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Springtime has always been your favorite season, even if your allergies disagree. Flowers bloom, rain falls, and people finally emerge from their apartments after a chilly winter. You ride your bike to work in the morning, appreciating the breeze and the sight of people walking their dogs.
You arrive at the music shop and lock up your bike in the back. As much as you wish you could spend all day outside, you’re looking forward to the lessons you have to teach today. Your music store offers music lessons for most instruments that kids are playing in school, and since you’re pretty experienced in most instruments, you get to teach a majority of the lessons.
Music has always been a huge part of your life. From a young age, you were singing along to the records your parents played, the radio, and the songs you made up in your head. Your parents decided to put you in piano lessons as soon as you were old enough and the rest is history. You couldn’t get enough, guitar, cello, oboe, even the french horn. Any instrument you could get your hands on, you could play.
After years of practice and playing, your love of music has evolved. You’re just as passionate as you used to be, but now you’ve focused your energy on other aspects of music. When you were younger, your dreams revolved around becoming a performer, becoming famous, and a household name. Sometimes you think you could still do it, but you’re more realistic now. You want to help foster that love for music in other people, in kids.
As you open the store, you connect your phone to the sound system, and a moment later, your playlist of favorite love songs fills the room. You go through the motions of opening, making sure everything is in place, and setting up for lessons. Your store is on the ground level of the building, so you see people walking past the storefront, peeking in. It’s always a great feeling when someone comes in, even just to browse.
Today as you’re swaying along to the song that’s playing, you see someone stop outside the window and look at the instruments you have on display. He’s looking at the little child-sized piano you set out in an attempt to draw parents in. You try not to stare, but it’s difficult, he’s handsome, and you’re not one to deny that.
His eyes are the brightest blue you’ve ever seen, and there’s something about his expression that you can’t quite put your finger on. Part of you wants to go out and talk to him, but at the same time, you don’t want to scare him off. You opt to just keep watching him as you finish tidying up.
When you turn away from the window, you hear the bell above the door chime. It’s a struggle to not just whip around and bombard the mystery man, so you try to calm yourself down.
“Welcome in,” you say, fussing with some of the sheet music in front of you. The man gives you a tight smile and rocks back on his heels.
“Thanks,” he replies. He glances around the store, and you follow where his eyes go.
“Can I help you with anything?” His eyes land on the piano in the back of the store. Sometimes people will come in and play, but it gets most of its use from you when the store is closed. The keys are old and weathered; the wood is scraped and chipped from being moved from your childhood home.
“Uh, I’m not sure.” You nod, you’re not sure why you’re disappointed, but you can feel it twinge in the back of your mind. Something about this guy draws you in. You want to pick apart his brain and learn more about him.
“Well, feel free to look around. I’m here if you need me,” you say gently, flashing him a smile. He nods, so you take it that the conversation is over. Your first lesson of the day isn’t until noon, so you don’t really need to set up for it, but you can’t think of anything else to do.
Mystery Man walks around the store while you set up the lesson area, putting out a music stand, a lesson book, and the child-size guitar your student will use. You do your best not to watch him browse, but it’s easier said than done. He lingers by the piano, running his gloved fingers over the wood. At one point, he finds where you’d carved your name into the lid, and you cringe at the memory. You always loved the piano as a kid, but you’re the first to admit that you didn’t take the best care of it.
“You do this?” He asks, pulling you from the memory. You grin and walk over to the piano, leaning against it slightly.
“Yeah, not my proudest moment.” Mystery Man laughs a little, and your heart skips a beat at the sound.
“My friend used to play,” he says quietly. “I was never too good at it, got fat fingers or somethin’.” He huffs a laugh, seemingly captivated by the memory.
“I bet you were great; give yourself some credit,” you reply, glancing down at the scrapes on the piano. You know where each one is from.
“That’s nice of you, but we’re gonna have to agree to disagree on that.” You nod and trace the scrape closest to you. “You play?” He asks, bringing your attention back to him.
“Since I was little.” You point to a photo on the wall of you at your first piano recital. It’s not the best photo, you were nervous and had put your skirt on backward, but the smile on your face never fails to make you laugh.
“That’s great,” Mystery Man says, sighing. “My friend, he would play all the time. He didn’t have a piano at home, but anytime he saw one, he’d be on the bench instantly. I used to get annoyed, but I miss it now.” His eyes drop, probably realizing he confessed something to a stranger.
