Chapter Text
Sam says nothing when Steve stays up half the night to purchase tickets as soon as they go on sale, because normal people do that all the time for everything else. He says nothing through the entire epic re-listen of the entire six album discography, even when Steve starts on the Howling Commando rock opera which Sam just hates . He just zips his lips shut and pretends that he's in Thailand, or somewhere equally beautiful where music makes sense.
He says nothing when the special edition T-shirt and hoodie set emblazoned with the band's logo arrive except:
"You gonna wear that?"
"No, man, you wear the older shirt, not the new merch." Steve responds hotly. This is the closest he's ever seen Steve "First-into-Battle" Rogers blush. "You wear the oldest shirt you have."
Flawless logic. Sam doesn't get it. "What about the ones you just spent, I don't know, twenty bucks on?"
"You wear them anytime else."
"That is just nuts." Sam says, throwing his hands up. He lets it go.
The breaking point is the radio/energy drink contest promotion. It involves not just front-row seats, but a meet and greet, backstage access and god knows what else, that is if you manage to buy enough of a giant energy drink that Sam suspects is made up mostly of cocaine and get roughly the same number of Facebook likes as the population of a small nation.
He opens the door to the fridge to see that Steve has basically replaced their weekly milk supply with HYDRA and loses it.
"This isn't healthy, Steve!" He brandishes the extra-large aluminum can like he's about to spray its contents into Steve's face. "That's enough sugar for an elephant!"
Steve look up from his phone. He's glassy-eyed from tweeting non-stop, asking people to like his I wanna go to the concert status in exchange for commissions or shirtless pictures, Sam doesn't want to know.
Sam refrains, mightily, from making One Direction jokes.
Due to the magnificence of Steve's biceps, or sheer dumb luck, Steve actually wins the passes. He gives the tickets he already bought away to a couple of fans via Twitter and wins their undying devotion. When the passes arrive, laminated and neatly folded into a folder, complete with black and red wristbands and instructions, he asks Sam if he wants to come with, or what.
Sam folds his arms, narrowing his eyes at Steve. "Are you going to make like a sign, bake cookies or create embarrassing personal tokens?"
"No." Steve says, in a way that means, yes, quite, definitely and hey, look, squirrel.
*
Three days later, Sam kicks the Steve's bedroom door down. "Steve, I now have an intimate understanding of every single fucking song on your playlist --" He then stops and feels his jaw drop. Steve gawps at him. They gave him the room for the light (plus they wanted the space for the bigger bed), but the room is the dirtiest he's ever seen it.
He wades in, clearing a path through coffee cups, napkins, take-out containers and about six weeks worth of laundry, right up to the easel and illustration boards set up near the window. The Wacom tablet is off and pushed to the side on its mechanical arm, and Sam hasn't seen Steve paint since -- well, since never, since he swapped to digital.
It takes him a second to figure out what he's seeing.
"You're making them paintings ."
"Well, small ones, but --" Steve doesn't have the grace, nor the subtlety to look ashamed.
" Paintings ." Sam resists the urge to throw up his hands, but Steve catches his grin and grins back, wicked.
"Lower your goddamn volume or swap to headphones, because you are driving me bonkers."
*
That night, he meets up with Riley for their weekly sanity date away from nutty roommates (Sam) and bad English professors who think boring is the way to go when it comes to classic literature (Riley). The bar is one of their absolute favorites -- dirty enough to be edgy without the added spice of seedy and the best pulled pork sandwiches this side of DC.
"I've just never seen him like something so much before." After a brief tussle, he steals a couple of fries from Riley's plate. "And I've never liked something so much before, you know?"
Riley raises an eyebrow at him and Sam can't help but steal a kiss too. "Really? Can't think of anything off the top of your head?"
"No, man." But Sam grins, knowing and enjoying that tone of voice.
"Not a single thing?"
Laughing, Sam shakes his head.
"May I remind you of certain basketball teams, and certain basketball players and your strange ability to recite statistics for every team, every player and every year, since the '80s?"
Sam pauses, fry halfway to his mouth and shrugs. "Okay, fine. But I'm never drawing Chris Paul a goddamn portrait."
"You can't draw, man."
*
On concert day, Steve appears at the doorway just as Sam is lacing his Converse shoes and says, "Wear boots."
"What?" He frowns at his shoes. He loves these kicks.
Steve shrugs. "It's just that, the crowd tends to get rough, not rough, but, well… wild. Your feet could get stomped on. Stuff."
Sam raises his eyebrow. He seems to be doing that a lot these days. "May I point out that we are extremely fine specimens of alpha male -- I'm serious about this -- and that anyone who wants to pick a fight would be stupid to do so?"
Steve shrugs again and his lips curve into the devilish smirk responsible for more than one bar fight. Sam shakes his head. People would be nuts to stomp on them. Steve is tattooed to the wrists on his arms, the band shirt hugs his shoulders and biceps and he looks like he could flatten you with a trash can lid. He completes the ensemble with a tattered brown leather jacket and a Mohawk like the edge of a particularly large blade. Even the small body fit backpack he wears looks vaguely threatening.
"I hate boots." Sam declares, but he switches them out anyway.
Steve laughs all the way to the car. Sam grins at him, fond as ever. Steve's penchant for loud metal music is as much a part of him as the tattoos. So much so that when he turned squad leader the whole unit got the same one: a white star surrounded by concentric circles of red, white and blue in some dive bar in Japan when they were stationed there for paratrooper training.
As they drive through the peaceful DC streets Sam thanks God (or whoever) that they all made it. He still dreams of walking the desert alone, rifle in hand, the sun leering over the horizon with no end in sight.
Going to a heavy metal concert, with his CO (former CO) is so much better, by a long shot. No damn contest. He steals a familiar red and white can from Steve's right hand as they turn into the parking lot.
" What did I tell you about drinking this crap? You don't let Hydra into you."