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People don't give Bucky Barnes shit.
To be fair, people don't talk to Bucky Barnes full stop, and Steve thinks that must be kinda sad - but then again no one really talks to him either unless they're about to punch him in the face which. You know. Not so brilliant.
Their school's full of cliques and groups, and you'd think Bucky would be part of one. He's slim, good looking, with a charming smirk, a safety pin in his left ear lobe and thick, black eyeliner smeared about his eyes. But Steve's seen him - because Steve sees everyone, that's sort of the advantage of being a hundred pounds and five-four; he's contemplating putting becoming wallpaper on his college applications as a special skill - talking with the other punk kids at school. Some dumb gang ran by that bully Pierce; they call themselves Hydra and sell drugs to freshman kids. They'd approached him out on the sports field from where Barnes had been lounging up against a tree, chainsmoking and reading a comic book; whatever Pierce had asked him, it'd gotten him a facefull of cigarette smoke for his troubles.
Steve had liked that.
Barnes, at least, seems to be solitary by choice. He barely turns up to class, will eat outside whether it's raining, snowing or it's eighty-six degrees out and he's wearing a leather jacket.
Steve, on the other hand, has at least tried.
But he's not arty enough for the art kids, doesn't wear thick-framed glasses or big sweaters, isn't quite smart enough to hang around with the geeks - besides, he makes them a target, and he understands the sense of self-preservation that makes them avoid him, at least. He's head of the LGBT society, which is nice, but he's also the only member.
So, when he works out that he's not likely to make friends any time soon, he does his best to fade into the background. Doesn't make eye contact in the hallways, doesn't answer questions in class, eats a packed lunch in the bathrooms, in general keeps his head down -
(And, well, if he spends a little too long staring at Bucky Barnes every now and then, who's gonna know?)
Unfortunately, keeping his mouth shut isn't exactly his forte. When he was a kid, his mom used to tell him you got the voice of a boy twice your size, kiddo, and it's gonna get you in trouble some day. Which is the understatement of the century, to be honest, but he's at least gotten a little better at keeping to himself.
But there's some kids - not even that stupid Hydra lot; it's some of the senior jocks with footballs bigger than their brains who wear their Letterman jackets like some weird, elitist badge of pride - picking on a girl in the hallway. She's a freshman, maybe, tiny kid, looking desperately like she's trying not to cry as the football players hold her books half a foot above her outstretched arm, and whilst her friends are mingled in among the crowd, looking a little worried, they're not stupid enough to wade into the fray with a bunch of kids twice their size.
He's not going to get involved. Really. Except one of them reaches out and shoves the girl, her shoulders slamming back against the lockers, and he's moving before he's really thinking.
'Hey! What the hell's your problem?' He snaps out, the crowd rumbling with discontent as he shoves through the fray of bodies to glare up - really up, he's about the same size as the freshman girl, and there's a quiet voice in the back of his head asking the fuck are you thinking, Rogers? He ignores it - at the thick-skulled jock.
'You say something, Rogers?' The boy snorts, turning away as Steve narrows his eyes, studying the bully closely, searching for a name.
'I don't know, Harold, but if you're gonna be stealing books off of people half your size, maybe you should try reading them once in a while. Might extend your vocabulary beyond that of a fifth grader,' Steve snaps. Because he's an idiot, and apparently in the last twenty seconds he's forgotten Harold comes flanked with an entire football team, all of whom are twice is size and essentially specialise in tackling people to the ground for fun.
The punch comes before he can really process the movement, the crowd erupting into noise, shouts and screams of encouragement rattling around the small hallway as pain blossoms across his face. He staggers, almost falls, swipes a hand under his nose and stares at the blood smeared across the back of his wrist, crimson and ugly. Forcing himself up, he ducks from another swinging fist, snatches an abandoned folder and uses it to block the next punch - only to have it wrenched from his hand and thrown to the side, papers scattering.
