Chapter One

Moving in with Barnes and Rogers had its perks.

Their three-bedroom condo in Brooklyn was an easy bike ride from campus. Peter never asked how they afforded it, but he knew that both men had jobs in construction on top of typical hero work. They only charged him a hundred bucks a month rent, provided he kept the apartment clean and the kitchen stocked. He could easily afford that with his side hustle of selling pictures of Spider-Man to the local paper.

Barnes had an old pick-up, so Peter didn't need to worry about renting a moving van to cart his crud over.

At twenty years old, Peter was finally out from under Aunt May's microscope. She had been unbearable after discovering his super identity and over the moon about him moving in with "professionals" who could "keep an eye on him". Peter didn't have to worry about snoopy roommates discovering his suit or prying into his personal life. To Barnes and Rogers, him being Spider-Man was common knowledge. Just like Peter knew about Rogers being former Captain America, newly Nomad, and Barnes being the Winter Soldier.

Thanks to Stark's recommendation, Peter had his pick of colleges in New York. After selecting Brooklyn College, Peter chose to go into his major as Undecided. Get his prerequisites out of the way. Get to know his professors. Get a network going. He was gunning for something in science or mathematics. Problem was he couldn't choose between chemistry and physics. It was like designating a favorite child. Maybe he'd dabble in quantum mechanics one day. Give Stark and Pym a run for their money.

Thanos had been defeated by some miracle Stark still wouldn't explain. But they all knew it had to do with the Time Stone. The majority of the world did not even remember the attack. It had put Peter behind on his career path though. He had never expected to be just entering his sophomore year of college so dangerously close to twenty-one. Late. So late. Peter's classes at BC crammed in throughout the week saw him out of the apartment for at least three hours every day with another three hours of homework and reading when he got back. Things were quiet on the cosmic criminal front.

Living with "Mr. Barnes" and "Mr. Rogers", who had to remind Peter for two months straight that they were all on a first name basis, was so easy. So bizarrely normal. Aside from the occasional visit from a couple feds in suits to grill Bucky about his psychological profile and check up on Steve's agenda, everything went as one might expect.

Jokes and keys being tossed back and forth. Gym bags and jogging shoes left by the front door. Trips down to the laundry mat with bulging hampers. Turns at the sink for dish duty. A movie every other night—always on TV because the theater's prices were so grossly inflated. Steve liked Lifetime movies; the sappy ones with strong messages and no nudity. Bucky always rolled his eyes and teased him for it, but surrendered when Steve leveled him with a look that Peter could only describe as glacial. Some nights, they'd watch one or two episodes of some crime show. Bucky loved those. He usually solved the case before Peter or Steve had a clue about the perp. Then he gloated about it for a couple hours. Mornings always came with news and coffee. After his run, Steve insisted on reading the paper in print instead of online. Bucky made eggs. On Friday nights, Bucky played pool shark and dart master at the dive bar down the street. On Saturday, they ordered in and played cards. Solitaire, Hold-um, Golf, War. Bucky and Steve spent too much time arguing over the rules of Gin Rummy for the game to go smoothly. Usually, they let Peter pick the take-out place as a way of apologizing for being so competitive. On Sundays, Steve dragged Bucky and Peter to church.

Bucky smoked at least twice at the day's end, so he'd be on the balcony like clockwork. Sometimes, Peter and Steve would join him and they'd be out with beers or cocktails until after sunset, swapping stories from construction sites and school and taking digs at one another. Bucky went on a date every now and then. Steve kept to himself for the most part. And, unlike Bucky, Steve didn't give Peter a hard time about the lack of ladies in his life, or his aversion to parties on Greek Row.

There was talk of getting a pet for the house because they "needed a mascot". Bucky wanted a cat. Steve wanted a dog. Peter liked both. They never made much headway on the decision.

Sometimes Steve and Buck shared a room for the night when Bucky took a turn for the worst. Steve had explained to Peter early on about Bucky's nightmares, occasional relapses, and his tendency to sleep-walk when he felt unstable. Bunking together was the easiest way to watch over him and safeguard him from himself. Peter kept his bedroom door locked at night until three months passed without incident.

