Chapter Text
The city breathed around him like a living thing — honking cabs, neon signs flickering through the dusk, the steady pulse of footsteps and voices spilling into the narrow street. Steve Rogers pressed his forehead lightly against the cool window of the taxi, watching the familiar skyline blur into streaks of gold and steel.
It had been three years since his mom had passed, three years since he’d left for art school, three years since he’d shut the door on this neighborhood and the people who waited here. New York felt both smaller and impossibly vast now, like a puzzle where the pieces were the same but arranged in new patterns.
Steve adjusted the black frames of his glasses, tracing the edges with a thumb. He wasn’t quite sure who he was anymore. A little taller, a little more confident maybe, but still that kid with an awkward smile and too many sketches and unused song lyrics stuffed into notebooks no one would see. Well, except maybe for one person.
The cab driver glanced over with a smile. “Welcome back, kid. Still got that East Coast grit, huh?” His voice was warm, easy, like the city itself.
Steve smiled, a bit shy. “Yeah. Feels like I've been gone for a long time and yet never left at the same time, but... everything’s different.”
“Change is the only constant,” the driver said, turning onto a side street. “But some things—like music, and old friends—they stick with you. You here for good?”
Steve nodded, watching the familiar brick buildings slide past, graffiti tags catching the fading light. “Yeah. I’m back for good.”
He pulled his bag closer, heart pounding softly. Tonight was the first step. Reuniting with Bucky, Sam, Clint, Tony — the band he never stopped thinking about. The band he thought would have just moved on without him.
Outside, the city’s hum felt like a quiet promise. Maybe this time, things would be different than what they were at art school. Maybe this time, he’d find where he truly belonged.
The cab pulled to a stop just a few blocks from the club. The driver flashed him a knowing grin as Steve paid the fare.
“Good luck tonight,” he offered.
“Thanks,” Steve replied, slipping out into the evening air.
New York embraced him immediately. A warm, electric current of voices and music spilling from tiny restaurants and corner bodegas. His boots scuffed the cracked sidewalk as he walked, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, the familiar rhythm of his stride matching the pulse of the city. Every streetlight seemed to blink in time with his heartbeat.
As he rounded a corner, the distant thrum of bass and laughter teased him closer to the club — a place he’d heard so much about in messages and voice notes over the years. Break Veil’s new hangout. Bucky’s stage.
He paused for a moment across the street.
The club was tucked into a squat brick building with peeling posters slapped across the facade and a glowing neon sign that read ‘The Hollow’— a faint blue light that flickered like a tired star. Through the cracked glass door, Steve caught glimpses of movement and the occasional shimmer of guitar strings.
A knot twisted low in his stomach — nerves and something a lot like anticipation.
What if they really had moved on without him? What if tonight was nothing like he’d imagined?
But under it all was a thread of excitement that pulled him forward.
He crossed the street, heart thumping as he reached for the handle. The door of ‘The Hollow’ was heavier than it looked. Music rolled out to meet him — a rough, low riff from a familiar Ibanez Gio electric guitar that felt like home.
A burst of sound and warmth hit him as he slipped through the door — guitar notes tangled with laughter, the smell of beer and sweat and something electric in the air. The Hollow was a cozy chaos of peeling leather booths and low-hung lamps. A small stage was set up at the far end of the room, amps humming and mic stands waiting like coiled springs.
And there they were — the people he hadn’t realized he missed so much until this very second seeing them in person.
Tony was perched on a stool near the soundboard, half-buried in cables and grinning like a cat who knew every secret in the room. Clint was sprawled backward on an amp like it was his personal throne, bass propped against him, one leg swinging. Sam was mid-laugh at something on his phone, hands flying as he gestured wildly.
And Bucky…
His sweet, childhood best friend.
Bucky stood near the stage, adjusting the strap on his guitar with tattoo covered hands, hair pulled back in a careless half bun. Even across the crowded floor, his blue-gray eyes found Steve instantly — like they’d been waiting for him to appear.
For a moment, Steve forgot how to move.
“Hey, stranger,” Tony’s voice rang out first as he noticed Steve by the door.
The others turned — Sam beamed, Clint shot up with a loud, “Look who finally decided to show up!”
And Bucky… Bucky’s face softened into a slow, bright smile that hit Steve like a chord he hadn’t practiced.
“Stevie,” Bucky greeted simply, stepping forward and grasping Steve’s shoulder with ringed fingers and a grace that made Steve feel lighter. “You made it.” Bucky’s voice in person was like a balm to Steve’s homesickness and anxiety. Steve gripped Bucky’s tattooed forearm tightly, wanting to pull him into a long hug, but decided to wait until it's just them later for that.
