There were some definite benefits to being a mafia boss's kept man. He always had a warm, not to mention comfortable, place to sleep. There was no shortage of money for food or clothes or pretty much anything else he wanted. He was protected on the streets (hell, he even had a bodyguard). And the sex was fantastic. Even when Steve got rough he never intentionally caused JB any serious harm, and JB certainly didn't mind the bruises and bitemarks.
Even outside the bedroom they were surprisingly compatible. They had a shared love of music (they played together frequently; JB on the piano and Steve on his guitar) and loved watching television or movies together and they were always cooking together (once Steve taught him how anyway). They could relax together and tease each other and it was so much more than just great sex. JB had never been happier in his life.
And then he walked in to Steve sitting on the couch with another man in his lap.
In a movie, JB might have dropped the grocery bags he held, but instead he found himself frozen stiff. Steve glanced over as the other guy just kept bouncing and moaning, obviously caught up in the pleasure. JB did his best to put on a blank expression. "So." JB finally said. "This is it?" He asked stiffly.
"Oh come on, JB, don't be like that." Steve replied, sounding almost slightly aspirated. "This was always temporary." He added.
JB couldn't say why but that brought his rage surging forward. He dropped the grocery bags deliberately roughly as he nodded. "Right, well then." He snatched up his backpack from its resting place by the door and silently noted the irony in the fact he'd never actually unpacked it as he slung it over his shoulder.
"Hey, hold on. That envelope is for you." Steve had already turned his attention back to the man in his lap, but still called those words over his shoulder. JB slowly picked up the manila envelope on the table by the door. Inside was… cash. A lot of it, in hundreds. "Your pay." Steve tossed without looking back.
And JB's rage exploded. He stalked over and emptied the whole envelope onto Steve's head before he let the envelope fall to. "I don't want your damn money." He spat before he went to the door. He didn't intend to stop, but he paused in the doorway.
Steve actually met his eyes when he looked back, and he looked slightly confused but in no way repentant. "You are a heartless, soulless, bastard and I thought that maybe this actually meant something to you like it was starting to for me, but I guess I was wrong. Have a nice life, jerk!" He spat before he slammed the door behind him.
It wasn't until he was in the elevator going down that the tears started and JB ruthlessly wiped them away. "I will not shed tears over Steve goddamn Rogers!" He insisted silently. They had stopped by the time he hit the lobby and he stalked out the front door without pausing.
"Hey, JB, wait!" The voice made him pause just outside and he glanced at the speaker. It was Clint Barton, of course, still dressed in his casual attire from their earlier outing and he was hurrying over to JB's side. "You know I'm supposed to go with you when you go out." Clint reminded and JB just shifted his feet.
He could see the moment the backpack registered. "I doubt your boss cares about me anymore, Clint. Thanks for everything, but you'd better get back to your post in case his new boytoy decides he wants to go somewhere." JB pat his shoulder, offering him a sad smile, and then walked away. JB was just the tiniest bit surprised and disappointed Clint didn't follow.
How long JB walked he didn't know, but somehow he found himself in the business district. People hurried by dressed mostly in suits or expensive professional attire. A few gave him odd looks, but a sharp glare was enough to ward them off speaking to him. Finally he took a seat on a massive set of steps that led to some important building (he didn't care which) and buried his face in his hands. He wasn't going to cry; he wasn't.
And thankfully he didn't have a chance to as a voice said "Bucky?" His head snapped up like a whip and there stood Tony. Tony Stark. A man JB- Bucky. A man Bucky hadn't seen since high school. He looked good; dressed in a nice tailored suit he filled out well. His hair was carefully styled. The only thing that stood out were the dark circles under his eyes, but if Bucky remembered correctly Tony just didn't sleep much on a regular basis by default. He was glad; Tony was a good guy and he deserved a good life. "It is you. God, it's been ages. How are you?" Tony continued as he stepped closer.
Bucky shrugged dismissively. "Been alright. You?" He asked, and he felt a little bad at the lackluster tone he was able to produce. He had thought he was a better actor than this before now. Tony's expression shifted to concern as he took in Bucky's backpack and face.
"Been good. Hey, why don't you come get lunch with me? We can catch up." Tony suggested suddenly. Bucky hesitated before he sighed.
"You know what? That actually sounds nice." He agreed as he got up. Much to his surprise, Tony offered his arm and Bucky accepted it. Neither of them spoke as they walked, but for the moment they didn't need to.
The door slamming shut behind JB had given his farewell a sense of finality that Steve couldn't shake. His partner, whose name Steve couldn't remember anymore, paused at it too and whistled slightly. "Damn, he's a drama queen. What got his panties in a knot?" The man muttered and Steve couldn't help bristling defensively.
