the screen like it personally offended him...or it smelled bad...or it had Chlamydia. Tony cracked up. Not that Chlamydia was funny. The high-end escort who had given it to him last summer had proved that with her vagina.But he digressed.Clapping his hands together, Tony yelled, “Wonder Twins, deactivate! Everybody take five. Or ten. Actually, make it 15. And you, Baseball Hat! You need to get me some Skittles! ‘Welding’ your horribly designed joint has messed with my glucose levels in ways that Cheez-Its, Chex Mix, and Cheetos can't fix! If you don't come back with two bags—one regular, one sour—you know where you're headed. Hint: It smells like BO and is crawling with ramen-addicted mutant rats."Baseball Hat nodded like Tony had smacked her knuckles with a ruler, which turned on an energy-saving light bulb in Tony’s head. He could be a nun for Halloween! Or a priest! Or an alter boy! Actually, screw the Catholics! He could go for a sacrilegious theme for his annual Halloween party. Pentagrams! The mark of the beast! A herd of black goats!The door to the workshop buzzed, signaling that Baseball Hat had slapped her digits on the palm reader and departed on her life-or-death quest for Skittles. Lucky for Tony, Curly Hair, Glasses, and Short Guy trailed after her like good little minions, leaving him blissfully alone with his testy assistant.“Take the phone,” Loki said, holding it out like it was a hunk of stinky cheese from France. Most likely Roquefort.“No way, Laufeyson.” Tony slipped out of his apron and promenaded around the workbench in Liberace’s sweaty tank top. “Warm up those lanky fingers, take your antibiotics—Chlamydia, ew—and type this message word for word: Steve-o, I’m at your service, rain or shine."Loki tossed the phone into a pile of wrenches. "I’m not your servant, and I don’t appreciate you taking a break to deal with your dog. We have a schedule, and with or without your help, I intend to keep it.”And that, friends, was why Tony called Mr. Loki Laufeyson by his given name. Loki didn't take Tony's shit. And not just that. He didn’t take Tony’s shit with serious style. Deciding to push it, push it real good, Tony picked up the biggest pipe wrench—also known as Big Daddy—and slung it over his shoulder. “But, Loki, I’m sooo tired from all that manual labor. Pretty pretty please.”“Absolutely not! And if you’re not redesigning that joint, I’m going home for the day.” When Loki stormed out after the Skittles brigade, Tony smiled like a proud American. He was even better at pissing off the Brits than the 13 colonies! Anyway, Tea Party, schmee party, he’d be back. Loki’s Union Jack panties may be in a twist, but he was invested in Tony’s plan for world domination. Even Europeans wanted to save the polar bears. Switching out Big Daddy for the phone, Tony got down to the business at hand. Golden Retriever: Answer, dammit. I need your helpTony: I‘m @ ur service, rain or shine.Golden Retriever: Is it possible to put a headphone jack into an old Walkman? Tony: duhGolden Retriever: Do you think you could do that for me tonight? I already have the Walkman.Tony: double duhGolden Retriever: So I can come over?Tony: u rly always txt in complete sentences with proper punctuation huh?????Golden Retriever: Yes, I do. May I come over?Tony: hold ur horses. I'm thinkinTony: ...Tony: ...Golden Retriever: Oh my God! Can I come over or not?Tony: You REALLY just typed ‘Oh my God’! OMG! Ur such a nerd!Golden Retriever: TONY!!!Tony: Yes u can come over. But only if u ask in text languageGolden Retriever: can i come over?Tony: not good enuffGolden Retriever: can i come ovrTony: YES!!! C, was that so hard? gotta wrap shit up @skool but i can meet up around 7Golden Retriever: thxTony: see, there’s hope 4 u yet! One innocent text convo, and Tony came home to find Steve-o sitting on the stairs in the grand foyer with a mysterious bag at his feet. He was holding a glass of iced tea. “Is that a dog's version of a suitcase?” Tony asked, pointing at the plastic bag. “Does it contain four doggy socks for four doggy paws, undies with a hole cut out for the tail, and your favorite squeaky toy? Based on last weekend, I’m guessing it’s a pink dildo.”Steve rattled the ice around in the glass, but he didn’t take a drink. In fact, it was full, the lemon garnish still stuck to the rim.“Why didn’t you go up to my room? You could’ve curled up on the end of my bed with your chew toy."“I didn’t want to.”"Your loss.” Tony sat on the bottom step in solidarity. “But I’ve gotta ask, why did you pour yourself an iced tea if you weren’t gonna drink it? Don’t you know there are thirsty children in Africa and Times Square?""I didn't help myself to anything. Margarita just brought it to me.""Yeah, Steve. Because you look lost with your little bag of dildos. Margarita’s just here, trying to do her job and keep the Stark dynasty organized, and then you show up, compelling her to bring you iced tea with your sad puppy eyes.""I hate iced tea."Ugh. Steve’s sudden aversion to iced tea and happiness involved an excessive amount of feelings, and Tony didn’t do feelings. They were icky.“I sense that you need a hug,” Tony said, picking up the dildo bag and peeking inside. “But as you know, Steve-o, hugs aren’t my specialty. I’m better with tools and offensive jokes.”“I’m not here for a hug.”“I know. You’re here for a blinged-out dildo.” Sadly, the bag contained zero dildos and one ancient Walkman that looked like a hoarder had been sitting on it for the past 30 years. “Seriously, Steve, where did you find this thing? 1987?” “No, I found it in Harlem.”Dry delivery, iced tea rejection, shopping trips to the poor side of town. The Greatest American Hero was in worse shape than Tony had originally thought.It was time for Tony to work his magic.“Okay, broken puppy, let’s go. I’m gonna supercharge this Walkman with a screwdriver—while drinking a screwdriver—and it’s gonna cheer you right up. Trust me, it’ll be even better than a hug.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It had been the dead of winter when a boy named Yakov had appeared at the orphanage without warning or explanation. That much Natasha remembered. And now, more than a decade later, as she watched her brother climb out of the car in their garage, she couldn’t help but see that same frightened little boy: quiet, jumpy, looking at his feet. But she didn’t say a word. She simply led the way into the house, knowing that he’d follow.Soon after Yakov’s arrival, someone had given him a brown wool hat that he'd worn more often than not. It had been slightly too big, and the flaps had rested on his shoulders like the ears of a basset hound. It had been funny. And despite the large and impenetrable gaps in Natalia’s childhood, she had a perfectly sharp memory of pulling that hat off Yakov’s head the first time they'd played tag in the yard. Natasha dropped her backpack by the kitchen. Bucky dropped his backpack by the kitchen. Natasha kicked her shoes off in the hall. Bucky kicked his shoes off in the hall. Natasha walked toward the stairs. Bucky walked toward the stairs. Natasha brushed her hair out of her face. Bucky did no such thing.When Yakov had first arrived, his hair had been short, like someone had buzzed it for the summer then put the clippers into a drawer with no plans on touching them until spring. The pieces had been long enough to stick up around his ears, but short enough to stand up straight when Natalia had yanked off his wool hat and ruffled her fingers through it for the very first time. But then it had grown.The waves had gotten longer, falling into his face as they'd spent long hours practicing their handwriting in rigid desks. That is until one horrible day when Yakov had blown it out of his eyes one too many times, making noise when silence had been expected. In her mind, they'd been around nine when the headmistress had hauled him kicking and screaming to the front of the classroom, chopping at his hair with dull scissors while everyone had watched. The other children had sat in silence (Natalia included), pushing their hair out of their faces so they wouldn't suffer the same fate. There was no memory of how she'd gotten ahold of a pair of scissors that night, but she vividly recalled trying her best to even out the patches in the moonlight, wiping away Yakov’s tears as the last of the brown waves had fallen to the floor.The next morning, the wool hat had returned, only to be replaced by another, and another, until one fall day, an American man had appeared without warning or explanation.Then Yakov’s hair had grown.And grown.And grown.Until it had become purely Bucky’s.Playing with his hair was a habit she’d never broken, nor did she want to. She loved pulling her fingers through it while they watched movies on the couch, gossiped in her room, or got stuck waiting in endless lines at the Secretary of State. No matter where they were or where they'd been, her fingers had always found their way into his hair, instinctively seeking a source of comfort.But she wasn’t alone. Natasha's habit was Bucky's habit too. His head inevitably ended up in her lap when he had a fever over 98.8, somebody had been a jerk to him on the subway, or when a certain someone had broken Bucky's heart last spring.Stopping in front of her bedroom door, Natasha took a deep breath.A certain someone who'd texted her 20 minutes ago to organize a covert conversation between Bucky and Steve.A certain someone whose hair she'd twisted into a complicated braid when she'd gone to his apartment last night.A certain someone she really liked.Natasha opened the door and walked into her room. Bucky followed. Natasha unzipped her green jacket and tossed it onto her bed. Bucky took off his t-shirt and tossed it onto the floor. Natasha sighed. Bucky sighed twice as loud.Whatever had gone wrong with Rogers had started at practice. That much she knew. The texts had started during 2nd hour. Daisy first, asking if Natasha knew why Bucky was upset. Then Clint after lunch, Clint after 4th hour, Clint after 5th hour, and finally, Clint and Sam after school. Looking at Bucky’s reflection in the mirror above her vanity, Natasha wasn’t at all surprised to see that he’d stripped down to his underwear and was digging around in the basket of clean laundry at the end of her bed. And she didn’t bat an eye when he pulled out a turquoise hoodie and tied it around his waist like an apron.“Are you going to add a second one to cover your butt?” she asked, sticking her hand into her bowl of colorful elastic bands.No answer. But since he bent over to peel off his socks without any additional coverage, she was pretty sure it was a no. Chuckling, she stuck her wide-tooth comb into her back pocket, picked out a bunch of turquoise and blue bands, and grabbed a handful of bobby pins out of the neighboring pink cup. Then, while Bucky finished struggling with his socks, she carried her supplies to the bed and tossed them onto her comforter, taking her time settling in and leaning back against the headboard."Yakov, come here," she said, patting the space in front of her.That was all it took for her brother to sandwich himself between her knees, allowing her to gently tuck his hair behind his ears. It was another habit they’d never quite broken, and every time they sat like this, her muscle memory reminded her of a time when she'd read Yakov Russian fairy tales with her chin tucked over his shoulder. Unlike the well-stocked bookshelf in the corner of her room, the books at the orphanage always had ripped corners or pages missing altogether, but Natalia had filled in the blanks, adding her own details to make Yakov smile. Gathering Bucky’s hair into a low ponytail, she sighed. Unfortunately, this position hadn’t been tattered picture books and fairy tales forever. Later, after Yakov had started sneaking into her bed in the middle of the night, she’d found herself in this position all too often, comforting him after he'd woken up screaming about fire ripping through the orphanage.It was sad but true. Natalia at eight years old had spent her nights comforting Yakov at seven and a half because mothers had been in short supply."This is the longest your hair has ever been," she said. "It's almost to the bottom of your shoulder blades."Bucky’s only response was to tip his head back until the tips of his hair touched the waistband of his underwear. Long hair, broad shoulders, muscles filling out his back and arms... Natasha couldn't quite wrap her head around how much Yakov had grown and changed since he’d appeared at that orphanage without warning or explanation. Every day he looked more like a man, hoodie apron and tighty-whities notwithstanding, but no matter how big and strong he became on the outside, a part of her would always see the little boy running through the snow with his hair sticking up over his ears. It took a few minutes to loosen the worst of the knots with her fingers, and a few more to feel safe enough to pick up the comb. But as soon as she started pulling it through her brother’s hair in long, repetitive strokes, the tension in his neck and shoulders released. And, soon after, Natasha felt hers relax too.In this headspace, there were unspoken understandings, pacts and promises carried over from another lifetime. When Natasha set the comb aside, peeling off her socks and exposing her bruised and calloused feet, it was understood that Bucky would rub them until she told him to stop. And, on days like today, it was understood that she would manipulate her brother's hair into loose braids, classic French twists, and messy chignons because that was what they'd always done.When Bucky wrapped his hands around her feet, she said, “Watch the big toe, the nail is about to fall off,” which was true. It was black and loose around the edges. But Bucky didn’t flinch, simply rubbing her arches instead of her toes. Good, bad, disgusting, it didn’t matter. The two of them were in this together. Dividing Bucky's hair into small sections, she started twisting the strands into tiny buns before securing them with a pattern of turquoise and blue. The memories of how Natalia and Yakov had become unwavering allies were both good and bad, their connection forged by their will to survive. During the horrible winter when they'd both turned eight, their understanding of economic collapse had expanded. The rooms had been colder, there'd been less to eat, and fewer adults had been there to take care of them. At some point, she and Yakov had been transferred to the big dormitory, where getting your blanket stolen as you slept had been a regular occurrence. One night, she’d been shivering beneath her threadbare blanket, listening to her stomach growl, when someone had touched her arm.Swallowing, Natasha used three bobby pins to hold a particularly unruly mini bun in place. This was a good memory. It was. But sometimes she needed to keep her hands busy to think about the good as well as the bad. She gathered the next section, just above Bucky’s ear.At first, she'd been terrified that one of the bigger girls had been trying to steal her blanket, but, lucky for her, it had been something much warmer. Yakov, with his basset hound ears, had been kneeling next to her cot with his finger over his lips, looking at her with an expression she instantly understood. You can only take so much before the hunger and the cold eats away at you, pushing you to seek the comfort of another. You can only take so much as a child. Without words, Natalia had lifted the edge of her blanket and allowed Yakov slip underneath, and after years of shivering, their combined heat had finally allowed them to fall asleep.Twisting the bun, she looped it around an extra time before she wiped at her eyes. Bad memories. Good memories. Life-changing memories. Regardless of the emotions surrounding them, those long winter nights had made them brother and sister long before they shared a last name."Do you remember the first time you saw Dad?" she asked, revisiting a familiar fairy tale.Bucky took a big breath before he nodded. It was a good sign."And that plane ride..." Chuckling, she ran her fingers through the hair at the base of his skull. "We were so freaked out, but excited too. And Dad let us sit by the window. Remember, you practically sat in my lap the whole time, watching the clouds whiz by.""I had no idea what was happening."Words, while unnecessary, were still a relief."Well, that's what happens when you suddenly find yourself on a plane to America with a man who doesn't speak Russian." She picked up the comb. "But we were too excited to care.""And shocked that he'd taken both of us." Natasha smiled because that was Bucky’s line. In the story of their lives, this was how it was read."I'm still not sure if that was completely legal,” she said, sectioning out the bottom. She wanted to put three buns across his neck: turquoise, blue, turquoise. “We’re lucky that Dad was such a rebel, making bribes, fudging dates, ‘stealing’ orphaned children for nefarious reasons.” Bucky laughed, but they were both well aware that it could’ve gone terribly wrong.At twelve, Natalia had known enough to be suspicious of the American man, worrying that they’d end up in a place far worse than the orphanage. But once they’d gotten on the plane, she and Yakov had been too busy eating tiny pretzels and looking at the world from a new perspective to worry about tragic endings. Eventually the excitement had gotten the best of Yakov, and he’d fallen asleep against her shoulder. But Natalia had kept her eyes open for the entire flight, running her fingers through Yakov’s hair and watching the American snore as they'd flown across the Atlantic. She couldn’t explain it, but somehow, after studying the man’s face for five thousand miles, she'd known that Phil Barnes was kind.Braiding the center section, Natasha began the second chapter. "And our first night in this house? Do you remember what you did?" "I remember the teddy bear," Bucky said, tipping his head forward so she could get a better angle. "It was the biggest stuffed animal we'd ever seen. Bigger than a tiger."Natasha laughed because it had been a perfectly normal teddy bear. Small and fuzzy with a mint-green bow, it had been the softest stuffed animal she’d ever held and the first she'd been able to call her own. That’s why she’d named her Nadezhda, meaning full of hope, because her fur had felt like a whole new world."I'd never slept in a room by myself,” she said, making quick work of the tiny braid. “And even though Dad had loaded up the bed with pillows and soft blankets, I was terrified. It was too quiet.""And I was in Dad's room, totally freaking out." "And Dad was on the couch."Tugging against the pressure of the braid, Bucky laughed. "Yeah, ‘cause I was a bonus adoptee and my walls hadn't been painted pink in advance."Natasha twisted the braid and secured it with a bobby pin. It looked like a flower, which made her smile. Or maybe it was the memory. Resting her chin on Bucky’s shoulder like she had forever ago, she quietly delivered her line. "And even though I was exhausted from the plane ride, customs, the taxi ride, and the overwhelming feeling of the city, I was still tossing and turning—""And I totally snuck in here and stole your enormous tiger."Swatting at his hoodie apron, she tried not to laugh. "That's not true, and you know it. You crawled into bed with me, and we sandwiched my perfectly normal teddy bear between us.""And you played with my hair."When she nodded, her chin rubbed against his shoulder. And when she said, "And I played with your hair," it almost felt like a moonlit night in the dead of winter.Suddenly her phone buzzed, and a big part of her didn't want to pick it up. Clint's earlier text, despite being all over the place, had been very specific. Barton: need 2 hijack ur phone tonight @6ish. Rogers assassination aborted. Additional intel suggests inaccurate assessment of assholery. Steve needs 2 talk to cupcake ASAP. Also, can u feed me ice cream? Rough day. Looking at the clock on her nightstand, Natasha wasn't surprised that it was six o'clock on the dot. Or maybe she was. Rogers, despite his rigidity, had become unpredictable.When Clint's text had come through on the drive home, she hadn't responded right away. There’d been a lot to decode, and she'd needed time to weigh the pros and cons. The pros and cons of Clint? She'd set that one aside. The pros and cons of Bucky dating someone like Rogers? She'd needed a pen and paper to tackle that one. The pros and cons of telling Bucky about Clint’s text? That had been an easy no.Natasha hadn't really believed that Rogers would flake out, but when she'd glanced into the back seat after reading the text, Bucky had been turning his belly button into a mouth with a Sharpie, including sunglasses, an afro, and a curly goatee.She hadn't said a word. Not about Rogers, not about the text, and not about the ‘artwork.’The phone buzzed a second time.“That your boyfriend?” Bucky asked, bouncing around too much for her to properly braid the next section.Natasha wasn't stupid; she was well aware that this situation wasn't anything like sharing a tiger-size teddy bear.Struggling to overlap the strands, she said, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”Bucky scoffed. “Yeah, right. So is that your secret boyfriend?”“No. It’s your secret boyfriend.”She'd meant it as a joke to distract Bucky from the truth, but her tone had been harsher than she'd intended.When he jerked out of her grasp and said, “Excuse me?” the braid unraveled like her hands had never touched it.“Bucky…” There was more to say, but she couldn’t make the words come out. Steve Rogers was a good person. Sure, he had serious baggage, but deep down, Natasha knew he had a good heart. Call it a sixth sense, but just like she'd known that her dad was a good person by watching him snore on the plane, she knew that Rogers had good intentions toward her brother.“Here,” she said, typing a quick response before handing him the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”Bucky stared at her for a good five seconds before snatching it out of her hand. And when he scrambled to the end of the bed, Natasha couldn't help but hold her breath. For her brother. And for herself.The little clicks of Bucky typing, the ding, the pause, Bucky hunching over and getting his nose right up to the screen… She hated the tension of waiting. And as she gathered the unused hair ties and wrapped them around the comb, Natasha tried not to think about a little boy’s hair getting chopped off with a pair of dull scissors.When it was over, Bucky wasted no time squishing up against her and leaning his head on her shoulder. But even with the close contact, it still took a few minutes for him to ask, “Wanna see?” Natasha knew that he wanted her to look, that he needed her to look, but it was still important for her to say, “Only if you want me to.” His answer was to balance the phone on her knee. Rogers: Hi, Natasha. It’s Steve. Thank you for letting me text Bucky on your phone.Natasha: Don’t make me regret it, Rogers. Handing it over now.Rogers: Bucky?Natasha: YeahRogers: Bucky, I’m so sorry. I know I messed everything up, but I can explain if you give me the chance.Natasha: …Rogers: Baby, please. There’s no practice tomorrow morning because Fury has that meeting. Will you meet me outside the library at 7:00 so I can explain what happened?Natasha: So now I’m ‘baby’ again?Rogers: Jesus. YES! God, Bucky, you don’t even understand how much you mean to me. Please, I don’t want to do this over the phone, but I also don’t want you thinking that I don’t care. I care so fucking much! I just need to explain. Please, meet me. Natasha: …Rogers: A bunch of shit happened, Buck. I just need to look you in the eye when I say it.Natasha: FineRogers: Thank you! I promise I’m going to make this right. I promise.Natasha: I think u could make it more right with a vanilla bean frap. Just sayinRogers: Okay.Natasha: I like extra whipRogers: Deal. Bring your headphones.Natasha: Headphones?Rogers: Trust me. Night, Bucky. After she'd finished reading, she looked over at her brother, and his eyes said it all. So much hope, yet so much fear.“This isn’t Clint,” she said because it was the truth.“I know.”“About Clint, I wanted to—”“I've made peace with it.” Bucky nuzzled into her hair. "He’s gonna treat you like a queen.”That was yet to be seen. When she was alone with Barton, it felt easy and fun, but that didn’t mean it was right. The pros and the cons were too equally balanced to tell.Considering her next words carefully, Natasha gathered a few loose strands of Bucky’s hair just above his ear. “Steve’s a good person, and it's easy to see that he likes you, but he’s got so much going on—much more than we know—and..." She sighed. "Are you sure you want to get involved with someone who’s—”“Messed up?” Bucky laughed. "You're kidding, right?" Intertwining the leftover strands of Yakov's brown with Natalia's red, she closed her eyes. Honestly, after all they'd been through, she was shocked that they hadn't come out worse.“I love you, Yakov,” she whispered. And when he didn't respond, it was understood that he would eventually. ***** Despite Bucky’s begging, his dad was still coffeeblocking his scrumptious morning Starbucks (the barbarian), and that, Frappuccino friends, meant that stupid Steve had better show up with the Vanilla Bean Penance Frapp with extra, extra, extra whip or Bucky was gonna dump him on the spot. Act like a dick and forget the extra whip? Um, no.Bucky’d just executed the perfect escape from his dad's office/prison cell, making up some serious bullshit about checking out a book to help him study for a rojo dél aqua casa dél gato quiz. So now he was on the lam, running from the boys in blue to meet his shitty ‘boyfriend’ by the stupid fucking library.Pulling his stretched-out beanie over his ears, Bucky took a page out of Ezra's douche book and put on his pink sunglasses before stomping down the hall. This was a post-fuck war, and wars required protection (especially when the fuck itself had been latex free). Letting Steve plow him without a condom? So fucking stupid. What if that whole “I’m an innocent virgin” story had been an act and Bucky’s pubes were gonna erupt with crabs, herpes, or whatever STD superbug had been percolating in the vaginas of the long list of cheerleaders Steve had been screwing without a motherfucking condom! Bucky itched his crotch as he shouldered his way past a bunch of gamers with their noses buried in their screens. Real talk: Gamers with no game were the smart ones because you can’t get genital warts from the hoes in Grand Theft Auto.A shiver ran up and down his penis; the image of genital warts devouring his shaft reminding him that he was nuclear-level pissed. That’s why he'd pinned his pride pin front and center on his beanie, dug his Knife Party t-shirt out of the hamper (it had a knife on it, duh), and laced up his steel-toed boots. The boots had extra stomp, and the more he stomp-stomp-stomped across the wooden floors, the madder he got!Sure, the vague ‘apology’ texts were nice (sort of), but Bucky still felt like a fool for getting deflowered by a misguided cucumber and mistaking it for love. Picking up the pace, he pushed past a pack of crab-free freshman as he rounded the final corner, and—God. Fucking. Dammit.There he was, glowing like a sexy angel (think Daddy Castiel) with the halo, the big wings, and the big dick. He was sitting on one of the benches in front of the library windows, flapping his wings as a gazillion giggling girls tried to get his attention by swingin’ their yoga-pants asses in his face as they walked past. Repeatedly. News at 7: Steve Rogers might be sexy, ladies, but he was a real letdown post fuck. But strange as it was, Steve wasn’t tuned in to the ass parade. He was too busy fiddling with something in his hands. Shoving past Harry and Charlie (conjoined), Bucky stomped towards Steve with zero swing in his hips. Mr. Krabs didn’t deserve any swing, even though his super tight, super white, 70s style t-shirt was hot as fuck and he was having a spectacular hair day. Spectacular!Stopping ten feet away from his stupid, sexy 'boyfriend' and his spectacular hair, Bucky caused a 20-car/person pileup behind him. On a normal day, the yelling and honking would’ve bothered him, but not today. Today the angry cars could honk their little horns out because Steve's jawline was sooo pretty and—"Move it, asshole!" Sooo sexy. Bucky just wanted to lick it like a lollipop. Slurp! Oh, and Stevie was holding a box! And that box, with its polka-dot paper and baby-blue bow, looked a hell of a lot like a present! And Bucky...Surprise!...fuckin’ loved presents! Loved them like horses love hay! Wait a minute.He was supposed to be mad. Like, super-duper mad. That’s why he was wearing his mad boots! But then he spotted it! Mad? Who was mad? Not Bucky, that's for damn sure!The Vanilla Bean Frappuccino was sitting on the bench next to Stevie in all its venti glory, glowing in his heavenly white light. But that wasn't all, Sam and Dean! There was a second venti cup sitting right next to it (also glowing in Castiel’s heavenly white light), which, holy rigatoni, if stupid Steve thought he could sway Bucky with a sexy shirt and two yummy treats, he was spot on!"Get out of the way, freak!"The Savior of the Gays popped off the bench like a jack-in-the-box (with his box). You know, like...Boom!...pop goes the hottie.Bucky snorted. And Steve?Well, he just kinda stood there, smiling like a sheepish lil’ sheep in the middle of the angry ass parade.Bucky half expected his stupid-ass ‘boyfriend’ to shove him into the musty storage closet with the folding chairs, the theater closet with the old costumes, or the janitor’s closet with the moldy mops, but Steve, with his stupid sheep smile, wasn’t trying to put Bucky into any kind of closet, which was hella confusing. “You came,” Steve said, biting his lip in a way that was way too sexy for the situation.“Yeah, I did. All over my stomach as I recall. But since my semen seemed to scare you away, I was hesitant to do it again.”The sexy lip bite transformed into a frustrated sigh. “Bucky, can—” Steve sighed again. “Here, here's your Frappuccino.” The frosty yumminess was placed into Bucky’s right hand before the mystery cup was put into his left. It was super light.“What the hell?”“It's extra whipped cream.”“You got me a venti cup full of extra whip?”Reaching out, Steve rotated the cup until Bucky could read My baby’s extra creamy whip in black Sharpie.“You made the barista write this?”He spun the icy goodness in Bucky's other hand, and, no joke, the cup said Baby. Well, damn. Steve’s little-shit smile was in full effect while Bucky stood there double fisting the sweetness, because...Shazam!...this was so damn sweet! And not just that! There was so much extra whip that they could smear it all over Stevie’s chest (and nipples) if they snuck into the janitor’s closet and—“Can we sit down for a minute?” How dare Steve interrupt Bucky’s whip cream nipple fantasy? Unacceptable!“I'm still mad,” Bucky said, taking a sip of the Frapp, and, OMG, it was so fucking good!“I know.”There was a little glimmer in Steve's eyes that convinced Bucky to pop a squat without bitching about the nips, and when Steve joined him (yes, in front of the 100-car pileup), their thighs were touching. No shit, Steve's bazillion dollar jeans were smushed up against Bucky's shredded Kurt Cobain tribute (#SmellsLikeTeenSpirit), and the combo wasn’t only exhilarating, it was bold as fuck!“So...” Steve said, tangling his fingers in the mess of threads hanging off Bucky’s knee. “I could spend hours apologizing for the way I acted yesterday—and I will—but, right now, we don’t have hours, we have minutes. I need you to know what's been going on with me, so if something like that happens again, you won't think it's about you. Because, baby, none of that was about you. Not a Goddamn thing.”When Steve paused, it felt like something big was gonna happen. Was another asteroid/comet blazing past the Moon (and Bruce Willis) at a gazillion miles per hour? Was General Zod back for round two? Was it fucking Céline? Swear to motherfucking Poseidon, if Bucky heard the faintest toot that weird-ass flute, he’d—“My situation with Alexander is bad, and it’s getting worse. I have to be realistic, Buck. If he finds out I'm gay, he'll—” Steve snapped one of the strings. “Honestly, I don't know what he’ll do. But even worse is that I don’t know what I’ll do.” Bucky forgot all about whip cream nipples.“And something’s wrong with Brock. I don't know what, but I have a bad feeling, and I don’t want you to get hurt. I don't want anyone to get hurt. He threatened me after practice yesterday, and he was talking about you—about us— and I panicked.”Bucky was a dick! A self-centered, horrible, no-good dick! “Fuck,” Bucky said, setting the cups on the bench, “I had no idea.”“I know, and that’s my fault for—”“No! I should’ve known. The signs were all there, and I—”“Bucky, stop. I have to say the rest before I chicken out.”Something clicked. Like, full stop, run the engines in reverse. Bucky needed to pay attention. He needed to listen to his boyfriend.“I’m depressed. And I have been for a long time—since my mom died, I think—but lately it’s been getting worse.” Straightening his back, Steve wrapped his hand around Bucky’s thigh (yes, in front of everyone). “I’ve always had panic attacks, but lately…” He squeezed like he was holding onto a fucking lifeboat. “Lately I’ve been having a harder and harder time making them stop. If I can stop them at all.” Holy shit.“And when I can’t make it stop, when I go off the motherfucking deep end, I have thoughts that scare me. Things that I can't say out loud. And that’s why I’ll understand if you want to run in the opposite direction. I’m a mess, and you're wonderful, so I’m giving you an out.”When Steve looked at him with his whip cream eyes, Bucky’s throat felt like someone had shoved a sock in it. “But if you want to stay, if you want to give this a real shot, I promise I’ll never hurt you like that again." Steve blew out a shaky breath, turning piggy pink around the edges. "I know this is a lot, Bucky, but I mean it. I’m writing poetry about you for Christ’s sake." “You write poetry?” Why the fuck would somebody who writes poetry want to be with somebody like Bucky in the first place? Bucky was a fucking idiot.“Yeah, Clint said I should hold off on giving it to you so I didn't come across as a romantic stalker.”“Clint called you a stalker?”“Not in so many words.” Steve shook his head, but he was smiling. Why the fuck was he smiling?Process. Process. Process. Bucky ran it back a little, and, oh yeah, there'd been something a lil’ funky in that last sentence. “You talked to Clint about me?”Smiling some more, Steve booped Bucky's pride pin (yes, in front of everybody) and said, “To tell you the truth, I think he was planning to kick my ass, but lucky for my face, he just gave me some solid advice.”Bucky couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Advice about poetry?”“Among other things.”
Zap!
With an electrical zing, Bucky's grid overloaded, shutting down his verbal skills, motor skills, and ninja skills. And all he could do was stare at smiling Steve while he waited for his brain to reboot.Any second now.The power clicked back on, zipping between his ears until Bucky’s brain was flooded with some high-level pants-shitting panic! “Oh my god, Steve, I’m such an asshole! I pushed you when I said I wouldn’t, and I made everything about me when it should’ve been about you.” Bucky reached out to touch Steve’s arm, but stopped when he saw the enormous bandage wrapped around his wrist. “What the fuck?” Grabbing Steve’s hand, Bucky lifted the edge of the gauze and— “Is this a fucking burn?" It smelled like burnt bacon, but it wasn't time for breakfast. “It’s okay, Buck, I’m working on a plan to make it stop, but, right now, I want you to know how sorry I am.” Stevie shifted on the bench before picking up a polka-dot box, which, happy fucking birthday! Presents were awesome! "This is for you, to show you how much I care. And I know a few of these are pretty intense for our brand-new roller-coaster romance, but it’s the feeling behind them, okay? Did you remember to bring your headphones?”He did. He had! The ones with the stars!“Oh my god, Stevie, I totally remembered! Hold on, I’ve just gotta find them.” There was too much shit in his backpack, including an entire bag of Fig Newtons. Gross! He didn't even like Fig Newtons! But once he unraveled the headphones from his spiral notebooks and tossed them to the hottie in the tight shirt, he was instantly rewarded with a zillion polka dots and a big ol’ bow.“Go ahead,” Stevie said, flexing his beautiful biceps as he gave the top a lil’ tap. “Unwrap it.”A shitload of butterflies were flying around in Bucky’s stomach: big ones, small ones, pink ones, blue ones (you know, the morpho kind from South America or Madagascar). “Are you sure?” Bucky asked because this box was way too pretty for a guy with a knife on his shirt.“Of course I’m sure.”That was all the confirmation he needed to shred the paper like Wolverine, throwing off the lid and—He had no idea what he was looking at.Rectangular. Black and gray. Lots of buttons. “Holy fuck, Steve!”It was an honest to goodness Sony Walkman! The kind that played ancient Megadeth and Whitesnake cassette tapes from Value Village! Ten for a dollar! Bargain basement prices for a legit piece of music history!The best boyfriend in the galaxy was bouncing his knees up and down like he was gonna piss his pants, and he bounced them even more when Bucky took the Walkman out of the box. “Tony helped me rig the splitter.” Bucky flipped it over, and, sure enough, there was a modern headphone splitter attached to the side.“Actually, Tony rigged it by himself while I ate kimchi quesadillas and drank a bunch of San Pellegrino, but it was my idea.” “I can’t believe you got me a Walkman!” “That’s not all I got you.” Steve chuckled, taking the Walkman out of Bucky’s hands. “Look in the box, silly.”It took a second to find it in the overabundance of tissue paper, but Bucky eventually dug out a cassette case with a handwritten cover. And not just any handwritten cover! Some super hot artist (Hint: It was Steve) had busted out his colored pencils and decorated the shit out of it, including teeny-tiny descriptions written next to each song.Bucky snorted when he read the spine. “You called it Steve’s Overly Romantic Stalker Mixtape?”“Turns out that Clint is a pretty smart guy, so I decided to just be honest about it.” Shrugging, Steve slipped the red-white-and-blue headphones over Bucky's beanie and sunglasses. Sunglasses! Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck! He’d been wearing his sunglasses the whole time! But before he could freak out about it (or take them off), Steve put in his turquoise earbuds and said, “I’d like you to listen to the first song with me. It perfectly describes the way you make me feel.”Okay, this was some full-throttle romance, and Bucky wasn’t gonna kill the mood by taking off his sunglasses now. Channeling Elton John (with a feather boa), he whispered, “Okay.”
Whamo!
In an instant, the cassette was stuck into the plastic slot, the door was shut with a snap, and Steve took Bucky’s hand, pulling him off the bench and into the crowd. And that’s when the lightbulb went off that this whole balls-to-the-wall Harley Quinn Romance was happening in front of everybody. The first bell was about to ring, so the hallway was standing room only. The nosiest of the nosy were standing on the benches. The nosy nerds had their nosy noses plastered to the library’s floor-to-ceiling windows. And, shit you not, Daisy was sitting on Skinner’s shoulders at the end of the hall. Somebody give that girl a crop top and a phone light! One Direction concerts (even with Harry’s quadruple nips) didn’t hold a candle to Harley Quinn hearts!Touching Bucky’s knuckles, Steve said, “I want you to hold this in your right hand.”“Um...” The Walkman landed in his palm, like...Zing!...and Steve was pushing play and saying, “And I’d like you to listen,” before Bucky could catch his breath. Suddenly there was nothing but Steve’s shy smile, an electric guitar, and a familiar voice singing, “And I feel… I feel so alive again.”Holy fuck nuts! Somebody yell “Timber!” because Bucky was gonna faint. Like, straight up, fall on the floor and land in a big ol’ pile of hearts because he knew this song! It was “Feel” by Sleeping With Sirens, which was very emo of Steve and also very wow. Gently tapping Bucky’s headphones, Steve mouthed, “Listen,” before he ran his thumb over Bucky’s cheek. It was wonderful and distracting (sooo distracting), but Bucky had to focus. He was supposed to listen. “I used to be a ghost floating aimlessly so they couldn’t seewhat I think hurts the most.I felt like it made me hate me.But I won’t apologize for being different.I can be who I am, and, yeah,I felt so dead inside.But now, I feel so alive for the first time.” There were butterflies everywhere! Yellow ones with hearts. Pink ones that looked like Pop Tarts. Silver ones with sparkling antennas. And there was one on Steve’s shoulder with orange-and-black wings. It looked like a teeny-tiny tiger! Suddenly Steve was smiling, and Bucky was smiling, and the teeny-tiny tiger was smiling! And the whole thing was holy moly guacamole, especially when the chorus kicked in. As the words “I feel so alive again” blasted into their butterfly brains, Steve did something so shocking that Bucky questioned whether or not Steve had slipped a lil’ something extra into the heavenly Frapp (#AcidTripWhip). After gently lifting Bucky’s left arm, Steve unbuckled and unsnapped the cuffs and bracelets, collecting them in his hands. The mob was gawking, but Bucky didn't care. There was only the song, Steve, and the feeling of his empty arm being touched by loving fingers. And when Steve unsnapped the final cuff (the red one), Bucky got it. “Is there somewhere I can go?Oh, I’d go there, take me anywhere.'Cause this person I don’t know,the one that’s staring back at me, is not who I want to be.” Flipping Bucky’s hand palm side up, Steve lifted it to his lips, which was more than wow. It was WOW! Then romantic Steve, with his butterfly hearts and tiger wings, kissed the underside of Bucky’s wrist and snapped the black leather cuff (an amazing thrift store find) over the exact same spot. Bucky was dizzy. He was fizzy. He was over the goddamn moon! He was Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman (without the whore part). He was Satine at the end of Moulin Rouge (without the dying part). He was Bucky (not Fucky Bucky), and he was dating a real-life romantic! Moving his lips up half an inch, Steve kissed Bucky again before buckling the thick brown strap with the heavy, green thread (b-day gift from Daisy). But Steve didn’t stop there. He worked his way up Bucky’s entire forearm, kissing each piece of skin before securing the straps. Three, four, five, six, seven, and eight, all fastened with a public kiss and undeniable intent.As the song repeated, “Could you help me find a way?” a million, gazillion times, Steve dangled the red cuff (origin unknown) in the space between them. And when the lyrics said, “I feel so alive again,” Steve gave Bucky the most dazzling smile. It took Bucky’s breath away (literally) because nobody had ever looked at him like that.
Nobody.
Heart-eyes in full effect, Bucky returned the smile. And Steve, being sweet, and sappy, and gooey, kissed the spot just above the crook of his arm and snapped the red leather cuff tight.A cloud of heart emojis bombarded his eyeballs (not to mention the Blue Morphos flying around Steve’s head), but even with all the flapping, Bucky still understood that the buckles and snaps were a promise. A commitment. An honest-to-goodness relationship declaration.Which led to the question: Was he ready for this? Probably not.Was this too much, too soon? Definitely.Steve had given him an out. Did he want it? Not in the slightest.Was Steve a mess? Abso-fucking-lutely! But so was Bucky. For real, it didn’t get much messier than cupcake vomit, slightly incestuous ‘love’ triangles, and Céline Dion wailing on the motherfucking Titanic ! Bucky took off his sunglasses. He wanted to look into his boyfriend’s big, beautiful, heart-shaped eyes when he said, “We’re a mess, but we belong together, messes and all.”It seemed both slow and fast when Steve stepped right up against Bucky’s chest, countering Bucky’s knife attack with some seriously sexy 70s sex appeal. And when Steve said, “You’re right, we do,” and slid his tongue into Bucky’s mouth, there was so much confidence, so much power. And that’s when Bucky knew that together they were truly alive.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Steve’s emo mixtape was by far the deepest, most emotional thing Bucky had ever experienced. And that included Céline tootin’ her flute about that floppy-haired popsicle Leonardo, Bruce Willis sacrificing himself on that asteroid/comet, and the heartbreaking scene in Brokeback Mountain where Ennis had pretty much inhaled Jack Twist’s blue denim shirt after Jack had been straight-up murdered for being a cock-loving cowboy. Leaning against the window ledge in his top-secret bathroom stall, Bucky looked down at the AT&T store across the street and said, "Fuck you, Ennis.” The world was a tough place for closeted cowboys who loved riding bulls, especially when their ‘fishing buddy’ refused to come out of the tent. Seriously, if Ennis had just moved to a ranch in Wyoming like Jack had wanted him to, they could’ve been happy riding horses, moving sheep through mountain passageways, and having kick-ass sex in the cowboy position.
Yeehaw!
But, nooo, Ennis had gone and fucked it all up by being a chickenshit. And Jack had fucked it up even more by getting his dick sucked one too many times in Mexico (suck, suck, murder). Then Bucky, after drowning 2% of his sorrows in leftover chili, had wept about that fucking shirt for weeks, aka years, because Ang Lee had shredded his sweet and tender 8th-grade heart into motherfucking spaghetti.But this wasn’t 8th grade. And Steve wasn’t Ennis. The ledge was chest height, and Bucky pushed the Walkman into the center to give it a good hard look. Where the hell had Steve found this thing? The glovebox of a DeLorean? Bruce Willis’ monkey-filled suitcase? Futurama? The wheels creaked as they turned, the rewind button stuck unless you gave it an extra push, and there was some sort of gunk on the back that looked like the remnants of a scratch and sniff sticker. Yes, he’d taken a whiff. No, it didn’t smell like a skunk. Bottom line: It was fucking perfect! But even more perfect were the 13 supercharged songs on this mixtape. Steve had gone all out on the Oscar-winning emotion (like, tears for days), and even though Bucky’d only made it to track four, he’d been weepy long before he’d traveled down that tragic, Jack Twist-scented road.Pushing his beanie back to wipe his eyes, Bucky adjusted his headphones. He should probably (definitely) go back to class, but Mr. Kuzinski sucked donkey balls and Steve’s Overly Romantic Stalker Mixtape was fucking awesome. Kuzinski vs Steve’s mixtape? No fucking contest.After the whip cream smooch, Bucky’s brain had chanted, “Mixtape, mixtape, mixtape,” as he’d floated to 1st hour with his own set of wings (thanks, Cupid). Fun fact: Getting a heart-filled brain to shut up about sexy smooches was fucking impossible, which was why, only seconds after arrival, Bucky’d tucked his wings under his Knife Party shirt and hopped up to Kuzinski like he’d been about to piss his pants. That’s how Bucky had ended up in his favorite fourth-floor bathroom, rockin’ out to Sleeping With Sirens in his favorite corner stall. This was his place. His spot. His top-secret hideout. His private el baño that he muy armoréd.Unlike Eaton's other pit stops, this one hadn't been updated to look like an overly bright operating room with fluorescent lights and stainless steel. Plus, it was low on traffic. Bucky ran his hand along the bottom of the window frame, scraping off a piece of peeling paint. This room felt old (like the building actually was), and it had that comforting vibe that often exists in older things. You know, like the crumbling Chambers Street station under City Hall or an old barn that leaned slightly to the left. Popping a squat on the éw du toiletté, Bucky channeled his inner artist, taking a moment to appreciate the aesthetic (Steve would be so proud). Dark-green tiles covered the floor and the bottom half of the walls, and the contrast where they ran into the off-white plaster looked classy as fuck. The stalls were green too, and it didn't take a historian to see that the high ceilings and crown moldings were a thing of beauty. Just like Steve.Thinking about Steve’s ‘crown moldings,’ Bucky’s dick got hard. Not, like, hard hard, but hard enough that sitting on the éw du toiletté in his tight-ass pants wasn’t gonna fly. It was fine. Standing would give Bucky a chance to soak up more of the ‘exquisite’ cityside view. Not only was this salsá vérde baño private, classy, and old, but the window doubled as a real-life television. The pastry shop across the street had an endless supply of cakes, pies, and cupcakes in the window, including Daisy's favorite lemon squares and Natasha’s beloved Khvorost. Bucky licked his lips, thinking of the melt-in-your-mouth walnut brownies that were the special on Thursdays. Clint fucking loved them. In fact, he’d probably trade his firstborn for half of an oozy, gooey brownie if it was fresh out of the oven. Even though the pollo baño’s window was painted shut, Bucky could still inhale the scent of piping-hot brownies, freshly dusted angel wings, and refried beans when he took a deep breath.“Damn, I want a taco,” he said, squinting at the Mexican joint next to the bakery, “and pico de gallo, and guacamole, and a vanilla cupcake with rainbow sprinkles. And I want Camila to flip that closed sign to open so I can order a shitload of carry-out. You know what I’m sayin’, Fillmore?” FYI: Fillmore was a spider, but Bucky was too focused on enchiladas to listen for his answer.The Mexican joint had even better programming than the bakery’s lemon squares and blueberry pies. Big windows + an open kitchen = spice for days. Bucky could watch the short-tempered line cooks fighting with spatulas, take a piss, then flip the channel and catch the owner tossing salsa and chips at the rude-ass customers. And if he timed it right, Bucky could catch Camila the waitress on her break, having yet another argument with her douchey boyfriend out front. “Good shit,” Bucky said, nodding his head to the music. “Good shit.”Camila was awesome. Every time Bucky called in an order, she would kiss his cheek and throw in an extra-wet burrito because...Muy Surprisió!...Bucky treated her way better than her douchey boyfriend.You know who wasn’t a douche? Steve.When the song switched to “Fake Plastic Trees” by Radiohead, Bucky forgot all about extra-wet burritos. Holding onto the headphones, he yelled, “Holy fuck, Fillmore! This is Steve’s favorite band!”And, hot damn, knowing that felt like power couple information!The acoustic guitar was strumming, the keyboards were swirling, and when the drums kicked in, the symphonic oomph hit Bucky right in the gut.Truth Bomb: Bucky loved music. Everybody knew that (even the homo-hating assholes). But it was a lesser known fact that he was more of a ‘feel the music’ type vs a ‘get deep with the lyrics’ type. Ask him to hum a guitar solo from an early Metallica album? No problem. Pick out a Red Hot Chili Pepper bassline? Easy. And if you asked him to sing a fucking Ed Sheeran song, Bucky could probably pull a twee melody out of his asshole. But ask him to tell you what the songs were about? Bucky chuckled. Yeah, that wasn’t really his forte. But Steve.Steve was a ‘get deep with the lyrics’ kind of guy. And that, poetry lovers, was a good reason to sit back down on the éw du toiletté. Putting the Walkman on his lap, Bucky stuck his no-longer-mad boots on top of the cast iron radiator. How it had survived the renovations was a real mystery, but Bucky was hella grateful. Whenever he needed to be truly incognito, he’d just lean back, throw his feet on top, and watch the clouds drift by on Bucky TV. As the sunrise blasted the tops of the buildings, Bucky tried to process Steve’s lyrical communication. There were plastic watering cans, plastic girls, and fake plastic trees, which, after using maximum brain power, Bucky decoded to mean that Steve hated his fake plastic life.Letting his heels settle into the slots in the radiator, Bucky said, "I'm dating a sad poet." And Fillmore, being a funny little spider, replied, “Is there any other kind?” Bucky would have laughed, but the song changed, and everything else changed with it.“You make this all go away.I'm down to just one thing,and I'm starting to scare myself.”Nine Inch Nails. Bucky coughed, trying to get the taste of burnt bacon off his tongue. There’d been a bandage on Steve's wrist.White, like the snow.Bucky loved songs with fast beats! They made his snake hips slither like Axl Rose and his heels spin like Prince! "Do you like my moves?" Bucky asked, giving Fillmore a sexy little thrust. "Well, don't get any ideas ‘cause I'm totally off the market. My main man made me this mixtape!"Bucky’d never heard this song, but the lyrics were telling him to do all sorts of fan-fucking-tastic things with Stevie. Go outside! Feel alive! Get high!“Fuck yeah!”Getting blazed and running naked through the wilderness was definitely on the agenda, but first Bucky had a sad boyfriend to fix. If he had the supplies handy, he’d run to Stevie’s class, push him out of his desk, and...Whamo!...wrap him in a cow-print blanket like a wet burrito. Then Bucky would snuggle him until the sadness slid away and it was time to go outside and play.
Click!
The sound echoed off the crown moldings, and Bucky jumped so high that the Walkman almost took a nosedive! Fuck! Someone had shot him through the fucking window! Scrambling to find the hole, he touched his neck, his chest, his stomach, his dick. But there was nothing. No supercharged love songs. No poetic cries for help. No bacon sizzling in the pan. It was dead silent.Which was precisely when Bucky realized that the weaponized click had come from the Walkman. Apparently, when you reached the end of a cassette on a Walkman from 1984, it sounded like a drive-by shooting from 1997 (RIP Biggie). Ditching the headphones (and the beanie), Bucky pushed his hair into his face. Not only had the near-death experience popped his love bubble, it had whomped him with a major dose of reality.You can’t fix depression by turning your boyfriend into a burrito. It just didn't work like that.And without burrito power, how the fuck was Bucky supposed to help?Natasha always made things better with mini buns. Maybe Steve would like miniature mini buns in his spectacular hair. No, that was stupid.Clint did the ice cream thing, but it would be a cold day in hell before Bucky used any of Clint’s tricks on Steve!That was fucking twisted.Daisy used soft touches and treats, which wasn’t a bad idea. Steve had smiled like a motherfucker when he’d demolished the Lucky Charms. He put it on the short list.Suddenly the bathroom door creaked open and ‘somebody’ yelled, “Bucky, are you in here?” before infiltrating the top-secret hideout. Incognito Stealth Mode initiated: Ass on toilet! Boots on radiator! Shut the fuck up!The ‘someone’ was Sam, and since he was also a victim of Kuzinski’s passive-aggressive approach to literature, Bucky had no doubt that he’d been sent on a search-and-rescue mission. “There is nothing to see here,” Bucky said, waving his hands around to better channel Obi-Wan (the Ewan version, duh). “This is a completely empty bathroom.” “Man, are you pretending to be a Jedi right now? You do realize that you’re 18 years—”“Seventeen, actually. My birthday’s in March. But you’re never too old to be a Jedi. Look at Yoda. He was, like, 9,939! Plus, the Force runs strong within me.”Sam’s sigh was so long-suffering that Bucky started to giggle. He couldn’t help it.“Bucky, come out of the stall. I’ve been trying to track you down for 20 minutes, and while I’m perfectly happy to get out of peer editing, Mr. Kuzinski is gonna call the office.”“But hiding I am. The music has led me down the dark path. Consume me it has.”Sam’s sneakers were getting dangerously close to Bucky's hideout. Discovery was imminent! “Why can’t I see your feet?”“Because there is nothing here. All you see is an empty stall. Now move along, these aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”The comedic force triumphed, and Sam laughed. “Would you just open the door, weirdo?”With no desire to leave the stronghold, Bucky stretched out his arm and slid open the lock. “Enter my humble abode you shall, Sam Wilson. Stay for the soup you must.”“Man, I don’t know you all that well, but I know enough to say that this shit is crazy. Even for you.”“Priorities have I, and literature isn’t one of them. Listen to Steve’s mixtape I must. The key to overcoming the dark side it is.”Squeezing his big muscles and even bigger booty into Bucky's no-longer-secret hideout, Sam shoved Bucky’s boots down the radiator and shut the door. It was a questionable choice, but if Sam wanted to have a meeting of the Rebel Alliance in Bucky's Yoda-approved stall, then who was Obi-Wan to deny him? Although, neither of them being small Jedis, close quarters it was.“So, Steve really came out in the most dramatic way possible, huh?” Sam crossed his arms like a B.I.G. boss, and Bucky could feel the lecture coming from two feet away. “You understand how big a deal this is for him, right? Everybody's talking about it. Ezra just texted and said the whole school’s freaking out, and not just because Steve’s gay. The bigger scandal is that he’s slumming it with you.”“Jesus! Thanks for your candor, asshole!” “You need to hear it. This is gonna be hard for Steve.”“You don’t think I know that?” Bucky jammed his boots right up against Sam’s hip, reclaiming the first two slots in the radiator. It wasn’t his fucking problem that Sam’s gigantic ass had infiltrated the stronghold. “I’m not a fucking idiot!”“I’m just trying to prove a point. Steve said a lot of scary shit to me and Clint yesterday, and I’m worried. Did he tell you what’s going on?” “Bucky, stop. I have to say the rest before I chicken out.” Closing his eyes, Bucky tried his damndest to remember that this overgrown, holier-than-thou hobbit was Steve’s Samwise Gamgee. With Gollum and Sauron hot on his tail, Sam was just trying to keep his version of Frodo from getting stabbed by the deadly Morgul blade. The blade in this analogy being homophobes? A wicked stepfather? Bucky was just gonna go with bad guys and move the fuck on. Picturing Steve scared out of his little hobbit mind as he scrambled backwards on that cold rock, the Wraiths surrounding him with raised blades, Bucky felt sick. The Wraiths in this analogy being the assholes at school? Fuck! Why was this so confusing?Whatever. The point of this poorly crafted analogy was that Bucky didn't want Steve to get stabbed. Not by a gang of homophobes, not by a wicked stepfather, not by a bunch of Skeletor wannabees, and not by the knife on Bucky’s shirt. Then it came to him, the answer arriving on a giant eagle. The eagle in this analogy being—You know what? Never mind.Bucky wanted to be the guy who showed up at the perfect moment and used his big-ass sword to save the day. Would that make him a more timely Aragorn? Yes, yes it would! Plus, he and Aragorn had the same hair.Staring up at the gigantic hobbit, Bucky moved his boots to a more neutral position. “Steve told me, but we didn’t get to talk about it because of all the romance and shit.”"You're an idiot."“Hey, that’s not—”Sam held his hand up like a traffic cop. "And Steve's an idiot too."Wow. Rude much?“You need to get your shit together—both of you—because Steve’s gonna need lots of support. This could end badly in a thousand different ways.”“I know.”“Do you?”Bucky swallowed, feeling the weight of the red cuff snapping around his arm.
Bam!
The sound of the bathroom door slamming open cut their hobbit/Jedi stare down short, and in the blink of Sauron’s eye, Samwise transformed from a judgmental hobbit into a panicked jock. No doubt Captain Sam Wilson had just realized that he’d locked himself in a bathroom stall with the notoriously homosexual Bucky Gay Barnes. Gay panic. Typically not funny. Sam’s gay panic?Fucking hilarious.Sam’s sneakers were pointing in the “I'm fucking someone” direction vs the “I'm pooping” direction, which was probably (definitely) why he spun around and put his booty smack-dab in Bucky’s face. News Flash: Bucky was into tiny butts (Steve’s shoulder-to-ass ratio was his perfect poison), but upon close visual inspection, he couldn’t deny Sam’s high-quality bubble butt. Bucky really, really, really wanted to pinch it. Just a lil’ pinchy-pinch-pinch. Suddenly Bucky’s fingers were miniature lobster claws pinch-pinch-pinching the air, and he couldn't stop himself from whispering, "Pinch the booty I must.""Don't you dare," Sam whispered back as the sound of the invader's piss stream filled the room."See the booty I do. Impossible to stop it is." "I swear to God, Bucky."As the pee flowed, Bucky tried to be good, but the temptation was too much. The bubble butt needed pinching, and pinch it he did!Leaping forward like he’d been struck by lightning, Sam bashed into the door. And the well-hydrated mystery pisser? He bolted without washing his hands. “You motherfucker, that was—”“Hilarious it was, young Padawan," Bucky said, wishing for a beard like Obi-Wan. "Laugh about it I will."Sam broke the stronghold door, storming out like a stormtrooper before pointing his blaster, aka finger, in Bucky's direction. “You! Get out of the stall!”Was Sam pissed? Affirmative. But Obi-Wan never backed down from a joke. “Learn to control your anger you—”“No! I already have to deal with one idiot’s Star Wars jokes, so this—whatever this is—is not happening. I get that you think you’re hilarious, but you need to stop the stand-up act and get real! Are you even capable of that?”Retrieving his feet from his iron buddy, Bucky stood up and said, “I'm hella capable,” even though his ass was asleep. Sam rolled his eyes, but started getting real regardless. “Steve’s in trouble. I’m glad he came out—I am—but the way he did it was reckless and stupid.” There was a big pause, like Sam was waiting for Bucky to agree that Steve was a reckless, cock-loving cowboy. “He needs help, Bucky, and I need to know if you're somebody I can count on to be there for him.”
“I'm down to just one thing, and I'm starting to scare myself.”
Searching for his inner Aragorn, Bucky left the safety of the stronghold and walked over to the sinks. The decision had to be made. Raise his sword and fight or hide behind the biggest tree while the fire— "Bucky.""I'm thinking, just—" He clutched the porcelain. "Just give me a second, okay?"The lyrics. The things Steve had said in the hall. The bandage. Bucky looked at the reflection in the mirror, trying to be strong, trying to be fearless, trying to show Samwise that he was willing to do anything to protect Frodo."Man, if you can't—""Sam, if you don't shut up and let me find my inner Aragorn, I'm gonna toss your hairy hobbit ass into the volcano and keep the motherfucking ring!"Even though his eyebrows said, “What the fuck are you talking about?” Sam’s mouth stayed close. Samwise being wise.Every time Frodo had slipped the ring onto his finger, he'd been fucking terrified. You could see it in his eyes. But his expression had turned into something even worse when he'd struggled to take it back off. “I'm starting to scare myself.” But Samwise had loved him anyway. Yoda had loved him anyway.And Aragorn, with his long, flowing hair and big, brown horse, had loved him anyway. Taking a deep breath, Bucky allowed the final transformation to take place, feeling the heft of the sword in his hand as he straightened his shoulders. “I’m going to be there.”"You're sure?” Samwise asked, falling in behind him. “You're gonna be there?""Yes, Samwise," Aragorn answered. "And I'm going to bring my sword."* Sadly, Bucky was back to being Bucky in no time.Kuzinski had reamed him a new asshole for coming back to class with only three minutes left, and the resulting three-minute lecture had taken the wind right out of Aragorn's sails. Apparently, Rangers of the North didn't like mean teachers with stupid haircuts, so Aragorn had hopped back onto his horse and ridden straight to Mexico so Liv Tyler (the second hottest elf) could suck his dick. Legolas, of course, was number one.Swerving around another group of gawkers in the hallway, Bucky said, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”After enduring an hour of ‘imaginary’ numbers in calculus, Bucky was just trying to get to his locker to switch out his math shit for Jéan-Españiard Picárd, but everybody was staring at him like he had three heads (all of them gay, gay, gay). Apparently, Steve sticking his tongue down Bucky’s throat for all to see was big fucking news.“You guys are really cute together.” Out of nowhere, a girl with messy blonde hair appeared, taking two steps for every one of Bucky’s. She looked like a freshman, and not just because she was five foot nothing with pink-and-purple braces. This early in the year, all 9th graders had the same overly excited/slightly lost vibes."What’s your secret?"Bucky jumped out of his fucking skin (literally) because that overly excited voice had come from the other side! The freshmen were multiplying, surrounding Bucky like colorful germs. This one was tall and had big hoop earrings (think Halsey via “Jenny From the Block”). She was wearing a shirt that said Ask me about my ship."I have to know how you did it,” the newest new girl said, bouncing up and down on her toes as she walked (just like Natasha). “I have the biggest crush on this guy from my publications class, but he's way out of my league, and—""Steve isn't out of Bucky's league!” The OG freshman pointed at Bucky's boots, his legs, his chest, his face, and...Underage Shocker!...his dick. “I mean, look at him, Nadine! He's even hotter than Shawn Mendez. Oh, and by the way, your hair is to die for."Okay, first, Shawn Mendes? That wasn’t exactly a compliment. And second, what was the go-to move in this kind of situation? Should he say thank you? Pose for a selfie? Sign something? "Damn, Finley, you know that’s not what I meant. If anything, Steve’s out of Bucky’s league." ‘Nadine’ giggled, her hoop earrings jiggled, and Bucky felt sorry for Justin Bieber. "But Finley's right about your hair. Our friend Tala’s been going on and on about growing hers out to look like yours, but her natural waves aren’t as wavy. I’m, like, ‘Sorry, bitch, but there’s no way you’re pulling it off.’"Bucky had no idea what the fuck was going on."Fucking faggot." Oh, that was more like it.Bucky didn't know who’d said it, and he didn't care. In the grander scheme of things, he just wanted to get to his locker."Why are people such jerks?" That was ‘Finley,’ and that was a very good question.But before he could engage with the friendly germs, the crowd parted, revealing Frank Castle and his black Henley, black jeans, black hair, and black soul, barreling towards them at 6,666 miles per hour. Cue Deep Voice Guy:
As expected, violent hate crimes were on the rise after Captain Steve Rogers came out of the closet and publicly declared his love for Bucky Barnes.
The homo-hater was six feet away and closing in fast, so Bucky shook out his Aragorn hair and pulled out his sword.Time to recruit The Freshman Fan Club."Nadine, hold my shit." Bucky shoved the Walkman and his Transformers' Trapper Keeper into her arms. Then he pressed his fists together, called on Biggie, and psyched himself up to square off with motherfucking Frank Castle.Yelling, "What?” when Frank got within striking range, Bucky spread his arms like B.I.G. (#ThugLife). “You got a fuckin’ problem?” But there was no decapitating clothesline. No decapitating punch. No decapitating anything . There was only Bucky's skull firmly attached to his spine and Frank Castle saying, “It ain’t like that,” as he leaned against the lockers.Finley’s and Nadine’s nervous laughter floated up behind him, boosting Bucky up, up, up! Fuck yeah! Fan club power! “Oh yeah?” Bucky stepped toe to toe with the fucker. “What’s it like then?”He was Optimus Prime! He was Yoda doing backflips! He was motherfucking Aragorn riding into battle on his big, brown horse! But Castle didn't do shit. He just got all sketchy like he was selling Bucky weed before saying, “Watch yourself around Brock.”"Excuse me?" When Frank rolled his neck, Bucky heard it crack. “I don’t know,” Frank said, cracking it in the other direction. “Fun is fun, but Brock's not having fun anymore, if you know what I mean.”No. Bucky did not know what he meant! Not even a little bit! Fucking fun? On the third day of 9th grade, Bucky’d been minding his own fucking business when a shady looking dude with a buzzcut had crashed into his shoulder and knocked him flat on his ass in the stairwell. No reason. No explanation. No comment. Sure, shit like that had happened once in a while in middle school, but after Frank Castle had made first contact, Bucky had been clotheslined on a biweekly basis. Frank’s greatest 9th-grade hits included, but weren’t limited to, knocking Bucky backwards off the ledge in front of the school, kicking him in the nuts, pushing him into a wooly mammoth display on a field trip to the American Museum of Natural History, and (with a bullying assist from Jack and Brock) throwing him into the motherfucking dumpster on Taco Tuesday. But it hadn’t been the pain, the embarrassment, or the lying to his dad and sister that had sucked the most about Bucky’s fun-filled freshman year. It had been the humiliation of telling Clint that he’d gotten hurt again.You know what? Bucky didn't need Aragorn or a big, brown horse! He had a fucking knife!“Fun?” He bumped Frank’s chest. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!”The hallway had cleared out, The Freshman Fan Club had abandoned him, and the Walkman was on the fucking floor with Bumblebee. Dammit! What if Frank fucking stomped on it?Stepping out of knife range, Frank said, “Buddy, I’m just tryin’ to do you a solid. Brock’s been sayin’ some crazy shit, and I'm telling you that you need to watch your back. Rogers too.”Then he was gone. Frank Castle, bully extraordinaire, disappeared around the corner to warn the world’s homosexuals about Rumlow’s homo-hating apocalypse. And Bucky?He wished that he was back in the stronghold, eating soup with Yoda.* If Bucky didn’t ace this quizños, his papáchooli wasn’t gonna let him go to the fancy-ass tailor with Señor Steve. And that, buttons and pins, just wasn’t gonna fly.Using his ninja skills, Bucky threw a gum wrapper at Daisy’s head when Señora Lauter looked down at her phone. Lil’ Miss Daisy was lookin’ extra cute today. She was wearing a pair of overalls and a silky secretary blouse straight out of 9 to 5 (#Dollywood!). And her hair was in one of her signature towering buns that, if Bucky was being honest, looked like she had an enormous ostrich egg sitting on top of her head. Bucky fucking loved it! Plus, her purple eyeliner was really making her eyes pop. Like...Pow! Daisy signed, “What do you want?” which reminded Bucky that he needed her help on questions quatro, cinco, and quinceañera. Except, now that he thought about it, he had no idea how she was supposed to sign in Españyo Froyo. Signing, “Never mind,” Bucky dug deep, pulling out his innate talent for the language of love.When he was finished with his quiz, Bucky sunk down in his seat and stretched his legs. Then he stretched his back, shoulders, and arms. Having a day off from the pool was nice and all, but now he felt stiff in all the wrong places. Returning to his upright and unstretched position, Bucky noticed Ichiro staring at him from across the room. Ichiro was one of the juniors on the team, and the only things Bucky knew about him (besides his name) were that he spoke English, Japanese, and was “learning Spanish for fun,” and that Fury’d just bumped him into the anchor position in the 500 Free with Peter, Rhodey, and Brock. Oh, and he had the flattest stomach Bucky had ever seen. But none of that had anything to do with the fact that Ichiro was currently giving Bucky the world’s subtlest thumbs up. Okay, first The Freshman Fan Club and now Ichiro? Was he, like, pro gay? Pro love? Pro make out? Or...Shocker!...gay himself? Bucky didn’t have a clue, but he sure as fuck wasn’t gonna complain about a little positivity, especially after Rollins had yelled, “Hey, Mrs. Craft, did you hear that Barnes tricked Rogers into switching teams?” in Calculus.Rollins had been sent to the office, and Bucky, after packing his bags, had taken an all-inclusive trip to Incubus Island.Closing his eyes, Bucky smelled the coconut-scented breeze.It was fucking cosmic that Steve had put an Incubus song on the mixtape. Not only was Incubus one of Bucky’s favorite bands, but “Dig” (side 2, track 12) was one of Bucky’s favorite songs! It was dramatic and swooshy, and Bucky had soaped up his asshole and sung it in the shower at least 7,021 times. So after Rollins’ homo-hating bullshit, Bucky had hopped into a motherfucking sailboat, rescued Steve from World History, and traveled across the ocean waves to the powdered-sugar beaches of his island paradise.Bucky felt the paper move when Señora Lauter picked up his quiz and asked, “¿Has terminado el examen?” but Bucky was long gone. His toes were in the sand, his dick was tucked into its banana hammock, and he could hear Brandon Boyd (shirtless with puka shells) singing “Dig” from the tippity-top of the waterfall. Back to reality? No fucking way.The beach curved for miles in either direction, and the palm trees rustled in the tropical breeze. It was the perfect spot for scandalous speedos, supersize beach towels, and coconut/banana/mango smoothies served in hollowed-out pineapples.Taking off his beanie, Bucky ran his fingers through his hair, shaking out the sand and—“Dude, get your hair off my desk.”Inhaling the scent of coconut sunscreen wafting from Steve’s skin, Bucky said, “I can’t hear you. Brandon’s singing our song.”God, Steve smelled yummy. Like sweat and salt, with freshly shaved coconut pieces dusted on his chest hairs and—"Attention, bitches!"The screech of the intercom jolted Bucky back to Empañado, and everyone, including Ichiro, Daisy, and Señora Lauter, looked like they’d just shit their undies."This is The Great and Powerful Tony Stark, and I’m about to blow your prehistoric minds!" “Oh fuck.”Had Señora Lauter just dropped the f-bomb in the middle of class? Fuck yeah, she had!"As a recently enlightened—and potentially bisexual—member of the Eaton community, it’s come to my attention that a shameful amount of you are close-minded, homophobic pricks, which, really, people? Love is love!”When Bucky said, “Holy fuck,” nobody batted an eye.“Therefore, I, Tony Stark, am rescinding all open invitations to future Stark parties. No more hookahs! No more hospitality! No more threesomes in my guest rooms— I’m talking to you, Jack Rollins! If you can’t get it up for one girl, you definitely don’t deserve two.”Rubbing her forehead like crazy, Señora Lauter said, “They’re going to expel him,” at the exact same time the shyest girl in the room asked, “Rollins has a limp dick?”“As the smartest man within a 500-mile radius—maybe 1,000—I’m aware that 79.9% of you fucktards only like me for my booze, so don’t bother boo-hooing about being blacklisted." The feedback from the intercom was making Bucky’s ears hurt, but Tony kept right on yelling over the whine. “To be clear, I’m not talking about everyone. Generalizations, as a rule, aren’t correct or politically correct. If you're an ally, hiding in a closet of your very own, out and proud like my idol Bucky Barnes, or dancing around in the ‘Q is for questioning’ zone like me, this public service announcement is not for you. I repeat, not for you. Open-minded party people are still welcome to get blitzed at my next party, which, in case you’re interested, will be a religious-themed Halloween bash. Dirty nuns. Castrated Priests. Three-headed dogs.”There was rustling, static, and a few grunts before Tony said, “Danger, Will Robinson, they're honing in on my location! Bucky's dad is about to put an end to my pirate radio fun, but before I sign off, I’d like to make one thing perfectly clear: The only reaction to Steve and Bucky's queer love affair should be to mind your own fucking business!"Suddenly there was a loud clunk, and Tony ‘whispered,’ “Save me, Ruby Rose! Your dad looks pissed.” Then, with an ear-splitting screech, the line went dead.Silence. Behind him, Bucky heard the rustle of palm leaves, turning just in time to see David Bowie pop out from behind the biggest tree. Strutting out onto the beach with his bright-orange hair and sparkling purple catsuit, the King of Glam had no trouble walking on the powdered-sugar sand with his platform boots.“Ch-ch-changes,” he sang, one pupil expanding while the other disappeared.And Bucky, who fuckin’ loved Bowie, adjusted his banana hammock, strummed his sparkling gold guitar, and happily sang along.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
As Steve sunk deeper into the burgundy couch at Tom Ford's studio, the reality of his rebellion started to sink in too. But instead of feeling guilty about his plan to run up Alexander’s credit card, he found himself smiling from ear to ear. His muse was standing on the circular platform in the center of the room, fidgeting with his pink plastic sunglasses, beanie, shirt collar, untied tie, and spectacularly messy hair while Roman helped him into a breathtaking blue jacket. The suit was from the yet-to-be debuted spring line, but Bucky, with Steve by his side, had been given an all-access pass to choose whatever he wanted.This part of the studio was reserved for a special kind of clientele. To walk through the door, you needed a personal invitation, an appointment, and money. And ‘thanks' to Alexander, Steve had all three. From the beginning, Tom Ford had been Alexander's preferred designer for Steve's formal appearances—the first being the wedding—which made this exercise in rebellion the perfect “fuck you.” “You look good up there,” Steve said, appreciating the sheen of the fabric. “That suit is the perfect color for your eyes.”“I know.” Bucky spun around so Roman couldn’t get a hold of the tie. “Baby blue to bring out my baby blues.”Steve smiled, letting the blue hues wash over him like a welcome summer rain. There was history in that pedestal. Good, bad, horrific. Steve had stood in that spot countless times before, counting the seconds until the measuring tape and pins had disappeared. But Bucky, with his restless bop and bubblegum pop, wasn’t counting. He was dancing. Chaotic, loud, rebellious, and raw, Bucky’s baby-blue aura was lighting up the room.“Honey,” Roman said, laughing as he struggled to tie a Windsor knot on a moving target, “you’ve got to stand still, or I’m never going to get this right.”It was a joyful thing to watch Bucky rock back and forth on the heels of his borrowed shoes, swaying to a beat that only he could hear. Steve wanted to imagine that it was a song from his carefully curated mixtape, but knowing Bucky, it could just as easily be satanic death metal. It was adorable. Instigating a tug-of-war with the tie, Bucky said, “I can’t sit still. I’ve got ants in my pants. Big ones that wanna boogie. Wanna know why?” “Um, I—””'Cause it’s time for The Mandatory Morning Dance Party!” Bucky moonwalked to the edge of the platform. “Tell him, Steve!”For the record, it was well after four o’clock. When Steve said, “It’s best just to go along with it,” Roman smiled. And when the Windsor knot came out crooked, Roman’s kind, open face expressed nothing but patience and understanding. It was exactly why Steve had asked to speak to him when he’d scheduled the appointment.Roman was in his late twenties—maybe early thirties—with a heavily styled undercut, round cheeks, and a penchant for patterned vests. He also happened to be gay. But that wasn’t why Steve had requested him when he’d made the appointment. It was just an added bonus.Last spring, Jade had ‘accompanied’ Steve to the studio to be fitted for a new tuxedo, and Roman, bless his heart, had suggested a handful of fashion-forward suits that hadn’t been on Alexander's preapproved list. Jade, of course, had shot down every single one of his ideas with a flick of her wrist, but Roman had kept on pushing, rolling his eyes behind her back every time she’d said no. That rebellious spirit—that spark—was why Steve had brought Bucky here. Call it intuition, but Steve had felt confident that Roman would understand that this was about more than looking good at a high school dance.“So much more,” Steve whispered, running his finger over the bandage on his wrist. And then, so he didn’t slip backward into the sewage and sulfur, he turned his attention to the ceiling.The maze of silver ductwork that stretched across the two-story room was a utilitarian sculpture, the twists and bends adding irregular architecture to the long, white rectangle. Every five or six feet, a sturdy wooden beam traversed the space just below the maze, grounding the composition. Because that’s what it was: a three-dimensional work of art adding abstraction to a place Steve had always associated with rigidity. Feeling the fluid-filled blisters move beneath his fingers, Steve couldn’t decide if the walnut-colored fans hanging below the beams felt more like familiar friends or familiar enemies. The first time he’d been brought here by someone who wasn’t his mother, Steve had stood silently on the podium as a woman with blonde hair had measured him for a plain black suit. On that horrible day, Steve had studied the black metal frames of the casement windows, the exit sign above the door, and the architecture of the ceiling, memorizing the motion of the fans. Anything to avoid the sunshine yellow of the woman’s hair. Sunshine yellow falling to the floor. Sunshine yellow tangled in a hairbrush. Sunshine yellow gone forever, replaced by a pale-pink handkerchief.Steve closed his eyes, trying to keep the blonde woman’s voice at bay, but it was impossible. The memory was pivotal, marking a clear before and after on Steve’s timeline with a blood-red curve. You see, when the woman with his mother’s hair had said, “You’re being so brave, sweetheart,” and rubbed his back, Steve had opened the crescent moons for the very first time.Eight crescents, representing Steve’s shattered world.His mother had been dead for less than 24 hours, but Steve had already seen the future. He’d felt Alexander’s resentment when he’d walked out of the hospital without a wife. He’d felt the loneliness of sharing an elevator with a man who’d offered silence instead of comfort. And he’d experienced the chill of the penthouse without his mother’s presence to warm the glass and steel until it felt like home. "Ouch, you stabbed me!"Bucky’s voice made Steve jump. But once he saw that Bucky was laughing and hopping around on one leg while Roman swatted his shin, it was a welcome reprieve. "There’s no way I stabbed you,” Roman said, trying to catch his breath. “I wasn’t even holding a pin." "Oh, I know. I just wanted to see what my hot-as-fuck boyfriend would do if you impaled my leg.” Bucky pointed at Roman’s wrist. “Seriously, that pin cushion looks like you’ve got a side hustle tailoring Satan’s suits. You know, like that Hellraiser demon who’s got a gazillion pins stuck in his head. Stevie, did you see this thing? It’s fuckin’ barbaric!”In reality, the pin cushion on Roman's wrist looked soft and squishy, and the pins, topped with gold and silver spheres, looked more regal than scary. But Bucky’s take on things was as funny as it was strange, and Steve’s infatuation with the mind that leapt from pin cushions to horror movies grew exponentially. Hellraiser, Lucifer, and love. It was the perfect combination for a rebellious Tuesday afternoon. Steve spread his arms out on the back of the couch, turning his wrist to avoid the burn. Then, because Bucky was still hopping around like a maniac, he said, “Bucky, be a good boy and sit still.”Roman stopped. Bucky stopped. And Steve, realizing that he’d just ordered Bucky around like a dog, shut his fucking mouth.But instead of calling Steve an asshole, Bucky centered himself on the podium with his feet shoulder width apart and his hands hanging loosely at his sides. The only thing moving was his mouth, and the way he was nibbling on his bottom lip was—Jesus Christ, it was otherworldly.When they’d first arrived, Bucky had wandered through the studio like an alien who had just touched down on planet Earth, caressing the wools, cottons, and silks like they were dewy blades of grass. And in that moment of discovery, Steve had seen the ever-expanding universe in his Starboy’s eyes.Now, soaking in the stillness as Bucky licked his lips, Steve wanted nothing more than to climb aboard the alien’s spaceship and never look back. Assimilation, you see, had never been part of the plan.Roman didn’t say a word as he pinned the hems, but Steve could see his eyebrows taking note of the situation. If Steve weren’t so distracted by the tiny gap between Bucky’s front teeth, he would have apologized for—Steve swallowed.He had no idea what he was supposed to apologize for. Bucky standing still enough for Roman to do his job? The sexually charged silence? The way Bucky’s tongue was making his cupid-bow lips glimmer with spit?Whatever it was, it was triggering a brand-new tingle in Steve’s stomach. One that required a carefully placed throw pillow and some focused thinking about zit-popping videos.Eventually, Roman broke the spell, saving Steve from his pus-filled erection antidote. “Okay, the pants are done,” he said, standing up and stepping onto the podium. “It’s time to tackle the shoulder seams, so let’s tuck your hair under your hat so I can—”"Nyet." Stepping out of range, Bucky fluffed up the bottom of his hair until it doubled in size. "You pinky promised that I wouldn’t have to sacrifice my inner Axl Rose to look fancy as fuck, so the hair stays. It’s bad enough that I compromised with these stupid shoes. Seriously, I look like a fucking tap dancer."Roman’s position: Clunky combat boots weren’t conducive to measuring Bucky’s inseam. Bucky’s position: “Fuck your ugly-ass shoes, I’m wearing motherfucking Converse to the dance!” In the end, Roman had won, but only because he’d agreed to let Bucky wear the sunglasses and beanie.Steve smiled at the discarded boots. Bucky had kicked them off next to the couch, flipping them end over end until they’d landed next to Steve’s boring white Nikes. It was stupid to love something like a pair of beat-up combat boots, but Steve couldn’t help himself. He adored how the silver duct tape wrapped around the toes curled at the edges. He was obsessed with the smiley-face band-aid that was stuck to the heel. And he’d loved how Bucky had stomped up to him this morning, his footfalls making his presence—and his feelings—known for miles around.Grabbing the left boot, Steve set it onto his lap like a treasured friend. When Bucky had begrudgingly taken them off, he'd yanked out half the laces, leaving the tongues to spill out from the well-worn leather. And now, squeezing the steel toes as he studied the wrinkles and cracks, Steve wanted to know their story. Had Bucky found them in the corner of a dusty resale store in Queens, or had he bought them new at an army surplus store, putting enough miles on them to break the leather in himself? Taking a closer look at the sole, Steve imagined all the places it may have traveled: Prospect Park, the Bronx Zoo, the Staten Island Ferry, a dingy concert hall with Clint.Catching a whiff of the inside, Steve gagged. It smelled like sweaty gym socks, foot funk, and year-old corn chips that had been tossed into a microwave, but instead of throwing it across the room like a normal person would have done, Steve smiled. Despite the stench, he had an idea, and if he could make it work, it might even top the whipped cream Walkman. Steve searched for the magic number on the sole, but any numbers that may have once existed had been worn down by the boot’s mysterious journeys. Plugging his nose, Steve dug around inside, risking life and limb to find what he needed. To say that the fumes were noxious would be an understatement, but just as Steve was about to pass out from the stench, he spotted a faded number 11 on the underside of the tongue.Eleven. That was his boyfriend’s shoe size. It was just a number. Two faded lines on a stinky piece of leather. But when Steve tucked the information away for later, his eyes began to water.And it had nothing to do with the smell.Returning the boot to its match, Steve wiped his eyes as Roman struggled to pin the left shoulder of the jacket. Roman pushed Bucky’s hair out of the way. Bucky pushed it right back. Roman tried to be more subtle about it. Bucky shook his head, fluffing the ends out like a lion’s mane. It was a battle of wills. A lone tailor vs the unstoppable essence of rock ‘n’ roll. A man attempting to measure a man beyond measure.Steve gave Bucky two thumbs up behind Roman’s back. And when he stood up and walked toward the shelves at the end of the room, it was to reward Bucky’s obstinance, not his obedience.The shelves stretched from wall to wall on the short side of the rectangle, stopping just below the horizontal beams. They were so tall that a chrome track with a rolling wooden ladder had been installed to retrieve the status symbols from their perches. Hats. Shoes. Ties. Sunglasses. Watches. They were all there, shiny and new."Hey, Buck,” Steve said, tapping the face of a diamond-encrusted timepiece. "Do you own a watch?""What's a watch?" Roman laughed, Steve laughed, and Bucky, in all his Neptune-blue, death-metal glory, sent Steve an overexaggerated wink.Clocks. Watches. Time itself. It made sense that such earthly concepts wouldn’t apply to a boy from outer space. Not like they applied to Steve.Sliding his finger over the alligator strap, Steve cringed. Whether he’d been 12, 14, 16, or 18, the expectation had always been the same: Public appearances and carefully orchestrated photo ops called for stoic suits in neutral colors, a basic white shirt, a plain silk tie, and an elegant watch. No exceptions.Children, however unwanted, had to be on time.Steve touched the spot where his watch was supposed to be, imagining the blisters popping and oozing beneath his own alligator strap. That’s when he heard her.
“What color tie would you like, Stephen? My bouquet has fuchsia, lavender, violet, and white.”
His mother pushed the ties closer to the edge of the shelf so Steve could see the colors.
"But there are so many," he said, staring at the polka dots, paisleys, stripes, and checkers. "Which one do you think I should pick?"
Steve could hear the smile in her voice when she said, "Your opinion is just as important as mine, sweetheart. Plus, you have a wonderful eye for color."
Sighing, Steve looked at the rows and rows of neatly folded ties. He couldn’t remember the exact color of the lavender-and-white striped tie he’d chosen for the ceremony. Had the lavender skewed toward pink, or had the blue tones brought it closer to periwinkle? Without any photographs to remind him, it was impossible to know.“It doesn’t matter,” he said, digging his finger into the bandage until he felt a pop. And it didn’t. Not here. Not now. Because Bucky, without a word of encouragement, had happily picked out his own blue-and-grey striped tie.No hesitation. No second guessing. He’d just said, “This one reminds me of Gerard Way,” and tossed it at Roman, effectively transforming the shelves, and all they contained, into something different.Alien discoveries.Presents to please a muse. Numbers to spite Alexander. Stepping around the ladder to look at his options, Steve tried to imagine Bucky swapping his black leather chain wallet for one made of ostrich skin. Not only would Bucky make fun of Steve for the rest of their lives, but Clint would have a field day. Romantic stalker wallets, especially ones made from flightless birds, were worse than romantic stalker poetry. But sunglasses? Those would be helpful on any planet.“What’s your favorite style of sunglasses, Buck?”“Oh, that’s easy.” Bucky snapped his fingers. “I’ve always wanted a badass pair like Ponch on CHiPs. You know, the sexy cop with the mirrored aviators, badass motorcycle, and bubble butt. Vroom! Vroom!” Steve didn’t have a clue who “Ponch” was or how the hell he related to potato chips, but that didn’t stop him from spotting the perfect pair.The frames were silver, and the polarized mirrors inspired a wonderful image of Bucky straddling a motorcycle, the engine vibrating between his thighs as he wrote Steve a speeding ticket.Needless to say, the aviators were snatched off their perch without a second thought. But before Steve could deliver them to his muse, Roman started working on the front of the jacket. “You really should have taken off these bracelets,” Roman said, fussing with the sleeve. “They’re messing up the style lines.”“That’s a negative, Señor Tailor. I'm wearin’ these puppies when I sleep, shower, shit, swim, and go to the beach with Brandon Boyd." He transferred his pink plastic sunglasses from the top of his head to the tip of his nose. "Even if I won the lottery and spent Christmas break at a nudist colony in Jamaica, these cuffs are staying put. The hottie holding the Ponch glasses—yes, Stevie, I’m talkin’ about you—used them to stake his claim this morning."Stake his claim? If Steve weren’t an 18-year-old athlete in peak shape, he probably would have had a stroke. Sure, he’d thought about the symbolism of the cuffs—vaguely—but not in any way that related to staking his claim. To be honest, he had no idea what that even meant!But before Steve could process, Roman held out his hand and said, “Well, that I can understand. I’ve been married for two years, and ever since that gorgeous June day when my husband slipped this ring onto my finger, it’s only come off twice. Once, when I had my appendix out. And once, when I had to snake the toilet.”“I hate snakes,” Bucky said, shivering from head to toe.“Me too, especially when they’re pulling out my sister’s used tampons.”Steve had never been more confused.“But back to the subject at hand,” Roman said, moving past snakes and tampons. “Might I suggest something other than an armful of clunky bracelets? Perhaps something more private?”"Like a tattoo on my ass?" Spinning around, Bucky aimed his butt at Roman's wedding ring."Um, that wasn't exactly what I was thinking, but—"“I couldn’t get one anyways. I'm only 17, so I'd have to ask my actual daddy for permission. Right, Steve?"“Oh Jesus.” Roman bent over at the waist and started fanning himself. “Forget what I said. Please. You boys go right ahead and mess up the style lines all you want. Bracelets. Elbow-length gloves. You can even roll up the sleeves. Just keep things PG-13 until you’re old enough for R-rated accessories.”Steve didn't get it. But when Bucky mouthed, "Hi, Daddy," it clicked in a big way. Half of Steve’s brain screamed, “Holy shit, are you actually going to call me Daddy when we have sex?” while the other half whispered, “Please call me Daddy. Pretty, pretty please.” R-rated? Who was Roman kidding? That was venturing into XXX, and Steve, despite his penis’ sudden interest, wasn’t sure he was ready for that. Graduating from losing his virginity to Daddy in a few days? That seemed a little extreme, even for them.Luckily, Roman was a professional. After composing himself, he turned Bucky around and said, “Okay, Bucky. Let’s do a final check on things and give your boyfriend a minute to recover."“Maybe more than a minute,” Steve said, setting the aviators back onto the shelf. Vanilla Bean Frappuccinos. Romantic stalker poetry. Vintage Walkmans with a splitter that went two ways.PG-13 was where Steve needed to be.For now.Taking deflation time into account, Roman gave Steve a solid three minutes before he spun Bucky around and said, “And we’re done. What do you think?”“What do I think?” Steve swallowed. The way the jacket tapered at the waist looked like Michelangelo’s David had walked out of the Accademia Gallery in Florence and put on a Tom Ford suit. But a little voice—that sounded suspiciously like Clint—told Steve to edit, which was why he ditched the classical references and said, "Wow, Buck. You look like a real-life rock star.” The worship could come later.Brushing a strand of hair out of Bucky’s face, Roman said, “Better than a rock star. I fit Pharrell for the MTV Video Music Awards last month, and we put him in something similar. Trust me when I say he had nothing on you.” “Oh yeah?” Bucky laughed as he tried out a few rock star poses, featuring air guitar, a 30-second drum solo, a dramatic backbend, and something way too gangster for Steve to comprehend.God, he was perfect. But just as suddenly as he'd begun, Bucky dropped the...Gang signs?...and said, “This is too much, Steve."No. It was the opposite of too much. But instead of screaming, “Nothing is too much for you!” Steve took a deep breath and said, “It’s really not.”Bucky scrunched up his nose. “I think you’re forgetting that I’m an orphan from the shittiest part of Russia. The only other time I wore a suit was way back in 8th grade—or maybe it was 10th—when Clint’s great-uncle Doug croaked. Dude smoked, like, two cartons of Marlboro Reds a day and blew his daughter’s college fund in Atlantic City, so nobody was torn up about it when he kicked the bucket, but still, you’ve gotta pay your respects.”Tapping his toes like a drumroll, Bucky smiled.“Anyways, Clint suckered me into going to Deadbeat Doug’s funeral with the promise of mostaccioli, which—spoiler alert—they didn't even have! It was just soggy fried chicken, green bean casserole, stale rolls, and me gettin’ chicken grease all over the cheap-ass suit my dad bought at Target for $49.95.” “Promise you won’t eat chicken in this suit,” Roman said, “especially if it’s greasy.”“I promise. But if mostaccioli comes into play, there’s nothing I can do.” With that one pasta-loving declaration, Steve decided to take Bucky to il Buco in NoHo. They could order tagliatelle, spaghetti, gnocchi, and mostaccioli, all at the same time, and if the waiter was open to looking the other way on the ID, they could share a bottle of red wine from a small Italian winery.“Greasy chicken aside, the two of you are going to look stunning together at the dance.” “What?” Steve asked, his head swimming with carbohydrates and artisan wine. But as soon as he looked at Roman and Bucky’s beaming faces, he realized that he’d been so focused on mostaccioli that he’d forgotten all about the dance.The dance.Steve took a deep breath.For better or worse, his life was about to change. Looking at Bucky—really looking at him—Steve’s heart melted at the sight of him in his Neptune-blue suit. Bucky Barnes was his boyfriend. His boyfriend. And they were in a real relationship, doing real relationship things.They were a couple buying suits for a dance they were going to as a couple.They were rebelling as a couple.Taking risks as a couple. Coupling as a couple.It only took a moment for Steve to grab the sunglasses off the shelf and step onto the podium. There, he found himself balancing on the sparkling yellow-and-gold rings of the Starboy’s home planet. It was overwhelming at first—the infinite curves, the reduction in gravity, the endless possibilities of life on a new world—but after a while, Steve felt confident enough to remove the alien’s helmet and protective pink goggles, slipping them onto his own head in a symbolic intermingling of worlds. “You look dope in my shades,” Bucky said, giving the beanie an extra tug so it covered Steve’s ears. “And my hat makes you look tough, especially ‘cause you’re rockin’ the hell outta that pride pin. Hashtag thug life.”"Hashtag thug life?""Yep, straight up Biggie. And I'd like you to keep it. You know… to help.”When Bucky glanced at the bandage, the motion was almost imperceptible. A flicker of concern. A whisper of solidarity. A microexpression to assure Steve that he'd truly been heard. And in that moment, Steve fell in love with Bucky a little bit more.Okay, a lot more. Kissing the Starboy’s cheek, Steve said, “Thank you,” before sliding the mirrored sunglasses onto his face. “Thank you for wearing silly t-shirts that make me wonder where you found them in your size. Thank you for aggressively defending your Axl Rose hair. Thank you for wearing jeans with rips and patches that create a map of who you are and where you’ve been. And thank you for these amazing pink sunglasses.” Reaching up, Steve felt the plastic from an entirely new angle. “I adore them, just like I adore you. They’re like cotton candy melting on my tongue.” Bucky’s lips parted, just a bit, but Steve wasn’t finished.Returning to that magical moment when he’d run his fingers through Bucky’s hair when they’d made love, Steve repeated the motion. “I love it all, Bucky. But right now, in this suit, you’re an entirely different kind of masterpiece. You’re my Starboy from another world.”Steve knew it was too much too soon. He did. But he also knew it had been the right thing to say. The truth, however overwhelming, was the centerpiece of Steve’s rebellion. The truth was where he’d find his new home.“How the hell am I supposed to dance in this getup?” Bucky asked, stretching his arms like he was confused by his own skin. “I’m not fuckin’ around, Steve. You Richie Rich ballers better bust a move in these things, or else, what’s the point? A dance without dancing is way worse than a funeral without mostaccioli!”“I’d never deprive you of mostaccioli, Buck. And I’d never take you to a dance without dancing. I promise.”“Good.” Bucky sensually ran his thumbs along the sides of his brand-new sunglasses, caressing them like he was touching the head of Steve’s cock. “Then put on a song so I can take this suit for a test drive.”The teasing. The temptation. The hint of danger.It was such a turn on.Digging his phone out of his pocket, Steve pulled up a song as fast as he could. And it wasn’t something sweet or romantic. If Bucky wanted to take the suit for a test drive in Tom Ford’s private studio, then, as Bucky would say, it should be a motherfucking dance party!Fact: Tech N9ne’s “Hood Go Crazy” was an obnoxious song—overtly sexual lyrics, too many “bitches” to count, thinly veiled ‘kitten’ references—but it had the kind of bassline that made any room feel like a packed club on a Saturday night. As expected, the second Steve hit play, Bucky loosened the Windsor knot and unbuttoned the jacket. “So that’s the kind of dance you want to see, hmm?” Rolling his hips in a slow circle, he let his fingers ghost across his fly. “Well, lucky for you, pretty boy, I’ll take that as a challenge.”Just like that, Steve was sucked back into the sugarcoated webs of Wonderland. And Roman? His jaw landed somewhere in the basement.Not only was Bucky slowly running his hands up and down the lapels, but every time he opened the jacket, you could see the outline of his dick pressed against his thigh.“You, um… you did a good job with the pants,” Steve said, trying to swallow the ocean of saliva in his mouth. Swear to God, they were so tight that you could tell Bucky was uncircumcised.“I think I should loosen them.” “Yeah, maybe you should.”Steve looked at Roman. Roman looked at Steve. And it was perfectly obvious that neither of them had any intention of letting out the pins.When the chorus dropped, Steve felt like he’d walked into a gay strip club on a sunny Tuesday afternoon. His eyes were having trouble adjusting to the lights, the fog, and the penises, and when the figure on stage looked over the top of his mirrored sunglasses and hooked his thumbs beneath his waistband, someone gasped. Someone female.Not one, not two, but three saleswomen were poking their heads into the room, drawn by the music, or, more likely, sucked in by the Starboy’s gravity. And when the alien spun around in his suit full of pins, untucking the shirt before he settled into a dirty, hip-hop groove, everyone gasped.Steve included.This was a moment Steve would remember forever. The point on his timeline when his feelings for Bucky had become perfectly clear.Steve loved him. He really did.Wiping his hand across his mouth, Roman said, “Wow, he’s really something.” “Yeah, how do you think I figured out that I was gay?”Roman laughed, and so did Steve. And when the song ended, Steve heard a member of the audience say, “Encore,” before she disappeared.And Bucky? He just shrugged his shoulders, saying, “I can’t believe it passed,” like he hadn’t just taken Tom Ford’s entire sales staff to a strip club on the Moon. “I was sure the ass was gonna rip when I shook my money maker, but I guess 500 bucks buys some kick-ass thread.”Side-eyeing Steve, Roman was kind enough to keep the real price tag to himself. Five-hundred dollars? Maybe if they were talking about the sunglasses.“You’re my favorite person,” Steve said, wishing his mom were here to watch him fall in love. “Only ‘cause I’m hotter than Pharrell.”“No,” Steve said, moving the pink plastic sunglasses from the top of his head to the tip of his nose. “You’re my favorite because you let me borrow your shades.” Over an hour later, Steve and Bucky were standing at the counter while Roman tallied the bill. Tom Ford was old fashioned in the sense that they prepared handwritten invoices for their clients to sign, and while Roman was doing his best to be discrete, his hand looked like it was cramping.To put it gently, there was a lot to tally.After Bucky had retrieved his patches, boots, and knives, it had been Steve’s turn to stand on the podium. But instead of watching the fans spin as he’d been pinned into a suit from Jade’s preapproved list, Steve had relished the freedom of choice. Emboldened by the Starboy’s Neptune-blue eyes, Steve had walked back and forth in front of the forbidden racks, touching the shoulders of each and every one-of-a-kind suit. Silver, charcoal grey, emerald green, navy blue, there had been an endless array of colors at his disposal. But with his mother cheering him on from the shadows, he’d chosen black. It was a reclamation, in every sense of the word.The 3-piece suit had shiny silver pinstripes and a European cut, perfect for dancing in the red-light district on the Moon. And the inky black perfectly complemented Bucky’s galactic blue. Combine that with the purple-and-black paisley tuxedo Steve had chosen for the stupid gala next week, and Alexander was absolutely going to lose his shit.In fact, the more Roman wrote, the bigger Steve smiled.Three fully tailored suits. Three poplin dress shirts in light blue, lavender, and white. Three linen pocket squares. Two leather belts. Two ties. One purple bowtie. One pair of sterling silver cufflinks. A silver pocket chain. And, last but not least, Bucky’s new sunglasses.Steve nudged Bucky’s hip with his own. And Bucky, because he was the cutest alien in the entire galaxy, blew Steve a kiss.Folding the invoice before he slid it across the counter, Roman said, “This includes the tailoring.” But all attempts at discretion were thwarted when Bucky plowed into Steve’s side like he was sacking the quarterback at the Super Bowl.The invoice was snatched off the counter, and Bucky did a pivot/spin maneuver as he yanked open the paper. “Holy fucking shit!” Bucky threw the invoice at Steve’s feet like it was on fire. “That shit says $39,000!”Steve had estimated $35,000, so he hadn’t been too far off.“Is this a fucking joke?”Everything screeched to a halt. The older man by the sweaters stepped in front of his trophy wife. The bald man talking to one of the saleswomen stopped midsentence. And the security guard next to the front door put his hand on his radio. All of them turning to stare at the misfit in the shredded jeans. “‘Cause if it’s not, you’re fucking nuts,” Bucky said, stomping on the paper with his smelly, old boots. “You could buy three halfway decent cars with that! Minimal rust. Decent mileage. Working radios. For fuck’s sake, you could buy 15 pounds of weed, flip it, and buy a motherfucking boat!”The older man dragged his trophy wife out the door.“Shh,” Steve said, smushing his index finger against Bucky’s lips. “‘Nuts’ is good. ‘Nuts’ means taking chances. Taking risks. Rebelling. ‘Nuts’ means you’re living.” Steve took out his wallet. “You taught me that.”When Steve tossed his black American Express card onto the counter, he acted like it was nothing, but the truth was, his heart was about to explode. This was a big deal. And once Roman slid the plastic rectangle through the machine, there was no going back. To be honest, he couldn’t wait.“Do it,” Steve said, pulling Bucky’s beanie over his ears. “Run the card.” Then, turning to the boy he loved, he said, “I’ve earned it.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Steve leaned back against one of the towering concrete columns that supported the overpass, sighing as he shook the hell out of the can of spray paint in his hand. The paint was orange—specifically BLK 2120 Atom’s Megablast—and the rattle and clank of the metal ball inside marked the seconds as they passed. Logically, Steve understood that he should’ve taken Bucky home after they’d dropped 40k at Tom Ford. After all, that’s what Bucky had promised his dad. But Steve hadn’t wanted to then, and he didn’t want to now. Not at all.It was stupid, especially after the amazing day they’d just shared, but Steve just couldn’t shake the memory of Bucky's door slamming shut on Sunday afternoon.A goodbye kiss with just the right amount of tongue. A muse bounding up the steps, his sugarcoated webs swinging with the motion. A screen door bouncing once before closing, followed immediately by the rust-colored door. Logically, Steve understood that it was just a door, opening and closing like any other, but his downward spiral after he’d found himself alone on the other side proved that logic had its limits.Yes, he was being childish, maybe even clingy, but as Bucky jumped around with a can of paint in each hand like a five-year-old at a carnival-themed birthday party, Steve felt justified craving childish things. Teddy bear snuggles. Footie pajamas. Unconditional love. Never being left alone on the wrong side of a door.Steve unzipped his black hoodie, then zipped it right back up. Logical or childish, it didn’t matter. Feelings were feelings. And standing here, with the vibrant colors radiating from the graffiti all around them, Steve felt like he was living in a house without doors.Their roof was the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, and the cars and trucks that zoomed back and forth above them were creating a constant vibration in the concrete and steel. It was an entirely different world up there. One where people adjusted their position on the planet with solid destinations in mind. But down here, with Atom’s Megablast paint molecules surfing the early evening breeze, there was no destination. There was only the sound of Bucky's laughter mixing with the rooftop rumble, bringing a sense of whimsy to their lack of direction.Holding the can completely still, Steve shook off the last of the sadness. Fuck Poe. Fuck Dante. And fuck depression. Bucky was serotonin in motion, stretching his arms further and further apart as he painted a yellow spiral with one hand and blue spiral with the other. Knock Out Blue. Power Yellow. Both colors lived up to their names because, in the end, Bucky’s spirals looked like a pair of gigantic breasts that had been slathered with body paint in a tent at Coachella.God, Bucky would look amazing with ultraviolet paint on his abs.Shouting across the open space, Steve said, "So you're double fisting now, huh?” "Are you talkin' about beers or dicks?" Steve laughed. "Dicks, obviously.""Good, ‘cause I'm not a big fan of beer." Now, there are jokes that you know are jokes from beginning to end. For example: Why did the penis let everyone in? Because it could only say “urine.” Simple. To the point. Nothing ambiguous about that particular penis joke.But Bucky had one eyebrow raised, and he was shaking the cans up and down, up and down, and suddenly Steve wasn't so sure that— "Oh my god! I'm fucking with you!" Spinning on his heel, Bucky painted a yellow zigzag that matched the spike in Steve's heart rate. "I'm a one penis man, monogamy is my jam, gang bangs are not on the menu—repeat, not on the menu—and the only double fisting I'm gonna be doing is wrapping both of my hands around your very big cock."Steve laughed, blushed, and pulled Bucky's beanie over his eyes—three simultaneous reactions to being a dumbass. Even surrounded by the brightest of colors, he’d automatically defaulted to the worst-case scenario, and, quite frankly, it pissed him off. Squatting down, Steve gave the can a good shake, the metal ball clinking and clanking as it mixed the orange paint. "Yo, Steve. Are you doing some kind of weird method acting thing. You know, like Jared Leto's doing for 2049?""What?” Steve pushed the beanie up just enough to peek at Bucky with one eye. He was spraying a blue dot, and he kept on spraying it, holding the nozzle in the same place until the paint was dripping down like Niagara Falls. "Oh yeah, it's crazy town," Bucky said, spraying and spraying and spraying some more. "I saw this article the other day—top-secret shit leaked from the Blade Runner set—and word on the street is that Jared's playing a blind dude, which is cool. Something to dig his teeth into as an actor. But rumor has it he's been wearing these special contacts so he's actually, like, blind." The paint had run all the way down to the concrete slab and was pooling at his feet, but Bucky kept spraying. Just like he kept talking."Now, I'd never say that Jared jumped the shark—his abs are way too hot for that—but, hypothetically speaking, if my love for Jordan Catalano ever did sour, it would be because he didn’t understand the difference between method and asshole. Blinding himself? Sending Margot Robbie dead rats? Seriously, dude, where does it end?" Taking his finger off the nozzle, Bucky stomped his boot in the puddle of blue, sending speckles all the way to his knees. "That really happened, you know. The Joker sent Harley Quinn a fuckin’ rat! It's trending like crazy." Steve pulled the beanie back down to the tip of his nose. Not because he didn't want to see, but because he wanted to hear. The cadence of Bucky's voice was so damn comforting when he got on a roll. So many words in so little time, the letters and syllables twisting and turning as they blended with the vibrations of the freeway. Steve could listen to it for a lifetime. Using his left hand to guide him, Steve sprayed a line around himself, pulling the curve from one corner of the pillar to the other. Was it stupid to paint a symbolic circle where he could safely listen to Bucky’s sounds? Yes. Yes, it was. But since worst-case scenarios were lurking just outside the perimeter, it was also necessary. "So, yeah, Jared paid some random guy mad cash to crash a Suicide Squad rehearsal, and the dude just walked up to Will Smith and dropped a dead pig at his feet! Can you imagine? Agent J must’ve been so fuckin’ pissed." Settling back into a squat, Steve rubbed the top of his toasty warm head. He couldn't remember a hat ever keeping his head this cozy before. Sure, there'd been warmer hats over the years—ones with ear flaps or faux fur linings—but warm and cozy weren't the same thing. Running his fingers back and forth across the ridges of the weave, Steve mushed the beanie against his eyelids, gaining a greater understanding of Bucky's philosophy on clothing and emotion. It was simple. Utopia or not, sharing his graffiti-filled world with Bucky made Steve feel vulnerable, and vulnerability paired well with Bucky's soft hat."Like, imagine waking up one day and deciding to send the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air a bunch of anal beads."Steve almost choked on his spit."I bet Jared didn't pull that kind of shit with Matthew McConaughey when they were filming Dallas Buyers Club."When Steve pushed up the beanie, he laughed so hard that he almost lost his balance.Bucky was bending over, putting the finishing touches on a row of what Steve could only assume were supposed to be anal beads, and the top of his butt was hanging out like he was the world’s most attractive plumber.Fact: Steve had no idea what anal beads were—let alone what they did—but with the word anal in the title, they had to be a sex thing, right? But the real question was: Were they a gay sex thing? Was Steve supposed to run to his friendly neighborhood sex store and buy Bucky a necklace for his ass? "Who knows, maybe McConaughey’s into anal beads. I mean, he plays bongos with his dick out, so he’s gotta be a pretty open-minded dude. You know… like Tony."Leaping to his feet, Bucky switched out anal bead blue for lime green and cherry red—Slimer and Code Red respectively. Then he started jumping around, adding swirls and dots to the gigantic face he’d painted when they’d first arrived, marking his movements with blue, size eleven footprints on the concrete slab. He was Jackson Pollock gone punk. Kinetic. Colorful. Just the right amount of crazy. And with every animated leap, Steve fell in love a little bit more. "I'm not sure if anal beads would be my jam,” Bucky said, spraying a green dot onto his knee. I mean, I've only seen them in pornos and, straight up, they reminded me of a snake laying eggs."Okay, that was it.Standing up, Steve took off the hat. “Bucky! What in God’s name are you talking about?""Oh, there you are,” he said, spinning around with a marshmallow grin. “Took you long enough to come outta there. You looked like a turtle."Steve blinked, then he blinked some more. "I got a little on your picture." Bucky waved his hand at Steve's demonstration piece. "Maybe more than a little. I got kinda carried away with the sex toys."Aha! So anal beads were a sex thing! (He’d have to ask Siri for specifics later.)Lining up his toes with the orange line, Steve said, “There’s more paint on your actual face than the face on the wall. And your clothes are annihilated.”Bucky scoffed. “Why do you think I’m rocking your Shrek-sized sweatshirt? Splatter protection is the only reason I let you hide my bitchin’ Knife Party shirt with a shapeless, gray blob.”“Well, it’s not doing jack shit for your jeans, or your boots, or your hair, or your—”“Do I look like I care?” Bucky sprayed two more dots onto his jeans. “Look! Now I have anal beads on my thigh!” Sometimes you need to be pushed out of a protective circle. A mother leaves her son kicking and screaming at preschool. A baby robin gets shoved out of its nest. But this time, there was no push required. Bucky’s anal beads made it easy for Steve to step out on his own.And when Steve’s toes crossed the bright-orange line, he couldn’t have been more honest when he said, “I’m so happy I found this place. And I’m even happier that you’re here to share it with me.”Bucky smiled, big and bright, then resumed his work, spraying and spraying and spraying some more.It was hard to believe that only three weeks had passed since Steve discovered this spot. He’d just endured a mind-numbing ‘shopping’ date with Sharon—she’d looked at purses while he’d played Candy Crush—and he’d been in desperate need of something deeper than Hermès and Louis Vuitton. After crossing the bridge’s 37 bumps, he’d driven the Brooklyn streets for hours, searching the darkest corners of the grid for someplace new. He still wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here, walking among the pillars in the dead of night, but who was he to question destiny? All that mattered was that the place had been found. The wall itself was in a spot where the 278 curved and the support beams tripled, offering extra protection from prying eyes. That, coupled with the orange construction fence from the building renovation on the south side, made it the perfect place for a little daytime vandalism.Or a little daytime kissing.Chuckling, Steve touched his chin, feeling the spot where Bucky’s five o’clock shadow had rubbed it raw. After convincing Bucky to make one more stop, Steve had handed the foreman at the construction site two crisp twenties to let them ditch the truck by the cement mixer, tossing in an extra $40 so he’d look the other way when the spray paint came out—and $60 more in case anything else came out. Then Steve had grabbed the gear, taken Bucky by the hand, and given himself kudos for $140 well spent.Graffiti, of course, had been the ultimate goal, but after seeing Bucky dance in that suit? C’mon, he was only human.The second they’d hopped the fence, Steve had pushed Bucky up against a construction barrel and kissed him deeply. No groping. No dry humping. No frenzy. Just a sweet, sensual kiss in the midst of Steve’s secret world. Only then had the writing lesson begun.Steve looked at the word he’d painted in sharp, intersecting letters, their centers filled with a gradient of Atom’s Megablast, Power Yellow, and Snow White.
ALIVE.
It was the perfect word for Bucky’s first lesson, encapsulating the utter perfection of their day. Steve had felt alive when he’d snapped the cuffs on Bucky’s arm. Alive when he’d signed his name and sealed his fate. Alive when he’d shown Bucky how to use the stencils and take the wind into account. And alive when he’d handed Bucky a can of black and said, “Let’s see what you’ve got.”Turns out, he was a natural.After spraying an enormous oval next to Steve's letters, Bucky had painted a primitive face with half a dozen colors, his marks defying boundaries and dripping in the most authentic way. And now, watching him punch holes in Steve’s solid outlines with Code Red swirls, Steve’s heart swelled, absorbing the breadth of their bipolar juxtaposition.“It looks like Basquiat,” Steve said, leaving his self-imposed wall behind. “Who the fuck is Basket What?”Steve laughed. “A famous painter. He was from Brooklyn too, and he painted faces just like that.”“Crack-is-wack kindergarten faces that look like lil’ Johnny got into mommy’s secret stash of ‘gummy bears’?”"Um..." Inching forward to get a closer look, Steve had to admit that Bucky's oddly specific description was a pretty fair analysis of Basquiat's work. "I guess when you put it that way. Yes?”Switching back to blue, Bucky yelled, "Ha!" before spraying a dot on his toe. “Then put my shit in a museum next to Basket What and give me a million bucks so I can be your sugar daddy.” He pointed at his masterpiece. “It’s a picture of you by the way. See the beanie and super sweet shades?”Steve intertwined his fingers behind his head like he did whenever he wandered through MoMA. “It’s like looking in a mirror,” he said, his heart steadying as he marveled at the priceless work of art that was Bucky Barnes.No doubt, Bucky and his lopsided Lucky Charms crown were worthy of hanging in a museum next to Basquiat, Picasso, Warhol, and Kehinde Wiley. His every action was an interactive exhibit of movement and energy, a punk rock portrait that couldn’t be contained by a gilded frame. To put it in the most basic terms, Bucky was an unconfinable work of art and Steve needed to touch him right fucking now. Foregoing all pretense, he jogged across the uneven terrain of crushed cans, cigarette butts, and broken concrete, saying, “Give me those,” before climbing onto the slab. Something had triggered a powerful craving—something primal—but it wasn’t the urge to take from Bucky. It was the desire to give to him. The cans were tossed in the general direction of the gear before Steve ran his hand down the front of Bucky’s paint-speckled sweatshirt, gathering the cotton into a tight bunch at the hem. “I want to do something, Buck.”Bucky glanced down at Steve’s hold. “Um… we are doing something.”"No. I want to do something else.”When Steve tugged on the sweatshirt, Bucky rocked forward onto the toes of his loosely laced boots. Steve loved how the tongues had fallen forward, allowing Bucky’s jeans to bunch up around the tops like soft-serve ice cream overflowing two freshly formed waffle cones. God, Steve wanted him.“I want to make you feel good.”“Um...” Using his hold, Steve pulled Bucky closer, ghosting over his lips as he whispered, “And I want you to let me."Bucky melted, his chest bumping Steve’s as he swayed on his feet. It was the perfect response.Steve kissed his way across Bucky’s neck in a sensual dot-to-dot, skipping from one paint speck to the next. And when he landed on a patch of yellow just below Bucky’s ear, he stopped, nibbling a little as he said, “But only if you want me to."A wave of neon sound flowed overhead as Steve waited for his Starboy’s decision. Violet horseshoes that sounded like wind chimes. Yellow stars that rumbled like rockets. Pink hearts that mimicked the thump of their unified heart. His neurons fired all at once in an explosion of synesthesia, and Steve, kissing a line across Bucky’s stubbly jaw, prayed his senses would never disconnect. This was something to live for.When Steve released his grip, their eyes remained locked. And when he unzipped his own graffiti hoodie and spread it out on the paint-covered concrete, he felt nothing but awe as Bucky knelt down in front of him and bowed his head.“Can I let down your hair?” As much as he loved the tornado topknot, Steve wanted to run his fingers through the tangles, pulling gently so Bucky would look at him.There was a nod, followed by a gasp as Steve looped his fingers beneath the rubber band and snapped it in half. And when Steve buried his fingers in the strands, it only took one gentle tug for Bucky to understand what Steve wanted. One tug, and Bucky lowered his body to lay at Steve's feet. Jesus Christ.He needed a second to process, to think, but Bucky was like a succulent fruit, ripe and smooth, and Steve wanted nothing more than to peel him and lick up all the juices.Fuck thinking! The time for worship had arrived.Dropping to his knees, Steve ran his hands up and down Bucky’s bent legs. “I want to kiss every inch of your skin,” he said, sneaking his lips between the tattered strings covering Bucky’s knee. “And one little taste isn’t nearly enough.”“Dude, we’re outside.”“Mm-hmm.” Steve kissed the other knee. “And you look so damn beautiful in the sunshine.”It was true. The late afternoon sun was shining through the support beams, stamping geometric patterns of light and shadow across Bucky’s body. A triangle on his cheek. Another on his shin. A row of stripes dividing his left arm into a dozen lovable pieces. The geometry was intoxicating.Honing in on the perfect parallelogram shining across Bucky’s hips, Steve traced his fingertip around the perimeter, letting the tension build and build and build, until, finally, he pushed the sweatshirt out of the way and allowed the sunny shape to warm his boyfriend’s belly. Steve had absolutely no idea what he was doing, and he didn’t care. The vein on Bucky’s hip was pulsing, begging Steve to trace it with his tongue, so he did, allowing the sun to guide him.“Steve, are we gonna—”“Shh.” Steve unbuckled Bucky’s belt. “It’s a surprise.” Then, making quick work of the button and zipper, he slid Bucky's jeans down just below his ass.“Um, ignore Hugh Jackman,” Bucky said with a strong exhale. “I put on my Wolverine boxers ‘cause I was mad at you this morning, which is pretty fucking embarrassing.”Wrapping his hand around Bucky’s dick, Steve squeezed. "Trust me, sweetheart, the X-Men won’t be a problem.”“Jesus, Steve, I wasn’t really prepared for—”One slobbery kiss to the tip shut Bucky right up, and one twist of Steve's wrist made him moan.This was a far cry from the vampire bats and scary rabbits that had been there the first time he’d opened his mouth for Bucky. And it was a far cry from the haze of alcohol and weed that had colored their first time having sex. Steve was sober, wide awake, and aware, and when he ran his tongue up and down the length of Bucky's dick, he felt nothing but gratitude that he was allowed to touch him like this.Inside the geometry of the sunny shape, Steve could see everything, observing and cataloguing the subtle changes in Bucky's skin like he was looking through a microscope. First, he discovered minuscule blond hairs that responded to the faintest touch, rising and falling as his fingers drifted across Bucky's stomach. Then he spotted a tiny mole hidden just inside the lip of Bucky's belly button. Steve paused to kiss it. To claim it. To be the first one to worship the tiny brown dot."Steve, you're…" Lifting his hips, Bucky moaned. "God, that's so fucking good."Smiling, Steve discovered three tiny freckles in the shape of Orion’s Belt on Bucky’s hip. They couldn't be more perfect—stars on a Starboy—and Steve circled his tongue around each one, memorizing their placement.But he wanted more.He wanted to give Bucky more.Double checking that the hoodie was beneath him, Steve pulled Bucky's pants down to his knees, exposing all of him to the fresh fall air.Then he waited.Looking. Appreciating. Taking charge.“Are you okay, Buck? Is this okay?”Lifting his head, Bucky looked at his quickly expanding dick. “Yeah… I’m good. I’ve just… I’ve just never had my dick out under a freeway.”“Mmm,” Steve said, wrapping his hand around him. “And I bet you’ve never had your dick sucked under a freeway either.”Closing his eyes, Bucky pushed his dick into Steve’s hand, and God, the way his abs were flexing in the sunlight was everything.Steve looked at Bucky's hands, at his wrists, at the way his mouth was hanging open, at the leather of the belt.God, he looked at the leather.Steve’s red canvas belt would be softer. Easier to wrap. Better to secure him. Unbuckling it as fast as he could, Steve tugged it out of his belt loops and stretched it in a tight line between his hands. “Bucky,” he said, twisting the belt to show him what he was thinking, “I’d like you to put your hands above your head and cross them at the wrists. Can you do that for me, baby?”There was a pause, and Steve was sure he’d pushed too far. But then Bucky smiled, snapping his hands up to form a perfect X .Holy shit.Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.Those were the only words Steve could process as he pushed Bucky's legs flat against the ground and straddled his chest. Holy shit, he's beautiful. Holy shit, he's letting me slide the belt beneath his wrists. Holy shit, listen to him moan.Bucky lifted his head and tried to nuzzle Steve through his jeans, but that wasn’t what this was about. “No, baby. Stay still," Steve said, looping the belt around to secure it. "This is about you.”Steve had never tied somebody up—obviously—but now, feeling the pulse of Bucky’s dick against his ass, he felt dizzy, and turned on, and— God, he didn't even know. Part of him was asking, “What the hell are you doing?” but the way his cock was straining against his jeans answered the question with ease. He was finally allowing his urges to lead him. “If you don’t like something, tell me," Steve said, lost in the magic of Bucky’s Neptune-blue eyes. "Tell me, and I’ll stop.” With that command in place, Steve slid backward and pushed Bucky’s knees up to his chest, holding him in place by the center of his jeans. Then he did something he’d been thinking about for days. Something he’d been lusting for. Using the pants as their own form of restraint, Steve ran his tongue right up the crack of Bucky’s ass.“Steve, I’m not clean. I need to—”“I don’t care.” Kissing the spot just beneath Bucky’s balls, Steve reversed course. “I want you to feel my tongue, and I want you to feel it right here.”Applying everything he’d done to make Peggy’s toes curl, Steve proceeded to lick, suck, and finger Bucky until he was writhing on the concrete and begging to come. Was it a completely new experience? Yes. Was it the most sanitary thing he’d ever done? No. But when Steve said, “Don’t come until I say so,” the power of controlling Bucky’s every breath trumped the smell of sweaty teenage testicles. “You’re so pretty like this, baby.”“With my ass in the air?”“Yes, with your ass in the air.” Steve slid his finger out, marveling at the way Bucky’s body responded to the lack of him. “And I want to watch your pretty little ass just a little while longer. Can you do that for me?”Steve didn’t touch him—not even a fingertip—as he waited for an answer.And Bucky? He relaxed completely, his Muppet hair fanning out past the edges of the hoodie to mix with the chaotic footprints of blue.Steve's breath caught in his throat when Bucky said, “Yes… da,” because Bucky was willingly submitting to him. This was submission!The sight of Bucky’s arms bound above his head. The way his legs were compressed against his chest. His eyes rolling back as his mouth dropped open.Steve couldn't wait another second.Fucking him with two fingers, Steve twisted his hand around Bucky’s dick, waiting until Bucky lifted his hips to say, "Now, baby. Come all over my hand right now." And when he did, Steve was overwhelmed by the desire to suck on his own fingers.But the second he touched the tip of his thumb to his tongue, Bucky started mumbling something—something that wasn't English."Bucky?"He was repeating sounds with low, rolling syllables, the tones getting lost in the vibration of the freeway. “Oh my God, Bucky.” Steve released his legs. “Shit! Did I hurt you?” His eyes were hazy. He looked wasted. “Nyet, malish… mmm, good,” Bucky said, his head lolling to the side as his lips curled into a blissed-out smile. Then he said something else that Steve didn’t understand. Something that sounded like Russian.“Jesus Christ. Let me undo your arms. Shit, shit, shit.”Steve clambered over Bucky’s legs, lunging for the belt.“Nyet, no. I like it.”“Bucky, you seem—”“Shh,” he said, his eyes finally focusing. “ Please… just hold me.”That was all it took for Steve to shut his mouth and run his fingers through Bucky’s hair, looking into his eyes, making sure he was okay, and realizing too late that his hands were covered in come. “Shit!”Steve stared at the mess, got turned on all over again, and decided that he’d tell Bucky on the ride home. Right now, there were more pressing matters than a gigantic glob of come in Bucky’s hair.“Here, let me undo your wrists,” Steve said, caressing the muscles in Bucky’s arms with long, soothing strokes. “Do they feel okay? Are they cramping?”Steve looked at his own wrist, at the bandage, praying that he hadn’t transferred the pain. “I can’t feel them at all,” Bucky said, lifting his hips to rub against Steve’s ass. “They’re like Sunday-night spaghetti, but better.”Taking the time to kiss the crook of each elbow, Steve chuckled when he said, “At least they don’t feel like mostaccioli. Then I’d be really worried.”“Makarony Po-flotski,” Bucky said, scrunching up his face, “ne khorosho.” Steve laughed as he slid backward to the spot where they’d begun. “Baby, I love hearing you speak Russian,” he said, pulling Bucky’s jeans—and Hugh Jackman—over his hips, “but you could be telling me my breath smells like onions for all I know.” But instead of translating, Bucky sighed. And when Steve finished tucking all of Bucky’s beautiful parts inside and zipped the zipper, he sighed twice as loud.“You good, baby?” Steve asked, lying down next to the Starboy in his puddle of Knock Out Blue.“Da, you just wore me out, that’s all.” Bucky squished his nose into Steve’s neck. “Apparently, getting rimmed is the sexual equivalent of running a marathon.”“But I did all the work.”Bucky laughed, scooching closer and closer until he was glued to Steve’s side. Then it was quiet, Bucky’s breath warming Steve’s neck as the sounds of their rooftop symphony washed over them. Cars and trucks going in a million different directions. Nail guns firing into newly-built walls. A siren in the distance. Steve had no idea where they were going, or where they were going to land, but as long as Bucky was by his side, he’d never look at a map again.***** Bucky tapped his house key on his forehead, the lock, his forehead, the deadbolt, and...Surprise! Surprise!...his forehead. Then he tapped his nipples just to add a little spice. He was late (again). He was gonna be in deep shit (again). He had a fuckton of jizz in his hair (again, although having his own jizz in his hair was new). But that wasn't the point. The point was that Bucky was totally and completely fucked, and the only way to avoid his dad was to stand on the front stoop for a gazillion years and fuck around with his key.But there was a problem. Sweet Stevie Rogers was too much of a gentleman to drive away until Bucky was safe and sound inside, which meant he was blocking the road with his big ol' spaceship. Bring on the horns!It didn’t matter that Bucky had waved his arm 592 times to signal that Steve could leave, Prince Charming, with his roses and rim jobs, wasn’t gonna budge, no matter how much road rage he inspired. “I don’t wanna,” Bucky said, poke-poke-poking his forehead with the key. “I wanna hang with the Key Master and slam some shots.”
Honk!
