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Steve hates clubbing.
He’s leaning against the railing of SHIELD’s second floor landing, nursing an electric blue drink and checking his phone to see if it’s late enough to duck out without Bucky giving him hell. Below him, the dance floor is heaving with bodies.
Even in the dark club and the flickering lights, it’s easy to spot Bucky. Bucky—or maybe Bucky ass, in those jeans—is the god of the club. His broad hands are splayed over a tiny blonde girl’s back, and he’s moving his hips in a way that really should be illegal outside of porn. She says something absolutely hysterical, if the way Bucky throws his head back and laughs is anything to go by. Steve’s fingers twitch.
They’d been roommates for two years and best friends for nearly as long. Bucky’s the best guy Steve knows, never looking at him like he’s pitiful, even when Steve has to bust out his inhaler after walking up the long flight of stairs to their figure drawing class, or when Bucky has to pull him out of, yet another, fistfight with a bully.
“Hey sweetheart, you alone?”
Steve could dance with Bucky like that, probably, if that’s what Bucky wanted; but no, he has to be tragically straight and Steve has to be his pathetic best friend who can’t pull someone if he stood on a table naked and begged for it.
“—got you a drink?”
Steve accepts the shot and tosses it back. It burns a path all the way down to his stomach. Then he sets the empty glass on the table beside him and sags over the railing. He can’t see Bucky anymore, which, okay, he probably shouldn’t be watching his BFF like a codependent freak, anyway. What is his life? It’s such a goddamn tragedy, that’s what it is.
“Fuck you then, asshole.”
Steve throws the finger over his shoulder at whoever’s bitching at him and scans the crowd, frowning. Dammit. Maybe Bucky took Tinkerbell to the bathrooms. It wouldn’t be the first time Bucky ditched him for a girl, but he’d promised Steve that they’d hang out tonight.
“God, that’s pathetic,” Steve mutters to himself, then turns around and leans back against the railing. That last shot hit him hard; the crowd’s soft around the edges, shifting colors and glittering warm skin. He plucks the maraschino cherry from the rim of his drink and pops it in his mouth, chewing moodily. Anyway. There are other fish in the sea and et cetera, maybe even one who would be interested in a skinny asthmatic who likes to punch his way into problems. Maybe this imaginary Mr.-or-Miss-Perfect could sweep him off his feet and make him forget all about his dreadful crush.
Maybe he should just call a Lyft.
“Stevie!” The crowd parts and Bucky swaggers up to him, all big dumb smile and straight white teeth. All eyes are on him, but Bucky is staring at Steve, like there is no one else in the club. His gray shirt clings to his chest and Steve’s eyes track slowly down to his stomach. Wonder what he would do if Steve sank to his knees right there? “Hey, pal, what are you doing up here by yourself? Let’s dance!”
Steve drags his eyes back up to Bucky’s face. His eyes are a little unfocused and his smile’s lopsided. Probably took some molly earlier, or maybe he’s just high on life—Bucky’s the kind of guy who can take that cliche and make it seem noble.
“Yeah, okay.” Steve shrugs, throws back the rest of his drink, and sets the empty glass on the table—which is occupied by two girls, who are glaring at him, whoops.
Bucky charms them with his gorgeous smile, then wraps a hand around Steve’s wrist and drags him off without further acknowledgement, even though one of the girls looks ready to drop trou right there. Steve throws a sloppy salute at her, because like recognizes like, but she just scowls at him. Oh well.
“What happened to that girl?” Steve shouts back, even as Bucky pulls him insistently down the stairs. “The blonde you were dancing with?”
Bucky shrugs, the strong muscles of his back shifting under his thin shirt. “Fucked off with some other guy, I guess.”
“She’s missing out!” Steve shouts, loyal and way too honest.
Bucky looks over his shoulder with that ridiculous grin of his, the one that wrinkles his nose a bit, and he tugs Steve into the middle of the dance floor. It’s easier to dance now that he had a couple of drinks in his system; he’s drunk enough to move without constantly tripping over his low self-esteem. Bucky dances close—still room for Jesus, because, as noted before, Bucky is tragically straight. Bucky’s also probably ruining all his chances for bringing home a girl tonight: one, because he’s dancing with another guy and two, because he throws back his head and shouts along with the thumping music like a gigantic dork.
