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The dreams came after that day on the bridge.
The day Steve's world ended, and began anew.
He had dreamed of Bucky before. Many times in the war after his loss. Then again when he had awoken in the modern world, alone, desperately seeking some familiarity that he could not find. A man out of place. A man who everyone knew, but yet, no-one did.
Until he'd found Peggy. Dear, strong, Peggy with her heart of fire. He'd savoured those moments they'd been graced with. Fleeting. Longing. A thousand lifetimes of what ifs lingering through everything he had lost. Yet through it all, they had smiled, laughed and reminisced as Steve sat with the only person left who had really known him. It had helped heal him. And it had helped her say goodbye.
He had wanted so desperately to talk to her about Bucky and that he still lived. But it wasn't fair. Not when she had so little time left. But he knew she would have helped him like she used to. She had been the first person she'd told about his dreams after his death. She'd noticed he hadn't been sleeping well. It had surprised her that such a specimen as him could succumb to such things as unsettled sleep. Steve had reminded her that they'd enhanced his body, yet his mind was still his own.
Sometimes he wished it wasn't.
The dreams then were snapshots of their lives. What was; what could be; what should be. They walked so close to the line of reality that Steve didn't know what was a dream and what was not sometimes. And it hurt every time he woke up as much as it had hurt to watch Bucky fall to his death, helpless.
He had thought them a path of atonement for not saving his love. His mind and heart would instead play out for him everything he could never have. Again. Again. And again.
But that night, after he saw Bucky alive, the dreams changed. They warped and twisted, clawing into his mind like poison. Dreams turned to nightmares. And sleep became a fear. It was no longer a rest, but prison.
Often he would dream what he imagined happened to Bucky at the hands of HYDRA. But Bucky spoke to him in his dreams. Hateful. Loathsome. His anger fearsome and as sharp as claws. The more Steve found out about what happened, the worse they got. Sometimes even he stood there as a HYDRA agent, Bucky's fate and torment his doing.
Nat knew. Tony too. It felt like Bucky was the last one to know.
He'd told him the first night they'd spent together after they'd been reunited. He'd had to. He'd woken up crying, dragging his nails ragged against Bucky's metal arm. What a fool he'd felt. Of the both, he'd been the one with night terrors on their first night. He'd been the one who was needing comfort beyond words, beyond a hug. He'd been the one that was a mess.
It had always been their way, though. Usually. Bucky had been his unwavering, strong, constant for so long. Steve's heart had always been too soft, too gentle, too much to hide even when he wanted to. Now when Bucky needed him the most, he was falling apart.
Bucky had never seen it like that, though. They were together. One. Their problems, traumas, worries, joys, anger - it was theirs. They'd promised to walk this life together until the end, when they kissed under the Brooklyn bridge, just before Bucky left for war.
And they did, even if they took a wrong turn for a while. Their paths met again, and they would walk together, until they could walk no more.
It was one of those dreams - no, nightmares - that woke Steve now, his hands scrambling for comfort - for Bucky - as he awoke instead to darkness and dirt. His hands scratched against bark and the cold ground beneath him as he tried to re-orient himself back to reality. The earth of Wakanda stuck under his nails as he clambered to his feet, realising he was alone.
“Buck?” he said, his voice barely over a whisper.
He was used to being quiet and elusive these past months. It had become harder and harder each day as his anger simmered; as his frustration broiled to a peak and the weighing reality that he had never been more alone. Steve wasn’t used to being on the run; stealthy; to owning a different identity and hiding. That wasn’t what he did. Yet here he was.
Steadying himself against the tree, he took a deep breath, and another. Buck was meant to be on watch. Nat was going to meet them here a few hours after sunrise. He’d tried to convince her to meet halfway. Nat had told him she was better at this. Steve agreed.
He looked around, the first breath of light brushing against the vast, inky sky. Bucky’s rifle wasn’t here. Steve’s new shield was propped against the tree and he stared at it for a moment, uncomfortable, before he picked it up and sheathed it into two, slipping the gauntlets onto each arm. Bucky’s absence made his heart race. He had always been cautious - now he just expected the worst.
