Chapter Text
Crazy for you
A sweet aroma tickled his nose. Rumlow let out a low groan in his sleep, curling up instinctively. It was a feeble attempt at resistance—one he knew was utterly meaningless. After all, wasn’t scent far more powerful than even the morning sunlight pouring through the curtains? His stomach, which had grown accustomed to receiving breakfast every morning, reacted with a low rumble at the mouthwatering smell. It would have been easier to surrender and get up. But after exerting himself more than usual yesterday, every muscle in his body ached. So instead, he stubbornly clung to his meaningless resistance for just a little longer. Not that it would last more than five minutes. At last, he raised the white flag. Dragging his heavy body out of bed, he stepped into the kitchen—and saw a man standing at the stove, holding a frying pan. His blond hair was tousled from sleep, and he was still in his pajamas. The only difference was the blue apron tied around his waist, adorned with a star-shaped shield. Rumlow yawned widely and slumped into a chair.
"Good morning. Did you sleep well?"
The man’s voice was light and gentle. The soft morning sunlight streamed in through the small window of their Brooklyn apartment, spilling like golden honey over his blond hair. No need to turn on the lights, Rumlow thought idly, rolling his shoulders.
"Eh… Just so-so. You—"
He trailed off as he looked at the man’s bright, unblemished face. He looks… good. There was no denying it. Youth was a wonderful thing. They had spent the same night together, yet here was Steve—radiating energy and warmth, while Rumlow himself still felt like he’d been hit by a truck. Did he get even younger overnight? Rumlow thought dryly as his gaze drifted downward, following the small, perky movements of Steve’s hips. His old, worn-out pajamas barely covered the firm muscles of his thighs and backside, the thin fabric leaving little to the imagination. Rumlow stared blankly, appreciating the sight like a sculptor admiring a masterpiece. It wasn’t until a large plate and a white mug were placed on the table that he snapped out of it.
"Do you want maple syrup?"
“…Huh?”
Pulled back to reality by the soft voice, he blinked—first at Steve, then down at the plate in front of him. The plate held steaming pancakes, a breakfast sausage, two shiny strips of bacon, and a perfectly golden fried egg arranged with impeccable precision. Steve spoke again, voice light and casual.
"I already put a little butter on the pancakes, but it melted, so you might not see it. There's maple syrup too, if you want."
Steve placed his own plate on the small dining table before sitting down. As he blinked lazily, his long eyelashes brushed against his pale skin. Rumlow found himself swallowing involuntarily. It was probably because of the delicious-looking breakfast.
…Probably.
Shoving the thought aside, he grabbed the white mug and took a scalding gulp of coffee. The heat burned his tongue, but at least it woke him up properly. After all, coffee was meant for clearing one’s head. Steve blinked at him in mild surprise but didn’t comment. Instead, he picked up the maple syrup bottle and generously drizzled it over his plate. Rumlow narrowed his eyes. If he keeps drowning everything in syrup like that, he’s gonna drop dead from diabetes. He stabbed a piece of sausage with his fork and popped it into his still-burning mouth, chewing slowly. Not that it mattered— Steve always did this. Every morning. Without fail, he poured an obscene amount of syrup over his entire breakfast, including the sausage. And when the pancakes were gone. He’d soak the leftover sausage in syrup before eating it. It was a habit as predictable as the sunrise. Rumlow knew this. He knew everything about Steve’s eating habits. Because every single morning, he sat right across from him, watching. Watching so much that he had them memorized.
❋
The question of when his relationship with him began was difficult to answer. It was unclear where to start, and as far as the not-so-young Rumlow could recall, love for the younger generation these days had its ambiguities. If saying "I love you" marked the beginning of a relationship, then this one had never started. If sleeping together was the starting point, then it had been more than a year. Dating? That had started even longer ago.
The first time he saw him was at a small café in New York he had stumbled upon during a stakeout. That shop, the kind that could be found anywhere, was pathetically wedged between other massive buildings, and like any other café, it had a few small tables set up in front. The operation he had been assigned at the time was not Rumlow’s usual style. He preferred immediate raids and takedowns, but because the target was a rat-like figure, he had to take caution and observe for weeks. For that purpose, the café—whose name he couldn't even remember, with four blue tables lined up neatly—was the most suitable spot. Every day, he waited outside, watching his target through the window of the building across the street. And it was there that Steve Rogers worked as a server and barista.
