Under Pastel Skies

Chapter 13

(again there's a bit of non explicit smut so skip to the * when it gets too steamy for you)

Summer was Bucky's least favourite season. He despised the heat, the sunburns and mosquitoes, the sweat running down his temples and back. He was always tired, never hungry, and he hated feeling so... bleh.

But most of all, he hated the expectations that came with summer: enjoying the sun, reuniting with friends and family, soaking up the extra hours of daylight, being happy. It felt like an obligation.

Summer with you was Bucky's favourite season. He loved the way you squinted against the sun, your face bright and happy and your lips glossy with sorbet. He loved those lazy afternoons spent at the pool and he definitely worshiped your summer wardrobe.

You had found a part-time job at a renewed museum. You often said that it was boring and tiring but your colleagues were nice. You were still visiting galleries from time to time but you weren't actively pursuing a career as a professional artist.

Bucky spent most of his time in his office, finishing up his novel. He was really anxious about it, and he hoped his little surprise wouldn't blow up in his face. He had everything planned. His uncle had been delighted when Bucky asked if he could use the bookstore for a reading. It would be a private reading, just the two of you after the shop closed.

Now he just had to ask you out...

Bucky climbed the stairs two at a time to your floor, a bouquet of flower in his hand and a smile on his lips. You had invited him over for dinner, which was a bit unusual because you had to work the next morning, but he wasn't complaining. Far from.

"Bucky," you giggled sheepishly when you opened the door. He bought you flowers every time he saw you. It didn't matter that your studio apartment now looked like the back room of a flower shop, he liked the way your eyes softened at the sight of the pretty blooms. "These are stunning."

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your cheek. "Takes one to know one, sweetheart."

You good-naturedly rolled your eyes before you waved him into the room. "Come in, I made dinner."

Your apartment smelled of marinara sauce and spaghetti boiling in hot water. It was a comforting smell, a smell that reminded him that he wasn't alone.

You didn't have a proper table, the apartment was too small for that, so you ate on the breakfast counter. Bucky didn't mind eating side by side. He liked the way you turned your body to face him, your knee touching his. It felt intimate.

"I have something to tell you," you said, closing the door behind him. He watched you bounce around the room like some excited puppy dog. "I haven't told anyone yet."

His forehead creased into a deep frown. "What is it?"

You pulled something out of your bag and hid it behind your back before you took a step closer to him. You were unable to meet his confused gaze but he found it so endearing that he started smiling.

You handed him a postcard-style flyer with a shaking hand. It was a mini print of one of your paintings along with the logo of a gallery in New York. He turned the card over and read it, his eyes instantly brightening. It was a flyer for an art opening.

"Angel," he said, his voice full of emotion. "You did it!"

You chuckled bashfully. "It's a collective exhibition. They gave me half a wall and a corner of the engraving table." You raised your eyes to his, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in a way that managed to be both shy and sensual. "Will you be there?"