Chapter Text
Christmases have been a sore spot for Steve for years. His parents are rarely able to come home for the holidays, and even if one of them manages to make it home, he hasn't had both of them for Christmas since he was 9 years old, six Christmases ago. Obviously since he's been staying with Gramma Barnes since he was about eight years old, she always does her best to give the boys a decent Christmas, with at least one gift for the both of them-- sometimes two, if she can get together enough money to get them both a good, strong pair of warm socks, but... it's not the same.
Their best chance at getting a good Christmas meal is at the Holiday Formal at school, even if neither of them really have fancy enough clothes to attend without being picked on by the kids with silk bowties and polished shoes. It doesn't matter, they're really only there for the food-- of which they heap plates with, and then dart off to a quiet corner of some unused hallway to listen to the jazz filtering through the corridors and feast on more food than they were strictly allowed, thanks to rationing.
"You didn't kiss Molly from algebra," Steve insists, despite Bucky detailing the sordid tale in gratuitous detail, as he snaps a maraschino cherry off its stem. "Or maybe you did, but everybody did not clap."
"Says you! What would you even know, you were busy being gifted and talented," Bucky teases, leaning next to him to shove Steve with his shoulder. It's not hard enough to do any actual damage, or even make him spill anything, but it was enough to yank the cherry from his teeth right before he bit down, and the resounding click makes him snort, looking smug like a cat as he takes a bite of his own plate, piled-high rather with savory things, instead of sweet.
He liked to pack it in when he could. He was a growing boy, and frankly the means they were allotted with his grandma's budget weren't the greatest, so he really had to take advantage of the meal while he could. He'd already eaten two chicken wings just waiting in line, and had thrown them back on the pile when no one was looking, much to the appalled clucking of Steve behind him. It was fine, it's not like he didn't brush.
Swallowing around a mouthful of food, Bucky wipes the corner of his mouth with his napkin, although his decorum still leaves a little to be desired-- realistically, they should count themselves lucky he used a napkin at all, when most the boys their age just opt for the heel of their own hand, "Those girls in your fancy reading class catching your eye, or what?"
Steve ducks his head, his mouth twisting uncomfortably up to one side at Bucky's teasing. No, they haven't been catching his eye. No girl ever has, not really. Swishy skirts and bouncing pigtails have never grabbed his attention the way they do for Bucky. He's seen Bucky offering girls sticks of gum, he's seen the way they accept them with coquettish giggles and fluttering eyelashes, and it makes him feel queasy to watch.
It's not that nothing "catches his eye." Nothing makes his heart race faster than seeing Bucky change out of his pajamas in the morning. That moment in between when he sheds his night shirt and he's just in his tank top before he puts on their school uniform shirt... something about that moment sucks all the moisture out of Steve's mouth in an instant. Whenever he can manage to, he watches Bucky get dressed, watches him step out of his sleep pants and watches the muscles in his arms and legs flex as he puts on his clothing for the day. Once or twice Bucky has caught Steve looking in the mirror, but he's never said anything about it, thank god. Steve doesn't know what he'd say if he did.
Not that he doesn't know what the feeling is. There's certainly enough anger in the air for "queers" for him to be fully aware by now of what's happening to him. Whether it's the devil's doing, or if it's just because he doesn't have a "traditional male role model" to look up to thanks to his father always being away, he doesn't know. But he's certainly not going to ask anybody about it.
Realizing that he's been silent for too many seconds in a row, and that Bucky's teasing expression has started to edge into concern, Steve blows a breath out through puffed cheeks. "It's not a fancy reading class, Buck," he mutters, instead of answering the question directly, and he sets into breaking a thin chocolate chip cookie into as many small pieces as he can. "It's just quiet reading."
Bucky isn't stupid, although he's happy to play the part in the school hierarchy. He's not smart like Steve is, but he's smarter than he lets on-- and unfortunately for him, Steve is his best subject. Even if Bucky and him hadn't been joined at the hip since their playground days, it wouldn't take a mind reader to know that Steve was upset, about something he'd said? Did?
"That cookie do somethin' to you personally, Rogers, or you watching your figure?" Bucky asks. His voice is still teasing, still warm, but it's edged with concern, now, as he tilts his head and squints. Steve hadn't looked at him since they'd started talking, so instead Bucky pointedly moves his leg. It's obvious enough that Steve would see it coming, but still he's allowed to bounce his leg against the side of Steve's. On the third nudge his knee lingers for a moment longer than two male friends would traditionally allow.
Usually, two guy friends wouldn't be touching each other at all, so all of the touches were lingering if they were counting.
"Okay, so they didn't clap, does that make you feel better? You really suck the fun outta a story sometimes, y'know," Bucky groans, leaning back a little into the bench, taking another hungry bite of potato and vegetable. He's probably eating dinner the most sadly that a kid's ever actively been stuffing his face, "I doubt anyone even saw, we were behind one of the library shelves. But she did use tongue a little, I'm not lying about that." Almost desperately, Bucky leans over to try and meet Steve's gaze, already feeling antsy with him looking down for so long. It was never good to see Steve upset. Ever.
"That's great, Buck," Steve says. His sadness could easily be mistaken for jealousy, as he flicks a petrified and overcooked chocolate chip at his friend without looking up at him, though he does manage a morose little half-smirk. "Happy for you, really. That's girl number... thirteen? Did you make it a goal to kiss the whole school before we graduate, or is this you not even trying?"
It's the same kind of teasing they usually indulge in, but Steve can't find it in him to put as much fire or pizzazz behind it as he usually does. It makes him almost embarrassingly sad, how easy it is to put a sour icicle through any good mood Steve has, just by thinking of all the people who have gotten to kiss his friend. Not only because there's a sinful, wretched part of him that wants to be the one in their place, but also because it sets him to worrying about his own immortal soul.
Basically a lot for a 15 year old to fret over.
"Not every girl-- hang on, are you mad at me?" Bucky asks, quickly catching up all at once to what those bitter, jaded words could mean-- and all signs were pointing at him, not that he could even think what Steve would be mad at, if he was angry at him. He hadn't done anything but exaggerated his story, certainly not enough to warrant such stern treatment from his best friend. "Look, pal, you want to have first pick, you know I'm happy to do that for ya, but I have to know that's what you want, first."
They were tucked away on the bleachers, the main tables in the center of the gymnasium were where most of the others were eating or mingling, saving the bleachers for those few kids who hadn't actually been able to afford a table seat. Bucky and Steve had opted for just the entry tickets, not a table ticket. Usually they didn't have a problem sitting near one another, but Bucky didn't like how dejected Steve looked.
"That okay?" Bucky pries, nudging Steve with his shoulder again, letting it linger, again.
