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Bucky uses alcohol to loosen the stiffen muscles of his tongue. Slow whiskey burn wets the desert dryness settled in the back of throat. And he is not drunk but his head is spinning and his tongue still does not want to work right. He breathes and the warm, stagnant air fills his lungs thick and heavy like cotton. But it is tinged with a cinnamon spice and honey sweet scent. He breathes a little deeper.
“You don’t look like you’re enjoying that.”
Bucky throws a glance out the corner of his eye to see Sam smiling at him. The airman leans against the porch railing barely a foot away from the other, hips canted and a that smile still playing on his lips. A shiver of embarrassed excitement works its way down Bucky’s spine. A gentle warmth creeps up his neck.
“I’ll trade you.” Sam says softly. He tips a water bottle toward Bucky. Behind him, a mix of voices intertwines with clinking plates and sporadic laughter. A heavy charcoal smell says Steve is readying the grill. And it seems like they are existing on a separate plane, the world soft and quieter with only the two of them in it.
Bucky exchanges whiskey glass for water bottle and cools the too warm fleshly palm. A nod gives thanks and he flashes Sam a quiet smile before he stares out at an evening sky painted in pinks and golds.
“Still not used to it?” Sam turns the glass in his hands, the liquor-filtered light throwing playful patterns against his shirt. “The heat I mean.”
Bucky wipes sweat from the bridge of his nose with the collar of his faded shirt. “It’s not so bad,” he replies. “At least we’re not in the desert.”
Sam nods in agreement and looks at Bucky almost fondly. Earnestly. “There are worst places to be.”
But Bucky doesn’t say how electrifying it is, how a shiver dances down his spine at every bare skinned contact, how Sam’s subtle warm is even more intoxicating than the whiskey. He doesn’t say anything.
A zephyr pulls strands of hair from hastily constructed bun and cools sweat-dampened skin. Sam lifts his chin with a look of quiet contemplation. Bucky’s heart flutters.
“Feel that?” Sam asks. He hums quietly. Pleasurably. “It’s going to rain later.”
“You’re amazing.” The words slip off Bucky’s tongue without thought. Effortlessly. A slight blush creeps into his cheeks. “The way you’re able to read to winds and everything, it’s impressive.”
Sam smiles in thanks. A moment passes as they hold each other’s gaze. Silence breaks at a collective laugh from indoors. The airman leans back, away from Bucky. His stare goes to the screen door and the light spilling through falls softly on his skin. Bucky’s tongue drags slowly across his lips.
“I should go see if anyone needs any help,” Sam murmurs. Whiskey waters the grass. “Between Bruce and Thor, it already looks like we’re trying to feed a small army.”
For all his talk, it looks like he is reluctant to leave. A slow inhale creates something akin to apprehension, lets it flutter in Bucky’s chest. He straightens and watches Sam intently, watches him take a slow breath, watches him catch his lower lip between his teeth. And, for a second, it looks like he wants to touch Bucky in the gentlest way possible. Or fuck him hard up against the wall. Bucky swallows hard and tries not to stare too long at Sam’s lips or the muscles articulating beneath skin.
“Bucky…”
The sound of his name rolling so gently off Sam’s tongue sends an earthquake tremble running through his body. Bucky leans close, slow enough for Sam to back away if he wants. He doesn’t. Sam fills in the space Bucky leaves open. They tiptoe over the line and cross the boundary dividing intimacy and friendship. They kiss and Bucky feels his thoughts colliding into one another. The air is filled with Sam’s cinnamon honey scent, his heat electrifying in the best way possible.
Carefully, Bucky rests prosthetic hand on the small of Sam’s back to guide him out of house light and away from the windows. Lips part slightly and Bucky can taste the sticky soda sweetness lingering on Sam’s tongue. And Sam is resting his hand on Bucky's waist, thumb finding skin to brush against.
A door slams somewhere indoors and voices rise. Rabbit hearted, they part quickly. Their breath quickens. Seconds turn to minutes and Sam is staring like he is looking for some telltale sign.
"What do you want out of this, Bucky?" Sam asks in a near whisper. He leans against the wall relaxed and waiting.
"What I want?" The concept is sometimes still foreign.
"Because I don't want to be a one time thing or just for now."
Astonishment writes itself across Bucky's face as he tries to fire up the synapses in his brain. He touches Sam's hand gently, the metal fingers catching the light. "What I want is to kiss you again. I want to kiss you five minutes from now--two months, a year. I want to kiss you for as long as I can. I want to take you to that little pancake shop in Brooklyn you love so much. I want to hold your hand and watch Casablanca even though we've already seen it eight times. I want to see you smile, Sam, because I can't think of anything I like better than seeing you smile."
Sam exhales slowly. "I care about you, Bucky. I want...you."
"We've known each other for almost two years now. So, Sam Wilson, will you go steady with me?"
Sam intertwines their fingers. He nods once and pulls him in for a quick kiss. "Let's stay out here for a minute. I want this to be ours before the spies find out."
Bucky wraps his arm around Sam's waist and holds him close. A kiss goes to the curve of his neck. "We can stay out here all night if you want."