Chapter Text
Steve takes the handle of the paintbrush between his lips; keeps it held there gently as he pinches the sides of the freshly painted parchment and holds it up at eye level. He studies the sweeping brushstrokes and the play of color across the page, an autumnal scene brought to life in a windswept flurry of leaves. It feels warm, somehow, the deep oranges and rich reds; warmer than Steve’s felt since the season started to turn. Warm, and unfinished.
He lays it back down on the table and sets the brush to it anew, trailing a crimson blush up the spine of a leaf in the foreground. The fall of familiar footsteps approaching the front door sweeps a blush of its own across the canvas of Steve’s cheekbones.
His eyes flick up as Bucky steps into their kitchen, bringing with him the chill of the evening air and the smell of the docks. The curve of his shoulders and drag of his feet betray the bone-deep exhaustion he’ll never admit to, and Steve won’t ask. ‘How was your day?’ has fallen to the side of questions that go unasked between them…In these times, they both know what it’s like out there.
“Hey, Buck.” He says instead, setting his brush aside and turning his attention to the person he shares his life with in every way except the ones he wants most. He reigns in the drift of his stare down Bucky’s form as he kicks off his shoes and shucks his jacket, rolling his shoulders against the grip of end-of-day stiffness.
Bucky’s gaze sweeps over the spread of Steve’s art supplies across their dining table; over the landscape taking shape on the paper. “You’ve been painting.” There’s a fondness to the way he says it, like it brings him some measure of comfort to know this is how Steve has spent his afternoon.
The ‘you’re well enough to be up and painting again’ goes unsaid.
Steve nods. “It’s not finished…there’s something missing, but I can’t work out what.”
Bucky’s looking at him, at his face, the corners of his mouth upturned slightly. His stare seems to linger on Steve’s mouth; his eyes glinting something Steve doesn’t quite recognize. A moment passes, and Bucky clears his throat.
“…Pretty.” His voice is quiet, a little rough around the edges. He nods once, a slight tilt of his head, and then makes his way down to the bathroom to wash up.
Steve looks down at his painting, something like pride glowing warm in his chest. It is pretty, he thinks. Prettier if it’s something Bucky likes. He starts clearing away his workspace, making room for them to sit at the table together. He gathers up his brushes and brings them to the sink, wincing at the frigid water that trickles from the faucet to rinse the bristles. His eye catches briefly on his reflection in the small kitchen window, and he falters.
The light is dim, but when he casts his gaze up in earnest to the pane of glass, he can see himself clear as day – the same eyes that have always stared back at him, the same stubborn chin and permanently furrowed brow, but his mouth…
His mouth, suddenly, not his own…now tinged with a vibrant streak of red.
He stares; paint-stained lips in striking contrast with the familiar pallor of his skin.
He stares; breath held, heart stumbling.
Pretty.
It’s strange, Steve thinks, the way this feels like him. Like this has always been a part of him, somewhere in the periphery; as content to rest in the shadows as it now seems to turn its face to the sun. It feels calm, unremarkable…like any other of Steve’s quiet truths.
The soft light of early afternoon filters into the bedroom through threadbare curtains, bathing his hair and skin in faint, warm gold, and he looks at himself in the dust-speckled mirror. Bucky’s nightshirt falls almost to his knees, made for men of greater stature than Steve. Men like Bucky, who wear their strength in the set of their shoulders and the spread of their chest.
The shirt is old and worn thin, and Steve’s eyes trace over the shape of himself beneath it; over the bony ridges of his body, the slight tapering of his waist just below his ribcage. His chest is flat, sunken a little under the collarbones; his shoulders narrow and pointed in the absence of spare flesh. His hip bones jut out in sharp arcs, and there’s a fineness to his wrists and hands that make him look, by his own observation, entirely breakable. More breakable than he’s ever felt, but his body has always belied his will. There’s a delicacy to the way he was put together, and he wonders if the hand that made him knew, somehow, that he might one day come to feel all the more whole for it.
He fists the fabric of the shirt at his back; pulls it tight around his waist to fall in a fitted silhouette around him. It creates the barest illusion of curve, but it’s enough to draw a smile to the corners of his lips. He and Bucky haven’t spoken about the comment that was passed a few nights ago, but it continues its loop in Steve’s head nonetheless, warming him from the inside. He stays just like that; just being with this part of himself. Quiet, serene. Himself and one of his reflections.
Until a soft intake of breath sounds at the bedroom doorway.
Steve turns to find Bucky standing on the threshold, unmoving, his eyes travelling in a slow sweep down Steve’s form.
For the first time in Steve’s life, he cannot read what he finds on his best friend’s face.
“I got sent home early…” It sounds almost like an apology when Bucky speaks, voice barely above a whisper. “…They got no more work for me today.”
Steve is rooted to the spot; cheeks burning. He searches for a word, an explanation, but he comes up empty. He’s got nothing; nothing but the too-loud surge of his own pulse in his ears and the sudden weight of insecurity twisting in his gut. His gaze drops to his feet.
Bucky’s shirt is soft against his skin. It’s soft, and it smells like Bucky, and there isn’t a single reason Steve should be wearing it.
Bucky steps towards him, cautious and measured. He bends to pick up Steve’s belt from the tangle of discarded clothes on the floor, and moves to stand behind Steve at the mirror. He’s warm, always warm by the end of his shift; Steve can feel it radiating from him where he stands at his back.
Bucky’s hands pass tentatively around his waist, and the breath Steve hadn’t realized he was holding leaves him all at once.
“I’ve seen girls wearing it like this…” Bucky speaks softly, without inflection, fixing the belt around Steve’s waist; fixing the fabric – his shirt – into shape.
Steve can’t seem to draw in air past the tightness in his chest, can’t breathe against the heavy kick of his heart behind his ribs. “Buck…” He begins, knowing very well it’s a sentence he can’t finish. He swallows hard, too aware of Bucky’s body behind him.
When he doesn’t continue, Bucky asks simply, quietly, “…You feel right, like this?”
Steve can only nod, eyes glued to the floor.
Bucky breathes a hushed sigh, and Steve thinks he can feel it against the back of his neck.
“…Then there ain’t nothing to explain, Stevie.”
Steve blinks against pin-prick tears. He forces himself to lift his eyes, to seek out Bucky’s gaze in the mirror. When he finds it, he’s met with the same openness that’s always been there.
For a moment that seems to stretch, warm and comforting like the sun’s rays across the floor, Bucky’s fingertips stay right where they are - resting at Steve’s waist, the gentlest touch.
When Steve awakes the following day, he does so to find Bucky has long since left for work.
Bucky's not there, but his nightshirt is - folded, waiting, at the foot of Steve's bed.