"I'm not mad at you," Steve sighs, glancing away from his friend, his mouth still twisted up in that unpleasant grimace. "I meant what I said, okay? I'm happy for you. It's... impressive. Gives you a hell of a lot of bragging rights, but I just..."
He finally brushes the crumbs off his fingers on the patched knees of his slacks, once that cookie has been reduced to dust, and he just sighs again, this time somehow even more miserable and pathetic. He leans in a little closer to Bucky so he can lower his voice to just above a whisper when he says,
"Look, I just-- I haven't kissed anyone yet, okay? I know that's probably not surprising to you, since I definitely would have told you the second I did, kiss someone-- kiss a girl, I mean, but... it's just-- I don't know, okay? I don't know."
He does know. He leans away, his cheeks and ears burning. It makes him feel like less of a man, which is something he doesn't need more help feeling. He's already small and sickly, he doesn't need 'can't score' to be piled on top, even if he wanted to kiss girls. At least if he was even remotely on the radar of the female element, he could fake it.
It hits Bucky all at once why Steve was acting funny, then, and it makes Bucky's entire chest feel too tight when Steve says it. He looks embarrassed and humiliated, head ducked down and eyes cast aside. Of course it makes sense in retrospect, Steve's never kissed a girl-- he's never kissed anyone, and like he said, if he had, Bucky would know.
But it was hard to imagine Steve wasn't getting the attention of the girls at school, when he managed to catch Bucky's so often. How could Bucky, average Bucky, throw a rock and hit 4 girls with one suave smile, but Steve is somehow left adrift without the female gaze? He was handsome, his jaw pronounced and hair kept. Pretty, with a blonde swoop and his breathtaking blue-green eyes, framed by lashes longer than any girl Bucky had ever seen. Maybe that was why they weren't interested in Steve the same way they were with Bucky, they just couldn't handle the competition. Steve didn't need them anyway, Bucky would--
His ears go red as his imagination takes off in an instant, running 10 miles faster than the rest of him.
"Hey, that's okay," Bucky says quickly, urgently, wanting to cut off Steve's doubt before it can settle in him, even if Bucky can already hear it in the way his voice gets quieter at the end of his sentences, "Those girls don't know what they're talking about." There's a brief pause, before Bucky quickly sets his tray of food to the side, standing quickly to his feet, "Hang on. Watch my tray, wouldja? I gotta go," He says, nodding to the bathroom.
Steve doesn't get a chance to protest before Bucky leaves him to stay guard, trotting and weaving through their peers to the hallway and leaving him on his own.
Steve's entire body sags without the bright energy of Bucky to feed off of, sighing all the air out of his body. Go figure he'd chase his friend off by being a stupid queer crybaby. That's what all the panicked moralites say will happen if you're queer, you'll chase off all your friends, you'll bring the country to ruin, you'll never have a family or kids or a purpose and you'll die alone in a hovel, unloved and bleeding internally from anal fissures.
If he just had the decency to hide it, to pretend to be happy for Bucky with a more genuine attempt, if he hadn't made him feel guilty for being charming and good looking and lovable... he groans and grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes. Part of him just wants to bail, to give Bucky the night to himself to woo as many girls as he can stand before he gets kicked out for womanizing, to give him the freedom to sow his wild oats without having to nurse the pitiful wounded ego of his most embarrassing friend... but he couldn't actually bear to ditch Bucky like that. He can't tell if that's a selfish impulse or not.
Definitely selfish, and definitely unfounded, because when Bucky comes back there's a slight pink tinge to his cheeks, and he even seems a little breathless. Weird, considering he'd presumably just gone to the bathroom and back, and it wasn't like even sprinting there and back would have caused Bucky to tire under normal circumstances. But he grins brightly when he sees Steve still sitting there, drawing up short right in front of him, "Good, you're still here," He says, like he expected Steve to actually go somewhere.
Leaning past him, Bucky takes what looks like a final bite of turkey, following it with a massive slug of water, "Are you done? I wanna show you something cool I found," he says, nodding and setting his glass down. Chances were good their plates would be cleaned up by the time they returned from where they were going, which was a shame since their talking had really interrupted their eating, but they were both technically on their second servings, so they weren't going to starve any time soon. Bucky nudges Steve again with his shoulder, smiling slightly at him when he stands, the corners of his eyes crinkling. It was a smaller smile, a more private one, encouraging, "You'll like it," he promises, voice a quiet mutter in his chest before he begins to weave through the crowd, never letting Steve fall behind more than a step.
"If you're about to show me a huge dump you took again, I'm gonna be real ticked off," Steve warns, but he slips off the bleachers to follow his friend. Sure, Bucky only did that once when he was 10 and Steve was 9, but the blonde has never let him forget it.
He follows dutifully behind his friend as they slip out from a presently unguarded door, the teacher chaperones currently involved in a flirtatious gamble of their own, giving the boys just enough time to slip away from the gymnasium proper and into the hallways. He follows Bucky all the way into the bowels of the school, where it's dark and there's nobody around, and Steve's heart starts to pound in his chest.
It always pounds a little, every time he and Bucky are completely isolated together. Especially at night, when Bucky will lift his covers to invite his friend across the room to snuggle into his bigger, more comfortable bed with him. They've been doing it since they were 8/9, and they've probably gotten to the age by now where it's starting to get a little weird for them to still be sharing a bed, but even so, Steve's heart pounds in his chest every time he settles in to sleep by Bucky's side.
It's not like they cuddle, but still. At least Steve's heart condition is enough to cover for it if Bucky can ever hear his heart beating int the quiet of the room.
"Weird to be here and it's so quiet, right?" Bucky's voice is right in Steve's ear, disrupting his wandering thoughts and no doubt stressing that aforementioned heart condition to a point. Next thing he knows, one of Bucky's large, stupid arms is draped across his shoulders and their bodies meet, warm, as Bucky squeezes him in a side hug. "I always wanted to come here at night to see what it was all about. Seems kinda like a haunted house without all the people, though," he admits, glancing around unpleasantly.
Abruptly he points. It's their hallway, their shared locker just down the hall, sandwiched between their history class and sciences, but Bucky is pointing at the water fountain nook in the center, a little alcove carved into the wall where people could get a drink and wait outside of the flow of traffic, "There, see?" He urges, and nudges Steve forward with a hand on his lower back, urging him across the hall like they were crossing traffic.
"Bucky, that's a water fountain," Steve says, sounding at once amused and resigned. "You wanted to show me a water fountain?"
Even without all the people it felt like they were rushing across a risky space to be somewhere they shouldn't. The quiet only amplified matters, and Steve definitely isn't seeing things if he notices the tips of Bucky's ears are a little pink, and that flush had yet to fade.
