Chapter Text
Bucky is flattened, roadkill steaming on hot asphalt. He feels bogged up, a cloying black sludge working up his throat, burning an exit hole through his bobbing Adam's apple. A headache splits him down the center and he feels crazy. It doesn't make sense, and yet he knows, with the same conviction he knows the sky is blue, that this is the boy who becomes the man he loved. It's in a slightly different font, but it's him. This is Buck—the boy who grew up in his dreams—who he flew with, dutifully, towards death. Thus far, his life had been motivated by the conviction that Buck existed. He couldn't explain it to anyone, didn't himself have the words, but he'd thought, perhaps naively, that Buck was out there and felt the same way. That they were both desperate to find each other.
Well, now Bucky's found him, and the feeling wasn't mutual. Buck doesn't remember him, Gale doesn't know him. He wants to ask again. Triple check: are you sure we haven't met? As if Gale will answer differently the third time, admit Bucky looks familiar.
"Does that make sense?" Gale asks, but Bucky can't hear over the blood rushing in his ears. He watches Gale brush eraser dust off the page, lithe hands with chewed-down nails, callouses built over his knuckles. They're sitting side by side so Bucky can follow what he's doing (Buck was always persuasive, the voice of reason who cornered Bucky into doing work). He stares dumbly at Gale's lips, bitten red and swollen.
"John?" Gale asks again.
Bucky startles and responds automatically: "Bucky. That's what everyone calls me."
"Alright," Gale smiles. It's almost shy; it's almost coy. "Does that make sense, Bucky?"
"Not really, to be honest." His head is everywhere but where it's supposed to be. He wants to hear Gale say his name again, over and over, have him say it so much he's forced to remember. Would Gale remember being Buck if they touched? If Bucky grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug? Embraced him with so much pressure their ribs cracked? He feels sick with need; ghosts of feeling overwhelm him so thoroughly everything else is blotted out. Buck used to fold under his palms, look up at him with playful desire. He can't be near Gale like this; he's going to scare him away. At the same time, he can't leave, his desire is a caged animal. "Sorry, I think—" He's a deer narrowly avoiding getting hit by a car. Pats down his pockets to make sure he's alive. "I need a smoke."
"Okay," Gale nods.
"You smoke?" Bucky asks, even though this is supposed to be an escape plan.
"No," Gale says. "And I should stay to watch our things."
"The library desk is right there," Bucky points. He's beckoning the car towards him, a deer asking to be crushed. "I don't know about you, but my shit isn't worth stealing anyway."
"Neither is mine," Gale says with a breathy laugh, and Bucky knows he will do anything to make him laugh again. "I'll come with you."
Bucky doesn't look as they walk out of the library, buttons up his jacket and stares at the sky. It's okay. He can stand next to Gale and hold everything in; he can look into Buck's eyes and not feel like he's barrelling through a windshield.
He glances at Gale and smiles lopsidedly, hopes his emotions aren't painted plainly across his face. "I guess I'm not a very good pupil."
"I've had worse," Gale shrugs. "At least you showed up."
They stand in silence, Bucky staring at Gale, Gale staring out over the empty quad. He watches as Gale's cheeks turn pink in the cold, and Bucky wants to press his hands to them and share his warmth. He wants to bundle Gale up and make sure he's never cold again. A horrible shiver works down his spine, and he suddenly feels horrible for keeping them in the harsh winter air. He puts his cigarette out under his boot. He's better now; he can sit next to Gale and keep it together. He opens the door for them to go inside. "I'm paying you for the hour, right? How long do I have left?"
Gale glances at his watch—it looks old, brown leather and gold, with a chip in the glass. "Just about thirty minutes."
It's too long, and it's not enough. They sit back down and Bucky tries to ignore the swath of abdomen that Gale reveals when pulling off his coat. He draws Gale's notes towards him and tries to focus on the numbers. How is he supposed to care about classes right now? How is he supposed to leave after this and pretend his world hasn't just tipped off its axis? How is he supposed to wait to see Gale again? Their knees bump as Gale explains a concept, and sparks go off in Bucky's mind. Their shoulders brush as Bucky tries to solve the equations himself, and he feels liquid heat in his gut. Even though the minutes stops every time they touch, the hour comes to an abrupt halt, crashes down around Bucky all at once.