“For fuck’s sake!” Bucky flipped off the line of cars with one hand and waved at Prince Assmuncher with the other (Seriously, Steve had gone to town!). Then he slid the stupid key into the stupid lock, slipping into an orange jumpsuit before walking the long and winding path to death row.The first thing he saw was his sister’s sneakers, which was normal. But what he saw next to them wasn’t normal at all!Dropping his shit, Bucky poked his head into the kitchen, and, sure enough, there was his bestie, his bro, his platonic boo boo, sitting in Bucky’s spot without his motherfucking boots! But that wasn’t all, folks! The fucker was shoving an enormous forkful of Hamburger Helper into his mouth! "What the fuck?" Bucky slapped the wall, which was probably over the top for a person with jizz in his hair.His dad and Natasha froze like they’d been caught red handed, but not Clint. Nope, Clint went full speed ahead and took another bite because...News flash!...he was a dickfaced asshole.An asshole who was eating Bucky’s Cheeseburger Helper! Looking over his glasses, his dad asked, “Did you get your suit?” like it pained him to acknowledge that Bucky had a super hot sugar daddy. Not that Stevie was your average, everyday sugar daddy. That would require a serious age difference (30 years minimum), some salt-and-pepper hair, and a set of saggy balls with extra, extra, extra wrinkles. Steve was more like a sugar baby. Or a sugar glider. Or a sugar— Bucky squeezed his temples.His brain didn't conjure up any more sugary things, so he went with a rich boyfriend who liked buying him expensive shit.Proceeding with maximum caution, Bucky said, “Yeah, I got the suit, it’s blue,” because his dad's question had been super loaded. Like, no joke, it felt like a fuckin’ cobra was just waiting to sink its fangs into Bucky’s thoroughly eaten ass.Natasha took a bite. Clint took a bite. And Bucky’s dad started scraping his fork around his plate like a motherfucking Sith Lord. It was fucking menacing! Phantom Menace menacing! Seriously, how the fuck could an itty-bitty squeak sound like a—“And you came right home?” “What?” Bucky blinked, trying to get the venom out of his eyes.“I asked if you came right home.”Since stopping to get your ass licked probably wasn’t an acceptable excuse, Bucky tried his best to sound credible when he said, “Yes?”Clint snickered under his breath ‘cause, yeah, it was, like, 7:30.The Sith Lord squeak turned into a murderous scrape as a glob of cheesy noodles (and an even cheesier glob of meat) fell onto the checkers. “I see," his dad said, making a direct hit on red and white. “So you’re telling me that you got paint all over yourself at the tailor?”Glancing down at Steve’s sweatshirt, his jeans, and his Rainbow Brite, no-longer-mad boots, Bucky cringed in every way a person can cringe. His nuts even did that crazy thing where they disappeared inside your body like a turtle, which begged the question: Where do testicles go when they’re hiding from an active shooter? For real, why the fuck was he so fucking stupid? There was no way in hell his dad was gonna buy four hours at the tailor, but he could have at least thought about his paint-covered everything. “Yeah, it was a really fashion-forward place,” Bucky said, aiming for Dumb and Dumber caliber dumb. “Steve called it avant garden or something French like that.”Clint snorted, choking on a mouthful of meat as he started the requisite slow clap. To be fair, Bucky was usually a big fan of the slow clap. And, sure, if their roles were reversed, he’d be doing the damn thing. But when Natasha kicked Clint's bare foot with her bare foot, transferring their traitorous cooties, it really pissed him off.“Son, I told you—”“Why is Clint here?” Had Bucky yelled directly into his bestie’s ear? You bet your ass he had! An eye for a fucking eye! A dick move for an even bigger, Steve-size dick move! That’s how Bucky was gonna play this game.Natasha, of course, tiptoed the rescue in her fucking tutu.“As of today, we're officially dating, so I invited him over to—" “That's fucking awesome,” Bucky said, leaning over Clint’s shoulder to grab a chunk of meat right out of the motherfucking bowl. The cheese looked fucking disgusting when it mixed with the dirt under Bucky’s fingernails, but he shoved it into his mouth anyways, mumbling, "To be perfectly honest, I didn't think the fucker was capable of commitment." Dad dropped his fork, like...Bam!...'cause he was over it. Fin, finito, Frito, s menya khvatit. Over Bucky coming home late. Over Bucky saying fuck all the time. Over Bucky’s atrocious table manners.But, c’mon, if his dad knew about all the other things at this table that Bucky'd shoved into his mouth (cough, Clint's dick), would he really give a flying fuck about a hunk of cow meat and a few f-bombs? Fuck no!There was a basket of rolls next to Natasha (the round kind that Bucky liked to slather in butter and devour in three bites). Grabbing two, he held them both in one hand, staring directly into his sister’s eyes when he said, “Wow, these feel familiar,” and took a big bite. Not only were the rolls fucking delicious, they were roughly the same size as his bestie’s balls.“Are you kidding me?” Natasha may have been acting like a shy little sheep a second ago, but she sure as fuck wasn't acting sheepish now. Clutching her fork like she was gonna stab Bucky’s buttery rolls, she said, "Since you were cool with this last night, today at lunch, and when I triple checked before you left with Steve, how about you pull up a chair and eat dinner like a civilized human being?" She arched her eyebrow. "That is, unless you already ate something.”Clint snorted.And Bucky? He just stood there with his handful of half-eaten balls.One, he couldn't fucking believe she'd said that in front of their dad! And two, why the fuck would she lie about talking to him after school? On a normal day, Bucky would have shouted fuck a zillion times, thrown a shitton of shade back in Natasha’s direction, and/or drop to his knees and put Clint’s actual balls into his mouth to make a fucking point, but instead, his chin started to shake as the cheesy meat and buttery balls threatened to spew out of his mouth."I'm going upstairs," he said, stripping off Steve’s sweatshirt and dropping it on the floor without dropping the rolls. “ Oh, and Dad, don’t forget to swing by my room after you finish your Hamburger Helper to tell me how much I fucked up.""Bucky." “Bucky.”“Bucky.”Three voices called after him for three different reasons, but Bucky didn't stop until he'd crawled underneath his comforter, blanket, and sheets (top and bottom) like a motherfucking testicle hiding from the outside world. And when Bucky started crying like a fucking baby, he grabbed his chickenshit balls and whispered, “Fuck you. You’re pathetic.” There was a knock at the door, and even though Bucky didn’t want him to, he pushed back the blankets.It was his dad."Go ahead," Bucky said, throwing one roll at Curt Wild and the other at Brian Slade because he wasn’t in the mood for glam rock love stories. "Make it official.""Make what official?""Tell me I can't go to the dance. That’s why you're here, right?" It probably said something that Curt winked at him, batting his glittery eyelashes like he was DTF, but Bucky was too upset to care."No, son. I'm here to make sure you're okay." His dad held out a plate of Hamburger Helper.It was too much.Too nice. Too understanding. Too caring. Which was probably why a brand-new batch of tears exploded out of Bucky’s eyeballs when he said, "I had the perfect day."It was true. Steve had made him feel so fucking special. "Then what's wrong?" his dad asked, setting the plate on the desk next to the Joker.The Joker gave people dead pigs. Steve gave people $500 sunglasses. The Joker gave people dead rats. Steve gave people $6,000 suits. The Joker gave people anal beads. Steve gave people rim jobs in public."I think I'm just tired," Bucky said, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to look at Jared Leto or Ewan McGregor or Curt Wild. Then, realizing he was still wearing his boots, he said, "I'm sorry," even though he didn't know what he was sorry for. "Can’t you just yell at me in the morning?"Boots in bed. Boots that were mad and sad and totally rad.He was gonna get big-ass blisters on his toes. Blisters like the ones on Steve's wrist...Bucky blinked because it was dark. The lamp was off. His boots were off. His pants were off. And when he touched his dick, it was wet.Steve had called him Starboy, whispering stories about rocket ships and Saturn. The Starboy. He gave himself a few strokes. He liked it. It suited him well.There were already stars on the ceiling, glowing green. Glow worms and paint. Paint from a can, shaking and rattling and screeching to a halt against a china-white plate.Bucky was starting to feel dizzy again, and the spinning made him feel alone.Alone while Clint was with Natalia.Alone while the Starboy was with Curt Wild.Alone while Steve's stepdad kicked the shit out of him in Manhattan.“Where are you?” Bucky asked, crying as he shoved his pillows and blankets into the place where Steve had held him, kissed him, and drawn him. Where Steve had kept him safe and warm as they’d slept. But no matter how tightly he squeezed the pillows and pretended they were Steve, they just weren't.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
If someone hired Clint to put together a teen movie montage about the first week of Steve and Bucky’s out-and-proud relationship, he'd have to smoke an entire eighth before he could even consider getting started.There'd been good, bad, confusing, sexy, fucked up. Clint aimed his face at the sun, trying to decide if happy should be on the list too.Was he happy that Bucky had somebody to swap spit with by the library, the gym, the aux gym, the art room, the science lab, the trophy cases, the lockers—Clint’s included—and the salad bar at lunch? Sure. Was he happy that Bucky’d been so distracted by Steve’s romantic sideshow that he’d stopped giving Clint shit about Nat? Obviously. And was he happy that Bucky cared enough to give Clint shit in the first place? He wasn’t even gonna go there. Skipping World History to give himself extra time before the dance had been a good call. Not only did he have to go home, shower, shave, cut his toenails, trim his pubes, throw something into the crockpot, walk Lucky, get dressed, and borrow Larry’s car—all before seven—but he had to take the subway down 84th Street first. So why, 10 minutes later, was his ass still glued to the ledge in front of the school? “Fuck if I know,” he said, picking at the calluses at the tips of his fingers. The ledge was Clint and Bucky’s go-to location when they wanted to ditch class without ‘leaving the premises’ or breaking the rules of the roof. If anybody decided to look for them—say, Bucky’s dad—they’d never think to check five feet from the front doors. It was too obvious. Plus, the security cameras had a blind spot that Clint and Bucky—despite having unlimited access to the janitor’s closet (ladder, power drill, electrical tape) and school office (video monitors)—had had absolutely nothing to do with.Chuckling, Clint glanced up at the camera. It had been almost two years since they’d adjusted that thing, and, still, nobody had noticed. Fucking classic.Clint tipped up his chin until he felt the full force of the sun’s rays. He didn’t subscribe to the “punks must be pale” rule. Never had, never would. That shit might work for MCR fans in Atlanta or Tallahassee, but winters in New York had been getting shittier and shittier every year. Slush, ice, blizzards, Arctic blasts, weeks on end without a hint of sun. The calendar might only say September, but Mother Nature was already gearing up to do her worst. That’s why he’d pushed his t-shirt sleeves onto his shoulders, rolled up his jeans as far as they would go, and aimed his face directly at the sun. He needed to absorb all the Vitamin D he could before the thermometer dropped to negative six and the inside of his bedroom window iced up again.But Clint hadn't skipped his favorite class to work on his tan. He’d skipped 6th hour so he could hop onto the subway and pick something up before the dance. Something important. But instead, he was contemplating the weather while he dealt with his own set of teen movie emotions. There was no reason this should be hard. All he had to do was put one foot in front of the other, give the last of his cash to a lady named Ethel, and pick up his dream girl in a Ford Fiesta. But it was Friday, and Fridays were typically dedicated to rummaging through Clint’s DVD collection with Bucky, whipping up a casserole, and button mashing until their fingers cramped. Even when Bucky was busy—which was rare—Clint had a routine. He’d text one of the numbers in his phone, spend a short amount of time in a back room, bathroom, or the backseat of a car, then walk home, toss something into the oven, and get high, shooting arrows into the hay bales on the roof of his apartment building until the timer went off. But not today.Today Clint had to stop by the florist to pick up Nat's corsage.Swallowing, he stared directly at the sun.Nat was amazing, plain and simple, and the fact that she was finally giving Clint a shot blew his mind. Sure, he’d been acting like an idiot for months, texting her funny memes, teasing her about her costumes—last month, she’d worn one with more peacock feathers than an actual peacock—and complimenting her every chance he’d gotten, but had he thought it was actually gonna work?Not in a million years. “And I’m giving Steve shit,” he said, opening his eyes as far as they’d go. Sure, he hadn’t dropped 40 Gs on a high school dance like a first-rate Prince Charming, but if you were talking relative income, a couple of Ben Franklins were pretty damn close.As far as romantic comedies go, it would be the perfect joke. A broke-ass gutter punk walks into a high-end flower shop, stops the second he crosses the threshold, and asks, “What the fuck am I doing?” Then, right on cue, a friendly looking grandma type with lilac hair and waist-length boobs pops out from behind a rose bush and replies, “Hopefully buying flowers because my heart can’t handle another robbery.”It should go without saying that Clint had never been to a real florist before, let alone one on the Upper East Side. When it came to birthdays and Mother's Day, he’d always relied on his buddy Shadim at the corner store to hook him up with something nice.But for Nat?Let’s just say that after she’d taken him to her favorite vintage store on Wednesday, kissing him between every outfit change and listening to him bitch about archery fees on the subway ride home, he’d been inspired to google “best Upper East Side florists.” Which is how he’d ended up spending almost an hour with Ethel between archery practice and Bucky's swim meet yesterday, putting up with her endless questions about where he went to school, what he wanted to be when he grew up, and whether or not he knew how to Lindy Hop while she’d helped him design a custom corsage with tiny cream roses, green stuff, and a single purple orchid. Purple, to match his hair.His stomach did a flip flop.Shopping with a girl wasn’t anything new—Clint went all the time with Daisy and Bucky—but their usual stomping grounds were the dusty Goodwill on Livingston and the bargain tables at the Brooklyn Flea. Nat’s place, with its pink walls, leopard-print rugs, and quirky chandeliers, had been considerably more hip. To set the scene: The place had been long and narrow, with a killer sound system and a balcony full of vintage dresses straight from the set of North by Northwest or To Catch a Thief. But the best part—the part that deserved to be in an actual movie—had been the dude behind the counter. Viper, as he was called, hadn’t moved off his stool, choosing instead to yell suggestions while he sipped single malt scotch out of a shot glass, DJ’ed with real records, and pet a Siamese cat. The cat's name? Venom.Bucky definitely would have approved. Not that Clint had told him about it. Blinking once, and only once, Clint rotated his eyebrow piercing. The metal was hot, and when he spun it, it burned him from the inside out. Ugh. Today had been the first day all week that Steve hadn’t worn long sleeves. The first day he’d gone without a bandage. And even though the skin on Steve’s wrist had mostly healed, Clint hadn’t been able to stop staring at it at lunch. At the parts that weren’t quite the right color. At the pieces of dead skin flaking off into Steve’s lap.Which was why Clint couldn’t put together a stereotypical teen movie montage about Bucky and Steve to save his life. But he and Nat? That was a different story.Viper’s mix of Stevie Wonder deep cuts and early 90s shoegazer had been surprisingly solid shopping music, and it hadn’t taken long for Clint to dig up a pair of high-waisted pants that were very Marlon Brando and a pair of black suspenders that were very him. But his outfit wasn’t anything compared to the emerald-green dress Nat had found on a mannequin on the second floor. From the poofy skirt to the lace that went from the top of her boobs to the top of her neck, the dress was pure old-school Hollywood glamour. When Nat had stepped out of the dressing room, she’d said, “This is the one,” before asking Clint to zip the zipper. And he couldn’t have agreed more. In fact, he’d gasped when she’d spun back around because she’d looked like a modern Rita Hayworth. Poised, classy, and way too good for a punk like Clint. Hence, the corsage.The corsage that was still taking up space in Ethel’s refrigerator because he couldn’t get his ass out of the camera’s blind spot.Rotating his piercing in the opposite direction, Clint said, “I have a girlfriend,” because maybe he needed to hear it out loud. “I have a girlfriend who’s smart, beautiful, and likes my style, even though it’s nothing like hers.”“Good for you, man!”Clint should know better than to talk to himself in New York City because more often than not, you’d get a response. The man at the bottom of the steps was wearing a Giants hat and giving Clint a thumbs up. “But a word of advice,” he said, adding the other thumb, “my girlfriend dumped me after I gave her herpes, so I’m tellin’ you, no matter what happens, lie like hell when her test comes back positive.”“Got it, thanks.” Even though he’d never lie about something like that, Clint returned the thumbs up. It sucked, but no matter how careful he’d been this summer, condoms didn’t always prevent that shit.A purple orchid with purple hair. Rita Hayworth and Marlon Brando. This was going to be Clint’s first couple’s outfit—unless you counted Kurt and Courtney from last Halloween.Clint cringed because he'd liked that dress too.Holding his eyelids open, Clint tried to burn away all comparisons between a green dress and a pink one. The whole thing was twisted. Clint knew it. Bucky knew it. And Nat, despite her sweet kisses and whispers about second chances, knew it too. And now they were all going to Homecoming.There were very specific reasons that he and Bucky had never set foot anywhere near one of these things. Too crowded, too lame, too expensive, awful people, no dates.Clint laughed—he couldn’t help it—because last year, after seeing Nat off in her pretty blue dress, he and Bucky had gone to the Pierce the Veil show at the Hammerstein Ballroom where Bucky, after downing a couple beers, had sucked Clint off in the bathroom.“Fucking hell,” Clint said, trying to ignore an entirely different kind of flip flop in his stomach. He needed to get to the fucking florist, compliment Ethel’s flowery grandma perfume, and empty out his wallet. And he needed to do it now. But instead of moving, he rearranged himself to lie flat on his back and crossed his boots at the ankles. If he was gonna procrastinate, he might as well be comfortable. The ledge was six feet long and two feet wide, or, as Bucky liked to say, “Clint sized with a few inches to spare.” One end connected to the building, right below the ‘security’ camera, while the other dropped down at a steep angle, following the stairs down to the sidewalk. Bucky always made a big show of lying flat on his back with the top of his head pressed against the building and his heels hanging over the end. It was his way of reminding Clint that the scrawny Russian kid from the YMCA had outgrown him freshman year. Sighing, Clint closed his sunburnt eyes.It felt strange pushing Nat’s braids against the concrete ledge. Bumpy, awkward, uncomfortable. But making contact with the back of his skull was a nice change. With the mohawk, he always had to turn his head to the side, which was a pain in the ass. Muscle spasms. Headaches. The frustrating inability to lie on his back when he jerked off. All of it had been grating on him lately, which was why he’d been more than happy to look like a cross between Johnny Rotten and a Viking the past few days.On the way to school, Nat had braided three rows before melding them into one big braid at the bottom. Nat liked his mohawk—she’s said so countless times—but she’d also said braiding his hair gave her a good excuse to touch him in front of her dad.In front of Bucky.“You know what?” Clint pulled his t-shirt up to absorb some fucking sunshine through his abs. “Fuck this shit.” Steve wasn’t holding back on the ‘affection,’ so why should Clint? And Bucky? At lunch today, one of his hands had been wrapped around a bottle of peach Snapple while the other had been cupping the bulge in Steve’s pants. And that kind of pure in-your-face sexuality wasn’t going away anytime soon. Between the dance, Ezra’s after-party at the Four Seasons Hotel—Seriously, what was happening to his life?—and Saturday and Sunday at Tony's place in Tribeca, Clint was gonna be forced to look at Bucky’s hands on Steve’s dick all weekend.“Change is fucking great,” he said, imagining his hands pinning the corsage to the lacy part of Nat’s dress. Shaking his head, he tried again.“Change is good.”Regardless of his weekend plans, Clint needed to stop paying attention to the location of his best friend’s hands. He was in a good place. Bucky was in a good place. And if Clint would just get his ass to the fucking florist, he could stop worrying about shit that had nothing to do with him.Clint scoffed because maybe that was the problem.Aside from the kissing and crotch grabbing, Clint had no idea what was going on with Bucky and Steve. He didn’t know why Bucky’d been covered in paint on Tuesday night, why he’d been hiding underneath his hood the next morning, where Steve had taken Bucky to ‘cuddle,’ or why Bucky had sent Clint an entire row of eggplant emojis right before the swim meet. And he sure as fuck didn’t know why the collar of Bucky’s Bob Ross t-shirt had been so stretched out at lunch that Clint had been able to see his collar bones.Before Steve, Bucky had told Clint everything. Wanna know how high Bucky can shoot come onto his bedroom wall when he jerks off? His current record was 5 foot 10 inches, and, yes, Bucky measured that shit. Wanna know all about Bucky’s favorite porn star? Former Cocky Boy Jake Bass has the nicest eyes and the cutest bubble butt, and when you put him in an artsy porn wearing a fancy shirt with no sleeves, Bucky can come three times in a row. Clint could go on for hours because Bucky told him everything.At least he used to.Staring up at the surveillance camera, Clint checked himself. Lately, he hadn't exactly been telling Bucky everything either.Lately, meaning the past five months.Clint tugged on his gauges, rocking them back and forth between his fingers. Even though he’d taken a shower this morning, they still smelled like rotten cheese. It was disgusting. Nat’s ears, on the other hand, always smelled like Bath & Body Works soap. The kind that had exotic names like Mango Breeze, Apple Hibiscus, or Strawberries and Cream. Smiling despite the smell, Clint couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Strawberry,” because Nat’s lips had tasted like her McDonald’s strawberry milkshake when they’d shared their first kiss. Their first real date. Their first real kiss. Their first time they’d dipped their toes into forbidden waters. The first time Clint had wanted to look someone in the eye when he’d—No! This montage wasn’t about his relationship with Nat or the long list of bad decisions that had come before. And it wasn’t about Bucky growing past six feet while Clint still hovered somewhere around 5’ 10”.It was about—Clint scoffed because had no idea what it was about. Pulling his phone out of the front pocket of his jeans, he checked the time. There were 20 minutes until the final bell, which meant he should’ve left 20 minutes ago to pick up Nat’s corsage. It also meant if he procrastinated for 20 more minutes, he could get a much needed hug from his girl. “Fine,” he said, setting his phone onto his chest just below the lock. “Opening shot.”Clint had been standing in the back of the ‘audience’ when Steve had done the thing with the cuffs. But while Daisy had chosen to climb onto Skinner’s shoulders to get a better view, Clint had seen everything he’d needed—from multiple angles—on Instagram Live. And to think Clint had been worried about a stupid poem. So that was it. If Clint was really gonna kill time with this stupid montage, he had no other choice but to start with what had equated to a high school marriage proposal with nine very large rings. Yes, I’ll drink your coffee. Yes, I’ll unwrap your presents. Yes, I’ll fawn over your Walkman. Yes, I’ll carve our initials into a tree and promise to love you forever.But everything else that had happened on Tuesday was out. And not just because Clint had been focused on asking Nat to be his girlfriend. No, the rest of Tuesday had to go because that shit with the Hamburger Helper had been off the rails, even for Bucky.Wrapping his fingers around the lock and chain around his neck, Clint tried not to go there, but went there anyway.After Bucky had stormed out of the kitchen, Clint had chalked the whole thing up to—You know what? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that the next morning, when Mr. Barnes had pulled up in front of Clint’s apartment, flashing his headlights at quarter to five, Clint had already forgotten all about it. He’d slept like a baby, woken up in a fantastic mood, and been excited to walk into school with Nat on his arm.But all that had come to a screeching halt the second he’d opened the door and climbed into the back seat.Nat had been sitting in Bucky’s seat, which, in all the years Clint had known her, had never happened. It was an unwritten rule that Nat sat in the front. Even when she was driving, she’d usually force Bucky to sit in the back because, as she liked to say, “slobs and idiots aren’t allowed.” And it was true. The back seat was filled with potato chip crumbs, dirt, dog hair, half-empty bottles of Mt. Dew, and too many gum wrappers to count. It was no place for a girl who carried a lint roller in her purse.Clint had started to say that Nat didn’t have to subject herself to the indignities of the back seat just because they were dating, but he’d cut himself off as soon as he’d seen the frown on her face. A typical morning included Bucky blasting a decidedly non-morning playlist to “wake the fuck up,” Nat bitching about Bucky’s non-morning playlist, and Mr. Barnes bitching about the two of them arguing.But not Wednesday.There’d been no music. No bitching. No whining about Starbucks. There’d only been Bucky, with his hood up and his hair in his face, leaning against the passenger side door.And he hadn’t said a word.Clint had been getting into cars with Bucky for more than five years, and there'd never been a day when he hadn't said hello. The morning after they’d gotten into an all-out fist fight because Bucky had accidentally murdered Clint’s tarantula, Bucky’d said hi. The day after the Pierce the Veil concert, when they’d been so hungover that Mr. Barnes—who’d been beyond furious—had driven them to school and forced them to clean up all the Homecoming decorations, Bucky’d said hi. Even when Bucky’d been puking into a plastic bag because he’d gotten food poisoning from Chipotle, he’d spit into the bag, wiped his mouth, and said hi. It was just how it worked. Bucky always said hi, even if it was only to say fuck you.Stretching out as tall as he could go, Clint felt the lock as much as the braid.In the awkward silence, Nat had attempted to hold an entire conversation with Clint using just her eyebrows. And, sure, her eyebrows were expressive, but they weren't that fucking expressive. Switching to signing, Clint had asked, “Is he pissed about us?” And Nat, moving her hands slowly, had replied, “I have no idea, but I’m worried.” Clint sat up. Even without looking at his phone, he knew that the entire student body was about to storm through the doors, rambling about beer kegs, limo rides, and getting laid. Including Bucky and Steve.Clint hadn’t gotten any answers that morning—or any real answers since—but after being MIA at lunch that day, Bucky had texted “Stevie fixed me with cuddles and ‘cuddles.’ Sorry for bein’ a big, phat dick.” Cuddles were great. Clint knew from experience that if you held Bucky tight enough and fed him a handful of M&Ms his mood would swing back in no time. But what Clint hadn’t known was that riding Steve’s dick would have the same effect.“I suck at this,” Clint said because he did. It didn’t matter that Bucky had forced him to watch the John Hughes catalogue at least 50 times, Clint was never going to pull off the cake and candles required for a heartfelt teenage romance.Directors like Fincher and Aronofsky made films that were closer to Clint’s wheelhouse. Gritty shit with a thought-provoking core. Or Cronenberg, whose horror movies gave you nightmares and inspired you to spend hours talking about the deeper implications of body horror with your best friend. But Clint didn’t want to put Brock Rumlow or Jack Rollins into this montage, even though Brock had said something along the lines of “if you think sucking Rogers’ cock will keep you safe, it won’t” to Bucky after the meet. And he didn’t want to include the miraculous ‘redemption’ of Frank Castle. Clint didn’t care if the guy made a public apology, paid Bucky reparations, and offered to be Bucky’s personal mob enforcer for the rest of his days, Frank Castle would always be the asshole who’d almost split Bucky’s nuts in half in 9th grade.“Fuck that guy,” Clint said, rubbing his hands across his face. “And fuck TJ Campbell.”That little fucker had been lurking around the edges all week, ‘looking at his phone’ while Steve had stuck his tongue down Bucky’s throat, ‘working on his laptop’ while Bucky had hand-fed Steve Cheetos—yeah, that had become a regular thing—or ‘reading a book’ while Bucky and Steve had galavanted around the halls with their heart eyes and horny hands. But really, TJ’s story wasn’t much different from Steve’s. Just replace the reckless romance with drugs.“Or replace the drugs with a motherfucking montage.”The dismissal bell rang, and Clint said, “I’m an asshole,” before standing up to watch the scene unfold. From this height, maybe he could see the full picture and find the objectivity a good director needed to do his job. Or maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could remove himself from the fucking plot. But as soon as the mob spilled through the doors, shouting things like “Time to fucking party!” and “Who's bringing the coke?” Clint seriously considered telling Nat that he felt sick.There were three groups of girls blocking the stairs as they took fish-faced selfies from Kardashian-inspired angles. Sam, James Rhodes, Frank, and a couple of guys from the football team were tossing a football back and forth over everybody’s heads. And Dario, the resident ladies man from Clint’s team—who also happened to be an 18-year-old senior—was kissing a freshman five feet away from Clint’s feet. With tongue.And all Clint could do was watch through his narrow lens, zooming in on other people’s moments, because he’d always be an outsider, even when he was standing in the middle of everything."Hey, handsome."Clint closed his eyes because he needed a second to reset. To get his shit under control. When he opened them again, Nat was smiling up at him. She’d tucked her pink shirt into her high-waisted jeans, accentuating her beautiful curves, and the dimple in her cheek was practically calling Clint’s name. "Hey, pretty girl,” he said, squatting down to make a shockingly uncool set of kissy lips. “How about you hop up here so I can kiss that dimple?” Fincher? Cronenberg? Tarantino? In his dreams. The truth was, Clint was going soft.Nat slapped the bare skin between Clint’s boots and his pants. "No way, Barton,” she said, rubbing out the sting. “If you want a kiss, you have to get down to my level." Equals. That’s how Nat treated him and how she expected to be treated in return. When Clint had massaged her shoulders at McDonalds, she’d finished her milkshake, told him to turn around, and rubbed out the knots in his triceps. When she’d helped him study the fall of the Roman Empire, he’d dished up two extra helpings of taco casserole before quizzing her on ionizing radiation for Physics. And when he’d told her how beautiful she’d looked in her emerald-green dress, she’d kissed his cheek and told him how handsome he was going to look in his suspenders. It was one of his favorite things about her.Hopping down, he matched his lips up with the dimple before he kissed her cheek.“Time for the Mandatory Evening Dance Party, bitches!”Clint kissed it again.Bucky ran out of the building at full speed, stealing the football out of Sam’s hands before he slid down the rail. And Steve, hot on his tail, yelled, “Buck, wait up!” before he bowled over half a dozen people on his way down the stairs. Kissing Nat’s forehead, Clint pretended he was already waist deep in Ethel’s flowers when he said, “I can’t wait to see you in your dress, and your heels, and your—”“Heels?”With Nat, it was easy to tell when you’d fucked up. It was in her body language, her voice, and the way she spelled it out in big, fat letters so even the stupidest person would understand.“Shit, Nat,” he said, wishing he could punch himself in the face without Nat noticing. “How’s your toe?”"The toenail is still attached if that's what you mean."Or maybe he should let Nat slap him. Right across the fucking cheek. At the meet last night, she’d told him how much it hurt. How she might be wearing sneakers or flip flops to the dance. For fuck’s sake, he’d given her a piggyback ride to the car! Clint brushed her hair behind her ears, looking her in the eye when he said, "You know I don’t care about the heels, Natasha. I just want you to be comfortable and—""Steve! Stop tryin' to touch the booty!"When Clint looked up, Bucky was swatting at Steve's butt as they ran back and forth across the bottom step. And when Steve spun around, catching Bucky by the waist, he delivered a perfect leading man smile. “The courier will deliver your suit at five," Steve said as he tugged on Bucky’s belt loops, "and we’ll pick you up in the limo around seven.”Laughing hysterically, Bucky thrust his hips forward hard enough to knock Steve off balance. “Seriously, Steve, how the fuck do you say shit like ‘the courier will deliver your suit at five’ with a straight face? It's fucking ridiculous. You sound like Prince Harry.”“Well, don’t get used to it. After tonight, I’m sure it’ll be more like ‘Hey, Buck, why don’t you head out to the back alley and find a garbage bag to wear to prom? It’s all I can afford.’”Tucking his chin over Nat’s shoulder, Clint said, "That's not funny," because it wasn’t. And based on the way Nat turned around, sighing as she leaned back against his chest, she couldn’t agree more.“That’s not funny, Steve!” Bucky pushed Steve’s hands away. “You shouldn't joke about that!” Yeah, and Clint shouldn’t make imaginary montages about it either.When the leading man wrapped his hands around Bucky’s waist for the second time, he lowered his voice, but even from this distance, Clint could read Steve’s lips. "I know I shouldn’t,” Steve said, pulling him close. “So how about I change the subject and tell you how handsome you are? Like, how much I love your Neptune-blue eyes and your curly chest hair. And Jesus, baby, how much I love seeing the red marks from my stubble all over your thighs.” Okay, enough of that. Clint didn’t need to read Steve’s lips to know that the climax was coming. He could feel it from a mile away.Bucky had been Clint's co-director for years. They’d spent countless hours analyzing how Wes Anderson’s aesthetic enhanced his stories, how Tim Burton’s lighting brought his characters to life, and debating whether Fincher or Ritchie staged grittier fight scenes. Not to mention, exploring the dynamic of candles and cake while they’d stuck their tongues down each other’s throats. But not anymore.When Bucky gave Steve a leading man smile of his very own, leaning in for the perfect romantic kiss, everything came into focus.Bucky Barnes had become the star.*****
"One of these things is not like the other,” Bucky sang in his best Cookie Monster voice (crumbs included). “One of these things just doesn’t belong.” He'd already belted out the Sesame Street classic in a gazillion different voices (Big Bird, Grover, Snuffypuffylumps, Oscar the Grouch, and...Duh!...Ernie) while staring at the newest additions to his messy bed, but Bucky was powerless to stop himself from switching to Kermit as he sang it again. “Can you tell which thing is not like the others by the time I finish my song?"One black garment bag.One professionally wrapped box. Silver and shiny, with a fancy gold bow.“Fuck a puppet duck! I’ve been singing it wrong!” Bucky cleared his throat. “Two of these things are not like the others. Two of these things just do not belong."And they didn't. Not at all.The comforter was in a big pile at the end of the bed (along with the cow blanket, the blanket from the couch, and Natasha’s turquoise hoodie), and the sheets had come untucked at three out of four corners, revealing...Squirt!...an enormous chocolate milk stain that made it look like Bucky'd shit the bed. Bucky snorted because nobody liked a gay boy who couldn’t control his asshole. Not even Steve! Well, maybe Steve. He was really, really, really understanding about pretty much everything.Anyways, there were a fuckton of dirty pajamas, a buttload of inside-out jeans, his swim bag, his backpack, the entire contents of his backpack (he’d dumped it lookin’ for Bubble Yum), and an army of balled-up socks surrounding the space invaders, further emphasizing Kermit's point."Two of these things just do not belong."As promised, Agent K had knocked on Bucky's door promptly at five o’clock with the black shades, the black suit, and the motherfucking black Mercedes-Benz SUV. And not just that. Before handing over the bag and the box, Tommy Lee Jones, aka the Joker’s anti-BFF, had shoved a black computer thing at Bucky's chest, which (mind blown) Bucky'd actually had to sign. Real talk: Bucky had never signed for anything in his entire life. Let alone from a fucking courier. Whatever. He was just gonna stick with Agent K ‘cause Agent K went with Agent J, and Agent J had experience with sketchy packages from the one and only Joker."Two of these things just do not belong." “What doesn’t belong?” Natalia was a sneaky sneak who’d snuck into Bucky’s room at some point during his song. She was wearing two striped towels (one on her head and one on her body), and the wet shoulders, wet arms, and wet legs all pointed to a pre-dance shower, where Bucky, aka Mr. Clean, assumed she'd shaved everything. “Ew!” he said, scrunching up his face as much as a puppet frog could. “Just ew!”“From Steve, I’m assuming?”Bucky nodded very, very, very slowly.“Are you just going to stare at them all night?”Bucky nodded even more slowly, channeling The Exorcist more than Big Bird when he sang, "Can you tell which things are not like the others by the time I finish my song?”Natasha raised an eyebrow, which was her version of sorcery. One raised eyebrow = spilled beans.Sucking in the biggest breath his itty-bitty green lungs could handle, Bucky pointed at the things that didn’t belong. “That bag on top of my jizz-covered jeans contains an outfit that’s worth, like, $10,000."
Ka-ching!
Bucky's brain started calculating. Laptop, stereo, PS4, clothes, DVDs, guitar, amp, the Joker, comic books, random crap. "Holy fuck,” he said, pacing back and forth in front of his half-naked sister (double ew). “The combined value of my entire existence doesn't add up to a quarter of what's zipped inside that bag!" But Natasha didn’t freak the fuck out like a certain someone named Kermit...Ribbit! She just adjusted her towels and asked, “And the box?” like a solid gold garment bag and sterling silver box were no big thing. Suddenly Bucky heard Brad Pitt scream, “What’s in the box? What’s in the boxxx?” Which, fuck! Had Steve gone full-metal psycho and chopped off Clint’s head?“Do you know what’s in the box?” Natasha asked, completely unaware that her boyfriend had been straight-up decapitated.Bucky stopped moving. He stopped breathing. And he tried not to think of Kevin Spacey when he said, “No fucking clue.”The box itself was glittery, like a disco-dancing unicorn had shimmied over to some Donna Summers, aimed her ass at the lid, and shit out a bunch of teeny-weenie unicorn diamonds. Bucky fuckin’ loved unicorns! And he really loved that a real-deal unicorn had used her mane (shout out, Twilight Sparkle) to smear diamonds and shit all over Stevie’s top-secret box like frosting on a cupcake!Stevie-poo, Bucky’s favorite bugaboo, was the man when it came to wrapping presents.Bucky, on the other hand, sucked. The last time he’d wrapped a present, he’d used a roll of faded Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer paper that he’d found in the basement next to Fillmore’s distant cousins and a crusty roll of electrical tape. Luckily, Clint had been too excited about his new Boss DS-1 distortion pedal to give a shit about Bucky’s half-ass holiday wrap job...Ho! Ho! Happy Birthday!...or the fact that Rudolf didn’t belong in the month June. Stepping into the snowstorm, Natasha asked, “Want me to take a peek?” which was so fucking stupid! If she wasn’t careful, the Abominable Snowman was gonna smash her to pieces!“Brad Pitt should’ve listened to Morgan Freeman,” Bucky said, trying to think of all the movies where Morgan Freeman had played God and/or the President of the United States. Deep Impact. Bruce Almighty. Evan Almighty. That Gerard Butler movie with the White House. Actually, he wasn’t sure if that was right, which was why he hid behind Natalia’s shoulder and asked, “Was Morgan Freeman the President in Olympus Has Fallen?”"Bucky, I said I'd be happy to open the box."“Nooo,” he said, channeling Yoda, who despite being a puppet, was not from Sesame Street. “Do it I can. Do it I will.”It took a second to get the bow untied because it had these wires inside that made it almost impossible to maneuver. But the lid itself had been wrapped separately (thank you, Twilight Sparkle), so all Bucky had to do was lift.“I hope this isn’t Clint’s head,” he said, tossing the lid onto his jizzy jeans, “because a headless boyfriend would really put a damper on Homecoming.” There was tissue paper. Lots and lots of it. And when Bucky finally got down to what was underneath, all he could do was stare.Was it his bestie’s head?No. Was it Gwyneth Paltrow’s head?No. It wasn’t hers either.True story: Pre-America, Bucky’s life had been lá mierda shitto los der’mo. For real, it doesn’t get worse than being dumped by your shitty parents at the shittiest orphanage in the shittiest part of Russia. But somehow, despite the shitty hand he’d been dealt in his formative years, Bucky kept hitting the jackpot when it came to finding people who just got him. Yakov barely remembered the day he’d met Natalia. There’d been a fire burning in a trash can and snow on his face. Lots and lots of snow. But aside from that, Natalia had filled in all the blanks. According to her, Yakov had been sitting in a snow pile, crying like a big ol’ baby. That is until she’d plopped down next to him and given him half a stale Pryaniki that she’d stashed in the pocket of her coat.Bucky might not remember much of that day, but Yakov remembered the taste of that cookie. And he remembered feeling like the cookie girl, with her soft voice and cookie crumb gloves, had understood.“I love you,” Bucky said. And then, because he was on a roll, he added, “Remember how I met Clint?”“Yes. He was drowning in a pool.”Bucky smiled.After coming to America (#SoulGlo), Yakov’s brand-new dad had signed him up for swimming lessons at the YMCA. Apparently, Spongebob Squarepants hadn’t been cutting it as an English teacher (much like public school), so Phil had thrown his Russian adoptees into all sorts of activities so they would learn how to say more than “give me Krabby Patty.”And that’s where Yakov had run into Clinton Francis Barton.“He wasn’t just drowning,” Bucky said as the scent of chlorine filled his nose. “He was flailing around like a cat in a bathtub and screaming ‘fuck you’ at that poor instructor. I remember it was one of the only words I knew.” Natasha gave Bucky’s shoulder a little pat. “Not for long. Clint had you swearing like a real New Yorker in no time.”“In English and ASL.”“Yes,” she signed. “In English and ASL.”Swimming lessons at the YMCA had turned into skateboarding lessons at McCarren Skate Park, which had turned into reading lessons at Clint’s apartment with his extensive collection of Watchmen comics, which had turned into the first real friendship (besides Natalia) Yakov had ever had. And when Clint had said, “Dude, I fucking hate swimming, I only go to hang out with you,” Bucky had known he’d found his number two. Clint Barton, with his scraped knees and shaggy hair, had understood.And now, looking inside the disco-shit box, Bucky knew he'd found his third.“The suspense is killing me,” Natasha said, bouncing up and down in little releves. "What is it?"“It’s the coolest pair of shoes I’ve ever seen.”Bucky felt tingly, dizzy, and a little spacey (but not Kevin Spacey) when he pulled one of the shoes out of the box. It was heavy with a thick sole, two buckles across the top, and super cool stitching. And while it was mostly black, there were also white leather diamonds peeking out from these fancy cutouts. Running his fingers over the patterns, Bucky flipped it upside down, and there, stamped into the sole, was a raised number 11.“How the fuck does Steve know my shoe size?” Natasha touched the tip of the pointy toe, running her finger along the stitching before she said, “Because he’s Steve.” Swallowing, Bucky set the shoe back into the box. It didn’t matter that he barely had enough cash to splurge on Subway, didn’t know how to spell courier, and had a mattress that looked like he’d shit the bed. Steve still cared enough about him to know his shoe size.And that made Bucky the luckiest motherfucker in all of Brooklyn (maybe the world) because how else could you explain a frozen popsicle like Yakov finding his number three?
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Too cool for school.Scanning the circus that was Homecoming, Tony tried to decide whether or not that particular nugget of counterculture slang applied to his current situation. Was Tony Stark, child prodigy, techno wizard, literal wizard, too cool for school?Considering he’d been at this dance for all of what? Fifteen minutes? And he’d already gotten lost in a vortex of speculation about his place in this big, bad world, it was entirely possible. It was also possible that he just needed a hearty swig of his souped-up drinky poo to get the party started. “We should start drinking,” Tony said before he wrapped his arms around Peggy’s waist and kissed her hair, “‘cause I’m capital B.O.R.E.D.”“I’m sure you can wait a few more minutes.”“But what if I don’t wanna?” Standing on his tiptoes, Tony tucked his chin over her shoulder. “Steve-o and Sir Elton John are gonna be camped out in my limo forever, traumatizing my driver with their Greco-Roman tongue wrestling. And Mitch doesn’t deserve that, Peggy. It’s bad enough that he had to listen to that girl howling like a hyena when I broke her hymen.”“That’s disgusting.”“I know. Why do you think I wanna get wasted?” Tony’s calves were burning because pretending to be tall was harder than Pilates. “It’s gonna be hours before the big event. Hours.”Peggy wrapped her hands over his, leading him in an excruciating side-to-side sway before she said, “Shh, this is a big moment.”“For your ex.”“Yes. For my ex.”Tony rolled his eyes. Then he rolled his ankle. Then he pouted like a preteen because no matter how much he wanted to wear the crown and sash, Peggy was, hands down, the coolest Homo sapien at Neanderthal High. Why else would she cockblock a teenage alcoholic in order to shake her pom poms for her long-lost pussy licker?“I shouldn’t even be here,” Tony said, imagining a football-field size lab at MIT with quadruple the minions, quadruple the funding, quadruple the Skittles, and quadruple the sex swings. “If Howard and Maria didn’t think that I needed to ‘socialize’ with capuchin monkeys for my ‘health and wellbeing’—present company excluded—I could’ve blown this pop stand years—”“Tony.” Spinning around, Peggy held her hand up like a traffic cop. “Just because I didn’t meet the requirements for graduation in 7th grade like you did, doesn’t mean you have to continually repeat yourself. I know the story. You’re smart, your parents are holding you back, and you’re sad about it. But if you didn’t want to be here, you wouldn’t be. It’s as simple as that.” “I don’t think it’s that simple. I—”“Yes, it is,” she said, smooching his forehead with her big red lips. “And you know as well as I do that this place wouldn’t be half as fun without you.” That was true. In addition to being a world-class wizard, Tony was, and always would be, the life of the party. And if his overdeveloped prefrontal cortex would just ease up for an hour or two, he might even be able to sit back, amuse his taste buds with an amuse-bouche, and enjoy the perks of prehistoric shindig. Like having an excuse to put his face near Peggy’s boobies. God, they were nice.“Why aren’t we dating?” Tony asked, resting his cheek on her pillows. “I’m hot. You’re hot. I’m rich. You’re rich. We’re technically on a date, so we should just pop the cork on this thing and—”“Don’t be stupid.”Sinking into Peggy’s platonic pillows, Tony smiled. He’d never met a girl who, after minimal persuasion, hadn’t subsequently met his meat stick. But Peggy? Let’s just say that Steve’s loss was Tony’s gain, and Peggy’s immunity to Tony’s Wang Chung made her a phenomenal friend.“You are aware that these things are nothing more than overblown rites of passage, indoctrinated into the permeable teenage psyche by generations of meaningless tradition, right?” Tony switched positions to give his cheeks equal pillow time. “Of course I do,” Peggy said, stroking the back of his head. “But if you don't overthink it, meaningless traditions can be fun.” “Like sneaking hooch into the school?”“You do that every day.”“Like rubbing my cocktail weenie on a beautiful woman I have no chance of porking?”When Peggy laughed, her boobs laughed with her. And when she said, “You do that every day too,” Tony couldn’t help but wonder what it was like to be in love.“Look at all these wankers,” Tony said, aiming Peggy towards the dick-filled dance floor. “It’s just a bunch of dicks dancing to Drake.”Just last week, Tony would’ve seen nothing more than a crowd of run-of-the-mill teenagers with coke habits and Porsche 911 Cabriolets. But now, looking through his newly opened and most likely queer eyes for the bi-curious guy, there was nothing but dicks for days. Dicks in foreskin suits. Dicks chugging semen punch. Dicks stuffed into bedazzled condoms. “Do I look like a dick in this suit?” Tony asked, twirling his favorite female around to face him.“It’s Gucci and floral. Of course you look like a dick.”Laughing, Tony pulled his flask out of his flowery pocket and unscrewed the cap. He loved the modern woman. Strong. Honest. Unabashedly brutal, even without the shoulder pads. Plus, in the era of gender ‘equality,’ Sadie Hawkins was on the table for any dance, any time, whether the golden ticket said it or not. Case in point, on this lovely evening in Pangea, Tony's London firecracker had coordinated her outfit with his suit because Gucci came first, especially when it was bright orange with pink, red, and turquoise flowers.Eat your heart out, Harry Styles. “You look absolutely smashing in black,” Tony said, getting lost in Peggy’s sinfully sweet sweetheart neckline. “There’s nothing dickish about you at all.”Tony made it perfectly clear that he was looking at her red stilettos when he took the first sip, and made it even more clear—by pointing—that he was looking at her long, sexy legs when he took the second.And, holy shit, it was strong. Way to go TJ!“I thought you were going to wait.”“Ha! When have I ever waited to get wasted?” Tony cackled right into her D-cups. “Just last night, I drank half a bottle of tequila with minimal help from the Queen and her corgis while we were finishing my new planet-saving interface. Not after we finished it, Peggy. While we finished it. And unlike another snarky Brit I know, Her Royal Highness didn’t give me shit about swallowing the worm.”He took another ‘sip.’Had Tony thought about swallowing the Lokimeister’s worm? Maybe. Had he ‘struggled’ with the interface for an extra hour—or three—so the Lokimeister would have to roll out his sleeping bag and stay the night? Maybe. And had Tony searched his reject closet for a floral button-down in the Lokimeister’s size, hoping to revive the bathroom scene with a less flamboyant—and most likely straight—Liberace? Sadly, no. But he’d thought about it because Loki, while being a total cunt, had a nice set of gams."Did Pepper hire Chris Pratt for this soirée?” Tony asked, squinting at the fake trees, fake vines, fake ferns, and fake flowers that had completely overtaken the gymnasium. “Because with all this foliage, the velociraptors are bound to leap out at any second. What’s the theme of this thing anyway? Jurassic Park?”Peggy ignored him, so Tony made out with his flask.This was his fourth homecoming dance, his fourth time being drunk at a homecoming dance, and his fourth homecoming dance with a beautiful young woman on his arm. But it was the first homecoming dance where he couldn’t figure out the theme. Freshman year: wine coolers, weed, Ginny DeVito, and Venice. Sophomore year: Jäegerbombs, coke, Evelyn Leinbach, and Vegas. Junior year: Johnny Walker Black, molly, Aliyah Williams, and The Great Gatsby. Senior year: vodka, Vicodin, Peggy Carter, and— Tony took another swig. “Seriously, Peg. Is the theme of this soirée supposed to be the Jurassic Period? ‘Cause that doesn’t line up with the Neanderthals.”Wrestling out of his grasp, Peggy took her red lips and red stilettos to the modern era. And who could blame her? Sharon, Lola, Pepper, and the rest of the Playmates probably weren’t waxing poetic about pterodactyls. God, he was bored.It was an unrealistic expectation that Tony could—or would—stare at the entrance to the jungle for an indeterminate amount of time, ‘eagerly’ awaiting the arrival of Sonny and Cher. In fact, he deserved a first-place trophy for waiting this long.“Move.” Tony elbowed Pepper’s date out of the way and reclaimed his rightful place by Peggy’s side. Then, looking at Lola’s A-cups—so tiny, so nice—Tony said, “They’re not coming. Steve-o’s chickening out and hyperventilating in the back of my limousine."“I’m sure he’s not,” Peggy said, which, evolution aside, was a pretty weird reaction coming from a spurned ex-girlfriend."Then Bucky's chickening out and having a panic attack."“No. Bucky's not a chicken."Instead of Peggy’s sultry voice, it had been Natasha’s. And instead of eye-catching cleavage, it was arms for days. Arms. Shoulders. Neck. Lips. And black cat-eye makeup that was right up Tony’s alley.“I wasn’t implying that your brother’s an actual chicken,” Tony said, scanning the banana trees to see if any more Converse-wearing prima ballerinas were waiting in the wings to ambush him. Wait. Was that the theme? The Jungle Book? Was Mowgli riding around on the back of a friendly bear by the Drake-loving DJ?“Then what were you implying?” Natasha’s dress was longer than Peggy’s, but, whoo-ee, her legs looked just as good. It didn’t even matter that she was gonna hook up with Larry Bird and shoot some hoops. Legs were legs, and Natasha—despite being fun-sized—had legs for days.“Don’t get your titties in a twist,” Tony said. “I’m just saying that he’s taking too long getting Steve-o off in the back of my limo.”“Shut up.”That little sentence had been spoken by not one, not two, not three, but four defenders of Fucky Bucky’s dick-sucking prowess. The first being Sam-I-Am, who, much to Tony’s chagrin, was standing by an acacia tree, drinking virgin fruit punch and chatting with his nonexistent date. Boring. The second being Tony’s favorite British beard, who—drumroll, please—had forsaken him to drink Shirley Temples with Scott and his nonexistent date next to Bono and the Joshua Tree. And the third and fourth, respectively, being Bucky Fucky’s hot sister and her controversial date Dee Dee Ramone.The only difference was that Sammy, Peggy, and Natasha were mostly smiling, while Clint was—Tony took another swig to help with the analysis.Dee Dee wasn’t exactly scowling. He looked more like a brooding bulldog with a purple bow tie and guyliner. Lots and lots of guyliner.“You clean up nice,” Tony said, sizing up Dee Dee’s suspenders. “Instead of trudging through the Amazon, you should be drinking dirty martinis in a smoky back room with the Rat Pack.”Tony snapped Clint’s suspenders, just for fun. “And you,” Tony said, turning to the redheaded vixen, who, sadly, wasn’t wearing suspenders. ‘Cause if she had been, Tony would’ve snapped them too. “While Sid here smokes hand-rolled cigarettes and counts cards in a high-stakes poker game, you’ll use your piercing green eyes, sharp wit, and practical shoes to distract the high rollers so you can lift their wallets and watches.” Now Dee Dee was scowling, especially when he said, “How about you let go of my suspenders.”"Oopsie.” Tony laughed as he gave Dee Dee’s straps a snap. “Sorry, Sid. I didn’t mean to snap your nips.” Tony snapped them again. “Oh wait. Yes, I did. By the way, after you and your stunning accomplice work out the kinks in your relationship—wink, wink—and walk down the aisle, I'm gonna send you on an all-expenses paid honeymoon to Vegas so you can rip off Frank Sinatra and Britney Spears. You can steal the last of her dignity and, if you’re crafty, her snake.”Normally, you’d expect a reaction when you started tossing around free trips to America’s playground, but there was no “thank you, Tony,” no “shut up, Tony,” and no personalized invitation to the Barnes' no-expenses paid incestual orgy. In fact, nobody was paying attention to their favorite alcoholic wizard because the one and only Captain Likes-Cock-Now had arrived. And, damn, if he hadn’t arrived in style.Steve-o was standing in the doorway, framed by the Tarzan vines and twinkling white lights, and—Tony choked on his party juice. Tarzan? Was that the theme? When Pepper announced Homecoming court, was a Tarzan look-alike she’d found on Craigslist gonna swing across the dance floor and rescue 'Jane' from teenage mediocrity?Giving his Gucci a solid King Kong beating, Tony did an amazing Tarzan yell.“Tony!" Peggy elbowed him in his ribs. "Let them have their moment!”"First of all, ouch! And second of all, I don't know why you're calling this a 'moment.’ The golden retriever’s just standing there by himself like a Class A idiot."Peggy slapped Tony’s ass hard enough to sting, which, okay? Was that supposed to be a deterrent or—"Man, he looks good,” Scott said, interrupting Tony's twice daily spanking session with Mistress Carter. So rude. “I mean, look at that pocket chain! It’s like he’s Abraham Lincoln—but handsome—without the hat. Seriously, guys, who else could pull that off?”“Me!” Tony raised both hands. “I’ve been wearing pocket chains since I was in diapers!”Nobody cared.Not Sammy Davis Jr. Not Dee Dee Ramone. Not Peggy. And definitely not Ezra and his no-name date, who were busy making out by the stegosaurus enclosure. All of them were all too busy waiting for Ruby Rose and her sparkling ruby-red slippers to emerge from the Emerald Forest. Tony sighed as loud as he could. Then he took a sip, and a sippy, and a sippy sip-sip. “Fine,” he said, talking to the flying monkeys—and the Predators—hiding in the trees. He was man enough to admit that Steve-o, despite blatantly plagiarizing Tony’s pocket-chain aesthetic, was creating a dashing silhouette. And not just that, monkeys. He was man enough to admit that this particular silhouette was more dashing than the hundreds of dashing silhouettes that had come before.Sneaking around Natasha’s back, Tony tapped Dee Dee’s shockingly muscular shoulder. “Hey, did you know that Steve-o and I bonded over Armani, absentee parenting, and bad parenting long before Eaton?”Tony shook his flask, discovering, much to dismay, that it was almost half empty. “Good thing I have TJ on retainer, huh?”The bulldog scowled, which was sad. Tony liked bulldogs, especially ones with rings through their eyebrows.“Scout’s honor,” Tony said, squeezing Dee Dee’s shoulder to confirm that the muscles were real. “I’ve seen that big blond puppy in Burberry, Tom Ford, Valentino, McQueen, Lightning McQueen—that’s Owen Wilson’s favorite—and the late, great Yves Saint Laurent because our ‘parents’ made us go to the same highfalutin—and highly boring—high-fashion events.” “I don’t care.”“C’mon, Dee Dee. You’ve gotta admit that Steve-o’s never looked this good. I mean, look at that 24-inch waist!” Tony wrapped his arm around Clint’s waist, which, as it turns out, was also shockingly muscular. “Who wouldn’t wanna retrieve his bone?”“Get off me, dude.”Despite that request, Tony did not “get off.” At least not how he wanted to.“It’s a good thing my ‘Gay? Bi? What am I?’ mission is scheduled for tomorrow night.” Tony pointed at the entranceway before he pointed at Dee Dee’s nose. “Cause, hot damn, Mr. Rogers. Your cardigan’s on fire!”In the grand scheme of things, Tony was pretty sure that he was about to get punched, or bitten, or curb stomped, but Ezra—bless his horny heart—saved the day with a rousing, “What the fuck is he doing?” “What the fuck” indeed. Steve-o was smiling at the vines, giving them encouraging little head shakes like he was trying to coax a baby deer out of the woods.Wait! Was Bambi the theme? No. Nobody wanted to watch their mom die at a Disney-themed high school dance... especially Steve.Lucky for Steve-o, Bucky—not Bambi—stepped out of the wilderness with his baby-blue suit and Barbarella hair, looking exactly like Harry Styles if Harry Styles shunned carbs and did 10,000 push-ups a day. “My one-eyed trouser snake loves One Direction,” Tony said as he burped up a toxic mixture of TJ’s special sauce and yesterday’s tequila. “And, Dee Dee, I’d bet a million dollars on your Honeymoon roulette table that yours does too.”The situation in Tony’s pants was serious—meaning his trousers were in full bloom—but it got so much worse when Steve-o leaned over and kissed his man . With tongue.Lots and lots of tongue.Tony was dead serious when he said, "I’m telling you, Dee Dee. My boy’s gonna swallow your boy’s head. And cannibalism, even in the name of love, isn’t cool.” Hannibal? Was that the theme?"I wouldn’t worry about it," Clint said, smiling like a regular Jeffrey Dahmer before he planted a tongueless kiss on Natasha's cheek. "Bucky can handle himself." You didn’t have to be Sherlock—or sober—to decipher that ‘clue.’ Sid Vicious—with his man-eating molars—had just revealed to everyone and anyone with two working ears that Fucky Bucky was an expert when it came to athletic blond dudes sticking their tongues down his esophagus. Which was why, after Dee Dee and Sandra Dee had skipped off into the dense underbrush of Skull Island, Tony felt significantly better about proclivity for leather-clad cougars who charged by the hour.Taking another swiggy swig, Tony searched the jungle for a scale replica of the Empire State Building but came up empty, confirming, once and for all, that Pepper’s theme wasn’t King Kong.Too bad. Miniature airplanes could’ve been fun.It was just oodles and poodles of dancing dicks as far as the eye could see—including Tony’s non-dick friends—‘popping and locking’ to DJ Khaled featuring Drake. It was the antithesis of cool.Tony turned around to get some Steve-o and Bucky-Boo support, but the entrance to Skull Island was empty. Just like his flask. And that was a conundrum. The origin of the species—and the origin of his bi-curious evolution—didn’t mean shit if there were nothing but man-eating vines to keep him company. Little Shop of Horrors? Was that the theme?No. Nobody wanted to dance with Rick Moranis. Not even a lonely, bi-curious billionaire with a fetish for things that bite.Shoving his flask into his pocket, Tony said, “Get out of my way,” as he elbowed a brontosaurus. Then, blazing a path through the hairiest of dicks—also known as the unenlightened, unevolved, and uninvited—he yelled, “Scram, monkeys! I’ve got a date with Darwin and Dorothy.”It took a lot of effort to get to his destination because the monkey dicks needed their insults, the mathematical minions needed their affirmations, and Aira Vaughn, Valeria Montesso, and Kendall Kennedy needed some serious smooching, right on their monkey-butt mouths. Duties complete, Tony found Peggy next to the biggest fake tree—The Swiss Family Robinson?—busting out some sad white girl moves with Sharon, Pepper, and the rest of the Homecoming committee. Not that Tony was underselling his English crumpet. Peggy could move. She just couldn’t move like Natasha’s crowd.The kids from Step Up could dance dance like Fall Out Boy, which was why Tony squeezed past Lola and Skinner—yep, he’d called it—to get to the real action. Natasha had hot friends. Hot friends who’d never given Tony the time of day because they’d been too busy rehearsing for their 20th production of West Side Story. Hot friends with X chromosomes. Hot friends with Y chromosomes. Hot friends with—“Dee Dee?”Tony couldn’t believe his eyes. Clint had Natasha in his arms, and they were dance dancing way better than Fall Out Boy. Tony might even call it Dirty Dancing, which definitely wasn't the theme of this sock hop—unless Pepper had a stash of watermelons hidden underneath the stage. “You should dance with me.”When Tony turned around, he found himself face-to-face with Steve’s sloppy seconds, part deux. Not that Peggy was sloppy seconds. Au contraire. Peggy was Tony’s non-sloppy friend, who just so happened to have bumped uglies with Steve in a romantic, “I love you as a person” kind of way. Just like Sharon was Tony’s non-sloppy—Actually, Sharon was pretty sloppy. But she was still Tony’s friend. Kinda.“You’re so nice,” Tony said, leading Sharon—and her blue Oscar de la Renta—in a not-even-close approximation of a bump and grind. Tony giggled because compared to Steve-o and Ruby Rose’s perfectly coordinated dancefloor sexscapade—Seriously, look at them move!—Sharon’s awkward ass wiggle made it perfectly clear who’d made it past third base with Steve.Hint: It was the guy whose name rhymed with Fucky. Fucky B. Barnes, who was dancing with Steve like nobody was watching. But guess what? Lots of people were watching. Including the velociraptors.It hurt like hell when Sharon spun around and smacked Tony’s eye with her ponytail, but temporary blindness and awkward thrusting aside, it was actually kind of fun to ‘dance’ with somebody who wasn't pledging a sorority—or charging by the hour—for a change.Wait! Was that an epiphany on the tip of his tongue? Something about the real reason he’d turned down his prepubescent invitation to MIT.“Good golly, Watson,” he said, spitting Sharon’s hair out before he spun her back around. “I’ve got it!”“You’ve got what?” Tony looked at Sharon’s bouncing boobies, Steve-o’s wandering hands, Fucky Bucky’s Barbarella hair, and the dancing dicks shaking their sticky heads to Rihanna featuring, you guessed it, Drake.“Sometimes world-class geniuses need a break from being world-class geniuses.”“What?” Sharon smiled even though Tony was staring at her boobs.“Despite the dinosaurs and monkey shit, sometimes it’s fun to be 17.” The night had flown by, especially after Tony had stopped at TJ’s full-service gas station for a fill up. And now, here he was, embracing his youth in the middle of the bush-whackers as he stared at the chosen few on stage.Who would be king? Who would be queen? The dressed up dicks—and Drake—were dying to know. But Tony knew one thing for sure. It sure as hell wasn’t gonna be the handsome velociraptor standing next to him in his baby-blue suit. Nope! Buckysauraus Rex was already king of the jungle. Tony slapped Bucky’s butt.“Dude! Put your hands into your pockets or something.”"Why’d Chris Pratt let you out of your cage?" Tony asked, slurring like a stripper on quaaludes, which, in case you were wondering, wasn’t cute. “Shit!” he said, zeroing in on the front of Ruby Blue’s shirt. "I forgot the buttons!”Star-Lord’s favorite dinosaur side-eyed Tony like he thought Darwin’s prize pony was a drunk idiot, which, score one for Jurassic intelligence, he was!“I had buttons made for you and Steve—like, 500 of them—and, get this, they say S&B, even better than S&M.” Tony snorted, going for slap number two as Pepper rallied the troops over the microphone. “I designed them on a napkin, had Margarita get them made at the button shop, and told Micheal—who deserves one heck of a raise after you and Steve-o spent 69 hours 69ing in the limo—to put them into the trunk. The only thing I had to do was remember that they existed so me and Sammy, Brucey, Scotty, Peggy, Rhodey, Pepperoni, and Ezra-y could toss them into the air like confetti during the coronation.”“You really think he’s gonna win?”“Really, Bucky-Doodle-Doo? I know you’re smarter than that. Beneath those scales and homosexual inclinations, you’ve got a big, sexy brain.” Tony flapped his wings to prove his point. “By the way, I ran out of gay celebrity names, so now you’re a dinosaur.”"Who crows like a rooster?"“Yes.” Tony pulled out his flasky flask-flask. “I genetically modified you in my laboratory using the DNA of a frog and a chicken.”The rooster almost laughed. Almost. But then he deviated from the hilarity, crowing before he said, "Shut up, it's almost time," like a world-class party pooper.It was understandable. Seeing Steve-o on stage with five smokin’ heterosexual females—and Mistress Peggy’s big boobies—had to be rough, especially when Pepper opened the envelope, jumped up and down, and said, “This year’s Homecoming Queen is… Peggy Carter!” Tony passed Bucky the flask because sharing was caring. And because Fucky B was the key to the butt stuff. When Pepper put a dozen red roses into Peggy’s arms, Bucky took a swig. And when confetti started falling from the ceiling, he took what would be considered an enormous gulp, even for an alcoholic.Tony was concerned until he remembered that Bucky-Doodle-Doo was a velociraptor. And velociraptors, with their high-speed metabolisms and steel stomachs, could handle their vodka and Vicodin.“And now for our king.” There was another envelope. Another preplanned pause. And before Tony knew what was happening, Bucky’s ‘sips’ had switched to a steady stream of chug-chug-chugs. Unfortunately, when Tony opened his mouth to say, “No, no, naughty dinosaur,” all that came out was a hiccup. And when Pepper said, "And this year's Homecoming King is... Steve Rogers," Tony screamed, “Woo, Elvis!” because that peanut butter-and-banana loving icon had been a king too!The skywriter was back, writing Steve-o & Elvis in the Pangean sky, along with double the confetti, double the roses, and a shocking amount of oversized balloons falling from the treetops. “He won,” Bucky said before he took another swig.Tony cracked up. “Of course he won. The Neanderthals cast their votes before you and Sonny sashayed down the hallway in your sequin booty shorts.”Chug-chug-chugging, Cher nodded. And when Steve ducked down so Pepper could put the plastic crown onto his head, Buckysaurus said, “All hail the King of the Jocks,” and tipped his head back so far that Tony could see the liquid pouring down his throat.There were cheers, of course. And smiles. And applause. Just because Captain Likes-Cock-Now was suddenly into Bucky’s butthole didn’t mean he’d stopped being the most attractive guy in the room. The monkeys still liked Steve’s winning personality, respected his ‘strong moral compass,’ and wanted to lick his nipples. But there were also frowns, and middle fingers, and “boos.”It didn’t matter that Pepper’s balloons were bouncing on the dick tips, making things festive and fun with lots and lots of precome. And it didn’t matter that Steve-o was straightening Peggy’s crown like Mr. Rogers’ nicer neighbor Mr. Chivalry. The second somebody yelled, “Fuckin’ homo,” Buckysaurus Rex tipped the flask until it was upside down.“Uh, Bucky, maybe you should—”When the bomb dropped, it wasn’t a smoke bomb, a pipe bomb, or a dirty bomb. No. As Steve helped Peggy down the stairs at the end of the stage, one of the Drake-loving dicks dropped a thermonuclear bomb, shouting, “Look! Eaton’s got two Homecoming Queens this year!”And that was when Tony knew, with absolute certainty, that he was too cool for this school.He was too cool for the dicks. Too cool for the teachers who knew less than Tony had in 4th grade. Too cool for cafeteria politics. Too cool for Tarzan. And, most of all, too cool for close-minded pricks who turned on people just because they were different.He was also too drunk for high school. Sure, the capuchins and Capulets got crunk on the weekends, but Tony was college-level drunk pretty much every day. That’s why it was time to cut the cord and get wasted at Columbia on a full-time basis. Screw Howard. Screw Maria. Screw his therapist. Tony needed to blow this pop stand, stat, and he needed to blow it with Steve’s boyfriend.The flask was suddenly pressed against Tony's chest. And even though Tony was on the verge of being blackout drunk, he was ‘sober’ enough to tell something was wrong.Bucky's chest was heaving, but not in a good way like it did after he’d swam really fast, run really fast, or eaten Tony’s award-winning pancakes really fast.“Hey, buddy, you okay over—” “No.” Bucky jabbed Tony’s stomach with the flask. "Just fuckin’ take this!" Then he was gone, disappearing into Pepper’s mysterious jungle without a trace.And Tony, standing alone with an empty flask, knew he’d fucked up.Sticking his tongue into the hole to try to coax out the last of TJ’s special sauce, Tony said, “Chris Pratt’s never gonna find him in all those redwoods. Not with Tarzan and Rick Moranis hot on his tail.”***** The floor was tilting, and Bucky’s new shoes were slippin’ like a Slip ‘N Slide. For fuck’s sake, what had Tony given him? Somethin’ 99-zillion proof? A cupful of roofies?Bucky shook his head to try and clear it, but people had called Steve names. Called him a fuckin’ queen. And now the motherfuckin’ floor was sideways, and Bucky was sliding towards the pool.
Splash!
Everything had been peachy fucking keen until the chosen few had lined up in a row on that stupid stage. On the girls side? Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, and Peggy. Pretty Peggy and her pretty shoes. And the guy’s side? Bucky scoffed as he tripped over… something. Straight quarterback, straight point guard, straight running back, straight whatever back, and Steve, who, until three days ago, used to be fuckin’ straight. And all of it had been fucking fine (great even), until stupid Tony and his stupid fuckin’ suit had roofied the fuck out of him with… whatever.In the past year or two (or five), Bucky’d drank his fair share of beer. Clint’s dead uncle’s beer (Skunky shit. Decades old.), Daisy’s older brother’s IPAs (Fancy shit. Gross.), beers he’d scored by battin’ his lashes and shakin’ his ass (Flirty beer. Cool as fuck.). And he’d had his fair share of hard liquor. Down the hatch at Skinner’s. Down the hatch at Pierce the Veil. Down the hatch in his bestie’s bedroom, straight outta the bottle. Straight outta his belly button. But whatever the fuck had been in Tony’s fuckin’ flask wasn’t…Bucky stumbled into the window.It wasn’t baby shit. “Fuck... fuck you’n ‘ur face,” Bucky said to his reflection. He never should’ve drank that shit. And he never should’ve left the room. And he never should’ve—“Fuck you!”The excuses were bullshit. Bucky was supposed to be standing by Steve’s side, holding his hand and saying things like “fuck those fuckers,” but here he was, looking at himself in the dark with no idea how to get back.Back to Stark and his stupid names. Back to Carter and her— Bucky hit his forehead on the glass. Back to Peggy’s fuckin’ tiara. Back to stupid Jack, and stupid Brock, and all the other stupid fuckheads who’d flipped Bucky the bird."No! Back to Steve!" The voice bounced back at him from all directions, but Bucky’s feet didn’t move and neither did his eyeballs. Nothing fucking moved because Bucky was a pizda who didn’t know how to control his own body.Just look at his outfit. Stepping backward, he put his palms on the glass, pulling them down until they squeaked. Bucky didn’t deserve this suit. He didn’t deserve this tie. And he didn’t deserve these shoes. The only thing Bucky deserved was a head in a box. A head in a boxxx. “One Cookie Monster, two Cookie Monster,” Bucky said, kickin’ his pointy toes against the glass. “I wanna take you off.”But he couldn’t. They were too far away, and he was way, way, way too fucked up to reach them.Instead, he bounced his forehead to the beat. Boom! Boom! Boom! It was fuckin’ crazy that he could hear the music all the way across the school, snakin’ its way through the vents. Creep-creep-creepin’ like Radiohead. Creep-creep-creepin’ like smoke… Pozhar! Yakov coughed, trying to feel his way out of the dark."Fuck!" He spun around to see who’d shouted, but nobody was there. It was just an empty room with an empty pool. But when the voice echoed back at him, it sounded exactly like Bucky’s.
Slurp!
All ten fingers were stuck to the glass like they had itty-bitty suckers, which, aside from havin’ a claim to fame as sci-fi octopi (rhymes with chocolate cream pie), probably wasn’t good.“It’s jus’ the flask,” Bucky said, trying (and failing) to get his thumbs unstuck. “Your hands have suckers ‘cause Steve’s… shiny ‘n’ silver flask had a…” Slurp! “It had’a fancy gold bow.” Bucky loosened his tie because ties were stupid, just like the dog walker on the other side of the glass was stupid. “Hey, dog walker, why you walkin’ so many dogs?” Bucky banged his tentacles (rhymes with testicles ) on the window. “Six—no sev’n—doggies are way too many doggies to walk ‘em on them ties. It’s a choking hazard, like this stupid—”“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the faggot in his pretty-boy suit."When Bucky slammed his forehead against the window, he was hoping the dogs would sense the danger (even though they were purse dogs). And when he did it again, he was hoping he’d knock himself out."Rogers dressed you up like his own little doll, didn’t he?” The voice was getting closer and closer, nipping at the heels of Bucky’s size 11 shoes."But you're not gonna look pretty for long." Using his suckers for stability, Bucky turned around, and there, lookin’ like a funeral guy in a black funeral guy suit, was Brock. Was he surprised? Nope, not even a lil’ bit. Actually, after the shit Brock had pulled last night after the meet… the shit about Steve’s cock not keeping Bucky safe (#CockBodyguard), Bucky was surprised it had taken the asshole this long.As Brock’s spiky hedgehog hair came into focus, Bucky said, “I wish you’d brush ‘ur teeth... before these lil’ rendezvoodoos ‘cause halitosis and homo-hating rants are’a really baaad combo. Ya know, like pickles ‘n’ cereal or pickles ‘n’ pubes.” Bucky laughed because Pickles ‘N’ Pubes would make a fantastic band name. “I like my bullies minty fresh.”When Brock growled, it didn’t sound anything like a hedgehog or a pickle. It sounded like the growl a dog makes when it isn’t really a dog. When it’s the kind of dog that came before the dogs. “One, two, buckle my shoe,” Bucky said because punching wasn’t an option. You know, ‘cause he was fuckin’ wasted. And he couldn’t run because the only escape route was an olympic-size pool and Bucky was wearin’ Stevie’s ten-billion-dollar suit.“How ‘bout... you jus’...” Bucky closed his eyes because this shit was useless. Just like he was useless. “How about you fuck off ‘n’ leave me alone… assface.”“Why would I do that?” Brock was backing Bucky into the corner. Away from the windows. Away from the dog walker. Away from dog walker’s 86 dogs. It was just Brock (and Brock’s stinky-ass breath) next to the motherfuckin’ bleachers, where homophobic beatdowns were pretty much standard.And the funniest part of the whole thing? Frank Castle had tried to warn him.“I don’… fuck, I...” He could barely make out Brock’s face. “I don’ know what ‘ur... fuckin’ problem is with—”“You wanna know what my fuckin’ problem is?” There was a hand on Bucky shoulder. A hand that smelled like cigarettes and fire. And it hurt when Brock grabbed the shoulder of the suit. The suit from Steve. “You make me sick! You and your boyfriend. I once counted Rogers as a fuckin’ friend, but that was before I found out he liked sticking his dick into things like you!”When Brock pushed him backwards, Bucky could feel the fleas. And when the monster said, “But Rogers isn’t here now, is he?” there was nothing but sand.Puka shells. Coconut suntan lotion. Seagulls floating in the sky, waiting for their Wonder Bread.Bucky closed his eyes, ears, and nose to anything that wasn’t from Incubus Island ‘cause, like it or not, he was too fucked up to put up a fight. Pussies like Bucky deserved to have their noses broken. Just like they deserved to have their $8,000 suits ripped to shreds by wolves. So Bucky waited, and waited, and waited, bracing for a hit that never came.“Wha’ the fuck?” When Bucky opened his eyes, Brock was two inches from his face, lickin’ his lips like Bucky was fried chicken on a platter. “Bucky-Doodle-Doo, I'mma eat you.” Bucky laughed. “Too bad I’m not KFC or KGB or—”
Bam!
When Brock slammed his hands on either side of Bucky’s head, it was too loud and too fast, and suddenly they were chest to chest. “Get th’ fuck off me,” Bucky said, grabbing Brock’s arms. But as soon as he tried to force his way out of the fucking corner, everything got so much worse.“No, you don’t, cupcake. ” Brock’s leg was suddenly between Bucky's thighs, crushing his dick, forcing Bucky’s feet apart.But even with another man crushing his penis, the only thing Bucky could say was, “Don’ call me that.”“Oh, c'mon now, princess. I’ve heard your other boyfriend call you that, so don’t pretend you don’t like it.” That’s when everything clicked into place. Every. Damn. Thing.“Is that what this is?” Bucky’s vision sharpened. “Is that what all of this is? You want to fuck me?” “Shut up, pussy!” Brock grabbed Bucky’s ass. Dug in his nails. And the pain hit fast. But not as fast as the rage.With one move, he broke the hold, putting Brock and his fucking hands back where they belonged. “But I’m not a pussy,” he said, straightening his spine. “And last time I checked, I didn’t have a second hole between my legs. Yet, here you are, digging around with your hard little prick.”
Kablam!
The slap cracked Bucky’s neck. Snap! Crackle! Pop! And when he tried to stand back up, all he could see was—Bucky blinked because he couldn’t see a damn thing.“Shut your fuckin’ mouth!” Brock was right next to Bucky’s ear, breathing into the hole. And when he grabbed Bucky’s dick through Steve’s pants, he squeezed until it burned.“Say that shit again, and I’ll kill you.” Brock squeezed harder, and Bucky was sure his dick was about to get ripped off. No dick. No balls. Just a brand-new hole for Brock to fill. “Do you know who my father is, Barnes? Do you?” Bucky could smell the blood, just like he could smell his own fear. “He’s your worst fuckin’ nightmare. And guess what? He wouldn’t bat an eye if I threw a whore like you into the Hudson.”A whore in an $8,000 suit.Suddenly there were footsteps, loud and heavy, and the monster was ripped away. But there weren’t any cookie crumbs. Not chocolate chip. Not peanut butter surprise. Not his absolute favorite, Natalia’s stolen, half-eaten Pryaniki.“I fucking told you, Brock! I fucking told you!”Bucky slid down the wall because he’d drank the Hatter's poison. He’d done it. And Brock had touched the suit. The big crunch was enough to make Yakov peek, and what he saw was funny. The big man was holding the little man’s jacket like a strongman in a circus, and the little man’s head was hanging backwards like it was gonna fall off at any second.“Fuck you, Frank,” the little man said, spitting and growling as the strongman yanked him to his feet. “You just wait till my dad hears about this! You’re fucked, Frank. Fucked! Do you think he’s gonna tolerate a fuckin’ traitor?”“After what he did to my family, do you think I care?” Frank shoved the little man towards the exit. “I’m done with your dad’s bullshit, just like I’m done with yours. So you have two choices. Walk out of here on your own or get dragged out by your throat.”“It’ll nip you on the tum before it tugs you into the woods.” Bucky laughed as he flopped over like a fish. He laughed ‘cause there weren’t any fish by the farmhouse. No fish. No pheasants. Just the little gray wolves that gobbled up all the chickens.“Cock-a-doodle-doo,” Bucky said, swatting at his dick to try and get rid of the cooties. “I vote for the throat.”Frank shoved Brock like The Rock shovin’ Kevin Hart, which was fuckin’ awesome! But then Frank asked, “Can you help him find Rogers?” which was weird as fuck. Who the fuck was he talkin’ too? The wolves?“Yeah. I’ll handle it.” When TJ stepped out from behind the bleachers, Bucky felt sick. Sicker than before.“You sure?” Frank asked, pushin’ Brock’s shoulder, then his back, then his spiky hedgehog hair. Poke! Bucky used to think TJ was so damn cute.“Yeah, I’m sure,” TJ said, rubbing his nose ‘cause he was a cocaine kitty. A cocaine kitty who purred when you pet his hair. "Thanks, man. I owe you one." “Don’t worry about it." Then...Poof!...they were gone.But the cigarette smell was still there, lingering in the air, and the alcohol was stuck to Bucky’s hair. And Brock’s hands were gone, but Bucky could still feel them. He could feel them on his—“Can you get up?”"What?" Bucky blinked (one, twice, three times a lady), and there, smack dab in front of his nose, were TJ’s freshly polished shoes. No shit, Bucky could see his reflection in the black leather. But he didn’t see Aragorn, or Yoda, or gay Superman in his kick-ass gold cape.Nope. It was just a used-up whore with his face on the floor.Spitting a glob of something onto the tiles, Bucky laughed. “C'mon," TJ said, replacing his shiny shoes with his hand. “We've got to get you out of here.”Bucky'd held that hand. After the 9/11 Memorial field trip, he’d held it under TJ’s navy-blue pea coat on the bus ride back to school. And he’d held it as they’d fumbled their way through their first kiss behind the bus after everybody else had gone inside. And he’d held it for a really, really, really long time when TJ’d met him under the bleachers. “Why’d you… why’d you thank Frank?”The hand disappeared, replaced by two knees (maybe three). "I was heading out for a smoke when I heard yelling. And Frank was the first big guy I saw who could help.”“Tha’ was…” Bucky hiccuped before adding more spit to the spit pool. “Tha’ was nice’a you.” He was sooo sleepy, but the ground was too cold for bedtime. In fact, the spit was freezin’ like a popsicle, turning into itty-bitty snowflakes on the ground. “You’r a nice guy, TJ… a nissse guy with nissse hair.”The kneecaps turned back into shoes, and...Wallykazam!...the hand returned. “You’ve got to get up,” TJ said, stretchin’ his piano fingers like he was gonna play Bucky a song. “I’m sure your friends are looking for you.”That was probably true. But when Bucky touched TJ’s fingers for the first time in two years, he didn’t try to get outta the snow. “I know you don’...” The scent of vanilla chased away the last of the bad guys. “I know you don’ smoke, TJ.”“You’re right. I don’t.” Bucky would’ve laughed, like, LOL, but his fingers were frozen to TJ’s wrist. Just like Leonardo’s had been frozen to Kate’s on that big-ass door. “You hav’n ev’n…” Bucky wondered if he’d sink like a rock when TJ broke his fingers like icicles, one, two, three. “You... hav’n talk’d to me since—”“Now’s not the time.” When TJ yanked his hand away, takin’ four outta five fingers...Crunch!...Bucky’s arm dropped like dead weight. Maybe it hurt, maybe it didn’t. With the frostbite, it was impossible to tell.“I can’t feel my body.”“Bucky?”“Th’ suit’s wrinkled.”“Bucky, are you okay?”He tried to blow a Bubblicious bubble in his spit snowflakes, but the only thing that came out of his mouth was more spit. Spit and drool and chewed-up cookie crumbs.“Hey!" TJ shook him. Hard. "Open your eyes. I’m going to find Steve. Can you—”“No! He can't see me like this!"The light from the pool made TJ's body look black and tiny, like his arms and legs were made of black licorice or black rope or black cat tails, wigglin’ in the ocean breeze. He was skinny. Skinnier than Bucky’d ever seen him. "Is... is th’s where you live, TJ? Buried... in th’ dark?" “I’m sorry Brock did this to you.”“Why?” Bucky closed his eyes, waitin’ for his sailboat to take him to shore. “Why... haven’ you talked to me, TJ? Why?” “You know why.”“Bu’ you never ev’n tried... ev’n when nooobody coul see you...” Something touched the top of Bucky’s hand, tracing the vein. It was nice. Soft like sandpaper. “I’m going to find Steve before I say something I shouldn’t.”Bucky coughed. Or maybe he puked. Or maybe, just maybe, he spit out his tongue.“Bucky, can you hear me?" Fingers on his face. Fingers prying open his eyes. Then footsteps, running, running as fast as they could.Good.In the quiet, he could let the wolves tear open Bucky’s stomach because someone like Bucky didn’t deserve someone like Steve.He didn’t deserve poetry.He didn’t deserve art.And he sure as fuck didn’t deserve whip cream in a size 11 shoe.Someone like him deserved the cold.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Look! Eaton’s got two Homecoming Queens this year.”Steve cringed. He could handle the boos. The dirty looks. The snickers from the runners-up. But he’d been trying to focus on the positives since Pepper had torn open the envelope and announced his name. Sam, Scott, and Rhodey clapping in front of the stage. Some of the younger guys from the team spiking balloons at Steve’s feet, with Kuba and Timo making the most direct hits. The majority of the cheerleaders, Sharon included, cheering like cheerleaders do. All of them were smiling and clapping as the confetti fell, making Steve feel like he still belonged.But then the heckler had destroyed the illusion. Because that’s what this was. An illusion. The roses. The fake plastic crown. The colorful confetti that looked pretty in the moment, but would end up stuck to the bottoms of everyone's shoes. The way Peggy was smiling at him as he helped her down the final step, the wrinkles in her brow giving her away. And Bucky.Bucky who hadn’t been standing in front of the stage like they’d planned.Bucky who was nowhere to be seen.As the laughter spread, Steve shoved the bouquet into Peggy's arms. "Give these to Sharon or something," he said, effectively making the Homecoming Queen—the real Homecoming Queen—hold two dozen long-stemmed roses. Peggy tilted her head, pursing her lips like she always did when she was about to say something incredibly insightful. Steve could feel it coming from a mile away, and, quite frankly, he didn't have time for it."Steven, it’s—""Give her the crown too." He yanked the hunk of plastic off his head and tossed it on top of the roses. "I have to find Bucky."Blood-red roses. Fake gold crowns. The reaction of a roomful of fake friends. Steve had been so goddamn worried about the meaningless bullshit that he’d forgotten to worry about the things that mattered.Like how Bucky was handling being a homecoming punchline.Before Peggy could say another word, Steve took off in the opposite direction, leaving the bullshit—and his ever-shrinking group of real friends—behind. Pushing past Parker and Ichiro, Steve looked for Bucky by the food, by the drinks, by the photo booth. But he wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere.Steve told himself to stay calm, to take deep fucking breaths, but his adrenaline was through the fucking roof. The only true king—the one who cared about misfits and music, magic and marshmallows—liked to pretend that he was tough, that he didn't care about words, but he did.Bucky cared too much.Weaving his way through the maze of tables and trees at the far end of the gym, Steve knocked over a chair, a bush, another chair, and a fucking sophomore. But he was too busy convincing himself that there was a good reason Bucky hadn’t been standing by the stage to stop and apologize.Bucky had downed five glasses of punch and gone to take a leak. Simple. Then he’d gotten distracted by the endless supply of half-naked guys on his phone. Rational. Bucky was probably leaning against the sink right now, double tapping butt shots that violated Instagram’s community guidelines. Logical.But as he scanned the tables, searching for a glimpse of Bucky’s brown hair or a flash of his blue suit, Steve could feel their bipolar connection tugging at the seams. It was in his chest, the weight of worry putting palpable pressure on his aorta. Was it logical that the left half of Steve’s heart felt like it weighed a thousand pounds? That the blood felt like tar as the rhythm stuttered? No. But that didn't mean it wasn't real. Someone tapped his shoulder, and Steve almost jumped out of his skin. "Hey, have you seen Bucky?" It was Daisy, and when she reached out to straighten Steve's tie, it felt too familiar. Too intimate. "He promised to show me how to waltz."“Waltz?” Steve blinked, realizing that the music had started again. That the laughter had stopped. To be honest, Steve had never paid much attention to Daisy before Bucky had come into the picture. She'd been the artsy girl with the funny lunch boxes and nothing more. But now, Daisy’s three-dimensional details were sharpening, her quirks becoming part of a deeper awareness. The shimmering purple eyeshadow. The rows of silver hoops lining the curves of her ears. The inky blackness of her carefully woven braids. With a rush of air, the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stood on end. He could feel them coming. See their feathers in Daisy’s long hair. Watch the current from their wings ruffling the hem of her grey, polka-dot dress."We thought it would be funny to waltz in the middle of—""Stop," Steve said, brushing her hands away from his tie. "I don’t know where he is. I've been looking everywhere, and I can't find him.""Are you talking about Bucky?"Daisy's mouth hadn't moved.When Steve spun around, he was confronted with a group of giggling girls—or, as Bucky liked to call them, the “Freshman Fan Club.” There were six of them, not that Steve gave a shit about an accurate groupie count. "You've seen him?" Steve asked, fighting the urge to shake each and every one of them until the giggling stopped."Well," the tallest one said, her glasses fogging up from all the ‘excitement,’ "we were hanging out, watching you get crowned and—” “Sorry about that, by the way.” The girl with the puffy blonde hair touched Steve’s elbow like he was made of gold. “The people around here are such jerks. But we don't feel that way. We—""We think you’re adorable." Steve didn’t know which of them had said it, and he didn’t care. In fact, he was this close to picking all six of them up at once and moving them out of his way when Daisy said, "Finley, this is important. Did you see Bucky or not?""Yeah, we saw him.” The blonde one shrugged like it was no big deal. Like Bucky was leaning against the sink in the bathroom, licking his lips as he double tapped another set of six-pack abs. “He ran out the side door after that whole ‘queen’ thing. He almost ran over Zahrah."“Not that I minded.” Zahrah fanned her face like she was about to faint. Her dress had polka dots too, with a matching periwinkle hijab. “Not to be obnoxious, but your boyfriend can run into me anytime. He’s so—""How long ago?" The floor was vibrating beneath Steve’s feet, the overabundance of polka dots bouncing on the polished wood."What?" they asked in unison, their faces blending into a singular giggling blob. "How long?"Steve could tell by their cartoonishly wide eyes—including Daisy’s—that he’d shouted. But he didn’t care. He didn’t have time to coddle fourteen-year-old stans. He didn’t have time to get Daisy up to speed. And he didn’t have time to stand here and do nothing. The vibration was getting stronger, pulsating through Steve’s ankles as he pushed yet another chair out of the way and ran toward the side exit.Bucky had downed five glasses of punch.Steve slammed his palms against the double doors.He’d gotten distracted by the half-naked guys on his phone. Gym selfies. Butt shots. Happy trails. Six-pack abs.Steve skidded across the hallway, the vibrations shooting through the tendons in his knees.Even if Bucky had lost track of time, by now, he should’ve realized that he was supposed to be dancing. By now, he should’ve been walking down the hall, humming Lionel Richie’s “Easy” as he made his way back to Steve.But the hallway was empty, with nothing but lockers and locked doors in either direction. And in the terrifying stillness, Steve came to understand the word foreboding.Bucky had downed five glasses of punch and gone to take a leak. No, he hadn’t.Bucky was on the roof with Clint, smoking a joint on top of the chimney.No, he wasn't.Bucky was having second thoughts about being with Steve, so he’d called an Uber and gone back to Brooklyn.No, he wasn't. And no, he hadn't."Steve!"The voice had come from behind him, and when Steve turned around, TJ Campbell slammed into his chest. The impact caused a pause in the vibration, a measure of rest before a menacing piano melody materialized with an electronic hiss. It was quiet at first, but as it grew, the noise sounded like static from an ancient television screen.“Steve,” TJ said, his voice barely audible over the static, “you need to come with me. Now.”Dissonant notes began spilling out of the lockers, stacking themselves into a tall, jagged structure behind TJ. One on top of the other, the physics of their construction made them seem destined to fall. But they didn’t. The irregular black shapes just hovered there, challenging the laws of gravity as TJ yanked on Steve’s arm. The static was deafening.But when TJ started to run, Steve ran too, the soles of his shoes landing on each shape like he was climbing a twisted staircase. Each footstep made the pieces fall—faster and faster like the crumbling keys of an untuned piano—until Steve found himself standing on solid ground next to the pool.One might assume that foreboding ended with noise, but for Steve, it ended with silence.Bucky was on the floor. And Steve—Steve didn’t know what to do."Rumlow," TJ whispered before backing up against the bleachers. “Rumlow did this.”Bucky had downed five glasses of punch and gone to take a leak. He’d gotten distracted by the half-naked guys on his phone. He’d been attacked.And it was Steve’s fault.When Steve dropped to his knees, he didn’t care if he shattered the bones. “Oh my God,” he said, desperate to touch Bucky everywhere at once. “Jesus Christ, Bucky, are you hurt?”"Don’ fuck’n’ touch me," Bucky said, slapping Steve's hand away before he could make contact.And with the unbearable silence bearing down like a conspiracy of ravens, Steve didn't know what to do.Suddenly TJ was there, kneeling down, reaching out like he was going to touch Bucky's waist. “Frank stopped it before it got too far, but...”Steve didn’t know how to handle the fear on TJ’s face or the anger he felt when TJ’s fingers touched the curve of Bucky’s hip.“He’s really fucked up, Steve. I don’t… I don’t know what he took.”“What he took?” Ignoring Bucky’s protests, Steve pushed the hair away from Bucky’s mouth. “What do you mean, what he took?”“I don’t know. What did you give him?”“I didn’t give him anything!” Steve tried to peel back the hairs that were stuck in the drool, to get the wet strands off Bucky’s face. “Look at me, Buck! Look at me right fucking now!"It took five unbearable seconds.“Stevie,” Bucky finally said, his eyes barely focusing as a slow smile spread across his face. “Stevie… I… I made’a hole for th’ chick’ns…”“What?” Blood-red roses. Fake plastic crowns. Steve had been drowning in confetti while Bucky had been drowning for real.Suddenly TJ was touching Steve's knee, shaking him. “You’ve got to get him moving,” he said, shaking twice as hard. “You've got to get him up."The static rushed back all at once, rattling the rafters and bleachers and making waves in the pool.If a notorious drug addict like TJ was concerned, then Steve was really fucking concerned.Steve grabbed Bucky’s arm and tried to haul him up, but it was no use. His body was completely limp.“TJ, you’ve got to help me,” Steve said, hooking his hands under Bucky’s armpits and using all his strength to wrench him upright. "Get under one of his arms!"It wasn’t smooth, but with TJ supporting one side, Steve was able to say, “C’mon, Bucky, walk,” as he dragged him along the edge of the pool. The pool where they’d dominated last night. The pool where everything had truly begun.But Bucky didn’t walk. He just stumbled, laughing as the soles of his shoes made black marks on the tiles.“I miss’d you… Stevie,” Bucky said after they’d reached the doors. “Di’ you… did you see th’ snowflakes? I made ‘em... jus’ for you.”There are moments when you need to stop and tell yourself that everything is going to be okay. Moments where you need to fill your head with lies of your own creation, just to shore up the fucking wall. But Steve couldn’t stop. He had to put one foot in front of the other, despite the crescendoing hiss.“Snezhinka...” Bucky hiccupped as they struggled to get him through the doorway. “Lik’a sneeze, Stevie… but i’s’a... snowflake.”Everything felt slow, like time had dialed back the speed to match Bucky’s slurred syllables. But when the fluorescent lights from the hallway lit up Bucky’s face, time stopped.There was a bright-red handprint on Bucky’s cheek.A bright-red handprint that was the color of the goddamn roses. The color of the motherfucking burn.Swallowing down a sob, Steve said, “I couldn’t find you.”“I… though’u didn’ wanna find me...”With a thunderous clap, everything turned red. The hallway in front of them. TJ's pale skin. The whites of Bucky's eyes.“Of course I wanted to find you," Steve said, taking the brunt of Bucky’s weight as they stumbled down the stairs toward the exit. “What are you talking about?”“M’talkin’ ‘bout…”Bucky’s head fell forward as Steve kicked open the door, and when Steve leaned him against the brick wall outside, Bucky immediately started to sink.“Fucking hold him,” Steve said, yelling at himself as much as he was yelling at TJ. “I have to hail a fucking cab.”TJ groaned when Steve let go, spreading his skinny legs in an attempt to keep them both upright. “He’s heavy, Steve. I… can’t.”“You can, and you will.” Swear to God, if TJ fucking dropped him, he’d—You know what? It didn’t matter. It didn’t fucking matter. It's amazing what a person can do in an emergency. After ordering TJ to support 185 pounds of dead weight, Steve ran into the street, hailed a cab, and somehow managed to catch Bucky before he hit the pavement when TJ's legs gave out. Adrenaline was a fucking gift.Steve didn't remember getting Bucky into the cab, and he barely remembered telling the driver to take them to the Four Seasons Hotel. To be perfectly honest, Steve had no idea what he was going to do when they got there. Or why they were going there at all.Right now, with Bucky slumped over in the corner of the back seat, the only thing Steve knew for sure was that Brock was fucking done. He was off the fucking team. He was out of the fucking school. And if Steve had anything to do with it, he’d be a fucking pariah by tomorrow morning.“I don’ feel… s’good,” Bucky said, folding inward as they crawled through traffic. And because he wouldn’t look Steve in the eye or let Steve touch him, Steve could only watch in horror as Bucky pressed the goddamn handprint against the glass.If only Bucky had drunk too much punch and run off to take a leak. If only he’d been leaning against the bathroom sink, double tapping thirst traps on his Instagram feed.“Mmm… ’m gon’a puke.”They were still a block and a half from the Four Seasons when the cab driver slammed on the brakes, and Steve barely managed to drag Bucky out of the cab before he started throwing up all over the sidewalk.“Hey, you didn’t pay the fare.”The cabbie had put on his hazards and was coming around the hood, and Steve, who was doing his best to hold back Bucky’s hair, wasn’t in the fucking mood. “You think I don’t know that?” Steve let go of Bucky long enough to pull out his wallet and throw a hundred-dollar bill at the cabbie’s feet. “Keep the fucking change.”It wasn’t the cabbie’s fault—he knew that—but with vomit splashing all over Steve’s pant legs, he didn’t give two shits about being polite.“C’mon, Buck,” he said, trying to move Bucky to a subway grate so he didn’t trash the entire sidewalk. Actually, who was Steve kidding? People were already swearing at them, walking in the street to avoid the mess, and, in a particularly stellar show of ‘support,’ dropping a plastic bag designed for dog shit next to Bucky’s knees. And all Steve could do was pray for rain. When the worst of it was over, Bucky stumbled forward a few feet before he said, “He was under’th’ bleachers, hidin’ like’a wolfie.”And Steve, with his own ‘stellar’ show of support, said, “You can do this, baby. We’re almost there.” It wasn’t that Steve was ignoring Bucky. He just couldn’t think about Brock anymore. At least not yet. First he had to get Bucky across all six lanes of Park Avenue without getting plowed down by an overzealous garbage truck. The lines in the crosswalk were just as bad as the bumps on the bridge. Maybe worse. At least on the bridge, Steve could tell if he was coming or going, if what was ahead was worse than what had come before. But now, crossing the center median as the seconds ticked down on the crosswalk signal, he had no fucking idea.When Bucky stumbled over the curb, Steve said, “We’re almost there,” because he needed it to be true. And when Bucky veered toward an ATM and spit on the screen, Steve said, “Just a little further,” to stop himself from lying spread eagle on the concrete and letting the crowd trample them both.Somehow Steve kept walking, dragging Bucky over the cracks in the sidewalk and bumping over the bumps in the road. And when they reached the brightly lit entrance to the Four Seasons, Steve realized that he had no idea how he was going to pull this off.“Sir, do you need to set him down?”Steve had to do a double take because one of the porters had rolled up a brass luggage cart like Bucky was a fucking Samsonite. And really, where else but New York City could you tip somebody twenty bucks to store your drunk boyfriend like a suitcase while you ran inside and dropped over a grand on a room? It took Steve almost ten minutes to secure a room because it was fucking Friday night and the only thing available was a suite. But hey, what was another forty-two hundred dollars on Alexander’s Black American Express card?If Steve weren’t so worried about Bucky, he might’ve even called it a win.But he was worried about Bucky, and rightfully so. By the time Steve made it back outside, the porter had rolled Bucky behind the valet stand like a dirty secret. A dirty secret who was slumped over a stranger’s suitcase.Steve handed the porter another twenty.“C’mon, baby,” Steve said, not bothering to avoid Bucky’s puke-covered lapels as he got him onto his feet. “I need you to walk.”The only good thing about Bucky puking his guts out all over the sidewalk was that he seemed steadier on his feet. He was wobbly, sure, but he wasn’t falling over, which was great considering that Steve still had to get him across the enormous Art Deco lobby without management—or anyone else—calling the police.The soaring three-story space was loud and echoey, the marble floors were slippery, and the stairs that led to the elevators were tall, wide, and in full view of anyone and everyone, all of which worked against Steve and Bucky not ending up in the back of a police car for underage drinking, public intoxication, and God knows what else.When the elevator doors finally opened, nobody made a move to join them in the mirrored box. And when Steve pushed the button for the forty-ninth floor—two levels below the Presidential Suite and Ezra’s after-party—he tried not to think of the penthouse. Not Hell. Not Alexander. Not rectangles or boxes. But boxes were all he could see. The handprint was more evident in the artificial light, its edges raised and angry, and as Bucky swayed in the center of the cube, Steve had to bite the inside of his cheek to hold back the screams. With an audible smack, a bloody handprint appeared on the mirror in front of Bucky’s face. Then another and another, closing in from all sides. As the numbers that counted the floors got higher, passing thirteen, then twenty, then thirty-three, more and more appeared, their edges dripping downward as Bucky went up.Up to a party. Up to a penthouse. Up to a place where bloody handprints—and those who’d rejected God’s gift of life—weren’t allowed.Steve closed his eyes, feeling the remnants of the crescent moons. It was hard to admit, but he was starting to scare himself.He was starting to scare himself because forty-nine stories was a hell of a lot higher than four.When the doors opened with a singular ding, Bucky stumbled out into the hallway. And when Steve tried to point him in the right direction, Bucky shoved him. Hard.But he didn’t say anything. And he still wouldn’t look Steve in the eye.And Steve, at a loss, started counting. Room numbers. Doors. The frosted sconces that were casting an intermittent glow onto the ceiling. The wide, cream and white stripes of the wallpaper.It was ridiculous. Why the fuck would he pay attention to the pattern of the wallpaper when Brock had—Steve stopped.Counting. Walking. Breathing.He stopped because he had no idea what Brock had done.As Bucky walked toward him in a surprisingly straight line, Steve said, “It’s okay, baby,” even though it wasn’t. And when Bucky passed him without a sideways glance, Steve said, “Just a few more steps,” even though he knew it wasn’t true.Find the right door. Use the right key. Get Bucky to a safe place.That’s all he had to do.But Steve didn’t feel safe when he found room 4913. And he didn’t feel safe when he slid the plastic rectangle through the rectangular lock. And when Bucky brushed past him without a word, walking into a rectangular room with a rectangular couch and a rectangular bed, a chill rushed up Steve’s spine.Gone was the joy of purple horseshoes and red balloons, of four-leaf clovers and galactic-blue moons. It was just Bucky standing in the center of a rectangular rug, with nothing but his shadow beside him.Taking a deep breath, then another, Steve stepped into the room. “Bucky, can you sit on the bed for me?”Bucky sat.“I’m going to help you out of these clothes so we can lie down. Is that okay? Can I do that?”Bucky nodded.Ever so gently, Steve pushed Bucky’s hair behind his ears, taking a closer look at the mark. The skin had turned purple at the crest of Bucky's cheekbone, and the shape of four red fingers were clearly visible at the edge of Bucky's hairline. Marking him. Branding him.Steve's hands started to shake.Suck in a breath. Hold it in. Count to ten. Repeat. Fuck! This wasn’t panic, and it wasn't fear. This was rage in its purest form. And Steve, clenching and unclenching his fists, didn’t think the dirt was heavy enough to hold.An uppercut from Alexander? Throw some dirt on it. A sketchbook burning in the fire? Throw on some more. A dead mother being lowered into the ground, the straps creaking as her rectangular box was put into a rectangular hole? Steve had stood at the edge of that void, holding his breath as he’d thrown in his handful of dirt.The door rattled behind him, shaking the requisite chain. And everything red and angry pressed inward, vibrating at a frequency that could shatter wood, metal, and bone.Squeezing his eyes shut, Steve tried to take a breath.Dirt raining down on a cream-colored coffin.His lungs refused to open.Wood creaking because it couldn’t handle the pressure.Just take a fucking breath!Bucky needed Steve, not his bullshit symbolism. He didn’t need dirt or bloody handprints or fucking birds. He needed his goddamn boyfriend to breathe, whether his lungs wanted to or not. Gritting his teeth, Steve slid the puke-covered jacket off Bucky’s shoulders and dropped it onto the floor. Then he undid the tie and threw it across the room. Why the fuck had he put Bucky into this suit? This wasn’t who he was. Bucky was My Little Pony and Luke Skywalker. He was ripped jeans and electric-blue boots. And Steve fucking kn ew that. He loved that. So why the fuck had he stripped away the things that made Bucky who he was?Sterling silver cufflinks. The polished buttons on a poplin shirt. The stiff leather of a crocodile belt. Steve removed them all, dropping them, throwing them, and cursing the fucking ravens and their love of shiny things.“Okay, sweetheart," Steve said as calmly as he could. "Can you lie down so I can get the rest of this off?”Bucky fell back.And that’s when Steve saw them. Four distinct scratches running across the fly of Bucky’s pants.“No,” Steve said, unbuckling the shoes and throwing them at the couch. "These can't be on you. None of this can be on you. It doesn’t belong here."Steve got rid of everything—the socks, the pants, the fucking scratch marks—and Bucky, in nothing but his underwear, still didn’t move."What the fuck did he do?" Scanning every inch of Bucky’s body, Steve looked for cuts, bruises, or worse, but there was just the handprint, the scratches, and the things that Bucky had buried beneath his own mound of dirt.And in that moment, Steve knew exactly what he had to do. He wasn't going to use a heavy glass vase to shatter Brock's nose and send shards of bone into his brain. And he wasn’t going to push him down a steep set of stairs, finishing the job at the bottom if he had to. He wasn’t even going to make a scene. Steve was simply going to walk up behind Brock in a quiet moment and snap his fucking neck. Just like that.The hiss returned, building as he watched the stillness of Bucky’s belly. But Wrath had to wait. It had to wait for Steve to help Bucky crawl underneath the covers. It had to wait for Steve to coax him into eating a few crackers from the minibar and drinking a full glass of water. It had to wait for Steve to grab the garbage can from underneath the desk and put it next to the bed. And it had to wait for Steve to prop his boyfriend on his side so didn’t asphyxiate if he puked again.“I’ll be right back," Steve said, trying not to look at the mark. "I’m going to the bathroom for a few minutes, but I’ll be back. Okay?”Bucky closed his eyes.It took twelve steps for Steve to reach the bathroom and slip the lock into place. Twelve steps to secure one lock before unlocking another. The jacket was the first to go, and Steve threw it as hard as he could at the shower door. And when he ripped the tie off his neck, Steve made a point of throwing it into the fucking toilet, along with the diamond cufflinks, shoes, and belt. “Fuck this,” Steve said as he kicked the handle to make it flush. “Fuck all of this.” Tearing the pocket chain off of the vest, Steve stretched it between his hands and turned toward the mirror. Steve knew what was coming. He could feel it rumbling inside as his ribs expanded and contracted. But instead of trying to control it, he welcomed it with open arms. “C’mon,” he said, pulling the chain until it snapped. “Fucking c’mon!”Ten arteries shot out of ten fingers, looping around at full speed until they pierced the hollow beneath Steve's breastbone. Maybe once upon a time, when his mother had been there to kiss his forehead before sending him off to school with a bag lunch, Steve would’ve fought it. Shoved it down. Thrown on some more dirt. But this wasn’t a fucking fairy tale, and skeletons didn’t have the power to kiss it all away.When Steve dropped the broken chain into the sink, he turned on the water full blast. And when Steve spread his arms like a crucifixion, he embraced the liquid being pumped into his chest until he was looking at his reflection through red eyes. He stayed there for a long time. Or maybe it was a short time. He honestly didn’t know. But one thing was for sure, Steve didn’t move until the last of Wrath’s vessels had receded.It was Steve’s job to keep it together, to be the hero in an impossible situation. So that’s what he was going to do. It didn’t matter that Steve smelled like puke or that the toilet was about to overflow. Bucky needed him. Taking the deepest breath he could, Steve stripped off the rest of the clothes, washed his face and hands, and ran a washcloth under cool water so he could do the same for Bucky. Then he took most of the shit out of the toilet because the last thing they needed was maintenance knocking on the door at four in the morning.“I’ve got this,” Steve said, even though he didn’t have it at all. Then he counted to ten, making absolutely certain that he’d secured one lock before opening another. When Steve opened the bathroom door, Bucky hadn't moved. Not a strand of hair. Not the expression on his face. Nothing.“Can I lie next to you?" Steve asked, ignoring the water dripping onto his feet as he sat on the end of the bed. "Would that be okay?”“Steve?”Steve spun around so fast that he almost lost his balance. It pained him to admit it, but Bucky’s voice had startled him.And that was bullshit. Steve loved Bucky's voice! He loved it when he sang Michael Jackson songs in the locker room, told stupid dick jokes, and talked about something as mundane as the weather. The words didn’t matter, Steve simply loved the notes they made.Crawling up beside him, Steve wiped the cloth across Bucky’s forehead, trying not to cringe when he asked, “Baby, what is it?” “He touched th’ suit.” And with that simple sentence, that clear expression of violation, Steve questioned everything. Should he call the police? Should he have called them by the pool? Suddenly the image of Mr. Barnes snapping pictures of Steve’s fucked-up face was all he could see. Photographic documentation of the cut on his forehead. The swelling around his eyes. The black spot on his ribs.Looking at the handprint, Steve's fingers went numb.“You’re the only one who’s su’posed to touch the suit," Bucky said from someplace far away. Someplace that wasn’t anywhere near Steve.It didn’t matter that Steve had sent Sam and Natasha a vague text in the cab, he should’ve called them. He should have told them the truth. Dammit, he should call Natasha right now because she’d know what— "Steve," Bucky said, making eye contact for the first time since Steve had walked across that fucking stage. “Can you hold me?" The numbness was all the way up to Steve’s wrists, reminding him that he wasn’t in control. And if he made that phone call—if he reached out to Natasha, Sam, Mr. Barnes, or the police—it would be even worse. Bucky needed comfort, not sirens. He needed love and reassurance, not a roomful of people asking questions. He needed to rest.“Of course, I’ll hold you,” Steve said, gently cleaning Bucky’s face and neck before he moved onto his wrists and fingers. Wiping the places where his rings should be, where the leather cuffs should always take precedence. “I’ll hold you until you tell me to stop.”When Steve crawled underneath the covers and curled around Bucky’s back, it felt wrong.Too quiet. Too still. Too heavy. Tonight was supposed to have been the night they fell asleep without worrying about getting into trouble when they woke up. Tonight was supposed to have been the night Steve made love to his boyfriend without rushing or worrying that somebody was going to barge into the room. Tonight was supposed to have been the night that Steve kissed Bucky’s beautiful lips and told him that he was falling in love with him.But Steve could only do as he’d been asked, holding Bucky as tight as he could as he buried what might have been underneath a fresh layer of dirt.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Bucky’s brain came back online to some nonstop, rude-ass pounding and the sound of Tony Stark yelling through the door of—Wait. Where the fuck was he?Whiter than white sheets. Flat-screen TV. Fancy lamp. Weird painting. Another fancy lamp. Big mirror. It was a hotel room.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
“Open the door, Steve-o! I brought butt cream for Bucky-Boo. Or if you two got adventurous and went for the flip fuck, for both of you. Two holes, one cream. You know, like two girls, one cup.”Bucky cringed. One, because he’d seen that porno with Clint (Lesbians eating shit? No, thank you.), and two, because Tony’s fists sounded like a fucking jackhammer. With every thump, Bucky's head turned itself inside out, brains and all. The only good thing (besides the possibility of Saturday morning cartoons on a big-ass TV) was the arm wrapped around Bucky’s waist. He peeked under the covers. An arm that thankfully belonged to Steve.“I’ve had exactly no hours of sleep,” Tony yelled, doing a fucking drumroll on the door, “and look at me! I’m up. I even rubbed some of this butt cream on Isadore, even though she wouldn’t let me do anal.”Grabbing the pillow by his knees, Bucky slammed it over his head (and, by default, Steve’s head). Thankfully, Steve’s only reaction was to attach himself to Bucky’s back like a ginormous sucky fish. Slurp! And it was warm and cozy (despite the suckers) and just awesome enough to let Bucky focus on the things that didn’t suck. Like how the two of them were wrapped in the puffiest comforter Bucky’d ever felt (seriously, it was like lemon meringue pie without the lemons) and how Steve’s morning wood was throbbing against Bucky’s butt. Peeking under the covers (again), Bucky confirmed that they were both wearing underwear. And two pairs of underwear meant Tony could stick his stupid butt cream up his own ass. Right?
Bam!
“You missed quite the party,” Tony said, his voice suddenly crystal clear. “Ezra was the president of the presidential suite, and Aubree, Aira, and Valeria were Marilyn Monroe. And somebody—meaning me—locked anyone who even vaguely looked like a homophobe on the balcony. I’m pretty sure they’re still there—all fifteen of them—ruing the day they didn’t heed my warning.”Groaning, Steve tripled the suction.“Oh, and, Nancy, I’m pretty sure your punk rock paramour pummeled your sister’s poontang shortly after midnight.” Tony’s voice got even louder. “Not that I’m the kind of person who would listen to two people having sex for the first time. I just saw the sock on their door, and you know what that means. Or maybe you don’t because this door—” Bam! “—is missing a Do Not Disturb sign.” It sounded like the asshole was lying on the floor and shouting as loud as he could through the crack under the door.“Anyway, captive homophobes—and incestuous poontang—aside, clock’s a-ticking, gaybies, so wake the fuck up and wash your willies.”Releasing the kraken, Steve roared to life, exhaling against the back of Bucky’s neck like—
Roar!
Like a hungry tiger. Steve the Tiger (not Tony the Tiger) said, “ I’m gonna tear out his tongue,” which, fuck yeah! Bucky was 422 percent down for a lil’ a.m. carnage. But then Stevie threw back their puffy little cloud and leapt out of bed, totally fuckin’ up the meringue.Fuck! Who was gonna keep his tootsies warm now?Stevie, aka He-Man, flung the door open so hard that it bounced off the wall, like...Kablam! Straight up, he was lucky that there was one of those round plastic protector thingamajigs stuck to the wall. Otherwise the doorknob would’ve made an impact crater like Frodo’s asteroid. Or was it a comet? Only Bruce Willis knew for sure.It was impressive how intimidating Stevie looked squaring off with Tony (who, FYI, was lying on the floor) considering that he was wearing nothing but a pair of navy-blue underwear. Correction: a very, very, very tight, very porny pair of navy-blue underwear. The realization that Stevie had stuffed his man bits into some seriously skimpy undies purely for Bucky’s viewing pleasure made him feel mega fizzy, super dizzy, and extra, extra, extra jizzy. At least until he remembered that he didn't remember a damn thing. Then the fizzy jizz turned into a big ol' pile of puke.Running his tongue over his teeth, Bucky tried to ignore the smell. “There’s my handsome golden retriever,” Tony said, standing up and straightening out his t-shirt. “I was starting to worry that you got your bone stuck in Fucky B’s doghouse.”“Shut the fuck up.”Bucky flinched. And it wasn’t a little flinch like when the sexy and sensitive Zak Bagans runs into a rocking chair and thinks it’s a demon for 2.2 seconds. It was a big flinch (#Demons_R_Real), complete with the goosebumps, paranormal tingles, and frozen toes.Sneaking past Stevie’s muscle blockade, Tony said, “I know you’re jealous of my t-shirt, Steve-o—and rightfully so—but you don’t have to be such a sourpuss about it. There’s more than enough Ed Hardy to go around.” Ed Hardy? Bucky sat up ‘cause there was no fuckin’ way that was Tony wearing—Oh. News at eleven: In a shocking turn of events, gazillionaire Tony Stark had ditched his gaudy floral suit for a gaudy Ed Hardy t-shirt, circa 2005. And not just that, Snooki fans. This Jersey Shore classic featured not one, not two, but six glittering roses and a majestically bedazzled lion. It was fan-fuckin’-tastic!Ducking and weaving to avoid Stevie’s grabby hands, Tony said, “I bet you love my shirt, Buckysaurus. You know, ‘cause I got it at the gay store."“Get out! Now!” Stevie was bein’ a boss, but Tony didn’t move. He just stood there in his flowered suit, holding out the shiny silver flask.And Bucky?Bucky reached up and touched his cheek. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, homo-Steve-o. What’s got your panties in a twist?" Tony pointed at Steve's crotch. "I mean, look at that! Your G-string’s clearly cutting off the circulation to your balls. You know, strangling the danglies. Popping the plums. Torquing the tadpoles. Hey, joke time. What’s the worst thing about a cheap hotel?”When Tony rubbed his hands together, a puff of smoke came out of his palms.“No ballroom!”Bucky snorted. And Stevie? Stevie grabbed the bedazzled lion by the mane and shoved him out the door.“C’mon, Steve-o, that was funny. I know your blueberries are squished, but that shouldn’t squelch your sense of—” “Out!" Real talk: Stevie was like a lion and a tiger, aka a liger, and Bucky’d never heard him roar so loud.Except when he'd broken Brock's nose.Tony asked, “Do you need a deep tissue massage?” as he dug his claws into the doorframe. “Maybe some aromatherapy? I’ve got the concierge on speed dial if you want some lavender to slow your roll. It’s very soothing. But I'm telling you, Steve-o, friend to friend, that cheap hotel is the source of all your problems. Sooo restricting.”Except when Frank had crunched Brock’s jaw.“Buckysaurus! Save me!”Except when Bucky’d swallowed the Hatter’s poison.“Back the fuck up, Tony, or I swear I’ll—”“Jesus, Steve. I just came down to tell you that the car—and bags—will be here in thirty minutes. Remember? Your boyfriend’s gonna teach me how to pick up some meat at the meat market.”You needed sharp teeth to tear through meat. Sharp teeth and sharp claws.The pillow slammed into the flat screen with so much force that Bucky felt the recoil in his brain. “What the fuck?” Tony was staring at Bucky like he’d just whipped a pillow across the room, which, apparently, he had.And Steve? He was rubbing his temples like he was trying to peel off the skin.Bucky might not remember how he’d ended up almost naked in a cloud of motherfucking meringue, but he sure as fuck remembered his throat burning as he’d chugged the toxic mixture in Tony’s flask. Throwing all the pillows in the world wasn’t gonna change that. “Everything okay over there, Bucky?” Tony was still staring at him with his big, brown eyes, and Bucky didn’t want to answer.Answering meant thinking about the strongman. And thinking about the strongman meant thinking about the little man. The little man with the cigarettes and aftershave.“We’re done.” The biggest man (who wasn’t the strongman) grabbed the edge of the door like he was gonna snap it in two. “Walk away before I slam this door in your face.”"Go away!"Yakov had shouted before Bucky even realized he'd opened his mouth. Durak! Shouting when the wolves were around was a really bad idea.“Seriously, Steve, is he okay?” The big man backed the little man into the hallway, and Bucky rubbed his head. If the pounding got any worse, his eyeballs were gonna go...Pop! Pop!...just like Stevie’s nuts were gonna go...Plop! Plop!...outta those itty-bitty underwear if he walked too fast.“Listen, we need more time.” Stevie was whispering, but Bucky heard him loud and clear ‘cause he was a ninja, and ninjas had excellent hearing. “I have to make sure—”“The primal need for morning sex. I get it. I had to rub one off on Isadore’s back before I came down—”“No, it’s—" “The primal need for cuddles.” Tony’s obnoxious laugh made Bucky’s eyes twitch. “I always forget that you’re a romantic—not counting the shit you pulled with Sharon because that decidedly unromantic behavior qualified as Class A cruelty, and—”"Goddammit, Tony! I have to make sure he’s okay before we leave. If he even still wants to go.”Of course, Bucky wanted to go! There was gonna be bad-ass music, bare-assed boys, and Stevie in a super tight, super sexy tank top (hopefully). Sure, his hangover was bad (like, really bad), but it wasn’t that bad. Guess it was time to look for clues.There were a whole lot of cracker crumbs stuck in his chest hair, which was both weird and itchy, but a shitton of mystery crumbs didn’t justify skipping a trip to the coolest gay club in the city. If anything, Bucky could use them to lure a Saltine-loving fish for Tony. Bucky popped a few crumbs into his mouth, happily picturing Stevie’s pecs in a tank top. At least until he spotted the garbage can next to the bed.Puke from the poison. From the little man’s cigarettes. From the hand on Bucky’s—There were whispers coming from the hall. Whispers about him. Grabbing uno, dos, tres pillows, Bucky smashed all ocho of them over his head, like...Bam! Bam! Bam! Fun fact: There were only two creatures on the planet smart enough to stick their heads into holes when shit got scary. Ostriches and Bucky Barnes.Maybe meerkats.The hole was cramped and full of worms, but Bucky had to get the fuck away from the jazz hands and navy-blue knees, even if Stevie's suit got dirty. “No, you don’t, cupcake. ”The poison was ticklin’ his tonsils, burnin’ and bubblin’ until he was sure he’d have to trade the hole for the garbage can. But Bucky swallowed it back down like a mouthful of Hamburger Helper because he liked it here, hangin’ with the meerkats. This one time at the Bronx Zoo, Cobain-era Clint had climbed into the underground meerkat viewing tube (suggested age: five and under) and gotten stuck. Jody’d been fuckin’ furious, which, yeah. What mom wants to grab her fourteen-year-old kid’s ankles and help his dipshit best friend pull him out of a meerkat hole?"Well, I never!" It was a lady’s voice, but she wasn’t yellin’ about the meerkats. Nyet. Based on the pitch (both offended and intrigued), Bucky was pretty sure that she was yellin’ about Stevie’s itty-bitty underwear and his not-so-itty-bitty cock. Bucky snorted (difficult in a hole) ‘cause he could just imagine the lady careening down the hallway to escape the monster (aka monster cock). But not before lookin’ over her shoulder to sneak another peek. Big dick fear versus big dick desire. A dilemma for the ages.If Bucky had a constant flow of oxygen, he would’ve laughed for hours (maybe days), but, holy dé los molé, how the fuck did ostriches breathe in here?Throwing all tres pillows at the flat screen (for consistency), Bucky sucked in a few oxygen-rich breaths.“Where the fuck am I?” he asked the closest meerkat. He had a mohawk like Clint, except, being a meerkat, it was brown instead of purple.True story: Bucky’d never been in a hotel room with a couch. An armchair, sure, but that shit, right there, could fit, like, four people. Not to mention the sixty-five inch flat screen, the glass coffee table, the big-ass paintings of flowers (Or were they amoebas?), the desk, the full-length mirror that looked like it belonged in Skinner’s mansion (or a museum), and the motherfucking view.The curtains were cracked enough that Bucky could see nothin’ but blue sky and puffy clouds, and that, meerkats and moles, meant that Bucky’d not only blacked the fuck out, but that somebody had dragged his sorry ass to the top of a motherfucking skyscraper.God, he hoped it hadn’t been Tony. Or Clint.Tylenol. Bucky needed some. Now. And eggs. And toast. And a glass of water. And, most importantly, he needed his bestie to float up to the window on his extra puffy ganja cloud so Bucky could float away to a place (like Pizza Saturday, por ejemplo) where he wouldn’t be fucking mortified.“Okay,” Tony said in a normal, non-yelling, non-whispering voice, "I’ll get you a late checkout and push back the car. Text me when you know.”When Steve shut the door, his left nut was hanging out. And when Bucky said, “I like your underwear,” Steve’s adjustment made the right one fall out instead.No matter how much your head hurts (or how much you wanna get high with the meerkats), when your boyfriend’s balls make a run for it, you fucking laugh. And when Bucky saw the big bottle of Tylenol in Steve’s hand, he was finally able to crawl out of his hole.“Gimme those,” Bucky said, making the grabbiest of grabby hands. “It feels like a fucking jackhammer’s chipping away at my brain.”Stevie cringed. Then he closed his eyes. Then he tried to wrangle his nuts with the hand holding the Tylenol bottle. And the entire time, Bucky’s head was going...Bam! Bam! Bam! Because you let him touch the suit. Whore! Ten hours later, Stevie crawled into the meringue, like...Poof!...which was fuckin’ awesome, especially ‘cause he shook two pills into Bucky’s hand before burying his head in Bucky’s armpit (#Ostrich2.0)“I’m guessin’ you need some too?” Bucky rubbed the top of Stevie’s head before swallowing the pills with the glass of water on the nightstand.The ostrich moaned into Bucky’s armpit hole.“Tell me about it,” Bucky said, downing the rest of the water to drown the last of the Hamburger Helper. “Too bad we can’t hop onto our sailboat and teleport to Incubus Island ‘cause there we’d be drinkin’ piña coladas out of hollowed-out pineapples instead of chuggin’ Tylenol out of a fancy silver flask.”Nuzzling even deeper, Stevie asked, “Incubus Island?” which was Bucky’s cue to sprinkle sand onto the sheets. “Yep. There’s powdered sugar sand, drunk monkeys, pink flamingos and pink dolphins, and Brandon Boyd—shirtless and sexy—singin’ his entire catalogue of love songs from the top of the waterfall.”“Love songs?”“Mm-hmm.” Scooching down, Bucky smelled Stevie’s coconut-scented hair. “I just caught a glimpse of him, and his Hawaiian shirt is completely unbuttoned—perky nipples, yoga abs, the whole deal—and his long, brown hair is blowin’ in the ocean breeze like he’s standing on the front of the Titanic. Except instead of holding onto Kate Winslet, he’s playing a djembe and singing “Love Hurts.”Stevie popped out of his hole, lookin’ like a weepy meerkat when he asked, “Does your face hurt?” which, no. Abso-fuckin’-lutely not. That shit was against the rules. Meerkats (weepy or otherwise) weren’t allowed on Incubus Island.
Kablam!
Bucky touched his cheek, remembering the chlorine, remembering the ice.“It’s fine,” Bucky said, searching for the fucking Wonder Bread so he could feed the seagulls, “and it would be even more fine if you didn’t talk about it.”When Steve squished his stupid eyebrows together, it was like an entire flock of fucking seagulls shit on Bucky’s beach towel. “Bucky, I—”“I said, I don’t wanna talk about it.”“Baby—”"No!"Bucky didn’t need worried Steve, weepy Steve, or heroic Steve in his motherfucking tights. He needed the Steve who’d looked at Bucky like a side of beef when he’d picked him up for the fucking dance. The Steve who’d held the back of Bucky’s neck when he’d shot his load down Bucky’s throat before the meet. The Steve who’d hop onto the sailboat, no questions asked, and smile at Bucky as they dug their toes into the motherfucking sand.Digging and digging as fast as he could, Bucky said, “I’ve been so excited to spend this weekend with you. I’m still excited. And I don’t want what happened—”
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth!”
"I don't want it to ruin everything. So please, Steve, I'm fucking begging you. Just forget about it until Monday, okay?” Bucky’s toes were almost deep enough to feel the water; if he could just... get past... the fucking... fleas. “Just pretend that we danced until we got blisters, got crunk at the after-party, had toe-curling sex, and—” “Buck, we need to tell somebody what—”“Fuck that! We had our perfect night, just like we’d planned!”When Steve touched the place that stung, it made everything hurt ten times worse. “Please,” Bucky said, moving Steve’s fingers from his cheek to his lips. “Just sail with me for a little while. I promise, it’s better over here.”Steve sighed when Bucky kissed the tips of his fingers, and when Bucky opened his mouth to coax them inside, Steve said, “Just until Monday,” and sighed twice as loud.“Mm-hmm.”Fingertips. Lollipops. Cocks. The tip of his tongue treated them all the same.“Monday we talk about everything, Buck. Everything. Then we deal with it. Together.”One nod was all it took. One nod before two fingers pressed down on his tongue. One nod before a hard cock was rubbing against his ass.Biting down, just a little, he smiled. He’d always wanted to fuck someone on the beach.Suddenly Bucky was kissing Steve’s neck, licking up the cracker crumbs and sucking on Steve’s morning-breath tongue. “Please,” he said, rocking his ass to show Steve exactly what he needed. “I need you to want me.”
Smack!
