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Bucky knew something was wrong with Steve before he even opened his eyes. He could tell it by the shallowness of his breath, by the clamminess of his skin where he and Bucky were touching. They were pressed up against each other in Steve's bed, sharing because it was the middle of January and they couldn't afford to turn the radiator on.
Steve started up a coughing fit, loud and rasping and going on forever. His suspicions all but confirmed, Bucky sat up and pressed a hand to Steve's forehead. Warm.
Steve swatted him away at once -- "I'm fine!" -- and made to get out bed only to abort the movement as he sank back down on the mattress, swaying a little.
"Yeah, you're not going anywhere, pal," Bucky said, clambering around Steve to get off the bed and making his way to the kitchen to put the teakettle on.
"I'll be alright for work. I--" Steve cut himself off with another barrage of wracking coughs. Bucky filled a glass with water from the tap and went to his side at once. He sat down next to Steve, rubbing between his shoulder blades as he drank the water in slow sips. The whole time Bucky could feel Steve shivering.
"I'll call Doyle's on my way out and tell them you won't be in today," Bucky said gently. Doyle's was the grocery store around the corner where Steve worked running the cash register. Sometimes Jimmy Doyle, the grocer, would commission Steve to draw ads if he had the extra funds. That hadn't happened in a while though.
Steve sighed but settled back on the bed. Bucky looked him up and down, taking in the sickly pallor of his skin, the way his hands trembled when he pulled the blankets over himself. It surprised him how easily Steve relented to staying home. Normally it was like pulling teeth getting him to take a sick day. As irritating as that particular argument could be, though, Bucky found Steve's lack of fight to be much more distressing.
______
Steve wasn't any better the next day. In fact, he was worse. And he kept on getting worse every day that followed. By the end of the week he'd lost his voice completely, and though he was sweating so much Bucky kept having to change the sheets, he was constantly wrapped in every blanket they had in the apartment with his teeth chattering.
Bucky hated to leave him alone like that, but they had no other choice -- they couldn't both be missing work. On his way out the door that morning, he used the building's single phone in the first floor hallway to call Doyle's. He'd done the same thing every morning for the past week, and by now Bucky was familiar with how the conversation went. Which was why his heart seized up in his chest when Jimmy Doyle let out a long sigh instead of telling Bucky to pass on his well wishes to Steve.
"Listen, son," Jimmy started, slow and apologetic. Bucky's legs felt suddenly like jelly. "I think I'm gonna have to let Steve go. He's a good lad, but I can't run a shop with my cashier out sick every other week. And times being what they are… well, I know some more, uh, consistent fellas who could use a steady job. Tell Steve I’m real sorry. If I need any more sign painting done, I'll make sure to let him know."
Bucky felt his heart start to race, desperation rising in him as he pleaded, "Come on, Mr. Doyle, you know he's only like this when it gets real cold. He'll be better soon, and then you won't have to train anyone new--"
"I'm sorry, son. I really am." And before Bucky could protest any further, he heard the click of the line being hung up.
"Fuck!" Bucky slammed the phone down on the receiver, heart hammering and panic roiling inside him. Getting the job at Doyle's had been a lucky break for Steve, and with the way things were, the odds of someone hiring a guy like him over the thousands of healthy guys looking for work in the city were slim to none. Even with both of them working, things had been tight. Just those few days Steve was out had forced Bucky to go into his savings to have enough for groceries. And now if Steve wasn't working at all…
"Fuck," Bucky repeated, and buried his head in his hands.
______
Later that night, after he came home from his own job at the docks, Bucky broke the bad news to Steve. In classic Steve Rogers fashion, the first thing he did was apologize to Bucky.
"What the hell are you apologizing to me for?"
"I don't know how I'm gonna come up with my half for the rent this month. I mean, I've got a little savings, but--"
"Hey," Bucky said, voice going soft. He sat down at the edge of the bed and gave Steve's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Don't you apologize for a damn thing, okay? Not your fault you got sick. It's gonna be alright; we'll figure it out."
Steve looked about to protest but then he was overcome with a fit coughing so violent Bucky was on his feet immediately to fetch him a glass of water.