The locker connects with his shoulder blades sharply as he's lifted off the ground, the material of his shirt bunched up as Harold sneers at him, face too close now - and Steve's pretty sure he can hear the rattle of his chest, tries to ignore the panic sneaking coldly through his stomach as he spits a mixture of saliva and blood to the floor.
'I can do this all day,' he croaks at Harold and the room at large, attempting a snarl that comes out more like a wheeze.
The crowd's died down a little, bitter chaos subsiding into fraught intensity - a few people have got phones out to record them and Christ, if Steve ends up on fucking YouTube he's going to flip his shit - which allows an odd sound to carry. The dry flick of a match is abruptly loud as the corridor turns silent, a few heads - including Steve's own - turning towards the source of the sound.
Barnes, hair pulled back into a knotted ponytail, for once eyeliner-free, wrapped up in his usual ratty leather jacket and ripped jeans, is staring with cold disinterest out at the crowd, holding their attention like an actor in a play. Cupping the small flame, he brings the match to a cigarette pressed in the curve of his mouth, allowing himself a small smirk as he inhales, blows a lazy smoke ring towards the gathered spectators. Silence fades into confusion, a few turning heads, a few muttered what the fucks -
Until, casually, he holds the cigarette up, closer to the ceiling - towards, Steve spots, one of the smoke detectors that dot every hallway - stretching on tiptoe and baring the tanned line of his hipbones.
At which point, the quiet is splintered by the noisy wail of the fire alarm and, a few seconds later, the burst of sprinklers throughout the entire corridor. Steve's dropped immediately, barely able to hear the curses and shouts of the rapidly scattering students as he thuds to the ground, the scream of the alarm drowning everything out. Briefly he turns, watches as Harold and his cronies rush down the corridor, one of them shoving their shoulders into Barnes' own; he remains planted in place, laughing a little as he flicks away his sodden cigarette.
Steve would like to concentrate - honestly, he would, because Barnes is stood a few meters away from him, soaking wet, clothes clinging to him like some sort of pornographic vision sent from heaven - but he's currently using all of his brain power to focus on breathing and, with shaking hands, trying to dig out an inhaler from his pocket.
Abruptly, there's a cool touch batting his hand out of the way and digging into his trouser pocket, a tall figure crouched in front of him, the scent of cigarette smoke and a deeper, barely-there trace of lemon invading his personal space. A shiver runs through him that has nothing to do with the freezing water beating down on the pair as slender fingers brush the top of his thigh - and then his inhaler's being shoved in his hand. He takes deep, sweeping drags from the thing, tries to steady his breathing and desperately not look at the boy in front of him; he dares a glance, throat running dry at the water droplets dancing across Barnes' eyelashes, tracing along his cheekbones as he watches Steve carefully, eyes intense and concentrating, expression flat.
As soon as his breathing turns steady, he's being hauled up to standing, steadied by rough hands on his shoulders. Somehow, Barnes pulls a dry tissue out of somewhere, holding Steve's jaw between those same cool fingers as he swipes under his nose, across his chin, clearing the diluted blood away.
He fixes Steve with a look. The boy's expression is unreadable as he watches the smaller student, no doubt catches the way Steve's throat bobs, brow crinkling as his hair slowly grows more and more plastered to his forehead.
Steve blinks, and he's sure Barnes winks as he saunters away, walk a lazy swagger as the sprinklers finally cut off, leaving the hallway abruptly silent.
'Uh - thanks?' Steve calls after him belatedly, voice a little strained, face flushing bright red as he curses his vocal chords for betraying him.
'Don't mention it,' Barnes calls back, not even turning to look at him.
In all honesty, it sounds like a threat. Steve's not sure if he should be scared or aroused.
-
Steve lives a good half an hour or so away from school. Which is a pain in the ass, because it means he has to get two different buses to get there - but it's also great, because he rarely sees anyone from school on the crappy estate he lives on, and he only has to worry about the drug dealers from the floor down in terms of potential threat - who are actually very nice, and always lend him flour because - well. They do a shit load of baking.