“I used to look at you for hope, Steve,” said Nat as she washed the last of the dye off her hair and turned off the lukewarm shower head.
Steve ignored her words and passed her the towel from his perch on the toilet, his feet resting on the opposite wall. Their motel bathroom was tiny. And grim.
“Is being on the run always this glamorous?” said Steve, scratching his beard as he stared at the black spotted mirror opposite.
Nat sat on the edge of the old bath tub, dabbing her freshly bleached hair with the worn towel. “It won’t be forever.”
“How do you know that?” he said, still staring at the mirror, wishing he could believe her.
What had happened to his hope? He’d become so jaded; so worn and weathered like this room.
“It’s us. Do you think we’ll really be left in peace for long?” said Nat, prodding his leg with her foot.
“You call this peace?”
“Better than prison.”
Steve picked at a fraying thread on the knees of his jeans. “It’s lonely.”
Nat sat up from the edge of the bath and nudged down his leg to sit on his knee, her damp forehead resting against his. “You’ll see him again soon. And for now you have me.”
“You’ll be gone soon, too.”
Nat looked at the mirror, barely recognising what she saw stare back. “I have to go. That’s who I am.”
“I thought you were my friend.”
Nat tensed and almost stood to leave, but she still yet stared at that spotted mirror, seeing Steve’s eyes that once shone as blue as the shield he used to hold; as the mantle of his name; as the sky they avoided in favour of the night. He walked a world that wasn’t his and the one thing that could ground him and keep him steady, was a thousand, thousand miles away, asleep, so far out of reach.
She took his hand and closed her eyes. “I’ll always be your friend, no matter where I am.”
“Or who you are?”
Nat smiled, thumbing Steve's knuckles.
“I thought we were past those kind of questions.”
“I thought I'd never be a criminal.”
Steve pushed away from the tree he had been sleeping beneath, the edge of his gauntlet dragging against the rough bark. He stared up at the small hill, to the bushes, the sprawling trees, to a small opening where he saw a single figure standing. Alone. The tip of his rifle pointed at the ground by his feet.
Something felt off as Steve approached Bucky, his body scaling the small incline with ease, but his heart and head heavy. The remnants of his nightmare still lingered like a clawing shadow, persistent, mocking, flashing frames of what had plagued him all these years, even with Bucky returned to his side; even now that he was free and his mind was his own. Guilt was hard to shake though Steve logically knew there was little to anything he could have done. But what does logic matter when you look at the one you love and they hurt ?
It doesn't. It never had with Steve.
It was his biggest flaw, but also beyond his enhanced physique and body, it was to him, one of his greatest strengths. Nothing was too big for his friends or those he loved, and nothing would stand in his way.
Steve approached quietly, watching the lick of the breeze curl through Bucky’s hair. It had gotten so long while they had been apart. It had felt so good twisted between his fingers on their first night together where words were few. Their bodies spoke for them that night; their fingers etching whispers, their kisses an echo of breathless words that they already knew.
Bucky stood still and rigid, staring ahead towards the Wakandan horizon, the first whisper of the sunrise cresting just a little, casting a faint brush of orange over the land and them. Steve paused at Bucky’s side, his already anxious heart quickening as he felt the unease shroud his lover. Unease of what, though? Steve chided himself. It could be a thousand things. Or simply just one. Thanos. But as Steve unclipped his gauntlets and sheathed them back together as a shield, sticking it onto his back, Bucky’s unease felt...different. New.
Steve hadn’t even pulled the courage to speak.
He stepped closer and reached out a hand to Bucky’s face, tucking a wayward lock of hair behind his ear. And yet, Bucky stood still and rigid, staring toward the horizon, rifle in hands, the knuckles of his non metal arm, ghost white.