They didn't talk about it again, but after all the lights were out and they laid down together in Steve's bed -- Bucky's front pressed against Steve's back, both of them wrapped up in every piece of linen they owned -- Steve said, so hoarse Bucky could hardly hear him:
"Thank you, Buck. For everything."
Bucky said nothing, just held Steve closer.
______
The thing was, Bucky loved Steve in every way you could love a person. Even the ways a man wasn't supposed to love another man.
So while Steve lauded his actions as charity and kindness, for Bucky it was just that there was no question about it. Of course he'd be there when Steve was sick. Of course he'd cover the rent when Steve couldn't. Doing things like that were as reflexive to Bucky as breathing.
Steve didn't know that though, didn't know how his well-being was as vital to Bucky as air in his lungs. And, if Bucky was being honest with himself, it would probably be for the best if Steve never knew.
______
Since the next day was a Saturday, Bucky had the day off, and the very first thing he did when he woke up was go downstairs to the shared phone and call Dr. Wells. Technically, they couldn't afford it, but Dr. Wells had been a good friend of Sarah Rogers's before she passed and had told Steve to call him if he was ever in need.
An hour later, he arrived, a tall, grandfatherly man with curly greying hair and kind eyes. Bucky stood at Steve's bedside while Dr. Wells examined Steve's throat, took his temperature, and asked a litany of questions about his symptoms. Steve suffered through it with his usual resignation; it wasn't the first time he'd been in that position and it probably wouldn't be the last. Bucky chimed in occasionally, whenever he felt Steve's answers were lacking in their accuracy. ("How would you say your energy levels have been, Steven?" "A little low." "'A little low'?! Jesus, Steve you couldn't get out of bed yesterday!")
At the end of it, Dr. Wells crossed his arms and made a regretful hmm. "Well my boy, I'm afraid to say, you've got a case of scarlet fever."
"What does that mean?" Bucky asked, trying to reign in his worry. He glanced sideways, trying to meet Steve's eyes and communicate what little comfort he could, but the other man was staring resolutely straight ahead at Dr. Wells.
"Well, the most important thing is to stop it from progressing to rheumatic fever. At that stage, it's very likely to be fatal." Dr. Wells marked up his prescription pad and then ripped the sheet off, handing it to Bucky who took it with a shaking hand. "There's a prescription for the antitoxin. In the meantime, rest and fluids. Call me if things get any worse."
______
After making sure Steve was settled in bed with cup of hot tea and lozenges and tissues piled on the nightstand, Bucky headed off to the pharmacy.
When he got there and found out the cost of the medicine, the first thing he did was leave the shop, walk two more blocks to the bank, and empty his savings. The second thing he did was slip into the nearest alley, bury his face in his hands and weep.
He made sure his eyes were dry by the time he got home to Steve, though.
______
When Monday arrived, Bucky got to the docks earlier than usual and headed straight for the supervisor's station.
"Whaddya want, Barnes?" Mr. Wallace barked in between puffs of his cigar. The man didn't possess an ounce of patience for time-wasting or roundabout requests, so Bucky knew it would be best to ask for what he wanted straight out.
"I'd like some extra hours, sir. Any hour of the day, any day of weeks. Doesn't matter. I'll take anything."
"I don't have spare hours to give, boy."
"Please, sir. Someone in my family is real sick, and we could really use the cash." It wasn't a lie, really. Steve was family in every way that mattered. And besides, it would go over a lot better and raise a lot less questions if he was showing this much concern for someone in his family rather than his roommate.
"Do you know what kind of times we're living in? You're lucky to be working the hours you've got." And with that, Mr. Wallace picked up his newspaper and pointedly began reading.
Bucky swallowed, throat tight. He knew a dismissal when he was given one. "If anything does come up sir. Please. Just let me know."
When Mr. Wallace didn't acknowledge him, Bucky turned and left.
Later, when it was lunchtime, Bucky had just taken the first bite into his sandwich when Michael Rizzo sat right down next to him with a smug look on his face. Michael was around Bucky's age, and had a reputation for trouble, coming from the family he did. Bucky liked him alright working together -- as long as a guy did his share of heavy lifting, he was okay in Bucky's book -- but he made it a point to avoid Michael otherwise.
