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They're in the middle of a boring breakfast in the officers’ mess when Bucky realizes how obvious he has become since he and Gale started this thing between them. It’s pouring buckets outside. Rain cascades down the windows in morose rivulets, cutting through the condensation on the glass, and everything smells like wet earth and coffee. Only the faintest traces of Gale's aftershave break up the godforsaken monotone, but Bucky can only catch whiffs of it if he leans forward over the table. Nowadays, he wakes and sleeps with the craving to steal a kiss, a touch, anything, and more often than not, he has to survive on mere scraps because Gale is too careful to do more. If he was a woman, Bucky would be able to spend every minute of his free time trying to get him into bed and no one would bat an eye. But he’s not, so they're left with secrecy and a hell of a lot of pining. Is it a wonder that his control slips?
He's still half-asleep and staring at Gale's left ear, of all things, idly analyzing its perfect proportions and shape and how kissable it is, when Gale bumps his boot into his under the table. Bucky's gaze slides to Gale's, but in his love-drunk haze, he doesn’t clock what Gale's look is supposed to mean until DeMarco claps him on the shoulder.
“You need more coffee, buddy.” He laughs as he reaches for his own cup.
Across from him, Blakely snorts and elbows Gale. “Think he’s in love with you, Buck?”
If there’s ever a merciful way to go out, this is not it. Bucky's insides liquify in mortification. He tries to chew the forkful of scrambled eggs he regrets ever putting in his mouth, but his stomach roils because the boys may think it’s the joke of the year but Gale sure as hell doesn’t. Usually so quick to put on the charms and roll with the humor, Bucky now struggles to find any words at all. He's been exposed. He doubts he’ll get away with it. It will come back to haunt him when he and Gale are alone again.
For his part, Gale seems relaxed and unperturbed as he leans back in his seat. His expression, as always when he’s in a good mood, seems perpetually amused. He's content to watch Bucky make a fool of himself without intervention.
“He's been missing that girl something fierce since Dye swooped in.” DeMarco continues his teasing with Blakely.
“Shouldn't have sung in front of her.” The two of them chortle.
“Bucky, you ought to buy a fella some flowers first.”
“Or chocolate.”
“At least a drink!”
“Yeah, yeah, very funny.” Bucky cuts them off, raising his hands in defeat. “Can’t even eat my breakfast in peace anymore.”
The boys all laugh and start discussing the meal in question, happy to complain about it in the most creative hyperboles they can come up with. To them, it was just a bit of harmless fun. What do they even know about these things? They don’t know how it feels when suppressed desire digs its claws into your heart and tears into it, Bucky thinks sullenly. He keeps his eyes fixed on his plate as he takes a bitter sip of coffee. He can feel the weight of Gale's gaze on him. Perhaps, if he ignores it long enough, they can forget the whole thing. It’s not too much to ask for, is it?
Under the table, Gale's leg brushes his.
The alarm bells in his head go off again.
He can’t pretend he didn't feel that, can he? It would just make it worse. No, he has to acknowledge it. Faking as much nonchalance as possible, he looks up - first, at the steam oozing sluggishly from DeMarco's cup, then at the cigarette Blakely puts behind his ear, until finally, as if by chance, his eyes meet Gale's. The silence between them stretches Bucky's fraying nerves like a rolling pin flattening a dough. Say something, part of him pleads. The wiser part just prays that Gale drops it, chalks it off as one of Bucky's antics. For a few seconds, nothing happens. Gale holds his gaze but doesn’t say anything, just moves his leg against Bucky's again. But when Bucky knocks their knees together in response, his unreadable expression breaks into a smile, and he looks away.
Bucky wants to tackle him out of his chair and kiss him until he laughs.
He’s going insane, isn’t he? God help him.
On their way out of the mess, he and Gale hang back to share a few friendly words with the girls serving the food. Bucky flirts with them while Gale waits for him with the patience of a saint, aloof under the coquettish glances some of the women shoot him. It’s an excuse Bucky uses almost daily to secure some time alone with him. Just a few minutes until they catch up to the other officers who already left the hall. Barely enough to talk, let alone to do anything else. Still, it's the best part of Bucky's day, because he can make it a ritual, something steady to remind Gale that they are something, even if they can’t touch each other anytime they want it.
