#cocoabarnes

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW JONI

HOW ABOUT HECK TO THE YES 

- - -

Bucky shifts both feet where its propped up onto the bottom of the stool he is sitting on. He almost sways out of balance, but flaps his arms hard enough to settle himself down again.

"Whoa. That was close."

Steve doesn’t say anything as he peers closely onto the page of his towering sketch.

"Steve." Bucky calls.

“Steve." he whines.

"Steeeeve."

"Buckyyy.." Steve murmurs back as he smudges out something with an eraser.

"Now that’s just rude, pal." Bucky points out, "I got naked for you and you sass me."

There’s a small quirk of a smile that fills Steve’s lips. 

"Not the first time that ever happened."

Bucky grins, and Steve laughs.

The next morning, Bucky wakes up to sunshine—bright, soft sunshine, slipping past their shabby curtains and spreading out onto their equally shabby sheets. He gently blinks away the sleep from his eyes, brows furrowing at the flood of light, until he allows himself to watch the stillness of Steve’s back. His eyes follow the slopes and curves and sharp turns and finds warmth in the way the sunlight spills over all the familiar lines. His eyes linger at the gentle swathe of blanket that curls around Steve's hip.

He smiles, slips out of bed as quietly as he could, and moves Steve’s easel.

He flips into a blank page.

I CAN ALWAYS TRUST HANNAH TO GIVE ME FUCKIN GREAT IDEAS

[CRADLES YOUR HEAD]

ALSO I DO NOT KNOW FLAG FOOTBALL EVEN IF I FUCKING TRIED

- - -

The football sails sixty yards across, fifteen gazes following the trajectory of it as it arcs over their heads. It hits a goal post and ricochets off to the bleachers.

"What the fuck." Sam says to himself before turning, bamboozled, toward’s Steve’s direction. "What the fuck?!"

Steve squints to where the ball landed. “My bad.”

"Oh shut up, Rogers, that was amazing!" Sam roars, running towards his direction, "Damn! Who taught you that?!"

Steve laughs. “Luck.” 

"Well, share the luck my man." Sam grins but then says seriously, "But I ain’t getting that ball. Technically it didn’t go in, so I still won the bet."

Steve grins. “Fine. On your left.” he teases as he jogs past Sam.

He finally reaches the far end of the field and finds where the ball has landed—just by the bleachers, laid almost too neatly at the opening of the tarpaulin covering its underside.

Steve bends down and scoops it within his hands when he sees a flash of leather jacket where the tarp—now that Steve is looking at it more closely—has been pried open. He peers inside.

"You need anything?" Leather jacket says comfortably as he slightly adjusts his sprawled form across the grass. There’s about three cans of empty root beer littered around him, and an empty kitkat bar wrapper on his chest. He gives him a small look past his sunglasses before placing both hands underneath his head and looking back up to the ceiling.

"You got a good arm." he lazily says.

Steve blinks. “Thanks.” he says uncertainly. “You know, most people watch the game on the bleachers, not under it.”

Leather jacket snickers, almost condescendingly. “You know, if you widen your stance a little and tilt your body back just a smidge, you’d be able to land that ball right between the posts.”

Steve actually laughs. “That’s quite some pointers for a person hiding under the bleachers.”

Leather jacket shrugs. “Take it or leave it, pal.”

The next practice, Steve sets his feet a bit wider.

The ball goes through.

BECAUSE I'M JUST HAVING A FIELD DAY IMAGINING CHRIS BEING SO UNEQUIVOCALLY VOCAL ABOUT HOW CUTE AND SWEET HE FINDS SEB AND JUST GIVING HIM HUGS ALL THE DAMN TIME AND RUFFLING HIS FLUFFY HAIR AND HOLDING HIS FACE WITH BOTH PALMS PRESSED AGAINST HIS CHUB CHEEKS WHICH HE PINCHES A LOT AND BURYING HIS NOSE INTO THE CROOK OF SEB'S NECK JUST EVER SO SLIGHTLY WHEN THEY GIVE EACH OTHER HUGS IN PUBLIC PLACES

[surrounds him in fluffy pillows]

[builds him a blanket fort]

[hands him a cup of hot chocolate]