Steve’s fingers stopped creeping towards Bucky’s asshole. Steve’s cock stopped pressing on Bucky’s balls. And, worst of all, Steve was staring at Bucky like he needed permission. “What the fuck are you waiting for?” “I just…” Grabbing the sides of Bucky’s hips, Steve held him in place. “Of course, I want you. Why would you say something like that?”Don't break the boy. Surround him with bubble wrap before he goes out to play. Put a waterproof band-aid over his asshole so he never gets fucked.Moving Steve’s hands from his hips to his ass, Bucky said, “I want to lean against the wind and pretend that we are weightless. And in this moment be happy.”“Are you quoting Incubus?”“Yes.” Bucky snapped the waistband of his underwear, one, two, three times, before he took his dick out. “And the next line is ‘I want you to fuck me like a horny teenager. Fast, hard, and dirty.’”Even though Brock touched the suit?“Yes,” Bucky answered, rubbing his foreskin against Steve’s happy trail.Steve squinted at him like he was gonna say no, but his fingers were squeezing Bucky’s ass like he was gonna say yes.“Are you sure?”“For fuck’s sake!” When Bucky pushed down on Steve’s cock, he wasn’t nice about it. In fact, he was pretty sure that it hurt. “Just get on the fucking roller coaster and show me how you feel. I need you to grab my neck and bite my tongue like you did in the limo. I need you to look at me like you want to eat me alive.""Buck—""I don’t want to feel weak!” Bucky stuck his hands up like he was under arrest. “So just put your stupid hands in the air and be happy with me. Please.”Waving his arms back and forth, Bucky closed his eyes. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost feel the bugs hitting his face. It took a gazillion years (and a gazillion bugs), but Stevie finally gave Bucky’s booty a lil’ squeeze. Then he said, “Incubus is going to take you to court if you don’t stop using their lyrics to woo me," because Stevie (like Bucky) had memorized all of Brandon Boyd’s lyrics.Wiggling his hips to encourage more squeezes, Bucky said, “Brandon wouldn’t sue me. We’ve bonded over puka shells and pineapples. Plus, he just dialed me up on his conch shell, like...Ring! Ring!...and he said you should kiss me like one of your coconut-scented French girls."“Like this?” Grabbing Bucky’s butt for real, Stevie did the world’s sexiest crunch before he stuck his tongue into Bucky’s mouth. And it was fuckin’ awesome! Instead of bugs, Bucky could feel the ocean breeze, and it was easy, breezy, piña colada.But then Steve said, “I love roller coasters, especially when you’re the one riding me,” and—Bucky blinked. One, because Steve’s face was suddenly really, really, really close, and two, because—“We haven’t done that.”Chuckling, Steve said, “We haven’t done a lot of things.” Then he sucked on the side of Bucky’s neck. Slurp! "I have to pee." Steve stopped sucking (lame) and sucked in a really deep breath instead. Which, okay. As far as Bucky knew, taking a piss was a normal bodily function that people (and meerkats) took care of first thing in the morning, just like taking a shit and washing out your asshole before hoppin’ on the dick coaster.“I’m sorry,” Steve said as he let go of Bucky’s ass. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”“Don’t you fucking dare.” Climbing off the bed, Bucky ditched his underwear. “There’s no reason for you to freak out about me taking a piss.”“It’s not that.” Steve shook his head so fast that it made Bucky have to pee twice as bad. “Last night… um, last night when I couldn’t find you, I was just...”“Spit it out, or I’m gonna piss on your balls instead of riding your cock. And watersports aren't really my thing.”“Watersports?”“Steve!”“Fine, when I couldn’t find you, I kept hoping you’d drank too much and gone to the bathroom.”That could be true. Bucky honestly had no idea.“That’s it?” Steve shrugged.And Bucky? He grabbed the end of his dick to stop the dribbles. “I know it’s stupid, but—”“I’m literally pissing in my hand.”That was true. The piss dripping off his fingers confirmed it.“So while you’re getting over your watersports kink, I’m gonna take care of business. And when I come back, you’d better be ready for me to hop on, strap in, and enjoy the ride. Got it?” Grabbing the end of his dick both hands, Bucky hobbled off the bathroom where—He did a double take, just to be sure.Yep, that was Steve’s tie in the toilet. “Definitely don’t remember that,” he said, lifting the tie out of the bowl as he released a waterfall of urine. Did it matter that he got a little piss on it before it cleared the tower? Based on the fact that Steve’s shoes and socks were sitting in a gigantic puddle next to the toilet, he was gonna go with no. Blackouts sure were fun.Piss complete, Bucky walked over to the sinks where—“What the fuck?”Steve’s pocket chain was in pieces in the sink, and a solid three inches were about to go down the drain.Repeat: Steve’s brand-new three-hundred-dollar pocket chain. Whatever. Bucky was horny, his ass was dirty, and he needed to get to work.Grabbing a washcloth, he turned the water on full blast (bye, bye pocket chain), soaped up his junk, lathered up his butthole, and tried to scrub the stain off his face (Yes, in that order. Sue him.). Ever since Tuesday, he’d been thinking a lot about his asshole. Being open for business was a big responsibility, especially since the King of Kink, aka Steve, liked getting up close and personal. The first time they’d done the deed, Bucky’d been too drunk to worry about his dirty butt, but that open-air rimjob had been a different story. No joke, Bucky’s ass should’ve had a sign in the crack that read, “Dirty asshole ahead. You’re welcome to poke it, lick it, and fuck it, as long as you can handle the smell.”When you’re sober, you worry about shit. Literally.Slapping an entire handful of liquid soap onto his taint, Bucky scrubbed and scrubbed until his pubes looked like an unsheared sheep. Then he stuck his finger up there, just to be sure.“Are you coming back?” Good news: Steve sounded more horny than weepy.“Yep, as soon as I take my finger outta my butt.”Steve snorted, which was pretty much the cutest. And Bucky, satisfied with his squeaky clean butthole, skipped past the broken chain so he could be first in line. “Oh, wow,” Bucky said when he saw what was waiting for him. “You’re already lubed up.”Laughing, Steve said, “You told me to be ready.”That was true. He remembered saying it.But seeing Steve flat on his back with his erection pointing straight up was a hell of a lot more intimidating than Bucky’d expected.Steve’s cock looked like a rocket ship. A rocket ship covered in—Bucky squinted at the tube next to Steve’s hand. A rocket ship covered in regular, non-flavored K-Y. His butt cheeks clenched (without his permission), but once you’ve said “go for launch” you’re committed. Like, Houston, we’re full throttle for sexual penetration number two. Repeat: We are a go. And that’s why, after climbing aboard and lining himself up, Bucky said, “Three, two, one…”But the second Bucky felt the tip catch, he stopped. Not because he was sitting on top of 1.7 kilograms of highly combustible rocket fuel. He stopped because Steve was staring at him like he was in love.“Steve, I—”“Don’t worry, baby.” Squeezing Bucky’s hips, Steve held him in place. “I’ve got you.” It was nice that Steve waited. Gentlemanly. And when Bucky started lowering himself, millimeter by millimeter, the only thing that moved was Steve’s mouth. “Oh my God,” he said, his mouth getting wider and wider until Bucky bottomed out. “Oh my fucking God.”Bucky couldn’t agree more because, holy fuck, getting fucked and fucking yourself were two completely different things. He could literally feel Steve’s heartbeat inside his butt, which, if Bucky was being honest, was creepy as fuck. But, on the flip side, it was also the most intimate thing he’d ever felt. More than trading smoke on a fire escape?Yes.More than touching ten fingers that loved jazz?Yes.More intimate than Kurt Cobain sucking Courtney’s dick next to a plastic jack-o’-lantern? Bucky lifted his hips, moaning as he fucked himself on a cloud of lemonless meringue.And when Steve said, “You make me so happy, baby,” Bucky put his hands in the air, riding the roller coaster on an island made just for two.***** The Land of Denial. Steve knew it well, although Bucky's version was decidedly more colorful.Instead of sandy beaches, fruity drinks—and, apparently, the singer from Incubus—Steve always ended up in dark places, mucking around in the tar with nothing but rattling cans of color to keep him from going under completely. Needless to say, cuddling on a sandy beach while dolphins breached the turquoise waves was a welcome change.They were lying face to face in bed, exchanging air as their feet played uncomplicated games. Kissing every so often. Nuzzling noses. Bucky singing a never-ending medley of Incubus songs, all of them about love.Here, Monday seemed far away. Like Alexander’s business trip had taken him to another galaxy instead of Japan. Like the bullshit with the fake plastic crown had taken place in another dimension. Like the shit with Brock—Swallowing, Steve planted a wet kiss on his boyfriend’s forehead, embracing the flamingos’ shrimp-colored feathers instead of the inky-black birds.“So we should probably get dressed or something,” Bucky said, even though his hands were telling a different story. He was playing with Steve’s chest hair like he planned on staying forever. Not that Steve was complaining.Their bags had arrived twenty minutes ago, but even thinking about unzipping them—let alone putting on a pair of pants—made Steve think about the scratches. And thinking about the scratches made Steve think about Brock.Brock, who was really fucking with the Land of Denial. “I guess,” Steve said, rubbing Bucky’s chest hair. "Or, minimally, put on some pants before Tony comes back. He’s probably seen enough of my penis for one day."“Ugh, Stark.” Bucky scrunched up his face. “If that asshole brings his jackhammers within fifty feet of that door, I’m gonna tackle him, pin his arms, and rub my dirty balls all over his face. I’m not fuckin’ around, Steve. It’s gonna be a hardcore tea bag attack with a side of dried come.”Steve laughed. “After that wake up, Tony deserves whatever punishment you feel like dishing out. Teabagging included.”“You sure?” Bucky asked, rubbing his crotch on Steve’s thigh. “‘Cause my balls are kinda your balls now. You know, like in a boyfriend kind of way.”It was easy to smile, to get lost in the cadence of Bucky’s voice as he rambled on and on about what he could and couldn’t do with his balls now that the two of them were dating, and Steve, listening with rapt attention, found himself consumed by love.Something that had once been abstract, floating on the breeze like pheromones, had solidified overnight. This wasn’t the kind of love where Steve would climb a water tower and paint Steve loves Bucky in a rainbow of colors, only to paint over it with a different name in a few week’s time. And it wasn’t the kind of love where you only stick together when things are picture perfect, then change out the picture in the frame when things get hard.It was real. Was it ridiculous that Steve could imagine the two of them chugging cold beers, listening to newest Incubus album, and sweating their asses off in their tiny Brooklyn apartment after their air conditioner had gone on the fritz for the third time in a month? Yes. But it was even more ridiculous that Steve could see himself saying “I love you” before he kissed Bucky’s sweaty forehead and headed off to the art studio to finish the design for a platinum ring. But palm trees and pineapples made it easy to think about the future.Smiling, Steve looked at his beautiful boy, only to realize that he’d stopped talking about teabagging. And not just that. Bucky’s eyes were wide open, like they’d been stuck that way for hours."Um, Buck, are you forgetting to blink?""No, I'm doing it on purpose.""But your eyes are watering.""I don’t care. Staying here with you is more important than the humidity of my eyeballs."Using just his fingertips, Steve closed Bucky’s eyelids. Then he kissed each one, just because he could.“Do you know how beautiful you are?" Steve asked, ignoring the way Bucky’s stubble was poking out of his swollen cheek. "I'm alright. I mean, my jawline’s pretty much goals for every man, woman, and child across America and Russia, and my tight ass is the envy of—""I'm not talking about your butt, dork. Here, sit up.” Gathering all the pillows, Steve started stuffing them behind Bucky’s back. He had an idea, and it required a beautiful young man reclining in a casual pose with a white sheet draped across his chest.“Um... are you, like, trying to have a toga party?” Bucky scrunched up his forehead as Steve tucked the sheet around his waist. “‘Cause we don’t have a keg or a—”“Shh. Can’t you tell when an artist has found his muse?”"Like Muse the band?"Steve chuckled. "Yes, like Muse the band. Now, sit still. I'm turning you into Dionysus." Climbing forward to straddle Bucky's hips, Steve started twisting large sections of his hair into loops, tucking each one between Bucky’s head and the pillows to hold them in place."Like Dinosaurus the dinosaur?" "Exactly," Steve said, smoothing the stray hairs away from Bucky's forehead. "But also like Dionysus, the god of wine and ecstasy. There’s a fifteenth century painting by an artist named Caravaggio, and I swear, Buck, you have the same dark hair, red lips, and rosy-pink cheeks—"Steve cringed.Then he prayed to whatever god was listening—Greek or otherwise—that Bucky hadn't made the connection. Yes, the handprint had faded, but it wasn’t gone. Not by a long shot. "He's also known as Bacchus," Steve said, wishing a can of spray paint would materialize in his hand so he could spray a thin coat of white over the mark. "That's what the painting's called. Bacchus. And it’s uncanny, Buck. Your eyes have the same playful quality as Caravaggio’s muse, except yours are blue instead of brown." Turning the can on himself, Steve sprayed and sprayed and sprayed some more, trying his damndest to paint everything away. "You think I look like a god?" "I do.” Breathing out a sigh of relief, Steve created another loop. “Dionysus the Liberator, freeing me from my cage with madness, ecstasy, and wine."After piling the rest of Bucky’s hair on top of his head, Steve leaned back—as artists do—to contemplate his work, observing the folds of the fabric, studying the play of light and shadow across the planes of Bucky’s chest, and deciding if the balance between positive and negative was pleasing to the eye.It was almost perfect.Scanning the room, Steve’s eyes landed on the vase of gerbera daisies on the nightstand. Jackpot! Pushing up to his knees, Steve leaned forward to grab them, along with his phone.“Dude, your dick's tryin' to get busy in my armpit. How the fuck am I supposed to sit still?”Laughing, Steve gave Bucky's pit a few thrusts. “Don’t worry, babe. I'm just taking a little pit stop.""Oh my god! That was such a dad joke!"“Shh,” Steve said, trying to hide his smile as he broke off the stems, “I take my art very seriously.” Then, after only an inch or two remained, he slipped five flowers into the loops of Bucky’s hair. Yellow. Fuchsia. Red. Pink. Red. Then, to match the painting, Steve folded Bucky’s right hand across his belly and put a pink daisy into his left. And if he moved the sheet to expose more of Bucky's chest than Caravaggio had done with his muse, well, who could blame him?“God, you’re perfect,” Steve said before crawling backward to get just the right angle. “Don’t move, sweetheart, I’m going to take your picture.”“For blackmail material when we break up?""Don't be ridiculous. I'd never do something like that.” Lining up the camera, Steve made sure the light from the windows was catching the edges of the daisies. “Plus, you and me? We’re endgame, so breaking up is out of the question. Okay, now turn your head a little to the left and look at me like you’re trying to seduce me. But subtly. Caravaggio wouldn’t have been able to handle the raw sexuality of your sex stare.”Bucky lowered his lashes—slowly, slowly—before asking, "So, are you, like, secretly an overly artistic porn director? You know, secret graffiti, secret art, secret pornos on the DL.”"Mm-hmm,” Steve said, making one final adjustment to the sheet, “I paint overpasses by night and direct hedonistic gang bangs by day. I’ve gotta pay for college somehow, right?""Not funny, Steve.""C'mon, baby, it's a little funny. And you're fucking gorgeous." Steve blew him a kiss because it was true. Bucky had become a sensual fifteenth century doppelgänger without even trying. It only took one picture to capture the perfect image, but Steve took twenty more as an excuse to get lost in the luminosity of the oils. "Gimme," Bucky said, to which Steve's mind happily replied, “I'll give you everything.”When Bucky dropped the daisy and took the phone, Bacchus’ loops became Steve's beloved bird's nest, doing nothing to diminish the likeness. Flowers or not, Bucky was the embodiment of liberation."You made me look beautiful,” Bucky said, moving the screen closer and closer to his nose until he was practically cross-eyed.“Because you are beautiful, babydoll. When I look at you, that's all I see."“And you're right, Stevie.” The phone was tossed onto the floor. “I do have rosy cheeks."Oh God. Only an idiot would have forgotten about the handprint! A stupid fucking no-good idiot who didn’t—“Fuck, man! I feel like I haven’t eaten in two years!”It was impossible to process how quickly Bucky jumped off the bed, stretched, and rolled his hips in a circle. Three moves in less than three seconds. “No McDonald's french fries. No Anthony's pizza. No ice cream. Not even half a piece of burnt toast!" Steve blinked, then blinked again, because Bucky was doing a full-fledged helicopter, and God, it was difficult to concentrate with his penis swinging around in a circle like that.Picking up the daisies, Steve started lining them up on the comforter in a futile attempt to help himself focus. “Um… I guess…” One daisy, two daisies—Dick!—three daisies, four daisies—Dick!—five daisies—Dick! Dick! Dick! “I guess we could… Jesus, Buck. I guess we could order room service.” "Does room service have bacon?” Jogging over to the windows, Bucky yanked back the curtains. “‘Cause I want, like, thirteen pieces of crispy bacon plus a shitton of eggiwegs."Steve gave up on the flowers."A couple weeks ago, me and Clint whipped up a batch of eggiwegs after we went to see the meerkats, and I added too much pepper—like, way, way, way too much—and they turned this gross gray color.” Spinning around, Bucky picked up an Art Deco lamp off the desk. “And eggiwegs, in case you aren’t aware, are supposed to be yellow, like they’re fresh from the hen house." Even though Bucky’s dick was getting hard from all the swinging and slapping, Steve managed to control his hormones long enough to ask, “What the hell are eggiwegs?”Putting the lamp down on the opposite end of the desk, Bucky grabbed a magazine off the coffee table. "Please tell me you’re kidding,” he said, flipping through the top ten things to do on a weekend trip to New York. “A Lit geek like you has to have seen A Clockwork Orange ”—Bucky dropped the magazine onto the couch—“or at least read the fuckin' book." Yes, Steve had heard of it. And, yes, he knew the basic premise. But living in a dystopian nightmare on a day-to-day basis, he tended to avoid the entire genre when he visited the library. “Um... I haven’t.” "That's straight-up nuts.” Bucky picked up the glass vase along with the rest of the daisies. “Seriously, it’s one of my all-time favorites—the movie, not the book, ‘cause fuck reading.” Bucky tipped it upside down, spilled water all over his legs, and quickly set it back down. “Fuck! I didn’t know these were real!” Bucky started hopping around in a very wet, very naked circle. “Look, Stevie, I watered my legs.” Bucky picked up a pillow, wiped off his legs, and put it back down. “Yo, jock boy! Are you even listenin’ to me?""Yeah, Buck, I am, but—""Good!" Leaping onto the bed, Bucky jumped up and down, making the daisies bounce like there was an earthquake. “‘Cause I'm fuckin’ starving, and these eggiwegs aren’t gonna make themselves." Dropping to his knees, Bucky grabbed the vase again, but instead of putting it back down, he flipped it, caught it, and pointed it at Steve’s face. “So, in the movie, the main guy—Alex—wears these uber long fake eyelashes on one eye, and Clint and I had this fan-fuckin’-tastic idea to try and replicate it with Elmer’s Glue and a feather.”The vase was tossed from hand to hand, faster and faster, until Steve was sure he was going to drop it. "I almost got turned into a one-eyed pirate. Argh! ” Flip. Throw. Catch. Repeat. “Anyways, the government uses these creepy-ass eye clips to hold Alex’s eyelids open while they brainwash him to be less of a deviant prick. No more eyelashes. No more codpieces. No more Droogs.” Flip. Throw. Catch. Repeat."But the whole brainwashing thing only worked for, like, three and half minutes 'cause once a rapist always a—" Bucky dropped the vase. When it hit the mattress, the vase bounced once before rolling toward the edge, and, on instinct, Steve dove to catch it. It was a miracle that he got his fingers around it before it crashed to the floor, but as soon as Steve saw the expression on Bucky’s face—Steve swallowed, letting the meaningless trinket drop with a thud.Every ounce of Bucky’s effervescence had shattered into a million pieces, and Steve, at the bottom of the pit, realized that he’d dove for the wrong thing. "What's wrong?" Steve gathered Bucky into his arms as quickly as he could. "Tell me."Bucky's bottom lip was quivering. "I changed my mind,” he said, his teeth chattering like the temperature had dropped fifty degrees."About going to Tony's? That's fine.” Squeezing Bucky against his chest, Steve blew warm air across his neck, trying to do something—anything—to keep him warm. “We’ll stay here. I’ll get the room for another night, and we’ll listen to Incubus on Spotify and cuddle for—""No," Bucky said, backing up a foot before he grabbed Steve's wrists. "I changed my mind about the eggs. I want pancakes. And when you order them, tell the chef I want extra powdered sugar."Lifting Steve's arms, Bucky shook them a little.Then he put them back down.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Well, this was a new record. Normally, when Clint ‘loitered’ in front of an upscale building like the Four Seasons, the doorman—or if he’d put his mohawk up, security—would show up and tell him to move along. Punk, in these parts, meant poor, and poor meant that Clint was a runaway, a drug addict, a criminal, or all of the above. Regardless, his aesthetic was bad for business.But not today. Today Clint had been out here for twenty minutes, ‘loitering’ his ass off, and nobody had said a damn thing.Leaning back against the building, Clint snapped his suspenders, trying to decide on a scale from one to ten how annoying it was that being part of Tony’s crew negated the need for security.It was a whole new world. One where the doorman had actually smiled when Clint and Nat had walked past in Tony’s wake, going so far as to hold open the door and tip his hat like they’d strolled into a black-and-white Jimmy Stewart movie from 1946. And every time one of the valets returned with an Audi R8, BMW, or—fucking hell—a vintage Corvette Stingray, they’d nod at Clint like he was wearing a black pinstripe suit instead of a ratty Violent Femmes shirt, tight, black jeans, and eight-eye, oxblood Docs.When Sam wandered over and leaned against the wall in his white polo and white-and-gray Air Jordans, Clint said, “I’m gonna go with a solid seven.” “What’s a solid seven?” he asked, mimicking Clint’s pose. “Your hangover?” Of all the people Clint was supposed to be bonding with, Sam was by far the least annoying. Even if his shoes looked straight out of the box.“No, the bullshit level,” Clint said, running his hand over the braids Nat had put in after breakfast. “It’s a solid seven out of ten.” “Oh yeah? And why is that?”“Mo money, mo problems?” Clint rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I don’t think so. Yesterday I barely had the cash to cover Nat’s corsage, and today there’s a man putting my piece-of-shit backpack into the trunk of a limousine.”“That’s Mitch,” Sam said, like giving Tony’s personal driver a name would drop the needle on the bullshit meter. “He’s been working for the Starks since Tony was a little kid.”“Is that so?” Rubbing his forehead, Clint went over the long list of people who’d ‘worked’ for him as a kid. There was Jemme the babysitter, who had bribed Clint with Starburst—and later weed—to keep his mouth shut about all the sleazy high school guys she’d invite over to party after his mom had left. Larry the neighbor, who would check on Clint every couple of hours after Jemme had gotten fired for giving Clint his first pot brownie. And Lucky the dog, who had taken over babysitting duties when Clint had finally been old enough to cook his own damn casseroles. “Well,” Clint said, watching Mitch load Tony’s brown leather suitcases, “now he’s in charge of a backpack that’s being held together by nothing but safety pins and a prayer. Not to mention the quarter ounce of Kush in the inside pocket.”Laughing, Sam said, “I’m sure Tony’s got a hell of a lot more than weed in his suitcase.”“Yeah, and I bet he’s not constantly looking over his shoulder to see if a cop’s pulling out the handcuffs.” Clint scoffed. “Mo money, mo problems, my ass.”Sam crossed his arms across his chest. And when he said, “C’mon, man, Biggie didn’t get shot over a dime bag,” Clint became painfully aware of the size of Sam’s biceps. They looked like oak trees.With arms like those, it didn’t matter how many tricks Clint had up his sleeve. If Sam decided to take a swing, it was gonna take more than a double-leg takedown to get the upper hand. And that was more than Clint wanted to deal with on this lovely Saturday afternoon in front of the Four Seasons Hotel.“Think about it,” Sam said, sounding more like a history professor at a liberal arts college than a guy who wanted to kick Clint’s ass. “What’s worth more to a record company? A dead rapper with a legacy or a live one with a limited shelf life?”Clint didn’t answer. One, because he’d never thought about it like that, and, two, because when a Black man schools you on the Notorious B.I.G., you shut your mouth and listen.“All I’m saying is that money doesn’t always make a difference.” Sam nodded toward Tony, who’d somehow acquired a mixed drink, complete with ice and a lime. “It’s just a different set of problems. And sometimes money makes those problems harder to fix.”A teenage alcoholic with an unlimited back account. An abuse victim with nowhere to go. A rapper who’d survived dealing crack in Brooklyn, only to be murdered in cold blood on the Vegas strip.Digging his Zippo out of his front pocket, Clint flicked it open, thinking about everything and nothing at all.After a while, Sam said, “I’m surprised Natasha didn’t wait for Steve and Bucky to come down. I would’ve thought she’d want to check up on her brother.”Clint snapped the lighter shut.Not only had Nat texted Bucky at least fifty times last night, she’d texted fifty more the second they’d woken up. And she’d kept texting: during breakfast, while they’d been drying off from the shower, as she’d braided Clint’s hair, after they’d gotten dressed. And when that hadn’t worked, she’d resorted to calling Steve’s phone. Bucky hadn’t responded to any of it. And Steve? He’d sent Nat’s calls straight to voicemail. The only reason Nat hadn’t put on her shoes and gone straight to Bucky’s room was because Tony had beaten her to it.Tony, who was… feeding Scott cherries?But Clint didn’t want to get into any of that with Sam, which was why he said, “Yeah, well, Tony said he was fine, so—”“So she just took off?”“No.” Touching the end of his braid, Clint rubbed the purple hair tie that Nat had brought to match his hair. “She has a rehearsal in Harlem at two."Clint could tell Sam about the showcase Nat had coming up—for casting agents and college recruiters—but that would only draw attention to the fact that Nat, unlike Clint, knew exactly what she wanted to do with her life.Olympic archer? Modern-day Robin Hood? An extra in the inevitable Lord of the Rings spin-offs? A movie director who could do his own stunts?All of them were equally implausible, which was why Clint flicked open the lighter, struck the wheel, and didn’t say a damn thing. After a painfully long pause, Sam said, “You two make a good couple,” which was exactly where Clint didn’t want him to go. “She’s a really cool girl.”Looking down the block to where her taxi had disappeared, Clint wished that she’d come back. Or, better yet, that she’d never left at all. “Yeah, she’s the coolest,” he said, unrolling the cigarette box from his sleeve and shaking out the joint he’d rolled on Nat’s back this morning, just above the curve of her ass. Then he closed his eyes, remembering how she’d licked the edge of the paper for him, even though she didn’t smoke. “Coolest girl I’ve ever met.”And he meant it. Last night had been one of the best nights of his entire life. The way she’d kissed him. The way she'd taken off his shirt but left the suspenders, snapping them against his piercings before she’d unhooked her bra. The way she'd held the back of his neck, never breaking eye contact as he’d slipped inside her. The way she’d held him afterward, kissing his chest until he’d fallen asleep.Flicking the lighter, Clint fired up the end."So you're just gonna smoke that right here?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "Out in the open, like it's no big deal?"Clint shrugged. "I'm testing a theory," he said, blowing smoke at a passing valet. "If these people think I’m rich, I’m betting they’ll turn a blind eye to pretty much anything. Even me lighting up in front of their five-star hotel."Out of nowhere, Tony yelled, “Of course they will!” and snatched the joint out of Clint’s hand. Then, leaning against the wall on the other side of Clint, he said, “They think you’re a rock star.” It was hard not to scowl when Tony took an exceptionally long drag. And it was even harder when he blew smoke across Clint’s hearing aid. But the last straw was when he said, "I dig your eyeliner, Dee Dee. It really adds to the whole Lou Reed/Billie Joe Armstrong thing you’ve got going on,” and took a sip of his drink. “Did Bucky’s sister do that for you after you pounded her poontang?" Sam rubbed his forehead. And Tony, because he was a real-life asshole, took a second hit."C’mon, Sid. Turn that frown upside down. I know you’re missing your girl—” Tony coughed. “—and your boy, but we’ve got an entire weekend of queer-friendly debauchery to look forward to. By the way, this thing you’ve got going with the Barnes siblings? It’s very Cruel Intentions and—”“Tony!” Reaching across Clint’s chest, Professor Wilson demoted himself and slapped Tony’s arm like a preschool teacher. Then he took the joint because, sure, why not?"What?” Tony rattled his ice cubes before taking another drink. “Dee Dee knows he crossed the line. He may look like a weed-smoking degenerate who spends every summer in summer school with Spicoli, but there’s a brain beneath those braids.” He rattled them again. “Just look at that face, Sam-I-Am. Even his eyebrow piercing looks guilty.”Clint should walk away. Grab his joint, dig his piece-of-shit backpack out of the trunk, and use his last twenty bucks to go the fuck home.But he couldn’t. At least not until he’d seen Bucky with his own two eyes. “Plus, Dee Dee’s a movie guy like me and Bucky-Boo.” Tony was close enough that the sleeve of his butt-ugly t-shirt was touching Clint’s tricep. “A real cinephile. So I’m sure he’s busted out the olive oil and choked his chicken to Gladiator. And I’m not talking about Russell Crowe in an armor-plated loincloth. No sir. I’m talking about whacking his wang to Joaquin Phoenix fucking his sister.” If Bucky had responded to just one of Nat’s texts, Clint would already be halfway to Brooklyn.“Or if Roman emperors with daddy issues aren’t your thing, you’ve always got Flowers in the Attic, where captive siblings fuck in—you guessed it—the attic. Or, parlez-vous français, The Dreamers, where French fraternal twins—one with a big-bushed poontang and one big-bushed peentang—fuck Michael Pitt in a tent. Or if you’re looking for a dash of Luke and Leia with your incest, you’ve always got Star Wars.” If Clint hadn’t promised to text Nat the second he knew Bucky was okay, he’d call his dealer for an advance, flip two ounces before dinner, and take Nat to see Split.After downing the rest of his drink, Tony set the glass between Clint’s boots and motioned for Sam to hand him the joint. “No way, man,” Sam said, holding it above his head. “Not acting like that, you don’t.” If Bucky had just said no to the swim team, to this weekend, to Steve, then Clint wouldn’t be standing here, taking shit from Tony Stark while Sam Wilson played the part of unlikely ally.“Pfft, like I don’t have my own stash.” Tony rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying that my new eyeliner-loving sort-of friend has seen all the cautionary tales—including Crimson Peak—so despite my twisted sexual appetite thinking this whole incestuous love triangle is both torrid and titillating, Dee Dee here should know better.”"Know better about what?" When Scott fell into line next to Sam, Clint didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or text Nat and say that, Bucky or no Bucky, he was getting into a fucking cab.“About getting attached to a girl too soon,” Sam said, passing the joint to Scott. “Clint’s got it bad for Natasha.”The unlikely ally had struck again. Was it weird having someone like Sam Wilson in his back pocket? Fuck yeah, it was. But at this point, Clint would take whatever help he could get.Scott hit Clint’s quickly disappearing joint before he said, “Duh, Natasha’s hot. Like, her legs are hot. Her butt’s hot. And her hair”—Scott was talking twice as fast as Tony’s high-speed ramblings, which was a real accomplishment—“her hair’s like— Fuck, bro, this is some good shit! It’s like a fireball at Burning Man. Glowing red like hot sauce. Or cinnamon!"Snatching the joint out of Scott’s mouth, Clint said, “I’m going to Starbucks for a cake pop,” so he didn’t grab Scott’s neck and put him into a chokehold.This weekend was supposed to be fun. Partying on Tony Stark’s dime. Getting into a twenty-one-and-over club without Bucky batting his eyelashes at the girl or guy in the ticket booth. Eating something besides taco casserole, tuna noodle casserole, or—Clint’s specialty—ham and Swiss casserole with tater tot topping. Getting to know Bucky’s beefcake boyfriend. Jogging past the valets with the joint hanging out of his mouth, Clint hopped off the curb. Was it the best idea to jaywalk through the bumper to bumper traffic on East Fifty-Seventh? No. But Clint was willing to risk a broken leg—or a shattered pelvis—to get away from Steve Rogers’ friends. “Fucking cake pops,” Clint said as he squeezed between an Audi and a Lexus, because truth was he hated the things. They were nothing but mushy, overpriced balls of sugar that were less satisfying than a five-dollar donut hole. But Bucky—Clint stopped between lanes to take a drag.Bucky liked the chocolate ones with chocolate sprinkles. The last time he’d sweet-talked his dad into buying him one, Bucky had chomped it off the stick, opened his mouth, and said, “Look, Dad, I’m a dung beetle eatin’ a hand-rolled turd.”When Clint crossed behind a taxi, he was this close to opening the door, pushing an innocent woman and child out of the back seat, and telling the cabbie to take him to Harlem.Because that’s where his girlfriend was. His girlfriend who loved strawberry cake pops with pink frosting.The light turned green as Clint stepped into the final lane, and a himbo in a Honda had the nerve to honk.Clint slapped the guy’s hood because he wasn’t going to let some muscle-bound asshole tell him what to do. Then he planted his feet in front of the guy’s bumper to block the road.Bucky liked Frappuccinos with extra whip. Mocha. Vanilla Bean. Caramel. The flavor didn’t matter as long as the whip cream was oozing out of the hole in the lid.Nat hated Frappuccinos. Too sweet. Too many calories. She liked those disgusting Pink Drinks with the freeze-dried strawberries and coconut milk. When the himbo honked a second time, Clint flipped him off and said, “Go fuck yourself.” But when the asshole started revving his engine, Clint suddenly saw himself in a hospital bed with a broken leg and a shattered pelvis, a foot-long catheter, and no way to escape when Bucky and Steve showed up with an entire bouquet of fucking cake pops.Clint jogged across the final lane.And then, because karma was a bitch, he tripped on the curb and fell face-first into an overflowing garbage can.New York City trash was a special kind of awful, even on East Fifty-Seventh Street. It smelled bad in January when everything was frozen, and it was unbearable when it was hot. So it was only fitting that Clint, who was picturing how red Bucky’s lips got when he sucked down a Frappuccino, wiped pizza grease off his mouth with his sleeve, or sucked Clint’s—“No. No, no, no, no, no.” Taking his place with the flies, Clint finished off what was left of his joint.He should be thinking about pink. Pink Drinks. Pink cake pops. Nat’s pink lipstick when she’d wrapped her mouth around her McDonald’s straw. Her pink lips when she’d lifted her hips to let Clint taste— “Fuck this,” he said, putting the joint out on the side of the garbage can. “No, fuck you.”When Clint looked up, there was a Wall Street type—who just so happened to be holding a coffee from, you guessed it, Starbucks—scowling at him. No shocker there. Without Stark’s bank account to power the financial force field, there was nothing to stop Clint’s life from returning to the status quo. And the status quo meant dealing with assholes whose sole purpose in life was to drink expensive coffee and harass teenagers on their way to their sky-high corner offices.But Clint had bigger problems. Like the fact that there wasn’t a Starbucks in sight. Every other street in Manhattan had one on every corner. Sometimes two on one block. But not this one. And it wasn’t like Clint was gonna ask the motherfucker with the briefcase.Pulling out his phone, Clint looked for a message that wasn’t there. Then he tapped Nat’s name, typing miss u already before erasing it twice as fast.
Last night was amazing.
Erased.
Can't wait 2 kiss u again.
Erased.
Ur hair is like cinnamon.
This was useless. He didn’t even have the cash to buy a cake pop—let alone a Frappuccino—because if he bought one for Bucky, he’d have to buy one for Steve too. "Cool hair."A woman breezed past him in a flowered dress. A woman who just so happened to have long, red hair with loose curls.Karma? More like a cosmic kick in the ass.Clint opened his mouth to say thank you, but the woman was already halfway across the street. Just like Nat had to be halfway to Harlem.“I’m an idiot,” he said because, whatever excuse he wanted to throw at the situation, it was true. Nat was the coolest. Like how she’d taught Daisy, Skinner, Lola, and Scott how to waltz after Bucky had run off to get laid. Or how she’d talked Ezra into giving them one of the suite’s bedrooms with nothing more than a whisper and a smile. Or how she’d braided Clint’s hair wearing nothing but his dress shirt, the softest parts of her body touching his shoulder blades as she’d put in three distinct rows. This, of course, had been purely strategic on her part. Three braids meant she’d been able to rub her boobs on his back three times as long. She was smart like that.Clint closed his eyes. She was wonderful like that.Suddenly his phone vibrated, and it was… Tony?
Hey, creep! It’s me, ur bi-curious party planner! Look up!
Tony popped out of the limo’s sunroof and waved his arms around like Ferris Bueller on speed. Then he held up his phone, making half-a-dozen gestures to show that he was the one texting.And once the dings started, they never really stopped.
BTW, I'm a fan of polyamory.
If u subtract 50% of the Russians, that is.
Incest = bad. Polyamory with 1 Russian + 1 golden retriever = good.
Oh, and ur boy's on the way down.
Maybe he’s got a ‘cake pop’ for u.
U know, Steve-o’s a generous guy.
When there’s 1 cookie left, he always shares.
U look stupid standing over there by urself.
When Clint looked up, Tony was sitting cross-legged on top of the limo. And Clint laughed because— Because it was hilarious.
Now u look even stupider. Laughing at ur phone like that.
U coming back or what?
I promise I’ll stop bogarting your weed.
Shh, that was a lie. Hurry up, it’s time 2 get this meat wagon on the road.
This time, Clint used the crosswalk. He could do this. All he had to do was keep his head on straight, focus on the things he should be focusing on, and try to have a good time. And he was almost there as he walked past the valet booth. Fuck, he even returned the doorman’s smile. But then it all came crashing down. Charging out of the revolving doors, Bucky yelled, “What’s up, bitches?” before tossing his backpack in Sam’s general direction. It hit the side of a Mercedes.And that would’ve been fine—funny even—if Steve hadn’t stumbled through five seconds later, sweaty and out of breath like the two of them had been playing a high-stakes game of tag.Seriously, had they run down the fucking stairs?"Clint!" Bucky was on him in a second, hugging his waist and lifting him off the ground. "I fuckin’ missed you, bro!"Tony snorted.And since he was still sitting on top of the limo, that shit carried. Kicking at Bucky’s ankles, Clint said, "Yeah, we missed you too—heavy on the we—but I guess bailing on your friends to get laid is a valid excuse." The words had felt heavy on his tongue. Wrong. But that didn’t stop Clint from saying, “Especially since the only reason Nat and I came here was to hang out with you.”Bucky dropped him. And that was fine. At least until Clint saw his face.Not only had Bucky run out of a five-star hotel wearing a microscopic Duran Duran t-shirt, his green Chucks from sophomore year, and his ratty pajama pants with the sombrero-wearing llamas, but there was an enormous red mark on his cheek.“What the fuck?” Clint reached out to grab Bucky’s arm, but he was too slow. Bucky ran behind Scott, yelled, “Stevie got me pancakes!” and pivoted around Sam in one smooth move. It was some Jason Bourne-level shit, and Clint wasn’t having it.“Get over here!”“Make me.” Bucky dove headfirst into the limo, and Clint—Clint dove headfirst into The Twilight Zone.Tony had disappeared, leaving what looked like a Long Island iced tea on the roof of the limo. Scott was talking to one of the valets like they’d been friends for years, laughing, joking, and completely ignoring the fact that Bucky—and his fucking llamas—had just run a play like Tom Brady in the Super Bowl. And Sam, Clint’s supposed tag-team ally, was getting into the limo like he hadn’t seen the bright-red mark on Bucky’s cheek.But Steve? Steve was the worst.That fucker was passing out twenty-dollar bills like candy. The doorman? He got a twenty. The valets? Every single one of them got a twenty, even though they hadn't done shit. The guy rolling the luggage around on a gigantic cart? He got a crisp twenty and a solid handshake. It was bullshit. And not just because Clint couldn’t afford a cake pop. Clint wasn’t some big-time weed dealer—he only pushed enough product to make ends meet—but he’d been a part of enough shady shit to know when somebody was paying people off. Swear to god, if Steve had hit Bucky, he’d—Clint clenched his fists. The second Steve shoved his overflowing wallet into the back pocket of his jeans, Clint blocked his path. And when Clint asked, “What the fuck happened?” he wasn’t nice about it.Steve could hand out all the twenties he wanted—fuck, he could fill Clint’s backpack with hundred-dollar bills—but Clint would never look the other way when it came to Bucky. Never. But Steve didn’t look at him. He just smoothed out his burgundy Henley like a few wrinkles were his biggest concern, clenched his jaw, and stared up at the face of the building like he was about to pledge allegiance to the fucking flags. “I asked you a question,” Clint said, plotting out all the ways he could pin Steve to the sidewalk. “And I’m getting answers, one way or another.”But instead of the amped-up himbo response Clint had been expecting, Steve said, “He doesn’t want to talk about it,” and brushed past Clint like he was going on a nice Saturday afternoon stroll.And that shit wasn’t gonna fly.It didn’t matter that Steve had a good thirty pounds on him or that the doorman—crisp twenty or not—was seconds away from calling security, Clint grabbed Steve’s arm and spun him around until they were chest to chest.“Who hit him?”If Sam’s arms were like oak trees, Steve’s were like fucking redwoods, and when he jerked his arm out of Clint’s grasp, Clint felt it in his spine. “I said he doesn’t want to talk about it!”“Was it you?”Steve cringed, and when he did, Clint cringed with him. And it wasn’t because Clint was afraid. It was because he’d made that expression himself, more times than he could count.“You know exactly who hit him,” Steve said, pushing Clint’s shoulder hard enough to hurt. “So back the fuck off.” A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, and the genial nods had turned into something more familiar. Fear.Clint had assumed that Bucky'd enjoyed a perfect night of his very own. That Steve had made love to him and kissed him like he deserved. Like Clint had kissed Nat. He’d assumed wrong.“C’mon, Siouxsie!" Tony was back to sticking his head out of the sunroof and sipping on his fucking drink. “Stop cockfighting with Steve-o and the cherubs, pick up your bow, and get your cupid-loving ass into my limousine before I leave you in the gutter with the Banshees.”If it weren’t for Bucky, Clint wouldn't get anywhere near that car. He wouldn’t get anywhere near Tony Stark, Tony Stark’s full-service limousine bar, or Tony Stark’s money. And if it wouldn’t land Clint in jail, he'd sweep the beefcake’s leg, grab Bucky, and hightail it back to Brooklyn. They could go to Bucky's house. Get an ice pack. See what Nat was up to."Time's a-ticking, Dee Dee, and your boy's passing out gum." Tony disappeared for a second before popping right back up. "It's watermelon Bubble Yum, and, I quote, ‘If Clint’s not here in 3.2 seconds, I’m givin’ his piece to Stevie,’ which, to be honest, I thought he already had."One punch and they could go home.Except for the fact that Steve had used the diversion to walk around to the other side of the limo. Fucking hell.Clint looked up at the sky, wishing that the sun would move out of the shadow of the buildings so he could have another go at burning his corneas. Day one, he’d told Bucky this was a bad idea. Day fucking one!Against his better judgment, Clint grabbed Bucky’s backpack, waved at the crowd, and climbed into Stark’s limousine, and—It was a clusterfuck.Not only did Clint have to squeeze his ‘cupid-loving ass’ between Sam and Scott, he had to sit directly across from Bucky and Steve.Cupid? Yeah right. Cupid didn’t shoot arrows into testicles, which was exactly what Clint was in the mood to do. The door was shut—by Mitch, no doubt—and Tony, tossing a beer at Sam, said, “Let’s get this sausage party on the road, boys.”And Clint? He wanted to jump out of the sunroof and never look back. But Bucky…Clint rubbed his temples.Bucky was squished up against Steve, chomping on at least three pieces of gum as he counted the llamas on his pants. “Ten, eleven, twelve,” Bucky said, blowing a bubble. And it got bigger and bigger until it popped all over his face. “Pop! Fuck, where was I? Seven?”Pointing at a llama on Bucky’s knee, Steve said, “I think you were on twelve, but... Baby, let’s just—”“OMG, Stevie.” Bucky blew another bubble, then blew a bubble inside the bubble. “Stop making me lose count. One, two, three…”Without a doubt, Clint still wanted to punch a hole through Steve’s balls, but this was bad. The last time Bucky was this upset was—“...twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight…”Fuck. It was five months ago. And for that, Clint should put a hole through his own sack. The second the limo pulled into traffic, Bucky said, “You’ve gotta count the ones on my ass, Stevie,” and flung himself facedown across Steve’s lap. “There are forty-seven llamas on my pañtolonés, not counting los booty, so you’ve gotta add it up.” Bucky turned toward Clint. “Get it, dickface? ‘Cause of your shirt. The Femmes. ‘Add It Up.’”When Bucky started singing, Clint said, “Bucky, stop,” even though he knew he shouldn’t.“Add it up… forty-nine… add it up… forty-eight…”“I’ll have some of what he’s having,” Scott said with a mouth full of banana, which, really? Where the fuck had that come from? “Did TJ hook you guys up with the good stuff, ‘cause this one time, he gave me acid that, like, changed my entire perception of reality. Not that you guys care about my...um—”“Nope. Stevie got me pancakes with lots and lots of powdered sugar.” Bucky popped a bubble millimeters from Steve’s knee. “Not that I was hungry after gobblin’ up all those eggiwegs. Fifty one… add it up… fifty-two… add it up…”Everything about the situation sucked, but Bucky singing “Add It Up” made it ten times worse. It wasn’t just Clint’s favorite Violent Femmes song, it was Bucky’s too, and they’d played it in Clint’s bedroom more times than he could count. Bucky would take his time singing the acapella part, stretching out the notes until Clint finally hit his distortion pedal and came in on guitar. Then they’d speed up the tempo, little by little, until Bucky inevitably took his shirt off for the big, dramatic ending. Well, not anymore.Shoving the suspenders off his shoulders, Clint took off his shirt, flipped it inside out, and put it back on. “There,” he said, irritated by something that had never irritated him before. “Happy? Now knock it off.”"I didn't know your nipples were pierced." Tony tried to hand Clint a beer. “Now I’m not only bi-curious, I’m pierced-nipple curious. Seriously, Katniss, can I touch them?”Clint didn't care.If this had happened two weeks ago, he would've tackled Bucky, shoved some pizza into his mouth, and made him play Mario Kart until he’d chilled the fuck out. That's what worked: tackling, food, distraction. But this wasn't two weeks ago, and Clint couldn't exactly jump on top of Bucky when he was sprawled out on Steve Rogers' lap."Count 'em, Stevie,” Bucky said, wiggling his ass. “I don't have all day."Clint scoffed.“I see seven Mexican llamas on your ass,” Stevie said, playing Bucky’s game because he didn’t know about the tackling. Because he didn’t know about the food.If this had happened two weeks ago, Clint would’ve climbed up to the Sanctuary, lined up a shot from the chimney, and taken out all four of Steve Rogers’ tires. Maybe on Monday, he still would. “How do you know they’re Mexican?" Bucky asked, sitting up and popping a bubble against Steve's cheek. It got stuck there for a second, goopy and pink, until Bucky slurped it back into his mouth. "They could be Swedish llamas on a Nacho Libre vacation. You know, hangin’ out, wearin’ sombreros from a roadside sombrero stand. Jugar de somburritos!" The next bubble got stuck in Steve's hair. "You shouldn't assume llamas' nationalities, Stevie. It’s not politically correct.”If this had happened two weeks ago, Clint would've held out his hand and told Bucky to spit out the gum. But this wasn’t two weeks ago, and they weren’t chowing down on Anthony’s pizza, slamming Monsters, and dying the tips of Clint’s hair. Which was why Clint said something as stupid as, “Yeah, and we all know that Stevie wouldn’t want to offend anyone, especially his boyfriend.”Bucky stopped. He stopped smacking his gum. He stopped bouncing his legs. And he stopped counting the fucking llamas. He just stared at Clint, flexing the muscles in his cheekbones like they were the only two people in the car.If this had happened two weeks ago, Clint never would've let it get this far.“Buck?” Steve reached down to touch Bucky’s thigh, offering soothing, boyfriendly concern, but it was too late. And Clint was okay with that.The instant Steve's fingers made contact, Bucky kicked out his foot and blasted Clint's shin as hard as he could. And the pain—Clint had expected Bucky to scream at him, punch the seat, or rip the banana out of Scott’s hand and throw it at Clint’s forehead. But he’d never in a million years expected Bucky to try and break his fucking leg.Sam said, “Holy shit,” at the same time as Steve yelled, “Bucky, no!” but Clint didn’t give a fuck about anyone else. He just didn’t!“You dick!” Clint swore he could feel blood trickling down his shin, but maybe that was just the unbearable pain fucking with his head. “Why the fuck did you do that?”Leaning back like nothing happened, Bucky said, “So…” as he crossed his shoe across his llama-covered knee, “did you fuck my sister last night?”"Oh, man.""That’s right, Ruby. Let him have it!""Hey, guys, um… maybe we should, like… take a few deep breaths.""Buck, don't."It didn’t matter who’d said what. It all meant the same thing. Everybody in this prison on wheels thought that Clint deserved to be kicked. That he deserved to have blood pooling around the top of his sock.And that was bullshit.“Are you for real with me right now?” Clint leaned forward, and when he did, Steve put his arm across Bucky’s chest. Steve might be an idiot, but he was a fast learner.Popping another bubble, Bucky smiled. And when he started snapping his gum, it didn’t sound anything like before. It was slow, deliberate, and mean. And regardless of what he’d done with Nat, Clint didn’t deserve that. He just didn’t.“You know what? Fuck you.” Clint slapped the toe of Bucky’s ridiculously small shoe. “You wanna sit there with your boyfriend—who’s totally useless, by the way—snapping your gum, counting your fucking llamas, and pretending your face isn’t fucked up? Well, you go right ahead, Buck, because trying to distract me from your shitshow by freaking out about me and Nat is bullshit. And you know it!”“Uh, guys.” Tony was waving three bottles of beer around like liver failure was the solution to every problem. “No fighting in the limo.”Steve’s forearm muscles were struggling to keep Bucky—and his fifty-seven llamas—restrained, his veins bulging like he was benching two-hundred pounds, which, for all intents and purposes, he was. But no matter how strong Steve was, he couldn’t stop Bucky from blowing another bubble and twisting a knife made purely of Bubble Yum.
Pop!
Bouncing backward, Bucky laughed. “God, you guys are gullible. I’m just fucking around.” And Steve, because he was gullible, relaxed his grip. “I’m absolutely thrilled that Clint stuck his dick in my sister.”When Bucky lunged at Clint, there were screams, shouts, and a general sense of terror, but all Bucky did was push Scott out of the way and squeeze in next to Clint."Nothing to see here," Bucky said, wrapping his hand around one of Clint’s suspenders. "Show's over. Me and my broke-ass bestie are about to make up, good as new."Muttering under his breath, Sam said, "I'll believe it when I see it," which was totally justified. Friends usually waited until the blood had dried to call a truce, even when they're blood brothers.Bucky kissed Clint’s cheek, soft and sweet like it was a Saturday afternoon about five months back. But then he whispered, "Make up, not out," just loud enough for Clint’s hearing aid to catch it. It was shitty. Pure and simple. But not as shitty as when Bucky blew air across the microphone, knowing damn well that it would make it feedback. Clint winced, and Steve's eyes got huge. But Bucky’s beefcake boyfriend didn't move. None of them did. Not even Sam.“I'm not fucking around when I say that you’d better treat her right,” Bucky said, twisting the suspender until it pinched the skin around Clint’s waist. “She’s my sister and breaking her heart isn’t an option.”There it was. Get rid of the llamas. Get rid of the gum. Get rid of Brock, Steve, and the rest of the circus and all you had left was the cold, hard truth. And the truth was worse than anything. When Bucky returned to Steve, he took his time intertwining their fingers, carefully lining up his rings with Steve’s knuckles. And when he asked, "Is there a garbage bag in here or something?” he looked at everybody but Clint. “I need to spit out my gum.”***** Angry kittens. Happy kittens. Smooching kittens. Tony rolled his eyes because it was hard to keep up. But, hey, three cheers for new adventures and new disasters. At least this weekend wouldn’t be boring.Tony fumbled with the key to the apartment because holding his extra large Orange C Smoothie with extra vitamin C for the manhunt, his Mike’s Hard Lemonade—to make sure he stayed hard after the manhunt—and the key was a challenge, even for a multitalented brainiac like him. “A little help,” Tony said, dropping the key because there was no way he was dropping the alcohol. But nobody came to the rescue. Scotty-Poo was too busy laughing at memes of cats with bread on their heads. Sammy was too busy looking over Scotty-Poo’s shoulder and pretending not to laugh at memes of cats with bread on their head. Sid was too busy sulking at the end of the hallway like a freshly neutered kitten with a cone on his head instead of bread. And Steve-o and Bucky-Boo were too busy licking each other’s whiskers off with their sandpaper tongues.Oh, Steve-o. Bless his newly gay and always idiotic heart. Much like Tony’s first experience with nipple clamps and electricity, that big kitten had bit off more than he could chew. Samuel L. Jackson knew it. Sid Vicious knew it. Scotty-Poo had no idea because cat bread memes were the center of his universe. And Tony, fresh off a side trip to Walgreens to buy some band-aids for Sid’s Nancy-induced boo-boo, knew it too.“Yo, Sid,” Tony said before sucking down an exorbitant amount of vitamin C. “You’re not doing anything in that cone, so hobble over here and unlock the door to our weekend playground.”Now, when Tony had said that Dee Dee wasn’t doing anything, he may or may not have been exaggerating.Dee Dee was looking out of the window at the end of the hall, having some sort of poor kid panic attack about the unobstructed view of the Freedom Tower, the unobstructed view of the Statue of Liberty, or the unobstructed view of Bucky-Boo sucking on his smoothie straw like he was pleasuring an extra long, extra skinny wang chung.And maybe that’s why Sid ditched his cone, ran down the hall, and said, “Move,” before he scooped up the key. The poor guy needed a change of scenery. And when the door swung open, what a glorious change it was.Good old Howard. Business s’misness. What Maria didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Like how the ‘conference room’ had a pool table, foosball table, poker table, and a stripper pole. Or how Howard hosted an exclusive, mistresses-only hot tub party on the second Saturday of every month. Or how Tony, in a wonderful stroke of luck, had found out about Howard’s mistresses-only hot tub parties— always triple check for panties behind the couch—and had struck a deal to host his own exclusive, hookers-only hot tub party on the first Saturday of every month. “Welcome to Howard’s humble abode,” Tony said, nudging Dee Dee into the land of milk and honey, “where hedonism and capitalism go hand in hand.”Everybody else walked in like it was no big deal, but Dee Dee? That poor, poor kid said, “You’ve gotta be shitting me,” before he stained his secondhand thong. And Tony, being the all-knowing—and devilishly handsome—Wizard of Oz, understood completely. The two-story ceiling, one-story Pollack, and centrally placed sex swing—not really—had to be overwhelming for a scholarship kid who’d balked at the price of a kid-sized smoothie. Ignoring the smell, Tony gave Dee Dee another nudge. “I’m glad I hooked you up with that extra large Purple Pineapple because, goth boy aside, you’re looking pretty pale.”What Tony didn’t say was that he’d had the smoothie chick throw in a double shot of protein powder because dealing with Steve-o’s problematic paramour’s penchant for bubble gum and violence had to be exhausting.Seriously, that boo-boo had been a two band-aid job.“I’m fine,” Dee Dee said, which was a big, fat lie. But that was okay. They had time. Hedonism, especially when mixed with a hearty dose of kitten kisses and anal sex, tended to loosen lips. “Well, come on in, Katniss. Mi casa es tu casa. Ma maison est votre maison.” And with that, Tony moved on to assigning the fuckrooms.“Sammy, take the back bedroom. It’s private, and you, my beautiful Black friend, are in desperate need of some private pussy time.”Did it annoy Sam-I-Am when Tony called him a beautiful Black friend, beautiful Black man, beautiful Black captain, and a beautiful Black stallion?You bet your ass it did.“Female companionship,” Mace Windu said, hauling his suitcase towards the pussy palace. “That’s what you call it, Tony. Female companionship.”“That’s what I said. Pussy.” And with that, Sammy and his beautiful Black ass were gone, and Tony—whose Xanies were kicking in right on time—missed his thick thighs immediately.But back to the task at hand.The lickie kitties were getting frisky by the Jasper Johns, so Tony said, “Steve-o! Stop sniffing Ruby’s butt! You get to shag in the front bedroom. But remember, instead of your regularly scheduled pussy pummeling, you’re on deck to play with butt plugs, anal beads, cock rings, nipple clamps—without electricity—blindfolds—”“I’ve never brought a girl here, and you know it,” Steve-o said, looking deep into Tony’s eyes with his eagle-like baby blues. But that factual—and lame—declaration had absolutely nothing to do with Tony or his Bambi-like baby browns. It had been for Bucky-Boo, and Clinty-Poo, and maybe, in a past life, for Peggy because Steve-o, despite being Grade A beef, was absolutely nothing like Howard.Which led Tony to the final bedroom assignment. Scratching his bedazzled lion’s mane, Tony said, “And I, of course, as your party master, will be taking the master bedroom, because if Sonny and Cher aren’t gonna use the butt plugs, anal beads, cock rings, nipple clamps, and blindfolds, I sure as hell am.” Tony turned his attention to the final members of this sausage party. “So, Scotty-Poo and Dee Dee-Doo, it’s with my sincerest apologies—and puffiest pillows—that I must inform you that you'll be camping out on the couch.”“You call that a couch?” Dee Dee dropped his backpack on Tony’s toe, which, ouch! “It’s bigger than my entire apartment.”“Exactly! And since you’re in a newly christened, committed, monogamous, heterosexual relationship with the lovely Natasha, I figure this is the safest place for you.” Throwing Dee Dee’s backpack into the pussy-free zone, Tony said, “And with Strike-Out Scott as your bedtime buddy—cough , babysitter—you won’t be tempted to sneak off in the middle of the night and nibble on your best friend’s balls.”Tony wasn’t into outing people—for the most part—which was why he’d waited until this particular moment to call Dee Dee out on the nut nibbles. Sonny and Cher had disappeared into their den of sodomy. Sam-I-Am was out of sight, out of mind. And Scotty-Poo was already digging into the food that Margarita had set up in the kitchen before their fashionably late arrival. Which meant, for all intents and purposes, that he and Dee Dee were alone.“No comeback?” Tony asked, picking up Sid’s backpack and tossing it in the general vicinity of the couch. “No ‘fuck you, Stark. I’d never nibble on Bucky’s balls.’”Dee Dee took his phone out of his pocket, took one look at the screen, and tossed it next to the backpack. Then he said, “Thanks for the smoothie,” like Tony hadn’t seen Natasha’s name on the screen.“Is it making your shin feel better?”“Not really. But it got Bucky to calm the fuck down, so...”“Oh, I see. You’re not thanking me for your Purple Dragon smoothie, even though I know it’s delicious.” Tony tapped the side of Dee Dee’s cup. “You’re thanking me for diffusing the Bucky bomb.” When Sid laughed, it sounded like he needed a second extra large Purple Dragon smoothie with three scoops of protein powder and a handful of Xanax.“So that bruise on Bucky’s face...” Tony swallowed because this convo was a hell of a lot trickier than the one about Clint nibbling on Bucky’s Milk Duds.“Hard to miss.”“And that smackdown in the limo?”“Not your average, everyday Saturday afternoon.”Tony sighed. Clint sighed. And Scott walked up with a handful of cannolis. No napkin. No plate. No nothing.“Hey, guys. I brought you some cannolis.” Scott smiled as crushed walnuts and powdered sugar fell all over the parquet floor. “Actually… Whoa, these are a mess. Actually, take two ’cause you two are the only ones in the room, and I— Shit!” Not only had Scotty-Poo dropped a cannoli, but he’d dropped it on Dee Dee’s boot. And when Dee Dee laughed this time around, it was filled with all the happiness and joy a crushed cannoli could provide. Three cheers for Scott-Poo and his perfect timing.“Whoa, cannoli down,” Scotty said, bending down to scoop the remains off Dee Dee’s boot. “Sorry, dude. About the cannoli, and about the… Shit, bro. Why are these so messy?”Tony didn’t answer because he was holding on to a small sliver of hope that Scotty-Poo was being rhetorical.“And I’m… um...” In the process of scooping up one cannoli, Scott dropped two more. “I’m sorry about the couch. You don’t have to share. I can sleep in the jacuzzi, under the pool table, in that big lounge chair on the balcony. I—” Scott licked his palm. “I can sleep anywhere. Like, over the summer, my brother—his name’s Schmidt, by the way—took me—”“Wait, wait, wait,” Dee Dee said, throwing out another honest-to-goodness happy-go-lucky laugh. “Scott and Schmidt?”“Yeah, and my little sister’s named Scout, and she’s got a turtle named Scarlett—he’s an eastern box turtle—and the turtle has a snail named Scamp. It’s a whole thing.”Dee Dee looked to Tony for help, or answers, or a semi-reasonable explanation for the Langs, but all Tony could do was eat his cannoli because there was no explanation. That is unless you counted excessive THC consumption—Scott’s parents ran a multimillion-dollar ‘supplement’ business—or perhaps inbreeding.“So anyways, Schmidt took me on a houseboat trip to Kentucky with his college buddies, and after they ate all the pot brownies I made—so rude—they, like, left me on a rocky outcropping and motored away. And believe it or not, I slept like a baby, even though there were… um, these bats flying—”“I’m fine with sharing the couch,” Clint said, which was great because Tony couldn’t handle another replay of Scott’s bat story.“Oh, thank God. ‘Cause I know there’s probably no bats flying around on the balcony, but you never—”Suddenly there was nothing but ear-splitting, bone-crunching music blasting through the apartment. And because Tony himself had designed the apartment’s system to play at an ear-splitting, bone-crunching volume, he had only himself—and whoever had cranked the dial past six—to blame. Four? Sure, if the cougars were feeling extra frisky. Five? Well, there’d been that one time when Candy and Crimson had covered their boobs in cocaine and tied Tony to the bed. But ten? It was louder than a jet engine. “It’s time for the Mandatory Morning Dance Party, bitches!”Ah, the culprit.Bucky-Boo, in addition to exploding everybody’s eardrums, had gone for a full outfit change à la Elton John or, dare he say, Beyoncé. And he was dancing his way out of the bedroom in nothing but a pair of skinny jeans—unbuttoned—and Tony’s infamous Harry Styles’ Gucci— also unbuttoned.And Tony was instantly reminded—with abs, nipples, and ricotta cheese—why he was on a bi-curious mission to Cannoliville. “Now this is how Childish Gambino is meant to sound,” Bucky-Boo said, yelling over the music as he spun, sashayed, and stepped on one of Scott’s cannolis. “Do you hear this, Clint? I can feel the bass in my balls!”Now, the neighbors were cool. One, because Tony paid them off, and two, because Tony paid them off. But rap music during afternoon tea wasn’t part of Tony’s carefully negotiated deal. But, holy cannoli, seeing Ruby slither like a sexy snake in that shirt was worth an entire block of noise complaints. Seriously, call 911, call the fire department, and, most of all, call Harry Styles so Tony could lick ricotta cheese off Bucky’s toes as the doppelgängers danced side by side. “I don’t think it’s loud enough,” Dee Dee said, fiddling with his ears.Nodding, Tony ditched the cannolis—including the ones he’d taken out of Dee Dee’s hands—onto the table next to the Warhol. “Stereo in every bedroom,” he said, yelling loud enough to hurt his vocal cords. “Multiroom speaker system. Surround sound. Subwoofers.” The bass was vibrating Daddy’s collection of flavored liqueurs—the ones his mistresses liked over ice cream—the wine glasses above the bar, and the Chihuly above the dining room table, and Tony wasn’t sure if he should apologize or give himself an award.But Tony didn’t have time to accept the QEPrize for excessive volume because Steve-o and Mace Windu had arrived—sadly, without unbuttoned shirts or purple lightsabers—and they looked ready to party. Not really, but Tony, with his ricotta fingers and half-mast wang, couldn’t stop himself from shaking his duck butt.Buckysaurus might be off his rocker, but he sure was fun. And, really, what better way to assuage himself of the guilt from giving Ruby enough Vicodin and vodka to kill a horse than to dance like a duck? Tony shook his ass at Sam.And the guilt of knowing that the red mark on Bucky’s face was at least partially Tony’s fault.He shook his ass at Scott.And the guilt of knowing that handing Steve a bottle of Tylenol was a long way from coming clean.He shook his ass at Steve-o.Steve-o who was grooving next to the grand piano, where, unbeknownst to anyone on the dance floor, Tony had fucked two high-end escorts at last month’s exclusive, hookers-only hot tub party. And the best part? Madison had sat on Tony’s ‘piano bench’ while she’d played Tchaikovsky and ‘vocalized’ on Lacey’s ‘kazoo.’Tony shook his ass at Harry Styles.After smiling at Tony like a very naughty kitten, Bucky-Boo moonwalked up to Dee Dee with his ricotta toes. And Tony didn’t know whether to buy another round of smoothies with four scoops of powdered semen, tell Sam to get the band-aids, or shake his duck butt twice as hard.He chose the latter.Then something magical happened, inspired, no doubt, by the duck-like motion of Tony’s ass.Bucky-Boo did a spin in front of Dee Dee, signing as he said, “Dude, I’m sorry I kicked you. It was a dick thing to do.”Tony shook his ass at the piano.It was cute watching the two of them sign back and forth like Helen Keller and Marlee Matlin. And it was even cuter when Sid and Nancy smiled at each other like one of them—cough, Sid—wasn’t going to stab Nancy and leave her to bleed out in the bathroom in the not so distant future.But then Sid said, “We’ll get it sorted, cupcake,” and Nancy screamed, “Don’t fucking call me that!” and the whole Helen Keller-inspired punk rock fairytale went down the drain like the Sex Pistols. Anarchy in the UK? More like anarchy in Tribeca.Tony was about to fetch the band-aids for round two, but... nothing happened. Somebody turned the volume down to a reasonable four. The song changed to something electronic that kept saying “music is the drug.” And Nancy, instead of annihilating Sid’s other shin or shooting up an armful of heroin, kissed Clint’s cheek and signed, “I love you.”Suddenly Tony wanted another cannoli, another Long Island iced tea, and a muscular golden retriever who would show his affection by licking Tony’s face instead of humping Harry Styles.Grabbing the bottle of Macallan 25 and a rocks glass, Tony said, “You guys enjoy the music, enjoy the dance party, enjoy the food, take a disco nap, whatever. I’ve got to make sure the Queen of England is working overtime for our beta test on Monday.”When Tony walked away, Steve was holding Bucky’s waist and Bucky—daredevil extraordinaire—was leaning back so far that he was almost upside down. It was like gay boys on ice—the superhero addition—or Cirque de so-gay, or, if Tony was really desperate for jokes to get his mind off the intimacy, the limp-wrist limbo.The tips of Bucky’s hair brushed the floor, and Steve, his shoulders straining from the weight, held on with a big, slobbery smile. Because that’s who Steve was. Even if he didn’t lift Fiats and MINI Coopers for fun—which he did—Steve was the type to catch people, even when he himself was falling.“Later, gators,” Tony said, shutting the door behind him and breaking the seal on the bottle. Howard had been saving it for an extra-special floozy, an extra-special poker game, or an extra-special whatever, but Tony didn’t give a damn. He was thirsty.Throwing his phone onto the dresser before taking that first, chocolate-orange swig. Then, savoring the whiskey on his tongue, he said, “Siri, call Loki. And make it quick before me and my feelings get neck deep into this bottle.”Tony kicked off his shoes, ditched the lion, and took two more swigs before Loki picked up. And when he did, he sounded even more annoyed than Tony had expected.“I told you I was going to the Hamptons for the weekend, Stark. So why, in God’s name, are you calling me?” “I need you to come back,” Tony said, falling onto the bed, and, by default, onto the dozens of tank tops he’d had Margarita lay out before they’d arrived. “Baseball Hat melted the mainframe with her stupidity, and I’m lost without you.”“Don’t be stupid.”“But I am stupid. Why else would I call you on a Saturday when I’ve got ‘Loki sipping white wine in the Hamptons’ circled on my calendar?”“It’s red, actually. 2016 Vérité La Joie.” Grabbing a tank top, Tony held it up so he could read it. “I’m here, I’m queer, buy me a beer.”“What?”“Nothing.” Tony dropped it over his face. “I was just calling to bounce around some new ideas for the reactor, but it can wait. Cabernet Sauvignon trumps science.” “Good, because I’ve got half a bottle calling my name.”The line went dead, which wasn’t a surprise. Loki, like most people in Tony’s life, had better things to do.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Oh my god, Bucky-Boo! I just saw the Village People. All five of them. Or was it six?”Tony was shouting over the best mix Bucky'd ever heard (Seriously, it was like Azealia Banks and KMFDM and Mindless Self Indulgence all rolled into one, and, holy fuck, Bucky was gonna cream in his pants!), and he’d been shouting ever since they’d stepped onto the coolest dance floor (in the coolest club) that Bucky’d ever seen. It was straight-up bullshit. “The hairy one with the mustache was looking right at me," Tony said, jumping away from Bucky’s bump and grind. “I could practically feel his whiskers jabbing my taint!”Not only was Tony ruining the entire vibe with his big, stupid mouth, he was dancing like an old-ass, homophobic grandpa at a church social in motherfucking Utah. Shuffling steps, random thumbs-up, intermittent ass wiggles that weren’t cute or enticing. Usually Bucky could make anybody look good on the dance floor (even Clint’s Aunt Margie, whose husband actually was an old-ass homophobe from Utah), but Tony’s grandpa act was testing Bucky’s abilities and his patience.“Maybe you're into taint whiskers, Ruby Rose, but my butt’s extremely sensitive, and that guy—” Tony pointed over Bucky’s shoulder. “That guy’s monstrous mustache looks like it could give my colon—and a cast-iron skillet—a good scrub.”Giving up on dancing (sad), Bucky turned around to search for this colon-scrubbing monstrocity. But when he scanned the fantastically queer crowd (no joke, it was rainbows and fishnets for days), he saw zip, zilch, nol’ mustaches. There were plenty of beards (long, groomed, bushy, and oh so Daddy), a few sculpted goatees, and lots and lots of sexy stubble, but no taint-poking mustaches from 1979.“Wait a minute,” Tony said, jumping in front of Bucky to avoid a hottie with a not-so-hot soul patch. "Did the entire village of Village People have mustaches?" “C’mon, man, just—”“Cowboy.” Tony snapped his fingers. “Mustache! Construction worker.” He snapped them again. “Mustache! Cop.”Before Tony could snap his fucking fingers, Bucky grabbed his hands. But Tony, being highly trained in the art of assholery, went right ahead and said, “Snap,” before saying, “Native American.”“Really?”“Wait a minute. Hold your headdress, Pocahontas. The Native American didn’t have a mustache! He had a smooth upper lip!" Tony jumped into Bucky’s arms to get away from a thirty-year-old version of Ezra whose curly, black chest hair was sticking out of his v-neck. And Bucky, who didn’t appreciate getting his toes stepped on for the gazillionth time, was fucking over it."Did you see how PC I was right there, Fucky Bucky? Mace Windu keeps telling me I’m ‘insensitive’ or whatever, so I've been working on it. Upping the PC quotient. Minding my Ps and Qs, yada, yada, yada. Anyways, I’ve solved the mystery of why I only spied four out of five—Or was it five out of six?—Village People. The Chief is protesting at Standing Rock!"Okay, no. Promise or no promise, Bucky was gonna walk away, wash his hands with bleach, and let the hairiest of the gays swallow this racist motherfucker whole. Gulp! But then he remembered that he was wearing a supersweet Power Bottoms for Jesus tank top (hot, sexy, and seventy-three percent accurate) and that Steve was wearing a supersweet Gay As Fuck tank top that was two sizes too small (hot, sexy, and one-hundred percent accurate) and that both of these supersweet tank tops were the direct result of Tony keeping his promise, which was— “Fuck.” “What’s wrong, Fuck Buck?”“You mean besides the fact that you’re an offensive twat?” Bucky poked the shoulder of Tony’s jacket, which, for some reason, had a serious set of shoulder pads. “I’m not a twat! I’m on the side of Sioux. Big Oil’s nothing more than a bunch of fat, white European invaders hellbent on destroying ancient burial grounds. That’s why me and Loki are—”“Shut up,” Bucky said, unzipping Tony’s jacket to (hopefully) speed up the fucking process. “You’re supposed to be dancing with me, remember? I’m the worm, wiggling my ass for the fucking fish, and you’re the pole. But you’re to busy running your mouth and offending literally everyone on the planet to—”“I am dancing with you!” Making first contact, Tony squeezed Bucky’s waist like a chickenshit with two broken wrists. “This is your body in front of me, and this— Wow, you never skip cardio, huh?"“I’m a competitive swimmer.”“Yeah, I can feel that.” Tony rolled his eyes. “Anyways, this is your unusually firm waist and this is a dance floor, and when I use my abacus, it’s pretty clear that two plus two equals dancing.”“This isn’t dancing.”“C’mon, construction worker, bust out your orange vest and pointy cone. You’re gay, and that—like it or not—means you're an automatic expert at the ‘YMCA.’”Backing up against the people who were actually having a good time, Tony stuck his arms up and made the Y. “Don’t you dare.”Switching to the M, Tony yelled, “This is the alphabet of your people, Ruby Rose! Don’t act like you don’t know your own language." “I swam at the YMCA, if that’s what you mean.” Bucky made a letter that included two middle fingers. “You know, because I’m a swimmer, not a disco queen with a backhoe.” This was hopeless. And not just because of Tony’s irrational fear of body hair. Tony was acting like a big, fat baby (with a money-lined diaper) while Bucky had a perfectly mature, hair-loving, eighteen-year-old stud muffin waiting for him on the sidelines. Steve would appreciate Bucky’s chest hair in this badass tank top. And Bucky would appreciate Steve’s chest hair in his badass tank top. And Steve would show his fucking appreciation by running his eighteen-year-old hands all over Bucky’s seventeen-year-old ass!And that’s why Bucky (who wasn’t a chickenshit) grabbed Tony’s waist and pointed upwards. “Do you want to go and spectate on the balcony with Steve and Sam? ‘Cause that's an option. Or maybe you wanna buy Clint another overpriced beer, slam a few shots, and take a time-out with Scott? Last I saw, he was still recovering from his trip to the unisex bathroom.”“No!" Tony grabbed Bucky’s waist like he meant it, his fingernails digging into Bucky’s baby-blue suit. "I’m here, you're queer, I'm possibly queer, and my plan is brilliant. I’m down for man town... I think. I’m just not down for Magnum P.I. and his midget sidekick.”Unfortunately, Bucky's brain landed on a postcard pic of Tony (wearing a bi-colored Hawaiian shirt) fucking Tom Selleck (also wearing a bi-colored Hawaiian shirt) doggy style in the back of a red Ferrari. And that, P.I.’s and pineapples, wasn’t gonna fly in Hawaii or Hell's Kitchen.Stevie on the other hand.Bucky’s tropical dream would look straight-up awesome hikin’ up Tom Selleck's hips (wheelbarrow style) and fuck-fuck-fuckin’ his hairy ass all the way around Oahu.Mmm... He could almost smell the coconuts and come. "Well," Bucky said, breathing in the salty air, “if you don't wanna fuck a guy with a mustache, what flavor of ass should I be fishing for?”When Bucky pulled Tony closer, feeling his tight, compact body for the first time, it was nothing like touching Steve. Or Clint.It was more like—Bucky closed his eyes. The music got louder as his hands slipped underneath the boy’s navy-blue jacket, and when he opened them again, there was nothing but sequins and glitter.“Um, Bucky, that’s my ass.”In the distance, a pretty boy with a white feather boa smiled at him. A pretty boy with fake eyelashes, platform boots, and shimmering lipstick.“I asked what you wanted.” Leaving a gold lip print on the boy’s vanilla-scented neck, he got lost in the softness of the feathers. "I don't know,” TJ said, tripping over the Starboy’s boots. “Someone like you?"“Someone like me?” Bucky pushed TJ backwards into the pool. “You couldn’t handle someone like me!”
Flash!
Tony was saying something (you know, like, blah, blah, blah), but Bucky was too busy drooling over the go-go dancers, shirtless bartenders, and fishnet crop tops (yummy) to listen to his never-ending word vomit. Seriously, this club was the fuckin’ bomb! Real talk: He’d seen this kind of shit in movies (Party Monster, anyone?), but this place? Whoo-ee! This place reminded him of the Bloodbath Rave at the beginning of Blade. Sex! Blood! Violence! Fangs! This past year, aka the freshman fresh meat-era, he and Clint had watched Wesley Snipes dust Stephen Dorff’s sexy-ass vampire gang more times than he could count. But they'd watched the opening scene’s Bloodbath Rave even more.Gazillions of hot vampires gettin’ crunk in a warehouse? Hell yes! Strobe lights, dry ice, and a badass DJ with spotlights stuck to the side of his head? Fuck yeah! A top-secret entrance through a fuckin’ meat locker? Fuckin’ sick! And this place? Bucky looked at the go-go dancers in their tiny short shorts and seventies socks. This place was pretty damn close (minus the meat hooks), and Bucky wanted to sink his teeth into everything.Bucky used his hips to help Tony find the beat...Bump! Bump! Thrust!...just like Clint had done every time the DJ had raised his arms, flashed his fangs, and shouted at the top of his airless lungs to signal the beginning of the bloodbath. “Do you like vampires?” Bucky asked, hooking his thumbs in Tony’s belt loops. “‘Cause me and Clint? We’re a little bit obsessed. A couple weeks ago, we were watchin’ Blade for the sixty-ninth time—not that we were sixty-nining—and we were jumping on his bed, then...Bam!...I fell backwards and slammed my head against the corner of his nightstand.”“Bucky, I know my ass is irresistible, but Steve-o’s probably—”“And it was fuckin’ nuts ‘cause we’d been dancing around with these smokin’ hot vampire chicks, then...Ding!...I was bleeding all over the place like somebody’d rung the dinner bell!” Sliding his hands into Clint’s back pockets, Bucky licked the blood off his bestie’s neck. “Remember when you pressed your finger against the cut and said ‘I think you're taking method acting too far, cupcake’? I fuckin’ loved that.”“Like, that’s pretty much my butthole, and—”“And when you grabbed your vest and unpinned the Misfits button...” Bucky squeezed, remembering how shocked (and turned on) he’d been when Clint had stabbed his own thumb. “Fuck, when you pressed your thumb against the cut—” Bucky could feel himself getting hard. “Jesus. I almost died when you leaned in, inches from my lips, and said ‘blood brothers.’”“Okay, Bucky-Boo. I know you’re trying to sell this whole fish analogy with Sid and Nancy role playing, but—”“That’s when I knew I lov—”
“Bucky
, stop.”
Bucky blinked.Not only did he have Tony pinned against a wall of mirrors, but he was rubbing his hard dick all over Tony’s thigh."Buckylicious, I appreciate the ass massage—really, I do—but you're never gonna hook me a mustacheless fish if your wang chung’s in my peanut butter.” That thing about vampires not having a reflection? Yeah, that was bullshit because when Tony moved his head, Bucky could see his own fangs.“And I know I said that Steve-o likes to share his chocolate chip cookies, but I was talking about Dee Dee, not me.”“Fine.” Bucky turned away from the mirror because the sight of his bloody cheek made him sick. “Then shut up, grow a pair, and use my fucking ass to lure yourself a goddamn fish.”When Bucky pushed his way back to the center, there were bodies everywhere; touching him, rubbing against his arms, smearing the blood from his cheek onto his crotch. But in the center, surrounded by sweat and sex, it was easy for Bucky to let his body sync with the heavy beat. Easy to turn around and grind his ass against Tony’s dick. Easy to catch people’s eyes and put on a show.Easy like a Sunday morning.But no matter how much Bucky tried to make it look like Tony was in control, the truth was that Tony’s thrusts wouldn’t penetrate a piece of soggy toilet paper, let alone an asshole. It was fucking pathetic.And that’s when it hit him.Bucky was an idiot.So dumb.#dumbHe and Steve were gonna laugh about this one for years. They’d tell the story between keg stands at college parties, dust it off whenever the Fellowship of the Ring got together for lembas bread and mead, and act it out at their lame-ass high school reunions until it became the epic tale that Grandpa Steve and Grandpa Bucky told at holiday dinners to annoy the fuck out of their grandchildren.Cue deep voice guy, aka deep grandfather voice guy:
Gather around, children. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away called Hell's Kitchen, Grandpa Bucky’s gaydar malfunctioned at the world’s coolest gay club. And it almost cost Uncle Tony and the LGBTQ+ alliance the mission.
In short, Bucky was a clueless idiot, Tony was a clueless idiot, Steve was a clueless idiot, Sam was a clueless idiot, and Clint— Well, that fucker had probably figured it out days ago but thought it would be hilarious to watch it play out (which it probably was).Patting Tony’s cheek, Bucky switched up the plan (pun intended). “Oh, honey,” he said, pat-pat-patting the other one until it was nice and pink. “You’re not ready for what you think you’re ready for. Not even a little bit. Honestly, maybe not ever. Seriously, Tony, if I didn't think it would freak you out even more, I'd strip off this power bottom shirt, rub my dick all over it, and pull it over your sweet little head. C’mere, buttercup, I’m taking over.”It had been a while since Bucky'd done this, and, even then, he'd only sort of done it once. But just like with TJ, the size difference meant that Tony was easy to manhandle. A tug here. A push there. A hand wrapping around Tony’s Adam’s apple before Bucky rubbed his dick on Tony’s extremely sensitive taint. “I know you can move," Bucky said, lowering his center of gravity so he could take Tony for the ride of his life. “Just follow my lead.”It didn’t take long for Tony to say, "Oh my god, Bucky," and even less for him to completely hand over the reins.The secret to getting Tony Stark to move?
Move him.
Suddenly the entire ocean of fish were paying attention: boys, girls, the wonderful people who fell somewhere in between, and men. This wasn’t the first time people had lusted after Bucky (obviously), but there were a lot of eyes, and none of them seemed afraid to look. Taking a deep breath, Bucky looked up at the balcony, discovering that Steve’s eyes were the most lust-filled of all.Permission granted.Opening the lapels of Tony’s jacket to better advertise the merchandise, Bucky asked, “Do you like how this feels?”“Um..." Tony let out a quick laugh. “Are you talking about your hot dog rubbing on my buns? Because I can definitely feel that, and—" “Tony.” Lifting the bottom of his shirt, Bucky found that Tony, despite his bitching, had a soft, little happy trail of his very own. “I asked if you liked it.”“Yes! I liked it the first time you did it, and I like it now!”“Good, because the fish are on the line.”There were eyes everywhere as the beat switched to something dirty, something lewd. And maybe that’s why Bucky ran his hand over Tony’s stomach, gripping the bottom of his ribcage as he ground his hips even slower against Tony’s ass. Or why he dropped his chin onto Tony’s shoulder and hit every interested pair of eyes with his signature sex stare. Or why Bucky nipped at Tony’s neck, running his teeth across the pulse point when his eyes met Steve’s. God, he couldn't wait to get pounded into the fucking wall tonight.A Scandinavian-model type with a septum piercing was definitely showing some interest, but when Bucky smiled at him, the guy licked his lips and— Nope.He definitely wasn’t looking at Tony. Repeat: not looking at Tony! He was zeroed in on Bucky and Bucky alone, and when he dropped his gaze to Bucky’s hips, it was clear that he wanted to do a hell of a lot more than look. Wow. Bucky was, like, really, really, really good at this whole pick-up thing. For real, there were, like, 669 guys (in all shapes and sizes) watching Bucky chafe his dick on Tony Stark’s jeans, which was a trip and a half. If only Bucky’s fan club, aka man club, knew that the cute lil’ brunette with the duck butt was a fuckin’ kajillionaire. Ka-ching! Just as Bucky was about to call in a replacement fishing pole, aka Clint, he spotted a cutie who was looking at Tony and Tony alone. Finally! The guy was maybe twenty-one or twenty-two with big, blue eyes, pouty lips, and blond hair that flopped into his face every time he moved. Bottom line: He was adorable. He was dancing with a curly haired version of In Living Color-era J.Lo (mi vida spicy), and she was smiling as the blue-eyed fish steered them closer and closer with every step. When they were close enough for Bucky to see the tiny tragus piercing in the fish’s ear (extra adorable), the guy caught Bucky’s eye, asking a question with one raised eyebrow. And Bucky, happy as fuck to ditch the kajillionaire, answered with two raised eyebrows and an itty-bitty, please-take-this-worm-before-I-kill-him nod.“Somebody’s watching you,” Bucky said against Tony’s neck. “See him? The blond in the blue t-shirt? He’s dancing with the girl with the curly hair.”There was no denying that the guy was super-duper cute. Straight up, anyone who wore a bright-blue Superman shirt, tight pants with black-and-white stripes, and red Vans was a winner in Bucky’s book. He was like a mini version of Steve (minus the muscles) in Bucky’s clothes, which was perfect for Tony. Duh. “Um, yeah, Superman looks good.” Tony said like he was shitting his gazillion-dollar pants. “Jesus, it feels like I’m picking out a steak. Filet mignon? New York Strip? T-bone?” Spinning around, Tony’s hard-on bumped Bucky’s thigh. “Fuck, Fucky Buck. Is Clark Kent gonna rail me with his T-bone? And when I say T-bone, I mean extraterrestrial penis.” Tony peeked over his shoulder. “But he’s attractive, and his pants are very Beetlejuice—which is fun if you like Batman—and I’m glad he doesn’t have a mustache. But, I don’t know, Bucky. My brain’s really into this, but my asshole—”“Nobody has to fuck anybody,” Bucky said, waving the cutie over because who doesn’t like Michael Keaton? “It's just dancing.” The fish kissed the curly haired girl’s cheek, squeezed past a Miley Cyrus look-alike (so hot), and gave Tony a cute lil’ wave, all in one go. Then he said, “Hi there,” because despite being a fish, he knew how to speak English.It was the perfect opportunity for Tony to say something funny or clever or normal, but his first words to Mini-Steve/Bucky were, “I’m freaking out.” A mind to rival Einstein's, but the idiot couldn't talk to a cute guy in a club.Swooping in like hooking people up was his day job (which, maybe it should be), Bucky said, “Howdy, this is my friend Tony.” Then he mouthed, “Newbie."When the guy laughed, he sounded a little like a donkey, but the crinkle in his nose was cute enough for Bucky to proceed. “So what’s your name?”“Macaulay.”“Well, Macauley, I’m Bucky, and I need to get back to my very, very, very patient boyfriend up there.” Pointing at the balcony, Bucky’s heart did a lil’ thumpity-thump-thump when Steve waved. “So you and your kick-ass pants should totally take my place.”Macaulay waved back at full-size Steve before he said, “Aren’t you lucky. A sexy boyfriend and a sexy friend." He held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Tony. Wanna dance?"“Touchdown!”Bucky was a pimp! Capital P, capital I, capital Y.M.C.A.!Planting a juicy kiss on Tony's cheek, Bucky did a lil’ spin before smoochin’ Mini-Steve (just for fun). Then he looked up at his sexy boyfriend, took a bow, and yelled, “Get the fuck down here and dance with me!” because—Because Stevie was H.O.T.! Stevie might not have a mind to rival Einstein’s, but he was a fuckin’ genius when it came to getting laid. Case in point: It took him negative 2.2 seconds to hop off his stool, grab a couple shots from Scott, and run full throttle towards the stairs.And...Shazam!...before Bucky knew it, Stevie was shoving a watermelon-pink shot (with a cute lil’ Starburst) into his hand and saying, “Miss me?” like an honest-to-goodness Sex Bob-Omb."Are you fuckin’ kidding me?" Bucky asked, slammin’ the shot, like...Boom!...and eating both Starburst, like...Bam! Bam! “I’ve missed you since the second I walked away.”“Are you sure? Because it looked like Tony was keeping you pretty busy." Stevie slammed his shot, ditched the glasses... somewhere, and squeezed Bucky’s butt like he was juicing an orange. “Or maybe you were the one keeping him busy? Hmm?”Laughing, Bucky said, “You're right,” before squeezing Steve’s butt like he was juicing a grapefruit (it was an ass squeezing competition after all), “I’m dumping you for Tony. I mean, who needs a kind, nurturing boyfriend like you when I could have a rude, egotistical alcoholic who insults me all day?”“He’s better for you anyway,” Steve said, pressing a finger against the seam of Bucky’s jeans in the exact spot where you’d juice a penis. “He can buy you an airplane.”“Well, I do love flying...” Bucky closed his eyes, feeling the puffy white clouds tickling the sore spot on his cheek. “But I love the taste of your lips even more.”In a flash, Steve was kissing him because Steve was fucking awesome. He knew better than to talk over the best dance mix Bucky’d ever heard. He understood how Bucky needed to move. And he understood that Bucky liked a little sweetness with his blood.“Show me,” Bucky said as the DJ filled the dance floor with meringue and powdered-sugar sand. “Show me… please.”Bucky gasped when Steve pulled the tank top backwards against his neck, allowing fresh sea air to flow across Bucky’s back. And when Steve asked, “Show you what, baby?” and licked the tips of Bucky’s fangs, it felt like Bucky had become the first vampire with a tropical tan.“That I’m yours.” Bucky bent backwards with the pressure. “Just yours.”Here, Bucky could wear a Hawaiian shirt every day, heal his wounds before sunset, and never see a snowflake. Here, he and Steve could pretend and pretend and pretend until everything became real.Steve tugged harder, saying, “Oh, I plan to,” just as the DJ flashed the lights and released the bloodbath. And this time, when Bucky arched his body backwards, he wasn’t diving away from fifty-four sombrero-wearing llamas from Sweden. This time he was diving towards the shore.Powdered-sugar sand sprinkled onto freshly flipped pancakes. Tiny ghost crabs peeking their heads out of meerkat holes. And the scent of coconut sunscreen, piña coladas, and pineapple upside-down cake filling his sun-kissed nose.Bucky smiled when his fingertips touched the beach because this, in every sense of the word, was a trust fall. And Steve, with his big muscles and fully stuffed banana hammock, was the strongest of them all. ***** Clint was three beers deep when a six-foot man wearing a sleeveless lumberjack flannel, skintight jeans, and six-inch heels squeezed between him and Scott, draping himself across the bar to snag a lime out of the garnish container. He had a full beard.And because Clint—after a nap, a hamburger, and a few semi-normal conversations with Bucky—was determined to have a good time, he said, “I like your heels. I’m always impressed when somebody can walk in stilettos.”Like Nat when her toenails weren’t falling off.“Yeah,” Scott said, grabbing a lime in… solidarity? “This one time, my mom fell down the stairs ‘cause my sister—her name’s Scout—watched Home Alone and setup a trap with thumbtacks and Vaseline. My mom sprained her ankle, like, really bad. She had to get one of those boot things with the velcro and everything.”The guy laughed, which, yeah. Scott’s stories had that effect on people. But then he leaned even further across the bar, touching Clint’s calf with the tip of the stiletto as he grabbed a napkin and a pen. “Ditch your friend,” he said, laying the napkin—and his number—across Clint’s thigh. Then he walked away—no name, no details, no nothing—the confidence in his stride making it perfectly clear that he’d been walking in heels for years.Like Bucky, who’d stolen a pair of seven-inch stripper heels from Goodwill in eighth grade. Clint took a swig of his beer before setting the bottle on top of the napkin. Since this was the third number he'd gotten since they'd strolled past the velvet rope—not counting the fifty-something man who’d offered to simultaneously suck his and Scott’s dicks in the bathroom—it was pretty clear that Clint's aesthetic was appreciated around these parts, which was—Actually, he had no idea what it was.Grabbing the napkin and knocking over the bottle in the process, Scott said, "Whoa, dudes are really into you, huh?" as the beer spilled all over the bar. "Look, guys! This is, like, the fifth number Clint’s gotten in, what? Twenty minutes?"You’d think that Scott waving a napkin around would be more than enough to get Steve’s and Sam’s attention, but they were too busy watching the scene unfold on the dance floor to notice. And since Clint had absolutely no desire to see what the hell Bucky was doing with Tony Stark, he snatched the napkin out of Scott’s hand and used it to mop up the mess. "Nobody but that creepy old guy's hit on me," Scott said, throwing an entire stack of napkins at the puddle. "Not that I want them to. It's just… I don’t know. I’m feeling sorta left out, and—""You're wearing a Yankees jersey and look like you're fourteen." It was true. Scott acted like a third grader, looked like a middle schooler, and had zero game. In fact, the more Clint learned about Scott’s sister’s turtle, Scott’s brother’s idea of brotherly fun, and Scott’s love of hallucinogenic mushrooms, ecstasy, and cannolis, the more he was convinced that Tony only kept him around for a guaranteed laugh.“Wait a minute,” Scott said, stretching the jersey like he wanted Clint to read the two-letter logo. “Are you saying that gay guys don’t like the Yankees? ‘Cause I thought there was this whole, like, ‘pitcher/catcher’ thing happening with the backdoor when you’re gay.”Clint laughed. “Is that why you wore that?”“I mean… yes?”Okay, so maybe Tony was onto something when it came to the guaranteed laugh. “Dude, that’s not how it works,” Clint said as he mopped up the rest of the beer. “People can’t tell what you’re into, just from your clothes.”“Then why are your pants so tight?”“What?”Clint put his arm over the outline of his dick because, yeah, he’d put on his tightest pair of jeans and his tightest black t-shirt to go to the hottest gay club in Hell's Kitchen. But he didn’t need a fucking third grader calling him out on it.Tossing a handful of wet napkins at the Yankees logo, Clint said, “You spilled my beer, so I think it’s only fair that you get me another one.”They were sitting in the only place in the club where you could order a drink and see the dance floor at the same time. It was, as Tony had put it, “six barstools of prime real estate reserved—with signs—for the all-powerful Wizard of the Gays.”Sam and Steve were sitting where they could look over the railing—for obvious reasons—while Clint and Scott had picked the stools where the bar made a ninety degree curve away from the dance floor. It had been the logical choice. Why would Clint waste his time watching Bucky grind against Tony Stark when there were half-a-dozen half-naked bartenders flipping bottles right in front of him? Turning over his phone, Clint hit the home button.
Nat: I’m getting worried. Is everything okay?
Daisy: Natasha says u haven’t texted. R u guys ok?
Skinner: Sending obligatory, the-girls-are-worried text.
Nat: Are you blowing me off?
Clint swiped to the home screen. Then he raised his hand like he was answering a question in history class. Need the attention of a teacher? Raise your hand. Need the attention of a shirtless bartender to get another twelve-dollar beer? Raise your fucking hand. The bartender mouthed “be right there” before he winked. And Clint, because he loved making himself crazy, looked over the railing.Bucky’s hands were in Tony's front pockets, and he was—Suddenly Scott leaned completely over Clint’s shoulders and tapped Steve’s back.“Wow,” Scott said, shouting loud enough to make Clint’s hearing aid feedback for the tenth time today. “Your boyfriend’s really giving it to Tony good, huh?” Sam pounded what looked to be his sixth or seventh shot, and Steve, because he was a fucking idiot, said, “Yeah, I guess he’s being a little naughty.” “Seriously?” Clint pushed Scott off his back because, drunk or not, Steve Rogers should know the difference between a little fun on the dance floor and fucking pornography! But just as he was about to yank Steve off his stool and put him into a chokehold, the bartender touched Clint’s hand and asked, “What can I get for you? Another beer?”Put Rogers to sleep or get drunk on Stark’s dime? It was a real fucking dilemma.“Only if you put it on my buddy’s tab,” Clint said, trying his damndest to unclench his fists. “And make it two.” The bartender smiled as he pulled the bottles out of the cooler, and Clint smiled back because, why not? Rock-hard abs. Dark-brown hair. A splash of freckles across the nose. It was right up Clint’s alley if you took away the penis. Twisting off the caps, the bartender said, “By the way, I like your braids.” Nat’s breasts rubbing against his back as she’d run her fingers through his hair. “Thanks,” Clint said, snatching the bottles out of the guy’s hand. “My girlfriend did it for me." Fucking hell. Not only did Clint regret sounding like an unappreciative dick, he hated the way the bartender took a step back and said, “Got it. Enjoy your beer.”“Wait.” Digging his wallet out of his back pocket, Clint pulled out his last ten-dollar bill and slid it across the bar. “I’m sorry, man, I’ve had a shit day. What I meant to say was thank you.""You don't have to tip me for complimenting your hair."“Yeah, I do.” Laughing, Clint chugged down almost half the beer. "Let’s just say that your wonderfully uncomplicated compliment about my hair is worth a hell of lot more than a wrinkled ten." "Girl problems?"Nat and her pretty pink lips.Clint shrugged."Boy problems?"Shifting his eyes to the dance floor, Clint shifted them right back. Not only were Bucky's hands underneath Tony's shirt, but it sure as fuck looked like he was kissing Tony's neck. “You could say that.” Nodding, the bartender held out his hand. "I'm Damien, by the way. And you look like you need something stronger than a beer."When he shook Damien's hand, the chemistry was strong enough to make Clint question everything. And when Clint said, "I think you’re right," he was well aware of what he was implying.Three sugar-rimmed shot glasses appeared on the bar, and Damien filled a shaker with ice before pouring vanilla vodka, sweet and sour mix, and Watermelon Pucker over top. Then he shook it hard enough to make his pecs bounce. “On the house,” he said, pouring the shots and sticking a pink Starburst onto each rim because, if nothing else, the cosmos was having a fucking field day. "One for now and one for later. Or one for the girl and one for the boy."“And the third?”“Oh that’s for me.” Biting the Starburst in half, Damien downed the shot. “In case you’re looking for a third option.”Clint needed a second.Maybe an hour.And not just because the fucking Starburst were another reminder of Clint’s failure as a human being. He needed a second because, girlfriend or not, Clint was thinking about fucking Damien in a dirty bathroom stall.“I’ll let you know,” Clint said, ignoring the fact that Scott’s jaw was on the floor. “Well, you know where to find me.”Pink liquor. Pink cake pops. Pink drinks with freeze-dried strawberries floating all over the fucking place. When Damien jogged over to the massive wall of people he’d been ignoring, Scott wasted no time slapping Clint’s arm and saying, “Bro, are you, like, bisexual or—”“Shut up.”“‘Cause I don’t think being bisexual means you can, like, cheat on your girlfriend or whatever you’re—”“I said, shut up!”How could Clint have been stupid enough to think he could spoon feed Bucky ice cream for the rest of his life, have a nice, normal relationship with Nat, and live happily ever? What a joke. "Thanks for these," Steve said, leaning over Clint's back, which was— "He stole your shots! Did you see that?" Scott was shouting like Steve had robbed a bank. "He stole the Starburst and everything!"Rubbing his forehead and his temples and his entire fucking face, Clint didn’t move. What was he supposed to do? Chase Steve down? Push him down the stairs? Grapple with him on the dance floor for stealing a couple of shots that Clint had earned by almost cheating on Nat?Scott hopped onto Steve’s stool. “Bro, I can't believe he did you dirty like that. Steve’s always so nice. Like, this one time, at a party, I lost my shoe and he stopped playing beer pong to help me look for it. To this day, I still don’t know how it ended up on the roof.” This time there was no guaranteed laugh. No comic relief to make Clint feel like less of a sleazeball. There was just Clint with two bottles of beer and a bunch of unanswered texts.“Did you see that, Sam?” Scott poked Sam’s shoulder. “Steve stole Clint’s—”“I’ve seen a lot of things,” Sam said, staring off into the middle distance, “a lot of very frightening things.”“I know, right? I’m still thinking about that guy in the bathroom…”Clint stood up because he didn’t need to hear Sam’s belated commentary on Bucky’s pornographic fuck party with Stark. And he didn’t need to hear Scott whine about one old dude trying to suck his prepubescent dick when Clint had been dealing with an entire mob.Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw flames, and he turned around just in time to see Damien light an entire row of shots on fire. God, Bucky would hate that. And it was because Clint had put out a million fires that he made the mistake of looking over the railing.Steve was grabbing Bucky’s ass—and vice versa—and they were laughing. And Bucky’s smile— Clint swallowed. Bucky’s smile looked like sunshine. Radiant, glowing, and brighter than Clint had ever seen it.“...then there was that guy with, like... girl shoes.” Scott was still talking, even though Sam had put his hands over his ears. “At first I thought he wanted a lime. You know, for his drink because drinks need limes. But really, it was a diversion so he could give Clint his number, which—”“You really think Steve’s nice?” The flames were blown out, one by one, as Clint waited for Scott to remind him that not everyone dealt with their bullshit in dirty bathroom stalls.“I mean, yeah,” Scott said, switching stools again. “Like I said, he helped me find my shoe.”“On the roof.”“Yep. He used those pool cleaning stick things.” Clint nodded, trying to let go of something he’d let go of five months ago. Trying to remember that Steve, despite being a perverted jock himbo, had taken the time to write Bucky a love poem.And that’s when Clint realized that the look on Bucky’s face—the sunshine—was reserved for people who weren’t afraid to love him back. Chugging the rest of his beer, Clint slid the full one to Sam before flicking Scott’s chest, right on the Yankees logo. “Dude, I’m bored. Let’s dance.” “Whoa, bro. Like... together? You and me? Dancing?”“Dude, no worries. I’m straight. I’m cool. You’re straight. You're sorta cool. And I think that two cool straight guys should be able to dance together without it being a big deal. Aren’t you sick of sitting here and watching everyone else have fun?”Scott's face worked its way through dozens of expressions: shock, awe, confusion, intrigue, fear, more shock, more awe, finally landing on something that might be considered cautious excitement—if cautious excitement included biting your bottom lip in half and snapping your fingers a bunch of times.“Why not?" Standing up, Scott clapped his hands together. "‘Cause you’re right. I am sorta cool... and straight. So, yeah. Let’s do this. I’m totally pumped about dancing with another dude at a gay bar, but not being gay with him.”"Great," Clint said, grabbing the front of Scott’s jersey and pulling him toward the stairs because, flaming shots or not, it was stupid for Clint to sit here and try to figure out if he was a pitcher when he didn’t even understand the game.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Steve! Get over here. Jesus, why’re you such a slowpokey, dopey dope?”“Well, for one,” Steve said, trying to kick off his shoe, “the room’s spinning round and round like a merry-go-round. And for two—” “Timber!” Bucky snorted as Steve, in his effort to de-shoe, fell against the armchair like a drunk dumbass. Then he yelled, “Poof!” and jumped backward onto the bed because— Well, because Bucky liked to jump on stuff. “Yo, Steve. What’s with rich peeps and their poofy-ass blankets?”Pushing himself back to vertical, Steve grabbed the curtain to keep himself vertical and quickly realized that he should’ve stuck with the horizontal. At least until the merry-go-round took a break.“You know what?” Bucky said, moving his arms and legs up and down like he was making a snow angel, or doing jumping jacks, or pretending he was a snow angel doing jumping jacks in the snow. “I don’t care why you rich folk like th’poof. I dig it ‘cause it’s all soft ‘n’ meringuey.”Steve sat his butt down before de-shoe attempt number two because even after way too many shots, he was smart. That’s why his name was in the R section of the honor roll, right next to Ricky Rodriguez. But as soon as Steve got his hands on the laces, he knew he was doomed. Fact: Drunk people needed Velcro shoes or funny green shoes like Bucky’s, not triple-knotted Nikes with attachment issues.After lots of twisting and groaning, Steve managed to pull off the first shoe without untying it. Unfortunately, he ripped off pretty much all the skin on his heel in the process. Okay, so maybe Steve wasn’t as smart as Ricky Rodriguez. Steve hiccuped. But would Ricky Rodriguez have been smart enough to smooch his sexy boyfriend’s smoochable lips in the limo while Tony had smooched his new friend Macaulay? Macaulay, who just so happened to be a boy.“Pfft. Definitely not.” Steve tried using his fingernails to unknot the knot.And would Ricky Rodriguez have been smart enough to give his sexy boyfriend a big, fat hickey while Sam had smooched Macaulay’s friend Chloe? Chloe, who just so happened to be a sexy Puerto Rican girl from the Bronx. “Never in a million years.” Steve pulled his sock up as high as it would go, thinking that maybe it would make his foot more aerodynamic.Oh, and Ricky Rodriguez definitely wouldn’t have been smart enough to play with his sexy boyfriend’s hair, getting his nose all up in there while nosey Clint and non-nosy Scott had smooched the hell out of a big, fat joint. Steve tried pulling his shoe up to his mouth so he could use his teeth.“You should put meringue on m’butt,” Bucky said, bouncing his sexy booty on the bed. “Maybe in m’buttole too.”There was no way that Steve could get his shoe up to his mouth—his hammies were too tight—so he pretended he was in the weight room at school and his Nike was one of the seventy-pound free weights. “One,” Steve said, grunting and growling like he was muscling through a set of hammer curls with Sam. “I said, one motherfucker!” When the shoe finally popped off, Steve shouted, “Yes!” because even though his heels were skinless, being shoeless meant he could finally get excited about what came next.Shh, it was sex.“Now it’s my turn,” Bucky said, opening and closing his hands like he was conducting a symphony. “Take m’shoes off, Steve. They’re too far away from my hands.” Actually, no. Bucky didn’t look like he was conducting a symphony. He looked like a lobster with pinchy pinchers. A pinchy lobster conducting a symphony of jellyfish on Bucky’s beach!Wishing for a cup of melted butter, Steve said, “Of course, I’ll take off those Kermit shoes,” as he wove his way from the chair to the bed. “I’ll take them right off those feet and nibble on your pretty Greek toes.”“Like a meerkat?” Sticking his legs up, Bucky wiggled them around. In fact, they were so wiggly that when Steve tried to grab them, he almost got a bright-green sneaker to the nose.“Babydoll, you've gotta help.”“Can’t,” Bucky said, doing a not-even-close approximation of a roundhouse kick. “Im’a ninja! A ninja babydoll!”“You’re not a ninja, Buck. You’re a drunk dipshit who almost took out my face.” Laughing, Steve managed to wrestle off one shoe. “Plus, ninjas don’t wear cat socks." “Yes, they do! They do cat karate, which, for your information, includes the tiger pose, the tabby pose, and...Meow!...the meowzer pose.”Steve took a closer look at the sock, zeroing in on a roly-poly tabby and a roly-poly Persian before asking, "Why are these cats so fat?” and smooching the bottom of Bucky's stinky foot. “Do fat cats sell better than normal-size cats?"“Ha! Wait until you see my underwear.” Bouncing his butt up and down like he was on a trampoline instead of a merry-go-round, Bucky said, “It's waaay better than ninja cats.” “There’s cats on your underwear?”“No, dummy, that was a hint.” Bucky pointed at his belt buckle. “Undo the buckle, pop the button, like...Pop! Bam! Shazam!...and...Suprisito!...underwear surprise!”Making the sign of the cross—spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch—Steve said, “That was too many sound effects, Buck. Like, six too many.” But, the truth was, religious muscle memory aside, Steve wasn’t fooling anybody with the whole Catholic guilt charade. Not God, not the Virgin Mary, and definitely not the cat-loving ninja running his hand over the enormous bulge in his jeans. Embracing temptation, Steve yanked off Kermit shoe number two. It was time to worship all the wonderful things Bucky had hidden inside his pants. Like his dick. And his dick’s turtleneck. And his pretty pink butthole. Steve laughed because buttholes were actually pretty ugly. Not in a bad way. Steve still wanted to stick his dick in there and swirl it around. But pink or not, it wasn’t the kind of thing you’d put into a picture frame and stick on the mantle.“Dude,” Bucky said, cupping his crotch with both hands. “Do you wanna see ‘em or not?”“Yes, I want to see them!” Grabbing the hems of Bucky’s jeans, Steve tugged and tugged and tugged some more, but the only thing that moved was Bucky. “They’re stuck!” Lifting up the bottom of his tank top, Bucky said, “Well, I am kinda sweaty.” And, holy shit, the way the cotton was sticking to his wet, glistening, lickable abs was—"Plus, you forgot the whole unbuckle, unbutton, unzip part." “What?” Apparently, Steve had been too busy drooling over Bucky’s glistening six-pack to comprehend something as superfluous as words. “Don’t you worry, Steve. I’ve got—” Bucky hiccuped. “I’ve got this shit handled." There weren’t enough sound effects in Bucky’s extensive noise dictionary to express how sexy it was when Bucky undid the buckle and tugged on the end of his belt. And when he popped the button? Jesus Christ, even if Bucky had screamed, “Pop! Pop! Pop!” it wouldn’t have come close to expressing how hard Steve’s cock got when he saw a glimpse of red.When Bucky pulled the zipper down an inch, Steve’s cock started to throb. And when Bucky asked, “Do you want me to unzip this all the way?” Steve nodded because it was the only motor function currently responding to commands.But instead of zipping the zipper down, Bucky pulled it all the way back up. “Do you promise to be nice to my dick?” he asked, which, quite frankly, was the silliest question Steve had ever heard."Sweetheart, I'm gonna be sooo nice to your dick. I’m gonna buy it flowers and chocolate, and rub essential oils all over your balls."“Eww.”“Unless you’re not into that.” Steve laughed because he didn’t even know if he’d be into that. Although with the way his cock was throbbing, he probably was.A honey-drenched smile spread across Bucky's face as he reversed the zipper and pushed down his jeans, revealing the sexiest, skimpiest, sluttiest pair of underwear Steve had ever seen. And that included the lacy, red thong Peggy’s ass had swallowed at prom. Bucky’s surprise was like Valentine's Day in October. There were candy hearts, chocolate-caramel hearts, lace hearts, and, really, all the hearts because Bucky’s undies weren't just slutty and red. They were slutty and red with a tiny, white heart stretching across Bucky’s very big dick. Flexing his muscles, Bucky said, “Look, Steve, somebody's sending you a message," as his dick jumped in it’s candy-heart cage.And Steve, overcome by the desire to lick butter out of Bucky’s butthole, said, "Give me your feet." Bucky flinched, which instantly made Steve think he’d been too aggressive with the whole foot fetish thing. But before he could apologize, Bucky’s ankles were in Steve’s hands, and it was—It was hot!Grabbing the hems with a renewed sense of vigor, Steve dug his heels into the carpet and pulled as hard as he could, which, in retrospect, had been a terrible idea. The jeans came off like a rocket, and Steve—who wasn’t a rocket—stumbled backward at the speed of sound, crashing into the dresser and knocking over pretty much everything in his path."I got the pants!" Steve yelled, holding them up as a lamp fell down. And everything was great—perfect even—until there was a tap-tap-tap on the door and an all-too-familiar voice asking, "Everything okay in there?"Ugh. Clint. Even if Steve had karate chopped the dresser in half and thrown it out the fucking window with a couple ninja cats, it didn’t mean Clint had the right to stick his big nose where it didn’t belong. For example, into Bucky’s buttery butthole.But Bucky’s undies were too cute—and Steve’s butter was too hot—to worry about Clint right now. Broken lamp or not, Steve was ready to do some serious slathering. “All good, big nose,” Steve said, using the dresser, the wall, and the lampshade to pull himself upright. “No lamps or lobsters were injured during foreplay."Steve had to slap his hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing. And when Bucky whispered, “Those fuckers are spyin’ on us again,” before yelling, “Eat shit, Stark!” Steve had to use both hands.Sniffing the air for the telltale scent of weed, Steve waited, listened, and waited some more. And when he was fifty percent sure the coast was clear, he said, “Fuck it,” and hopped onto the bed.“I’m back,” he said, wasting no time straddling Bucky’s thighs and tracing the heart with his index finger. One, two, three trips around the perimeter was all it took for Steve’s mouth to fill with saliva. One, because the undies were tight, and two, because he knew from experience that something underneath the undies was tight too. “Shit!” Steve took his finger off of the candy. “Shit, shit, shit.” They had to do the talk thing! Steve couldn't do the special thing if they didn't do the talk thing first! "Buck, did you click on the links I sent you?” Bucky groaned. “C'mon, Steve," he said, poking at the wet spot at the top of the heart. "Don’t ya like my undies?”"Yes, I like your undies! They're so skimpy and cute. Not to mention your pubes are peeking out the top and your dick’s making them all wet.” Steve swallowed. “But we have to do the talk thing." Fact: Steve didn't want to do the talk thing. He wanted to lick the underside of Bucky’s penis. But he was responsible, and having the talk was the responsible thing to do. "Baby, you've gotta tell me if you read the stuff.”“The subspace stuff?”“Yeah, dork. The subspace stuff. I’m supposed to be the boss and make sure we’ve got safe words for the safety.”“So we can have safe sex?” Bucky cracked up, and Steve knew exactly why. They sucked at safe sex. Snapping the waistband of Bucky’s itty-bitty undies, Steve said, “These are in the way.”“Then take ‘em off, dumbass.”The temptation was real, but Steve had to be the boss. And the boss had to make sure they picked the words! Closing his eyes so the sticky heart didn’t hypnotize him, Steve said, “Not until we do the thing, Buck. Now, what’s your safe word? Mine’s gonna be Pierce.”“Holy fuck, Steve! Why the fuck would you want it to be that?”“It’s supposed to be something you’d never say.”“Ugh, I hate it.” Bucky grabbed his dick like Steve had stuck it in a bear trap. “It's the worst. Worse than the worst!""I know! That’s the whole point. Now, you pick one."Sighing, Bucky said, "Fine, mine’ll be pickle because pickles are fucking disgusting,” but he didn’t let go of his dick. In fact, he pulled it out of its candy cage and shook it around. “C’mon, dipshit. I wanna have some hardcore sex.” He gave himself a few pumps. “I want you to fuck me!”Considering that Steve’s cock was trying to rip through his jeans, fucking wasn’t going to be a problem. But Bucky being an unruly cat ninja? That was holding up the fucking show. “Baby, I'm serious,” Steve said, folding his arms so he didn’t touch any dicks. “We’re supposed to talk about what it’s okay to do.”“Says who?”When he squinted at Bucky's squished-up face, the wrinkles on his forehead told Steve everything he needed to know. “You didn’t read the stuff.”Bucky shrugged. “I didn’t read the stuff.” There were two options Steve could go with in this situation. He could put Bucky’s clothes back on, sit him in the armchair, and read him the instructions like a story book. Or—and this was the superior choice—Steve could multitask. Driving and eating. Thinking and swimming. Drawing and looking at ducks. Steve multitasked all the time. So getting naked while they had the talk shouldn’t be a problem, right? The tank top was the first to go because Steve was Gay as Fuck and he didn't need a slogan to prove it. The belt was next, landing somewhere near the shirt.“No belt tonight?” Bucky asked, nibbling on his bottom lip as he pushed his Power Bottoms For Jesus tank top over his head. And, Lord have mercy, those crooked teeth and wet, naughty tongue were the things that religions were built on. Spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch? Fuck that! Tongue, teeth, nipples, and cock. That was Steve's new Holy Trinity.Unbuttoning his jeans, Steve said, "I'm going to do way more than fuck you, baby. But if you want me to take my cock out, we have to do the talk." “So talk.”Steve tried his damndest to unzip his pants, shifting his hips and sucking in his stomach, but the tightness level in this position was really fucking with his ability to multitask. “Steve!” “Okay, okay. Tell me something you’d like me to do to—”“Fuck me!”Wow, this wasn’t going very well. And not just because Bucky was playing with his nipple hair.“Stop being incorrigible,” Steve said, trying not to look at Bucky’s chest. But there was sweat between his pecs, his deltoids looked really defined, and— "You know what else is incorrigible?” Bucky asked, licking his thumbs and adding spit to his nipples. “My asshole. You should punish it." "Should I put it on the list?""What list?"Steve laughed because it was painfully obvious that Bucky hadn’t read the stuff."You’re the worst,” Steve said, even though he meant the opposite. “Now, pay attention so I can give you an example.”Bucky hiccuped before he said, “Yes, Sir,” which, oddly enough, had been part of the stuff. “So you liked it when I tied your hands together, right?”“Duh.”“Okay, so would you like it if I held you down or tied you up in other ways?”There was lots of squinting, face squishing, and nut scratching before Bucky’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, I get it!” he yelled, clapping his hands together like he’d won a prize. “It’s like you’re the late-night DJ at a radio station and I get to make naughty requests! Why didn't you just say so?""I did! It was in the stuff!”"Fuck the stuff!” Smiling, Bucky said, “Ring! Line one for DJ Kinky."Steve waited for what came next, but nothing happened."Dude, you've gotta pick up."It took a second for Steve to figure out what the hell Bucky was talking about, but after closer inspection, he saw that Bucky was holding a ‘phone’ to his ear.“You’re a lunatic,” Steve said, “an honest-to-goodness looney-bin loon.” But crazy or not, Steve’s cock throbbed twice as hard when he picked up the ‘phone’ and said, "DJ Kinky here. What would you like to hear?""Oh my god, DJ Kinky, you're sooo Gucci. I'm obsessed with, like, everything you play. But tonight I wanna flip the script. Tonight I want you to tell me what to do. Like, remember under the bridge when you had my legs up in the air and told me I couldn’t come until you said so? That shit was so fuckin' hot! And that’s why my number one request—the thing I want you to do more than anything—is for you, DJ Kinky, to be my Boss Bitch.”“Boss Bitch?”“Yes!” Dropping the ‘phone,’ Bucky wrapped his hands around his own neck. “Pin me down, push my head into the mattress, choke me a little.”Looking at the beautiful curve of Bucky's neck, Steve said, “I’m down for holding you down.” “And you should totally pull my hair!” Bucky gave him a helpful demonstration, and Steve—Jesus. “I’m down for that too,” Steve said, having another go at his zipper.It didn’t work.“Hold that thought.” Rolling off the bed, Steve got rid of his pants. And because his black boxer briefs looked boring next to Bucky's Valentine surprise, he got rid of those too. Steve was really starting to love the talk, which is why he crawled on top of his sweaty boyfriend, rubbed his cock all over the adorable heart, and asked, “Can I bite you?” before kissing his neck.“Like a vampire?”“Not that hard, but—”“Fuck yeah! At the club, I was thinkin’ about drainin’ Tony's blood, like...Slurp!...so I could shake my ass with the vampire king. You know, Stephen Dorff when he was young and hot.”Bucky bit Steve’s neck. Not hard, but definitely not soft, and Steve—Let’s just say that Steve added it to the list.“Oh! And you should spank me!” Bucky wriggled around like he was asking Santa for a Christmas pony, not asking Steve to slap his ass. Steve snorted, right into Bucky’s ear, because that would be an entirely different kind of list.
Dea
r Santa, My name is Bucky Barnes and I’ve been a very good boy. Pretty, pretty please, will you put these naughty presents under the tree?
Make Steve my Boss Bitch
Enhance Steve’s hair-pulling skills
Endless spankings
Silk ties (maybe with fat cats) for kinky bondage
Detailed vampire fantasy role-play
Fucking
Additional fucking
More fucking
Jingle balls instead of jingle bells. Fuzzy penis instead of figgy pudding. Spankings on Christmas morning instead of opening nonexistent presents next to a nonexistent tree. “I'll spank you," Steve said, sliding his fingers around Bucky’s hips and giving them a good squeeze. “And I’ll do it while you're wearing these sexy undies because you, Bucky Barnes, have been a very good boy. I made my list and checked it twice, and—” “Fuck!” Steve disconnected his cock from Bucky’s balls. “Shit, shit, shit.”It was his job to get them through the checklist! The internet had said so! Reconnecting his balls to Steve’s cock, Bucky said, “You’re swearin’ a lot, Stevie. You sound just like me.”"I’m supposed to be the Dom," Steve said, mostly to remind his penis, "so I’m gonna do the bossy thing, okay?"Bucky grabbed Steve’s ass. "Um, not to be a Debbie Downer, but asking if you can do the bossy thing is pretty much the opposite of bossy." Then he pulled them together. Hard. "No!" Dropping his full weight onto Bucky's hips, Steve swatted Bucky’s hands away. "No touching until you tell me what not to do.”“Ooo, I liked that.” “Now, Buck.”“Duuude, I already told you I didn't do my homework.”Adding more weight, Steve tried to put the D in Dom when he said, “Google said that some people like to get hit, and that’s not my thing. I’d never hit you or—”“That’s a great rule. Can we fuck now?”Steve looked at Bucky. Bucky looked at Steve. And—“You know what? Fuck it.” Rolling his hips forward, Steve took his cock on a trip through Bucky’s chest hair. “But you’ve got to say pickle if I do something you don’t like. And if you can’t say pickle— Baby, are you paying attention?" Considering that Bucky was craning his neck and trying to reach the tip of Steve's cock with his tongue, Steve was gonna go with no."You’re supposed to practice it, Buck! So put that tongue back into your mouth and tap my leg.”“Pickle, pickle, pickle," Bucky said, tap-tap-tapping Steve's painfully hard erection. "I’ve got it. Now fuck me!”Close enough.The dimple in Bucky's chin was an irresistible treat, so Steve poked it with his cock, getting the stubble nice and gooey before he said, “Okay, Buck. I’ll fuck you. But I want to give you something first.”“Oh yeah?” This time, when Bucky stuck out his tongue, he made contact. “Daddy got me a present?”“Did you just call me Daddy?”“Nooo,” Bucky said as he distinctly nodded yes. Steve added it to the list.Breaking chin-to-cock contact, Steve leaned over the side of the bed to grab his bag. Did he almost fall over? Yes. Did he somehow make it back up despite burping up a nasty combo of vodka and late-night street tacos? Yes. Steve unzipped the pocket, swallowing down burp number two before he said, “Bucky, hold still!”Like magic, he froze, his tipsy eyes focusing right on Steve’s.“Wow, this order thing really works, huh?” Steve put a pillow over his erection because he needed Bucky to understand how important this was. And for that to happen, Steve’s cock had to stay out of the conversation.“Okay, so when I picked up your shoes, there was, um..." Wrapping his hand around the box, Steve blew out a taco-scented breath. This was a big deal—maybe the biggest deal—and his hands were sweating, and—“Steve!”"I know, I’m getting there. Like I said, when I got your shoes, there was this other store in the neighborhood I'd read about when I was doing sex research. And… um… I was thinking that maybe you’d like this." Steve closed his eyes, remembering how the leather had felt when the latex-clad salesgirl had laid it across his palm."Actually, no. That’s not right. Google said we might like one of these—you and me together. And I really love the idea of you wearing this, Buck. I mean, the other day on the roof when I put my hand around your neck, you—"“Gimme.” Bucky said, smiling as the lobster claws made a comeback. “Gimme, gimme, gimme.”"But I’m worried about the Russian thing—like, really worried—and this is a big deal. From the stuff I’ve read, it’s a statement of...”The feeling of pointing at the perfect one in the display case, of touching the silver buckle for the first time. God, Steve wanted Bucky to want it too. When Steve handed Bucky the box, the shiny paper reflected the light from the lamps—toppled and otherwise—onto Bucky’s cheekbones. Swear to God, it was like Bucky’s disco ball had flown through the streets like a UFO to cast its light onto the Starboy. "So if this isn’t your thing,” Steve said, trying his damndest to keep his hands from shaking, “just tell me.”Bucky didn’t rip off the paper like he’d done with the Walkman. Instead, he sat up, kissed Steve’s cheek, and said, “You’re too good to me,” before slowly picking off the tape.And when the black box came into view, Bucky paused, looking at it like— God, Steve didn't even know. And that’s when it hit him that maybe this was too soon. After all the shit with Rumlow, and the weird shit with Clint, and the llama thing, maybe Steve should’ve waited for things to—"May I open it?" “What?” Bucky was bowing his head just like the pictures on the internet, which, holy shit, maybe he’d done his homework after all. Steve took a deep breath. Then another. Then about five more before he got his shit together enough to say, “Yes, baby, go ahead and open it.”The lid creaked when Bucky opened the box, and his tiny gasp was everything Steve had hoped for and more.The collar itself was an inch and a half wide, and the leather had been handcrafted with smooth, beveled edges. Steve had chosen it for two reasons. One, because the buckle rested on a leather flap, ensuring that the metal—cold or otherwise—would never touch Bucky’s neck. And two, because it had looked soft and supple, like the collar itself wouldn't dominate the neck.“Will you put it on me?” Bucky asked, his eyes already hazy. “Of course, I will.” As soon as Steve lifted the collar out of the box, he wasn’t nervous anymore. Drunk? Yes. But he wasn’t scared or uncertain. In fact, when he crawled backward and leaned against the quilted headboard, he could feel the power of the collar coursing through his veins. “C’mere, sweetheart,” he said, patting his thighs. “Come sit on my lap.”Bucky was great at following orders—maybe too great—because he hopped into Steve’s lap so fast that their foreheads crashed together. “Ouch,” Steve said because ouch! Then, because blunt force trauma wasn’t the goal, he lowered his voice like DJ Kinky and said, “Slow, baby. I want to take this slow.” “But I—”“Shh.” Dragging the soft leather strap up the center of Bucky's chest, Steve marveled at the goosebumps that rose in its path. And when he placed a tender kiss on the beating artery in Bucky’s neck, feeling the thump-thump-thump of anticipation, Steve knew with absolute certainty that he wanted to possess Bucky completely. “Are you sure, Buck?”There was a moan as Bucky melted into Steve’s embrace. And another before he whispered, “Yes, I’m sure. Please... I want it.”God, this was really happening.When Steve wrapped the collar around Bucky’s neck, he was astounded by the beauty of the leather as it rested against the stubble and sweat. It felt so easy adjusting the buckle, making it tight, but not too tight, like this was what Steve had always been destined to do. Brushing the hair off Bucky’s shoulders, Steve pulled in a shaky breath because Bucky looked perfect. Perfectly Steve's. “Do you like how it feels?” Steve asked as he pushed the skimpy underwear into the crack of Bucky’s ass. “Mm-hmm.”It was exactly the kind of answer he’d been looking for, and when Steve looked into Bucky’s eyes, he saw nothing but starlight and bliss. “Good,” Steve said, using everything the internet had told him about being a boss bitch. “Then get on your hands and knees.” Sometimes things sound great on paper—BDSM, for example—but when you actually try them, they’re— “Holy shit, Bucky.”Not only had Bucky rolled off to the side and done exactly as he’d been told, he’d angled himself so Steve was looking directly at his ass.Steve wasn't gonna lie, he lost some time. Suddenly he was looking at something he hadn't even known he'd wanted—peppermint ice cream in October, eggnog spiked with Baileys in March, reindeer-shaped sugar cookies with red-and-green frosting in July—unexpected delights that, once tasted, would transform into lifelong cravings. Bucky’s hair was falling forward onto the bed as he posed on all fours, which was nothing short of mouth watering. But the best part—the part that made Steve woozy—was that the collar was visible from behind as Bucky tilted his ass up and down. Watching. That was definitely going at the top of Steve’s list! The vulnerability. The exposure. The trust. The tight, firm ass calling Steve’s name.Yeah, the underwear had to go. Sliding his hands up and over the band, Steve snapped it twice before pulling them down. Inch by inch, he revealed more skin. Inch by inch, Bucky’s moans got louder. And when the Valentine cotton reached Bucky’s knees, Steve said, “Stay right there, baby. I want to look at your—” “At my dangling balls?”“God, yes!” Steve licked his lips. “At your dangling balls. At your asshole. Fuck, Bucky, it’s so ugly, but I love it.”And with that declaration, Steve planted his tongue on Bucky’s sweaty taint. Was it gross? Yes. But it was also kinky, and Steve was thinking about buttery lube and—Bucky dropped down to his elbows.It was crazy how fast instinct kicked in—if Dom instinct was a thing—telling Steve to extract his tongue from Bucky's asshole.Steve snorted. Then, after realizing that high-quality Doms probably didn’t snort three inches from their submissive's buttery booty, he snorted again.Lifting his butt even higher, Bucky asked, "Did my ass tell a joke?" Steve almost shot his load then and there because Bucky was being naughty, and a naughty submissive meant that Steve got to do the punishment thing! Google had said he was supposed to say something authoritative like, "No, Buck, you moved without my permission," and spank his jiggly butt cheeks."Moved my asshole?” Bucky clenched and unclenched his cheeks. “'Cause I can't really control that."Oh shit. Guess Steve had said that out loud. Setting his jaw because Dom faces were serious, Steve took a deep breath. "Back up on all fours," he said, pinching the tip of his cock to keep himself from blowing his load. "Now."That was all it took for Bucky to pop back into position, and when he posed exactly like the pictures on the internet, Steve was so fucking pleased. "Good job, pretty boy," he said, opening and closing his hands to stretch the joints and prepare for Google’s next step. "Now, to remind you that you’re not allowed to move without my permission, I’m gonna give you five spankings. Does that sound cool?"“Fuck, Steve... it sounds sooo cool.”Steve was pretty sure Bucky was supposed to say “yes, Sir” or “yes, Steve,” but he wasn't going to be a stickler on the formalities. Pulling back his hand, he was about give his first-ever spanking when—“Shit.”The ravens materialized in an explosion of glitter on either side of Bucky like cockblocking assholes, their talons digging into the poofy comforter. Steve lowered his hand. Why the fuck were these fuckers fucking up their first scene? Was Steve doing something wrong? Had he fucked up Google’s step-by-step instructions?But just as Steve was about to look for his phone, he noticed something strange. This time the ravens’ beady eyes weren’t black or red or creepy. This time they looked like peppermints. Steve blinked. One, because miniature elf hats had appeared on their little bird heads, and two, because he’d never expected harbingers of death to be down for some festive ass spanking.“Did Santa send you?” Steve asked as their flapping wings got glitter in Bucky’s hair.“Yeah, dumbass. He dropped my naked ass out of the sleigh, and now I’m waiting for my milk and cookies.”Bucky’s voice reminded Steve of what he wanted—of who he wanted—so, feathered voyeurs be damned, Steve pulled back his hand. “Are you ready, sweetheart?”“I was born ready,” Bucky said, proving with a few butthole winks that he could, in fact, control his asshole. “Now gimme that milk!”When Steve slapped his open palm across Bucky's butt, the sound was—Jesus Christ, was there anything better?No. No there wasn’t.And when he slapped it the second time, the way Bucky’s ass jiggled was like a Christmas miracle. The vibration moving through Steve’s palm, the sting where he’d made contact, the rippling muscles rebounding like a wave as Bucky’s butthole did the wink thing. Fuck. At this rate, Steve was going to have to reconsider his hatred of the holiday.There was lots of moaning and swearing—from both parties—as Steve’s hand came down two more times. But based on the sheer amount of precome squirting all over the place, Steve figured he was doing a pretty good job.Fact: Steve had never spanked anything—not a dog, not a birthday boy, and definitely not Peggy. And he was pretty sure that Bucky had never been spanked either, although with Clint, anything was possible.But since both of their dicks were rock hard and the ravens were nodding their elf hats, Steve kept right on going. “Two more, baby. Ready?”"Da, please..." The fourth spanking made Bucky’s booty nice and pink, and when Steve said, “One more,” the ravens flew back to the North Pole—or Norway—leaving a trail of peppermint glitter in their wake.Steve’s palm landed with a smack, and after that, the moaning was pretty much constant. They moaned when Steve kissed Bucky’s butt cheeks. They moaned when Steve dug the lube out of his bag. And they definitely moaned when Steve looped his fingers under the collar and pulled Bucky back onto his finger.That’s when shit got real.Bucky’s spine rippled with each tug, the dimples above his ass appearing and disappearing with each release. And, holy fuck, Steve couldn’t wait anymore. He just couldn’t.Taking his fingers out of the butter, Steve asked, “Are you ready for me to fuck you?” because Google had said that double-checking Doms were good Doms. And Steve, popping the cap and squirting a truly excessive amount of lube onto his cock, wanted to be the best Dom.“Mm-hmm. Pozhalusta. Please… I need it.”Bucky's face was pillowed against the comforter, and based on the increasing language barrier, it was obvious that he was starting to do the subspace thing. Fact: Google had said the subspace thing was serious."Move your hair, Buck. I want to see your collar when I claim you."
Claim you.
Words like those were serious too, but when Bucky smoothed his hair to the side—just as he’d been told—Steve knew for sure that Bucky meant it. That he wanted it. Touching the small of Bucky’s back, Steve let them connect. And when Bucky mumbled, “Da, yes," Steve rocked forward, watching himself disappear into his submissive.From there, Steve looped three fingers under the edge of the collar, setting a slow pace. Pulling on the leather as he went deep. Releasing as he slid back out. And beneath him, his beautiful boy was a writhing, mumbling disaster."Fuck, you feel good,” Steve said, using the collar to tow Bucky up against his chest. “You feel so fucking good.”“Boleye,” Bucky said, sounding more Russian than American. “Boleye… more…”“More?” Tangling his fingers in Bucky’s hair, Steve pushed in all the way and stayed there. “I’m not just gonna give you more, Buck. I’m going to make you see stars.” When Bucky moaned, saying something that sounded like, “Da… yebat’ menya,” Steve held him in position, truly fucking him for the first time.Steve wasn’t going to last. Honestly, between the booze, the collar, and the buttery fingers, he was surprised he’d lasted this long. Releasing Bucky’s hair, he said, “I’m gonna come so fucking deep inside of you, Buck, and you’re not allowed to let go until you feel me filling you up. Understand?”Bucky's moan was low and drawn out, and when Steve felt him falling forward, he tightened one arm around Bucky's chest and reached around to grab his dick with the other. Ten seconds of that blissful position was all it took.“Jesus, baby. Now!”Their eight-chambered heart seized in an authentic la petite mort as Steve came inside Bucky and Bucky came all over Steve’s hand. Jesus fucking Christ, Steve could just live here, at the edge of some undefined afterlife, as long as his cock was inside Bucky’s butthole. Out of nowhere, Bucky went limp. It happened so fast that Steve barely had time to catch him before he landed face-first on the bed."What the fuck?" Flipping Bucky onto his back, Steve looked down and—“Shit!”Bucky eyes were glazed over and he was saying, “Ya paryu,” over and over, and—“Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”Steve was supposed to know what to do because he was the boss, but—“Where the fuck is my phone?” Jumping off the bed, he dug through his bag, his pants, his taco wrapper, Bucky’s taco wrapper, and Bucky’s pants because he'd fucking prepared for this! He'd taken screenshots and everything!But the phone wasn’t anywhere. It wasn’t in his shoe, or by the lamp, or by the other lamp, or under the bed, or—Steve finally spotted it on the nightstand, but it still took him at least thirty fucking seconds for him to remember how to open the goddamn camera!"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, I fucking saved this."The first word he saw was sugar. And before he knew it, Steve was running.He could do this!He had everything under control!*****
Ignoring Melissa McCarthy’s ectoplasmic spin on Ghostbusters, Clint said, "We really messed up this couch, huh?" as he brushed three flavors of mini-muffin crumbs off his shirt. Banana, blueberry, and, Clint’s favorite by far, chocolate chocolate chip."Destroyed is more like it," Scott said, rummaging around in the bag of Ruffles like his goal was to break every last chip. “You’ve got so many mini-muffin wrappers on your chest that I can, like, barely see your shirt, dude.”It was true. He and Scott, in a post-club marijuana frenzy, had eaten their way through a truly excessive amount of snack foods. In the process, they’d gotten Cheeto dust all over Howard Stark’s Ultrasuede throw pillows, pretzel salt and mustard all over Howard Stark’s lambswool blankets, and more than a few quarter-size globs of French onion dip on Howard Stark’s leather couch. Not to mention the half-dozen half-eaten baby carrots that Clint had ‘accidentally’ shoved into the cracks between the cushions.Chomping another carrot in half, Clint tossed the perfectly edible remains into Scott’s lap. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, and for rich people, that meant wasting fifty percent of everything. “You sure do like carrots,” Scott said, eating the other half which, in addition to being disgusting, completely defeated the purpose of Clint’s anti-capitalist carrot protest.Sure, they’d danced together—awkwardly—but their ‘friendship’ hadn’t evolved to the point where they rubbed their feet together on Howard Stark’s couch while listening to “Eat The Rich” by Motörhead and sharing organic baby carrots. Talking with his mouth full, Scott said, “I like carrots too, ‘cause of the crunch, but— Ugh, this needs ranch.”“Ranch doesn’t have Vitamin A.” “You think about vitamins when you’ve got the munchies?” Scott dug another half-eaten carrot out of the cushions and dipped it into the glob of onion dip on the armrest. “‘Cause I think of, like, Rice Krispies Treats and Slim Jims, and maybe, if I’m really high, about Sam’s mom’s meatloaf. Like, this one time, after Sam and Steve got co-captain, she made this celebration gravy that was—”“I’ve got a tournament coming up,” Clint said for no other reason than he’d rather eat nuclear waste than hear about Sam Wilson’s home-cooked meals. “Gotta maintain that twenty-twenty vision, you know?”Seemingly satisfied with Clint’s bullshit answer, Scott went back to pulverizing the Ruffles. And Clint, because he was a fucking masochist, went back to listening to whatever the fuck Steve was doing to Bucky in the bedroom.Multimillion-dollar apartment or not, the sound still carried.Breaking furniture. Breaking taboos. Breaking the world record for the most moans to come out of a human being in fifteen minutes. No matter how high Clint cranked the volume on Ghostbusters, Chris Hemsworth's accent wasn't doing shit to drown out the sounds. At least Tony and that twinky blond guy had shut up after twenty minutes. Twenty loud minutes, but still, twenty minutes was a reasonable amount of time to fuck. And Sam? Aside from some giggling and a singular “Yes!” Clint hadn't heard him screw that Chloe chick at all.A little voice inside Clint’s head whispered, “Turn off your hearing aids, dumbass,” but he didn't. He just bit another carrot in half and started packing another bowl."Do you think Kate McKinnon’s hot?” Scott asked, licking his fingers like they were next on the munchie list. “‘Cause I'm getting, like, extra horny watching her wield this proton pack. Not that you care about what makes me horny… or me being, like, horny in general.""So you're into lesbians?" Clint didn't give two shits about Scott's answer, he was just sick of thinking about what—or who—he thought was hot. And judging by Scott’s bug-eyed reaction, Clint had been right on the money. “Oh, you didn't know she was gay?” Clint flicked his Zippo for added effect.“Gay, as in... lesbian ?” The way Scott had whispered lesbian was comedy gold. It was funnier than Melissa McCarthy getting the shit kicked out of her by a proton pack. Funnier than Chris Hemsworth taking shirtless glamour shots with saxophones. And funnier than Kristen Wigg’s raccoon carrot cake in Bridesmaids. Which is why Clint had a hard time keeping a straight face when he said, “Mm-hmm, Kate’s a carpet muncher, through and through—Leslie Jones too—but for us cis guys, that only makes a girl hotter. Am I right or am I right?"This time, the little voice said, “You're a fucking asshole.”A loud crack echoed through the vent, and Scott—impacted by the noise and the lesbians—yelled, “What the heck was that?” as he spilled the entire bag of Ruffles. Clint fired up the bowl as they were assaulted by another crack, which, really? Howard Stark had installed a theater-quality stereo system in every room and he hadn’t thought to install some fucking soundproofing? “Well, Scott,” Clint said, blowing the smoke directly at the smoke detector on the ceiling, “based on my experience, that would be the sound of a hand smacking an ass."Dumbstruck. That’s how Clint would describe poor Scotty Lang, all scrunched up in the corner of Howard Stark’s couch with his strike-out jersey, onion dip, and blanket of potato chips."C’mon, man,” Clint said, blowing a shitty smoke ring. “You hang with Tony. I'm sure you've heard this kind of shit before.""Um..."Three and four in quick succession.Clint waited for a fifth crack before stating the obvious. "But not Steve spanking the shit out of a guy."Scott shook his head, and Clint, in solidarity, passed him the bowl.It would be so easy. All Clint had to do was flip a switch, take out his hearing aids, and set them onto the coffee table. All he had to do was turn off the sound.But he didn’t.Instead, he took the purple rubber band out of his hair, untwisted Nat's braid, and closed his eyes.
Natasha.
That was someone he could listen to all day.