And another great thing? Steve and Bucky knew Peter could handle himself. They gave him freedom. Asked minimal questions. Kept conversation light and casual. Never haggled him about a curfew or coming home late or leaving early. Or sleeping in, for that matter.

They even took a day trip once a month. Fishing at the Pier. Coney Island. Central Park.

It was the closest to normal independence that Peter could have envisioned for himself.

Five months after moving in, Peter hauled his grocery bags up the stairs and fumbled with his keys at the door. Once inside, he shouldered the door shut and hoofed it into the kitchen. The living room lamp was on.

"Guys?" he called, letting the bags down on the counter. No answer. He checked the time: half past five. Peter started unloading the first bag and glanced out at the balcony. The curtains were open just enough to reveal two beers on their little patio table, sorely in need of a scrub down. Bucky looked out over the city with a cigarette between his fingers and a hand in his pocket. Steve stood beside him, leaning back with his elbows on the railing. Peter couldn't hear what they were saying with the door shut and the cacophony of nightlife rising outside. Bucky ashed his smoke. Steve smiled and glanced at his shoes. Bucky shifted his weight and took his hand out of his pocket before he reached across Steve and closed his hand on the railing. Steve met his eyes, but he didn't move. Bucky leaned in.

Peter dropped the plastic jar of Jiffy. He blinked. Blinked harder. The scene didn't change.

They were . . . kissing.

Kissing!

"Holy shit," he whispered, gawking. Peter whirled around. His stomach spun. His mouth worked with no sound, confusion and heat filling his head to bursting. He scrambled out of the kitchen, out of sight of the balcony. Peter opened the apartment door and slammed it. Hard. Then he caught a picture that fell off its nail and frantically righted it.

"Guys!" he hollered. "I'm home!" He cringed.

God. How did he unsee that? Peter knew without a doubt that he wasn't supposed to see that at all! He couldn't have been. Were they . . . ? No way. No. Bucky went on dates. Steve took communion.

It must have been a mistake. Bucky was probably teasing him about something. Yeah. It was a misunderstanding. Peter had been studying too hard. Maybe his blood sugar was low.

Thoughts in tangles, Peter darted back into the kitchen.

The glass door sighed open. Steve—all sunlight and clear skies in comparison to Bucky's starlit darkness—stepped through the curtains and smiled.

"Hey, kiddo. You need any help with those?"

Chapter Two

The following Friday evening, just before they were destined for the dive bar, Peter sat in an arm chair in the den. Peter hadn't been able to sleep more than an hour last night and had shuffled out the door bleary eyed to make it to his AM class. He had distracted himself with coursework for the rest of the day and a merciful, though brief, nap when he dozed off during his reading. When he woke up, everything came flooding back to him with startling clarity. He had been alone in his room as he weighed the facts with what he suspected.

But now, they were together.

In the den.

And Peter could still see that sliver of balcony through the curtains.

Steve, fishing through television channels, sat catty-corner to Peter on the two-seater sofa while Bucky riffled through the fridge for a lager.

"You boys want anything?" Bucky called.

"No thanks," Peter said quickly.

Steve smiled. "I'll take a Coke if we got one."

Bucky grunted. "Just Pepsi."

Steve playfully shot Peter a sidelong smirk. "Traitor."

Peter flushed, looked away, and bumbled through a laugh as he feigned interest in his phone.

"That works," Steve answered over his shoulder.

Bucky came around the counter and tossed Steve a cool blue can. Steve caught it with a grin and popped the tab. The Pepsi hissed. Peter, senses so heightened, could smell the syrup and spiced sugar from where he sat.

Peter jumped when Bucky squeezed his shoulder and mussed his hair on the way by.

"You're awful quiet tonight, kid." His mech hand held a Guinness.

Scrambling for an excuse, Peter said, "Just stressed, I guess. Midterms."

"You need some fun in your life." Bucky plopped down beside Steve, twisted off the beer cap, and tossed it into the little trash bin at the base of the lamp. He swigged. Bucky put his heel on the coffee table. "Any plans for the weekend?"

