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Bucky Barnes hates the 4th of July. He didn’t always. There’d been a time when he probably would have said it was his favorite holiday. He was as patriotic as the next red-blooded American man, after all. He loved a good long weekend away from work that came with an excuse to drink beer and grill out. And the holiday just happened to share the date with another day that held great importance in his life. Which is why now, sitting alone in his renovated brownstone in Brooklyn, too sullen to go out and enjoy the summer day or even think about attending a fireworks show, he decides that he just really fucking hates the 4th of July.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Bucky wasn’t supposed to be depressed and frustrated and lonely today. He’d seen years into the future of what this day would look like. Imagined it a million times over. Always a celebration. Always a party. Always surrounded by friends and a great time and love and Steve. Steve. Fuck. And just like that Bucky remembers all over again why he hates the 4th of July. Steve Rogers and his stupid birthday can go straight to hell, and he can take all the flags and burgers and beach picnics with him.
Twenty-five years. That’s how long it’s been since Bucky has spent this day alone, without company or plans or parties to attend or throw. From Steve’s 13th birthday to his 38th, every year, without question, they were together. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. Childhood best friends. Teenagers up to no good. College roommates. Men in love. Inseparable. A package deal. Until now. Because Steve had chosen exactly eight weeks ago to be a big, dumb, asshole and pull the rug out from under Bucky without so much as a warning. So he sits in a half-empty living room, staring at framed photos he hasn’t talked himself into taking off the walls yet, and tries to forget what day it is. It doesn’t work.
“Fuck,” Bucky breathes heavily, forcing himself up off the couch and into the kitchen long enough to open the fridge and find it sadly devoid of his favorite craft beer. And pretty much everything else. Closing the door in disgust he tries to remember the last time he bought groceries outside of stopping at the bodega on the corner on his way home from work for whatever he was going to eat but not really care about that evening. He can’t recall. “Fuck!” The second exclamation is shorter, sharper, more powerful. Mumbling under his breath about stupid holidays and stupid exes and an exceptionally stupid lack of alcohol, Bucky turns down the hallway towards the bedroom in search of something to wear other than boxers. Because apparently, he’s going to have to actually go outside today. He kicks an empty pizza box out of the way as he goes.
The bedroom…his, not theirs…is a disaster on another level and Bucky knows it. It’s too cramped. His work clothes, dress shirts and ties and well-tailored pants that he used to take such care in hanging up meticulously each night next to Steve’s, are strewn across a chair in the corner of the room and atop his computer desk. There’s a laptop under there somewhere but he hasn’t needed it much lately. No reason to bring work home when he can just stay at the publishing company late, huddled over his desk, no one waiting on him to be around for dinner. In Bucky’s defense the room is cramped and cluttered because it was never meant to be a bedroom. It was his office; had been since the day they’d moved in six years ago. But Bucky hasn’t been able to bring himself to sleep in the actual bedroom…in their bed…since Steve left. He crashed on the couch for about a week before trying it. The very next day he’d dragged any essentials he thought he might need into his office and closed the door on that room behind him. He’d bought a futon and shoved it against the wall where Steve’s easel and paints used to sit…where Steve would stand for hours while Bucky worked, creating such beauty on canvas…and made do.
Trying not to think about it too much, Bucky grabs the first shirt and pair of jeans he can find, doing a quick smell check to verify they’re clean enough to wear before slipping them on. He’s annoyed with himself almost immediately. No self-respecting 38-year-old gay man should be smelling his clothes before putting them on. Nor should they have empty pizza boxes all over their living room and a completely barren refrigerator in their kitchen. He’s living like a 22-year-old straight kid who’s into video games and free porn and he hates it. It’s been eight weeks of nothing but spiraling and now he’s here. He grabs his keys and shoves them into his pocket and then makes a quick stop in the bathroom, figuring he should probably at least look at his reflection once since he has to go out into the world and will more than likely encounter people. His dark hair is badly in need of a cut, hanging down to nearly his shoulders when it usually sits just on the edge of his collar, and he’s let his typical five o’clock shadow scruff get a little out of hand. He’ll have to do something about the beard, at least, before heading back to work after the long weekend. He’s good at his job, but not naïve enough to think that the Grizzly Adams look would fly with his boss. For a quick trip to the corner store, though? Bucky shrugs at the mirror and pulls his hair up and out of his face quickly. Good enough.