He pushed up, silencing his partner with the thrust, and the man was quick to pick his bouncing rhythm back up. But Steve just wasn't into it anymore. His frustration wasn't fading and his interest had dwindled to none. He lifted the man off easily enough mid-bounce and let him fall to the floor as he stood.
"Ow, hey!" He objected, only to fall silent at the sharp look Steve gave him.
"Get out." He ordered. The man hesitated for only a brief moment before he stood up. He lingered long enough to collect his clothes, muttering discontentedly under his breath all the while, before he walked out. Steve sighed and glanced around at the mess of bills all over the couch. He didn't need to, the maids would clean up the mess when they came, but he started picking up the bills anyway.
Setting them in a neat stack on the coffee table he realized quickly that JB genuinely hadn't taken even a single bill. What a waste. Well, it wasn't his problem anymore. He reached under the couch and pulled out... more than just money. There were three polaroids along with the bills. Steve shifted without looking away from them, moving to sit on the floor and ignoring the way the coffee table bit into his back.
They were out of order, of course. The first was of him, getting up from the couch ready to go after JB and his camera. The second was the picture that had prompted the first: a candid picture of him, sitting calmly on the couch reading a book and completely unaware of the camera. And the last was of JB, pinned to the floor and laughing happily after Steve had caught him and stolen the camera. It put a small smile on Steve's face to see JB so utterly happy, a smile which he quickly suppressed with a scoff and the pictures dismissively joined the bills on the table.
He stood without a real destination in mind, and his eyes naturally landed on the piano. It had belonged to his mother before she passed and though he couldn't play he had refused to let it go. And so it had sat there for ages, silent, until the day he walked in to JB playing it. He was absolutely incredible, certainly on a professional level, and Steve had asked him to play a number of times after that. He had always agreed.
Shaking his head Steve forced himself to look away, but everywhere he eyes landed he was reminded of JB. The kitchen brought to mind the time he had spent teaching JB how to cook, and the student had quickly surpassed his teacher in that arena (God, Steve hadn't realized how wonderful having someone waiting at home with a warm homemade meal was until JB). The couch and all the hours they had spent there, from cuddling during a movie to the sex. Considering it he realized practically every section of the room had been subject to their not-so-bedroom-based activities.
Finally Steve couldn't take it and ducked into his bedroom with his eyes closed. He refused to feel guilty. It wasn't like they had been dating or even serious. JB was a prostitute. A callboy. A short-term fling that he had paid for. Except… JB hadn't taken the money. "Damn it." Steve straightened up and opened his eyes, only to be hit by more memories.
Of JB curled up on the bed napping or casually stretched out, nude and waiting for him with that infuriating little smirk of his. Sometimes on his knees showing off the butt plug he had worn pretty much constantly since Steve put it in. Or the times when JB danced around his bedroom, both nude and dressed (Steve loved watching his body move). The few times Steve had convinced him to model for a sketch.
And their bathroom, with all it's fun and sweet moments. The mundane things like brushing their teeth together in the mornings. Comforting things like bathing one another. And of course there was a fair share of fun they had too. Steve could just see the dildo stuck to the shower wall he had used more than once to torment JB into pleading for his cock.
Steve slid to the ground with his back pressed to the door, unable to shut out the memories whether his eyes were open or closed. He was a fucking mafia boss, for gods sake, he shouldn't be capable of getting a broken heart. And yet, there was no other explanation for it. JB leaving broke his heart and it was his own damn fault for not realizing sooner that the brunet was enough. More than enough.
"Damn it." Steve repeated before he pulled out his phone and called Clint.
"Yes, sir?" He answered immediately.
"Tell me you're with JB." He ordered. Maybe pleaded. Prayed. He couldn't tell anymore.
"I'm sorry, sir, I'm not. He was rather insistent I didn't follow him when he left." Clint answered and he did sound sorry.
Didn't stop Steve from getting angry. "Damn it!" Steve slammed a fist into the ground. "Clint, I want him found. Now." He ordered.
"Yes, sir. Should I call in the spider?" Clint offered. He sounded almost pleased by the order and Steve was suddenly hit by the realization that JB had even managed to make Clint, antisocial workaholic my-past-is-hell-and-you-shouldn't-get-to-know-me Clint, his friend.
"Call in everyone if you think it's necessary. I want him found, Clint, before anything happens to him." He snapped before he ended the call and tossed his phone aside. He realized then that his hands were shaking. The last time his hands had shaken like this had been while his mother was in emergency surgery in the hospital. The surgery that had failed and ended up costing her life.
He realized he was afraid. Actually afraid, that something would happen to JB. That something would happen and he wouldn't see him again. Maybe never even know what had happened. "Damn it." He whispered again, but this time he was definitely damning himself.