“Of course I did,” Steve replied, voice steadier than he felt as Sam clapped him on the back and Clint whooped, hauling him into a brief, ridiculous hug.
“You’re taller,” Clint declared, stepping back with an appraising look.
“You’re louder,” Steve shot back with a laugh, feeling some of the nerves unspool.
Tony waved him over to the soundboard. “And you still look like you fell out of an old movie. Ready to put that voice to work?”
That pulled a real smile from him. “That’s the plan,” Steve said, and then his gaze flicked back to Bucky, who hadn’t taken his eyes off him. The noise of the club felt like it had blurred into a gentle hum, all the tension humming between them like a live wire.
“You look good,” Bucky said, voice low enough that only Steve could hear it.
Steve’s face went warm. He quickly looked over Bucky’s strong body, his tattoo covered arms and tops of his hands, the many rings on his fingers, the tiny dagger pendant necklace, the black eyeliner around his eyes, the pierced ears. “So do you,” he answered before he could stop himself.
And for a breathless second, they just held each other’s gaze, like there was a melody they hadn’t learned yet — something waiting to spark.
Then Sam grinned, breaking the moment with a loud, “Alright, enough of the long-lost-romance stare-down, let’s get him on a mic!”
Laughter rolled through the band, easy and familiar.
And as they pulled him toward the stage, Steve realized with a bright, dizzying certainty that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
The band shuffled onto the tiny stage, gear humming to life as cables were hooked up and amps clicked on one by one. Clint gave his bass a few warm, buzzing plucks, Sam tested the kit with a few sharp taps that echoed like a heartbeat, and Tony leaned in over the soundboard with a focused smirk.
“You ready, Rogers?” Sam called, spinning one of his drumsticks between his fingers.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Steve replied, stepping up to the mic. It felt good — familiar and strange all at once. The stage lights weren’t anything fancy, just a string of bulbs overhead, but they felt like they were warming him from the inside out.
And then there was Bucky, close enough that Steve could feel the slight heat of him, the faint scent of leather and some sharp cologne that was uniquely his. Bucky gave his guitar one last gentle strum — an easy soundcheck, rich and deliberate — and his storm-blue eyes flicked up to catch Steve’s.
“You good?” Bucky asked, his voice lowered so it was just for him.
“More than good,” Steve answered, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Bucky nodded, lips quirking like he was trying not to smile too much, then turned toward the amp as he tweaked one of the knobs. A few perfect notes rang out — long and smooth — and Sam gave a satisfied whoop.
“Alright, let’s give you a classic,” Tony called over the mic. “First up — one you've sang before and help write. 'Shards and Shadows.'"
“I've helped write every song, Tony.” Steved laughed and Stark flipped him off with a smile.
And just like that, they slipped into the song just like before Steve had left, almost like he’d never been gone.
Bucky led with a sharp, soaring riff that cut straight through the noise — pure energy. Sam kicked in with a steady rhythm, Clint held down the bass like a heartbeat, Bucky growled/yelled his intro bit, and when Steve finally leaned into the mic, his voice threaded between the instruments like a spark:
“Every scar you hide under your skin
Every shattered moment you kept within
Whispering ghosts in the dead of the night
A hollow reflection in fractured light”
Every part of him came alive as he sang, words pulled up from some part of him he hadn’t touched in too long. And the band — Bucky most of all — responded in kind. Bucky kept glancing up as they played, lips parting just enough as though he were drinking in every note Steve gave him.
By the time they hit the chorus, they were a wildfire, he and Bucky singing together.
“Shards and shadows cut so deep
(So deep!)
Ripping all the wounds we keep
(We keep!)
Torn between the light and pain
(The pain!)
I’ll take your hands and call your name
(Your name!)”
And for a fleeting, dizzy second during the bridge, Bucky drifted closer — their shoulders brushing, his hands working the guitar with a ferocity that was purely for him.
When they hit the last chorus, Steve felt the world narrow to the four of them on that stage — all sound and light and heat — and especially Bucky, who met his eyes again just as they finished, like they were sharing a secret nobody else could hear.
The last chord rang out, echoing into The Hollow, and the room felt charged, breathless.
“Hell yeah,” Sam said, grinning as he spun his drumstick and Clint laughed, “Sounds like someone is still as good as they were.”
Bucky stepped back just enough to give Steve room to breathe, face lit up with a grin that was sharp and warm all at once.
“Maybe even better,” Bucky said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
And Steve, heart racing, finally let himself believe what he and everyone had been saying tonight.
“Feels like I never left,” he replied.
–
The amps powered down one by one, leaving a faint ringing in the air as the band began to scatter — Sam disappearing backstage for a water, Clint hauling his bass toward its battered case, Tony already packing up cables like he was wired to do it. The Hollow felt more spacious without the loud roar of music, full instead of low murmurs and the clink of glassware from the bar.
