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They hadn’t mentioned it, after. The topic seemed too dangerous, too wholly unfathomable, impossible to broach.
It would have been almost like it never happened - the ragged breaths, the crowded headiness, the warmth of that enclosed space - it would almost have faded away into a dreamlike hazy memory - except now it seemed to haunt Gale’s every movement. Nothing felt neutral anymore. He interrogated their every touch, every clap on the back, every inch that separated them. He’d expected an easy return to the jokes and nudges and gentle camaraderie they’d shared before, but tension suffused his every gesture. He had no idea how to get back to solid ground.
He would try to forget, to return to how it was. He would almost succeed. But unavoidably, in the quiet moments, in the dark of his bunk, surrounded by the snores of sleeping men, his mind would return there, to that moment. Phantom breaths ghosted his palm. Something roiled in his gut. He clenched his nails into his fists until they left marks and waited it out.
John gave into the urge, once.
He wouldn’t have noticed if John hadn’t been bunking directly above him. The rest of the men had been sleeping, breaths steady. He himself had been lightly dozing, drifting in and out of sleep. The bed had creaked very slightly above him. There had been movement, quiet, cautious. He’d jerked awake as if he’d been shot.
The noises had been so familiar, mirroring the ones seared into his brain - the quiet sounds of flesh, the bitten off gasps. He’d laid there for a few moments, frozen, listening. He had, for reasons he couldn’t explain, reached up to touch the slats above his head, the only thing separating their bunks. He had felt the movement through them.
He wouldn’t - couldn’t - admit this to himself later, but he had been inexplicably and uncomfortably hard.
He’d ignored it, turned over in bed. The movement above him had gone suddenly still.
He had tried to sleep.
He was on edge. Some undefinable need was coursing through him. The distance now felt all-consuming, a void, dead air - the man beneath, standing in front of him, bundled up, now a great gulf away. He longed somehow to reach across the divide, to touch his skin, his bones, his blood, to confirm they existed below the layers of air and cloth and leather that separated them. He wanted to reach - he didn’t know where (inside, perhaps, below, maybe). The details of what he desired were fuzzy and he did not interrogate them. He dreamed of dancing. He dreamed of peeling back layers, of seeing the skin underneath, of - when he woke up he couldn’t remember.
He had vague ideas of warmth.
John caught him frowning at a letter from Marge. They hadn’t been alone in a room together for days, the frosty weather forcing the hordes inside in a doomed bid to beat back the chill that had settled in their bones. They’d played enough hands of cards for a lifetime, playing for toothpicks and matches and tins of beans. (He’d narrowly beaten John, once. He had smirked at him from across the table. As he pulled his winnings towards him, stuck a toothpick in his mouth, John’s eyes had followed the movement of his hands. He’d flexed his fingers, self-conscious, and John’s gaze had skittered away, almost guiltily. Gale couldn’t stop thinking about it.)
The sun had come out that day, though, bright against the white of the snow, and everyone else had dutifully traipsed out into the yard after their mail had arrived. Gale himself had managed to sneak away from the pack, retreating to the room that they had jokingly dubbed the library, so named after its scant shelves of books.
He had taken the letter from Marge with him. He’d been hoping for a trace of normality, for the comfort the inhalation of familiar perfume would bring to him, but the letter had fallen short. It wasn’t Marge’s fault, of course not, but he couldn’t seem to summon any excitement for the words on the page. They rung somehow false, hollow and far away.
“Everything all right?”
He startled. John stood silhouetted in the doorway of the room, leaning against the frame. His eyes darted between the letter and Gale’s face.
He folded the letter, smoothed over the crease in one decisive movement. Tucked it into his pocket. “Shouldn’t you be outside?”
“Shouldn’t you?” John countered. He folded his arms.
“You’re right.” Gale stood. “You’re right, Bucky, let’s go.” He took a couple of steps towards the door. John didn’t move, held his ground. Gale stopped short, careful to maintain some distance, and gestured past him. “After you.”