It takes less than ten minutes for Bucky to get from his doorstep to the small store, where he grabs a basket and quickly starts tossing various fresh fruits and vegetables into it. He’s a good cook, a skill he’d somehow inherited just from spending so much time around Steve’s mom when they’d been growing up, so he thinks maybe if he has real ingredients to cook with again, he might make himself a meal instead of ordering takeout every night. Or so he tells himself as he moves from the produce area into the deli, glancing at cheeses and lunchmeats, making a mental note that he needs to get bread as well. After gathering and paying for what he believes should get him through at least a week without having to make a return trip, he heads out into the unnecessarily sunny day and back home. Or he tries to, anyway. He only makes it about four steps down the sidewalk.
Steve. Walking towards him. Definitely seeing him. One corner of his perfect mouth with all those perfectly straight teeth quirking up just the slightest but then falling back down quickly, as though he realizes a smile is probably not how Bucky wants to be greeted. Ya think, asshole? And as much as Bucky misses him, as much as he has hated every single second of the last two months without him, in that moment the absolute last thing he wants is to see him. Because seeing Steve coming his way, all broad shoulders and trim waist and the goddamn muscle structure of some Greek god they learned about in school, isn’t going to end well. But it’s far too late for that now unless he wants to turn around and run, which he doesn’t…can’t, so he just stands there, holding his cloth grocery bags, lips parted as he takes short, fast breaths, looking foolish in the middle of the city sidewalk.
“Hey, Buck…” Steve comes to a stop in front of him, hand raised like he’s going to…Bucky isn’t quite sure what he’s going to do, honestly…but then his hand falls back to his side and it doesn’t matter. “I, uh…I was just…” he gestures back over his shoulder in the direction Bucky needs to go and something snaps.
“What are you doing here?” he interrupts harshly after finding his voice. “We agreed. You promised. This part of town is mine.”
“I-I know…I just…” Steve trails off and the look of loss and confusion in his soft blue eyes underneath all those long, dark lashes is more than Bucky can take. He’s sure he’s going to scream if he has to stare into them for even one more second.
“Fuck you, Rogers,” he spits out without thinking, ripping his gaze away and stepping to the side so he can walk past him. Again, he only makes it a few steps.
“Bucky, please…”
Fuck. He stops but doesn’t turn around. That’s something, at least.
“I-I was just at the house…I was hoping to see you. Hoping we could…maybe talk?”
Bucky doesn’t move a single muscle, just stares straight ahead at a vague point somewhere up the block, bags getting heavy in his grasp. He has the urge to run and a thousand voices in his head screaming at him to stay. The voices win. But he still doesn’t turn. Doesn’t need to. Because a few moments later Steve is in front of him again. Bucky lowers his eyes to the sneakers he’d shoved his feet into before leaving earlier. They’ve seen their better days like everything else in this moment. Not much to look at but he fixes on them like they’re his last beacon to home.
“I’m sorry, Bucky. I fucked up. I know that.”
Those words cause his head to snap up, utter disbelief all over his face. “You fucked up? Seriously?! That’s what you’re saying to me right now?!” Bucky knows his voice is loud enough to cause a scene, knows the shop owner is probably watching them right now because after six years in the neighborhood he’s come to know their drama and gossip like every other regular customer he has, and knows for sure that he doesn’t want to do this here or now or maybe ever. He starts walking again, heart in his throat and stomach in knots and completely unsure of how he’s putting one foot in front of the other, but he’s doing it. He’s walking. Walking away from Steve. Fuck. He stops. He can hear Steve jog up from behind to stand beside him once more. Bucky sighs. “Come back to the house, we can talk there.”
They walk in complete silence back to the brownstone, Bucky not so much as glancing in Steve’s direction. Not even when he reaches out to take two of the four bags Bucky is carrying from him. Not a thank you. Nothing. And then they’re suddenly standing on the front steps and Bucky is unlocking the door and he’s remembering the shitshow they’re about to walk into and this day just keeps going from bad to worse. Fuck. As expected, Steve stops short in the front hallway. Bucky knows what Steve is seeing, knows what he must be thinking, but can’t quite bring himself to feel the shame or guilt he thinks he probably should. So the house is a mess? So what? At this point, it’s just a metaphor for the rest of his life.