"You look handsome in the morning," Nat said, licking her thumb before she swiped it under Clint’s eye, "but I need to teach you how to use makeup wipes if you're going to wear this much eyeliner."Nipping at her fingers, Clint chuckled, feeling warm and safe for the first time in months. Waking up next to Nat was wonderful. Different, yes. But wonderful. Even with a dancer’s body, everything about her was soft. Her hair, her skin, her boobs, the spot where her butt met her thighs… her words.“Oh yeah?” Clint wrapped his arms around her so he could feel all the soft spots at once. “You're gonna try and clean me up, huh?""Nope," she said, hugging him like he was soft too. "I like you just the way you are." Clint took back the bowl.Part of him—meaning all of him—was still shocked that he hadn't been Nat's first. And why shouldn’t he be? Bucky had never said anything about anything. No serious boyfriends. No scandalous overnight camping trips. No random dudes with shitty tattoos in the back of an Audi A3.But Nat had quickly set him straight.After Viper had put their homecoming outfits into leopard-print bags, the two of them had stopped at Starbucks for one of Nat’s pink drinks. Usually, she liked to grab her drink and go, but that day, she'd insisted on sitting at a table in the back corner so they could talk. And when Nat talked, you listened.Clint hadn’t even taken a sip of his coffee when she’d folded her hands like a lawyer, looked him dead in the eye, and said, “In case we decide to have sex, I think it's important that you know I'm not a virgin.”Using his feet to grab the Cheetos, Clint stuffed an entire handful into his mouth.To say that he’d been taken off guard was an understatement. But the more Nat had swirled the strawberry chunks around with her straw, talking about the French dancer who'd come to New York for the summer, the more Clint had gotten the feeling that Bucky didn’t have a clue either.God, he was gonna be so hurt when he found out.Spreading his fingers like a claw, Clint grabbed the biggest handful of Cheetos he could. Comfort food. 420 food. Guilt food. Whatever you wanted to call it, Clint was gorging on orange styrofoam because Nat hadn't been his first either—not by a long shot—and if Bucky found out, it would hurt him even more.Did it make it any better that Nat had been the first girl he’d cared about? That sleeping with her had felt like his first time? That he’d actually looked into her eyes when he’d come? Clint scoffed, spitting orange chunks all over his stupid, bartender-attracting t-shirt, because no. It didn’t make it better. Having sex with strangers was a dick move. Period. Ditching the Cheetos, Clint lit the bowl.He might not remember the name of the first girl he'd fucked, but he sure as fuck remembered the train of thought that had made him stick his dick into her. It had gone exactly like this: “Damn right, I’m not gay! I like girls, and Bucky fucking knows that! So why the fuck would that asshole climb on top of me, lick my fucking nipples, and look at me like he's in love?”Pissed, confused, angry. The emotions didn't matter. The point was that Clint and his misguided dick had gone off the fucking rails. In the five years since Clint had run into a foulmouthed Russian in a piss-filled pool, he’d never avoided Bucky. Not after he’d snapped Clint's skateboard in half for refusing to do a kickflip on top of the dumpster behind the YMCA. Not after he'd accidentally killed Clint's pet tarantula by scotch-taping a custom-made party hat to its head. And not after he'd called Clint a cunt for sticking a single candle into the double fudge cupcake Clint had bought for Bucky’s birthday last March. It just wasn’t how they operated.But after that night, Clint had ignored Bucky for more than a week. Dodging his calls. Deleting his texts. Taking the subway back and forth to school. Skipping lunch. And when that hadn’t been enough to bury his fucking feelings, Clint had bought another box of condoms and smoked his way through an entire ounce of weed.“They’re, um… wow, they’re really going at it.” “Yeah,” Clint said, pushing the limits of how much pot a person could smoke before they either passed out or died. “They’re so loud that even a deaf person could hear them.”It wasn't just moans coming through the vents anymore; it was grunts, shouts, and the distinct sound of skin slapping against skin. But Clint kept eating his crumbs and smoking his weed, torturing himself when all he had to do was flip a fucking switch.Nat had finished her Pink Drink—and half of Clint’s coffee—by the time he’d gotten the balls to admit she wasn’t going to be his first either. And he hadn’t lied to her. He just hadn't been quite as forthcoming with the details. Clint’s backroom hookups didn't have anything to do with summer love or chemistry on the dance floor. They weren't something he was proud of.The first time had happened two days after he’d told Bucky to stop. Two fucking days. And it hadn’t been love at first sight or some meet-cute bullshit. Not even close.Clint had been minding his own business at a tournament in Lenox Hill when a girl with wavy, brown hair and muscular arms had walked up to him and handed him a bottle of water. When he’d fucked her in the men’s bathroom, he’d tried not to think about him, but her necklace, with its stupid horse charm and silver links, had reminded Clint of the chain around his own neck. The chain that he’d put there.The necklace had pissed Clint off so much that he’d spun the girl around to face the wall, tangled his hands in ‘her’ hair, and busted a nut into the condom. He hadn't even tried to make her come. Firing up the bowl, Clint filled his lungs until smoke was pouring out of his fucking ears.Life without Bucky had sucked. And life without Daisy and Skinner had made it even worse. After three days of early morning subway rides with the rats, lonely lunches on the roof with the pigeons, and late-night walks with Lucky filled with nothing but self-loathing, Clint had given in. He’d called Skinner and talked him into a ‘boy’s night out’ at the bowling alley in Greenwood. And while Clint had waited for Skinner to pick him up, he’d put the baked ziti in the fridge for his mom, shaped his mohawk into liberty spikes, and pocketed the last of the condoms they’d given out in health class.They hadn’t even bowled half a game when Clint had lied about having to take a piss, lifted the keys out of Skinner’s jacket, and snuck into the bar. It had taken less than ten minutes for Clint to pick up a chick with a Bud Light in her hand and a dragon tattoo on her shoulder, and when he’d fucked her in the back of Skinner’s car, he’d had no idea what her name was.Clint closed his eyes. And not just because Bucky was moaning so loud that he could barely hear himself think. He closed his fucking eyes because, balls deep in a twenty-seven-year-old biker chick with zits on her ass, he hadn’t been able to make himself come. He’d tried fucking her faster, fucking her slower, and, in a moment of pure desperation, rubbing the head of his dick on her asshole. But in the end, he’d covered the hideous dragon tattoo with his hand, picturing his broad shoulders as he had stared out the back window at the neon lights of Melody Lanes. It had been a horror show when Skinner had charged out of the bowling alley and screamed, “Get the fuck out of my car!” leaving Clint—and the half-naked girl—in the dust as he’d peeled out of the parking lot. But even worse was the fact that Clint had fucked the girl with the dragon tattoo at least five times since then and he still didn’t know her name.Suddenly everything went quiet. No more grunting. No more moaning. And with Scott sound asleep in his pile of chips, there was finally a sense of calm.Thank god.Believe it or not, there was a somewhat happy ending to Clint’s tragic tale of misguided youth. After fucking his way through a six-pack of Trojans, Clint had started answering Bucky's texts. And after Clint had bought his second box from the big-boobed brunette at Walgreens, he’d stopped riding the subway, rejoined the lunch table, and tied Lucky to assorted railings, downspouts, and sinks while he’d fucked his way to box number three. Movie nights had made a comeback. They’d dusted off their guitars, plugged in their amps, and gone back to shredding Metallica solos with their shirts off. And after about a month, they’d gone back to lying in bed like slugs on Saturday afternoons, stuffing their faces with Anthony’s pizza, downing dangerous quantities of Monster, and wrestling like they were in the WWE whenever one of them felt the need. Other than the lack of make-out sessions and blowjobs, things had gone back to ‘normal.’ And through it all, Clint hadn't said a damn thing about Melody Lanes. And neither had Skinner because sometimes it's just understood that the truth will do more harm than good.Just like with Nat.It had been over two weeks since Clint had stuck his dick into a stranger. Two weeks since he’d really set his sights on making something happen with Nat. But was two weeks enough when it came to building something real?Clint rubbed his hand across his face. He was out of weed, his eyes felt like they were full of glass, and it was almost four in the morning. He really needed to get some fucking sleep. But just as he was about to switch off the TV, the door to Bucky’s fuck den slammed open and Steve flew past the couch on his way to the kitchen. Coming out of a dead sleep, Scott asked, "What the fuck?" And Clint couldn't agree more. Not only was Steve naked, but he’d thrown open the refrigerator door and stuck his entire head inside, giving Clint and Scott an unfortunate view of his lily-white ass. Clint laughed—because dangling ballsacks were funny in any situation—but the way Steve was violently shoving things around and knocking shit off the shelves was concerning, to say the least.Against his better judgement, Clint asked, “Do you need some help or something?” Steve swung around so fast that his dick audibly slapped against his thigh, which—Fucking hell.Let’s just say that Clint tried really hard not to think about where that dick had just been.“Oh God, Clint! Shit, shit, shit.” Clearly, Steve was having some sort of panic attack. Not only did he have all the classic signs—rapid speech, trembling hands, hyperventilation—but he was inexplicably holding a bottle of Hidden Valley Ranch. “It says I need sugar and that I shouldn’t leave him, but I left him, Clint. I left him, and I’m horrible, and I need sugar!”Scott’s bug-eyes were a sure sign that his ego was being permanently scarred by the swinging dick in the room, and Clint, watching it flop back and forth, understood completely. That shit would give anybody a complex. But right now, he had more important things to deal with than the fact that Steve had what appeared to be a ten-inch cock.No wonder Bucky liked him so much."Shit, shit, shit. I don’t fucking know! Does ketchup have a lot of sugar?" Okay, no.It didn’t matter if Steve had accidentally turned Bucky into a hamburger, there was no way Clint was letting him do anything to Bucky with a bottle of ketchup.“Dude, I’ll get the sugar,” Clint said, climbing over the back of the couch. “Just go back in there, take some deep breaths, and try not to pass out. Can you handle that?” Steve didn't move. Unlike his dick. Which was still swinging back and forth like a pendulum.“Go,” Clint said, pointing at the bedroom, “I’ll be there in a minute."After Steve had jogged away with a different kind of smack-smack-smack, Clint found himself in the middle of a minefield of food. Panicked Steve hadn’t just dropped the ketchup and Hidden Valley Ranch. He’d liberated a container of hummus, a tub of sour cream, a couple of sticks of butter, a gallon of milk, and a bottle of soy sauce from the refrigerator. A bottle of soy sauce that was currently turning Howard Stark’s hardwood floor into Lake Soy. “Whatever,” Clint said, sticking his head inside the refrigerator. There was no plausible explanation for why Steve had gone for the Hidden Valley Ranch instead of the half gallon of orange juice that was literally sitting front and center on the top shelf. Or why he’d bypassed the platter of chocolate-dipped strawberries for a bottle of Heinz.Pulling out the tray, Clint said, “Of course, it’s strawberries.” Strawberries and chocolate. Strawberries and ice cubes. Strawberries and a day's worth of unanswered texts.But Steve had said sugar, and strawberries, regardless of their cosmic connotations, were about as sugary as you could get. Scott mouthed, “What the fuck?” as Clint walked past with an overflowing glass of OJ and the platter of strawberries, and Clint—Clint fucking ignored him.The closer he got to the door, the more he could hear panicked Steve panicking. So after a quick internal pep talk, Clint heaved the tray over his head like he was delivering burgers and fries, walked into the bedroom, and—He had no idea how to help.Steve was hauling blankets out of the closet and piling them on top of Bucky. And Bucky? He was staring up at the ceiling and mumbling—Clint stopped to listen.He was mumbling in Russian."Steve! What the fuck?"“It says to keep him warm, but—” Steve threw another blanket on top. “I swear to God, Clint, Google didn’t say anything about him shivering like this!”Shivering? With the mountain of shit Steve had piled on top of him, it was impossible to tell.“Oh fuck, I fucked this up so bad!” Steve shoved his phone in Clint’s face. “Look! I saved this when I was doing sex research.”Not only was Clint too high for his eyes to focus properly, but what he could see was—Okay, he was gonna need a minute."Clint!""Okay, okay. Fuck." Squinting at the screen, he gave it another try, and, yep, that definitely said BDSM Basics: Subspace Aftercare. If Clint had thought he'd been in over his head dealing with depressed Steve, he'd been wrong. Naked, drunk, panicking, sex-researching Steve was so much worse. And Sam wasn't here to help this time because Sam was probably curled up with Chloe, dreaming about wedding bells and baby carriages."Hold still," Clint said, trying to read and pull out his ice cream scoop at the same damn time. It was a well-known fact that Clint was good under pressure, good at calming people down, and good at finding solutions. Why should a sex emergency be any different?But when he read the bullet points, he couldn’t help but laugh. Warmth. Don’t leave your partner alone. Sugar. Comfort. Calm and in control.Wow, Steve really sucked at this.Ditching the sugar supply on the nightstand, Clint said, “Okay, Steve, let’s take a deep breath. You're hyperventilating, and that's not gonna help anything.”Steve was staring at Bucky, and it was pretty clear why. Bucky wasn’t just mumbling in Russian, he was doing it with a deep, rolling accent. Obviously, Clint had picked up a few phrases from Bucky and Nat, but this wasn’t “Where’s the bathroom?” “good evening,” or “fuck you.” This was Russian Russian, like your single-engine plane had crashed into a remote Siberian village where they herded reindeer and hadn’t heard about the dissolution of the Soviet Union.But instead of letting Steve catch that vibe, Clint put a hand on his shoulder and said, “We’ve got this, bro. Just calm down and breathe. Can you do that? Can you be chill for Bucky?”Steve nodded and didn’t look chill at all.Of all the weird situations Clint and Bucky had gotten themselves into over the years, this was gonna go down as number one. It was even more fucked up than the time Bucky had convinced Clint to dress up as two thirds of Nirvana for Halloween. It’ll be fun, he'd said. You be Kurt, and I’ll be Dave Grohl, he’d said. But then Bucky had shown up dressed as Courtney Love, complete with a crooked tiara, smeared lipstick, and a plastic baby with a name tag that had read Hi, My Name Is Francis Bean stuck to its chest.Clint swallowed. He shouldn’t be thinking about babydoll dresses and fishnets right now. And he definitely shouldn’t be thinking about how he’d ripped those fishnets with his teeth before giving his first and only real blowjob.“U menya takoye chuvstvo, chto ya paryu v nevesomosti.”Fucking hell, that had been a whole ass sentence. And when Bucky’d said it, Clint had heard his teeth chattering, clear as day.“Oh God, Clint. What the fuck is he saying? What the fuck is he fucking saying?”Steve was useless. That much was clear. But what Clint should do about it was murky as fuck.“Stop throwing pillows on him,” Clint said, trying to listen for words he recognized. Float? Root beer float? Float down the river? A float in a fucking parade? Clint had no idea. And Steve?Steve threw a pair of inside-out jeans on top of Bucky’s head.That’s when Clint knew—murky or not—that he had to take control. Bucky didn’t need the Clint who fucked random brunettes in bathroom stalls. He didn’t need the Clint who still had wet dreams about those fucking fishnets after almost a year. And he didn’t need the Clint who’d let Damien type his number into his phone before they’d left the bar. Bucky needed the Clint who washed out cuts and put ice on his bruises. The Clint who loved Bucky no matter what. “I know what to do,” Clint said as he took off his shirt. “You might not like it, but it’s gonna work.”Steve was too busy wrapping the jeans around Bucky’s head like a turban to pay attention to Clint’s plan, which was either really, really good or really, really bad.“He’s going to break his fucking teeth! Look at him!”Carefully dropping his shirt onto the floor, Clint said, “I know, and we’re going to fix that,” before he unzipped his jeans. Did it suck that he wasn’t wearing any underwear? You bet your ass it did. But at this point, Clint had no choice but to go all in. Take off your pants and you’re a sex hero.Clint had expected a reaction, but he wasn’t at all prepared for Steve to turn around and scream, “What the fuck, Barton?” before lunging at him like a defensive lineman. Naked sword fight? No, thank you, especially with the weaponry Steve was wielding. Jumping toward the bed, Clint tried to exude a sense of calm when he shouted, “Chill the fuck out, Steve! Your phone said calm and in control."“You’re fucking naked!”“No shit! Haven’t you heard of skin-to-skin contact?” Clint got rid of the jeans on his cupcake’s head, and—Fuck. That really sucked. He'd been calling Bucky cupcake for as long as he could remember, and now— Clint brushed the hair out of Bucky’s eyes. Now those days were over.“Mmm... ya lyublyu tebya,” Bucky said, and his voice—even in another language—reminded Clint that Bucky was floating down a Russian river in a root beer float. Seriously, what had Steve done to him? Shoved ice cubes up his ass?In an effort to get some fucking cooperation, Clint threw the jeans at Steve's head. "Didn’t you see Twilight ?”“With the vampires?”“Yeah, dumbass. Vampires and werewolves.”“Werewolves?”“Yes! Now, imagine we’re in that blizzard scene where they’re stuck in a tent on top of the mountain and Bella’s freezing to death because—”“Because Harold’s cold blooded!”Clint rubbed his hands over his face. Ten-inch cock or not, Steve was really pushing the limits of stupidity.“It’s Edward, but, yeah. And Jacob the werewolf has to save the day because—”“Because he’s hot as fuck!”For his own sanity, Clint decided to ignore everything that came out of Steve Rogers' mouth from this point forward. “Anyway,” Clint said, throwing at least four blankets onto the floor, “Bucky is Bella, and I’m Jacob, and you’re Jacob. Get it? We can both be Jacob."Clint pulled the comforter all the way back so he could climb in next to Bella, and—“You’ve got to be kidding me.”He’d expected Bucky to be naked, but naked with cat socks? It was—“You know what? It doesn’t matter,” Clint said because it didn’t. There were goosebumps on Bucky’s thighs, stomach, and arms, and the only thing Clint could do to make them go away was to become Bucky’s 98.7 degree werewolf spoon. Was sticking his hand into a glob of cold, sticky come on Bucky’s stomach part of the plan? Fuck no! But Clint was a good bro—the best bro, really—so he ignored the jizz, moving Bucky’s hair out of the way so he could breathe warm air onto his neck, and— “Are you fucking kidding me? A leather collar with cat socks!”Clint was going to kill Steve. He was going to set up on the roof across the street from the natatorium, wait until Steve crossed in front of the windows in his speedo, and put an arrow through his ten-inch dick! But before Clint could finalize his plan, Bucky whispered, "Pozhalusta," and that word, with the softness of its syllables, shut Clint right up. He knew that one. It meant please. Please hold me.Please don't argue with Steve.Please love me back.Taking a deep breath, Clint twisted their legs together, spooning Bucky like he’d never spooned him before. Then, after a few minutes where Steve stood there like an idiot, Clint said, “Get your shit together and climb in on the other side,” because, murderous intentions aside, Bucky was shivering like crazy.Instead of moving his feet, Steve started moving his mouth. “But what if I— Is he okay? Did I hurt him? Shit! I think I—”“Shut the fuck up and be Jacob!”When a Twilight analogy works better than a death threat, it’s a clear sign that things are fucked up on a cosmic level. But Steve finally moved his ass, squeezing in on the other side and wrapping his arm around Bucky’s waist. Two Jacobs, one Bella. Clint’s plan was working perfectly—except for the fact that Steve's hand was on Clint’s stomach. In the grander scheme of things, did it matter? No. But, seriously, how do you not notice that you’re rubbing another dude’s happy trail?Ignoring the wandering knuckles, Clint whispered soothing words and reassurances into Bucky’s ear, just like he'd always done. And after a minute or two, Steve caught on.“Baby,” he said, pressing his forehead against Bucky’s. “It’s okay, sweetheart, come back to me.”The sweetness of Steve’s voice was— Clint closed his eyes. Co-werewolves or not, the softness of Steve’s voice felt like a kick to the stomach."I should've done better, Buck. I will do better. But, right now, I need you to know how beautiful you are. How much I love you."And it was in that moment, holding Bucky closer than he ever had before, that Clint knew he had to let him go. No more confusion. No more games. First thing tomorrow morning, Clint was going to clear every brunette’s number out of his phone, eat a healthy breakfast, take a shower, and start fresh. First thing tomorrow morning, Clint was going to call Nat.But when Bucky pressed his back against Clint’s chest, whispering, "Steve?" in a distinctly American accent, Clint didn’t take his fingers out of the come. Steadying Bucky while Steve helped him drink the juice was explainable. Maybe even justified. And taking turns hand-feeding Bucky strawberries was rational when you considered the percentage of chocolate that Steve was actually getting into Bucky’s mouth. But once the shivering stopped and Steve switched off the lamps, there was no justification for the way Clint wrapped his arms around Bucky’s body. No justification for the way he buried his nose in Bucky’s hair.“I’ll text you in the morning,” Clint said, feeling anything but soft. “In the morning, I’ll let you go.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Tony was always a lot in the morning, especially when hangovers were involved, but this shit with the strawberries was testing Sam’s limits.“I’m telling you, they were here last night,” Tony said, dragging a six-pack of Boston Lager out of the fridge. “I had Margarita order them special for my hypothetical man.”Sam was just trying to make a pot of coffee, pour the coffee into two mugs, and take the coffee back to the bedroom. A simple gesture to show his appreciation to the little slice of Heaven lounging in his bed. But the gigantic puddle of soy sauce in the middle of the kitchen was making things difficult. As was the open bottle of ketchup that had leaked by the dishwasher, the three sticks of butter ‘floating’ in the soy sauce like buttery barges, the jar of Miracle Whip that kept rolling back and forth under Sam’s feet, and the half-gallon of milk by the garbage can.The milk that Chloe Camacho, with her throaty laugh, luscious lips, and wild hair, had requested for her coffee.When Tony slammed the refrigerator door and said, “There’s a thief among us, a no-good, strawberry-stealing thief,” Sam could feel the breeze on his legs. Should he have put on more than boxer briefs to make the coffee? Probably. But when he’d slipped them on in front of the beautiful Chloe Camacho and said, “Be right back,” he’d had no idea he’d be facing off with Tony the Tornado in the Goddamn kitchen. “Was it you, Sam-I-Am? Did you feed them to your one-night stand?” “You know I don’t do one-night stands,” Sam said, staring at the blinking lights on the coffee maker and willing it to brew faster. If there was one thing his dad had drilled into his head, it was that women—especially slightly older women majoring in Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies at Vassar—deserved respect. And respect meant asking Chloe out to dinner so they could get to know each other over freshly baked bread, olive oil, and parmesan cheese, not tarnishing their night together by giving Tony details.“You shoved my fresh, juicy strawberries into her pussy, didn’t you?” Tony’s dad, on the other hand, had a portable stripper pole in the apartment’s master bedroom closet. “You rubbed chocolate all over her poontang to prepare it for you chocolate-colored dong,” Tony said, doing a drumroll on the counter, and Sam—Sam stepped in the soy sauce. It was nothing short of a miracle when Tony shifted his attention to the lump on the couch. Did Sam feel bad for Scott when Tony jogged into the living room, yelling, “Scotty, Scott, Scotty-Poo, Scott! with his polka-dot boxers and silky robe flowing in the breeze? Yep. But he felt even worse when Tony stretched out along the top of the couch like a Playboy centerfold and asked, “Are you the one with the sticky fingers, Scotty Boy? Did you shove my fresh, juicy strawberries into your bunghole so Dee Dee could stick his cob in there and play Cornholio?”Sam closed his eyes. Not to escape the sight of Tony’s gaping boxers—although that was an added bonus—but to pray for everyone involved in this weekend of debauchery. Sam had skipped church with his family for this shit. And Sunday brunch. And he’d be skipping Sunday dinner. So the least he could do was ask God to forgive everyone for the alcohol, drugs, sex, language, references to corn cobs, and, most of all, for the way they’d treated that poor guy at the taco stand. But Sam’s communion with God was interrupted when Tony said, “‘Cause from the looks of it, you and Dee Dee tested out every food-oriented lube option in the kitchen,” and transferred the drumroll to the top of Scott’s head. “Miracle Whip? Sure, in a pinch. But soy sauce? The sodium level must’ve burned your starfish when Sid Vicious fucked you with all these broken baby carrots.”Nope. Sam wanted no part of this conversation, which was why he grabbed two mugs out of the cupboard and went back to staring at the coffee pot. That, and he didn’t want to watch Tony picking potato chips out of Scott’s hair.“I don’t even like strawberries,” Scott said, apparently undisturbed by the fact that Tony was grooming him like a monkey. “Not that I’d turn ‘em down if I was, like, starving on Survivor.”Of all the things Scott could have chosen to respond to—for example, the insinuation that Clint Barton had stuck baby carrots up his ass—Scott had gone with the strawberries. Sam got out a spoon.“I used to like strawberries, like… a lot. But then Scout ate all the strawberries out of this fruit salad my mom made for our annual family reunion, like, one by one. And when she puked all over my dad’s legs, the smell was—” “Scott!” Yes, Tony had yelled Scott’s name exactly like the German lady from Austin Powers. Loud, obnoxious, shrill, and, most importantly, in a bad German accent. And Sam, despite the butt carrots and the coffee that would never brew, laughed. It didn’t matter that Tony had been doing it since freshman year, that shit was funny every damn time.Sprinkling the potato chips back into Scott’s hair, Tony said, “So if you're not the culprit, Scotty Corn Cob, and Sam-I-Am didn’t coat that Puerto Rican poontang with a double layer of chocolate, then it had to have been the Satan worshipper, who, I’d like to point out, is conveniently MIA.”Unfazed by the steady stream of chips falling into his hair, Scott said, “Clint’s hardcore with all the piercings and stuff, but, um… I don’t think he’s, like, into the Devil.”“That’s because you’re under his thrall,” Tony said, starting the grooming process all over again. “If I were a betting man—which I am—I’d bet Howard’s sizable fortune that Glen Danzig used the end of his joint to light some witchy, black candles, dripped hot wax onto your nips, then tricked you into eating a newborn baby. Add a little soy sauce, slather it in butter, ranch, and ketchup, and that baby will taste just like chicken.”The coffee finally started trickling into the pot, and Sam, who never should have skipped church, bent over to pick up the milk.It was warm.Hopping off the couch, Tony said, “And after the two of you swallowed the last of those itty-bitty baby fingers, Glen Danzig used my fresh, juicy strawberries as a palette cleanser,” as he did his third drumroll of the day on top of the piano.If Sam didn’t step in, Tony would never shut up, Chloe would never get her coffee, and Sam would never get his cuddles. Was Sam a proud Black man? Hell yes! But he was also a proud Black man who loved him some cuddles. That’s why he’d trained his sisters’ cat Mr. Snuggles to sleep on his pillow.“Where’s Clint?” Sam asked, going right for the crucial information.“Oh... he went with Steve.”Tony snorted. Then, with a shit-eating grin, he asked, “Went where?” as he played the theme from Jaws. And Sam, with his empty mugs and warm milk, prayed to God the Father, God the Son, and the Holy Spirit that Steve and Clint had gone for an early morning run to burn off the alcohol or walked to the store to replace the strawberries and milk. Shit, Sam even prayed that they were having a fist fight in the middle of the street. Anything but—“The bedroom, duh.”Anything except that.“Yeah, dudes, it was crazy,” Scott said, sinking further into his corner of the couch. “Me and Clint, we were, um... we were, like, watching the chick version of Ghostbusters, and— Hey, did you guys know that Kate McKinnon’s a lesbian? ‘Cause I had no—”“Scott!” This time, Tony and Sam had both shouted his name like the German lady from Austin Powers.“Jeez Louise, I was just curious.” Scott rolled his eyes like he always did when he got annoyed. “Anyways… I was sleeping—I think—when Steve’s penis woke me up. And before you jump all over me about this, I know I’ve seen Steve’s penis in a speedo pretty much every day since we were, what? Fourteen? Fifteen? But this time—” Scott held out his hands like he was measuring a footlong hot dog. “Let’s just say that Steve wasn’t cold from the pool, if you know what I mean.”Taking a page out of Ezra’s book, Sam prayed to Allah. "Steve-o attacked you with his penis?" Tony asked, hitting the highest key on the piano over and over like he was sounding an alarm."No... not exactly, but—""He kidnapped Dee Dee with his penis?""No, he—""His penis ate my strawberries?"“Jesus.” Sam folded his hands in prayer, but he wasn’t praying for Tony’s soul or a miraculous increase in Scott’s IQ. He wasn’t even praying that Scott hadn’t seen what he’d thought he’d seen. No. Sam was praying that Jesus would snap his heavenly fingers and turn the water into coffee. Coffee with a splash of ice-cold milk.But no matter how hard Sam prayed, Jesus wasn’t going to slip on a feathered apron and become a barista. And even if Sam dropped to his knees in the puddle of soy sauce and sang “Amazing Grace” like he was the star of the church choir, Jesus couldn’t change the fact that Steve had done God knows what with Bucky and Clint.Sam needed answers. Simple, straight to the point answers that had nothing to do with strawberries, dead babies, or Steve’s dick. Answers. Coffee. Cuddles. In that order.But in order for that to happen, Scott had to stop saying shit like, “Honestly, guys, I don’t know how Steve’s dick doesn’t fall out of his speedo when he does the butterfly.”“Can you at least try to get to the point?” Sam asked, grabbing the sugar out of the cupboard. Sugar wasn’t milk, but at least it was something. Scott scrunched up his face. “Steve’s penis is the point. He was yelling about ketchup, then all I could see was ass, ass, ass, penis, penis, penis.”This time, Sam prayed that Scott would stop saying the word penis.“Then Clint poured this big glass of juice. I think maybe it was mango… or maybe it was orange. Actually, it could’ve been Orange Crush for all I know. I mean, Clint got me sooo high.” Scott mimed smoking a joint. “Then they were gone.”Sticking the spoon into the sugar, Sam waited for the rest.And waited.And waited.But nothing happened. Scott just sat there with potato chips in his hair, nodding like his nonsensical story explained the soy sauce on Sam’s feet."That's it?" Tony asked, dragging his hand across the piano keys from top to bottom, not once, not twice, but three times. "What about my sexy strawberries?" Scott shrugged. "No idea." It was moments like these when Sam found himself reevaluating why his friends were the kind of people who got lost in haunted houses (Scott), woke up handcuffed to beds at the five-star hotels (Tony), ran laps in work boots (Ezra), and carried their boyfriends piggyback up thirty-four flights of stairs—while drunk—so they could “sneak in a workout for Fury” (Steve).Sam laughed. He was friends with these fools because they were a hell of a lot funnier than the guys at church.The scent of coffee was finally overpowering the soy sauce—thank you, Jesus—so Sam poured two cups and stirred in some sugar. Missing milk or not, Chloe was getting her Goddamn coffee and Sam was getting his cuddles.But Tony, after tapping out the beginning of “Mary Had A Little Lamb,” had other ideas.“Green-Eggs-and-Sam,” he said, blocking Sam’s path. “You love me, right?”When Sam stepped to the right, Tony stepped to the left.“And it’s because of that extra-special ‘Love Shack’ love—no homo—that you’re gonna take a detour on your way to Poon Town to search for my celebratory sex strawberries.""Oh, we’re still talking about that?”"Of course we are!” Tony opened his robe like a flasher. “Those plump, juicy morsels are to commemorate my first time getting busy with a dick—which totally happened by the way.” Switching from a flasher to a stripper, Tony dropped his robe and slapped his own ass. “My dick. His dick. A ménage à dick, except with only two. And you know what's crazy?""No, but I get the feeling you're about to tell me.""My ass barely hurts!""C'mon, man," Sam said, stepping to the left. And Tony, mirroring Sam’s movements, stepped to the right. “And the owner of that kind and gentle dick—let’s refer to him as Dick 1.0—deserves a tasty treat. And I'm not talking about my newly bisexual wiener, Mace Windu; I'm talking about my sweet and tender strawberries.”Tony was spoiled. Plain and simple. And Sam, who, true to form, said, “If I check it out, will you shut up and let me drink my damn coffee?” was an enabler.“Yepperoo,” Tony said, jumping out of Sam’s path. “Now, go forth, Sam-I-Am. Find that Sex Pistols-infused, punk rock Strawberry Shortcake, kick his satanic, baby-eating ass, and make him return my butt-fuck treats. ‘Cause if you’re not gonna rub chocolate all over Chloe’s clit, I’m sure as hell gonna let Macaulay rub it against my prostate.”There were bad decisions, and there were bad decisions, and handing Tony the mugs with a futile command of, “Don’t drink those,” was definitely the latter. But it was also the best strategy for getting Tony the Tornado out of the way.The door to Steve’s bedroom was already open an inch, so all Sam had to do was to give it a little shove.“Well, that answers that,” he said when he spotted the empty tray propped up on a pair of jeans. But instead of backing up and retrieving his coffee like a caffeinated person would have, Sam made the mistake of looking at the bed.“Sweet baby Jesus.” It wasn’t the strawberry stems sticking to the sheet, the chunks of chocolate all over the carpet, or the half-dozen blankets surrounding the bed like snowdrifts that made Sam put his hands on top of his head. It wasn’t even the multiple packets of lube that had been tossed onto the floor with a pair of bright-red underwear. No. Sam was questioning whether or not Steve was gonna make it through the pearly gates because Scott had been right about one thing.Steve was naked. The blankets on the bed had been kicked down far enough that Sam could see pretty much everything. Steve lying flat on his back with his arm hanging off the side. Bucky’s ass plastered to Steve’s hip, with what looked like dried come—“Fuck no.”Sam was not—repeat, not—looking at that!But even worse than the thing Sam wasn’t looking at was the indisputable fact that Bucky’s face was buried in the crook of Clint Barton’s neck Clint, whose dick was literally pointing in Bucky’s direction!Obviously, the thought had crossed Sam’s mind. All a person had to do was spend more than thirty seconds with Bucky and Clint to figure out that they were more than best buds. But Sam never would’ve guessed that Steve, of all people, would have gotten himself mixed up in something like this.Three dicks. One bed. And not a condom wrapper in sight.Suddenly Sam was longing for the days when Steve had dated nice, normal people like Peggy. Sam swallowed. Okay, so maybe nice wasn’t the right word for Peggy. Maybe even-keeled? Practical? The point was, seeing Steve snuggled up to two dicks, Sam longed for the days of simple dates to the movies. Like last spring, when the whole gang had gone to see Batman V Superman and Steve had bought Peggy a cherry slushie and a bucket of popcorn, holding her hand as they’d walked into the theater. When Steve rolled toward Bucky, Sam took a step backward. And when Steve’s hand landed on Clint’s stomach, he backed up even more. Unfortunately, the dude-on-dude action, in addition to scarring Sam for life, had jostled his memory, reminding him that Steve and Peggy’s ‘perfect’ movie date hadn’t ended well.Everything had been great until the scene where Superman gets into the bathtub with Lois Lane. Sam had been sharing Milk Duds with Joleigh from biology class, Tony and Scott had been on their best behavior—mostly—and Brock, Frank, and Jack had been treating their respective dates with just enough respect to potentially get laid. But then, as Superman had flooded the apartment below Lois’ place, Ezra had leaned over, tapped Peggy’s knee, and said, “I bet Steve’s better in bed than Clark Kent.”While that might’ve been seen as a compliment in a nice, normal relationship, sweet, even-keeled Peggy hadn’t taken it that way at all. Dumping the entire bucket of popcorn into Steve’s lap, she’d said, “If only that were true,” and stormed out of the theater. And Tony, always the opportunist, had stood on his seat, shouting, “Don’t worry, folks, my buddy Steve-o’s just having some performance issues,” as he’d waved his hands in front of the screen.They’d gotten kicked out.Okay, so maybe Steve's dating life had never been simple. But this? This was a hell of a long way from Sharon Carter.Sam shut the door because what else was he supposed to do? Hit Steve over the head with the empty tray? Send Bucky and Clint to stand in the corner while Sam gave Steve a piece of his mind about threesomes? No, he’d save that intervention for later—without the audience.When Sam walked back into the kitchen, Tony was waiting for him with two fresh cups of coffee and a pitcher of milk. "Well?" he asked, sliding the milk along the counter. “Did you find my sexberries?"They're long gone. And, Tony, I know you’re going to want to freak out and yell at Steve, but I’m not joking when I say you need to let this one slide.”“But they were—”"No," Sam said, holding his hand out like a traffic cop. “What I just saw in that room has scarred me for life. And thinking about what happened with those strawberries?” Sam shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but my strawberry-eating days are over. And I love strawberries! Love them! My mama makes a strawberry-rhubarb pie every Thanksgiving, and me and my sisters look forward to stuffing our faces all year long. When you cut into it, the crust flakes off and the strawberries ooze onto the plate like an invitation. It's the perfect pie, Tony. The perfect pie! "Maria’s never baked a pie in her life."Grabbing the milk, Sam poured a splash into Chloe's coffee. Then, because the milk was ice cold, he said, “If you promise to stop talking about the Goddamn strawberries, I might save you a piece this year. Hell, I might even invite you over.”“Two pieces,” Tony said, holding up two middle fingers. “Losing my buttberries is worth two pieces of pie, two scoops of ice cream, and two back rubs.”“You guys give each other back rubs?”Spinning around, Sam found himself face-to-face with Chloe. Chloe, who was fully dressed. So much for cuddles.“I thought you were bringing me coffee,” she said, giving Sam’s waist a little squeeze. Then, spotting the mugs, she asked, “Oh, is this for me?”Before Sam could answer, Tony said, “Yes, m’lady,” and handed her the mug. “Apologies for the delay. As you can see, the refrigerator exploded, but, lucky for you, Sam-I-Am had the concierge bring up a fresh pitcher of milk, just for you.”This was why Sam put up with all the drama. This right here. Because even with Tony’s alcohol-fueled insanity, Scott’s ditsiness, and Steve’s questionable sex life, Sam couldn’t imagine three better friends.***** Waking up was supposed to be a chill experience. A satisfying stretch. A yawn or two. Maybe a good scratch to the balls. But the second Clint regained consciousness, he knew he was in deep shit.And it wasn’t because Bucky’s hair was smothering him or his left leg was asleep—although those were problems in their own right—it was because Bucky and Steve were playing a game of naked Twister on his body.Keeping his eyes shut, Clint cringed. His first instinct, of course, was to blame Steve for being drunk, idiotic, and incapable of following a simple set of instructions—Seriously, how hard was it to pack a Snickers and a Capri Sun along with the goddamn lube?—or blame Bucky for dating an idiot like Steve in the first place. But the truth was, Clint had no one else to blame but himself. The hand ghosting across his nipple ring proved that.Twister wasn’t the kind of game you dug out of the closet when you got sick of playing Grand Theft Auto. It was old and weird, and, unless you were playing with the right people, incredibly pervy. The one and only time somebody had talked Clint into contorting himself into a human pretzel had been at Daisy’s fifteenth birthday party. And that somebody had been Bucky.Daisy’s parents had gone all out with the vintage theme. There’d been Easy-Bake Ovens, hula hoops, Etch A Sketches, pogo sticks, a full-size Ms. Pac-Man arcade game, an entire toy store’s worth of board games, and these weird plastic monkeys with interlocking arms. But it hadn’t been until Clint—along with Bucky, Daisy, Skinner, and the majority of the art club—had gotten sugared up on the Skeletor cake that Daisy’s brother had set up Twister in the living room.One white plastic rectangle, twenty-four colorful circles, and a gang of sugared-up teenagers. It had been rambunctious, to say the least.But even with Skinner’s superhuman flexibility, Daisy’s questionable decision to play in her party dress, and Bucky sucking helium out of a Garfield-shaped balloon as he’d reached between Clint’s legs and rubbed his head on Clint’s crotch, that game had been nothing like this. This game was rated E for extreme nudity, extreme morning wood, and extremely inappropriate groping. Hasbro would be horrified.So why not make it worse by adding a new element to the family-friendly classic? Clint was going to call it “How many hands can I feel?”The hand in the center of the yellow circle on Clint’s left pec was putting just enough pressure on his nipple ring to make him wish it was a mouth. Soft lips. A tongue. Teeth. Shuddering, Clint whispered, "One."The arm running beneath Clint’s neck was familiar, as was the hand connected to the green circle on Clint’s right shoulder. The calloused fingertips. The nails that were a little too long. The way the fingers twitched when the owner was dreaming.When Clint said, "Two," he hated himself twice as much.Suddenly the hand that had been resting quietly on Clint’s hip started to tickle the blue circle Hasbro had painted there. And Clint, trying his damndest to ignore the tickle in his stomach, said, “Three,” as he clenched the muscles in his ass.The feet were even worse. One was resting on the yellow circle just below Clint’s knee, its soft cotton toes twitching just like the hand. And the other—Clint squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could. There was no fucking way he was going to let himself cry. No fucking way! But the other one was rubbing the green circle on Clint’s Achilles’ heel, and— Fuck!The second foot was bare. The double Jacob, Twilight solution had seemed like a great idea when Clint had been floating around in a purple haze, but now, not so much. Now, Clint had no idea if it was Bella’s or the other Jacob’s hand that had just abandoned the blue circle on his hip, inching its way toward the red one stamped on his raging erection.The happiness of waking up with his lips pressed against Nat’s neck was long gone. And the positive feelings about sex? Those were ancient fucking history. As the hand slipped past his Adonis line, honing in on the red circle like a fucking bullseye, Clint found himself right back where he’d started. Adding another horrible decision to his extensive list of horrible decisions, Clint said, “I’m sorry, cupcake,” as he turned his head toward the familiar rat’s nest.Even with his eyes closed, Clint could see the tangles in Bucky’s hair. He didn’t need to look at Bucky to know that there were globs of sleep stuck to his eyelids, and he didn’t need to see the skin on Bucky’s lips to know that they were chapped. Take away Clint’s sight and his hearing—fuck, take away everything but his sense of touch—and he’d still know everything about Bucky, inside and out.And that, right there, was the fucking problem.Bucky mumbled something that sounded like, “Mmm’eatloaf.” And when he did, his breath smelled like booze, fermented fruit, and regurgitated taco meat. But instead of moving, Clint leaned into the stench, flashing back to all the times he and Bucky had finished off leftover taco casseroles that had been well past their prime.When somebody’s morning breath makes you want to puke and you still don’t move, you know you’re fucked up. And when you hope that the fingers playing Twister next to your dick find the target, you know you’re a bad person. Nat deserved better.The hand on Clint’s shoulder belonged to Bucky. That much was clear. But the other two? Clint had no idea.Opening his eyes, Clint found himself less than an inch away from Bucky's lips. An inch that he’d turned into miles.The hand found its mark, squeezing the shaft as the thumb brushed across the tip, and Clint couldn’t stop himself from whispering, "Fuuuck," directly into Bucky’s taco-scented mouth.Bucky’s eyes popped open—one, then the other—and Clint’s first thought was that last time the two of them had been this close, he’d ruined everything. That did it. Without his eyelids to hold back the tears, Clint started crying like a big, fat baby. The hand on Clint’s chest shifted to his cheek—Bucky’s hand—which meant—Oh god. “Clint?” Using his thumb to wipe away the tears, Bucky accidentally poked Clint in the eye. “Clint… what's goin’ on?”Maybe the people who kidnapped children, stole packages from people’s porches, or left their dogs in hot cars while they got their nails done were further down the highway to Hell, but Clint was riding their bumpers and honking his horn. And when Steve’s thumb touched the sensitive spot just beneath the head of Clint’s dick, he couldn’t stop himself from moaning.Game over.“What the fuck?” Bucky looked down, and there it was.Clint’s dick. Steve’s hand. And the end of five years of friendship.Swatting Steve’s hand away, Clint tried to roll off the bed, but Bucky caught him by the shoulder. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he said, digging the heel of his hand into Clint’s collar bone like he was trying to break it. “You’re not moving until you tell me what the fuck's going on.”Steve—who was either comatose or the world’s heaviest sleeper—flipped onto his side, giving Clint another unsolicited, up-close view of his lily-white ass. And Bucky—who was giving Clint an up-close view of his sneer—used that as his cue to say, “Start talking, dickhead, or you and me are gonna have a real fuckin’ problem.”Bucky might be whispering, but the rasp in his throat sure as fuck made it feel like he was screaming. “You were shivering. And Steve was drunk... and panicking, and—”Bucky doubled the pressure. “That’s not what I’m talking about, asshole.” “I’m sorry I let him touch me,” Clint said, adding a big, fat snot bubble to the river of big, fat baby tears. “Is that what you wanna hear? That I’m sorry I saved your fucked-up ass in the middle of a fucking sex crisis? That I’m sorry I fed you chocolate-covered strawberries instead of letting Steve squeeze ketchup directly into your mouth?” The red circle Bucky was painting on Clint’s collar bone had nothing to do with Hasbro, and everything to do with pain. “Ketchup? You’re fucking crying, and you think I give a shit about ketchup? What the fuck is wrong with you?”Bucky wasn’t whispering anymore. And Steve wasn't sleeping. And Clint?Clint couldn’t answer because that’s not what he did. What he did was fuck random brunettes in dirty bathroom stalls. What he did was start a relationship with a brunette’s sister. What he did was smoke so much weed that brunettes faded into the background. Trying to wrench his shoulder free, Clint yelled, “Get the fuck off me!” but Bucky doubled down, hopping on top of Clint like a motherfucking panther. And like that wasn’t bad enough already, Bucky’s fucking ballsack smacked Clint’s stomach and his stupid hair got into Clint’s nose for the second time in less than five fucking minutes!And it didn’t smell like Mango Sunrise or Honeysuckle Breeze. It smelled like tacos, sweat, and sex.Steve, after taking sweet ass time sitting up, wiping the drool off his chin, and stretching out his arms, finally got around to asking, “What’s going on?” which, in Clint’s opinion, was a serious underreaction to seeing his naked boyfriend sitting on top of somebody else’s morning wood. Scoffing, Bucky said, “I don’t have a fucking clue.” And that—Fuck… that shit hit the nail right on the goddamn head.“Of course you don’t!” Clint knocked Bucky’s hands out of place, and Bucky, because he was an asshole, grabbed Clint’s wrists instead. Clint never should have agreed to this weekend. If he’d stayed home, he’d already be halfway through his morning routine. Wake and bake. Jerk off in the shower. Eat two bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Walk Lucky. Do some pull-ups on the fire escape. Text Nat.Nat, who’d probably already sent a text to dump his ass.But Clint had agreed, going along with Bucky’s bullshit because he always went along with Bucky’s bullshit, just like a fucking fly. “The reason I don’t know,” Bucky said, making Clint slap his own face, “is because you don’t tell me shit!” “What are you? Ten?” Clint bucked his hips. “Get your fucking ballsack off me before I—”“Stop it,” Steve said, making a useless grab for Bucky’s elbow. “Both of you!” “No! Not until he tells me what’s wrong!”Failing at his second attempt to grab Bucky’s arm, Steve said, “Well, maybe if you stopped yelling at him… Look! His hands are turning purple!”If he really tried, Clint could get out of the hold. Bucky was strong, sure, but even completely naked, Clint knew he could pull his arms together, roll out, and reverse the mount.But then what? Lie to himself some more? Stop by Walgreens for a pack of condoms and a backroom blowjob? Call the chick with the dragon tattoo and schedule an afternoon fuck at her rat-infested apartment? Pretend that Nat would be stupid enough to marry somebody like Clint, pop out a couple of kids, and turn a blind eye when he wanted to move next door to Uncle Bucky and Uncle Steve?It had to stop.Relaxing his entire body, Clint locked eyes with the dipshit who’d cheered him on when he’d nailed his first Frontside 180. The person who’d been by Clint’s side, rockin’ the rhythm guitar when Clint had shredded his first Metallica solo without fucking up. The dumbass who’d cartwheeled past the shooting line when Clint had hit three bullseyes in a row to win his first archery tournament. The first person Clint had kissed.Suddenly, looking at his ‘best friend’ in a fucking collar and cat socks, Clint knew exactly what was wrong.“You need to get off,” he said, staring at the dresser, the broken lamp, and the hideous abstract painting over Bucky’s shoulder. Anything to avoid looking at his face. “Your fucking nutsack’s stuck to my stomach.” Standing up on the bed, Steve said, “Okay, that’s it,” because, apparently, nut-to-stomach contact was where he drew the line. Then he stepped over Clint’s knees and hooked Bucky by the armpits. “You’re done.”Clint could only watch as Bucky was peeled off like a fucking band-aid. And it wasn’t quick and painless. Bucky was kicking and swearing, and Clint felt every single hair ripping out of his body as Steve tried his damndest to get the band-aid to let go.And something about that feeling—that rawness—made Clint want to tell the fucking truth. “You wanna know what my problem is? It’s you! Just you!” Steve froze with Bucky ripped halfway off.“And it’s bullshit! Just like those fucking cat socks!” Clint slapped the side of Bucky’s thigh. “Because no matter how hard I try, I’m the one who can’t rip off the fucking band-aid!”Bucky stopped kicking. Steve stopped tugging. And Clint, covered in Twister dots and ball sweat, felt more exposed than he had in his entire life. “C’mon, Buck,” Steve said, curling his arms like an Olympic weightlifter as he set Bucky onto the end of the bed, “you’ve got to give him some space.” Then, grabbing one of the hundreds of blankets on the floor, Steve tossed it over Clint’s dick before wrapping a second one around Bucky’s shoulders.And, quite frankly, Steve being a perfect gentleman in the middle of this shitshow pissed Clint off even more. Seriously, when Steve wrapped a lightweight blanket around himself like a fucking toga, Clint half expected him to bust out a keg and shout, “Beers for everyone!” Instead, he did something even dumber. Turning to Bucky, who’d draped the blanket over his head like a Sith Lord, Steve asked, “Do you want me to leave?” like toga-party threesomes and naked sword fights were part of his normal Sunday routine.Clint would’ve laughed—really, he would have—but Bucky sounded like a fucking Sith Lord when he said, “No... I want you to stay.” And Sith Lord’s, regardless of their idiotic himbo boyfriends, were fucking terrifying.There was a solid minute of silence where Steve looked back and forth between the two of them. Bucky in his cloak. Clint in his blanket of shame. But instead of rescuing Clint from the Sith Lord or doing something smart like telling Clint to go to hell, Steve took his toga party across the room and slumped into the armchair by the window, taking slow, deep breaths and holding them in.“What do you mean I’m your problem?” Bucky asked, sounding softer than expected. “Is this about yesterday? ‘Cause I know I was an asshole, and—”“It’s not about yesterday.” “Is it because Steve touched your dick?”“I what?” Steve was no longer taking slow, deep breaths, and he was no longer sitting. “What did you say?”Ignoring Steve completely, Clint said, “Not really." The nice version of Steve, who wrote poetry and helped the Homecoming Queen down the stairs, was long gone, replaced by the Steve who paced back and forth and said shit twenty times in a row.“What the fuck did you just say?" Steve tripped over one of his shoes. “Shit!”“It’s fine,” Clint said, waving Steve off like a flick of the wrist could make the humiliation go away. “You were sleeping.”“But you weren’t sleeping, were you?” Bucky had said it so quietly that Clint’s hearing aids almost hadn’t caught it over the slap-slap-slap of Steve’s ten-inch dick hitting his thighs underneath his toga. But the curl of Bucky’s upper lip made his meaning perfectly clear. “Shit, Bucky! I touched Clint’s dick? I touched his fucking dick?” Even with the disturbing dick sounds, the room seemed quiet. And when Bucky said, “Not now, Steve, we’ve got more important things to deal with,” Clint braced himself for another kick to the shin.And the real kicker? Steve listened. He stopped pacing, he stopped saying shit, and, after turning his toga into a skirt, he returned to his armchair, no questions asked. Trust. That’s what Steve gave Bucky. Pure, unadulterated trust. Which was something that Clint, with his phone full of backroom brunettes, couldn’t even comprehend. “You said I’m your problem,” Bucky said, pulling the blanket even tighter against his head. “What the fuck does that mean?”“I don’t know how to say it.”“It's not hard, Clint. Just open your mouth real wide and let it come out.”Clint wasn’t gonna lie. That stung. But not enough to make him say anything more than, “You make me feel stuff.”“Feel stuff?”“I’ve been lying, and—”“No shit.” “Fucking hell, Bucky! Just let me say it!” Clint squeezed his temples, dug his fingernails into the sides of his head, and covered his ears. Anything to avoid saying what he really needed to say. “I’ve been lying about stuff, and seeing you with—” Clint glanced at Steve, who was ‘busy’ pulling back the curtain and looking out the window. Steve, who’d said I love you instead of stop. “It’s been weird.”When Bucky tipped his head back and asked, “Lying about what?” Clint could see the blood vessels pulsing in his neck.This was it. There were no more extra lives. No second chances. As soon as Clint told the truth, the two of them would be done.Looking directly into Bucky’s eyes—because that’s what he deserved—Clint said, “I let you think it was your fault.”“Let me think what was my fault?” The reaction was coming. Clint could feel it in the air. And since Steve got out of his chair, it was pretty obvious that he could feel it too.“I don’t—” Clint’s hands were shaking, and Bucky’s big, blue peepers looked like they were on fire.“Fucking say it!” Bucky slammed his fists against the mattress. “Just fucking say it!” When Clint yelled, “I loved you too!” his voice echoed through the vents. “There, I said it! I fucking loved you too!" Suddenly Clint was back at the YMCA, the sun streaming through the dirty windows above the bleachers as he handed a Watchmen comic to the crazy Russian kid who swore like a sailor and swam like a fish. Because, the truth was, Clint had loved Bucky—in one way or another—since the day they’d met. It was no surprise when Bucky climbed off the bed in his cloak, and Clint didn’t even flinch when Bucky kicked the empty tray into the nightstand with his fucking cat socks. But this wasn’t the same as when Bucky had thrown Clint’s amp against the wall, smashed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his face, or broken the skin on Clint’s shin with his too-small shoes. This was something else. And for the first time in his life, Clint felt the devastating sting of being on the receiving end of the word stop. Steve walked up behind Bucky, touching his shoulder and saying something without uttering a word. But Bucky didn’t melt into Steve’s arms or tell him to kick Clint’s ass. He just dropped the blanket and said, “I can’t do this,” before opening the door and walking out of the room in nothing but a collar and cat socks.
Stop.
Clint had tried everything to stop himself.He really had.If you believed in teen movie clichés, this was the part where Steve stormed across the room, nostrils flaring, and broke Clint’s nose. Just like he'd stormed through the lights and fog at Stark’s party to obliterate Rumlow’s. And Clint, who’d just destroyed his life with four little words, might even let him do it. But Steve didn’t follow the script.Dropping his toga skirt, Steve gave Clint the daylight view of his gigantic dick as he rooted around in the mess on the floor. “Dude, put your dick away.”“What do you think I’m trying to do?”“I don’t know. Show off?”When Steve threw Clint’s jeans and t-shirt onto the bed and said, “Get dressed,” there weren’t any clenched fists or overly dramatic grappling moves. It was just Steve, struggling to turn his jeans inside out while Clint struggled to move.Get dressed. It was a simple instruction. One foot in front of the other, one pant leg at a time. But Clint was paralyzed by the realization that he wasn’t a sex hero anymore. He was a sex villain. And sex villains—unless they were looking for somebody to drop the soap—needed to keep their weapons under wraps during the day.“Did you hear me? I said, get dressed.”Steve, for some reason, had put his shirt on before his pants. And making it even worse, he’d put on Bucky’s Power Bottoms for Jesus tank top. Flip flop. Flip fuck. Normally, that kind of mix-up would’ve gotten a big laugh, but after dropping an atomic bomb on what used to be his life, Clint wasn't exactly up for cracking jokes.He needed to get up, bum cab fare off Stark—or better yet, Scott—and get the fuck out of here. But karma had other ideas. First, Clint got his pubes caught in his zipper which hurt like a son of a bitch. Then he nearly ripped out his eyebrow piercing as he yanked the stupid, bartender-attracting t-shirt over his head. The shirt Clint had worn to show off his fucking shoulder muscles because Bucky, with his wandering tongue, had always gotten off them when they’d fooled around. Scoffing, Clint shoved the lock and chain underneath his collar and made a move for the door."Wait.”While it was nice that Steve had finally put away his dick, to Clint, it made him more of a threat.“So you can try and kick my ass? No, thank you.”“No,” Steve said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “So we can talk.”Too much weed. Too much junk food. Too much Twilight role-play. All of it combined still didn’t explain why Steve Rogers, in a fucking Power Bottom shirt, was talking to Clint like a friend.Zipping his zipper without ripping out half his pubes, Steve took a deep breath. “So... you’re bisexual?” “What? No!”Clint had said that way too fast, and based on the way Steve’s left eyebrow shot up to his hairline, he thought so too. Staring at Bucky’s bright-green Chuck—with its ragged shoelaces and stretched-out toes—Clint said, “I don’t know.” “You don’t know?”Clint shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and sighed. Running through every possible physical expression for “I have no fucking idea” that he could come up with. Then he said, “You know, those green sneakers are way too small for him; I have no idea why he wore them,” because it was easier than saying anything else.“Was that supposed to be a metaphor?” “You’re the poet. You tell me.”There were lines you didn’t cross, and being a dick to your best friend’s boyfriend when he was being unnaturally cool about a non-consensual ‘threesome’ was one of them. But what did Clint know about lines? He crossed them all the time.Taking a step backward, Clint leaned against the door. And when his hair fell into his face, it wasn’t the leftover waves from Nat’s braids that made his stomach turn, it was the purple tips. It felt like months—not weeks—had passed since Bucky had squeezed between Clint’s knees in the bathroom and splattered purple dye all over the rug, the sink, the wall, the shower curtain, and Clint’s naked chest. Months since Bucky had splattered his baby-blue Chucks with Prince’s purple rain.“I bet Bucky and I have watched Purple Rain at least fifty times,” Clint said, gathering his hair into one big clump in the front. “You know, the movie with Prince where—”“I know what Purple Rain is.” Steve rolled his eyes. “I live in a fucking penthouse, not under a rock.”Clint wanted to say that knowing the name of a movie wasn’t the same as memorizing every line, song, camera angle, and lighting choice. Knowing the name wasn’t the same as knowing it.But since he was trying to cut back on the whole ‘being a dick to Bucky’s boyfriend’ thing, he went with, “Great, ‘cause I’m sure living under a rock would be really uncomfortable. You know, like my third-floor walk-up.”There was no snappy retort, no follow-up eye roll, which was a wise choice on Steve’s part. Here Clint was, trying to have a real conversation and work this shit out, and this dipshit was talking about his life in the sky.It was fucking rude.“Anyway...” Clint said, braiding his hair into a motherfucking devil’s lock, “the first time we watched it was maybe a month or two after we met—we’re talking seventh grade—and it wasn’t even a DVD. It was this shitty VHS tape that I’d stolen from my Uncle Doug.” Clint chuckled because Purple Rain had been mixed in with the seventies pornos he’d ‘liberated’ from the basement. “And Bucky, whose English was still sketchy at best, made me bum five bucks off my mom so we could run down to the corner store and buy a carton of Welch’s grape juice.” Doing his best to imitate Bucky’s accent, Clint said, ‘Purple drink for purple movie.’”There was more to the story, of course. But why the hell would he tell Steve that not even three years later, with Purple Rain playing in the background, Bucky had sucked on a grape popsicle so his tongue would be extra purple when he’d sucked Clint off.“So you’re bisexual,” Steve said, staring at Clint like he was the idiot, which maybe he was. Straight? Bisexual? A fucking sex addict? Clint had no idea what label he was supposed to tattoo onto his fucking forehead. If you’d asked him last night, sure, he would’ve said that he’d wanted to fuck the bartender. Why else would he have handed the guy his phone when he’d come back with two Starburst shots and a smile?But now, the thought of fucking some random dude made Clint’s skin crawl. Just like the idea of sticking his dick into his rotating stable of brunettes.And suddenly he did know. “I think it’s only Bucky,” Clint said, letting go of the braid. “I think it’s only him.”Steve sighed. And when he said, “Seems like a common theme around here, care to elaborate?” nothing in his voice said that he wanted Clint to answer.So he didn’t.Clint just stood there, braiding and unbraiding his hair as he imagined dipping the ends into a glass of Welch's grape juice.It took a good, long while for Steve to break the silence. And when did, asking, “So you want to be with him?” he sounded like he’d lost his dog, his iPhone, his car, the 400 free in the state championships, and his will to live. In other words, Clint was glad they weren’t on top of the fucking roof.“No,” Clint said, walking over to the bed because he needed stupid Steve in his stupid tank top to get the message, loud and clear, “that’s not what I’m saying at all.”“It sure sounds like that’s what you’re saying.”“Well, it’s not.”Clint stared at Steve. Steve stared at Clint. And neither of them blinked until Clint accidentally sneezed.And Steve, because he was the nicest idiot on the entire fucking planet, said, “Bless you.”God, Clint hated him.Wiping his nose with his shirt, Clint said, “Listen, I'm not even sure I like you. In fact, last night, when you were running around with a bottle of Hidden Valley Ranch, I pretty much wanted to kill you. But putting my bullshit aside—" Clint swallowed. "I think you two are good together."Steve's eyebrows weren't buying it."I mean, you're both idiots. Fucking around with collars and spankings when you two were drunk out of your minds? It doesn’t get much dumber. But the way Bucky smiles at you...” Clint gathered his hair on top of his head so he didn’t have to look at it. “I don’t know... it just seemed right when you told Bucky that you loved him.""I did what?" Clint tilted his head. "Told him you loved him."Suddenly Steve looked green around the edges. And that—That just wasn’t gonna fly.Pivoting on his heel, Clint made a fist. “Are you saying you don't love him?" "Of course I do! Fuck!” When Steve dug his thumbs into the edges of his eye sockets, it looked like he was trying to scoop out his brains. "I just… fuck... I don't remember saying it. And when you tell somebody that you love them for the first time, it’s something you want to fucking remember! Shit! Shit! Shit!""Bucky doesn't know?""Well, he does now!" Steve’s forehead was so wrinkled and scrunched up that he actually looked ugly, and Clint—Clint cracked up.Laughing when he shouldn’t was one of Clint’s many faults. Like when Bucky had gotten his hair stuck in the hinge of Skinner’s locker on the first day of school and ripped a solid chunk off the back, Clint had shot coffee out his nose. And last year, when Daisy had accidentally flung a tampon at Mr. Nelson when she’d pulled a pen out of her purse, Clint had ended up with three days of detention for rolling around on the floor of the science lab.It was a problem; a point that Steve was helpfully proving by making fists of his very own.The best way to diffuse a situation was to alter the positions of power. That’s why Clint—despite his inability to stop laughing—sat down on the floor next to the nightstand and tried to cross his legs. It didn’t go well. Tight jeans were good for collecting numbers from bearded lumberjacks in stilettos, not bending your legs like a five-year-old. “I’m glad you think this is funny.” “Dude,” Clint said, kicking his legs out in front of him like Nat did when she stretched, “Bucky wasn’t even speaking English when you said it, so I’m pretty sure he doesn’t remember."“You say that like it’s a good thing.” “It means you get a redo, dumbass.”When Steve dug his toes into the carpet, Clint—who’d not only slept with his hearing aids, but had somehow managed to turn them up—could hear his toenails catching. The exact same way they’d caught on Clint’s Achilles’ heel.“So you blew your first I love you. So what? At least you fucking said it.”Steve stopped moving his toes.“Bucky thinks you walk on water. Shit, he practically glows around you. So just lay off the shots, lay off the poorly executed BDSM, and tell him again.” Clint had to lower the volume on his hearing aids before he could say the rest. “Tell him again, Steve... and give him the happiness he deserves.” Steve stared at Clint like he was the one speaking Russian.“Oh my god, this isn’t that hard!” Picking a strawberry stem out of the carpet, Clint squished it between his fingers. “I’m fucked up. And Bucky—” He threw it at Steve’s head. “Bucky needs to be with somebody who isn't.” There was a long pause where Steve tried to break his own jawbone and Clint ate chocolate crumbs and lint out of the carpet. A looong pause. And when Steve finally snapped out of it, he asked the one question Clint didn’t want to hear. “What about Natasha?” “Like I said, I’m fucked up.” There was no way Clint was talking about Nat with Steve. No fucking way.“So you’ve been using her?”“No!” Clint’s hearing aids screeched from the volume of his own voice. “I care about her, and—”Strawberry milkshakes and strawberry kisses. Strawberry cake pops and strawberry-scented shampoo.Clint sighed. “When I’m with her, I feel like I’m doing something right. Like I might even be a good person.” Slipping off the bed, Steve had the exact same problem with his jeans when he tried to sit on the floor. But before Clint could bust out another round of inappropriate laughter, Steve kicked Clint’s ankle like they were the ones who’d met in a swim class at the YMCA and said, “So letting you get naked and cuddle my boyfriend was probably the wrong move.” Steve’s eyebrows said he was serious, but his smirk told a different story.“Wait. Was that a joke?”Steve shrugged. “I think we could all use a little grace, don’t you?”Seriously, who was this guy? A fucking saint?Looking at the empty glass on the nightstand, Clint flashed back to the moment when Steve had held the juice to Bucky’s lips, whispering, “I love you, sweetheart,” as he’d filled Bucky’s stomach with sugar.Who was Steve Rogers? Easy. He was a glass half full, while Clint was a glass half empty.“Listen," Steve said, trying—and failing—to cross his legs, “I put Bucky in a bad situation last night. It was stupid, irresponsible, and scary. But the situation I put you in was even worse. I’m the one who fucked up, Clint. Me. And you stepped in without question.""Because I was high.""No. Because despite your relationship with Bucky being a clusterfuck, you're a great friend.”Clint groaned, eating more lint than chocolate when he said, "I really don't see where you're going with this.""I'm trying to say that you two have history. Important, foundation-building history. And if you're saying that you don't want to be with him, then—""I can't be with him.""Fine. You can’t be with him. Whatever. But you’re still his best friend, and fucked up or not, he needs you." This time, when Steve kicked Clint's foot, he left it there, smack dab in the middle of the green circle. "And since you’re eating chocolate off the floor, I think it’s pretty obvious that you need him too.”Okay, scratch the sainthood thing. Between the dick grabbing and the foot touching, it sure as hell seemed like Steve was angling for something that started with the letter P and ended with olyamory ! Getting his foot as far away from Steve as he could in these tight-ass jeans, Clint asked, “Are you trying to set up some kind of sister wives thing? ‘Cause I’m fucked up, but I’m not that fucked up.”“What? No!” “Really? ‘Cause I slept with my hand in a gigantic glob of your boyfriend’s cold come, admitted I’ve been lying about my feelings for him for months—maybe even years—and all you have to say about it is ‘he needs you’?”“Yes,” Steve said, shrugging like negotiating three-way relationships was a normal part of his morning routine. “And to be honest, I’m realizing that I need you too.”“I knew it!”“Knew what?”“You touched my dick on purpose!” Clint pointed at his crotch. “You did it last night too. You were rubbing my pubes with the back of your hand, and—”“I didn’t mean to touch your dick! Jesus!”The probability that everybody in the apartment—and possibly the entire floor—had heard Steve yell was off the charts. That, coupled with the way Steve was pinching his eyebrows together, made Clint smile.Kicking Steve’s foot, Clint said, “I hate you." Not because he was pissed about the dick touching or the polyamory, but because Steve was so goddamn earnest."Seriously?"“Seriously. But I also believe you.”“About me touching your dick?”Clint sighed. “No. About the three of us needing each other.” Somewhere in this apartment, Bucky was running around in a collar and cat socks, hating Clint for a thousand well-deserved reasons. And without Steve around to help cushion the blow, Clint didn’t know if he could fix it. Pizza and Mario Kart? Ice cream and porn? Yeah, that shit wasn’t gonna cut it this time. Fuck, even with Steve around to slap Neosporin onto the spots where the skin had been ripped off, Clint’s relationship with Bucky was probably a lost cause. “He’s never going to forgive me,” Clint said, flexing his feet until the muscles cramped. “And neither will Nat.”Leaning his head back against the mattress, Steve stared at the broken lamp, the ugly painting… or nothing as he said, “I don’t know about Natasha. To me, she’s always come across as somebody who doesn’t put up with any bullshit. And this shit with Bucky?”“It doesn’t get much shittier.”“Yeah.” Suddenly Steve was looking at Clint with his big, blue peepers, which was both wildly uncomfortable and… soothing? “But if you just talk to Bucky—if you cut the shit and tell him the truth—I think he’ll come around.”The truth. That meant telling Bucky about the girl from the archery tournament, about Melody Lanes, about what Clint had hidden in his bottom drawer. Sighing, Clint picked up a strawberry stem and squished it between his fingers, rolling it back and forth until it disintegrated into nothing. Then he picked up another one, and another, and another, until Steve said, “I understand, by the way,” and folded his knees up to his chest. “Understand what?”There was a moment when they just stared at each other. Steve at Clint. Clint at Steve’s eyebrows. And maybe they both needed that. A pause before Steve revealed the ultimate truth.Picking up a strawberry stem, Steve took a deep breath and said, “Bucky makes falling in love with him the easiest thing in the world.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Steve’s take on the situation was simple. Clint Barton was a disaster. The two of them had been lying here for quite some time, Clint on the floor and Steve on the bed, defusing. Maybe they were both thinking about their respective futures with Bucky. Or maybe they were thinking about how Steve had accidentally touched Clint's dick. Either way, it was crowded.But between Clint's shocking revelation—which, honestly, wasn’t that shocking—and Bucky’s emotional reaction, one thing was clear. Bucky and Clint were a package deal.Steve scratched his stomach, trying to decide if he was annoyed, pissed, or relieved. It was always good to get to the bottom of things, to know what you were dealing with, even if it made the situation more complex. Now, all Steve had to do was figure out how to incorporate an emotionally fucked-up archer with nipple piercings into his brand-new relationship.Turning his head on the pillow, Steve studied Clint’s profile. The nose that looked like it had been broken a few times. The gauge that was big enough to stick a pencil through. The jagged scar on his forehead, just below his hairline. The way his hearing aid looped over his ear. Clint’s features had so much character that Steve couldn’t help but wonder what he’d looked like when he’d been younger. At what age had he started wearing eighty-nine percent black? Had he come out of the womb with a mohawk? What had made him decide to embrace weed as a lifestyle? And when exactly had he decided that he couldn't let himself love his best friend? It would be easy to be mad, but with the way Clint was staring at the ceiling and working his jaw, it was easier for Steve to see himself. “Why are you staring at me?”Continuing to stare, Steve said, “I’m not.” “Dude, I can fucking feel your eyes on me.”“Fine. I was thinking about how this would make a good drawing. You, lying in a minefield of strawberry stems and chocolate scraps, your edges vibrating with uncertainty.”Clint scoffed.“But then again, my head’s killing me, so that could just be my messed-up psyche feeding me bullshit disguised as art.”“You’re the most pretentious person I’ve ever met,” Clint said, eating a piece of chocolate off the floor. “And you’re weird.”“Weird?”“Yeah. Anybody who says shit like ‘your edges vibrating with uncertainty’ is fucking weird.”Steve was about to defend himself, even though Clint was right, when Bucky kicked open the door and shouted, “I’m back, bitches!” When he stormed into the room, Steve was shocked by how tight Bucky’s jeans were. They were barely covering his ass, and the button, straining from the pressure of Bucky’s ninja moves, was seconds away from popping off and flying across the room. Judging by the shredded denim, questionable fit, and three inches of ankle sticking out of the bottom, they were Clint's. And that, coupled with the fact that Bucky was still shirtless and wearing his collar, made Steve laugh out loud. God, the teasing from Tony was going to be brutal."Attention boyfriend and best friend," Bucky said, jumping over Clint’s legs and landing next to the bed. "I have wonderful news."There were six unwrapped Pop Tarts in Bucky’s hand, and he was smiling like Steve hadn’t screwed everything up with the collar, the sex, the sugar, and, worst of all, his very first I love you.“We’re going to the motherfuckin’ beach!”For a second, Steve didn’t know if Bucky was talking about his metaphorical beach, with its piña coladas and powdered-sugar sand, but then Bucky said, “Tony had his superhot assistant drop off a gazillion bathing suits, like...Boom! Boom! Bam!...and mine’s got these kick-ass palm trees and stripes on the ass,” rooting the conversation firmly in reality.“I hate the beach,” Clint said, running his hands through his hair as he spread it out on the carpet.Bucky snorted. “No, you don’t. You just hate the water ‘cause you’re afraid of sharks.”“I’m not afraid of sharks, dumbass. I’m afraid of drowning.”“Pfft. Steve will save you. Won’t you, baby?” Doing a full spin, Bucky set two Pop Tarts on Steve’s chest, one on each pec. “You’re a regular David Hasselhoff.”There were voices coming from the living room. Sam’s deep laugh. The girl… Chloe, saying, “Oh, this turquoise one is cute.” Tony yelling something about dog leashes and Fifty Shades of Grey. But the only voice that mattered was Bucky’s when he leaned over and whispered, “I’m glad I’m yours.” “You’re mine?” Steve asked, not quite believing that something like that could be possible.Kissing Steve’s forehead, Bucky said, “Yep, Stevie, all yours,” before he bit into the rest of the Pop Tarts like a club sandwich. "By the way,” he said, spewing crumbs all over Steve’s chest, “I like your shirt." And that’s how Steve learned that he’d accidentally put on Bucky’s Power Bottom tank top, and that Clint, who was a total tool, hadn’t said shit.“No worries,” Bucky said, poking Steve’s nipple, “I’ll be your bottom until the end of time. Unless that’s your way of sayin’ you wanna switch it up. ‘Cause, hell yeah, flip fuck! Let’s go!” “Um…”Bucky didn’t give Steve time to freak out about the possibility of bottoming. He just spun around, showing Steve exactly how tight the jeans were when he said, “Yo, dickface, why’s your ass so much smaller than mine?” and dropped a Pop Tart onto Clint’s stomach like a bomb.“Because I’m smaller than you.”“Fuck, dude, eat some donuts. Preferably a thousand-calorie paczki.” Squatting down—and revealing at least three inches of ass crack—Bucky set a second Pop Tart onto Clint’s forehead. “Anyways, I brought you a breakfast surprise. It’s strawberry, which, in case you didn’t know, is the best kind of Pop Tart.” “Of course, it’s strawberry,” Clint said, leaving the Pop Tart exactly where it was. “I know, right? I almost shit myself when I saw ‘em in the pantry.” Bucky slid the Pop Tart down and balanced it on Clint’s nose. “I mean, from what I can remember, you guys fed me a fuck-ton of super-expensive strawberries, so I’m returning the favor in pastry form.”When Clint took the Pop Tart off his nose and bit off another corner, Steve could see the confusion in his eyes. And maybe a little bit of hope.Hopping to his feet, Bucky didn’t bother pulling up the jeans. In fact, the only thing keeping them up when he said, “Eat up, losers,” was the root of his dick. “Tony said the los limo’s pickin’ us up in twenty minutes so we can frolic in the sand, throw frizzy frisbeéloñies, eat a shit-ton Nathan’s hotdogs, build super-tall sandcastles, feed Wonder Bread to the seagulls, swim with the sea turtles, drink beer out of those koozie things Tony had at his white trash—”“But—” “But nothing, Clint! I’ve got big plans to throw Scott into the water—like, over and over and over—‘cause he’s out there talkin’ about Steve’s dick, which isn’t as cool as it sounds.”Clint sighed, poking the Pop Tart where Bucky had taken a bite. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna pretend nothing happened?” “Nooo... I’m gonna get sand in my buttcrack, shove a big-ass hot dog into my boyfriend’s mouth, and throw Scott into the water. Then, after we’ve had the bestest beach day ever, you’re gonna tell me everything. And I mean everything.” Bucky, who was double fisting the last two Pop Tarts, took a bite out of each. “But not today later. I mean, like, later later. Like Tuesday, ‘cause I’m pretty sure this hangover’s gonna carry over to tomorrow. Then, on Wednesday—after I’ve smoked a shitton of weed—we’re gonna talk about my sister. Oh man, are we gonna talk about her.”“Bucky...”
“Clint…”
Steve had no idea if this conversation was going well or if it was about to take a sharp turn. He sat up, just in case.“Listen,” Bucky said, getting crumbs in his chest hair and pubes. “Wanna feel bad for a minute? Okay, fine. Go.” He took another bite. “One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi..."Clint rolled his eyes, but he didn’t do anything to stop the count. In fact, he let Bucky get all the way to the end."Sixty!" Kicking Clint’s side—lightly, this time—Bucky said, "Now, c’mon, boys. Let’s go strangle our balls with some swimsuits, stick our toes into the sand, and...Boom!...score some Bomb Pops.”“You know I love Bomb Pops,” Clint said.Extending his hand, Bucky said, "That's right, I do! Remember last summer when I puked over the side of the boardwalk? That was so fucked up.” “Yeah, you stole Daisy’s cookies ‘n' cream Dippin' Dots, ate five Bomb Pops in a row, and puked all over the protected turtle area." Clint took Bucky’s hand. “But that was two summers ago, dumbass. And besides endangering an endangered species, it was a huge waste of money."After hauling Clint to his feet, Bucky asked, "What about you, Stevie? Do you like Bomb Pops?" Luna Park on a hot summer day.The Blue Angels buzzing the beach on the Fourth of July.Red, white, and blue dripping down a wooden stick onto much smaller hands.Steve smiled because he'd almost forgotten. “Yeah, baby, I like Bomb Pops."“Fuck yeah!” Bucky said, grabbing Steve’s hand and yanking him off the bed. “Then it’s settled. Bomb Pop Party! Bam! Boom! Kaboom! Let’s see if Tony can deepthroat.”* It was weird being back here.Coney Island.Luna Park.Steve hadn't been here in years.He was trailing behind everybody else as they walked down the winding path toward the beach, trying to balance the mountain of shit Tony had piled on top of him. Two bottles of waterproof sunscreen, a handful of neon frisbees, a cooler filled with ice, beer, and Gatorade, and, worst of all, a giant, inflatable unicorn around his neck that Tony and Macaulay had blown up in the limo—only to realize that they’d have to partially deflate it to get it out of the limo.And now, the horn was poking Steve’s ear.To be honest, after Tony’s freakout about Steve and his harem defiling his buttberries—Tony’s words, not his—Steve hadn’t been overly optimistic about the rest of the day. But as soon as the limo had pulled up in front of the building, stuffed to the gills with submarine sandwiches, colorful, striped towels, a full-size beach umbrella, and an endless array of buckets, shovels, and toys, Steve had embraced the insanity. Chuckling, he adjusted the unicorn. Poor Margarita. He could only imagine how embarrassed she must have been wheeling a shopping cart full of clearance-rack beach gear past the Halloween displays. Sure, the Starks paid her a hefty salary to deal with Tony, but stuffing an enormous beach umbrella through the limousine’s sunroof on her day off had to be worth an extra week’s vacation. At least.“Steve-o! Move your ass!” Speak of the devil.Tony was yelling at Steve from the front of the pack, waving his shit-free hands around while Steve struggled to stand. Avoiding eye contact, Steve stopped to adjust his grip on the cooler, but all he managed to do was nearly poke out his eye with the horn. The only thing that saved him from wearing a permanent eye patch was the mirrored aviators he'd bought Bucky at Tom Ford. The ones Bucky had said were too posh to wear to the beach.“Chop, chop, Steve-o,” Tony said, clapping his hands together like Steve was on the payroll. “I need to rub that sunscreen you’re carrying on Macaulay’s butt before his cheeks turn as red as my missing strawberries. You know, the ones Macaulay didn’t get to eat!”The strawberry thing wasn’t going away anytime soon, and neither were the jokes about the collar. Tony had already called Bucky Lassie, Pluto, Benji, Toto, Beethoven, Odie, Astro, and Clifford the Big Red Dog. And that was just since they’d left the apartment.Bucky had laughed, throwing in a couple of good-natured woofs as he’d punched the unicorn in the face. But Steve...Let’s just say that the combination of dog names, unwieldy frisbees, and deltoid-tearing coolers—plus the way Tony was chest bumping Clint, even though the guys arms were full of sandwiches and Doritos— inspired Steve to shout, “Shut the fuck up, Tony, I’m moving as fast as I can with this Goddamn unicorn strangling my neck!” even though a frail-looking elderly couple was shuffling past with matching straw hats and matching canes.“Unicorn, schmoonicorn,” Tony said, slapping Macaulay’s ass. “I need your superhuman lung capacity to blow up Mac Attack’s water wings. He’s all worn out from blowing up the unicorn and blowing my penishorn. Blow ups and blowjobs require a lot of air, Steve-o, and I can't have Dick 1.0 drowning on our first official date."The cooler slipped out of Steve’s hand and landed on his toe.“Motherfucker!” Hopping around on one foot, Steve continued to offend beachgoers of all ages with a never-ending stream of, “shit, shit, shit.”By this point, everybody but Sam had gathered around Tony at the end of the path, and all of them—Bucky included—were staring at Steve like he was cockblocking their end-of-summer fun. And maybe he was. But it was really fucking hard to do cartwheels in the sand and search for shiny seashells after busting your big toe with a fifty-pound cooler.“Too slow, Steve-o!” Tony slapped Bucky’s ass. “I’m gonna go ahead and have Fucky B, aka the caboose in your gay-sex train, blow up Macaulay’s water wings with Glen Danzig, who I’m assuming was the middle car. I mean, I can’t picture you as anything else other than The Big Engine That Could, Steve-o. Chugga-chugga choo-choo! ”There was a lot to unpack in that insinuation, but Steve’s toe was fucking throbbing, Scott was yelling, “ Choo-choo!” on loop, and Bucky— “Choo-choo! Look, Stevie, I’m a train!”Bucky was running in circles around Clint and Scott, whistling like a train barreling through an intersection, and Tony was cackling like a madman. It was too much to process. Too much noise. But before Steve could dive headfirst into a panic attack on the Coney Island shore, Tony slapped Clint’s ass, grabbed Macaulay’s and Chloe’s hands, and jogged off toward the Atlantic.Blowing out a long, slow breath, Steve let the train whistles fade into the distance.Was Tony an asshole? Yes. Was he insufferable? Absolutely. But beyond that, there was no denying that he was a good friend. Why else would he have had Margarita buy dozens of bikinis, one-pieces, and beach wraps in every possible size, shape, and color just so a girl he’d met last night could go to the beach? As Chloe tried to keep up with Tony in her turquoise bikini, Steve could tell by the spring in her step that she was smiling. And that in turn made Steve smile. It was a welcome reminder that Tony, despite the never-ending nicknames, rampant alcohol consumption, train jokes, and overall abrasive personality, should always be known as a kind and thoughtful person. “You coming, babe?”Tony may have run off with Macaulay and Chloe, but Bucky was still standing at the end of the path with Clint and Scott. Or, more precisely, Clint and Scott were still standing at the end of the path while Bucky danced to an invisible melody, rolling his hips like he’d never left the dance floor. “These buckets are cuttin’ off my circulation!”While Tony had weighed Steve down with a flaccid unicorn and a toe-killing cooler, he’d lined Bucky’s arms with a dozen bright-red, canary-yellow, and iguana-green buckets, complete with matching shovels. And now, as Bucky danced with his arms spread wide, they were swinging back and forth like Chinese lanterns in the late-summer breeze.Pretentious or not, if Steve hadn’t left his phone in the limo, he would’ve snapped a picture, capturing the whimsey of the moment to put inside their very first frame. "Well, this seems like as good a time as any," Sam said, dropping a volleyball, a football, another volleyball, and a sack of hacky sacks into the tall grass along the edge of the walkway. "Ditch the unicorn, Steve. It’s time for you and me to have a serious discussion about your recent life decisions."There was no way Bucky could have heard what Sam had said, but he stopped mid spin, the buckets banging together as he turned back with a face full of questions. To be honest, it took Steve’s breath away. The stillness of the air. The pause. The way the loose strands of Bucky’s hair seemed frozen in place, like his tornado topknot had screeched to a halt. It was almost as if their movements had become tethered, the action of one directly affecting the motion of the other.But existential musings weren’t on Sam’s agenda. "Go ahead,” Sam said, waving Bucky off with a flick of his wrist. “We’ll catch up." For a second, it looked like Bucky wasn’t going to move. It was in the way he straightened his spine and hunched his shoulders forward, the tension in his chest visible from more than ten yards away. But then, like somebody had flipped a switch, he spread his arms like Christ himself, giving Sam the finger as the buckets clanged together with the bang-bang-bang that only plastic provides. Fake plastic trees. Fake plastic buckets. It was all the same when it came to illusions. And when Bucky smiled, shouting, “Later, gators,” before shoving Clint and Scott into the crowd, Steve couldn’t pretend that he didn’t taste something artificial. Something… wrong.“Finally!” Sam yanked the unicorn over Steve’s head and tossed it onto a fence post. “Now, drop the rest of that shit because this intervention’s long overdue.”“But Bucky—”“But Bucky, nothing,” Sam said, stepping in front of him and physically blocking Steve’s view. “This is about you, and it’s happening now.”Steve dropped the fucking frisbees and prepared for the worst. He’d been on the receiving end of Sam's lectures before. After Alexander had stepped on Steve’s hand last Christmas. After Alexander had pushed him down the stairs for smiling wrong at the Metropolitan Opera’s Opening Night Gala. After Steve had slept in his truck with a fucked-up elbow instead of calling Sam. This wasn’t anything new. Steve knew exactly what he was in for.Making a fist, Sam held it in front of Steve’s nose. "Man, you've lost your damn mind, and I’m here to get your ass back on track.” He stuck his thumb up like he was hitchhiking. “See this thumb? Since you’ve been struggling with basic self-preservation skills lately, I’m gonna use all five of my fingers as a helpful visual aid. You know... count things out to make sure there’s no misunderstanding.” "Come on, Sam,” Steve said, backing away from the unicorn as much as the fist. “We’re at the beach. Can't we just enjoy—""No. You've done so much dangerous shit this week that I don’t even know where to start. Oh, I've got it!” Sam touched Steve’s nose with his thumb. “How about coming out in the most dramatic way possible? Not only was half the school watching it live, but everybody else, including the teachers, the entire Tri-State Area, and my little sisters, got to watch it hundreds—if not thousands—of times online.”Steve was trying to pay attention—really, he was—but the armpits of Sam’s t-shirt were getting damper by the second. It looked like waterfalls of sweat were pouring out of his pits.“So tell me. How could you have thought that a big, flashy spectacle was the way to go for somebody in your situation? Alexander had literally burned your arm that morning—scorched off the Goddamn skin—and, according to you, he'd done it because you weren’t taking Sharon to the dance. Sharon, Steve. Think about that for a second. See if anything clicks." Sam didn’t give him a second."I've been holding my tongue and letting you do your thing. But after walking in on whatever the hell I walked in on this morning, I can't do it anymore. You’ve got to make me understand how a wrist full of blisters didn’t make you question coming out like that.”Swallowing the mixture of vodka and Pop Tarts that was bubbling up the back of his throat, Steve glanced at the swath of skin on his wrist that was pinker than the rest. The truth was, he hadn’t thought about Alexander at all. He hadn't felt the blisters filling with yellow fluid as Bucky had unwrapped the Walkman, and there'd been no awareness of the skin pulling taut as Steve had buckled all nine cuffs to declare his intent. The only thing Steve had been thinking of in that magical moment had been getting Bucky to forgive him and making Bucky his."I'm gonna take that as a no," Sam said, pulling Steve closer to the fence to allow the backlog of beachgoers to get by. "Ready for the index finger?""Not really."When Sam cranked it up, making the infamous sign for loser, the sweat from his pits was almost down to his waist. "I know damn well that you bought Bucky’s suit on Alexander’s tab—Tom Ford, if I’m not mistaken—and I know exactly why you kept that juicy tidbit of information to yourself.” Looking toward the ocean, Steve searched for a pod of pink dolphins on the horizon, wondering if Bucky had spotted one yet.“You knew I would’ve sat your ass down and told you that it was suicidal to wave a red flag in front of an angry bull. I would’ve said that spending, what? Twenty grand on your boyfriend—emphasis on boy—was the equivalent of shouting ‘come on, bull, charge on over here and rip my intestines out with your gigantic horns.’”Sam was right, of course. Alexander was going to find out about the suits—if he hadn't already—and Steve would only have himself to blame for what came next. But this was about more than Alexander goring Steve in a modern-day coliseum.Four scratches on a shiny, blue suit. Four scratches on a target of Steve's creation. The reckoning with Alexander was inevitable. That much was true. But Sam was wrong about the victim. Bucky had already been impaled against the walls of the arena, his lungs punctured by the horns of a different bull. Bucky, not Steve.“Let me introduce you to my ring finger," Sam said as the sweat from his neck made a heart shape between his pecs. "I support this thing you've got going on with Bucky. Really, I do.”“Sam, I—”“But did you really need to roll into Homecoming with him like that? Bring him? Sure. Dance with him? Why not? But making out in the doorway and grabbing his ass? There was a literal spotlight on you, Steve.” Sam shook his head, and behind him, the unicorn did too. “Why'd you have to go and put yourself on blast like that?”To show Bucky that he was proud to be with him. To make a statement. To be romantic. “And I'm not talking about the teachers, although I'm sure they'll be thrilled to know you’re screwing the principal’s son the next time they grade your homework. And I'm not talking about the entire school getting an encore presentation of what your tongue looks like when you stick it down Bucky’s throat. Man, I'm not even talking about how you gave the people who hate us now—and there’s quite a few—another reason to shit on us.” Sam’s voice was louder than the ocean. Louder than the echo of the buckets on the fake plastic breeze.“Notice that I said us, Steve, because when people shit on you, they’re usually shitting on me too. Not sure if you noticed that."He hadn't."I'm not talking about any of that, even though I should be. I'm talking about all the ammunition you tossed into those pricks’ laps. The ammunition they’re using to hurt our friends." Taking his phone out of his pocket, Sam waved it around. "Judging by the look on your face, I'm guessing you haven't been online."Steve hadn't."Well, they're obliterating you. And Peggy. And Sharon."The unicorn was drooping on the fence post, its happy-go-lucky face distorting in the boiling hot sun. And the horn— Fuck. The horn was getting longer and longer, melting and dripping like ice cream onto the sun-bleached wood. "Now, Peggy’s a big girl who can clap back all day long without breaking a nail, but Sharon? They're calling her a beard. Saying she was so bad in bed that she turned you gay. All sorts of shit."Steve cringed. One, because Sharon didn’t deserve that. Sure, she was annoying, but Steve’s limp dick was his fault, not hers. And two, because the entire unicorn had turned into a goopy, white ooze, the liquid pooling around Steve’s feet like frosting from a freshly baked cinnamon bun—if frosting made your skin bubble and burn.Sam’s phone went back into his pocket, but his hand—with its judgmental fingers—stayed exactly where it was. "I'm not saying that it's your job to make everybody feel good about themselves, because it’s not. But sometimes you just don't think. Sometimes you get so wrapped up in an idea that you become blind to how it impacts the people around you."Flipping the lid off the cooler, Steve grabbed two handfuls of ice.“I’m not trying to ruin your day. I just—”Sam squinted at Steve. Or, more precisely, at the way Steve was rubbing ice all over his chest."Okay, I'm just gonna ignore that. Listen, man, I'd never tell you to hide who you are. I'm glad that you're… I don't know, figuring yourself out. But Brock—who’s apparently the biggest homophobe on the planet—was there, watching you. He’s the one who started booing, you know. Him and Rollins."Steve needed more ice."I just think you're poking at bears. Big ones. And if you poke long enough—especially with the sharp sticks you’ve been pulling out of your ass—they're eventually gonna wake up."All the pink dolphins in the world couldn’t stop the pain of knowing that Sam, without any knowledge of what had happened at the fucking dance, had seen Brock coming. Sam had seen it, and Steve hadn't.The unicorn goo was pooling around Steve’s feet, entering the soles through the cracks in his burnt skin. And Steve, whose legs had been filled with Bucky’s rainbows, suddenly felt heavy.Clint had called him a poet. A wielder of metaphors and analogies and bullshit. And if Steve, with his motherfucking ravens and ink-filled quill, were to pen a tragic verse about his failures, he'd compare his nativity to the currents of air spiraling across the planet in predictable patterns.This time, when Steve grabbed two handfuls of ice, he stuck it down the front of his swim trunks.Steve was a fucking idiot. Instead of understanding the flow of nature, that in order to achieve balance, even the brightest of lights were inevitably followed by the darkest shadows, Steve had been blinded by the sun when the clouds had been lacking. Or if Steve threw the fucking poet off a four-story building, he’d say it was his fault that Bucky got hurt.Trading the ice cubes for a blue Gatorade, Steve said, “I think I’m going to pass out,” before chugging the entire bottle in one go. Between the sun, the hangover, Sam’s ‘helpful’ visual aid, and the unicorn goo, it was only a matter of time before Steve ended up flat on his back in the sand. And not the good kind of sand, where Bucky’s powdered sugar would cushion the blow. The bad kind, filled with sharp rocks, unicorn guts, and lobsters that had been boiled alive. But Sam’s fist didn’t care. Putting up the pinky, he said, “This next one’s waaay too big for my pinky finger, but I’m saving a certain finger for last, if you know what I mean.”Since the middle finger was all that was left, Steve understood completely.“That shit with Bucky and Clint in the limo yesterday? You wanna tell me what that was about?” Sam was trying to catch Steve’s eye, but Steve was too busy watching the bubbles form on his feet. “It's no secret that you aren’t always the most stable person, Steve, but that shit was out of control. And that mark on Bucky's face? Don't think I didn't see that. Nice letting me know what happened there. I really appreciate it.”Like, Steve was feeling really, really sick."Okay, now watch closely 'cause I'm cranking up the middle finger.""Sam, I don't—""You need to clarify how exactly you got the bright idea to fuck not just one dude, but two. Two dudes, Steve! What kind of twisted shit did Bucky drag—”“Sam, that’s not—” “Two weeks ago you were doing whatever you were doing with Sharon. Then, over the course of one weekend, you decide to have sex with a guy. And that’s fine. I get it. You’re into him." There was so much sweat pouring down Sam’s face that Steve wanted to hand him a Gatorade. Or maybe shove some ice down the front of his pants."But you figure out you’re gay and, just like that, you’re the most sexually active person I know? And I’m including Ezra and Tony in that equation. Ezra, who snaps his fingers and gets a blowjob, and Tony, who’s a full-blown sex addict. And I’m still fine. I’m still supporting your awakening. But then your naked boyfriend goes and strolls out of the bedroom wearing a dog collar and steals an entire box of Pop Tarts like it’s no big deal!" Steve snorted. He couldn’t help it. It was the ice, the goo, the nausea, the sweat dripping off the tip of Sam’s nose, and, most of all, the Pop Tarts.Swiping his arm across his forehead, Sam flung a tsunami of sweat at what was left of the unicorn. “I’m trying really hard to be on board with this relationship—really, I am—but now that you’re having threesomes with a couple of nutjobs who spend most of their time being dicks to each other, I just can’t.” When Sam flipped up his t-shirt to wipe his face, it didn’t help. The sweat was unstoppable.“Not to mention Natasha. I never, in a million years, would’ve thought you’d do something like this to her.”“Sam—”“I can’t keep up, man. I can’t—”“Sam, I didn’t have a threesome.”“Right. You expect me to believe that after what I saw?”Laughing, Steve said, “It was an accident. I got carried away with some sex stuff, and—” Steve had no idea how to explain it, so he didn’t even try. “I screwed up, and Clint helped me fix it. That’s it. That’s all it was. I did not have sex with Clint Barton.” Come to think of it, Steve didn't even know how that would've worked. Suddenly his mind was filled with the ups and downs, the ins and outs, the tops and the bottoms, and, Jesus Christ… the switches.Chugga-chugga choo-choo.Steve needed more ice. Immediately. And a leash for his Goddamn imagination. When Sam dropped all five fingers onto the railing, Steve dunked both hands into the cooler. And because Steve’s brain was a real asshole, it started counting the second he thrust a blue Gatorade into Sam’s hand. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.And counting.Thirteen Mississippi.Sam chugged the whole thing, waiting until a family with a double stroller had passed to let out an enormous burp. “I’d like to believe you, Steve. For my sake and yours. But that shit sounded like an excuse I’d give my mama if she caught me jerking off to one of her lingerie catalogues. But for my own sanity, I’m moving on."Eighteen Mississippi. "What about the rest?” Sam asked, stripping off his t-shirt and dropping it onto the football with a splat. “Fingers one through four?”Steve didn’t hesitate. “You’re probably right about those.”“Damn straight.” They stood there for at least sixty more Mississippis, drinking another round of Gatorades—lime green this time—until Steve’s feet stopped burning and Sam looked slightly less hot.“Chloe seems nice," Steve said, searching the crowd for any signs of where Bucky might have gone. But all he could see was a sea of umbrellas, sun hats, and beach blankets. Hopefully, Bucky had found a piece of prime seaside real estate and was already building an enormous sandcastle with his buckets. That or burying Clint in the sand.“Good segue. Very smooth." Sam rolled his eyes. “Yes, she’s very nice. But I, unlike everyone else I know, like to keep my love life private.”“Love life, huh?”“You heard me.”Throwing his empty bottle into the cooler, Steve laughed. “So you’re not going to tell me anything?”“Nope.”“C’mon, Sam. You saw me in a very compromising position this morning.”“Oh, you mean with the penises.”“Yes, with the penises.” Steve kicked one of the frisbees into the grass. “So I think you should at least tell me if you like her.”Sighing, Sam picked up the volleyball, the football, his soaking-wet t-shirt, a bottle of sunscreen, and the other volleyball before he said, “You ruined strawberries for me, Steve. Strawberries and Thanksgiving. For the rest of my life, when I’m sitting at the table with Sylvie and Bre, Aunt Flo and Uncle Eddie, my cousins, my dad, Grandma Wilson, Grandma Riley, and Great-Grandma Lorraine, eyeing my mama’s strawberry-rhubarb pie, I’m gonna think about all the despicable things you and Bucky probably did with those berries. So, yeah, you get nothing.” Pulling the unicorn off the pole, Sam stuck it over Steve’s head. Luckily, Sam’s smile had returned the plastic to a solid state, allowing Steve to ask, “Are you going to date her?” without his shoulders sizzling like a New York strip.“Ha. Nice try,” Sam said, adding the hacky sacks to his pile. “The only thing I’ll say is that she’s way too smart for me. She’s a sophomore at Vassar.”“A college girl.” “Yeah, a college girl.”“Well,” Steve said, doing his best to dodge the unicorn horn. “If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you’re always up for a challenge.”*Tony was full of original ideas, but spending one last day at the beach before the weather turned wasn’t one of them. As Steve wove his way through the maze of beach chairs, screaming children, and inflatable rafts, doing his best to clear a path for Sam to follow, it seemed like half of New York had filled their coolers with bologna sandwiches and Pabst Blue Ribbon, slathered on the sunscreen, and made their way to the shore.The only reason Steve managed to spot Tony and his mountain of beach toys was because Scott screamed, “Cowabunga!” as Bucky and Clint launched him off their shoulders into a big wave. And just like that, the last of the unicorn goo turned into coconut sunscreen, protecting Steve’s skin instead of burning it like hellfire. Smiles. Laughter. Boys being boys in the late-summer sun.“Steve-o! Sam-I-Am! Get over here! My penis-possessing paramour’s in need of Team Cap’s rippling muscles.”Tony was sprawled out on a pink-and-white striped towel, spritzing himself with Banana Boat SPF 50 as Macaulay and Chloe wrestled with the beach umbrella. It was rude, self-serving, and blatantly obnoxious. In other words, typical Tony.Dropping the balls next to Tony’s head, Sam said, “I see you’ve been too busy getting drunk and building rockets—or whatever it is you do—to learn what chivalry means.” Then, like a knight in shining armor, he took the umbrella out of Macaulay’s hands.“Hey, I’m chivalrous!” Tony tossed the football at Sam’s ass. “I called you over here to help, didn’t I?” There was laughter all around as Chloe made the hole bigger, Sam planted the umbrella deep enough to hit bedrock, and Macaulay—with a pathetic assist from Tony’s left foot—filled it back up.Steve was grateful for the distraction. It meant that he could drop the sunscreen, the frisbees, the stupid unicorn, and the toe-killing cooler and settle into his surroundings. Grabbing two towels off the top of the towering pile—one with yellow stripes, one with blue—Steve wandered toward the edge of the continent.There was too much history here for Steve to stay in the present. Too many memories to leap directly into the future.Once he’d found a relatively empty spot, Steve spread out the blue-and-white rectangle, made himself a yellow-and-white pillow, and stretched out on the Coney Island sand. With Bucky’s mirrored sunglasses, it was easy to pretend that his eyes were closed, but the truth was, they were wide open.The white-feathered seagulls squawking overhead were a welcome relief from the darkness of Steve’s shadows. As were the lighthearted sounds of children splashing in the water, dogs—big and small—barking in the distance, and the eclectic mix of hip-hop, salsa, reggae, and Top 40 floating on the breeze. Watching the seagulls fly in circles overhead, Steve began to track the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, trying to figure out the timing between the crest and the trough.If he listened closely enough, maybe he’d be able to find her in the ocean.Steve scoffed. Writing melodramatic poetry inside his head was so fucking pompous. So predictable. But Coney Island did that to him, despite not having set foot on this rocky shore since his mother's final Fourth of July.Scooping up two handfuls of sand, Steve closed his eyes. It was more like sand plus. Sand plus pebbles. Sand plus rocks. Sand plus toxic particles that had floated down from the oil refineries. But regardless of its inability to pass for Bucky’s powdered-sugar sand, Steve still enjoyed the warmth of the particles as they sifted through his fingers.Perfect piña coladas and idyllic waterfalls were amazing, no doubt, but in Steve’s mind, flaws were superior to the ironed-out wrinkles of fantasy. Flaws, with their quirks and curiosities, were often the most beautiful part.As Steve dug for pebbles, his fingers quickly finding one, then another, he allowed himself to drift to a place he hadn’t been in a very long time.
“I’m too old for sandcastles,” Steve said, scooping a shovelful of sand out of the moat they’d built. Eleven, going on twelve, was way too old for Steve to be crawling around on his hands and knees at the beach. But, cool or not, he was happy to spend the entire day building Camelot with his mom. It was fun.
Drizzling wet sand onto the tallest tower, she said, “You’re never too old for sandcastles,” with a smile that seemed smaller than it should be. “Now, help me stack these pebbles, Steven. We need to make this castle into a fortress.”
“A fortress,” Steve said, digging deeper as he searched for the invisible line where the ocean leached between the grains, dropping the temperature of the sand to something bearable. But all he found was a sharp-edged bottle cap, a broken clam shell, and the remnants of a Ziplock bag, none of which were suitable materials for building a fucking fortress.Suddenly the unmistakable voice of Justin Bieber—who just so happened to be singing about cold, cold water—interrupted Steve’s sad sandcastle story, reminding him that he needed to lighten the fuck up. This was the beach, not the cemetery.Turning his head just enough to see what everybody else was doing, Steve hoped that watching happy people doing happy-go-lucky beach things would overpower the depression, the mood swings, the hangover, the guilt about last night, the—“Stop,” Steve said. One, because he was being stupid. And two, because he was being fucking stupid.Sam was chasing Chloe along the water’s edge, jogging at just the right pace to let her stay a few feet ahead of him. They were both laughing. And her throaty giggle, mixed with the richness of Sam’s chuckle, was adding a countermelody to the rhythmic pattern of the waves. It was playful and fun—like an afternoon at the beach was supposed to be—and when Sam wrapped his arms around her waist and squeezed their bodies together, Steve was even more pissed that he’d left his phone in the limo. The way her turquoise bikini was contrasting against Sam’s dark skin would make a beautiful picture, their energy capturing the very essence of unexpected summer love.Steve sighed, squeezing his eyes shut as his hands dug deeper. If someone had taken a picture when Steve had, apparently, told Bucky that he loved him, it would have looked like a drunken orgy at a fucking frat house. Out of nowhere, ‘somebody’ ran past Steve’s feet, kicking up perfectly round pebbles, whole shells, and powdered-sugar sand. It didn’t matter that his eyes were closed, Steve knew it was Bucky. One of the first things he’d memorized about the Misfit King had was his footfalls. The hops that turned into spins. The intermittent handstands. The long, sexy strides where you could actually hear the swagger. But Bucky wasn’t alone. He was being chased by a pattern that Steve didn’t recognize. A clomp-clomp-clomp that was steady and strong, but also… light?Steve didn’t have to wait long for an answer.The second Bucky yelled, "Back off, dickface!" Steve knew it was Clint. Clint, who’d tucked his hair underneath Bucky’s Coors Light hat. Clint, who’d poured Bucky another glass of orange juice in the limo. Clint, who, despite eating a breakfast of chocolate scraps and lint, had cracked dog collar jokes with Tony, Scott, and Bucky for almost the entire drive.History. That’s what the two of them had. And when Clint ran past a second time, yelling, “Not until you give me that frisbee, douchebag,” Steve couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever get to that point with Bucky. This wasn’t about sandcastles washing away with the tide—or the fact that Bucky and Clint had sucked each other’s dicks—Steve was stuck on the depth of their history, and how, even in the midst of drama and confusion, it rendered them inseparable. “Oh, I’ll give you this frisbee, alright,” Bucky said as his footsteps got faster. “I’ll give it to you right in the nuts!”Their banter was so easy. So natural. And regardless of Steve’s Pop Tart conversation with the Jester, it made him question whether or not his newly formed tether with Bucky could keep their love from spiraling away in an end-of-summer storm.“For fuck’s sake.” Opening his eyes, Steve took his hands out of the fucking holes. He wasn’t pissed that Bucky was smiling and laughing as he whipped the frisbee at Clint’s dick or that Clint, after making the perfect catch, spun around like a Goddamn ballet dancer and whipped it right back. Steve was mad because his friends were having fun all around him while he dug holes in the sand, played with rocks and pebbles, and contemplated weather patterns like he worked for The Weather Channel. "C’mon, Scott! It’s a frisbee, not a 747. I know you can jump higher than that." Bucky had made a critical error in throwing the frisbee at Scott. One, because he had one hand buried in a bag of caramel corn, and two, because he was facing in the opposite direction.The frisbee had landed in the middle of what looked like a Jersey Shore reunion, which, between the steroids and short tempers, was just asking for a fight. But Scott just waltzed over, casual as casual could be, and said, “Sorry, bros,” as he grabbed the frisbee off an orange-skinned, spiky haired guido’s towel. A guido who looked a lot like Brock.“I’ll play on one condition,” Scott said, dropping the caramel corn onto the corner of Steve’s designated rectangle. “It’s gotta be chill frisbee. You know, like, slow motion… one-handed… easygoing… chillaxed.”Scott lobbed it back to Bucky, who immediately tried to decapitate Clint.And Steve, who was finding it harder and harder to get out of the fucking hole, got lost in the idea of decapitating Brock.Chainsaws, hacksaws, two-handed axes, glass vases that had been shattered in two. It took at least five minutes for Steve to put away the image of Brock’s head rolling down the boardwalk. In fact, the only thing that brought him back from the seventh circle was the whiz of the frisbee flying back and forth between the Misfit King, the Jester, and the Clown. The pattern of fast-fast-slow helped Steve to slow his breathing until each exhalation matched the timing of his Coney Island composition, the distant rumble of the Cyclone carrying him someplace he hadn’t allowed himself to go in a very long time.Freshly spun cotton candy.Winning a stuffed dinosaur by tossing a ring onto a bottle’s neck.Being just tall enough to ride the famous coaster.Letting his hands fall back into the holes he’d dug, Steve bit the inside of his cheek. Sam and Tony had tried to convince him to come here countless times since the spring of freshman year, but Steve had always made excuses. I need to squeeze in an extra workout before the meet. Alexander needs me to prance around at a business luncheon. I ate too much Taco Bell and there’s shit pouring out of my asshole. As far as they knew, Steve had never set foot anywhere near this beach until today.Steve added more pebbles to his piles, seeking symmetry, but nature had other ideas. The pile on the left was far bigger than the one on the right.Last May, when Luna Park had opened for the season, Peggy had been so excited for the two of them to go as a couple. She’d wanted the snow cones and funnel cakes, the silly photo booth pictures to hang in her locker, and the romantic ride on the Ferris wheel complete with a perfect kiss at the tippity top. And Steve had thought about it—really, he had—but in the end, he’d said no, making up another bullshit excuse about having to study for exams. Needless to say, it hadn’t gone over very well. Pissed beyond belief, Peggy had organized a trip for all their friends—guys included—passive-aggressively sending Steve a selfie with her lips firmly planted on Ezra’s cheek at the top of the Wonder Wheel. The accompanying text? So glad we could share this romantic moment, Steven.It had been the beginning of the end.While Peggy had spent the evening passive-aggressively riding the Seaside Swing with Tony and Scott, the pirate ship with Brock, Frank, and Jack, and the Astro Tower with Sam, Rhodey, and Banner, Steve had curled up inside his designated rectangle, staring at the picture he kept hidden beneath his mattress. For hours, he’d pretended that he’d been squeezing his mother’s hand as they’d waited in line for the Cyclone, remembering how the historic wood had creaked and groaned every time the coaster had screamed past on the rails. And later, when Steve had started thinking about razors and knives, he’d placed books on his chest to mimic the feeling of his mother's arm stretching across his body. She’d always kept him from flying up against the safety bar as they’d barreled over the hills, and that night, her ghost had done the same. “Clint! Let’s see if we can do three frisbees at a time!”Bucky was on Steve’s right, laughing as he threw one, two, three frisbees at Clint. And the silliness of the moment made one thing perfectly clear. Steve would like to bring Bucky back here, just the two of them.The idea of waiting in line for the Cyclone without his mom had held Steve back for five summers, but with Bucky by his side…Steve took a deep breath.With Bucky by his side, anything seemed possible.Walking the switchback path with somebody he loved would be a return to the past, where each step doubled as a timeline, paying tribute to a hundred year’s worth of ghostly feet moving forward to take their ride. But it would also be a trip to the future, where Bucky's bright-green sneakers would dance their way to the front of the line. A future where Steve could put his arm across Bucky’s chest to keep him safe. Knocking over the piles of pebbles, Steve realized his heart was going a little too fast, that his breaths were a bit too shallow. But it wasn’t a panic attack. It was the realization that his mother’s history could remain intact while Steve created new memories with somebody special.Somebody his mother would’ve loved.
The line for the Cyclone was really, really long, but Steve was too excited to care. He’d been waiting to ride the big coaster for what felt forever, and now, he was finally getting his chance. “How much longer do you think it’s gonna take?” he asked, tugging on his mom’s backpack.
“A while,” she said, ruffling his hair as they took another step forward, “but I promise it’ll be worth the wait.” His mom looked up at the coaster as it cranked its way to the top of the first hill. “I’ve got it. How about we play the Alph abet Game to pass the time?”
“I love the Alphabet Game! What letter should we do?”
Steve had chosen the letter Q , and, that afternoon, they’d come up with an entire dictionary’s worth of words. Quarrel, quasar, quick, quarter, question . Without a doubt, if Steve asked Bucky to play his mother’s game, he would pick words like Harley Quinn and Q-tip to win the round.Suddenly Clint jumped backward over Steve’s chest, spraying sand that wasn’t quite powdered sugar all over Steve’s stomach. “Woah, dude, how’d you make that catch without taking out Steve?” Scott was back to playing one-handed, except instead of caramel corn, he was holding a tiny, battery-powered fan. “I mean, I understand the aim thing—‘cause you’re, like, an archer and stuff—but that was, wow… that was some gymnastics-level shit!”
Quake, quiver, quinoa.
When the neon-pink frisbee flew over Steve’s head, Bucky leapt into the air to catch it, his tornado topknot doing less and less to hold his hair in place. “Clint’s not dumb,” he said, tossing it back to Scott. “He knows if he hurts my main man, I’ll give him a swirly.” Qualify, quality, quantum. “What’s a swirly?” Scott asked as he lobbed the frisbee back to Clint. “Is that, like, a kind of drink or—”“No, Señor Scott. It’s when you shove your bestie’s head into the toilet and flush, like...Swoosh! ”
Quest, quill, quiet.
Steve tried to relax his jaw, telling himself not to compare swirling toilet water with swirling air, but his brain was an asshole. If Bucky’s island escape, with its absence of flaws and shit, were real, maybe Steve could lie here for days, happily learning words like swirly as he fed the seagulls and listened to Brandon Boyd.But that’s not how the flow of air worked. In the real world, blue skies couldn’t last forever and pink dolphins, with their innate sensitivity, knew enough to dive deep when they felt the pressure dropping.This was the calm before the fucking storm. This was their last perfect day.
Quilt, quiz, Quentin Tarantino.
The frisbee was flying in and out of Steve’s view, its zigzagging path superimposed against the sky like vapor trails from a hundred jets on their way to a hundred different destinations. Or a pod of pink dolphins who’d suddenly learned how to fly.Jesus fucking Christ. Enough!Propping himself up on his elbows, Steve pushed the polarized mirrors to the top of his head. Apparently, lying on the beach was good for his tan, not so much for his mental health.“Hey, look,” Clint said, launching the frisbee at Steve's stomach with a frightening level of precision. “The monkey in the middle woke up.” It was instinctive for Steve to snatch it out of the air, to stop the hard plastic from doing him harm. But after he’d stood up, he couldn’t stop himself from spinning the smooth, plastic edges counterclockwise like the inevitable storm. He couldn’t stop, even though his heart was begging him to hold it still. "Babe, throw it to me!" One final afternoon at the shore before winter sucked the life out of them."Dudes, is Steve, like… is he dehydrated or something? He's, um… he’s looking kinda pecker. Or is it peckish?"The final day to laugh at Scott’s mastery of the English language. "Bucky, why's your himbo boyfriend holding our frisbee hostage?"The final day for Clint and Steve to trade subtle barbs."Steve, are you okay?"The final day to listen to music on Incubus island, digging his toes into the sand to hold back the progression of time.
Quarry, quandary, quagmire.
Suddenly Bucky's hands were on him, touching his waist, his neck, and lightly slapping his cheek. And Steve, on this final perfect day, gripped the frisbee as tight as he could to stop its rotation."Steve, snap out of it.""I need a hot dog.""What?""I need to kill the analogies with processed meat and carbs."When Bucky squinted at Steve’s face, his sun-kissed cheeks helped to hide the handprint. But it was still there, red and pulsing like the vessels that had shot out of Steve’s fingertips. Jesus, maybe Scott was right. Maybe Steve was so dehydrated that his neurons had melted into a thick, sticky ooze, just like the motherfucking unicorn.“I’m spent anyway, bro,” Clint said, running up and slapping their shoulders. One slap for Bucky. One slap for Steve. "Want me to get you guys a Nathan’s hot dog? There’s a food truck up on the boardwalk. I can do the usual—extra ketchup all around—or are you more of a chili guy, Steve?” Steve loved chili dogs. But before he could open his mouth, Scott said, "I'd totally eat a hot dog,” and slapped all three of their shoulders. One slap for Steve. One for Bucky. And one extra-hard slap for Clint. “No ketchup though. Scout puts ketchup all over her eggs. Like, massive, massive amounts. And she puts ketchup on her turkey sandwiches, potato chips, roast beef, mashed potatoes, tacos, chicken pot pie, chicken tenders, chicken nuggets, chicken—”“Great! Let’s do this!” When Clint clapped his hands together, it was loud enough to make Bucky jump. “But, Scott, you've gotta come with me. And you’ve gotta pay. I gave my last ten to a guy named Damien."A glimmer of sunlight bounced off of Clint's nipple rings, and Steve couldn't help but wonder if they got hot. If the metal burned his nipples from the inside out."Steve, you’re gonna break the frisbee.” “What?”It was only after Bucky had pried the frisbee out of his hands that Steve realized that Clint and Scott had already jogged halfway to the boardwalk. That time, at the onset of a storm, runs faster and faster until the Mississippis turn into Ohios or Utahs or Maines. "I think you need a lil’ pep talk," Bucky said, tossing the frisbee at Tony, who, for some reason, was painting sunscreen onto Macaulay’s nipples like the swirls of A Starry Night. "You know, to distract you from your deep-rooted hatred of frisbees."Picking up a stick that had washed ashore, Bucky walked backward until he reached the water’s edge. Then, with long, sweeping strokes, he started carving enormous letters into the wet sand. It was a welcome reprieve. As Bucky twirled the stick between each letter like a Star Wars -obsessed drum major, Steve found himself wishing that he could create a time loop where he could watch his beautiful boyfriend—his something more—write messages in the sand for all of eternity. Whenever a rock or a shell got in the way, Bucky bent over to pick it up. But instead of piling them into miniature mountains of memory, Bucky launched each pebble, each rock, and each stone into the ocean with a powerful throw, casting them away from his sandy sentiment: I dig Steve. It was beautiful. The way his muscles flexed and rippled as the motion flowed through his body. The way the rocks skipped across the tops of the waves. The way Bucky’s laughter filled the final holes in Steve’s Coney Island composition.But beauty is deceptive. And in a hurricane, the air is calmest in the eye. The sky above Bucky was a cloudless blue—perfect and pure—but no matter how hard Steve tried to focus on the moment, he could see it looming.The eyewall.Steve wanted to warn him, to shout, “Bucky, run!” but when he opened his mouth, a waterfall of pebbles spilled off his tongue. Pebbles and blood from the sharp-edged bottle cap that Steve had swallowed in the seventh circle. The storm was building, winding itself into a dense wall that was pushing the storm surge in their direction. And while Bucky carved lines into the sand that meant something bigger, Steve could only watch as the Atlantic rose around his legs, engulfing the writing—eating it— as the ocean tore the stick from his hands. In an instant, the water surged past Bucky’s waist, then his neck, the sheets of rain whipping his hair across his face like black tentacles that had been charred by God himself. The drowning boy screamed for help, gurgling and choking on the salt, but Steve couldn’t get to him! He couldn’t fucking move! The waves had pushed Steve to the bottom, where all he could do was hold his breath as his face was battered by the rocks and pebbles from the mountain of things he’d ignored. Jumping into the air as he launched a particularly big stone, Bucky continued his perpetual dance, spinning and smiling with the innocence of the color blue.This was the final day before Alexander came back from Japan. The final day before they had to deal with Brock. The final day before they really talked about what the fuck had happened at the dance. The final day before they had to talk to Bucky’s dad, Natasha, Clint, Sam, and everyone. This was it before the eyewall consumed the first real light Steve had felt in years.“Yo, Stevie. Come check out my love note.”The water was gone, like it had never risen past Bucky’s ankles, and Bucky’s hair was just hair, blowing in the piña colada breeze. And that’s when Steve realized that flaws were overrated. If they had one last perfect day before everything went to shit, then Steve was going to make it a great fucking day! No more whining. No more Dante. No more ravens poking holes in the seagulls’ wings. Steve was going to embrace the perfection of crystal clear waterfalls and warm, still water, planting his feet into the powdered-sugar sand and holding back the cyclone with everything he had.He could hold it back until tomorrow. He could hold it back for all of them. Jumping between the lines of the letters, Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky’s waist. Then he spun him in clockwise circles to reset the time loop, waiting until Bucky was framed by nothing but cloudless blue to set him safely on the sand. “Hey, you’re messin’ up my love note,” Bucky said, laughing as he poked Steve’s foot with the stick. “Look! It says Butt Buddies.”When Steve looked down, his feet were indeed in the center of the B in Butt. “Oh my God,” Steve said, scuffing out the B and the U. “There are kids here, dork!”Bucky snorted. “You sound like Sam. Grandpa Stevie and Grandpa Sam, worryin’ about the yungins.”Erasing the T’s with his toes, Steve smiled at the words that remained. Buddies and, more importantly, I dig Steve. “You want to know what’s cool?” Steve asked as he took the stick from Bucky’s hands and drew a heart. “I didn’t scratch out Butt because I’m ashamed to be gay. I honestly erased it because of all the kids.”Proving his point, a boy and two little girls—all of them with red, curly hair—ran past with a sweaty, red-headed man hot on their tail. “Yeah, there’s gazillions of ‘em, like...Boom!...toddler city.”“Toddler city?”“Mm-hmm. Babies‘R’Us with beach toys.”God, Steve loved him. Which is why he threw down the stick, cupped Bucky’s face, and said, “Sweetheart, I don’t give a flying fuck if anybody over the age of fifteen saw what you wrote. I’m proud to be gay. And, even more, I’m proud to be with you.” Then Steve kissed Bucky like he had at the club—hot, sexy, and a little bit dirty—using his hands as a surrogate collar as he squeezed, supported, and caressed the length of Bucky’s neck.And when the sound of Brandon Boyd singing “Dig” drifted past on the coconut-scented breeze, Steve kissed Bucky the way he should always be kissed.With love.“Woah,” Bucky said when Steve finally broke the kiss. “I think you should be more worried about using that much tongue in front of those sweet lil’ rugrats than me writing Butt Buddies with a stick.”“Probably.” Steve laughed.“But you’re not?” Leaning back, Bucky looked almost proud.Steve’s answer was crystal clear. “I’m not.”Then, with a toothy smile full of perpetual sunshine, Steve's beautiful boy whispered, “Then kiss me again.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The day was coming to an end, and the hot dog had done its job, killing off Steve’s never-ending supply of analogies with ketchup, mustard, and overly salted fries.There were no storm clouds, riptides, or blackened tentacles slithering up from the depths of the sea. No ravens, rectangles, or rocks that were anything other than what they were. There was only Bucky, sitting next to Steve on the blue-and-white striped towel as they played footsies in the sand. And to the east, where the eyewall had been, there was nothing but blue sky as far as the eye could see, cyan meeting indigo at the edge of the horizon.“Your freckles are my new muse,” Steve said, kissing the sharp edge of Bucky’s speckled cheekbone. “The sun made them pop like cinnamon on a freshly frothed cappuccino.”Steve cringed. And not just because an analogy about a frothy cappuccino was still a motherfucking analogy. He cringed because when Bucky asked, “Cinnamon?” in the softest voice imaginable, it evoked an image of a baby deer padding through a velveteen forest. Apparently, the analogies were alive and well, the processed pig parts having only quashed the darker side. And Steve? Well, he decided that baby deer, baby beavers, baby skunks, and baby Bigfoots were allowed to frolic all over the fucking forest as long as the sea monsters stayed where they belonged.“Yes, cinnamon,” Steve said, kissing the very tip of Bucky’s baby-deer nose. “The next time I draw you, it’s going to be all about the freckles.”Freckles dotted onto paper that had been stained with coffee, the lines of Bucky’s jaw sketched with sepia Conté crayon and—“You’re actually gonna draw my face this time?” Bucky asked, the cinnamon speckles turning into one big blob when he scrunched his nose. “‘Cause my ass, as far as I know, is freckle free.” “You sure about that?” Laughing, Steve squished even closer to his muse, loving the slippery slick of sunscreen, sweat, and sand when their arms rubbed together. “I mean, I’d have to take another look to confirm, but I’m pretty sure I saw a freckle or two last time I was down there.”“Next to my butthole?”Steve snorted so hard that his sunglasses—meaning Bucky’s aviators from Tom Ford—fell off his head and landed directly on the head of his dick. And it was perfect: the accidental dick pain, the butthole jokes, the slimy sweat. It was life at its most basic, broken down to the simplest terms. Bucky liked Steve. Steve liked Bucky. And so they sat, enjoying one another’s company as their shadows grew longer and longer with the setting sun.“Look how hard that dude’s spiking on Scott,” Bucky said, trading butthole talk for volleyball commentary. “Seriously, if he keeps that up, he’s gonna decapitate the fuck outta him. You know, like the Headless Horseman, but on a beach… in the daytime… without a horse.”It was true. Scott had just landed flat on his face next to several watermelon-size impact craters. And while life-threatening spikes were definitely something to worry about, watching Scott spit out a mouthful of sand made Steve smile. Not because he wanted Scott to lose his head; quite the contrary, it was good to see everybody else embracing the simplicity—and stupidity—of a perfect day. Scott, Tony, Sam, and Clint—with Chloe and Macaulay cheering from the sidelines—had been playing volleyball with a group of muscle-bound college guys for the past thirty minutes, and while Sam was holding his own, the rest of them… Steve laughed when Scott did another face-plant, and he laughed even harder when he flopped onto his back with no sign of getting back up. “If they knock off Scott’s head,” Steve said, tracing the vein that curved across Bucky’s bicep, “I’m sure Tony’s and Clint’s won’t be far behind.”“Pfft.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Tony, sure. He’s rockin’ those glamour muscles. But Clint? No way. That boy can dodge anything.”Watching Clint toss the ball into the air and execute a perfect serve, Steve couldn’t help but think about how Clint had dodged the truth. How he, like Steve, had dodged his sexuality and—
“Kapow!"
Bucky slapped the center of Steve’s back, shouting, “That’s fuckin’ right, college boy, choke on that!” before he slapped it again.It took Steve a second to realize that Sam had given some serious payback to the seven-foot-tall pro volleyball player with the ice-blond hair, and several more to pull himself back to the simplicity of hot dogs and freckles. Volleyball wasn’t about the meaning of life, and it wasn’t about dodging—or not dodging—the magnetic pull of Bucky Barnes. It was just a bunch of people playing with a ball. Nothing more, nothing less. Simple. Basic. Honest. All qualities that Steve desperately needed.Taking a deep breath, then another, Steve tried—and failed—to keep his voice steady when he said, “Hey, Buck.” Wildly shifting pitch? Sweaty palms? A general aura of anxiety? Bucky didn’t seem to notice any of it. He just nibbled on his bottom lip—ever so slowly—and whispered, “Hey, sexy,” like the two of them had never left the blue and fuchsia fog of the club. “How about you give me those?” Before he knew what was happening, Bucky had grabbed the aviators out of Steve’s lap and slipped them onto his cinnamon-speckled nose. But not before he grabbed Steve’s dick. It was just a little squeeze. A brush of the fingers. But, holy shit, it was enough to get Steve half hard. It didn’t matter that Bucky’s pink gas-station Ray-Bans were already intertwined with the sweaty mop on top of his head, the second his tongue peeked out between his teeth, Steve zoomed backward in time, the lights and fog morphing into cosmic taffy as he whizzed past Caravaggio’s red and yellow daisies, the swirls and spirals of the bridge, the caramel rivers of Wonderland—and the wonders that had come after—and the overflowing bowl of Lucky Charms, landing on the opposite end of the bleachers from the Misfit King at precisely 7:35 a.m. that very first day at the pool. The way Bucky’s teeth were catching on his bottom lip was fucking magical. Warm honey on an English muffin. Orange marmalade oozing over the edges of freshly toasted toast. Syrup filling the crevices of a Belgian waffle. Jesus Christ, it was just as exciting as that first forbidden glance.“You okay, baby?” Bucky asked, sounding like honey as his hand snuck closer and closer to Steve’s crotch. “Do you need another squeeze to break the spell?”Steve might be stuck in a sexually charged time machine where his cock was screaming, “Yes, yes, yes!” but his brain somehow managed to pull the emergency brake and prevent their inevitable arrest for lewd and lascivious behavior. What Steve had to say was important, and he couldn’t—no matter how tempting—let himself get horny about Belgian waffles.Cockblocking Bucky’s hand—literally—Steve intertwined their fingers and said, “There's something I need to tell you.” The Sex Stare was instantly replaced with a frown. And Steve’s dick, that had been raring to go only seconds before, was instantly three inches shorter. “Well, that sounds foreboding,” Bucky said, adding the aviators to the collection of sunglasses on top of his head. "Did you rob a bank?""What?" "Did you give me herpes? ‘Cause my lip’s been tingling, and I wasn’t sure if it was the Flaming Hot Cheetos or an STI.""Oh my God, Bucky. No!" “Oh my god, yes!” Bucky started tickling Steve’s ribs, just below the last of Alexander’s bruise. "Do you have a secret love child? Is her name Ramona?"Trying not to laugh—because there was nothing funny about herpes or teenage pregnancy—Steve said, “Baby, stop, I have to pee,” as he swatted at Bucky’s hands. But Bucky, with his wandering fingers, was wonderfully relentless. "It's nothing bad,” Steve said, laughing as he squeezed the end of his dick to hold back the Gatorade. “It's just— It’s just something secret.”“Are you a spy?” Bucky asked, sounding one hundred percent Russian.“Apparently, a bad one, since you already seem to know!” The tickling stopped, and Bucky zeroed in on Steve’s nipple, pressing it over and over and over like he was trying to get a bag of chips out of a crappy vending machine. "Are you trying to get a bag of Lays?" "Yes!” Bucky pressed it twice as hard. “But this damn nipple keeps stealin’ all my quarters!” When Bucky laughed, his feet kicked up a shower of sand, carrying the half-dozen ketchup packets he’d used on his hot dog along with it. And while most of them landed on the towel with a harmless plop-plop-plop, one hit Steve squarely on the forehead. In theory, it was hilarious. But the truth was ketchup made Steve think about tomatoes, and tomatoes made him think about his mother’s rooftop garden, and his mother’s rooftop garden made him think about Japanese Beetles, and Japanese Beetles made him think about how his mom had been eaten alive from the inside out. And that made Steve want to keep his mouth shut about absolutely everything because motherfucking beetles didn’t belong on the beach.But before the bugs could shut him down completely, Bucky kissed Steve’s shoulder and said, “You know you can tell me anything, right?” He kissed him again. “You can tell me if Peggy gave you HPV, Sharon gave you crabs, or Tony—via pot pipe or ice luge—gave you herpes. I wouldn’t even be mad if you told me you had a gazillion bazillion all-American love children named Ramona and/or Ramone.”Another kiss. This one in the divot just above Steve’s sweaty armpit, where the pectoral muscle joined the deltoid. “Am I cracking jokes around cold sores and crabs? Abso-fucking-lutely. But you can tell me if something serious is going on. You know that, right?”He did. In fact, he'd known from the very beginning. The box of Lucky Charms had told him.“I know it's strange,” Steve said, aware that an apology had to come before anything else, “but I’ve always felt like I could trust you. Even before I knew you." When Steve’s stomach turned, he wasn't sure if it was the hot dog, the residual panic from the fucking bugs, or his nerves making him queasy. Oh, who was he kidding? It was all three."Last night, you trusted me, Buck. You trusted me, and I fucked up. I was reckless and stupid and drunk—not that that's an excuse—but I—” Steve swallowed, hard, because puking up french fries and processed pig parts didn’t pair well with an apology. “I need you to know how sorry I am. I promised to take care of you, and—”“Woah, woah, woah,” Bucky said, poking Steve’s cheek like he’d poked his nipple. “That’s on both of us, okay? Mi problema tu problema. I mean, drunk BDSM? Not our brightest moment. But it worked out okay, right? I mean, from what I remember, between the fingering, fornicating, and flat-out fucking, we had an awesome time."“But I didn't pay close enough attention—”Bucky snapped his fingers next to Steve's ear. "Am I officially yours?""Of course you are!” “See,” Bucky said, smiling like Steve hadn’t fucked him into a coma. “That’s fuckin’ awesome!” It was a shock when Bucky grabbed Steve’s chin and made direct eye contact. And even more so when he dropped his voice an octave and asked, "Did you like the way your pet looked in your collar, Daddy? Were you pleased by the way the leather squeezed his neck?" If Bucky weren't holding onto his chin so tightly, Steve would have nodded because, as Bucky would say, he’d liked it very, very, very much. But for now, the visible chub in his swim trunks and the strangled “Yes” that escaped his throat would have to do."See," Bucky said, dropping the character, but not Steve's chin. "That's hella awesome too! And...Bonus round!...we both got snuggles from Clint.”“I don’t know if I’d call that awesome.”“C’mon, Stevie. I know it’s super-duper fucked up that Clint let you get all handsy with his dick, but the dick-touching thing led directly to the Pop Tart-breakthrough thing, so I'm gonna go ahead and declare it extra, extra, extra Awesome with a capital A.” Smooshing Steve's lips like a fish, Bucky took half a breath before he said, “We’ll do better next time, I swear. No drinks. No Droogs. No Clint. Just you and me, baby, sober as two hot priests gettin' all D/s at an AA meeting."Well, that was a concept."And, FYI,” Bucky said, kissing him right on his fish lips, “I still trust you." "But—"“Nyet! No buts. We can talk about all the stuff we aren't talking about—key word, aren’t—tomorrow. You know, set a Guinness World Record for the shittiest Monday in the history of shitty Mondays.” Picking up a half-empty ketchup packet, Bucky smeared some onto his knee. “But for now, you promised me nothing but pineapples and puka shells.” Steve told himself that the ketchup was just ketchup. No bugs were going to crawl out of the little red glob and devour Bucky’s kneecap, the condiment wasn’t going to give Bucky cancer, and a tidal wave of liquified tomatoes wasn’t going to suck them into the ocean. But sailing to Bucky’s island, with its turquoise water and unbroken shells, wasn’t the best idea either. Category 5 hurricanes and Incubus Island might be on opposite ends of the spectrum as far as fantasies went, but both were distortions of reality, a means of escape. And Steve, trying his damndest to stay in the present, was struggling to resist the siren song of the piña coladas.When Steve asked, “Are you sure Brandon isn’t sick of us yet?” a hollowed-out pineapple flashed in and out of existence in his hand. Pineapple… no pineapple… pineapple… no pineapple… Swear to God, Steve could almost taste the rum.“No, dipshit,” Bucky said as a tiny, orange umbrella appeared in Steve’s drink. “It's our island, and he’s our guest. Plus, you and me? We’re the coolest cats in the sea, so Brandon totally digs us. Get it? ‘Cause of the song?” Turning toward the boardwalk, Bucky said, “Look, there’s half-naked Brandon playing volleyball as we speak.”Bucky pointed at Sam."Wow, Brandon got really tan.” Bucky snorted. Steve snorted. And the pink dolphins, with their bottlenose snouts, snorted too because, honestly, that had been a good one.Stretching his arms as wide as they would go, Bucky was still laughing when he said, “C’mon, babe, go with the flow,” and gestured at the still-crowded shore. “I mean, look at this beach. There’s nothing but palm trees and friendly STI-free crabs with non-pinching pinchers as far as the eye can see.”If only that were true.Imaginary piña coladas aside, if Steve followed through with his plan, it was going to hurt. And there was nothing that Bucky’s friendly crabs and neon-pink flamingos could do to stop it.“Don’t forget the palm trees,” Bucky said, squeezing out more ketchup. “They’re full of drunk monkeys with lil’ beach hats to protect their eyeballs from the sun. News flash: You can burn your eyeballs in the winter. I think it’s called snow blindness.” Winter. Steve wanted nothing to do with it. And it wasn’t because of the cold or the ice, it was because of the uncertainty. He had no idea if he’d be building a gigantic snowman in Central Park with Bucky, sleeping in the Escalade in subzero temperatures, or sinking into his annual Christmas depression where nothing but a blocked tailpipe could save him.“Yo, Stevie, check out this sunset. It looks like watermelon sorbet that somebody stirred with an orange creamsicle.”The words, “It’s beautiful,” practically melted off Steve’s tongue because summertime sunsets—especially ones that existed in both the east and the west—were better than the darkness of the Goddamn eyewall. A sorbet sunset, with its delicious oranges and pinks, meant there was hope for double scoops of ice cream at dawn. Hope for sugar cones, cake cones, and waffle cones. And most of all, hope for warmth, even in the dead of winter. That’s why Steve could imagine the two of them making love on a bearskin rug next to a roaring fire. Why he was able to tuck a strand of Bucky’s hair behind his ear and say, “And you’re beautiful,” with the hope for hot cocoa and marshmallows when the snow began to fall.Bucky scoffed. “You’re only saying that ‘cause you’re an artist. Artists can see a big ol’ pile of shit on a sewer grate, snap their fingers, and…Voilà!...call it a masterpiece. Or stick a bunch of flowers into a bird’s nest and nail it to the wall.”“Bullshit,” Steve said before kissing the dimple in Bucky’s chin. “Your beauty goes beyond art. It’s not about gerbera daisies, spirals of spray paint, or pencil lines on a wrinkled piece of paper. You, Bucky Barnes, are beautiful because you yelled at that guy in the parking lot for swatting at a bee.”“Bees are fucking endangered!”“Exactly.” Using his thumb to wipe the ketchup off Bucky’s knee, Steve stuck it into his mouth to taste the perfection of the day. Because that’s all it was: leftover ketchup from his lover’s wiener. Laughing, Steve said, “And not just that. You’re beautiful because when things go to shit, you do a handstand to get a different perspective.”“Or lie on the floor,” Bucky said, replacing the ketchup with another squirt. “Every time I look at things from Fillmore the spider’s perspective, I think about burritos and tacos with extra, extra, extra sour cream.”Steve had no idea who Fillmore was—or if he was, in fact, a spider—but it didn’t matter. The thrill of hanging onto the roller coaster as Bucky’s mind twisted and turned was half the fun.“Hey, Buck,” Steve said as they screamed full speed ahead into the biggest loop, “name something that starts with the letter Q."“Hit the Quan.”No hesitation. No pause. Bucky had blurted out that off-the-wall response without a filter, which was exactly why Steve said, “God, you're perfect.”“Want me to do the dance?" Bucky asked, swinging his arms as he shimmied in the sand. "I totally know it.”“Of course you do.”“Oh! How about Questlove rockin’ an Afro pick?” Bucky tossed both pairs of sunglasses onto the towel behind him, ripping out his rubber band and fluffing up his hair. “Fun Fact: I liked The Roots waaay before they were on Jimmy Fallon. But Jimmy plus Questlove is...Mwah!...chef’s kiss.”There wasn't anyone else in the world who would’ve thought of Quan and Questlove first, which was why Steve threw his hands up in the air as they flew upside down.“Because you just named two amazing and baffling things that start with the letter Q, I know I'm—”“Queso dip!”The rest of Steve’s sentence had been “making the right call telling you my plan,” but Bucky’s love of Q words and melted cheese had confirmed that he was, in fact, Steve’s soulmate. And that, regardless of the importance of the conversation, was a distraction Steve was willing to embrace. Soulmate. Steve could say it a million times and never grow tired of the sound. My soulmate is kind to bumblebees and spiders alike. My soulmate can Hit the Quan with Questlove in a hot tub filled with queso dip. My soulmate is the ketchup-loving, pickle-hating, upside-down—and sometimes right-side-up—Bucky Barnes.Wiggling his feet closer to his soulmate’s, Steve pushed up a tiny mountain of sand. “So getting back to what I wanted to tell you,” he said, pushing it higher and higher until it was certain to fall. “It’s something I haven’t told anybody.”“Why not?”The hot dog in Steve’s stomach did a flip flop, landing somewhere near his liver, because saying it out loud meant that he was actually going to do it. Saying it out loud made it real. When Bucky’s toes found Steve’s in the remnants of crushed shells, each grain reminded Steve that life, if given enough time, transformed itself into new and beautiful things.Actually, fuck that. Steve wasn't going to avoid Bucky’s question with more superfluous mental prose. As tempting as it was, he wasn’t going to let himself get lost in the motherfucking cotton-candy clouds or the symphonic syllables of the word soulmate. And he sure as fuck wasn’t going to get lost in the alcohol-induced haze of the perfect piña colada. There was a question on the table, one that meant the difference between life and death, and Steve needed to fucking answer it.It wasn’t just Bucky he hadn’t told; Steve hadn’t told anybody. Not Sam. Not Scott. Not Fury. Not Tony. Sure, he'd made up some bullshit story about needing help on his statistics project to land an invite to Tony’s house tomorrow after school, but bullshit didn’t count. Sighing, Steve realized something profound. And by profound, he meant something that anybody else would have realized eons ago. “I don’t tell most people most things.”“You sound like a spy,” Bucky said as he squeezed an enormous glob of ketchup onto Steve’s knee. “Is that your secret, Stevie? You’re a super-duper, top-secret spy?”“Well, I—”“Oh my god! I get it!” Smearing the ketchup into a crude letter Q , Bucky yelled, “Quantum of Solace!” directly into Steve’s ear. “There’s that techno dude named Q. That's why you’re askin’ about Q words, right? It's spy code!” “Well, I do sneak around doing graffiti.”Tagging a bridge wasn’t anywhere close to flocks of flamingos soaring through the sorbet sky, but other than Bucky, it was as close to Incubus Island as Steve ever got in his shitty life.“That you do,” Bucky said as his feet exploded out of the mountain of sand. “You sneak around in your black hoodie, black t-shirt, black jeans, black socks, and black shoes, painting spy shit all over the city, like…Wallykazam! Straight up, Stevie, you’re a motherfuckin’ art spy!” Plain sand. Greek toes. Steve was laughing at the ketchup Q as much as the word wallykazam when he said, “I’m not spying on artists." “Yes, you are!” Bucky arched an eyebrow. “In the dead of night, you’re out there spyin’ on Picasso, Van Gogh, and Bob Ross. And when you’re hidin’ under the bleachers with the spiders, waiting for the perfect time to strike, your eyeballs are like sniper rifles.”There were derailed conversations, and there were derailed conversations. And this was about as off track as you could get. But Steve didn’t for a second feel like Bucky was ignoring him—or that he was missing the meaning while he ‘focused’ on James Bond. That’s not what Bucky was doing at all. “I’d never point a sniper rifle at anyone, Buck. I—”“Nyet! Slishkom pozdno,” Bucky said, pointing at his own temple. “Too late. You’re already Quincy the Queer Art Spy in my mind.”