Sometimes, they don't even talk during those fleeting moments alone, but today, as they make their way towards the exit, Gale walks close enough to brush against him.
“Got you something for your birthday.” He says, his voice neutral as if he was talking about a stale chocolate cake and not filling Bucky's head with the filthiest of fantasies.
“My birthday was two weeks ago.” Bucky raises an eyebrow at him, playing. “And I seem to recall that you didn't give me the present that I wanted.”
Gale smiles wide enough to show a flash of his teeth. He keeps looking ahead but Bucky can tell that all his attention is focused on him and nothing else. “I got you a donut.”
Bucky huffs a laugh. He asked for a kiss. It was something nice to look forward to, but they couldn't slip away that day. Nothing to do about it. It’s still fun to tease Gale though. “It’s not what I wanted.”
They stop in the open door, where the wind sprinkles raindrops on their cheeks whenever it blows their way. Outside, water sloshes in muddy puddles as people trudge through them miserably. England's grey skies live up to their depressing promise. But as the first colder gusts of autumn hit them, Gale gives him a look that makes Bucky want to run out into the storm and race in it until his lungs give out. “Maybe, you’ll be happier about this one.”
“What is it?”
The lopsided smile Gale shoots him could drive a lesser man crazy. Perhaps Bucky is one of those, he thinks. “Well, you’re just gonna have to wait and find out.”
“Come on.” He whines through a smile, but Gale is already stepping out into the downpour, the blond strands of his hair darkening where his cap doesn’t protect them from the rain. He turns back for a second to call out. “Harding wants to see you!”
“You’re a bastard, Cleven!” Bucky shouts after him as he moves to follow. His grin refuses to wane even as the rain's cold fingers try to wipe it away.
It turns out that his belated birthday present is a two-day leave for him and Gale. It’s a mystery how Gale talked Harding into it, what sort of arguments he threw in to get him to agree to it after only a few weeks since the last time they were off together at the same time, but he did it. Two whole days, just him and Gale. Now, with not just a foolish spark of hope but a promise of what Bucky’s dreaming of day and night. It more than makes up for his lacklustre birthday, Bucky thinks.
The night before, he filches an air sickness pill from a medic just to make sure he’s able to sleep. He's nervous. Hard to put a finger on why. It’s still just Gale after all, the person who understands him most in this world, his best friend. It doesn’t matter what they do together, he’ll be happy about it. And he has plenty of experience with the rest. Perhaps not so much with men, but he should be over the phase when one's knees get all jittery. Yet, his do at the mere thought of touching Gale like that. Date night nerves are alien to him - if this is how some fellas feel before taking a lady dancing, then he’s not surprised that some of them balk at the sound of music.
Gale seems entirely unaffected. He insists that they spend most of the first day sightseeing in London, as if Bucky didn't feel tortured enough already. He drags Bucky around through crowds and rain-damp streets that smell like smoke and fallen leaves. He buys them toffee to share, cold fingers brushing in the paper bag, cheeks wind-bitten as they pretend to fight over which exhibition to visit from the ones still defiantly open, nude sculptures or nude paintings? Does Bucky even care? Only to end up in a pub instead, all brown wood and old leather, warmth trapped inside. Gale smiles into the first sip of his ginger beer and talks about Wyoming in long, drawled words that sound like summer as the cloud-wrapped sun sets outside. It’s a proper date, Bucky doesn’t fail to notice. Is this what it feels like to be wooed? But if he thinks about it, he hardly finds any difference from what they usually do. It’s just the meaning behind it all. Was it always there?
When the first soldiers start trickling in to replace the seasoned regulars, Gale looks at him for a moment, then downs the rest of his drink in two gulps.
“All right.” He says calmly, as if he has just made up his mind about something. Bucky loves him more than he has ever loved anything in this world. “Let’s go.”
The back of Gale's head hits their hotel room's door with a thunk, but he doesn’t even wince as Bucky pins him to the wood and kisses him breathless. Their hips align as if drawn by magnets, irresistible forces pushing back and forth, and they just move with the flow of it. Chest to chest, hardness to hardness. Gale’s hands press against Bucky's shoulders, but only to find leverage to kiss back. One of Bucky's arms curls around his waist, the other reaches out to turn the key. The lock clicks loudly in the silence.