His nose had been a little swollen when he'd gotten home the day of the fight, but he'd managed to sell his mom on some vague lie about walking into a locker - which is almost true. He's hanging around in the park, trying to ignore his still-throbbing face, attempting to sketch the kids across the way playing a haphazard game of football, when a shadow falls over his sketch pad. He turns, half expecting Harold and his gang of thugs to have followed him home, and is instead greeting with a somewhat absurd sight.
Natasha Romanoff is stood in front of him, decked out in a leotard and leggings, a gym bag slung over her shoulder. Clint Barton, a kid who spends most of his time off his head on weed, is slouched next to her, a full-on archery bow dangling casually from his fingertips.
'Well, I can definitely say it's the most original weapon I've ever been threatened with,' he starts up, quirking an eyebrow at Clint, who glances his way almost lazily; 'but I don't have any lunch money on me so you're wasting your time.'
'We're not here to take your money,' Natasha tells him, hand on her cocked hip, red hair glowing like fire in the autumn sunlight. She's a stunning sight, face bare of makeup, curls tumbling across her shoulders, and Steve feels his face flush when she offers him a bare smile. 'James said you helped out my sister.'
'Uh -' he breaks off when Clint gestures towards his red nose. It would almost be a friendly gesture, except he's absently pointing towards Steve's face with the sharp arrow he'd previously been twirling between his fingers. 'Oh! Right. That was your sister?'
'Mmhm,' Nat murmurs, taking a few moments to study Steve.
'Okay. And - who's James?'
'Barnes,' Clint offers helpfully, pulling out a stick of gum and noisily chewing at it, absently offering the pack towards Steve like an afterthought. He declines, not wanting to get any closer to the deadly weapon that's now rested on Clint's back than he has to. He nods, instead, gaze tracking to the ground, trying to ignore the high flush of colour that traces across his cheekbones at the mention of Barnes, the image of his drenched figure flashing up unwarranted in his brain.
'I owe you,' Nat tells him matter-of-factly, then twists a little to stare across at the set of buildings, standing ugly and grey behind the park. 'I live in the apartment block across from you. So if you ever need a favour -' she trails off then, shrugs, turns away, Barton at her heels. Steve can't help but feel a little bemused, watching the couple wander off, calling after them;
'So - if I need someone assassinated, I just call you guys?'
At this Natasha pauses - but Clint's shoulders are shaking, and when he glances over his shoulder to look at Steve, his expression is twisted with laughter.
'We got your back, kid.'
-
Things get weirder.
In home room, Barnes comes and sits next to him. He glares at anyone who sends them a funny look and he doesn't say a word. Steve spends the entire period tortured, desperately trying to ignore the warmth radiating off Barnes, that same smell of cigarette smoke and lemon, allows himself a few glances to study the sharp curve of Barnes' jaw, his neat, pretty profile, the messy smear of eyeliner slicked under his eyes.
Next homeroom Barnes isn't anywhere to be seen, and the one after that he perches on the windowsill, socked feet curved over the radiator below him, and doesn't even look at Steve.
-
Thor Odinson spends most of his time with a collection of half the science club, which seems a strange choice for the enormous, blonde jock. He's in the year above Steve and never spoken a word to him - until today, apparently. He appears with the tiny Jane Foster under his enormous arm - who looks far too happy to be accompanying her boyfriend on a quick excursion to beat the ever-loving crap out of someone, so that's vaguely reassuring - besides Steve's locker.
'Rogers!' Thor booms, laying a hand on Steve's shoulder. Thor's an exchange student from Norway, and seems to be incapable of speaking without proclaiming every word with dictation straight out of a Shakespearean drama, briefly drawing the attention of half the hallway as Steve stumbles under the boy's grip.