“How many left?” said Bucky, his voice soft and small. “How many sunrises do we have left to see? A month? A week?” He turned to Steve, his beard brushing against his lover’s hand. “Just today?”
“We made it this far, didn’t we?” said Steve, surprising himself at the aura of hope that came with his words. “We can make it through this.” Around Bucky, it was easier. Most things were.
“And for what? To fight another war. To run again,” Bucky paused, turning back to stare at the sunrise. “And again.”
It hurt Steve more than he could comprehend to hear Bucky’s words. It was more than just the truth of them that hit him, but the despair that hung from his words; that clung to him, unyielding. It wasn’t fair. All Bucky had known for the last seventy years was pain, anger, fear and hatred.
And loneliness. That one Steve understood.
It wasn’t fair.
“When I remembered you, I ran,” said Bucky, trying hard to hide the tremor in his voice. But there was so little he could hide from Steve. The trail of Steve’s hands slid down Bucky’s neck and his eyelids flickered. “I’d been someone else for longer than I’d been me, and I was afraid I was going to hurt you again. I was confused that I couldn’t hold onto who I was.” He paused, staring at his metal hand flexing over the top of his rifle. “Onto me.”
Steve took his hand, just like he had after Azzano. He’d developed an odd twitch after his time there as a prisoner, and Steve always held his hands steady until it eased. It stopped in his left arm when it was replaced with metal. At the start. But it came back when Bucky did.
“You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for Buck,” said Steve, leaning against his side, his warm forehead pressing against his thick hair. “I can get Nat to take us back to-”
“Where you go, I go,” said Bucky, his words strong; defiant. “That shit they put in my head is gone. I’m...I’m better. But the memories; the last however many years I was kept and used, is with me.” He said, tapping his temple. “Until the end.”
“So am I.” Steve kissed his shoulder, the sensors of his new arm so delicate and finely tuned it was almost like skin, not metal.
“What if today is the end?” said Bucky, his hands tensing around his rifle again. “Why do I even care so much now. I used to hate the sunrise.” Bucky paused, feeling his hands twitch. Steve ran his thumb over his knuckles once, twice, more. “Daybreak. I hated it. I slept through the mornings when I was on the run. But you loved the mornings. The peace, the solitude. You drew lots in the mornings. I remember.” He paused, his words falling to a whisper. “I want to love them again, like you.”
Reaching out to touch Bucky’s face, Steve pulled threads of hair caught in his lips, dragging the back of his hand along the rough brush of Bucky’s beard.
Bucky turned to Steve, catching his hand and breath that had seemed to stop. “I’ve only just got you and myself back. I can’t lose us again.” He stared into Steve’s blue eyes, waned by the last months of running, of hiding, of being something he didn’t want to be. That, Bucky understood. “There’s a lot I can take, but not that.”
Bucky dropped his rifle, turned, his desperate fingers clutching his shield holster and pulled Steve into a kiss.
“But if this is our last sunrise,” he breathed through their kiss as they collided against the nearby tree, Steve’s hands slipping through his hair in that way they did; when they were eighteen; after Azzano; when he remembered him; now .
Bucky paused, lips dragging against lips, breaths becoming one as the rest of his words wouldn’t come. There was so much he wanted to say, but nothing else he could.
He mouthed silently against Steve's lips, the grip on his shield holster tightening as he kissed again, hoping his need would speak for him now, like it had so many times before.
Bucky's hands slid down Steve's chest, inch by inch, pushing against the worn fabric, desperate to feel the man beneath, as if he'd never before.
But Steve caught his arm with gentle grip and kissed his metal palm.
Steve lifted his head. Maybe it was their last sunrise. Maybe they wouldn't even see the sunset.
But he was sure of one thing. “Let’s make it count.”
He lifted Bucky into his arms with ease, the rays of daybreak crowning him in a golden beauty like they always should have, and not with the thorns they had. The mornings had been theirs for so long. During the war they had risen before the others sometimes, before even the world took its first breath and then they took theirs together, bare and free, bathed in the dew of the grass; or the shadow of an oak; or sometimes even in the camp itself if time was short and bravery was not.