“Do you want to try and play something?” He looks apprehensively at the keys, and you can see him internally arguing with himself. “Why don’t I go first, and then we could try together,” you offer. At your words, Mystery Man relaxes noticeably, so you take a seat on the bench. You wiggle your fingers over the keys as you decide what to play, and you end up picking “Transformation” from Beauty and the Beast. Your fingers find the keys easily, creating a melody without much thought.
For a moment, you let yourself get lost. You don’t shut your eyes, but they’re not focused on anything in particular. Your thoughts calm, and you find yourself in a trance. Mystery Man seems to be entering a similar state; from the corner of your eye, you can see him settle in, nodding his head with the beat.
Mystery Man sits beside you on the bench without you prompting him to, and you scoot over slightly to give him room. He folds his hands in his lap and watches your fingers float, hypnotized by the movement.
The piece comes to a close, and you let the silence settle, remnants of the chords still lingering in the air. Mystery Man looks at ease, seemingly comforted by your performance.
“You teach kids to play?” He asks, glancing at you. Face to face, eye to eye, you’re caught in his gaze. His eyes seem to suck you in, and you don’t even try to fight it. Up close, you can see the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes; you can see the worry lines between his eyebrows.
“Yes,” you breathe, voice caught in your throat. “I could teach you,” you suggest, knowing that most people have trouble asking. Mystery Man’s eyes widen, and he drops your gaze.
“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” he says, fiddling with the glove on his left hand.
“It’s no trouble; it’s what I do.” You give him a kind smile, and he seems to think it over. He sits silently for a moment as you futz around with the keys, playing a few scales. You do it without thinking. It’s second nature at this point.
“How much do you charge?” he asks, smiling down at his hands as if in disbelief that he asks. You can’t hold back your wide smile; you’ve never been so excited at the prospect of teaching someone.
“Your first lesson is on me if you tell me your name,” you say teasingly. Mystery Man turns a bright shade of pink. It’s beautiful.
“My name’s Bucky,” he says. “Bucky Barnes.”
Bucky comes in two times a week for two months. At first, he’s apprehensive and tense. He refuses to take off the gloves, but you don’t push it. He struggles to relax his fingers to move them better, but he gets the hang of it after a few weeks.
You start him off on simple scales, understanding how the keys work and how to make chords. Even though he doubts himself a lot, Bucky knows a lot about music. When he thinks you’re not listening, you hear him mess around a little, experimenting with notes and chords. It makes you so happy to know that he’s enjoying himself.
Over the weeks, you’ve noticed yourself looking forward to the days he’s supposed to come in. You count down the hours until his lessons, you do extra research on pieces he can learn, you replay the good moments long after he’s left. In a way, you feel like you’re in middle school again, crushing on a boy that was so out of your league. At the same time, Bucky is so approachable, so down to earth, that you feel like you could talk to him for hours and never get bored.
You know who he is, you knew right when he told you his name, but you’ve never brought up his past. You put it together that the friend he’d told you about on that first day was probably Steve Rogers, but you don’t think he’s comfortable enough yet to tell you about Steve. And you don’t push it, he’s opening up, slowly but surely, and you appreciate that.
It’s the morning of Bucky’s 20th lesson, and you decide a celebration is called for. You go to the store and buy a cupcake, vanilla with chocolate frosting, and a little music note cake topper. You know it’s probably a bit much, you never do this for your other students, but Bucky is different.
You don’t have to open the store today; one of the other employees did today, so you take your time walking to the store. It rained last night, so the air smells fresh and sweet, the flowers seem brighter, and you feel lighter. When you walk up to the storefront, you notice movement toward the back of the store.
To your surprise, Bucky is sitting at the piano, concentrating on the movement of his fingers. He’s playing something, but you can’t hear it from outside. You keep watching as he shakes his head, rolls back his shoulders, and goes back to playing. Your heart skips a beat. He came in extra early and is playing in the store, potentially with an audience.
You step inside, clinking the bell on the way in. Bucky keeps playing, and you wave to Jamie, one of the student employees working today. She wiggles her eyebrows at her, and you roll your eyes, turning your attention to Bucky. You walk toward him and slowly start to recognize the melody. It’s America’s “You Can Do Magic,” you frequently play it in the store since it’s a favorite of yours.
Bucky must notice your presence because he suddenly stops playing and turns around, blushing a bit.
“Keep going,” you say, sitting next to him on the bench. You set down your bag and angle your legs toward him.
“I wanted to surprise you,” he says a little sheepishly. You beam down at your hands, unable to hide how happy that makes you.
