Chapter Text
It starts when Bucky is seventeen, and Steve is sixteen. When Bucky is lanky limbs and new muscles and clinging baby fat in the soft lines of his chin, and Steve is helpless in the face of it all. It starts when Bucky comes through Steve's window taut as a stretched wire, with stormy eyes and bruised knuckles because his pa drank himself past mean and into violent again, and Bucky has nowhere to put it all.
He sits with his back to Steve's wall, long arms wrapped around his knees almost tight enough to hide the trembling in them.
"He's passed out now, though?" Steve asks, wanting to reach out and touch. To just take Bucky's blunt-tipped fingers in his hands and smooth away all the tension. Press his lips right to the scrapes.
"Yeah, he's out. Ma and the kids'll be fine."
Bucky always makes sure they will be. Makes himself the first line of defense every time, and Steve loves him for it, but it makes his skin go tight with anger and worry too. He just wants to fix it.
"God, I'm just so—" Bucky makes a growling sound of helpless energy and frustration, springing to his feet to start pacing. "I should go out, I think. I need to…"
He needs to get it out, Steve knows, but he thinks it would be about the worst idea for Bucky to just wander Brooklyn's midnight streets in the mood he's in. Who even knows what kind of trouble he could find.
"Pick up a girl, maybe," Bucky goes on, "and just—"
"Buck, no," Steve cuts him off. "It's late and you shouldn't be—just stay here, alright? Let me—"
"What, Stevie?" Bucky's voice is sharp in that way it only gets when he's trying to keep it from being soft. When he's raw and trying not to show it. "What are you gonna do?"
So that's how it starts, because Steve would do anything, anything at all.
"Sit back down," he says. His nails are pressed so hard into his palms he'll have biting lines left behind, but Bucky doesn't know that. He hears Steve's steady voice and he sinks back to the floor with his knees bent, looking up at him with eyebrows hard and skeptical. With eyes soft underneath because he's tired and scared and just wants to feel better. Steve sits down with him, kneeling between Bucky's spread legs.
"I don't wanna talk," Bucky says. "I need—"
"I know," Steve says. "And I need you to not go do somethin' stupid 'cause you're pissed off. I can get you off if you need it. I got hands."
Bucky's eyebrows lose their firm lines of anger as they lift up, his lips falling open. Steve gets lightheaded staring back at him and waiting, before reminding himself to breathe in and out.
And this is really where it starts, because Bucky doesn't scoff, or laugh at him, or push him out of the way to climb back out the window and get what he needs somewhere else. He sinks back against the wall, looks at him gratefully, and says, "Yeah, Stevie. Would ya?"
So Steve shuffles a little closer on his knees and thumbs open Bucky's slacks. He waits for Bucky to lift his hips so he can shimmy them down and pull them off, then reaches for him just like that, before either of them can change their minds. Runs his flattened palm over the soft bulge in Bucky's thin boxers and watches Bucky's face, because if he does change his mind Steve will see it and he'll stop, of course he will.
But if he doesn't… he doesn't. He exhales heavy and slow, like he's letting go of something, and he lets his head tip back against the wall so he's watching Steve through hooded eyes. He closes them before Steve's even finished making him hard with long strokes of the heel of his hand.
When Steve parts the flap in Bucky's underwear to slip his cock free, there's a moment where Bucky goes tense and Steve's eyes fly to his face, waiting for anything that says this isn't okay.
"Buck..." he says, his thumb just grazing velvet soft skin stretching thin with arousal. He gets his answer then, not with words and not in Bucky's face, but in the way his knees fall open wider and his cock twitches under Steve's touch. Bare and hard, the tip shiny and flushed with the foreskin retracted. He runs his thumb over it just to feel the slickness, and Bucky's breath stutters, his hips shifting just a little closer to Steve.
So they're not stopping then, and a part of Steve is in knots over it all because he's thought about this. He's played it all out in his mind—how Bucky would feel in his hand, and the sounds he'd make, and the way he'd taste when they kissed—except there won't be any kissing. That isn't what this is, not for Bucky.