Queso dip. Questlove. Quincy the Queer Art Spy.
If anyone was going to derail one of the most important conversations of Steve’s life, he was happy it was the dork who’d latched onto the letter Q like a love affair. “I get why you hide your art from your wicked stepmonster,” Bucky said, fluffing his hair until it had doubled in size. “But why hide it from your friends? I mean, Tony and Sam seem like they’d be down for Painting with a Twist.”“Yeah. Heavy on the twist.”“Dude, I’m serious.”Even though Bucky’s hair looked like he’d been trading Aqua Net secrets with Robert Smith from The Cure, the way he was squinting his eyes said he was looking for a real answer. An answer that didn’t include a joke about Tony slamming three bottles of Pinot noir before he fucked the instructor with a paint brush.Taking a deep breath, then another, Steve let the oxygen flood his system, waiting until the tingling in his fingers had receded to say, “I hide my art because if people know my secrets, they can use them against me. If nobody knows—if nothing tangible exists—nobody can take it away from me.” When Bucky said, “Poof,” his voice was barely a whisper. And it was even quieter when he rubbed his nose against Steve’s neck and said, “Everything gone in a flash.”“Yeah. Everything my mom wanted for me, taken away, just like that.” Steve felt Bucky inhale, knowing it was because this was the first time he’d mentioned his mother. "She used to draw with me,” Steve said, resting his chin on top of Bucky’s head. “Encouraging me… telling me I was talented… that I had a natural gift. But after marrying Alexander, she—”If Steve closed his eyes, he knew he’d see her standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows with a bouquet of orchids and irises. He knew he’d see himself wearing a lavender-and-white striped tie. So he kept them wide open, focusing on the loops and spirals of Bucky’s sand-filled hair.“You know how I told you that Alexander thinks art is frivolous?” Steve asked, counting the grains one by one. “Well, he wasn’t a dick about it until after the wedding. That’s when he started pressuring my mom to get me involved in ‘serious pursuits.’ Academics. Sports. Nothing else. And she resisted for a while—really, she did—but when—" Steve had already counted eighteen grains of sand when his chest started to tighten, and he had to count eleven more before he was able to finish. "But when she got sick, she just… she just couldn’t fight him anymore."Maybe Bucky sensed that Steve’s heart was turning itself inside out, or maybe he was just sick of Steve using the top of his head like a stress-reducing abacus. Either way, when Bucky shifted positions and leaned against Steve like a slippery ragdoll, the solid weight of his body gave Steve the courage to continue.Telling himself not to count the years since she’d been gone—since he’d been left behind—Steve said, “Toward the end, I know she realized that Alexander wasn’t the man she’d thought he was—that he wasn't good. But by then, it was already too late. There was nobody else to take care of me… and then she was just… gone.”
A handful of dirt thrown into a grave that may as well have been his own.
There was a pause before Bucky leaned across Steve’s chest and drew a line in the sand, curving it around the outside of Steve’s hips before extending it around the tips of twenty toes. Sand, not dirt. Powdered sugar, not sand. And when Bucky rotated his shoulders, twisting around to connect the line to the point where he’d begun, it took Steve’s breath away—literally—because the wildest of the Wild Things was making sure the two of them were safe inside their circle of sand."And your real dad?" Bucky asked, his voice as soft as Steve had ever heard it. A pair of combat boots in the corner of the closet, cobwebs filling the insides. Steve shook his head. As much as he loved Bucky, he wasn't ready. To be honest, he didn’t know if he’d ever be ready. And Bucky, because he was as intuitive as he was kind, simply kissed Steve’s cheek.“So anyway… um… after my mom died, art was out. Alexander had his assistant sign me up for cross country, soccer, lacrosse, baseball. You name it, I played it. But swimming—” Steve tipped his ear towards the ocean, listening to the water move. “Swimming was something I actually enjoyed. In the pool, there was solitude in the middle of the camaraderie. It was a place where I could be alone without being alone, if that makes sense.”“Believe it or not, it does.”The hint of melancholy in Bucky’s eyes told Steve that it was true. He did understand. It took a second or two for Steve to let that settle, to allow the comfort of an honest connection to register before he said, “So, after that, I channeled my energy into the water and buried the artist.” “Like you buried me.” A shiver ran down his spine. Not because his mother’s voice had frightened him, but because she’d sounded so close. Steve found himself digging his thumbnail into the pink skin on his wrist, digging a hole in the exact same spot where he’d pressed the sharp tip of a pencil the very first time. It had only been one little prick—one hole to prove that Steve had been in charge of something— “Are you okay?” Bucky asked, sounding even softer than before."Yeah,” Steve said, trying his damndest to let go of his scars. “I was just thinking about the first time I picked up my pencil again.” It was the closest he could get to the truth right now.“What did you draw?”For a talk that was supposed to be open and honest, Steve has sure as hell backed himself into a corner. But this wasn’t about scratches and cuts; it was about escaping the person who’d ‘inspired’ Steve to create them. Which is why he stuck to things drawn on paper instead of those carved into skin.“It wasn’t anything in particular,” he said, managing a little laugh. “I remember doodling in the margins of my composition books at school. Between my notes on cephalopods and quadratic equations, I’d use the lines to draw houses from my old neighborhood, rockets shooting into outer space, ladders to nowhere, elevator shafts, skinny guys on stilts… the occasional giraffe.""Giraffes?" Now it was Bucky's turn to chuckle."Yes, giraffes. Believe it or not, they're almost all straight lines."Bucky snorted, snapping one, two, three times in the shape of the letter Z . Then, using a voice that was more RuPaul than Bucky Barnes, he said, “There ain’t no way you could draw me in a composition book, honey, ‘cause, there ain’t nothin' straight about this body."When Bucky flipped his hair, Steve’s laughter came from somewhere deep, somewhere pure. It was a perfect break in the tension. A breather. A pause. "Okay, so what happened next?" Bucky asked, tracing the curve of Steve's bicep like he was the artist. "I know you didn't learn how to spray paint in a composition book.""That's true."Scraps from the recycling bin. Math worksheets. The restrictive lines of a repurposed book. His need for more. How could Steve fast-forward through six years in six seconds? Deciding to start somewhere in the middle, he said, "I’ll never forget the day I discovered spray paint. It was—”“Spray paint was invented in the sixties.”“No, dork. Discovered it as a medium.” Steve shooed a fly away from the ketchup disaster on their knees. “I was over at Tony's—right after we started at Eaton—and I was bored out of my mind because he'd gone off on another one of his Redbull-and-Macallan-fueled coding tangents.” He could remember it like it was yesterday: the sound of Tony’s keyboard clicking and clacking as he’d pounded in the zeros and ones, the nuts and bolts all over the floor of the workshop, the ear-splitting volume of the stereo. “So, there I was, getting assaulted by classic rock when I spotted a can of neon-orange spray paint on one of the shelves.""Like the Holy Grail.""I mean, sure, if the blood of Christ was used to vandalize Jerusalem."With his mother so near, Steve probably shouldn’t be offending her good Catholic sensibilities, but, c’mon, that had been the perfect set up."Lemme guess,” Bucky said, blowing past the sacrilege. “You stole it."Steve smiled. One, because it had been almost impossible to sneak his bulging backpack out of Tony’s workshop without him noticing. And two, because the pesky fly on his knee was just a fly. “Oh, I stole it all right,” Steve said, letting the fly land on Bucky’s knee for the briefest second, “along with the navy blue I found two shelves down, the black and red I found by Tony’s drone, the half-empty can of chartreuse, and—""So, you're a klepto?""You know it. Spray paint. Lucky Charms. If it's not tied down, it's mine." Steve looked over his shoulder just in time to see Tony slap Macaulay’s ass. Tony, who’d texted Stop, thief! the second Steve had shut the front door. "As soon as I left Tony’s, I started searching for something to tag. A street sign. A garbage can. A rat-infested corner in a dark alley. I’m not kidding when I say I was scared shitless.”Kind of like he felt now. Not because Steve was telling Bucky about his beginnings, but because he had to tell him about the end. “I ended up crouching behind the dumpster next to that hole-in-the-wall Chinese place off Second and Eighty-First, and I’m not exaggerating when I say it couldn’t have been more disgusting. There were these rancid chunks of sweet-and-sour chicken everywhere, along with a bunch of half-eaten egg rolls, a crushed pack of Marlboro Lights, and at least twenty Q-tips, their ends swollen with chicken juice."“Q-tips!”Laughing, Steve turned what was left of the ketchup Q into a heart for his soulmate, flies and all. Then he said, “I thought my passion for art was the central theme of this conversation, but Q-tips work too.”“Not just any Q-tips,” Bucky said, adding what looked to be an arrow… or maybe a worm. “Sweet-and-sour Q-tips. Now, finish your origin story, Captain Steve. It was just getting good.”The sun had almost reached the horizon behind them, turning Tony and the rest of them into silhouettes. But to Steve, everything seemed brighter and sharper as his story was immortalized in the panels of one of Bucky’s comic books.“I remember shaking that can of neon orange and feeling—" Steve closed his eyes, searching for the precise emotion. "I remember feeling free… like vandalizing that smelly dumpster was my own private rebellion.""Queen Latifah! What did you paint?"Keeping up with Bucky gave Steve whiplash, but, God, he loved the pain. "The world's smallest anarchy sign, waaay down in the corner,” Steve said, listening to the distant hiss of the spray can. “No joke, you would have needed a magnifying glass and a flashlight to see it. But the second I pushed that nozzle? Man, I knew I was hooked."“And you’ve never told anybody?” Bucky asked as he sprinkled sand into the center of the ketchup heart. “Not a single soul?”Steve shook his head. "I’m telling you, if a therapist ever got a hold of me, they’d have a fucking field day. Everything was taken away from me, Buck. Everything. The childhood home I’d loved like a friend. The simple life with my mom where Meatloaf Mondays and Leftover-Meatloaf Tuesdays had been a real thing. Then my mom altogether. But she didn't just die. Alexander got rid of everything like she'd never existed. He threw away her clothes, her books, her photographs. And if it wouldn’t have fucked up his precious public persona, I’m sure he would have thrown me away too, just like the rancid Q-tips.” Swallowing, Steve looked over his shoulder at Luna Park, the lights switching on in real time. “There's only one piece of her left; a single photograph that I keep hidden under my mattress. It's from the summer before she died, and the two of us were standing right over there, in front of the Wonder Wheel."When Steve pointed at the Ferris wheel, the confusion on Bucky’s face quickly spread from his eyebrows to his chin. "But Tony said you'd never been here.""Yeah, about that..." Steve looked directly into Bucky’s eyes, trying to be as honest as possible when he said, "Just like graffiti is mine, so is that memory of my mom. If I keep it secret—protecting it, treasuring it—then nobody can take the rest of her away.”The Wonder Wheel began to turn as Bucky ran his fingers through the hairs on Steve's legs, alternately making it stand on end and slicking it down with a mixture of sunscreen, ketchup, and sweat. Up and down, around and around. And when the wheel stopped, allowing riders to get off as well as on, Bucky asked, “What was her name?” with all the reverence the question deserved.Steve’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn't said her name out loud in years. Not days. Not months. But years. It took a second for him to build up the courage to whisper, “Sarah,” like he was standing in the center of a church with the flying buttresses rising toward the stained glass, the candles flickering on the altar, and the sound of his mother’s bare feet tiptoeing up the aisle behind him.Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood up—goosebumps despite the summer heat—and Steve twisted around so fast that he almost lost his balance. He could smell the meatloaf on his plate, taste the off-brand ketchup she’d squeezed on top, hear her say, “Clean your plate, Steven. There’s apple pie for dessert.”"Mom?” Steve said, searching the sand for ghostly impressions, looking for a disturbance, a flickering light, or tiny footprints to confirm that his mother had returned to Coney Island too. “So why show me your secret world under the bridge?”"What?" Cupping Steve's jaw, Bucky turned him back in the right direction. "If you need to keep your memories safe, why tell me?"“Do you want the two-tissue-box answer or the teenage-boy-who-can’t-express-his-feelings-good answer?”“Whatever, Zoolander. How about both?”This was it. Not the end of a perfect day, but the beginning of what came next. “I haven't had a home in a very long time,” Steve said, stepping onto the Wonder Wheel instead of pulling the trigger. “And I know we've only been doing this thing we’re doing for about five minutes, but, I swear, Bucky, you already feel like home to me.”The second Steve sat down on the weathered bench, the worker latched the lock behind him. A click to keep him safe. To keep him from falling. To remind him that this was a ride worth taking. Then, as a fresh wave of carnival music filled the air, the wheel began to spin, lifting Steve higher and higher toward Bucky’s sorbet sunset.Brushing Bucky’s hair out of his face, Steve smiled. And he smiled even wider when he said, “Sneaking around your house in your Boston t-shirt and rabbit slippers woke me up in every way possible because your house is a home, Buck. A real, honest-to-goodness home with shoes all over the place and coffee rings on the coffee table. And until I was surrounded by that kind of warmth, I hadn't realized just how much I'd missed it. Seeing the pictures on your mantle. The smiles. The love. The family.” Steve shook his head because it was almost too much. “ I mean, you had Lucky Charms in your cupboard, for Christ’s sake! Lucky Charms!"It was official. Steve was tearing up over a box of sugary cereal. "I hadn’t eaten Lucky Charms in so long that it hadn't even occurred to me that I should miss them. But they’re fucking delicious. More than delicious! And I want to eat them every morning before practice with you. Bowls and bowls of four-leaf clovers, purple horseshoes, and gay-as-fuck rainbows because you feel safe, baby. So fucking safe. And I've been showing you who I really am because..."Because I know you'll never take anything away from me.Because I can feel it in my gut that you're the one.Steve took a deep breath, reigning in the marriage proposal before he said, "Because home is where you hang things." Even without the wedding bells, Steve knew that had been too much. And judging by the height of Bucky’s eyebrows, he knew it too. But now that Steve was almost at the top of the wheel, he couldn't stop. "I mean, let’s be real, Buck. If shit goes down like I think it's going to go down, I'm about to be homeless. Literally, homeless. Which is really what I wanted to tell you, and—”“Steve," Bucky said, putting his hand directly into the swarm of Japanese Beetles on Steve’s knee, “slow down."“I can’t!”The fucking beetles had come out of nowhere, swarming the ketchup on Steve’s knee as soon as the wheel had started to descend. They were all over his legs, they were all over his mother’s meatloaf, and they were all over the lock, eating away at the metal. But he couldn't stop now. He was almost there."If I stay in that fucking box, something bad is going to happen—something really fucking bad—and I’m not talking about Alexander punching me in the face or burning off my skin with a pot of freshly brewed tea.” Steve paused because disclosing technicolor visions of blood and murder was really laying it all on the line. “Every second I’m in that Goddamn penthouse, it feels like I'm suffocating. And when that bastard burned my arm, I—" Swallowing, Steve tried to shake the image of the mug smashing across Alexander's face. "I just— Fuck! I have to get out of there before I do something stupid!”“Good!” When Bucky squeezed Steve’s knee, tomato guts squirted out between his fingers, along with the legs and antennae of a thousand beetles. “You don't fucking belong there! In fact, don't even go back."Steve would like nothing more than to crash on Bucky's couch—where he could sink into the uneven cushions and get a backache from the broken springs—but he couldn’t. “I don’t have a choice,” Steve said, telling himself that it was just ketchup. That there weren’t any bugs or tomatoes or tumors. “If I leave without a plan, I’m fucked.” The tension spreading across Bucky's shoulders was obvious, as was the vibration in his hand. "I swear, if that prick hits you one more time, I’ll—”“He won’t.”“He won’t?”“He can fucking try!” Bucky cringed. And Steve, who’d hit the bottom of the rotation, felt like a fucking asshole. Not only had that come out a hell of a lot more aggressively than he’d intended, but he’d knocked Bucky’s hand off his knee in the process.“Straight up, that sounds like you’re gonna kill him,” Bucky said, blinking like he’d wiped sunscreen into his eyes. “Like, Ghostface Killah kill him. Kylo kill him. Killer whale kill him. Or killa killer whale kill him, if you're gangsta enough.”“I’m not going to kill him.”“You sure about that? 'Cause there’s no way we’d get conjugal visits. You can’t get quesadillas in prison, orange isn’t your color—they lied, it’s not the new black—and life on the outside wouldn’t be the same with you.”Steve could imagine killing Alexander—snapping his neck like a twig or stabbing him in the eye with a shard of glass—but that would be fucking idiotic. That bastard had taken too much from him already."So what’s the plan?” Bucky asked, grabbing the aviators off the towel and sticking them on top of his head, ketchup and all. “Is there, like, a checklist or something?”Sadly, this was the part of Steve’s plan that was severely underdeveloped.“To be honest, I have no idea,” Steve said as the wheel started to go back up, forcing the beetles—and their panic-inducing pinchers—to scurry back to the shadows. “I had a five minute conversation with Fury about scholarship possibilities and I’m bringing fish tacos to Tony's house tomorrow—under false pretenses—so I can ask for his advice." Steve shrugged. "But that's as far as I've gotten."If Steve had to describe Bucky’s expression, he’d say it looked like he’d shoved fifty Sour Patch Kids into his mouth before getting up close and personal with a skunk. And when he said, "Wow, Stevie, that's a super shitty plan,” Steve could only laugh because Bucky, while brutally blunt, was absolutely right. It was a shitty plan. And suicide-inducing beetles aside, it was one that could get him killed.The sunglasses went down, then up… down, then up... before Bucky said, “But you know who can help? My dad. He's good at making plans. And so is Natalia."Steve knew this. He’d worked with Natasha on a Biology project last year and she’d organized the whole thing with a color-coded outline. And Bucky’s dad? It had been so fucking comforting when he’d told Natasha to get a bowl of warm, soapy water and directed Bucky to get the frozen peas. And even though it had been absolutely awful, when Mr. Barnes had instructed Steve to lift his shirt so he could take pictures of the damage, Steve had felt the warm embrace of somebody who cared."I know, Buck. But I don't want to get anyone else involved. It’s my problem, and—""Stop being stupid!" Bucky had yelled loud enough that an older man with a metal detector stopped to stare. But that didn’t stop Bucky from putting the aviators in the down position, squeezing Steve into a sideways hug, and saying, "I don’t care if you’re a world-renowned, top-secret graffiti spy, Quincy Questlove. You suck at making escape plans. Like, hardcore, jugar los sucko suck. But since my plan involves you rearranging Alexander's face with your big, sexy muscles, I'm thinkin’ that my plan—with the Droogs and the ultraviolence—is worse than your lack of a plan.” Up, down… up, down… The aviators ended up in the up position, sitting crooked in the knotted mess of waves. Then, like Bucky wanted the two of them to match, he stuck the pink sunglasses onto Steve’s head, stabbing his ear in the process.“Now, for the record,” he said, shadowboxing a right hook, then a left, “I think that motherfuckin’, cigarette-scented prick deserves an epic beatdown, like…Bam! Bam! Bam!...and I'd happily watch you pummel his face until there was nothing left but mush." Had Bucky read Steve’s mind? Did their cosmic connection include visions of violence?“But his teeth would probably get caught in the pool filter.""What?"Bucky was working his jaw like he was chewing on an imaginary piece of gum, chomping and chewing as he wiped his hands on the towel. And it would have been fine—just another quirky detail in their final perfect day—but when he was done, there were two ketchup handprints marring the blue-and-white stripes. Two handprints that could just have easily been on Bucky’s cheek or dripping down the bright-white walls in Alexander’s office.But Bucky didn’t let Steve dive too far into the seventh circle, poking Steve’s butt and reminding him that, in Bucky’s world, there was water to cushion his fall. "Like I said, you’re shit at making plans.” Bucky poked him again, right above his ass crack. “But I bet if you really put your mind to it—and visited Papa Barnes’ emporium of knowledge and wisdom—you could nail down a Mission Impossible-level operation in no time. So here's the deal, Quincy; you make a plan that isn’t shit, and I’ll bake a quiche." The water hardly splashed when Steve hit the pool at the base of the waterfall, his hands splitting the surface as easily as a hot knife slicing through Bucky’s puffy meringue. And when Steve surfaced with all of his bones intact, the pink dolphins surrounded him, clapping their fins in celebration.And Bucky? He snuck his fingers beneath the waistband of Steve’s trunks, giggling as he said, "Truth bomb: I have no idea how to make quiche—or what quiche is, really—so I’ll have my dad handle the pots ‘n’ pans, aka the plan, while I run to the corner store and pick up some Quaker Oats and queso dip.”A plan that would let the two of them eat quiche on Bucky’s broken-down couch, dip tortilla chips in queso dip while they watched Quantum of Solace, and embrace their queerness while they cuddled in the quiet.“Oh, and, FYI,” Bucky said, pushing the boundaries of ‘kid friendly’ as he rubbed a tiny circle at the base of Steve’s spine, “that was actually a three-tissue-box answer, Stevie. Like, no shit, I just went through more kleenex than when Rose straight-up murdered Jack by hoggin’ that big-ass door. You know that show MythBusters? Mustache. Beret. Science. Well, they did all sorts of quasi-scientific experiments and proved, without a shadow of a doubt, that Rose’s quadrilateral could've held them both.”Steve was lost. Wonderfully lost. But still… lost.Bucky’s finger dipped into butt-crack territory when he said, "Anyways, what I'm tryin’ to say is that I’m dying to hear the teenage-boy-who-can’t-express-his-feelings-good answer.”
Zoolander.
They'd come full circle.Even though the sun had almost disappeared—in the west and the east—Steve could still see the cinnamon freckles on the bridge of Bucky’s nose. And God, did he want to kiss each and every one, charting their pattern to see which constellation they created. Ignoring the downward trajectory of Bucky’s finger, Steve said, “Baby, I’ve got to be honest here. I don’t even remember the question. I distracted myself with my own deep response.”“Instead of squirrel, does your mind go deep thought?” Bucky asked, knocking the knuckles of his non-naughty hand against Steve’s temple. “I know you’re a philosopher in there, pondering the mysteries of life with Pluto, Aéropostale, and So-crates, so don’t go thinking you can hide that big ol’ brain of yours.”“You mean Plato, Aristotle, and Socrates?”“See! I knew you were smart!” Bucky’s laugh echoed down the beach, past the people packing up their beach chairs, past Sam, Tony, and the rest of them who appeared to be chugging beers with the college dudes, and past the shimmer of his mother as she crossed the veil at the edge of the boardwalk.“The question was why tell me? Oh, and please respond as Zoolander.”Was it possible to declare his love with duck lips and sucked-in cheeks? To walk into the future with Ben Stiller’s ridiculous eyebrows? Steve supposed all he could do was try.“That's easy," he said, doing his best Blue Steel, "because I really, really, really like you." Leaning outside of their circle for the briefest second, Steve grabbed the strap of his backpack and dragged it across the Coney Island sand, careful not to break Bucky’s line. "Since you've somehow figured out I’m part of a secret society with So-crates and George Carlin— and because your Q vocabulary is extensive—I’ve got something for you. And you should know that I’m going against direct orders here." Steve laughed as he unzipped the pocket with the accidental red stripe. “Clint holds a strong anti-poetry stance, and Sam gave me an extremely stern lecture about moving too fast, but, honestly, I don’t think I care.” Had Steve hauled his backpack to the beach—along with fifty pounds of Gatorade, a useless sack of hacky sacks, and a melted unicorn—for the express purpose of pulling out his well-worn sketchbook at the perfect moment, flipping it open to the poem, and placing it onto Bucky’s knees? Maybe. Steve might suck at escape plans, but romantic gestures? That was a different story.“I wrote this Monday night,” Steve said as he touched the title, “after I was a total asshole.” “Quite the asshole.” Bucky smirked. And Steve, who’d finally spun back around to the top of the wheel, fell in love a little bit more.Usually, Bucky moved fast—like a comet streaking behind the northern lights or a naked college kid streaking across the quad—but this time, he slowed his forward motion, taking the time to track each and every line with his finger. The Power of Strange A transparent ghost sauntering through the halls.A crumbling brick hiding deep within a strong facade.A blank canvas of emptinessnot purity, not potential.But a void. But you hold a special powerbeing Strange.This power let you peek under my doorand make my skin opaque.When groups of ten or twelve or threewalked by right in front of meyou stoppedand saw my solid form. You hold a special powerbeing Strange.This power let you look between the mortar,to see that even though I seemed strong like the restI was crumbling inside.My core was full of cracksbut still, you saw beautyand took the time to skillfully repair my pieces. You hold a special powerbeing Strange.A camel brush loaded with brilliant coloryou took the void and showed me the lie of it all.Thick paint splashed across my skin,red, blue, orange, and green.Transforming what was nothinginto a new masterpiece. A solid man walking down these halls.A solid brick supporting your weight.A life full of color, potential realized.I’m so thankful you took the time to see, That I’m Strange too. Steve could feel Bucky’s line in the sand sealing in their air, the hiss of pressurized oxygen flooding their space helmet and neutralizing the dangers that surrounded them. Evil tomatoes? Gone. Cancerous beetles? Frozen in the vastness of space. The fucking eyewall, with its tentacles and tides? That shit was left on planet Earth with the Goddamn ravens. All that remained was Steve and his Starboy, traveling through space on their strange adventure. It was blissfully calm.Bucky barely whispered the words, “This is about us?” when his finger reached the final line, but the final syllable resonated inside their secret spacesuit. Us. You and I. Me and you. The two of us, together, rocketing to infinity and beyond.Steve snorted. One, because Toy Story references should never—repeat, never—be part of seaside romantic gestures. And two, because Steve was a tool.“It’s not about us?”The hitch in Bucky’s voice brought Steve back to Earth.“Of course it’s about us,” he said, kicking himself as much as one could in a bulky space suit. “This stupid Buzz Lightyear quote just popped into my head and—”“To infinity and beyond?”If Steve weren’t so committed to the moment, he would’ve facepalmed. Smacked himself in the forehead. Sighed. Cried into his Lucky Charms. But Bucky saved him by saying, “I dig Buzz Lightyear. He’s a hero and shit.” And he saved him even more when he said, “Oh, and, Steve…”“Yeah?”“I really, really, really like you too.”There were moments in Steve’s life that he’d always remember. A summer day filled with cotton candy and carnival games, where the Wonder Wheel had been nothing but wondrous. Bringing a snowman to life with two sticks and an old, wool hat. Red-velvet walls folding inward as candy-coated tongues found one another in the caramel. And now this.Bucky was smiling. But it wasn’t just any smile. His entire face was radiating happiness. The sparkle in his Neptune-blue eyes, the flush of his cinnamon-speckled cheeks, the way his lips curved up in the corners. “By the way,” Bucky said, caressing Steve’s jaw with the tips of his fingers, “that was the quintessential poem.”It took a second for the letter Q to register, but once it did, Steve laughed so hard that he almost pissed his pants, no tickling required.
Quantum. Quark. Quasar.
Q-tip. Questlove. Quintessential.
Looking at Bucky’s shit-eating grin, it was so easy for Steve to say, “God, I love you.”Bucky blinked. Steve blinked. And Brandon Boyd and the dolphins did the requisite slow clap because Steve had done it again.“Shit, Bucky… I… fuck.”This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Bucky was supposed to read the poem, and Steve—without any mention of Buzz-fucking-Lightyear—was supposed to brush Bucky’s hair out of his face, look deep into his eyes, and say, “I love you, sweetheart.” But Steve had fucked it up again. Just like he’d fucked it up last night.“I love you too.” Bucky was staring at him, and there was nothing shit-eating about his grin. He looked shy, and soft, and… Jesus, maybe even a little scared.And Steve, who’d been too far into his intergalactic space mission—or too far up his own ass—to even consider that Bucky might say it back, said, “What?” like Bucky had told him he had a tail.“I mean, I’ve never done this before—not for real—but I totally think we could carve our initials into a tree and not regret it.” “Into a tree?”“Yeah, one of those big-ass oaks by your place. We can use a screwdriver.”Who needed a storybook I love you when Steve could have one that ended with a screwdriver and a bubblegum smile? One where the sand in Steve’s asscrack and the ketchup on his knees made everything more joyful and meaningful and fun.It truly was the imperfections that made it perfect.Touching their foreheads together, Steve stayed present.Here.Now.“You really love me?” Steve asked, tucking the moment away with the Wonder Wheel and the meatloaf. Keeping it safe. Keeping it protected. Wrapping his arms around it like his mother’s Central Park snowman. When Bucky’s fingers found Steve’s neck, he rubbed the skin like he was touching an imaginary necklace. And when he said “Mm-hmm, ya tyebya lyeblyu, zasranets,” it didn’t matter that Steve couldn’t understand the Russian words, he could feel the meaning in his soul.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
So you’re surrounded by bubbly love, first love, where you’re loved right back, and it’s flappin’ around your face like a zillion happy butterflies, then...Bam!...you’ve got no other choice but to slam the limo door on the monarchs, swallowtails, and gorgeous, fluttering Stevie to climb up your crumbling Brooklyn steps to Suckville.“This sucks ass,” Bucky said as he stared at the taillights at the end of the block. Even if he took off like the Flash, the blisters on his heels (and the sand in his butt crack) would keep him from zooming to the corner at a bazillion miles per hour, leaping onto the trunk, and diving headfirst through the sunroof to get back to the bubbles. And the bubbles, with Stevie’s super smoochable lips, super smoochable belly button, and super smoochable cock, were the motherfuckin’ jam.That’s why, when Stark’s blinged-out limousine made the turn back to the land of money, money, money, Bucky shouted, “This sucks big fuckin’ donkey ass!” and scratched his uncomfortably moist nuts.It was dark outside, but casa de los Barnes was lit up like a Vegas stripper on a pole. Viva Las Vegas…Va-va-voom! The light from the kitchen window was shining onto the porch, and the porch light (with its belly full of bugs) was shining onto Bucky’s face. And all that illumination would’ve been fucking fine if Bucky’s face weren’t sunburnt. But it was. And without Stevie rambling on and on about cinnamon and Starbucks while he kissed it better, it fucking hurt.Opening the screen door, Bucky said, “I need a shower,” to the peephole ‘cause it was peepin’. “And some aloe vera. And a fuckton of pizza rolls. And a skin graft. And a big bottle of—”The door was yanked open, and Bucky, who just wanted to wash the sand out of his ass, eat 476 pizza rolls, and jerk off, found himself face-to-face with his sister.“Upstairs,” Natasha said, pointing past the shoe pile, the coat rack, and the door to the kitchen (where the pizza rolls lived). “Now!”Correction: He found himself face to face with his pissed off sister.“Dude, can’t you see I’m mourning the end of my island adventure?” Bucky threw his backpack at her feet. “I’m sad, damp, and hangry, and my boyfriend’s driving back to his torture palace to get, like, tortured, and—”“I don’t care.” Was it mean to say that you didn’t care about somebody getting waterboarded, especially when that somebody was Steve? Fuck yes, it was! But his sister could be a female dog, aka a B.I.T.C.H., when she was mad. Just like Bucky could loose his fucking temper and throw amplifiers at the wall when his bestie pissed him off.Natasha grabbed his arm (mean), dragged him into the house (meaner), and corralled him towards the stairs (the meanest). But it wasn’t the pizza-roll denial that made Bucky look for a bass amp. It was the way the palm trees poofed out of existence the instant Bucky’s blister-causing, wet-ass shoes hit the first step. Step up…Poof!...there goes the sailboat. Step up…Poof!...there goes the seagulls. Step up…Poof!...there goes the motherfucking Wonder Bread. By the time Natasha had marched Bucky down the hall like a fuckin’ criminal and thrown open her bedroom door, the gorgeous Brandon Boyd had...Poof!...morphed into a much-less-chill, five-foot-four cyka, aka B.I.T.C.H. in Russian, in a green, fuzzy robe.When she tried to shove him into her room, Bucky braced his hands against the doorframe. And when she elbowed his kidney, he shouted, “Brandon, come back!” and kicked up his foot to fortify his position. “Bring the monkeys. My sister has margaritas.”“I need to talk to you," she said, doubling down with a shoulder to his lower back. "Stop being weird and… get… into… my… room!”Bucky looked up. Bucky looked down. But Brandon Boyd’s yogi-tan chest was nowhere to be found. “Ha!” Bucky bucked Natasha off like a bronco. “My poetry sucks. But Stevie? Whoo-ee! That big bundle of love can write a motherfuckin' poem.”"Bucky, let go!"Bucky did not let go.He, unlike Stevie, had a plan, and his sister was fucking it up big time. News Flash: Bucky was the motherfuckin’ Elvis of plans (when they didn’t involve rescuing Cinderella from his wicked stepmonster). The Michael Jackson of plans (Pay off Macaulay!). The Frodo of plans (My Precious!). And Frodo, after devouring his muy delicioso pizza rolls, had planned on stroking his sword to the memory of his boyfriend plunging his poetic penis into Bucky’s bunghole. Step one: spread out his Spongebob towel in the center of his bed. Step two: get naked. Step three: wipe the sand out of his ass with one of Natasha’s fancy, eucalyptus-scented wipe things. Step four: put on his gazillion dollar Ponch shades for maximum jerk-off coolness. The rest would be easy peasy, my dick’s so squeezy. One mental image of Stevie free climbing a palm tree to fetch some fresh coconuts and Bucky, with no more than five solid strokes, would shoot his load all over Curt Wild and Brian Slade. Hot damn, monkey boy!Unfortunately, physics triumphed over masturbation. After backing up to get a running start, Natasha hit him like a monster truck, destroying Frodo’s dream of jerking off with the coconut-scented sunscreen he'd stashed in his bag. News Flash: Bucky’s fuzzy coconuts were gonna be as blue as the deep-blue sea, wild and horny like a bumblebee.“Sit,” Natasha said as she slammed the door, and Bucky, because he was a good dog (with a collar and everything), flopped backwards onto her bed and rubbed his sandy ass all over her comforter.“I have sand fleas,” he said, stretching out the waistband of his trunks so he could dump the sand out of his ass. “And now your bed has them too.”Hands on hips? Check. Militant stare? Check. Hair brush thrown at Bucky’s leg? Check, check, checkity check. Bucky flopped onto his stomach, shaking the penis-infused sand out of his crotch. “What’s your problem?” he asked (not that he cared about her answer). Ass sand was awesome, but dick sand? That shit was even better.“Besides you humping my bed?” When Natasha kicked the corner of her mattress, a seashell dislodged from Bucky’s balls. “For one, TJ Campbell dropped by this afternoon.”Bucky stopped humping. “TJ was here?”“Apparently, he found your phone.”“My phone?” Hitting pause, Bucky ran the weekend in reverse. Had he checked his messages? Um… No? Had he double tapped any bubble butts on Insta? Maybe? Or had he done that on Clint’s phone? Or Steve’s? Bucky stopped when he got to the eggplants. If he’d lost his fucking phone, who the fuck had he sent those eggplant emojis to? Fucking Peggy?His sister was staring at him like he had two heads, or three, or seven, like he’d turned into that big-ass hydra thing in the first Percy Jackson movie where Percy cut off one head and…Whamo!...two more grew in its place.“But instead of texting me,” Natasha said as Bucky’s heads went pop-pop-pop, “or, god forbid, waiting for you to show up at school tomorrow, TJ drove all the way to Brooklyn in his brand-new BMW M2 to hand-deliver it.” The car was silver (Bucky’d seen it in the parking garage at school), and that shit was shiny, tinted, and fuckin’ fast. No joke, TJ’s whip looked like something James Bond would drive. But not the James Bond with big-ass muscles and a speedo. No way, Jueves. That car belonged to the James Bond who rocked slim-fit tuxedos and drank Vesper Martinis. Natasha was pacing back and forth at the end of the bed, which made the pitter-patter of Bucky’s heart turn into more of a sweaty, skip-a-beat, heart attack kind of thing. In other words, no bueno de los lamé-o.“And what’s even worse is that TJ didn't trust the ‘scum’ in our neighborhood to keep their hands off his car for ten minutes, so I had to put on my shoes, run outside, and sit shotgun in an air-conditioned leather seat like a good little errand girl while TJ spewed a bunch of political doublespeak about Rumlow."
“No, you don’t, cupcake.”
Bucky blinked. Not only were his eyes stinging like his goggles had leaked, but he didn’t have any motherfucking eye drops. And Natasha was—Bucky blinked again. Natasha was poopin’ all over his party.“Yeah, I sent you an email about that,” Bucky said, rubbin’ his eyeballs until it felt like they might pop too. “I sent it to [email protected] with the red flag, which, in case you didn’t know, means important as fuck.” There was so much poop in his eyes that he could barely see. Poop and chlorine and Pop-Tarts.Pointing at the pooper, Bucky wished for a Pop-Tart (strawberry) when he said, “But since you’re an irresponsible turd who was too busy tiptoeing through the tulips to check her email, lemme bring you up to speed. It said: Do not disturb. Bucky Barnes is on vacation .”After that lil’ declaration, Bucky buried his face in the sand. Then he said hello to the meerkats. Then he prayed that Tony Stark and his squadron of drunk, flying monkeys would transport him back to the beach where James Bond (the one in the speedo) was choppin’ coconuts with a machete. “I put up with a lot of shit from you,” Natasha said like Bucky was the poopy one, “but not this time. Like it or not, you’re going to listen to me. And after that, you’re going to tell me exactly what’s going on.”“I don’t want to,” Bucky whispered to the meerkats.“I don’t know TJ that well, but I know him well enough to say that he was scared. After he handed me your phone, he said, and I quote, ‘Tell Bucky not to worry about Rumlow.’”Bucky’s nuts shriveled up like raisins. Tiny, dry, and gross. Swear to god, there was man juice in his mouth because Frank Castle had just blasted Bucky’s nads hard enough to shoot semen through his entire fuckin’ body. Cupping the place where his balls had been, Bucky asked, “Why the fuck would I worry about Brock Rumlow?” as he forced the jizz back down his throat. “His buddy Frank’s the one who keeps clotheslining me in the hall.”“You tell me,” Natasha said. “According to TJ, somebody tipped Dad off about a gun in Rumlow’s locker.” “What?” “A gun, Bucky. A loaded gun.” Knives? Maybe. Brass knuckles? Frank Castle probably had a pair in his pocket 24/7. But guns? Even with his gangland affiliation, Bucky never would’ve guessed that itty-bitty Brock, with his spiky hedgehog hair, was packin’ an Uzi. Natasha rewrapped her robe, making it tighter and tighter until she was legit squeezin’ the fuck out of her intestines. Then, and only then, did she tie the knot. “Yesterday, Dad was gone most of the day. He left right after breakfast and still wasn’t back when I got home from practice at eight. When I asked him where he’d been, he said he had to deal with something at school. But he didn’t say shit about a gun. And he certainly didn’t say anything about you and TJ being involved.”
Bang!
The monkeys weren’t coming to the rescue with their piña coladas and fancy silver flasks. And the Cocaine Kitty wasn’t gonna kneel down on his navy-blue knees and peel Bucky off the floor. They were just gonna leave him on the ground, crying like a fucking pussy into the spitty snowflakes. Bucky rolled onto his back (like a turtle), and Natasha (who wasn’t a turtle) untied her robe.Pacing back and forth at the end of the bed, she said, “I can’t believe that I had to hear it from TJ that Rumlow’s being expelled. TJ, who, to be clear, isn’t the principal’s kid.” His sister’s edges looked fuzzy. Fuzzy robe. Fuzzy fingers. Fuzzy monkeys who refused to drink and fly.“I would’ve asked Clint what’s going on, but he ghosted me, so…"When Natasha looked at him, her eyes were like fuckin’ lasers! Or lightsabers! Or lasers and lightsabers at the same fuckin’ time!“You look like Rey,” Bucky said so she didn’t go all Darth Maul. You know, double-edged lightsaber, super scary.“Bucky, I swear, if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll—”“You’ll what?” Bucky laughed. “Use the Force on me?”“Stop it, Bucky.”“I mean, look at the intensity in that stare. You look exactly like Rey in that Force Awakens scene where Kylo Ren has her strapped down like he’s some hardcore Jedi Dom, which he’s not. He’s totally a bottom underneath all that black fabric.” Natasha’s lightsabers turned red.“And you’re lookin’ at Kylo like, ‘Oh no, you don’t, bitch, you’re not getting into my mind,’ and Kylo’s like, ‘Fuck yes, I am,’ and Rey’s like, ‘Fuck no, you’re not,’ and they’re both sweating and grunting like they really, really, really wanna fuck, and—”“Stop!”Bucky let go of Clint’s neck.And when he said, “I can’t,” it was because he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop Frank from splitting his nutsack in half. He couldn’t stop Jack from taking that fucking picture. And he couldn’t stop the cigarette smoke from going up his nose. And not just that. Bucky couldn’t stop wishing he had hair like Rey. Grabbing the mess on top of his head, he said, “Do my hair you will, forget the rest you shall.”“Your hair?”“Fuck yeah, I want the signature three-bun Rey.”Natasha sighed, once, twice, three times a lady, until…shhh…she wasn’t mad any more. That was one of his favorite things about Natalia. She could be mad one minute, stomping her boots around the playground and stealing his warm wool hat, and the next, she’d be sharing a cookie and singing him to sleep. That's why, when she sat next to Yakov on the cot and brushed his hair out of his eyes, he wasn’t all that surprised.“I wish you’d tell me what’s going on,” she said, whispering so the other kids wouldn’t hear her. “I wish that somebody… anybody… would tell me something.”“Ya tyebya lyublyu,” Yakov said because he hadn’t said it in a long time.And Natalia, who was way too small for that big, fuzzy robe, took a deep breath before she said, “I love you too, Yakov. Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu.”Then it was silent. Still, like the winter.And Yakov felt himself drifting, far, far away to a place where the wolves couldn’t find him. Which is why he was fucking pissed when Natasha said, “You can’t go to sleep until you text TJ.”“Go away.”“Bucky, he said you had to call him when you got home. He used the word imperative. And if you’re involved in this—” Natasha sighed. “If you’re involved in this in any way, you have to find out what’s going on.”Bottom line: If Bucky texted TJ, he’d have to talk about Jack and his stupid fucking camera. If he texted TJ, he’d have to talk about Frank. Frank who was obviously the ringleader of an underground fight club that met every Saturday night at an abandoned slaughterhouse in Queens. Secret passwords, illegal bets, blood (from the fights, not vampires) splattered across a makeshift ring. You know, like Tyler Durden with brass knuckles and pro-consumerism ideals.“Who do you think is hotter?” Bucky asked, touching the collar of Natasha’s fuzzy robe. “Brad Pitt or Edward Norton?”“Why won’t you talk to me?”“I am talking to you. I’m asking if you prefer fiction or reality. If you, faced with the fucking truth, would try to stop yourself from blowing up the lies or sit back and watch them burn.”There were two constants with Natasha. One, she almost always told the truth, and two, she never cried. Even that time when Bucky’d broken her favorite snow globe and she’d stepped on the glass, she hadn’t shed a tear. Bucky’s theory was that she’d been engineered in an underground bunker in Siberia, her spine fused with adamantium, her rib cage fused with vibranium, and the rest of her bones fused with Elvish steel that glowed blue when there were Orcs around, just like Frodo’s Morgul blade. She was a tough chick, and tough chicks who hung out with Wolverine didn’t fucking cry.But she was crying now.“Not only did you and Steve disappear from the dance, but you blew off the afterparty and breakfast. And when you didn’t answer your phone all weekend, I—” Like, really crying.“I was worried, Bucky. Dad was worried. I texted Steve. I called Steve. And he didn’t even have the decency to respond. And Clint—”“Clint’s a dick.” “What?”Bucky blinked. Then he blinked 896 more times because, no joke, his sister had straight-up teleported! Not only was she standing by his feet with a box of kleenex, but her robe had fallen open, revealing…Dun dun dun!...a pair of Clint’s boxers. The ones with the little pink hearts Bucky’d given him as a ‘joke’ on Valentine’s Day.And if that wasn’t fuckin’ hilarious, Bucky didn’t know what was.“Nice boxers,” Bucky said because he was a dick too. All the Pop-Tarts in the world couldn’t fix that. Frosted Strawberry. Frosted Blueberry. Brown Sugar Cinnamon. Chocolate Fudge. But when Natasha blew her nose, gettin’ the kleenex extra snotty, he said, “I shouldn’t have said that,” because, dick or not, deep down he knew that none of this was Natasha’s fault.“No, you shouldn’t have,” she said, retying the robe. “So how about you take your phone and get the fuck out of my room.”Bucky could count on one hand the number of times he’d been kicked out of his sister’s room. Right after they’d come to America, he’d spilled a root beer float on her pillow (oops). And once, when they’d been three episodes deep into a Supernatural binge, he’d accidentally dumped a brand-new container of mango salsa into the crack between her bed and the wall (double oops). Oh, and there’d been that one time he and Clint had busted into her room wearing those fuckin’ hilarious rubber horse masks with nothin’ but boxers. Boxers without hearts.Sitting up, Bucky said, “I’m sorry,” as he tried (and failed) to brush the sand into a pile. “Clint’s not a dick, he just—” Bucky sighed, and when he did, a fuckton of strawberry sprinkles came out of his nose. “He just had a rough weekend, and it was my fault, not his. I’d bet my entire DVD collection, my guitar, my REO Speedwagon t-shirt, and my super sexy Jared Leto figurine that he’s gonna call you as soon as Tony drops him off.”Bucky had no idea if he was still getting the boot, but at least Natasha wasn’t yelling when she said, “Just tell me one thing. Did I make a mistake?”“Um…”There were mistakes, and then there were mistakes. Dropping a brand-new container of mango salsa was a mistake. Grabbing the wrong dick when you were asleep was a mistake. But getting involved with the person who’d let the dick grabbing happen in the first place?“I don’t think it’s my place to say.”Natasha switched out the kleenex box for a basket of clean laundry, and Bucky really, really, really hoped she wasn’t gonna blow her nose on a pair of underwear. Unlike Clint’s sturdy cotton boxers, his sister’s underwear was that lacy shit that went up your buttcrack, and, straight up, lace and snot didn’t mix. That shit would shoot right through the holes. Lucky for Bucky (and her underwear), she just set the basket on the end of the bed and rolled an itty-bitty pair of leggings into an itty-bitty burrito.Fun fact: When Bucky got upset, he threw amplifiers at walls. When Natasha got upset, she organized shit like Martha Stewart on crack. And it fucking sucked. It sucked that she had to roll burrito t-shirts, burrito jeans, and burrito leotards to bury her feelings. And it sucked even more that Bucky was the reason she’d just rolled an extra-large burrito out of one of her oversize Flashdance sweatshirts. Maybe that’s why he said, “Clint really likes you. I know he does.”Even though Bucky’s ballsack was stuck to Clint’s stomach this morning. Even though Bucky’s boyfriend touched his dick. Even though Bucky still loved—“People who really like you don’t ghost you,” Natasha said, putting the burritos into a row from biggest to smallest. “They don’t sleep with you, then blow you off.”There it was. The confirmation that two out of four misfit toys (plus Natasha) had been devirginized in the span of two weeks. Actually, make that three out of four (if Skinner had actually fucked that horse girl), which, Bucky suspected, he had. Bucky’s cherry? Thoroughly popped with an extra-large penis. Skinner’s cherry? Most likely popped (and smacked) with a riding crop. Natasha’s cherry? Popped by a penis that had fucked the back of Bucky’s throat. Clint’s cherry? Popped like he’d never loved Bucky at all.Part of him wanted to ask if Clint had been good. If he’d treated her like he should, taking his time and doing shit right, or he’d been so excited to stick his dick into somebody who didn’t have testicles that he’d blown his load in three seconds. But that was fucking disgusting. “He might be blowing you off,” Bucky said, kicking off his stupid sand-filled shoes, “but I don’t think he’s blowing you off. This weekend was a fucking soap opera. And I’m not talkin’ about a daytime soap opera. No, no, no. I’m talkin’ Dynasty or Grey’s Anatomy or Gossip Girl. But, I swear, it didn’t have shit to do with you. I mean, Clint’s an asshole, but he’s not that much of an asshole.”Or if he was, there was no fuckin’ way that Bucky was gonna be the one to break the news.“I need two band-aids,” he said, picking at the popped blisters on the back of his heels. But then he noticed another one on his pinky toe, and another one on his other pinky toe, and two ginormous ones that looked like egg sacks on the balls of his feet (gross), which is why he said, “Actually, after you’re done makin’ burritos, can you, like, get me the whole box?”At this point, there were 467 burritos on the bed (lined up in three color-coded rows), and Bucky was getting hungry. Maybe he’d cook up some microwave burritos and some pizza rolls, double dippin’ on the Mexicano y los Italiano.Ripping off a big piece of skin, Bucky said, “Just cut him some slack, okay? Bitch at him for, like, two minutes—maybe three—then give him a big ol’ hug. Or sit him down with a brush and three rubber bands and give him the three-bun Rey. It would probably look better on him anyway.” Burrito tank top. Burrito tights. Burrito, burrito, burrito. It took a few minutes for the production line to stop. But when it did, Natasha backed up and sat on the floor, which was sooo much worse than dé la casa y burrito chorizo. When his sister sat on the floor, it meant she was sad. “I want to believe you,” she said, doin’ that weird lotus thing with her legs that made her look like a frog. Ribbit! “Then believe me.” Bucky shrugged. “You two are gonna hash this shit out, date for five years, get hitched in a non-traditional wedding with pizza rolls, belly dancers, and a Violent Femmes cover band, and spawn a punk rock baby named Bradley.”“Bradley?”Bucky nodded because it was easier than saying that he’d thought about raising a bouncing baby boy named Bradley Barton. Not because he liked babies, ‘cause, ew, gross. He just really, really, really liked Clint.“Yeah,” Bucky said, sticking the skin back over the hole, “like the dude from Sublime. Me and Steve will babysit.”Natasha rolled her eyes. “There’s no way I’d let you babysit. You’re the type of person who’d tie fifty helium balloons to a baby, just to see if it would float, and Steve—” She pushed her knees down to the floor, which, in addition to making Bucky’s balls hurt, made him want to ribbit. “Steve seems like the type of person who’d set a baby carrier on the roof of a car, make a phone call, then drive away.”“Steve doesn’t hate babies!”“No, I’m saying he’s easily distracted.”When Natasha folded over and touched her nose to her toes, Bucky grabbed his feet and tried to do the same thing (but in reverse). It didn’t work. “Plus,” Natasha said, gloating about her superhuman flexibility, “who says I want to get married and have kids? I’m seventeen, Bucky. That’s the last thing on my mind.”Bucky wished it were the last thing on his mind too, but Steve—Steve wrote poetry.Flopping onto his back, Bucky said, “We went to the beach today.”“I gathered that from the sand.”“Tony bought me this swimsuit.” He snapped the waistband to add a lil’ zing to the conversation.And his sister? She just shrugged because she didn’t need any extra zing when she said, “I figured it would’ve been Steve, but Tony makes sense too.” There was zing aplenty.Bucky snapped the waistband again…Snap! Crackle! Pop!...and when he did, he got a whiff of his mildewed balls. Sadly, damp testicles didn’t pair well with what he was about to say, but what was he gonna do? Spritz some of Natasha’s perfume down his pants before he said, “Steve told me that he loves me.”“He what?” The frog legs turned into a regular ol’ crisscross and suddenly Bucky was thinking about guns.Gun control. Guns and Ammo. Steve's big guns. Guns N' Roses. Axl looked so fuckin’ hot in the “Sweet Child O’ Mine” video. Those slithery snake hips. The red bandana with that stick-straight hair. His tiny ass in those black leather pants.“This is so tangled.”Natasha was lying next to him (again), touching his hair. Her hair was even redder than Axl’s, which was rare for a Russian. “Beach, duh.”“And you smell like fish and—” She took a whiff. “Ketchup?”“I did some ketchup graffiti. I drew a heart and shit.”His sister looked at him for a long time (like, a really, really, really long time) before saying, “Love is a big word, Bucky.” Then she touched his cheek, telling him without telling him that she'd seen what the man with the gun had done. “Do you love him?”“I said it back.”Suddenly Bucky realized that they were lying in sour cream. Every burrito Natasha had carefully rolled had been unrolled, like…Whammo unrollo!...and there was fuckin’ meat and cheese and beans everywhere. And not just that. Carmen was arguing with her douchey boyfriend in front of the Mexican joint, and even from his window TV, Bucky could see the gun in his waistband. A gun that…Bang!...sent Carmen to burrito heaven.“Bucky,” Natasha said like the two of them weren’t lying in a puddle of meat, “you can’t just throw those words around. If you tell somebody you love them, you have to mean it.”Ever since they were little, Natalia had always been able to see right through him. When Yakov had lied about Maksim Denisovich Ivanov punching him in the face, Natalia had known. When Bucky’d gotten into her lipstick the first time (MAC Russian red, matte), Natasha had known. And when Clinton Francis Barton, aka Bucky’s first love, had ripped his fucking heart out, she’d known. It was one of her many superpowers. That’s why Bucky said, “He wrote me a poem.” Natasha didn’t say anything. She just untangled his hair, strand by strand, dirtying up her bed as she pulled out chunks of stale Wonder Bread and dead crabs.And when she was done, Bucky closed his eyes, searching for a smell that was better than meat juice. Pepperoni. Hot dogs. Dick. No, no, and no. Bucky tried again. Pancakes and syrup. Marshmallows and milk. As soon as he caught a whiff of his boyfriend’s stolen bowl of Lucky Charms, it was easy to say, “Steve’s amazing.”“But?”“There’s no but. He’s kind. He’s funny. He’s hot. And he’s so fucking sensitive that he’s got this whole poetic vocabulary just to express it. And he’s—”
“I loved you too!”
“He’s not afraid to tell me how he feels.”Bucky’s life was chock-full of smart people. If you gave Skinner enough Monster, he could fly to the moon with just his laptops and some tinfoil. And Tony? That fucker could do it with nothing but tinfoil. Then there was Daisy. She was practically an empath, passing out magical, mind-reading cupcakes like Raven or Professor-fucking-X. And his dad ran a fuckin’ top-tier, rich-kid school that won awards and shit. But Natasha? Natasha was the smartest. Which is why Bucky didn’t even pretend to disagree when she said, “I never should have gotten involved with Clint.” Then it was quiet. And Bucky, despite the loudest part of him itching to identify quiet as a Q word, was able to keep that shit at bay.They stayed there for a long time, touching foreheads in his sister’s laundry, until Bucky was yawning more than he was breathing. “I should go to bed,” he said, snuggling closer. “I have practice in the morning.”Practice with Brock.
Smack!
“...say it, but you need to text TJ first.”Natasha was talking, but Bucky didn’t wanna listen. He just wanted to go to sleep and dream about pizza rolls. “You need to find out what’s going on,” she said, talking, and talking, and talking some more. “If you’re involved, you need to know.”Suddenly the phone was in his hands (lame) and Natasha was poking his unicorn with her fingernail. “Just get it over with,” she said, messin’ up its mane. It wasn’t very nice. In fact, it was totally unacceptable, aka rude.Bucky loved his phone case because space unicorns, with their magical intergalactic horns, were fuckin’ awesome! If stupid Stevie hadn’t put a hole in the unicorn raft, he and Bucky could’ve climbed aboard and zoomed across the Milky Way, fartin’ rainbows along the way. In fact, if stupid Stevie hadn’t put a fuckin’ hole in Bucky’s dreams, Bucky could be orbiting Saturn, watchin’ Axl Rose belt out “Sweet Child O’ Mine” in his skintight leather pants as Slash (the full-size version) soloed on the rings.“Fuck it,” Bucky said, scrolling through his terrestrial contacts. He whizzed past Johnny Rotten’s Cooler Cousin and his motherfuckin’ lies. Past Pushing Daisies and her scrumptious Moon Pies. Past Not Dylan O’Brien and his skinny-ass ties. Past Stanky Stark and his robot supplies. And past Steve, my hot-as-fuck boyfriend, whose dick wins first prize. Until, finally, he got to the T’s.Touching the pictureless circle, Bucky said, “You know what’s sad?” without bothering to look at his sister. “Everything happened so fast with TJ that I never even got the chance to give him a stupid name.”It felt wrong when Bucky tapped TJ and typed What do u want? and even worse when he hit send.The Piano Man? The Boy in Blue? Cocaine Kitty?
Ding!
The words Hi to you too lit up the screen, judging him for being such a dick. Bucky: how’d u get my phone?TJ: I found it in the hall after we got you into the car Fuzzy edges. Fuzzy robes. Fuzzy memories that didn’t make any fucking sense, even when TJ Campbell typed them out in black and white. TJ: Are you still there? Was he still there? Bucky touched his cheek. Or was he somewhere else? Somewhere dark. Somewhere with the hairy spiders that ate spiders. The spiders who grabbed people’s dicks.
Ding!
There were three texts in a row. One: Are you okay? Two: I get it if you don’t want to talk, but at least tell me you’re okay. Three: Hello? Bucky: Do you like that song?TJ: What song?Bucky: “Hello” by Lionel Ritchie. U know, r u somewhere feeling lonely, or is someone loving u? Maybe that could be TJ’s stupid phone name. Hello, is it TJ you’re looking for? It wasn’t the next ding that got Bucky to stop thinking about Lionel Richie, it was Natasha asking, “Well? What did he say about Rumlow?”Bucky looked at the screen, but there was nothing about guns or roses. There was just TJ, with his sad hazel eyes, whispering, “It’s okay. There’s nothing to worry about.”“Bucky, what does it say?”This time, when Bucky looked, there were actual words. Lots of them. TJ: I wanted to make sure your sister told you about our friends. It’s important to remember how private they are. That they wouldn’t want you to talk about what’s going on. “He wants us to keep our mouths shut,” Bucky said, wishing that Lionel would sing “Easy” instead of “Hello.” And Natasha, because she was so fuckin’ done, said, “It’s easy to keep my mouth shut when I have no idea what the fuck is going on.”Bucky nodded. What else was he supposed to do? Admit that there was a giant hole in his weekend? That somewhere between putting on his Duckie shoes and finding them under the bed in a mysterious hotel room, Bucky’d been manhandled by Brock Rumlow, rescued by TJ fucking Campbell, and—Honestly, Bucky had no idea.This time, when the phone dinged, he jumped out of his fucking skin. TJ: Meet me after your practice tomorrow morning. And bring Steve. Top of the locker room stairs. Bucky: surprised u didn’t say under the bleachers Bucky’d hit send before he’d even realized he’d typed it, and the second it whooshed off into the internet, he knew he was the biggest motherfucker on the planet. Not surprisingly, the dings stopped. And the worst part? Bucky wished that they hadn’t.He stared at the screen. Waiting. Until finally, there was one more ding. TJ: I deserved that. No, he didn’t. He didn’t deserve any of it. Which is why Bucky typed I’ll b there as fast as he could and hit send, knowing damn well that Jack could still be lurking around with his motherfucking camera.Closing his eyes, Bucky asked, “Can I sleep here?” because the thought of moving made him want to shrivel up and cry. Real talk: If Natasha made him stand up, he’d walk straight to his room and crawl under his bed. And if he crawled under his bed, Brock would be able to point a gun at his temple in private, squeezing and squeezing until Bucky’s mildewed balls burst like balloons.“And by sleep,” he said, inhaling the Tide-fresh scent of the Flashdance burrito, “I mean, can I fall asleep right this second in your half-unrolled laundry burritos?”Anybody else would have pushed Bucky about Brock. Asked the hard questions, like, why are your balls deflated? Or why are there four gigantic scratch marks on your cheek? But not Natalia. Natalia knew when to let things go.“Yes, you can sleep here,” she said, kissing the center of his forehead, “but you have to change, wash your feet, and wear a beanie. There’s no way I’m sleeping with that god-awful fish and ketchup smell all night.”“Do I have to?” When he snuggled into her fuzzy robe, he felt safe. “It’s easier to pretend I’m at the beach when I can smell the hot dogs.”“Nathan’s?”“Mm-hmm. Clint and Scott got ‘em for us, with extra, extra, extra ketchup, just like I like ‘em.”You know what else he liked? Cookies. That’s why Natalia always risked getting caught by the cook to steal them out of the kitchen. She was brave like that. And that’s why she let him sleep in her cot, playing with his hair until he’d gobbled up all the crumbs and fallen asleep. She wasn’t afraid of the headmistress. In fact, she wasn’t afraid of anything. “Bucky,” she said, pulling his wool hat over his ears. “You have to come back sometime.”“Nyet… ya ne,” Yakov said because it wasn’t true. He didn’t have to come back unless he wanted to. He could stay at the beach and eat pizza, drink Monsters, and listen to the Piano Man play “Bayu Bayushki Bayu” on the steel drums for as long as he wanted. As long as Yakov had a cookie in his hand, he would never, ever have to worry that the wolves were real.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Monday morning. D-Day, or, in this case, M-Day. Not Q-Day 'cause that was yesterday, aka Sunday. "Yesterday…” Bucky sang, doing his best McCartney as he yanked his belt out of the loops, “all my troubles seemed so far away." That was a big, fat lie, but it didn’t matter. It was quarter to six (in the predawn hours), and, school shooting or not, it was time for The Mandatory Morning Sing-along. Was Bucky (the big, fat liar) surrounded by half a dozen, half-naked guys? Fuck yes, he was! That’s why he unzipped his super cool, red-black-and-pink plaid pants (#GwenStefaniStyle), pushed them down to his knees, and sang, “Oh, I believe in yesterdays,” like he was trying to impress Lennon himself.“Knock it off.”That was Ezra, who, in addition to being naked, was no fun. “What was that?” Bucky asked, stretching out his t-shirt so Ezra could get a real good look at Biggie Smalls. “You want the Notorious B.I.G. to tell you to fuck off? No problem, dude. I got you.” Giving Ezra the finger, Biggie said, “Fuck off, homie,” like drive-by shootings were all about peace, love, and harmony.Stevie was late, which sucked. Bucky had a rash on his ass from sleeping with a shitton of sand in his buttcrack, which sucked and itched. And Bucky was probably gonna die at any second (just like Biggie), which sucked like a sucking chest wound on Grey’s Anatomy. Slurp! After waking up with a minty fresh brain— Actually, no. Scratch that. After waking up with a foggy-as-fuck brain that was still running at less than three percent power (even after slamming his scrumptious Caramel Cocoa Cluster Frappuccino), Bucky’d spent a good chunk of time dousing his head with Natasha’s expensive, honeyfuckle-scented conditioner, and even more time trying to convince himself that the Piano Man was a world-class practical joker.Any second now, TJ was gonna jump out of a locker, shoot Silly String at Bucky’s face, and shout, “April Fools!” because that’s what closeted drug addicts did for fun. Gun? What gun? In TJ’s world there was only fun, fun, fun!But TJ’s world wasn’t Brock’s world. And all the Silly String in the universe (regardless of string theory) couldn’t convince him that Brock wasn’t gonna show up at any second in a Columbine trench coat and blow his head off with a motherfuckin’ shotgun.Bucky took off his shirt and waited to get shot in the dick with a TEC-9 (the gun, not the rapper). Bucky bent over to untie his boots and waited for his rashy butthole to get shot with a BB Gun. #bullseyeBucky toed off his boots and waited to get shot in the back by a bazooka. Pop! Pop! Pop!Then he wished for a big ol’ pack of Bazooka (the gum, not the rocket launcher) to take the edge off while he waited to get straight-up murdered. For real, when you’re the focus of an East Coast-West Coast rivalry, it’s only a matter of time. Just ask Tupac.Ditching his underwear, Bucky made the executive decision to air out his ass. You know, dehumidify the crack before he tucked his cheeks into another swimsuit. Maybe Brock would use a NERF gun. One of those big, neon ones that looked like an assault rifle but was actually a plastic toy that was fun for a girl or a boy. Or maybe, just maybe, Brock was scheduled to give a perfectly innocent book report on Al Capone and had stashed one of his daddy’s pistols in his locker to add authenticity to his presentation. #Scarface #Goodfellas #TheGodfather“Wow, your dick is big too.”Locker room talk. Dick analysis 2.0. Scott was ogling Bucky’s dick like a perv in a porta-potty, but Bucky didn’t give a flying fuck. A big dick wasn’t gonna do shit to stop an AK. A big dick wasn’t gonna do shit to make Monday a good day. And a big dick sure as fuck wasn’t gonna impress anybody when it was hidden inside an overpriced coffin at a closed-casket funeral. “I mean, it’s not as big as Steve’s,” Scott said as he adjusted his speedo, “‘cause that was, like… wow… intense. But it’s a solid size. Meaty. Not that mine isn’t.” Scott scrunched up his face like he had a micropenis. “Actually, you know what? Never mind. I’m just gonna go ahead and stop talking about your penis now.” Penis. What a weird fuckin’ word. It didn’t even rhyme with anything. But cock? Bucky gave his an appreciative glance. That shit rhymed with everything. Sock, lock, rock, flock… Glock.Or in the words of the Notorious B.I.G.: As I grab the Glock, put it to your headpiece. One in the chamber, the safety is off release.Bucky blinked. Not because he was ready to die (no matter what Biggie said), but because there wasn’t a single, solitary piece of evidence supporting Bucky’s April Fool’s theory. Zero, cero, nol. On the incredibly uncomfortable ride to school, Bucky’s dad hadn’t said shit about guns, roses, Axl Roses, Ice Cube, or expulsions. He’d just ragged on Bucky for losing his phone and pressured the fuck outta him for deets about the weekend. Por ejemplo: Why the fuck didn’t you call? How the fuck didn’t you notice that you’d lost your phone? You should’ve used Steve’s fucking phone to tell me you were going to Coney Island. How the fuckity fuck did you get that bruise on your face? A fuckin’ frisbee? Really?Full disclosure: His dad didn’t swear (much), but it was fuckin’ funny to ramp up the f-bombs in any story, especially when they featured Principal Barnes.Anyways, the third degree had been annoying as fuck. But not as annoying as Clint sipping his coffee without saying a word. He hadn’t said shit to Bucky’s dad. He hadn’t said shit to Bucky. And he sure as fuck hadn’t said shit to Natasha, solidifying his ‘hard-earned’ title as The Shittiest Boyfriend on Planet Shit.“Speaking of Steve. Where is he?” Great. Scott was still standing there with a pen, drawing a Venn diagram on the back of his hand about Bucky’s and Steve’s dicks. Not really, but Señor Microdick was standing too fucking close as Charlie and Reggie tried to shove their shit into their lockers.Maybe that’s why Bucky said, "Probably dead," and scratched his nuts. Pop! Pow! Zap! A fuckton of bullets whizzed through the air, piercing Steve’s spaceship and reducing him to a gushy, mushy, frozen mess. You know, ‘cause of all that depressurization, cold-void-of-space, sci-fi science shit. "I hear you on that,” Scott said, slappin’ a shitload of duct tape over the bullet holes. “I'm beat too. Volleyball’s, like… fun in theory, but, bro, I got so dehydrated. My pee’s been dark yellow ever since we got back."How could Bucky telepathically communicate that he didn’t give a shit? He scratched his ass. Left cheek, right cheek, top of the crack. Then he said, “I don’t give a shit,” because telepathy was too much work.
Bam!
The locker room door had slammed open like somebody had hit it with a fucking tank! Which, fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!But it was just Steve. And while it was great that Bucky’s Mack truck of a boyfriend didn’t have any visible bullet holes, he was pushing everybody out of the way like he’d just shifted into twelfth gear at the top of a motherfuckin’ volcano. Look out, Frodo!In one continuous motion, he knocked Charlie and Reggie out of the way, dropped his backpack on the floor, and sat on the bench (so he was eye level with Bucky’s rashy ass). Then, like Bucky’s rashy ass wasn’t in his face, he grabbed Bucky’s arm and made him sit on the bench, shoved his phone into Bucky’s hand, and said, “Go away, Scott,” like Scott was a Jehovah’s Witness, a homeless crackhead, or a guy who liked to talk about the color of his piss.There was no “Good morning, sweetheart.” No simple but sweet “Hi, babe.” And no “Why the fuck is your dick out?” There was just Steve's stupid phone in its boring, gray case waiting for Bucky to look at the screen.He didn't want to look at it.He wanted to sing The Beatles.“Read this,” Steve said, which, in Bucky’s opinion, was the equivalent of Mark David Chapman shooting John Lennon in the chest. “I don’t want to.”Steve pointed at the screen, and there, at the tippity-top, was Frank Castle’s name in all caps. Frank, which rhymes with spank, shank, prank, and a gun that’s not (repeat, not) loaded with blanks.No. Nope. Nyet. That shit was gonna be a hard fuckin’ no. There was no way that any text from Frank the Clothesline King was gonna be about whoopee cushions, invisible ink, or Silly String. Fuck that!Instead, Bucky pretended to read Frank Castle’s mob-friendly texts while he was actually making a plan to buy Stevie a phone case off Amazon. Seriously, why the fuck did a kick-ass artist like Stevie have such a…Zzz!...snoozefest of a phone case? Plain gray? Really? It was like holding a sad, lil’ rain cloud in his hand. Sooo sad. Sooo boring. Maybe Bucky could swipe his dad’s credit card and…Cha-ching!...order Stevie a badass custom case with a picture of Axl Rose in the super short, white short shorts with the roses on his dick! He’d totally pick a pic where you could see Axl’s nipple ring shinin’ in the stage lights. Speaking of which, Bucky flicked his left nipple. Maybe he should pierce his.Steve tapped the screen to make it light up again because, apparently, Bucky was taking too long not reading Frank's messages."Did you read it?" Everybody else had pretty much cleared out (except Peter and that really tall guy whose name Bucky could never remember), so he felt pretty confident scratching his chaffed asshole (from the sand and the sex) and saying, "Fuck no. I hate that guy."“Even after what he did?”When Bucky set the phone onto Steve’s knee, there wasn’t any ketchup. And there sure as fuck weren’t any ketchup hearts. There were just two eyes staring back at him like he was supposed to know what the hell Steve was talking about. Which he didn’t.“He texted me about an hour ago,” Steve said, sliding over until their thighs were touching. Skin on denim, not skin on skin. And Bucky couldn’t stop himself from analyzing the difference. Steve’s light-blue, three-hundred dollar jeans versus Bucky’s Krispy Kreme skin. Bottom line: It sucked. Bucky could use some hot, sweaty skin sliding across his stomach right about now. And he could use a good, solid fuck where his hips hurt from thrusting so hard.“For some reason, he’s skipping practice,” Steve said, whispering like Quincy the Art Spy had stolen James Bond’s silver BMW. “He says we need to meet him after practice. Him and TJ.”“Let me guess. At the top of the locker room stairs?”Bucky stood up. One, because his rashy ass was sticking to the fucking bench. And two, because he was over this shit. April Fool’s Day? Yeah, right. More like Steve-teamed-up-with-TJ-and-Frank-to-pull-some-shady-shit-and-everybody’s-in-on-it-but-me Day.And Steve? He just squinted at Bucky with eyes that said “How the fuck do you know that?” which pissed Bucky off even more.“It’s already on my schedule,” Bucky said, grabbing his goggles, towel, and suit. “TJ booked the appointment with my sister yesterday.”“What?” Bucky slammed his locker shut. Then he squinted his eyes at Captain Steve Rogers, plan maker extraordinaire, and said, “I don’t know, man; I’m just along for the ride,” because it was pretty fucking clear that somebody else was steering the ship.Maybe it was the way Steve was tapping his fingernails on his boring-ass phone case that made Bucky’s skin crawl. Or maybe it was the chlorine in his sinuses that was burning his brain from the inside out. Either way, Bucky turned his back on the bullshit and jogged up the stairs, his meaty dick slapping the fuck out of his thighs as he kicked open the door to the pool deck.He just wanted to get it over with. To see if Brock was waiting at the top of the bleachers with a sniper rifle. Kapow! One bullet right between the eyes.Did Bucky push past Sam, Ezra, and a bunch of nameless, faceless juniors to jump into the pool? You bet your ass he did. Did he give a flying fuck when Fury went postal on him for doing it with his dick out? Fuck no. And once he put on his speedo to contain the meat, did Bucky swim faster than he ever had? Damn right he did.Faster than Sam. Faster than that kid whose name rhymed with tuba. And faster than Steve, who’d sulked out of the locker room with only twenty minutes left. Fun Fact: You’ve gotta swim fast if you want to outrun a bullet. And before he knew it, Bucky was doing everything in reverse.He was back in the locker room, taking his speedo off instead of putting it on, opening his locker instead of closing it, and turning his plaid pants right side out instead of the other way around. He was wearing Biggie instead of scraping him off the Vegas strip, tightening his checkered laces instead of struggling to untie the knots, and puking up his Caramel Cocoa Cluster Frappuccino Frappuccino instead of chugging it down.Yeah, that happened.Now, Bucky was bent over one of the sinks, sucking water directly out of the tap like a fuckin’ hamster. Slurp! I like to roll around in a little plastic ball. Slurp! I like to drink water out of a metal tube. Slurp! I like to get out of my cage and…Gobble! Gobble!...get swallowed by the Cheshire Cat.Bucky laughed because cats didn’t gobble. Turkeys did! Well, at least they did until the third Thursday of November, when thankful Americans gobbled them down with gravy and pumpkin pie. Thanksgiving, as it turns out, was also an M-Day, except it was Mr. Turkey catchin’ the bullet instead of Bucky and the Notorious B.I.G.Looking at himself in the mirror, Bucky curled his upper lip. Then he yanked his wet hair into a motherfuckin’ top knot (even though the crabs didn’t like it). Then he cursed himself for putting on his one-of-a-kind, electric-blue jacket before puking his guts out because, no matter how hard he scrubbed, the acid wouldn’t stop eating away at the leather.“Fuck you,” Bucky said to the reflection. And when the reflection said, “No, fuck you,” Bucky knew that Aragorn had turned on him.The bell rang. And suddenly Stevie was there, lookin’ all cute ‘n’ sexy in his blue-and-white checkered shirt and rich-boy jeans. He looked kinda like Skinner without the glasses, plus muscles. “Are you ready?” Stevie asked, forgetting that Bucky was always, without exception, 583 percent down for anything. Disco dancin’ down Bedford Avenue? Fuck yeah! Dick sucking on a roof? Open wide. Shoving eighteen marshmallows into his mouth just so he could beat Clint at Chubby Bunny? Who needs air?After flippin’ Aragorn the bird, Bucky spun around and slapped Stevie’s ass.“Bucky, I—”“Shh!” Pushin’ past Stevie’s ridiculous muscles (so fuckin’ hot), Bucky yanked open the door, balls to the wall. “I don’t wanna be late. If I’m gonna be a corpse, I might as well be on time.” Which reminded him.“Do you like my outfit?” Bucky asked, holdin’ the door open for his boo. “Personally, I think it's the best outfit I’ve put together all year. Lots of zippers on my pantalones. Coordinated electric-blue chaqueta y zapados. The Notorious B.I.G. and a commando surprise for the de los coronér!” “Sure,” Stevie said, lookin’ up the stairs instead of checkin’ out Bucky’s kick-ass clothes. “I love your jacket. Did somebody kill Cookie Monster to make it for you?”
Bang!
“...was just getting warmed up this weekend and went on a horrific murder spree at the mall. He’s got somethin’ against the blue ones.” Bucky had his back pressed against the door. “I saw it on the news. Brock ambushed Cookie Monster in front of Mrs. Fields. Didn’t even let the guy finish his cookie before…Pow!...he popped him with a 9mm.”“That’s not funny,” Steve whispered. “No shit, Captain Obvious.” Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off his furry, blood-covered boots. Skip one square, don’t touch the white (or, in this case, the red). And the red is why he said, “And because one Muppet murder wasn’t enough to get Brock off, he crept up behind Grover while the lil’ guy was orderin’ a blueberry smoothie at Jamba Juice. You know, ‘cause it’s blue. Then…Bam!...shot him right in the head, just so he could make me these boots.”Grabbing Bucky’s hand, Steve said, “Baby, stop,” before he pulled Bucky up the stairs. And it was wrong. Steve wasn’t supposed to do anything without asking for permission first. It was in the rules!But up they went. Up, up, up the stairway to Muppet Heaven until Steve said, “What’s so important that you couldn’t just call me?”And, man oh man, did he sound mad. But not as mad as Frank when he said, “This isn’t the kind of thing you talk about on the phone.” Suddenly Bucky was thinking about pickles. Dill pickles. Bread-and-butter pickles. Sweet pickles. Gherkins.And when he ran out of pickles, he started thinking about cucumbers because there was no fuckin’ way he was gonna think about how Frank was leaning against the pearly gates of Muppet Heaven with a toothpick in his mouth. Seriously, what the fuck had he eaten for breakfast? Steak?Bucky wondered if TJ hated pickles as much as he did. If he wanted to puke when pickle juice contaminated his hamburger bun (disgusting), hurl when tartar sauce showed up with his fish and chips (a fuckin’ travesty), or vomit whenever Pickle Rick appeared on Rick and Morty (I’m Pickle Rick!). If the gangster and the jock weren’t blockin’ the way with a mountain of muscle, Bucky would’ve asked, ‘cause there he was, slouched in the corner in a navy-blue dress shirt and shiny shoes, lookin’ like he could use a pickle or two on his plate.Bucky had to sit down. And Frank? Well, Frank said, “I’m assuming Bucky told you about the gun,” because people like Frank Castle didn’t know how to read a fucking room. Bottom line: If Bucky’d told Captain Rogers about the gun, he’d be sitting in a a police station, shittin’ his plaid pants while he drank shit coffee, not sitting two steps below Steve’s white Nikes, worrying that Brock was gonna skin him alive and make a dress out of his gorgeous, homosexual skin. “What gun?” Steve asked like he was about to pull out a machete (and not because he was gonna chop down a coconut). “What the fuck are you talking about?”It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again. Layering murder victims was very vogue this season. Brock could slick his hair back with meat juice, layer Bucky’s one-of-a-kind Cookie Monster jacket on top of his Bucky-skin dress, and…Boom!...have himself a killer night on the town. “You didn’t tell him?” Frank shot Bucky a look that said he’d love to use Brock’s scraps to make himself a Bucky-skin wallet. Possibly Bucky’s empty ballsack. You know, like a lil’ pouch. Turning back to Steve, Frank said, “TJ texted him. Told him we took care of it.”“Took care of what?” Captain Rogers was not a happy camper, and when looked at Bucky like he wanted to throw Bucky into the well (along with the little white dog), there was nothing left to do but rub the lotion on his nuts. Coin purses, especially ones made from testicular leather, should be supple. “I’m gonna say this once,” Frank said, pointing at Steve, then TJ, then Bucky, then…Woof!...at the little white dog, “then nobody’s gonna mention it again. Got it?” It was scary how hard Steve was clenching his fists. Straight up, it looked like he was pumpin’ up his veins so he’d have max power when…Kablam!...he broke Frank’s nose. But no matter how much Bucky liked Mortal Kombat, he wasn’t down for a fuckin’ fatality. Murder Monday, Fatality Friday… take your pick. Either way, you’re gonna die.Luckily, there was another viewing option for this once-in-a-lifetime pay-per-view event. One that had nothing to do with ultraviolence or supple balls. Flipping the channel, Bucky turned his attention to the boy in the corner, and—“Huh.” TJ looked like he was sleeping. Sure, he was standing up, but his eyelids were drooping, his chin was drooping, his shoulders were drooping, and— Damn. Sign Bucky up ‘cause that shit looked peaceful as fuck. But you know what wasn’t peaceful as fuck? When Steve stabbed the center of Frank’s chest with his finger and ‘whispered,’ “What the fuck did you do?” like Frank didn’t have a set of brass knuckles on both hands.“We solved your fucking problem,” Frank said, leaning into Steve’s finger like he was gonna break it, “so how about you back the fuck up and show some appreciation?”But Steve didn’t back up. Not an inch. Not half an inch. Not a quarter of an inch. He just stood there, toe to toe with Frank Castle like his thousand-push-ups-a-day biceps could win in a gunfight. Spoiler alert: A gun show at a gun show always ends with the bodybuilder bleeding out on the floor.“How can I show my appreciation if I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about?”Steve was no longer ‘whispering.’ And he wasn’t yelling. He was yelling yelling. It was only a matter of time before somebody picked up a walkie talkie and sent Principal Barnes to the scene of the crime. And then what was Bucky supposed to do? Make up some more bullshit about frisbees? Bucky slid down a step when Frank slapped Steve’s hand away, and another when he started to choke. There was so much testosterone in the air that his throat was closing, and TJ—TJ was looking at him through the cloud.“I’m talking about killing two birds with one stone,” Frank said, switching his toothpick to the other side. Too many toothpicks. Too much testosterone. Too many guns pointed at Tupac.“His dad declared war on my family last week, so getting Brock out of the picture helped everybody.” Frank glanced at TJ. “And I’m not just talking about your boyfriend, if you catch my drift.” Suddenly Bucky was underneath the bleachers, palms sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy, there’s vomit on his sweater already… Mom’s spaghetti. And TJ— Bucky could see his mouth moving, but he couldn’t hear what he was saying. It was too fuckin’ loud. Not only was the entire student body stomping their feet as the band played a shitty version of “Seven Nation Army” (seriously, Jack White would be pissed), but the cheerleaders were screaming at the top of their lungs about teen spirit. But it was okay as long as Bucky could tug on TJ’s ridiculously sexy striped tie, run his fingers through the pomade in his hair, and bite the bottom of his earlobe. And it was more than okay when Bucky tasted something salty on TJ’s lips. Something that might be popcorn.
Flash!
“It’s simple,” TJ said, stepping out of the corner. “Brock’s an asshole who deserves to be expelled. Tipping off your dad was the easiest way to get him out of our lives.”There it was, laid out so somebody as stupid as Bucky could understand. Our lives.Our. A girl with a short skirt walked by, and Bucky could see her underwear. It was white, but it wasn’t lacy and white. No risk of snot, sour cream, or girl juice squirtin’ out through the holes. Bucky cringed ‘cause, ew! But he was also smilin’ on the inside ‘cause the Kings of the Jocks had stopped shouting. “You should have talked to me first,” Steve said like he was the one with scratches on his dick, “because this? This is wrong.”Frank scoffed. “So you’d rather have Bucky press charges? Have you even considered how that would go down?”Since there were no more panties to look at, Bucky scoped out TJ’s pantalones. They were made of something heavy, like… wool? Or maybe Kevlar? And his hands were shakin’ (like Bucky’s knees were quakin’), his piano fingers playing something straight outta Nightmare on Elm Street instead of Billy Joel. And that, right there, was some bullshit. TJ wasn’t supposed to play scary music. TJ liked jazz.“‘Cause if you had,” Frank said, switching his steak stabbin’ toothpick back to the OG side, “I doubt you’d be standing here bitching at me. C’mon, Steve, think. Do you want everybody—and I mean everybody—to find out what happened? For the other people Brock’s been fucking with to get subpoenaed?" TJ’s eyes dropped to the floor. Not, like, his actual eyes, ‘cause that would’ve been hella fucked up, but he was starin’ at the floor like he wanted the wood to spread apart and…Gulp!...swallow him whole like a hamster.Pointing at Bucky without looking at him. Frank said, "If you think Brock’s dad won’t destroy you in court, you’re a fucking idiot. Carlisle Rumlow will drag your names through the mud until there’s nothing left. If he put out a hit on my father, he's not gonna think twice about destroying people like you.”A hit! There was no fucking way Bucky’d heard that right! A motherfucking hit?“You were really fucked up,” TJ said as he stepped into the man musk with his shiny shoes. Now, you might think that somebody whose body was fifty percent as wide as the King of the Jocks and forty percent as wide as the Clothesline King would look like a chihuahua in comparison, but TJ didn’t seem small at all. Guess that’s how it worked when somebody put the truth on blast.Bucky’d been fucked up, all right. And not just your normal, shots-on-the-weekend-with-your-blowjob-buddy fucked up, piss-in-your-potted-plant fucked up, or wake-up-wearing-a-collar fucked up. No, no, no, druggies and subs, Bucky’d blacked the fuck out.Unfortunately for TJ, Steve’s reaction was swift and scary.“Are you fucking kidding me?” he shouted (even though a girl with pretty pink panties was walking by). “That doesn’t matter!”When TJ flinched, Bucky flinched too. And when Bucky’s cheek started to burn, he knew that TJ understood the sting. The boy in the navy-blue peacoat might be hunched over and hiding behind someone bigger—someone who was still arguing with Steve—but to Bucky, it felt like he had a clear view of the boy in blue for the first time in two years. Not the Cocaine Kitty. Not the political fuckboi. Not the asshole in the BMW M2. But TJ, who, once upon a time, had held Bucky’s hand on the bus.Tenth-grade Bucky’d been into super buff guys like Zac Efron and Nick Jonas, super buff guys with impossible shoulder-to-waist ratios who swam really fast, and super buff guys with brand-new nipple piercings who could shoot an apple off a person’s head with an arrow. So when Bucky’d first noticed the clean-cut kid with the ever-present tie, he’d been hella confused by the TJ-inspired boners. It was nuts, but TJ had always made rich-kid clothes look sexy. And Bucky wasn’t talkin’ about rich-kid clothes like Steve Rogers’ fancy-ass polo shirts and gazillion-dollar leather jackets. He was talkin’ about ties, suits, and vests. Political fuckboi shit. And when TJ had shown up in that navy-blue peacoat…Whoo-ee!...Bucky’d been a fuckin’ goner.Wiping the drool off his chin, Bucky moved up a step. He wanted to get a closer look at the bulge in TJ Campbell’s pants. To see if he was hidin’ anything good in those dark-gray pantalones. You know, like a big penis. It really sucked that winter had shown up early this year, blowin’ in like a big ol’ buzzkill, ‘cause he’d totally planned on dressing up as David Hasselhoff for Halloween (the shirtless Baywatch version). But TJ’s peacoat more than made up for it. The past few days, that coat had taught Bucky some very important lessons about desire (cough, lust). Like how he could get off in three minutes thinkin’ about the way the high collar framed TJ’s heart-shaped face. How he could get off in two minutes thinkin’ about TJ wearing nothing but the coat. And how he could get off in one minute thinkin’ about how TJ's skin looked exactly like Edward Cullen’s next to the dark-blue wool, all sparkly, and vampirey, and pale. God, he was cute. And sexy. And he had nice teeth (like he flossed every day). And Bucky really, really, really wanted to ask him out on a date or something.
Clap!
Frank’s hand was on Steve’s shoulder, squeezing the blue-and-white checkers like he was tryin’ to make a blueberry smoothie with his brass knuckles. “It does matter that Bucky was fucked up,” he said, hitting puree on the blender. “His account will be considered unreliable. And that leaves you, me, and TJ as witnesses.”TJ? When Bucky looked up at him, his shirt was wrinkled, his tie was off-center, and—Bucky moved down a step.The insteps of TJ’s shoes were full of scratches and scrapes. And now that Bucky’d seen them, he couldn’t unsee them. He couldn’t stop himself from picturing Brock kicking those shoes apart as he held TJ against the wall, scratching his pants and grabbing his dick.“Shut up, pussy.” Bucky kicked the wall. Hard. Then he kicked it again, smashing Grover’s electric-blue fur against the bricks because Bucky was a fucking asshole. Why else would he have sat there, basking in his post-virgin glow at Stark’s pancake breakfast while he’d thought terrible things about a boy he’d once kissed? Cocaine Kitty? What the fuck? He should have thrown that stupid mimosa at Stark’s polka-dotted dick, told Steve’s ex-girlfriend to douche her pussy with orange juice, and pushed Sam and Ezra (and whoever else had been there) out of the way so he could have asked TJ what was wrong. “Nobody will take my word for it,” Frank said, squeezing the fuck out of Grover’s corpse to get the juice out. “And TJ’s not even supposed to be talking to Bucky, let alone dragging his wasted ass into a taxi on school property. If his dad found out, he’d ship him off to military school.”TJ was rubbing his nose like he was trying to turn his nostrils inside out. And when he said, “There are cameras outside,” he was legit about to go full Voldemort. “And cameras around the school.”When Steve growled like the Hulk (red, not green) and said, “Are you fucking kidding me?” he farted out an entire thundercloud of testosterone. Kablam! And when he full-on shouted, “Then why not just tell Bucky’s dad to pull footage from the pool?” a bolt of lightning shot out of his penis. Thunderclouds and rainbows. Space Unicorns and Thor. Ride the Lightning and My Little Pony. “Because the only cameras in the Natatorium are pointed at Coach Fury’s office and the locker room doors. That’s why.” It would be easy to assume that Frank had been the one to lay out the security details of Eaton High (being a mobster and all), but…Muy surpriseo!...it had been itty-bitty TJ, who, in addition to having one of the school's most notorious drug problems, had the cutest snow-white paws. Was it mean to call TJ a cocaine kitty? Fuck, yeah! But it was also kind of endearing, especially now that Bucky could imagine taking off his flea collar and sharing a line.“And even if they did catch something on camera,” Frank said as he pulled out another set of brass knuckles (‘cause in Frank’s world, two just wasn’t enough), “what about your stepdad, Steve?” Frank was getting louder. TJ’s shoes were getting further apart. And Steve— Steve wore sneakers that were made for running. “I don’t think Alexander Pierce will appreciate his ‘son’ getting mixed up in a high-profile trial, especially one where the details of your boyfriend’s sexual assault—while he was high on Vicodin—are front-page news.”So that’s what Stark had roofied him with. Vicodin with a capital V. Bucky laughed. Not only because the Alphabet Game was fun, but because poetry, with its rhymes and lines, was a fuckin’ blast. Quaalude starts with Q. Vicodin starts with V. And Bucky starts P. P for pussy.“I’ve known Brock my whole life,” Frank said, looking like he’d eaten two steaks for breakfast (maybe three). “We grew up side by side, doing all sorts of questionable things for our dads. But bringing a gun to school was over the line, even for him.”“Wait. You didn’t plant it?” Steve starts with S. So does surprise, startled, and stupid.“Fuck no, I didn’t plant it.” M-Day. M for Monday. M for murder. M for meow.Frank, who wasn’t a fan of kitty cats or faggots, said, “He stashed it there last week after you and Barton had the brilliant idea to humiliate him at Stark’s party. You broke his nose, Steve. Made him look weak. You don’t do that to a Rumlow without major repercussions. Why do you think I warned you?”“You didn’t warn me that he had a gun!”C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me. Chocolate chip cookie starts with the letter C, C, C. Fun Fact: Bucky would totally chow down on a ginormous plate of cookies right now. Cookies with moloko. Cookies with Alex, the Droogs, and Clint. And maybe, if Bucky stopped bein’ a fucking pussy (#CookiePower), he’d ask TJ to come over. He and Clint could teach him how to play Guitar Hero.“What’s done is done,” TJ said, sniffin’, sniffin’, and sniffin’ some more. “If we stand here all day, people are going to start asking questions.”“Yeah, like me.” The bones in Steve’s knuckles cracked when he squeezed his fists, and suddenly Bucky wanted Rice Krispies instead of cookies. “I have lots of questions.”Leaning forward, Frank looked down the hall (left, then right, then left again), checkin’ for Brock and his Glock before he said, “Maybe try a thank you instead of being an unappreciative dick. TJ really stuck his neck out on this, and—”“Wait,” Bucky heard himself say. “TJ’s the one who turned him in?”When TJ shrugged, he dropped his cookie. And when he said, “It was easy,” it rolled down the stairs. “I just walked up to your dad after the dance and said I’d heard Brock say something about a gun in his locker.”“Easy?” Steve kicked his backpack. “Nothing about this is easy!”Steve was shouting (again), but it wasn’t from the testosterone. No way, namaste. He was shouting because…Roar!...he was hulking out. No joke, there were gamma rays shootin’ everywhere and nuclear shit in the air, and if Steve didn’t take a Hulk-size chill pill, his Hulk-size dick was gonna explode out of his non-stretchy, rich-boy jeans. And Frank? Frank wasn’t having it. Spitting out his toothpick, he pointed at Steve’s chest like he was pointing a gun. “I’ve known you for a long time, Steve, and I’ve always respected you.” He clicked off the safety. “But right now, you’re pissing me off. If this goes bad because of you, I swear, I’ll—" “Thank you." It wasn’t Steve who’d said it because Steve, aka the Hulk, could only grunt and roar when he was green. And it wasn’t TJ because TJ was hidin’ in a coat closet with Voldemort. And that left… Bucky? “Finally.” Frank was lookin’ right at Bucky, so, yep, he must’ve said it, which, if you asked him, had been pretty fuckin’ ballsy. “Now explain to your boyfriend why thank you was the right thing to say.” The gangster stuck his bazooka into the back of his pants (it was a tight fit, but he made it work). Then, like flexin’ with a big ol’ bazooka hadn’t been enough, he gave the Hulk the finger and said, “Fucking amateurs.”When Frank walked away, it was like Pacino, Brando, and Tyler Durden had left the building, leaving a mega size mobster/Fight Club void. But TJ, aka the snitch, didn’t move. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets like he didn’t know where to go, what to do, or what to say. And that sucked. Pretty boys in navy-blue peacoats shouldn’t look so lost.It took a while, but eventually, TJ dragged his hand over his face and said, “I’m sorry,” like he had an entire mouthful of Vicodin-infused cookies. “I’m—” He swallowed, and when he did, Bucky could taste the crumbs. “I’m just so sorry.”To an outside observer (like the girl who’d just walked by with yoga pants and camel toe) it might look like TJ was talking to Steve. But Bucky knew better. TJ hadn’t sent Steve videos of himself playing Thelonious Monk on a grand piano. And he hadn’t taught Steve how to pronounce Thelonious Monk. And TJ—Bucky watched him trail after Frank, stumbling as he dragged his fingers over the lockers.Piano fingers that could be snapped like twigs.Piano fingers that had been forced to do unspeakable things.“I should be the one apologizing,” Bucky said to what was left of Grover. I’m sorry your navy-blue peacoat made me horny. I’m sorry I held your hand on the bus. I'm sorry I kissed you underneath those stupid bleachers. And, most of all, I’m so fucking sorry that I wasn’t more careful with you.“We have to tell your dad.” Steve was hovering over him. Top step. Six foot two. A big boy. A Daddy with a capital D. "This is wrong, Buck."“No," Bucky said, squeezing his eyes shut so the gamma rays didn’t fry ‘em like eggiwegs. “There’s no fucking way you’re doing that to TJ, and, no matter what kind of self-sacrificial hero shit you’re playing at this week, there’s no fucking way I’m doing that to you. Fuck that!”Bucky could feel Steve looming over him. Feel the tree branches creak in the winter wind.“Baby, c’mon. I told you I’m having Tony help me figure out how to get away from Alexander, so my fucked-up life shouldn’t factor into this decision." And the wind— Yakov coughed. The wind was blowing the smoke over the hill, and it was thick, and black, and full of people.Snarling like he hated cookies, Steve said, “If it’s that important to you, we can figure out a way to keep TJ out of it. But this is about you, Bucky, and I can’t—I won’t—let Brock get—”“But it’s not just about me!”Bucky didn’t give a flying fuck that he was disrespecting Cookie Monster’s memory by scraping his skin against the bricks. If Bucky scratched the leather, Brock couldn’t ruin it. And if Bucky scuffed the insteps of TJ’s shoes by gettin’ him to play soccer or kickball, Brock couldn’t pin him against the wall.But Steve, like every muscle-bound action hero, was on a fuckin’ roll.“You're right,” he said, veering into Red Hulk territory. “Brock could do this to other people. Not just you and not just TJ. I don’t know what sent Brock off the deep end, and I don’t care. I just know that he’s dangerous."
“Say that shit again, and I’ll kill you.”
"For Christ's sake, Bucky, he had a fucking gun!”Guns N' Roses. Guns and Ammo. BB guns. Fart guns. Nerf guns. Steve's big guns.When Bucky said, “You’re the one who broke his fucking nose,” and kicked the wall with both Grovers, Steve’s jaw dropped. And when Bucky channeled Axl Rose’s snake hips and hissed, “So why the fuck are you assuming the gun was for me?” Steve took a step backwards. “In fact, why the fuck are you assuming anything about anything?”"Bucky, I—""Stop!"Steve’s bruises, burns, and cuts had finally faded, and there was no way in hell Bucky was gonna be responsible for creating more! Sure, scary Steve Rogers might slam a six-pack of Muscle Milk and hulk out when Frank Castle was around, but that didn’t mean he was gonna go double or nothing and transform into the Red Hulk when his fuckin’ stepdad smashed his skull in with another door handle. Fuck no! Steve was gonna pound in a set of nine inch nails and take that shit lying down…Bam! Bam! Bam!...and if Bucky opened his mouth before Steve was free and clear, every bruise, burn, and cut would be his fault. Fuck, he might as well break Steve’s jaw himself.Grinding his back against the bricks, Bucky dug deeper, peeling off the fur until there was nothing left but skin and meat. And TJ? Bucky hit his head on the tiles. If TJ got sucked into this bullshit, it would be like Bucky’d gone full Grand Theft Auto, jacked a big, yellow school bus, and plowed straight into the cute boy in the navy-blue peacoat at ninety-five miles per hour. Splat! Fuck that. He wouldn't fucking do it!TJ deserved Cookies ‘n’ Cream ice cream with lots and lots of video game therapy. And Stevie, with his cute lil’ checkered shirt, deserved Bomb Pops, blow jobs, and serious smooches. You know, happy shit.Not dead Muppets. Reaching into the meringuey clouds, Bucky grabbed Stevie’s hand. “Hey, sexy boyfriend," he said, puttin’ a lil’ muscle into it, "get your ass down here and sit on this super sanitary step with me. It’s where all the cool kids hang out, and I, Bucky B. Barnes, think you’re the coolest.” He tugged even harder. "Plus, there’s this brand-new thing I like saying that rhymes with I dove poo and I really, really, really wanna say it again." “What? Bucky, you can’t just—”“For fuck’s sake, Steve! Just sit with me!”Steve didn’t sit because he, unlike Bucky, didn't act like a fucking dog whenever somebody snapped their fingers. Instead, he picked up his backpack, walked to the middle of the hall, and threw it down the center like he was going for a seventy-five yard touchdown pass.Holy shit.Bucky couldn’t see the end zone, but he sure as fuck heard it when the backpack crashed into the lockers at the very end. Holy. Fucking. Shit.Then the star quarterback, aka star swimmer, aka star fucker, just stood there, his chest heaving like he was searching for something else to throw. A trash can? A small freshman? A water fountain that he’d just ripped off the wall? Too bad there wasn't an amp around. Those things made a killer bang when they smashed into a wall."Um… Steve?""I need a minute."Yep, Stevie Banner had gone full nuclear, and Bucky had no fuckin’ clue how to contain the radiation. That’s why he looked at his kick-ass boots. It was a shame that Grover was dead. He’d been a really cool Muppet (just the right amount of fur). Bucky gave the sides a lil’ pet (so soft, so blue), then offered Dead Grover a cookie. Kinda like an ofrenda. You know, like Day of the Dead. Día de los murdéros.Out of nowhere, a pair of flawless white Nikes appeared next to Grover’s remains. Were they made of unicorn skin? The tail fin of a beluga whale? An albino python? And Steve Rogers’ legs were there too, bent at the knees, just like Bucky's. Steve Rogers who swam faster than a dolphin. Steve Rogers who liked big boobs and high heels. Steve Rogers who—Bucky blinked.There’d been a Bomb Pop. Patriotic drips snaking their way through Steve Rogers’ chest hair. What the fuck had it tasted like? Cherries? Raspberries? Vomit?He couldn't remember.“...baby, what Brock did to you… what he was going to do to you. You can’t just let that go.”Steve Rogers was calling him baby. The superstar from the swim team was touching his hair.“What if he comes back, Buck? If Brock was able to get ahold of one gun, he can get ahold of another one.”“Do you like butterflies?” Bucky asked because there was a monarch flapping around Steve’s head like an itty-bitty tiger. “Don’t change the subject.”How could Bucky change the subject when he didn’t even know what the subject was?Steve Rogers’ hands were bigger than TJ’s (like, waaay bigger), and they had thick veins runnin’ across the tops like sexy earthworms (or, if Steve ever used them to cross over to the gay side, sexy rainbow gummy worms). And, yes, Bucky was well aware that Steve used those big, sexy hands to cup ginormous boobies and bootylicious butts, but, still, it was nice havin’ them touch his cheek. They felt strong, like Mr. America could chop an airplane in half with a single blow or catch an asteroid like a baseball. Bruce Willis would be fuckin’ jealous.“Please,” Bucky said, pretendin’ his face was a big ol’ boobie so he could rest his chinny chin chin in Steve Rogers’ palm, “can’t you just hold me?”“You really want to let him get away with it?” Steve asked, which, in Bucky’s not-so-humble humble opinion, was a stupid-ass question.Bucky would let anybody get away with anything if it meant he could cuddle up to Steve Rogers. He would let Clint shave his head. He would let Skinner hog all the covers at their next Saturday night sleepover. He would let Daisy give every last one of her tea-infused cupcakes to TJ. And he would let Natalia have the last bowl of porridge when the dinner bell rang.Nuzzling into Steve’s palm, Bucky said, “Da, it’s best that way. Now, give me a hug, pozhaluysta.”Please say yes. Please say yes. Please.It felt awesome when Steve kissed Bucky’s temple, and even better when he kissed Bucky’s cheek. And when he kissed it again and said, “This is a horrible idea, Bucky, and I love you,” it felt like he’d won the fuckin’ lottery. #PowerballForPowerBottoms“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu,” Bucky said as Captain Steve Rogers wrapped him up like an electric-blue burrito (with extra sour cream), ‘cause, for real, who wouldn’t love an all-American hottie with buns of steel and eight-pack abs?And for the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky knew exactly where he was.Coconuts. Palm Trees. Seagulls.Bucky let himself drift as the tropical breeze blew across his face, in and out, in and out, like a magical unicorn floating on an ocean made of diamonds.God, he couldn’t wait to introduce Steve Rogers to Brandon Boyd.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
School was funny. Not, like, funny funny like an episode of Rick and Morty (sans pickles) or funny like Clint with a mouthful of marshmallows. It was funny because Bucky B. Barnes, manipulator extraordinaire, had learned to play the teachers like a fucking harpsicord. #AmadeusRocksWhen Bucky waltzed into first hour with only fifteen minutes left, Mr. Kuzinski didn’t pause his boring-ass lecture on self-pleasure (Or was it self-isolationism?) in The Catcher in the Rye to give Bucky a double D detention. No sirree, he just glanced at Bucky, Cookie Monster, and Grover like Bucky and the Dead Muppet Crew were tardy spirits from Ghost Adventures (shout-out, Zac Bagans) or…Boo!...Shakespearean ghosts from Steve’s fancy-ass poem. A poem, for the record, that Bucky had only sort of understood.Sighing, Bucky dropped his backpack next to his desk. He was a smart cookie, but poetry wasn’t his jam. Pearl Jam on the other hand. Fuck yeah! And strawberry jam. Yummy-yum-yum, especially when you slathered it on Wonder Bread with a shitload of extra-crunchy Jif. “Where the hell have you been?” Sam asked, turnin’ around in his desk and givin’ Bucky the evil eye. You know, like Sauron. Or Medusa. Or Heath Ledger's Joker before he blew up that police station in The Dark Knight. Bucky laughed. Sam didn’t really look like the Joker, but with the massive amount of evil floating around in the air, everything seemed evil. Even Sam’s big Bambi eyes and toast-colored polo. Kuzinski may have ignored Bucky’s extreme tardiness (and blood-covered boots), but Bucky didn’t wanna push it, push it real good by having a full-on conversation with Sam about death threats, sexual assault, and full metal jackets in the back of the class. Plus, he had a killer headache.Instead of engaging, Bucky pressed his tongue into his cheek and made the universal sign for ‘I was giving Steve a blow job, duh.’ Bucky deepthroating Steve’s cock in the locker room showers was a hell of a lot more believable than the two of them having steak and eggiwegs with Frank, Frank’s brass knuckles, and TJ’s never-ending supply of Grade A drugs.Did Kuzinski see the ‘ten-inch cock’ in Bucky’s cheek? Why, yes, chicken lovers, he most certainly did. Did he stop rambling about Holden Caulfield’s Christmas expulsion from his fancy-ass, Pennsylvania prep school? Fuck no. Side note: Talk about some cosmic shit. Brock. Holden. Prep Schools. Expulsions. Maybe Bucky should actually read the book.But some boring, ‘50s novel’s eerie similarities to his own fucking life wasn’t the point. The point was that Kuzinski, with his newly acquired cock blinders, had just moved to the tippity-top of the long list of teachers who’d gotten sick and tired of Bucky’s shit. Fun fact: Bitching about the principal’s kid (to the principal) draws unnecessary attention from the authorities. And that, rebels and rule breakers, was a crack in the system that Bucky’d happily exploited since ninth grade. “Have you heard the rumors about Brock?” Sam asked because, apparently, he hadn’t gotten the message that Bucky was ignoring him.To clarify his position, Bucky said, “I’m ignoring you,” and yanked the stupid rubber band out of his hair. If blow job ASL wasn’t gonna do the trick, Bucky had no other choice but to pivot to some Frodo-approved, Chewbacca-hair avoidance tactics. One: shake tangled, chlorine-damaged hair into face (#ExtraCrispy). Two: hunch forward like you’re piloting the Millennium Falcon through the asteroid belt in The Empire Strikes Back. Three: say, “I’m fucking ignoring you,” in a George Lucas-quality Chewbacca voice, meaning growl/moan like you’ve got a bunch of mouthwash in your throat. Did it work? Maybe, maybe not. Bucky couldn’t see Samwise Gamgee through all this asteroid-filled Chewbacca hair.And what did Kuzinski do about Bucky’s transformation into a seven-foot Wookiee? Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.He didn’t tell Bucky to stop making Chewbacca noises. He didn’t tell Bucky to steer the Millennium Falcon under the desk so Brock couldn’t blast his ship with a proton cannon. And he didn’t stop rambling about the literary adventures of a teenage pervert, aka Holden Caulfield, who got off watching people fuck from his hotel window.Why Steve was obsessed with this literature shit was a Mystery Theater 3000 mystery in Bucky’s movie-theater mind. It was just an excuse for pervy teachers like Kuzinski to stare at his students’ ankles while he talked about pervy literature. Bucky scoffed, blowing a good chunk of Wookiee hair out of his eyes in the process. That whole thing about Bucky not getting it? None of it was true. Well, except the part about Kuzinski staring at girls’ ankles while he talked about Bram Stoker’s Dracula. That shit was world-renowned (just ask Keanu Reeves). But Bucky understood why Steve loved books. Otherwise, why would he spend his free time chugging Monsters with Clint while they talked about Dune, The Shining, and A Clockwork Orange. It was good shit. Top-notch plot. Top-notch action. And, in the case of the Droogs, top-notch ultraviolence.And maybe that’s just what Bucky needed.If Aragorn had forsaken him and Biggie was destined to die, maybe he should bite the bullet on the “Singing in the Rain” rape scene in A Clockwork Orange and employ some hardcore ultraviolence to avoid getting raped himself. Steve was cute, and Steve was strong, but Bucky’s Duckie shoes tended to take him places he didn’t belong. Places where Steve, with his pure heart and sparkling teeth, would make his own fucked-up life even worse.Bucky put his forehead onto the desk, grinding his eyebrows against the laminated plastic until he smelled… spearmint? Turns out, the girl in front of him had dropped two itty-bitty sticks of Trident gum into his Wookiee hair, which (when combined) equaled less than half a piece of watermelon Bubble Yum. “I always see you chewing gum with your friends,” she said as Bucky landed the Millennium Falcon. “And you look like you could use some.”She wasn’t a freshman, so she couldn’t be part of The Freshman Fan Club. And she wasn’t a senior because— Bucky squinted at her sculpted eyebrow. Because Bucky’d never seen her eating snobby sandwiches at senior lunch. And that left the mysterious nebula in between. “Are you a junior?” Bucky asked as he unwrapped piece number one. So small. So minty. So woefully inadequate when compared to a scrumdiddlyumptious cube of Bubblicious. “No, I’m a sophomore.”Bucky popped it into his mouth, asking, “What’s your name?” before undressing piece número dos. Even when the gum is shitty, it’s only polite learn the name of the person with such horrible taste in gum.The chick smiled like Bucky’d made her fucking day (#Terminator), which would probably change when Brock busted in with his AK. “My name is Rose.”Bucky stopped chewing. “Rose? Like baby Kate Winslet in James Cameron's magnum opus Titanic?”She didn’t look like a Rose. She looked like a Stella, or a Harper, or a Gwyneth (like Paltrow without the Goop).“Yes, after my grandmother.”First off, Bucky didn’t give a shit about this bitch’s grandma. Rose could be named Marilyn Monroe or Madonna for all he cared because Bucky’d just remembered the epic shit fit she'd thrown when Kuzinski had assigned seats on the first day of school. Who'd wanted to sit in front of Bucky in a neat little row? Not Rich-bitch Rose, that was for fucking sure. The way she’d thrown her miniature Gucci backpack onto the floor had proved that.The gum was a diversion. A ploy. And Bucky, because he was livin’ on the edge, took a page outta Quincy the Art Spy’s book and played into the deception.Chompin’ the gum like a minty-fresh cow, he said, “My friend’s name is Daisy. If you two stood next to each other, you’d be half a bouquet.”Kuzinski was eyeing them, and even with his overly gelled undercut, he still looked a bit like Sauron. But he taught on, inspired perhaps by Rose’s pretty ankles.“My twin sister's name is Iris,” she said, pouring on the bullshit. “And we have a friend named Blossom. Maybe all of us could hang out together at Tony Stark’s Halloween party.”Superspy, Spidey-Sense activated.Arm hair erect, Bucky added some superspy sarcasm to his voice when he said, “But, Rosie, that’s almost a month away. If you’re serious about cultivating a friendship bouquet, we should get together ASAP and drink some chamomile tea. How about after school today? You bring the Miracle-Gro, I’ll bring the weed.”Her facade was cracking. Little by little, Rose’s ‘let’s be pals’ smile was turning into something familiar. Something that rhymed with itchy.Batting her eyelashes like Bucky was a fucking idiot (or straight), she said, “Yeah. Sure. That sounds… great.” “It does, huh?” Bucky touched the bottom of her hair (just for fun). “Or are you trying to jam yourself into my fuckin' bouquet because sophomores can’t get into Tony’s parties without an invite?” Kapow! Rose’s smile was gone. And with it, any inkling that she was down for chamomile tea. It was too bad, really. A fucking shame. Which is why, after one final chomp, Bucky said, “Go fuck yourself, Rose,” and spit the gum into the bitch’s hair. You know, like that cute lil’ popsicle Leo had hocked a loogie over the rail of the Titanic.News at 11:40 PM, April 14, 1912: Just because stowaway Bucky Barnes had let first-class passenger Steven Grant Rogers rail his asshole in a Coupé de Ville, it didn’t mean he was easy. And even though he loved to suck Steve’s titanic penis (and swallow Steve's titanic load), he wasn’t a sucker. Thankfully, the bell rang just as Rose's glacial meltdown reached its peak, saving Bucky the hassle of throwing her snobby ass into the icy darkness of the North Atlantic. The Freshman Fan Club. Thumbs up. The 1-800-FLOWERS Club. Thumbs down.Bucky stood up to make his escape, and he would have made it if Sam hadn’t blocked his path. But block it, he had. So while Rose freaked the fuck out about her gummified extensions, Bucky had to deal with the additional hassle of Steve's co-captain pointing at him like Sam was the only brother in The Pointer Sisters. Bucky put on his backpack. Sam put on his backpack. Bucky shook his head no. Sam shook his head yes.Bucky backed up with a stellar plan of bookin’ it around the edge of the classroom. Sam moved forward, matching him step by step.“Stop chasing me,” Bucky said, narrowly avoiding the ginormous bookshelf in Kuzinski’s reading corner. “It may not look like it, but I have more gum in my mouth. Like, a whole pack. One step closer and I’ll spit this Trident into your very short hair. Just like Aquaman.”Taking off like a shot (not a shotgun), Bucky swam as fast as he could past Jason Momoa, the squid monsters, and Brock’s whale-killin’ harpoon, kicking like a motherfucker as he zoomed past Kuzinski’s desk. But Sam, using his big hobbit brain, swam in the opposite direction, blocking Bucky’s waterfall escape. “For fuck’s sake,” Kuzinski said because, apparently, underwater tag was where he drew the line. Not tardiness. Not nonstop talking. Not Trident Gum attacks. But a high-speed playground game with the King of Atlantis.Bucky went left. Sam went right. Bucky switched directions. Sam tripped over a chair.
Kaboom!
Sam landed on his knees. And Bucky, switching to the backstroke, made a break for it. But not before he yelled, “Sorry I was late, Mr. Kuzinski. Giving your boo a Monday morning blow job is mandatory when he's the captain of the swim team. You know, mandatory, like giving the principal’s kid a pass when he sucks cock instead of suckin' up to his English teacher.”And with that, he was gone.There was no fuckin’ way he was gonna stick around and see if blow job humor was the thing that finally made Kuzinski blow his top. No way, Holden Caulfield fans. If Mr. K, like Mark David Chapman before him, was gonna take his curriculum to heart, ask Bucky for an autograph in front of The Dakota, and shoot him in the motherfuckin’ aorta (RIP John Lennon), Bucky had to vacate the area, stat.So Bucky ran, pushing past boys, girls, and Slinky toys as he made his way from point A to point B. But no matter how fast his Grover boots carried him, he couldn’t avoid the whispers, rumors, and TMZ gossip about why Brock Rumlow, mobster extraordinaire, was MIA. A selection: He’d been killed by Micheal Jackson in a “Beat It”-style dance off, having been severely outdanced and outzippered. He’d fallen overboard while smuggling cocaine (in a Miami Vice-era speedboat) up the Hudson River for his daddy. He’d smacked the wrong girl’s ass and had his balls sliced off with a switchblade (#MeTooExtreme). He’d begged Stark for forgiveness, and Tony, practical joker that he was, had roofied the fuck out of him, wrapped him in a cashmere sleeping bag, and put Brock on a private jet to Dubai. Shockingly, Bucky didn’t hear a peep (or a cheep) about Steve, Frank, TJ, Biggie, Bucky, or...Kapow!...a loaded gun.The second Bucky arrived at his destination (math, yuck), Daisy said, “Hey, Sweetie,” and gave him a great big hug. No joke, it felt warm and gooey, like The Princess of Vintage had magically poofed herself into a Little Debbie Zebra Cake (creamy filling included) with the power to stuff shotgun shells with frosting and yellow cake instead of gunpowder and lead. And it was fuckin' awesome! Love and cake, crankin’ the danger level down to a manageable DEFCON 3.Lifting Daisy off the ground, Bucky grabbed her butt and wrapped her legs around his waist. Luckily, she was wearing the fun, '90s cutoff overalls she’d found at Goodwill (versus a fun, '90s babydoll dress) because Bucky, no matter how desperate he was to pet a cake-loving zebra as a pet, didn’t want his hands to make contact with Daisy’s lady parts. ‘Cause, ew. Vaginas.“I love you,” Bucky said as he squeezed her like a teddy bear (or a zebra bear with frosting stripes), “and I missed the ever-loving fuck out of you this weekend.” He squeezed even harder, digging his fingers into her non-vagina frosting. “You and Skinner should’ve been dancing with me and Clint at the club. And all four of us should’ve been playin’ frisbee and stuffing our faces with Nathan’s hot dogs at the beach. I swear, boo, I’m never ever leaving you and Skinner behind again, no matter what stupid Tony Stark says.”“Mr. Barnes, put Ayaka down.” Ah, Mrs. Craft. She was a formidable teacher who had not (repeat, not) hopped on the let-Bucky-do-whatever-he-wants train. Squeezing Daisy’s butt even tighter, Bucky said, “But I love her sooo much, Mrs C. She smells like Africa and Cake Wars, and she’s wearing my favorite lacy shirt from her extensive collection of lacy shirts.” Bucky tucked his chin over her shoulder and took a good, long sniff. “She’s like one of Cordelia’s high-fashion witches from American Horror Story. Picture Madison from ‘Coven,’ but a non-bitchy Asian version with an invisible zebra as a sidekick.”The bell rang at the same time as Mrs. C said, “Put her down, Mr. Barnes,” which…Bananarama!...gave the order an extra boost. Power up! Golden coins! Magical turtle shells! The bossy vibes made it super easy for Bucky to do as he was told, settin’ Lil’ Miss Daisy on her Mary Janes like a good boy. After all, Pavlovian dogs were sluts for a good bell. Bucky and Daisy were shooed into the room like sheep. Or cows. Or piggy-pink pigs. And Bucky, who was trying to be proactive on the murder front, zipped up his Cookie Monster coat so the slaughterhouse couldn't steal his gorgeous, homosexual hide. The good news: Ayaka sat right in front of him, and she was a daisy, not a rose. The bad news: As soon as Bucky parked his ass in the second desk of the day, the intercom crackled to life like an angry volcano...Snap! Crackle! Pop!...reminding Frodo that Aragorn had abandoned him in Mordor and that Obi-Wan, no matter how much he loved his Padawan, was destined to chop off Anakin's arms and legs and throw his ass into the lava. “Attention teachers and students.”It was his dad, and when his dad made announcements, it was always serious.“At this time, we will be having a Code Yellow. All students must stay in their classrooms until further notice. Teachers, please check your email for further instructions.” Bucky swallowed a bucketload of spit when Mrs. Craft locked the door, and he swallowed a boatload when she hustled over to her computer and put on her boomer reading glasses. It took fucking forever for her to read whatever the fuck she was reading (like, ten zillion years), and when she finally said, “Okay, listen up, there’s no cause for alarm, the K-9’s are just here for a random sweep,” Bucky almost swallowed his tongue.“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!”That was Jack, yelling from the back of the class. And when Bucky turned to look, Brock's right-hand man was on his feet, scowling at Mrs. Craft like he had a gun stashed in his locker too.
Flash!
Jack was tall. Not as tall as Frank, but he had half an inch on Bucky and three on Clint. And if Jack had an assault rifle, there wasn’t a damn thing Bucky, Biggie, or Mrs. Craft could do about it.Using the tough teacher voice that came in every how-to-be-an-effective-teacher handbook, Mrs. Craft said, “Jack, sit down." But Jack didn’t sit down. And Daisy—Bucky blinked.Daisy was sitting in front of him like she was supposed to be, lined up in a neat lil’ row, but…Zoinks!...the ends of her braids were in his hands. One in the left, one in the right, touch three squares, skip the white. Bucky smiled. The lace collar on her lacy shirt was cute. Delicate. Fragile. Pretty much the opposite of Bucky’s collar. Bucky’s collar was solid and strong so Captain Steve Rogers could pull him into the doggy position, just like the dogs in the hall.
Woof!
It was fuckin’ nuts that Mrs. Craft was trying to teach calculus while a pack of wild dogs were sniffin’ out everybody’s sins. But there she was, using a green Expo marker to scrawl differential equations with imaginary numbers on the whiteboard. Numbers. Letters. Ghost numbers that were invisible. Just like Bucky. Or was it just like Steve?“I don’t understand poetry,” Bucky said to Daisy’s braids. “I like it… I think. But Steve’s, like, really, really, really good at it.” Bucky snorted. “If being good at it means that a slightly smarter-than-average person like me doesn't get it.”“He wrote you a poem?” Daisy had turned around in her seat so Bucky was talking to her face instead of her braids, which, according to fifty percent of Earth’s population, was the superior way to communicate. Giving the strap of her overalls a tugboat tug, he said, “Yeah. But I don’t have a clue what Ghost Adventures ghosts have to do with real-life love.”A dog barked in the hall. Loud. And suddenly there were teeth digging into Bucky’s Grover-skin boots. Sharp ones, like the blood-stained wolves in the forest. And when a ginormous German Shepherd stormed past the window next to the door, pulling against its leather leash, Bucky closed his eyes and tried to picture Lucky.Lucky, with his soft, yellow fur. Lucky, who ran around in circles whenever Clint got out the tennis ball to play fetch. Lucky, who gobbled up rogue pizza crusts while Bucky and Clint jerked off to ‘70s porn.Clint, who probably had weed in his locker.“Shit!” Shouting “shit” in the middle of class was stupid. There was no arguing with that. But the wrath of Mrs. Craft wasn’t anything compared to what would happen to Clint if he had a joint in his locker. If Clint had weed, he’d lose his fucking scholarship, and if he lost his fucking scholarship, he could kiss his hopes for a full ride to a four-year college goodbye. Archery was his fucking ticket. His golden goose. And without Eaton to grease the wheels, his goose was fried. Clint would have to sell his ass (and his dick) for cash just to afford a second-rate community college where the professors flavored their instant coffee with Captain Morgan instead of cream.Bucky stared at the door, waitin’ for another wolfie to walk by with its drug-sniffin’ nose. Weed. Sniff! MDMA. Sniff! Mushrooms. Sniff! Cocaine.“Fuck!”“Mr. Barnes! That's enough!”If TJ had coke or E (or whatever the fuck he’d been on this morning) in his locker, Senator Campbell would have TJ’s ass on a plane to military school within the hour. And then—Bucky ground his teeth together, trying his damndest not to think about TJ’s eyes. It didn’t work. There was no denying that TJ’d been fucked up at their top-secret, Muppet-murder meeting. Bucky didn’t need a police dog to tell him that. But TJ hadn’t looked ‘up’ high like Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge! (#Absinthe). Fuck, no. He’d looked ‘down’ high like Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting and Velvet Goldmine (#Junkies). And that was bad. Like, Bad News Bears bad. Naloxone bad. Jared Leto’s-arm-getting-chopped-off-in-prison bad. When Bucky heard another bark, he rubbed his nose. Not because he was thinking about TJ’s scuffed shoes, but because he wanted to snort whatever Ewan McGregor had sold TJ in that dirty, shit-filled toilet.“I’m here,” Bucky whispered, hoping the dogs, with their supersonic hearing, would pick up his voice, stop scratching at the lockers, and scratch at the door instead. If the bloodhounds came into the classroom, Bucky knew they’d smell Brock all over his Cookie Monster coat. All over his scratched-up dick.But the door stayed locked. And the wolf, with its vampire teeth, went back to gnawing off Bucky’s foot. Chomp! Out of nowhere, Daisy tapped Bucky’s hand with the Garfield eraser (the one that lived on the end of her pencil). “Sweetie, what’s wrong?” she asked as Garfield’s claws scratched his already scratched-up knuckles. “Do you have something in your locker?” “Noperoni,” Bucky said, cursing cartoon cats, drug-sniffing dogs, lasagna, and Ewan McGregor. “I’m contraband free. Drugs kill, you know. Fry your brain like an eggiweg. Nancy Reagan told me that.”“Then why are your hands shaking?” In addition to Garfield, Daisy had a Pussycat Dolls pin on her overalls (not really), and she was rocking some mega extreme cat eyes that she’d drawn with black, turquoise, and purple eyeliner. Cupping his dick so he didn’t get any more scratches, Bucky asked Daisy (and Nicole Scherzinger), "Why didn't you tell me it was cat day, boo? I could've worn my Grumpy Cat pants.""Ayaka, turn around."Maybe if Bucky asked Stevie really, really, really nice, he'd whip out his American Express Black Card (so fancy) and buy Bucky a pair of cat ears and a blinged-out name tag to hang from his collar? Stevie could call him Meowzer when he lifted Bucky’s tail and fingered his ass. He snorted (like a pig, not a cat).“Mr. Barnes, I know the dogs are distracting, but I’m trying to teach—”"Sorry, Mrs. C,” Bucky said with the world’s widest (and cheesiest) Cheshire Cat grin. “I was thinkin’ about cats and collars. But I'm done now. Proceed you may. Proceed you shall.”There were eye rolls, and then there were eye rolls, and…Wallykazam!...Mrs. Craft had just hit Bucky with a full 360. But the effects were short-lived. Quick. Quark. Quigly-squigly. ‘Cause Mrs. C was back to scribblin’ on the board like an Expo-marker DJ in no time, droppin’ the beat with sixes, nines, and imaginary Y’s.Bucky looked at the clock.
Tick tock, tick tock.
There were exactly twenty-nine minutes left until Bucky found out the hard way if Brock was hidin’ under the stairs in black camo, waitin’ for Bucky to walk past on his way to Españo-yo-yo so he could…Hi-yah!...stick a bayonet into Bucky’s butthole.
Tick tock, tick.
And Steve? Bucky grabbed the end of Daisy’s braid and made himself a mustache. Brock could be waitin’ outside Steve’s AP World History class right now, countin’ the seconds until he pressed the muzzle of a TEC-9 to Steve’s temple and fired. One Mississipi…Bam!...just like Eminem said. There’s red on the ceilin’, red on the floor, and now Steve’s corpse had to get a new whore.
Tick tock.
What if Jack was in on it? Bucky looked over his shoulder and found Brock’s gun-slingin' buddy starin’ at him like he’d eaten bison for breakfast. And not cooked bison on a fancy-ass bun. No, cannibalistic cowboys, Bucky was talking raw bison, sliced directly off the rib cage. Any minute now, Jack was gonna say “stick ‘em up” and pull an 1880s revolver out of the holster on his hip.“Fuck this!” When Bucky leapt out of his seat, his Grover-skin boot got caught on his backpack and dragged his entire desk out of its perfect little row. And Mrs. Craft? She dropped her sinus-burning Expo marker like it was a firecracker.
Tick.