"Heard you were looking for some extra cash."
Bucky gave Michael a flat stare. "Aren't we all these days?"
"I heard you were begging Wallace for extra hours."
Dock workers could give teenage girls a run for their money with how quick they spread gossip. Bucky kept a straight face. "What's it to you?"
Michael shrugged. "I could help you out."
"I'm all set, thanks." Bucky could only imagine the kind of "help" Michael offered. Whether it be a loan that had dire consequences should he fail to pay it back or running jobs for the Rizzo family, Bucky wanted no part of it. He'd be no good to Steve dead or arrested. He stood up and started walking away, intending to take his lunch break elsewhere.
"Hey, hey, wait. I know what you're thinking and it's not like that," Michael protested, voice hushed as he followed Bucky. "You were welterweight champion three years in a row down at the Y, right?"
That made Bucky pause, if only for the sheer unexpectedness of it. "So?"
"My uncle runs fights on Thursday nights in the cloth factory basement. People make bets and the fighters get a cut if they win."
Bucky narrowed his eyes. "And if the buttons show up?"
Michael waved a dismissive hand. "Uncle Paul lines their pockets good. They won't give us any trouble."
Bucky said nothing. It was a ridiculous, awful idea. He could get hurt. He could get caught. He shouldn't even be thinking about it. Except… Except even when Steve got better (because it was when not if) the odds of him getting another job were slim. And if he didn't get another job then they wouldn't have enough for next month's rent. And then there was food and bills and Steve's medications to take into account…
While Bucky's thoughts were spiraling into a panic, Michael clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a predatory grin. "Just think about it, Barnes. Cloth factory. Every Thursday at eight."
______
Steve was getting better since he'd started taking the medication. Every day there were little improvements, and on Thursday night, when Bucky came home from work, he was happy to see was Steve sitting up on the living room couch, sketchbook in hand. Some color had returned to his cheeks, and he looked up to give Bucky a bright smile when he walked in.
"Whatcha working on?" Bucky asked.
Steve shrugged. "Just submissions to a couple ad agencies. I've only got a few pages left, so I figured I'd make them count."
Bucky glanced over and saw, sure enough, only a few unused pages remained in the sketchbook. It felt like lead had dropped in his stomach. They could barely afford groceries, let alone a new sketchbook. It wasn't fair. Steve deserved good things, and Bucky wished more than anything that he could give them to him.
Bucky switched the radio on and flopped down next to Steve, only half-listening to the program. Mostly he was just thinking about how it would be the saddest thing in the whole damn world if Steve had to stop drawing. As the minutes ticked by into hours, Bucky's thoughts chased each other round and round until he came to a decision that made his stomach twist.
He waited until Steve went to bed -- early, because he still wasn't feeling completely well yet -- before slipping quietly out the door, boxing gloves in hand.
______
When he arrived at the factory, a tall, dark haired man stood watch outside. He glared down at Bucky like an insect he was about to squash under his boots.
"Who the hell are you?"
"I work with Michael Rizzo down at the docks. He told me you were looking for fighters." The entire walk over, Bucky had felt like he was on the verge of vomiting, and his nerves only increased tenfold when faced with this thug. It took every ounce of courage he had and every bit of his devotion to Steve to stop him from turning right around and getting the hell out of there.
The man looked Bucky up and down, the displeased look still on his face. Finally, he said, "Wait right there" and disappeared into the building.
Bucky could have burst into tears of relief when, a moment later, the man returned with Michael, who grinned at Bucky with terrifying amusement. He pulled Bucky in by the shoulders and ushered him inside.
"Well look who showed up!"
Michael led him down a narrow staircase to the basement. Bucky's heart was hammering so bad it felt about to burst out of his chest. The place was loud, filled with men laughing and shouting, seated at tables around a raised platform in the center of the room where a black man and an Italian-looking guy were trading punches, refereed by a portly balding man. It was nearly all men present, except for a few pretty girls in short dresses who sat on the laps of some of the more important looking guys.