Steve bites down on the inside of his cheek and pushes those thoughts away. Bucky needs this, he needs Steve—right now at least—and so what if it isn't any of his silly, hopeful fantasies coming to life. Bucky's still hot in Steve's hand, throbbing with want against his palm, and when Steve slides his fingers down to the soft, dark curls at the base of Bucky's shaft, he really can't think about anything else anyway.
He strokes him slow and careful, mesmerized by the pull of foreskin, the pre-cum beading up in Bucky's exposed slit. The way he fattens up so sweet and perfect from Steve's attention.
"Don't gotta be… so soft with me," Bucky says, voice coming out hushed and strained. His eyes are open again but they're not so steely grey now, like when he first came in. They're darker, warmer, like humid August nights when Steve can't sleep and that's okay, because Bucky'll stay up with him. Telling sleepy stories in the glow of city lights and distant stars. "Steve, can you—"
"Yeah, yeah," Steve says quickly, tightening his grip now that Bucky's fully hard. He jerks Bucky the way he does it to himself when he only has a few minutes and so many thoughts of pale eyes and loose, dark waves filling his head. It's rough and a little desperate, and it must be what Bucky wants because he squeezes his eyes closed again with a little groan, lets his legs spread so wide Steve has to look away. He can't let himself think about fitting his body in between them, pressing himself to Bucky's chest and feeling every little punched out breath right against his lips.
This isn't about Steve, or the way he feels for Bucky. This is only Bucky needing to let go, and Steve helping him do it. He keeps his eyes on Bucky's furrowed brow and jerks him harder. Short, tight strokes that have Bucky squirming, his bottom lip trembling—wet and red from his own teeth pinching it—and then with one last tug he's spilling heavy and warm over Steve's fingers, face turned so his low moan is muffled by his shoulder.
Steve doesn't want to let go of him, wants to stroke him until he's shivering, but he lets go as soon as Bucky's cock stops pulsing in his hand. Tries to school his face into something neutral before Bucky opens his eyes, so Bucky won't see the fire running under his skin. The awe lighting him up because he made Bucky come. He watched Bucky's muscles clench and his mouth fall open, and he saw the way his whole body loosened after, legs still spread wide with Steve kneeling between them.
When Bucky does open his eyes they're soft and tired. "Can I sleep here?" he asks, like it's any other night and Steve doesn't have a handful of Bucky's come wrapped up in his fingers.
"Yeah, sure," Steve says. "I'm gonna—" He tips his head towards his bedroom door, so Bucky knows he's going to go wash up.
"'Kay," Bucky says, tucking himself back in his boxers. He leaves his pants on the floor and crawls into Steve's bed, wedging himself in with his back to the wall so there's still room for Steve.
It only takes a few minutes in the bathroom for Steve to get himself off too, fucking into his own hand, still slick with Bucky's release. Even so, by the time he's cleaned himself up and gone back to his room, Bucky's already fast asleep.
Steve watches him for a while. Trails a fingertip between his eyebrows, smooth and relaxed now, and down the line of his nose. He touches the pink of his lips and the cleft of his chin, and then he curls his fingers into a fist to make himself stop. Bucky isn't asking to be touched now. He probably won't ask to be touched again.
But Steve knows now, how he looks with his legs spread open and his eyes shut tight, and he's never going to forget it.
* * *
They don't say anything about it in the morning. Bucky's a little quieter than usual, and Steve's a little softer, but by the time they see each other again the next day it's like it didn't happen. It stays that way for weeks, for months. For so long Steve tells himself he doesn't think about it anymore, even though he does.
It stays that way until a sweltering afternoon the following June when Bucky gets laid off from one of his jobs, the one that earns him the most. He can't go home because his father's there, and he winds up outside Steve's window again with thundercloud eyes.
"We got a door," Steve says, before he knows what's wrong. "Ma's not even home, you coulda—"
"I got fired," Bucky says.
"Oh… Buck."
"Didn't even do nothin' wrong, I just—" Bucky slams the side of his fist into the iron headboard of Steve's bed. "It's nothing personal, Barnes, we just can't keep you," he goes on in a deep voice that Steve knows is meant to be Bucky's supervisor. "Goddammit, I needed that job."