Steve will blame it on the alcohol later; he’s drunk and all his inhibitions have been replaced by tequila. He throws his arms around Bucky’s neck and pulls himself tight against Bucky’s body. Bucky’s head snaps back down and his eyes go a little wide, but he doesn't hesitate to settle his hands on Steve’s hips.
“You can’t blame me if I chub up like this!” Bucky shouts over the music and god that’s so hilarious that Steve cracks up laughing, because Steve is the one who wants to climb Bucky like a tree.
It’s the liquid courage that makes twist around and slip one hand back, behind Bucky’s neck. It’s that last shot that makes Steve grind his ass back against Bucky, to the thump of the bass.
He shouldn’t be able to above the music, but Steve can hear Bucky suck in a shuddery breath. The hesitant hand on Steve’s hip firms against his stomach, a hot brand, drawing him closer, and oh. It’s like a switch has been flipped, Bucky’s grinding up against him, and he turns his head, mouthing against Steve’s jaw, breathing raggedly. It’s like sex, almost, raw fucking to the pounding beat to the music. It’s close enough; he can feel the hard line of Bucky’s dick against the crack of his ass. His own cock is already hard and wet and pulsing against the inseam of his jeans. If Steve had the presence of mind, he’d wonder if Bucky had his eyes closed, if he were picturing the small blonde girl in the slinky black dress. But Steve’s drunk enough to be greedy, and Bucky’s drunk enough to let him take and take and take.
Sweat stings his eyes, rolls down the back of his neck. Bucky is so fucking good at dancing, and Steve’s so glad to be here, plastered up against Bucky’s front, wrapping a hand around his strong wrist. Bucky’s panting, humid, against the back of his neck, and the fingers of his left hand are pressing hard into Steve’s hip. He’s going to have bruises there—god, he hopes he has bruises there.
“God,” Bucky gasps against his jaw. “God.”
“I need you,” Steve says, but he says it to the writhing mass of bodies in front of him, and he doesn’t think Bucky can hear.
The thumping song ends, but it rolls into the next song without pause, and Bucky flawlessly switches to the new beat. His mouth is open against the back of Steve’s neck now, and the hand on his stomach slides down, his fingertips ghosting under the top of Steve’s pants. His thumb glides against the skin of Steve’s stomach, and even though it’s about five hundred degrees in the club, Steve’s entire body shudders and he drops his head. There’s a sting against the back of Steve’s neck; Bucky’s bitten down, and Steve’s going to have one hell of a hickey there tomorrow.
“Bucky,” Steve groans, and Bucky hauls him closer, grinding hard into his ass, losing some of his smooth rhythm and moaning low in Steve’s ear.
A girl with a sweaty tangle of brown hair bumps into Bucky’s side, jolting them both, and grabs Bucky’s wrist with both hands, pulling it away from Steve’s hip. Steve thinks she’s in their French class, but he doesn’t really know her, and he didn’t know Bucky knew her, and he kind of wants to fucking strangle her.
“Bucky!” she shouts. Her green eyes are glassy and her bright red lips are full and parted, and she’s looking through Steve, like he’s not plastered up against Bucky’s front, one step away of being fucked right there on the dance floor. “Come dance with us!”
“I—“ Bucky says, dazed, and he draws back slightly, his hand slipping from Steve’s stomach, back to his hip.
“Come on,” the girl shouts, tugging Bucky further back.
It’s like a bucket of ice has been thrown into Steve’s face. His back is cold now, without Bucky pressed against him, damp with sweat. Steve wraps his arms around himself. “No, yeah!” he shouts, pivoting around to grin up at Bucky. “Go dance with them!”
Usually he’s so good at this, pretending like it doesn’t feel like his insides are being stomped on every time he’s rejected, but right now his smile feels brittle. Bucky’s staring at him, wide-eyed, shocky, and Steve has got to get out of here.
“Steve—” Bucky says, but Steve spins around and shoves his way through the crowd.
He takes a Lyft back home, and by the time he’s made it to his room he’s sober enough for the sting of humiliation to transform into crushing regret. He throws himself down on his bed, so goddamn thankful that they’d upgraded from the dorms this year into a two bedroom apartment, which means he can hide from Bucky forever.