Bucky had lived in the city all his life. He wasn't an idiot, and he'd definitely seen some things in his time, but this, this was something else entirely. These were the guys who had whole neighborhoods under their thumb, guys Bucky had always been warned to stay the hell away from. And now here he was, right in the middle of it.
Michael guided him toward the front of the crowd, right near the ring. A new match had started and had just reached a particularly exciting point as one man had been knocked down and was back on his feet and fighting with a vengeance. The whole room had erupted into jeers and shouts.
"You'll go next," Michael told him.
The next several minutes passed by in a blur for Bucky. He knew he was there, knew he was looking straight ahead at the fighters and hearing all the noise around him. But it felt in a daze, too surreal to really be happening. He was jarred back to his senses, though, when Michael gripped his arm and said, much too cheerfully, "You're up!"
Bucky took a deep breath, shedding his shirt and the trousers he had on over his shorts and putting on his gloves. He stepped into the ring, whole body feeling like an exposed nerve, and he prayed he could channel his nervous energy into his fighting. Across the way, his opponent was bouncing up and down, taking practice jabs. He was shorter than Bucky by a few inches, but stockier, looking like he was made of solid muscle.
"In this corner we have four-time champion Christopher Finnegan!" The referee announced, voice booming and drawling like a sports radio announcer. The crowd cheered loud. "And in this corner, we have newcomer, Bucky Barnes!" There were noticeably fewer cheers at his name.
The referee gestured for Bucky and Finnegan to come to the center of the ring and once they were face to face, he put a hand on each of their shoulders and told them, "Standard rules. One round. Watch the kidneys, and groin."
And then he stepped away, and the fight began.
They circled each other for a few seconds, assessing, bouncing on the balls of their feet with pent up energy. Bucky willed himself to forget the circumstances, forget his fear, and let muscle memory take over. He'd been boxing since high school, the skills and reflexes of the sport long since hammered into him. That was the only part of himself he could be allowed to access now. He couldn't think about anything else.
Except for Steve. He thought about the security and the peace of mind winning would bring for them. He thought about buying Steve all the sketchbooks he could want and all the paints and pencils and pens he could get for him, too. Anything Steve wanted, Bucky would give him.
Finnegan threw the first punch and Bucky dodged it easily, ducking to the side and getting a blow in under the other man's armpit. After that, Finnegan was seething, coming at Bucky in a flurry of punches. He was able to dodge most of them, being especially careful not to get a blow to the face. The last thing he needed was people -- mainly Steve -- asking questions about how he got a black eye.
It went on like that for several minutes, Finnegan throwing punch after relentless punch as Bucky kept on dodging, occasionally getting his own punches in. While Finnegan had more strength, Bucky was faster on his feet, and he knew this would only end if he could get a real solid punch in to knock Finnegan out. The crowd was going wild, enthralled by Bucky's unwavering stamina in the face of Finnegan’s ferocity.
Finally, though, Bucky took the risk and got closer in Finnegan's space. The unexpected proximity startled Finnegan just long enough for Bucky to summon all the force he could muster, draw back and wallop Finnegan right in the jaw.
He dropped like a stone, hitting the ground with a thud as the crowd started hollering, the boos and cheers equally loud. Bucky stepped back, panting and praying to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph that Finnegan would just stay down.
"Ten, nine, eight..."
Finnegan stirred, coming to his knees, and Bucky felt dread rising inside him. There was no way he'd get in a hit like that again…
"...seven, six, five..."
The crowd got even louder, and Finnegan remained on his knees, wobbling. He made another attempt to stand and Bucky held his breath…
"...four, three, two…"
Finnegan crumpled to the ground again, and though Bucky wasn't the one who'd just been punched in the face, he still felt like he was seeing stars…
"...one! Knockout!"
The referee grabbed Bucky's arm and held it up as the whole room continued to explode with noise, though now mostly cheers. "Bucky Barnes is the winner!"
Everything after that happened in a daze. At some point, Michael pulled Bucky off the platform and guided him through the crowd, introducing him to people as they passed, beaming at him the whole time and telling Bucky names and bits of information he didn't retain a word of. Eventually though, Michael counted out a wad of cash and pressed it into Bucky's hands. He took it with a plastered-on smile and then got the hell out of there.