Suddenly Daisy’s hand was under his armpit, pulling on Cookie Monster’s fur and Bucky’s armpit fur, which… okay. He hadn’t even seen her stand up. But Bucky was gonna roll with it (despite the teleportation) ‘cause helping hands (and Hamburger Helper) were hella helpful when there were gangbangers around.Bucky said, “I feel sick,” because…Shocker!...it was true. The back of his throat was burning, and if Mrs. Craft got any closer, he was gonna hurl the rest of his Caramel Cocoa Cluster Frappuccino all over her sensible, cowskin shoes.“You can’t leave,” Mrs. Craft said, touching his shoulder like it wasn’t covered in Muppet guts. “We're on lockdown."Bucky shrugged her off. Then, because there was more than vomit bubbling in the back of his throat, he said, “Whatever, cyka. I’m about to puke on your fucking tits.”Somebody dropped a textbook (or maybe Cowboy Jack had dropped his six-shooter), and Bucky—Bucky was running. When his shoulder hit the door, the lock busted open like it was made of cardboard. And when he skidded into the center of the hall, he could hear the dogs. Barking. Growling. Scratching at the metal lockers somewhere above him. And that made Bucky run even faster. Not towards Steve. Not towards the cops. Not towards the dogs with their bloodhound noses. Bucky was running towards the office, running and running as fast as he could towards his dad.Bucky was so fucking stupid. He should have called his dad the second he’d woken up in that fucking hotel room. He should’ve called him on the way to the motherfucking beach. And he sure as fuck should have marched into his dad’s bedroom and screamed “Brock Rumlow sexually assaulted me!” the second Natasha had mentioned a fucking gun.“Fuck!” Rounding the corner, Bucky slid past the trophy case (with its framed pictures of Clint and Steve doing sports shit), past the benches where the basketball players liked to stick their hands up the cheerleaders’ skirts, and past the Recycle Please recycle cans. He was almost there. There was only one more corner between Bucky and the safety of his dad’s arms. One more corner before everything would be okay. But as soon as he made the final turn, Bucky stopped dead in his tracks.One Mississippi. Bang! If Bucky’d been five minutes earlier or three minutes later, he would have made it to the office window. A wave from the secretary. A smile. A gesture to “come on in and make yourself at home.” She would’ve handed him not one, not two, but three cherry Life Savers to suck on while he waited.But Bucky was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Again. Brock had just stormed out of the office, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf, and his parents were right behind him. In other words, Bucky had just stepped into the kill zone.The infamous Carlisle Rumlow was somebody Bucky’d seen on the front page of the New York Times, The Sun , and the six o'clock news, surrounded by words like untouchable, corruption, and FBI. But those two-dimensional glimpses were nothing compared to how terrifying he looked in real life. The man was bulky, balding, and wearing a long, black overcoat that screamed “My henchman will cut off your fuckin’ balls!” But the worst part had to be his sneer.It was identical to his son’s.Suddenly Bucky couldn’t breathe. And worse, he couldn’t fucking move. No joke, when the Rumlows turned directly into Bucky’s path, it was like the soles of his Grover-skin boots had been super glued to the floor. Brock’s mother was clicking closer and closer on her six-inch stilettos, and the click, click, tick, tick was making everything stickier. Her fingernails were too long, her dark-brown hair was too big, and her boobs were bouncing around in her low-cut dress like water balloons on a trampoline. And they weren’t small boobs like Daisy’s, medium boobs like Natasha’s, or large boobs like Princess Peggy’s. They were ginormous boobs like Dolly Parton’s, and the way they were bouncin’ and boingin’ made Bucky wonder if Principal Barnes had been distracted by Mrs. Rumlow’s boob job while he’d kicked her son out of school.Question: If a breast implant gets hit with a bullet, does saline and goo squirt all over the place? Does it deflate like a balloon? Does it go…Pop!...like a condom attached to the end of a garden hose?Bucky tried to lift his foot, but it was stuck, stuck, stuck. And when Mrs. Rumlow strutted past with her overstuffed melons, all he could think was fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck! This bitch could snap her fingers and summon a no-name goon to paint the trophy case with Bucky’s slightly smarter-than-average brains. Fuck! She could grind the tip of her stiletto into Bucky’s ballsack and do more damage than a BB gun at close range. Fuck! She could jam Bucky’s face between her ginormous boobies and motorboat him to death.And when Carlisle Rumlow brushed past Bucky on the opposite side, he smelled like cigarettes and aftershave.“Hey there, cupcake.” When your Duckie shoes are covered in spit, semen, and ice, it’s way, way, way worse than Super Glue stuck to your soles. It was like an iceberg of chlorine and tar had formed around Bucky’s ankles. Sticky, sticky, sticky, until his feet had frozen solid and popped right off.And that’s when Bucky knew he never should have left the dance.Brock was in front of him, looking up while Bucky looked down. And Bucky, quoting Biggie, said, “I’m ready to die,” because even dead rappers know when they’re beat.“That would be too easy,” Brock said, snapping his skin-trimmin’ scissors as he prepared to make the first cut. And it was bullshit. At least Buffalo Bill, with his dick tuckin’ and motherfuckin’ moths, had the decency to let the lotion sink in first. Staring at the scissors, Bucky said, “Are you talking, like, easy-like-a-Sunday-morning easy? Or over-easy-eggiwegs-with-a-side-of-bacon easy? ‘Cause Lionel Richie doesn’t—”“You think you’ve made things better for yourself?” Brock laughed before slapping Bucky’s shoulder like they drank beers and played GTA every Friday night. “Well, you haven’t. You and your rats have only made it worse.”“Hands off, mudak!” He clenched his fists. If Bucky would stop acting like a fucking coward, he could take Rumlow down with a single punch. Just like Steve. And just like… Frank? “Brock!" The trophy case rattled from the sound of Carlisle Rumlow's voice, the tectonic plates shifting beneath the first-place archers, first-place swimmers, and (Holy earthquake, Batman!) first-place murder victims. And when Bucky looked behind him, he knew, with every fiber of his fucking being, that Frank Castle had been right.Mr. Rumlow was lighting a cigarette as he propped open the door with his foot, and Mrs. Rumlow— Bucky cringed. Mrs. Rumlow was standing outside, jigglin’ her cantaloupes as she laughed with a bunch of cops on the sidewalk. C is for corruption, that’s good enough for me. C is for the Colt 45 that’s gonna put a hole in me.“Sorry, Pop," Brock said, stepping close enough that Bucky could see a black-and-purple bruise beneath his stubble. "I’m just sayin’ goodbye to my friend. You know, makin’ plans to hang out real soon.”When Brock’s dad slammed the door back against the wall, Bucky added a lil’ pee-pee to his plaid pants. And when he shouted, “Now!” it sounded exactly like a roof collapsing. A roof that Papachka had nailed the shingles onto himself.A hand grabbed his belt buckle and tugged it like Bucky was a fucking dog. And when Brock whispered, “I might have gone easy on you before—treated this ass real nice—but not anymore,” Bucky almost lifted his leg and pissed on a fire hydrant.Brock pushed him backwards, just hard enough to make him slip in the snow. Then…Poof!...he was gone. Tires squealin’ as he peeled down the street with his AK hangin’ out of the window. “Shit,” Bucky said, staring at the bullet hole in Biggie’s chin, “those bastards got you again.” It didn’t matter that Bucky slapped his hand across his stomach and squeezed like a motherfucker, blood was pouring out of the hole like a tsunami of raspberry jam. And tsunamis, like asteroids, were impossible to stop unless Bruce Willis was around.Bustin’ out Biggie until the bitter end, Bucky rapped, “After the hit, leave you on the street with your neck slit, down your backbone to where your motherfucking shit drip.”"Bucky?"The Notorious B.I.G. (after being resurrected on a clearance-rack tee) had been straight-up murdered for the second time, and…Rat-a-tat-tat!...it was all Bucky’s fault."Bucky, can I help you with something?" When Bucky looked up, he didn’t see Biggie’s ghost, Tupac’s ghost, Steve’s artsy-fartsy ghost, or Bucky’s fresh-outta-the-skin-sausage ghost. In fact, it wasn’t a ghost at all. It was the secretary who always gave Bucky cherry Life Savers (and occasionally Tootsie Rolls) when he stopped by the office. Her name was Janice, and she was really nice. She had nice, normal, middle-aged boobs (au naturel). Nice, normal, chin-length, middle-aged hair. And a nice, normal, middle-aged smile. That’s why Bucky zipped up Cookie Monster as fast as he could. He didn’t wanna scare her with all the blood and stuff.But Janice didn’t give him a Life Saver. She put her hands on her nice, normal, middle-aged hips and said, “You’re not supposed to be out here.” Buzz! Out of nowhere, a bug hit Bucky in the face (most likely a fly, or a bee, or a wasp), which sucked a duck. But it didn’t suck as much as much as finding himself on the roof, aka The Sanctuary, without a motherfuckin’ Tootsie Roll.Where, oh where had Janice and her life raft full of Life Savers gone? Bucky let himself ponder her mysterious disappearance for exactly zero seconds before he started to flip through his playlists on Spotify. Zayn. No.Twisted Sister. Maybe.Oasis. Definitely maybe.Elton. Sadly, Bucky's rainbow-lovin’ gay side wasn't up to a party at Studio 54.Stretchin’ his arms above his head, Bucky leaned back in his favorite rooftop chair. It was a beautiful day to work on his tan. Sunny, funny, and full of chubby bunnies. Speaking of which, he was totally gonna bum five bucks off his sister (maybe ten) and stop at the corner store to pick up a big ol’ bag of marshmallows. That way he and Clint could have a Chubby Bunny rematch after school. Bucky smiled. A rematch and maybe, just maybe (Definitely Maybe), a marshmallow-flavored blow job where Bucky’s cheeks were filled with balls instead of bunnies.His thumb stopped on Barry Manilow.“Hmm,” he said, bracing his feet on the chimney and wigglin’ his toes. Clint would never admit it, but he fuckin’ loved Barry Manilow. Once, Bucky’d shown up early on Pizza Saturday and heard Clint playing “Mandy” on his acoustic. And not a quiet version of “Mandy” like Manilow had intended. No, soft rock lovers, that shit had been loud as fuck. Think “Mandy” remixed with Motörhead, plus…Barf!...a sprinkle of Ed Sheeran. Bucky shivered because Ed Sheeran, with his stupid accent and stupid hair, was the worst.Shivering when you were hot was weird, and, los fuégo muy caliénte, Bucky was hot as hell. The air conditioner was reflecting the sun directly onto his bare chest, and the buckles on his cuffs were burning his arm, and—“What the fuck?”He was sitting in his favorite chair in nothing but his plaid pants, and that—That was weird, even for him.“Whatever,” Bucky said as he scooched his chair out of the sun. Then, sticking his feet back up onto the chimney, he leaned the chair back on two legs.Maybe he could talk Clint into painting his dried-out toenails (chlorine was a bitch on the mani-pedi). Bucky spread his toes apart as wide as they would go. You know, steal one or two of Natasha’s more punk rock colors, aka blue or purple, and bribe his bestie with Totino’s Pizza Rolls and Hot Pockets.The first time they’d tried punk rock pedicures (before Bucky’s first big meet at the YMCA), Clint had gotten more paint on Bucky’s comforter than his toes, and Bucky’d had a hard time hiding his hard-on. God, he had a headache. It was like…Stab! Stab! Stab!...right in the center of his brain.“I want some pizza rolls,” he said to his unpainted toes. “And a Hot Pocket. And a can of Coke. And—”A fire engine blew its horn, which…Muy fuégo!...made Bucky want some ganja. Screw pizza rolls. Clint had gotten really, really, really good at stealing weed from his uncle, pinchin’ off just enough to roll a decent-sized joint without getting caught. And if Bucky asked real nice, maybe, just maybe, Clint would shotgun him again on the fire escape.Shotgun.Bucky blinked. Lips touching lips, making a seal as the smoke filled Bucky’s lungs. The pump of the barrel as smoke poured out of the gigantic hole in Bucky’s chest.Grover-skin boots tossed by the ladder. The Cookie Monster coat covering Bucky’s favorite potted plant. And Biggie—Swiveling his neck, Bucky looked left, then right, touching three squares before he landed on the white.Biggie was fuckin’ gone…Poof!...and Bucky needed to smoke some fucking weed. Preferably out of his bestie’s mouth.Scroll, scroll, scroll. No, no, no. Then…Shazam!...he landed on the créme dé los créam of the grunge era. The pizza de los résistance. Or, as Skinner would say (in his sexy French accent), the Arc de Triomphe. Bucky cranked the volume up, up, up and got ready to rock the fuck out to some Alice in Chains. News Flash: “Junkhead” was a pivotal fucking song. Powerful. Crunchy. Mean. Every time Bucky listened to it, he wished he’d grown up smack dab (sans smack) in the middle of Seattle in the early ‘90s, moshing his way through the flannel and angst. When the guitars started to grind, slow and steady, Bucky undid his belt buckle. And when Layne Staley sang, “What’s my drug of choice?” Bucky slid it out of the loops.“Well, what have you got?” Bucky asked, mumbling along with the lyrics. Down, down, down, just below the lowest frequency.Those Seattle boys weren’t cocaine kitties. Sorry to burst your bubble, Kurt and Courtney fans, but those cats were shooting dope (and losing fingers) in dirty bathroom stalls with Ewan McGregor. And no matter how many movies Bucky’d watched about chasing the motherfuckin’ dragon, he’d never gotten over the fact that a legendary singer like Layne Staley had ended up rotting alone in his apartment.This time, when Layne sang, “What’s my drug of choice,” Bucky answered, “Heroin.” And when a little voice inside his head said, “The junkies, stoners, and freaks,” Bucky wrapped the belt around his arm, just to see how it would feel.Dead rappers. Dead grungers. Dead Muppets. Bucky pulled tighter, sticking the buckle back into the blazing hot sun. And when it started to burn, he could—Fuck! He could smell the stench of burning skin.Just like Steve’s wrist. Flash! The blood trapped in his arm was pounding, and his fingers looked like they were about to pop, and—Where the fuck was he?When Bucky stood up, his phone fell onto his foot. His foot that was bare. And the belt followed. The belt that had been wrapped around his fucking arm?There was sun. And pigeons. And hot tar. Jesus Christ. He was on the fucking roof!And he was listening to Alice in Chains!Sure, Bucky’d been through the fucking ringer the past few days. Getting bombarded with Vicodin roofies, dick-grabbing psychopaths, death threats, and motherfucking guns would put anybody on edge. But none of that (repeat, none of that) was bad enough to make him listen to Alice in-fucking-Chains.Bucky kicked his phone, and it went sliding across the roof, which, in retrospect, had been a terrible fucking idea. Not only did he hurt his toes, but now, instead of being able to just bend over and turn that shit off, his fucking phone was 295 feet away and he was still listening to motherfucking Alice in Chains. And not just any Alice in Chains song. It was fucking “Junkhead,” which was the absolute worst of the worst.Emotional trauma. That’s what Bucky experienced whenever he heard Layne Staley sing. Emotional. Fucking. Trauma. It was a well known fact that drugs had killed Layne Staley. Anybody who knew anything about grunge knew that. But Bucky hadn’t known the gory details until he and Clint (after absolutely slaying an Alice in Chains medley) had ditched their guitars and looked him up on Wikipedia. December 26. The day after Christmas. That afternoon was scarred into Bucky’s memory banks like the Grand Canyon. And not because Clint had brought over his brand-new chorus pedal or they’d stuffed themselves full of leftover ham. No, corpses and Corpse Brides, Bucky’s post-Christmas PTSD had been caused by the word gangrene. Two disgusting syllables, several missing fingers, and Bucky’d broken down like a fucking baby, ugly crying for thirty minutes straight while Clint had fed him Santa-shaped sugar cookies.The song started over. And Bucky—Bucky cursed the asshole who’d put it on repeat.Two weeks. Layne Staley’s body had rotted in his apartment for two fucking weeks before somebody had found him. Before somebody had thought to call 911. And the thought of a literal grunge god decomposing next to his poor, starving cat—“Shut up,” Bucky said as he stomped towards his phone. It didn’t matter that a puddle of bird shit and Layne juice was squishing up between his toes. He had to make this shit stop.
“What’s your drug of choice?”
“Not heroin, that’s for fucking sure.” The cold, winter day Wikipedia had ruined Alice in Chains, Clint and Bucky had eaten twenty-seven Santa cookies and promised that they’d never go down that road. They’d drink, smoke weed, and pop a plethora of party pills (plus mushrooms), but they’d never ever do downers.A promise, thanks to Tony, that Bucky’d smashed like the starboard side of the Titanic.When Bucky picked up his phone, there were two missed calls from his dad, five texts from Daisy, three from Skinner, two from Natasha, four from Clint, ten from Steve (yes, ten), and one from TJ Campbell.
“What’s your drug of choice?”
Layne’s words. TJ’s voice.Pacts are funny. Your best friend stabs his thumb with a Misfits pin and mixes his blood into your head wound, swearing that the two of you will be blood brothers until the end of time. You gobble up Christmas cookies, promising to never swallow Vicodin or Valium, snort Oxys, or shoot heroin in a dirty bathroom stall, and when you run out of cookies, you pull down your bestie’s pants and swallow his cock. You promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth to your beautiful new boyfriend, unless you find yourself half naked with a belt wrapped around your arm.Was Bucky in trouble? Fuck yes, he was in trouble! He was fucking shirtless on the roof with no memory of how the fuck he’d gotten there.He touched the screen.Did Bucky understand Steve’s poem? Fuck no. He’d lied through his teeth on that one. But did he love it anyways?His thumb hovered over Steve, my hot-as-fuck boyfriend.Yeah, that much was true. Bucky also loved how Steve’s lips felt when they kissed his cheek and how (even though Steve could be as dense as a fucking brick) his testosterone-fueled fists were just a violent evolution of sugar cookies. But most of all, Bucky loved saying I love you. I love you because you’re hot. I love you because you steal frisbees, embrace ketchup tattoos, and dance like Channing Tatum. I love you because you’re not afraid to say I love you back. Bucky sighed, his heart deflating when he realized that sometimes saying I love you meant you had to lie.When Bucky scrolled through the texts, they all said pretty much the same thing. Where are you? Are you in the building? Why aren’t you answering your phone? But not TJ’s. Bucky took a deep breath. TJ’s said I’m here if you need to talk.And that’s when Bucky figured out his drug of choice.It wasn’t alcohol or weed. And it wasn’t mushrooms, MDMA, or something that would rot your fingers off with gangrene. It was being seen.Hitting the button next to TJ, Bucky quickly changed his name to The Piano Man.Fingers were crucial for piano players. They needed all ten to play Theloneous Monk, Billy Joel, and (if their parents weren’t listening) Elton John. But, missing fingers aside, it was more important for Steve to keep his head in the game. Bottom line: Steve had to get away from his stepdad, and for that to happen, he couldn’t be worrying about Bucky teleporting to the fucking roof. He just couldn’t.“I love you,” Bucky said like Steve was standing in front of him with twinkly eyes and good intentions. Then, putting on his Grover boots (sans socks, ‘cause who the fuck knew where they’d run off to), he said, “And I love you too,” like Clint was feeding him Santa cookies with extra, extra, extra frosting on their lil’ Santa beards.Boots on, Bucky looked for his t-shirt, but Biggie (like the socks) was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t on top of the chimney. Ho! Ho! Ho! He wasn’t next to the air conditioner. And he wasn’t under Bucky’s Cookie Monster coat. And when Bucky picked up his potted plant, looked it in the eyes, aka leaves, and asked, “Have you seen Biggie?” he knew, with 227 percent certainty, that Stevie Rogers and Clinton Francis Clause weren’t the men for the job.Sitting cross-legged in the bird shit and tar, Bucky typed I’m not okay. But he didn’t send it to the people he loved. He sent it to the only person who understood.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The bad news: Bucky had maybe taken a little nap on the roof and missed all of third hour. Holá dé los oops.The good news: Even though Cookie Monster had made a horrible pillow, Bucky felt a zillion times better than he had after he’d chugged that Caramel Cocoa Cluster Frappuccino. Viva la vida!Was everything hunky dory? Fuck no! At lunch, Daisy’d been all, “ You freaked out about the police dogs,” and Bucky'd been like, “Of course I did, I had a joint in my locker!” Then Steve had gotten all high and mighty and yelled, “You had a joint in your locker?” And Bucky'd been like, “Shh! Are you crazy? Never mind, turns out I didn't.” Then they'd all eaten the hell outta some submarine sandwiches. Now they were down to the last thirty minutes of M-Day (the school edition), and Daisy and Bucky were sitting outside the art room (during art class), sketching ideas for their photography project. Bucky snorted. Correction: Daisy was sketching ideas for the photography project while Bucky chewed gum. And it was nice. The first chill moment in a very un-chill day. Unzipping his jacket, Bucky slumped down on the couch and rubbed his bare belly, guiding the last of the sandwich into his intestines. The whole shirtless thing was a look, for sure. One that Gladys the lunch lady hadn’t appreciated (at least not outwardly) when Bucky’d rolled into the cafeteria with his happy trail out. But you know who had appreciated Bucky’s leather jacket/chest hair combo? Steve. Cue Deep Voice Guy:
Rock star
Bucky Barnes was known for putting on a show. Pyrotechnics. Leather pants. Codpieces. But this time was different. This time, when he walked across the stage, slowly unzipping his jacket to show off his washboard abs, he was putting on a show for one man, and one man only. And it wasn’t billionaire Tony Stark, who’d offered to ‘service’ Bucky in the band’s private jet after the gig, or his high school sweetheart
TJ Campbell
, who’d been standing front and center while Bucky had belted out love songs disguised as bangers. This time, he was performing for the legendary Steve Rogers, who, according to the tabloids, was the kind of guy who could rock Bucky’s world.
Exposing his furry nipples to the undisputed Queen of Vintage (who, FYI, wasn’t shirtless in a leather jacket), Bucky asked, “Do you think I should go shirtless every day?” because Lil’ Miss Daisy was the source of everything fashionable and cool. “Maybe add a gold chain and a mustache or…'Merica!...one of those belt buckles that looks like an all-American bald eagle.“I think you’re in enough trouble already,” she said, reaching over and unexposing his nipples like the nipple police. “If your dad weren’t the principal, you’d be suspended for longer than a day for what you said to Mrs. Craft.”That was true. When his dad had called Bucky to the office after lunch, there’d been a lengthy list of violations. Violation number one: jumping into the pool naked. Violation number two: According to several eyewitnesses (and a Google Translate search by Principal Barnes), Bucky’d called Mrs. C a bitch in his native tongue. Violation number three: He’d also (allegedly) told her he was gonna puke on her tits. Violation number four: leaving the classroom during a lockdown. Violation number five: Telling Janice to “leave him the fuck alone,” which (like everything else today) had seemed like some straight-up bullshit. He fucking loved Janice. She hooked him up with lifesaving Life Savers! Violation number six: skipping España empañada. Violation number seven: showing his furry nipples to Gladys, Darion the cook, Layla the cashier, and Floyd the custodian before pretending that his footlong sub was a footlong penis. Violation number eight: rubbing the tip of his submarine penis all over the back of his boyfriend’s blue-and-white checkered shirt.Sighing, Bucky put the bottom of the zipper back together.The list had included every violation except Brock’s violation of Bucky’s dick.But Bucky wasn’t going there. Not now. Maybe not ever. He had more important things to think about, like photography, in-school suspensions, and how the fuck he was supposed to write a sincere apology letter to Mrs. Craft when he couldn’t even remember what the fuck he’d done. “I’ve never had an in-school suspension before,” he said, dragging his toes across the carpet. They were dirty, like he’d jumped around in a dumpster full of chicken vindaloo after he’d (allegedly) told Janice to fuck off. And all those spices and fur—Bucky cringed. All those spices and fur made him wonder if Grover’s flesh would taste like chicken if you slow-cooked it in a pot of vindaloo sauce.“Well, sweetie,” Daisy said, keeping her eyes on her sketchbook, “you’ve never done so many things wrong in such a short amount of time.” That was true too.“I blame it on the full moon.”“It’s the middle of the day.”“Yeah, well, the effects of that shit linger. Just ask Skinner. His best friend is a werewolf.”Chuckling, Daisy switched out a light-beige Copic marker for a slightly lighter-beige Copic marker. Then, blending the shit out of something that looked like an elf nose, she said, “One day, you're going to have to move on from the Teen Wolf references,” which…Pshaw!...showed a shocking lack of understanding of the comedic long game. But Bucky’s comedy-challenged boo boo more than made up for it by using a pinky-beige Copic marker to draw a heart on Bucky’s hand. And hearts, like silver bullets and wolfsbane, knocked werewolves flat on their ass.“I still can’t believe Tony got me a present.” Grabbing the golden goblet, Bucky flipped himself upside down (feet up, head down), then…Plunk!...stuck the bedazzled cup over his crotch. “Look,” he said, pointing at his sparkly codpiece, “a jeweled cup to protect my family jewels!”Daisy ignored his tribute to Gene Simmons (#LickItUp) and drew a heart on his ankle instead. But tattoos à la Cupid couldn’t derail him from the mission at hand. No way, Valentine’s Day. Bucky wasn’t done reminiscing about the presentation of the pimp cup. Not by a long shot. After Bucky’d fucked the shit outta Stevie’s back with his submarine sandwich (extra mayo, please), Tony had slammed the cup on the table and declared Bucky a “big pimpin’, P.I.M.P. pimp.” And the cherry on top of the motherfuckin’ cake? Tony had gotten it engraved! Temporarily exposing his jewels to danger, Bucky tipped the goblet to confirm that, yes, the bottom read Bucky the Pimp, who shall forever be known as the man who enlightened Tony Stark to the pleasures of butt stuff.Fuckin’ classic. “Maybe I should start poppin’ bottles of Henny,” Bucky said, trying to decide if he was more of a Jay-Z kind of pimp (big pimpin’, we spendin’ cheese) or a ‘70s kind of pimp with a rap sheet and a cheetah-print fedora. “Or, even better, I could fill it with mead like King Arthur.”“I think Lancelot was the pimp in that case.”Bucky snorted, which was a whole new experience upside down. It was, like, half pig, half puke, half hilarious.Sticking his legs straight up into the air, he did a few inverted hip-hop moves (the Stanky Leg, the Dougie, and the classic MJ Moonwalk) before dropping his head back towards the floor. Luckily, his topknot had made a triumphant return (Take that, Chewbacca!), and...Bounce! Bounce! Bounce!...it made a fun little trampoline for his head. “After I finish all the Hennessy and mead, should I fill it with Mountain Dew?”
Bounce! Bounce! Boing!
“Or Mountain Dew and tequila?” It looked like Daisy was gearin’ up to tattoo his foot (if the peachy-pink marker honing in on his tootsies was to be believed), but Bucky did the upside-down Carlton before she could make contact. “What about chocolate milk?” He switched to the Cha Cha Slide. “Or hot chocolate with Chubby Bunny marshmallows? Or Chubby Bunny marshmallows with whiskey? Or maybe, for some extra electrolytes, whiskey and Gatorade?” “I don’t care what you put in it,” she said, catching his leg midstep and drawing a… marshmallow? “No amount of liquor will make me forget that it touched your balls.”Touché.Daisy swatted at the bottom of the cup, which, in this position, was actually the top (kinda like Bucky once in a while). “Anyway,” she said with a swatty-swat-swat, “you should be worrying about the Spanish quiz you missed, not partying.” “Can I have another piece of gum?” “I already gave you three.”"I know,” Bucky said as he turned his codpiece back into a cup, “but I have this theory that it’s harder to blow bubbles upside down than it is right-side up. Wanna hear my hypothesis?” Bouncing on his bun, Bucky didn’t wait for an answer. “If the subject blows a series of bubbles upside down, the number of successful bubbles will decline due to the increased amount of watermelon-flavored spit entering the subject’s sinuses.”“Three is plenty, Bucky.”While quatro pieces ( Q word!) would definitely make for a superior quasi-scientific experiment, tres would have to do. So Bucky buttoned up his lab coat and started blowin’ and blowin’ like the Big Bad Wolf until—
Pop!
The bubble had been bigger than his face, disproving his hypothesis on the first go. And that, sad as it was, proved that Bucky (no matter how cute he looked in a lab coat) was a shit scientist. As he picked his failed experiment out of his eyebrows (so sticky), Daisy gave his upside-down quad a lil’ rub-a-dub-dub. But it was a lie. A distraction before…Quack!...she revealed her true intentions. "If you don’t get back on track,” she said, gettin’ all up in there with her thumb, “your grades are going to start slipping."“Ha! What do you mean start?"Bucky’s grades had been A-okay when Principal Barnes had checked them before the trip to the éau dé los tailor, but now, not so much. It was fair to say that Bucky'd been a wee bit distracted by a certain studmuffin whose name rhymed with pet peeve. Or sleeve. Or Tel Aviv. That’s why he’d forgotten about a six page book report for Kuzinski (on a book he hadn’t read), the poster about zapatos for Espadrelle y Zapdos, and the photography project for Artucuno de la fotorosa. And his missing physics lab? To be honest, deepthroating Steve’s dick before last Thursday’s swim meet had been totally worth the zero on the trajectory lab. Laughing, he blew another bubble.If only Bucky'd had rooftop access to a calculator and a stop motion camera, he could've figured out the trajectory of Steve’s jizz as it had shot through the air and...Splat!...landed on the side of the air conditioner. And if he'd been paying attention in Physics (which he hadn’t), he might've known the formula to calculate how the viscosity of Steve’s load had impacted its rate of descent. But Daisy was right. He'd been slacking.Rearranging his legs, Bucky spread them out so his feet were on either side of the Picasso poster. Cubist toes on the left, cubist toes on the right. And since timing was everything, that was the exact moment Ms. Jaeger’s shoes came into his upside-down view. Big brained Steve would call it Murphy's Law or synchrosymphony or somethin’ fancy like that, but in Bucky’s world, it was just par for the fucking course.Ms. J cleared her throat. "Bucky, where are your shoes?" It was funny that his lack of footwear took priority over his stripper moves for Señor Picasso, but, hey, who was he to question Ms. J’s love for the art of burlesque? Pointing into the classroom, he said, “Under the table,” before giving his gum a few extra chompy-chomp-chomps. “Grover’s already dead, so it’s not like he’s going anywhere."And your socks?"He shrugged (which, unlike the Bubblicious bubbles, didn't have the same effect upside down). "No clue." Bucky knew he sounded like he was full of shit, but, Scout’s honor, he had no idea where his socks had gone. Real talk: He hadn’t even realized they were missing until he’d taken off his boots. Then...Eww!...it was nothing but sweaty toes, slightly blue heels, and chicken fuckin’ vindaloo. “Well, I hope you find them,” Ms. J said like kids lost their socks as often as they lost their pencils. And that, right there, was why Ms. J was his favorite teacher. Not only did she let Bucky spend half the class giving Señor Picasso private lap dances (as long as his work got done eventually), she understood that creative people were weird. Cookie Monster could attest to that.When Ms. J asked, “So, are you ready to conference about the project?” Bucky laughed and laughed and laughed. We’re talkin’ loud, choke-on-your-watermelon-flavored-spit laugher that…Timber!...made him tip over onto Daisy. It was hell’s bells hi-larious. When it came to this project, Bucky was royally fucked. Like, Prince William, Prince Harry, and Prince Charles (gross) had shoved their polo sticks up Bucky’s ass and were drillin’ him in front of the Queen. Not only was the assignment due this Friday, but Bucky still had to take the pictures, edit the pictures, print the pictures, mat the pictures, and write some high-quality artist statements to go with the motherfucking pictures. He could pull shit out of his ass for classes like Espérañza dé la coñga, Cálculotaquito, y Physicaburrito, but not for art.To be clear, Bucky wasn’t good at art (not like Daisy), but he enjoyed making shit. Stupid cartoons. Origami frogs. The occasional penis out of modeling clay. And when there were big-ass projects like this photography unit, he wanted to do them right. That’s why he did a backwards flip off the couch and wrangled his legs into a close approximation of criss-cross applesauce. Side note: He’d been upside down for way, way, way too long, and the blood drainin’ outta his brain was making this crazy whub-whub-whub sound in his ears that was super sci-fi. He was a Xenomorph. He was Venom. He was the thing in The Thing.As Ms. J came back into focus, she asked, “Are you ready now?” but all Bucky could see was her wicked cool Van Halen sweatshirt. She was old enough to have seen them back in the day. Maybe not the David Lee Roth era, but the Sammy Hagar era for sure (#5150). The guitar-lovin’ alien in Bucky’s frontal lobe wanted to ask Ms. J, as an educator, her opinion of the song “Hot For Teacher.” Was it totally inappropriate? An anthem to less political (and sexier) times? Her Friday night fantasy when she sat down with a goblet of Merlot? And the hair-lovin’ alien splashin’ around in Bucky’s belly was just itchin’ to ask what she’d thought about David Lee Roth’s chest hair in his heyday ‘cause…Muy Faygo!...those v-neck jumpsuits had been hot as hell. “I dunno,” Bucky said, mostly to stall. “Is it okay to talk about art when I’ve got black spots floatin’ around in my eyeballs?” It wasn’t that he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He’d gone over the rubric a gazillion times. Summary: Using cropped compositions, interesting angles, and dramatic lighting, create a series of portraits depicting authentic emotion. Pretty straightforward. The issue was that Bucky could publish a fifty pound, three-hundred page coffee-table book about the roller coaster of emotions he’d been dealing with since—A name popped into his head. One that Bucky didn’t want to say, think, or associate with anything other than sand-filled swim trunks and secret smooches under a bridge. So Bucky used his veto power, replacing Steve with believe and thinkin’ about Justin Bieber instead of bright-blue, blood-spattered Muppets. Justin Bieber in his Calvin Kleins. Justin Bieber's abs in his Calvin Kleins. Justin Bieber’s photoshopped bulge in his Calvin Kleins.Ms. Jaeger must have sensed his inner turmoil because she squatted down next to King Arthur’s holy grail and said, “Bucky, if you’re having trouble with the project, I can give you an extension." Another reason Ms. J was his favorite teacher: She actually cared.Taking the ginormous wad of gum out of his mouth (Daisy was right. Three pieces were way too many), Bucky said, “I’m just, like… ugh,” as he dropped it into the cup. “Where the fuck do I start?” Bucky realized too late that he’d dropped the f-bomb, but Ms. J’s oh-so-slightly raised eyebrow made it seem like she was gonna let the potty word slide (just like his missing socks and shoes). “I have too many ideas,” he said as he…Plink!...dropped a quarter into the swear jar. “And that makes it feel like I don’t have any ideas, if that makes sense? Like, I could photograph my dad when he throws me into in-school suspension tomorrow ‘cause, lemme tell ya, he's gonna be so fucking pissed. I’m talkin’ fire-breathing dragons, orcs with axes, and rib eye steaks through the heart. Or if you’re lookin’ for something more salacious, I could corner Skinner, make fun of him for fuckin’ that horse girl, then…Flash!...snap his picture like the paparazzi.”It was comedy gold that Daisy thought a few aggressive taps on his shoulder (plus one impassioned plea to “Stop swearing, Bucky!”) would be enough to stop him. News Flash: It wasn’t. “Fuck, I could even follow Clint around until he goes crawlin’ back to my sister with his dick between his legs. He’s so deep in the dog house that the only thing sticking out of the ginormous shit pile he made is his stupid, fucking face.”Bucky uncrossed his legs. One, because his pants were strangling his balls, and two, because he was sick of sitting on the floor. It was gross down here. Too many footprints. Too much blood.The couch. That’s where he needed to be. Cushy cushions. A paint splatter or two. Lil’ Miss Daisy and her heavily fortified army of flesh-toned Copics. So up he went, stealin’ the marker right out of his boo boo’s hand. “Wait, I have an even better idea,” he said, drawing a crooked heart on Daisy’s wrist. “I’ll draw pink and blue hearts all over Daisy’s face—like freckles, but not—then ask about her epic post-Homecoming adventures. From what I’ve heard, the art club kids are big into hallucinogens.”You know how sometimes verbal diarrhea turns words into gobbledygook? Like, you’re trying to say “I’ll pay attention to Daisy’s life for once,” but in your head, it sounds like “cucumber tornado warthog jam”? Yeah, that’s pretty much where Bucky was at right now.Gaining velocity (Yay, science!), the diarrhea burst out of his mouth, gushing like Niagara Falls when he said, “And, Daisy, if you’re not down for spillin’ the tea about the mushrooms and LSD, I could track down TJ and—”“What about Steve?” Oh, Daisy. Sweet, sweet Daisy. At least she (unlike Ms. J) was trying to stop the runaway diarrhea train. Toot! Toot! “Fuck no,” Bucky said, scribblin’ out the heart and drawing a yin-yang instead. “Steve’s… I don’t know, he’s like Michelangelo or something. And I’m not talking about the way his Adonis lines look like their sculpted out of fuckin’ marble. I’m talking about his art.” It was scary how calm Ms. J was when she touched Bucky’s knee. And even scarier when she asked, “Steve’s your boyfriend, right?” like Bucky wasn’t droppin’ dolla dolla bills into an imaginary swear jar. A dollar for shit. A five-dollar bill for fuck, bitch, cunt, and tits. Seven hundred rubles for cyka, and a thousand more for pizda. “Yeah, he’s my brand-new, fresh-outta-the-package boyfriend, and he’s fuckin’ awesome. At life and fucking. But the thought of asking Michelangelo 2.0 for help with an art project?” Bucky shivered. “It’s fucking intimidating.”Like Brock with a TEC-9.“Hey, it's okay.” Ms. J gave his knee a little squeeze. “Art shouldn’t be stressful, Bucky. And based on the number of swear words that just came out of your mouth, I’d say we passed stressed a long, long time ago.”“I’m sorry, I’ll stop.” Squeezing his ass, Bucky held back the shit with nothing but a butthole and a prayer. “Please, I don’t want to go back to the office.”Bucky was expecting a frown but got a smile instead. And when Ms. J stood up and said, “I’m not sending you to the office, Bucky,” it made him wonder if she’d let him say fuck all the time. I fucking love art! Art is the fuckin’ bomb. Fuck yeah, Ms. J, your Van Halen sweatshirt is the fuckin’ best! Yo, Ms. J, would you fuck the shit out of ‘80s David Lee Roth if you had the chance?But Bucky didn’t get to ask (about fuckin’ a rock star or saying fuck) ‘cause Ms. J took a hit off her bong and said, “Listen, Bucky, I want you to take a deep breath and let all of that go. Let your preconceived ideas just dissolve into nothing."News at 420: Ms. Jaeger got cosmic sometimes. Like, real-deal Pineapple Express shit where she wore hemp caftans on the weekends and smoked a shitload of hydro.Venturing into Yoda territory (smoke you will, high you shall get), Ms. J said, "In my experience, the deepest, most authentic emotions are found in the simplest places. So open your mind… breathe… and search for something simple. But don't force it, and don't be angry if you don't discover it right away.”When Ms. J took a deep breath, Bucky and Daisy took a deep breath. And when she said, “Now tell me the first thing you think of when I say the word simple,” Bucky tried to relax his brain.But there was nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Nil."Nothing is simple right now,” he said, lowering his voice so the wolves couldn’t hear him as he crunched through the snow. “Absolutely nothing.”
Ding!
Bucky’s stomach growled because bells meant dinner, and Bucky was fuckin’ starving. Sniffing the air, he searched for spaghetti sauce and garlic bread (or borscht and pampushka), but quickly realized there weren’t any cookies in sight. It was just Daisy texting, her fingers flying across the screen before…Ding!...she said, “Clint’s cool with us coming over after school.” Bucky blinked. “He says we can do the photo shoot at his place.” Ding! “And Skinner is going to borrow Jimmy’s DJ lights.”“But I ran from the dogs,” Bucky heard himself say. “I’m sure your dad will let you go if you tell him it’s for school.” He wasn’t sure if it was Daisy or Ms. J who’d said it, but either way, they were right. Bucky’s dad liked it when he got good grades. Sometimes, if he got all A’s, he’d buy Bucky a new toy.Before she went back into the classroom, Ms. J gave Bucky’s knee one more pat-pat-pat. “That sounds like a good place to start,” she said, tossing him a Milk-Bone. “And remember, go with the flow.”Go with the flow.Picking up his pimp cup, Bucky-Z popped his gum back into his mouth.He could take a picture of Daisy and her lacy collar. He could take a picture of Skinner in his Libertarian tie. He could take a picture of his bestie’s brand-new nipple rings. Flash! Or snap a picture of the boy in navy blue.* Who doesn't love a good photo shoot, especially one with props? Mask, hats, bracelets, and… a Harry Potter scarf? Holy Hogwarts! As Daisy and Skinner tossed bag after bag of goodies onto Clint's bed, Bucky was getting P.U.M.P. pumped like a P.I.M.P. pimp.Pickin’ up a pair of Mickey Mouse ears and doin’ a lil’ shimmy, Bucky thanked God (and Jay-Z) for the power of distraction ‘cause, straight up, without it, he wouldn’t be in Clint’s room playing Mouseketeers with his favorite mousies (What up, Britney?).After school, when Bucky’d climbed into his dad’s Toyota (with his trusty sidekick Clint), he’d totally expected another lecture about ignoring the lock in lockdown, skipping Españyoga, and fuckin ’ Stevie’s back with a submarine sandwich. But his dad had been surprisingly quiet. Even more surprising, he’d agreed to let Bucky go to Casa del Clint for the photo shoot of the century.Weird? Fuck yeah. But it also made sense. When you dealt with gun-wielding students and their gun-wielding families all day (not to mention cops, dogs, and double D’s), Bucky’s typical teenage bullshit probably seemed like a fuckin’ cakewalk. Weapons trumped missing book reports, ammo trumped teacher insults, and mobsters trumped truancy. Those were the rules. And without Natasha and her goody two-shoes ballet flats around to stoke the fire (Dance thing. Harlem), his dad had simply said, “Be home by nine,” when Bucky’d hopped out of the car at Clint’s place, no questions asked.Bucky jammed the Mickey Mouse headband into his rat’s nest, rippin’ out exactly 392 hairs with the serrated plastic edges. Then, looking over his shoulder into the living room, he listened. Lucky’s toenails clicking on linoleum. Running water. Lots of banging and clanging. Clint was washing dishes.Maybe Clint and Natasha had made up, maybe they hadn’t (although Bucky’s Spidey-Sense pegged Clint’s crazy braid as an affirmative). Regardless, the simple sound of Clint scrubbing tuna juice off a spoon conjured up a picture of Natasha in a lacy, white dress in a field of petunias. There were tuxedos (with tails), swans (with tail feathers), and a cake that looked like the Colosseum because Clint, despite being a dickface, was gonna make a damn good husband someday. "Hey,” Skinner said, trying (and failing) to pull a bazillion cords out of a massive duffle bag. “Aren’t you going to help?" Ha! That question, right there, had been stupid with a capital S. Why the fuck would Bucky wrangle cords when he could eat three pieces of Colosseum cake and pet the swans?Answer: He wouldn’t.Not only had he hauled nine hundred bags of props and cords up the stairs (two and a half flights, with minimal help from Skinner), but Bucky and his quads had made two extra trips to fetch six LED lights. Were they cool? Abso-fucking-lutely. Did they look like disco pizzas (if disco pizzas were four inches thick and made of metal)? You bet your sweet ass they did. Did they need six of them? Fuck no! They barely needed two.“This is too much shit,” Bucky said as he gathered his hair into two Brady Bunch pigtails (#CurlicueCindyLou). “It’s a school project, not a Rihanna concert.” “Daisy said get lights, so I got lights.” Skinner flipped the duffle bag upside down and…Shake it! Shake it!...shook it like a Polaroid picture (which, despite the musical assist from André 3000, didn’t do shit). “It’s not my fault that Jimmy dropped off so much stuff.”Fun fact: Skinner might be best known for his clique-defying salami sandwiches and razor-sharp sarcasm, but Bucky’s bestie número Dosey Doe also had some world-class sass. And just like Skinner’s world-class ass, Bucky fuckin’ loved it.But back to Jimmy. Jimmy, aka DJ Alcatraz, was the only ‘professional DJ’ who’d never dropped the needle outside of his parents’ basement. He was a remnant from Skinner’s middle school robotics club. A computer geekasaurus, if you will. And every time Skinner went to his house to build Transformers or Teslas, Jimmy set the basement up like a Marshmellow concert on New Year’s Eve. It was a whole thing. A weird math geek, techno-computer thing that Bucky’d been tryin’ to score an invite to for years.But now wasn’t the time. Avoiding the sharp plastic edges, Bucky adjusted his Mouseketeer ears. Now was the time to think about tuna noodle casserole.After the Dad Taxi had dropped them off, Clint and Bucky had squeezed into the kitchen, thrown on some frilly aprons (yellow for Clint, floral for Bucky), and whipped up a nutritious (and delicious) tuna noodle casserole. Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup, StarKist canned tuna, chunky noodles, frozen peas. Wham! Throw that shit into a casserole dish. Bam! Throw it into the oven. Shazam! Slap your sous-chef on the ass. It had been domestic as fuck. Quality husband preparation.Bucky snorted as he grabbed Daisy’s fancy-ass camera case out of one of the bags. One, because Skinner looked like a snake wrangler with all those cords, and two, because the majority of that cute lil’ story had been complete and utter bullshit. Redo: After the Dad Taxi had dropped them off, Clint and Bucky had squeezed into the kitchen, and Bucky (and Bucky only) had thrown on a frilly apron. Flowery and feminine, with a fun lil’ bow on the back, it had been more than an outfit. It had been high-quality wife preparation.But before he’d been able to give his hubby an ‘afterschool special,’ Bucky’d been kicked out of the kitchen because of an unfortunate frozen pea mishap (Shut up, Celine!). Peas on the counter, peas on the floor, peas on the iceberg with the soup du jour. In fact, he’d just finished fishin’ the last of the peas out from under the fridge (with a pair of tongs) when Daisy and Skinner had buzzed the door. Speaking of peas, Bucky was hungry.“Yo, Daisy,” Bucky yelled as he liberated the camera from its canvas case, “did you hook us up with Zebra Cakes?” Little Debbie deliciousness was essential for a project about authentic emotion. All Bucky had to do was snap a couple of pictures of his besties chowin’ down on Moon Pies and Nutty Buddys and call it a fucking day.Ms. J would give him an A for sure.Daisy skipped into the bedroom from places unknown (meaning the living room) with Lucky hot on her tail. “Of course I brought Zebra Cakes,” she said, digging into the designated bag o’ snacks. “This isn’t amature hour.”When Lucky barked in approval, Bucky smiled.Lucky was the good kind of dog. He used his sniffer to sniff out pizza crusts and Milk-Bones instead of Guns N’ Roses. And not just that. He smelled like family. One husband, one wife, one dog… another husband?“Hey, be careful with that.”The camera whirred in Bucky’s hands, and Daisy, who was the literal embodiment of sugary sweetness (unless she was PMSing or mad at her brother), was glaring at him like he was about to drop her baby over the edge of a balcony. But Bucky liked babies (when they weren’t poopy). And even if they were poopy, he’d never throw one out with the bathwater.He was about to say, “Don’t worry, your baby’s safe with me,” but when he rotated the camera, he was instantly overwhelmed by the buttons and switches. The camera was exactly like Stevie’s spaceship, except smaller (like a battle robot or a Mars rover). Not only was there a separate flash that you could hold off to the side to make shit look extra cool, you actually had to look through the lense to take a picture. It was like 1990 and 2099 had bumped uglies and made a baby. Not a real baby like Clint and Natasha could spawn with their eggiwegs and sperm, but a robot baby that could take pictures of the birth.Ignoring the mini UFO, Bucky asked, “Do you guys want kids?” because he had absolutely no idea if bouncin’ babies (robot or otherwise) were in Daisy’s and Skinner’s futures. Skinner was quick to say, “Probably,” while it took Daisy a few seconds to say, “I think so.” And suddenly Bucky was surrounded by babbling butterflies that had everything to do with love and Babies R Us. There was a miniature Dylan O’Brien baby named Miles (not Stiles). A tiny tea-infused baby who loved her mama’s sugary milk. An itty-bitty mohawked baby wearin’ itty-bitty ballet shoes. And a baby with blond hair and blue eyes that Stevie and Bucky had grown in the pocket of a kangaroo. Crikey! Bucky’s insides were gettin’ warmer by the second. We’re talkin’ Hot Pocket lungs, toasted Pop-Tart kidneys, and fresh-outta-the-oven, tuna noodle toes.“Why are you thinking about kids?” Daisy asked, handing Bucky not one, but two delectable Zebra Cakes. “So he can get out of untangling these cords.”Skinner was a grumpy goblin…Grrr!...but since he didn’t have PMS, an older brother who stole his art supplies, or Zebra Cakes, Bucky ignored him. “I dunno,” Bucky said as he tore open the plastic wrapper. “I was wearing a frilly apron, searchin’ for peas, then…Muy bebé!...I heard dishes and pictured Skinner rockin’ a Babybjörn.”The scent of Zebra Cakes filled the air, but it didn’t smell like Africa, it smelled like joy. Like the time he’d put Zebra Cakes on Clint’s chest and pretended they were Kristin Stewart’s boobies (News flash: Bella likes her nips licked). Or the time Daisy had brought Oatmeal Creme Pies to the Winter Carnival and Clint and Skinner had buried them in a snowbank, set a thirty minute timer, and used them as hockey pucks.“I’m pretty sure I want kids someday,” Bucky said before taking a big-ass bite of the J.O.Y. “You know, so I can drop ‘em off at my dad’s while I go grocery shopping.”“That’s why you want to have kids?” Skinner was over the cords, and, apparently, over Bucky. Why else would he have rolled his eyes like that yacht-owning asshole Tony Stark?Re-upping the joy with an even bigger bite, Bucky shrugged. “I think my dad would make a pretty awesome grandpa. He’d teach ‘em how to make spaghetti sauce and make sure they didn’t end up in an orphanage.”There were no zebras in Russia, and the tomato sauce came out of an industrial-size can. And the grandpas?They died before the babies were born.“I think you should wear these in the pictures.”Bucky blinked.The Zebra Cakes were gone (sad), but Daisy was holding up the fabulicious sunglasses she’d scored at a Times Square tourist trap the last time they’d all ventured into the ‘heart’ of the city (Happy!). They were ginormous stars with blue lenses and rainbow-striped frames that would make Elton John (and Reginald Dwight) jealous. Squealing like a proper teenage girl, Bucky said, “O.M.G! Those are my fuckin’ favorite!” “I know. And I brought your favorite hat too.”When Daisy threw the black cowboy hat across the room like a frisbee (or, better yet, a lasso), Bucky caught it one handed, ditched Mickey Mouse, and flipped it onto his head.Yee-haw! It was Brokeback time! Friendship fact: Lil’ Miss Daisy was equally obsessed with the brilliant and beautiful Jake Gyllenhaal. No joke, the two of them had dressed up in cowboy hats, denim shirts, and assless chaps (not really) to see Southpaw, not once, not twice, but tres leches times at the theater, just so they could drool over Jack Twist’s hard-core boxer bod.It was kinda their thing.Before watching Zodiac, they’d spent 927 hours making their own Zodiac-quality cypher about Jake’s dreamy brown eyes. And when they’d cozied up on the couch to watch The Day After Tomorrow, they’d turned the thermostat down to a toe-numbing fifty-five degrees and worn winter hats and gloves. And for the mind-bending, time-traveling Donnie Darko (also known as Bucky’s all-time favorite film in Jake’s filmography), they’d worn one scary bunny slipper each, downed some psychedelic carrots, and worn out the fuckin’ DVD. "That looks good on you,” Clint said, walking into the room in what would forever be known as the world’s most perfectly timed entrance. “Very Brokeback."“See! That’s why I love you!” Bucky tipped his hat at his sheep–herding lover. “You know Jack Twist when you see him.”“Yeah, bro. Even when he’s shirtless by the horses.”Looking down, Bucky confirmed that…Plot twist!...he was indeed short one shirt. But that wasn’t all, folks. On top of sportin’ a Jake Gyllenhaal-inspired chub (Or was it Ennis inspired?), Bucky was short two shoes, two socks, one belt, and— “Wait. Was I wearing your mom’s apron with my nipples out?” Clint laughed. And so did Daisy and Skinner. But Bucky, with his freshly charred brand, didn’t join the fun. Bird shit, Big Bird, Biggie Smalls… there was something on the tip of his tongue. Or maybe it was on the tip of his brain. Either way, he couldn’t remember when he’d ditched his shirt. “Um… Daisy?” Apparently, Clint didn’t care if Bucky’s furry nipples were on display. That, or he was more attracted to the string of pearls he’d picked up off the bed.“Why, for the love of god, did you bring a strand of pearls?" Daisy shrugged. “So we can give Bucky a pearl necklace.” If Bucky had a mouthful of Mountain Dew, he would’ve sprayed the TV (Zap!), the amp (Sizzle!), and, for the money shot, the high-polish finish on Clint’s cherry sunburst Strat. But Bucky didn’t have a mouthful of Mountain Dew, so he froze, just like everybody else.Clint’s mouth was hanging open like he was about to give dick sucking another try (for the record, Bucky was down). Skinner was holding a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in the half open/half closed position. And Daisy was frozen like Bambi in the middle of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, her eyes wide as the last of her innocence faced down a supercharged Dodge Ram.There was silence, silence, and more silence until…Whoosh!...Clint unfroze like one of Céline’s peas. “Oh my god,” he said, tossing the necklace onto the bed (instead of tossing Bucky’s salad). “You did not just say that.”“What?” Daisy asked, swiveling her head from Clint to Bucky, from Bucky to Skinner, and back around again, her braids flappin’ and floppin’ like a limp dick post pearls. It was fuckin’ hilarious. But not as hilarious as when Skinner asked, “Do you even know what that means?" and popped a couple of Cool Ranch Doritos into his mouth.“Other than a classic symbol of feminine power?” Daisy picked up the pearls (which was pretty much the worst thing she could have done in this situation). “I was thinking Jackie O, but androgynous. The blurring of gender lines and—”“It’s when somebody comes all over your neck.” You could always count on Skinner to cut to the chase, even when he was crushing Daisy’s innocence with a semen-spewing pickup. “It’s big in porn.”“What?” Daisy clutched the necklace to her breast like she was rescuing a child from a pedo in a panel van. And when she said, “No, you’re lying!” Bucky was pretty sure somethin’ salty was about to spill out of her eyes. Clint’s timing was questionable when said, “Sorry, kiddo,” and took off his black overshirt to reveal…Shocker!...a black undershirt (specifically, a black sleeveless t-shirt featuring the one and only Ramones). And his motives were questionable when he flexed his pecs and said, “If you have any questions, I'm sure Bucky can answer them. He’s been wearing a lot of pearl necklaces lately.”It was a low blow. Sure, they’d experimented with jewelry a few times (like yesterday, after Bucky’s practice at the Y), but they never talked about the Bros Sucking Each Other’s Dicks Club with Daisy or Skinner. Like, ever. It wasn’t that Bucky was ashamed of it. He liked the way he looked in a set of hot, steamy pearls. It was just—Swallowing, Bucky tipped the cowboy hat to hide his eyes. If Skinner found out, he might be afraid to feed Bucky baguettes. And if Daisy knew— Bucky ground the heel of his cowboy boot into the dirt. If Daisy knew, she’d figure out that Bucky was in L.O.V.E. in less than a millisecond. And if she figured out that Bucky was daydreaming about writing taken in his IG bio, she’d smack him upside the head with her He-Man lunchbox and tell him he was putting his Zebra Cakes into the wrong basket.And that, cowboys and queers, was why Bucky wished Ennis had kept his fuckin’ mouth shut about their fishing trips.Luckily, Daisy was too distraught (and Skinner was too invested in his Doritos) to have caught on to Clint’s not-so-subtle revelation. And, really, poor Daisy. It was bad enough that she had to deal with three dudes on the daily, now she had to imagine their jizz all over her pearls. Globby jizz, watery jizz, sticky jizz (like Clint’s), or jizz that could hit a neck from twenty feet away (like Bucky’s). All of it could transform into a pretty pearl necklace if your lover’s aim was true.But back to Daisy’s sex education. The pearls were draped over her palm (like she’d spit instead of swallowed), and when she said, “But these are my moms,” it was all Bucky could do not to shout, “Oh. My. God.”There were whoppers, and there were whoppers. And that, jizz lovers, had been straight off the Burger King menu. “At least we told you," Skinner said, ditchin’ the Doritos for his phone. "We could've kept our mouths shut and let you submit symbolic pornography to Ms. Jaeger."Bingo! Bucky had a killer idea.Pivot. Sweep the leg. Jump on top. Clint was on the ground faster than he’d shot his load the first time Bucky’d sucked him off (which, FYI, had been pretty fuckin’ fast). If Clint was gonna out the Bros Sucking Each Other’s Dicks Club like a total fuckface, Bucky might as well dive into the jizz and give Daisy a real-life demonstration, albeit a flip-flopped version.When Bucky kneeled over Ennis’ big-ass belt buckle, the cowboy didn’t try to buck him off like a bucking bronco. Instead, he froze, whispering, “What the fuck are you doing?” like he hadn’t just told everybody about the pearls.But Jack Twist wasn’t down for any pussyfooting around. “Stay down,” he said, pushing his hat back just enough to get a good look at Ennis’ neck. “Let’s show the little lady how this works.”To do this right, he needed to stand up. And when he straddled Ennis’ hips, digging his heels into the dirt as he aimed his dick at the cowboy’s collar, it was easy to imagine the two of them fucking in a tent. Ever so slowly, he pumped his fist back and forth, adding the little twist at the end that Bucky liked so much. “It’s important to aim,” he said, focusing on the chain just above the cowboy’s collar. “Too low and you’ll hit their stomach. Too high and you’ll blind them.”“C’mon, Bucky. Daisy doesn’t need to see this shit again.” Ennis wasn’t complaining. It was the guy with the glasses. And everybody knew that city folk, especially ones that were dumb enough to wear glasses on a horse ranch, were destined to get their faces kicked in by a stallion.“You should pull down your collar,” he said, picking up the pace. “Expose more of that pretty neck.”“I said, knock it off. We had enough at lunch.”“Well, Ennis hasn’t had enough, have you?” The cowboy hadn’t stretched out his collar, but he sure as hell had tipped up his chin. And while it was subtle, it was enough.With a long moan, he clenched his ass, painting the hollow of—“Clint?” Clint was lying flat on his back on the floor, and Bucky—“Ouch!”It took a second to realize that Daisy had punched him in the arm. Did it hurt? No. But it was still a shock. Taking a step backwards, Bucky asked, “What was that for?” “For ruining pearls for me!” She punched him again. “You know how much I love Audrey Hepburn.”“I do?”“Of course you do. Remember, after the mess with TJ, we bought three boxes of Cracker Jack and watched Breakfast at Tiffany's in your—”
Flash!
“That's a good idea, right?" Bucky’s head was fucking pounding. Bam! Bam! Bam! And Clint was looking at him like he was supposed to know what the fuck was going on. Which he didn’t. He needed Tylenol. Or Advil. Or a fuckton of Tony’s special sauce.But Clint wasn’t letting up. He was manspreading in the corner of the couch with Jake G’s cowboy hat hiding Natasha’s braid. And when Clint said, “After this weekend, I think I know Steve well enough to say he’d be into it," Bucky realized that he was in the opposite corner, manspreading twice as wide.There was no denying that Star Trek was a classic. Captain Kirk (Shatner, not Pine), Leonard Nimoy, Tribbles. But when Scotty blindfolded you and beamed you up in real life, it was a fucking nightmare. And Bucky?He stared at the Dorito crumbs in his chest hair. “Bro, what do you think?” Clint stretched out his leg even further, until...Boop!...he poked Bucky’s ankle with his toes.The desire to say, “I think I need a nap,” was overwhelming, but Bucky pulled himself up by his bootstraps, put on his detective hat, and opened his tiny notebook while listening for context clues.Daisy was sitting on top of Clint’s amp, fucking with the settings on one of the LED lights, while Skinner untangled the mess of cords in the middle of the bed. They were both busy little bees, makin’ sure this photo shoot would rival Deb’s glamor shots from Napoleon Dynamite (shout-out, Uncle Rico). Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, Bucky picked Skinner because— Well, ‘cause he was closer.“Yo, Skinner, what do you think? Would Steve be into it?”The green extension cord was giving Skinner a hell of a time, but that didn’t stop him from dropping some juicy bread crumbs. “From what Clint told me about this weekend, I’d say go for it. Frame it, stick a bow on it, and give it to Steve for Christmas.”Okay. Detective Bucky could work with that. Christmas. Present. Frame. Skinner had to be talking about a picture. And since they were here for a photo shoot, he was probably talking about a picture with props."I don’t know,” Daisy said as she switched the light from blue to green. “Don’t you think he might be mad?"A potentially upsetting picture.Skinner tossed a surge protector at Clint’s chest. Then, because Skinner hung out with Blue from Blue’s Clues on the regular, he said, "I mean, Steve couldn't exactly hang it up in his house." A potentially naughty picture."I don't see why not.” Laying the strip across his chest like he was underlining the Ramones, Clint shrugged. “Like Daisy said, it would be a classy study of androgynous gender and… um… What did you call it again?""The blurring of gender lines using classical symbols of feminine power.""Yeah, that." Clint snapped his fingers like he was the one who’d solved the case, which— Yeah, okay. He actually was. Just to be sure, Bucky adjusted his detective hat, closed his notebook, and ran it by his captain. "So, you wanna know if I’m down for wearing Daisy's pearls and posing for Steve." “Yeah, dumbass. It was your idea.”And what an idea it was!Christmas was just around the corner, and Stevie’s stepdad was like the Grinch on PCP (or bath salts). No bueño jingle el cencerro. But Bucky could save the day, aka Jesus’ b-day, by inviting his brand-new boo to spend the night on Christmas Eve. They’d bake Santa cookies for Santa, eat Santa’s Santa-shaped cookies, and have sneaky Santa sex (sans Santa) in the neon-green glow of the northern lights. Then, after Stevie had thoroughly stuffed Bucky’s stocking, they’d wake up super-duper early, put on their Christmas onesies, and shake the shit out of the presents under the tree. This year, Bucky was hoping for a glittery guitar like Slash, a pair of baby-blue Chucks (‘cause blue was his favorite color), and an all-expenses-paid trip to Incubus Island so he could drink piña coladas and suck on Brandon Boyd’s coconuts. But this wasn’t about Bucky’s Christmas wishes. It was about savin’ Stevie from the Big Bad Grinch. If Stevie came over, they could gobble up the special cinnamon rolls Bucky’s dad always made on Christmas morning before...Gotcha!...Stevie ripped open the faded Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer paper to reveal a life-size picture of Bucky in his pretty, pretty pearls.“Whore.”Bucky didn’t know who’d said it, and he didn’t care. Christmas with an honest-to-goodness, real-deal boyfriend? Steamy semen on Bucky’s cinnamon buns? That shit sounded like fun! “I’m in,” he said, holding out his hand. “Now, gimme those pearls.”But Daisy didn’t give him the pearls. She gave him a lump of coal. “Woah there cowboy,” she said, moseying over with an orange lasso to strangle the shit outta Santa. “First, we have to do this project for real. And that means you have to help me think of an idea that doesn’t include—or imply—ejaculate.”Bucky could handle coal. And Santa was magic, so he was all good with an extension-cord lasso and some post-strangulation resurrection. But blue balls?Blue balls weren’t fun like Blue from Blue’s Clues. They fuckin’ sucked.Clint had stretched his arms over his head (which was bad enough already), but now he was leaning from side to side and gently tugging on each wrist. Tug, stretch, show off a little nip. Stretch the other way, nip slip times two. It was a problem. There was a slim chance that Bucky’s balls would’ve been fine (meaning pink) if Clint didn’t look fine as fuck in Jake G’s hat, but he did. And that, plus the smudged eyeliner, armpit hair, and ranch-hand vibe was just— Ugh, it was fucking annoying.“Whatever you do, you have to do it before eight,” Clint said, adding a completely unnecessary twist and exposing his stupid nipple ring. “You guys have to be gone before my mom gets off work.”Arms. Shoulders. Muscles that only archers possessed.Muscles that Bucky shouldn’t be fucking staring at.Actually, fuck that! No matter how much Bucky loved— Bucky swallowed.No matter how much he loved Steve (or how many times Natasha slept with Clint), drooling over Clint’s muscles was a bad habit that wasn’t going away anytime soon. They were fucking nice! And not just that. They were always on display. A nor‘easter could slam into the coast and bury the city under two feet of snow, and Clint would still be wearing a motherfucking sleeveless shirt. It wasn’t Bucky’s fault.Just as Bucky was about to whimper like a fucking dog, Clint caught him looking. But instead of freaking out and calling Bucky an incestuous, cheating asshole, Clint was suddenly hyperfocused on the surge protector. And that, slobbery dogs, was when Bucky realized it might be a habit for Clint too.“I’m going to check the casserole,” Clint said, ditching the hat (along with any traces of Brokeback Mountain). But Bucky didn’t frown, cry, or drive to Mexico to die. No way, maricón. Whenever Clint talked about his mom, Bucky couldn’t help but smile. Single moms were rock stars, especially when they didn’t have a fancy job like bossing rich kids around at a fancy-ass school. And Jody? She was like Tom Morello, Tom Petty, and Tommy Lee combined. She worked her ass off at two jobs, cleaning teeth during the day and waitressing at Louie’s Diner at night. Not because Clint was a freeloading asshole, but because she wanted him to focus on school… to focus on archery. That’s why the dogs had to stay away from Clint’s locker. That’s why the dogs couldn’t find his weed!If Clint went to jail, there’d be nobody to make tuna noodle casseroles for Jody. And even worse, there’d be nobody to take Lucky to the park, sweep up the peas (Fuck you, Céline!), or vacuum the living room in a frilly apron. And there was no way Bucky could step in to help. He barely knew how to make nachos! “As much as I love untying knots, this isn’t my project.” Skinner pointed at the orange extension cord in Bucky’s lap. “So how about you untangle that cord and plug it in?”Bucky cringed because the lasso wasn’t a lasso, and it wasn’t a fucking cord! There were loops and knots and motherfucking scales, and…Hiss!...it looked like the fuckin’ snake pit in Indiana Jones. Black mambas. Reticulated pythons. Spitting cobras. They were all writhing around his fucking penis, and—Clint walked back into the room just as Bucky yelled, “Fuck this!” and flung a horned viper at the window.He walked right back out.The second Bucky stood up, a boa constrictor squeezed his ankle, getting tighter and tighter, just like Brock had squeezed his dick. Brock, whose hand had been like a million volts of electricity shooting through Bucky’s balls.“Fuck electricity!” Bucky stomped on the snake’s tail. “Fuck Edison. Fuck Ben Franklin. Fuck Tesla. Fuck Elon Musk. And, most of all, fuck Elon Musk’s fuckin’ Teslas!”“Sweetie, calm down.”There were electrified snakes crawling up his legs, glowing like eels without water.
Zap!
When the current shot up his legs, the pain made him scream even louder. “Fuck Frankenstein!” He smashed a cobra’s head. “Fuck Frankenstein's monster! Fuck the motherfucking Electric Light Orchestra! Fuck Pikachu! Fuck Raichu! Fuck—”Out of nowhere, a piece of string cheese appeared in front of Bucky’s nose, and Clint (who still wasn’t wearing a frilly apron) said, “Eat this.” The cheese looked like a limp dick, especially when Clint shook it around. “But this cord is a clusterfuck,” Bucky said, biting the cheese dick in half. But not in, like, a bad way. He wasn’t Lorena Bobbitt. He knew the dick was cheese.Clint waited for Bucky to swallow before he said, “Yeah, I know. That’s why I'm going to untangle the cord, while you eat the cheese."As soon as Bucky welcomed the second half with his tongue, Clint pulled another cheese dick out of his back pocket. And the best part? It was already unwrapped.“This one too.”Superman ice cream. Chocolate-covered strawberries. String cheese with pocket lint. To Bucky, it all felt like love.“If I knew how to cook, I’d make you a casserole,” Bucky said, returning to his corner of Clint’s weed-scented couch. “Like, a family-sized casserole for all of us. Maybe one of those Mexican taco ones with the beans and salsa and tortilla chips.”Maybe his muy bestest amigos responded, maybe they didn’t. Bucky was too busy eatin’ his Silly String cheese to care. And thanks to the dairy dick, he felt safe enough to dive into the snake pit and help Han Solo steal the Ark of the Covenant. “I love this room,” Bucky said because it was truer than true (#UberTrue). The air smelled like sweaty socks and weed, and there was so much shit on the floor that you couldn’t even see the rug. “It’s such a mess.”Bucky picked up one of Lucky’s toys with his toes. There were lots of reasons Bucky’s Clint problem wasn’t going away, and most of them had nothing to do with sleeveless shirts. For as long as Bucky’d known him, Clint’s room had been a fuckin’ disaster. Pizza boxes. VHS tapes. Seven dozen sleeveless shirts. More than a few crunchy pairs of underwear. But he’d always kept the rest of the apartment spick-and-span. Even in middle school, when Clint had looked (and acted) like Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High, he’d pushed around their old vacuum a couple times a week without being asked. In fact, just yesterday, while Bucky’d been balls deep in GTA with 2 Chainz, Clint had bopped around the apartment wearing nothing but a pair of shredded jeans, using that very same vacuum to suck up dust bunnies and fur. Real talk: If Clint’s mohawk hadn’t been standing at full height like a classic London gutter punk, Bucky would’ve slipped Jody’s frilly apron over Clint’s head and called him Susie Homemaker. Even though Bucky highly doubted that Susie Homemaker dangled a joint from her lips and rocked out to Sublime while she scrubbed the shit out of the worst toilet in Brooklyn.Clint cleaned because he loved his mom. It was that simple.“Are you good now?” Clint asked as he plugged in the perfectly coiled cord. “Or do you need more cheese?” The Sublime-loving part of Bucky wanted to say, “I fell for you because you cook for your mom and vacuum twice a week,” but another part (the part that loved long walks on the beach, summer sunsets, and Steve), said, “I’m good. Thanks for saving me with dick-shaped dairy.”“Anytime, cupcake.”
Flick!
Clint's Zippo was loud as fuck. Like a gong. Or a sonic boom. Or a firecracker exploding inside a garbage can. And Bucky looked over just in time to watch Clint suck on the end of a joint, bending the flame with nothing but his breath. The cords were gone. And so was Clint’s shirt. And Daisy?Daisy was squished between them with her sock-covered feet in Skinner’s lap. Skinner, who was lying sideways on the end of the bed, looking absolutely nothing like Dylan O’Brien.“Lemme hit that,” Bucky said. Partially because he needed something to distract him from Clint’s nipple piercings and partially because he needed some sort of mind-altering drug to stop his mind from altering reality.Steve Rogers. That’s where his brain needed to go. Steve chillin’ in the half-deflated bean bag chair next to Clint’s Stratocaster. Steve holding the joint up to Bucky’s lips instead of Daisy.As the smoke filled his lungs, Bucky closed his eyes."Do you think the bean bag would hold Steve's weight?" he asked, blowing a smoke ring across the back of Daisy’s lacy collar. “Probably not.” She hit the joint before passing it to Skinner. “It’s being held together by safety pins.” “Hey, I fixed it, didn’t I?” Clint was a fixer. Safety pins. String cheese. Untangling cords that he himself had tangled.“I wouldn’t call that fixed,” Skinner said, coughing as he passed the joint to Clint. And he was right. The little white beads popped out whenever Daisy sat on it, and she weighed pretty much the same as Lucky.It was easy to laugh. Between the weed, Daisy’s braids against Bucky’s chest, and Clint saying, “Whatever, Mr. Engineer, not everyone’s been hanging out with Tony Stark in the tech lab,” it was easy for Bucky to open his lungs and let everything out. And that’s when it hit him.Except for that first night with Céline and the peas, Bucky’d been the one crashing into Steve’s world. After one bowl of Lucky Charms and some tots, The Steve Rogers Event had…Role reversal!...become The Bucky Barnes Event, and Bucky’d been too blinded by the debris to fucking see it. Bruce Willis aside, asteroids were bullshit.What Steve needed right now was a ripped bean bag chair, an old-fashioned joint, and a complete and total change of scenery. “Hey, Clint,” Bucky said as he stroked the end of Daisy’s braid.“Yeah, sunshine?”Bucky took a minute to let the name settle in. Sunshine. He liked the sound of it. “I’m worried about Steve.”“Yeah, me too.” Clint’s complete and total lack of sarcasm made Bucky wonder if Clint had another piece of unwrapped cheese in his pocket for Steve. Steve, who’d refused to talk about his stepdad all fucking day. Steve, whose hands had been shaking when Bucky’d kissed him goodbye after school. Steve, who was probably getting boiling hot water poured over his head while Bucky ate motherfucking Zebra Cakes and Cool Ranch Doritos. Steve, who had no idea that Brock had touched Bucky again.“I think we need to rage,” Bucky said, hitting the joint twice in a row. Fuck the dogs. Fuck his missing socks. Fuck the bruises and burns.Fuck it all!In this room, rage was a verb, not just a band. And raging to Rage Against the Machine had been a Misfit tradition ever since Skinner had gotten his first B- on a science test. Wanna take out some aggression? Rage! Wanna tell a pack of gun-sniffing dogs to fuck off? Rage! Wanna express your feelings about Frank Castle and his motherfucking toothpick? Fucking rage! Not wasting any time, Clint jumped off the couch, yelling, “Hell yes!” loud enough to make Lucky bark. “You thinking ‘Bulls on Parade’?”Barking in the living room, barking at the door, barking while Biggie bled out on the floor.Bucky took another hit, telling himself that Lucky was a friend. That Lucky, with his slobbery tennis ball and big, fat belly, stole slices of pizza, not toes.“Solid choice,” Bucky said as the smoke poured out of his nose, “but I’m in more of a ‘Bombtrack’ kind of mood.”It was true.Bucky needed President Obama to launch a zillion nuclear bombs and blow up every asteroid, comet, and wood-burning stove that even so much as thought about crashing into Earth.Nodding his head like the song was already playing, Clint powered up the speakers. "So we're getting hardcore today, huh?" AK-47. TEC-9. A double-pump shotgun.If only Clint knew how hardcore. When the bass kicked in, Bucky picked Daisy up like a punk/goth bride and…Smooch!...kissed her cheek. Then he tossed her up and over Skinner, up and over the cords and lights, and up and over the mountain of bullshit that Monday had shit out of its sadistic ass. She landed safe and sound on Clint’s pillows (just like Bucky’d planned), which meant he was free and clear to smack Skinner’s stomach and shout, “Get that ass up!” to give him some motherfuckin’ motivation. Raging was about anger, sure. But it was also about love. And Bucky fuckin’ loved Skinner (even if he was moonlighting as a science-loving, sub-loving whipping boy with Tony and Lola). Planting a kiss on Skinner’s cheek…Double smooch!...Bucky yanked him into the upright, mosh-ready rage position.And Skinner understood. They all did. That’s why Bucky’s favorite Batcave techie set his glasses next to the still-smoking joint. That’s why Daisy put on the Mouseketeer ears and jumped up and down like an overly caffeinated kangaroo, the bedsprings creakin’ and squeakin’ with every rage-filled bounce. And that’s why Clint, with his deep-rooted understanding of the power of cheese, cranked up the volume as loud as it would go.The only thing that could make this better was if Clint didn’t look like a Viking at a quinceañera. Then they could bang their heads like Quiet Riot (#MentalHealth) and whip their hair around like they were at a Slayer concert in ‘86. But, honestly, even with Natasha’s fancy-ass braid, he still looked metal as fuck. You know what? Bucky didn’t give a flying fuck about hair. In fact, he didn’t give a flying fuck about anything.Picking up one of his boots, he whipped it as hard as he could at the wall. And, holy fucking fuck! The mark it left was bigger than the one on Bucky’s cheek! It was blue and dark and deep, but unlike Brock’s handiwork, that shit was his own. He’d fucking made it. Bucky picked up the other boot.Suddenly Clint was behind him, sliding his hand over Bucky’s wrist and trying to take the boot out of his hand. “No! I have to throw it!” He had to make another mark, and he had to make it deeper. But instead of stopping him, Clint overlapped Bucky’s clenched fingers with his own. Then, as the drums shook the building from the basement to the roof, he said, “Let’s fucking do this,” and grabbed Bucky’s hip with his other hand. Twice the rage. Twice the power. Twice the muscle to put out the fucking fire.When the chorus hit, they moved in unison, pulling their arms back and screaming, “Burn, burn, yes you’re gonna burn,” before they launched the motherfucking boot across the room. And when it hit— Bam! It put an enormous hole in the drywall.“Holy shit,” Bucky said because— “Holy fucking shit!”Clint had lived here his entire life, so getting a security deposit back wasn’t in the cards. But that didn’t mean he destroyed the walls with a fuckin’ sledgehammer or smashed light fixtures with a baseball bat. Clint was a fixer, but he sure as fuck didn’t know how to fix drywall.But Clint didn’t tell Bucky to calm the fuck down. And he didn’t tell him to shove his rage into a steel cage and throw away the fucking key. If anything, he pulled Bucky closer, holding him steady as Skinner and Daisy cheered like Bucky’d won a first-place trophy for destruction. And god, did it make Bucky want to kiss them all. A kiss on the cheek for Daisy, a kiss on the forehead for Skinner (minus the French), a kiss on the mouth for Clint (in front of everybody), and last but not least, a kiss for chaos.The bed had officially become a heavy-metal trampoline, and Daisy was bouncing high enough to smack the ceiling with her hands. Bam! Bam! Wallykazam! And Skinner (who had way more rhythm than he let on) was all up in Bucky’s face, rapping every single militant word like he fucking meant it. No joke, Zach de la Rocha would give him hella props if he saw this shit. And when Bucky turned around in Clint’s arms, sinking low enough that they were eye to eye, there was a moment where—Clint licked his lips, and Bucky licked his. And… fuck, they were close enough that Bucky could hear Clint swallow, even over the music. But then it was over. Shouting, “Mosh pit!” Clint shouldered the center of Bucky’s chest, hip checked Skinner, and picked up one of his steel-toed boots. And when he let it fly, it triggered a thunderstorm of shoes. They were everywhere. Skinner’s gray Pumas, Daisy’s Mary Janes, Clint’s drywall-smashing boots, and Bucky’s electric-blue Docs, tumbling end over end as his friends got rid of the last of the fur. And when Zach de la Rocha screamed about fire, Bucky screamed twice as loud.There were dozens of marks on the ceiling and walls when the song was done, and none of them had been made by a pair of size twelve, white Nikes. And when Bucky collapsed onto the bed and buried his face in Skinner’s sweaty armpit, he couldn’t help but think that maybe it was for the best.Clint’s safety pins were strong enough for Bucky, but, cheese or not, they’d never be strong enough for Steve.Taking a deep breath, Bucky tried to decide if Skinner’s sweat smelled more French than American. “You should play some Elton John,” he said, sniff-sniff-sniffin’ like a drug-sniffin’ dog. “Something slow, like ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.’”Most people would ask about the sudden shift in mood, but not the Misfit Crew. They always understood, even when Bucky didn’t. And for the first time in days, Bucky felt like he could breathe. FYI: Skinner’s pits definitely smelled more eau du escargot than eau du Big Mac and fries.It didn’t take long for the four of them to end up in one big pile on the bed. Skinner’s stinky pit on Bucky’s right, Clint’s stinky feet on his left, and Daisy, aka the cherry on top, lying horizontally across a crotch, a butt, and a crotch, respectively. Elton John. Cuddle piles. The munchies. This was turning out to be the best M-Day ever. “Okay, enough procrastinating,” Daisy said, wiggling around until she was sitting on Bucky’s butt (and Bucky’s butt alone). “We have to take these pictures before Clint kicks us out.”Daisy was little, but that didn’t stop her from nudging Skinner off the end of the bed with her foot. And Clint? He didn’t wait for a second request. Doing a backwards flip-twist thing that was more Romper Room than Cirque du Soleil, he said, “Where do you need me?” which pretty much summed up his entire personality.“Get my camera,” Daisy said like the sweetest Dom in the Gumdrop Forest. Then, because she was on an order-giving roll, she tapped the center of Bucky’s back and said, “Roll over, boo. I want to see your face.”Compared to Clint, she was light as a feather, so the flip-flop was easy. A half-ass push-up, a roll, a hip grab to maneuver her into position, and…Voilà!...there were overall-covered buttcheeks rubbin’ against Bucky’s quads.They’d sat like this a gazillion times before. Once, when Daisy had painted his stomach to look like the alien from Assassination Classroom, she’d parked her ass on his crotch for, like, six and a half hours. And when she’d sewn the Whitesnake patch to the bottom of his ratty, black sweater, she’d set her pin cushion on his belly button and made herself right at home. But now that Bucky’d tried the whole cowboy thing in the flesh (PSA: It was a hell of a workout for the thighs), it was weird looking at her from this perspective. And it was even weirder when she said, “Clint, sweetie, switch off the lights,” and took the camera out of Clint’s hands. “It feels like we’re about to make a porno,” Bucky said, because no matter how adventurous he was feeling, he didn’t want his first time on film to be with a girl. “No, silly. I just want to hear more about you and Steve.”The room went dark. Blinds shut. Lamp off. “Tell me everything.”Daisy switched on one of the LEDs and aimed it at Bucky’s face. It was blue like the ocean. “Roses are red, violets are blue,” Bucky said, basking in the underwater glow. “And when your boyfriend writes you poems, you know his love is true.”There were sea turtles and manta rays, giant sunfish and beluga whales, and, in the distance, Charlie the Tuna, happily swimmin’ around instead of being shredded into a thousand pieces and stuffed into a Starkist can. Bucky cringed. Not only because the camera made the weird-ass whirring sound when Daisy turned it on, but because he was a motherfuckin’ asshole for craving tuna noodle casserole. Tuna, even when it came from a can, meant that some poor, innocent fish had met the wrong end of a fucking harpoon. But Bucky the Fish Killer didn’t have long to flog himself with a fishhook because Clint switched on a light of his very own.It was purple. And when Clint said, “Please tell me he didn’t give you a poem,” the loudest part of Bucky wanted to crack a joke about Barney, Violet Beauregard, Thanos, and/or Whoopie Goldberg. But that part got overruled. The light was bouncing off Clint’s necklace and creating a silvery shimmer all the way from his nipple piercings to the ring through his eyebrow. And—Bucky swallowed. It took everything he had to stop himself from saying, “You’re so fucking beautiful,” and even more to squash the growing erection in his pants.It had to be the lights. Or the weed. Or the lights and weed combined making him see seahorses and hammerhead sharks. Whatever it was, Bucky had to make it stop. Clint had made up with Natasha during lunch. Bucky knew that.And she’d braided his hair. Bucky knew that too.When Daisy leaned in and said, “So… you were about to tell me about Steve,” Bucky prayed to God, Buddha, Allah, and Thor that she wouldn’t feel his dick. “I know something juicy happened this weekend.”Juicy like watermelon Bubblicious.Juicy like watermelon lube.Juicy like the song by Biggie Smalls.Clint’s entire face was purple when he said, “All they did was fuck.” His chin. His lips. His gigantic nose. And when he said, “It was nonstop,” Bucky wanted to shatter the light with his fist.Why the fuck did it have to be purple? Green, sure. Bucky could deal with Yoda. And blue would be fan-fucking-tastic now that most of the blood and fur was gone. Fuck, even red would be better. Aragorn could bone Liv Tyler, do a hair flip, and kick Sauron’s invisible ass with a sword in thirty minutes flat (especially with that Russian dude backing him up). And, god, what Bucky wouldn’t give for pink, even if he had to wear a neon-pink condom and fuck a girl on film. But purple? Bucky shivered. Purple was a preschool nightmare disguised as a cuddly dinosaur.“It was more than just fucking,” Bucky said as his dick shrank back down to size. “And even if it wasn’t, not everything is about sex.”Sometimes sex was about Radiohead on a spaceship’s stereo and stupid messages in the sand. Homemade headphone splitters that let two people get into each other’s heads. Extra whip cream. The flowery feeling of becoming somebody’s muse.Daisy brushed Bucky’s hair out of his eyes. And when she said, “Of course it’s not, sweetie,” Bucky believed her. It didn’t matter that she’d never kissed anybody or written a haiku for her dumbass former lover. She was a Mantis-level empath who just got it, no experience required.But Bucky’s original part-time lover? Pfft. When he looked at Clint, the dickhead switched off the light.Natasha had let Clint fuck her. Bucky knew that.And if it hadn’t been more than just sex, she never would’ve let him. Bucky knew that too.“Here, hold the light like this.” Bucky blinked, but it wasn’t from the lights. It was from the love. Steve and Bucky sitting in a tree, K.I.S.S.I.N.G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a kangaroo baby in a baby carriage.It took Daisy a minute to angle the blue light exactly how she wanted, and another for Bucky to get a solid grip so he could point it at his nose. By the time she said, “So… it’s more than sex,” Bucky’s shoulders were in desperate need of a massage.And you know who gave the best massages? Steve.Steve, who’d kissed Bucky’s shoulder blades as he’d rubbed his back, making sure all the kinks were gone before they’d drifted off to sleep.Looking directly into Daisy’s lens, Bucky relaxed his face.“Every time he touches me, it feels like more.” He took a deep breath. “I mean, he gave me a poem and told me he loves me.” Click. The mechanical blink of the shutter captured his admission.“I told him not to give you a poem.” Clint flicked his light on, then off. "I very explicitly recall telling Steve not to do that.”Shifting Bucky’s hands to angle the light from the right, Daisy asked, “What’s wrong with poetry?” before fanning his hair out on the bed. "If you ask me, Steve writing Bucky a poem sounds like the most romantic thing in the world.”“Writing poetry is a sign of intelligence." Skinner’s voice had come from somewhere in the corner. Where exactly? It was impossible to tell. "No, it means you’re a melodramatic sap.” That time Bucky knew exactly where the voice came from. And when Clint turned on his light and shined it under his chin like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, he might as well have scrawled redrum on Bucky’s heart. He was scowling, but deep down, Bucky knew he didn’t mean it. Clint loved sap. Sappy power ballads. Sappy movies. Sappy syrup on Natasha’s blueberry pancakes. Maybe that was the problem. Natasha was a prima ballerina, not a prima poet. The good news: Bucky'd done a halfway decent job with haiku in middle school (meaning he’d plagiarized the fuck out of Kendrick Lamar). And that, despite a big, fat F, meant he was more than qualified to turn his bestie’s frown upside down.Bucky cleared his throat. “Best friend Clint I don’tWant to jam Mötley Crüe withAnyone but you”
Click.
Except for the soft whir of the lens, the room was completely silent, and Bucky wasn’t sure if he’d nailed haiku or straight-up murdered everybody with seventeen syllables of awfulness.“Was that supposed to be a poem?" Clint asked, confirming that he had, in fact, survived Bucky’s poetry jam.“Yeah, dumbass. I wrote a pentagram-shaped poem just for you.” Daisy was trying to be subtle, but Bucky knew she’d swung the camera in Clint’s direction and twisted her zoom.“By the way,” Bucky said because Vince Neil and Nikki Sixx were only so powerful, “you were wrong about Steve’s poem. I loved it.” Was it the wrong thing to say after a Mötley Crüe haiku? Abso-fucking-lutely. And based on Daisy’s itty-bitty gasp, she knew it too. But haiku bombs, like atomic bombs, were impossible to stop once they were launched. Clint clenched his teeth. And when he asked, “You loved the poem, or you love him?" it was hard to miss the click.Bucky loved Clint’s messy room, with its pizza boxes and inside-out jeans, but he didn’t love the mess of this incestuous four-way love triangle. Even if Clint put on his mom’s frilly apron and turned on the vacuum full blast, there was no way he could suck all this stanky-ass shit into the bag. And Steve? Fuck, Steve was so clean that the only thing under the passenger seat of his fuckin’ Escalade had been an empty box of Muscle Milk and a roach. Taking a deep breath, Bucky looked at Clint, really looked at him, and said, “I loved the poem and I love him.”
Click.
It was impossible to count how many hours Bucky had spent in this room. Straight up, it had to be in the thousands (maybe even the tens of thousands). But when Clint raised the light above his head and created his own purple haze, everything looked different. The Playstation remotes didn’t look as inviting. Clint’s Stratocaster looked like it was dumping Bucky to go solo. And the pillows that Bucky’d slept on since he’d been called Yakov suddenly said Girl’s Only in M.A.C. Ruby Woo lipstick.Clint nodded. And when he curled his lips into the world’s tiniest smile, Daisy’s click was louder than an AK.“Um…” Daisy switched off Bucky’s light and took it out of his hands. “Wow. That was—”“Honest.” Ditching Barney, Clint stood up and turned on the lamp. “That was really fucking honest.”Love poems. Love songs. Love haikus that were shitty and perfect at the same time. Bucky didn’t know if he was cut out for this shit. But here he was, breaking a heart to save his own. It was healthy, right? Like getting stabbed in the arm with a gigantic needle to prevent the flu or amputating your fingers before the gangrene did it for you. “What’s your drug of choice?”Daisy was holding a Nutty Buddy in one hand and a Moon Pie in the other. And, man oh man, was that gonna be a hard fucking decision. Nutty Buddys were nutty and chocolaty and crisp, while Moon Pies were…Mmm!...muy delicioso. Sometimes, if the conditions were right, he even loved them more than Zebra Cakes.
Ding!
A lightbulb appeared above Bucky’s head (you know, like Felix the Cat), and it wasn’t green, blue, pink, or red. It was bright white. And Bucky knew for a fact that Clint had screwed it in with his hot little hands. F was for friends, and Bucky’s friends (like Moon Pies) were the fuckin’ best. Clint, who’d been there for Yakov’s first cannonball into the pool at the Y. Daisy, who’d showered Bucky with sweetness and light since the moment she’d slapped a metallic-pink bracelet around his wrist in ninth grade. And Skinner, who, in addition to giving Bucky mad respect for sandwiches, had taught him that it was possible to think like Steve Jobs, look like Dylan O’Brien, and have a buttload of fun at the same time.Marveling at his three amigos, Bucky knew exactly what he wanted to do for his project de las fotogiraffeías. “I know what to do,” Bucky said, grabbing his idea bulb before…Hop skiddly-doo!...he jumped off the bed. “I want you guys to squish your faces together while I tell dirty jokes!”It was an amazing idea. The crème de la brûlée. And it was so fuckin’ simple!In no time, the Misfit Crew (not Mötley Crüe) had squished together on the edge of the bed. Daisy on Skinner’s lap with her Mouseketeer ears and pearls. Skinner wearin’ the rainbow sunglasses like a Rage-loving ally. And Clint (shirtless, of course) resting his chin on Skinner’s head like a cuddly punk rock Viking. “I love you guys,” Bucky said, switchin’ the light to pink and handing it to Daisy. One, ‘cause pink meant Cupid, and Cupid meant underwater hearts and Jason Momoa, and two, because Daisy, being the crew’s resident artist, knew exactly what to do. Holding out the light, she said, “We love you too, boo,” and turned their faces into cheery pink hearts. According to Céline Dion, love could move mountains. Little ones like Breakneck Ridge and Blackhead Mountain (gross name, great views) or big-ass ones like Everest and the Himalayas. And if love could do that, it could definitely pull Bucky’s shit-covered ass out of the worst toilet in Scotland.Twisting the zoom until he was looking at nothin’ but his mountain-mover's heart-shaped faces, Bucky said, “Okay, bitches. What did one buttcheek say to the other?”One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Wait for it.“Together, we can stop this shit.”Clint snorted (gettin’ a solid amount of spit in Dylan O’Brien’s hair). Skinner laughed so hard that he knocked Mickey Mouse (and Christina Aguilera) off Daisy’s head. And Daisy (whose giggle rivaled Anderson Cooper’s) giggled like Bucky’d tickled the back of her knees with an eagle feather.
Click.
And it was fucking perfect.“So, the theme of your project’s gonna be reactions to stupid jokes?” Clint wrapped his arms around Daisy and Skinner like they were all one big bean burrito.“No, dickface,” Bucky said, smilin’ like a motherfucker as he put his finger on the trigger, “it’s love.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Even though it was only three o’clock, Bucky was gonna go ahead and declare T-Day, aka Tuesday, even weirder than M-Day. But not for the reasons you might think. There’d been zero teleportation (fuck you, Scotty), zero dogs (fuck you, Lassie), zero Muppet murders (RIP, Grover), and zero haiku about the legendary Mötley Crüe (#TooYoungToFallInLove). It was just normal. Walking across the roof of The Sanctuary (which was actually the floor), Bucky had every intention of climbing on top of the chimney to wait for Steve. One, because he’d have a bird’s-eye view when Steve (and his muscles) climbed up the ladder, and two, because he could maybe (hopefully) snag a good-sized roach out of the metal box Clint kept hidden under the pigeon spikes. It was a killer plan. High-quality views while gettin’ high. Bucky froze.Correction: It had been a killer plan until Bucky noticed something flapping in the breeze. The Notorious B.I.G. had been MIA for a solid twenty-seven hours. We’re talkin’ Missing Persons Reports, Amber Alerts, and a black-and-white mug shot on the side of a milk carton. Tragic stuff, even for a twice-dead rapper. Well, somebody call 911 and call off the coppers ‘cause there he was, hangin’ from the chimney like a fucking flag. It wouldn’t have been so bad if there weren’t bricks holding the t-shirt up by the shoulders. But there were. Meaning Bucky’d grabbed two bricks from the pile behind the air conditioner, stood on his green plastic chair, and made sure that Biggie would stay up, rain or shine. And that, Dr. Oz and Doc Ock, was just another reminder that M-Day had been nothing but an enormous hunk of Swiss cheese. There were holes. Big ones. And the more Bucky tried to fill them, the bigger they got.“Fuck you,” Bucky said before hawking up a loogie and spitting it at Biggie’s crown. Biggie claiming the chimney was some straight-up bullshit. This wasn’t the corner of Fulton and St. James Place, this was The motherfucking Sanctuary, and Bucky’d been sellin’ crack off this rooftop since 2013.Turning his back on his rival dealer, Bucky looked west. Not because he was thinking about Brokeback Mountain, but because he couldn’t start a territorial gang war with the Notorious B.I.G. if T-Day was gonna stay simple, normal, and drama free. Normal was looking at the pigeons chillin’ on the roof of the natatorium. Normal was keeping his shirt on instead of turning it into a flag. Normal was jerking off with beef jerky (not really), which meant Bucky had to slam on the brakes, shut down his neurons, and stop himself from thinking about cheese, double D’s, and multicultural mobsters speakin’ Vietnamese. “Normal is telling butt jokes,” Bucky said, buttoning his acid-washed denim vest to the tippity-top (#HairMetalRulz). Would his vest make a kickass flag? Fuck yeah! But he couldn’t risk anybody stealin’ his black-and-white striped shirt (#EmoSailorChic) and hangin’ it from the rafters above the pool. The top button was way too tight, but that didn’t stop him from fastening the buckle around his neck. “I love normal,” he said, pulling the collar as tight as it would go. “Normal is quiet and calm and boring as fuck, just like The Sanctuary when—”Part of him said, “When there aren’t any joints to share,” while another said, “When there aren’t any cocks to suck.” But the part of him that was paddlin’ around in circles like a one-legged duck, trying its damndest to act normal, undid the button, sucked in a fuckton of air, and told them both to zip it.It took a second for the duck to…Quack!...stop quacking, but when it did, Bucky said, “Normal is eating apple-cinnamon oatmeal with a cheap plastic spoon.” Oatmeal wasn’t Bucky’s go-to breakfast. He’d rather eat strawberry Pop-Tarts and Pulp Fiction-free orange juice to power up the bod. But Natasha had offered, so…Yay!...three cheers for oatmeal. And while it had been totally abnormal that Bucky’d sat in the front on the drive to school (so Natasha and Clint could do ‘normal’ couples shit in the back), he’d appreciated the itty-bitty chunks of apple in a nice, normal way. Food fact: One leveled-off spoonful of oatmeal plus two chunks of apple makes for the perfect bite. An apple a day keeps the doctor away (or so they say), and when Clint had said, “I missed you,” and leaned his head against Natasha’s shoulder, Bucky’s anal retentive oatmeal preparation had saved the fuckin’ day. Steady is the brain that eats the carbs. And he wasn’t talkin’ about simple ones like Mountain Dew and Oreos. Bucky felt most like Bucky when he ate brown rice and beans.But there weren’t any complex carbs on the western horizon, and Bucky’s prison lunch had consisted of exactly one chicken patty (sans bun ‘cause pickle juice had infiltrated the edges), one orange (sans freshness ‘cause this was New York City, not Miami), and one serving of watery green beans (sans taste ‘cause green beans were gross). Not to mention, one zero-carb bottle of H2O.Wandering back to the ladder, Bucky sighed. “No carbs,” he said as he peered down at the top-secret door. “And no Steve.” When Steve had scheduled this post-suspension rooftop rendezvous (via a pre-suspension text), his directions had been perfectly clear. Don’t stop to take a piss, don’t bum two bucks off Clint to get a Gatorade out of the vending machine, and don’t go back to the locker room to see if TJ dropped any goodies on the stairs.And Bucky, being a good boy, had listened. But now, Steve was late, and Bucky (who hadn’t veered off course all fuckin’ day) was struggling.In-school suspensions, by definition, were supposed to be boring. No Tetris. No dick pics. No food fights. There’d been nothing for Bucky to do but scribble on worksheets, scribble in textbooks, and write a half dozen half-hearted apology letters for the holes in the cheese. But in-school suspensions were not (repeat, not) supposed to be the equivalent of a padded cell.Fatties. Blow jobs. Love. Violence. Every voice wanted something different. And when the smallest part of him whispered, “Pechen’ye,” Bucky had to slap his hand over his mouth to stop himself from screaming, “A cookie? Fuck you! You were quiet all fucking day.” Because saying that shit out loud— That would be admitting that normal only applied when he was locked inside an empty conference room. Bucky backed away from the ladder. He needed a nap, a sweet potato, and a big dose of normal in the form of a hunky boyfriend who showed up on time.There was no reason for Bucky to be tired. His in-school suspension had included an out-of-school suspension from swim practice for his balls-out cannonball into the pool (meaning he’d gotten an extra hour of sleep). And while his dad had said ixnay on the Frappuccinoay, he’d let Bucky get a blonde roast with extra cream.“Coffee is normal,” Bucky said, unbuttoning his vest. “Coffee with sugar. Coffee with caramel syrup. Coffee with extra, extra, extra whip.” But when Bucky looked past the pigeon-speckled natatorium to the place where it had all begun, aka the iceberg-laden parking garage, his desire to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed fizzled like an SOS flare in the North Atlantic. He longed for Clint’s couch, with its clumps of Lucky’s hair and mismatched pillows. And he wasn’t talking about the weed-scented couch in his bestie’s room. After hauling the lights and props up the stairs, down the stairs, and loading them into Skinner’s Audi, Bucky had fallen asleep with Lucky on the living room couch. And while he didn’t remember lying down, he definitely remembered how warm he’d felt when he’d woken up to the sound of Clint and Jody pushing tuna noodle casserole around their dinner plates. Turning to face the t-shirt, Bucky said, “It was quiet.” Quiet was a Q word, and so was quilt. Just like the flowered quilt that Clint (or Jody) had tucked around Bucky (and Lucky) when they’d been dreaming about Milk-Bones.“Except for Lucky’s butt in my face, it was just me.” Bucky jumped when his phone dinged. One, because he’d stupidly put it into his vest pocket instead of his pants, and two, because it was fucking loud. And when he swiped his finger across the screen, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or pissed. Steve’s text said, Sorry, I’m going to be a few minutes late. I have to talk to Mr. Hanson about my story. Which, considering that Bucky’d forsaken a fucking snack, was like a donkey kick right to the stomach.The instant the bell had rung, Bucky’d followed Steve’s orders to a T. He’d scaled the prison wall (like a ninja), snatched his phone off Janice's desk (like a ninja), and skipped town without grabbing so much as a single Life Saver. No Tootsie Rolls. No Gatorade. No Bubblicious from Daisy’s secret stash. And Bucky, being a recent Arkham escapee (and high-energy ninja), was fucking starving.But that wasn’t the worst part. Every second that ticked by without Señor Steve scaling that ladder increased the chances that Drama-Free Tuesday would turn into Teleportation Tuesday, TEC-9 Tuesday, TJ Tuesday, Touch-My-Dick Tuesday, or—“Stoy!” Bucky shoved his phone back into his pocket because staring at Steve’s stupid-ass text wasn’t doing him any fuckin’ favors. He didn’t need a hangry Russian shouting “Stop!” to tell him that. What he needed was to sit his ass down and think about dick jokes instead of dicks, smoke rings instead of snacks, and his normal teenage relationship instead of the Norman Bates psycho shit that his brain was trying to pull.Dragging his chair towards the edge of the building (and away from Biggie), Bucky sat down. His super tight, patch-covered jeans pinched his balls (according to the straining seams, he’d actually outgrown them last year), but they were rad as fuck, so he ignored the testicular strangulation and squinted at the windows across the street. Old windows, new windows, windows with hip millennials vaping out of their WeWork offices. Bucky especially liked peepin’ out the apartment four floors above the bakery. A woman with a big, gray parrot lived there, and every day (without fail), she moved the plants on her windowsills to follow the sun. Just like Natasha.Spying, although frowned upon in certain circles, was a perfectly normal way to pass the time. I spy with my little eye a shirtless millennial running on a treadmill with his big millennial beard. I spy with my little eye a hungry seagull stealing a fry. Bucky cleared his throat. Technically, the bird heist was happening on the seventh-floor fire escape with an imaginary fry, but Bucky was B.O.R.E.D. because Quincy the Art Spy had ditched his pre-lubed ass for Mr. Hanson. Seriously, how long did it take to get advice on writing creatively? Add more adjectives. The end.Leaning the chair back on two legs, Bucky enlightened the seagull (and the boomer untying his tie one floor below Ms. Parrot) to the infinite power of the adjective.“Greetings, Eaton-adjacent citizens,” he said, pushing the limits of his trusty green chair. “Allow me to regale you with my sad, lonely tale. I haven’t seen my gloriously gorgeous hunk of a man since yesterday. And lemme tell ya, it’s a Titanic-level tragedy. We’re talkin’ submerged mountains of ice with razor-sharp edges that have the power to shred a solid steel hull like Shredder. Or if you’d prefer some old-school Billy Shakespeare to ‘90s-school Jimmy Cameron, A Romeo and Juliet-level tragedy with poison, guns, and that redheaded cutie patootie Claire Danes.” Bucky shifted in his chair to keep his balls from turning completely blue. “Or if you’ve done the reading in Kuzinski’s class, which…Shocker!...I haven’t, a Great Gatsby-level tragedy where Leo’s version of Daisy made the mistress go splat.”The legs of the chair creaked as Bucky waited for the seagull, the parrot, and the pigeons to catch on to his tres DiCaprio cake. But then he remembered that birds didn’t spend their days memorizing Leonardo’s filmography (even though Leo was a fellow aviator).The man on the treadmill slowed down to a walk, but Bucky and his Merry Band of Adjectives were just gettin’ started. “Believe it or not,” he said, shifting to the right ‘cause the pinchers were pinching the fuck out of his left nut, “my big, beefy boyfriend being MIA isn’t even the worst part. And before you say anything, I know what you’re thinking. What could be worse than freezing to death in ice-cold water, committing suicide next to your ‘dead’ lover, and gettin’ shot with a six-shooter in your very own swimming pool?” Standing up, Bucky popped his fly. “Well, hold onto your wings, pigeons and parrots, ‘cause I’m about to spit facts like will.i.am.”Living up to the birdbrain stereotype, the birds weren’t paying attention, so Bucky did a manual nut adjustment, spun his chair fifteen minutes in reverse, and sat down to try some of Steve’s flowery conversation on a new (and not necessarily improved) audience.“Okay, Biggie, lemme give it to you straight. Based on your shockingly violent, homo-hating raps, I know you’re not down for me spittin’ bars about my big-dicked boyfriend. But you’re double dead—with Suge’s and Rumlow’s bullets in your head—so you and your homies can’t do shit to stop me.”To avoid further destruction to his nutsack, Bucky manspread like a motherfucker, leaving his button and zipper undone for maximum safety (and easy access). After all, it was his turn for a rooftop BJ.“Do you like the Fresh Prince, or is Bel-Air too West Coast for a Brooklyn boy like you?” Bucky smoothed his happy trail up, then down, up, then down, because, as luck would have it, his boxer briefs were nowhere to be found. “Now, this is a story all about how my life got flipped/turned upside down, and Stevie fuckin’ Rogers lost the Eastside kissing crown.”Bucky’s Willy Smith game was strong, but Brooklyn’s most notorious rapper was mean muggin’ like a motherfucker. “Fine,” Bucky said, brushing his happy trail (and the tippity-top of his pubes) into the up position. “You’re threatened by my skills. I get it. I’m an East Coast G, with a capital B, and you can’t handle a Gen Z homo spittin’ bars with his swingin’ free.” Fact check: Was Bucky’s dick out? No. But Biggie sure as fuck could see the root. And since Biggie was nothin’ but a dickless head on a t-shirt, it was more than enough for Bucky to assert his dominance. “So picture this,” Bucky said, ditchin’ the raps for a lil’ librarian-style storytime. “Yesterday after school, Stevie and I met up on the sidewalk. He’s got plans. I’ve got plans. But after our terrifying brush with Guns N’ Roses—heavy on the guns—we wanted to touch each other’s butts before going our separate ways.”Happy trail down. Happy trail up. “Stevie touched my butt. I touched his. He said, ‘I love you.’ I said, ‘I love you more.’ And everything was fuckin’ awesome, considering.”Bucky would’ve said, “Considering the mushy, gushy Muppet guts,” but good librarians didn’t scare the children. Speaking of children, Bucky zipped up his pants. “Okay, back to the story,” he said, guiding Biggie down a happy trail that…Plot twist!...ended in a valley of soul-crushing disappointment. “Everything was awesome. Our love was moving mountains. I had a chub. But right before the Dad Taxi whisked me ‘n’ Ennis away to Casa del Clint, Stevie kissed me. And, Jesus… I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it was awful.” To be fair, awful was a relative word. It wasn’t awful like Stevie had eaten a big-ass bowl of shrimp linguini (with extra, extra, extra garlic) for lunch and tried to lick Bucky’s tonsils like a Bomb Pop. But compared to Stevie’s usual kisses, it had lacked a certain amount of passion. And by passion, Bucky meant tongue.Bucky looked at Biggie. Biggie looked at Bucky. And—Bucky smelled tacos.If Carmen was working today (which she most definitely was), all Bucky had to do was jog across the street, push his jeans down a little (and his shirt up a lot), and say, “Hola, señorita, I could smell your taco from all the way across the street.” Forward? Yes. But based on all the spicy telenovelas that Bucky’d never watched, Carmen would reward his Spanish seduction by poppin’ the top button on her blusa and handing him a bag of free tacos with extra sour cream. And if he wanted more than a taco, all he had to do was get Bucky to power up The Sex Stare and whisper, “God, you’ve got a great ass,” and Carmen would toss him a to-go box with one of those big, juicy wet burritos. You know, the kind with the enchilada sauce and shredded cheese that spreads wide open in the store room.Bucky cringed. His out-of-control craving for cheese (be it taco or string) was bad enough already, but now he had to deal with his dick trying to pimp him out for a six-dollar burrito? Fuck that! Steve was late, not gone. And Bucky (no matter how hungry he was) would never fucking cheat.When his phone dinged, Bucky scrambled to get it out of his vest. But the text (and the ghost emoji that went with it) wasn’t from Steve.“Fuck,” Bucky said as he touched Daisy’s name. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck!”Forgetting about a Spanish quiz was understandable. Shit, it was even semi-acceptable to lose a t-shirt once in a while. But forgetting that Daisy’d asked Bucky (via pre- and post-suspension texts) to bring Steve to the art room after school? That was rude as fuck, especially because she’d used words like immediately, important, and please don’t ghost me on this. This one said, Are you blowing me off? which (shout out, Alanis) was about as textbook as you could get in the irony department. Even if Bucky wanted to take Steve on a trip to the art room (which he definitely didn’t), he couldn’t because Steve was ghosting him. Was Steve balls deep in adjectives? Maybe. Had he gotten wind of the Muppet murders and hightailed it to Sesame Street to save Big Bird from the wrong end of a Glock? Perhaps. Or had he finally come to his senses and realized that Bucky, despite his cute ass and winning personalities, wasn’t worth the trouble? Survey says… Probably.But none of that meant Bucky had to pay the ghosting forward. “Hey, Siri,” he said, balancing his phone on his knee. “Set a timer for three minutes.”One hundred and eighty Mississippis. That’s all the time Steve got before Bucky strapped on a chastity belt, climbed down the ladder, and got his non-sexual cheese from somebody else. Clint was at archery practice, so Bucky couldn’t text 911 Need cheese, not dick. And Natasha was probably halfway to Harlem right now, stretching her legs on the subway while she nibbled on cheese cubes and almonds. But Daisy?If Bucky said, “Pretty, pretty please,” Daisy would abso-fucking-lutely fork over two bucks so he could get a bag of Cheez-Its from the vending machine. And if he got down on his knees and begged (or did a handstand to impress her), she’d totally toss him a fiver and tell him to get a bag of Cheetos too. Three minutes, and…Poof!...Bucky was outta here like a hungry queer. Three minutes until…Crunch-crunch-crunch!...he downed a bag of white cheddar popcorn with a broski and a beer.Ditchin’ the chair (and Biggie), Bucky did a squat to try and stretch out his jeans. And everything was yabba-dabba-doobie until he looked at his plant.Truth bomb: Bucky’d spotted the invader as soon as his mad boots had hit the roof, but he’d flipped his attention sign to ignore. Biggie flyin’ proud? That territorial gangster shit had been blinkin’ like a neon sign. But an inside-out tube sock nestled between the leaves of his favorite plant? That shit had been easier to blow off.But now, it was taunting him. People who hid socks in rooftop plants were the opposite of normal. They were fucked up. And fucked-up people didn’t get to do simple things like eat tuna noodle casserole on Tuna Noodle Tuesdays and make test-tube kangaroo babies to take trick-or-treating on Halloween. Even worse, if they’d had a particularly bad day and shoved thirteen tube socks (and a pair of fishnets) into a jack-o’-lantern, they might just find themselves on a mandatory vacation to the loony bin.Even though he’d just gotten up, Bucky needed to sit down. Tube sock teleportation was exhausting. And not just that. It fucked up the leaves of his plant.“Fuck squatting,” Bucky said, pulling off his beanie as his ass made contact with his cinder block foot rest. “Squatting is for people wearing hammer pants, not well-endowed plant lovers with tight-as-fuck jeans.” Time was ticking. Tick tock on his phone. Tick tock on his sanity. Tick tock on the sock. If he could, Bucky’d ignore the sock until graduation. Sock? What sock? I only see the beauty of nature (in a pot). But come Halloween, Bucky’s plant would make its annual move back to Casa de la Natalia. Step one: Clint would help Bucky get it down the ladder. Step two: They’d buckle it into the backseat of the Toyota. Step three: After Bucky’d safely transported all the spiders and bugs to the garage (via the cup/paper tarantula-penance system), Natasha would take over, putting Bucky’s precious plant on her windowsill where she’d love it, water it, and pick off all the dead stuff until spring. Down the ladder. Up the ladder. Down the ladder. Up. That’s what Clint and Bucky had done for the past three winters. But there was no way Bucky could bring the plant home with a stowaway. And he sure as fuck couldn’t throw the sock across the roof like an empty packet of lube. 'Cause, then what? The fuckin' thing would just lie there, letting the snow bury it deeper and deeper until…Crunch!...it was frozen solid like Yakov’s frostbitten toes. Then, when the April sun showed up to melt the snow with its radioactive rays, the sock would emerge, reminding Bucky (and his toeless feet) that he was slowly losing his mind.“If you haven’t lost it already.” One second, Bucky was crushing his nuts on a cinder block, and the next he was crawling on his hands and knees like a spider. And when his fingers snatched the sock out of the leaves, he swore he touched the sleeve of a hand-knit sweater.
Ding!
Time was up. Siri had said so. And Siri, like Stevie, was the motherfuckin’ boss. But the sock had other ideas. Sockette was dirty, damp, and inside out, but that didn’t stop her from sliding onto Bucky’s arm like a stripper with a built-in thong. “Hey, big boy,” she said, rubbing her cotton innards against Bucky’s leather cuffs. “What’s a foot like you doing in a place like this?”That was a good question. But a better one was whether or not Bucky should answer. On one hand, he was lonely. On the other hand—Bucky snorted. On the other hand, he had a sock. It took a second for Bucky to recover from that knee-high hilarity, but when he did, he did five push-ups, three burpees, and one round of the YMCA because cardio was extra fun with an exotic dancer as his left-hand gal. After four more burpees (and fifteen jumping jacks), Bucky asked, “Do you think I should tell Stevie I talk to socks?” because (according to the legend of Fruit of the Loom) sock puppets were notorious truth tellers. Not fortune tellers, bank tellers, or Penn and Tellers, but brutally honest truth tellers like William Tell. And true to form, when Sockette opened her mouth, she said, “I don’t think. I’m a sock.”Her delivery was as dry as a week-old cookie (just like Skinner’s). And for the first time in his short, but adventurous life, Bucky was jealous of a sock. When your brain runs and runs and runs like a hamster on a wheel, there’s something to be said for dosin’ that fucker’s water bottle with Benadryl (or ketamine) and shuttin’ that shit down. If you shut down the brain, you shut down the thoughts. And if you shut down the thoughts, you’re one step closer to being a thoughtless sock.After nailin’ another burpee, Bucky tiptoed towards the tacos, swingin’ his leg over the edge of the roof. Then, using Sockette’s sock-sucking (versus cock-sucking) mouth to help him balance, he popped a squat on the concrete ledge that ran around the edge of the building. One foot on the tar, one foot swingin’ free. “Do you like my boots?” he asked, moving Sockette so she could get a good view of the paint splatters on his steel toes. “These are my mad boots. You know…Grrr! But I didn’t put ‘em on ‘cause I was mad. I just—” Bucky squinted at the triple knots.“I thought they’d match the whole prison vibe. Black boots. Orange jumpsuit. Black-and-white striped shirt. Plus, it’s October, so Orange Is the New Black with a heapin’ side of goblins and ghosts is muy perfectoroni.”Bucky laughed because it was stupid to lie to a sock puppet. And it was even stupider to lie to himself.In the shower this morning, he’d scrubbed for fifteen minutes to get the blue and purple stains off his heels and out from between his toes. Fifteen fucking minutes where he’d mourned the loss of Cookie Monster, Grover, and all the other lovable Muppets who’d met their end on Murder Monday. He’d worn his mad boots because they were black, not blue. He’d worn his mad boots so he could triple knot the laces and guarantee that his socks didn’t disappear. He’d worn his mad boots because the steel toes were strong enough to handle all sorts of snakes. Boa constrictors. Spitting cobras. Dick-grabbing mobsters. Evil stepfathers who’d just returned from Japan. Sighing, Bucky looked at his phone, but there was nothing but Daisy’s increasingly disappointed texts, three pictures of Liberace from Tony, and a link to the new NOFX album from Clint.“It’s weird that Steve’s ghosting me, right?” Bucky showed Sockette a picture of Liberace and his ginormous candelabra. And Sockette, because she was super fuckin’ helpful, said, “No weirder than talking to a sock.”At this rate, Bucky could’ve hustled a wet burrito from Carmen, licked his (cough, her) plate while scowling at her boyfriend Travis, and taken a massive burrito shit in his favorite fourth-floor bathroom stall, and he still would’ve been here before Steve.“Maybe he ran into Brock.”Closing his eyes so Sockette couldn’t see him, Bucky said, “Shh… be normal.” “Or maybe he saw you looking at TJ.”Socks didn’t talk. Bucky knew that. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t heard the words. And when a dolphin swam past in an ocean of blue, Bucky opened his eyes as wide as he could, praying that Incubus Island didn’t wash him out to sea.He’d seen TJ exactly once today, for ten (maybe twenty) seconds tops. Bucky’d been eating his prison-provided lunch (one hamburguesa, one apple, one bottle of agua, one stale cookie) when TJ had come into the office to do whatever the fuck co-conspirators did. Get a pass. Drop off a lost phone. Report a sexual assault. Who fucking knew? Whatever the reason, after TJ had taken care of business with Janice (and received one Tootsie Roll in return), he'd turned around, looked at Bucky through the conference room window, and mouthed, “Sorry,” like he—“Like he needed a hug.”The truth teller had struck again, and Bucky (because he was a liar, liar, pants on fire) said, “I don’t want to talk about TJ.” “Sure you do.”When a sock puppet can read your mind, it’s time to light a fuckton of sage, cover yourself with crosses and holy water, and call a motherfucking exorcist. But Bucky, with his Americanized views on the occult, was too stupid to pick up the phone.“Fine,” Bucky said, making sure his butt was balanced, “he looked at me like he wanted to huddle under the conference table and cry. But then… he smiled.”“I knew it!”“You don’t know shit. TJ Campbell isn’t sunshine and rainbows. He’s a low-lying fog. And when he smiles, it’s never, like, a smile smile. It’s always this crazy mash-up of a smile and a grimace, like he’s suckin’ on a mouthful of Sour Patch Kids and hasn't gotten to the sweet part yet.”Bucky tried to recreate TJ’s smile, but his lips were too fat. The boy in blue had thin lips, even though his smile got Joker-wide when you kissed his ear. “Grimace,” Bucky said like the word was made of peanut butter. “Grimace, grimace, grimace. That’s a weird fuckin’ word.”The sock nodded, which had to be one of the stupidest things he’d ever seen. And when it asked, “Did you know there’s a purple McDonald’s character named Grimace that’s supposed to be a gigantic taste bud?” he was seconds away from ripping off Bucky’s arm.“A fuckin’ taste bud? That’s disgusting.”“I think so too, and I don’t even have a tongue.”“That’s it!” Yanking the sock off Bucky’s arm, he threw it over the edge. “You only looked at TJ because TJ looked at you. And TJ only looked at you because both of you have scuffs on your insteps!”
Click!
Bucky’s first instinct was to look for Daisy’s camera (or a telephoto lens stickin' out of Ms. Parrot’s potted plants), but the sound was coming from the ladder. Clink! Crash! Bang! It was rattling in its brackets, which only happened when heavy-ass people climbed it at the speed of sound.Hiding his hair with his beanie, Bucky whispered, “Please be Steve,” because the headache was buzzing at the perimeter and the Russian was holding the motherfucking chainsaw. Let me in or…Buzz!...I’ll obliterate the fucking door.Bucky heard him before he saw him. “Oh my God,” Steve said before the tips of his hair cleared the edge, “I’m so sorry, baby. Mr. Hanson just wouldn’t shut up. It was run-on sentence after run-on sentence about the short story I’ve been working on, and no matter how many times I interrupted him, he just kept going.” Steve was a graceful guy, but there was nothing graceful about the way he threw himself onto the roof. He landed like a drunk moose or (if you preferred pop culture) a drunk Kim K with her big caboose. But moose or not, when Steve ran towards Bucky like they were in the middle of a football field instead of the edge of a four-story building, it was such a relief.Miracle alert: Steve skidded to a stop before…Splat!...they both ended up taking a nonconsensual swan dive like the sock. And…Gasp!...he did it without taking a single breath.“I finally had to tell him point-blank that I had somewhere more important to be. And, well—” Steve scoffed. “Let’s just say he was pissed. He’s dead set on me submitting this story to the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards in December. But I don’t care about a fucking contest, Buck. I care about you.” Bucky didn’t need Stevie to be graceful. Fuck, he didn’t even need him to breathe. But he abso-fucking-lutely needed him to slow down.Stevie’s face was really, really, really red. Not lobster red like his nose had been post beach, tomato red like his knees had been post ketchup, or sex-flush red like his cheeks had been after their last trip downtown to Poundtown. Fuck, it wasn’t even blood red like his fist had been after…Hulk smash!...he’d splintered Brock’s nose into a zillion pieces. No, Stevie’s entire face and neck were fire-engine red like his big, strong swimmer’s heart had pumped all the blood to his face, then…Clunk!...called it quits.Charging onward in the face of death, Stevie said, “And once I got out of there, I didn’t even make it twenty feet before Jade called. Twenty fucking feet! And with Alexander back in town, I didn’t have a choice. I had to pick up.” When Bucky’s walking, talking, ketchup-colored cardiac arrest started scratchin' at his stubble (makin’ the red even redder), Bucky’s heart was the one that stopped. Aragorn aside, red, aka rojo, aka krasnyy, was the worst color on the motherfuckin’ DEFCON scale. Krasnyy meant war. The big kaboom. You shoot me, I’ll shoot you, until...Whammo!...there’s nothing left but a radioactive ball of blue.But Mr. America didn’t heed Dr. Strangelove’s (or Dr. Strange’s) warning. He just put his boring-ass phone onto Bucky’s chair, ran his fingers through his all-American hair, and said, “But she just wanted to go over the same bullshit she’d gone over when she called me at Tony’s,” like the rest of the world wasn’t scurrying to get underground. When Mr. America said—Actually, scratch that. When El Capitan said, “Wear the new Armani suit,” silos all across the fruited plains of North Dakota opened like the fiery lids of Sauron’s eye. And when he said, “Be ready promptly at seven,” the Men in Black passed the nuclear football to Obama (#FitPrez) and said, “Fire at will.” And when he held out his shield and said, “You’re expected for hors d'oeuvres and polite conversation no later than 7:30,” Biggie Smalls made his move, throwin’ a handful of bricks at the nuclear warhead before making a sad attempt to squeeze his phat ass (and his fatties) into a meerkat hole. But Steven Grant Rogers made no such attempt. The stars, stripes, and amber fuckin’ waves were too bright for him to see the bombs, the holes, or…Truth Bob-Omb!...the very real fact that Bucky was slowly turning into an ostrich.“Trust me,” El Capitan said, pushing Bucky’s beanie back just enough to kiss his feathery forehead. “The last thing I want to deal with is one of Alexander’s show-pony business dinners, especially after what Tony and I came up with last night.”Bucky had no idea what Tony Stark had to do with nuclear winter, radioactive ostriches, or My Little Pony, unless…Autobots, roll out!...he’d designed a Transformer-style pony (with a pretty blue mane) that doubled as a radiation-eating nuclear deterrent. Living dangerously without question, El Capitan swung his leg over the edge of the building and mirrored Bucky’s pose. Knee to knee. Toe to toe. Lose your balance, and the cops will play a bloody game of tic-tac-toe.“Be careful,” Bucky heard himself say. “You don’t wanna end up like the sock.”“What sock?”Bucky looked at the nuke, the mushroom cloud, and…Whoosh!...the approaching shock wave. Basically anywhere and everywhere that wasn’t Steve’s bright-red face. Drama-Free Tuesday would never (repeat, nikogda) stay drama free if Bucky couldn’t keep his vocal cords under control. Open your mouth, blow your cover. Close your mouth, keep everything (and everyone) under control.But Bucky was bad at being quiet. That’s why he’d gotten suspended.“You mean, that’s why your dad locked you in a cell.”
Click!
Hottie alert, dead ahead. Stevie Rogers was a specimen. Grade-A beef. And today, with the wind touslin’ his head hair and his greenish-gray Henley exposin’ his chest hair, he was extra, extra, extra hot with a side of hot sauce. Warning: Hotties were dangerous when you didn’t blow on them to lower the temperature from flamin’ hot to hot hot. Remember that bazillion dollar hot-coffee lawsuit at Mickey D’s? All the money (and Big Macs) in the world couldn’t make up for third-degree vagina burns.Scoochin’ closer to the smokeshow, Bucky asked, “Do you know how to cook?” because peas of all kinds made him feel safe. Frozen peas. Céline’s peas. Microwaved peas. Under-the-refrigerator peas. “Clint makes this tuna noodle casserole that’s…Chef’s kiss!...to die for. And Daisy’s got this family heirloom cookbook that’s—”“My mom never used a recipe. She did everything by taste.”
Smack!
If Bucky hadn’t stashed his Grover boots (along with Cookie Monster’s dried-up hide) underneath Clint’s bed, they’d be in his mouth, choking him for his stupidity. Dead moms were off limits, just like dead dads, evil stepdads, and crawdads, which, according to the fine folks from the swamps of Louisiana, were lil’ brown lobsters that lived in ponds. Mini pinch! Luckily, Stevie, being an all-around good person (and high-octane hottie), let Bucky’s dead-mom faux pas slide like a greasy slider with a side of fries. In fact, it was almost like Bucky hadn’t said anything at all.Giving Bucky’s thighs a lil’ rub-a-dub-dub, Stevie said, “Anyway, after talking to Tony, I’m feeling pretty good about my options. Obviously, I’m scared shitless. But if this works, there’s a good chance I’ll be learning how to cook baked potatoes and steak sooner than—”“I don’t like toothpicks.” Toothpicks were sharp. And sharp things, like razors and knives weren’t good for your teeth. “Can we have pasta instead?” The rubbin’ stopped (along with the dubbin’), but that didn’t stop Bucky from rolling forward with his pasta plan. “Me and Clint always stick those big-ass mostaccioli noodles on our fingers like rings.” Bucky wiggled his fingers against Stevie’s incredibly firm chest. “They’re best with lots and lots of butter and that fake Parmesan cheese that comes in the green, plastic bottle.” Steve smiled. “I remember that stuff. We had it when I was a kid.”When Yakov was a kid, they didn’t have pasta or bottled cheese. They had hand-knit sweaters and farm-fresh eggs.Time stopped. Or maybe it ran backwards. Bucky couldn’t tell which way the ticker was tocking. But he knew, with 999 percent certainly, that the orphanage had used powdered eggs instead of fresh. Powdered eggs on rye bread. Powdered eggs with canned ham. Powdered eggs with onions and salt in piroshki. “That’s why you don’t mess with the timeline.”“Baby, are you okay?”One look at Steve’s expression told Bucky that he’d said some (if not all) of that out loud. And based on the depth of Steve’s forehead wrinkles, he’d wager that he’d not only said it, but that he’d shouted it loud and proud like a proper time-traveling lunatic. “You look like you’re a million miles away,” Steve said, touching Bucky’s knees, shoulders, head, and toes (not really) like he had a handful of butterfly bandages and didn’t know where to stick ‘em. “More like five thousand, but who’s counting?”Everything about Steve’s face, from his squished-up eyebrows to his worried chin, said that all Bucky had to do to get back to the butterflies (and blow jobs) was to open the right mouth and tell him the truth. His forehead wrinkles said, “I won’t judge you for talking to socks.” The crinkles around his eyes said, “I’ll still write you snobby love poems, even though you’ve been beaming around the Milky Way in search of your sanity.” And the stubble sprouting from his chin said, “I’ll keep you safe, Solnyshko, even when the wolves are ransacking the hen house.”But for every mouth that wouldn't shut up, there was another that had been sealed shut with Super Glue. And knowing that—Bucky swallowed.Knowing that was tearing him apart.Bucky squeezed Steve’s thighs. You could tell they were strong by the way his quads bulged against the denim. Goblet squats. Walking lunges. Box jumps. They were all part of Steve’s super swimmer set, and it fuckin’ showed. In fact, when Bucky gave ‘em another squeezy-squeeze-squeeze, his Spidey-Sense told him that Stevie’s legs would look hella good in spandex. “Can I have a hug?” Bucky asked because superhero glue was just what the doctor ordered. Elmer’s with a boost of supercharged serotonin. Gorilla Glue (heavy on the Gorilla Grodd) to hold it all together. And industrial-strength caulk, designed by Batman himself, to waterproof the cracks. But most of all, Bucky needed an anchor in a sea of two-faced villains.Most heroes wore long, flowing capes with their leotards. Nite Owl. Batman. Thor. Aragorn. Liberace. That’s why Bucky wasn’t surprised that Stevie’s paint-splattered hoodie was doin’ double-time as a hoodie and a cape. And why he was even less surprised that Stevie wrapped his bulgin’ biceps (#HammerCurlTime) around Bucky’s rib cage and said, “Of course you can, baby,” like a sweet-talkin’ Superman.Bucky squeezed Steve’s waist. Steve squeezed Bucky’s shoulders. And it was, by leaps and bounds, the most high-flying hug that Ms. Parrot and Mr. Treadmill had ever seen.“I missed you,” Bucky said because it was truer than true. He may have been temporarily sidetracked by the smell of tuna noodle casserole and tacos, but now that his nose was firmly attached to Steve’s neck, he knew that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. In a fun lil’ flip-flop, Steve put his legs over Bucky’s knees and doubled the squeeze. And when he touched their lips together, it was nothing like yesterday. Steve wasn’t distracted, rushed, or insulting the French by withholding a certain muscle. If anything, he was moving in slow motion, licking Bucky’s bottom lip once, twice, three times before… wait for it… he slipped his tongue inside. Steve’s hand on the back of Bucky’s neck. Steve’s thumb pressed against the pulse point. The taste of his taste buds.It couldn’t have been more perfect.Until it wasn’t.“I can’t believe I was stupid enough to let Frank keep me from you,” Steve said, breathing into Bucky’s mouth like he hadn’t eaten steak for lunch. “Letting him steal even a second of this kiss was a crime.”Bucky took back his tongue. “You’re not supposed to talk to Frank.” Smack! “Just like I’m not supposed to talk to TJ.”Grimace was purple, just like Barney. And TJ needed a hug, just like Bucky.But the hug was over. Done. Finished. Fin. And when Steve said, “It wasn’t about that,” he sounded like he was talking about a flat tire instead of a bullet in the head. “After I hung up with Jade, Frank stopped me on the stairs to bitch about the new lineup.”Frank would be easy to pick out of a lineup. Just look for the tallest, meanest motherfucker around. And Brock? Just switch out tallest for shortest, and he'd be as easy to spot as an over-easy Easy-E on white bread (#WonderBreadRulz).Crack was wack, and Steve was back to talkin’ smack about people Bucky didn’t give two shits about. And when Captain Bullshit said, “It’s not like I didn’t go over it at practice—multiple times—or Sam didn’t tell everybody to stay after if they had questions,” Bucky had a hard time stopping himself from raging with something stronger than his fucking boots.Not-so-fun fact: Bucky’s third favorite Rage Against the Machine song was “Bullet In the Head,” and if the Russian got ahold of the lyrics, Steve might just find himself a victim of the in-house drive-by.Oblivious. That’s what Superman had been when he destroyed Metropolis with General Zod’s face. The cape made him cool, not smart. And while Captain Bullshit had a kick-ass shield, he’d probably killed 857 people with the ricochets alone.“But Frank didn’t stay after practice,” Steve said (like collateral damage was part of the job). “He waited to ambush me until I was already twenty minutes late to kiss your cupid-bow lips.”Steve leaned in for another kiss, but Bucky’s mouth was closed for business. Or more specifically, closed for Steve’s business.The Tuna Noodle Man looked great in spandex too, especially when he wore the tactical vest with the cutoff sleeves. And Bucky’d bet a gazillion pearl necklaces that if Bucky-Z slipped into some gold spandex and hugged poor, helpless TJ, that Grimace would slip him a lil’ sumthin’ sumthin’ for his taste buds.Bucky opened his mouth.Tongues weren’t drugs. That’s what Bucky had to tell himself when Steve’s tongue touched his teeth. And even if they were, Bucky wasn’t supposed to swallow.
Click
!
There was spit on Bucky’s chin. He could feel it. And Steve—Steve was wiping the wetness away with his thumb. You know what else was wet? Water. Guess who liked water? Swimmers. That’s why Bucky let his manta ray buddy pull him towards the bluest part of the ocean. Blue whales. Blue shrimp. Nemo’s buddy Dory (who in addition to being blue, couldn’t remember shit). Am I a fish? Am I a man? Am I both? Suddenly Bucky was a merman, swimmin’ around with a bunch of like-minded sea creatures (and Jason Momoa), which it why it was so fucking annoying when Stevie said, “Frank wanted to know why he didn’t get Rumlow’s spot in the 500 Freestyle, which, if you ask me, is pretty obvious.” “He swims like a sea turtle.” Stevie laughed. “I’d say he’s more like a sea lion, but, yeah, Frank’s not lean enough to pull off the leg.”“Or the arm.”The hum of the teleporter was getting louder, vibrating Bucky’s eardrums from the inside out, but, sea lions or not, he didn’t want to go. Steve might be distractible (and a little bit dense), but Scotty was an asshole. And the person who wanted to fuck all the grape-colored furries was worse.Yanking his beanie down to cover his ears, Bucky said, “We need to find our simple,” because he wasn’t letting Scotty beam him anywhere. Not to Incubus Island. Not to a furry convention. And definitely not anywhere near the Russian and his motherfucking chainsaw. “That’s what Ms. J said. Take a breath, let it go, and find something simple.”“Does simple involve flipping me off?”Was Bucky giving Steve the bird? Technically, yes. But he wasn’t lying when he said, “That wasn’t for you. I was flipping off the stress. You know, like, fuck you, sea lion. Your whiskers are stupid.” Steve’s eyebrows arched in opposite directions (one up, one down), and from the look of it, they were having quite the quandary. The left one was rockin’ a rainbow arch that, if Bucky had to guess, was tellin’ Stevie to hop onto an inflatable unicorn and go with the flow (even though chances were high that he’d…Splash!...find himself at the bottom of Niagara Falls). And the right one looked like it was screamin’ at Stevie, aka Jack Dawson, to force his way onto a lifeboat like sweaty Billy Zane, row against the Atlantic current, and start a new life in America with a new and improved model of Princess Peggy.Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Bucky sang that sassy lil’ sea shanty three times in a row before Stevie’s eyebrows finally leveled off. And when the captain of Bucky’s boat, aka booty, asked, “Simple?” his voice wavered like he was still on the fence. Unicorn floatie. Row boat. Unicorn floatie. Row boat. Just toss a fucking coin.Captain or not, Bucky grabbed the strings of Steve’s hoodie and made the decision for everybody. “Yes, simple,” he said, reeling Steve in instead of out. “Like tater tots. I like us best when we’re eating tots with Napoleon and Dot.”Footsies and llamas. Time machines that did nothing but electrocute the shit out of your nuts. Tater-tot kisses that tasted like ketchup hearts. That was about as simple as you could get.“It’s funny,” Steve said, wrapping his ankles around Bucky’s butt. “For somebody who runs so fast, you always choose the slow stuff.” “Tots are slow?”“Slower than pigs in a blanket.” The humming stopped with a fizzle instead of a bang, which was exactly what Bucky needed. Without the Enterprise’s intergalactic energy to…Zap!...short-circuit his fuckin’ brain waves, he could actually focus on the sounds of the real world. You know, real stuff like cooing pigeons, car alarms, and Steve’s breathing, which got slower and slower until Bucky matched its pace.Thoroughly enjoying his status as one half of the world’s most dangerous pretzel (think Evel Knievel, but in love), Bucky asked, “Did you know you can take the Q train all the way to Coney Island? Just hop on at Prospect Park Station, settle in for some Subway Surfers, and chillax until you pass the aquarium. Then…Bam!...you’re eating Nathan’s hot dogs in no time.”Steve laughed. “Are you saying public transportation is simpler than a car?”“I’m saying it's simpler than a limousine.”There’d been llamas in the limo. Llamas and gum. But that didn’t explain why Captain Kirk overrode the shutdown sequence and energized the shit out of both of their brains.It was a poorly kept secret that Bucky’s brain wasn’t…Buzz!...the only one in…Buzz!...desperate need of a mute button. Once you got past the himbo hottie (and the himbo-hottie abs), it was easy to tell that Stevie had a hamster of his very own. All you had to do was wait for him to look into the middle distance like he’d eaten too much Taco Bell (or, more accurately, like he wanted to kill himself), and…Buzz!...Stevie’s hamster would reveal itself. Mind you, it was a sad, emo hamster with an abusive owner, but a hamster was a hamster, regardless of the color of its fur.And, man, oh man, was that lil’ black-and-blue hamster goin’ to town on Stevie’s wheel. The sound of Stevie’s molars grindin’ together was like…Grrr!...and his jaw was clenched so hard that Bucky would’ve said his cheekbones looked smokin’ hot if the whole thing weren't so goddamn tragic. But the worst part was when Bucky’s boo undid his ankles and let his legs swing free. One, 'cause bye-bye pretzel, and two, because there was nothing carefree about it.An emo hamster and a teleportin’ hamster sittin’ in a tree, K.I.S.S.I.N.G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a gazillion mentally unstable baby hamsters in a baby carriage. Snap! Compare and contrast: In a pinch, would a mouse trap double as a hamster trap? They both had necks, they both had fur, and, now that Bucky was thinkin’ about it, they both had teeth that could turn a block of cheddar into a holey chunk of Swiss. “Yo, hold my knees,” Bucky said because he needed a change of scenery stat. Were his ball-crushin’ jeans the taint-drying equivalent of an easy-breezy sarong? Fuck no. But dire situations required Einstein-level imagination, and Einstein said that Bucky should lean back until he was lying flat on the concrete ledge (which, in this scenario, was doublin’ as Brandon Boyd’s beach). “Jesus, Buck. That’s—”“Don’t you dare say dangerous. Sitting. Standing. Lying down. It’s all dangerous when you’re on the edge of a four-story building.” Steve cringed, but that didn’t stop Bucky from saying, “You might have a cape, Steve, but you sure as fuck can’t fly.” It would be simple to blame Biggie (#ThugLife), the hamster (#HamsterLife), or the cold-blooded killer who’d thrown an innocent sock puppet off the roof (#RIPSockette), but the truth was, Bucky had nobody to blame but himself. He was the asshole. Him. And suddenly tater tots and ketchup hearts seemed, in the words of fellow asshole Trent Reznor, like something he could never have. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”“You said it because it’s true. And the cold hard truth is about as simple as you can get.”Bucky didn’t agree with that. Like, at all. The truth was the opposite of simple. It was the destroyer of worlds.“Whip cream is simpler,” Bucky said, trying to use the fucking time machine for something good. He just had to bash his head against the concrete until the hamster wheels turned into the squeaky wheels of the Walkman. One, two, three… push! But no matter how hard Bucky tried to hit play, he just kept hitting pause.“Morning-breath kisses.”Steve had said it softly, like he was afraid to be heard. And, really, who could blame him? The voices in Bucky’s head were so loud that even if he poured a gallon of Super Glue down his throat, Steve was bound to hear them. Quiet, it's not your turn!
Fuck off, I’m holding the glue, and if you’re mean to Steve, I’ll use it.
You think I won’t? Fucking try me!