So much was still theirs then. Choices, happiness, memories to make - their lives.
It had been simpler, then. Good. Great.
Nothing was now.
As Steve gazed up at Bucky, a small smile bright beneath his swathe of hair, maybe this could be something simple amongst the chaos and agony; the memories and choices.
Something simple, happy and theirs.
So often Steve had heard from others that love was never easy or simple; that it was something you had to fight or work for. But not for Steve. In his life, his love for Bucky had always been the simplest thing there was. For it was the only thing that had ever really made sense.
Bucky’s smile didn’t fade. It stayed as he wrapped his legs around Steve’s waist, just gazing down at him, his hands slowly slipping along the shield straps, inch by inch, until he unclipped them with ease, dropping the vibranium shield to the ground behind with a thud. He’d grown fond of the gift from T’challa and Shuri - much like his arm. They’d shed symbols - tools - of their past they no longer wanted, and stepped forward, together, with those they did.
“You remember the first time we shared a smile again?” said Steve, kissing the edge of Bucky’s mouth, his cheek, the slide of his jaw.
Bucky smirked. “Yeah. My arm was in an industrial vice,” he said through a short, sharp gasp as Steve’s teeth dragged against his neck.
“It reminded me of something,” said Steve against Bucky’s neck as he worked at the fastenings of his jacket. “When Sam and I first met, he asked me what makes me happy.”
Bucky’s belt hit the ground.
“I said I didn’t know.” He pushed his hands over Bucky’s broad chest as he took off his jacket. He used to be able to close his eyes and know every bump and ridge and scar of his lover’s chest back then. Back before he fell. But now? Now there were a hundred more scars with as many stories that hurt more than the blades and bullets that had marked his flesh. At least those scars would fade, would forget, would go. “But I just didn’t know anymore.”
He kissed where Bucky’s arm attached, fingers echoing the imprints of his lips, ghosting the invisible impressions, a touch sometimes more powerful when words failed. This had become his favourite place to kiss. Where flesh became metal; where old, met new; where Bucky and the Winter Soldier had blurred.
“But it was always your smile,” said Steve looking up, and seeing just that. “You.”
Bucky unclipped Steve’s belt, pulling at the fastenings of his suit. “You are so full of shit.” Bucky smiled; he laughed; he dropped Steve’s belt and caught him in a messy kiss, strands of hair pressing between their lips and their laughter. He pulled back and paused, a heavy linger of silence hanging between them as the world seemed to pause, waiting for Bucky’s words, for his monumental declaration of love; of that poignant, poetic sentiment that Steve deserved.
The words used to come easier to Bucky in the 40s when he had just been Bucky. His smooth tongue had whispered sweet things to Steve, and things that had managed to make even Bucky blush.
There were too many things that had been easier; better.
Hands twisted together against Bucky’s bare chest, his vibranium hand feeling the smallest and slightest trembles in his lover’s touch. And as he held Steve’s gaze; as he leaned back against the tree, Bucky pulled his thighs tight around Steve’s waist, their bodies crashing together, breathless, bound, basked in the rays of Wakanda’s morn.
The time for words had passed. This, spoke louder now.
Bucky rocked his hips once, twice, feeling the ache of Steve’s need press against his. The whisper of a moan fell past his lips and his eyelids closed as he bit his lip. Steve’s hand dragged down his chest, lightly marking the skin. He savoured the touch, even though time was against them.
But what did it matter now when this was all the time you had left?
“ Let’s make it count ,” whispered Bucky.
Steve wasted no more time. Lips echoed his fingers, kissing where they had dragged, making their mark. Bucky slid down the tree an inch - two - the bark scratching against his back as Steve dropped to his knees. He was just about to ground his feet when Steve hoisted his legs around his head.
“Better,” mumbled Bucky as he slid his fingers through Steve’s hair. His thick beard tickled against his bare stomach, but it felt so good. Steve hadn’t had a beard like this before with him and feeling it against his bare skin made Bucky catch his breath.