'I don't have any lunch money,' Steve gasps out - which is, apparently, is go-to response these days - hoping his shoulder will recover some time this week as he ducks away from Odinson's hand, brandishing his brown paper lunch bag as if it were some sort of weapon. Thor simply chuckles, his usual good-natured beam lighting up the hallway as he ruffles Steve's hair. It's a bit like being attacked by a really friendly tornado.
'Ah, Rogers, I appreciate your humour! I have heard you performed a great deed in coming to the protection of a fellow student recently. I have spoken to my fellow team mates and I hope this shall be the end of their reprehensible behaviour - but I have let them know that you are under my protection, and should they - ah, what is the phrase you Americans use? If they want to get to you, they will have to go through me first?' Thor enunciates carefully, brow crinkling as Jane rolls her eyes at him.
'I can protect myself,' Steve snaps out. Because Steve is an idiot.
Luckily, Thor's smile doesn't falter, barreling on obliviously;
'Of course, my friend! Never say I have insulted a man's honour. But should you ever find yourself in a tricky situation, let it be known that I, Thor Odinson shall, as my American pals put it, have your back.'
'That's - that's real nice of you, Thor,' Steve eventually acquiesces with a sigh, shoulders slumping with relief when Thor releases him to wander off down the corridor. Shaking his head, Steve lets his locker click shut - and when he glances down the hallway, he spots a familiar face studying him carefully.
For a moment Barnes freezes, before letting his gaze flicker away, jaw set, stalking down the corridor and making sure to slam into Steve's tiny frame as he goes.
When Steve gets to English class, he finds the pen he'd absently slipped into his pocket earlier is missing, and Barnes, sat at the back, is scrawling on the table with a suspiciously familiar biro. But when he digs a little further into his pocket he comes across a stick of gum that certainly hadn't been there earlier, and -
And when he bites into it, the flavour of lemon bursts across his tongue.
He can't hide his grin even when Mr. Philips asks him what's so funny, Rogers? and threatens him with detention three times.
-
Bucky tries not to get involved with high school drama shit. Steve Rogers is just another kid who gets beaten up in corridors.
Until he's not.
-
Steve dares the cafeteria on Wednesday afternoon, for a number of reasons, included but not limited to; he's sick of eating in the toilets; his lunch period on a Wednesday is at an awkward time which means the hall is almost empty by the time he's gotten his food and; if anyone does try and start something, hopefully Thor or - a prospect far more terrifying than the six foot two football player - Natasha will crop up out of nowhere to save the day.
There's something a little awkward about eating alone but he huddles into a corner table by the window, lets a warm autumn breeze wash over him, doodles on his napkin and enjoys a hot meal for once.
The peace of the moment is, however, disturbed by someone slamming his tray down opposite him.
Glancing up slowly - resisting the urge to blurt out a lie about the leftover lunch money still rattling about in his pocket because really, he's not that pathetic - he blinks, slow, shocked, to see Barnes sat opposite him, digging into a meatball sub as if the sandwich's done something to personally offend him. As if he can feel Steve's stare on the top of his head, Barnes levels Steve with a blank stare, one eyebrow quirked. He's got marinara sauce dripping down his chin.
Steve doesn't think he's ever seen someone so beautiful before in his life.
'Rogers,' Barnes grunts at him before returning to his food.
'Barnes,' Steve returns, half-mocking, watching with something close to amusement as the boy grunts through a mouthful of sandwich, a distant look of distaste coming across his features. He's ditched the eyeliner again today, settling instead for a particularly large, ugly earring and black, tatty nail varnish on his bitten-down nails. His hair falls in strands across his face, haphazardly tucked behind his ears, occasionally swinging down to cover his eyes - gingerly, he places down the sandwich, wipes his hands on a stray napkin (it's Steve's, but he's not going to mention that) and blows upwards until the hair drifts out of his face. It's a childish, sweet gesture and Steve can't drag his eyes away from the line of stubble that's been revealed, the purse of Barnes' lips as -
'Sorry?' Steve blurts out, abruptly aware that Barnes has said something he's completely missed. Eyes flickering quickly, taking in Steve's flushed cheeks, the smirk on Barnes' face seems almost instinctive as he tells him,
'Bucky. Call me Bucky.'