It was a goddamn clusterfuck.But the lovestruck boy who believed in unicorns and butterflies refused to give up. If love could scale mountains and cross valleys, it sure as fuck could get its act together enough to say, “Candy necklaces on cheap elastic strings.”“Mmm, that one’s a bit more complex.” Steve slipped his fingers into the holes above Bucky’s knees. “But I’ll bite.” Daisy’s bright-blue light flashed in front of Bucky’s eyes. Then pink, then green. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. There wasn’t a light switch or a kill switch, there was only a pink switch who wanted to coat his dick in watermelon-flavored lube.“How about my beautiful boyfriend with a can of yellow spray paint?”“What?” Steve was playing with the hair on Bucky’s thighs, pulling it through the holes between the patches. A tiny tug. A little pull. The tension was just enough to hold Bucky in place while Steve said, “Watching you paint lemon-yellow spirals and neon-orange dots was like love in a can.” Alive. That was the word Steve had painted that day. Alive like the lyrics of a screamo love song. Alive like the moment Steve’s cock had slid into Bucky's ass for the first time. Alive like Bucky felt every time Steve said “I love you.”“Spray paint is the simplest thing I can imagine,” Bucky said as the colorful chemicals filled his nose. “Every color has a label. A name. If you want a pink heart, you grab the can that says pink. If you want a blueberry Pop-Tart, you look for the blueberry cap. If you want krasnyy—”“Krasnyy?”“Red.” Bucky added pressure to his skull to keep the Russian’s accent out of his mouth. “If you want something red, you look for the word krasnyy. And if you don’t, you leave him in the fucking bag.”Steve stretched his arms out like he wanted to hold hands (or take Romeo and Juliet to the next level), but Bucky couldn’t reach him. And it wasn’t the mostaccioli noodles holding Bucky’s fingers like Chinese finger traps. It was the distance. It didn’t matter that Bucky’d jammed his arm between the spokes to stop the fucking wheels. As long as the hamsters were alive, Steve and Bucky would always be five thousand miles apart. And maybe that’s how Bucky found himself asking the simplest question of all.“Why is this so hard?”Steve could’ve said something comforting like “Wednesday will be drama free for sure” or “Don’t worry, babe, love conquers all,” but he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all.They stayed there for a long time. Bucky on his back. Steve absently rubbing Bucky’s knees. And for the first time in days, it felt like they were on the same wavelength. Things were bad. They were bad for Bucky. They were bad for Steve. And no amount of whip cream, spray paint, or morning-breath kisses were going to make it better. All Bucky could do was try to keep the spokes steady enough so they could talk about it with nobody else in the room.
Ding!
The fucking phone almost made him crack Bucky’s skull in half. Tresk! And if Bucky’s brain cage got shattered, it was game over. It didn’t matter how many butterfly bandages Captain Steve Rogers had stuffed inside his pockets. Once the door was open, there was nothing he (or anybody else) could do to stop the prisoners from escaping.
Ding!
Fun fact: Pushing Daisies could be pushy as fuck when it came to overly emotional photo shoots that had the potential to destroy not one, but two relationships and ‘out’ one of her best friends. “Aren’t you going to see who it is?” It was a logical question. After all, when a phone dings, you’re supposed to look at the screen. But Steve didn’t know it was a trap. Daisy’s pictures were the opposite of simple. It didn’t matter that Bucky hadn’t seen them printed out. He knew what they were.“Daisy wants us to go to the art room to see her pictures,” Bucky said, rubbing the back of his head, “but it’s too much drama for Drama-Free Tuesday.”“The pictures you took yesterday?”Bucky nodded. “Ms. J said to print off three or four, and a big part of the grade is hanging them in the lobby as part of this stupid display, which—”“Didn’t you take pictures too?” “Yeah, but mine are of my dipshit friends laughing after I said, ‘Justin Bieber has an eight-inch cock, but it’s in his ass and belongs to Usher.’ Daisy’s are—"An emotional trainwreck. A shitshow disguised as art. The equivalent of Clint and Bucky in an old-school surgery theater with their hearts sliced open for all to see.Every potential answer was worse than the last. “Fuck it,” Bucky said, testing out his theory that the truth would set you free. “They’re of me and Clint.”That whole synchronized wavelength thing? Yeah, that was over. Which Steve helpfully demonstrated by breaking more than a few strings on Bucky’s jeans.“Tell me you’re not serious.”Bucky's default setting was to play dumb. Dumb and Dumber. Dumbo. Dum Dum suckers. Wanna get out of a sticky situation? Pretend you’re a crash test dummy and ask, “Serious about Usher’s cock or serious about me and Clint?” As expected, Steve’s nostrils were teetering on that fine line between an adorably confused pig…Oink!...and an angry dragon…Flame on! And Bucky, being dumber than dumb, was too stupid to cut himself off. “I know, babe. I’m confused too. I imagined Usher having at least ten inches below the belt.”“If your goal is simple, you’re failing.”Steve was patient. Steve was kind. But he wasn’t (repeat, wasn’t) motherfuckin’ blind.“I know, but it’s not as bad as it sounds.” Bucky pulled his beanie over one eye like Stevie had done under the booty-lickin’ bridge, even though he couldn’t remember if he was supposed to be a turtle or a pirate. “We’re not, like, together in the pictures or anything. Clint was on the couch, I was on the bed, and we were five feet apart at all times.” When Stevie’s nostrils flared wide enough that Bucky could see his nose hairs (and one itty-bitty booger), Bucky decided on…Argh!…pirate. “So, yeah,” Bucky said, wishin’ he could borrow Ms. Parrot’s parrot for some pirate clout. “There’s a picture of just me, looking at Clint. There's a picture of just him, looking at me. And… um… this is the tricky part. There were, like, these colored lights that Skinner borrowed from DJ Alcatraz. And I was really, really, really high. And Clint had his shirt off. And Daisy captured the exact moment when—”“When what?”Bucky’s balls crawled up into his body. Not because Steve was scary, but because this morning, when Clint had kissed Natasha goodbye, Bucky’s hamster had pushed play on the tent scene from Brokeback Mountain. You know, the one where they fuck.“When what, Bucky?” Scratch the previous assessment. Steve was impatient, Steve was mad, and he wasn’t (repeat, wasn’t) down for a second threesome with the Tuna Noodle Man.Taking the deepest breath he possibly could, Bucky ditched the pirate, looked Steve dead in the eye (with both eyes) and said, "When I told Clint I was in love with you.” "Oh."“Oh is right. Then Daisy—who, full disclosure, was straddling my hips—took a picture of Clint’s reaction to me telling him I loved you. And that—” The purple haze. The little nod. The way Clint’s lip had curled despite the Mötley Crüe haiku. Bucky blew out a breath (motorboat lips included). “It was just really fucking sad. And when Daisy hangs them side by side, everybody’s gonna know. Your friends. My friends. The Freshman Fan Club. The swim team. The archery team. The teachers. The mobsters. The Buffies. My dad. And, worst of all, my sister.”“Know what?” There was no easy answer to that question, and even if there were, Bucky’d never be able to explain it with something as simple as words. Words required a tongue that wasn’t tied, a brain that wasn’t fried, and a damp cotton mask where Bucky could hide. And for the first time since her untimely demise, Bucky missed Sockette.Crunchin’ his abs like Captain Crunch, Bucky sat up. And when he said, “That we’re more than just friends,” he made sure he didn’t stutter.English was Steve’s thing. Bucky played GTA. Steve played with syllables. So there was no way he’d mistake we are for we were. They might be knee to knee (like lovers in a tree), but since Steve kept looking over Bucky’s shoulder like he expected the Ghost of Exes Past to float up the ladder, Bucky couldn’t tell if he still wanted to be there. And Steve was right to worry. No matter how you tried to spin it (past or present), Clint was Bucky’s ex-everything. Ex-blow job buddy. Ex-tongue sucker. Ex-lover. And, like it or not, his ex-boyfriend who…shocker! ..was a hell of a lot less ex than Bucky’d thought.That’s why he was so confused when Steve hooked his paint-covered Vans around Bucky’s mad boots and said, “Just tell me one thing. At the end of the story, do we end up together?”Pages turning in front of a fireplace. Dry wood splitting from the heat. Sparks. Those stories had been simple with simple words. Volk: the wolf. Zhivotik: the tummy. Lesa: the woods. But that was somebody else’s story. Somebody small and scared and cold. And when Bucky was with Steve, he was warm.“I really hope so,” Bucky said, wrapping his arms around a fire that had nothing to do with smoke. “I really fucking hope so.”Steve squeezed back. And it wasn’t a pussy squeeze like a twelve-year-old hugging a stuffed tiger named Nadezhda. It was hard like Die Hard. And when Stevie said, “That’s good enough for me,” Bucky smiled like he’d eaten two Ham & Cheese Hot Pockets, eight mozzarella sticks, and a vat of cheese fondue. In other words, his stomach was overflowin’ with Kraft Love & Cheese. Lesson of the day: Hugs were better than drugs. And Stevie’s hugs, when they were extra cheesy with a side of Monterey Jack, were a drug of their very own. “We’re going to get through this,” Stevie said with the confidence of a Jedi master (or a master Dom) who’d been blessed with a lightsaber-size dick. “In a month or two, we’re going to look back on this and—”“If you say laugh, I’ll stab you.”“God no,” Steve said with (you guessed it) a laugh. “You and me? We’re like soldiers in the heat of battle. We’re tired and wounded, we’ve got trench foot, and we’re fighting off enemies from all sides.” He kissed Bucky’s cheek like there wasn’t a sharpshooter hiding behind the air conditioner (which there most definitely was). “But if we stick together and love each other with everything we have, we’ll come out stronger in the end.”It was a nice image. Brothers in arms, victorious in the shadow of an American flag with, let’s count ‘em… quatro, cinco, seis… seven out of eight limbs. They could cast it in bronze and stick it in the middle of a well-kept veterans park for the birds to shit on.“I think we’ll come out with two raging cases of PTSD,” Bucky said, untangling himself from Captain Bullshit’s bullshit, “but I appreciate your optimism.”And he did.Without a glass-half-full attitude, Bucky’s boat would’ve sank a long time ago. And he wasn’t just talking about the Titanic.But Steve wasn’t being optimistic when he said, “Don’t worry, Buck, if everything goes according to plan, I’ll be able to pay for a lifetime of therapy for us both.” He was being stupid.First of all, therapy? Maybe if the therapist was a veterinarian with five couches and a degree in exorcism. And second of all, what plan?The time for subtlety was over. Zakonchilos! That’s why Bucky didn’t bother to bury the accent when he asked, “What the fuck are you talking about?” Was Steve planning to murder his stepfather with a candlestick in the parlor so he could steal all the money? Was he gonna team up with George Clooney for Ocean’s fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen so they could make bank robbing banks? Or (and this seemed like the obvious choice) was Steve’s plan to deepthroat Stark’s dick on the daily so his billionaire buddy would…Jizz!...become his therapy-providing sugar daddy? According to Spock, they were all logical options (especially the one with the oceans of come), but when Steve opened his mouth, the only thing that came out was, “Um…”DEFCON 3 was yellow. Not lemon yellow like Bucky’s spirals or Daisy’s fresh-baked lemon squares. Nyet. In WarGames, yellow meant two things. One, a serious risk of attack, and two, an elevated threat level. And considering their location, things weren't looking good for Captain Bullshit.“For fuck’s sake, Steve. Spit it out.”Mini-Slash had patience. The Russian did not. Which explained why the threat level shot up to orange the second Steve said, “I don’t want to jinx it.” On the DEFCON scale, orange was one step away from the big kaboom. The nukes were on standby and the threat level was high, which was what Bucky needed to be right fucking now. He could be downing piña coladas with Brandon Boyd by the fucking waterfall, licking Superman ice cream off Clint’s ‘spoon’ at an incestuous ice cream party with his sister, or…Pop!...poppin’ intergalactic space pills with Scotty in engineering. But he wasn’t. Instead, he was stuck on a roof with this stubborn motherfucker, and— “I’m sorry. It’s just… it’s a lot.”“You’re the one who brought it up.”Bucky knew he was being a dick, and, unfortunately for Steve, there weren’t any cheese dicks to stop him.When Steve sighed, Bucky could feel the rumble of surrender. There were cannonballs rolling around in the bottom of the pirate ship, and El Capitan looked like he was about to hoist the fuck out of the white flag.He touched Bucky’s knee. He poked the Nirvana patch below Bucky’s knee. He traced the Daft Punk patch above Bucky’s knee, searchin’ for the elusive letter X. But just when Bucky thought El Capitan was ready to reveal the location of his golden booty, Steve fired a fucking cannon.“I want to tell you everything, Buck. I do. And maybe in a few days, I’ll feel up to talking about the details. But, right now, you’re going to have to trust me when I say there’s a real possibility for me to get out fast and clean.”True story: When Stevie Wonder sang about superstition, it was funky and cool. When Stevie Rogers did it, it was fucking annoying. Bucky didn’t give a flying fuck that the woman with the needles had never passed Yakov eggs across the threshold of the hen house. To Bucky, a black cat crossing his path was just another glitch in the Matrix. A minor annoyance before the machines discovered his location and everything went to shit.
Smash!
Too late. The agent was breaking into the binary, and if Hugo Weaving smashed Bucky into pieces, he’d be back to square one.“I need more glue.” “Actually, I’d say you need more thread.” Steve was tugging on the Daft Punk patch, flipping it up before smoothing it back down. And he was right. One hard pull, and it would be gone.Did Bucky want to badger Steve into spilling every last detail of his mysterious plan? Fuck yes! But the babushka was hella bossy (just like Natalia), and if she wanted Yakov to say, “I get it, jinxes are bad,” then that’s what he was gonna do.“Yes, they are.” Steve’s eyes drifted towards the western horizon, or the ladder, or the Mexican joint (it was hard to tell from this angle). “But harbingers give me hope.”“What the fuck is a harbinger?”If Bucky had to guess, he’d say a harbinger was a fancy hamburger. A la hamburguesa. Por ejemplo, I’d like to order a de royale harbinger with cheese. So Bucky (and the Hamburgler) were hella surprised when Steve busted out his dictionary and said, “It’s something—or somebody—that signals that something else is on the way. Like robins are harbingers of spring.”When Bucky thought about robins, he thought about worms. And when he thought about worms, he thought about—“Can I tell you something weird?” Stevie asked, suckin’ up the worms before they could wriggle into the holes where Layne’s fingers had been.And Bucky? He laughed. Actually, scratch that. He fuckin’ cackled because Aragorn, Grover, Yoda, Mini-Slash, and the Barney-lovin’ horndog had ganged up to tickle his armpits from the inside out.“Dude, weird is my middle name.”To anybody else, Stevie’s overly enthusiastic nod probably would’ve felt like a kick in the nads. But to a hamster-hoarding nutcase, weird was a fucking compliment. Seriously, Bucky’d jump at the chance to slap the word weird on a button, pin it to his acid-washed vest next to Tony’s S&B, even better than S&M, and wear it until Sauron went full nuclear and unleashed the bombs.
Kaboom!
Steve was still nodding (up, down, and all around), except now it looked like he was psychin’ himself up to swim the 100 butterfly. Nod. Crack his neck. Nod. Roll his shoulders. Nod. Shake out his arms. Nod. Nod. Nod. Givin’ his wormless fingers a final shake, Steve said, “Okay, so what if I told you that the whole time we’ve been up here, a pair of ravens have been watching us from that light pole? Would you think I was crazy?” When Steve pointed, Bucky followed his finger. Was he pointing at a light pole? Yes, his finger was definitely aimed at a pole with a light. Were there any ravens? Um… that would be a hearty fuck, no.“Are you talking about the pigeons?” There were plenty of those. Pigeons chillin’ on the roof of the natatorium. Pigeons chillin’ on the pigeon spikes on top of the chimney. Pigeons chillin’ on the awning of the bakery. “Or maybe the parrot across the street? Ms. Parrot on the fifth floor has—”“No, I’m talking about the big, black ravens with the beady eyes. The first time they showed up was the night you found me bleeding next to the Escalade.”Steve smiled, but he wasn’t smiling at Bucky. He was smiling at the light pole, which was no bueno del insano. One lunatic per relationship was already one lunatic too many. Case in point: When Bucky opened his mouth, he said, “Before you got here, I was chattin’ up the pigeons,” even though he’d meant to say, “I would never talk to pigeons. Pigeons are like rats with wings.”Steve squinted at him, which was no bueno times two. “I don’t mean real ravens, baby. They’re visual manifestations of my emotions.”Translation: Steve was pompous. Bucky was straight-up nuts.It would be great if Steve’s psychobabble bullshit applied to Bucky’s pigeon party, but Bucky’s ‘friends’ weren’t visual manifestations of anything. They were fucking real.“I knew you’d think it was weird,” Steve said, bowing his head like the most sheepish sheep in The Sanctuary, which—Yeah, that was just dumb.“Weird schmeird,” Bucky said, strokin’ Stevie’s cheeks to make sure the fuzzy bits were stubble, not wool. “I bet if you looked it up on Wikipedia, birds would be top five as far as virtual magnifications go. Aliens. Monsters. Force ghosts. Regular ghosts. Birds. In that order.”“Force ghosts?”“Yeah, after Clint showed me his collection of Watchmen comics, he tricked me into watching The Birds, which, if you’ve never seen it, is fuckin’ terrifying.” “The Hitchcock film?” After confirming that Stevie was not, in fact, a sheep, Bucky leaned forward and kissed his human nose. “I’m impressed you know that,” he said, kissing the left nostril, then the right. “Hot jocks with massive cocks—even ones who read books and write in cursive—don’t typically slay in Jeopardy’s film category.”“You think my cock is massive?”“Mm-hmm. And I miss it.”Bucky ran his hand down the front of Steve’s hoodie until his fingers landed on the X. The X in this case being Steve’s bulge. But instead of popping the button and granting Bucky access, the big brained hottie said, “But what does Hitchcock have to do with Force ghosts?” Stop, drop, shut ‘em down and open up shop (shout out, DMX). Bucky didn’t have a clue what Steve was talking about.That’s why he said, “About as much as Force ghosts have to do with penises.” Unfortunately, that answer didn’t fly. “I’m serious. Why did you bring up The Birds?”Birds. Bucky blinked. Pigeons. Parrots. Ice and snow. Brandon Lee had…Bam!...been shot to death on the set of The Crow.“You were talking about ravens, and—” Bucky squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could. “And ever since I saw that movie, I’ve had this fucked-up nightmare where Hitchcock and the crows are diggin’ around in my eye sockets, using their beaks to pluck out my optic nerves like big, fat worms.”Only half of that was true, and Bucky—“Steve,” he said, keeping his eyes sealed tight. “Something’s wrong with me.”Simple. To the point. True.But the truth was apparently too vague for somebody whose birds were vestigial masterbations. Why else would a literary genius like Steve Rogers tuck Bucky’s hair behind his ears and say, “Everybody gets nightmares from scary movies, Buck. It’s perfectly normal.”Normal people didn’t have actual birds in their birdbrains. And they didn’t stick their tongues into their boyfriends’ mouths when they were trying to ask for help.How long did Bucky block Steve’s airway? Fuck if he knew. Clocks didn’t mean shit when a hamster was controlling the wheels. Tick tock, tongue, everything about Bucky was coming undone.“Plus my ravens aren’t scary,” Steve said, nibbling on Bucky’s bottom lip. “Don’t get me wrong. I reacted just like you when they first showed up.” Peck-peck-peck! Stevie kissed the tip of Bucky’s nose. “I mean, two ravens appearing out of nowhere after Alexander smashed my face into a door handle? That would have been scary, even without the blood.” Peck-peck-peck! Screw his nose! Bucky wanted Stevie to kiss the tip of his pecker.“I even compared them to Poe. But after a couple of visits, I realized—” “Poe from Star Wars?”Steve snorted. “No, dipshit. Poe the poet. The guy who wrote The Raven.” News at eleven: Oscar Isaac was a gazillion times cooler than Poe the poet, and no matter what Stevie (or anybody else) said, Bucky was never gonna change his mind. #FinnPoe4Lyf“I’m not sure I’m ready to call them friendly,” Stevie said, lookin’ at the light pole, “but every time they show up, things seem to change for the better.”“And you can see them now?” Bucky asked just to be sure. When Stevie nodded, it was just a regular ol’ nod. Confident. Certain. Self-assured. You know, superhero shit. And even though Captain Bullshit didn’t look anything like Batman, Bucky said, “No offense, bro, but you sound batshit crazy.” “Talking about yourself, I see.”
Smack!
The blow knocked him sideways, even though Steve’s hand hadn’t moved. And when Bucky said, “Pozhaluysta, go away,” he—
Flash!
“I have to go soon.”For a split second, Bucky didn’t know where he was. Middle Earth? Tatooine? Sesame Street? But when The King of the Jocks said, “I can’t be late for dinner,” Bucky put two and two together. He was chillin’ on top of the chimney with…Zoinks!...his favorite plant in the whole wide world.And the hottest hottie at Eaton Academy? Insane as it was, that superlicious stud was sittin’ in Bucky's green plastic chair with Bucky’s acid-washed vest, Biggie Smalls (the t-shirt, not Christopher Wallace), and Bucky’s mad boots in a neat lil’ pile on his lap. And while Bucky was hella tempted to say, “Don’t leave, you just got here,” he had no idea if that was actually true.Time on the island moved differently. Fast was slow. Slow was fast. And when Bucky was rockin’ his piggy-pink sunglasses…Bling!...it was always sunny in Philadelphia (with or without Danny DeVito).“I know, but I promise I’ll call as soon as it’s over.” Steve Rogers, the fastest swimmer in all the land. Steve Rogers, who loved big British boobs, big cheerleader boobs, and (possibly) blue-footed boobies. Steve Rogers, who reigned supreme over the jocks, the brains, and the assholes, was gonna call him? Seriously, where the fuck was Ashton? The only way this could be happening was if Clint had set Bucky up on an episode of Punk’D (circa 2005).Burying his face in the leaves to hide from the cameras, Bucky asked “As soon as what’s over?” as he inhaled a solid amount of dirt.No answer.Eaton’s golden god was staring at his phone. Typing. Frowning. Typing some more. In other words, he was back to pretending Bucky didn’t exist.Maybe it was because Steve Rogers was rich and snobby. You know, a self-absorbed elitist with a silver spoon squeezed between his asscheeks. Or maybe he just had something mega important to say to one of his big-boobed girlfriends.Ten zillion years later:“When I call, we can talk about the plan if you want.” Steve set his phone on his thigh, aka where Bucky would like to set his ass. “You were right earlier. It’s not something I should keep to myself.”Plans were good. You needed a plan to build an unsinkable ship (even if it sank in the end), and the Rebel Alliance needed a plan to steal the Death Star’s floor plans before they could make another plan to…Kaboom!...blow that shit up. And if Stevie wanted to—“Stevie.”“Yeah, babe?”Bucky swallowed. Hard. And when that didn’t get rid of the lump in his throat, he hawked a loogie and spit it over the rail (just like Jack).Bottom line: When unfamiliar things suddenly sound familiar, you’ve got to put down your plant and figure out why Captain Steve Rogers (with his chiseled jawline and twelve-pack abs) had just opened his clit-lickin’ mouth and called you babe. Like, pass the tots, babe. Your ass feels so fucking good, babe. Don’t worry, babe, I’ve got you. Testing his hypothesis, Bucky said, “I love you, babe.”Steve laughed. “I love you too.”
Whammo!
Score one for Buckaroo and his looney-bin kangaroo. How he’d landed the hottest guy in school didn’t matter (Voodoo? Hypnotism? Blackmail?) because there he was in all his glory, smilin’ at Bucky like he was the bestest boyfriend in the entire galaxy. “Hopefully, I’ll be done by nine.”Bucky was gettin’ a chub. A big one. Which is probably why he said, “You’ll call me at nine so we can sixty-nine?”“That might be hard over the phone.”“Oh, you mean you’ll call me at nine so we can plan when to sixty-nine.”Surrounding his plant with a couple of bricks (‘cause safety harnesses were essential on roller coasters), Bucky stood up and adjusted his dick. “Bucky, it’s not that kind of—”“Nope,” he said, jumping off the chimney in a single bound. FYI: Bucky did not (repeat, not) nail the superhero landing. “I’ve got a plan too, and it involves you wrapping those lips around this dick.” Bucky went to pop the button on his jeans, but… they were already unzipped? “Babe, I literally sucked your dick five minutes ago.”Steve laughed, which wasn’t part of the plan. And neither was the glob of come stuck to the bottom of Bucky’s pirate shirt.Failure to compute. Discard information. “Anyways,” Bucky said, steerin’ things back to the P.L.A.N. “After you swallow my load, I’m gonna spend an hour in the weight room workin’ on my quads. Maybe crush my abs for a bit.”Steve set Bucky’s leftover pieces on the tar. Vest. T-shirt. Boots. Phone. “I adore your abs. Why do you think I took my time licking your come off the hills and valleys?”Error. Critical threat to mission. Firing up The Sex Stare, Bucky stepped into the space between Steve’s legs (also known as heaven). “And when my abs are nice and cut,” he said, lifting his shirt to give Steve a preview, “I’ll go home and take a long, hot shower. Bubbles. My sister’s smelly soap. A loofah.” Bucky licked his lips. “And once everything is fresh and clean—and I mean everything—I’ll wrap a towel around my waist and—” “Your Spongebob towel?” Bucky blinked. “How do you know about my Spongebob towel?”Suddenly Steve’s hands were on Bucky’s hips, pulling him close. “It was hanging in the bathroom when I was at your house. And, well—” Steve kissed Bucky’s stomach. “Spongebob doesn’t really seem like Natasha’s style.”“No, it’s my style.”Cringing, Bucky pressed his lips shut.There was a power ballad by Queensrÿche (‘80s hair metal at its best or worst, depending on your power ballad preferences) called “Silent Lucidity.” It was a cheesy song. Lots of “ooos” and “aahs.” A dramatic guitar solo. Angst galore. But after Clint’s first (wildly successful) attempt at pot brownies, he’d talked Bucky into learning it. They’d played the fuck out of it for hours (and a bazillion times since), and in all that time, Bucky’d never given the lyrics a second thought. Until now.If you were lucid, why the fuck would you be silent? Lucid people had their shit together. They kept the actual wheels greased and running. They overrode the voices in their head and said, “I need help,” with short, simple words. Queensrÿche translation: If you stayed quiet, you could still dream.Swallowing logic (and llamas) like a little blue pill, Bucky said, “Don’t let Spongebob distract you from the plan.”There was some licky, licky, sucky, sucky going on next to Bucky’s pubes (enough to give him a strategically placed hickey). And when Steve said, “Sorry, baby, what comes next?” Bucky knew his plan to blow up the Death Star was back on track.“Well, after I wrap Spongebob around my waist, I’m gonna squeeze way, way, way too much toothpaste onto my toothbrush.”“Because toothpaste is sexy.”“You know it.” Bucky parted Steve’s hair down the middle, just to see what it would look like. “And while I’m brushing, I’m gonna sing ‘Crazy For You’ as loud as I can until…Grrr!...toothpaste starts drippin’ down my chin like I’m a rabid version of Madonna.”It was a risky move to drop Madonna imagery on a dude with a dead mom, especially one with a dead Catholic mom. But Steve was either too angry at God or too horny to care. Smiling, Steve said, “You’re a genius,” and looked at Bucky like frothy virgin mouths (holy or material) were better than lemon squares and Zebra Cakes combined. “From now on, whenever I need a plan, I’m putting you in charge.”Bucky could see it. Steve on his knees with a mouthful of cock. A permanent role reversal where Bucky-Z became Bucky-D and Steve became steve.“That’s not what I want,” Bucky said, dropping to his knees so his kneecaps would match the potato chip crunch in his socks. “That’s your plan, not mine.” In an instant, Bucky’s beanie was tossed onto the pile. Vest. Shirt. Boots. Phone. Beanie. And Steve’s fingers slipped into Bucky’s hair where they belonged.“My plan has toothpaste. Minty fresh so you’ll want to kiss me.”“I always want to kiss you.” Proving his point, Steve kissed the top of Bucky’s head. “Even when you smell like hot dogs and sweat.” Maybe time slowed down, maybe it didn’t. All Bucky knew was that when he pressed his cheek against Steve’s thigh and said, “After I rinse out my mouth, I’m gonna shimmy down the hall like Donna Summer,” he was floating without the island.“Who’s Donna Summer?”“She’s the queen of disco. And I’m gonna throw in a bunch of disco spins before…Poof!...I open the bedroom door and smile like crazy ‘cause you’re already there, snuggled up like a cozy panda in our bed.”“A panda?” “Yes, a cozy little panda. Now, shush, this is important.” Dreams needed details, and black-and-white panda fur (versus hamster fur) was critical to Bucky’s plan. Burying his nose in Steve’s crotch, Bucky took a deep, ball-scented breath. “And because you’re already there, I’ll drop the towel, crawl into bed, and big spoon the shit out of you.”“You’re going to be the big spoon?”“Absolutely. Variety is the spice of life.”Bucky was so busy trippin’ on Steve’s man musk that he almost missed it when his D.O.M. asked, “Then what?”“Oh, that’s easy. Then we fall asleep.” Q stands for quiet. Silencio. And buried under two testicles and a penis, the only thing Bucky could hear was the sound of Steve’s breathing. In and out. In and out. Deeper and deeper until Bucky thought they might actually be sleeping. Whispering like he didn’t want to wake the others, Steve said, “We haven’t gotten anything close to that yet, have we?” “No.” One word. One voice. One answer. It was all Bucky wanted.In fact, Bucky wanted it so much that when Steve rubbed the back of his neck and said, “I’m going to make it happen, baby, I promise,” Bucky almost believed him.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
There was tired, and there was tired. And while Bucky was doing everything he could to keep his eyes open, he was failing. He’d cracked his bedroom window to let in some fresh night air, slammed not one, but two Monsters, and thrown his pillows, blankets, and sheets across the room for maximum discomfort. But no matter how many times he smacked the mattress (or slapped his own cheek to give himself a jolt), Bucky’s eyelids were still drooping like TJ Campbell’s.And no wonder. After walking Steve to his truck (and getting some tongue-on-tongue action that he actually remembered), Bucky’d executed the first part of his plan in an attempt keep himself steady. You know, coping skills for crazy people. First, he’d crashed the basketball team’s workout in the weight room, bustin’ his quads, abs, and glutes for three hours straight before sprinting to the subway like the motherfucking Flash (Grant, not Ezra). Fun fact: When dogs have that kind of energy, people call it the zoomies. And…Whoo-ee!...when Bucky’d hopped onto the subway, he’d zoomied the fuck outta that train. Zoom!...he’d busted out a shitton of pull-ups on the overhead bar. Zoom!...he’d worked some Magic Mike stripper moves on the dirtiest pole on the Q line. Zoom!...he’d done 769 modified push-ups on the backs of the seats. By the time he’d moonwalked onto the platform in Brooklyn, he’d been hot, sweaty, sore, and stinky, but that hadn’t stopped him from…Zoom!...running all the way home. And that, Team Umizoomi, was where Bucky’s plan had come to a screeching halt.Blow jobs were awesome when you remembered the licky licky, sucky sucky. But when you didn't? Bucky glanced at his penis. Well, not his penis penis ‘cause his polar bear-and-peppermint pajama pants were concealing his freeballin’ dong, but at the soft line of his junk where it was chillaxin’ against his thigh. And, um—Let’s just say that the horniness from oogling the b-boys’ balls hadn’t magically disappeared when Bucky’d busted through his front door, unlike the memory of Steve doing whatever the fuck he’d done to make Bucky come.Sighing, Bucky crisscrossed his legs in the mess of folders, gum wrappers, and worksheets in the middle of his bare-naked mattress. Then he rubbed his bare-naked nipples, just for fun.The plan had called for a shower, but the instant Bucky’d realized he’d been home alone (shout out, Kevin), he’d jumped onto the couch, whipped out his dick, and busted a Steve-inspired nut all over the cushions.“That was a lie,” Bucky said, addressing Curt Wild and Brian Slade, aka the golden gods of glam, who were calling BS from his Velvet Goldmine poster. While it was true that he’d lost control of his jizz and gotten a solid amount on the throw pillows (whoopsie), The Big O had not (repeat, not) been purely Steve-inspired.Basketball players were hot. Not as hot as superstar swimmers with sculpted shoulders and twelve-pack abs (obviously), but b-boys’ muscular legs (and round asses) always looked hot as fuck in those slouchy basketball shorts. And Tristan Lawrence? Fuck, dude. That guy’s dreamy brown eyes, curly afro, and extra nipple made Bucky wanna strip naked on the free throw line and dunk his Magic Johnson into Tristan’s hoop. #SlamDunkShould Bucky have been 170 percent focused on pumping 170 pounds of iron when Tristan had spotted him on the bench press? Abso-fucking-lutely. But the truth was, every time Bucky had pushed up the bar, he’d been thinking about benching 170 pounds of Tristan Lawrence. Curt Wild, aka Ewan McGregor, aka Obi-Wan Kenobi, was judging Bucky with his eyeliner-lined eyes. And it wasn’t because Bucky’d stuck three fingers inside his ass on the family sofa. “You want me to say I was fantasizing about running a train?” Bucky asked, staring at the cleft in Ewan’s chin (#twinsies). “Fine. I was picturing Steve, all hot ‘n’ sweaty after the big game, with his b-ball shorts pulled down just enough to fuck me in the ass while I fucked Tristan’s virgin hole. Happy?”Bucky’s dick jumped in his pajama pants. One, because he was a total perv, and two, because the horniest hamster had just put the train in reverse, switched around the cars, and slapped a conductor hat onto Bucky’s head. And that, orgy lovers, meant Bucky was plowin’ Clint’s coal car while his bestie used his thick cock to fuck Stevie’s caboose.
Choo-choo!
Givin’ the ends of his hair a squeeze, Bucky dripped a shitton of water onto his books, binders, and bullshit. Then he goosed Scotty, yelling, “Energize!” before…Whoosh!...he portaled straight into a Sunset Strip strip club. He was Lil Wayne, makin’ it rain on his Españo-dodo folder. He was Axl Rose, makin’ it “November Rain” on The Great Gatsby (poor Leo, always gettin’ wet). He was Ed Sheeran, makin’ it “Chocolate Rain” on the ginormous chocolate milk stain on the mattress.Bucky laughed. Not because Lil Wayne, Axl Rose, and Ed Sheeran needed to take a remedial class on writing original song titles. Nah fam, Bucky cracked the fuck up because Axl and Ed were both fire crotches, and fire crotches (Axl Rose excluded) had a helluva time makin’ pussies rain because their pubes made their dicks look like Bozo the Clown.“What are you lookin’ at?” Bucky’s dick was standing straight up, but he wasn’t talking to his erection (or douchey Ed Sheeran). He was talkin’ to the polar bear whose face just so happened to be lined up with the head. “I cleaned up all the evidence.”It was true. After Old Faithful had erupted to the tantalizing thought of fucking an old and faithful friend, Bucky’d cleaned the couch cushions with the dish scrubber, slammed Monster numero uno, and steered things back to the shower part of the plan. Hot water. Check. Lots and lots of Natasha’s extra-bubbly honeysuckle soap. Check. Clean butthole (inside and out). Check and check. But the towel? All you had to do was look at the ginormous wet spot around Bucky’s butt to know that Spongebob Squarepants had been a no-show. Steve had been very specific. Spongebob was supposed to dry Bucky’s balls with his absorbent yellow torso. But since he’d been MIA (like B.I.G.), Bucky’d had to drip dry on the fly. A puddle on the bathroom floor. A trail of water down the hall. A pair of soggy pj’s soppin’ up the humidity in Bucky’s asscrack. Sighing, Bucky threw a pencil at the mountain of dirty clothes by his dresser. Unfortunately for everyone (especially Patrick), Bikini Bottom’s favorite sponge was buried somewhere underneath a week’s worth of pitted-out t-shirts, come-stained underwear, and mildewed swim trunks. And even worse, he was covered with a fuckton of McDonald’s barbecue sauce from a tragic accident involving chicken nuggets and burpees. Truth bomb: Even the best laid plans went to shit when barbeque sauce was involved. So, yeah. Without Spongebob to steer him from point A to point B, Bucky’d skipped the toothbrush part of the plan altogether. No minty fresh taste buds. No rabid Madonnas (holy or material). No Donna Summer disco spins on the way to his bedroom. No spooning. Leaning back, Bucky bonked his head against his Iggy Pop poster. Iggy was a fuckin’ role model. Punk. Brash. Fuckably fugly. But no matter how sexy (and fun) The Stooges made it sound, Bucky didn’t wanna be somebody’s dog. “Even if Steve’s the one holding the leash?” It was batshit bonkers that Iggy Pop was inquiring about Bucky’s BDSM boyfriend. Bucky knew it. Ewan (whose Curt was just a hotter, sexier version of Iggy) knew it. And Bucky’s penis (with its nest of brown pubes) knew it too. But, really, was it any weirder than talking to a sock? Squeezing the ends of his hair, Bucky waited until water was running down the center of his chest to say, “If Steve sucks on my Adam’s apple like it’s coated with caramel, maybe I’ll ask him to fetch the collar from the drawer.” “For you, or for him?”Bucky sighed. And when he remembered just how much he didn’t remember about Saturday night’s BSDM fuck fest, he sighed even louder.The collar was complicated, and Bucky needed his sex life to be as simple as apple pie and vanilla ice cream (sans Superman). Pandas. Snuggles. Bucky being the big spoon with his boner nestled between Steve’s asscheeks. But size was relative. Frodo was only little when he stood next to Aragorn or one of those big-ass talking trees. If he stood next to Ant-Man (in ant form), he’d be fucking huge. A literal, hobbit-size giant.Like it or not, without Steve’s big spoon to make Bucky’s spoon little, Bucky might as well be a knife. Or a pizza cutter. Or a singular chopstick without its match.“Fuck spoons,” Bucky said, kicking the corner of his Spanish folder. “And fuck España Del Taco.” Bucky had homework. Lots of it. It didn’t matter that he was exhausted, sore as fuck, mad about chicken, and had a nuclear-level headache. If his grades got any worse, his dad was gonna take his phone, lock him in his bedroom, and put Bucky’s balls into a vice until his GPA swung back to minimum acceptance level of 3.5.It was bullshit. Why the fuck did Bucky need to be a trilingual wizard to fucking graduate? You’d think that being newly bilingual would’ve counted for a couple of language credits (especially since Bucky still used Google to spell sixty percent of English words), but nooo, Principal Barnes had put down his muy professional zapato and made Bucky “follow the rules like everybody else.” And the rules said that if Bucky was gonna get anywhere close to passing the Spanish quiz he’d missed on M-Day, aka yesterday, he had to ditch his whiny pants and do the fucking work.Picking up the study sheet, he said, “El sucko de los Español,” before he hawked a loogie and…Bullseye!...hit the paper dead center. “Me no sucko at blow jobs. Me sucko muy good at cock suckos.”Bucky snorted. And it wasn't a cute lil’ piglet snort like Daisy oinked out whenever Clint tickled the backs of her knees. It was a big, fat warthog snort, which…Oink motherfucker!...was exactly what Bucky needed to lighten the motherfuckin’ mood. It wasn’t just the endless pile of homework bringin’ Bucky down to the sewers of sadtown. There was a second serotonin sapper on the loose, and this one, while a hell of a lot cuter than a glob of spit on a worksheet, had already struck once on Tardy Tuesday. Bucky didn’t need to look at his phone to know that it was way past nine, but he looked anyway.News at 10:22: Steve was late. Again. Grabbing a chicken leg, Bucky took a bite.Of all the stupid shit he’d done in the past five days— No, scratch that. Of all the stupid shit he’d done since he’d started dating Steve, lifting weights with the highly competitive (and mildly homophobic) basketball team, then running the equivalent of a 5K on an empty stomach had to be top five for sure. Maybe top three.Bucky took another bite.By the time he’d finished pouting about Spongebob, Bucky’d been seeing spots. Big ones. And drinking another energy drink had only made them worse. If Natasha hadn’t shown up twenty minutes ago with a plate of Kentucky Fried Chicken, Bucky definitely would have died. The good news: Original Recipe Chicken, mashed potatoes, and buttery biscuits. The bad news: Natasha, the ultimate white-meat diva, had bogarted the breasts (like always) and brought Bucky two legs and a thigh. “I hate dark meat,” he said as the chicken slid down the back of his throat. “It’s slimy, like worms.”“Oh, fuck off.”Bucky bit into the leg like a caveman, growling a little (or a lot) because his head hurt too much to deal with worms, hamsters, harbingers, hamburgers, and whatever else his malfunctioning brain was trying to throw at him. He just wanted to eat his slimy chicken, scratch his balls with his greasy fingers, and not flunk out of school.Swallow. That’s all Bucky had to do. Swallow it down, then take another bite.
Gulp!
You know who hadn’t eaten Kentucky Fried Chicken for dinner? Steve. He’d probably gorged on caviar from a mystical pool in China, wolfed down an Alaskan king crab that had been flown in on its own private jet, then finished things off with a slice of twenty-four karat carrot cake.Bucky took another bite. Then, because he was in a fucking mood, he wiped his fingers on the bottom of the study sheet for Españobullshit, right below the spit.He could hear Natasha laughing across the hall. It was all “ha, ha, I love braiding your stupid hair” and “ha, ha, I love your big, fat dick.” It didn’t take a genius to know she was on the phone with Clint. You know, the boyfriend who knew how to read a fucking clock. If Bucky’s headphones weren’t all the way across the room on his dresser, he would've shoved Steve’s stupid mixtape into the stupid Walkman and drowned out his sister’s happiness with Sleeping With Sirens. But Bucky was tired, breast-deprived, boyfriend-deprived, and lazy, which, for an unhinged loser with greasy fingers, was a tragic combination. Maybe he should just give up. Fuck homework. Fuck school. See if chicken grease worked like lube and fuck himself. Anything was better than staring at his fucking phone, waiting for it to—
Ring!
Dropping the chicken leg, Bucky grabbed his phone. But instead of answering right away, he smiled at the selfie they’d snapped at the beach. According to Cupid, it was the perfect lovey-dovey lock screen. Lovey-dovey smiles. Steve’s lovey-dovey Rudolph red nose. Lovey-dovey sunglasses times two (Ponch for Steve, pink for Bucky). And…Tick tock!...not a watch in sight because time didn’t matter on Incubus Island. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. Bucky pressed the button.“Finally,” he said, shoving half a biscuit into his mouth. “I was starting to think you had an allergic reaction to radioactive Japanese shellfish, and—”“Buck?" Splat! Bucky’s stomach dropped four stories. Just like the sock. Nothing about Steve’s voice sounded right. Not the volume. Not the tone. And definitely not the way he’d whimpered when he’d said Bucky’s name.“I stuck to the plan...”A horn honked, then another. And when Bucky jammed the phone against his ear, he could hear Steve crying.Even though he was choking on the fucking biscuit, Bucky somehow managed to ask, “Where are you?” without passing out. But when he tried to get off the bed, his knee slipped on The Great Gatsby (Fuck you, Leo!), and he fell face first into his leftover mashed potatoes. To recap: Bucky’s airway was blocked, his hair was full of gravy, and Steve wasn’t fucking answering. “Steve! Where the fuck are you?”When Steve coughed, he sounded far away. And not far away like he’d flown to Alaska to get another Alaskan king crab, but like the signal was being blocked by the Brokeback Mountains. Either his phone was on speaker and had fallen between the seats or…Geronimo!...he’d jumped off a motherfucking cliff.“Steve!”“Driving.”Short answers were scary. They meant that the killer was already inside the house with a big-ass knife and the babysitter was trying to talk to the 911 operator without getting stabbed. “Are you in a safe place?”
“No.”
“Can you get out?”
“No.”
In short, short answers were harbingers of death.Bucky managed to roll out of the gravy (and spit out the mushy biscuit), but that didn’t stop him from stepping on the neck of his guitar. Did it crack? Who fucking cared? All that mattered was getting Steve to answer the fucking questions.Blocking out everything but the sounds on the phone, Bucky asked, “Driving where?” as he grabbed a shirt off the floor and yanked it over his head. “To you… they’re…” Swear to god, when Steve coughed, it sounded like he’d spit a mouthful of mashed potatoes at the windshield. But that couldn’t be right. Rich kids didn’t eat powdered potatoes from KFC, they ate Alaskan king crab from the Bering Sea. “They’re gliding above the wires, Buck. And I… I have to follow them. I get it now… I...”"Steve?"Wanna know what’s worse than a short answer? Silence. Suddenly Bucky wanted to punch Clint in the face for making him watch every apocalyptic disaster movie in the history of Hollywood.Steve had driven into a lava-filled fissure. He’d been vaporized by a three-legged alien ship. He’d been hit in the neck with a hollow-point bullet from a long-range sniper rifle. He’d been swallowed by Godzilla. He’d—"I’m almost across the bridge… Thirteen bumps left." Jean Grey had gone full Phoenix and ripped the San Francisco bridge off its foundation, lifting Steve (and hundreds of innocent people) into the sky towards certain death. And Professor X couldn’t do a damn thing to stop her.“You’re scaring me, Steve. Just—” Bucky couldn’t get his arm through the motherfucking hole. “Fuck! Just tell me where you are.”Bucky could hear the grimace in Steve’s voice when he said, “I… I think I need to go to the hospital. Can you… can you take me to the hospital?” But it wasn’t purple. And it definitely wasn’t fuzzy."The hospital? Jesus Christ, Steve, what’s—""You have to tell Tony. I'm supposed to—” There was another honk. Another moan. "You… you have to tell him it worked…”
Bam!
Bucky’s fist smashed into the wall before he’d even realized he’d moved his hand. And Natasha wasn’t laughing any more. She was pounding on the door.“Is… your dad home?” Steve sounded even further away than before. “I think… I need your dad.”There was a hole in the drywall. A fist-size hole. Yakov’s papa had punched a hole in the kitchen window, but not because he was mad. He’d been trying to get inside to save—“Stop,” Bucky said. “I can’t… I—” When Steve screamed, the sound pierced Bucky’s brain like he’d been impaled with a fucking stop sign. And it was a good thing. A get-your-shit-together thing that made Bucky say, “I’m getting my dad right now, okay? Just pull over and tell me where you are.”“They’re flying really fast… and…”Natasha pushed open the door and nailed Bucky in the shoulder, but before she could bitch at him for putting a hole in the wall, he put the phone on speaker. “I can’t stop. I can’t…” Steve whimpered. “I’m almost to the end...”Fear. That’s what Bucky felt when his sister wrapped her fingers around his arm. Soul-crushing fear. “Do you hear the bumps, Buck? There’s thirty-seven to escape, and I… I don’t… I can’t go back. I’ll find your alley… your garage…”Somebody said, “Oh my god,” but Bucky had no idea who. Natasha? Steve? Bruce Willis? One of the hamsters? All he knew was that when Steve said, “It’s getting harder to see them… it’s… dark,” he started to run.There were things in the way. Natasha. A laundry basket. Bucky’s dirty clothes in the hall. Chicken feathers. Flames. Bam ! The phone was sliding across the floor, and Bucky was crawling after it. Past his mad boots, past the armchair, past his dad’s computer bag, to where it had crashed into the wall. But before he could reach it, Steve said, “I think… I think I need to hang up now… I can’t see…”“No!” Lunging for the phone, Bucky crunched what was left of the bones in his potato chip knees. But it was too late. The line was already dead. * Bucky knew he’d lost time, but he was well past the point of giving a shit. In fact, if he lived past his one hundredth birthday and never figured out how the fuck he’d teleported from his bedroom to the garage (complete with a shattered phone screen, a filled-in dad, triple-knotted boots, and his patch-covered jeans), it was fucking fine. Shit happened. Things broke. Crazy people teleported. Big fucking deal.“Are you sure you’re okay?” His sister was standing by the big blue recycling bin, which just so happened to be parked next to the mountain of boxes stacked against the wall. And the mountain of boxes, overflowing with their own time-traveling mysteries, just so happened to be next to the spot where Bucky’d parked Steve’s spaceship the first (and only) time he’d set foot inside Casa del Barnes. You know, the time with the frozen peas.But there wasn’t a pea in sight, and Bucky wanted to throw Céline’s scrawny French-Canadian ass into a 375 degree oven with Clint’s tuna noodle casserole.“Bucky, did you hear me?” Natasha tapped the top of the bin like he was the one with the hearing aids. “I asked if you’re—”“Why the fuck are you asking me? Steve’s the one who’s not okay!” Bucky smacked the trunk of his dad’s Toyota, and—There was blood on his knuckles. And more on his elbow.“You fell down the stairs,” she said, letting her accent slip like bossy Natalia (instead of bitchy Natasha). “I think it’s a fair question.”Rotating his arm to survey the damage, all Bucky could do was laugh. A good-size chunk of skin was missing on his elbow (like, three peas’ worth), and a ginormous scrape was running down the length of his arm, from his shoulder to his wrist. It legit looked like a roided-out raccoon had…Grrr!...gone ham on his forearm, takin’ off enough skin to make the blood drip-drip-drip like the water had dripped from his soaking wet hair. “It’s not funny, Bucky. You could have broken your neck.”
Snap! Crackle! Pop!
That fun lil’ factoid made Bucky laugh even harder. The Grim Reaper could’ve made tonight a two-for-one on the soul collection and scored mega-evil bonus points from Satan. Steve dead in a ditch. Bucky dead on the floor. Send Romeo and Juliet to buy two discount coffins from the dollar store.Bucky laughed like a hyena (with a fully functional penis). He laughed like the Joker (Nicholson, Ledger, Leto, and Hamill). And he laughed like the blood runnin’ down his arm was nothin’ more than a patriotic Bomb Pop melting on a hot summer day.What else was he supposed to do? Punch another wall? If he tried that shit in here, he’d break his fucking hand. Cinder blocks did that. Just like jumping off six-foot-tall chimneys in socks broke your fucking feet, falling down a flight of stairs broke your fucking elbow, and falling in love broke everything. Sockette. Biggie. Bucky. All of them were outlined with chalk. And that, suicidal Suicide Squad members, was why Bucky said, “Guess Stevie’s not the only one without a cape,” and laughed three times as hard. “Can you at least try to stop the bleeding?” Bucky scrunched up his nose. One, ‘cause bleeding-schmieding, and two, ‘cause Natasha’s hair was scrunched on top of her head with a neon-green scrunchie. Straight outta Compton? Fuck no. Natty-B was straight outta the nineties. “Seriously, Bucky, use the bottom of your shirt.”Was he bleeding a little or a lot? Were his fingers gonna fall off and rot? Bucky didn’t give a shit. All he cared about was—
Click!
Bucky blinked, and not because a hamster had accidentally crossed the red and blue wires. Steve. That’s how that sentence was supposed to end. All Bucky cared about was Steve. “He loves me,” he said to nobody in particular. “He loves me ‘cause I know where to put the frozen peas.”The garage door was wide open, and the fluorescent light was buzzin’ like it always did. Except this time, there was something sinister about the sound. At DEFCON 3, it sounded like a UFO was gearin’ up to grab Bucky with a tractor beam and…Buzz!...shove an exploratory probe up his Uranus. At DEFCON 1, it sounded like the Russian was…Buzz!...obliterating the cinder block wall with his motherfuckin’ chainsaw. And at DEFCON 5, the buzz sounded soft, like Stevie was blowin’ itty-bitty raspberries around Bucky’s belly button.Trying his damndest to stay in the green, Bucky whispered, “I love raspberry kisses,” and pressed his palm against the buzzing in his stomach. “And I love how his big arms make me feel like the smallest spoon in the galaxy.”Heart-shaped spoons. Heart-shaped hugs. Heart-shaped boxes. The pressure kept Bucky steady for a whopping 1.2 Mississippis until…Spoiler alert!...his brain reminded him that Kurt Cobain had blown his head off with a 20-gauge shotgun and Steve was probably bleeding out on the side of the road.Bucky kicked the Toyota’s back tire. Hard. And when the pain didn’t overpower the stench of the Muppet corpses, he punched the rear quarter panel with his fist. The one with the blue knuckles.“Denting my car won’t help.”His dad was chillin’ in the middle of the alley with his back to the garage, which, in Bucky’s professional Google Map opinion, was a funny place to stand. If his dad were a traffic cop with…Toot! Toot!...a shiny silver whistle, then, sure, hangin’ out where he could see the traffic whiz by on all sides would make sense. But Principal Barnes wasn’t a cop, and the alley wasn’t a four-way stop. There was only one direction Stevie could be coming from (shout out, Harry Styles), and it sure as fuck wasn’t through the beat-up garages, brick walls, and chain-link fences. But there he stood (Bucky’s dad, not Harry Styles), wearin’ the jeans he always wore to mow the lawn. They were loose in the butt, with big pockets and lots of grass stains. And from this angle, you could really see his bald spot.Bucky cringed. Not because his dad was going bald, but because the dad who’d smashed the window had a full head of curly brown hair.“Nyet,” Bucky said, looking at his phone so he didn’t have to look at the donut hole (chocolate with sprinkles, please). Then he looked at the rainbow-colored graffiti sprinkles on his mad boots so he didn’t have to look at his phone. The spiderwebs in the glass were nothing like the ones Fillmore spun. They were the sharp kind that cut your fingers. And spiders, no matter how friendly they were, didn’t belong at the beach, especially ones that shattered the sunshine into a gazillion itsy-bitsy pieces.Tape wouldn’t fix that. And neither would Elmer’s. You’d need—Tossing the phone onto the trunk, Bucky asked, “How long since he called?” so the idiot ranting about Super Glue and Gorilla Glue had to shut his fucking mouth.“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”Natalia. Always on top of things.“And Virginia’s out front?”“Yeah,” she said, glancing at her spider-free phone. “She just texted. There’s no sign of Steve.”Bucky had no idea how he knew his next-door neighbor was keeping watch. Just like he had no idea why the three of them were waiting in the alley instead of the street. For one thing, Steve, aka the love of Bucky’s life, had only been to Bucky’s house four fucking times. And three of those times, he’d barely gotten out of the fucking car. Trip one: Bucky, take the wheel (also known as Zombie Steve’s no good, bloody concussion). Trip two: Bucky, take the wheel 2.0. (four sweaty idiots—plus Tony—in gay shock). Trip three: Homecoming limousine. Trip four: beach limousine. It was fucking ridiculous. Even worse, Steve had never driven here himself. He’d driven home, sure, but that was a hell of a lot different than navigating Brooklyn at night with a bullet in the head. Bucky meant it when he said, “We can’t just stand here,” but when he tried to move, the Gorilla Glue swallowed his feet like quicksand. “Steve’s probably bleeding to death on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, and—” The chlorine was burning Bucky’s sinuses. And the liquor. And the Vicodin with a capital V.“And it’s my fucking fault!” If he’d just stayed in the gym, smiling for the camera in his pretty blue suit, the hamsters never would have gotten out of their cage.Bucky knew he was having a Chernobyl-level meltdown (complete with a pack of one-eyed wolves and a three-legged deer). And based on the way Natasha was inching closer and closer to the recycling bin to avoid the fallout, she knew it too. But all the radioactive knowledge in the world (or more specifically, Ukraine) couldn’t stop him from saying, “I’m telling you, that monster snuck up behind Stevie and…Bam!...blew his brains out with a motherfuckin’ shotgun! If I’d just listened to Clint, this never—”
Flash!
Natasha was dabbin’ Bucky’s elbow with the bottom of her t-shirt, lifting it high enough that he could see her bra. News flash/boob flash: Boobs were cool unless they belonged to your sister, then they were totally…Ew!...cringe. Even worse, this particular bra was black and lacy, which was hella scandalous for a recently deflowered ballerina. Think Black Swan, Natalie Portman, Padawan. But then again, riding Bucky’s ex-lover’s lightsaber was scandalous as fuck.Bucky yanked his arm away."I’m sure he’ll be here any minute,” Natasha said, stepping out of the danger zone. “You know how bad traffic is on—”“Are you giving me a fucking traffic report right now?” “No, I’m just saying—”“Well, don’t!”If Brock had gone to Steve’s house with a shotgun, he—
Click!
He wouldn’t have been able to get in.Steve had a doorman, a professional Key Master, and a built-in bodyguard because he lived in a penthouse that was stuffed to the brim with caviar and crabs. Without an invitation, there was no way Brock could’ve breezed through the door with a plate of deviled eggs and an AK-47.“It wasn’t him,” Bucky said, just to make sure everybody was on the same page. “Steve had to be ready by seven. Not seis or ocho, but seven o’clock on the dot-to-dot. And—” Three steps backwards, skip the white, hit the wrong square and…Wham! Lights out, goodnight. “They served crab instead of Mr. Krabs—’cause I spilled barbeque sauce on Spongebob—and Jade told him to wear the suit without the scratches.” Natasha had her fingers wrapped around his arm. And when she said, “Slow down, Yakov, you’re not making any sense,” the tips branded him in the exact same spot where Steve’s skin had bubbled and boiled.Just like the Alaskan king crab.“Not making sense?” Doubling over, Bucky tried to cough the skin-scented smoke out of his lungs. “It’s the only thing that makes sense, and I’m an idiot for thinking it could’ve been anything else!”Yakov’s skin was blistering from the heat, but Bucky’s sister didn’t let go. She just squeezed and squeezed like Johnny Storm gone rogue. And guess what? It wasn’t very nice. Closing as many eyes as he could, Bucky said, “It was his stepdad. Whatever happened… whatever’s wrong… it was him.”Johnny Storm squeezed until Bucky’s arm looked like burnt toast, which was no bueno jalapeño. Bucky hated peppers even more than he hated pickles, and pickles were the fuckin’ worst. True story: In the not so distant past, Anthony’s had ruined Bucky’s Pizza Saturday pizza with a single green pepper. He’d opened the lid, spotted the invader next to a perfectly curled pepperoni, then given the entire pizza to Clint. On the other side of the veggie spectrum, Natasha loved peppers. She ate them on her salads (red, yellow, and green), dipped them into hummus, and (if she was feelin’ super-duper healthy/insane), bit into them like a Red Delicious. It was a problem, especially when she asked shit like, “Who else would it have been?” and turned up the heat on the Scoville scale. “I know it’s horrible, but I just assumed.”Bucky scoffed. Not at his sister (or his sister’s ghost peppers) because she, unlike 99.9 percent of Bucky’s brain, lived in a world where hamsters were pets, socks didn’t talk, and portals were only for Skylanders. He scoffed because instead of connecting the dots with a fuckin’ crayon, he’d immediately gone gangster and dropped Stevie into Grand Theft Auto with Biggie and Brock. “It’s my fault,” Bucky said, staring at the dirt on his dad’s lawnmower jeans. The holes in the knees were full of broken strings, just like ones Stevie had stuck his fingers into after school. Well, except that his dad’s holes were looser, and cleaner, and they weren’t surrounded by Nirvana and Alice in—Bucky blinked. One, because comparing his holes with his dad’s was wrong on so many levels (seriously), and two, because Natasha’s pepper fingers were starting to burn his eyes.“What do you mean it’s your fault?” she asked. “We don’t even know what happened.”“I know exactly what happened. Steve was being weird as fuck about some plan. Something he and Stark came up with. And I didn’t push because—” Because I was too busy losing my mind. “Fuck!” Intuition trumped birds. Spidey-sense. The Sixth Sense. Bruce Willis. All of them had been screaming at Bucky to ask more questions. To find out how the fuck Steve had planned to get out fast and clean.“If that bastard burned his face off, I—”Two steps. That’s all it took for Bucky to cross the garage and kick the living shit out of the recycling bin. Did it hurt? Fuck yes! His toes were nothing but crumbs at this point. But that didn’t stop him from kicking a week’s worth of Coke cans, milk jugs, and Monsters into the alley with his steel-toed boots.When he ran out of cans, he grabbed the bin with one arm and threw it over their neighbor’s fence. And when he shouted, “Yebat!” his voice sounded exactly like—“Papa?”Dogs were barking from every direction. The big husky across the alley. The pack of semi-evil pit bulls three doors down (not to be mistaken for the band Three Doors Down). And Valerie’s ancient goldendoodle, who, unlike the Golden Girls, wasn’t named Blanche or Rue. Guess what he didn’t hear? Ravens.“No matter what, Bucky, it’s not your fault.” His dad was touching his shoulder, holding extra, extra, extra tight when he said, “Do you hear me? If anything, it’s mine.”Long, long ago, on a sidewalk that wasn’t very far away, Yakov had tripped on a crack in front of his brand-new house. Kaboom! Knees first. And after Natalia had run inside to get the nice American man, their brand-new dad had pointed at the porch and said, “Let’s get you fixed up,” before squirting Bactine all over Yakov’s boo-boos. He closed his eyes. There were too many dogs, and not enough dads. Whispering, “Dad,” like it was the first time he’d said it, Yakov told himself not to cry. He was in America now, the home of the free and the land of the brave, and Americans had to man up and eat steak. “You’ve got to get the Band-Aids and Bactine. And the peas. You have to dig them out of the iceberg.”Suddenly his dad was hugging him. And it wasn’t a little hug. It was an extra, extra, extra tight one that hurt Bucky’s shoulder. “Five more minutes,” he said, squishin’ Bucky like he was a big, fat bean bag chair with a safety-pin seam. “Five more minutes, then I’m calling the police.”Hugs were great. Bear hugs. Bare hugs on bearskin rugs. Hugs with drugs. But when his dad pulled Bucky against his chest, all he could hear was potato chips crunchin’ in the bag. Ruffles were Bucky’s favorite. They held the most sour cream and onion dip without breaking. But Lays went best with Pepsi. And Pringles? Mmm!...those curvy lil’ fuckers were muy perfecto for a sunny day at the shore. Case in point: convenient non-crunchable can that doubled as a dildo holder, the perfect salt-to-chip ratio to prevent dehydration when Clint wasn’t around with a more ‘natural’ source, and a stamp of approval from Brandon Boyd and the drunk monkeys of Incubus Island.Inhaling a big ol’ whiff of coconut-scented air, Bucky said, “My shoulders are sunburned.” But since Papa Barnes doubled the squeeze, he wasn’t sure he’d said it out loud. Trying again, he said, “I didn’t brush my teeth.” Woof! The dogs were barking again, and Bucky’s dad—His thumb was hovering over his phone screen as he kicked a bunch of cans into the garage. Cans that had magically escaped the recycling bin.“It’s been too long.” Natasha was pacing, tiptoeing on the line where the garage’s concrete floor collided with the alley’s crumbling asphalt. “He should’ve been here by now.”She was talking about Steve. “If you weren’t such a fuckup, your boyfriend would be safe in your bed.”Some things just had to be said out loud. Not for the people in close proximity, but for the ones inside. One glance confirmed that the American hadn’t heard what he’d said, and neither had the sister. But the person he was talking to? Yeah, that fucker had heard him loud and clear. Bucky might be hiding in a crowd of Muppets on a tropical island, but their shaggy blue hair didn’t do shit to block his ears.Unless it did.
Flash!
The alley was dark until it wasn’t. And it wasn’t a UFO (or a radioactive tractor beam) making his dad glow. It was headlights.One Mississippi. That’s all it took for Bucky to run into the alley and slide to a stop behind his dad. One motherfucking Mississippi.There were lots of houses before you got to Bucky’s garage, and Steve’s truck was creeping past them like a 300-year-old tortoise with a bad hip. Even worse, it was weaving back and forth, getting dangerously close to the fences and walls.Bucky bit his tongue to stop himself from saying, “Iceberg, dead ahead,” but Céline had already busted out her fuckin’ flute.Cue Deep Voice Guy: Mr. Newman was a terrible neighbor. He never raked his leaves or shoveled his snow, and based on the amount of traffic in front of his house, the Barnes’ family had come to the conclusion that he was dealing methamphetamine out of his living room. But tonight, the issue wasn’t seasonal neglect, toothless meth heads, or overly muscular pit bulls. It was the way Mr. Newman’s garbage cans were sticking out into the alley. The Titanic veered to miss them, but it was too late.
Bam!
The driver’s side mirror smashed into the brick wall on the other side, snapping off like a chunk of ice on the rail. And when the bow hit, sparks rocketed into the air as the metal collapsed against the mountain of ice. There was creaking and moaning, smoke and heat, and the greasy smell of Kentucky Fried Chicken before, finally, the ship ground to a halt twenty feet in front of them. Then nothing. Just headlights and the sound of the motor.“Dad…” “Don’t move. Either of you.” Natasha was next to Bucky (like she’d always been), and together they watched their dad jog towards the sinking ship, his shadow stretching longer and longer with every step. And when he yanked open the passenger door and disappeared (like dads often do), Bucky held his breath.Dads were a funny thing. They were there, then they weren’t. They taught you how to feed the chickens, then…Poof!...drove away without a backwards glance. “Nyet,” Yakov said, inching closer to the girl with the cookies in her pockets. “They stick you into a snowbank, then leave you there to freeze.”Bucky was 99.9 percent certain that Steve's real dad was dead, and now his fake dad had probably killed him. Boom!...a bullet from a gun, sketching that chalky outline’s gonna be a whole lotta fun.“Yakov, breathe.”Grabbing his hand, Natalia held tight with her mittens. And Yakov—Yakov wasn’t wearing any shoes.“Natasha, shut the garage.” There was a man waving his arms around by the big truck, but he wasn’t yelling at Yakov. He was yelling at Bucky. “Get over here. I need your help.”Sometimes, when things are scary, you yell and scream until your voice stops making noise. And sometimes you just sit there, hiding from the wolves until there’s nothing left but ash. “Now!”Clint got off on making fun of movie moments like this. You know, when shit’s really hittin’ the fan and the director switches to super slo-mo and distorts the fuck outta the sound. It’s supposed to enhance the horror. Make you feel the impact of the moment. Punch you in the proverbial gut. In other words, it’s a fuckin’ formula. Character A always goes catatonic for a beat before Character B screams, “Snap out of it!” and…Smack!...slaps him across the face. Well, Bucky snapped out of it all right. In fact, he’d snapped out of it so hard that he’d teleported to the passenger side of the truck.Portals were awesome when they spit you out someplace cool, like the Shire or the set of CHiPs, but they sucked ass when you ended up at the Overlook Hotel with nothing but a typewriter and a bunch of fucked-up ghosts.And this? This definitely wasn’t the back of Officer Poncharello’s motorcycle.Bucky’s dad was leaning across the center console, doing… something. But all Bucky could see was the blood. There was a diagonal streak across the driver’s side window, and—“Bucky, we have to move the truck.” It wasn’t an itty-bitty bit of blood like the spots on Bucky’s knuckles or a pequeño amount like the missing peas on Bucky’s elbow. No, señor, this was some real-deal horror-movie gore like the tsunami of blood that gushed out of the elevator in The Shining.“Bucky!" There it was, right on cue. The “Snap out of it!” Except this time, it was Bucky’s dad who’d smacked him across the face instead of Brock.“I need to back up the truck so we can move him. Do you understand?”Attention: Code Red. This is not a drill. His dad had switched to the super calm principal voice. The one that meant that the gunman was already inside the school, but Principal Barnes was paid the big bucks to keep the kiddies calm as he herded them towards the emergency exits (cough, certain death).“Roll down the window, then stand back and tell me when I’m far enough away from the wall. Can you do that?”Why the fuck would a spaceship have retractable windows? Like, how was that shit gonna play out in the ice-cold vacuum of outer space? Astronaut popsicles? Imploded cosmonauts? Alien reboots? Unfortunately, the answer would have to wait because Principal Barnes’ principal voice was boss level, and when he told you to roll down the window, you rolled down the fuckin’ window, even if your Uranus got turned inside out like a dirty sock.So down it went. Down, down, down. And once Bucky had reached minimum safe distance, Principal Barnes started doing the super-duper calm thing with Steve.“Okay, son,” he said like Tate Langdon (#Quicksilver) was crouched behind Mr. Newman’s garbage cans with a shotgun and boatload of face paint. “I’m going to steer us backward so we can get you out of here. Can you press the pedals when I tell you?”Maybe Steve answered, maybe he didn’t. Bucky couldn’t hear him over the sound of the sobs.“Here we go. Just give it a little gas… That’s right… easy does it.”When the ship reversed engines, there was no…Beep! Beep! Beep!...like you’d hear when a big yellow school bus backed out of a driveway. There was just the bone-shattering screech of metal on brick, grinding the edges of Bucky’s teeth as—“We have to move him to the back seat.”He was standing next to his dad, and they were next to the driver’s side door. And Steve’s head—Bucky cringed.Steve’s head was pressed against the window, and blood was dripping down the glass to form the letter X. X for xylophone, x-ray, x-ray vision, Xanax, Professor X.“His arm is broken. I need you to help me get him out of the truck.”"Broken?" The word felt even weirder than grimace on Bucky’s tongue. Broken. My bro, Ken. Bro Tolkien. Yelling through glass, Principal Barnes said, “We’re going to open the door now, Steve, so brace yourself,” like X marked the spot. Which…Yay!...treasure. But no amount of booty (pirate or ass) could’ve prepared Bucky for the moment his dad grabbed the handle and asked, “Ready?”The nod was automatic, even though the answer was no. The X was partially blocking Bucky’s view, but there was no missing the cut on Steve’s cheek. It was massive. We’re talkin’ Grand Canyon, San Andreas Fault, Mariana Trench. And the gash above his ear was even worse. It legit looked like he’d been run over by a lawnmower (twice), then thrown to the hammerhead sharks. But the worst part was Steve’s nose. It was broken. And it wasn’t a little bit broken like Brock’s had been after Stevie had swooped in to defend Bucky’s honor. It was broken broken. Like, the bridge was sitting at a funny angle, and the blood—Bucky stepped backwards into the sand. Bomb Pop’s were red, white, and blue, but the juice that was drip-drip-drippin’ off Stevie’s chin was just cherry, and it was staining the front of his white dress shirt. Click! When Bucky’s dad opened Steve’s door, it sounded like a can opener puncturing a can of SpaghettiOs. Then… silence.Even the hamsters were quiet.“Q stands for quiet,” Bucky whispered as the director zoomed in on the unbuckled seat belt. “Q stands for… I can’t do this.”Maybe it was the adrenaline (or maybe it was something else), but when Steve tipped sideways and fell out of the truck, Bucky lunged forward and caught 190 pounds like he was catching a football. It didn’t matter that Steve was limp and bloody, Bucky got his arms around his chest and pulled him the rest of the way out like an honest-to-god superhero.Then he saw that Steve was missing a shoe.“Let’s try to lift him together.”Bucky’s dad tried to grab Steve’s knees, but missing shoes meant missing socks. Like missing second hands on secondhand clocks. “You go in first, and I’ll swing his legs around.”Following orders. That was something Bucky could do. Flex his muscles, lift the weight, pull Stevie and his sailboat into a sewer grate. No, that was too Pennywise. Stephen King was the jam, but killer clowns? Clint would freak the fuck out. Plus, Stevie was already screamin’ like somebody (who wasn’t a shark) had…Chomp!...bit off his arm.“Stop!”His dad had given the order. Not Steve. Not Clint. Not the Russian. And once Bucky froze, it was easy to see why.Bucky had Steve halfway into the back seat, and his wrist—“Yebat’!” His wrist was bent like a fucking boomerang!There are two types of people in an emergency. The ones who freeze, and the ones who shout “Fuck!” as they drag wounded soldiers off the battlefield. Steve was lucky the second one decided to show up.Grabbing Steve’s belt, the Russian said, “Lift your feet,” as he planted his boot against the back of the driver’s seat. “Now.”The soldier spit out a mouthful of blood. “I… followed the plan,” he said, laughing as the spatter burned the Russian’s arms. “And look… I got out clean.”Jokes on the front line meant that the pain was too much to bear. Yakov knew that firsthand. They also meant you were an Avenger, droppin’ one-liners as Ultron blasted Sokovia into the sky like a dino-killing asteroid. Principal Barnes pushed Stevie’s legs into the truck, one, then the other, but Bucky, aka Prince Charming, didn’t have Stevie’s missing slipper. And it wasn’t because Cinderella’s wicked stepfather had locked him in the broom closet with a couple of cartoon mice. No, fairy godmothers, it was because Donnie Darko (with an assist from Frank the Bunny) had sucked one of the scary bunny slippers into a wormhole.“We should’ve called an ambulance.” Natasha had…Shocker!...magically poofed into the passenger seat with uno, dos, tres teléfonos. To an outside observer, three phones might seem like overkill, but considering the amount of blood on Bucky’s hands, it was probably smart to go ahead and call three sets of paramedics. “Too slow.” Climbing into the driver’s seat, Bucky’s dad slammed the door. “I can get him there faster.”Fuck yeah! Captain Dad reporting for duty like a real-life Maverick. His mission? To save Captain Bullshit from the bullshit that was his so-called life. Engaging the thrusters, Captain Dad said, “Natasha, call the police and tell them to meet us at The Brooklyn Hospital Center ER,” before…Whoosh!...he made the jump to light speed. It was a ballsy move in such a tight space. High risk. Even Captain Kirk would’ve thought twice before jumping to outer space in such a small space. Han Solo, sure. That scoundrel would run over the Coke cans and milk jugs like an intergalactic bulldozer, swervin’ to miss the potholes just like he’d avoided the asteroids in The Empire Strikes Back. Suddenly there were kleenex. Lots and lots of kleenex.“Hold these under his nose,” Natasha said, tossin’ tissues at Bucky’s chest like she was peltin’ teenage trick-or-treaters with shitty candy. Circus peanuts. Black licorice. Mike and Ikes. Smarties. But no matter how many candy wrappers Bucky shoved into Stevie’s jack-o-lanterns holes, the blood just kept bubblin’ over.Teeing up a Willy Shakespeare quote (‘cause Stevie loved that shit), Bucky said, “Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron—”“They led me here… They’ve been leading me here all along.”For a poet, Stevie sure as fuck didn’t have a lot of respect for the rhyme. Willy S. Big Poppa. That Poe guy. Their raps deserved R.E.S.P.E.C.T (like Aretha). That’s why Bucky had to say, “Bubble,” before he could even think about unpacking the shit with the birds. “Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.”“I don’t… I don’t see them anymore.” Bucky’s dad hit an asteroid. Not because he was a bad driver (or ‘cause his name was Phil instead of Han), but because Brooklyn was fuckin’ full of them. Impact craters. Cheese graters. Alligators. And Steve Rogers was whimpering after every single one. “I think that… means I made it…”“Steve, you need to stop talking.”Bucky hadn’t said it, and neither had Captain Dad. And since none of the hamsters were female (as far as Bucky knew), it must’ve been Natasha.She’d squeezed three quarters of her body between the seats and was supporting Steve’s arm like an impromptu cast. And that, right there, was why Bucky loved her. She was a baller. A shot caller. And always (repeat, always) knew the right thing to say. “But… their eyes…” News at 11: Even beaten to a bloody pulp, Steve was a bad listener. “They were peppermints… with red-and-white swirls…” Peppermints didn’t qualify as shitty Halloween candy. In fact, they weren’t Halloween candy at all.“When he… when he broke my arm, it… it sounded like a candy cane snapping in two.” Sna p! “And I could see it, Buck… Christmas morning with you.”Bucky tried to say “stop,” but, “Hvatit,” came out instead. And it wasn’t loud and strong like the big Russian would’ve said it. It was small and quiet, like the little one with the frostbitten toes. “There was… too much tinsel, and you… you bought too many lights.” Cinnamon rolls. Snowman wrapping paper. A lock and chain.If Steve didn’t have a mouth full of blood, he probably would’ve thrown out some fancy-ass words like synchronicity or cosmic alignment to describe their Xmas connection, but for Bucky, it was just more proof that wormholes were real. That’s how Jack Twist (not Sparrow) always knew the perfect Xmas gift for Ennis. He’d already fast-forwarded to Christmas morning to see if his bucking bronco had been a happy cowboy when he’d untied the ribbon and opened the box.“What’s in the box?” Bucky asked, even though he knew it was the wrong question. Gwyneth’s head? Andy Samberg’s dick? Duckie’s shoes? A broken arm with potato chip bones?Steve mumbled something that Bucky couldn’t understand. Maybe he said Gwyneth, maybe he didn’t. All Bucky knew was that the blood clotting under Steve’s nose looked like coagulated worms.The sailboat was right there, with its rainbow-striped sail and cooler full of bright-blue Gatorade. All Bucky had to do was climb aboard, switch into his banana hammock, and float away to Incubus Island where he could work on his tan and suck tequila out of Brandon Boyd’s belly button. He just had to swallow Keanu’s blue pill.But the terrible noises coming out of Steve’s mouth reminded him that he needed to be here, suffering with his boyfriend in the worst kind of wormhole. Because that’s what boyfriends did.The truck hit a swimming pool-size pothole (seriously, it had a diving board and everything), and Steve turned white in all the places he wasn’t red. Just like a fucking candy cane.“It’s going to be okay,” Bucky’s dad said. “We’re almost there.” And that?That was bullshit.Grown-ups say “it’s going to be okay” when nothing is okay. They give you a coat that’s too big, a shirt that’s too small, and shoes that hurt your toes before tossing you into a dusty orphanage where everybody’s been left behind. Even little girls with pretty red hair and a pocket full of cookies. Captain Dad. Principal Barnes. The man in the woods. All of them were liars, liars pants on fire, even though the bottoms of their jeans were wet from the snow.“Bucky… I…” Steve was talking. Steven Grant Rogers, who wasn’t anywhere close to being a grown-up despite being old enough to go to war.“Can you… can you keep this safe?”It was a stone-cold fact that Clint and Bucky had watched pretty much every body-horror movie from Saw to Hostel to The Human Centipede (with a heavy focus on Cronenberg), but nothing (repeat, nothing) could have prepared him for the moment Steve let go of his arm to reach for his shirt pocket. Steve screamed so loud that Captain Dad lost control of the ship and almost sideswiped a Saturn. Then Natasha screamed because she’d been supporting Steve’s elbow (and only his elbow), so when he’d let go of the break, his hand had flopped into his lap like it was making a left-hand turn.One scream, two screams, we all scream for ice cream. So why wasn’t Bucky screaming along with everybody else? Easy. He was too busy vomiting mashed potatoes and gravy all over Steve’s secret stash of Muscle Milk.“You have to hold it!” Natasha was probably talking about the bones, not the puke. “Grab your wrist and don’t let go!”Buttermilk biscuits. Chicken legs. Worms. All of it ended up on Bucky’s boots. “You have to keep her safe… You—”Were they paint splattered? Blood splattered? Puke splattered? Bucky couldn’t tell the difference anymore.“Bucky, hold his elbow!”There were so many voices that Bucky didn’t know who to listen to. The loudest? The most familiar? The one puking up chicken and worms?In the end, it was Steve’s voice that cut through the crowd.“I need… I need you to get her.” Her. It was such a simple word, but the shiver that shot up Bucky’s spine was anything but. Cuddles were simple. Pandas and spoons. But her? There was nothing simple about her.The truck already looked like a slaughterhouse, so it didn’t matter if Bucky wiped puke onto the back of the seat. But there was blood underneath the puke, and soot underneath the blood, and—“Please…”Bucky was supposed to put his hand inside Steve’s pocket. That was the mission. First, he had to clear a path. Kleenexes. Circus peanuts. Peppermints. They all had to go. Then, keeping his eyes on the target’s pocket (and only his pocket), he slowly reached inside.“You have to save her…”His fingers touched something flat. Something that could be a tiny Christmas card or the joker from a deck of cards.Pinching the corner, he pulled it out, and—It was the picture.The only picture.
Flash!
It was easy to tell that the woman in the picture was Steve’s mother. And not just because she was standing next to a much smaller version of Steve in front of the Wonder Wheel. Their smiles were identical (bright with lots of teeth), and their hair was the same sunny blond, and she—Bucky swallowed. She was holding Steve’s hand like she never wanted to let go.There were a fuckton of things Bucky could say to this kind of responsibility, the most obvious being, “Why would you trust me with this? Don’t you realize I’m a total fuckup?”“You’re not a fuckup, Buck… You’re… you’re the reason I—”Steve coughed. And when he did, a single drop of blood landed on his dead mom’s hair.
Bam!
Everything was red. The picture. Natalia’s hands. The smoke as it filled the night sky. And when the driver slammed on the brakes, the Russian yelled, “Stop!”There were letters. Big ones that were making everything glow. Trying to sound out the word, Yakov said, “E.M.E.R— Oh, I know this one! It says emergency.” In emergencies, lots of things happened all at once. Sparks and sirens. Sirens and screams. And sometimes, if nobody saw the fire in time, screams without sirens. But none of those things were as scary as when the bloody man leaned his head on Yakov’s shoulder and said, "She would’ve loved you, Buck.”“Even if I got blood in her hair?” Cli ck. Steve was gone, but the picture wasn’t. It was laying flat on his palm with blood in the middle and puke on the edge, and Bucky—He was facing DeKalb Street (with his sights set on the Luv-N-Oven pizza joint), and other than a policeman (and a sweaty woman who looked like she was having a heart attack), Bucky was alone.“Bucky, let’s go!”Or not. Spinning around, he saw Steve on a gurney, being rushed into the ER by… somebody. And his dad underneath the letter M.“Move it. We have to stay with him.”It was a simple order. Left foot, right foot, repeat. But M didn’t stand for move (or murder), it stood for memory. And this picture was Steve’s ticket to another time.“And he chose me to keep it safe. Me. Bucky.”Clutching the picture against his chest, Bucky inhaled the scent of pizza to help him feel brave. Then he said, “I can do this,” because grown-ups weren’t the only ones who lied. “I can do this all day.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Everything hurt. All of him, inside and out. And it wasn’t just the broken parts or the holes in his flesh that were leaking red, it was the pieces deep inside that were screaming for his mother. Steve was trying his damndest to stay quiet while a woman with long black braids slid a split beneath his mangled wrist, but it was impossible. The muscles in his back were twisting in a continuous spasm, his nose was shifting with every breath, and there was fresh blood in his mouth from biting the inside of his cheek to hold back the screams. Ice. That’s what they’d given him for the pain. One tiny ice pack that Bucky was holding on top of Steve’s nose.“I’m sorry. I know it hurts,” the woman said, moving slower when she should have moved faster. “A major trauma just came in, but I promise Dr. Singh will order something for the pain as soon as he can.” In other words, you must suffer because somebody else is suffering more. “I’m…” Steve winced as she wrapped a ribbon of gauze around his arm in an excruciating spiral. “I’m going to… be sick.” There was a bucket, a cloth, and Bucky yelling something about a needle and thread. “Fuck, dude! That’s attached to his head!”Bucky had climbed onto the gurney the second they’d wheeled Steve behind a U-shaped curtain, squeezing himself into a space that was too small by half. And there he’d stayed, plastered to Steve’s side as person after person had told him to get off. Mr. Barnes. The woman in white with high-contrast braids. Somebody named Roberta. A man with tiny balloons all over his shirt. Somebody tall. They’d all gotten the same response.In clear and concise language, Bucky had told them all to go to hell. “You’re gonna fucking scalp him!” Steve was vaguely aware that somebody was stitching a cut behind his ear. They’d told him to lie still—that the needles would make him numb—but between the candy-cane splint and the blood in his mouth, he—He was puking again, spewing blood and bile into the bucket, and this time— This time he felt the thread. “He’s gonna pass out!”Bucky was loud, but it was good. As long as he made sure that they sewed Steve’s head back together instead of ripping it apart, he could be as loud as he wanted. Falling back to release the tension on the tether, Steve forced himself to breathe. Panic made the pain worse, and the pain made him puke. And Steve didn’t want to throw up. He just wanted to go to sleep.Breathe in… relax… count to ten.The blood wasn’t gushing out of his nose anymore. The ice had helped with that. But instead of smelling the peppermint scent that had led him here, Steve was inundated with a toxic mixture of piss, vomit, antiseptic, and—There were stars on the insides of his eyelids. Stars and planets and the metallic scent of electricity coming from the lifesaving machines.“Hey,” Bucky said, shaking Steve’s hand. “Are you, like, actually passing out? ‘Cause with all the head trauma, I don’t think you’re— Yo, is he allowed to go to sleep?”There were repetitive beeps all around him. Ones that were steady and even, indicative of the will to survive, and ones that skipped and slowed, signaling to those in charge that the electrical impulses moving the blood in endless circles were starting to falter.Steve laughed. Not because Bucky poked his armpit and said, “Stay awake, dipshit.” He laughed because even beaten to a bloody pulp, he was pompous as fuck.“I’m awake,” Steve said, turning his head as far as the tether would allow. “And I’m… I’m not a… dit...”“Hey! Did you fucking hear that? He said ‘dit’ instead of ‘dipshit.’” Bucky was shouting at Steve’s hair, blowing out big puffs of air like a dragon… or a big bad wolf.“‘Cause if he needs brain surgery, there’s no point in sewing that shit up. I mean, why fix it if you’re just gonna whip out a knife and…Zing!...slice it back open.”Bucky was wearing his Kermit shirt, and seeing that little green frog—“I love Keymin,” Steve said. “And… fogs.”“For fuck’s sake! Would one of you get a real fucking doctor?”There was blood on Bucky's hands, and lots of it, the cracked and dry mingling with the fresh and moist. “I’m… I’m sorry I bled on your… fog shit.”“Zip it, dumbass.” Bucky pressed the ice against Steve’s mouth. “This prepubescent Doogie Howser wannabe’s makin’ your head look like Chucky—and not in a cool way. Do you need me to spell it out, Doogie? He has a C.O.N.C.U—”Even though Steve couldn’t see Bucky’s face, he could imagine Bucky’s eyebrows squishing together as he searched for the rest of the letters. And it made Steve smile. “A concussion, motherfucker! Brain damage with a capital B.D.”It didn’t matter that Bucky wasn’t being sugary sweet. His voice sounded strong and solid, like the thing you run towards when the tide comes in too quickly. A solid rock towering in the middle of a shifting beach.“You’re telling me this is his sister?” A woman’s voice. Highly annoyed.Steve lifted his head to see who it was, but a hand pushed him back down. “Don’t move, sir. Three more stitches, and I’m done."A man. Vaguely apologetic.From this angle, Steve could only see the back of the woman’s head and the top of her shoulders. White coat. The silver flash of a stethoscope. A dark-brown bun. She had to be a doctor. But that didn’t explain why she was standing toe to toe with Bucky’s dad at the foot of the bed.“Immediate family only,” she said, pointing at the corner behind Bucky. “And if that’s not his sister, she has to wait in the lobby.”Sister? Steve couldn’t see her, but when Natasha said, “Ya nikuda ne poydu,” he heard her loud and clear. “Damn right, we’re not going anywhere!” Bucky had said it in English, but his accent had matched his sister’s. Deep and heavy. Solid like stone. Not just Bucky’s voice, but Natasha’s too.Never in a million years would Steve wish this life on another person, but he’d be lying if he said he’d never imagined having a little sister. “A spitfire,” Steve said as the man sewed more patches to his skull. “A spitfire with lemon-yellow braids and… sticky hands.” He could've taught her how to draw zebras with Crayola crayons—herds of them, running across the African plains—or squeezed himself into tiny chairs to have tea parties with her stuffed bears. And he would’ve made damn sure that she’d known how to throw a punch to protect herself from bastards like Alexander.Maybe she would have loved him like Natasha loved Bucky.“Yes,” Mr. Barnes said without so much as a twitch, “that’s his sister.” “And that’s his brother?” She pointed at Bucky, who immediately flipped her off.“You bet your ass I’m his brother. Flesh, blood, and—when we’re in the mood—matching bones. So how about you do your goddamn job and get my hermano some motherfucking morphine?”Heroes came in all shapes and sizes. Steve’s just so happened to be a six-foot-tall swimmer with a Kermit shirt and a temper. “You expect me to believe that two brothers would be squished together like that?”“Yes,” Bucky’s dad answered like the best kind of asshole. “They’re very close.”Natasha laughed, and Steve—Steve realized that there was more than one heroic Barnes. There were three.A father-in-law wasn’t exactly a father, and a sister-in-law wasn’t exactly a sister, but listening to the two of them come to his defense, Steve could almost imagine.“I love you,” Steve said as the skin behind his ear was pulled taut. “I love… the love…” The mean doctor had her nose buried in her tablet like she expected the ‘family’ information Mr. Barnes had fed the triage team to clear things up. The cursor waiting for somebody to fill in the field for Mother? Unmoving. The designated spot for his father’s name? Empty. For the past few years, Steve had put Sam as his emergency contact, which pretty much said it all.But now, maybe that could change. Bucky’s breath against Steve’s ear certainly felt like family. And maybe someday, if Steve did everything right, Bucky would smile as he typed his name into that empty space. Sighing, the doctor looked at Mr. Barnes, then her tablet, then back at Mr. Barnes. “And who are you again?” “Right now, I’m his father.”Steve’s heart stopped. That space was blank. And it had always been blank because Joseph Michael Rogers was nothing more than a name from his mother’s memories. An unreadable signature on a birth certificate. A rugged face in a faded picture. A pair of size eleven work boots discovered in the corner of a Brooklyn closet during a game of hide-and-seek. Steve had put his tiny feet into those giant boots—dirt still caked on the bottom—and had known exactly who Joseph Rogers was. He was a ghost story.Steve opened his mouth to tell Mr. Barnes that he didn’t have to lie. That he’d never had a dad, and it was okay that he didn’t have one now, but—“It’s so… warm.”Backing the doctor out of the tiny space, Mr. Barnes said, “Listen, the only family he has is his stepfather, and he’s the one who did this. So, I’m asking you, human to human, to have a little compassion.”“It’s against hospital policy for minors to—”“Fuck!”Something cold had been poured into the cut on Steve’s cheek, and the shock of it—He could feel it in the roots of his teeth.“I’m sorry, buddy.” The man with the sewing needle leaned into Steve’s view. “I just have to flush this out one more time before Dr. Singh takes a look. We're almost done, okay?"Bucky had been right about him being young. In fact, the only way you could tell he was older than Steve was because his five o’clock shadow was well past midnight and his badge said Resident.“Just slap a Band-Aid on it and leave him the fuck alone.”Bucky. The liquid flowing over the gash in Steve’s cheek was making his vision go white, but between Mr. Barnes refusing to leave, Natasha muttering in Russian, and Bucky swearing at anybody and everybody who dared to inflict more pain, Steve felt safer than he had in years.Six, to be precise.The memory was like a home movie. A five minute clip that Steve could play over and over at will. Twelve-year-old Steve sitting in a warm patch of sun, smiling as he looked through the French doors at the rooftop vegetable garden. He’d been happy and content. Safe. Little had he known that those were to be his final, precious moments of innocence before his entire world came crashing down.You see, that had been the day his mother had told him about the cancer.They hadn’t been living in the penthouse for very long—maybe four or five months—but his mom had already established a new routine. Every Saturday morning, after Alexander had left to play golf in the Hamptons, his mom would help Chef Thomas make breakfast in the service kitchen at the bottom of the spiral staircase. That particular Saturday, Chef Thomas had been whipping up broccoli-and-cheese omelets with thick-cut applewood bacon while Steve’s mom had sliced bananas, apples, green grapes, and peaches to create an enormous bowl full of color. “Fresh peaches…” Steve said, pressing his temple against Bucky’s. “Yellow-orange… like the sunrise.”There was pressure on Steve’s cheek, and more on his nose, and somewhere in the distance, the sound of his mother saying, “Don’t forget the watermelon, Steven. Have you ever seen one this pink?”In his mother’s Saturday morning world, the entire staff had shared a meal instead of standing by while Alexander and his new family had eaten their fill. In his mother’s world, she’d even talked Alexander into joining on rainy days.“But not that day. That day… we… were alone.”“Bro! Are you hearing this?” Bucky was yelling again, but it was okay. If Steve’s mom were here, she’d yell too. “I don’t need a gazillion dollar education and a Neil Patrick Harris mask to know that peaches and sunrises mean he’s got a fuckin’ concussion. Or a hematoma. Or a hematuba. Or a cerebral hemorrhage. Or all of the above.” The sun had been shining through the French doors, warming the spot on the floor where Steve had been using his brand-new colored pencils to shade the tomatoes he’d drawn in his sketchbook. “Carmine red. That…” Steve winced. “That was the color…”The tomatoes had been so ripe that a stiff breeze could have knocked them off the vine. So fresh, in fact, that Steve had asked Chef Thomas to pick them and make spaghetti sauce for dinner, even though his recipe hadn’t been half as good as Steve’s mom’s.Bucky said, “Krasnyy,” which Steve knew meant red. But then he said “DEFCON 1,” which meant—“All done. I’m just going to put some gauze over this.”Actually, Steve had no idea what nuclear war had to do with tomatoes. Just like he had no idea how somebody could say “I’m just going to put some gauze over this,” then apply enough pressure to make Steve see spots. Still, the DEFCON scale was oddly fitting.Looking back, Steve could see all the warning signs. Not about his mother's cancer—that had arrived without warning—but about Alexander. Despite his mother’s gift for cooking vegetable soup with flour dumplings, homemade applesauce with just the right amount of cinnamon, and beef stew with chunks of carrots and potatoes, Alexander hadn't wanted her to cook. “That’s why we have a chef,” he’d say. “Thomas will make you anything you want.” In the beginning, she’d smile, tug on his tie, and do it anyway, filling the penthouse with authentic Brooklyn smells. Corn bread. Meatloaf. Twice-baked potatoes with bacon bits and sour cream. Steve had a vivid memory of his mother sliding a stuffed potato across Alexander’s desk as he’d worked on his computer, waiting with her hands on her hips until he'd taken a bite.And the crazy thing? Steve could remember him smiling.But this wasn't about Alexander.This was about tomatoes.Pushing through the pain, Steve said, “She stopped cooking,” because he wanted Bucky to know. “Whenever he was home… she just… stopped.”That’s why Saturday mornings had become so important. In a place where so many of their Brooklyn traditions just hadn’t fit, Saturday morning had become the one day of the week where Steve had felt like a little piece of home had followed him over the bridge.“Who stopped?” Bucky’s mouth was touching Steve’s ear, adding a different kind of pressure as the man taped the gauze to Steve’s cheek. And it hurt. His cheek. His head. His nose. His arm. His ribs. The memories. All of it.That Saturday, instead of calling the staff to grab their breakfast, Chef Thomas had made three trips up and down the spiral staircase, carrying trays of omelets and bacon, fruit salad, and juice to the main floor. And Steve’s mother hadn’t said a word. She’d simply placed two plates on the glass table in the corner and said, “Time to eat, sweetheart.” Steve had been so distracted by the freshly squeezed orange juice and sunshine that he’d happily devoured everything on his plate as she’d raved about his drawing. She’d been impressed by the shiny tomatoes. Told him he should take more art classes at school in the fall. Asked whether or not he’d like to try painting. And everything had seemed perfectly normal—idyllic even—until he’d noticed that his mother hadn’t touched her food.“Are you talking about your mom?” Bucky asked. “‘Cause I had Natasha put her in the glovebox. Safe and sound.” Whenever Steve thought about being happy, that untouched omelet marked the point when his tomato-red pencil had scratched a line through his timeline, permanently etching happy on one side and unhappy on the other.“There was some blood and maybe a little bit of puke, but Natalia got it off. Right? You fixed her?”Even at that age, with a belly full of fruit and a brand-new set of colored pencils, Steve had known that something had been terribly wrong. Not only had his young, vibrant mother stopped talking, but she’d been staring through the glass at the biggest tomato. “There was a bug,” Steve said as another wave of pain rippled through his chest. “A Japanese beetle. And it… it was crawling…” Tender, ripe skin, easily breached with a single bite, the bug had crawled inside and ruined their spaghetti dinner with its black legs and insatiable appetite. And where there was one, Steve had known there were destined to be more. An infestation. A single tear had run down his mother’s cheek as she’d stared at that fucking bug, and once she’d explained the mechanics of cancer, Steve had understood why.“In that horrible moment… the—” Steve winced. “The… tomato had… fallen from the vine.”“For fuck’s sake, lady, just do it on top of me!”Bucky was talking, but he wasn’t talking to Steve. There was a nurse on Bucky’s side of the bed. A nurse with a cart.“The faster we get this in, the faster I can get these pain meds on board.”“No shit,” Bucky said, scooching down and stretching out his shirt. “Just pretend my abs are a table and shove that shit into his arm. Bam! Like Vlad the Impaler or Buffy with her stake. Seriously, Roberta, what the fuck are you waiting for?” Steve had no idea what was going on, and maybe that was for the best. Mr. Barnes was still at the foot of the bed, but he was alone. No mean doctors in sight. And Natasha was standing next to Steve’s candy-cane arm, touching his shoulder as the nurse did whatever she was doing with alcohol and an arm-sized rubber band.“A little pinch,” she said before a needle slid into the back of his hand. “Okay, good, I’ve got it. Now, hold still while I get this IV up and running.”And her face—The kindness of her smile couldn’t hide her guilt. Compared to his arm—and every other broken part of his body—the needle was nothing, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt when she moved it around to tape things in place. And that made Steve wonder what it must be like to work in a field where you spent the majority of your day hurting people in order to help them. Did this woman crawl into her bed, tired and weary at the end of every shift, only to hear her patients’ screams in her dreams? Or did she revel in the thanks and appreciation she’d eventually receive in the end?“Okay, here we go.”In less than a second, Steve had his answer.He’d been taking beatings for years, but in all that time, Alexander had never done enough damage to send him to the emergency room. No broken bones. No cuts that had required more than ten—or twenty—bandages. So Steve had never experienced—“Holy shit.”“If you feel nauseous, let me know. Morphine has that effect on some people.”Steve had heard what she’d said—maybe—but he was too busy not feeling any pain to respond. Sick? Nooo. He felt high. Like, higher than he’d ever been. And his beautiful boyfriend?He was asking, “Can I get some of that?” because… yeah. The nurse was talking, and Bucky was talking, and Steve thought that maybe he was talking when he said, “You’re so pretty, baby. That’s why I kissed your pretty lips on the Coney Island shore. And that… that’s why he broke me.” There was another tether attached to Steve’s hand, but it wasn’t tied to God—with his stupid rules about boys kissing boys—it was attached to a pole that was just a pole.“You make me feel so safe,” Steve said as the throbbing inside his head morphed into more of a wub-wub-wub. “Like Lucifer with a handful of Kermits.” Bucky scoffed, which was so, so wrong. And it was even wronger when he said, “Imagine how safe you’d feel if I’d actually protected you.”Staring at the drop ceiling, Steve smiled. “But you did, baby. You did. You’re my fallen angel, and…” The tiny dots in the square tiles were moving, shifting like powdered-sugar sand in Bucky’s island breeze. “Because of you, I’ll never have to stare at that stark-white penthouse ceiling again. Because of you, it’s all sand and stars.”“Hi there. Feeling better, I see.”“Sooo much better. I’m in love with an angel, and his name is Bucky Barnes.”Steve wasn’t sure who he was talking to, and that was fine. He had a nice face, and a nice beard, and a nice turban, and a shiny stethoscope that the ravens would probably love to get their talons on. “Good to know.” When the man laughed, his beard laughed too. “I’m Dr. Singh, and I’m sorry it took so long to get you some relief. Looks like you’ve had a rough night.”Mr. Barnes said something about the police, and maybe something about Alexander, but Bucky’s hair was soft, and— “Why do you smell like gravy?”“I fell into the potatoes. Right before I fell down the stairs.”Steve snorted, which, magical morphine or not, was bad news with a broken nose. But the glob of blood clogging the back of his throat didn’t stop him from saying, “I fell down the stairs too. The spiral ones.”The nice doctor started to unwrap Steve’s arm, unspiraling the spiral, which made Steve laugh even more.“Do you remember falling?” Bucky asked, smooshing his gravy hair against Steve’s neck. “‘Cause I only remember landing. Splat! Like Sockette, but alive.” Alive. God, Steve loved that word. He loved it on a mixtape. He loved it in spray paint. And he loved it when it was dancing around inside his eight-chambered heart like a Pagan on the summer solstice.That’s why he said, “I’m more alive than I’ve ever been. Now that I’ve fallen, we—” Steve swallowed. “We can really live.”“Even though my brain is made of gravy?”The doctor said something about an X-ray, a CAT scan, and a plastic surgeon, but Steve didn’t care. He just wanted to bury his nose in Bucky’s hair because homemade gravy, when it was mixed with honeysuckle and daffodils, smelled like home. ***** “Bucky, c’mon.” Natasha knocked on the door for the hundredth time. “You have to come out.”She was too tired for this. And she wasn’t talking about Rogers—although the stress of the past few hours had been more than exhausting—she was talking about her brother locking himself in a one-room bathroom.It was her fault. Bucky was obviously still messed up on something, and that, combined with the trauma of—Natasha closed her eyes, trying to block the sound of Rogers’ scream when Bucky had dropped him onto the gurney. It didn’t work.Rogers was the one with the traumatic injuries, but they’d all been traumatized. Bucky. Natasha. Their dad. The security guards that Bucky had shouted at to “Get some fucking help!” But even exhausted, bloody, and scarred for life, Natasha should have known better than to let her brother go into the bathroom alone. Too bad that knowing something and acting on something didn’t always line up at three o’clock in the morning.“You’ve been in there for ten minutes, Bucky. There’s a line.”Natasha purposely kept her eyes on the handle. She already knew there was a middle-aged woman in a hospital gown behind her. She didn’t want to know if there was anybody else.“Dammit, Bucky. Answer me.”“Dude, I already told you! I’m washing my hands!”If they weren’t twenty feet from the nurses’ station, Natasha would’ve knelt down, pressed her forehead against the door, and made herself as small as possible because as annoying as the situation was, she understood why her brother was hiding. If given the choice, she’d be hiding too.After moving Rogers’ truck to the parking garage, she’d spent a long time at the row of sinks in the bathroom by the main entrance, scrubbing the blood out from underneath her fingernails. People had come in and out, staring as she’d steamed up the mirrors, but she hadn’t stopped. Not until her fingernail polish had begun to peel and her fingers had been red and raw.“Please, Bucky. Let me in.”Natasha had seen people get hurt. Just a few weeks ago, she’d held Addie’s hand after her knee had popped, comforting her while they’d waited for her mom to pick her up from the studio. And last year, she’d watched Noah Crimmins have a seizure in the biology lab, blood pouring from the spot where his head had hit the corner of his workstation on his way to the floor. Not to mention the hundreds—if not thousands—of times Bucky and Clint had hurt themselves skateboarding, wrestling, or pretending that they knew parkour. But she’d never seen anybody suffer like Rogers had. Not for hours on end. And she still had no idea what had happened.After they’d finally given Rogers some real pain medication, he’d gone directly from rambling incoherently from the pain to rambling incoherently from the drugs. There’d been nothing in between. His stepfather had done it. That much she knew. But why? And how? She had no idea. “Maybe the police are having better luck.” Scoffing, Natasha rested her forehead against the door. “Not that I would know.”When the police had shown up, Bucky had caused such a scene that their dad had pulled out his wallet, handed Natasha a twenty, and told her to “buy him something healthy.” In other words, go away.They’d made it around one corner before Bucky had locked himself in the bathroom. One. Rattling the handle, she said, “Two minutes and I’m getting Dad.” It was a bluff—and a bad one at that. Their dad was helping Rogers make an official, narcotic-tainted police report. He didn’t have time to deal with Bucky’s bullshit and Natasha’s failure.“Do you hear me, Bucky? Two minutes.”“Probably should’ve done that already.”The woman behind her was close enough that Natasha could smell her perfume. But instead of acknowledging her, Natasha pressed her ear against the door.The water was running full blast, and she could hear her brother scrubbing his hands, hitting the soap dispenser, then scrubbing them again. Exactly like she’d done only hours before.“Bucky, please.”Clint was the one with the movie obsession, and Bucky was the one who randomly decided he was Yoda or Bruce Willis, but, right now, Natasha was the one picturing herself in the scene from Frozen where Anna is on one side of the door while Elsa is on the other. It was stupid, but that didn’t stop her from whispering, “Do you want to build a snowman?” into the crack by the hinge. “I never see you anymore… it’s like you’ve gone away.”No response.They were growing up, yes, but she’d never thought they’d grow apart. But ever since Rogers—She scrubbed her hands across her face.Rogers was only half of it. Maybe less than half.Ever since Clint, Bucky had closed a hell of a lot more than a bathroom door.Clint was a great listener—he was—but talking to him about how her infected toenail was keeping her from dancing on pointe just hadn’t been the same as telling her brother. Bucky would have yanked off her sock, pretended to gag, and taken a picture. Clint had taken off her sock, but he’d done it gently, filling a plastic tub with hot, salty water before helping her soak it. And while Clint’s version had been helpful and sweet, it—It just wasn’t her brother.Like he’d read her mind, Natasha’s phone lit up with another text from Clint. She’d been keeping him updated, texting him in the garage, calling after she’d washed her hands, texting some more. But listening to Bucky get further and further away, Clint’s texts were becoming easier to ignore. Bucky was her person. Her luchschy droog. And as annoyed as she was, her person was fucked up on God knows what and flooding an emergency room bathroom.She knocked. Nothing happened. She said, “Yakov, you need to eat.” Nothing again. “It’s been way longer than two minutes, honey.”“I know.”“Think maybe it’s time to get your dad?”Maybe the woman was right. The cops could be finished, meaning their dad was just sitting there, waiting for Bucky and Natasha to get back with sandwiches and coffee, completely unaware that they hadn’t even made it out of the ER.“Yo, yo, yo. Are the boys in blue gone?”It was the first sign of hope. The water was still running full blast, but she could tell by the volume of Bucky’s voice that he was closer to the door. She just had to say the right thing to get him to turn the lock.“‘Cause I’m not interested in Officer Mustache poppin’ off with that taser. And even though Officer Tyrese Gibson likes fast cars and knows Vin Diesel, I’m not down for him pressin’ his big gun against my asscheeks.”The fact that one of the policemen happened to be a handsome Black man with a great smile hadn’t made it any less offensive when Bucky had asked if he’d been on scene when Paul Walker had wrapped his car around a tree. And it had been even worse when Bucky had winked at the officer with the mustache, said, “I like your ass tickler,” then asked for his ‘badge’ number.Honestly, Natasha wasn’t sure how Bucky hadn’t ended up in cuffs.“They’re with Steve,” she said, tiptoeing around her brother’s cracks. “That’s why we’re going to the cafeteria.”The water stopped, but instead of unlocking the door, Bucky yelled, “Liar, we’re going to the cafeteria ‘cause Stevie couldn’t do the YMCA with the low-rent Village People! I mean, imagine him tryin’ to make the letter Y with his wobbly arm.” The water turned back on, and Natasha—Warm, salty water soothing her wound. A bath where she could float on the surface and let somebody take care of her for once.“Girl, I’m about to piss my panties.”“And I’m about to curl up into a ball and cry, but until my brother decides to unlock the door, there’s not a damn thing either one of us can do about it.” Natasha hadn’t looked before she’d said it, but when she did, she was mortified.It wasn’t just the woman waiting. Behind her was an intoxicated twenty-something guy being held up by an intoxicated twenty-something girl, an older woman struggling to balance on a set of crutches, and a man in pajama pants holding a little boy. But the worst part wasn’t the line. It was that the boy was wearing a tiny hospital gown. There were lots of things Natasha remembered from the orphanage that Bucky didn’t. Things that she’d tucked away because they didn’t make any sense. One of them was the plastic bracelet Yakov had been wearing when he’d arrived. The one that the caretakers had said they’d forgotten to cut off at the hospital.“I’ll find someone to help,” Natasha said, staring at the little boy’s feet. “Just give me a minute, and—” They’d soaked Yakov’s feet in a bowl when he’d first arrived. A bowl with warm water and salt.“Give me a minute, and I’ll fix it.”It took way too long to find a nurse with a key, and even longer for the nurse to get a free second to deal with a perfectly healthy teenager locking himself in the bathroom. When they finally got back, the little boy was sound asleep, his head pillowed on the man’s shoulder. He looked peaceful and soft, unlike Yakov, whose sleep had been anything but until he’d been old enough to forget what Natasha couldn’t remember.“What the fuckity fuck, Nurse Ratched?”The nurse had opened the door, and Bucky—Bucky had a beard made of bubbles.“This is a private bathroom!” Bucky yelled, slipping in the gigantic puddle on the floor. “El private el baño. You can’t just barge in here with your no-knock warrant and shoot up my shit!”“Move!”If Natasha thought she’d been traumatized before, it was nothing compared to the woman in the hospital gown pushing past her, pulling down her underwear, and throwing herself onto the toilet. In front of the nurse, in front of Bucky, in front of the drunk college kids—and anybody else who was unlucky enough to be walking by—the woman just let it all go. And when she farted, Bucky, with his bubble beard, snorted so loud that he gagged.Chaos. That’s what this was. Complete and utter chaos.Grabbing Bucky’s soapy wrist, Natasha dragged him out of the bathroom. It didn’t matter that the sink was overflowing, the woman was having explosive diarrhea, and the nurse was shouting at them to stay put. All Natasha cared about was finding a sign. Cafeteria. Exit. Escape. “Wanna know why Officer Mustache kicked me out?” Bucky flung a handful of bubbles at the wall as they turned the corner. “‘Cause he didn’t want little ol’ me in the official police pictures.”Radiology. Trauma. Lab. There were signs everywhere, but none of them were the way out.“I mean, can you imagine some janky-ass public defender—you know, ‘cause Stevie’s gonna be broke as fuck—presenting Exhibit A to the court? Seventy-nine stitches across the victim's cheek. And it’s B.A.D., like Michael Jackson when his nose fell off. And Mr. Janky’s talkin’ about how Dr. Sing-along had to call in the head of plastic surgery so the scar wouldn’t be permanently disfiguring.”Triage. Intake. Elevators.“Then…Bam!...Judge Judy slams her hammer on the bench and says, ‘Why’s there a superhot boy with excellent hair kissin’ the victim’s temple in the corner of this picture?’ And Mr. Janky would say, ‘It’s not relevant to the case, Your Honor. Please disregard the soft kiss captured in Exhibit A.’”Waiting room. Chapel. Pharmacy. “But it was too late. The damage had already been done. Mr. Pierce’s hotshot lawyer—in his seven thousand dollar Tom Ford suit—would rub his hands together and say, ‘If I can’t unsee it, we can’t expect the jury to unsee it.’ And…Whammo!...Judge Judy would smash Stevie’s future with Thor’s hammer and say, ‘Sustained. The hot boy with excellent hair has contaminated the evidence. Case dismissed.’” Cafeteria. The sign was at the end of a long hallway full of curtains. The exact same hallway where Rogers and her dad were being questioned by the police. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Natasha said because not only had they walked in a giant circle, but the cafeteria sign was hanging next to the nurses’ station, right before the bathroom.“No, dude, I’m tellin’ you, Stevie’s wicked stepfather’s gonna walk out of the courtroom a free man. Mo money, mo problems, unless you’re Alexander Pierce or Carlisle Rumlow.”One foot in front of the other. That’s all she had to do. Even though her toe hurt. Even though they had to walk past the curtain where they were getting Rogers ready for surgery. Even though she wanted somebody to get her a sandwich.Like Clint.“Let’s go,” she said, pushing Bucky past the curtain as fast as she could. And when they made it to the double doors—in full view of the flooded bathroom—she pushed the button on the wall even faster. Push to open. That’s what it said. But instead of opening quickly—like a door in the emergency room should—it opened slowly, like Natasha had all the time in the world to get Bucky away from the scene of the crime.“This portal is slow as fuck.” Bucky hit the button again. “Captain Kirk would throw Scotty’s ass in the brig if he pulled this shit.”“Excuse me!” Out of nowhere, an orderly with short, dark hair pushed past Bucky, knocking him off balance before he kicked open the door. And Bucky—He said, “Brock,” like he’d seen a ghost.Natasha wasn’t stupid. She knew something serious was going on with Brock. Something that had everything—or nothing—to do with the anonymous tip about a gun. She just didn’t know what. But the way Bucky was staring at the man’s back, the color draining out of his face as the door inched its way shut, was the first real proof that her brother was involved.“Do you remember the time I tripped on the sidewalk and Dad put Bactine on my knees?” She didn’t, but she said, “Yes,” anyway.“Do you think Bactine would work on a brain?”The man was gone, but Bucky was still staring through the little window in the door, the chaos replaced by something that Natasha understood. Worry. Pressing the button again, she said, “The X-ray didn’t show any skull fractures, Bucky. It’s a concussion, and they’re watching it closely.”“I know.”The door opened—ever so slowly—but instead of cracking another Star Trek joke, Bucky said, “I have a headache,” and started down the hallway. One foot in front of the other.Natasha trailed after him, watching her brother move. Only minutes before, he’d been bouncing off the walls, tap dancing as he’d played both sides of that ridiculous courthouse scene, but now he was walking in a perfectly straight line, his boots silent, even though his gait was heavy.It made the hair stand up on her arms. She might not remember their dad putting Bactine on Bucky’s scraped knees, but she remembered how quiet Yakov had gotten after the teacher had chopped off his hair at the orphanage. For days, he’d barely spoken. Just like he’d gone quiet after their neighbor’s house had caught fire, and after Clint—Natasha looked at her phone. Five missed calls. Too many texts to count. Each one more panicked than the last.After Clint, Bucky hadn’t acted like Bucky for weeks.But she’d never seen him like this. “Bucky, slow down.”No answer.“Bucky.”He turned around so fast that she almost dropped her phone. “You want me to hurry. You want me to slow down. Make up your fucking mind.”Natasha was too shocked to do anything but stare.“Nice shirt by the way,” he said, dragging his fingernails across the dark-green wall. “You wear that on purpose?”When she’d heard Bucky freaking out in his bedroom, Natasha had been FaceTiming with Clint, and they’d been— Natasha swallowed. They’d been ‘making up,’ and since she’d been wearing nothing but a bra and panties, she’d thrown on the first shirt she’d seen. Unfortunately, it also happened to be the t-shirt Clint had left in her room last week. Walking toward her without taking his fingers off the wall, Bucky sneered when he said, “Pierce the Veil. I was at that concert with him. In fact, the only reason we got in was because I threw myself at the girl in the box office. Used my charm to get us a couple of twenty-one plus wristbands.”For the first time in her life, Natasha stepped backward when Bucky stepped forward.“We got drunk before we bought that shirt. Real drunk. And after Clint slipped and fell trying to get it over his mohawk—right into a puddle of piss and beer—I sucked him off in a dirty bathroom stall. Got come all over the bottom.”Sympathy was one thing, but Bucky being a royal dick when Natasha was just trying to help? No. Not happening.Straightening her shoulders to match his pose, she said, “I’m sure he washed it.”“Yeah, he wouldn’t put anything dirty on my sister.”There was a pause. A moment when everything that had been brewing between them hovered like static electricity. But then Bucky ran his thumb across his bottom lip like he was wiping—“Enough!”Usually Bucky was the one who lost his temper, flipping off doctors, punching walls, and—this was a new one—getting suspended for being crass to his math teacher. But this time, it was Natasha’s voice that echoed down the long, curving hallway. Past the ugly paintings. Past the uncomfortable looking benches. Past the fake plants. All the way to the atrium where she prayed they’d find the goddamn cafeteria. “I know your boyfriend just got the living shit beaten out of him, but that doesn’t give you the right to talk to me like that. Clint is with me now, Bucky. Me. And you’re with Steve. You can’t have both.”“Are you sure about that?”In all their years together, Natasha had never hit her brother. Not in anger. But all that changed when Bucky smiled like he could take whatever he wanted. “Fuck you!” She smacked him across the face. “Fuck your drama, and your selfish, self-absorbed—”“You hit me.”Bucky’s head was turned to the left as far as it would go, and he was—He was staring at a painting of a woman pushing a baby in a stroller.“Not as hard as he did… Not hard enough to smell cigarettes. But the sting is the same. Like bees without the honey.”“What are you talking about? Who hit you?”“Why do you think they made this hallway so long?” Bucky asked, stretching out his arms. “And so wide? Even if I was Wolverine—or Freddy Krueger—my claws wouldn’t be able to touch the sides.”Natasha was used to her brother’s mood swings. She’d been dealing with them for as long as she could remember. But she wasn’t used to experiencing the whiplash within herself. As Bucky wove back and forth, scratching his nails across one wall, then the other, her anger became nothing but concern. “I bet 857 people have died just tryin’ to get to the salad bar.” Bucky laughed as he dug his nails into a painting of a couple having a picnic. “And the lucky few who managed to survive? They were fuckin’ pissed when they discovered that there was nothin’ but those shitty fruit cups where the apples are brown and it’s, like, ninety-nine percent honeydew. Don’t get me wrong, honeydew smells good when it’s in shampoo and shit, but when it’s mushy and old in the bottom of a hospital fruit cup, it sucks ass. Oh, I used your shampoo, by the way. I wanted to smell good when Stevie came over to spoon.”It had been hours. Whatever Bucky had taken should have worn off by now, unless—“Bucky, did you get high in the bathroom?”He laughed. “No, but I wish I had. Are you holdin’? I mean, now that you’re dating the Ganja King, it’s possible that he’s corrupted you with THC. Those gummy bears are a gateway drug. And don’t even get me started on the brownies.”Natasha wasn’t talking about weed. She was talking about her brother snorting Adderall or molly off the back of a hospital toilet. But instead of pushing him, she said, “I’m sorry I slapped you,” because emergency or not, it had been stupid of her to wear Clint’s shirt. “Slap? What slap?” Bucky shrugged. “Fun fact: Stevie likes to smack my ass, like…Whammo!...and I’m totally into it. I’m, like, his naughty poodle, and when he grabs the leash, I—”“Food. Now.”Natasha walked away as fast as her toe would allow. She could handle being tired and traumatized, but she couldn’t handle Bucky talking about his sex life with Rogers. It had been bad enough when Clint had given her the crib notes from the weekend.“Fuck you!”The crash behind her made her jump, and when she spun around, she saw Bucky shaking the metal gate in front of the Starbucks.“Motherfucker!” He shook it even harder. “Why the fuck wouldn’t a motherfucking Starbucks in a hospital be open twenty-four hours? Car crashes. Five-alarm fires. Pulverized arms. Dead moms. Don’t they know that horrible things happen to good people twenty-four seven and we need Caramel Frappuccinos with extra fucking whip to deal with it?”The Starbucks was at the very edge of the atrium—next to a Subway and a gift shop—and Bucky’s voice was bouncing off the top of the glass dome like he was screaming into a megaphone. It was worse than the overflowing water in the bathroom. Worse than Bucky’s fingernails digging into the picnic baskets and baby strollers. And worse than their all-out fight about Clint’s stupid shirt. “Yakov, you have to stop,” Natasha said, hoping that the name would make him smaller. “You have to calm down.”“Why? So that wrinkly old lady and her ancient candy striper will stop gawking? Gawk! You know, like…Squawk!...but for car crashes instead of birds.”Natasha looked over her shoulder, and part of her was actually relieved to see that there was an old man pushing an even older lady in a wheelchair. It sucked that they’d stopped to watch Bucky rip the Starbucks’ gate out of the ceiling, but at least whatever drug Bucky was on wasn’t making him hallucinate.Punching the gate with the same fist he’d used to punch the wall, Bucky wasn’t talking when he asked, “What the fuck are you looking at, Joe?” he was snarling. And Natasha—She was terrified.“That’s your name, right?” Bucky pointed at the man’s chest. “I might be a lunatic, but I can still read. Nice name tag, Hi, my name is Joe.”“Bucky, no.” Clint had offered to come. In fact, he’d insisted on it. But Natasha had told him no. But now, standing between Bucky and the elderly people he was verbally assaulting, she knew she should’ve said yes. “Do you have a problem with me wanting a motherfucking Frappuccino? ‘Cause it’s just coffee and milk, and maybe—if you say pretty, pretty please—a peppermint stick that’s been cracked in two.”The veins on Bucky’s forearms were popping out as he clenched his fists, and there was sweat dripping down his forehead like he’d shot cocaine directly into his heart. Clint would probably tackle him, putting him into a headlock until he stopped threatening the old people. But Natasha didn’t have that option, and twisting Bucky’s hair into a bunch of mini buns certainly wasn’t going to cut it.Tripling the volume until he was screaming, Bucky asked, “Or do you have a problem with me being loud? You know, my best friend has hearing aids like yours, and he hates it when I yell. Says it ‘fucks with his brain.’” When Bucky lunged forward, Natasha stepped into his path. She had no other choice. “Is that why you’re gawking, Hi, my name is Joe? Am I fucking with your brain?”The old man started to push the wheelchair in the opposite direction, moving faster than Natasha ever would’ve thought possible. But Bucky wasn’t done.Pointing over her head, he shouted, “Wanna know what I have a problem with, Joe? My boyfriend letting his stepdad beat the shit out of him. If Steve were scrawny, sure, I’d understand how he ended up half dead with a broken arm, but he’s a fucking powerhouse. One punch and he could’ve cracked that prick’s skull wide open.”Natasha wasn’t sure when Bucky had stopped yelling at the old man and started yelling at the world, and she didn’t care. All she knew was that she finally felt safe enough to put her hand in the center of her brother’s chest. “Bucky, we don’t know what happened.”“And why is that? ‘Cause Dad kicked us out? ‘Cause the cops are in there taking pictures of Steve instead of me?”“Pictures? Why would you—”“Didn’t Clint tell you? Everything is revealed with the magic of Daisy’s camera. Love. Hate. Pain. The fucking truth!”There was a wildness in Bucky’s eyes when he leaned into her hand. A fire that couldn’t be explained away by drugs, trauma, or low blood sugar.“What if Steve’s arm is permanently fucked? Then what? How the fuck is he supposed to hold my Frappuccino and my cup of extra whip at the same fucking time?”Bucky wasn’t yelling anymore. He was crying. And this time when she said, “Yakov, please, let’s just sit down,” he actually listened. Her intention had been to sit at the tables on the other side of the atrium—to get them both a shitty fruit cup and a sandwich—but she didn’t complain when Bucky backed up against the gate and slid down to sit on the floor.Kneeling beside him, Natasha waited until her brother’s breathing had settled to say, “Your knuckles are bleeding again.” “I don’t remember them bleeding before.”Natasha took that as an admission.“You can tell me what you’re on, Bucky. I’m not going to judge you.”Bending his legs, Bucky started to pick at the strings on his jeans. There were more than she remembered. Especially around the knees. And two of the patches were hanging on by a literal thread. When Natasha had grabbed them off the floor of Bucky’s room, they’d been inside out. And when she’d helped Bucky switch out his pajama pants in the garage, she’d been too distracted by the fact that he’d just cartwheeled down the stairs to notice that they were practically falling apart.“I bought some pills.” Natasha brushed Bucky’s hair behind his ear, carefully picking out a chunk of dried gravy.“After Dad suspended me, I—” Bucky sighed. “It was stupid. And I forgot they were in my pocket until I was in the bathroom, and I guess… I guess I just wanted an escape.”“So you snorted a bunch of pills?”“Sure. I snorted a bunch of pills. Crushed ‘em up with my driver’s license on the edge of the sink before I washed Steve’s blood off my hands.”Bucky’s elbows were resting on his knees, and the blood oozing from his knuckles was taking them back to where they’d been before the bubbles and soap. “You seem okay now,” she said because, aside from a slight tremor in his fingers, he did. “Yeah, I guess I got ripped off. Drug dealers these days are just looking to make a quick buck. They don’t care about keeping customers long term. Except for Clint. He’s old school. Commitment, dedication, high-quality service.” “Do you want me to call him? I know he’s awake.”Leaning back, Bucky bounced his head off the gate. “You told him what happened?”“I told him what I know, which is nothing. But, yeah, I told him we were at the hospital.”Bucky closed his eyes. Then he opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, several times over.Finally, he asked, “Do you ever feel like you’re in over your head, but, at the same time, you don’t want to get out of the pool?” Natasha glanced at her toe, knowing damn well that she would dance on it tomorrow. Just like she knew she’d smile the next time Clint stripped down to nothing but his jewelry on a late-night FaceTime call. “Yes,” she said, because that was all she could manage at four o’clock in the morning.“Did you see the blood on Steve’s picture when you put it in the truck?”“There was only a little, and I got most—”“I think it’s ruined.”She could try to make her brother feel better with words, or she could get him some juice, rub his shoulders, and try to get the rest of the gravy out of his hair. “I’ll be right back,” she said, pulling the wrinkled twenty out of her pocket. “Can you just sit here and chill while I get us some food?”“I don’t know about chilling, but I can sit here like a useless piece of shit until you get back.”“Good enough.”Natasha limped across the atrium toward the cafeteria, stopping at the halfway point to catch her breath. She wanted to take off her shoe, text Clint, soak her foot, and go to sleep, dreaming about building a stupid snowman with Yakov in his winter hat. She wanted to do anything and everything but find out if Bucky had been right about the food. “One foot in front of the other,” she said, stepping forward on her heel. “Even if I can feel the pus moving around underneath my toenail.”Wilted salads in plastic containers. Unidentifiable sandwiches in plastic wrap. Broken cookies in plastic baggies. Needless to say, Bucky had been right about the fucking food. There were even plastic cups filled with nothing but brown apples. No honeydew in sight. Suddenly Natasha understood why her brother had tried to rip down the gate. The best thing she could find—aside from a single halfway decent banana—was a vanilla yogurt parfait with blueberries and granola. And, yes, they were both wrapped in plastic.On the way back, Natasha had to take off her shoe. Then, because she didn’t have enough hands, she had to put her banana inside her shoe. But instead of making fun of her when she dropped her banana shoe at his feet, Bucky said, “You left me alone,” like she’d betrayed him. “You left me alone on the icy tiles, and the man on the bench, he—”Bucky swallowed. “He said you left me in the middle of a sad parade of sick people and slow-motion wheelchairs because that’s what I deserve.”Sitting cross-legged in front of him, Natasha tore open the granola, broke the seal on the yogurt, and stirred everything together with the plastic spoon. There was no point in talking until she got Bucky’s blood sugar up. No point in acknowledging that Bucky had ripped his jeans from his knees to his ankles.“Wanna know what his name is? I’ll give you a hint. It rhymes with sock.”Natasha held a spoonful of yogurt in front of her brother’s mouth. And when he said, “Here comes the airplane,” she stuck the spoon inside.
“Chomp!”
Swear to god, he almost broke the spoon in half.“Bucky, let go.”He did no such thing.Keeping his teeth clenched, he said, “The man on the bench—let's call him The Rock—has a Glock that’s even bigger than Officer Mustache’s. And instead of feedin’ me yogurt like a five-year-old, he’s itchin’ to choke me with a cup of ‘My baby’s extra whip.’”“What the hell, Bucky?”“Those blueberries are lookin’ at me,” he said, poking the side of the plastic cup with his middle finger. “They’re like alien eyeballs on Neptune, staring at me through a thick ocean of come. And the granola—”Bucky blinked.“I don’t know if Steve likes granola.”“What?”“It’s such a simple thing, but I… I don’t know.”Glancing at the empty bench, Bucky opened his mouth. Only this time, instead of an airplane, there was only air.Natasha was able to feed him the rest of the parfait without anything else going wrong. No outbursts. No tears. No bubble beards or thinly veiled references to Brock Rumlow. Even the security guard watching them from the gift shop kept his distance.Maybe that’s why she felt safe enough to take the banana out of her shoe and ask, “Do you want to go back?”“Back where?”“Back to the emergency room.”Instead of standing up, Bucky scooched to the side and laid his head on Natasha’s lap. “I’d rather stay here with the bananas and the sugar. Aside from piña coladas and beer, bananas are the monkeys' favorite treat on Incubus Island.”The path of least resistance. That’s what Natasha chose when she said, “Okay, but just until I finish eating my banana.”When Bucky closed his eyes, Natasha unpeeled the fruit as slowly as she could, determined not to take a bite until their Dad called to say that the worst was over.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It had taken three cracked ribs, a distal radius fracture, a broken nose, seventeen stitches in his cheek—plus eight more above his ear—and a not-so-mild concussion for Steve to execute Tony’s plan. And once he had, he’d stumbled out of that penthouse prison with nothing more than the clothes on his back and the treasured picture of his mother at Coney Island.The picture that Bucky was keeping safe.Steve smiled. Then, after his face reminded him that smiling was currently off the table, he transferred the smile to the inside.Bucky was curled up in the armchair in the corner, sound asleep. And looking at his legs hanging over the armrest like a baby giraffe, Steve fell in love a little bit more. “I love you,” Steve said just to put it out into the world. “And I love your stupid jeans because they look like they got run over by a lawnmower.”“Qué?”Before yesterday, if Steve had been hit by a bus—or viciously attacked with a golf club—he would have ended up in a private hospital room with nothing but the best doctors attending to his every need. Alexander would have insisted. But since this was Steve’s first post-Alexander experience, he was sharing a room with a construction worker named Carlos.“Sorry, Carlos. I was talking to the universe.”“Qué?”Or, more precisely, a construction worker named Carlos who didn’t speak a lick of English.There was a curtain between them, but the light from the hallway was casting a shadow of Carlos’ medieval torture device onto the fabric. According to his daughter Inez, Carlos’ femur had been crushed by a steel beam. One second he’d been coming back from the food truck with a bowl of halal chicken and rice, and the next, he’d been pinned to the ground with his thigh bone sticking out of his jeans. Steve closed his eyes. One, because it was terrifying, and two, because the pins and wires holding Carlos’ leg together were a visceral reminder that things could have been so much worse. Wearing a cast for the next six to eight weeks wasn’t ideal, but at least Steve could still walk. Not that they’d let him out of bed.It was a blur, but Steve had been wheeled back and forth from the ER for two sets of X-rays, a CT scan of his head, and an incredibly claustrophobic MRI to see if his broken ribs had damaged anything important—you know, like his liver, kidneys, or spleen. And when they’d finally wheeled Steve to his room, Bucky had sat cross-legged on the end of the gurney, holding Steve’s plate of sausage and powdered eggs all the way up to the eighth floor. The only real activity Steve had tried had been pissing into a hospital-issued bottle while Nurse Bucky had ‘helped’ him aim.Fact: Endorphins are natural painkillers, and secret hand jobs—even when an IV full of synthetic painkillers won’t let you come—are a great way to kick off the day in the hospital.Steve looked up at the clock. It was half past four. Almost twenty-four hours since he’d walked into that fucking penthouse for the very last time and eighteen since he’d dragged himself into the service elevator, hit the button for the parking garage, and collapsed in the center, counting the floors as he’d descended into the glorious ninth circle of Hell.In the ninth circle, Bucky had picked out Steve’s bright-blue cast because it had “matched the blueberries.” And he was right. When Bucky had fed Steve “his very own yogurt parfait” for lunch, the color had been almost identical. “Like a Smurf with a tan.”“Qué?”“Sorry,” Steve said, laughing as much as his nose splint would allow. “I’m really high, and I’ve got a bunch of teeny-tiny Smurfs running around in here with Dante. And that—” Steve pointed at Carlos’ pointy shadow. “That, my friend, is hilarious. Lust. Greed. Papa Smurf. Azrael the cat—whose name legitimately means angel of death. It’s like an animated Bucky/Steve mash-up happening inside my concussed brain.”The word Smurf was the same in English and Spanish, so Carlos probably had a 4K vision of Papa Smurf in his non-concussed brain, but Dante? Only lit majors and pompous dickwads who read fourteenth century Italian poetry for fun knew who Dante was, regardless of their native tongue.If Steve’s eyes weren’t swollen like Kathryn Tuzik’s bee-stung lips, he would have rolled them. Not at Carlos—because Carlos was cool—but at himself for pondering the parallels between the Smurfs and Satan instead of figuring out his next move. The ninth circle was a great place to visit, but he couldn’t fucking live here.Tony’s original plan had included time for actual planning, so as elated as Steve was to be in the hospital, he was pretty much homeless. No money, no clothes, no… anything. The only things he had left were a wrecked truck, a backpack full of spray paint, and one impractical shoe.Wiggling his toes, Steve said, “I want to live with the bunnies. That way my feet will be warm and cozy, like toasted marshmallows next to a roaring bonfire.”“Conejo?”“Yes, marshmallows. And I want to glue those fuzzy bunnies to my feet and dance around the fire with the Wild Thing and the Wild Thing’s fuzzy family.”Bucky’s dad and Natasha had stayed by Steve’s side until they’d reduced his wrist, shoved his nose back into place, stitched up his cheek, and gotten him settled in with Carlos. But then they’d gone home—Mr. Barnes to change for work and Natasha to go to bed—because that’s what people did when they had a house with an actual door. When they had a family.Shifting his hips to get a better look at Bucky’s fur, Steve sighed. “I bet Bucky has a Smurf t-shirt that’s three sizes too small. One where the whole gang is posing in front of their little mushroom houses.”Macaroni picture frames. Tater tots and Napoleon Dynamite. Checkerboard tablecloths with Lucky Charms and perfectly basic spoons. Steve didn’t want to live in a mushroom, but maybe he could live with Bucky. At least until his plan evolved into something more than a forty-five minute conversation over fish tacos, a shockingly premature execution, and a broken arm.“Hey, Carlos. Do you want to hear something funny?” “No hablo inglés.”“The more bones I let that bastard break, the faster I could run.”The beatdown may have gone down two months too soon, but that hadn’t stopped Alexander from falling right into Steve’s trap.“I’m a spider,” Steve said because— Well, because he was high. And Bucky’s shredded jeans reminded Steve of the licorice webs that had dangled from the Misfit King’s pants, which made him think about Wonderland, which made him think about how sexy it had been when—"Estás bien?"Carlos had repeated that phrase so many times that Steve was pretty sure it meant something along the lines of “Are you okay?” And since Steve was happily bouncing around on a sugar-spun web with the world’s sexist spider, he answered, “Sí, Carlos, I’m fantastic.” And he was. When Steve had tumbled down the spiral staircase, landing ass first in his mother’s broccoli-and-cheese kitchen, he'd never felt so free. Broken and bloody, with Alexander screaming at him from above, he’d followed the ravens into the service elevator, counting down the numbers until the doors had opened someplace new. Someplace where he could follow his heart without the tip of his dick ending up in a plastic bottle. Steve looked at his phone. Twenty minutes. That’s how long he’d been standing in the middle of his walk-in closet, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Twenty fucking minutes trying to come to terms with the fact that he couldn’t get out of this Goddamn dinner party.“Fucking show pony.” Steve rolled his shoulders. “You might as well be wearing a saddle.”The new beige Armani suit Jade had left on Steve’s bed—with explicit instructions to pair it with a crisp white shirt—was way too small. The pants were squeezing his ass and thighs like Saran Wrap, the cashmere wool was stretched to capacity across his shoulder blades, and the seams— Steve flexed his biceps. If he so much as reached for a salad fork, they’d split open like overstuffed sausages. It was Jade’s job to get these things right, but this? Steve tried to move his dick into a comfortable position. This was a fucking joke. Obviously, Jade had given the tailor his measurements from last spring, before Steve had upped his weight training, gained five pounds of muscle, and grown an inch and a half. The inch of sock on display between the bottom of the pants and Steve’s brown dress shoes was evidence of that.If Alexander noticed—which he would—Jade would be lucky if she didn’t get fired.Buttoning—then unbuttoning—the jacket, Steve tried his damndest to channel the best part of his day. But when he said, “Snap, crackle, pop,” there wasn’t any fizzle. It was just sad. Every time Bucky blurted out something ridiculous like “Snap, crackle, pop!” or “Shazam!” there was always an exclamation point at the end. Sometimes two. No matter what was happening in his life—Rumlow’s shit included—Bucky’s energy always matched the cereal. Sighing, Steve turned away from his reflection.Back in May, this suit would have fit him perfectly, but Steve wasn’t the same person who'd taken Peggy Carter to Junior Prom. Not by a long shot. Steve knew he shouldn’t look, but he looked anyway.At the end of the long row of dinner-party-appropriate suits, there was an empty garment bag. But it wasn’t just Steve’s pinstripe Homecoming suit that was missing. It was the very essence of rebellion and hope.When he’d unzipped the bag on Friday, smiling like a love-stuck fool as he’d pictured Bucky unwrapping his Ducky shoes, Steve never in a million years would have predicted that its contents would end up in the corner of a hotel bathroom, soaked in toilet water and piss. But that’s exactly where Steve had left the pinstripe suit, along with Bucky’s baby-blue.“Tainted,” Steve said, touching the ghosts of the stripes on his shoulder. “Soiled beyond repair.” But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t regret it. If he’d sent the suits to the cleaners to get rid of the piss and puke—along with any remnants of Brock—Steve could have stripped down to his underwear and thrown this shit-brown suit into the incinerator. Tainted or not, at least the pinstripe fabric would have fit Steve’s new form.“Fuck it.” Snatching a pink pocket square off the shelf, Steve shoved it into his upper-class straitjacket. The sole purpose of this suit was for Steve to blend seamlessly into the background of Alexander’s meticulously crafted illusion—white and beige against white and grey—and Steve was done being on equal footing with the fucking furniture.For a second, it felt like a real rebellion. Like one pop of bubblegum pink would be enough to get Steve through another insufferable night. But the mirror revealed the truth. Unless Steve did something real—something daring—he’d forever be a whisper of pink in a cesspool of beige. Tony may have been unnecessarily blunt with his presentation, but he was right. If Steve wanted out, he had to put on his big-boy pants, grow a pair, and drop the bomb before Alexander realized that Steve had declared war.Ditching the bubblegum, Steve said, “Find your moment,” before he replaced it with white silk to match the couch. Blowing up his life required a certain amount of precision, and if he hit the target just right, he’d be eating Lucky Charms for breakfast, lunch, and dinner seven days a week for the rest of his life.Suddenly there were three sharp knocks on his bedroom door. But it wasn’t the ravens tap-tap-tapping with their pointed beaks. It was Jade saying, “Steven, it’s time.”Time to walk the plank. Time to put his neck into the guillotine. Time to face the firing squad with perfect posture and an unflappable smile. Steve fought the urge to punch the mirror. “Time to put on a fucking show.”Hors d’oeuvres When Steve walked into the living room, everything was exactly as he'd expected. Alexander was by the fireplace, talking to the men with his business partner Randall, while Randall’s wife Tilly was by the windows, keeping the women busy with wine spritzers and gossip.That had been his mother’s job once upon a time. Idle chit-chat with a side of charm. Except when she had done it, she’d stood by Alexander’s side, breaking barriers without even trying.Closing his fists, Steve pressed his nails into the meat of his palms. Not hard enough to open the crescent moons, but hard enough to remind himself that the pain was temporary. There was an end date. He just had to keep his shit together long enough to get there.Smile. Ask the bartender for a Coke. Eat a fucking hors d’oeuvre.Steve was here for one reason and one reason only: to be part of the scenery. Along with the soft lighting, classical music, and tastefully arranged flowers, Steve had been curated to inspire confidence in the owner. To make investors feel good about dropping millions of dollars into Alexander’s capable hands. And if Steve wanted to be more than a prop, he had to play along.His first job was to endure tedious small talk over hors d’oeuvres, and, lucky for him, shoving fish eggs and foie gras into his mouth only took one hand. Releasing his right fist, Steve picked up a salmon canapé, doubling down on the left as he walked toward the women.