______
Steve was still in bed when he got home, so Bucky hoped that he could just change out of his clothes and slide under the covers with Steve completely unaware that he'd even gone out at all.
That hope was shattered the instant Bucky settled onto the bed and Steve turned around at once to face him, blinking blearily. Bucky could see he was pale and shivering -- and wearing a red, long-sleeved shirt that Bucky recognized as one of his own.
"Is that my shirt?" Bucky blurted before he could help himself. The night's events had already pushed him so far out of his element, and the sight of Steve in his clothes was too much for him to handle rationally at the moment.
"Yeah, sorry. I got cold without you and there weren't any more blankets." Steve yawned. "How was she?"
"What?" Bucky had no idea who he could possibly asking about, and he was still focused on the part where Steve had sought his clothes for comfort against the cold.
"The girl you went out with," Steve said, managing to sound irritated despite his sleepiness. "That's where you snuck off to, right?"
"Oh, yeah," Bucky said, the lie slipping too easily from his tongue for his liking. He hated lying to Steve, and making him think that he'd been with a girl sat especially wrong with him. But it was a good explanation for why he'd snuck off and come home so late. He put on a smile, feeling sick by it. "Yeah, she was great."
Steve snorted, his annoyance more obvious now that he'd woken up a bit more. "She must have been something. Your face is all red and you're sweating."
Bucky grimaced. Another reason being with a girl proved to be the perfect cover; it explained his post-fight flush. It was a sick sort of irony, really, lying about being with a girl to hide something he'd done because of his devotion to Steve.
"Good night, Steve," Bucky said, to put an end to it. Steve gave him one last disapproving look and then turned around. Bucky took the opportunity to sidle closer so Steve's back was flush against his chest.
Finally, in the safety of the bed he shared with Steve, Bucky relaxed and let the anxieties he'd kept pent-up all night melt away.
______
The winnings had been enough to cover his and Steve's share of the rent that month, plus a bit extra that went towards their other bills. With that and what he was making from his regular job, for the first time in years Bucky had extra money he could spend on anything he liked. So, naturally, he came home one night and presented Steve with a brand-new sketchbook.
The expression on Steve's face when it saw it was almost comical with how much it was equal parts awe and suspicion.
"Where'd you get the money for this?"
Bucky shrugged. "One of the guys at work is sick, and I've been covering his hours."
Steve still didn't look wholly pleased, even as he took the sketchbook and started flipping through the pages. But Bucky had made sure to get one with the best quality paper they had, and Steve disapproval was only half-hearted when he looked up and said, "You should have saved the money."
Bucky sat down next to him on the couch and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, giving Steve's arm a friendly squeeze. "Hey, come on. I know you've been kind of down lately, and I just wanted to do something nice. How about you draw me something if you want to pay me back?"
Steve stared down at the sketchbook and then looked up, meeting Bucky's eyes with an apologetic sort of smile that slowly broke out into genuine grin.
"Yeah, alright. Thank you, Buck."
______
A few nights later, Bucky came home and there was a drawing on the kitchen table of him and Steve sitting on their building rooftop watching Fourth of July fireworks. It was just silhouettes facing the lit-up sky, but Bucky knew it was them. On the bottom, in Steve's narrow but neat scrawl, was the caption: "Is it summer yet?"
"You like it?" Steve asked from the living room.
"Yeah," Bucky said, trying -- and failing spectacularly -- to contain the overwhelming affection he was feeling. "I love it."
______
Bucky went to the cloth factory again a few nights later and won the round against Sal "The Snake" Genovese.
Rent and bills are gonna come up again next month, and Steve's still out of a job. I got no choice, he told himself. And while all that was technically true, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't daydreaming about the look that would be on Steve's face if he bought him a new set of paints.
______
Bucky went each week after that. After nearly two months, he was still undefeated and had plenty of money to cover all his and Steve's expenses. He had to be careful about his spending so he wouldn't tip Steve off, but for the most part, things were good. Steve had recovered from his scarlet fever, the bills were paid, and they had food on the table. Mr. Doyle, the grocer, had even reached out to Steve a couple times about commissioning ads.
