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Steve’s pencil scratches on his paper as he tries to convince his sketch to come alive. The dense summer air sticks to his skin, weighing down his hand and making his lines drag on. Each breath feels like more effort than usual, the wetness in the air tangling in Steve’s lungs. By the fourth time he erases and reworks the same shading, Steve crumples up the paper and knocks it to the floor.
Steve looks around the apartment, barely lifting his head. He has the range to, his most recent bruises having healed to a pale green, but the heat has him pinned. His sour mood doesn’t help either.
He heaves a sigh and sits up. He is rarely grateful for Bucky’s insistence that he not work, and he never plans to admit it, but today Steve understands. Steve has never met a line he won’t cross, not if it means proving himself. He would probably end up with a stroke on a day like this. And Bucky would pick him up, carry him home, bring him water, and give him that smile that heals Steve’s soul, if not his body.
Familiar thumps make their way up the stairs outside, and Steve feels his spirits lift despite the heat. Bucky’s heavy footsteps reach their floor, and then Bucky himself greets Steve’s eyes. A sheen of sweat coats his skin, and his shirt drapes loosely over his broad shoulders.
“Hey, Stevie.” The warmth in Bucky’s blue-grey eyes is much more pleasant than the heat hanging from Steve’s skin. “Gonna go shower.”
Bucky kicks off his shoes and peels off his shirt. Steve glances at his bare torso as he goes, if only to admire the slight curve of his pecs and abs and commit it to memory. He makes a mental note to practice recreating it when he next gets the chance. He rarely draws men in class; the models are predominantly women, and Steve himself isn’t quite the ideal male specimen to use for reference. He doesn’t mind, of course, but he likes to keep his art balanced. So sometimes, Bucky is his muse.
Steve doesn’t tell him, though. Bucky doesn’t need the ego boost.
When Bucky emerges, with wet hair hanging in his eyes and a towel around his waist, Steve can’t help but take a look. He tells himself this one is for art, too, but the line between analysis and appreciation is smudged. If it was ever there. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice as Steve’s gaze crawls over his skin, simply running a hand through his hair and heading into their bedroom to get dressed.
Steve feels a blush creeping up his cheeks the minute Bucky is out of sight. His stolen look imprints on the back of his mind. He picks the crumpled sketch from earlier up off the floor, and flattens it out as best as he can. With her jagged lines and sharp angles, the woman in the sketch seems angry at him. Maybe she can tell his heart’s not in this one. Steve can’t fathom why. She should be happy.
She twirls in a dance hall like the ones Bucky frequents in the evenings, her dress billowing around her. Her blonde hair is curled, her blue eyes bright. Her smile was meant to be light and free, but instead is a venomous grimace. It doesn’t belong.
Steve has seen this woman dancing with Bucky countless times. Sometimes she’s blonde, sometimes brunette; with painted red lips, with long lashes, without makeup at all. No matter her name, no matter her face, she’s always thrilled to dance with Bucky. She is always the star of the show, the center of the universe, and not at all like the woman looking up at Steve from the page.
She’s so lucky, but she looks like she’s dying a bit inside.
Bucky appears next to Steve out of nowhere and gestures to the drawing.
“It’s pretty; why’s it all messed up? Do I need to kill someone?” Bucky rests a hand on Steve’s shoulder, and Steve knows he means it.
Steve's first week of school, someone put a hole in his canvas. He tried to hide it, but Bucky took it upon himself to find the guy and rough him up for Steve. Steve’s pieces have been pristine since then, though a few of his classmates now mutter nasty names when they think he can’t hear. And sometimes when they know he can.
“Nah, I did that.”
“Some deep artistic meaning or somethin’ you got in there? Crumpled for dramatic effect, for emotion?”
Bucky is not one for analyzing art. He probably only pretends to listen when Steve goes on about color theory and symbolism, but he bothers to pretend. Steve’s heart stutters every time.
Steve shrugs, just scowling in the direction of the girl. She grimaces right back.
Bucky frowns. “I think it’s nice,” he declares. “She looks sorta like you, y’know, if you were a girl.”
Steve stares at his sketch. He doesn’t see it.
But Bucky thinks it’s nice, so Steve doesn’t hate it as much.
“You wanna go dancing tonight?” Bucky suggests with a grin, and a pit forms in Steve’s stomach.
Steve shakes his head. "Girls don’t wanna dance with me.” The last thing Steve wants is pity. It’s just the truth. “You go, though.”
“No way they don’t wanna dance with you, Steve.” Bucky sounds remarkably convinced of his words. He’s a great actor.
Steve holds back a laugh.
“They wanna dance with you , Buck.” Steve avoids Bucky’s eyes, instead meeting the woman’s pained grey gaze. “I’m just the cost of entry.”