'Alright,' he shoots back. 'Call me Steve.'
Chewing thoughtfully on a mouthful of food, head cocked to one side, Barnes - Bucky, Steve corrects himself mentally - spends a few moments considering Steve carefully.
'You listen to Taylor Swift, Steve?'
'Uh -'
'It's a simple question, pal.'
'No?'
'Alright,' Bucky shrugs. 'You can stick around. For now. I hear any of this One Direction shit, though, you're out.'
'I'll check my iTunes,' Steve tells him drily, one eyebrow raised. There's a beat of silence and for a moment, Steve's sure he's fucked up entirely, that Bucky's about to get up and ditch him, abandoning him to an eternity of eating lunch alone in the toilets again -
Bucky laughs. It's just a quiet snigger but Steve catches it, allows himself his own grin as Bucky shakes his head, returns to his food, still chortling as he goes.
-
At some point, he and Bucky become friends.
He's not sure how it happens. Mainly because Bucky's terrifying, almost never speaks and spends a lot of his time scowling at people. But he doesn't always scowl at Steve, so - that's nice.
It leaves Steve a lot of time to fill in the gaps, which is - well, it's new. He's had a loud voice and no one to share it with for so long that it feels oddly liberating, to have Bucky sit on the floor beside him, the two of them tucked in between two sets of towering book cases - the smoke alarms in here are busted, and it's far enough back the librarians don't notice, Bucky explains - Steve telling Bucky everything he knows about art history as the older boy chain smokes and nods along, a distant, almost content smile on his face. Occasionally Bucky'll pipe up, offer some dumb comment that Steve can't help but laugh at.
They skip English together, settling outside in the cold October air, Steve trying to hide the shivers as Bucky lights up, offers Steve a cigarette for the hundredth time, smirks for the hundredth time when Steve shakes his head in rejection.
'You cold?' Bucky asks abruptly, watching the goosebumps sprawled across Steve's skin closely - and Steve could swear, swear on his life, that Bucky's gaze tracks to his mouth, which must be red with cold now, except -
Except there's no way Bucky could ever -
'A little,' Steve admits, desperate to interrupt his train of thought, distract himself from the way Bucky's chewing on his bottom lip as he peels off his jacket, moving over to Steve before he can quite process what's happening. 'Aw, no, Buck -' Steve breaks off awkwardly as Bucky slips the battered leather jacket over his shoulders, shuddering despite himself as he's enveloped in the abrupt warmth, resists the urge to huddle closer as Bucky's hand lingers on his shoulder momentarily.
'Ain't nothin' punk about catching a cold, kiddo,' Bucky mumbles around his cigarette, the smoke drifting away into the pale sky. Steve hates the way the smoke makes his chest feel a little tighter, but watching Bucky's mouth purse, the way the smoke rolls between his full lips, is almost worth it.
'What are you calling me kid for?' Steve scowls, fighting to keep the smile at the edge of his lips at bay as Bucky quirks an eyebrow at him, something a little like a challenge in his gaze. 'You're a month older than me at best.'
'Not my fault you look like you should be in seventh grade.'
Steve's smile dissipates entirely. Jaw set, he glares at out at the car park, knowing he's not about to get an apology any time -
'Sorry.'
Right. Well then.
'It's okay,' Steve shrugs, the comment stinging until Bucky nudges against his shoulder, a little rough, chuckling low and husky when Steve shoves back with all his weight.
'Wanna see my tattoos?' Bucky offers - which is almost like another apology, almost better, because Bucky's abruptly leaning close, a fresh cigarette dangling from the edge of his lips as he begins rolling up a sleeve. Of course - of course - Steve manages to fuck up, a cough racking his entire frame, chest tightening as a new wave of smoke drifts into his face. Bucky pauses above him as Steve sits, one hand on his knee, desperately willing himself to just stop goddamn coughing, breath coming out in wheezes now.