The only tension was the lie about the girl. Every time Bucky crawled into bed Thursday nights flushed and sweating, Steve would stir awake and give him an upset look before facing pointedly away from him and going back to sleep.
And Steve's coldness about it wasn't just reserved for those nights. It came out a few other times as well, when Bucky wasn't even thinking about it. Because why would he be thinking about it when there was no girl to be thinking about?
But it was apparently on Steve's mind, and he let Bucky know it.
Like one day when Bucky asked if Steve wanted to go see a picture with him, and Steve didn't even look up from his painting as he snapped, apropos of nothing, "Your new dame doesn't want to go with you?"
Bucky had been so surprised by Steve's outburst that it took him a moment to remember the lie and by the time he managed to reply ("I'm asking you because I want to go with you, asshole") Steve seemed to have realized the strangeness of his behavior and already looked apologetic.
They did end up seeing the movie that afternoon, but Bucky didn't pay attention to a second of it, too busy wondering why Steve had snapped at him like that and shoving away every explanation he came up with because they all led back to conclusion that was far too hopeful and far too dangerous.
______
The first time Bucky lost was against a big, mean Irish guy who slugged him in the stomach so hard he couldn't even get to his knees before the count ended. It hurt like hell and it meant he wasn't getting any money that week, but at least the knockout blow hadn't been to the face and for that Bucky was grateful.
Still, he came home that night in a sour mood, and when he climbed into bed bruised and sore, he didn't have an ounce of patience for Steve's usual disapproval. When Steve turned to face away from him, Bucky grabbed him by the shoulder, making him look at him.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." Steve tried to turn away, but Bucky held him firm.
"I swear to God, I'm not in the mood. If you don't tell me what you're so goddamn pissed about--"
"What I'm pissed about? You're the one who came in here--"
"Jesus Christ, if you don't tell me--"
"Something go wrong with your girl, is that it? Is that why you're in a shit mood?"
And that was it. The final strand of Bucky's patience was lost and without a second of thought, he shouted, "There is no fucking girl, Steve!"
Steve blinked, looking dumbstruck. "What?"
Shit, shit, shit! "Nothing," Bucky said quickly, wincing at the high and panicked pitch of his voice. "Let's just go to bed."
But Steve was having none of it, sitting up fully and leveling Bucky with a hard stare. "What do you mean there's no girl? Where the hell have you been going all these nights?"
"None of your business," Bucky tried, though of course it was a weak retort. As long as he could remember, everything that happened to either of them had always been the other's business.
"Bucky, where have you been going that you had to lie about it?"
The was no avoiding it now, and really, he should have known better than to think he could keep a secret from Steve. Steve was going to be furious about it, that was for sure, but at the end of the day, Bucky had kept food on the table and a roof over their heads and he didn't regret a damn thing if it meant he got to provide that for Steve.
He sighed, bracing himself. "I've been fighting. For money. In matches run by the Rizzo family."
A moment ago, Bucky didn't have a single regret, but the look on Steve's face right then might have made him reconsider that position. There was anger and disappointment, yes, but mostly, he just looked hurt and betrayed.
"Why the hell would you do that?"
"I needed the money. I used all my savings on the medicine when you had scarlet fever," Bucky admitted, not meeting Steve's eyes. He knew that part of it would hurt Steve most of all, would make him think himself a burden. It wasn't true, of course. Bucky did what he did out of love, not obligation. But he knew Steve wouldn't see it that way.
"You spent all your savings on my medicine?" Steve repeated, voice quiet. The fury and hurt in expression were gone now, leaving something else Bucky couldn't quite decipher.
"Of course I did."
"Why?"
"The hell do you mean 'why'? If anything ever happened to you..." Bucky needed Steve to understand he didn't see him as a burden, but he was walking a careful line here; the true explanation for his devotion strayed so close to feelings he couldn't dare reveal. "If anything ever happened to you, I don't know what I'd do."
"Bucky....," Steve began, but then fell silent. Bucky still couldn't read his expression as he looked at Bucky like a puzzle he was trying to figure out. After several seconds, Steve let out a soft breath, and with a look of determined resolve that was pure Steve, he leaned forward and kissed Bucky right on the lips.