"I know," Steve says. He doesn't try to tell him it'll be okay, not right now. Bucky works so hard, and so does his ma, but there's six of them in that little house and never quite enough to make ends meet. Not when George is out of work more often than he's in it. "Jesus, I'm sorry, Buck."
The storm in Bucky's eyes turns to something less like thunder and more like rain. "The fuck am I gonna do?"
Steve's not sure if Bucky's worried about getting a new job or telling his folks he lost this one, but he doesn't think any answer he gives is really going to help right now. Not when tension is rolling off of Bucky in waves, his jaw clenched so tight it's making Steve's teeth ache just to look at it.
"Hey, come here," he says instead, taking Bucky's wrist and pulling him close enough to wrap his arms around his waist. Bucky folds his over Steve's shoulders automatically and sinks into him, forehead resting on the crown of Steve's head. "How can I help?"
He's not even thinking about it at first, about the way he helped before, but then Bucky breathes out warm and heavy in Steve's hair and suddenly it's all he's thinking about—those little gasps Bucky had let out, and the way his skin had flushed pink while Steve brought him off.
Bucky's arms get a little tighter around him now, like maybe he's remembering too. And he must be, because then he says, "Could you… Stevie, would you mind? Like before?"
It's been more than a year since then. Steve's hardly changed a bit of course, even though he's just about to turn eighteen. Probably will always look about the same, small and thin and wanting for something.
But Bucky, he's grown at least a couple inches taller. His shoulders, chest, and thighs have broadened. He's wearing his hair longer, thick and curled from the summer heat, and Steve wants him more than ever.
"Yeah," he says. "Sure, Buck."
They stay where they are for a few more minutes, but Steve lets his hands move over Bucky's back now instead of just hugging him. Trails his fingers lightly up and down his spine, digs into his muscles to feel the tension there and try to work it away with his thumbs. When Bucky's leaning heavy on his shoulders Steve nudges him towards the bed, sweeping the cover out of the way.
"Go on," he says, and when Bucky obediently sits down with his back against the pillows, Steve remembers how quickly Bucky dropped to the floor for him when Steve asked him to last time. "Take your pants off," he adds, keeping his voice even and firm, so neither of them have to start asking questions about what they're about to do.
Bucky doesn't question him, just undoes his slacks and kicks them off before toeing his socks off too, then looking to Steve with raised eyebrows and one thumb hooked under the band of his underwear.
"Yeah, and those," Steve says, and Bucky does it, just like that. Lets Steve lean in after and unbutton his shirt, too, then shrugs it off so he's left in just a sleeveless undershirt, already damp with sweat down the center of his chest from his walk home in the sun.
"Ain't you hot?" Bucky asks, looking over Steve in his too big t-shirt and the loose cotton shorts he wears when he's at home. He is hot, but he didn't know if it was okay for him to undress too. This isn't for the two of them, this is for Bucky.
"I…"
"Come on. Feels weird being naked when you're all dressed."
Steve doesn't need to be naked to get Bucky off, unless Bucky's wanting something different this time than last time. And if he is…
Steve pulls his own shirt over his head and then looks down at Bucky again—at the dark hair trailing down from his navel, his cock lying soft against his thigh. He thinks about taking it in his mouth, taking it in his body, taking anything that Bucky wants to give him.
"Come on, Steve," Bucky says again, impatient now. "Please, I need—"
"I know," Steve says, slipping out of his shorts and leaving his underwear on. "I know, I've got you."
Bucky settles back against the pillows again, and Steve climbs over him, straddling him. He liked the way Bucky looked last time, knees raised and open, but he likes this too. Likes the way Bucky's legs are pinned together, the way he's held in place underneath Steve, and the way his balls rest heavy on his soft thighs. He starts there, cupping Bucky's sack and tugging on it lightly, and then a little harder when Bucky makes a grunting sound and his cock starts to fill up.
He wants to keep going like this, just playing with Bucky's balls and seeing how hard he can get before Steve even touches him, but Bucky's wound so tight and Steve shouldn't draw this out. He should just wind him all the way up so he can snap and let everything go.