"Boss, do you even have a conscience? How could you think of devouring that kid like that?"
Rumlow forcefully ignored Rollins' incredulous remark and threw back his instant coffee. This wasn’t any of his business. If he had said that much, he should have dropped it already, but Rollins never knew when to stop.
"He looks young, for god’s sake. How could you, as a human being, do this? He’s young enough to be your son."
"Do you even know how old he is? How can you be so sure he’s young enough to be my son?"
"I can take a guess. How old is he, then?"
"......"
Caught off guard, Rumlow fell silent, and Rollins’ expression shifted from disapproval to sheer shock. This was a topic he had wanted to avoid, yet here he was, caught in his own trap. With a look of sheer disbelief, Rollins shouted,
"You've been seeing him for over a year, and you still don’t know how old he is?"
"Look, kid, there are all sorts of circumstances..."
"And you still call yourself a person?"
That was enough to make Rumlow’s foot move toward Rollins’ shin. He kicked the heavy but useless leg roughly and crushed the empty paper cup in his hand. Behind him, Rollins howled like a wounded animal and hopped on one leg to catch up with his superior, tears welling up in his eyes.
"Why did you hit me?"
"You deserved it."
"Did I say anything wrong? You even said recently that you've been staying at his place!"
Ah, damn it. He was starting to regret getting too close to this guy. He hadn’t realized how chatty and sharp Rollins was. Exhausted by the conversation, he deliberately avoided answering.
"I mean, seriously, how have you been living together for over six months and still don’t know your boyfriend’s age?"
"He won’t tell me, so how the hell would I know?"
"Then he must not find you trustworthy. Honestly, I don’t blame him. It doesn’t make sense."
Even as Rumlow glared at him, Rollins wouldn't shut up. He looked like someone who had never been in a relationship himself, yet he was unbearably logical. He should mind his own business. Rumlow grumbled. The kid must have figured he’d already gotten what he wanted out of him, so he didn’t see the need to bring it up.
"Still, this is ridiculous. Boss, you’re officially a failure as a boyfriend."
"Great. It was always vague anyway, so that’s a relief."
"I already knew, but man, you really are a terrible guy."
At Rollins' final remark, Rumlow swung his arm and smacked him hard on the shoulder, making it clear that he needed to shut up. As thick-headed as he was, he finally seemed to get the message and pouted, lowering his oversized head.
In truth, everything he said was right. It was completely absurd. What kind of man in the world didn’t even know his partner’s age? If he could even call him that. But Rumlow wasn’t the type to pry, and he had things he preferred to keep hidden as well. Even if Steve found out that he was a S.H.I.E.L.D. special ops agent, that wasn’t something he could easily talk about. Security reasons and all. At his age, he had no interest in baring his soul for the sake of a relationship.
Truthfully, deep down, Rumlow never saw himself as someone Steve could take seriously. Just as Rollins had been ranting about, even if Steve didn’t explicitly say so, there was no way he was more than in his mid-to-late twenties at most. Meanwhile, Rumlow was pushing fifty. There was no way this relationship could ever be serious.
It was just a fling. That’s how he saw it.
Truthfully, there was no sense of discomfort in spending time together, even without deep, heartfelt conversations. On his days off, when Rumlow returned home from work, Steve was always in the kitchen, wearing that same blue apron, frying, boiling, or stirring something. Just watching him cook was enjoyable enough. Wasn’t that enough? Rumlow thought. What more could he possibly want? Knowing more about Steve wouldn’t change anything. In the end, he was in a line of work where he could die at any moment.
“What are you thinking about?”
Steve asked. His blue eyes fixed on him. Lost in thought, Rumlow hadn’t fully registered his words. He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck.
“Just work.”
“Was it a rough day?”