Gale pulls back just long enough to ask, “Which bed do you want?”
“I don’t care.” Bucky mumbles before he captures Gale's lips again. They paid for only one room with two beds this time, at a place where people are used to soldiers on leave. No doubt the maids have seen their fair share of rumpled sheets. He leans back to look at Gale's face and grins, tracing the curve of Gale's bottom lip with his thumb. “We should make a mess of both, I reckon. Less suspicious that way.”
Gale's mouth curves into a smile. He nods, mischief bright in his eyes. “Sound reasoning.”
Bucky makes a smug gesture. “I have my moments.”
Gale moves away from the door, out of the circle of Bucky's arms, to sit on the closest mattress. He leans back on his hands, then his elbows as Bucky follows and climbs over him. He hooks his fingers under the knot of Bucky's tie. “Must be all that Air Exec experience.”
On the pristine white cover, he looks so neat that Bucky’s heart skips a beat. The things he wants to do with him, to him…
“You bet.” Bucky snorts and presses him the rest of the way down on the bed.
They're both starving for it in their own way. It’s there in the fumbling of Gale's ever-steady hands as he pulls at Bucky's clothes, in the bruises his fingertips imprint on Bucky’s flanks, in the need he hums into their kisses. He lets Bucky trace the jut of his hipbones with his lips and bite the muscle curving above them until one side bears a mark. We have all night, he gasps but he tugs at Bucky's hair like it kills him not to have him at once. He can barely take it, it seems, the sudden barrage of sensation Bucky's frantic desire lays on him. Some of his clothes are still on him when Bucky makes him spill in his mouth, too impatient to get rid of everything in the way. His eyes are closed the whole time.
The second time is sweeter, lazier. They lie on their sides and stroke each other until satisfaction bleeds into need again. The sounds of their sloppy kisses and touches are the only noises in the room. Does this feel good? Gale asks a dozen different, wordless ways, with his questing hands and the look in his eyes, and he shivers every time Bucky moans praise against his neck as the pleasure mounts. He likes it, Bucky realizes. He wants Bucky to talk, even though he himself is quieter than a breeze.
He loves that he gets to learn these new things about Gale. He loves that he knows how Gale's voice pitches higher just before he comes, and that he gets to tell him you’re gorgeous as he shudders through the waves. He loves it when Gale's muscles relax after, when he looks at Bucky for a second before he covers his eyes and snickers the same way he does whenever Bucky sings in public. He just loves Gale. And it's a knife to the chest, a drug in his veins.
They sleep in each other's arms that night. Although Gale is happy to let Bucky pillow his head on his chest and tangle their legs, he doesn’t seem to want to spoon at first. But later, as the darkness rests on their bodies like a soft, heavy duvet, he does turn to lie on his side, and when Bucky takes the chance to roll with him, he doesn’t protest. His back expands against Bucky's chest around a content sigh. Bucky feels alive.
He doesn’t know how long they sleep, but his dreams still fight to drag him back into oblivion when Gale starts moving away from him. Instinctively, Bucky clings to him, doesn’t let him go. In his sleep-heavy mind, his inhibitions are all gone. He just wants Gale to stay molded to him until they truly have no other choice but to move. He burrows closer to Gale, his forehead to Gale's back, breathing in his scent and leeching warmth from his body.
“Good morning.” Gale's voice is deeper until his vocal cords warm up to the new day. It has always been like this, but this is the first time that Bucky hears it from so close that the sound vibrates against his face.
“’S good indeed.” He mumbles back and opens his mouth against Gale's skin, just because he can. He hears an amused noise, then Gale's efforts double, and he manages to extricate himself from the embrace. Bucky's whine of protest would be embarrassing, were he awake enough to care. “Where are you going?”
“Taking a bath.”
A bath. At dawn. What for? They're not leaving this room today, are they? Might as well leave the cleaning to the end of the day. It’s not like Bucky cares that much about sweat or any such thing. Hell, he might even like it. But he's too tired to try to work out the mysterious ways of Gale's mind, so he just grunts, gets up just long enough to take a piss, then drops back on the bed and buries his face in Gale's pillow. He thinks he hears Gale chuckling, but it might be an illusion in a dream.
