By the time Bucky Barnes found himself back in the streets of Brooklyn, getting off work as the evening swept over the day, warm beams of sunlight had started to run along the pavement, down to his scuffed shoes. Crooking his neck, the man also noticed that touches of orange aquarelle had rearranged the clear sky up above, meaning that the sun had already started its descent toward the thin horizon line; nightfall awaited around the corner, ready to turn up lampposts with its gracious fingers. A breeze agreeably swirling through his hair, chasing away summery heat to make room for the chill crepuscule weather, Bucky headed back home.
It wasn't long before the brunette reached the building he lived in, then climbing up the stairs to the upper floor, and rummaged through his pockets to find the little key to the right appartement. Judging by the lock, which it only took a single turn to open, Bucky had a slight idea of who might have been back before him. Perhaps a certain childhood best friend, flatmate and long-time partner called Steven Rogers.
"Stevie, I'm home," he called from the hallway, taking his shoes off before washing his hands in the kitchen nearby. As cheesy as it sounded, the man had missed not seeing his boyfriend that afternoon.
However, the scenery that welcomed Bucky into the living room was nothing like what he had expected. Indeed, instead of finding Steve reading on the sofa or drawing outside on the balcony, the sight of the blonde young man buttoning his white shirt over scratches on his chest met his gaze.
"Hey, Buck."
Without further peeking, Bucky rushed up to his friend, having a clue of what had happened.
"Who the hell did you fight with this time?" he questioned, giving the younger man a reproachful look.
"Some jerk who was being hateful," Steve explained, finishing to put the piece of clothing back on. "I told him to stop several times, but apparently his only way of listening to me was getting into a fist fight. Had to knock it out of him."
"Steven, you're an idiot," Bucky stated desperately, reaching for the man's hand nevertheless. "How many times will it take for you to understand that you'll keep getting beaten up?"
"I'm not going to stop, Bucky," Steve said in a softer voice, hating to see his friend so concerned because of him. "I can't just stand back and watch those people be assholes."
"Because you don't like bullies?" The brunette man asked, knowing Steve all too well.
"Yes. Because I don't like bullies."
"You're an idiot," Bucky repeated, but this time a small smile had began to creep its way upon his lips. "Does it hurt much?"
"A little bit. But I feel better already, now that you're here," Steve said fondly. "Don't worry about me, okay Buck? I'll be okay. How was your day at work?"
"Okay, but it doesn't mean I'm giving up on trying to stop you," Bucky smiled, leaving a kiss on the blonde's hand. "I'll check on your bruises in an hour and we'll bring new compresses if they hurt too much. Did you put ice on them?"
"Yes, Buck, come on, I told you I'm okay." Steve brushed the matter off, though the way his best friend cared about him undeniably made his heart swell. "Answer my question now. How was your day?"
"My day was alright," Bucky finally replied. "But I couldn't wait to come back home."
"Well, now you're here" Steve lifted himself up, tenderly kissing the man on the lips to prove his point.
The brunette's eyelashes fluttered, closing as he leant into the kiss — to him, nothing felt more like home than Steve's sometimes grazed lips, his fingers running through the hair at the back of his head, the soft fabric of his shirts. And though he knew that he would never stop worrying over the younger man's constant fighting in dark alleyways, nothing rivalled the happiness they both felt in each other's arms, the love they found together and shared, away from anyone and anything else.
"Stevie..." Bucky mouthed against Steve's lips, their hands intertwined beside them on the sofa. "Are you sure it's doesn't hurt too m—"
"Shut up."
Yes, on that 1938 summer evening, Bucky and Steve were happy.
—
it's missing my 30s boys hours today :-(