Steve asked. His pale skin was still smooth and unblemished. He really did have a porcelain-like face. Standing by the stove, his cheeks were slightly flushed, probably from the heat. Rumlow raised an eyebrow. He didn’t feel like explaining. After all, what kind of conversation would that even be? “Hey, my coworker basically called me a borderline pedophile today. What do you think about that?” What kind of answer could Steve possibly give to that? Instead of responding, he simply adjusted his posture and looked at Steve.
“Same old, same old. You?”
“Same old, same old.”
Steve cheekily echoed his words. He wasn’t particularly talkative either, so their conversations always stayed at this level. Honestly, for his age, Steve wasn’t very sociable. Every time Rumlow looked at him, he thought the same thing. He probably didn’t have many friends. It wasn’t a baseless assumption—other than the occasional phone call from his friend Bucky, Steve rarely went out. Not exactly the life of the party. But Rumlow liked his quiet nature, his maturity beyond his years. That had been the appeal from the start. At the café, Steve had always worked in silence, unnoticed by most. Anyone stopping by just once or twice might not even realize he existed. Rumlow was the same. He was too focused on his mission to pay attention to a mere café worker. The most he had ever noticed was the flash of golden hair and the strain of buttons across his chest whenever he paid at the counter. That is, until the day Steve noticed him first.
It was an afternoon bathed in sunlight. The scent of coffee tickled his nose, and his body, weighed down by exhaustion, still recalled it as if it had happened just yesterday. The mission had dragged on longer than expected. It wasn’t supposed to take this long, but the target—bold enough to have meddled with S.H.I.E.L.D. tech—had turned out to be far too cautious. This endless waiting was driving him crazy. He had grumbled to Rollins, who had simply replied, “What can you do? If we move too soon, everything goes to waste. We have to wait.” So, he waited. Buried in endless paperwork, growing weary of the wait, cursing Fury for assigning him to this. Then, suddenly, a light tap on his shoulder. Turning around, he saw a faded blue shirt beneath a brown apron. On the left side of his chest, written neatly and clearly, was the name— Steve Rogers.
"Excuse me..."
The man, who appeared to be in his mid-twenties at most, smiled awkwardly. It was the same employee he saw at the counter every day. His neatly combed hair and fresh smile reminded Rumlow of a slightly unripe fruit, leaving a faintly bitter aftertaste. As he stood there, mouth slightly agape, he found himself staring at the young man's blue eyes and youthful face. The man set a white plate down on the table and continued speaking.
"I just baked these. Thought you might want to try one. You look tired."
Rumlow glanced down at the plate where the young man’s pale arm had just been. A small cookie rested on it, its size modest compared to his broad hand. Chocolate chips? He raised an eyebrow. The man fidgeted with his hands, looking slightly embarrassed.
"You come here every day. I needed some feedback anyway. Can't trust my friends' opinions."
"Ah."
Feeling his own voice spilling out of his slightly open mouth, Rumlow dumbly stared at the young man. Quickly snapping out of his daze, he awkwardly picked up the cookie. It was still warm, suggesting that it had indeed just come out of the oven. He fumbled for a response.
"You didn’t have to, but... thanks."
"I'm the one who should be thanking you for coming by all the time."
"I’ll enjoy it."
At Rumlow’s words, the man named Steve flashed a small smile and turned away. Until that moment, Rumlow had never really noticed how the counter and tables had always obscured the young man’s full form. Now that he had a clear view, he found himself idly taking in the details—broad shoulders tapering down to a trim waist. He stood there like an idiot, forgetting his role for a moment, watching as the young man disappeared back into the café. Only then did he shift his gaze down to the cookie in his hand. How long had it been since he last had one of these? He struggled to recall as he slowly brought the cookie to his lips. A sweet, buttery scent filled his senses. Still warm, it crumbled softly in his mouth, the semi-melted chocolate adding a rich, velvety texture. Savoring the taste, Rumlow took another bite, letting the comforting sweetness ease his exhaustion.
The next time he visited the café, Rumlow greeted Steve first.
"Good morning."
Steve, who clearly recognized him, grinned.
"Good morning."
And so, a routine began. Rumlow would order a hot Americano, take a seat, and wait, earphones in, staring at the windows of the building across the street until orders came through his earpiece. Two hours later, Steve approached his table again. This time, he set down a still-warm scone. When Rumlow looked up, Steve ducked his head slightly, just like the day before.
