No Regrets, Nothing To Lose
Bucky Barnes sighs, pushing his hair off his face for what seems like the hundredth time in the last ten minutes. He should probably tie it up, because at some point it's going to fall into the paint he's using and he'll probably end up swearing very loudly. But to be honest, he can't be bothered. As many art students do at some point, he's regretting taking the stupid class.
Bucky rubs his eyes tiredly, squinting at the mess of colour on his canvas. It's kind of a mish-mash of memories and dreams. He can't quite remember what inspired him to do it, but he rather likes it. The painting is almost psychedelic, swirls of colour with silhouettes here and there. His teacher calls it 'interpretative and different.' Bucky calls it 'brain dump'. Title in progress. But he hasn't added anything to it for quite a while, and he's tapping his fingers irritably on the paint-spattered table. It's like writer's block, he thinks. Artist's block? Is that a thing?
Without taking his eyes off the canvas, he gropes around for his mug of black coffee that's somewhere on his desk. His hand closes on the mug, but he doesn't feel the cool chill of the china, because that hand isn't a hand. Well, technically it is. It's a silver metal prosthetic, fitted after a nasty accident not too long ago. Fell off a train whilst larking about with some mates. He shudders a little. Everything changed after that. He became withdrawn, quiet. Grew his hair. Lost a lot of friends. Still doesn't have many, to be totally honest. He's got Sam and Natasha and Clint, who are great and funny and kind and everything he needs. Really supportive too, which was especially helpful when he came out as bisexual a few months ago. He's only just getting used to being 'out and proud', as Clint puts it.
Bucky shakes his head, smiling slightly, lifting the mug to his lips to take a drink.
"Bucky, no!"
He stops, and turns towards the source of the noise, which is directly to his right. Steve Rogers. Blond haired, blue eyed, looks like a fucking angel of the Lord. Quiet kid, smart, but built like a brick shithouse. Hangs out with Tony Stark and Bruce Banner. Plays on the football team with Thor Odinson. Not that Bucky knows these things. And Bucky definetly doens't have a teeny tiny crush on him. Nope. No way.
The blonde in question smiles sheepishly at Bucky, biting his lip. Bucky tries not to find that alluring, and fails.
"Yeah? Steve, isn't it?"
Steve smiles again, like a bloody ray of sunshine.
"You were about to drink your paint water."
Bucky glances down at the mug in his silver hand.
"Shit."
He looks back up at Steve, who looks like he is going to explode with not-laughing. Bucky breaks into a grin, and shakes his head.
"I swear to god, Rogers. You saved my life there. Well, probably. Paint water might be deadly. Y'never know."
Steve bursts out laughing, blue eyes crinkling at the corners and Bucky swears that Steve's laugh probably makes babies stop crying and flowers blossom.
"Don't worry about it, James. It's fine. Just doing my job as local protector of the daft."
Bucky snorts.
"Rude. But seriously, call me Bucky."
He takes a deep breath. This might be the moment, because Nat is pretty sure Steve is bi, and Sam thinks he's gay. Ah well. I've got nothing to lose. No regrets, right?
"Hey, ah, Steve?"
Steve stops laughing long enough to reply,
"Yeah?"
"Wanna go out with me? Like, I'm sorry if you don't, er, swing that way, but, um, do you? I mean, I don't-"
Steve's eyes are wide and blue, and he looks a little shocked. Bucky's heart does a triple backflip into his gut, and he turns away.
"James Buchanan Barnes. I'd love to."
And then Steve is kissing him, and Bucky thinks he might just explode from happiness.