Steve stayed by the mic stand a moment longer, breath still catching up with him, feeling the pleasant hum in his chest left behind by the song. He flexed his hands, the skin tingling like the energy hadn’t quite left him yet.
That was when Bucky brushed past him, close enough that the faint scent of his cologne — something dark and sharp, like cedar and leather — chased the thoughts from Steve’s head.
“You did good,” Bucky said casually, reaching for his guitar case.
“You weren’t so bad yourself,” Steve replied, nerves making him bold for once.
Bucky glanced up with a grin that tugged at the corner of his mouth — softer now that they were just the two of them. “Been a while since someone could keep up with me like that.”
A rush of heat crept up Steve’s neck. “I wasn’t sure if I’d remember how.”
“You don’t seem like the type to forget.” Bucky paused, hands stilling on the latches of his case. The space between them felt strangely alive, buzzing with all the unspoken things they weren’t saying. Bucky tilted his head, gaze bright with something very genuine. “I missed this,” he added quietly. “Having you up there with us.”
That admission hit Steve like a chord struck too deep. His lips parted, a hundred different replies fluttering through his mind — jokes, deflections — but none of them felt right.
He swallowed, meeting Bucky’s eyes, and finally just told the truth.
“I missed it too. Being here. Being with you.”
Bucky held his gaze for a breath and then quickly wrapped his arms around Steve in a tight hug that was immediately reciprocated. Steve stuck his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, gripping tightly at the back of his graphic t-shirt and breathed him in. Steve now, fully and truly, felt like he was home.
“Guess you're stuck with me.” Bucky muttered against the side of Steve’s head.
They stood together like that for a few moments until Bucky slowly pulled away, giving Steve a warm smile and slinging his guitar case over his shoulder.
And maybe it was silly, maybe it was the stage and the lighting and the music still humming under his skin, but for the first time since coming back to New York, Steve felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.
–
The Hollow had mostly emptied by the time they’d packed up their gear, leaving the club draped in warm, amber light and a low, easy quiet. Tony was perched on one of the barstools, long legs crossed and a beer bottle in hand, while Sam and Clint had claimed a battered booth in the corner, already halfway through a plate of fries they’d scavenged from the kitchen.
“Practice went better than I expected,” Sam said around a mouthful, grinning when Steve approached.
“You thought I’d crash and burn?” Steve shot back, leaning on the edge of the booth.
“Nah,” Clint answered, tossing him a fry. “I thought you’d be too nervous to hit those high notes. Guess art school didn’t ruin you after all.”
“Harsh,” Steve chuckled, catching the fry and popping it into his mouth.
“Hey,” Tony drawled, swirling his beer lazily, “the kid’s a natural. Almost forgot he ever left.”
That earned a playful groan from Sam. “Alright, Stark, don’t make his ego too big on the first night back.”
“Too late,” Clint teased, making Steve laugh as he eased into the booth. The familiar rhythm of their banter was comforting — easy and unguarded.
Bucky appeared with a tray of drinks, setting them down with a practiced grace and sliding into the booth across from Steve. “What are we toasting tonight?”
“To having the band’s full sound back,” Sam decided, lifting his glass.
“To Break Veil,” Clint added.
“To Break Veil,” they echoed together, the clinking of glass loud in the small space.
As they drank, conversation unfolded easily — ridiculous stories about gigs past, Sam mimicking a sound guy who never quite got their mix right, Tony lamenting the price of decent cables. Steve listened, laughing at their antics, eyes straying more often than not to Bucky.
And Bucky — he kept catching Steve looking, the corner of his mouth twitching into those small, secret smiles that felt like they were just for him.
“You’re gonna fit right back in,” Bucky murmured, voice warm and a little lower as he leaned in across the table so Steve could hear him over Clint and Sam arguing about pizza toppings.
That sent a warm rush through Steve. “I can already see us all performing.”
Bucky’s gaze lingered a heartbeat longer before he nodded, slow and sure. “Good,” was all he said, but it felt like a promise.
–
The rehearsal space was alive again —
Posters peeled like old scars from brick walls, cables snaked across the floor like sleeping animals, and in the center of it all was Steve — hands on the mic, eyes shining under the warm overhead light like they were filled with their own secret fire.
Bucky tuned the final string on his guitar by touch, more for the comfort of the ritual than any real need. They’d already run this song twice. Every note was in his muscle memory.
Still, his fingers tingled — not from the frets, but from the sight of Steve leaning into the mic as Sam gave them a gentle four-beat countdown.
“One, two… one, two, three—”
And then Steve sang.
Bucky thought he knew what to expect. After all, they’d done this a hundred times as kids — clunky school talent shows, jam sessions in Steve’s mom's garage, nights where Steve’s voice would catch halfway and Bucky would fill the silence with a grin. But this was different.