"Shut up and get in," Bucky says as he tucks himself into the alcove after Steve. He's hunched a little more, forced to wedge himself in a little tighter. It doesn't escape his notice how close they were, or how Steve still could fit, easily tucked under his chin, "Close your eyes," Bucky says with a smile, "and don't open them 'til I say."
There's a part of Steve that's just resigned to whatever stupid prank Bucky is about to pull, the tired jaded weariness of a boy who is friends with someone who fancies himself a jokester almost taking the forefront in his mind. But past that, he mostly feels the breathless thrill of being alone with Bucky, isolated in a dark hallway. He watches Bucky's face for a few seconds to try and get some idea of what he's planning, but as usual, Bucky gives nothing away.
"Fine," he says finally, and closes his eyes. "Just don't do anything weird."
Define weird, Bucky wishes he could say.
But he'd actually planned for this moment several times over, and kept putting it off. There were times when it seemed like he could make this step, take this plunge-- but every time, Bucky would back out at the last second. It didn't matter how many times he caught Steve's eye watching him change, it didn't matter how many times Steve caught his eye, walking out of the bathroom. It felt like Bucky had been circling Steve for weeks, glancing off one another, unable to make contact because one thing or another.
He wanted to so badly, though, and now was as good a time to take a leap of faith as any.
Digging his hand into his pocket, Bucky hisses as his fingers gets immediately pricked by a nettle. He has to be careful as he withdraws it, but finally excises a fully formed sprig of mistletoe, lovingly stolen from the school's office. Raising it above both of their heads, Bucky leans so he's directly under it-- and by sheer coincidence, so is Steve. "Okay, open. And look up."
"Look up, what--" Steve does, and he feels his heart drop into his socks.
That's mistletoe. As in the thing that couples kiss under. And Bucky is holding it over their heads, right after Steve was complaining about not ever kissing anyone. His heart rate kicks up to an unhealthy pace, throbbing painfully in his chest as his mind races-- is this a joke? Is Bucky teasing him? Oh, can't kiss a girl, so a boy has to offer? If it was a joke, why take him to the depths of the school where nobody could see them, where they'd never be caught?
Does that mean... it's not a joke? Lifting up out of his socks, Steve's heart slams up into his mouth instead. He swallows it back down into his chest where it belongs, and he can feel his face heating up, turning red like a cartoon character. It's not possible, this is a dream Steve is having. This isn't real. The sweat on his palms and the thundering of his heart are real, but Bucky genuinely offering him a kiss-- that's not real. It can't be.
"Buck, what--" his voice sticks in his throat, and he swallows hard again to try and clear it, suddenly aware of their proximity to one another, crammed in a little alcove. "What are you doing?"
Bucky feels like he's just run a mile. He feels jittery deep into his bones, like he's vibrating deep into his core out of raw nerves. They'd been this close countless times-- hell, Bucky leaning over Steve to brush his teeth wasn't wholly uncommon in the Barnes household, especially if they were running late-- but there's something to this that feels different. His arm is already beginning to ache, probably no thanks to the shame slowly working its way up his back the longer Steve goes without just... going for it, like he'd hoped.
"Looks like we got caught under the mistletoe," Bucky supplies helpfully, like Steve isn't getting the joke and he has to explain it, "Means we gotta kiss, y'know. That's the rules of Christmas." He makes no move to claim the space between them for himself, daring not to ruin the sanctity of this moment with his impatience, for once, even though everything in his chest was just telling him to go for it. There was no way he wouldn't be happy, right?
Except even the chance Steve might reject Bucky is too high, and he can feel his throat beginning to feel a little awkward and full, a knot twisting in his gut as his mind begins to eat away at his confidence. "....'s probably bad luck or something, if you don't," He adds, muttering the last bit as he loses steam.
Steve doesn't get a chance to respond. He hears shoes on the tiles, and his head snaps in the direction of the commotion just in time to see a group of boys come swaggering around the corner with their fists full of treats, laughing together as they pass a paper bagged bottle between themselves. They're older boys, in Bucky's year, and they all pause in their merrymaking as soon as they catch sight of the two boys.
Luckily, at least, at the first sound of shoes, Bucky had hastily stuffed the mistletoe back into his pocket, at least preventing them from having that glaringly obvious piece of miscelanea just out on display. But even then, they're both crouched in a tiny alcove together... not the most heterosexual look.
"What the hell?" one of the larger boys blurts, as if he can't believe his own eyes, and Steve is spurred into action.
Without waiting even a second longer, he tears out of the corridor and runs down the hall faster than he strictly should, until the cold night air is burning his overheated face. He runs all the way home, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor of his and Bucky's shared bedroom, and makes a point to turn to face the wall so that whenever Bucky makes it home, he can at least pretend to be asleep, if he hasn't actually managed it by then. His chest aches, he feels light headed, and not just from the rush of emotion. His body physically punishes him for the exertion, leaving him trembling and nearly feverish with joint pain.
He can't bear the thought of curling in his bed with him tonight, even if it'll break a seven-year streak.
Bucky's able to talk those boys down after Steve hauls ass, and he's lucky as ever that he's cool under pressure-- especially when 'pressure' takes the form of shitty threats made by even shittier boys. Boys who he knows for a fact he could kick the ass of, every day except for Sunday. They jeer and laugh, they poke and prod, heckling as much as they want, but when it comes to a head, when it comes to blows, it takes one lunge from Bucky to send them scattering, and he's left to look down the hall, only to find Steve wholly and entirely gone.
He can't leave right away on his coattails, not if he wants to give people the wrong impression. He told a story about Steve having an asthma attack and having to go home, and when news of their 'tryst' meets his ears, he's happy to laugh it off-- so confidently and boldly that even the adults chaperoning him had no reason to suspect he was lying. Besides, none of them had even seen them go down that hall, so surely it was just a schoolyard rumor.
It's not the same without Steve, so Bucky doesn't stay long-- just long enough to dance with a girl, get smacked by Molly for his efforts, and steal half of the remaining buffet to keep in the icebox at home, for later. He doesn't manage to take as much as he could if they were both here, but he manages enough. Gingerly, he wraps 3 of the largest chocolate chip cookies left in a napkin and holds them the entire walk home, lest they melt or get crushed in his bag with the rest of his haul.
He leaves them on Steve's side of the nightstand, slipping into bed without a word to Steve, afraid to wake him up and only now realizing how cold his bed was.
The next day is worse. Steve already woke up with a sinking pit in his stomach that informed him that today would be bad, but he wasn't really prepared for how bad it would be.
Unable to stomach the shame from last night (shame from what? The fact that Bucky had clocked him? Or that it wasn't a genuine offer, and he was embarrassingly entranced by a schoolboy trick?) and due to the fact that he went to bed earlier than usual, when he woke up before Bucky, he elected to get dressed and begin the walk to school by himself. It probably would have looked worse, if they walked together, anyway.