"I can’t really trust my own judgment when it comes to taste."
The scone, unsurprisingly, was delicious. The buttery, crumbly texture melted in his mouth, and for the first time in a while, Rumlow found himself smiling. At the same time, he realized with certainty that the next day, and the day after that, Steve would appear before him with another plate in hand.
Of course, it didn’t feel right to just keep taking free food. At first, Rumlow tried returning the favor with small gifts—a slice of cake from a nearby bakery on his way over. But then, it hit him: was it really a gift to bring more baked goods to someone who spent all day baking? ("If it were me, I’d be sick of it. If indifference were a crime, you’d be on death row, boss—death row!" Rollins had squawked beside him.)
So, one day, after giving it some thought, Rumlow gathered a bit of courage. He figured it was a decent idea, at least.
"When’s your lunch break?"
Steve looked at him with slightly widened eyes, then glanced down at the old watch on his wrist.
"In about thirty minutes. Noon sharp."
"If you’re free, want to grab a meal together?"
An awkward silence stretched between them. Rumlow hastily added,
"I just appreciate the bread you always give me. Thought I should at least treat you to lunch."
"Sounds good."
The response came more readily than expected, leaving Rumlow momentarily stunned. As he stood there, caught off guard, Steve tilted his head slightly, wiping his flour-dusted hands with a cloth.
"Just give me a moment. Let me clean up the display, and I’ll be right out."
He didn’t remember exactly what they ate that day. It was probably some Chinese place in New York. But Rumlow could clearly recall the way Steve sat across from him, his full lips parting as he diligently brought food to his mouth, his eyes occasionally flicking up to meet his own. The faded green shirt, rolled up to his forearms, complemented the green tint of his eyes. Mesmerized by the movement of those lips, the entire meal passed by in a blur—he couldn’t tell if he had eaten through his mouth or his nose.
The next day, it was the same routine. When Rumlow stood at the counter and suggested they eat together again, Steve surprised him by narrowing his eyes slightly as he looked at him.
"If it’s a meal together, I’d like that. I can’t always be on the receiving end."
"But I get free bread from you every day."
"That’s…"
Steve’s eyebrows arched. As he often did when at a loss for words, he tilted his head slightly and averted his gaze to the right.
"Having you taste-test is actually a help to me."
"Then let me ask for a taste-test, too."
"A taste-test of what?"
"The restaurants around here. Their quality, hygiene—stuff like that. You’d just be helping me out."
Steve narrowed his eyes at him, and Rumlow gave a slight nod. He couldn’t believe he was making such a ridiculous joke. Quickly, he thought of a follow-up.
"I’m actually a street food critic in this district."
"Oh no."
At Rumlow’s words, the corners of Steve’s lips quirked up. The unexpected joke seemed to amuse him; even his serious eyes softened with a smile.
"I’m in big trouble, aren’t I? I didn’t even realize I was bribing you."
"Oh yeah. Your café’s already on my watchlist."
"Damn, my boss is gonna give me hell."
Steve planted both hands on the counter and dramatically lowered his head, which Rumlow couldn’t help but find amusing. Before he realized it, he was smiling too, and without thinking, he teased,
"There’s a way to get off the list, though."
Steve tilted his head slightly, his eyes glinting with curiosity.
"Have a meal with me, and I’ll erase your name."
"So that’s how you’re gonna play it?"
"Yep. I’m a man who stops at nothing."
At Rumlow’s shameless response, Steve let out a small chuckle—tilting his head back in that way that Rumlow was beginning to recognize as one of his endearing habits. Then, glancing at the clock, Steve seemed to realize how much time had passed while they were chatting. Stretching out his long, well-built arms, he untied his apron and carefully hung it on the display rack. His bangs, loosened by the movement, fell over his forehead, and Rumlow swallowed involuntarily.
"Alright, let’s go."
Steve said, smiling.
Why did that thought only come to him now?
