Work Text:
Bucky’s thirteen years old when he meets Steve on the playground. Steve’s thinner than him, sure, but when Bucky pulls him back to his feet and helps him dust the dirt off his shirt (after scaring off the guy who had been punching him down for having the nerve to get back up again), Steve stands about as tall as he does.
Steve’s twelve years old when someone helps him back up instead of hitting him back down, and he’s kind of small like him.
Bucky’s fifteen years old when he first tilts his head to meet Steve’s lips. His lips are soft and sweet, just like Buck thought they’d be, and they wrap into each other in the dark, the two inches of height separating the tops of their heads going unnoticed.
Steve’s fourteen years old when Bucky asks him if he wants to play seven minutes in heaven at his place to make up for not being invited to Stacey’s birthday. It’s all he’s ever wanted. Buck’s arms rest easy on his shoulders, his own arms wrapped around Buck’s waist and it’s sloppy but comfortable.
Bucky’s eighteen years old when he starts placing two fingers under Steve’s chin to lift his face to his. Sometimes Steve stands on tiptoe, arms round Bucky’s neck, but Bucky always stoops a little to bring their lips together. The six inches between them only becomes apparent when their necks start to get sore.
Steve’s seventeen years old when he cranes his neck, searching for Buck’s lips in the space between them. He doesn’t like standing too close to tall guys; there’s something intimate about looking up at them. The taller the guy, the farther away he has to stand for Steve to make comfortable eye contact. But it doesn’t matter how tall Buck gets, Steve will always stand on tiptoe and put a crick in his neck to taste Buck on his tongue.
Bucky’s twenty-one years old when he picks Steve up, a strong hand beneath each thigh, legs wrapped around his waist, to kiss Steve good bye before he leaves for war. Steve giggles as he always does as they erase Buck’s eight-inch height advantage, and he can look down on Buck for a change, Bucky’s chin tilted up to chase kisses before he has to go.
Steve’s twenty years old when he clings to Bucky with all his limbs and kisses him with quivering lips. Silent tears spill down his face as Bucky finally puts him down, kisses the top of his head, and tells him not to do anything stupid until he gets back. Steve spits out sass to hide his pain and doesn’t wipe his face until he’s sure Bucky won’t see. He cries the first time he has to climb onto the counter to get the tea off the top shelf. Not because it’s hard to do, but because he’d always taken Bucky’s gentle chiding for granted when he called him to reach things he couldn’t.
Bucky’s twenty-three years old when a familiar face helps him off the table. He gets his feet under him, but those blue eyes are still level with his and he’s sure they shouldn’t be and he can’t help but wonder if he’s dreaming. He’s not convinced he’s not dreaming until he can taste Steve on his tongue and hear the way Steve sounds whimpering into his mouth; exactly the same as it’s always been.
Steve’s twenty-two years old when he has to half-carry Bucky out of the fire. He finally realizes just how tall he’s gotten when he glances down and sees the top of Bucky’s head as they run together through the woods. He wonders if he can pick Bucky up now, the way Buck used to do, and he finds the answer is yes when he pushes Buck up against a tree and helps him fasten his legs round his hips, desperate lips saying all they can without speaking.
Bucky’s twenty-six years old when he’s finally used to being the little spoon, his body curling naturally into Steve’s large form. Occasionally he asks to switch spots for old times' sake, but usually he lets Steve be his shield from the world, pressing gentle kisses into the back of his neck and shoulders.
Steve’s twenty-five years old when all the extra height in the world wouldn’t have helped him get to Bucky fast enough to stop him from falling.
Bucky’s lost in time when a familiar face refuses to defend himself or fight back. They’re around the same size; this should be a fair fight. Something pulls at the corner of his mind and he’d rather be kissing him than punching him but then that face is falling away from him and Bucky feels more loss than he’s ever known.
Steve’s twenty-nine (ninety-three? depends how you count it) when Bucky knocks on his door and greets him with a hey punk and a nervous, crooked smile, and they’re horizontal so fast that neither of them could tell you if they’re the same heights as last time they met.