Another Cliché Love Story // S. Rogers & B. Barnes

nineteen

Bucky

The broken brunet sat shaking at the island, staring blankly down at the black marble. There was hot chocolate steaming in front of him, but it was ignored.

His best friend stood at the other end of the kitchen, knowing that if she got too close, he would break again–if he was even capable of breaking anymore.

Bucky raised his hands from his lap, noticing how his fleshy hand was shaking violently. He sighed and gripped his wrist with his cold metal fingers, forcing himself to stop shivering.

It worked. A little.

Bucky sighed again and dropped his head to the island.

"I'm not made of glass, Natasha." The girl in the corner tensed at the use of her full name, taking her bottom lip between her teeth. She stepped forward, her eyes never leaving the messy mop of brown hair. When it was clear he wasn't going to move away from her, she took a larger step, reaching her hand out as if to touch him.

"Bucky–"

"I'm fine, Tasha. Really." Bucky looked up, and Tasha almost broke herself. "Of course I'm fine. I've always been fine. I was fine when I was a kid, when both my parents beat me because I wasn't good enough for them. I was fine back as a sophomore, when I told my parents I was gay and got kicked out of my own goddamn house. I was fine when I was teased and made fun of and bullied for being gay. I was fine when I ran into Steve. I was fine when I saw Sharon cheating on Steve, and I was fine when Sharon threatened me. I was fine through all of that, so why aren't I fine now?" Bucky forced a bitter, hollow, dead laugh as Tasha bit back her tears.

"Because I'm fucking in love with Steve." He glared down at the hot chocolate as if it were Steve himself–or as if it were Bucky, the stupid boy who always had to fuck everything up. Everything.

"Everything," Bucky whispered, and shoved the cup away from himself when a tear fell into the liquid.

"That's not a bad thing–" Tasha tried to reason tentatively, and Bucky barked out another gut-wrenching laugh.

"Yes, it is. Gods, it is. I can't–I can't like him, Tasha, let alone be in love with him. He's straight, for one. He's my good friend–my really good friend, for another. He's got a girlfriend who hates my guts. He'd...he'd hate me if he found out, Tasha. I can't...I wouldn't–I couldn't live with myself–no, I couldn't live if that happened. I'd–I'd–" Bucky stared at his reflection in the dark marble, glaring at the tears that rolled down his cheeks and plopped onto the counter.

Tasha saw the tears flowing down his cheeks so she decided to break through his walls and ran to him, wrapping her small arms around his large frame. She cried into his shirt as he cried onto the island.

"I-I can't–" he tried so hard to explain, but he couldn't get the words past that big ball of nails in his throat. Tasha shushed him as best she could, and he finally gave in, relaxing in his roommate's arms and letting the salty tears flow down his cheeks.

They stayed like that for a while, maybe an hour or so, just leaning on each other, occasionally letting tears out. One drowned in helplessness and the other suffocating under the weight of self-hatred put there by others.

"Sorry for..." Bucky cleared his throat and tried again, blinking back a fresh wave of tears as guilt washed over him. "Sorry for kicking your boyfriend out earlier," he finally forced out with a fake smile, nudging Tasha.

When he got no response, his smile dropped and he nudged her again. "Tasha?"

It was only then that he heard her soft snores. He chuckled and stood up from the stool, wrapping his arms around his roommate.

Bucky carried Tasha upstairs, put her in her bed, and pulled the covers up to her chin.

He closed her door and traveled across the hallway to his own room, where he shut and locked the door before flopping on the bed with a massive sigh.

His eyes were open, and he opted to just stare at his black sheets. His mind was silent for a moment, just a moment, and then it was flooded with the only thing he could think about: Steve.

Bucky envisioned his hands running through Steve's soft, blond hair. He imagined Steve's hands on his waist, his chest, his hips, his shoulders, his back, his neck, his face. He dreamt of what Steve's lips would feel like on his own, on his cheek, on his forehead, his neck, everywhere.

For the first time, Bucky realized that he craved Steve's touch, and has ever since...well, ever since sophomore year, when the boys first touched during lacrosse tryouts. Steve was trying to block Bucky, and Bucky had shoved into him with what little strength he had back then to get to the goal.

Bucky scoffed and looked up, his eyes landing on a photograph on his bedside table.

It was of him, Tasha, and Tasha's parents, Ivan and Yolanda. Ivan had his arm around Bucky, grinning widely at the camera. Bucky smiled softly as he remembered the day the photo was taken.

Bucky had just come home from the lacrosse tournament, which they had won. He remembered Ivan was so proud of him that he almost cried, and demanded that they take his picture to always have it to cherish.

Bucky had felt like a part of a family that day, felt like he belonged somewhere.

His smile turned watery as he remembered Ivan and Yolanda's deaths not one year ago. They had died in a car crash, caused by a drunk driver. Tasha was heart broken, of course, but Bucky felt nothing for a while; just that he had lost another family.

They both eventually recovered, the process easier once they were living together. Now they celebrated Ivan and Yolanda, remembering them everyday.

The brunet sniffed as he recalled his final game of the season, and smiled with pride as he remembered how he was the one to score the winning point.

He had never felt so alive, so...not broken.

Tasha had run onto the field, shoving through the opposing team and eventually Bucky's teammates to get to him, and when she did she squeezed him harder than anyone ever had.

The ride home had been great, filled with praises from the perfect family.

Bucky had almost forgotten that his own parents weren't there to celebrate his big win.

Almost.

At that time, he hadn't confessed his sexuality to them. He'd been waiting for the right moment, and even then, he was scared of what they were going to do.

In all honesty, he didn't want to tell them, but Tasha and Yolanda and Ivan thought it was best, so he listened to his second family and decided to tell his parents.

But that day, that day was for celebrating.

When they'd gotten back to the Romanoff's, the four of them jumped out of the car and Ivan started gushing about how proud he was that Bucky was the star player, and had someone from the team that had followed them take a picture of them, right there on the lawn.

Bucky squinted, trying to remember who the photographer was.

He remembered a tuft of blond hair over the camera, a rough, not-fully-through-puberty voice saying 'cheese', and big ocean blue eyes smiling at him with pride.

Bucky's eyes went wide and he quickly slammed the frame back down on the bedside table, rolling over to stare at the ceiling. He groaned loudly, bringing his hands up to cover his face.

"Why does he always have to be everywhere?" He moaned, remembering fully how Steve did, indeed, take the picture.

At least today's Sunday, Bucky thought, glancing at the clock. I don't have to see him until tomorrow, thank gods.