A year and ten months ago, Brock Rumlow hadn’t given much thought to the consequences of his actions. That was simply how he had lived his whole life, and there was no way he could suddenly gain foresight in a single moment. But who could have predicted that he’d end up living with a kid whose exact age he didn't even know, sitting at the same dinner table with him? Now, at forty-five, standing right at the edge of life’s twilight, Brock Rumlow sat at the dinner table, clutching his head, reflecting on what his colleague Rollins had said.
Was that true? Could a relationship last when all they knew about each other was a phone number—when they didn’t even know each other’s age or jobs? Well, that problem only applied to Steve. At the very least, Rumlow was sure that his younger lover worked a part-time job somewhere. But if this relationship wasn’t normal, then when exactly was the right time to end it?
Ending a relationship.
The moment that thought crossed his mind, a bitter taste filled his mouth. He had always considered this possibility in a vague, distant way, but now that it was standing right in front of him, he couldn’t help but feel afraid. He had started this relationship telling himself that he could walk away at any time. But thinking about it now, while his feelings were still warm, felt unpleasant.
Was he being selfish?
If so, then so be it.
But was this even something that required such serious deliberation? Shouldn’t he just be upfront about it? For all he knew, the age gap might not even be that big. It wasn’t like S.H.I.E.L.D. was some criminal organization. Sure, he wasn’t exactly in a position to go around announcing his job, but it wasn’t something he had to hide from his lover either. If anything, it was a job to be proud of.
Besides, breaking up now would be exhausting. They had only been together for six months, but they were already living together, and finding a new place to live in New York was harder than finding a needle in a desert.
Damn it, just forget it.
Rumlow ran a rough hand down his face several times—a habit of his whenever he felt frustrated. What was the point of all this overthinking? Since when had he become the type to dwell on things like this? He should just live the way he always had.
Grabbing the glass in front of him, he took a gulp of the deep red wine. The rich, sweet aroma of ripened grapes lingered in his nose.
"What's with the wine?"
He looked up at Steve, who was transferring food onto their plates. Steve turned his head slightly toward him and answered,
"A friend gave it to me."
"A gift?"
"They bought too much and told me to take one."
"You drink?"
"I'm not much of a drinker, but I figured the Italian in the house would appreciate it."
Rumlow let out a dry laugh. Italian, huh. He was the type of American who preferred beer over wine, and Steve knew that well. But sometimes, Steve liked to throw in these little jokes, and Rumlow found them amusing.
Shaking his head with a smirk, he got up to set the table. Dinner was lasagna. Fresh out of the oven, the edges were browned and crisp. The $30 red wine paired surprisingly well with the rich flavors of minced beef and melted cheese.
"Lasagna?"
Rumlow asked as he sat back down. Steve put his fork down and replied,
"Sometimes I just feel like making something different."
"Isn't it a hassle? Cooking dinner every night after work must be exhausting."
He asked, feeling a bit guilty. But Steve simply shrugged and scooped up a big bite.
"I do it because I want to."
"Still, I feel bad mooching off of you when I'm already crashing at your place."
Rumlow muttered as he took a bite of the lasagna. Oregano? If he got too used to food like this, there’d be no going back to cheap hot dogs.
"You do the dishes and laundry."
"That’s easy."
"And you pay the rent."
"What, you expect me to live in your place rent-free at my age—"
"I'm fine with it."
Clear blue eyes met his, unwavering. Deep and steady, they gleamed with certainty. Steve always had this look in his eyes whenever he was serious. And whenever he did, there was no changing his mind. Rumlow knew that all too well.
So he simply shrugged.
If you’re fine with it, then whatever.
He took another big bite of lasagna, brushing it off.
Rumlow, who had always lived his life on a whim, would never admit it, but deep down, he found something about his younger lover’s resolute nature endearing. Every time Steve set his jaw like this, looking so stubbornly unwavering on that youthful, unlined face, he couldn’t help but feel a smile tug at his lips. How could someone so young make expressions like a seventy-year-old man? As that familiar, indescribable warmth swelled in his chest, Rumlow shoved away the nagging voice in his mind—the voice that sounded suspiciously like Rollins, telling him to be more honest with himself.