He couldn’t stand to look at John’s face too long. He was unsure what he’d find there, what would be mirrored back at him. He fixed his eyes somewhere to the side, just over his ear.
“Buck,” said John, so low it was almost a whisper. He advanced forward a step. Gale stood rooted to the ground. “Buck,” he said again, almost pleading. “Is - are you alright?”
It was a reversal: such a perfect reversal it was almost absurd. Gale couldn’t even begin to contemplate the question. “All good, Bucky, no complaints here. Let’s get outside, huh?”
“Don’t bullshit me, Buck, don’t feed me that crap.” John shifted from foot to foot, agitated. When Gale didn’t immediately respond, kept his gaze focused perfectly still at the space beyond his ear, he hissed, louder - “Godammit, Buck, you can’t even look at me - ”
And John would have said something else, probably, something Gale couldn’t respond to - something that could only widen the gulf between them, would only be another barrier to settle between them, impossible to come back from. He would have said something catastrophic, probably, if he hadn’t broken off abruptly, if not for the sound of doors banging open. If not for the heavy footfall of boots down the corridor. If they hadn’t both frozen.
Gale didn’t even have the capacity to be relieved at the interruption. The footsteps echoed, familiar and dangerous. They’d been glib before, combative, but one truth had lain behind their earlier conversation: they were not supposed to be inside.
He could hear the ritualized sounds of rooms being checked - of boots marching down the corridor, of doors being banged open, the few moments of silence while spaces were inspected for any signs of life.
It didn’t matter where they were supposed to be, he realized very quickly. This was not a matter of what they were supposed to be doing. At this very moment, in this situation, they could not be inside. In the ensuing moment of panic, as a sudden burst of adrenaline coursed through his veins, he looked John directly in the face.
There was a moment of tandem, of perfect harmony, as if they were a unit that had never been separated. They moved as if they weren’t thinking, like their brains hadn’t caught up with their instincts. Gale felt without registering the coolness of the wall as his back collided with it, felt the warm pressure of John’s front as it suddenly pressed against his chest. He tried to catch his breath, get a hold of his bearings. They had crowded into the narrow space behind the open door, out of sight of the doorway, hopefully hidden enough not to be spotted.
The boots continued to march down the hall. He stood as still as possible, willed himself to be calm, tried to ignore their sudden and immediate proximity. The boots got louder, closer. They paused outside the doorway.
John pushed in closer, breath hot against his neck. Gale tried not to breathe. The moment lingered, suspended. His blood thrummed.
Like nothing had happened, like everything was perfectly normal, like no time had passed, the footsteps started up again, heavy down the corridor. Gale stayed frozen, careful, for what felt like an impossibly long time.
As the adrenaline slowly left his body, he found himself flushing with something entirely different: it was warmth at their closeness, probably, their body heat bleeding into each other. He fought to keep control of himself. His neck felt hot.
John pulled back - not enough, only a step, just so he wasn’t actively pinning Gale to the wall anymore. “Sorry,” he said, quietly, then subsided. It wasn’t obvious what he was apologizing for.
“Bucky,” he said. He had no idea what to say. He swallowed, throat contracting almost painfully. John’s eyes darted down, tracking the movement. He took another step back, leaving Gale trapped against the wall like it was the only thing anchoring him to ground.
The sudden distance stretched between them. He was possessed suddenly by the spirit of a madman, determined to maintain the closeness, to breathe in the same air they’d been sharing seconds ago. “Please,” he said. He didn’t know what he was seeking permission for, exactly, just that it was imperative. John stared at him. “Please,” he said again. His voice was ragged.
He almost startled at the gentle touch of John’s hand to his wrist.
He held still, breaths shallow in his chest. John’s fingers encircled his wrist, gaze fixed squarely on Gale’s face, as though judging for his reaction. Then, slowly, so painfully slowly, he guided Gale’s hand upwards - upwards - his heart felt like it might burst out of his chest - until it came to settle on John’s mouth.