There was an ease in Steve’s voice now, an openness like he was finally unafraid to take up space. It poured into the song, rich and smooth, like he was unwrapping something raw and real that he hadn’t dared touch before.
Bucky felt the lyrics vibrate right through him. He kept his hands busy — fingers gliding up and down the neck of his guitar — but his gaze kept flicking back to Steve like they were tied together by some invisible wire.
Beside him, Sam found the pocket with a satisfied grin, matching every rhythm as Clint bobbed his head.
Tony was perched at the edge of the soundboard, adjusting the levels as they played, lips twitching into a smirk every time Steve hit a particularly gorgeous note.
And then there was Bucky — heart pounding against his ribs like it wanted to burst.
He could feel the itch in his fingertips to reach out and touch him. To catch Steve’s arm, to drag him close — just to feel the way that voice moved in him up close, to touch him like it could make this moment last forever. But he promised himself he wouldn't do that.
So he played.
And looked.
Because this was Steve — a version of him Bucky had only ever hoped to see.
Uninhibited. Alive.
Steve was fearless.
And that pulled at something deep in Bucky — like the first time he’d realized he liked him more than a friend.
That had been so long ago.
A summer day after school, when they were thirteen and Steve had plopped his sketchbook into Bucky’s lap. Bucky could still see the ink-smudged smile on his face as he’d shyly asked, “What do you think?”
And Bucky had realized then that his hands itched too — not to draw like Steve, but to hold him close and never let go.
He’d never said a word, repressed it as best he could.
And years passed like they do — quick and aching — until tonight.
Here in this moment, with Sam’s beat grounding him and Clint’s bass humming like a second heartbeat, Bucky felt those hands itch again.
As the song hit its final chorus, Steve glanced up — ocean-blue eyes locking onto Bucky as though they’d found their way home. Bucky felt it like a spark racing across his skin.
And when Steve let that last note go — strong and unguarded — Bucky had to close his eyes for a breath just to steady himself.
When it faded into the hush after the music, Sam broke the quiet with a low whistle.
“Damn, Rogers,” he said, spinning a drumstick with an impressed grin. “That was something.”
“Hell yeah,” Clint chimed in, leaning against his bass. “Looks like you fully let go and not just for us last night.”
And Steve — Steve just laughed, a bright, unselfconscious sound, rubbing the back of his neck like he was only just realizing what he’d done.
“Guess that’s what three years of art school’ll do,” he joked, though Bucky heard the thread of nerves beneath it.
And Bucky wanted to say a hundred different things.
He wanted to say how proud he was.
He wanted to say that Steve’s voice had wrecked him in the best way.
He wanted to close the distance between them and kiss him, kiss him like he meant it, because he did.
But all that came out was a rough, “You sound good, Stevie.”
Simple, unpolished — but it earned him a smile so bright it chased the shadows out of the room.
And that? That was enough to hold him together for one more day.
After practice, the others began to scatter — Clint heading to the bar for a water, Sam playfully arguing with Tony about mic placement.
Bucky stayed on stage a moment longer, hands gentle as he slipped his red and black Ibanez Gio electric guitar into its case, gaze drifting back to Steve every few beats.
There wasn't enough words to describe how happy Bucky was to have his partner in crime back home with him.
–
The door of the club creaked shut behind them, the city air cooler than the heat they’d left inside. A soft breeze tugged at the edges of Bucky’s worn jacket as he fell into step beside Steve, boots scuffing the cracked sidewalk.
They didn’t say much at first. The quiet between them was the good kind — easy, familiar. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, and the hum of the city wrapped around them like a blanket.
Steve shoved his hands into his coat pockets, shoulders loose, a small smile still playing at the edge of his mouth like the music was lingering in him too. “That felt good,” he said finally, voice low but certain.
Bucky’s heart kicked at the sound of it.
“Yeah,” he managed, eyes flicking to Steve’s profile, sharp in the streetlamp glow. “You sounded incredible.”
Steve’s ears went pink at the tips, but he laughed softly, like he didn’t quite believe it.
“You’re just saying that ‘cause you’re stuck with me now.”
Bucky wanted to say so much more.
Wanted to tell him he wasn’t stuck at all — that Bucky would choose him, every day, in every lifetime.
But instead he shrugged, hands deep in his pockets to keep from doing something stupid, like reaching for Steve’s hand.
“Never been stuck. Always been lucky.”
Steve glanced over at that, his smile softening, gaze warm enough to make Bucky’s chest ache.
“You’ve always been good to me, Buck.”
And Bucky almost laughed at how easy Steve made it sound. Like it hadn’t been years of biting his tongue, years of hiding glances, of holding his breath every time Steve looked at him like this.