That evening, as Rumlow did the dishes, the soft breeze of autumn, which had just begun to settle in as summer passed, gently blew through the open window. Steve was sitting at the desk, reading a book, and the air, having cooled down from the scorching sun, was refreshing. Rumlow had never felt more at ease than in that moment. The radio, which he had left on as background noise, crackled with static as the announcer’s clear voice came through.
“At around 2 PM, there was an unexplained explosion in Washington. Both Team ‘The Avengers’ and S.H.I.E.L.D. have stated they are still unsure of the exact circumstances. Authorities urge citizens to remain calm and prioritize safety...”
He glanced at Steve out of the corner of his eye, making sure not to be noticed. Steve, completely absorbed in his book, had his nose buried in the delicate pages without even lifting his head. Rumlow found himself feeling strangely awkward when the word “S.H.I.E.L.D.” came up. He quickly averted his gaze and scrubbed at a stubborn grease stain on an oven-safe ceramic dish with a sponge.
❋
"Just break up with him already."
"Is that all you have to say after not seeing me for so long?"
Steve, looking slightly irritated, raised his eyebrows and shot a displeased look at Bucky, who was glaring at him with his eyes narrowed, like a flounder. After returning from a year-long exchange student program in Romania, he had shortened his brown hair to just above his shoulders and tied it back.
"Then what should I say?"
"Well, how about 'it's good to see you' or 'how have you been'?"
"You think I’ve been doing great? I already heard from Sam and Natasha. They say you’re seeing a guy who’s like double your age?"
"Bucky."
"They said he looks like a terrorist or something!"
"That’s..."
"You crazy bastard, I told you not to let this happen before I left! What, did he threaten you to break up with him?"
"No,"
"You sick freak, I knew you’d turn out this way. James Buchanan Barnes, look at you, you're still not dead. Just say it! I’ll come running whenever you want."
Bucky had fired off a series of questions without being asked, so quickly that it was hard to keep up. Steve, tired of it, gave up talking and stared at his long-time friend until Bucky caught on to the serious look in his eyes and fell silent. Listening to Bucky's words, Steve could easily guess what Sam and Natasha had told him. He loved his friends, and he knew how worried they were about him, but this overprotectiveness was getting on his nerves. "It’s not like that, Brock is a good person."
"A good person? Who dates someone old enough to be their son?"
"Bucky, don’t talk like that."
When Steve shot him a sharp look, Bucky lowered his head like a scolded puppy. He was usually kind-hearted, though his tendency to speak roughly was the problem. Steve knew that, so he didn’t want to scold him. Still, when it came to insulting his lover, it was hard to just let it slide.
"It’s true, he’s just... a person, and you can’t choose how you look, right? You shouldn’t judge people by their appearance."
Trying to defend Brock quickly after hearing the "terrorist" comment, Steve's words began to feel like an awful excuse, overlapping with his tendency to never lie. Honestly, Brock’s face was far from giving the impression of a gentle person, even in passing. His tanned skin and sunken cheeks only added to his harsh look. Yet, Steve didn’t mind that. If anything, he found it strangely sexy. As he sipped his warm coffee, trying to wash away the thoughts of Brock's arm, Bucky still looked dissatisfied, frowning deeply.
"But personality shows in your face, doesn't it?"
"Bucky."
"I’ll admit, you have a unique taste. But you still need to think about his age."
Bucky continued, clearly furious at the thought that Steve had such a boyfriend. (Why though?)
"And – I heard you’re living together now?"
"Yeah."
"He’s living in your apartment?"
It was true, and Steve knew how it would sound. A man who was probably in his forties was living in the apartment of a twenty-two-year-old? A shabby Brooklyn apartment that Steve had barely managed to rent with scholarships and part-time work? It would look like he was some kind of freeloader. But even so, Steve still wanted to defend Brock. He hastily added:
"I can explain. It’s complicated."
"It seems pretty simple to me."
"Brock had some issues with rent at his place, and since it was so hard to find a new place in such a short time, I told him he could stay at mine. I couldn’t just let him be homeless."
"Why couldn’t you?"
Ignoring Bucky’s snarky comment, Steve continued.
"It’s not uncomfortable living together. Everyone does it nowadays. It’s nothing unusual. Besides, ever since he moved in, he’s been paying the rent entirely..."