“You’ll find a girl someday, Stevie.” Bucky’s hand rests on Steve’s shoulder for a beat too long, and Steve feels its weight like a ton of bricks.
Steve just sighs. Probably not, because he’s not strong like Bucky and he’s not smooth like Bucky and he can’t dance like Bucky. But it’s alright. Steve’s not new to this game.
Bucky hums quietly. “So, when you go on those double dates with me…”
He can probably tell this is a minefield. Steve isn’t going to lie to his best friend, and he knows Bucky isn’t gonna like his answer.
“They all either find a friend, suddenly have to go to the powder room, or don’t even bother to make an excuse.” Steve admits, his cheeks burning. Bucky is kind enough not to mention it.
“Well, it’s ‘cause you don’t have practice, Stevie.”
Of all the responses that could have been headed his way, Steve was not expecting that.
“How d’you suppose I get practice if none of the girls wanna dance with me, Buck? Don’t exactly have any girl friends to ask.” He’s not trying to be a downer, but it’s hard not to be when he’s spent so many dates watching Bucky dancing the night away with some girl. Once he can no longer stand it, Steve always ends up leaving early. And alone.
Steve looks up at Bucky and, for once, can’t read what he sees. Bucky’s mouth twitches, then his expression returns to his usual easy smile.
“You can always dance with me, Stevie. I got plenty of expertise right here.” Bucky takes a step back and holds out a hand. His tone is laced with something Steve doesn’t recognize; a flicker of desperation in his eyes disappears so quickly Steve has to have imagined it.
Steve hesitantly takes Bucky’s hand, leaving his drawing behind on the table.
“We don’t have any music.” Steve’s pitch is all off, caught up in his mind. His statement ends up sounding more like a question than anything else. He has a sneaking sense that he’s creeping up, toeing some invisible line, though for what he doesn’t yet know.
Bucky drops Steve’s hand and disappears into their bedroom. The loss sends a shiver through Steve’s body. Funny, since the apartment is well over eighty degrees and humid enough to be classified as swamplands. Steve decides not to dwell on it; besides, Bucky walks in with their clunky radio and finds a station playing some slow jazz, distracting Steve from his thoughts.
“So, first thing you’re gonna do is ask her to dance with you.” Bucky smiles at Steve the way Steve has seen him do for countless dames. The charm has never been for him before. In Bucky’s mind, Steve knows it’s still not, but something in him dares to dream. Why is it something he even wants?
“Hey, Stevie, may I have a dance with you?”
Steve’s knees go weak. He takes a wobbly step forward, and Bucky places Steve’s left hand on his shoulder. Bucky’s hand snakes around Steve’s small waist, and laces their right hands together.
“Now, right now you’re the dame; when you do this with a girl you’ll have your hand on her waist instead.” Bucky instructs. He leads Steve in a loose circle around the room, and Steve’s stomach lurches each time he steps on Bucky’s toes. Bucky grins each time, effortlessly melting Steve’s nerves.
Steve is intensely aware of the shrinking margin between them, until he steps forward so their chests are flush. Steve’s small frame gets lost in Bucky’s broad chest, but it feels strangely like home.
Bucky steps back like the contact burned him. Steve instantly regrets it, but the rejection loses its sting when Bucky places Steve’s left hand at the small of his back.
“Okay, now you lead.”
Steve meets Bucky’s eyes and finds his pupils blown, his eyes dark swirls rather than the light grey Steve is used to. Steve’s gaze slips to Bucky’s mouth, where he finds Bucky’s teeth digging into his bottom lip. Is that a reflection of Steve’s subpar performance? He wouldn’t be surprised; Bucky’s danced with much better partners than Steve.
Worries fly through Steve’s mind, convincing him that his dancing is a lost cause, but Bucky is quick to catch it and murmurs praise even when Steve is off beat. Bucky can probably feel the way Steve’s pulse jumps in response.
Steve is careful to keep the space between them as he tries his best to lead, gluing his eyes on the wall somewhere over Bucky’s left shoulder. This isn’t weird. Bucky’s just teaching him so he can dance with a girl someday. Steve's breath hitches when he returns to the full intensity of Bucky’s gaze. A tingle shoots down his spine as Bucky's eyes drop to Steve's lips for a fraction of a second.
Bucky’s dames don’t know how good they have it.
As the song ends, the two of them sway together in silence. Steve can’t bring himself to end the moment. He clings to Bucky as if held in place by a supernatural force, their magnetic hearts unable to resist the pull. Steve may not understand it, but he is certain that this is supposed to last.
“Well, Stevie.” Bucky’s voice is husky, the low tone making Steve’s heart skip a beat or three. “Usually this is where you’d kiss the girl.”