“Fuuuck,” Steve grinds out, shoving his palms into his eyes. What the hell was he doing, letting his dick do all the thinking? Steve’s always been an impulsive asshole, jumping into fights or arguing with the fundamentalists who loiter on campus with checklists on why he’s going to hell, but he’s always been so careful with Bucky.
He fishes his phone out of his back pocket and opens a new text.
Steve: I’m such a fcking idito
Sam: dude it is one am you better be having a crisis
Steve: y
Steve’s phone lights up with a new call and he accepts it, wedging the phone between his ear and the pillow.
“What the fuck did you do?” Sam asks, voice gravely with sleep.
“Bucky,” Steve groans.
There’s a beat of silence, then Sam says, more awake, “No shit!”
“Not really. Kind of. Practically.”
Sam’s silent for a moment. Then he says, “Just how loaded are you?”
“Extremely.”
“What happened, Steve?”
Steve—kind of fades out after that, but he’s pretty sure he drunkenly raves on about amazing Bucky is and how much he loves him and how he’s screwed it all up by seducing him—for about thirty minutes, before he passes out.
He doesn’t really come to again until he hears their front door slam shut. He jerks out of his drunken doze, confused, and looks at his phone. Sam’s long gone, unsurprisingly. What’s surprising is that it’s only 1:40. What the hell is Bucky doing home so early? Steve lays still on his bed, listening as Bucky thumps down the hall. He pauses at Steve’s door, and Steve holds his breath, torn between wishing he’d just come in and finish what Steve started and silently pleading for him to keep walking. After several long seconds, he stomps down the hall.
Steve sinks back into his pillow and squeezes his eyes shut. “Dammit.”
It isn’t until Steve’s actively trying to avoid Bucky that he fully comprehends just how much they live in each other’s pockets. Even outside the apartment they live together in, Steve has two out of his five classes with Bucky. He avoids walking to class with him by leaving before Bucky even wakes up, and then slips into class five minutes after it starts. He doesn’t miss the hurt, confused look Bucky shoots at him when Steve doesn’t take the seat Bucky’s saved for him.
By Wednesday, Bucky stops saving the seat for him, and won’t look at him.
“I’m such an jerk,” Steve says that afternoon while grabbing coffee with Sam. He drops his forehead on the Starbucks table.
“You kinda are,” Sam says.
Steve rolls his head to the side to glare at him.
“Look man, you don’t need to tell me that you’re treating Bucky like shit right now,” Sam says, setting his latte back down. “He deserves better than you acting like this.”
Steve folds his arms over his face and groans. “I know. I’m such a mess.”
Sam pokes Steve’s forearm. “Not a good enough reason.”
Steve waves away his hand. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to him.”
And he’s planning on it, honestly, but then Bucky barges into his room that night without knocking and takes about three years off Steve’s life. Steve reflexively hurls his charcoal at him. “Bucky, what the hell!”
Bucky glares at him, his mouth a tight line of anger. He’s dressed like he’s going out, black blazer, tight gray shirt, and those jeans that got them into this mess in the first place. “We’re talking about this,” he says.
Steve tilts his chin up and says, “About what?”
Bucky gestures between himself at Steve, his movements harsh and jerky, like all his muscles are coiled. “This. Us. Whatever the fuck’s been going on between us since—”
“I was drunk,” Steve says quickly, because he’s so, so brave—with everything but Bucky. He can’t lose Bucky. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—you know. Don’t read anything into it.”
Something like rage flashes in Bucky’s eyes and Steve straightens up, ready for a fight, wanting it, because maybe then that would put an end to this stupid crush, but then Bucky’s shoulders sag and he drops his gaze.
“I’m sorry, Bucky,” Steve says, miserably.
“Yeah,” Bucky says. He rakes his hand through his perfectly styled hair, a nervous habit he never does when he’s put together like this, and leaves the room.
“Shit,” Steve mutters. He stares down at the reductive drawing he’d been working on, then crumples it up and hurls it at his garbage bin.
It takes Steve another two days to realize he might lose Bucky anyway.