They kept walking, city lights flickering on puddles at their feet, the night alive with distant voices and passing cars.
And Bucky’s mind drifted —
Back to the fire escape when they were kids, Steve humming as he sketched the skyline. To rainy afternoons in the garage, Steve’s voice shy as Bucky strummed clumsy chords on his beaten up guitar beside him. To nights where they’d shared earbuds on the subway, Steve falling asleep on Bucky’s shoulder, breath slow and steady against his neck.
He remembered it all like it was stitched into him. And here Steve was again, right beside him, closer than ever and somehow still out of reach.
“You okay?” Steve’s voice tugged him back to now, gentle, a little concerned.
Bucky nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.
“Yeah. Just… glad you’re here.”
Steve bumped his shoulder lightly as they walked, easy and bright.
“Me too.”
And Bucky thought, God, don’t let this end.
They turned the corner toward Steve’s place, their steps slowing like neither of them really wanted the night to be over.
“Thanks for walking me,” Steve said when they stopped at his apartment complex, looking up at Bucky through his lashes and giving him a quick hug.
Bucky tried to smile, tried not to let everything show in his eyes.
“Anytime, Stevie.”
Bucky stood on the sidewalk long after Steve disappeared inside, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze fixed on the warm glow spilling from Steve’s window. The city murmured around him — the distant drone of traffic, a radio playing too loud from some upstairs apartment — but all of it felt far away.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Man, what was it about him?
Every time they were together like this — walking side by side, sharing some small moment — it dug a little deeper under Bucky’s ribs. That bright, easy smile. The way Steve bumped his shoulder like they were kids again and had all the time in the world.
And the way Steve never noticed. Never noticed the way Bucky’s hands itched to reach for him. Never noticed that Bucky was always looking, always listening.
Maybe that was for the best.
Steve had always been like that — forever seeing the world through an unclouded lens, too good to catch all the tangled, wanting thoughts knotted up in someone like Bucky. Too oblivious to realize that when he sang tonight — voice full and unguarded — he wasn’t just setting the stage on fire.
He was setting Bucky on fire, too.
Bucky dragged a hand through his hair and laughed, soft and humorless.
God, he was hopeless.
He thought of the time they went to a really bad movie and made fun of it all the way through, laughing quietly with each other and eating popcorn, Bucky resisting to hold his hand. He thought of when his dad gave him a black eye and Sarah Rogers made cookies for him and Steve while they played video games and he stayed the night. He had resisted to pull Steve into his chest that night and instead just stared at his soft features until he fell asleep.
And tonight?
Tonight had felt so much like forever.
And forever scared him as much as it sustained him.
He glanced up once more at Steve’s window — saw the shape of him moving inside — and then finally turned away.
Maybe forever was just this —
Knowing that whatever Steve gave him would never quite be enough. And being too damn in love with him to want anything less.
–
The apartment was dark when Bucky let himself in, the city’s glow spilling just enough light through the blinds to guide him.
He set his guitar case against the wall, kicked off his boots, shrugged out of his jacket, and left them all in a trail that led to the corner of the living room where his battered acoustic guitar leaned against the wall.
Some nights he’d just stare at it, hands too heavy to do anything but remember. Tonight wasn’t one of those nights.
He settled into the couch, the cushions worn soft with years of late-night strumming, and pulled the guitar into his lap like an old friend. The wood was warm under his hands, familiar as his own heartbeat.
And God, was it beating tonight.
Bucky took a long breath, fingers idly picking at a few soft notes as the memory of the treehouse unfurled — sunlit and simple, Steve leaning into him like forever could be held between them.
That ache rolled through him so sharp it felt almost good.
He let it pour into the melody.
The first few chords were careful — tentative — then they found their rhythm, gentle and bittersweet. A sound like rain on old rooftops and summer light through wooden slats. He closed his eyes and thought of Steve humming by his side.
And then the words came. Quiet at first, as if saying them too loud might scare them off:
“In the light of yesterday, you were there
Sitting close with your hands in your hair
I never thought forever could feel this small
Until forever was you, my all…”
He paused, throat tight, hands trembling slightly against the strings. Kept going anyway — let the melody lead him deeper into the ache:
“And I’m still waiting in that wooden room
Counting every breath you never knew
Hoping that some part of you stays
Even when forever fades away…”
The song spilled out into the quiet apartment like a secret finally spoken.
Every note, every lyric soaked in the years he’d kept these feelings folded away.
And when he finally strummed the last chord and let it hang in the dark, he stayed there — fingers resting on the strings, eyes closed — feeling the ache settle into him all over again.
Not gone.
But a part of him.
A part of them.
And maybe that was okay.
