All that you're making of me (Evanstan fanfic)

Chapter 2: The first avenger

three years ago: Sebastian

Chris Evans is beautiful.

Sebastian's helplessly, endlessly, head-over-heels in love with him by the end of their first conversation. The emotion hits like a tidal wave of clear joy. And it never goes away. He thinks it must, somehow, sometime—surely no one outside of fairytales falls in love at first sight, surely this feeling can't last—but day after day it does last, and Sebastian's in love.

He watches Chris on set every chance he gets. Not much of a stretch, not when Bucky Barnes looks at Steve Rogers that way too. Bucky wants to protect Steve and cheer him on and follow him anywhere and kiss him senseless, and that's just fine. Sebastian can handle that. He could build a career on that.

Chris is beautiful in the way that forests are beautiful, in the way that sunrise over Boston skylines is beautiful, in the depth of presence, the solidity of deep roots and layered compassion. Chris laughs with his whole body and loves his mother and can sing show tunes and down a shot of Jagermeister without missing a beat. Chris talks about nature and camping and the pure stillness of the woods at dawn, and his face lights up; Chris touches other people often, a hand on a shoulder or chest, as if he's saying: we're both real and we can feel this. Chris looks the way a casting call for Captain America could've only dreamed about, and opens his home to every guest who needs a place to stay, stranger or friend.

Chris is beautiful in so many ways. Sebastian starts trailing him around on set, inadvertently. Chris, naturally, notices.

"That's the third time you've been outside my trailer in one day. Not that I'm complaining, but shouldn't you be getting tied up over on the HYDRA set?"

"Delayed," Sebastian says, and stops leaning on the flimsy trailer wall, matching steps with Chris in the sunshine. Chris is taller, but Sebastian's got long legs. They fall into rhythm, companionably. "Some sort of lighting difficulties. I shall have to be tied up and tortured tomorrow."

There's a brief hitch in Chris's next step—a rock? a stumble?—but no hint of it in his voice. "So you're spending your afternoon off stalking me? Come on, we can get you a more fun hobby than that. Llama-hair sweater-knitting? Ceramic sculpture art? Erotic stamp collecting?"

"Erotic stamp collecting, please...is that an actual option? Do you have any?"

"Oh, yeah, you should see the mountain women of Tibet. Never knew you could do that with yak butter." Chris dodges a flying intern as she sprints in the direction of Hugo Weaving's trailer. "Was she holding a kitten? Does Hugo eat kittens now...? You do know I'm not serious, right, because I actually don't even know what yak butter is."

"Hugo's niece requested a kitten for her birthday." Sebastian inches a bit closer. Their shoulders almost touch. "I like my current hobby. Very in-character."

"Hmm," Chris says, and drapes an arm around his shoulders. Sebastian tries not to purr. Like the kitten, finding a home. Good God, Chris even feels perfect, warm and sturdy, made of muscles and sunshine, blue and gold.

He's pathetic. He's aware.

"Well," Chris muses, evidently giving this great consideration, "if you're going to keep turning up in my trailer—"

"One time! You left the door open!" True. He'd only been trying to help. The wind had blown some script pages onto the floor, and he'd ducked in to pick them up.

"—you can at least bring me coffee. Bucky would bring Steve coffee. How do you know everything, by the way? Hugo. Kittens. I didn't even know he had a niece."

"I listen. Would you like yak butter in the coffee? Extra cream."

"Oh, God," Chris says, "how does anyone ever think you're innocent, you're terrifying, seriously, how does this work, do you just charm everyone into thinking you're adorable and wide-eyed and bashful so you can get away with talking about yak butter in public, and yes I realize what a strange sentence that was."