That Friday he finally braves the family room. Bucky’s out, like usual, and Steve’s curled up on the couch and watching Netflix, like it should have always been. It’s probably better for his liver, and anyway he hates clubbing. He hates crowds, he hates trying to find someone who’d want to dance with him, he hates watching Bucky go from girl to girl while Steve props up a wall and puts his kidneys to work with shot after shot of tequila.
“Hey.”
“Jesus Christ,” Steve yells, jumping violently.
Bucky is leaning against the door jamb, hands in the pockets of his faded brown leather jacket. He’s in a white shirt and jeans: classic, but no less devastating. But his eyebrows are drawn together, and even though there’s a small smile curving the corner of his mouth, he looks a little defeated.
“I thought you went out,” Steve says, accusingly. He stands, even though he has nowhere to go, but he doesn’t want to have this conversation with Bucky while craning his head back.
“I did,” Bucky says. He rakes his fingers through his hair, self-conscious. “Look, Steve, I can’t do this anymore. I tried pretending like nothing happened, but I can’t.”
Panic bubbles up in Steve’s chest and he grips the couch’s armrest with both hands. So he’s finally fucked it up with the one person who matters most. He’s been so worried about losing Bucky that all he’s managed to do is drive him away. He drops his eyes. They’re stinging in a way they haven’t since he was a kid.
“God, Buck. Can’t we just move on? I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Yeah, you shouldn’t have,” Bucky snaps, and Steve flinches. “Why the fuck would you tease me like that?”
Steve drags his eyes back up, not sure he’s heard right. “What.”
Bucky rakes his fingers through his hair again. He doesn’t look defeated anymore; now he looks like a pacing animal. “Two years, Steve. Two years I’ve held myself back because I didn’t think you wanted anything from me. Then you rub up all over me and nearly make me nut in my pants, and then you ditch me and stop talking to me for a week.” He’s stalked up to Steve during his rant, gray eyes hot and flashing with hurt and anger. “I keep running it through my head. Were you just screwing with me? Because that’s incredibly fucked up. I thought we were friends.”
Steve stares up at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, struck dumb. He’s reeling, like he’s been squinting through a smudged up window for the past two years, and Bucky’s just cleaned it to give him the finger.
Bucky patiently glares back at him.
In some ways, Bucky is infinitely braver than Steve. He’s the one willing to throw all his cards down, despite the stakes being impossibly high.
Steve’s got to do this right. He owes it to Bucky. “One,” he says, slowly, “of course we’re friends. You’re my best friend. And two,” he hesitates, then thinks, to hell with it. “It’s not just physical for me. I’ve loved you for well over a year now. But,” he lowers his eyes, not having it in him to maintain eye contact for this part, “God, do I wish it were physical.”
The air is thick and heavy. Steve chances a look back up. Bucky’s staring at him, jaw clenched, furrow between his eyebrows. He looks like he needs one final push to snap, and, well, Steve’s always been good at pushing.
He quirks a small grin up at him and says, impishly, “Did I really almost make you nut in your pants?”
“Fuck you,” Bucky snaps, then grabs Steve’s shoulders and crushes their mouths together.
Steve stumbles back, nearly tumbling down onto the couch, and Bucky’s strong hands grab his ass and haul him onto the armrest. Steve wraps his legs around Bucky’s waist, pulling him in tight. Bucky’s tongue is a hot wet demanding slide in his mouth; Steve slides his hands up to fist into Bucky’s hair, and Bucky grinds up against him like they’re back in the club, but harder, punishing, more.
Bucky breaks the kiss first, dropping his forehead against Steve’s. “You drive me insane,” he growls, reaching down to adjust himself; those jeans really don’t have much room for hard ons, but Steve bats his hand away and fumbles with the button.
“How do you think I felt, watching you practically fuck every girl on the dance floor?” Steve demands, finally getting his fly undone.
Bucky grins wolfishly down at him. “Jealous, are we?”
“Screw you, Barnes,” Steve says, and wraps his hand around Bucky’s dick.
He’s got a beautiful dick and Steve wants to get his mouth on it desperately, but not desperately enough to stop things to grab a condom. Bucky braces himself against the armrest, bracketing Steve, his arms trembling like he’s barely holding himself up.