They both shuddered at the contact. John inhaled, sharp, like a drowned man resurfacing above the waves.
It was a shock to the system. Gale almost felt lightheaded. That feeling - that indefinable feeling - punched into him, roiling, hot in his gut. He couldn’t deny it, now, John’s breaths being swallowed up by his palm like they belonged there. He trembled, suspended for a moment in perfect calm, before, suddenly and violently, the physical reality of his body slammed into him. He was ashamedly hard, uncomfortably so, straining against his pants. All he could do was hold on to some shred of hope, however slim, that John hadn’t noticed.
Having guided him, positioned him, John let go of his hand. Gale kept it in place, clasped gently. He was transfixed, by his own hand pressed against John’s face, breaths warming his palm, by John’s eyes, staring directly at him, as if they were seeking something.
He was so transfixed he didn’t immediately notice when John’s own hands began moving again. They traveled down, disappearing out of sight. It was only when heard the sound of a zipper, cutting through the silence of the room, that his attention was redirected. A moment elapsed. He held in place, perfectly still. Under his palm he felt the distinct hitch of breath that suggested John had got a hold of himself under his pants.
Heat rushed through him, pooled in his gut. He flexed his hand against John’s mouth, tried to apply more pressure, but the angle was wrong. John let out a grunt, took a step forward, pushed in closer against him. The distance between them narrowed impossibly. He could feel John’s hand working against himself on his hip. He had a strange urge to buck against him, to try to feel every movement across the length of their connected bodies.
Gale realized with a sudden pang of shame that his own bodily reactions couldn’t be hidden for much longer, not with their proximity, John’s hand moving against himself, against him, breaths ragged against his palm. He felt obscene, raw, could already feel himself leaking into the taut fabric of his pants.
The realization spurred him to action. “Wait,” he said. John’s hand stilled against him immediately. “Wait, Bucky - ” He stopped, frustrated, unsure of what he was attempting to say. John’s eyes bored into him above his hand.
Gale didn’t move his hand, didn’t pull back, continued to apply pressure. Didn’t allow him to speak. Didn’t give him the opportunity to allow the reality of the movement to sink in.
He didn’t dare look down - he felt rather than saw John’s hands retreat. His eyebrows were raised, confused now, posing a question. Gale’s mouth snapped shut. He could feel a hand, John’s hand, still for a moment against his side, unsure. He could feel it moving, slow again, brushing against his own hip. He closed his eyes as it traveled, escaping the intensity of John’s gaze.
The hand paused for a moment, giving him an out, until finally, excruciatingly, it palmed over his crotch. He hissed, unable to stop his hips bucking forward, grinding into the palm. John froze for a second too long. He pulled his mouth back from Gale’s hand.
There was a beat - a moment for Gale to panic, for his heart to start pounding uncontrollably in his ears - before he heard, broken like it had been wrenched out by force, “Shit.”
He forced his eyes open. John was staring back at him. He looked wrecked, eyes blown, mouth slightly parted, breaths coming hard. He almost looked awed. His lips were red from the sustained pressure.
“God, Buck, let me - you need - ” He ground his hand against Gale’s crotch again, harder. Stars bloomed in his vision. He was so sensitive it was almost painful.
“Shit,” said John again, quieter. He lessened the pressure against him, but kept his hand in place. Gale tried to control his breathing, to remaster himself, to regain control of his body. He held very still.
“Can I?” said John, almost a whisper. His breath was coming out in ragged short bursts, ghosting Gale’s face.
He didn’t allow himself to think, nodded, once, decisive. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting - for a couple hard quick strokes, probably, to finish him off.
He certainly wasn’t expecting for John to look at him for a moment longer, mouth agape, as if he had been given a gift he hadn’t been expecting, and then collapse to his knees.
