we wrapped our wounds with burnt leaves and revolution.

[battleaxe]

WHO? bucky (1922) & steve (metabolic).
WHAT? all that changes is that steve won't be following him into war. pre-serum, c. late 1941/early 1942.

[ when the united states of america declares war on japan, germany, and italy, the story that follows is a familiar one:

james buchanan barnes is nineteen years old and itching for a fight. that's just how he is, all edges and smiling bloodied teeth, knuckles split and bruised five days out of the week. he's a good man, a good person, who'll stand up for what he believes is right, but he grew up rough dealing with rough people, and none of that changes when he enlists in the united states army.

all that changes is that steve won't be following him into war.

hell will freeze over — twice — before bucky ever admits that he's relieved, but he sees how steve takes the news, like a hard hit to the gut that sucks the life right out of him. part of him wants to grip his shoulder and tell him that, hey, kid, it's all right, and the other part of him, the thoughtlessly rational part, wants to shake him until he's red in the face, because christ. what did he expect?

the real truth is that bucky doesn't know what he would have done if steve had enlisted, if he'd been accepted as a soldier, as private steven rogers, but confessions like that are hard and cold and too plain, and bucky doesn't know how to be that honest, not like that. especially not with steve.

the real, real truth is that he wants to kiss every easily left bruise on steve's skin, or trace the trembling in his ribs with his tongue when he coughs, but he doesn't. he wants to grip him until he can't breathe, then kiss the air back into his lungs, but he doesn't. he wants to take his face between both palms and say i love you, i do, i really do, but he doesn't.

he wants to hold his hand like he did when they were children.

but he doesn't.

instead he takes steve drinking, then brings him back to their apartment at a relatively reasonable time, well after they're both a shitfaced mess of wobbling legs and obnoxious laughter. steve takes his liquor better than bucky takes his, and sometimes steve is the one supporting bucky as they walk home together, listening and laughing to bucky's drunken singing, to bucky's drunken stories, like all best friends are supposed to do.

when bucky takes him out tonight, steve doesn't do much drinking — or much talking — or much of anything, really, so bucky doesn't drink much either. he talks to fill the silence between them, both in the bar and on the way home, the kind of incessant rambling that's birthed from tense uncertainty.

though steve shoots him a halfhearted smile every now and then, bucky knows an act when he sees one. he may as well be talking to a wall.

but, hell, bucky has enough cheap whiskey in his system to feel a good buzz, and he's too warm despite the frigid brooklyn winter, and he's got steve (quiet, possibly sulking steve) right beside him, so. he lets steve duck inside their apartment before he follows, gracelessly kicking the door shut behind them and dropping an arm over steve's skinny shoulders to roughly drag him in against his side. ]

What's with the face, Rogers?

Comments

[metabolic]

[ there's something sickening in the sound of bucky faking a laugh, worse than a clean shot from fist to nose, worse than the widow in the apartment next to them wailing late at night, crueler than the jarring crash of a beer bottle exploding off the ground (and less easy to sweep up, less easy to swallow). steve rogers couldn't lie to save his life (but maybe for someone else, he would lie for bucky, through his teeth and with fearsome conviction) so he knows his bluff has been called before he can make a case, knows there's no real point in squaring his shoulders and biting out some bullshit excuse.

he's an easy read for bucky and he knows it, the thin pages of him memorized, all the space between his words too familiar for him to pull a fast one and he lacks the motivation to be truly convincing, anyway. he doesn't know how to balance it, the need to smile and hope and tell bucky he'll see him soon, he'll find a way, the army will need him for something — and the frustration, the disappointment, the stale taste in the back of his throat that must be fear.

his eyebrows twitch together just briefly when bucky pulls away from him, shifts and looks at him, his face that much warmer after the slow press of his mouth, heat lingering like an echo. but it's faint and fainter still when bucky keeps his hands on him but seems restless and the look on his face is too sincere to keep looking at so he averts his gaze and forces an abrupt cough into a noise that doesn't sound so much like he's clearing his throat but there's some effort made.

it's defiant and stupid but he's still trying to compose himself so bucky can leave with the memory of them celebrating with the news, whiskey and beer and some kind of pride despite the fake smiles and tension, the harsh laughter of the army recruiter still ringing in his ears.

he won't lie so he says nothing, thinks maybe he'll still be able to avoid all of it. plenty of time to dodge it. bucky doesn't need to know how bad the bruise stings. ]

You're not supposed to get any warmer ten minutes out in the cold. [ it's all fake steam but it helps, forces him back onto steady feet. he lifts one arm to press his palm against bucky's jaw, aiming to look unimpressed and faltering, just a little. it's not defensive, his mouth quirking to one side because bucky hadn't been shivering much at all and it's his hand that's freezing, the one he tugs down against bucky's neck, cold fingers aiming to startle. ]

[battleaxe]

[ steve's hands are freezing, too cold on bucky's warm skin, but bucky feels the heat of them anyway, seeping through the cold to spread through his body like an infection. and that's all steve is, really—an infection, an extra limb he can't cut off, a weight on his shoulders that's been there since childhood, and bucky without steve isn't really bucky at all.

he's just—james buchanan barnes, an orphan with shit to his name.

but steve doesn't know that, and he shouldn't have to. bucky smiles at him like there's not five hundred million thoughts running through his brain, folding his fingers over steve's on his neck and pulling his frozen hand between his warmed palms, squeezing gently. ]

Yeah, well. Guess I run hot. [ the alcohol in his system makes him sluggish and slow, thoughtlessly soft. he leans in to blow warm air between his hands and over steve's fingers, the act so brief and quick before he's letting go and turning from him to roughly jerk open his coat.

being so close to steve like this after everything that's happened is more difficult than he'd imagined. there's a space inside him that aches and burns, acid pooling in his throat and blistering his belly, and every word unspoken between them makes the ache that much worse. he wants to tell him that he loves him, or that he's sorry, or that he's not sorry, or that it's better this way, or that he's glad and miserable and furious all at the same time.

instead the words sit like swallowed bullets inside him, useless and quiet and poorly hidden. bucky's never been afraid of words except for here, except for when the truth counts, except for when steve might get hurt.

he swallows hard and rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, pressing his mouth into a thin line while steve can't see him. his coat is tossed carelessly over the back of a nearby chair, the worn and heavy fabric sliding off the chair's edge to drop soundlessly to the floor. ]