Eager hands undid his belt, his trousers, every touch pulling a gasp, a moan, a twist of pleasure that was slowly pushing away everything else. There was so little that could mask the pain of his past that shrouded his head and his heart. Steve was the only one who had ever come close to helping him cope with the claws of the memories and the weight of their burden. And that it was okay to carry it. That it was okay .
Because he had always been the victim, not the villain.
Steve had picked up some Thai on the way home. Bucky had never tried it. Thai and a Frasier marathon. Sam had gotten Steve into it and Bucky just loved to listen to him laugh. But first he had to get the plates and cutlery ready for takeout.
It was surreal. They were on the run, yet Steve was still finding time for takeout and Netflix like nothing was happening. Trust him to keep things as normal as possible when things were the furthest from it they could be.
Bucky scratched his head as he stood in the small kitchen of their rented apartment. He opened several drawers before he found the cutlery. He stared at the forks and knives, taking one each for both before he paused, staring, counting at what was left and then at what was in his hands.
Nine.
His left hand twitched.
Setting down the cutlery in his hand, he picked up one each of the cutlery that was left in the drawer and snapped them in half, dropping them to the ground.
Now there was eight.
He opened the cupboard above and saw the glasses. He counted. Seven. He picked up one and threw it to the ground, the shards spraying across the tile floor.
Now there was six.
One by one he went through the cupboards, counting. A plate met the floor, shattering into four. A bowl too. Just as he opened the cupboard above the kettle and began to count the mugs, Steve came home.
“Hope you’re hungry. I bought way too much as-”
“It’s okay, there’s only four mugs, we don’t have to get rid of any of them,” said Bucky, matter of fact, as he moved to the next cupboard, reaching out an arm - an arm that was caught by a gentle, kind hand, accompanied by a smile that matched. Shards of glass and porcelain crunched beneath his feet as he approached, slowly.
Bucky froze. His arm whining as it seized.
“Buck…” said Steve, twisting his fingers between Bucky’s, his other hand reaching out to cup his lover’s startled face. “You alright?”
“There was nine of each cutlery in the drawer,” he said, trying to pull free from Steve’s hold. “So I got rid of one of each. Even numbers. Everything - everything even.”
He stared at the chairs around the small dining table. Only three. Where's the fourth? Was there one? How had he only noticed this before?
“Three chairs,” he mumbled, trying to pull away from Steve. At their peak, they matched in combat and battle. But Bucky was not at his peak.
Not now.
“Buck,” whispered Steve, trying hard to steady his trembling lover. His movements became erratic, strained, emotional. Cries of the numbers, of the chairs fell past his lips. He heard the hiss of his arm as he fought against Steve's hold, desperately trying to leave. It became difficult, Bucky's strength always aiding him at times like this.
“They - they need to be even. Or it's not-” He made his last desperate attempt and reeled back his fist from Steve's hand and threw it forward. But Steve caught it, held it, and him.
“But there's only one of me, Buck,” he said, pressing his forehead to Bucky's. “And you.”
Bucky's knees gave way and he fell to the floor, feeling shards of ceramic crunch under his knees. Steve joined him on the floor and held him until the tears stopped; until he didn't want to let go, but could.
Steve was more than his partner, his friend, his love. He was his soul; his guiding hand; and had been the only thing that had brought him back after seventy years of being forced to be something else.
Bucky looked down at Steve, biting his lip.
He was also the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Steve pulled away his trousers, freeing his hard need and Bucky gasped as the cold morning air brushed over his hot skin. But that was nothing when Steve’s lips touched him; when his soft brush of beard prickled gently with each teasing kiss working from tip to base. This felt like that first touch, that first kiss after seventy years apart. A night that had been so mixed. Tears and laughter and pain and love.
Was now any different?
Hands pressed against Bucky’s ridged stomach, holding him steady as he kissed again, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue, teasing, tempting, making his lover long and pine for more.