"Naw." Peter smiled, trying to keep his countenance calm. Nonchalant.

"It's pretty close to Homecoming. And elections. I'm sure there'll be some real ragers off campus." Bucky toasted him with a smirk.

"Oh. Yeah." Come to think of it, the girl who needed his notes from Monday had invited Peter to a sorority party this morning.

"You should check it out. Get a few numbers." Bucky wagged his brows and took another swig.

Steve gave Bucky a weary look. "James. He hates parties. And that's OK. Not everyone enjoys that sort of crowd."

James. Steve only called Bucky by his real name when things got serious, which was rare.

"I know. But I want the guy to branch out. I feel like he's missing a lot. This weekend. Because tomorrow is Saturday. Saturday, October 16th. And Saturday is always party night." Bucky's voice was tight. Punctuated. Nothing like the lazily arrogant drawl he normally used.

Peter glanced up and caught Bucky staring at Steve, his wide eyes stony. Their legs were touching. Oh, god. How had Peter never noticed that?! Had they always touched when they sat together? When they watched TV together? When they played cards?

No. It was a small couch. It was just a small couch and they were abnormally large guys. Just two guys.

Steve sighed. Peter could have sworn a conceding smile shown in his eyes.

"Maybe he's right, Peter. Parties are good places to meet people." Steve smiled encouragingly. "And if you happen to make a friend, you can do all sorts of other things. You don't have to party with them every weekend."

There was no way Peter could weather a Saturday night alone with Steve and Bucky so soon after seeing them on the balcony. He'd totally crack. Maybe a party was exactly what he needed to forget about it.

"Yeah. I know. OK. I'll give it a try."

Late the next night, Peter stumbled into the apartment. Cigarette smoke and Ko Palace filled his nostrils. The world spun. He braced against the wall and frowned at the picture that he vaguely remembered hanging up earlier this week. Why had he hung it so crooked? Peter fixed it. Gave it a sage nod.

He stood up, struggling to get his eyes to blink evenly.

"Listen," he said, pointing a finger at the lamp. "Only God can judge." He swayed. "Room, you are not sill. /Still/. Sit still." Nausea churned in his gut. Peter groaned and trudged toward the nearest bathroom. The light was on—thank space Jesus. Peter would never have remembered where it was.

He opened the door.

Near the toilet, Steve surged to his feet and quickly wiped his mouth. Bucky was standing. He had his back to Peter, fiddling with something by the shower curtain. Steve cleared his throat. Neither of them wore a shirt.

"Oh no. You're sick too?" Peter hiccupped. He was glad he missed take-out night.

"Y—yeah," Steve stammered glancing between Peter and Bucky. "Bad Chinese."

"Jesus Christ, I'm going to kill this kid," Bucky whispered sharply. He still had his back to Peter.

"m'sorry," Peter slurred. "I lost to King Chad, Lord of Lady Bits in beer pong. Didn't wanna be too good'n'draw 'tention. He said I had to drink his side of the table, too. Because I am so bad at it."

"I'm going to kill this kid," Bucky hissed again, tilting his head toward heaven.

Steve came forward with his hand out. The concern in his eyes made Peter feel much safer.

"Oh, Pete. That's rough. Are you OK?"

"Do you know what Jager is, Mr. Steve? It means monster, but there's a deer on the bottle. Like Bambi's dad. Don't let it fool you." He grabbed at the door handle to keep from tumbling over. Instead, Steve caught him. Peter leaned against his impossibly solid body.

"Buck. Would you go get me a bottle of water and a clean shirt?"

"Fuck no," Bucky growled.

"James." Steve's voice was edged with ice. "He went to the party. He took your advice. If you want a happy ending tonight, you best get me a god damn bottle of water and a clean shirt /now/."

Peter had never heard Steve curse before. He snorted out a laugh.

Growling and grumbling, Bucky shouldered past them and stalked off down the hall.