The next time he wakes up, he has no idea how much time has passed but it's not dark anymore. He stretches and sits up to blink at the sliver of sky he sees through the sheer curtain covering the window. Violet strands drift across a grey-blue canvas like a lady's hair in the wind. A pink glow smudges the bottom of his view, warmth pushing at the horizon. The raindrops sprinkled on the glass from last night glitter. It’s all quiet in the room.
“Hey, Buck?” Bucky calls out as worry rises in his throat. Gale wouldn’t get cold feet, would he? “You still in there?”
“Yes.” Comes a relaxed answer from the bathroom.
There's a rush of relief, then a burst of fluttering butterflies in Bucky's stomach. He stands up, heedless of his nakedness, and knocks on the door. “Can I come in?”
“If you want.”
He steps in cautiously, but Gale really is just taking a bath. His head tipped back to rest on the tub, his eyes closed, steam still rising from the water that laps at his chest and the knobs of his pulled-up knees. The room smells like army-soap and warmth.
“Now that's a sight for sore eyes.” Bucky grins, approaching more confidently now.
Gale’s eyes open halfway. “Wanna join me?”
God, if only he could. But as much as he wants it, Bucky knows how to assess proportions. He's a big guy, there’s no way to make that comfortable. Instead, he crouches down by the tub and rests his elbows on it. He hangs one of his hands in the warm water. “I don't think I'd fit.”
One corner of Gale's lips twitches. He closes his eyes again. “We could make it work.”
Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Is that so?”
His thoughts drift to other situations where his size could make for a tight fit. Some more interesting than others. Since he found out about Gale's lack of experience, he has been avoiding the topic of sex as much as he can. When Gale is ready, he’ll say it, he’s sure. Pressure will get him nowhere. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t wonder if maybe this time they could… If Gale would like it… Especially when Gale flirts with him like that. So, to see where things go, he presses two fingertips to Gale's knee, then starts walking them down his thigh, under the water and the bubbles floating around. When he reaches the crease of Gale's thigh, Gale snaps into sudden motion - one of his hands darts out to grab Bucky's wrist, the other flicks water at Bucky's face.
Bucky splutters, stunned for a moment, but he catches Gale's playful expression quickly, and then it's on. With his free hand, he splashes water back and horses around with Gale until Gale traps his left hand too and laughs. His face gets all red. His hair, where the water soaked into it, is plastered to his forehead. At that moment, he looks so young that if it wasn't for the dog tags hanging from his neck, Bucky would forget that he’s not innocent and untouched by the horrors of this world anymore. The thought depresses him. He wants Gale to feel free to always be like this. He wants him not to think of the weight of responsibility or of loss. Bucky himself doesn’t want to think about those either.
But they’re still there. Thunder in the distance, low tide before a flood.
His darkening thoughts must show on his face because Gale's smile fades too, until they're left watching each other mutely. An inexplicable sadness descends on Bucky’s mind like the soup on the terrible morning of that fucking Regensburg mission. Gale lets go of his left hand to touch Bucky's shoulder instead. It feels comforting. But when he starts pulling Bucky's right hand towards his chest, Bucky jerks it out of his grip.
A frown appears between Gale's pale eyebrows. “What?”
Bucky worries at his lips, trying to come up with an explanation, but eventually, he just ends up saying it as it is. “I don’t want to touch them.”
Gale looks down. The metal lying between his pecs rises and falls with each breath. Harmless. Meaningless and significant at the same time. After a moment of silence, he grabs the chain and rotates it until the tags are over his shoulder. Out of sight. When he pulls at Bucky's wrist again, Bucky flattens his palm against his sternum. Gale's heart drums against his hand. It feels so fragile.
“Promise me you’ll make it through 25.” Bucky says abruptly. It’s a rare moment of honesty. He doesn't know where it came from. Although they're best friends, they don't tend to talk about the war or about this bond between them candidly. Putting their deepest fears into words sits heavier on the heart than asking for reassurance with bad jokes or a grim look.
“I can’t promise that.” Gale's reply sounds sober, gentle only as much as reality allows it to be. Sometimes, Bucky wishes Gale would let him lose touch with the ground and not anchor him there.