Bucky was so startled he jerked back, but his shock disappeared at once when he saw Steve looked about to apologize. That wouldn't do at all; that kiss wasn't anything Steve should be sorry for, and Bucky wanted to make sure he knew it. He reached out and cupped a hand around Steve's jaw, guiding him back into Bucky's space. Their lips met again, both of them leaning in for it at the same time. A pleased hum escaped Steve's lips and Bucky deepened the kiss, desperate to chase more of those sounds out of him.
When they parted, Bucky felt the sort of dizzying happiness he'd only ever experienced when he was drunk. He couldn't think, he couldn't focus on a damn thing but the sight of Steve in front of him, smiling sheepishly with his cheeks flushed red.
"Steve…," he said. There were a thousand questions in his mind, so many things he wanted to say, but Steve's name seemed to be only thing he was capable of articulating.
"I always wanted to do that," Steve said, the smile on his face brighter than Bucky had ever seen.
"Me too. God, me too." Bucky realized his whole body was shaking. He was ecstatic, so full of unbridled relief and joy that it felt like he was going to explode with it. But under all that, there was fear too. There was a reason he'd kept the way he felt a secret. If anyone else caught them…
But Steve was looking at him with such unabashed fondness and surety that Bucky was finding it harder by the second to hold onto any doubt. They could talk about it and worry about it later. For right now, all Bucky wanted to do was make sure Steve knew exactly how much love he'd been holding inside.
He kissed Steve again, meeting his lips with pure hunger and fervor, one hand tangling in Steve's hair while the other pressed against Steve's back, urging him close. Steve seemed to understand, shifting so that he was straddling Bucky's lap as they kissed, tongues lapping inside each other's mouths.
Bucky started kissing along Steve's jaw, down the column of his neck. "Take your clothes off," he said, in between pressing his lips to Steve's skin.
Steve complied at once, stripping quickly and once he was naked and laying back, Bucky started planting kisses down his body. He was slow and reverent about it, taking his time as he went to pleasure and tease. He sucked and bit gently on a nipple as he moved down Steve's chest, earning shocked gasp. He trailed his hands along Steve's sides as his kissed down his stomach, feeling each sharp jut of his ribs. When he got to the thatch of golden hair below Steve's belly button, he paused, admiring the sight of Steve's cock, pink and hard and big.
He laid a kiss on the inside of Steve's thigh, tantalizingly close to his cock, and said, "I want to put my mouth on you. Can I?"
When Steve didn't answer after a second, Bucky looked up and saw he looked almost embarrassed. "Actually… I want--" Steve paused, apparently working through how to phrase whatever it was he wanted. Pupils blow, whole body glowing with sweat and blush, Steve looked absolutely flustered, and Bucky could understand why he was having trouble forming a sentence. Finally he managed, "I want you inside me."
Oh. Bucky had never been so aroused in his whole life, hearing those words come from Steve's mouth. He leaned over Steve and kissed him tenderly on the lips before climbing off the bed to get a tub of vaseline from the bathroom, shedding his shirt and pants as he went.
When he came back, Steve was already face down on the mattress, knees bent and apart, and Bucky didn't know how he was going to last more than five seconds with Steve so eager and ready for him like that. He got back on the bed, kneeling behind Steve, and laid a hand on Steve's hips, rubbing his thumb back and forth gently against his skin.
"I'm gonna open you up," Bucky told him. "If it hurts too much, if you want me to stop, tell me."
Steve looked over his shoulder and nodded. Bucky leaned over and kissed his shoulder blade before slicking his hand up with the vaseline. When Bucky put the first finger inside him, Steve inhaled sharply, though it wasn't a sound of pain. He moved slowly, stretching Steve out, carefully watching him for any sign that he wanted Bucky to stop. After a while, he added a second finger and at that, Steve let out a sharp gasp.
"I'm alright," he assured when Bucky froze immediately. "You're good. You're perfect, Bucky. It's just… so much."