“Bucky,” it sounds more like a breath than his actual name and then Steve doesn’t say anything more, just walks into the kitchen, picking up an empty pizza box and two empty beer bottles along the way. He lays what he can on the counter, tossing the bottles into the recycling bin under the sink, before opening the fridge to do what Bucky can only imagine is put his groceries away. It’s all way too normal and easy for his liking. Bucky puts the bags he’s been carrying on the counter as well and then closes the refrigerator, leaning against it as though challenging Steve to try and open it again. Steve places the pint of blueberries in his hands back where he’d grabbed them from and sighs heavily. “Buck…”
“If you’re about to say something that sounds even remotely like pity, spare me.”
Steve blinks, clearly a little stunned by the interruption, but he recovers. “I-I wasn’t. I just…I don’t understand…”
“You don’t understand what, exactly?” Bucky crosses his arms over his chest, eyes dark as angry storms with all the feelings to match. “Why the house looks like shit? Why I look like shit?” he gestures randomly at himself. “You broke my fucking heart eight weeks ago, Steve. My life is kind of shit.” There was the long and the short of it, no need to beat around the bush. So much for keeping any semblance of self-respect.
“I know, okay? I know I did. And I’m sorry, Buck. Christ, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think…” he looks around, eyes a little wild, trying to make some connection between the house he’s standing in and the one he’d left eight weeks ago. So much had fallen apart in such a short time. Instead of saying anything else he simply shakes his head before lowering it. “I’m sorry that I did this to you…to us.”
“Why?” It’s the only thing Bucky manages to squeak out, his throat tight and dry and unwilling to make this argument easy on him. He hopes Steve understands the question. Why are you sorry? Why did you leave? Why did you hurt me? Why were we suddenly not enough? Why, why, why? And then he feels Steve’s hand under his chin, lifting his face, forcing their eyes to meet, and he’s caught somewhere between wanting to punch him and wanting to kiss him. He does neither.
“I got scared,” Steve admits quietly, thumb stroking the facial hair along the underside of Bucky’s jaw. It’s an old habit, instinctual, a movement that is pure muscle memory and Bucky wonders if Steve even realizes he’s doing it. “I got scared and then I shut down and then I ran…”
“Getting scared and running isn’t something you do this far into a relationship, Steve. I don’t buy that. What the fuck did you have to be scared of?” The words are harsh, but the tone isn’t, and Bucky makes no move to get away from Steve’s touch.
Steve shakes his head and Bucky has to resist the urge to brush the stray blond hairs back from his forehead as he does. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve sold a painting?”
Bucky’s eyebrows furrow at that, not the response he’d been expecting. He takes a moment to look at Steve, really look at him, and he realizes quite suddenly that his ex doesn’t appear much better off than him. There are dark circles under baby blue eyes where the skin is normally pale and smooth. His features are more drawn than usual. A lightness is missing. Steve has always been his own worst critic when it comes to his art, something Bucky has never understood. In his eyes, every piece of artwork Steve has ever created has been perfect. Priceless. Worth more than every penny they’ve ever been sold for. But despite his intense passion for Steve’s work, he doesn’t know the answer to his question. “I…no? Why?”
“Nothing I’ve shown in nine months has gotten so much as a second look,” he says quietly, defeated. And the tiredness in his words that Bucky hadn’t noticed before…god, how could he have missed it?...makes his heart hurt worse than it already did. He knows, has always known, that Steve has a tendency to get in his head way too much. Overthink. Let anxiety rule. Especially about his work. And fuck if Bucky doesn’t feel absolutely worthless over not realizing sooner what was going on. He sighs heavily. There’s a lot of that going around.