'Jesus - shit, Steve, shit, I forgot - fuck -' Bucky grinds his cigarette into the ground, a hand roughly digging into Steve's pocket for an inhaler that's pressed into his palm by jittery fingers. It's all vaguely reminiscent of that first meeting in the corridor, particularly with the way Bucky grips his jaw - still just as rough, still just as unforgiving, and he loves that, loves it, how Bucky never treats him like he's made of glass even as he's half way to an asthma attack - gaze flicking almost angrily between his eyes. 'You still with me?'
'I'm fine, Barnes,' Steve mutters, jerking his head out of Bucky's grip. For a moment they're inches apart - Steve doesn't think he's ever been this close to another human being before. He can feel Bucky's breath, cool against his mouth, can smell the smoke mingled with lemon mingled, now, with something new - spicy and sharp, maybe an aftershave. He imagines what would happen if he closed those bare few inches, felt that mouth under his, even as Bucky's staring at him, eyebrows crumpled, almost hurt, as he mutters;
'Christ, Rogers, why didn't you tell me?'
Steve considers the worried face, the borderline-panic written there, wants, more than anything, to reach out and touch, to reassure, to just god damn feel. It's too much; he almost aches with it, can feel it low in the pit of his stomach, high and hysterical in his chest - so he leans back instead, shoots out a response;
'Ain't nothing punk about asthma attacks.'
Bucky freezes, shocked - and then he's laughing, a long, low noise as he leans back on his haunches, settles on the cold ground next to Steve again, shaking his head.
'You're an idiot.'
'Punk.'
'Jerk.'
'Thought you were gonna show me those tats,' Steve tells him, rolling his eyes as Bucky grins, rolls up his sleeves a little more, begins to reveal the sprawl of colour and ink that layers his arms.
Steve - because he's an artist, it's nothing more than that, just an objective interest in the art that's been presented to him - reaches out a hand, traces a finger over the anchor inked into Bucky's wrist.
And if Bucky's smiling now, too hard and too bright - well, maybe he just really likes art too.
-
Life sure would be a whole lot simpler if Harold and his group of thugs learned to back the fuck off.
It's not like Bucky's particularly annoyed, per say, but apparently Thor's warning only stuck in their pea-sized brains for a week or so, and the way Bucky's somehow ended up glued to Steve's side these past few weeks apparently isn't message enough, because the fucking Neanderthals haven't got a fucking clue that if they're giving Steve Rogers shit they're also giving Bucky Barnes shit -
And, alright, so maybe he's a little pissed off.
After he came across Steve nursing a black eye he somehow gained in between english and maths, he's taken to appearing outside Steve's classrooms - after stealing the kid's class schedule, which he'd practically memorised anyhow - and subtly tailing him from door to door, glaring at anyone who so much looks at him funny. He knows as soon Steve realises that it's virtually impossible for Bucky to just happen to be wandering past every single one of his classes when they end that the jig'll be up - if Steve thinks for a second Bucky's protecting him, coddling him, even, there'll be hell to pay. Until then, however, he'll be at the scrawny kid's side as much as possible.
Not that Bucky's worried about Steve.
No. That would be - that would be crazy. Ain't nothin' punk about spending ninety percent of your time compulsively worried about an idiot kid who doesn't know how to stay out of trouble.
So when he goes into the bathroom to take a leak on the way to lunch, only to hear an all-too familiar chaos descending on the hallway just as he's drying his hands, his stomach drops at about the same time he rolls his eyes. Bursting out of the bathroom, letting the door slam against the wall with a noisy clatter, he arrives on the scene just in time to see Harold aim a kick at Steve's stomach.
Steve. Who's on the floor. Desperately trying to get up, only to have his feet kicked out from underneath him.