Turns out, it didn't make a difference. The rumor mill had churned its way through a million renditions of the rumor of Steve and Bucky already, by first period. He had people asking him if he was true he was caught kissing Barnes, even people outright accusing him of being a faggot, something he refuses to shrink to or rise against. He won't give anyone the pleasure of his conflict, nor the dignity of his response. He just stares them challengingly in the eye until they get bored or awkward and leave him alone, and he doesn't look Bucky in the eye even once in the halls.
It works, for most of the day. Keeping his head held high and refusing to wear the shame in his chest outwardly where people can see the effects of their goading, quickly makes the rumors turn stale. It's not fun, if they can't see Steve cower and deny it, if he seems no different from yesterday, they'll bore and move on.
At least, most of them do. By the time school is letting out, and Steve is ducking out a different door than usual to avoid being seen walking home with Bucky, it turns out to be his biggest mistake. He stumbles right past the boys who had found them in the hall, passing cigarettes back and forth. Steve walks right past them without acknowledgement, even though he can feel them start to follow him, once he gets a few yards back. Maybe he can make it all the way home. Maybe if he doesn't run, they won't chase. Like a pack of goddamn hounds.
A wolf whistle pierces the afternoon air, the quiet backdrop of snowblowers and distant street traffic shattered. Three more follow suit as the boys behind Steve lengthen their strides without so much as making a sound. It's not hard to be bigger than Steve, but they're bigger than him, and it shows. They hunt him like it's nothing, and the space between them diminishes quickly even once Steve puts a pep in his step and begins to half-walk, half-jog-- "Don't make us chase you, queer!" yells one, and is met with a chorus of laughter from the other three.
"He can't run, anyway. Rogers needs a paper bag to walk to the office, don't you?" Calls another, as casual as they're having conversation.
"You need a nebulizer when you're sucking off Barnes or is his cock the only medicine you need?" The largest howls.
It's too late, they're on him. It doesn't matter if Steve sprints, it doesn't matter if he runs, the thinnest of the bunch grabs Steve by the backpack and yanks him back and off of his feet, flinging him to the ground so hard he skids against the asphalt. The canvas of his bag grinds holes into it, and the sneaker of the largest boy comes down on Steve's hand, hard enough his knuckles crack.
"Knew you was too pretty, you fairy fuck," snarls the second in command, leaning in close before slamming the laces of his sneakers into Steve's gut, without so much as a chance to anticipate the hit.
Steve hunches over with a cough, the pain radiating up into his chest. It isn't fair, his heart burns, it isn't fair. They weren't even kissing, they were just...!
What were they doing? Crouched together in the dark, playing with mistletoe, sharing a bed, spending every waking moment together? It's not natural for two boys their age to be this close, they're supposed to have a friendly, macho sort of brotherhood, not... whatever it is he and Bucky has. Maybe he's tempting Bucky with his satanic, queer wiles, just like the church warns.
Or maybe Bucky is tempting him. With his broad shoulders and tapered waist and cocky smirk and beautiful blue eyes. Maybe he has it the wrong way around.
"Sorry," Steve coughs as he rolls onto his hands and knees. Always a glutton for punishment and never one to take it lying down, he gives a wheezy chuckle. "For being too pretty, I mean-- must make life hard for you, looking like that."
"You wanna repeat that, tiny?" Growls the second again, boot connecting with his stomach again, kicking him back onto the ground before they descend on him.
The smallest pins him down by the shoulders as the third yanks his backpack free from his arms, pulling and yanking and disregarding any means of gentleness or concern for their fellow classmate. They laugh, grinding Steve's face into the dust as they rifle through his things and throw them across the pavement, papers flying into the breeze and scattering through the streets, into the neighbor's yard. Bucky's copy of The Hobbit, lovingly loaned to Steve a week ago and his current book, is torn in half, flung half in a gutter, the other half in the bushes.
"What, got nothing to say?" The first leers, crouching next to him, his goons still pinning him down by the shoulders, a foot on his back. He gives Steve a once over before snorting like a hog and standing, jerking his chin at the others, who climb off of him, "Get up, faggot, I want you on your feet when I kick the shit out of you."
Part of Steve just wants to keep laying there. Play dead like a possum and maybe they'll move on. But his pride gets the better of him, and he staggers up to his feet, wobbling slightly with blood trickling from his nose, and bruises under his eyes when he faces the boys. He's panting, on the verge of an asthma attack, and his painful muscles are already trembling, but still he lifts his fists in a valiant display of bravery.
"Who's first?" he says, swaying slightly in what he hopes looks more like a fighters stance, and less like he's been kicked too many times about the face and chest to keep his balance.
Steve is shoved and hit, the collar of his shirt yanked loose to his shoulder and feet crunched under shoes. Punches to the gut make him keel over and gasp, and pulls to his hair make him stand up and take it, until he can only gasp for air like a fish out of water-- and every time he's thrown to the ground and spat at to sit down, he gets right back up again, challenging them every time.
They let the first and largest have a few licks by himself, dealing one to his jaw hard enough to make his teeth click and another to his head like it was nothing but a balloon tethered by a ribbon. It makes Steve stumble back and fall, only to be pushed forward by another boy, directly into the waiting hands of a third. He tries to fight back, of course he tries-- he gets his fingers in one boy's flannel and gets his arm yanked back with a noise that sounded like a twinge of something, though fortunately not an outright crack. They were kids, after all, though their malice meant they pulled no punches-- but trying is not succeeding, and it's pretty obvious from the jump that this is not a fight Steve can win.
The meaty, unkind fingers of the largest's hand fist in Steve's hair to yank his head up, dirty and bloodied, scraped from the gravel they'd ground against him, "We see you pull that pansy ass shit again and I'll kill you myself," He snarls, and delivers a blow to Steve's solar plexus that leaves him gasping for air and his entire body stunned. He's dropped to the ground still choking for air, kicked in the gut one time for good measure. Bringing up the rear, the scrawniest one kicks Steve's only adrenaline shot across the snow of the street, just out of his reach, and spits on him before he goes.
Steve's vision is foggy when he looks up across the street, to see a mother quickly ushering her children down the road, without sparing him a glance to help. He sees a man getting into his car, ignoring what's just happened right across the street from him, and he sees a young lady by herself hold his eye for a few seconds, looking like she wants to help, before she decides it's too much trouble to potentially interfere in schoolboy squabbles, and she too moves on.