And he could feel it through the pull of Bucky’s fingers through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp in a silent echo of his moans, whispering quietly, deeply.
Steve's hands curved around to Bucky's behind, sinking his fingers into his taut flesh as he slowly, slowly drew his tongue up Bucky's length and rolled it around his tip, crowning him in a kiss. Bucky whined, beautifully.
“Where'd you throw my belt?” Steve asked with a drawl.
“Your what?” said Bucky.
“Belt.” Steve turned, pulling away an arm as he saw the edge of the brown leather.
“Oh. We doing that- here?” said Bucky with a smirk.
Steve laughed as he pulled out a small bottle of lube, packed tightly away in a belt pouch.
“No. This.”
“What else you got in there?” said Bucky as Steve leaned forward and this time without hesitation but with unyielding want , he took Bucky into his mouth, and slid down.
“I'll find out later,” breathed Bucky through a stagger of moans as his hands slid through Steve's hair and then poised still, above his head, the sunlight catching the golden lines of his metal arm.
Steve moved with purpose, up, and down, his tongue finding the spots that he remembered made Bucky sing a song that was just for him. Bucky had been quieter, reserved, when he had returned. But the more time they had spent together; stolen moments; whispers of a kiss; the brush of a hand; a laughter here, there; an afternoon twisted in their sheets; Steve spending one morning just staring at and gently touching his metal arm when he thought Bucky was asleep - each moment helped not just bring back his memories, but his confidence, his worth, his self.
And with it, his voice. In more ways than one.
Thighs rubbed against Steve’s ears and he shivered at the brush of hair against his skin. But the sensation was lost to another swathe of pleasure as the tip of his length pushed against the back of Steve’s throat, slowly.
Gripping Steve’s hair, Bucky held him in place and nudged his head down, holding him there, shuddering at the sensation. He laughed softly feeling Steve’s fingers drag along his thighs in light protest. Letting go, Bucky looked down, watching his lover’s lips, breathless, slide along his length, wet and plush.
“Careful, Buck,” teased Steve as he kissed down Bucky’s cock, his hands gripping his behind, thumbs sliding beside his hole as he pushed apart his legs.
“What do you expect when you’re on your knees,” he said. His back arched as Steve pulled him forward, trailing kisses along his inner thigh.
“This?” Steve’s thumbs slid over Bucky’s hole, once, twice, before he leaned forward and kissed, his tongue pushing past his lips and nudging into Bucky.
Bucky’s hand grabbed the tree, metal fingers clawing into the bark.
“It’ll do,” he rasped, feeling Steve’s smile against his skin.
Each curl of his tongue was bliss. It was heady. It made him writhe against this damn tree so much he was sure his back was bleeding. But he didn’t care. And before he knew it his hand was wrapped around his own cock, stroking his motion to his lover’s tongue. To his surprise he noticed the hiss and whine of metal and hinges as his arm moved with each languid stroke. He hadn’t yet used the new arm for that. But oh. It was good. The smooth vibranium gliding against his wet, warm cock was a new, delightful sensation this morning.
Steve joined him. For when Bucky glanced down, hearing a low, long moan from his lover, he saw a hand wrapped around his thick cock, lathered in lube. For a while, Bucky just watched, his metal hand poised around his own length. He always loved to watch Steve pleasure himself. Just himself. He took his time, each stroke so smooth, so defined and powerful. And the way it made his muscles move and shape. That alone was enough. Bucky’s breathing was ragged, his head, light. He felt so close to peak, yet he stalled. He pushed it back. Not yet. Not yet.
He gasped sharply as he felt Steve pull out his tongue, and whined at the absence. But his back curved quickly in response to the touch that followed. A finger slipped inside, slick with lube, stretching, easing him for Steve. Bucky pushed away from the tree, pleading for more. A second finger slipped inside and then Steve stood.