"Hey," Bucky says, when Steve runs a fingertip up to Bucky's tip and down again. "Can you…"
Steve looks up, tearing his eyes away from the vein running along Bucky's cock that he wants to follow over and over, and finds Bucky watching him with need all over his face. "What, Buck?"
Bucky bites his lip, eyebrows creasing and cheeks flushing like he doesn't know how to say it, and Steve doesn't know how to read his mind. "I just—feels better when I can—can you just be closer?"
None of that was very clear, but Steve remembers the way Bucky melted into him when he hugged him, and he thinks he understands. He shifts off Bucky's lap and presses himself to his side instead, his left shoulder wedged in Bucky's armpit so his right hand's free to wrap around his cock—thick and fully erect now—and start to jerk him properly. "Is this—"
"Yeah," Bucky says, curling his arm around Steve and pulling him against himself. It's hot like this, sweaty and close, and Steve thinks he could get high on the smell of Bucky's skin. "Yeah, that's—hah," Bucky gasps when Steve squeezes tight around his exposed head and drags his hand down.
"Reach in my nightstand," Steve says. "There's some Vaseline in there."
Bucky fumbles with the drawer with his left hand, rattling around and coming up with the little jar. "Use this on yourself a lot?" he asks, spinning the lid open one-handed for Steve with an ease that suggests he has a jar of his own that sees plenty of use.
"You want my help or not?" Steve asks, dipping two fingers in and scooping up more than he needs.
"M'not teasing you, you're just—you're good at this," Bucky says, hips jerking a little when Steve wraps his newly slicked hand around him and strokes him slowly.
He is pretty good at it. He's good at slipping a finger or two inside himself, too. Crooking them just right, working his wrist and pumping them in and out. He could do it now, if Bucky wanted. Open himself up and climb back on top of Bucky, let him press inside of Steve and forget all about empty wallets and lost jobs.
Or, if Bucky wanted something else, he could—
"Stevie," Bucky says, whining a little. Panting. His whole body feels so tight next to Steve's and Steve doesn't know if it's stress, or arousal, or a mix of both. "It's not—I need… closer? Please?"
Steve's already so close, his head resting on Bucky's shoulder now. He slides his slick fingers over Bucky's balls, presses them to the tender skin behind them and feels Bucky's sharp intake of breath.
"Yeah, Steve. Give me—just gimme more, I want—"
Steve would give Bucky goddamn anything if he asked in that voice, so sweet and wanting. He hates anything that hurts Bucky—the worry and the fear and the empty beer bottles littering the Barnes' kitchen counter—but he loves this so much his blood is singing with it. He didn't even know Bucky could get this soft. Didn't know he'd ever have him in his bed like this, spreading his legs and gasping when Steve lets his finger settle right over his hole.
"More?" Steve asks, because he wants Bucky to say it. So he'll know for certain, and also just so he can hear it on Bucky's tongue. Hear him asking Steve to press inside him.
Bucky shifts his hips with a whine, trying to wiggle lower.
"You gotta tell me what you wan—"
"Just put it in, put it in me, please."
They're going to need to talk about this later, Steve thinks, if they can get themselves to. Because it's one thing to jerk a friend off quick and hard while he keeps his hands to himself, and another thing entirely to slip your fingers inside him while he holds you in your bed.
Steve had no idea Bucky liked it like this—always assumed it was just him who got off on something stuffing him full—but now here's Bucky, begging to be filled up. Maybe they don't have to talk about that, but Steve's sure never going to stop thinking about it.
He pushes his middle finger against the tight furl of Bucky's entrance and almost whines himself when it gives so quickly under his touch. Opens up and pulls at him as he presses inside to the first knuckle, and then to the second.
"Better?" he asks, once he's deep as he can reach, and Bucky's hot and unbelievably tight around his finger. "This what you needed?"
Bucky's hand has dropped to Steve's waist and it tightens there, fingers digging into his skin while Bucky pushes into Steve's hand. That's more than enough answer for Steve. It's not long before he's worked a second finger in, and soon after that he's found Bucky's prostate and Bucky is keening, his cock twitching and dripping on his skin.