"Come here. That's it. Right over here." Steve took Peter's wrist and walked him over to the toilet. He helped him kneel on the shower rug.

Peter slumped over, his arms folded on the seat.

"I'm fffine," he slurred, rallying his expression to be convincing. "I don't need to—" His whole body lurched as he hurled his guts up into the toilet.

Steve sat down on the edge of the bathtub and placed his hand on Peter's shoulder. He squeezed.

"It's OK, buddy. Get it out. We've all been here. Me included."

Peter heard Bucky come and go from the bathroom, exchanging hushed, harsh words with Steve before he stormed out again.

"m'sorry," Peter repeated. He groaned.

"It's OK, Pete. I promise. Focus on breathing." He opened a bottle of water. "You need to drink this. As much as you can."

Peter took the bottle and took a few gulps. He hiccupped. Steve rubbed his back.

"Did you have an OK time at least?"

Peter mumbled through bursts of memory, telling Steve about the jam packed party house and the girl who wanted him to play a card game with her and her friends. But it wasn't like their card games. It was called Suck and Blow. Peter handed the water bottle back to Steve before another round of vomiting. The Jager stung his throat so bad that tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

Peter wiped his mouth and sniffed.

"I saw you guys."

"What's that, Pete?"

Peter rolled his head in Steve's direction and stared intensely.

"Kissing? You'n Bucky. By the beers. I saw you guys like…" Peter pressed his fingers together, like ducks or dinosaur heads, and touched his fingertips together repeatedly. "Like that."

Steve went still and turned so pale, he may as well have been a bed sheet. Peter snickered.

"We should get cleaned up and into bed, kiddo," Steve said softly before he flushed the toilet.

Peter frowned, watching the foul water swirl out of sight. "But I was talking about something. Now I can't remember what it was."

"You need to sleep."

Steve helped Peter change his sick splashed shirt into a much bigger one than Peter usually wore. It smelled like good detergent.

"We'll talk in the morning."

Peter nodded, his eyelids heavy. "mm-kay."

Chapter Three

Even the dimmest ray of sunlight sliced through his head like a dagger. Peter groaned. Turning his head to check the time, he noticed a glass of transparent fluid on his bedside table with a little notecard beside it.

'Drink me,' it read.

He could see a film around the top, the liquid a dull pink-orange color with bubbles every now and then. It was an effort to reach for it and a greater one to sit up. Peter took the glass in gulps, the water cooling his thirst and the sharp citrus taste confirming it had been spiked with vitamin C and electrolyte tablets. Thank God.

It was an hour short of noon. Bucky and Steve would be out of church by now.

As his eyes adjusted to the mid-morning light, he raked his memory about the night before. He remembered the cab ride. The party. Bits of the cab ride back to the apartment. He remembered seeing the stairs leading to their floor. But that's where his memory stopped. He must have stumbled in here and . . .

Peter checked for his wallet. His keys. His phone. All there on his bureau. Why did he feel like he was forgetting something important? And why could he still smell the Jager in his nose? Peter stood with a wave of nausea and stumbled into his cubicle of a bathroom. He flicked on the light, caught his reflection in the mirror, and froze.

He was wearing a Dodgers shirt. /Steve's/ Dodgers shirt.

Missing bits of last night came hurtling back as wordless images. Crooked picture. Ko Palace. Light under the door. Steve and Bucky in the bathroom. Harsh words and hushed whispers. A water bottle. And Peter heaving half a gallon of God knew what into their bathroom toilet.

Peter's face sizzled with embarrassment.

"Oh no," he groaned. He had to seriously thank and apologize to them ASAP.

He tore himself away from the mirror and showered off his shame. He'd get Steve's shirt dry cleaned this week.

After scrubbing his mouth squeaky with a toothbrush, Peter dressed, toweled off his hair, and headed for the kitchen. The strong scent of coffee washed over him. Maybe he'd make the guys lunch. Have it ready when they got home. Halfway down the hall, Peter heard a low conversation coming from the dinner table. He stopped short of the corner.

"Why are you being so glib about this? He deserves to know."

So Steve and Bucky hadn't gone to service after all.