Patience had waned for them both now. Desire dictated, lust led. And with a tangle of arms, with a mess of kisses, with a whisper of moans, Steve wrapped Bucky around him, his thighs clamping on tight, and as he held Bucky’s gaze and a handful of his thick hair, he slipped inside, savouring inch by inch, as they became one.
Foreheads touched as Steve pushed forward that last little bit and sheathed fully inside, the tip of his hard cock nudging against Bucky’s spot. Steve paused, drawing the back of his hand down Bucky’s cheek, bathed a golden hue by the morning light. So often it was basked in the dim evening light or the comfort of darkness he liked. So little did he get to see his beauty bathed in the first breath of morning; in the purest light of day. But there was something about him that was beyond beauty. He looked...free. Happy. Just, Bucky.
Since that day Bucky remembered, Steve had carried the weight of his memories and burden of what he’d done with him. He had never let him carry it alone. But in that moment, he couldn’t feel it. For Bucky didn’t. They were just, them.
Bucky curved his back, pushing away from the tree, pleading for more as a moan glanced against Steve’s cheek.
Steve obliged. Sinking his teeth into Bucky’s neck, he thrust. He thrust once, twice, and more, tasting his lover’s sweat stained skin with each motion, each kiss, each time. His tongue met metal, and he felt how it moved beneath him; how Bucky grasped out to hold him with each thrust; when he changed his mind and marked the tree, or twisted his hand through his hair, or began to stroke his own length in time with Steve’s thrusts.
“Let me,” said Steve, touching his arm.
Bucky shook his head, grinning through a rather loud, languid moan as a deep, angled thrust hit beautifully.
“The metal feels good again,” he said, touching Steve’s lips with his other hand.
Steve laughed, wrapping his lips around a finger, sucking hard, his tongue echoing the motions he had lavished on his cock.
He knew they were exposed here, that they were surrounded by war, chaos, and a world that was falling apart. But that’s what made this...right. That’s why they did this, because tomorrow - tomorrow might not be here.
They’d both been given a second chance at life - Bucky in truth, a third - and they lived now as if every breath was their last; as if every touch was no more. They were men out of time, in so many ways.
Steve could feel himself reach his peak. He was nearly there. His breaths were quicker; his thrusts sharper; his hold tighter. Watching Bucky pleasure himself, and feel him do it too against his stomach was a pure and beautiful catalyst. One that pulled noises from Steve he had forgotten he could make. Only the sky and the earth was their witness, so he didn’t care. Unbridled, unashamed, Steve let himself be free, too.
And Bucky was following him. The whisper of Steve’s name falling past his lips the first sign. The second, the fistful of hair twisted through his fingers. Steve thrust, and thrust, feeling Bucky wrap around him, clench, writhe and move. He gripped Bucky’s thighs again, and with one last pull away from the tree, Steve thrust, deep,and hard, holding his lover’s gaze, listening to the beauty of his voice, a symphony of bliss, of whispered echoes of Steve’s name falling away into the morning air. And with that last touch, that last look, that last whisper, Steve came, his body trembling, falling against Bucky as he spent himself inside the only one he’d ever loved.
Bucky cried out as Steve’s hot seed filled him, spilling out and down their legs. It was intense, and a sensation so intimate Bucky paused, breathless, to savour it. He was there - there - too. But it was when Steve fell against him, trembling, weak, his arms wrapped around him like he was the world that made him reach his peak - for in that moment, he felt the purest trust, love and vulnerability between them he ever had.
He moaned against Steve’s ear, dragging his hand through his hair, again, again, again, with each whispered name and groan as he spent himself over his hand and themselves.
He was falling in love, all over again.
Steve kissed his neck, his jaw, sweat damp hair catching on his lips as he nuzzled against Bucky’s ear, holding him tight, close, against the tree.
“Did we make it count?” he whispered, his words strained as he buried his head into Bucky’s neck.
“What does it matter,” said Bucky as he closed his wet eyes, the whisper of a smile on his breathless lips. “Because you’re the only thing that ever did.”