—
The narrow greenroom smelled like beer, cheap cologne, and the electric crackle of anticipation.
Steve sat on a battered couch in one corner, hands clasped together to stop their fidgeting. He could hear the dull roar of people pouring into the club on the other side of the wall — laughing, shoving past each other for drinks, chatting as they searched for a good view of the stage.
And tonight, his band was going to be up there. They were performing at a small night club called Green Light, but it didn't matter the size of the venue for Steve since it was his first ever real gig.
The thought made his stomach twist with a mix of nerves and exhilaration.
He glanced down at himself — scuffed boots, dark jeans, and the too-thin black shirt Bucky had picked out for him earlier like it was nothing.
“You sure you want me to wear this?” he’d asked when Bucky handed it to him in his apartment, and Bucky had grinned, eyes skimming him up and down.
“Trust me, you’ll look like a star,” he’d said simply.
And sure enough, Steve had pulled the shirt on without another thought.
That was the thing about Bucky — he had a way of making you believe him.
“Hey, you okay?” Sam’s voice broke into his thoughts. The drummer was perched on an overturned crate with his sticks across his knees, watching him with an easy smile.
Steve nodded, rubbing his hands against his jeans.
“Just… first-show jitters.”
“You’re gonna kill it,” Sam assured him.
“You always do, no matter if it's a crowd of strangers, or our families.” Clint added, grinning around a mouthful of chips as he tuned his bass in the corner.
And Bucky — leaning in the doorway, guitar strap slung over one broad shoulder — just met Steve’s eyes for a long, quiet moment.
Didn’t say anything.
But that gaze held its own weight — warm, steady. And something about it grounded him faster than any pep talk ever could.
“You’ll feel better once we’re up there,” Bucky finally murmured, voice pitched low so only Steve could hear.
Steve held his gaze, heart thudding for a reason that had nothing to do with nerves.
“Hope you’re right.”
Bucky smirked, his thumb brushing across the worn edge of his guitar pick.
“Trust me.”
That easy way he said it made some of the knot in Steve’s chest come undone. He let himself smile back. And for the first time all night, the thought of going onstage felt like an invitation — not a test.
“Five minutes!” Someone called down the hall — probably Tony, who had been fussing over cables all evening.
Sam let out a whoop and pushed up to his feet, twirling a drumstick like a baton. Clint set his bass down carefully, flexing his fingers as he followed.
And Bucky?
Bucky stayed where he was, eyes fixed on Steve like none of this could happen without him.
“You ready for 'Scars Like Thunder,' Stevie?” Bucky asked — voice softer now, words barely reaching him above the distant bass thumping outside.
And maybe that was what finally broke the last of Steve’s nerves. That softness. That surety.
“Yeah,” he heard himself say — felt a surge of something bright and reckless fill his chest. “Let’s do this.”
And when Bucky pushed off the doorframe to lead the way, Steve was right there behind him — heartbeat loud in his ears, hands sure, smile uncontainable as they walked through the door leading to backstage.
Sam was cracking his knuckles; Clint bounced on the balls of his feet like he was already hearing the bassline in his head.
And there was Steve — caught in that strange suspended moment between what had been and what was about to happen.
His hands felt a little slick against the mic.
His breath felt too loud in his ears.
“Almost time,” Bucky said beside him, voice low enough to cut through the noise.
And God, if that didn’t make Steve look —
Bucky, all kohl lined dark eyes and sharp grin and restless energy like the stage was where he’d always belonged.
“You've got this.” Bucky said, stepping closer just enough that their shoulders brushed.
Steve nodded, but he wasn’t sure if it was for himself or for Bucky.
“I know,” he replied, and for once it felt true.
Bucky’s mouth twitched at the corner — that tiny, secret smile that always felt meant just for him. And then Bucky reached out and gave his arm a quick, sure squeeze.
“Let’s make ‘em remember us.”
That simple touch — warm, fleeting — sent a jolt up Steve’s spine.
He looked at Bucky like the world could shrink down to this one moment forever.
And then someone was calling for them — “Break Veil! You’re up!”
The noise of the crowd hit them like a wall as they followed Sam and Clint up the narrow steps. This was a decent sized club, and Steve may have underestimated how many people it could fit.
Lights glowed blue and purple through the curtains, the bass from the house music thumping so hard it felt like the stage itself had a heartbeat.
Steve paused at the edge of the stage just long enough to breathe it all in. And Bucky paused too — just behind him — close enough that Steve could feel the heat of him even in the chill of the wings.
“You got this,” Bucky murmured one last time.
And the way he said it — sure and gentle — felt like a promise.
The house lights dimmed to nothing, then flared up in a wash of deep blue and white as Break Veil took the stage.