He blacks out. He's not sure for how long, but he's woken by a tapping foot against the sole of his shoe, and he groggily lifts is head off the frigid asphalt to see a police officer tiredly informing him that he needs to "move along, son." It's humiliating, picking himself up off the ground, dusting freshly fallen snow off his achy body, and gathering whatever he can find of the contents of his stomped bag, but it's not the first time, and he doubts it'll be the last. He can already feel a fever setting in.
Spitting blood out of his teeth, he starts the long limp home. It's at least six pm, which means Bucky will long since have been home, and he won't know where Steve is. He might even be out looking for him now-- though if he was, he can't imagine Bucky wouldn't have found him, since he just took a nap on the sidewalk.
Tears begin to burn in his eyes as he gets closer to the apartment. What's he going to do? Go inside and get Bucky all riled up because he got into another fight? This one's all Bucky's fault, god damn it. Steve was just a good Christian boy, until Bucky started to get that cleft in his chin and that twinkle in his blue eyes. He was a normal, god-fearing, red-blooded American boy before Bucky's smell started to change and deepen, before his voice dropped and his arms started filling out. He can't go back inside and let Bucky see him like this.
So he detours, to his parents apartment instead. He unlocks it with the hidden key and curls up on the couch, and only when he's alone does he allow himself to cry.
They'd been through so much, it's hard to believe that this is it for them.
But it was it, it had to be it-- Bucky knew that from the minute he woke up and saw his peace offering of cookies left on the bedside table untouched. He knew it from the way Steve was gone when he woke up, his bed made and teeth brushed so quietly Bucky hadn't even noticed. He knew he'd gone too far as soon as he hit the schoolyard radius, and rumors of the prior night hit him like a sledgehammer.
He was good with talking. He was good with people. Bucky knew the right things to say and how to say them to get people believe him when he spoke, and trust him, to boot. When cornered by teachers and peers, he met accusations with a groan and a reiteration of the story of the night before. It was an asthma attack. Steve is sick. It's no secret Bucky had been glued to his side since they were kids-- his caretaker, some sneer, like Steve isn't better at taking care of himself than Bucky is. As if Steve wasn't the only reason Bucky was half as competent as he was.
Steve's eyes skim right past him in the halls, like he doesn't even exist. Their shared classes are lonely, separated by a sea of peers and Steve's usual desk, diligently kept by Bucky since they were kids, left bare. Steve takes seats by the door in every class, and Bucky can only imagine-- If he had it this bad, Steve could only be having it worse.
Bucky doesn't see Steve at lunch. He doesn't see him after school. Bucky doesn't see him on their normal route home, or on their scenic route. He's not at home. Panic grips his chest for a horrible second when he worries Steve had left-left, but a quick tear through his drawers confirmed his clothes were still in place. Steve wasn't leaving.
In the end, Bucky only manages to be patient for 30 minutes before he's back in the neighborhood and by the school, looking along their usual routes, only getting tripped up once by a rogue police officer who tells him to turn around, sirens flashing behind him. The streetlights flick on, and Bucky turns to head home with a heavy heart, shaking snow off of his hair as he begins the slow, painful trudge. His heart hurts. His soul hurts. Mistletoe, some fucking idea.
A lark brings Bucky to Steve's parents' apartment, hands shoved into his pockets as he looks up at the building. It's late, past curfew, and snow is beginning to drift down in large, heavy flakes. What are the chances Steve is there? He walks up, just to check. Just so he can tell himself no.
But what he sees is Steve's hidden key rock moved to the side, an outline in the boards in snow where it belonged. He sees a faint, orange light-- and with his heart in his throat, Bucky tries the door, finding it unlocked and exhaling in relief. "Steve?" He calls, his voice louder in the apartment than he'd like for it to be. He lowers it, then tries again, "It's me, Bucky," Like he wouldn't know.
Steve wakes up again on the couch. He'd passed out, the ache in his bones dragging him back into blissful unconsciousness, but as soon as he opens his eyes, the pain in his body hits him like a sack of bricks. There's a moment of peace when Bucky's voice floods Steve with the same sort of joy it always has, but that comes crashing down seconds later when Bucky's arrival heralds a reckoning-- the point of no return. Steve can't run away from the subject anymore.
Pushing up on shaking arms just as Bucky comes into the room, Steve feels it like a sock to the gut when Bucky gasps audibly at the sight of him, rumpled and bruised and bloodied, and rushes to his side like a mother hen.
"M'fine, Buck," he mutters, tonguing at his own swollen lip, where it's split down the middle, and he tries to lean away from the too-large, too-warm hands of his best friend and worst temptation. "Just a little banged up. I've had worse."
He hasn't, he definitely hasn't. In fact, he's pretty sure this is the worst beating his ever gotten, and he's pretty sure Bucky can tell that too just by looking at him. But still, he has to say it.
"Just go home, Bucky," he mutters tiredly, picking at the dried blood under his nose, flaking it off into his mother's nice carpet.
"This was what, Hurley, Townsend, them?" Bucky asks, completely failing to acknowledge Steve's tired request he return home. There wasn't a chance in hell he was going to go home, there wasn't a chance in hell he was going anywhere before making sure Steve was alright. And, honestly, escorting Steve home his fucking self. He wasn't going to let him walk around like this. A rage fills him that he's only too familiar with, the indignant, furious rage at the way people treat Steve. Like he isn't the best fucking person in the entire world.
Bucky does go, but it's only temporary, only long enough to root through the Rogers' deep-deep freeze, packed with ice and long-forgotten food left to collect frostbite. Brushing off the worst of it and cracking it over his knee, Bucky manages to excise a bag of peas and what looked like a fillet of white fish from the mass, wrapping both in towels from their kitchen before returning to the living room.
"I'm really gonna fuckin' end 'em, Steve," Bucky mutters to him, the fury evident in his voice. He hands Steve the peas, placing the fish directly on his ankle without hesitation, able to see from the door that it was swollen, propped up on a pillow as it was to discourage blood flow.
Steve scowls down at the peas as Bucky fusses around him. It would be so easy to sink into the comfortable indulgence of Bucky's tender care, the same way he always has. It would be so easy to relax into his attention. But is that the queer temptation calling him? Bidding him to let Bucky put his hands all over him and steer him away from the Christian light? Or is he the one tempting Bucky? He's so confused and turned around, and Bucky's hands feel so good on his arms and shoulders that it puts a guilty, nauseous pit in his stomach.
"Would you just-- would you quit it?" he tosses the peas to the ground with an icy crunch, and tears of shame fill his eyes. He grinds them away with the heels of his hands, but the pressure on his bruised cheeks only makes his eyes leak worse, now also with pain. "I can't-- I can't take it, Buck, I can't-- I don't want you here, just-- just leave me alone."