"Stevie… Steve," he says, strained and so sweet Steve can't bear not being able to see his face anymore. He props himself up on his elbow, rolling half on top of Bucky so he can finger him and watch the way his mouth keeps falling open at the same time.
"Another?" he asks, pulling out to tug at Bucky's rim a little, then pressing three fingers in when Bucky nods quickly with his head tipped back, his face flushed and bright with sweat. Once Steve's worked them in comfortably he settles into the rhythm he likes best on himself—quick, rough thrusts broken up by long presses against his prostate that make his eyes roll back.
Bucky's eyes are closed, but he's moaning and gasping in turns, digging his nails into Steve's hip. Finally gripping his cock and whining when he tries to find his own rhythm, fucking into his tight fist and pressing back against Steve's hand. When he lifts his hips Steve follows him, keeping his fingers inside him and rubbing hard while Bucky's hand moves at a desperate pace, rough and uneven.
"Jesus, fuck," Bucky cries, back arching higher off the bed. "I'm—"
His voice rises into a broken little sound that makes Steve ache and throb where he's pressed to Bucky's hip, and he chases it, fucks Bucky with sharp, steady thrusts of his fingers so he can keep hearing it the whole time Bucky's shuddering and spilling over himself.
When Bucky's hips finally sink back to the bed, both of them are panting and Steve doesn't know what the hell happens now. This was for Bucky, it was just for Bucky, but Steve is barely holding himself back from rutting against Bucky's side. From leaning over him and licking his skin clean.
The hand Bucky still has around Steve's waist shifts lower, grabbing a handful of his boxers and tugging. "C'mere," he says, voice gone deep and soft, like it's melted right down with the rest of him. "Get over me an' I can help you."
"You don't gotta, Buck," Steve says, but Bucky grabs Steve's arm with his other hand, sticky and hot still, and pulls him up so he's straddling Bucky's legs again. Steve's cock is straining in his boxers, the white cotton gone sheer in an obscenely large spot from how much he was leaking while fingering Bucky. "M'sorry," he says, unable to meet Bucky's eyes. "Didn't mean to—"
"Don't be stupid," Bucky says, wrapping a hand around Steve through his boxers. "You want them off?"
Steve shakes his head. He's already so close, and having a layer between their skin is probably the only thing that will keep Steve from coming the second Bucky starts moving his hand.
He chances a quick glance up when Bucky's fingers tighten around his cock, and finds Bucky watching him, head back against the pillows and eyelids heavy. His hair is a riot of dark curls, his cheeks so red it almost looks like he's been slapped. Steve wants to kiss him even more than he wants to come, but then Bucky starts to stroke him—firm and slow and tight—and he stops thinking about what he wants and just aches with it. Squeezes his eyes shut as his balls draw up tight and his fingers curl in the sheets on either side of Bucky's chest.
A soft touch on the back of his neck startles him and his eyes fly back open. Bucky's watching him still, right hand jerking Steve so terribly, perfectly slow, and left hand cupping the back of Steve's neck, drawing him closer.
"What—what are you—"
"I wanna make you feel good, Stevie," Bucky says, his eyes soft and earnest. "Wanna thank you."
"You don't—" Steve begins, trying to say Bucky doesn't owe him anything. That letting Steve touch him at all is everything Steve wants. But Bucky's hand is firm and Steve is hot wax underneath it. He's pulled right down until full, soft lips are pressing to his.
He wants to memorize this, every detail of how it feels—how Bucky tastes like the salt of sweat and something sweet underneath—but it's like his mind is filling with static, louder and louder with every stroke of Bucky's hand. Then Bucky's tongue slides between Steve's lips, his thumb slips through the flap in Steve's boxers to brush over his slit, and Steve comes so suddenly he doesn't even make a sound. Just a startled breath that Bucky swallows while he kisses him all the way through, till the last little tremor has moved through him and he drops onto Bucky's chest.
"That was nice," Bucky says, fingers still hot on the back of Steve's neck, reaching up to brush away the sweaty hair sticking to his nape.
It was nice, and it was so much more than nice, and Steve doesn't know what the fuck any of this means. There was so much less to think about last time, when Bucky didn't touch him. Didn't stay awake to say anything about it after.