He almost asked if he was okay - if the strangeness of the situation had somehow made him lose all control of his legs - when in a flurry of action, as if there was no time, John’s hands were on him, over him, pulling at his zipper. He leant on the wall behind him, its cool weight somehow a comfort. He couldn’t help a groan escape as John reached in, drew him out, relieved despite himself as his cock, heavy, needing, was freed from constraints of his pants.
“God,” said John. He looked up, made direct eye contact. He looked almost reverent. Gale felt himself twitch, flushed at the sight.
“Go on,” he said. His voice was miraculously steady. John inhaled, short, sharp. He moved slowly, traced his hand down the length of his cock, achingly gentle - and then, shockingly, took him into his mouth.
It was almost too much to bear: their sudden and complete closeness, the warmth of the heat enveloping him, the sight unfolding before his eyes. It came to him in flashes. John’s eyes closed. Cheeks hollowed, taking him in, unpracticed, sloppy, obscene. One hand on him. The other out of sight. He could picture it drumming, always drumming, against John’s thigh.
“You need - ” He was interrupted by his own groan, swallowed it, tried to maintain steadiness. The slip-up, his quick descent into haziness, seemed to spur John on, almost redoubling his efforts, moving faster against him. It was too much, almost uncomfortable, and he grabbed John’s hair in an effort to slow him down. He groaned around his cock, noise muffled, then immediately stilled, as if he’d surprised himself.
Gale let himself regain some breath, hands still in John’s hair, surrounded by the warmth of his mouth. He tried to inject a bit more firmness into his voice. “You need to take care of yourself.”
With another punched out, breathy groan, John began to move again, slower, gentler. One traveled down his front, freed his own cock, took himself in hand.
The moment of clarity receded quickly. Gale tried to maintain some control over his body, to stay still against the wall, but haziness soon overtook him again. His hips canted forward uncontrollably, seeking the warmth, the closeness. He was hypnotized by the sight in front of him, by the ragged breaths, by the blood thundering through his veins. He was overtaken, outside of himself.
He came to a short stuttering finish almost by surprise. He had somehow missed the rising feeling, the tightening of his gut, lost in the headiness of the moment. John’s mouth slackened around him. He tightened the hand in his hair in immediate apology, panted out something unintelligible.
John pulled off, slick, sticky. He buried his head in the crook of Gale’s hip and inhaled shakily, breathing in against his skin. He scrabbled with himself for a few more moments, arm moving up and down, until he shuddered through his release, painting the wooden floor white below him.
He pulled back, breath ghosting Gale’s hip, and sat down on his haunches. “Shit,” he said. He looked about, presumably for some kind of rag, some way to clean up the evidence. There was white under his nails. “D’you - ”
Gale couldn’t have answered if he’d wanted to. He felt winded, hanging free, leaning heavily on the wall behind him, his only support. He watched, winded, as John hunted around the room for a cloth, cleaned the mess of the floor, tucked himself back into his pants.
John came to stand in front of him. “You all right?”
He nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
John’s eyes roved down the side of his face, over his ear, stopped to hover at the hollow of his neck, at the pulse beating there.
His touch was gentle, surprisingly gentle, as he reached down, tucked Gale back in, zipped him up. He spoke in an undertone, voice hoarse.
“‘s perfectly natural, Buck, but you can’t let yourself get like this.” He swallowed. “You’re not a statue, Buck, much as you’d like to think you are.” His eyes skimmed Gale’s throat. “Just - just come ask me, next time it gets this bad. You’ve been distracted for days, Jesus, Buck, I thought I was the one who fucked you up.”
He abruptly stopped talking, looked Gale full in the face. Gale had no idea what he’d find there. He felt cracked open, raw.
John’s hand rested on his wrist, his other came up to gently press on the side of his neck. They stood there, quiet for a moment, breaths sharp in the emptiness of the room.
John opened his mouth as if he was going to say something else but, at the last moment, miraculously, seemed to think the better of it. His hands drew back. “I’ll see you out there.”
He left out quickly, out of the door, Gale in his wake, leaning against the wall, struggling to pull breath.