"If we wanted him to know, we would have told him when we moved in."

"You said he saw us kissin'."

"That's what he told me."

Shit. Shit! Stupid, stupid, stupid! Peter must have spilled the beans when he was plastered. Damn him.

He heard the clinking of porcelain mugs on glass.

"Was he upset?"

"I couldn't tell."

"Steve. It's New York. He's in college. I'm sure he sees dudes sucking face all the time."

"That's not why I'm worried, Buck. And you know it. We've worked together for four years. He trusts us. You lied to him. About the dates. I told you not to do that."

"What was I supposed to say?"

"The truth."

"That I see a shrink? Fuck no. Crazy people see shrinks. People who belong in the loony bin see shrinks."

"He's a teammate. And a friend. Mental health isn't like it was in our day, baby. People see therapists all the—"

"I don't fuckin' care. It's embarrassing."

"What are we gonna do?"

"We should never have kept it a secret to begin with. I say tell the kid."

"He would be the first of the team to know."

"Nastasha knows."

"James. Natasha has known since my dramatic reaction to seeing you again."

"Probably sooner. You did tell me about that kiss on the escalator."

"Let's agree to never bring that up again."

"Look. Steve. Letting Pete in on you and me makes it less awkward. And then I don't have to be clandestine about asking for sex anymore."

"You were never clandestine about it," Steve muttered wryly. A slurp. The clinking of porcelain on glass.

Bucky tsked. "Whether the guy knows it or not, he has watched our relationship exactly the way it has always been. Our romance isn't a god damn Lifetime movie, doll. We're not about to hold hands on the street or share some dumb little kiss in a café. He can handle it, Steve."

"Are you sure?" Steve's voice was quiet. Hollow. "What if . . . What if he can't? What if he can't accept us?"

While Bucky's aversion to therapy harkened back to the horrors of Skid Row, this fear must have been Steve's hang-up from the 1900s. Peter knew enough history to remember how same-sex love was treated back then.

"Then he's free to leave." The sound of a quick kiss. "I ain't givin' you up for anything."

"I care about him, Buck. Communicating this should have been easy. And a priority. What if by not telling him, we screwed up that friendship?"

How had Peter completely missed this? Missed them? How had he been so oblivious to something right in front of him? Peter would never have been surprised to find out Steve had a boyfriend. Stark had hinted at that theory for two years. But the unassailable fact that that boyfriend was Bucky . . . ?

That took getting used to.

It changed their entire dynamic. Didn't it?

Or did it?

Peter reflected on their routines. Evenings spent on the balcony. Day trips. Quality time.

He blinked, the tension unbraiding from between his shoulders.

/We're not about to hold hands on the street or share some dumb little kiss in a café./

No, he realized. It didn't change a damn thing.

Steve and Bucky had been a couple then, too. Every time they shared a laugh or a look or a sunset or a joke that Peter wasn't yet privy to. They hadn't taken lengths to hide it from him. It just came that naturally. Naturally enough that their love, the foundation they shared as friends, was probably more romantic than public displays of affection.

The confusion inside Peter ebbed.

"I do wish you would have told me," Peter said, announcing his presence as he rounded the corner. "Never know. I could have been developing a big ol' crush on you and not realized you were taken."

Steve went rigid, staring at Peter with his Caribbean big blues as Peter plucked an apple out of the fruit bowl. He tossed the apple and caught it when it came down. Peter took a bite. Bucky burst out laughing.

Peter smiled and swallowed. "Thanks, guys. For last night. I'm sorry."

Relief poured into Steve's face as his broad shoulders sagged. "No problem. Good to see you on your feet."

Bucky shook his finger and sat back. "Oh no. No. You're gonna be paying for interrupting that for a while, kid."

Peter frowned. "Interrupting what?"

Bucky smiled, turning on that lazy arrogance as easily as flipping the switch for the fan. "The Chinese was delicious last night, by the way. Saved some chow mien for you, if you're interested."

Peter frowned. Faced Steve. "But I thought you said . . . "

Steve, face half hidden by his coffee mug with his attention on the napkins, didn't say anything.