Silence lingers in the room. They hold each other's gaze as the seconds tick by. Gale's blue eyes are pensive and serious, and they don't look away even when Bucky tightens his jaw to keep his emotions at bay. A droplet of water trickles down from Gale's hair over the side of his face. An imitation of a tear. Now that he thinks of it, Bucky realizes that he has never seen Gale cry. He's sure he wouldn’t shed a tear even if his plane was going down and death was imminent. Would he do it if it was Bucky's fort?
When Bucky averts his eyes, Gale pulls his hands away. “I wanted to ask you something.”
He doesn’t look at Bucky when he says that - his eyes focus on his own knees instead, hide behind the veil of his lashes. “What Blakely said about you and I a few days ago…” He hesitates. Just for a moment, but it's unlike him, and he feels it too. When he continues, his eyebrows furrow, as though it costs him some effort to keep his voice as steady as usual. He looks up at Bucky again. “Is it true?”
Bucky's heart falls. He knew it would come back. He knew he would have to lie and jeopardize the trust between them or say the truth and risk losing Gale as a lover if Gale doesn’t love him back. There’s no way out of the trap, and he set it for himself. If he hadn't turned the conversation serious, perhaps Gale wouldn’t have brought it up at all.
Although he already doubts that it could work, he tries to play it off as nothing. He makes a dismissive face, flicking at the water. “Blakely says a lot of bullshit.”
Gale hums, but his expression stays expectant, and he looks at Bucky as if he’s trying to read the answer from his eyes. He probably can. It’s unbearable. Bucky's embarrassment must be written all over his face. He wipes his palm over it, but it doesn’t help.
“I thought you'd forgotten.” He mutters eventually, bowing his head.
“I couldn't.” That’s all Gale says.
That hook in Bucky's chest pulls until he feels nauseous. “I don’t know what to tell you.” He shoots Gale a glance but finds no absolution there. The lies refuse to form on his lips. He heaves a defeated sigh. “You gotta… You gotta know.”
He clears his throat when the words are out. That should be clear enough - he won't say it out loud just to humiliate himself more. He feels stripped naked now, in body and soul. He can’t stand the feeling. With hurried movements, he grabs one of the two towels they draped on the little stool next to the tub and wraps it around his waist, no longer comfortable in his skin and in Gale's presence.
“John.” Gale tries to stop him but within seconds, he’s halfway out of the room.
“Take your time, I'll be over here.” He gestures at nothing with fake cheer and closes the door.
Fuck! He wants to claw at his own skin. He fucked that up like an absolute moron. Now, Gale has to collect himself and turn him down in a way that could potentially still preserve their friendship. There’s little chance that they can continue as lovers - Bucky doubts that Gale would do it if he felt like he was taking advantage of Bucky. He's too good a man for that.
With a hand all jerky from the spike of negative emotions, Bucky turns the radio on. He needs to compose himself. Gather his thoughts, wake the fuck up and set things right. He may like to bet but if he has just gambled away the only thing that matters to him then he might as well throw himself to the Krauts. He takes a deep, calming breath. It will be all right somehow. It has to be. He searches for a radio frequency at random. It’s early, but he finds a station that's already active. That ought to help. Music always does. The soft jazz almost blocks out the splash of water he hears from the bathroom.
Is there a way to backtrack? Not likely, he imagines. Gale wouldn’t even let him at this point, would he? What he said was too sincere. It was too much. He can’t afford to feel like that. Not with another man, certainly not with Gale. He rubs at his face again and throws himself on the tattered, floral-patterned sofa someone crammed into the room facing the window. He drops his head against the back of it and tries to lose himself in the melody coming from the radio. He ruined everything. Everything.
God, he could use a drink.
Behind him, the bathroom door creaks open, then closes. Determined footsteps pad towards the beds, then clothes rustle. Cold dread clenches its fist around Bucky's lungs. Is Gale leaving? Just like that?
But he doesn’t. A few seconds later, his steps approach the sofa, and the radio is turned off. Bucky opens his eyes to the sight of him in nothing but a towel around his hips, something in his hand. The love bite Bucky left on his hip just a few hours ago is on full display.
“That was a great song.” Bucky comments, pretending that everything is all normal and okay between them. “We should work on your taste.”
The drowsy morning light makes the wetness on Gale's body glisten and puts him into golden relief. Suds of soap trickle down along the valleys of his torso. There are goosebumps on his arms. A muscle jumps in his chest, and he must be cold, but it's as if he doesn’t even feel it. He breathes too fast, his eyes look upset.
