steve rogers (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flagflying) wrote2017-01-24 09:31 pm
flagflying) wrote2017-01-24 09:31 pm
devil underneath your grin, sweet thing, bet you play to win | readytocomply
Five years. That's how long it'd been since Steven Rogers had set foot on American soil, breathed in the familiar, polluted New York City air. He'd been eighteen, bright-eyed and curious, oblivious to how cruel and painful the world could actually be.
The engagement party invitation, heavy black cardstock and satin, (we cordially invite you to the engagement of Mr James Buchanan Barnes, and Miss Natasha Alianova Romanova) had been tucked away at the bottom of his bedside drawer, after Sam had shown him, lest anyone see that he had it.
Steve had met Bucky for the first time when he was eight years old, scrawnier than most kids his age, and had been wiping wet eyes with the heels of his hands, in a solemn walk home, knees scraped up and arms bruised up. Bucky must've been twelve or thirteen, and he'd taken down the bullies that had stolen Steve's favourite pencil box in under five minutes. Of course, he hadn't known Bucky was from the Barnes family - and Bucky, probably, hadn't known he was the Rogers kid.
Although, it hadn't stopped them from becoming friends. And later on, it didn't stop Steve from falling in love, either.
He's eight, and Bucky's wiping Steve's cheeks with the sleeves of his red sweatshirt.
He's sixteen, and his cheeks are flushing when Bucky swings an arm around shoulders while they're walking down Broadway and eighth.
He's eighteen, and pressed gently against the side of the car, Bucky's mouth slotting against his own.
He's eighteen, gasping breathlessly with his fingers tangled in Bucky's dark hair.
He's eighteen, on a flight to London.
He's twenty-three, leaning against the brick exterior of the venue he'd gotten off the invitation - lavish, classy, a lovely place for a formal engagement - with a ballcap pulled over his head and sunglasses on. Nobody really knows he's back - which is the upside to all this, paired with the fact he'd gotten a little taller, a little more built during his time away. The only thing he wants is a glimpse of Bucky - even if his heart's breaking more and more with every passing second.
The engagement party invitation, heavy black cardstock and satin, (we cordially invite you to the engagement of Mr James Buchanan Barnes, and Miss Natasha Alianova Romanova) had been tucked away at the bottom of his bedside drawer, after Sam had shown him, lest anyone see that he had it.
Steve had met Bucky for the first time when he was eight years old, scrawnier than most kids his age, and had been wiping wet eyes with the heels of his hands, in a solemn walk home, knees scraped up and arms bruised up. Bucky must've been twelve or thirteen, and he'd taken down the bullies that had stolen Steve's favourite pencil box in under five minutes. Of course, he hadn't known Bucky was from the Barnes family - and Bucky, probably, hadn't known he was the Rogers kid.
Although, it hadn't stopped them from becoming friends. And later on, it didn't stop Steve from falling in love, either.
He's eight, and Bucky's wiping Steve's cheeks with the sleeves of his red sweatshirt.
He's sixteen, and his cheeks are flushing when Bucky swings an arm around shoulders while they're walking down Broadway and eighth.
He's eighteen, and pressed gently against the side of the car, Bucky's mouth slotting against his own.
He's eighteen, gasping breathlessly with his fingers tangled in Bucky's dark hair.
He's eighteen, on a flight to London.
He's twenty-three, leaning against the brick exterior of the venue he'd gotten off the invitation - lavish, classy, a lovely place for a formal engagement - with a ballcap pulled over his head and sunglasses on. Nobody really knows he's back - which is the upside to all this, paired with the fact he'd gotten a little taller, a little more built during his time away. The only thing he wants is a glimpse of Bucky - even if his heart's breaking more and more with every passing second.