The crowd erupted — a wall of sound that hit Steve right in the chest. He barely had time to register the sea of faces before Sam counted them in with four crisp taps of his sticks and Bucky’s guitar unfurled the first aching melody.
That sound — rich and haunting — pulled Steve to the mic like a tide. Bucky yelled his opening lyrics and kept playing until it was Steve’s cue.
And then, breathless with adrenaline, he sang:
“I trace my hands across my skin,
Every mark reminds me where I’ve been.”
Bucky was right there — a few steps away, bathed in stage light, his hands sure on the fretboard as his voice slipped in beneath Steve’s at the last line and they screamed together:
“Shadows on my ribs, they burn like embers,
Memories we can’t forget — we both remember!”
The crowd cheered like one singular being. Every eye was on them.
And still, all Steve could feel was Bucky — the pull of him like a magnet, every breath they took twined together.
When they hit the pre-chorus, Clint dug into his bass, Sam’s drums ramping up, the sound swelling around them as Steve and Bucky harmonized together until yelling on the last line:
“Thunder stirring up my bones —
Thunder tearing up my soul —
Thunder that you see and know —
Thunder that we never show!”
And then they surged into the chorus — loud and raw, Steve sang loud and Bucky shouted into the mic:
“Scars like thunder crash and roar —”
“ROAR!”
“Rising up forevermore —”
“MORE!”
“Break my silence, feel my pain —”
“MY PAIN!”
“You and I, we face the rain —”
“RAIN!”
And God — the way Bucky looked at him when they yelled that last part. Like they weren’t just performing. Like he meant every word.
The song carried them — verse after verse, breathless and electric.
By the bridge, Steve was leaning into Bucky’s mic without even thinking, the heat of Bucky’s shoulder against his as they shouted the aching lines together:
“THUNDER — FEEL MY HANDS!
THUNDER — FEEL MY HEART!
THUNDER — TEAR ME OPEN!
THUNDER — WE DON'T FALL APART!”
Bucky’s fingers moved faster across the guitar, face lost in the sound as Steve sang, and the crowd roared as they crashed into the final chorus — loud, heartfelt, their voices weaving together like they never wanted to come apart.
And as they hit the last chord — hearts pounding, breaths tangled, hands trembling with the rush — they stood there together at center stage, the crowd’s applause crashing like a wave.
Steve felt the sweat on his brow, the blood singing in his veins. And when he glanced sideways — breathless, exhilarated — Bucky was already looking back at him like they’d just pulled the sky down between them.
The crowd was still roaring from the last song as Sam clicked them into the next one — an easy, slow heartbeat on the kick drum. Bucky glanced at Steve, lips quirked, eyes bright as stage lights shimmered off his guitar. And Steve felt himself grin back, caught up in it before he even knew what they were playing.
The first few notes from Bucky’s guitar were softer this time — a silvery, shimmering melody that poured into the space like warm light. And Steve held the mic, feeling the words rising up before they’d even practiced enough to memorize them. It didn’t matter — up here, with Bucky anchoring him, it was like he knew the way by heart.
He leaned into the mic, voice low and a little husky as he began:
“I’ve stitched my skin with silence,
Tied my voice in quiet threads.
Held my breath through every thunderstorm,
Till the lightning left me dead.”
Bucky joined him in close harmony, voice richer this time — they were close enough that Steve could feel the sound thrumming between them like a shared heartbeat:
“But you—
YOU FOUND ME IN THE STATIC,
WHERE THE WORLD FORGOT MY NAME!”
When they hit the chorus together, the sound built, loud and bright and aching — Steve felt his hands tightening on the mic as Bucky stepped up, shoulder brushing his, voices tangling together beautifully:
“You traced the silver lines across my scars,
Told me they could still be art.
I didn’t know I was worth saving,
Till you held my breaking heart.
Now every shattered mirror shows your face,
Reflected in my fight—
You are the reason my shadows bleed light.”
The crowd was swaying, hands up like they could feel every inch of it.
And onstage, all Steve could feel was this strange, wild certainty — like whatever was humming between him and Bucky was spilling into every note they sang.
The bridge pulled them even closer — Bucky looking at him as he yelled the counter-counter melody and his own lyrics into his mic:
“BLEED LIGHT—
Through the cracks I used to hide!
BLEED LIGHT—
Where the bruises kissed goodbye!
BLEED LIGHT—
Even ghosts can't dim your light!
BLEED LIGHT—
YOU'RE THE FIRE IN MY SPIIIINE!”
And then they were back in the final chorus — louder this time, breathless, hearts pounding as they sang together like they never wanted to come down:
“You traced the silver lines across my scars,
Told me they could still be art.
I didn’t know I was worth saving,
Till you held my breaking heart.”
“YOU HELD MY BREAKING—HEART!”