“Steve…”
“I know you always say it doesn’t matter, that we’re fine, but it matters to me, Bucky. I want to contribute, not just be some starving artist living off his boyfriend with the cushy job in the city. You’ve been taking care of me our entire lives and I don’t want to always be the one that…”
“Stop,” Bucky cuts him off then, pushing away from the refrigerator and closing what little distance there is between them, pulling him into the tightest hug he can manage. Steve stays stiff in his arms for a brief second before melting into the embrace. They stand like that, quiet, for a long time before Bucky finally steps back. He keeps his hands on Steve’s hips. “Stevie…” Another sigh and then Bucky shakes his head, frustrated and tired and feeling like they’ve wasted so much time being so damn stupid. He steps back and gestures around at the kitchen and living room. “Look around you. It’s not me taking care of you. We’ve always taken care of each other. As made painfully obvious by my inability to live even a somewhat normal life without you. Steve,” one more sigh, but this one has a soft chuckle accompanying it. “I’m honestly not sure when the last time was that I washed these jeans.”
Steve looks down at said jeans, comically scandalized, and then back up at Bucky. He laughs and Bucky thinks it might be the best sound he’s heard in…well, at least the last eight weeks. But when the laughter dies and the seriousness seeps back in, the next words out of Steve’s mouth are even better. “I love you so much, Buck. I’m a disaster without you. Sam already kicked me out and Nat’s about two days away from being done with me in her guestroom. Next stop is Clint’s, but I don’t think he wants me around his kids. Apparently, I’m awful to live with right now.”
“You’re couch surfing?” For some reason, this of all things, is the tidbit of news that Bucky can’t handle. When Steve walked out, he’d made it sound as though he already had the next steps of his life mapped out. Where he was going, what he was doing, how much better it was going to be with the freedom of not being tied down. Lies, apparently. All of them. Steve looks down bashfully and Bucky sputters. “But…you took all your things?” He finds himself once again motioning towards the living room, pointing towards paintings and books and a few small pieces of furniture that are missing. Thinks about the empty closet in the bedroom he won’t sleep in. The empty side of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. “I don’t understand.”
“Sam let me put all my stuff in his basement,” is the half-mumbled reply Bucky gets. He could throttle Steve right now. Damn his stubborn pride. Every last ounce of it.
Bucky opens his mouth to start a lecture, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he simply shakes his head, puts both hands on either side of Steve’s face, and plants a long, lingering kiss right on his stupid mouth. Steve sighs and then moans into it, parting his lips, letting Bucky lead and deepen the embrace as he sees fit. “You’re a goddamn fool, Steve Rogers,” he grumbles affectionately, one hand moving to hold the back of Steve’s head, the other falling to his hip once more. “But at least you’re my fool, I guess.”
There is regret and sadness in Steve’s face when they finally step apart and Bucky doesn’t like seeing it. Wants to do whatever he can to never have to see it again. “I’m so sorry, Buck. I…I won’t fuck up like this again. I’ll talk to you next time, I promise. Just…” The tears in his eyes are too much. Bucky doesn’t even want to let him continue speaking. But in the end, he’s thankful he does. “Can I please come home?”
“You never should have left,” Bucky replies, very matter of fact. He lets his face stay stern for a moment or two longer, needing to know that his message is heard loud and clear. “I don’t care if you never sell another painting again…which is ridiculous, you will, of course you will, you’re so damn talented, babe…but if you don’t, so what? Doesn’t matter. I’m always gonna love you just as much.” Steve nods. Smiles maybe just a little, but there’s still a hint of sadness behind those eyes that Bucky doesn’t like. “Come on, Stevie. What’s a guy gotta do to get a real smile out of you, huh?”
Steve looks down at his toes and then back up, the smile looking more genuine than it had just seconds before. “Kissing me again might do the trick.”
Bucky can’t do anything but laugh at that. “C’mere, you.” He pulls Steve right up against him, as flush as their bodies can be standing up and fully clothed. And before he kisses him this time, before he seals the deal and starts patching up the pieces of broken hearts between them, he nips at his bottom lip and grins. “You know, you almost ruined my favorite holiday, Rogers. Very not cool of you.” A kiss, chaste and soft, and then a softly mumbled, “happy birthday, babe.”
And everything isn’t figured out. It isn’t perfect and it isn’t fixed and there’s a lot that needs to be worked on. But they’ll do that later. After the groceries are put away and the living room is maybe cleaned up a bit and the happy birthday makeup sex is a happy, pleasant memory. Until then, it can all wait. Because Steve is home and in his arms and maybe the 4th of July isn’t so bad after all.