“Well, I’m surprised, Bucky. Keep going,” you repeat, and this time, Bucky returns his fingers to the keys. That’s when you notice he’s not wearing his leather gloves. One flesh hand and one metal hand sit on the piano in the position you’ve coached him on over and over again.
Bucky glances at you then starts to play the song, starting at the beginning. He doesn’t have any music out, so he’s playing from memory. After playing the intro, he looks at you again and nods his head, mouthing the word sing. You laugh a little but give in.
“I never believed in things that I couldn’t see. I said if I can’t feel it, then how can it be? No, no magic could happen to me, and then I saw you,” you sing, watching Bucky’s fingers. He smiles when he hears you, and he noticeably relaxes.
“You can do magic
You can have anything that you desire
Magic, and you know
You’re the one who can put out the fire
You know darn well
When you cast your spell you will get your way
When you hypnotize with your eyes
A heart of stone can turn to clay”
When the song ends, Bucky adds a little flourish that makes you giggle. The music lingers in the air, and you notice that Bucky leans ever so slightly toward you, bumping his shoulder with yours.
“You have a beautiful voice,” he says quietly.
“Thank you,” you whisper back. After a few moments of silence, you remember the cupcake in your bag, so you excitedly grab it. “Close your eyes,” you say, standing up and hiding your gift. Once Bucky closes his eyes, you put the cake topper on the frosting and turn around slowly.
“Should I be nervous?” He asks cautiously.
“I don’t think so.” You crouch down and place the cupcake on the bench, then tap Bucky’s shoulder so he opens his eyes. At first, he looks confused, but when you point down at the treat, he breaks out in a grin.
“What’s this for?” His smile is contagious.
“Happy 20th lesson!” You push the cupcake toward him, and he picks it up gingerly.
“You do this for all your students?” He’s looking at you in a new way, something is flashing in his eyes, and the only name you can come up with for it is hunger.
You shake your head slowly, watching as Bucky’s tongue wets his bottom lip. “Nope.”
“You sayin’ I’m special?” He’s teasing now, and you’re thankful Jamie retreated to the backroom a while ago.
“Maybe.” He drops his eyes to the cupcake and takes a tentative bite, groaning a little obnoxiously as he chews. You laugh and stand, ignoring the way he’s making you feel right now. Butterflies flit around in your stomach, and you feel your heart pounding in your chest.
You haven’t felt this way about someone in a long, long time. Everything about him, his smile. His eyes, his voice, you can’t get enough. You want to dress up on the days he’s supposed to have lessons; you want to captivate him when he’s around.
“You know,” Bucky says, behind you all of a sudden. You turn around and see he’s close to you, cupcake no longer in his hand. “Maybe it’s too forward of me, but I think you’re pretty special too.”
Your heart stops beating, and your ears buzz. “What?” you ask, dumbfounded,
“I think you’re somethin’ special, and I’m sorry if that’s not appropriate.” You grin and try to hide your excitement. Bucky reaches out and tilts your chin up to hold eye contact with you.
“Thanks, Bucky,” you reply sheepishly. “And it’s not too forward.”
“Well, then can I ask you something else?” You try to suck in a breath, but your chest is too tight.
“Of course.” You can barely squeak out the words.
“Can I kiss you?” It takes everything in you not to nod your head so hard that you get whiplash. Instead, your mouth forms a little “o,” and you nod slowly, watching as Bucky’s hands come up to cup your face before he leans in. His lips are soft on yours, and the slight scruff of his beard scratches you lightly.
He tastes sweet like the cupcake, and he smells strong like pine; it’s a combination you never knew you needed. It’s addicting. This confident version of Bucky is new, it’s a contrast to the timid, nervous Mystery Man that came into your store on that day all those months ago, but you’re not complaining.
Bucky kisses you like he’s been waiting lifetimes to do it, like you’re long-lost lovers finally reunited. His hands move from your face to cup your neck, to hold you close as if he has no intention of ever letting you go. And honestly, you don’t want him to.
Music plays quietly over the speaker in the store, and you can hear “Ladyfingers” by Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass; you couldn’t have picked a better song.
When Bucky pulls away, you’re in a trance. You’ve never been kissed like that, and a kiss has never made you feel so much before.
You let out a breath and bite your lower lip. Bucky just smiles and pulls you into his chest as he sways to the music. You close your eyes and listen to his heartbeat, thump thump thump, rhythmic and steady. It’s music to your ears.
You’re the one who can put out the fire
You’re the one who can put out the fire
You’re the one who can put out the fire