A new song blares from the radio, upbeat and chirpy, and Steve jumps. Alarm bells sound in his head, the same jarring pitch as the trumpets.
Bucky seems unperturbed, only turning away to click the radio off, then returns his attention to Steve.
“I’m serious, though. If you need to practice that, too...” Bucky tentatively rests his hands on Steve’s waist. His tender touch has Steve leaning into him instinctively. The dense heat around them thickens with tension.
Steve had thought he was stepping up to a line in the sand. Lines, he has no issue leaping over without looking back, no matter the consequences. Lines, Steve will take punches and kicks for crossing if it means doing the right thing. He would happily scuff up the dirt, forget it was there, blow right by it. But this is different. Steve is standing at a precipice, and only jagged rocks await him below.
But that's never stopped him before.
Bucky’s skin is warm under Steve’s hand. Steve threads his fingers through Bucky’s still damp hair. The breathy sigh it elicits from him knocks the air out of Steve’s lungs harder than any hit in a back alley. Steve’s heart swoops as he thinks about drifting over the edge. He would die a hero’s death for this. The rocks at the bottom seem softer by the minute, soft like Bucky’s skin. It’d be like lying on a marshmallow.
Bucky cradles Steve’s face, gently stroking a thumb along his cheekbone. It might as well leave a bloody trail with the way it stings, and suddenly Steve is feeling too many things at once. Bucky’s touch, Bucky’s gaze, Bucky’s heartbeat against Steve’s chest. The heavy air between them threatens to choke Steve; his lungs begin to tighten.
“Uh. I, um,” Steve fumbles, then lands precariously on a choppy “I’m good. Thanks.”
They’re best friends; it would be weird. Friends don’t do that sort of thing. Steve can feel a blush rushing onto his face, and his heart pounds in his fragile ribcage. He frantically tries to slow his breaths. They danced, though. Friends probably don’t do that sort of thing either. Bucky’s face falls, almost imperceptibly accepting defeat, before he nods and steps back. Steve instantly feels hollow with the loss of something he never had.
“So, you know how to dance now at least.” Bucky wrings his fingers. “Girls will love that.”
His voice sounds odd, when he says girls. As if he knows something Steve doesn’t. He probably does, especially when it comes to women. Like the fact that Steve will never really dance with one.
After the sun has set and the air becomes marginally more tolerable, Bucky lays on the couch and wishes Steve goodnight.
“What’re you doing, Buck?” Their couch is barely softer than the tile floor; sleeping on it must be miserable.
“I thought I’d do you a favor.” Bucky’s face is buried in the pillow. “Don’t wanna share a bed with me, I’m sure.”
“What?” Steve’s genuine confusion must be clear, because Bucky looks up at him and cocks a brow as if that would explain everything. Half of their conversations are like that, these days, more looks than words. Steve tells himself they still count as conversations, because if not, the two of them spend a lot of time lost in each other’s eyes. He can’t entertain that thought for too long.
“I only practiced dancing with you. It’s all pretend, so why would it matter?” Steve doesn’t notice it’s a lie until it’s past his lips. He knows it matters, and he knows why, too. He returns the favor of keeping his mouth shut about the details.
Bucky’s stoic expression lets Steve in on none of his thoughts. An impressive feat considering how easily Steve can usually read him. He silently gets up and curls up in their bed. If his slow breaths are anything to go by, he’s asleep in minutes. Or just a very good actor, but Steve suspects Bucky is worse at hiding things than he previously thought.
Steve crawls into bed next to him, like he does every night. But for him, sleep doesn’t come.
He replays their dance in his head, recalling the electrifying closeness. The tingle in his spine returns as Steve feels the ghost of Bucky’s hands on him. He can only imagine how his skin might have burned with pleasure if he’d let Bucky teach him how to kiss, too. It would’ve been Steve’s first, and probably his only, if he’s honest. He wouldn't have been mad if it was.
Bucky Barnes, Steve’s first and only. Seems fitting. But instead of taking the leap like he so often does, Steve turned tail. Cowers in a shameful corner of his comfort zone, unkissed. Because it would’ve been weird. What bullshit.
It wouldn’t have been weird if Steve didn’t know it would mean something. More than he could put into words, more than he’d even risk thinking. Maybe they’d lie to each other and call it practice for a woman who would never be. Would they still say that the third, fourth, fifth times?
Steve’s mind wanders back to the woman he drew, the woman lying forgotten on their table. Bucky thought it looked like Steve. If he dared look at it now, Steve would see himself in her, too. So lucky, and dying a little bit inside.
Their bed is hard, like rocks digging into his skin and piercing his heart. It is strangely comforting. Steve deserves it.
The next time Bucky offers, Steve won’t say no.
Steve knows better than to believe there will be a next time.