'Course, Bucky's got some mixed feelings about this. Sure, it's largely a cold, blind rage, but there's a little frustration that shitstains like Harold have enough brain cells to function on a daily basis in there too. His legs move without much instruction from his brain, shoving wildly through the crowds in a way that's a shocking parallel to how he'd watched Steve, tiny Steve, who never knows when to quit, breaking through the gaggles of students to help out that girl who he had nothing to do with. Was just doing it because he was good, because I don't like bullies - and he doesn't think he's ever admired someone like he admires Steve, had admired him since the first second he'd seen him tacking up posters for Brooklyn High's LGBT Society a year back. Been admiring from afar for so long - and sure, Bucky thinks he's fucking punk, or whatever - but it's all bullshit because he's been scared, had been so scared it had taken him a year to so much as talk to Steve Rogers.
And now, here he is, dragging some thick-skulled bully off that kid he hadn't even known how to speak to a few months ago, snarling in his face to pick on someone your own size and -
And then the entire hallway goes silent. Apart from the sound of Harold's nose breaking.
'I had him on the ropes,' Steve breathes out.
-
'What the hell were you thinking?' Steve snaps. He'd dragged Bucky into a classroom as soon as Harold had staggered away, leaving the gathered spectators in the hallway to stare, awed - or terrified, Steve couldn't really tell - at Bucky, breathing heavily, practically snarling after Harold. 'You're gonna get suspended, you know that?'
'Worth it,' Bucky snaps, entirely too relaxed about the entire affair, resolutely glaring out the window - refusing, Steve notes, to meet his eye.
'Really? Worth it when that shit goes on your permanent record - hey, are you even fucking listening to me?' Snatching at Bucky's jaw, wanting, more than anything, to take away that infuriating, shit-eating grin as he forces the boy to look at him, voice hard and heavy now as he presses; 'why did you do that?' There's silence, Bucky glaring down at him, hands jittery, and just as Steve manages a sharp, exasperated Bucky, he shouts;
'Because he was hurting you! He was fucking hurting you, Steve - he wasn't fucking around and that's not okay, that is never, ever okay! Don't you get that? Nobody gets to hurt you!'
Bucky swallows abruptly, as if forcing himself to cut off, the sound audible in the quiet, empty classroom. The air is still and heavy around them, an intensity that's almost unbearable as Bucky, in a rare moment, refuses to look away. His eyes are bright, even in the dim light of the room, jaw clenched - he looks, as Steve stares up at him, far beyond his age. He looks tired.
Pulling his hand away from Bucky's face - abruptly repulsed that he'd been pushing him around in the first place - Steve manages a long, sweeping breath. His chest is tight but it's nothing to do with his asthma and his hands shake as his fingers curl up in the soft, warm material of Bucky's t-shirt. His stomach's a barrage of nerves and he swears he can hear the ragged huff of their breathing, the quiet thud of his heart, as he leans up on tip toe to pull the boy in front of him into a rough kiss.
For a moment Bucky's mouth is frozen against his and Steve almost pulls away, his mind already far gone with a hundred and one iterations of shit, I fucked up, I -
But then Bucky's hand's curling around the back of his neck, another one tracing the narrow line of his waist as he awkwardly backs Steve up against the wall, mouth hot and heavy, tongue flickering out against Steve's lips. Abruptly, with Bucky's far larger body caging him against the wall, hips pressing against his own, Steve feels - he feels safe. Safer than he's ever felt before in his life.
'Punk,' Steve gasps out when Bucky presses kisses down his neck, pausing to pull irritably at Steve's t-shirt, baring his collarbone to suck at the skin there. A shudder runs down his spine and Bucky's smirking, breathing out jerk against his skin before returning to his lips, smiling against Steve's mouth as if he can't quite help himself.
-
'Don't fuck this up, alright? If I have to get surgery to remove my ear or something -'
'Will you relax? It ain't even gonna hurt - god, you're such a fucking baby.'