Bucky's lips open around a question but he never gets to ask it.
The next second is nothing but a bright flash of sensation.
Gale's hands holding his face, Gale’s tongue pushing past his lips to kiss him within an inch of his life, a heavy weight dropping on his lap. Cold water drawing lines on his skin. Whatever Gale was holding tumbles on the cushions, forgotten. He kisses Bucky long and hard with a passion that pins Bucky in place, pushes his head back down against the couch and traps his legs between Gale's calves. Gale's nose digs into his cheek from the force of it, and it's obvious that he can barely breathe. Each erratic exhale brushes Bucky's skin, each inhale presses Gale's chest to his. Bucky's palms slip through the drying patches of soapy water on his back. When Gale rises to his knees and reaches between them to open the towel around Bucky's hips, Bucky grunts in surprise, but Gale just hums into his mouth as if it was their new language, the purest, most primal of all. Something enormous shifts between them. Despair turns into elation, and Bucky's mind reels with it.
“Christ.” Bucky’s blood is pumping south so fast that he can’t even think straight anymore.
What does this mean? Does Gale feel the same for him or does he just want to pretend that conversation never happened, like Bucky does? It doesn’t feel like a good moment to ask. There are things that neither of them is used to saying out loud. Even if Gale did love him, would he be able to put that into words? If Bucky confessed more plainly, how would he handle it? He didn't grow up in a loving family, and the only person he dated before Bucky was Marge. No wonder that he reacts the way he does when someone appreciates him. Bucky doesn’t know what he would say if after that awkward situation in the bathroom, he asked Gale about his feelings. It sounds hypocritical. No. He decides to just go with the flow and wait. See how things turn out.
He lets Gale devour his mouth as they continue making out on the worn couch. When Gale pulls half an inch away to catch his breath, Bucky gasps. His lips catch on Gale’s with every word he says. “What are you doing?”
Gale keeps Bucky's head tilted back with a tight grip in his hair as he kisses his Adam's apple, then the side of his throat. “Improvising.”
He guides one of Bucky's hands up his thigh until Bucky starts moving by himself, pushing under the last remaining layer between them and forcing the knot to loosen. The towel parts, and Gale’s perfect cock rubs against the line of Bucky's abs, hardening in Bucky's grip when Bucky spits into his palm and wraps his fingers around it. It’s as if they haven't made each other come several times during the night, the need springs back with wild abandon. It’s a beast, mindless and insatiable. Gale shifts to pull the towel out from between their thighs, then takes Bucky's cock in his hand, holds it to his own until Bucky starts jerking them off together. His hand is big enough.
“As your best friend -” Bucky stares up at Gale, using his free hand to palm at Gale's ass, just kneading the muscle. “- I think you should improvise more often.”
“Best friend?” The amused light returns to Gale's eyes. He seems to relax a bit more. His nipples are still hard from the cold but as the water dries, his goosebumps disappear. He leans away to grab the thing he was holding earlier, then opens it. It's a small jar of vaseline. Bucky's stomach does a somersault at the sight of it. “What about this?”
“Well, we're very good friends.” Bucky jokes. When Gale laughs, he puts a hand on each of Gale's thighs and strokes them from knees to hips. Gale's supple skin feels smooth under his palms. “What would you call us if not best friends?”
Gale looks to the side, then back at Bucky again. “Co-pilots.”
Bucky snorts. He glances back and forth between the lube and Gale's face. Are they really going to do it like this? Right here, right now? “We flying out today, Major?”
Marigold light spills into the room behind Gale as the sun rises. It catches on the dust particles swirling in the air and paints new life into the faded flowers of the couch. There’s hope in the morning, rising up with the smoke that drifts from the chimneys of the neighbouring houses. Gale holds Bucky's gaze and nods.
Arousal washes over Bucky's body like a heatwave. He wants to get off the sofa and spread Gale out on a mattress, press him down on it until the frame creaks. “Perhaps we should get more comfortable first.”
“I'm comfortable.” Gale says.
The tone of his voice makes Bucky want to laugh. He should have expected that. Even though it’s his first time, of course it's Gale who slips into this unreal serenity while Bucky worries about him. Why would sex be any different from any other aspect of their lives? Still stroking Gale's thighs, he watches as Gale scoops up some of the jelly and reaches behind himself.