"Yeah," Steve says, acutely aware of the way his stomach is pressed to Bucky's cooled come, and the way his own has soaked his boxers. The way it must be sticky on Bucky's hand now. "I, uh… I should clean up."
The hand on the back of Steve's neck slides further up into his hair, holding him in place. "Can you—can we just stay like this? For a bit?"
It's so incredibly hot, with the temperature at its peak and the press of sweaty skin, but Steve nods against Bucky's chest and shifts just enough to be able to wrap an arm around him too. As if he would ever not give Bucky what he needs.
"It'll be okay, Buck," he says, now that Bucky is soft and relaxed, and might actually believe him. "I can help you look. You'll find something else."
"I know," Bucky says. "I just wish…"
Steve can fill in the rest easily enough on his own when Bucky doesn't go on, because he wishes the same things. That George Barnes was healthier and happier, and able to hold down a steady job so Bucky's load wasn't quite so heavy. That his little sisters weren't so thin and his mother wasn't so tired.
"They're depending on me," Bucky says finally, "and I—"
"It wasn't your fault."
"But I still—"
"Hey," Steve says sitting up so he can look Bucky in the eye. "Don't you fucking blame yourself when you ain't done nothing wrong. You're doing your best, you always are."
"Jesus, Rogers," Bucky says, lips twitching up in a small smile for the first time since he came through Steve's window. "You gonna fight me?"
"If you're talking shit about my best friend? Yeah, I am."
Bucky still looks tired and there's a shadow of worry left in his eyes, but he gives Steve a real smile. "How come you get to talk shit about me then?"
"Rules are rules, Buck. I don't make 'em, I just follow 'em."
That draws a snort from Bucky and he sits up too, dragging a hand through his tangled curls. "You wouldn't know how to follow a rule if your life depended on it."
Maybe. But if the rules say that Steve shouldn't like getting Bucky off so much that it's all he's thought about for months on end, why the hell would he want to follow them?
"You really want that to change?" he asks, expecting another smile, or an eye-roll, but not for Bucky's lips to pull into a serious line.
"Stevie... you need to be careful. We need to be. This shouldn't—you know this isn't okay, outside'a here."
This, of course, is Bucky's bare thighs streaked with Vaseline. It's the taste of Bucky's mouth still sweet on Steve's tongue.
Steve thinks about saying something dismissive and casual. Something about helping a friend out and how it's fine, it's nothing, they don't even have to talk about it anymore.
What he says is, "I haven't done this with anyone else," and it brings a smile back to Bucky's face, soft and pleased.
"Just with me, huh?" he says, biting his lip when Steve nods. "Wouldn't mind doing it again then, maybe? Sometime?"
Steve's thoughts are flying, trying to find the right answer to this, trying to hear the parts that Bucky's leaving out. Is it only okay if Bucky is upset and they have an excuse? Is it okay any time Steve just wants to get his hands on Bucky's skin? If he asks too many questions will this fall apart and leave him with none of it being okay?
"No," he says simply, because that's the most important part. "I wouldn't mind."
He wants Bucky to know that it's more than that, that what he means is there's nothing he wants more, but it seems like too much to say out loud right now, so he just hands Bucky his discarded boxers and leaves it at that.
Once they've both cleaned up and gotten shorts and pants back on, they climb out to the fire escape together with bare chests and wet hair, hoping the evening air will give them a hint of a chill.
All they get is more sweat collecting under their arms and at the backs of their knees, but it's nice to be out here all the same. Kids are playing in the street below them, cracking worn baseballs with sticks, and the pieces of sky between the buildings surrounding them are growing soft with streaks of orange and pink.
Bucky had used a lot of words that didn't mean very much, before—he said maybe, and sometime—but his lips are still a little kiss-swollen, his cheeks still flushed as rosy as the sunset, and Steve thinks that Bucky wasn't saying exactly what he meant any more than he was.
So maybe this is where it really starts, now that it's sitting here between them, acknowledged and encouraged. A quiet, heated little possibility.
There will be an end too, of course. Steve knows that. But at least, for now—with bare feet dangling from the fire escape and knees touching—they're still at the beginning.