'My mom's gonna kill me. Do you really think this is a good idea, doing this right before graduation? What about the pictures -'
'I thought that was the whole point. Bucky, he says, come on Buck, it'll be cool, we'll match, he says. Jeez, if I knew you were gonna complain this much -'
'Alright, alright! Just fucking do it already, okay?'
Steve wrenches his eyes shut, wondering yet again why he thought it would be a good idea to let his boyfriend near him with a needle, cracking an eye open to glare up at Bucky when he hears the quiet huff of his laughter.
'Alright. One, two -'
'Ah - shit. What the fuck happened to three?'
'Language, you,' Bucky admonishes, moving fluently to press a small stud into Steve's lobe, grabbing a cotton swab to clean the blood away.
'Fuck you,' Steve grits out. 'Hurts like a bitch,' he snaps irritably, fingers wrapping around Bucky's - who pulls him into a heady kiss, managing to distract him for a moment at least.
'You like that, huh?' Bucky murmurs, voice low and husky, smirking at the way Steve follows him as he pulls away, something close to a pout on the smaller boy's face.
'Fuck you,' Steve repeats, lazier this time, as he hops down from the kitchen counter and pads after Bucky, slumping down onto the sofa next to him and grudgingly letting out a maybe as Bucky pulls Steve's legs onto his lap.
They make a rag tag group on graduation day.
For two people who managed to get through almost the entire of high school without any friends, they'd managed to collect a few during their senior year. There's Thor and Jane and all their science clubs friends, and with Bruce, Vice President - to Jane's President, of course - of the science society, there comes Tony, who somehow ends up being Prom King even with a 4.0 GPA and an almost unhealthy fascination with engineering. Tony brings along Pepper, who's a somewhat reassuring presence in the overwhelming face of half the science club. Sam and Steve become friends through the LGBT society, and Sam brings Riley to so many group outings it's almost like they're dating without either of them noticing, until Natasha loudly points it out at group bowling. Clint and Sam know each other from the inner city bird-watching group they're both part of - which they'd somehow managed to keep very quiet through through the entire senior year - and Nat and Bucky have some odd, confusing history that is frequently described as too punk for anyone to understand but luckily brings Nat into the fold. Steve thinks it's best not to ask.
(Besides, Bucky told him a few weeks ago what he'd been too embarrassed to explain to the rest of the group; that he and Nat had dated for a while until she'd informed him that she requires a boyfriend who's mastered at least one deadly weapon and has regular access to weed, and started dating Barton instead.)
Everyone coos over Steve's piercing - not quite the reaction he was going for - that matches oddly with his graduation gown and too-short slacks. He'd bought some smart clothes for the occasion a month or so ago but he's practically grown out of them already, and whilst he's only gained a few inches so far, his mom keeps on going on about late bloomers and that growth spurt your long due. He doesn't care either way - although, he must admit, it is pretty nice not to have to stand on tiptoe to kiss Bucky.
To be honest, he'd been shocked Bucky even managed to graduate, considering he never seemed to go to class - until he had grudgingly admitted he'd wrangled a 3.8 GPA and intends to take a year out, maybe apply to some colleges next year. When Steve had asked him which ones, Bucky simply shrugged and, with an overly-casual air, asked which ones did you apply to again?
Which, of course, had prompted Steve to kiss Bucky, which in turn prompted Bucky to kiss Steve - which is pretty much all they do these days. Looking back on his senior year, Steve sort of wonders how they ever got any work done.
But still. When Pepper's up on stage making her Valedictorian speech and Bucky's wheedled his way into the seat next to his - despite the fact Steve's definitely sure they're supposed to be sat in alphabetical order - Steve lets Bucky tangle their fingers up in his and -
Well. There's probably not much punk about holding hands with your boyfriend on graduation day and sneaking him a kiss on the cheek when no one's looking, but Steve can't really bring himself to care.