"Any ideas when you'll want to meet again?" Gale asks, packing his things into a beat up messenger bag, so oblivious to the fact that he's ruining Bucky's life.
"Are you free on the weekend? Would that be too soon?" Bucky cringes at how needy he sounds.
"That's fine." Gale smiles and his eyes crinkle. "Do you want to meet here again on Sunday?"
Bucky shakes his head, decides that this is life or death. He has to take a risk. "Sunday's cool, but what about my apartment?" He starts talking with his hands, a nervous tick he'd tried so hard to train out of himself. "It's really close to here. I just can't focus with all these people about. It's totally fine though if—"
"Alright, Bucky." Gale nods, blond waves falling loose around his ears. "Text me the address?"
"Right, yes. I'll do that right now." He tries to type and walk, stumbling over his feet until they're standing awkwardly outside the library.
"I walk that way," Bucky says. Pointing over his shoulder. He feels like a teenager with his first crush.
Gale motions in the other direction. "I take the bus."
"Right." The wind is whipping Gale's hair around, blue eyes bright and watery, and there's nothing Bucky can do to hold it in. "Later, Buck."
Gale doesn't correct him, just quirks an eyebrow and tries to smooth down his hair. "Bye, Bucky." Then he's turning and walking away. Bucky just watches him go—takes in the wonky knit scarf and mittens, one gloved hand holding the strap over his shoulder—Gale looks back before he disappears down a flight of steps, and waves.
When he's gone, Bucky goes into autopilot. He kicks at the salted ground, slides down the ramp out of the quad and passes the old science building. It's part of the natural sciences, spread out over the East End of campus, connected by bridges and tunnels. There’s the new half, a bright white fish-tank, and the old half, a towering slab of grey brick with narrow windows. Bucky’s always in the old building, stuck in concrete classrooms with mind-numbing fluorescent lights. He’s never seen Gale there, can’t even picture him in the dark, dusty tunnels. He’d remember if he had, he’d have noticed. Gale would’ve brightened up the entire building. He doesn’t want to think about Gale, though. He reaches up and pulls at a tree branch, inhales sharp at the snow that springs off and kisses his neck with cold, sharp teeth.
He's existed without Buck for so long, he can handle a bit longer. He can wait until Buck comes around. He can be the only one who knows. He crosses into the park that’s midway between campus and his apartment, crunches along the icy snow. He thinks about calling Tyler, or his sister, just to hear someone else's voice. As if it could erase the sound of Gale's goodbye. He doesn't. They'd know something was wrong and try to talk about it, but he doesn't want to talk about it, he wants to pretend everything's fine. In fact, he doesn’t want to think about Gale at all. Which is difficult, because everything is making him think of Buck. A group of kids tumble across the barren field, fall on top of each other and throw snow balls. They should’ve been children together. Should’ve understood each other so well that Gale knew everything without being told. Just like Bucky did. He grabs a fistful of snow—tries to melt it with his bare hands as long as he can manage it—and pretends that’s the only reason he’s crying.
When he gets home, he collapses. He kicks off his shoes and sheds his clothes as he walks, leaves a trail to where he crawls into bed and builds a nest out of the covers. He wants Buck to be there with him, a warm length pressed against his back. He wants to lay on top of a burning fire. He wants to be dead to the world until Sunday. He rummages in his bedside drawer and pulls out a scratched-up pill bottle. The prescription label is so faded he can't read a name or expiry date, a relic of when he still went to the family doctor, but it doesn’t matter; they don't have to work perfect, just well enough. He pops two into his mouth and swallows them down with a stale glass of water. He burrows under the covers, squeezes his eyes shut and hopes for a deep, dreamless sleep.