He doesn't mean it. In his guts he doesn't mean it, and he sounds so goddamn pitiful in his own ears that he knows Bucky won't buy it, either. But whether Bucky is the source of temptation or he is, their best bet for living normal lives is to just... make a clean break, isn't it? To stop sharing a bed, to stop pulling "jokes" on each other where Bucky pretends like he's going to kiss Steve, or Steve... watches Bucky undress. As a joke. He feels queasy.
Guilt makes Bucky feel small, and while he'd flinched at the outburst that lead to the peas on the floor, he does withdraw when asked. Leaning back like he was forced back by a tidal wave, Bucky fidgets with the need to reach out to Steve, to help him somehow. "Alright, alright," Bucky says quickly, ignoring the way his chest feels, the tightness, the shakiness. He's not used to being shaky, not when it came to talking to people, not when it came to Steve, "Don't gotta take it out on the peas or yourself, though, alright? Just-- would you put that to your mug, it's breaking my heart," It's said lightly like a joke, but Bucky's face is anything but jovial.
There's worry, evident and outright, eyebrows knit together and eyes wide. He looks scared and sad, unsure and uneven, eyes flicking continuously to Steve, across his entire person. He lingers on the pants, now with a fresh hole in the knee stained with muddy copper-brown at the edges. He's missing a button on his shirt. His backpack wasn't anywhere in sight.
"I'm so sorry, Steve," Bucky mutters, "I should've tried harder to find you after school, this shouldn't've happened," He sounds demolished, destroyed, guilty like he'd been the one to push Steve away.
He had been, hadn't he? He was the one that ruined things by wanting to kiss him. And now Steve was the one paying for it.
Anger boils in Steve's chest, but it's directionless. Who is he angry at? The bullies? Better they focus their attention on him than even more defenseless kids in school. Sure, he's a sickly weakling, but at least he's not afraid to fight back-- he knows a whole slew of kids who wouldn't even have the guts to do that, if they were in Steve's position. Is he angry at himself? For this inexorable pull he feels towards Bucky? Or maybe he's just angry at Bucky for that same pull. It's easiest to be angry at him.
"It wouldn't have made a lick of difference, Buck," his voice raises in frustration, wringing the bag of peas between them. "What would you've done except prove their point? If you were there to beat 'em off of me all it would have done was fuel their stupid rumors-- rumors that are your fault in the first place!"
His voice cracks as he says it. It was one thing to blame Bucky indignantly in his head, but to say it out loud feels like a whole other ballgame. It makes him feel sick to his stomach. And even worse, the guilty look on Bucky's face, like he was thinking it too.
"Why'd you have to go and do that, Bucky?" Steve's voice comes out in a pitiful whine as he digs his hand into an icepick headache right above his bruised eye socket. "Why'd you have to go and make everything worse?"
It's not fair to blame Bucky, and he knows that in his gut. One of them was tempting the other, or maybe it went both ways. It had to start with one of them, and one of them has to be the one to end it, or... or what? Next time Bucky offers a kiss, Steve won't be able to push him off. If those boys hadn't come down the hall when they did, he doesn't think he would have pushed Bucky off then, either. His stomach cramps with the confusing pulse of heat that the thought puts through him.
Guilt makes Bucky's chest burn hot, and he crosses his arms tightly, very much looking like a scorned dog. He hangs his head, hands tucked tightly under his arms. His shoulders hunch to his ears. It hurts to hear Steve say it. It hurts to sit here and take it. It was his actual nightmare come to life, and the only reason Steve was still here was no doubt because he physically couldn't move. There had to be something Bucky could say, some argument he could make. There had to be a logical explanation that--
It hurt that he was so wrong. He'd thought he'd been right. He was so sure he was right, that Steve wouldn't--
His stomach hurts more at the thought, at the admission. Bucky was lucky in that he'd always grown up with a grandma who understood and loved him no matter what. There was no fear of gay panic because he also liked girls-- but it was only ever Steve that he loved. He thought it'd been the same. He was sure it was the same.
"I didn't mean to," Bucky says, his brain blank but needing to say something. His voice is tight, miserable, "I guess I wasn't thinking. I thought-- I just thought wrong, Steve," How can he make Steve understand? He can't. Bucky is seized with the impulse to fight or flight, but he can't leave Steve here, he can't. Not like this, not without any way to make sure he was okay.
"You thought wrong?" Steve says desperately. "You didn't think at ALL! Why-- why did you think a joke like that would be okay? At school of all places, right out in the open-- were you trying to get the tar beat out of me? Was this all some- some crazy long con? You pull this stupid prank on me and make everyone think I'm a queer so-- so what? Why? Why would you do this to me just for some dumb joke? I thought you knew where to draw the line!"
It's spilling out of him now, all in a panic. He can feel his throat closing up, his hands shaking, tears rolling down his cheeks as he looks up at Bucky, pleading with him to understand why he would joke about this of all things...
Or if it wasn't a joke... that's even harder to stomach.
Bucky flinches at Steve's anger, but some part of it clogs his brain right away. Steve continues to panic in front of him, and Bucky itches to reach over just to remind him to breathe, but he stays rooted to the spot and sinks his nails into his ribcage, tightening his biceps as he furrows his brow. He's trying to understand, trying to sort out what... Steve thought...
"Hey, wait, hey, hang on-- you thought I was setting you up?" Bucky asks, and holy shit that hurts even worse. It's evident in his face, he can feel his heart hurting. A joke? "What kinda joke is that? Why would I want that, that ain't funny." He shakes his head, casting out the idea that he would do such a thing with physical scorn.
He can't look at Steve with those eyes, those tears leaving wet stains across his cheeks. Instinctively Bucky drops his arms, reaching out like he planned on embracing him, only to draw himself short like a horse being pulled at by the bit. He takes a step back, flexing his fingers and bouncing. "You're breakin' my heart, you can't-- I'm sorry, alright? I should never've asked you to kiss me, I get I fucked up, but I didn't mean for-- for this. Those lugs weren't even supposed to be there!" A torn groan leaves him as he drags his fingers through his hair, shoulders sinking, "If anyone should get the shit kicked outta them for bein' a fairy, it's me. I got you into this mess."
Honestly, some part of Steve knew. He knew deep down that it wasn't a joke. Bucky wouldn't joke like that, he wouldn't make light of something that gets grown men and boys alike killed every week in NYC alone. He wouldn't drag him off to some secluded part of the school to try and coax a kiss out of him as a joke. He wouldn't do that to Steve, and Steve knew that.
But he had to be careful. He had to be sure. Just in case it was, just in case he was the freak for reading into something that wasn't there... his stomach twists as he has it all but confirmed for him, all at once, that Bucky dragged him through the halls of their school somewhere private so he could kiss him, on purpose.
"It wasn't a joke?" is all he manages to get out, his voice strained and small, as he stares up at Bucky with the biggest, saddest puppy dog eyes he's ever seen.