“Yeah, baby,” he breathes into Steve’s ear.
Steve laughs breathlessly, tilting his head back to kiss him again, demandingly.
Bucky tips him back onto the couch and Steve lands with an “oof,” before Bucky is crawling over him and slotting their mouths back together. He slides one hand under Steve’s back and lifts him so that Steve can shimmy his joggers down his hips.
The couch really isn’t big enough for this kind of sport, and Bucky ends up half crouched on the ground, thrusting Steve into the cushions, one hand braced against the frame. Steve’s neck is bent at an awkward angle and his shoulders are shoved up against the cushions, but he’s got his legs wrapped around Bucky again and a hand fisting both their dicks. It’s awkward, and fumbly, and Steve fucking wishes it will last forever.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Steve gasps against Bucky’s ear. “Thought about you all the time, came thinking about you with my fingers in my ass just last night, pretending like it was your big fat dick up there.”
“Fuck,” Bucky chokes out, strangled, his hips stuttering a little.
Steve groans, reaching between them with his free hand to play with Bucky’s balls. “You think about that? Spreading me open, sticking your dick in me? God, I bet you’d feel so good.”
Bucky drops his head on Steve’s shoulder, breathing ragged, his hips moving jerkily as Steve tightens his grip.
Steve nips at the soft skin behind Bucky’s ear. “I love clubbing, Bucky, because it’s like I get a front row seat to watching you fuck.”
“Fuck,” Bucky snaps, and shoves down on Steve, coming hard over Steve’s hand. He hovers there for a long moment, entire body trembling, eyes closed, mouth parted and wet.
“Jesus Christ, you have a filthy mouth, Steve Rogers,” Bucky says, pulling back to glare down at him. His cheeks are stained red.
Steve smiles sweetly.
“Move,” Bucky orders, because even though they’re doing this now, they don’t just stop being best friends, which means Bucky is still an unrepentant asshole. He swats Steve’s hand away, then wraps his hand around the base of Steve’s dick and jerks him slowly. “God, Steve. Can’t wait to get my mouth on you. Bet you’re as salty as your attitude.”
Steve sputters a laugh, then groans, throwing an arm over his eyes and rolling his hips in time with Bucky’s tugs. Everything’s so much slicker now, with Bucky’s come, and that alone is almost enough to set Steve off. He’s so close his balls start to tighten, and maybe he whimpers a little, the muscles in his thighs clenching and unclenching.
Bucky slips his hand further back, pressing his thumb just behind Steve’s balls, and Steve’s gone, shooting off over his stomach and onto the couch, air catching in his throat, vision whiting out.
He comes to, face first on the couch, breathing hard into one of the throw pillows, wet spot gross under his stomach. He rubs his face against the seam of the pillow, then turns to look at Bucky. Bucky’s sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch, arms on the seat, pants shoved down his hips and shirt rucked up over his navel. He’s staring at the blank TV screen with sex-dazed eyes. Steve drops his hand off the side of the couch, drifting his fingertips against Bucky’s bare hip. Bucky tilts his head back and looks up at Steve under his eyelashes.
“You get to clean the couch,” Steve says.
Bucky barks a laugh. “Fuck you, Rogers. You made a mess of out of it.”
“Too late, I tagged out,” Steve says, grinning back at him.
Bucky heaves himself to his feet, then drops on top of Steve, who squeaks in protest. “Jesus, you weigh a ton!”
Bucky’s not putting all his weight on Steve, since he probably would crush him if he did. He nips at the back of his neck, making Steve gasp and then laugh.
“Get off me, you oaf.”
“I don’t know,” Bucky hums, pressing a kiss behind Steve’s ear. “I could fuck you into the couch like this. Since it’s already dirty and all.”
Steve’s cock gives half-hearted twitch at that, already game. “I’m in,” he says, muffled, into the pillow. “But you still have to clean it.”
Bucky’s weight shifts off him and Steve flips onto his back, cheeks hot. Bucky reaches down to brush Steve’s hair back.
“Fine,” he says, then looks meaningfully down at Steve. “But only because I love you, too.”
And then Steve has to shove the pillow onto his face to hide the fact that he’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. Of course Bucky would confess his love while arguing about who has to clean the come stains.