“Now every shadow bows before your name,
You are my silver fight—
You are the reason… my darkness turned bright.”
When the last note rang and the crowd erupted, Bucky’s eyes were still fixed on him. And Steve — dizzy with adrenaline and that strange, sweet ache — held his gaze like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The roar of the crowd still echoed faintly through the club’s walls as Break Veil disappeared behind the heavy curtain, the thrum of adrenaline pulsing through their veins.
Tony was already congratulating Sam and Clint, his grin wide and loud. Natasha, who just got back from a job out of state, was busy snapping photos for social media, but the space felt charged — electric.
Steve’s breath came quick as he leaned against the rough brick wall, heart still racing from the last chord.
And then — before he even had time to settle — Bucky was there, sliding an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close.
Steve froze for a second, caught off guard by the sudden weight and warmth after being so raw and open onstage.
But Bucky’s voice was steady, low, and filled with something that made Steve’s chest swell:
“You killed it, Stevie. Better than I ever imagined.”
Steve looked up, eyes meeting Bucky’s — dark and steady and full of that fierce pride.
“I… you were amazing, Buck,” Steve said, his voice shaking just a little.
Without thinking, Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky, holding him just as tight — the tension between them suddenly softening, grounding them both.
For a moment, the noise, the crowd, the pressure — all of it fell away.
There was only this — a quiet place in the middle of the chaos where they could breathe.
Bucky’s fingers pressed into Steve’s back, steadying. “We’re gonna take this all the way, you know that, right?”
Steve smiled against Bucky’s shoulder, a slow heat spreading through his chest.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.”
Even as Bucky’s arms loosened, Steve’s heart was still pounding with a strange, unfamiliar heat. The hug felt like more than just congratulations — like a silent promise carried in the press of their bodies, the warmth of Bucky’s breath against his neck.
Steve swallowed hard, eyes distant as he replayed the night in his mind: the crowd’s roar, the rush of singing with Bucky in front of them, the way their voices had tangled like something electric, something real.
Why does this feel different than the thousands of times we've done this before? Steve wondered, cheeks burning despite the coolness of the room.
He wasn’t used to this feeling — but one thing was clear: with Bucky beside him, the stage had never felt more like home.
The sound of footsteps and laughter pulled Steve out of his thoughts as Clint sauntered up, grinning wide.
“Well, look who survived their first real show,” Clint teased, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “Not bad, rookie.”
Sam joined in, nudging Steve with an elbow. “Seriously, though — you smashed it. And that mic-sharing thing with Bucky? Man, the crowd ate it up.”
Tony wandered over, nodding approvingly. “Stage presence, chemistry — you two are electric. Don’t get too cocky, but yeah, you guys have something.”
Steve laughed, brushing off the teasing with a shake of his head. “It wasn’t just me. Bucky’s stage presence is… powerful. I just followed his lead.”
Clint smirked. “Sure, sure. You’re lucky he’s got your back — or your mic, apparently.”
Natasha appeared, phone in hand, a sly smile on her face. “Speaking of chemistry,” she said, holding up her phone for them all to see.
The screen displayed a gallery of photos from the show — shots of the band mid-performance, Steve’s animated expressions, Bucky’s intense guitar playing.
Then Natasha scrolled to one particular picture: Steve and Bucky, standing close, sharing a microphone, eyes closed, voices entwined in a perfect harmony and Bucky’s strumming.
Steve blinked, cheeks flushing a deep red. “Can you send me that one?” he asked quietly.
Natasha smirked, tapping a few buttons. “Already on its way.”
“You should frame that, put it over your fireplace.” Tony joked, looking at the photo. Steve rolled his eyes with a grin.
“I don't even have a fireplace.”
The club’s backstage area was buzzing with excitement, the afterglow of the performance still sparking in every corner. Tony was already pulling out his phone, fingers flying over the screen.
“All right, Break Veil,” Tony announced, voice booming with enthusiasm. “We’ve got momentum now. Next step: a few more gigs lined up, a proper recording session at my studio, and then some social media firepower courtesy of Natasha.”
Natasha grinned, nodding as she leaned over Tony’s shoulder. “I’ll schedule some live clips and behind-the-scenes posts. Maybe even tease a few snippets of the new songs.”
Clint stretched and shook his arms loose. “Count me in for anything. Just say when.”
Sam’s grin was infectious. “Yeah, and maybe next time we can pull off something bigger — outdoor shows, festivals, who knows?”
Steve leaned back, still riding the adrenaline. “Sounds amazing. I’m ready.”
Bucky caught his eye and gave him a small nod, that silent message passing between them: this was just the beginning.
Tony clapped his hands together. “Good. Because the band that plays together… well, you know how it goes.”
Everyone laughed, the easy camaraderie wrapping around them like a second skin.