Bucky looks miserable. He owes Steve nothing but the absolute truth. He looked like hell, he clearly felt like hell. He would rather give Steve the full truth so he could get everyone off his back and onto Bucky's, then risk anyone thinking Steve had anything to do with this.
"I really thought no one else would get all the way back there," He says, frowning at nothing, looking at the floor, "Stupid. I should've figured that's where folks who're up to no good go. That's why I went back there." And they weren't anything special. If they snuck by, others easily could have, too. And they did. "I just-- couldn't find the right time, so when you were sayin' all that stuff about not bein' kissed, I just thought-- good Christmas gift, at the dance and all. But it was stupid. It won't ever happen again, Steve. Really." And Bucky finally makes eye contact with him again, a serious dullness to his eyes.
Steve's hope that had been climbing in his chest, scaling a mountain behind his eyes, fumbles a step or two when Bucky says that, embarrassment covering him like a fog. He sits back on the couch, his hands loose and curled in his lap. "You did it cause you felt sorry for me? I don't want pity, Buck, you know that. The last thing I ever want are consolation prizes."
"When was the last time I pitied you?" Bucky says, sounding almost desperate, "Even now, I don't pity you. I wanna-- wanna beat the shit out of those knuckleheads for touching you, but I don't pity you," another half-step forward looks like it actually pains Bucky to cut short. Steve still looks too small, too hurt, too distrusting-- and after what they'd just been through, it was the lack of trust that was holding him back the most, "I did it cause--"
A hand in his hair ruffles his carefully-groomed, slicked back coif, bangs falling in front of his eyes. He looks at Steve, chewing on his words, "I did it, 'cause--" Again, he can't say it, mouth opening and words refusing to leave his stupid, faggot mouth, "I did it 'cause I really--" Staring at Steve, he frowns, then all at once crosses the space between them with an exhausted-sounding, "God fuckin' dammit."
There wasn't room for him, but Bucky found Steve made space easily. Bucky's knee settles on the cushion between Steve's legs, other toes keeping him balanced. His hands are warm on Steve's face, still calloused from his summer job, cheeks cradled in his palms and Bucky's thumbs grazing across his cheekbones. "I really like you," Bucky breathes, before pouring the sentiment down Steve's throat, words chased with a kiss that was sweet like honey, gentle, chaste, and warm.
Steve's body lights up like the night sky on the fourth of July. Fireworks explode beneath his skin, and he's pretty sure he would have believed it if Bucky told him his head hit the ceiling. His back arches up off the sofa in alarm, his eyes snapping open wide as he's shocked into blissful stillness by Bucky's kiss.
What could he do? What could he do? Reciprocate? He has no idea how-- and he can't even pilot his body right now. It protests all function, going stock-still as he evaluates and processes the information and stimuli coursing through him like he's got his hand wrapped around a live wire.
Bucky didn't pity him. Deep down, Steve knew that too. He made so many excuses, walked himself back off the same ledge so many times with doubts that Bucky never, never deserved. Bucky never steered him wrong, he never gave Steve any reason to doubt, and doubt he did anyway, because he's a dweeby little queer. Not only does he not pity Steve, he likes him. Like-likes him. Enough to kiss him--
Oh god, they're kissing. As it finally registers in his brain, Bucky is pulling away, afraid that he'd miscalculated yet again. Fear grips him and Steve can see it in his face as he tries to read the blonde's dazed expression-- but this time, Steve won't let him get away. He grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls him in again, even though he doesn't really know what he's doing.
The muffled vibrations of Bucky's laughter interrupts their kiss, but it resumes its prior tempo with only a brief interruption. Bucky leans down a little bit, urging Steve back, further into the couch, both so Steve and Bucky could relax, just a bit. Only one of Bucky's hands returns to his cheek and jaw, thumb stroking circles into his skin while his other hand lands warm and heavy on Steve's hip, gently holding him in place lest he slide around.
It's bliss. A little clumsy, a little shy, a little slow-- but bliss. Perfect in every way because of the company it involved, Bucky let Steve set the pace, pushing only in time, happy to indulge in slow, closed-mouth kissing until he shifts and a gasp from Steve makes his tongue drag across his lip.
"You're a natural," Bucky murmurs against his lips on a pause for them to get air. Bucky presses his forehead against Steve's, not diving back into kissing so quickly. He wasn't sure how it was for asthmatics, and he was sure neither did Steve, so it was best to err on the side of caution.
Bucky takes a slow breath, then a second one. He wonders how much courage he had, how much actual guts. Here Bucky had admitted to damning evidence in person; That alone was grounds for institutionalization. How much further could he go? Admittedly, his fears from earlier were mostly assuaged, Steve had definitely seemed excited to kiss him back, but.... he could never be too sure.
"So, what do you.... Think about that? What I said. About me--?" Liking you. Kissing you. Wanting to continue kissing you. It was so complicated.
Steve has to hard-reboot his brain more than once to even consider Bucky's questions. What did he think? He doesn't think anything, right now his brain is absolutely empty. All he thinks is the feeling of Bucky's lips on his, the embarrassment over ever having doubted him... and a little bit of the pain in his battered body, being forced to bend and arch to meet Bucky in the middle.
"I... think..." he gasps between panting. "That you should do that again."
He doesn't give Bucky a chance to protest how broken Steve is. He's been beat up before and he'll be beat up again, and it doesn't even stop him from doing things he doesn't want to do, like chores or exercise. It sure as hell isn't going to stop him from things he does want to do, like kiss Bucky until he has an asthma attack. Or passes out with fever. That one might actually happen, he's already burning up with the ache in every one of his joints.
There's a dull roar in the back of his mind warning him that he's gleefully skipping down the path to hell that the church warned him about, but when he feels Bucky's mouth on his again, even with the slight twinge of pain as the cut in his lower lip stings, all guilt is obliterated from his mind. He pulls Bucky closer, until they're chest to chest, until he can lay down on the couch and take some of the pressure of gravity off his tired bones.
"Buck--" he gasps, tangling his hands in Bucky's hair. "I want-- wanted-- I'm sorry-- shit. Don't go, I didn't mean what I said, I didn't mean a damn word of it, I'm just all kinds of turned around cause of this... I... don't wanna talk, just kiss me again--"
And Bucky, well, he doesn't need the encouragement. Steve's fingers in his shirt make him burn in a way the girls at school don't. He can feel the fibers straining across his neck and shoulders and back and loves the way it makes him feel, like there's urgency, hunger, like Steve needs this and Bucky is just a means to an end; And that's fine by him, really. Let him be a means.