Peter did pay for it. Whatever /it/ was. He was on triple laundry duty for the next week and a half. And he did it gladly. It was the least he could do for what he had put them through.

However, their relationship must have been more stuck in his subconscious than he anticipated, because every other night, Peter had raunchy dreams that landed him in a cold shower the next morning. In most of them, he watched. Which was uncomfortably erotic. Peter had never explored voyeurism. Though, a good porn once in awhile did wonders for his endorphin levels. He rubbed one out once a day at least. But somehow, doing it with his friends in mind seemed wrong. Really wrong.

Thursday night's was the steamiest yet. Steve and Bucky sharing that impossibly small shower, Steve pressed into a tight corner, Bucky between his legs, Steve's hands in his hair. Bucky's hands . . . somewhere else. The two of them mouth to mouth and doing anything but getting clean.

Shit. Focus.

Rehashing that scene would induce a problem inappropriate for his AM class. Peter found himself at the volunteer bakery of the student union building afterward, paging through a copy of the textbook. Professor Sullivan's exam was Monday and he was known for dishing out doozies.

"Hey," said a feminine voice.

Peter looked up, startled. "Hey!"

"Parker, right? Peter." She wore a computer bag over one slim shoulder, high rimmed boots, and an over-the-shoulder top. The girl pushed her sunglasses up onto her head where her jet-black hair hung in a messy bun.

Peter blinked. Why did she seem . . . ?

"It's Molly. Molly Roark? From Political Science class. And the wild party a couple weeks ago."

"Oh my god! That's right. I'm sorry." He stuck his hand out and shook hers early. "How you been?"

"You seem a little distracted. Mind if I sit with you? I'm dying to eat this and the other tables are full."

"Not at all. Please." They sat down. Peter took a breath to brave another question, but she silenced him with a finger.

"Bagel first. Then chat."

Peter nodded.

She unwrapped her breakfast, a thick cheesy whole grain bun stuffed with turkey and lettuce and cream cheese, and took a huge bite. Molly moaned.

After a gulp of her coffee, "Fuck the rules. I love carbs."

"The rules?" Peter grinned.

"Sorority stuff," she reported with a pout. "We're not allowed to eat like this. And I'm fucking miserable."

Peter laughed. "Well, you look incredible. You should probably go get three more of those at least."

She rolled her eyes. "You're a sweetie. OK. I have a question."

"Yeah?" Peter picked up his coffee.

"Are you gay?"

Peter choked. "N—no," he said hoarsely, wiping his mouth.

Molly gave him a once-over. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I've had three very serious girlfriends."

"So have I." She shrugged inconsequentially. She leaned forward with a quirky smirk. "You don't remember me kissing you, do you?"

Face burning, Peter guffawed. "No. No way. I would have remembered that!"

"mhm. You call yourself bi then?"

Dumbfounded, Peter blinked. "What?"

"Honey. I'm from West Hollywood. You were ten times more interested in playing beer pong with that frat prince than hanging out with me. And you took every punishment he dished at you like you were thirsty for more. I do not blame you. Give me some sriracha and sticky rice and I would eat that boy raw." With an angelic smile, she tucked into her bagel again.

"I'm not—"

Molly blinked, her eyebrows shooting halfway up her head. "Not what?"

"I've never . . . "

"Oh, you poor cinnamon roll." She sighed. "Looks like we're going to embark on this journey of self-discovery together. Sadly, I spent all my allowance on Lululemon and don't have enough to afford to plane tickets back home until Christmas. So, it looks like we'll have to work with what we're given here."

"Molly—"

She polished off her bagel, sucked two fingers clean, and crunched the package into a ball. Molly shot for the trash can and sunk it.

"No buts. Tomorrow is Halloween. Tonight, I'm taking you to The Library."

Peter frowned. "The Library? For books on bisexuality?"

Molly laughed.


From here, it will get explicit. ;]

For more, please visit Archive of Our Own at: /works/15525309/chapters/36039054

Love,

HMNG