Escargots à la Bourguignonne
Was Steve still the fastest swimmer at Eaton? If he was the best, why did he need a co-captain? Had he broken any records lately? How many college scouts had come to watch him swim?
Duck Foie Gras served as a round
Did Steve have a perfect grade point average? How many AP classes was he taking this semester? Had he applied for early acceptance to an Ivy League college? Would Steve be valedictorian, or did Tony Stark have that in the bag?
Smoked Salmon and Beluga Caviar Canapés on Brioche
What philanthropic causes did Steve consider most important? Was he aware that charity work was critical for the development of a positive public persona?
Crab Stuffed Shrimp wrapped in Artisanal Bacon
Alexander must be so proud to have raised such a hardworking young man. Did Steve aspire to follow in Alexander’s footsteps in the company? Each bite was harder to swallow than the last, and Steve wasn’t talking about the fucking fish eggs. The thick cloud of perfume. The bleached smiles. The Botox. Swear to God, if the investor’s forty-year-old wife ‘accidentally’ brushed her hand against Steve’s ass one more time, he was going to flip the hors d’oeuvres table and stomp on the salmon and shrimp until there was nothing left but mush.But attacking the seafood was the opposite of biding his time. Instead, Steve dropped two salmon-and-caviar canapés into the bamboo palm by the bar. Was it passive-aggressive? Absolutely. But when they rotted, their stench would make the penthouse reek of its reality. A glass and metal facade hiding a rotten core.
First Course
Chestnut Fennel SoupThere were twelve people seated around the dining room table, their positions strategically arranged in accordance with the evening’s objectives. Alexander, of course, was at the head of the table, wearing a dark-blue suit that screamed high-rolling Republican. And Randall Crane, Alexander’s right-hand man, was flashing his million dollar smile on his boss’ right-hand side. The investor—whose nondescript face was as forgettable as his name—was on Alexander’s left, boxed in by the financial equivalent of a roofie. Kathryn Tuzik was married to Alexander’s hotshot lawyer David, and her cleavage and extensions got bigger every time Steve saw her.Those three seats were a given—a one-two punch when it came to siphoning money off a mark—but it got more complicated as you moved down the table. Next to Kathryn were Alexander’s money man Tobias Wharton and his wife Margot. Tobias was in his early fifties, with enough grey in his beard to make him look like he knew his way around a ledger, but not so much that he seemed incapable of hiding massive amounts of cash in shell companies and bogus trusts. Steve wasn’t a fan. Maybe it was because the guy drove a bright-red Bugatti, or maybe it was because he had a habit of snapping his fingers at the staff. And Margot? Steve glanced across the table at her diamond earrings, diamond tennis bracelet, and diamond necklace. Margot was the type who organized a charity gala for an animal shelter, then stepped on a puppy with her red-soled Louboutin. But the Whartons didn’t win top prize for the most vile human beings at the table. Alexander aside, that honor went to the snake of a lawyer on the end. David Tuzik had only been part of Alexander’s inner circle for a year and a half, but in that time, Steve had watched him broker more backdoor deals than his predecessor had in the previous six. Hushed phone calls. Late-night meetings in Alexander’s office. Sidebars at company events that made the Rumlows and Castles look like upright citizens. And worst of all, David always used his wife’s ‘assets’ to sweeten the deal.Rearranging his napkin to hide how tightly his pants were stretched across his hips, Steve studied the front of Kathryn’s dress. It was black, with more sequins than fabric, and the neckline was cut so low that Steve could see the undercarriage of her breasts resting against her rib cage. And if Steve could see that from all the way across the table, he could only imagine what the investor was seeing. A swath of spray-tanned skin? The edge of an ill-advised college tattoo? A mole that Kathryn needed to get removed? Based on the guy’s horndog smile—and the way his eyes were glued to her chest—Steve would bet a hefty stack of Alexander’s cash on nipple. Maybe Mrs. Kathryn Tuzik was happy to be used as bait. After all, the bigger the investment, the bigger the bonus. Or maybe she was just another show pony like Steve. Steve’s shirt might not be unbuttoned all the way to his navel, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t on display. Stereotypes weren’t always true, but the one about rich women loving horses was right on the money, especially big, strong studs who’d been trained to let anyone ride them. And Steve—The investor’s wife squeezed his knee like she was massaging his fucking nutsack. Steve was starting to think that Jade had gotten his measurements wrong on purpose. “You look sad.” Her name was Sydney. Steve remembered because she, unlike her nipple-obsessed husband, had whispered it into his ear a hundred times. She’d come out of the gate with the mildly flirtatious “I know your dad wants you to call me Mrs. Doyle, but you can call me Sydney,” then quickly graduated to the highly suggestive “My parents named me Sydney because they ‘rocked the boat’ on a seventy-eight foot yacht in front of the Sydney Opera House.” But Steve’s personal favorite had to be the vacation-oriented “With a body like yours, you should spend the winter surfing in Sydney. The sharks won’t bother you, but the girls? Mmm… they’ll just gobble you right up.” Most kids were given more responsibility when they turned eighteen. It was a normal part of growing up. But Steve didn’t think most parents upped their expectations regarding sexual exploitation.Strategy. That’s why Sydney had been sandwiched between David the Snake and Steve the Stud. For one, if she were any further away from her husband, she’d be eating her five-course meal on the couch. Sydney couldn’t see what her husband’s hands were doing under the table, and he couldn’t see hers, which was a mutually beneficial situation when it came to Alexander landing the deal. And, more importantly, David was able to keep the wine flowing into Sydney’s glass as he planted ideas into her head. Specifically, ideas about Steve’s ‘availability.’But David had been heavy-handed on the pour, which was why Sydney, with her French manicure, French twist, and Chanel slip dress, was half a glass of wine away from sliding under the table and sucking Steve’s dick.“You should have a glass of wine to cheer you up,” Sydney said, leaving lipstick on the rim of her glass. It was maroon, like Peggy’s in the wintertime. “This vintage is excellent.”“I’m underage.”The swat to Steve’s elbow was swift and discreet, but it wasn’t Sydney who’d hit him. She was too busy sneaking her fingers underneath the edge of Steve’s napkin. It was Randall’s wife Tilly, whose assigned seat had nothing to do with supporting her husband and everything to do with keeping the show pony in line.Pimps, you see, came in all shapes and sizes, and Tilly was the equivalent of a handler with an invisible whip. Nudges, tsks, tattling to Alexander when Steve didn’t perform up to snuff. She was almost as bad as the bastard at the head of the table, minus the beatings and burns. Steve bit the inside of his cheek, trying to focus on something—anything—besides what was happening in his lap. The polka-dot Hirst on the wall. No. Steve fucking hated that painting. The orange-and-yellow sunset behind the western skyline. Absolutely not. Things only got worse after dark. The way the snake hissed when he told the waiter to replace Steve’s water with wine. Fuck no. Absolutely not.His eyes finally landed on the centerpiece, which, aside from a single succulent on the sidebar, was the only thing in the room with a fucking life force. The greenery stretched almost the full length of the table, weaving its way between dozens of tiny round mirrors that had been placed on the glass like stepping stones to another world. “One,” Steve said, counting the flowers as he tried to remember the exact hue of the daisies he’d slipped into Bucky’s Bacchus hair.And that’s when he realized—Steve had always appreciated their decorator’s sense of humor, but this? He covered his smile with his hand. This was fucking perfect. In addition to the candles and carefully woven ferns, Estelle had aimed a flower at everybody’s place setting except Steve’s.Twelve people at the table. Eleven white daffodils. Ignoring the way Sydney’s fingers had found the edge of his dick, Steve leaned into the violation.“Did you know that daffodils are part of the narcissus family?” he asked as the red took root. “Everyone always assumes that they’re hopeful flowers because of the way their petals pop through the snow in the springtime. And, don’t get me wrong, in some interpretations they are, symbolizing rebirth and forgiveness. But not all…”Sydney leaned in like he was about to tell her a dirty secret, which, honestly, was the best thing that had happened all night. “In classical mythology,” Steve continued, lowering his voice to a whisper, “Narcissus was a man of exceptional beauty. Dali, Caravaggio, Da Vinci, they all painted him as a nubile and young, with nothing but a sheet to conceal his perfection.”Sydney blushed, which Wrath took as an invitation to pull up the thirteenth chair. “One day, Narcissus knelt at the edge of a pool of water. There was no wind or current. Nothing to distort the mirror-like quality of the surface. And when he saw his reflection”—Steve bit his bottom lip like Bucky—“he fell madly in love with himself. And there he stayed, until he withered up and died.”This time, there was no brush off required. Sydney took her hand off Steve’s dick all by herself. And when the waiter slid a bowl of soup in front of Steve, he couldn’t help but laugh.It was the exact same color as his suit.Alexander cleared his throat, which, at this rodeo, was the equivalent of yanking Steve’s bit. The rules were clear. Ponies weren’t allowed to laugh at the table unless Alexander himself had cracked the joke. And since that bastard’s mouth was full of shit-colored soup, Steve’s infraction was clear. He’d pay for it later. That was a guarantee.The vibration in Steve’s hand when he picked up the spoon was infuriating. The fear. The anticipation of pain. The flush of adrenaline. It was textbook Pavlovian conditioning, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.At least not yet.For now, his only option was to adopt Bucky’s mode of escape, except in Steve’s version of Incubus Island, he was sitting at a checkered table, eating four-leaf clovers and pink hearts with a plastic spork.But no matter how hard he tried, Steve couldn’t make the spoon between his teeth feel like anything other than what it was. Sterling silver didn’t bend and flex like lunchroom plastic. There was no spring in the handle or potential for launching spitballs across the cafeteria. It was rigid, just like the rest of the silverware that had been lined up to the millimeter at each place setting. Twelve people. Twelve utensils each. Bringing the grand total to one hundred forty-four polished forks, spoons, and knives, each engraved with a swirling letter P. Steve allowed the spoon to slide halfway into his soup.He fucking hated this silverware. Hated looking at it. Hated holding it. And he sure as fuck hated what it stood for. One bullet was all it had taken for the Rogers family to sever all ties with his mother. But abandoned or not, Rogers was the only name Steve had ever known. And, more importantly, it was the name he’d shared with his mother. But Alexander Pierce, with his fucking letter P, had stolen that from Steve too. Sarah Elizabeth Pierce. That’s what it said on his mother’s headstone. Not Sarah Elizabeth Rogers, or even Sarah Elizabeth Rogers-Pierce.Without picking up the spoon, Steve swallowed another bite of shit.For the first three years, visits to his mother’s grave had been carefully orchestrated events. Every two months, rain or shine, Alexander’s security team had held a black umbrella over that bastard’s head, protecting him from ‘prying eyes’ as he’d placed a dozen red roses in front of that fucking headstone. And Steve—Sydney put her hand back on his knee.Steve had been told not to cry.After the role of grieving widower had run its course, Steve had been left to visit his mother on his own. And every time, he would stop at the flower shop by the cemetery and pick out the blooms with the longest stems. Then he’d lean them against his mother’s headstone to make it read Sarah Elizabeth like it was supposed to. And, rain or shine, he’d never take an umbrella.“I’m going to smash it with a sledgehammer,” Steve said to nobody in particular. “I’d love to watch you smash something with a sledgehammer.”Kudos to David. Sydney was well past drunk.Maybe that’s why Steve felt confident saying something as stupid as, “Even my mother’s gravestone?” When this was all over, one of the first things Steve was going to do was replace that fucking stone with one that said his mother’s real name. Then he’d buy the prettiest bouquet of short-stemmed azaleas and take Bucky to meet her.“Oh my God.” The realization was like a kick in the balls. “I don’t know his real name.”“Excuse me?” Tilly scowled at Steve like he’d knocked over his wine, which he had.Steve had heard Bucky call his sister Natalia, but he had absolutely no idea what Bucky’s name had been before Bucky. Or, Jesus Christ, what his last name had been before Barnes! “Let me help you with that, sir.”The waiter leaned in with a towel, but Steve didn’t give a flying fuck about the red wine dripping onto his shit-beige pants.He only cared about Bucky’s real name.Steve was never going to make it through four more courses of this sterling-silver bullshit. He needed to get the fuck out of here, drive across the thirty-seven bumps on the Brooklyn Bridge, and ask Bucky five questions before he asked five more.How did you end up at the orphanage? Did you know your birth parents? How did you meet Natasha? Did you try to lose your accent, or did it just disappear over time? And number five: Would you say something to me in Russian? Maybe “I love you.”
Second Course
Wilted Spinach Salad with Warm Apple Cider-and-Bacon DressingDavid Tuzik had been staring at Steve since the arrival of the salads, and he wasn’t being subtle about it. With every bite of wilted spinach, he’d narrow his eyes, dip his chin, and shoot Steve a look that was equal parts sinister and gleeful. Steve wasn’t sure if the guy was trying to be Patrick Bateman with a fork instead of an axe or if he’d just had too many dirty martinis. Ignoring the spinach-wielding serial killer, Steve pushed a cherry tomato toward the center of his plate. Three more courses. That’s all he had to survive.Three more courses until he could ask Bucky his original name. Three more fucking courses until he could get Sydney Doyle’s Goddamn hand off his ass.
Third Course
Butternut Squash Gnocchi with Sage Brown ButterShiny things. The table was full of them. Platinum watches. Emerald earrings. Cufflinks with sapphire accents. The entire guest list was a fucking smorgasbord of diamonds, silver, and twenty-four karat gold. And the ravens were right here, waiting.When the waiter had cleared Steve’s salad plate, the charger beneath had revealed Steve’s reflection. But unlike Narcissus, he hadn’t been alone.The ravens were perched on the shoulders of Steve’s soup-colored suit, their talons digging into the fabric just like they had the first night they’d appeared. When Steve, defeated and bleeding, had been flanked by a symmetrical visage of an unknown future.He’d told Bucky about them, and he hadn’t run. Not that running off the edge of a four-story building had been a viable option.“Your gnocchi, sir.”A plate with six tiny potato dumplings was placed on top of the silver charger. Two for Steve, and two for each of his ravens. Although Steve highly doubted that the birds were here for the hand-rolled pasta. The sage butter made the gnocchi glisten, but it didn’t make them shine. Not like the diamonds on Tilly’s necklace. “Your necklace is stunning,” Steve said as the raven on his left brushed its wing against the clasp. “The candlelight makes the diamonds look like a constellation in the night sky. Maybe Corvus.”There was a sense of satisfaction knowing that it was months, not years, before Steve could unleash his ravens. And when he did, they’d tear into flesh and metal alike, snatching up everything bright and shiny before swooping past the skyscrapers of Manhattan to drop them into the Hudson.
Fourth Course
Smoked Cheddar Stuffed Chicken with Green Apple SlawUsing the sharpest knife, Steve sliced open his chicken breast with one easy stroke. And the cheese—Steve smiled.Despite the unholy clusterfuck surrounding him, the smoked cheddar looked inviting and warm as it oozed out onto the plate. Homey. Like Bucky's lips when Steve had kissed them on the border of the Sanctuary. Tender, pliable, and perfectly seasoned with bubblegum and love.“Steven," Alexander said through clenched teeth. "She asked you a question.” Getting distracted at a formal event was a cardinal sin—even more so than laughing without permission—but looking from face to face, Steve had no idea which “she” Alexander was talking about. Was it Kathryn, with her bee-stung lips and ballooning breasts? Margot, who in accordance with dinner party tradition, had downed an entire bottle of Merlot? Tilly with her diamond-encrusted whip? Or “Sydney, like the opera house,” who’d graduated to tugging on Steve’s belt?With only four women to choose from, Steve had a twenty-five percent chance of getting it right. But there was also a seventy-five percent chance that Alexander would slam Steve into another doorframe and sever his fucking spine.“That’s all right, honey. I remember how hard it was to focus when I was a teenager.”Well, that settled it. “She” was Kathryn, and “she” had apparently forgotten that she was a hell of a lot closer to Steve’s age than her husband’s.Putting her arm around the investor’s shoulders, Kathryn smiled like Steve’s discomfort was a turn-on. “I asked if there was a lucky young lady in your life.” David cleared his throat. “Don’t be silly, darling. Don’t you remember?” “Oh, yes,” she said directly to Alexander. “The beach.”The cheese stopped oozing. The silverware stopped clanking. And every good thing that Steve associated with Bucky’s beach—love notes carved with sticks, pink dolphins skimming along the waves, the taste of cherry Bomb Pops on Bucky’s tongue—was flipped end over end and consumed by the eyewall until there was nothing left but dread.This wasn’t Patrick Bateman. This was much, much worse.David took his time finishing his martini, waiting for the storm surge to devour Steve’s timeline before he said, “Kathryn and I were out at Coney Island this weekend. It’s a dreadful place. Crowded. Dirty. But when you have children, you’ll do anything to make them happy. Isn’t that right, Alexander?”Alexander set down his fork, but the knife stayed in his hand.“We were only there for an hour, but when I walked down to the water to tell our nannies to dry off Asher and Imogen, you wouldn’t believe who I saw.”Steve’s heart seized, squeezing until all eight chambers had emptied into the vacuum of the eyewall. His fingers. His arms. The spot where his spine met his skull. All of it went numb.“It was Steven. And I’ve got to say, I’ve never seen him look so happy.” David signaled martini number four—Or was it five?—before turning to Steve. “I’m assuming that the young man I saw you with is your boyfriend. Because if he’s not—” There was a collective gasp as David raised his eyebrows. “Let’s just say some discretion would be prudent. I mean, you can’t go around kissing every half-naked boy like you’re madly in love with him. In our circles, word gets around.”It was a set up. That much was clear. A power move designed to embarrass Alexander. To gain leverage. To change the dynamic. And it was going to ruin everything.Raising his glass, David gave new meaning to the words dirty martini when he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we should all learn from Alexander’s example. If my son Asher chose an alternative lifestyle, then gallivanted around a public beach for all to see, I don’t think I could be nearly as open-minded.”The cheese was still oozing from the center of Steve’s chicken, but instead of the joy that came with the prospect of late-night Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, Steve’s stomach turned at the thought that his intestines would do the same damn thing when Alexander disemboweled him with that knife.Control. It was one of Alexander’s gifts. Controlling people. Controlling the room. Controlling the narrative. And when Alexander returned the toast, saying, “It’s just a matter of evolving with the times,” it was one of his greatest performances. “I’ve always taught Steven to carefully evaluate his choices and to accept the consequences of his decisions.” Alexander aimed his glass at Steve. “What is the job of a parent if not to stand proudly on the sidelines, watching with interest as their child forges their own path?”Vodka. Vermouth. Brine. As ten glasses were lifted to honor Alexander’s words, the eyewall smashed full force into Steve’s chest, eliminating all hope of evacuation. The plan was to wait. To figure shit out. To talk to Tony’s lawyers.But this was happening. And it was happening now.“So, cheers to you, son.” Alexander paused, waiting for Steve to make eye contact. “For your bravery as you walk the road that lies ahead.”
Dessert
Blood Orange Upside-Down Cake with a Blood Orange ReductionThis was it.As Steve stood side by side with Alexander, nodding politely as the last of the guests stepped into the elevator, he knew that this was his one and only chance to escape this prison. His one chance to live a real life. He just had to get Alexander to lose control.Steve’s mother had always told him not to run from a fight. Even when he’d weighed less than a Labrador retriever, she would put her hand on his shoulder and say, “Stand up for what you believe in, sweetheart. And always help those who aren’t strong enough to stand up for themselves.” So what the hell would she say if she saw Steve slide his hands into the pockets of his pants, leaving himself completely vulnerable as he waited for Alexander to bash his face in? Strategy was one thing, but this?Steve relaxed his shoulders.This was fucking reckless.Alexander had already dismissed the staff, sending everybody home as soon as the dessert plates had been cleared. The waiters. The bartender. Chef Antonia and her team. All of them had been instructed to leave the mess until tomorrow. As confounding as his orders had been to Antonia, Alexander’s logic was sound. Dirty dishes and spoiled food were easy to clean up in the morning. Witnesses, not so much. And if Steve played his cards right, Alexander was about to turn the penthouse into a crime scene.The instant the doors slid shut, Alexander spun on his heel and stormed into his office. No words. No orders. Just the sound of his office door slamming against the wall.Shrugging out of the shit-beige jacket, Steve said, “Forgive me,” before he threw it at the bamboo palm. Then he undid the top two buttons of his dress shirt, focusing on what he had to do. Steeling himself for how far he had to go. Trying his damndest to slow his breathing before the end began.Footsteps, approaching quickly from behind, then—Alexander didn’t have many hobbies outside of work. The dinners, galas, and weekend trips to the Maldives were about money, not pleasure. But he fucking loved golf. He even had a rectangle of fake grass by his desk so he could practice putting while he lined up million dollar deals.That’s how Steve knew that the object that had just slammed into his back was Alexander’s heaviest putter. The one with the sharp metal prongs.He went down, and he went down hard, the crunch of his ribs registering before the pain. But a grand slam to the torso wasn’t enough to stop Steve from laughing when his knees hit the marble.Alexander had never tossed Steve a baseball in Central Park. Just like he’d never shown Steve how to kick a soccer ball, shoot a basket, or throw a touchdown pass. Because this— Steve gasped for air.This was how Steve and his ‘dad’ played sports.“How dare you!” The pointed end of the putter crashed into Steve’s shoulder blade, only inches from his spine. “I’ve given you everything. Everything! And this is how you repay me? By tarnishing my name?”Steve instinctively covered his head, curling into a ball until he remembered that this had to be foolproof. Before his life could get better, he had to make it ten times worse.Forcing his body to unfold, Steve said, “Your name? Fuck your name! I’m in love, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it!” “Is that right?”The kick to Steve’s kidney was sure to turn his urine pink by morning, but bloody piss wasn’t the key to pink hearts and red balloons. For this to work, Alexander had to do something that would show. “Kick me all you want,” Steve said, rolling onto his back to expose everything soft and vital. “It won’t make me any less gay.”Adrenaline was a magical thing. And when Alexander tossed the putter aside to straddle Steve’s chest, Wrath almost took control. It would be so easy to strangle the life out of Alexander, erasing him from existence like he’d erased Rogers from his mother’s name, but Steve had to keep it contained. He had to stay down.“I never should have taken you in!” Alexander’s fist knocked Steve’s head sideways. “I should have thrown you into the trash the second I buried your mother!”Steve felt his nose break. Felt the cartilage separate from the bone. But there was no pause. No time to breathe. And as Steve choked on his own blood, Alexander grabbed his hair and slammed his head against the floor.“A means… to an end.” It was getting harder to think. Harder to see. “Push down the red. A means… to… an end.”
“Steven?”
The putter had landed by the elevator, just in front of the tips of his mother’s summertime toes.“...frolicking with some boy on the beach for everyone to see. I bet you’re fucking him too!” Tony had said to make it bad. To make it worse than it had ever been.“Yeah… I—” Steve spit a mouthful of blood onto the sleeve of Alexander’s jacket. “I fuck him. And I love it.”This time, when Steve’s skull hit the floor, his vision flickered. In and out. Red to black.“You’ve been useless since you were twelve years old!” A right hook split Steve’s cheek, sending a splash of red across his mother’s pearlescent pink polish. “I may have loved your mother once, but I never even liked you!”
“Steven. Get up.”
When Steve’s nose took another hit, his mother gasped. But he stayed down, waiting for a sign that it was bad enough. That it hurt enough. That when the beating was over, Steve would never have to feel this kind of pain again. And when it happened, he smiled.Two pairs of wings had appeared behind the blur that was Alexander. Inky-black feathers that had nothing to do with Poe and everything to do with revenge.With one buck of his hips, Steve knocked Alexander off to the side. Not because Steve was strong, but because Alexander had let his guard down. And why wouldn’t he? In six years, Steve had never once fought back. “You’re fucked,” Steve said as he rolled onto all fours. “Totally… fucked.”It didn’t matter that everything was dark around the edges or that ringing in his ears was drowning out the sound of his own voice, all Steve had to do was crawl toward his mother’s pretty pink toes.“You’re a parasite! No wonder Sarah’s family wanted nothing to do with you.”Clutching the bottom of her yellow sundress, he pulled himself up just enough to slam his hand against the button. “Synchronicity,” Steve said, clutching the hem of his mother’s dress as he stared at the bloody handprint on the wall. Elevators that reflected the violence of Wrath. The only difference was that this time, the handprint was a stain on Alexander’s perfect world.“You’re done! Don’t even think about showing your face here again!” His mother smelled like summer, airy and light, and Steve wanted nothing more than to float around in her ice cubes and lemonade. But that’s not what happened.When the doors opened, her feet were gone and the ravens weren’t there to lead him forward.
“Steven, stand up.”
The cube was empty, and her voice—Steve turned his head because her voice had come from behind. “You’re completely cut off! You’ll never get another cent!”Alexander picked up the putter, but Steve didn’t care. The ravens were hovering at the beginning of the hallway, beckoning him with their peppermint eyes.Somehow Steve got to his feet. He wasn’t sure if his mother had helped him or if the birds had lent him their wings. All he knew was that he was missing a shoe.“Bunny, no bunny,” Steve said, laughing as he stumbled toward the hallway. “Bunny… no bunny.”“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”To be honest, Steve had no idea where he was going. He only knew that the ravens were gliding down the hallway, flying without flapping their wings. “Beautiful… and strange.” Steve fell against the wall. “Like Bucky and his bright-blue boots.”“I said, get the fuck out!”
“Don’t leave me.”
There was panic in his mother’s voice. Panic and fear. And suddenly all the emotions she’d tried so hard to hide in life poured into the hallway, bleeding through the veil. It was then that Steve remembered what he’d forgotten.One bunny or two, it didn’t matter. Steve started to run. Even if he ended up in a rectangular hole next to his mother, he had to fucking try.His room was just at the end of the hallway, but Steve’s head was spinning, and the walls— “Steven, hurry.” The walls were stretching like taffy. Not the good kind like the Kandi Kid’s sugary-sweet smile, but the bad kind, like hot, sticky tar weighing down the ravens’ feathers. One bunny, two bunny, three bunny, a million. When Steve stopped at the threshold to spew upside-down cake and blood all over the bunny, he didn’t know if he was going to make it. But he couldn’t leave her here. Not with him.Somehow he made it to his bed. Flannel sheets. His sketchbook. His wallet. Steve didn’t care about any of it. The only thing he needed was hidden underneath the mattress. All he had to do was pull it back and grab her hand.“I’ve got you,” he said when his fingers touched the photograph. “I’ve got you, and I’ll never let you—”
Snap!
The putter snapped Steve’s wrist like a candy cane on Christmas morning. And all Steve could do was scream.
“Get up, Steven.”
The picture of his mother was still in his hand, but his fingers—They wouldn’t move.
“You can do it, sweetheart. You’re almost there.”
When Steve was little, his mother had taken him to a street fair somewhere in Queens. And while Steve had struggled to climb one of those plastic rock walls, she’d stood at the bottom, cheering him on with those exact same words.Steve had no idea how he’d made it past Alexander. Or how he’d managed to fall down the spiral staircase without breaking the rest of his bones. All he knew was that one minute he was stumbling off his bed, and the next he was lying flat on his back in the service elevator with the picture of his mother resting on his chest.
“I’m proud of you, Steven. You’re such a brave boy.”
She was hovering above him, floating like the ravens as her summertime dress blew in the breeze. And, suddenly, Steve was there, listening to the seagulls screech as they searched for bits of Wonder Bread on the Coney Island shore. But that wasn’t all. He could hear the bells and buzzers of the carnival games, taste the pink cotton candy, and feel the warmth of his mother’s hand as they stood together in front of the Wonder Wheel. Behind his quickly swelling eyelids, Steve was living in the neon colors of that perfect moment, and it was everything.“I did it,” Steve said as he watched the numbers drop from seventy-nine to fifty-three to twenty-seven to nine. “I… did it for both of us.” Maybe when Bucky woke up from his armchair nap, Steve would crack open his storybook and tell him about the five-course meal from hell. Or maybe he’d wait. After all, blood orange upside-down cakes weren’t nearly as tasty when the reduction was made with real blood.“Gross,” Steve said as he poked the splint on his nose. “Gross, gross, gross.”Luckily, nobody had tried to feed Steve anything fancy—or shit colored—since he’d moved into the hospital. In fact, the vanilla yogurt parfait Bucky had shoveled into Steve’s mouth with the world’s most perfect spork had been infinitely better than any of Chef Antonia’s highbrow bullshit. Mushy blueberries with room-temperature yogurt beat out wilted spinach and fish eggs any day of the week. And the stale granola Bucky had sprinkled onto Steve’s tongue? Steve laughed. Those little nuggets had been worth half a dozen Micheline stars. Maybe more.“Hey, Carlos. Are you awake?”No answer. Clearing his throat, Steve tried again. “Carlos, you have to get your daughter to buy you some yogurt. I swear to God it’s life changing.”The lengthy groan from behind the curtain said that Carlos prioritized naps over yogurt. And that was okay. Maybe he was onto something.“Okay, Carlos. Sleep now, yogurt later.” Steve looked at Bucky, whose adorable Snuffleupagus snores were the soundtrack of Steve’s future. “Because, as you know better than anyone, Carlos, broken bones need plenty of rest to heal.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Bucky had been sitting in this fake-leather chair for what felt like days, pretending to scroll through his phone. And while double tapping pictures of Jake Bass’ bubble butt was pretty much impossible with a shattered screen, it was an excellent cover for what he’d really been up to since he’d woken up from his afternoon nap. Real talk: Quincy the Art Spy wasn’t looking so hot. Like, he was still hot hot, but in the past twenty-four hours, Steve had turned so many shades of black and blue that the DMV would probably make him remove caucasian from his driver’s license. That’s why Bucky and the Bruise Patrol were watching Steve sleep. Fake double tap, fake double tap, glance at Steve to make sure it was just drool running down his chin, not blood. Fake double tap, fake double tap, give Steve a once-over to make sure he was still breathing. “Greetings and salutations, Fucky B. Barnes!”An enormous bouquet walked into the room. No head. No torso. Just an entire garden shoved into a tall glass vase (plus legs). Even worse, the flower monster was wearing the most ridiculous pair of sneakers Bucky’d ever seen.They were black high-tops with shiny red stitching (relatively normal), but the sides were puffy and quilted like a homemade blanket. You know, like the ones Yakov’s babushka had sewn with scraps of fabric and a worn-out thimble every fall before the blizzards had buried the roads. And blanket feet were weird (at least when they were made for walking). But the thing that took them over the top was the red cookie-size eyelets centered over the monster’s ankle bones. And they weren’t Oreo-size holes or Thin Mint-size holes. No, Cookie Monster fans, these suckers were full-size Mrs. Fields’ double chocolate, chocolate chip. Bucky didn’t know if they were supposed to be air vents, peepholes, gloryholes for people with foot fetishes (cough, Steve), or hamster doors. He also had no idea why a bazillionaire would have a hamster as a pet. No VIP pass. No invitation. No crop top to woo the wardens. The flower monster just waltzed into the room and asked, “How’s my favorite golden retriever and his well-endowed lap dog?” like it fucking owned the place.“I hate your sneakers,” Bucky said, even though that was a big fat lie. “Oh, Bucky Boo, don’t be coy. You know you wanna drop to your knees and run your tongue up and down the leather.” The flower monster tapped its heels together three times. “So drop it like it’s hot, Toto. Lick my kicks before Glinda shows up in her bubble and sends me back to Kansas.” Setting his phone on his belly button (glass side up), Bucky asked, “Was that supposed to be an order? ‘Cause if it was, my nuts didn’t even tingle.”“I’d call it more of a temporary invitation. You know, since the big dog is out of commission.”Bucky was too tired for this. Sure, he’d caught some Z’s between Operation Flirtation Manipulation and Dr. Feelgood showing up with 579 energetic residents to look at Carlos’ leg, but it wasn’t enough to deal with a flower monster strolling around the room, searching for a place to put its head.It stopped at the foot of Carlos’ bed, ‘staring’ at the metal pins sticking out of his leg for a really, really, really long time before it said, “I could make you a prosthetic that would function fifty times better than that mess ever will. My advice? Cut it off.” Bucky would’ve told the monster to shut the fuck up if Carlos spoke English. But he didn’t, so Bucky gave his nuts a good scratch instead.Speaking of nuts, Bucky’d lick a pair for a PayDay. Not the kind of payday that required a job. The kind with caramel and peanuts.“It’s not gonna fit,” Bucky said as the monster scoped out the skinny table beneath the TV, balancing the bouquet with one hand as it felt around with the other. “You should just turn around and leave.”Did Bucky stick his legs out when the flower monster made a move for the windowsill? Abso-fucking-lutely. And did he laugh his ass off when it tripped and obliterated the eastern wall of the castle Bucky’d built with itty-bitty apple juice cans, crushed Funyuns (for the moat), and five plastic sporks (for the flags)? Fuck yeah. It was funny as fuck.But the best part was when the monster had to squat down in his skinny black jeans and skinny black blazer to set its head on the floor, revealing…Dun dun dun! “Oh look. It’s Tony Stark.” Manspreading like a motherfucker, Bucky fluffed his happy trail up around his phone (think the monolith from 2001, but floating in pubes instead of outer space). “Your glasses are even worse than your shoes.” That was big fat lie number two. Bucky’d straight-up kill for a pair of chunky gold frames with red lenses. “You look like Macklemore if he dropped cash at Gucci instead of the thrift shop.”“Well, you still look like Harry Styles, no accessories required.” Cue the stare down. Stark vs Barnes. Macklemore vs Styles. Dorothy vs the monolith. Ten seconds in, Bucky prevailed, and Stark, eyes watering behind those disco-bitch shades, backed dat ass up until he was within arm’s reach of Steve’s broken arm.“Yikes,” Tony said. Then nothing.Tony Stark never talked in single syllable sentences. It just wasn’t in his DNA. Even when he’d been a bouncing baby boy, Bucky imagined him begging his nannies for breast milk using twenty-point Scrabble words and run-on sentences.“Just ‘yikes’? That’s all you have to say?”Bucky saw Tony swallow. Saw his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. And something about the silence made the hair stand up on his arms. #SpideySense“You’re sure Pierce did all this?” Tony waved his hand over Steve’s body like he was assessing the damage to a couch after a frat party. A couple of spilled beers. Some guacamole on the cushions. A burn mark from a joint. “Because if you ask me, our boy looks like he got mauled by Oz’s legendary trifecta. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!”Tony was DEFCON 3 on a normal day. Orange (like an Oompa Loompa), short (like an Oompa Loompa), and everywhere all at once (like an Oompa Loompa). But this wasn’t a normal day, and Bucky, who’d been surviving on apple juice and Saltine crackers, hadn’t even slept long enough to dream.“I know I’m overdoing it with the Oz references,” Tony said, lifting the blanket to peek at Steve’s… dick? “Update your catalog, Tony. Blah-blah-blah, come up with something new. But if ever there was an opportunity to chant lions and tigers and bears like a busty blonde cheerleader, this is it. C’mon, Toto, say it with me. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Lions and tigers and—”“Go away,” Bucky said, trying (and failing) to stifle a sneeze.“No way, Ruby Boobie. There’s no place like my best friend’s subpar hospital room for an early evening soirée.” Pulling back the curtain, Tony said, “Hey, Pinleg, don’t let me forget to leave my card,” before he yanked it back shut. “Anyway, you’re the one who texted me, remember?”Rubbing his eyes, Bucky sunk further into the chair because (shout out, Metallica) as sad as it was, it was true. Steve did look like he’d been mauled by a lion and a tiger and a bear (Oh my!). Bucky did look like Harry Styles (with or without the hair). And Bucky, against his better judgment, had used Steve’s non-broken phone to text the asshole in the quilted shoes.“If I’d known you’d show up ten minutes later with a Titanic-size bouquet, I would’ve deleted your number.”“More like four hours and”—Tony checked his watch—"thirty-eight minutes. But who’s counting?”“I am.” Bucky sneezed, sending a mist of snot into the stratosphere. “I’m counting the seconds until…Poof!...you’re gone.”Bucky had tried everything to get Steve to shut up about Tony. Penis checkups. A vanilla yogurt parfait ‘fresh’ from the cafeteria. Blueberries with just the right amount of pop. But no matter how much yogurt Bucky’d shoved into his broken boyfriend’s mouth (or how much Dilaudid Dr. Feelgood had pumped into his veins) Steve just wouldn’t let it go.Had Bucky dialed Tony’s number and had an in-depth convo about Steve’s wrist flopping around like a limp dick? Fuck no! He’d sent one text with exactly two words. No emojis. No GIFs. No fun-loving selfies with Steve’s brand-new blueberry cast. Just It’s done, as requested.“I should’ve lied,” Bucky said as he scanned the room for a box of kleenex. “Steve’s so high that I could’ve texted Clint Bring me a hamburger and he never would’ve known.”“I happily would have brought you a ganja-laced burger, Bucky Boo. All you had to do was—”“And this whole ‘hush-hush’ thing you and Steve have going on?” Bucky rubbed his nose. “It’s fucking bullshit. It’s like ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ for victims of domestic violence.”
Slap!
Bucky felt the sting on his cheek. Smelled the cigarette smoke deep inside his sinuses. But he was too fucking tired to go down that road again. It was bad enough that Tony Stark was right in front of him, dropping Oz jokes like Steve’s broken bones could be fixed with one wave of Glinda’s magic wand. There was no way Bucky could handle Brock Rumlow creeping back into the room.This time, when Bucky sneezed, he made the mistake of plugging his nose, and…Kapow!...his eardrums exploded like Maverick himself had flown a fighter jet straight through his head at Mach 3. “Fuck!” “Here,” Tony said, holding out a box of kleenex. “What are you, three? Who plugs their nose when they sneeze?”Everything had been fine ten minutes ago. Fake double tap, fake double tap, make sure Steve wasn’t bleeding through the bandages on his head. Fake double tap, fake double tap, crunch up some Funyuns for the moat. But now?Bucky stared at the monolith, half expecting it to float.
Bam!
The kleenex box landed on Bucky’s dick (because Tony was a dick), and Bucky—Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, knowing that the road ahead was anything but yellow. One thrust of his hips was all it took to launch the box to the moon. And when it landed next to Clavious Base, Bucky asked, “Why the fuck did you bring flowers?” Then he shoved the monolith, aka his phone, down his pants to show Tony Stark exactly what he thought about bouquets that weren’t made of cookies. “Steve isn’t some sixty-year-old housewife with a broken hip and a Xanax addiction. He’s an injured beefcake in need of cupcakes or Cheetos… or khvorost.”Bucky would’ve added hamburguesas, pizza rolls, tater tots, and Sour Cream & Onion Pringles to the list, but Tony was staring at him like he had penis-shaped aliens growing out of his head (which, who knows, maybe he did).“What?” Bucky asked, rubbing his eyes. “Do you have a problem with cupcakes?”“No, I have a problem with Steve’s entire future being left in the hands of a traumatized Harry Styles look-alike who thinks cupcakes are more important than asking for help.” Stark pointed at Bucky like he’d shit on the rug. “You should’ve called me, Bucky. Right after it happened, you should have called.”“And when exactly was I supposed to do that?” Bucky’s phone vibrated against his balls. “While I was shoving a million kleenexes into Steve’s nose so he didn’t bleed out in traffic? Or should I have told my sister to stop holding his bones together with her bare hands? You know, ‘Hey, sis. Can I borrow your phone real quick? I have to make a call.’ Or, even better, should I have told Steve to stop screaming when the doctor yanked his wrist back into place? ‘Shut up, Steve! I’m trying to talk to Tony!’”
Buzz!
The vibration was constant, like the person on the other end was triggering a high-powered sex toy. God, he hoped it wasn’t his dad.“That’s not what I’m saying, Bucky.”“It sure as fuck sounds like it.” Bucky unzipped his pants. “Serial asshole Tony Stark—with his money and mimosas—wanted Wolverine to pause his attack on Starbucks so he could get the skinny on the carnage. News at eleven: According to eyewitness Natasha Barnes, Hugh Jackman scared the shit out of some old people in the name of a Caramel Frappuccino with extra whip.”Bucky’s balls were sweaty, so instead of coming out when he tried to grab it, the phone slipped all the way down to his taint.But Stark didn’t give a flying fuck that Bucky was getting a hummer via cell tower. He was too busy bitching, whining, and poking at the parts that already stung.“What I’m saying is that Pierce’s lawyers had already freed him from the long arm of the law by the time I got your incredibly vague text. Gone like dust in the wind or—if you’re a fan of racist cinema—Gone With the Wind. For Steve-o to strut out of the Bellagio, dripping in conflict-free diamonds and faux fur—take note, I’m anti-slavery, anti-warlord, and pro-PETA—we needed to be ahead of Pierce’s fixers, not fifteen hours behind them.” When Stark lifted Steve’s blanket a second time, there was no doubt what he was looking at. No fucking doubt.Pointing at Steve’s cock like a visual aid, the asshole said, “So when you refused to pick up your phone—which, no matter how PC you are, probably has conflict parts from Rwanda—you were cockblocking the cash.”“My phone’s broken!” Bucky managed to grab the corner of the case. “And now I have glass in my balls!”And it wasn’t just a little sliver. The broken pieces were scraping along his nutsack like the serrated edges of a shark’s tooth, catching the wrinkles as he pulled the phone out of his pants. “Whatever,” Stark said, proving once again that he was a self-absorbed motherfucker. “When you refused to pick up Steve’s phone, I had to call your sister. And it’s a good thing she answered with her wide-open vagina. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to give the legal eagles the info they needed to bang out the details.” “Eagles?” Bucky snorted. “Seriously, what the fuck is it with rich people and birds?” Imaginary ravens. Imaginary crows. Imaginary eagles doing a karate crane pose.“Um… Bucky.” Stark had his hand over his eyes, but he was totally peeking between his fingers. “As much as I’m intrigued by your big piano—especially now that I know how good it would feel in my butt—I’m going to need you to go ahead and zip up your pants.”Was Bucky’s dick hanging out of his jeans? Yep. His left nut too. But all he could think as he shoved everything back into place was that he didn’t remember taking off his underwear. Clint was the one who always went commando. It was a perk of being more of a grower than a shower. But Bucky only let it all hang out when he was chillin’ at home in a cozy pair of pajama pants, which— Bucky blinked.Wormholes were just time machines without the bells and whistles, and when he jumped into the one labeled Tuesday morning, he saw himself forcing his morning wood into a pair of boxer briefs. They were black. And dirty. Bucky touched the place where the waistband had been. Dirty because he’d been too lazy to go all the way down to the basement to grab a clean pair out of the dryer. Timehop. Time travel. It was just a matter of rewinding the tape.He’d picked the black ones out of the mountain of dirty clothes next to his dresser because that’s what Biggie would have worn (although Bucky imagined Biggie's cock being a helluva lot bigger than his). It would be sexual suicide to call yourself Biggie if you couldn’t back it up in the bedroom. Although now that Bucky thought about it, Biggie’s full name was Biggie Smalls.“Great,” Tony said. “Now how about you pull up that zipper.”After school, Stevie had played with this zipper, just like he’d played with the patches on these jeans. Nirvana. Deadmau5. Daft Punk. But then Bucky had gone home.“Okay, you had it up, but now it’s back down, so…”It was impossible to do Españolo homework in tight jeans and come-stained underwear. That’s why Bucky’d changed into his polar bear-and-peppermint pajama pants. They’d been soft and clean, doubling as a napkin for his greasy chicken fingers. #FingerLickin’Good“Just button them, Slutty B. This isn’t the time or place for the Thunder Down Under, or, in your case, the Russian Red-Light Revue.” The phone was still buzzing in his hand, vibrating like a fucking dildo, but instead of looking at the shattered screen, Bucky said, “I don’t remember putting on these jeans.”“Do you remember getting attacked by a sabertooth tiger?” Screech! The sound of metal scraping against the linoleum floor was so loud that Bucky had to check his knuckles to make sure the Adamantium claws hadn’t busted through the skin.“And more importantly,” Stark said, dragging a folding chair in a wide arc until…Bam!...he slammed it down in front of Bucky’s knees, “was it the same tiger that attacked the Tin Man—who, for the purpose of this story, has been recast as the Plaster Man—because I thought sabertooths were extinct everywhere. Even in Oz.”Tigers were super scary, so when the smartest guy at school popped a squat and said, “Here, let me help you with that,” it was actually really nice. It wasn’t often that people wanted to button Bucky’s buttons, especially brown-eyed boys with powerful daddies. But Tony’s eyeballs weren’t anything like Brock’s. They were a lot bigger, and when you looked really, really, really close, they smelled like Hershey’s chocolate.Too bad Bucky sneezed right when he was about to stick out his tongue for a little taste.“I’m allergic to lilies,” Bucky said. “Like, eyes-swollen-shut, mucus-explosion, death-by-lily allergic. That’s why you deserve to have snot on your glasses.”Sighing, the flower monster took off his Macklemore mask and rubbed the lenses on his super lame, aka super cool, Led Zeppelin t-shirt. It was faded enough to be real-deal vintage, and the picture of the Hinderturd blowing up reminded Bucky of how hot Clint looked whenever he took his shirt off and jammed Zeppelin riffs on his Strat. “Where’s your dad?” the monster asked in a voice that was way, way, way too calm for somebody who’d just been used a human kleenex. “I dunno. School. Stuck in traffic. Waiting in line at Anthony’s.” Bucky shrugged. “He’s bringin’ me a large pepperoni pizza around seven. And lemme tell ya, Anthony’s, if you’ve never had it, is fuckin’ orgasmic. Clint and I always devour two Anthony’s pizzas every Saturday before—” Bucky caught a whiff of chlorine. “Well, not last Saturday because—”Ostrich holes.“Because we were at the hotel,” Stark said like Bucky had a binky. “And Clint was eating your sister’s pussy.” You know when somebody tries really, really, really hard to get you to look at them, but you don’t want to look at them (like, at all), so you avoid eye contact by staring at a plant or a clock like you’re totally hypnotized? Well, the fluorescent light above Stevie’s bed was doing an excellent job lulling Bucky into a deep state of relaxation, taking him to a place where he was getting very, very sleepy...“You shouldn’t be here on your own.”“I’m not on my own,” he said, snatching the glasses out of Stark’s hand. “I have Carlos.”News flash: The view through Macklemore’s lenses was like doing the backstroke in the middle of a cherry pie with Warrant. And Bucky fuckin’ loved cherries (and hair metal), especially when Stevie was…Pop-pop-poppin’...them with his big, fat cock.Stark put his hands on Bucky’s knees, which was no bueno de jalepeño. One, because Wolverine had exposed Bucky’s hairy kneecaps, and two, because Stark’s hands were at least two sizes too small.“This isn’t a one teenager job,” Stark said as he squeezed and teased and did whatever he pleased. “In fact, this isn’t a job for a teenager at all. If you’re not old enough to run for president, you’re not old enough to handle blunt force trauma.”“What about guns? Am I old enough to handle those?” Friendly brown eyes. Evil brown eyes. It was hard to tell the difference when you were doing somersaults in the middle of a gooey pie filling.“Steve didn’t say anything about a gun in the police report.”“Did I say gun?” Bucky laughed as he jumped into a wormhole, backtracked five seconds, and listened to himself blow his cover. “I meant gun like…Bam!...am I old enough to shoot Steve’s wicked stepmonster in the face?”“You’re not even old enough to vote.”“If I was, I’d vote for Hilary.”Stark’s hands froze, but his mouth kept right on going. “This would be fun if PTSD stood for pumped-up twink sucks dick, but it doesn’t. It stands for post-traumatic stress disorder.”“I’m not a twink.”“No, you’re a half-naked lunatic in a crop top.” Was Tony a fucknut without a fucking filter? Obviously. But according to the glass in Bucky’s balls, he was also right. It wasn’t his dad’s fault that Bucky didn’t have a chaperone to the Trauma Ball. Principal Barnes had responsibilities. Shaping young minds. Sniffing out AK-47s. And according to the post-eggiweg briefing, a very important afternoon meeting with the Board of Education. And Natasha had her own shit. Homework. A dance rehearsal. Getting her boyfriend to stop triggering the dildo in Bucky’s hand.But Bucky wasn’t mad about flying solo (especially ‘cause he’d straight-up refused to leave Stevie’s side). And like Stark said, Bucky hadn’t exactly picked up his walkie-talkie to call for reinforcements.
Grrr!
Bucky’s stomach growled, but it didn’t scare away the hands on his hairy knees. Not like Frank Castle and his super sharp toothpick.“If I’d texted sooner, would you really have brought me a burger?”“If you’d texted sooner, there’d be a hibachi grill set up in the corner next to Mexico’s version of Pinhead”—Stark pointed at Carlos—“and Wolfgang and his Michelin stars would be cooking Kobe burgers for every banged-up invalid on this floor.” Bucky didn’t know why Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart would want to grind up Kobe Bryant and turn him into a burger. He also didn’t know why somebody like Tony Stark would want to touch his hairy knees.“One timely text and we would’ve had a homeopathic doctor rubbing tinctures all over Steve’s boo-boos, a massage therapist rubbing sweet almond oil into my shoulders—Do you know how hard it is to install a turbo-expander when your assistant insists on sipping tea instead of picking up a wrench?—and a five-star trauma counselor rubbing lithium into your shattered psyche, because you, my friend, are not okay.” “Excuse me. How did you get in here?”Halle-fucking-lujah! Nurse Jason to the rescue. “Visiting hours aren’t until seven.”Of all the people who’d been teleporting in and out of Stevie’s room at random times, Nurse Jason was Bucky’s favorite by far. He had the coolest dreads since sliced Wonder Bread, and (conveniently for the rhyme) they were piled on top of his exceptionally handsome head. And his bubble butt? Whoo-ee!...that ass was even rounder than Sam Wilson’s (which was saying a lot). Bucky had to be careful. Without extra-tight underwear to keep things under control, he couldn’t think about how Nurse Jason’s biceps bulged like he lifted busses instead of bedpans or how his thick, beautiful beard would make an excellent chair.“I paid off a security guard,” Stark said as he pulled out a wad of cash. “And I’ve got a crisp fifty with your name on it if you’ll let me stay.”“His name is Jason.” Settling back into the chair, he got ready to show the King of Cash exactly why he’d tied his shirt into a crop top. “And I’m sure his Hippopotamus Oath prevents him from taking bribes from rich bitches like you.”All Bucky had to do was flex his abs and Nurse Jason would turn into a thirsty minion who’d drop his thermometer and kick Tony Stark (and his stupid kicks) to the fucking curb. And according to Bucky’s gaydar, Nurse Jason was as straight as a fuckin’ board.Taking the fifty, Bucky said, “Don’t let him lowball you,” before holding it out to his target. “This boy’s daddy is a billionaire. He can Venmo you five grand without breaking a sweat.”Apple juice. Saltine crackers. An all-access pass to the King of the Jocks’ recovery suite. Those were only a few of the goodies that Operation Flirtation Manipulation had scored for the insatiable Bucky Barnes. And based on Nurse Jason’s naughty little smirk, they wouldn’t be the last. Operation Flirtation ManipulationPhase one: Innocent flirting.Designated targets: Tami (the charge nurse), four nurses Bucky had engaged with so far (Melissa, Jada, Gina, Jason).Secondary target: Rashid (bald man answering phone at reception).Tactics:
Lean against counter at nurses' station and play with hair. Tell jokes to make targets laugh.
Acquire sugar-free lollipops from complementary bowl. Sprawl out on fake-leather couch outside Steve’s room and lick/suck candy (depending on target’s gender) while ‘reading’ latest issue of People magazine.
After seducing targets with simulated oral sex, employ series of compliments. Suggestions: eye color, smile, hairstyle.
Outcome: Success. Targets’ defenses lowered enough for launch of phase two. Phase two: Shameless exploitation of six-pack.Designated targets: All hospital staff.Tactics:
Tie t-shirt into crop top.
Adjust position of jeans. Lower until dick is the only thing holding them up.
Assume position in front of target.
Yawn, lift arms, and stretch.
Outcome: Success. All targets firmly wrapped around Bucky’s finger. And by finger, he meant dick. Jason took the fifty. And when he asked, “Is this guy bothering you, Bucky?” it was irrefutable proof that Bucky’s charm (cough, body) worked on everybody. Gay boys. Straight boys. Boys who’d been straight until they’d heard Steve Rogers’ pounding Bucky’s asshole with his watermelon-flavored cock. Women. Women dressed as cats. Freshman girls. Overworked nurses. And Rashid, who’d given Bucky half an Afghan burger, which, shocker, wasn’t a burger at all! It was a wrap. With chicken.He didn’t have a sucker in his mouth, but that didn’t stop him from saying, “It’s all good, Nurse Jason,” and licking his bottom lip like he did. “This is Steve’s second-best friend Tony Stark. He’s terrible at following rules, but he’s harmless. I promise.”Now all he had to do was wait. Pushing the cherry-colored glasses to the tip of his nose, he threw in a little lip nipple, just to be sure. “Nobody else,” Jason said as he handed the fifty back to Stark. “I mean it.”There it was. Dominance without a collar. Not to mention, the delicious taste of cherry pie.It was quiet after the nurse left. Other than some incoherent mumbling from the jock and a disgruntled “puta” from the Mexican, the only noise was the little puffs of air coming out of the rich boy’s mouth. “Give me back my glasses!” Kicking his chair backwards, Richie Rich abandoned ship. “And while you’re at it, untie your shirt. I’m one hundred percent pro-sex worker—my weekly STD tests are proof of that—but that was—”“Too much?” It was funny to watch a person struggle with their moral compass. Bucky could tell by Stark’s eyebrows (up, down, and everywhere in between) that he was asking himself a series of tough moral questions. Potential quandaries included (but weren’t limited to): Was a trip to the casting couch too much if the actress (or actor) won an Oscar? How about a low-risk drug deal to pay the rent? Robin Hood? Good guy or petty thief? And, most importantly, can I, an underage trust-fund baby, judge somebody for showing a little skin when high school orgies fueled by alcohol and ecstasy are my MO?In the end, Bucky untied the knot. Not because he agreed, but because his stomach was getting cold. Then he sneezed, once, twice, three times in a row."Gesundheit," Stark said as he practically ran towards Steve’s bed.And Bucky, being Russian (not German), said, Bud’te zdorovy,” because that’s what Natalia said whenever Yakov had a cold. Bud’te zdorovy. May you be healthy. Too bad the sentiment didn’t apply to minds made of cheese."So this is broken?" Stark pointed at Steve’s cast."If it looks like a cast and smells like a cast…" “Why would I smell a cast? God, you’re weird. I’m asking if it’s broken broken or if it’s just a hairline fracture.” Bucky’d be lying if he said the “Wobble” didn’t pop into his brain. But it wasn’t just the song. It was the bloody torture scene from Saw 17 where Steve’s wrist was wobble, baby, wobblin’ beneath Natasha’s unsteady hands. Closing his eyes, Bucky said, “It’s broken.” And when the corners started to itch, he refused to scratch them. “The only reason the bone doctor didn’t fix it with a bunch of plates and screws is because Steve’s eighteen. Something about young people healing better—or eating a shitton of Moloko Plus with their Lucky Charms. I don’t fucking know.”“And he’s sleeping because?”“Because he’s got a direct hookup to medical-grade heroin! Why the fuck do you think?”Bucky’d thought about texting Clint and asking him to bring his biggest pair of sweatpants and a joint. Then the two of them could’ve nabbed six or seven (or seventeen) itty-bitty apple juices from Nurse Jason, stolen the entire bowl of sugar-free suckers, and found an empty stairwell to get blazed while Bucky changed into something a helluva lot more comfortable. But the truth was, Clint never would’ve made it past security. He didn’t have the money, the clothes, or the haircut to bribe his way up to the eighth floor. Now, TJ on the other hand…“Tony?”Bucky hadn’t said it (at least he didn’t think so), which meant—“Steve-o, you’re awake!” Awake was an optimistic word. Bucky’d probably go with conscious or semi-aware. But Tony didn’t give a shit that Steve’s eyes were barely open or that he’d coughed up what looked like a bloody little worm. He just kept playing with the IV tubing like Steve was a motherfucking marionette, tugging hard enough to loosen the tape.“Steve-o, my boy. When I told you to let Pierce beat the shit out of you, I didn’t mean MMA style. Your face looks like you almost died.”“I didn’t almost die,” Steve said, lifting his cast half an inch off the bed. “Look… my arm’s a Smurf.”Full stop. Bucky needed to hit rewind and roll that back. Past the near-death experience. Past the MMA and McGregor (Connor, not Ewan). And past the part about the fucking Smurfs! “What the fuck did you just say?”“My arm’s a Smurf.”“Not you. Him.”Once upon a time, Steve had tossed Bucky the keys to a spaceship and asked him to transport a crew of hungover douchebags to Queens. That day had been about conditioning. Running circles around a track. Running up and down the stairs. Tony Stark running his fucking mouth. But now, watching Stark poke and prod the splint on Steve’s nose, Bucky saw it for what it really was. A missed opportunity. Instead of giving Stark an itty-bitty brake check, Bucky should’ve cranked up Billy Idol, screamed, “Rebel yell!” and floored it, accelerating to seventy or eighty miles per hour before…Stomp!...he'd slammed on the brakes and launched Stark straight through the windshield. Then he’d be the one stuck in the hospital with Carlos, not Steve.Bucky clenched his fists. There wasn’t a gas pedal in the room, but there sure as fuck was a window. All he had to do was grab the little fucker by the neck and throw him through the remains of the castle, sending him eight floors down into a moat without Funyuns.
Splat!
It wasn’t like Bucky couldn’t get more apple juice.“Hey, be careful with those! My driver worked really hard carrying them into the hospital for me!”The vase was in Bucky’s hands, heavy and solid, and the lilies were rubbing their poison across Bucky’s face, blinding him from knowing what the others were doing.“Can you believe they wouldn’t let him park out front? So rude. And valet?” Stark scoffed. “Who in their right mind would hand the keys to a Bentley to a high school dropout in a polyester vest?” Stark had backed himself up against the curtain, talking faster and faster in a desperate attempt to appeal to Bucky’s weakness for Hershey’s chocolate. Unfortunately for him, Bucky wasn’t the one looking back. “I had to wait in the lobby like a pauper—that’s Charlie Bucket or little orphan Annie in layman’s terms—while Mitch parked the Bentley with the Nissans, Kias, and Hyundias, oh my! And get this. The security guard with the greasy palm? He validated Mitch’s ticket like five bucks was gonna break the bank, which, if you’re Charlie Bucket, I guess it—” “Stop.” Tightening his grip on the vase, he closed in on the target. “You’re telling me that Bucky’s entire family held their fucking breaths, waiting to see if Steve was dead or alive, and you—”“Using third person in the middle of an attempted murder.” Stark’s ass hit the bed behind the curtain. “Interesting choice. Unfortunately for you, third person isn’t what the DA would call an ‘effective alias.’ Semantics or not, they’re still going to charge you.”The lilies fell before the water, one after another into the pool of piss around the weakling’s shoes. “Baby, calm down.”“Malysh?” He laughed. “The only baby in the room is the one pissing his pants.” “It wasn’t his idea, Buck. Tony, he just”—Steve coughed up another worm—”helped me figure things out.”Pink lilies. Krasnyye liliis. Tiger lilies that were bright enough to hear them roar. All of them sounded the same when they hit the floor.“Kahgdah?” he asked, aiming at the target’s shriveling balls.“If you’re going to dump water on me, at least do it in English!”It wasn’t quite a waterfall (because waterfalls smelled like piña coladas and had Brandon Boyd singing his shirtless heart out at the tippity-top), but the splashing sounds were just as soothing.“When?” the biggest one asked. “When did you tell him to hurt himself?”“Jesus, Bucky!” The rich boy tried to push the vase to the side, but his arms were too small to make a difference. “Monday, okay? Steve brought fish tacos—the good kind, with beer-battered cod and citrus slaw—and laid out his wackadoodle plan. He asked a lot of questions, wrote some shit down, hogged the tacos. I guarantee he’s gonna say I hogged the tacos, but that’s a lie. I’d never steal food from a growing—”“Get to the fucking point!”“Fine! He wanted to know if Howard would be on board. Which, on top of being an incredibly stupid question, was just plain annoying. Of course Howard’s on board! If anything, when I told him that Steve had landed himself in this shitty Brooklyn hospital, he was pissed that I hadn’t recruited him to be Steve’s nonsexual sugar daddy back in middle school. Because this?” Stark pointed at Steve. At the vase. At the mountain of flowers covering his shit-stained shoes. “This is—”“Too much?”The words had more power with the accent. And the fear they inspired was evident in the way Stark covered his face with his arms.
Splash!
Right side up. Upside down. The vase was empty, rolling under Stevie’s bed as the water splashed into the portholes in Tony Stark’s first-class hamster shoes. Just like the holes that had sunk the Titanic.The debate was legendary. Could Jack Dawson, aka Leo, have climbed onto that ginormous floating door with Rose Dewitt Buckater? Romeo couldn’t live without Juliet. Juliet couldn’t live without Romeo. But Rose? Bucky stomped his boot in the water.Rose had taken that big-ass door (and that big-ass life jacket) and sailed away to her brand-new life in America, leaving Jack (and Leo) to rot at the bottom of the ocean (just like Layne).And maybe that’s what hurt the most.Steve had driven all the way to Brooklyn with his hand falling off and his brains oozing out to ask Bucky for help. He hadn't driven to Tony Stark’s fucking mansion. He hadn't called a fucking ambulance or gotten into a motherfucking Uber to rack up a three hundred dollar cleaning fee. He'd trusted Bucky with the picture of his mom, not Billy Zane or Mercutio or the fucking Wizard of Oz.Steve had trusted Bucky enough to handle the cleanup, but not enough to tell him what the fuck was going on in the first place.And that was bullshit.“Fuck you.”Bucky was the one who said it. That he was sure of. He just wasn’t sure who he’d said it to. Céline and her fucking flute? Stark and his fucking shoes? Or Rose himself, who was doing a damn good job looking sheepish as fuck underneath all those bandages?“I stayed down. I didn’t”—Steve winced—”hit him back.”
“Pussy.”
Bucky sneezed. “He had a golf club,” Steve said, trying (and failing) to sit up. “Someone… saw us at the beach.” Smack! The words blasted into Bucky’s chest like an asteroid. And not the one that Bruce Willis blew to smithereens with Batman. The one that took out the dinosaurs. Suddenly Bucky was falling, his feet going out from under him as his frozen toes slipped on the ice.“Karma,” Tony said when Bucky’s capsule splashed down, landing in a vat of poison instead of the Atlantic ocean. “I get it, your hunk of a boyfriend looks like he went through an industrial-size tree shredder—twice—but those flowers didn’t do shit except make you sneeze.”Pressing his palms against the floor, Bucky said, “I’m allergic to lilies.” “Yeah, you said that.” Tony was texting, which was a funny thing to do when Bucky was splashin’ around in a kiddie pool. “You also said you were going to fucking kill me, so…”Bucky had to think about that one. Then he had to sneeze.His jeans were soaked. The legs. The ass. The pieces that Wolverine had shredded at the height of the full moon. And Tony was yelling. Not like a football coach or Van Helsing. He was hardcore shouting like he was really, really, really mad. And Stevie—He was too high up for Bucky to see.It was barely a whisper when Bucky said, “Too much.” Nothing that anyone could hear except the ones who had said it before.“This was my idea,” Stevie said from the tippity-top of his mountaintop castle. “Mine… not Tony’s.”“But it was my idea to call your sister.” Tony held his phone up to his ear. “And if she doesn’t pick up, I’m calling your other boyfriend—you know, Sid, who, based on my observations, has a kink for dysfunctional dynamics—and having him call your dad.”The water was ice cold instead of tropical blue. The lilies had gobbled up the string of orchids around Stevie’s neck. And the castle— Bucky wasn’t sure it had ever been there in the first place.Resting his head on his knees, he said, “I don't understand.” It didn’t matter that his throat was closing up or that he was drowning from the inside out, he just needed somebody to know. “I don’t understand any of this.”There was a pause.A tick, but not a tock before Tony said, “Steve didn’t tell you.” And a tock, but not a tick as Bucky searched for tiny hamster turds in the puddle around Stark’s sneakers. It was strange not to hear any clicks from Dorothy’s ruby red slippers or see any chunks of Stevie’s torso flying out of a tree shredder. There was just Tony Stark holding out his hand and pulling Bucky to his feet.“You need to sit down.”“You just helped me up.”“No. On the couch. In the hall.”Steve was saying something that sounded like, “Don’t go,” but could just as easily have been, “Leave him alone, Tony.” Either way, Bucky was happy to get away from the mess.The headache was bad, pulsing and pounding in his temples like the hamsters were eating him from the inside out. Broken stems. Broken brains. Broken boyfriends. Bucky didn’t want to deal with any of it. All he wanted to do was crawl underneath Natalia’s blanket, bury his nose in her hair, and pretend that nothing was wrong.But Tony wasn’t Natalia, and when he sat next to Bucky on the couch, he didn’t have a blanket or a quilt.“My head hurts,” Bucky said. Not because he thought Tony would give a shit, but because it’s what he’d say to Natalia to get her to play with his hair. “You can ask your dad for some Tylenol when he gets here, which, according to your crab apple of a sister—Seriously, has she always been this touchy?—should be anywhere between ten and forty minutes, depending on traffic. Apparently, he was waiting on extra breadsticks.”“Mmm, breadsticks.” Butter and salt. Carbs galore. And...Bonus!...penis-shaped for deepthroat practice.Relaxing his throat, Bucky said, “The last time I had Anthony’s breadsticks, I shared them with Kevin Hart at a bus stop. We talked about barber poles and toast. Then I dyed Clint purple.” Bucky looked at his palms. “And now Steve’s purple, no dye required.”Bucky could feel Clint’s naked shoulders between his knees, smell the Manic Panic in the steam from the shower, and hear their laughter as they sang that god-awful Barney song. And in that memory, Bucky was safe beneath a shower of shoes. Mary Jane’s with tea-infused cupcakes. Gray Pumas with salami sandwiches. And steel-toed boots with Superman ice cream on a spoon.Sighing, Tony said, “I can’t believe Steve didn’t give you a heads-up. If I’d known, I—” There were lots of ways Tony could finish that sentence: I would’ve called you. I would’ve reamed him a new asshole. I would’ve drank 498 mimosas, built a fucking robot, and done absolutely nothing. And, really, any of those options would’ve been better than door number three. “Well, shucks, killer,” Tony said, taking off his jacket. “I would’ve ditched the flowers and led with a hearty dose of X-double-P exposition—not to be mistaken for XXX-double-P penetration. Although, if you and Steve-o ever wanted to play dueling pianos in my ass, that could be fun too.”“You know what else would be fun? If you told me what the fuck you’re talking about.” Bucky crossed his ankles, which…Swish!...turned the ripped parts of his jeans into a miniature car wash. “Lawyers. Sugar daddies. Tree shredders. They’re just words. And words mean jack shit when you’re the one saying them.”“We should wait until your dad gets here.”Bucky laughed. “Sure, go ahead and make another decision for me. I love it when I have absolutely no control over my own life.”Tony smiled a little too wide when Nurse Jason walked by with an IV bag and a syringe. Maybe to distract him from the puddle of water beneath their feet. Or maybe because he sensed that the leader of Operation Flirtation Manipulation was currently off the clock.“Fine, but if you so much as twitch, I’ll—”“If I twitch, you can shoot me.” Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, Bucky wished on a fucking star that his eyebrows would turn purple. “I mean, sure, it sucks that Biggie’s dead, but at least he doesn’t have to deal with killer headaches splitting his skull in half like a fucking watermelon.”“Shoot you?” Tony folded his stupid jacket across his stupid lap. “That’s a little extreme, Bucky Boo. I was thinking I’d just make like a banana and split.”Axl Rose had patience. Bucky did not.“Or maybe I should shoot you,” Bucky said, pointing a ‘gun’ at Stark’s temple. “Take back my power. Make you tell me whatever I want.”
Click!
In Mortal Kombat, a gun would beat a peace sign any day. But Bucky didn’t have any reason to bust out a fatality on Tony Stark. Was it annoying that he was scissoring Bucky’s weapon (with his peace sign, not his legs) like a granola-loving lesbian? Fuck yeah. But it was also funnier than anything Ellen had come up with in the ’90s. It was sad that the scissoring stopped when Stark said, “You’re even crabbier than your sister.” Bucky wasn’t down with vaginas (‘cause, ew, flaps), but that didn’t mean he’d never thought about scissoring the Scissor Sisters.“In the simplest terms possible,” Stark said, runnin' his scissors through his hair (#AccidentalHaircut), “I’m talking about the payout Steve’s gonna get after Howard’s legal eagles meet with Pierce’s legal eagles bright and early on the flip side. I’m talking about Danishes and dollars, coffee and cashier’s checks, and Nutella on a nice, hot NDA.”Bucky bit his tongue to stop himself from saying, “Don’t forget Ice-T with N.W.A.,” but the grin on Tony’s face said that he hadn’t chomped down fast enough.“You mean Ice Cube.” Tony laughed. “Glad your psychotic break didn’t ruin your sense of humor.” “Yeah, next time I’m drinking mimosas at your mansion, I’ll borrow your Mad Hatter costume and do some stand-up. It’ll be a gas.”Nurse Jason walked by in the opposite direction, but, this time, Tony didn’t smile. “Okay, no more jokes,” Tony said like the very thought of Bucky doing stand-up had…Kapow!...destroyed his love of comedy. “And this time, I mean it.” Maybe it was his eyebrows (so serious) or maybe it was the way he turned to face Bucky on the couch (so professional), but, for once, Tony seemed too legit to quit.“When Steve showed up on Monday, I offered him a way out. That shit with the burn on his arm—” Tony sighed. “It’s always been bad. But lately it’s been worse.” “Because of me.” “I don’t know. Maybe.” Using his jacket like a towel, Tony dried off his legs, aka his skinny jeans, before holding it out to Bucky. “When you fall in love, you do crazy things.”“Like talking back to your stepfather.”“Yeah, or attacking somebody with a vase of flowers.”Bucky swallowed. Even when he’d been head over heels in love with Clint, he’d never attacked anybody. Not with his fists. Not with an AK-47. And definitely not with a vase of flowers. The closest he’d gotten had been the time a loose dog had gone after Lucky in the park. Clint had thrown Lucky over his shoulder (‘cause he was heroic like that), but the dog had switched targets, setting its sights on Clint. And what had Bucky done? Well, dog lovers, he’d straight-up tackled it. Fur flying everywhere. Canine teeth vs vampire teeth. Canis familiaris vs lycan. Bottom line: That Chihuahua made the worst decision of its life when it...Chomp!...decided to go for Clint’s ankle. Shake-shake-shakin’ his gazillion dollar towel like he was tryin' to flag down Officer Mustache, Stark said, “As far as the tree shredder goes, I’m on your side. This level of carnage—your word, not mine—is worth more zeros than our boy could ever spend.” “I don’t want this,” Bucky said, waving off the towel. One, because it wasn’t Spongebob, and two, because he’d rather hook up with Officer Tyrese Gibson. #FastAndFuriousFuck The King of Cash bent over and started squeezing the salt water out of the bottoms of Bucky’s jeans, which was— Actually, Bucky didn’t know what the fuck it was. “I mean, getting Pierce to break his arm and his nose.” Stark whistled. “Unless Steve-o aspires to own a private jet, an Egyptian pyramid, and his very own skyscraper in Dubai, that took real commitment.”There was that word again. Getting him to break his bones. “Steve is stubborn,” Stark said, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing some more. “I’ve offered to get him out of that situation hundreds—if not hundreds of thousands—of times. And I’m not the only one. Sam has offered. Peggy has offered. Even Scott has offered, and he’s a simpleton who, half the time, believes it when Steve says he fell into another wall. But like it or not, Pierce is a high roller. And Steve knew that anybody who stuck their neck out for him—including The Crystal Method—would be in for a rough ride. Even a higher high roller like my sperm donor, Howard Anthony Walter Stark.”Breadcrumbs. Gumdrops. Petals without the stems. When you took the frosting off the bullshit, it was still a steaming pile of bullshit underneath.Tony dropped the jacket into the puddle like the fabric could hide his sins, but Bucky knew from experience that the armor of an expensive suit didn’t protect you once the lights went out. A hand toggled the switch, turning on, then off as Bucky said, “Steve wouldn’t let you be his sugar daddy.”“No. As much as I would have enjoyed that, he wanted to do this on his own. And meeting you—” Stark blew a raspberry that was more sour than sweet. “It’s very 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow,' 'Ding-Dong the Witch is Dead,' and all that Judy Garland jazz, but I think— Ugh, I can’t believe I’m saying this. I think you’ve shown Steve that there’s another way to live.”Love started with the letter L. Luchshiy droogs. Lemon squares. Lunch meat. Locks without keys. But guilt?Groaning, Bucky hit the back of his head against the wall.Guilt started with the letter G. And in this wormhole, G stood for Bucky’s stupid idea to force Steve to come out as gay.The urge to rip Stark’s disco-bitch glasses off his head and…Stomp!...smash Warrant and Macklemore into a boneless puddle of cherry-red goo was DEFCON 1, but Tony Stark was finally briefing Bucky Barnes on the op, filling in the blanks on how Stevie— Bucky blew out a sharp breath. On how Steve had ended up with his arm in a bright-blue cast.“It’s always been a given that if Steve—or anybody else—called Child Protective Services, Pierce’s fix-it team would swoop in, spin the narrative, and destroy Steve from the ground up.”Bucky only knew what a fix-it team was from the movies. The Wolf from Pulp Fiction. The French guy from La Femme Nikita. The bald guy from Breaking Bad. Wolverine’s brother, Ray Donovan. All of those guys had one thing in common. They spent their days twisting big-ass silencers onto big-ass guns and…Pew! Pew!...rolling big-ass rappers into big-ass rugs.“For this to work,” Stark said, using the tippity-top of his hamster shoe to push Bucky’s boot off the edge of the cherry pie, “the injuries had to be severe enough to make the story spinproof. It couldn’t look like Steve—who, in case you’ve forgotten, is old enough to vote for Hilary and has zero claim to Pierce’s fortune—threw himself down the stairs for a big payout.” Hamster shoes were expensive. You could tell by the leather. Just like Duckie shoes, leather collars, and leather belts from Tom Ford. “No matter what the scales of Lady Justice say, when there’s this much money on the table, nobody’s going to side with Steve over Pierce.” “Because he spent thirty thousand dollars on suits.”“No,” Tony said, “because he spent thirty thousand dollars of Pierce’s money on suits.”Bucky wanted to tell Tony that he was wrong, that lots of people would side with Steve, but the shoes in Bucky’s closet and the collar hidden in the back of his underwear drawer said otherwise. Money. Power. Reputation. When you broke it all down, it was the exact same reason Frank Castle had told Bucky to keep his mouth shut about Brock.“Do you think the Rumlows have a fixer?” Bucky asked, knowing damn well that the answer was abso-fucking-lutely. “Or do you think Brock’s dad has an entire pack? You know, like Derek on Teen Wolf, except switch out the hot teenagers for a gang of mutton-chopped mobsters who look like Sabertooth.” “I thought we were putting the jokes on hold.”“We are.” Bucky rolled his eyes. Not because Stark was annoying (which he most definitely was), but because Bucky could feel Harvey Keitel, aka The Wolf, rolling his body into a thin sheet of plastic like a cherry Fruit Roll-up. “There’s no funny business here.”For a second, Bucky thought Stark was gonna call his bluff. Eye rolling was a halfway decent deflection on a normal day, but today was anything but normal. It was M-Day squared, multiplied by D-Day, multiplied by VD-Day (venereal disease, not Valentine’s Day), multiplied by a shitton of imaginary numbers.But he didn’t. He just picked up the People magazine Bucky’d ‘read’ during the execution of phase two and flipped to the next page of the story. Flipping past two shampoo ads (gotta get that good hair), two tampon ads (gotta control that flow), and the table of contents (which, as far as Bucky was concerned, didn’t tell him jack shit about what was going on between the pages), Stark said, “The key word of this whole shebang was verbal provocation.” “That’s two words.”“Oh good. You can count.”The window was still an option. A quick heave-ho and Bucky could curl up next to Stevie and rub his butt. But Tony was flipping, and Bucky was flipping, and there was so much flipping that Bucky could barely see straight, let alone toss a human being through a window. Flip, flip, double tap a lipstick ad. Flip, flip, double tap Kim K’s ass and watch it bounce. Maybe later (if he squeezed in another nap), Bucky’d be up to givin’ the spaceship, aka the windshield, another go. Vroom! Vroom! “To eliminate the spin factor,” Stark said like he was wearing a seatbelt, “we agreed that the next time Pierce broke out the boxing gloves, Steve would just lie down and take it. No running. No fighting back. No protecting himself. Because if Steve so much as lifted a finger, Pierce’s subpoena squad could claim self-defense.”“Because you wanted this to go to court.” Stark laughed. “No, because we wanted Pierce to do everything in his power to keep it out of court.”McDreamy was on the cover of the magazine, and everything about his green eyes and chiseled chin appealed to the soft, gushy parts of Bucky’s heart (and the hard, throbbing parts of Bucky’s dick). And if big-brained Meredith Grey, with her fancy white coat and college education, couldn’t resist him, how the fuck was somebody like Bucky supposed to say no? Flip, flip, double tap McDreamy’s butt chin. Flip, flip, double tap Steve Rogers’ cock and watch it squirt.“If the case is rock solid, which—thanks to Steve’s unprecedented commitment to the cause—it is, Pierce will do absolutely anything to get Steve to drop the charges.” Tony shut the magazine. “And he’ll do even more to keep it out of the press.”Tampons. Hair dye. Lipstick. Butt chins. Tony might have stopped flipping through the pages, but that didn’t stop the haunting notes of Céline’s fucking flute from drifting past the motherfucking iceberg. “It’s always about money,” Bucky said as another half-empty lifeboat dropped into the water. “Of course it’s about money!” Tony scoffed. “Rainbows are great, but once you get to the other side, they won’t pay for an Ivy League college!”The screaming had stopped, panic turning to acceptance as the last of the Titanic disappeared beneath the surface. And when Bucky looked at Rose’s fingers clinging to his frozen hands, Jack whispered, “Just like they won’t pay for a ticket to America.”Tony didn’t hear him from his lifeboat, which wasn’t surprising considering that Rose was the one with the sterling silver whistle.Rolling the magazine into a tight tube, Tony said, “But our boy’s in good hands,” as he took a big ol’ bite of cherries. “Steve scribbled a few ‘demands’ on the bag the fish tacos came in. Mostly about school because—bedroom antics aside—he’s boring.”
Smack!
When Stark hit Bucky’s knee with McDreamy, it was the opposite of dreamy. It was fucking rude.“Did Steve-o jump the gun without filling out the rest of the required paperwork?” Stark hit the knee that Yakov had skinned on the sidewalk. “Obviously. We’re here. But lucky for Mr. Premature Evacuation, Howard’s lawyers—and yours truly—are excellent at improvisation.” Bucky was good at improvising too. And if Stark didn’t stop smacking Yakov’s injured knee, he was going to improvise that motherfucking magazine right into Stark’s asshole. And he was going to do it dry.“They’re going for fifteen thousand a month,” Stark said like he was talking about pocket change. A couple of quarters, two dimes, some pocket lint, and…Looney Tunes!...a Canadian loonie. “I said twenty-five, but since Captain Likes-Cock-Now doesn’t have to pay for kinky sex—‘cause he’s got you, Bucky Boo—I was overruled.”Calling Bucky a whore was one thing (he was used to it), but calling him a whore when it might be true? That was something else. “Steve-o will get that until he turns twenty-eight—worst case, twenty-six. And to honor the big dog’s brown-bag demands, the legal eagles are negotiating for college. Wherever Mr. Boring wants to go—Harvard, Princeton, Yale, Florida State University—Pierce will have to pay.”The most Clint had ever paid for a blow job was a couple of cans of Monster and some weed. And even then, Bucky’d always paid for the pizza.“And if, for some out-of-the-blue reason, Captain Cripple decides to become, say, an orthopedic surgeon or a psychiatrist specializing in PTSD, Pierce will have to pull out his mighty checkbook and pay for that too.”If Bucky could, he’d radio Scotty and ask to be beamed directly into Clint’s bed. Not because he wanted to give his bestie a blow job (although that would be nice too), but because listening to Tony Stark was like watching farts explode out of an asshole. A squeeze, then a pucker. A tiny squeak, followed by bigger and bigger eruptions until…Kablam!...the asshole shit his pants.“Tuition to finish off the year at our future alma mater?” Stark snapped his fingers. “Check. Health insurance to pay for those pesky physical therapy bills? Check. The Escalade? Steve’s to keep. There’s even a condition that Pierce can’t contact Steve—or get within one hundred yards of him—unless it’s through official channels.” Stark put his arm around Bucky’s shoulder like they were about to pop some bottles and sip some sizzurp. “Like I said, all our boy has to do is eat a Danish, drink some coffee, and sign the NDA.”The arm was Stark’s first mistake, and if the rumble in Bucky’s chest had anything to say about it, it was about to be his last.“Blood money,” he said, pushing Stark’s arm back to where it belonged.The rich boy rolled his eyes. “Just because there was blood involved, doesn’t make it blood money. It’s called compensatory damages. C.O.M.P.—”“Steve hates that truck.”McDreamy. McSteamy. McBarney. Even if Bucky was a cheap whore and Steve was a money-loving John, it didn’t change the fact that Quincy the Art Spy, with his graffiti hoodie and bag of spray paint, hated that fucking truck. “You need to leave.” Yanking the magazine out of Stark’s hand, he stood up and pointed towards the elevators. “This isn’t who Steve is.”“Okay, Lassie. You’ve been dating him for what? Two weeks? He’s been my best friend for years. I think I know who Steve is.”It was hard not to laugh when Stark stood up. Hamster shoes or not, Tony Stark going toe to toe with Bucky Barnes was like that shitty little dog at the park all over again, except this time, the Chihuahua was trying to sink its teeth into a much bigger target.“No, you don’t,” he said, allowing the accent to speak for itself.Steve was simple. He loved sappy love notes and sloppy blow jobs. Morning cuddles and afternoon hugs. And if you took away the money and the lies, you were left with a sad, bird-loving artist who’d rather chill on a rooftop than spend the next four years swimming with a bunch of pricks from Yale.Straightening his spine, Bucky took control, saying what he should have said the second that fucking bouquet had walked through the door.“You don’t know Steve at all.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Steve had been staring at the ceiling for hours, wishing upon a nonexistent star that it was covered with glow-in-the-dark constellations. And he wasn’t talking about Corvus the raven or the peppermint eyes of Corvus à deux. He was talking about the Big Dipper made from die cut plastic, Orion’s Belt held up with Sticky Tack, and Leo the lion who—along with infinite disco-ball galaxies—watched over Bucky as he slept.The blanket tucked beneath Steve’s chin was nothing like a soft, fuzzy Muppet, and it sure as hell wasn't big enough to cover his shoulders and his feet at the same damn time. Not like Bucky’s star-covered comforter and his sheets made of stars. Or Bucky himself, whose body could blanket Steve’s from head to toe.“Shit,” Steve said when he accidentally kicked the blanket off his legs. “Shit, shit, shit.”The doctors wanting to keep him another night was understandable. Head injuries were no joke, especially when a stainless-steel putter was involved. But subdural hematomas and brain bleeds aside, Steve’s new life in the wild couldn’t truly begin until his Wild Thing was by his side.“But he’s miles away,” Steve said, trying not to think about the slickness of the steering wheel as he’d clung to it with his one good hand, “although, not as many miles as before.”Steve had crossed the thirty-seven bumps of the bridge, erasing the span of water that separated west from east, Manhattan from Brooklyn, and dead ends from new beginnings. And while Dr. Feelgood—Bucky’s name, not Steve’s—had cut back on the heavy-duty pain meds, Steve had never felt better.It wasn’t the here and now that transcended the pain, but the future. The promise that tomorrow, when the sun rose on the childhood side of the East River, Steve’s feet would be firmly planted at the magical end of the wardrobe. The fur coats might have gotten a little bloody and Steve’s wrist fracture may have scared the shit out of Lucy and Peter, but Steve was here. He’d survived. Even better, the end of Narnia’s perpetual winter meant that everything in Brooklyn would be coming up spring. Steve groaned. Not because his body hurt, but because spring in New York was all about the flowers. The tulips in Shakespeare Garden. The cherry blossoms on Cherry Hill. The scent of wisteria as it drifted across Conservatory Gardens. But while Steve’s automatic association between spring flowers and Central Park was annoying, it wasn’t the problem. That honor went to the lack of flowers in the vase beneath the TV.Closing his eyes, Steve said, “Bunnies and ducklings,” as he conjured every spring-related thing that wasn’t a tulip, iris, or rose. "Song birds, grass, fireflies, joggers," he said, squeezing his eyelids shut until his nose hurt. "Umbrellas, rain boots, tourists, mud."Only hours before, Bucky had been curled around Steve’s feet like an overgrown cat, peeling off Steve’s socks and kissing his toes as he’d made jokes about catching Steve’s foot fetish like a virus.And now? In the darkness, his feet even looked cold.“So much for feeling better,” Steve said, whispering between the crests of Carlos’ snores. Then he looked at the clock, calculating exactly how much time had passed since Mr. Barnes had dragged Bucky out of here by the collar of his t-shirt. How long does it take for a glass overflowing with fairy-tale optimism to turn into a half-empty mug of bubblegum fizz? Steve scoffed. Considering that the big hand was about to strike midnight and turn Steve’s carriage into a pumpkin, that would be exactly three hours and forty-six minutes. And this time, Bucky wasn’t here to bring Steve his other shoe.The fingers on Steve’s left hand had been pretty much numb since Alexander had snapped his wrist. That was a given. But there was no good reason that the ones on the right should be joining the club.“This isn’t the penthouse,” Steve said, running his palm across the plastic-coated mattress, “and this bed isn’t the cold marble floor.”Having a panic attack because his feet were cold was ridiculous, and having one three minutes after musing about springtime in New York was even worse. Steve had to calm the fuck down before the numbness reached his knuckles. And after that, he had to hire a fucking therapist so he could stop the panic attacks from happening altogether. Suck in a breath and—“Motherfucker.” Broken ribs and deep, cleansing breaths were incompatible. More than that, they hurt like hell.Suck in a shallow breath. Cry a little. Hold it for ten. Blow it out slowly to try and flush out the thing that had followed Steve across the bridge.There was darkness in the dark. West, east, south toward the ninth ring of Hell. Every direction held the whisper of an old familiar sting. Inhaling as much air as he could, Steve ignored his ribs when they told him to stop.Liberation didn’t cure depression. It took the edge off, sure. But without the weightlessness of Bucky’s stars, the walls still crept inward from all sides, threatening to crush the rest of Steve's bones. If Bucky were here, kissing Steve’s wounds with entirely too much tongue, he’d probably compare it to that scene in Star Wars where the room-size trash compactor almost smashes the good guys into a cube of intergalactic garbage. But Bucky wasn’t here, and Steve had to figure out how to fill his glass without a constant influx of pop culture and bubblegum fizz.Part of it was the pain. One Vicodin every four to six hours couldn’t hold a candle to IV Dilaudid, especially since Steve was riding out the tail end of hour three. But he’d be kidding himself if he blamed the tightness in his chest on the bruises and breaks. Telling himself that a deep, cleansing breath would work just as well next to his intestines, Steve tried to pull the air into his stomach instead of his chest. And when that didn’t work, he said, “Fuck air,” and focused on the fucking ceiling.The light from the hallway was bright enough to illuminate the walls where they met by the door. And while age may have turned what had once been white into something remotely beige, Steve knew that underneath the stains, the paint matched the penthouse. Stark white. Antiseptic. Void of warmth. But it wasn't just the paint that was making his palms tingle. Open door or not, this room was still a box. More of a square than a rectangle, but still, in geometric terms, a parallelogram.“For fuck’s sake.”If Steve hadn’t left Bucky’s black beanie on the shelf next to the fucking cufflinks, he would’ve pulled it all the way down to his chin, splints and stitches be damned. Why the fuck had Steve gone through all the trouble of driving across the Goddamn bridge if all he was going to do was stop at the end, throw the truck into park, and stare into the rearview mirror? It was stupid. He was stupid. Which is why he willed the blood back into his fingertips and said, “Forward,” even though he knew damn well that he only had one shoe.From this moment forward, bridges were banned. Steve wasn’t allowed to drive over them—mentally, not physically—write pretentious poetry about them, or lick his boyfriend’s asshole anywhere near them. And if he wanted to take Bucky on another spray-paint adventure, he had to find a place in the middle of a wide-open plain where the two of them could transform the landscape into a two-dimensional kaleidoscope that stretched for miles.Steve laughed. The Vicodin must be stronger than he’d thought because, brain damage or not, he’d never be coming up with this shit if he were stone-cold sober.Kaleidoscopic plains? Fucking stupid.Steve stopped staring at the paint and picked up his phone. The road forward began with hundreds of text messages. Not the generic well-wishes from the swim team or the plague of praying hands from the kids who’d bought whatever bullshit story Tony had been spreading around school—something about road rage, a fiery car crash, and a roided-out bodybuilder—but the invitations. Usually, Steve got invited to keggers, ragers, and all-night parties. “Bring booze,” they’d say. “Bring Sharon and the rest of the cheerleaders with big boobs.” But these invitations had nothing to do with Grey Goose or Sharon’s breasts and everything to do with apartments, brownstones, and mansions. Ignoring the bandage behind his ear—and the one on his cheek—Steve turned his head on the pillow to look at Carlos. Carlos’ family had come during visiting hours, just like Bucky’s dad. And they’d brought Subway sandwiches, chips, and cookies, just like Bucky’s dad had brought pizza and breadsticks. But there was a difference. When the doctors discharged Carlos, he’d be going home with his family. According to his sister, they’d already rented a wheelchair-accessible ramp for their front stoop, switched out their living room couch for a hospital bed, and arranged for a physical therapist to come twice a week. More, if they could figure out how they could afford it. “You’re going home,” Steve said as he studied the metal pins sticking out of Carlos’ leg. “Not today, not tomorrow—honestly, probably not for another week—but when it’s time, you’re going home.”Sam had texted not long after Mr. Barnes had taken Bucky back to their house to shower and, to quote Mr. Barnes, “sleep in a bed that isn’t a chair,” offering Steve an air mattress, a listening ear, and three home-cooked meals a day, straight from his mother’s kitchen.Frowning at the Subway cup on Carlos’ nightstand, Steve said, “My homie’s home.” Then, because Steve—pain meds or not—should never, ever call Sam his homie, he said absolutely nothing.Tony’s invitation had arrived over the course of several hours, starting with a text that had asked if Steve was still “nodding off like Kerouac in Dorothy’s poppy field” and ending with a picture of Bucky photoshopped to look like the Joker. But the picture had included more than scribbled green hair, white face paint, and bright-red lipstick. The words Warning: Flower-Eating Lunatic had been scrawled across Bucky’s eyes. Steve had two choices. Look at the vase or keep staring at Carlos’ straw. He chose the latter.Tony had invited Steve to pick a fourth-floor bedroom suite from the "multitude of jewel tones available." And he wasn’t kidding. Steve could sleep in the red room, get dressed in the green room, and write shitty sonnets about stark-white walls in the gold room. Even better, he could clean his asshole with any number of high-powered bidets every time he took a shit. Steve wasn’t against bidets—especially now that he was gay—but assholes aside, staying with Tony seemed like a lateral move.“There’s always the turtle,” Steve said, laughing outright as he scrolled to Scott’s name.Never in a million years would Steve have thought that rooming with a turtle would be on the table, but that’s exactly what Scott’s rambling texts implied. Squinting at the screen, Steve scanned past the part about Scott switching rooms with his sister Scout so they could “bunk together in her bunk beds” to the part about the turtle. Reading aloud so a friendly turtle could swim its way into Carlos’ dreams, Steve said, “She likes to splash around in the middle of the night. Turtle emoji, splash emoji, turtle emoji. And not, like, a normal amount. Scout calls her Splashy, even though her name is Scarlett.”Scott was awesome, but turtles and bunk beds weren’t exactly conducive to healing. And neither were loud, touchy-feely families who showed their love with prank wars, noogies, and overly aggressive hugs. Steve hit the home button. Not to get away from the turtle, but to reread the text that had come through just after his nine o’clock Vicodin had kicked in. You can use the Uppe r West Side apartment for as long as you need. One sentence, no exposition. Just straight to the point, like always.Peggy and Steve had spent a lot of time together in that apartment. It was big—but not too big—there were no bidets or turtles, and it was quiet, overlooking Seventy-Fifth Street just west of the big green rectangle that Steve was trying not to think about. Her parents used it to house clients when they came into town, but Peggy and Steve had used it to do homework, make out, and give each other head. Steve sighed. There was no way he could stay at Sam’s. His mother was too kind. Too loving. And having her dote on Steve with home-cooked meals and southern hospitality would be too much of a reminder of what he didn’t have. And Tony’s? Steve clicked on the Joker, tracing the neon-green scribbles that were obscuring Bucky’s chocolate-brown waves. Tony's place would be too much even if Steve weren’t broken in a million different ways. Scott and his sister’s turtle were a no. And as kind as it had been for Peggy to offer, there was no way Steve was going down that road. Peggy was a P word, and Steve didn’t want to give Bucky any reason to think that he was falling back on—“Don’t say it.”Talking to yourself in a semi-lit room was only useful if you could make yourself listen. And since Steve said, “Pussy,” without a lick of hesitation, he executed another P word and bit the hell out of his own tongue. And when that wasn't enough penance, Steve stuck his finger up his nose and picked at the dried blood that was stuck to his nose hairs. It hurt, just like it was supposed to. But not as much as when Steve accidentally bumped the splint. “Pathetic,” he said, sticking his finger up side two.It was pathetic to want a couch with a dip in the center and a tray full of tater tots. Pathetic, presumptuous, and—double P bonus—preposterously premature.Bucky’s dad had already done more than Steve ever could have hoped for. More than he ever should have hoped for. And Steve wanting more— He wiped the blood boogers on his gown.“It’s fucking pushy.”The Alphabet Game wasn’t fun when your only companion was a snoring construction worker whose IV was still pumping in the good stuff. Without Bucky to bounce the letters back and forth, they were just a collection of syllables. Words with matching beginnings that meant nothing in the end. Steve made another attempt to get the blanket over his legs, but the cast, the IV, and his general frustration with the letter P kept getting in the way.He just wanted to kiss Bucky’s lips, tracing the brushstrokes of his jawline beneath the disco-ball stars, but wishing on a mirrored illusion that hung from a cheap plastic hook was as useless as the drug-free saline flowing into Steve’s veins.Steve bent his fingers inward, realizing pretty damn quick that plaster wasn’t conducive to the creation of crescent moons. So he did what any pussy who couldn’t handle potato salad, penne pasta, and peanut butter sandwiches would do. He squeezed his right hand twice as hard to compensate for the left.Liberation didn’t cure depression, and hospitals sure as fuck didn’t cure old habits.Steve was spiraling downward like a piece of shit in one of Tony’s toilets, and if he didn’t do something to stop it, he was going to end up in the sewer with the remnants of Alexander’s five-course meal. Releasing the moons, Steve pulled the tape off his hand, yanking the IV out in what should have been one smooth motion, but ended up being anything but. There was hair. And blood. And Steve—Well, Steve hadn’t really thought this through.The blanket may have been useless as a blanket, but it did an okay job as a bandage. And when Steve jammed the rest of it underneath his elbow to help him raise the bed to a sitting position, it did a pretty good job of keeping him upright.Invitation or not, Steve couldn’t stay here. It didn’t matter that Tony’s lawyers were supposed to bring the paperwork first thing in the morning or that Steve’s brain could literally explode. He had to get the fuck out of this room before everything he was running from got a second wind.But first, he had to get another pain pill.Liberating himself from liberation was going to take some stamina, and if Steve couldn’t knock the pain down to something semi-manageable, he’d be done before he started. Steve pushed the call button. And when the nurse didn’t come right away, he pushed it again… and again… and again. “Don’t look at the vase,” he said, looking directly at the fucking vase. “You can ask him when you get there.”It wasn’t that Steve hadn’t asked Bucky about the big glass vase on the table below the TV. He’d asked. He just hadn’t been given an answer that had weighed as much as the elephant in the room.The vase was from Tony. That much Steve knew. But aside from a Tony-typical text that had read Yo, Steve-o. Here’s a pic so you know what your get-well bouquet looked like before the Buckster went Norman Bates/Patrick Bateman Psycho about the blood money, Steve hadn’t been able to get a straight answer for anybody about why it was filled with nothing but flowerless stems. Steve pushed the button again.The first time he’d asked, Bucky had shoved half a breadstick into Steve’s mouth and spun a tale about trying to get his “Bacchus on” like Steve had done with the Gerbera daisies at the Four Seasons Hotel. It had been a cute story, and Bucky had really sold it by fluffing up his hair and claiming that lilies didn’t have "supernatural stamina" like daisies and Steve. But Steve hadn’t bought it for a second, especially after Tony’s makeshift Joker had arrived.The nurse was taking forever, so Steve grabbed the bed rail with his blanket bandage and tried to swing his legs over the side. Unfortunately, he was only able to move the right one about two inches before his ribs told him to fuck right off. The second time he’d asked, Steve had closed his mouth so Bucky couldn’t muzzle him with bread. But the story hadn’t been any more believable minus the mild suffocation via carbs. Steve hadn’t done any fact checking, but it wasn’t a stretch to say that Bucky had lied about plucking the flowers off their stems and handing them out to every doctor, nurse, orderly, and janitor so they could “stick ‘em in their pockets like fancy-ass homecoming boutonniéres.” It was a miracle that Steve managed to get both legs over the side of the bed without throwing up. Although, when you compared to his crosstown trek with multiple head wounds and a broken arm, it really wasn’t that big of a deal.“Pain is relative,” Steve said as he shuffled toward the bathroom. “And— Shit!”The blanket bandage was still on the bed. Steve’s hand was still leaking. And for the hundredth time this week, there was blood on the floor.Wiping his hand on the side of his gown, Steve said, “Blood trails aren’t always about blood money,” because they weren’t. Sometimes they were about pulling out your IV without applying proper pressure. And sometimes—“Who the fuck am I kidding?”Steve was fucked up, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew damn well that the third story in Bucky’s trifecta of tales—where flower-eating aliens had teleported into The Brooklyn Hospital Center to “eat the blooms of the sick”—had nothing to do with starships, and everything to do with Tony’s text. There had been hints in the form of fully formed sentences. After Bucky had gotten overenthusiastic about feeding Steve a piece of pizza, he’d pointed at the sauce that had dripped onto Steve’s gown and said, “Look, babe, you’ve got some blood money on your nipple.” And a few bites after that, Bucky had spread the tomato-red glob into the shape of a heart, flicked Steve’s sternum, and said, “Careful, slugger, that blood money might stain.”Steve didn’t bother turning on the bathroom light before he took his dick out, just like he didn’t bother wiping off the blood when a drop landed on his balls.The Land of Denial. Steve knew it well. He just had to decide if he was going to buy a yacht and sail away to his own version of Incubus Island or do something about what he hadn’t done earlier.He could call. He should call. But FaceTime wasn’t good enough, and neither was Skype. Steve wanted to see Bucky’s face when he asked about the flowers. And on a selfish level, he wanted to cradle that face in his hands. The nurse wasn’t coming. Or if she was, she wasn’t coming fast enough to stop Steve from doing something stupid. Steve laughed because that was completely backward. He couldn’t do something stupid until the nurse showed up with a big white pill in a little white cup. Pharmaceuticals were his ticket out of here. The first step in his paper-bag plan. Without that pill, Steve wasn’t going anywhere.Shaking off his dick, he pushed the call button next to the toilet. Not because he was climbing onto a fucking yacht, but because he wasn’t. “Mr. Rogers? Is everything okay?”Ah, his ticket had arrived. He could tell by the volume of her voice that she’d come into the room, which was great. But the concerned tone? Well, that probably meant that she’d seen the blood.“Call me Steve,” he said, praying she’d deliver his pill to the bathroom. “And no, I'm not okay. My fingers feel like they’re being smashed with a hammer.” It wasn’t a lie, although “smashed with a golf club” would have been a more accurate description. Or if Steve really wanted to paint a picture with some punch, he could say, “Imagine my wicked stepfather shouting ‘Fore!’ as he hits golf balls off my fingernails like keratin tees.”Her name was Nancy. Steve remembered because Bucky had said it rhymed with fancy. According to Bucky, fancy was the perfect word to describe her hairstyle. He’d told Steve all about how the little balls on Nancy’s head were called Bantu knots and how they'd reminded him of Natasha.Why, Steve had no idea.Nancy wanted him to get back into bed. Steve said no.Nancy wanted to jab another IV into his hand. Steve said no.Nancy wanted him to sit in the chair next to the empty pizza boxes so she could take his blood pressure.Steve said yes because, truth be told, he was feeling a little woozy.“It’s elevated,” she said as she took off the cuff. “Pain can cause that, so let’s see about getting you something stronger to help you sleep.”“Not too strong.”Nancy stopped in the doorway.“I still want to be able to walk to the bathroom.”That also wasn’t a lie, although Steve’s plan included a few more steps on the Fitbit.The timing was crucial. He had to swallow the pill, wait ten or fifteen minutes for it to kick in, then go on the hunt for a pair of pants. “And shoes.” Steve nudged the empty pizza boxes with his toes. If push came to shove, he could always make himself a pair of flip-flops out of greasy cardboard and gauze. When Nancy came back, she handed Steve a pill that was twenty-five percent bigger than the one he’d taken at nine.He didn’t question it. Just like Nancy didn’t question it when Steve said, “I’m going to sit here for a while. Stretch my legs.”Steve waited exactly five minutes and twenty-two seconds before he stopped engineering hypothetical flip-flops and went back to the bathroom. And everything was going great until he made the mistake of flipping on the light.“Jesus Christ.”For the most part, Steve had been pissing into a plastic bottle, and the one time he’d gotten up to shit out logs of butternut squash gnocchi, he’d left the light off on purpose.But it wasn’t off now.Poking the splint on his nose, Steve said, “I’ve got bigger problems than footwear.” Not only was the splint the size of a pack of cigarettes, the bruises around his eyes were so black that Tony could tell everybody Steve had been pummeled by Lou Ferrigno, and nobody would think twice. The cast was Smurf blue, but it was just a cast. Nothing that would make anybody stop and stare. But the bandage beneath Steve's left eye and the gauze wrapped around his head were a different story. Steve leaned closer to the mirror, peeling back the bandage that covered the stitches on his cheek.
“What are you doing?”
The light flickered, blinking on and off as the sound was sucked out of the room. The drips of water from the leaky faucet, the rattle in Steve’s nose from the crusted blood, Carlos’ chainsaw snores. Everything was silenced. And there, standing behind him in the mirror, was his mother, soft as a summertime breeze.Maybe it was the Vicodin kicking in, maybe it wasn’t. Either way, everything about her looked unequivocally real. Not how she’d looked at her end, but how she’d looked at Steve’s beginning.“Hi, Mom,” he said, smiling at the way her long blonde hair was floating around her face.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
She wasn’t earthbound. Behind Steve’s shoulder, their eyes were equal, proving that gravity was meaningless in terms of both mass and the seriousness of the situation. Yes, he was on the upswing of a pain pill. And, yes, his nose looked like a rotten potato. But all that aside, Steve was just happy to see her.The light dimmed when she said, “Steven, may I ask you a question?” The tears came, along with the desire to shrink down until he was small enough to fit into her arms. “Anything.”
“Where you’re headed, does he feel like home?”
Answering out loud wasn’t necessary. Steve knew he could speak from his heart and still be heard. But he wanted to watch his lips move in the mirror, to see the words forming without games or alliteration when he said, “More than I could possibly describe.”
“And if you were to build a home for this boy, something tangible that was more than a whim or a dream, what would it look like?”
Turning just enough to look at the space where her feet would be, Steve expected to see blood on her toes. But the blood trail was gone, and his mother’s pearlescent-pink polish was as pure as Steve’s intentions.“It would be something small,” Steve said, grabbing the edge of the sink so he didn’t fall too far beyond the veil. “Someplace where the two of us couldn’t help but get into each other’s space.” Closing his eyes, Steve imagined Bucky’s Walking Dead Pops mingling with his pencil shavings and books. “His stinky Converse would always end up underneath my kitchen chair. My sketchbooks would get buried in his dirty laundry. And every night before bed when we’re brushing our teeth, I’d accidentally spit on his toothbrush.” Laughing through his tears, Steve grabbed his rib cage because it hurt.
“And what would you fill it with, Steven?”
That was easy.“A flat-screen TV—one that takes up an entire wall—so we could watch Bucky’s entire DVD collection, then watch it again." Steve tugged at the tape on his cheek, lifting until he could count the stitches. “And I’d have custom shelves built in every room. Bucky has these figurines that he loves. Harley Quinn from the Suicide Squad movie that’s about to come out, and the Jared Leto version of—”A jolt of electricity raced up Steve’s spine, sparking as the Joker made himself known.Steve ripped off the rest of the tape. Not because he was ignoring the Jared Leto-shaped elephant in the room, but because he was literally on his way to make things right. The stitches were disgusting. They looked like a row of black ants had been ceremonially squished, roasted over a campfire, and stuck to Steve’s cheek with superheated hot glue. “I'd buy a bed that’s big enough for both of us to fit,” Steve said, mostly so he didn’t have to think about fire-roasted ants. “But not so big that I couldn't feel the warmth of him if he rolled away in the night. A proper queen for the Misfit King."The crown that popped into Steve’s head wasn’t adorned with candy-colored jewels. And worse, there were no pink plastic sunglasses hiding Neptune-blue eyes. It was just roses and bullshit and Bucky lying on the fucking floor.Steve rejected the image of Peggy in her homecoming crown, and he sure as fuck rejected the memory of being called a queen. He wasn’t going to let one terrible night tarnish their first day on the roof. No fucking way.Backing up until his mother was in front of him instead of behind, Steve passed through the whisper of who she’d once been. But when she turned, her smile had been replaced by a frown.
“Sweetheart, don’t you see it? The mistake that I made?”
The joy of custom-built shelves and high-definition TVs was gone, replaced by the sinking feeling that Steve was the one who’d done something wrong. Not his mother.He knew she wasn’t real. That it was the drugs, coupled with his overactive imagination, coupled with the fact that Steve was lonely, sad, and had read entirely too much Edgar Allan Poe. But that didn’t stop him from saying, “You didn’t make any mistakes, Mom.”Every strand of his mother's hair dropped, landing on her shoulders like mud-covered ropes in the rain.
“I took away your home, Steven. And six years later, you’re still searching for it.”
Steve took a step backward, even though he'd vowed to move forward.
“And, sweetheart, no matter how hard you try, you’re not going to find what you’re looking for at the sharp end of a lawyer’s pen.”
Opioid-induced introspection was a powerful thing, but that kind of revelation could only have come from beyond.“There was a lot of blood,” Steve said, connecting the sauce stains like a dot-to-dot constellation, “but it isn’t blood money. I swear.”It would have been better if she had called him an asshole or a dumbass or an entitled, self-centered prick, but his mother stayed silent, tilting her head until she appeared as she had at her end. Poisoned with radiation and chemotherapy. Eyes bloodshot from the vomiting. Her blood infested with Japanese beetles and flat-screen televisions that took up the entire wall.Stumbling toward the door, Steve said, “I have to go.” And when he said stumbling, he meant stumbling in the most literal sense of the word. In fact, somebody should take a picture and send it to Merriam Webster. They could print it next to the definition.Luckily, nobody saw Steve trip over a metal chair and bounce off a couch like a broken bumper car. The hallway was a wasteland. A wide-open plain. Perfect for an escape if not for the small issue of Steve having no idea where the fuck he was. “I’m in a hospital,” he said as he searched for signs. “Eighth floor, where Dante’s frauds trade blood for money.”Being a pompous prick when you were pantless was hilarious, and having a pantless penis when it came to Bucky was a theme. The only difference was that this time, Natasha wasn’t here for the save.Steve tried three doors that looked like they might be closets before he found one that opened. And there, on shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, were stacks and stacks of things that could cover Steve’s ass. “Thanks, Mom,” he said because, really, there was no other explanation.Neatly folded sheets. Neatly folded blankets. Big towels. Small towels. Washcloths. “Bingo.”It was embarrassing how long it took Steve to layer two pairs of grippy socks with one arm, and it was even worse when he had to squeeze his legs into a pair of blue scrubs that were two sizes too small. But that was nothing compared to tying a fucking knot.You would think that putting a second hospital gown over the first—like one of Sharon’s ridiculous cardigans—would be easy. First one arm, then the other. But Vicodin or not, any sort of twisting was off the table. And the strings? Steve yanked the end with his teeth, tying what should have been a bow into something that definitely wasn't.For a second, Steve really thought he was going to throw up. All the signs were there. Cold sweat on his brow. Extra saliva in his mouth. The desire to curl up like a baby and cry. But Steve swallowed it down, leaning against the towels until it passed. And once it had, he brought it right back by ripping the splint off his nose.It said something that only a handful of people looked at Steve funny as he stumbled around the hospital, searching for a way out. And it said even more that the lady at the information desk offered him a lollipop before directing him to the south exit.All that was left between Bucky and Steve was thirty steps—give or take—and a revolving door.When Steve stepped into the current, he let himself spin, going around and around until the door spit him out into the fresh garbage-scented air.“Home isn’t a place,” he said, leaning against the building. “It’s rushing home after school to build a house with popsicle sticks and Elmer’s Glue.”"Hey, man. What’s up with those shoes?"The man standing next to Steve had more hair than teeth, but that wasn’t what made Steve re-evaluate his escape plan. It was the fact that they were standing shoulder to shoulder and Steve had no idea where he’d come from."I know my shoes have seen better days,” the man said, blowing cigarette smoke at Steve’s stitches, “but at least I got me some." Steve laughed when he looked at his two-ply 'shoes,' and he laughed even harder when he realized that he was missing more than a pair of sneakers. He was also missing his wallet and phone. His original plan had been to call an Uber. But, apparently, Ubers—like caviar canapés and custom-built shelving—weren’t included on Steve’s newly revamped blood-free menu.“I don’t need shoes where I’m going,” Steve said, promptly stepping on a rock.The man laughed so loud that he started to cough. And Steve, listing to the left as he hopped on one foot, laughed so hard that he dislodged a chunk of dried blood from his nose.Blood. Smoke. Germs. While the two of them mixed things that should never be mixed, Steve looked up at the moon.“I’m high as fuck,” Steve said, trying to orient himself for the journey. Then, after remembering that the moon didn’t work like the sun, he searched for landmarks instead. He had to walk south until he reached the flamingos in the flower box. That’s where he’d find Lucky Charms and tater tots, SpongeBob towels and macaroni frames, and, most importantly, the beautiful boy who’d beheaded a bouquet of flowers so the aliens could look pretty at Homecoming. The Manhattan skyline deserved a gold star as far as landmarks were concerned. The Chrysler Building. The supertalls rising near Central Park. One World Trade Center. If you were far enough away to see the tops of the buildings—which Steve was—the skyline was as good as any map.Putting the rectangles on his right, Steve checked for rocks before he stepped off the curb. When he was little, Steve had never walked around Brooklyn by himself, let alone by himself in the dark. And, honestly, he probably shouldn’t be doing it now. If he got mugged, the robbers would probably give him another concussion when they found out Steve didn’t have any money.But Steve liked walking. It reminded him of his mom. Sarah Rogers had never owned a car. Even after she’d married Alexander, she’d refused to let him label any of his cars as her own. “There’s value in walking,” she’d say. “It’s how you get to know the world.”Weaving his way around a subway grate, Steve said, “Like Susie O’Brien and her misbehaving Dalmatian,” as he avoided the updraft from the underground trains. Whenever Susie had to go to New Jersey to help her grandfather, Steve’s mom would walk her dog. She’d take Steve by the hand, leading him two blocks to the left, then four to the right to pick up Henry. Then they’d walk all the way to Sunset Park where Steve would practice holding onto the leash. It was a good memory. But Steve’s favorite part had always come after they’d given Henry a fresh bowl of water and tucked him into his doggy bed. If Steve had done a good job stopping Henry whenever he’d tried to chase a squirrel, his mom would buy him a book from the used bookstore on the way back home.Books that had lived in stacks on Steve’s dresser instead of custom-built shelves.“Ouch.”Steve had stepped on… something. Another rock? A bottle cap? The sharp end of a pen? Steve had no idea. All he knew was that he was standing in front of a vacuum shop that had seven vacuums and a faded American flag in the window.How Sarah Rogers had known Susie O’Brien was a mystery. Just like it was a mystery how his mother had known which houses to visit on Memorial Day.Pressing his forehead against the glass, Steve took a second to catch his breath.Traditions were important. His mother had taught him that. Not with words, but by example.The flags were something they’d done together since Steve had been able to walk—and, he suspected, long before. Every Memorial Day weekend, the two of them would sit at their kitchen table, using Steve’s blue and red crayons to make dozens of tiny American flags. First, they’d color them, making sure to put a red stripe at the top, a white stripe at the bottom, and to keep the blue within the lines. Then they’d write Thank You on the back of each one before cutting them out and taping them to a popsicle stick. But the heart of the tradition had never been about Crayola crayons and bargain-bin tape. That part had come on Monday when they’d walked through the neighborhood, sticking handmade flags into mailboxes, flower pots, and rusty screen doors. Steve rolled his stitches across the glass, echoing his mother’s voice when he said, “Memorial Day is a time for remembrance and gratitude. For those who’ve served and those we’ve lost.”Little kids don’t have a clue that Santa isn’t real. They think his big white beard and jolly laugh will be there every Christmas forever and ever and ever. And just like five-year-old Steven had never questioned the existence of Santa Claus and his jolly green elves, he’d never asked his mother why she’d always saved the last flag for their own front door. Steve had been six or seven when he’d finally made the connection, and once he had, he’d stopped believing in a hell of a lot more than Santa.“And that’s a wrap on that,” Steve said, stepping away from the vacuum, both literally and figuratively. He had to ask Bucky about the flowers, and—“Shit.”There were buildings all around him, which was to be expected. But they were tall enough to cover the skyline, erasing the landmarks with mortar and stone.“Where the fuck I am?”He needed a compass. And a phone. And money. And an Uber. And one of Bucky’s teleportation devices. “Well,” Steve said, turning his back on Santa, “unless you’re gay, you can’t go wrong with straight.” Trudging onward, Steve made it past a wig shop, a Catholic church, and an Irish bar before he had to stop to pick a Snickers wrapper off his foot. And it was there, standing in front of a big, bright window, that he found himself next to yet another man with smoke pouring out of his nose.A quick survey said there were roughly ten people standing outside of a twenty-four hour laundromat, smoking, vaping, and drinking mystery liquor out of brown paper bags while they waited for their underwear to dry. Steve fit right in.The man was wearing a black motorcycle jacket that, for all intents and purposes, was straight out of Clint Barton’s closet. And like Clint, he held out his joint and offered Steve a hit.On a normal day, Steve would never hit a stranger’s joint, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And, really, was the risk any greater than Steve catching hepatitis—or worse—from walking around Brooklyn in socks?Steve took the joint.According to the Bible, Jesus will randomly appear as an elderly woman or a hungry child to test his followers’ empathy. Or maybe that was just something the Catholics made up to get their flock to serve soup to the homeless. Either way, the guy who wasn’t Clint Barton was earning big points with the big guy in the sky.It was painful to smoke weed with broken ribs, so Steve hit the joint twice, one shallow puff followed by another. “You’re a Good Samaritan,” Steve said, blowing the smoke toward the sky. “There’s this guy I know. Clint. He looks like a biker without a bike.” Steve passed the joint back to the man.“You remind me of him. The jacket. The weed. The hard exterior hiding a heart of gold. He’s a punk rock Samaritan who’s smart enough to know that food fights are more important than flat-screen TVs.”As Steve and the man who wasn’t Clint passed the joint back and forth, Steve tried his damndest to smoke away the nagging feeling at the base of his skull. And he wasn’t talking about the headache. He was talking about the idea that his mother’s lessons had sunk in too late.A cop car rolled by. It didn’t stop. A garbage truck rumbled past. It didn’t stop, even though the trash can in front of the laundromat was overflowing with empty detergent bottles and crumpled paper bags. And just like that, Steve was back in the Escalade, crashing into the trash can outside of Starbucks on the very first morning he’d swam with Bucky Barnes.“I have to go,” Steve said, taking one last puff. “Thanks for the help, man who isn't Clint.”When Steve smoked weed, lamps and light bulbs changed from a singular glow to something more. When Steve smoked mystery weed on top of Vicodin—holy shit—streetlights morphed into exploding stars, spiraling outward like celestial compasses. “Move,” they said. “Two blocks east, then five blocks south.” And Steve listened, following their instructions like a captain in the middle of the deep blue sea. That first day in the locker room, Bucky’s pants had been covered in polar bears. Not ravens. Not queen-size mattresses. Not televisions with high-definition screens. But fuzzy white polar bears with peppermint swirls. So that’s who Steve followed, matching his pace with their carnivorous lumber. Not that he was going to eat Bucky. If anything, Steve was going to ask for more cereal. With milk. And marshmallows. And a spoon.Steve passed hundreds of houses, two cop cars, and three more personifications of Jesus—four if you counted the scrawny tomcat who’d squeezed between a duplex and a bungalow—before he found Bucky’s house. The flamingos had given it away. Three pink plastic flamingos sticking out of the flower box instead of three little pigs, all of whom had built their houses out of something stronger than straw or sticks or bricks.“It’s a brick house, dumbass.” The flamingos had said it. All three, in unison. And that— Steve grabbed the metal railing so he could make it up the steps. Vicodin or not, talking flamingos were way more than you'd expect from a few puffs of weed.“I did it,” Steve said when he reached the top. "And, even better, I didn't get mugged."God damn, he was happy. Happy that his ghost mom had teamed up with Jesus—and the polar bears—to get Steve to his destination. Happy that he hadn’t died on the way. And happy that the man who wasn’t Clint had Samaritanized Steve with something more than weed.Touching the bricks, Steve said, “I don’t need you,” before shifting his fingers to the mailbox next to the door. It was metal with a little anchor engraved on the front, and when Steve rubbed his palm across the top, the crescent moons absorbed the rust. Steve didn’t need to lift the lid to know there wasn’t a hand-colored flag tucked between the hinges. Mr. Barnes had never served, and, more importantly, he’d never blown his head off with a handgun.“Not here,” Steve said as he opened the screen door. This was about Bucky, and if Steve wanted to snuggle up to his Starboy and promise that he'd never, ever buy him a flat-screen TV, Steve couldn’t let his dead dad get in the way.Ghost moms were helpful. Dead dads, not so much.Steve knocked once for each flamingo. And when that didn’t work, he pounded on the door with the side of his fist.The door had a solid wood core—he could tell by the sound—but Steve had no intention of building Bucky a house that relied on three-dimensional construction. He was going to build it with interlocking tater tots, spit-covered toothbrushes, and stardust sourced from glow-in-the-dark stars.“What the actual fuck, Steve?”It sounded like something Bucky would say—or Sam when he was really, really mad—but the Starboy and the co-captain were nowhere to be found. Bucky’s dad was wearing a faded Knicks sweatshirt and a pair of boxers, which was weird on many levels. Leg hair—Mr. Barnes had lots of it. Five o'clock shadow—he was a few hours away from a beard. But the weirdest thing was seeing Principal Barnes without his glasses. Without them, he looked like he should be selling insurance instead of running a school.Steve was about to say something about basketball to break the ice—like “What do you think about Coach Fisher getting fired?” or “How about that rookie Porzinģis?”—but Mr. Barnes skipped the small talk and stuck his head out the door. “How the hell did you get here?” he asked, looking left, then right.“I walked.”“You walked two miles in socks?”Holding onto the mailbox, Steve lifted his foot. “They used to be grippy, but now they’re full of holes.”“Are you drunk?”“No, I’m high. A Clint Barton doppelgänger thought I was Jesus and shared a joint that, based on my experience with the flamingos, was probably laced with LSD.” Before Steve knew it, he was sitting on the bench next to the coat rack, staring at the Barnes Family shoe pile. Blue boots with checkered laces. Checkered Vans with no laces. Tiny running shoes with pink laces. Penny loafers without the pennies. There were so many soles—and souls—to fall in love with while the patriarch called the hospital to rat Steve out for flying the coop. It was stupid that Steve had to wait, but Bucky's dad had put his foot down. When Steve had stumbled into the house and said, “I have to ask Bucky about the flowers and tell him about the pizza sauce,” Mr. Barnes had blocked him like he was playing defense at Madison Square Gardens. Blue boots aside, mandatory waiting periods weren’t as fun as mandatory morning sing-alongs. Not only did Steve’s feet hurt like a son of a bitch—maybe even more than his arm—but the tongues of the shoes had started making this wub-wub-wub sound that was even more psychedelic than the time Steve had tripped balls on Ezra's ecstasy.Addressing what was left of the socks, Steve asked, "What's taking so long?" And when they didn't answer, he addressed the flower-loving aliens from the kaleidoscopic cosmos. "I just want to crawl into Bucky's bed and touch Bucky's butt and— “Stay put,” Bucky’s dad said before disappearing through a door that Steve could only assume led to the basement. And Steve, left alone with the wagging tongues, said, "Mandatory waiting period extended."Steve could hear him rummaging around down there, doing whatever dads did when their son’s boyfriend showed up covered in blood for the third time in as many weeks. Maybe he was looking for an air mattress like Sam. Or maybe they had one of those doomsday freezers stockpiled with vacuum-sealed meat and frozen peas.Cringing, Steve pressed his palm against the tender part of his rib cage.It wouldn’t be right to ice his broken ribs with a rack of Baby Back Ribs. Just like it wouldn't be right to ice his nose with a bag of frozen pig snouts. Steve was too in tune with the dead to mock them, even the ones who'd crossed the veil in animal form.“My ribs will heal," he said, considering vegetarianism as the wub-wub-wub turned into the squeals of the Three Little Pigs. "While yours are destined to be slathered in barbecue sauce and strapped to a spit.""Okay, I think these will fit."Steve jumped, jostling every broken part that didn't need to be jostled.Like the man with the cigarette and the man with the joint, Bucky’s dad had appeared out of nowhere. The only difference was that this time around, the Good Samaritan was offering Steve something to wear instead of something to smoke.“It’s the taco pants,” Steve said, reaching out to touch the shredded lettuce. “Destiny in the form of crispy corn shells.”Mind-altering drugs aside, there was no way Bucky’s dad could have known that Bucky and Steve had talked about this exact pair of pants on the roof. No way he could have known that these soft cotton tacos, with their juicy beef and whipped sour cream, represented the very essence of simple.When Bucky’s dad knelt down to peel off what was left of the socks, Steve studied his bald spot, wishing upon a taco-shaped star that destiny would gift Steve with one of his own someday.Zeroing in on the center, he said, "My dad didn't make it long enough to have a bald spot.""Lift your foot, Steve.""And before I met Bucky, I thought I'd—"Steve stopped himself before he could say "go to my grave with a full head of hair." Even stoned out of his mind, Steve knew that the jump between taco destiny and suicidal salvation was too much.The socks were gone, meaning Steve was that much closer to touching Bucky's butt. But when Mr. Barnes took it a step further and tossed them on top of the Barnes Family shoe pile, Steve smiled more than the fire-roasted ants would allow. It was nice of Mr. Barnes to avoid looking at Steve’s dick while he helped Steve change into the taco pants, and even nicer when he started cleaning Steve’s feet with a warm washcloth.“You’re like Jesus,” Steve said, even though it was a role reversal of the Good Samaritan parable, “if Jesus washed Mary’s feet while the Knicks played basketball on a perfectly ordinary TV.”"Steve, stop talking."“Good idea.”The knots that Steve had tied with his teeth were snipped with a pair of scissors, the hospital gowns were removed one by one, and once Steve was half naked—on the top this time, not the bottom—Bucky’s dad held up a sweatshirt. “Do you want to try and put this on? It was the only thing I could find that looked big enough to go over the cast.”There was a donut on the front. A big one, with sprinkles that sparkled like jewels. And as much as it looked like a frosting-covered bald spot, Steve said, “I could eat a donut,” because the LSD—or whatever—wasn't strong enough to overpower the munchies. But Mr. Barnes didn’t give Steve a donut. He just slipped the sweatshirt over Steve’s head, stretching the neck to avoid… well, everything. Then he put Steve’s broken arm into the sleeve, no twisting required.“I don't want anyone to switch bedrooms,” Steve said because he wanted to make it perfectly clear that none of the P words were coming into play. “And I'm not going to displace any turtles or complain about the lack of bidets. In fact, once I ask Bucky about the flowers and explain the pizza sauce, I'll leave.”Using the coat rack, Steve tried to stand up, but all he managed to do was knock off most of the coats.“You’re staying,” Mr. Barnes said, making Steve sit down before disappearing into the kitchen. “And you’re going to eat something before I let you get off that bench.”Apparently, the mandatory waiting period included snacks. And while it wasn’t a cream-filled donut, Steve was happy to nibble on warm pita bread and sip milk through a straw. “Let’s get you into bed.” The milk was gone. And so was the straw.“We’ll figure out the rest in the morning.”Bucky’s dad was more helpful than the coat rack, and before Steve knew it, his good arm was wrapped around the shoulders of something he’d always wanted.“You’re a good dad,” Steve said as they hobbled up the stairs. “I’ve never had one—even in ghost form—but I think you’re exactly what a dad is supposed to be.”They passed the bathroom with its unicorn shower curtain and towel rack for three, getting closer and closer to Bucky’s door. And when they arrived, Steve laughed when he found himself face to face with Freddie Mercury.“I forgot about the Queen poster.” Steve booped Freddie’s nose. “And— Wow, I can't believe I never made the connection.”“What connection?”“That Freddie was the queen.”Steve heard the roar of Freddie's crowd as the doorknob was turned and the door pushed open, an entire stadium cheering as the moonlight revealed the beauty of Steve’s king on a queen-size bed. Bucky could have been sprawled out on the mattress—diagonally if he wanted—but he was tucked against the wall, leaving a Steve-sized spot that Steve hoped his intentions were big enough to fill.But first, he had a question.“Is that a panda?” After the polar bears, Steve wasn’t sure if the panda squished against Bucky’s face was real. “He got it at the gift shop on the way out of the hospital.”“So it’s stuffed.”Steve had said it like a fact, when, in truth, it was a question.“Go to sleep, Steve. I’ll check on you in the morning.”And with that, Mr. Barnes shut the door, leaving Steve to loom over Bucky like a stalker in a donut shirt. The crowd went silent as the darkness devoured the disco-ball stars. And the panda, with its black eyes and decapitated boutonnière, scowled at Steve, whispering, “Even vampires wait for invitations,” before it snuggled up to Bucky's cheek.Bucky liked vampires, but that didn’t mean they were good for him. Sucking up space. Sucking up milk. Sucking up the glow of Bucky's stars until the Starboy disappeared. Steve might not have the teeth to suck the blood directly out of Bucky's neck, but he sure as fuck was guilty of emotional exsanguination. Groaning, Steve said, “Both types leave a blood trail,” as he sat on the floor next to Bucky's bed.And there he stayed, leaving the Steve-sized hole empty as he waited for the sun to rise on the childhood side of the river. Only then would Steve know if he would be welcomed into Bucky's home or—like hundreds of thousands of vampires before him—reduced to a pile of dust.