The couch is hard and stiff under them, cold but quickly warming, like the rest of the apartment. It grows and swells in response to their heat, as Bucky closes Steve in on all sides. He can't think with Steve's fingers in his hair, or when his gasps punctuate the air. Bucky devours his mouth, and it was breathtaking how much different it was from any of the kisses he'd had to date, even the one given to him by Suzie Masters when he was 12 behind the ferris wheel on Coney Island--
Suzie Masters didn't have hands like Steve, which were leaving a burning swath wherever they touched. This is definitely what people go to hell for, and Steve is holding on, along for the ride. He feels like he's on the verge of something. Whether it's a breakdown, an asthma attack, or a religious experience, he can't tell.
Steve's face is turned into the back of the couch in embarrassment, one arm curled up beside him to cover his face, with lamplight streaming across him from beside the arm of the sofa, illuminating a dark purple bruise on his throat that Bucky left there. When finally he lifts his head to look at Bucky, his eyes are glossy with unshed tears, and he lays both of his hands on Bucky's strong thighs, the same thighs he's been staring at for months and months every time Bucky sheds his night clothes.
"Buck..." his voice is a little hoarse, and he swallows to try and clear his throat. It doesn't work. "What... what does this mean?"
It might help Steve's insecurity a little when he looks up to see Bucky looking just as gobsmacked as he did. He looks like he just rode a roller coaster without a seatbelt, or stole crown jewels right from under the Queen's nose. He looks shocked, with himself, with Steve, with both of them for what they'd just done. when Steve turns his head and bears that telltale bruising across his throat, Bucky laughs. It isn't high enough to be indecent at school, or things would get worse for him-- and if he was shirtless, Bucky had no doubt that the bruise would fit in as one amongst the many currently spotting his body like a leopard, so it would probably be overlooked at gym, when they would change with the other boys. Aside from that, it'd be their secret. Their filthy, sinful secret. Bucky decides right then and there that maybe being a little full of sin wasn't the worst thing, if it could lead to situations like that, and circumstances like these.
Bucky leans back finally to give Steve his space, allowing the small blonde to gasp for air outside of his proximity, scooting back until he was perched more on Steve's thighs than his hips, but he does look down when he feels his hands, and another pillar of warmth blossoms in his chest. It wasn't even the first time Steve had touched his thigh, but it somehow felt like the only one that counted.
"Well," He says with a little sigh, tugging Steve's shirt appropriately down to meet his pants, for modesty's sake, "I think we're goin' to hell, bud." And somehow, Bucky didn't even sound bothered by it.
Steve can't help but crack a smile, turning his face back into the couch cushion. "I think you're right," he says, also unable to muster enough godly fear within him to care. Maybe the church is wrong, or maybe they're right-- but Steve's only been alive for 15 years and it's already quite literally felt like a lifetime, he can only imagine what the rest of his life with Bucky might feel like.
Turning his head back up to face the other boy he swallows around a question that sticks in his throat like tar. He almost gives up, but it honestly feels like small potatoes compared to what they'd just done, and Steve has never been one to back down from a fight. His hands squeeze a little tighter over Bucky's thighs when he asks in a crackling voice,
"Does this mean we're going steady?"
A smile splits across Bucky's face, wide and boyish, and it feels like a massive weight is sucked out of the room. It felt like eternity ago Bucky had been standing three feet away, huddled and wondering what he was going to do with all of Steve's random crap he would surely leave in his room. Steve had looked so small on the couch, so hurt and so scared... honestly, he still looks hurt to shit, and he still looks a little scared, but maybe that's just Bucky's innate need to protect those big, blue eyes of his from anything but the good in life.
"Yeah, if that's what you want," Bucky doesn't even hesitate. Why would he? Steve's the first person to mention going steady who didn't make Bucky feel like catching the next bus to Oklahoma. Dipping down again, he places another kiss to Steve's lips, forgetting himself in his excitement, pulling away as soon as he feels Steve suck in a surprised breath, "Shit, uh-- lets.. get you home, before we keep talking, okay? Grandma's gonna start pokin' around lookin' for us if we don't get back soon." As far as Bucky was concerned, they had the rest of their lives to talk about what they were.
When they return home, Gramma Barnes is just sitting in her chair, crocheting in her own little world. They both give her a kiss on the cheek, but especially in winter she starts to lose track of what time it is since it gets dark so early, so she doesn't even seem to realize how late it is, or that even though it's late for them coming home, it's still very early for them to be turning in for bed. They do it so they can talk all night, while they lay in one another's embrace and whisper their confirmation that yes, they are going steady now, even if it's secret and just for the two of them.
By the next day at school, Steve had concocted a plan to deal with the jagoffs who gave him hell last night. It's not a plan that he or Bucky are very proud of, but Steve had been adamant in the fact that if Bucky came to Steve's rescue while he was getting picked on for supposedly being a faggot with Barnes (something that's actually true now) it would only make things worse. It's a fact that burned Bucky, but even he can't deny the validity.
And so they do something uncouth. Steve spreads around the rumor that he hooked up with Valerie Briggs, a girl in Bucky's grade who is known for being promiscuous. On its own, Steve never would have been able to convince anyone it was true, but with a tiny bit of carefully applied lipstick to his uniform collar by Bucky (courtesy of his grandmother's makeup stash) and the hickey shown off to a few people known for gossiping, the rumor mill did its work. And when inevitably it made its way to Valerie, she vehemently denied it-- but because of her reputation, that only strengthened the rumor further. Of course she would deny it, how embarrassing, to hook up with the weakest shrimp in the 9th grade.
It didn't spare Steve from getting shit on, of course, but he knew it wouldn't. He wasn't trying to transform into a playboy overnight, so the fact that the shit he gets transforms from "Steve's a faggot and we should kick him unconscious in the street" to "Steve can't get a girl besides the one who'll fuck anyone who asks" is good enough for him. He gets slapped by Valerie in the middle of the lunch room for it, but that only further cements the rumor as fact, to the point where after a couple days, even she gives up trying to deny it, and just rolls her eyes dramatically any time it's brought up.
Which means he and Bucky are in the clear.
Neither of them were about to go to the hospital over an ass beating, but it was getting to the point where Bucky had to wonder if they should. Steve's bruises turned a pretty sunset, from purple to yellow and orange and red, but it didn't seem to change things. It hurt for Steve to walk, to get into bed. His ribs hurt, his arms were strained-- the ugly muddy bruising across his torso didn't even begin to fade until after a week had passed, even with Bucky's careful, attentive care.
On their end otherwise, things didn't really change. They still walked to school together, spent all day together. They didn't do more together, because there wasn't really a way it was possible to do more. If people mentioned the old rumors about Bucky and Steve, all it would take was a look from Bucky and a roll of his eyes, a demeaning word, and they would be gone. Bucky was untouchable, and under his wing, Steve was too.