When Gale's free hand squeezes his shoulder, he jerks his head towards the rest of the room. “Bed's right there.”
“Good.” Gale nods. He makes no move to get up. The only crack in his armor of confidence now is the way his eyelashes flutter every few seconds as he prepares himself with the lube. The muscles in his arm tense in rhythm. It's hypnotizing. The way the shadows change on his skin is like a dance.
Bucky shifts, slouching a little to get more pressure on his neglected cock. “Hard to maneuver like this.”
Gale looks at him like he sees something even Bucky himself isn’t aware of. He gives Bucky a slow, wet kiss. “Relax, John.”
That makes Bucky chuckle. “I ought to be the one telling you that.” He doesn’t mind not being the lead if control is what Gale needs, but he’s not the type who can just hold himself still and sit back. There's a reason why he hated being an Air Exec. This position, trapped under Gale, doesn’t allow him much movement though. What to do?
He rests his head against Gale's for a moment, then grabs the vaseline. “All right. Come here.” He wraps his left arm around Gale's waist, pulls him closer. “Let me do that.”
Slick with lube, his right hand finds Gale's fingers and pushes them aside. He uses two of his own to slide inside Gale's tight heat, slowly, carefully. It’s different when someone else does it for you, he knows from experience. There’s the thrill of being touched in such an intimate place. The resonation of trust when you let them in. The need to be taken. Then every inch of the stretch, the knuckles pushing past your resistance, the burst of pleasure when a fingertip brushes against the right spot - he hasn't had that many times, but he remembers how overwhelming it was when he did. He could never replicate it with his own hand.
He’s determined to show Gale what that feels like. His fingers sink deep into Gale's warmth, past his tight muscles, spreading him open as deep as he can. When they hilt and crook, the difference in sensation slams into Gale unexpectedly. His lips part, and he gives Bucky a surprised look before he winds his arms around Bucky's shoulders and presses his face to Bucky's neck. Bucky strokes his back and continues.
The heel of his palm presses against Gale's tailbone as his fingers move in and out. The speed increases gradually until he can put some force into it, hitting the best spots and not just stretching him like it's just a step towards the goal. The slick sounds of it are interspersed with Gale's deep breathing. Bucky’s forearm aches from the exertion. It's not a good angle for three fingers but he ignores the strain in his wrist and tries anyway, and he’s rewarded with a quiet, needy sound hummed into his ear. Gale presses his lips to Bucky's cheek. When Bucky turns his head to kiss him properly, he starts moving against Bucky's fingers.
“Ready?” Bucky asks when his lips start to tingle from all the kissing. He feels feverish.
When he pulls his fingers out, his cock twitches against his stomach. He strokes it with his lubed hand, then, when Gale nods, he guides it to Gale's hole. It’s hard to think of anything beyond the need to be buried in that wet heat until they forget they were ever separate. Bucky knows how to enjoy life's pleasures to their fullest, but with Gale, he keeps discovering new planes of joy, and he can’t wait to find out what this step is going to bring.
He holds himself steady at the base while Gale's fingers guide his tip inside. Their fingertips brush where his body joins Gale's.
Despite all the preparation, Gale is slow to open to this new, blunt pressure. Bucky's cock slips out of him once before he manages to take enough of it. As he lowers himself on it, his frown digs lines of struggle into his face and his lips are pressed tight together. He huffs through his nose after every inch. Bucky wishes they did this in bed because he’d be able to help more, but perhaps Gale feels better if it's all up to him to sink down at the pace he wants.
When Bucky finally bottoms out, they both sigh.
“There you go.” Bucky runs his hands over Gale's sides, then his chest, skirting around the dog tags. He traces the bite mark on Gale's hip with reverence. While they worked on getting him inside, Gale's cock lost some of its hardness, but Gale hums when he touches it, and soon enough, his hips are rocking between Bucky's hand and the firm pressure of Bucky's cock in his ass.
Bucky's moans sound like whispers of appreciation in the quiet. He squeezes Gale's hips. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you okay?”
Gale tilts Bucky's head back again and looks into his eyes. His blues are like the night, peaceful darkness and starlight. Behind him, sunlight peeks over the roofs. He smiles. “Yes, Bucky.”