Steve started getting louder after that, panting and making low noises in the back of this throat as Bucky opened him up. Only seconds after Bucky inserted a third finger, Steve let out a moan and said, "Oh God, I need you in me now. I can't-- I'm not gonna--"
And that was all the encouragement Bucky needed to withdraw his fingers and start slicking up his own cock. He braced both hands on Steve's hips, steadying him as he lined up and slid inside, slow and gentle as he could.
"Oh God, Bucky," Steve gasped when Bucky was fully inside him, Steve's ass flush against his hips.
Bucky kissed the back of Steve's neck, along his shoulder blades. In that moment, they were as close as any two human beings could be, and Bucky wanted to savor the sensation of it all, the feeling Steve's tight heat around his cock, the warmth of skin in all the places he and Bucky were touching.
"You feel so damn good. You're perfect, Steve." With a final kiss to Steve's skin, he pulled back and thrust in and out again. He began slow, terrified of doing anything that would hurt Steve, but then Steve started rocking his own hips in a desperate pace and soon they were moving together, panting and gasping, murmuring nonsense and endearments to each other. Bucky had never known anything so perfect in his entire life. Every satisfied sound that came from Steve's lips only added to his own pleasure.
When they reached a merciless, frantic pace, Bucky knew he was nearly there. He kept on gripping Steve's hip tight with one hand while he brought the other to Steve's cock, stroking him in time with their movements. At that novel attention to his cock, Steve made a keening sound and that was it for Bucky. Hips shuddering, he shot off inside Steve with a long groan. Even through the aftershocks of his own orgasm, Bucky kept on stroking Steve until he cried out -- "God, Bucky" -- and spilled all over the sheets and Bucky's hand.
Slowly, as his whole body felt like it was made out of lead, Bucky pulled out of Steve and they settled down together, Steve's head pillowed on Bucky's chest as they held each other tight. Steve traced his fingers idly along Bucky's chest and down his stomach. When he reached the tender spot where Bucky'd been punched that night, he winced, and Steve looked up at him, frowning a little. "Are you alright?"
"It's fine. Just bruised."
Steve moved his hand away, now resting his palm just over Bucky's heart. "These fights," he said. "You think you'll keep doing them?"
"We could use the money," Bucky answered honestly.
Steve just hummed in reply. One of his fingers found Bucky's nipple and he was teasing it, just a little. After a moment, he said, "Do you think I could watch you sometime?"
Bucky imagined himself in the ring, right after a victory, looking over and seeing Steve smiling and proud of him. He broke out grinning just thinking about it.
"Yeah. I'd like that."
They didn't speak for a long while after that, just laid there catching their breath, occasionally pressing lazy kisses to each other's skin. In many ways, it was better than the sex itself, just laying there tangled together like that. It was a dangerous thing they were doing, there was no kidding themselves, but just for right now, all that mattered was each other.
"I love you," Steve said, so honest and raw in his conviction it made Bucky want to cry.
"Yeah? You say that to all the guys who get you off?" The teasing came automatically because even as intimate as this was, it was still Steve. Steve rolled his eyes and gave Bucky's arm a smack, and that right there, that display of how, even in this new dynamic, they were still them, was what gave Bucky the courage to kiss the crown of Steve's head and tell him:
"I love you too."
______
Two weeks later, Bucky came home to another drawing. It was of him, boxing gloves on and in a fighting stance. He was shirtless, wearing nothing but boxing shorts, and Bucky could see the absolute care that had been put into drawing every line of his muscles, getting his pose precisely. There was an intimacy to it that only Bucky could recognize; Steve had exactly captured the placement of hair on his chest and stomach, he'd drawn perfectly the shadows of Bucky's neck and collar bone.
Bucky's expression in the drawing wasn't one of anger or the twisted delight of most fighters, but rather one of will and determination. He looked like a painting of an avenging angel, all resolution and purpose. He looked beautiful.
"Is that really what I look like?" Bucky asked.
Steve came over and wrapped his arms around Bucky's neck, coming up on his tiptoes and pulling him in for a kiss. Even after they broke away, they still held each other, Bucky's hands on Steve's waist and Steve's arms looped around Bucky's neck. Things had been like that between them for days now, but still, Bucky felt an excited flutter in his stomach whenever they touched each other so intimately.
"It's how I see you," Steve answered.