At that moment, Bucky knows it with all his heart that Gale loves him back.
Even if he never tells him, Bucky knows it.
Time is never as abstract as it is when they chase their pleasure together. It feels like they're rushing towards the peak but it might as well last for hours as they move in each other's arms. Gale wasn't kidding when he said he was comfortable - he rocks atop Bucky as if he has done this a thousand times before. His elbows rest on Bucky’s shoulders. When Bucky plants his feet flat on the floor and pushes up to meet his movements, he takes it with a smile creasing the corners of his eyes. He picks up any rhythm Bucky's hips and hands urge him to take. Bucky's thrusts can go teasing and deep or fast and hard, he adapts easily. As if he was made to ride. Bucky's voice gets trapped in his throat by the stunning force of his rapture.
“Cowboy state, huh?” He groans.
Gale smirks. “Damn right.”
Bucky has never had sex like this in his life. It's so intense that every time he sinks in deep, where Gale is tight and hot all around him, he feels like he’s deep inside Gale's soul too, and Gale in his. As if the barriers between them blurred. In the morning hues cast by the window, Gale seems like a mirage. Bucky gathers him close to keep him on this unworthy, mortal plane, and lays messy kisses on his lips, adding to the sound of their skin slapping with the moans that build in his throat. His palm maps the curve of Gale's back, his tongue Gale's taste, and his skin the heat of Gale's sweaty body on top of him.
Just before he tumbles past the edge, he remembers what he realized about Gale last night, and he pulls back from their kiss to mumble praise inches from Gale's overheated neck. “And I thought I was good at this.” He gasps. “God, you feel so good. I want to come inside you.”
Gale swears under his breath and arches his back.
It doesn’t take long from there. Bucky slams into Gale as deep as he can with every snap of his hips to match Gale's rocking. His right hand slips between them to stroke Gale's cock, joining Gale's fingers there to wring the pleasure out of him in quick, uncoordinated strokes. He lets all his thoughts about Gale's body fall from his mouth without a filter. Some hit Gale so hard that he bites his lip, shudders and tightens up around Bucky until Bucky's hips stutter and still. When Bucky spills deep inside him, his muscles seize one last time and his cock coats the hands they work up and down around it.
He trembles and pants in the aftermath.
Bucky drops his head back on the couch and lets out a breathless laugh. His heartbeat slows from the wild rhythm that sounded like the rush of the ocean in his ears. His hips still roll into Gale in small, lazy thrusts just to prolong the afterglow for a little while. They made a mess everywhere, but mostly on Gale's body - and he can’t help but comment on it.
“Got you all dirty again.”
The look Gale gives him is about as smug as it's provocative. He rubs a hand over his own torso, through all that wetness. “I like it.”
Affection pulses in Bucky's chest. He combs his clean hand through Gale's sweat-damp hair. “And you expect me to behave after that?”
“I know a lost cause when I see one.” Gale drawls.
He grabs one of the discarded towels and wipes their hands, then stands up. They both take a deep breath as he does - Bucky's cock slips out, and Gale’s legs shake as they finally straighten. The loss of his warmth leaves Bucky shuddering. He watches Gale wrap the towel around his hips again, then open the window. A fresh breeze caresses his face and the bare parts of his body. Love bites, bruises and sticky patches adorn it, his cheeks are flushed red, and his eyes are bright as he takes in the morning outside. Every muscle on his front, each strand of hair is lit up by the sharp sunshine. He puts his hands on his hips and closes his eyes to bask in it.
He looks like a work of art. Bucky plays around with the fantasy of being a painter in a dusty, old apartment, living on coffee and his muse’s light, taking him to bed after each painting to give all his inspiration back to the body it came from. Hundreds of canvases would hang around on the walls, he imagines. Gale's perfection everywhere.
“Gale.” He calls out. It’s strange, how he always wanted to call Gale by a nickname he gave him, a part of his own name. But now that everyone calls him Buck, it feels like a privilege to be able to see Gale, to know him and love him, this person that he is when he’s stripped of the air of invincibility that surrounds him at the base.
“Hm?”
It's still not an easy question to ask, but Bucky goes for it anyway.
“Do you love me?”
Gale looks back over his shoulder and smiles at him.