"He better be paying the rent, or he’s not human! How old is he...?!"
"Well, yeah... for food and utilities, though..."
"Steve, that’s still-"
Bucky wiped his face with his hand several times in frustration. He had a lot he wanted to say, but as he struggled to find the right words, he kept opening and closing his mouth before finally letting out a deep sigh. "I just want you to meet a good person," he said. "I’m worried. You’re too kind, and you let those... guys..."
"I know who I’m dating, Bucky," Steve cut him off sharply. Though he understood Bucky’s concern, he didn’t like the fact that everyone, including Sam and Natasha, was treating him like a helpless baby. More than that, it upset him that Bucky, who he valued like family, couldn’t understand him. Of course, he understood that Brock wasn’t the most likable person at first. Even Steve had been nervous the first time Brock showed up at the café. But the stern look had been because Brock had been tired and worn out, and once Steve realized that his face was just the way it was, he didn’t find it difficult to look past. If anything, seeing him drink coffee while looking worn out reminded Steve of Bucky, who always seemed to seek strong coffee when dealing with piled-up assignments. He handed him freshly baked cookies just because he hoped his faraway friend would feel a little less tired. That repetition turned into affection, then into stronger feelings, then love. Anyway, his attempts to lie in order to buy lunch were cute, and such a person couldn’t be a bad one.
"But I’m just worried about you."
Bucky pursed his thin lips and looked at Steve. His already sharp jawline tightened, resembling the shape of a walnut, and his expression became almost like a puppy trying to hold back tears or appeal to someone.
“You don’t even know what that person does or how old they are. Do you realize how dangerous that is?”
“I only have a rough guess.”
“Yeah! Even so, you never directly told me. If you’re so proud of it, why don’t you share it?”
Steve added as if to justify himself, “I don’t talk about myself much either.”
“Steve, this is not good. It’s really not good.”
He grabbed his head, staring at Steve through his disheveled hair, his pale blue eyes filled with concern, worry, and love. "I’m not saying you need to share everything because that’s your style, but in a relationship, you’re supposed to open up. I feel like you’re hiding too much. And if it’s been almost two years—this isn’t appropriate.”
“Thanks for worrying, but this is something I need to handle.”
“Steve…”
At Steve’s firm words, Bucky looked at him once more as if to plead, but then lowered his head, conceding. After a long pause, he spoke in a barely audible voice. "Okay. I’m always on your side. But if something really happens, you have to tell me, alright?"
“Bucky, nothing’s going to happen.”
“You’ll tell me, right?”
“…Alright. Thanks for worrying.”
Steve finally smiled faintly as he answered. His childhood friend was cute, and the way Bucky said he wouldn’t ask any more questions as if he’d lost was somewhat amusing. But despite his firm response, the last words Bucky said stuck in Steve’s mind. “And if it’s been almost two years… I think this isn’t appropriate.” Maybe that was true. He hadn’t realized it for so long, but not knowing his boyfriend’s age, job, family, or anything substantial was actually a pretty big issue. At least, outwardly, it seemed so. As he was talking to Bucky and walked home, Steve found himself chewing on his lower lip, unknowingly thinking about this matter. Was it really like that? Was this an unhealthy relationship? If he could understand it, Steve wouldn’t ask any more questions, but upon reflection, he hadn’t shared anything about himself either. So, maybe it was also his fault? If he wanted a healthy relationship, how much should he reveal about himself? Steve Rogers was taking this relationship more seriously than he thought, and if someone pointed it out, he wanted to adjust it as much as possible. Did that mean he had to bring it up first? So, during dinner time, before having sex with Brock (Rumlow), he subtly decided to share some information about himself.
“It’s getting pretty chilly now, huh?”
He said. Rumlow nodded in agreement. It seemed like they both felt good for the same reason.
“With the sun going down, there will probably be more customers now.”
Rumlow tilted his chestnut-colored eyes toward Steve, shrugging his shoulders lightly.
“Everyone prefers outdoor seating when it’s fall.”
“Ah, right.”
It was true. After the heat faded, people would try to find some advantage in this busy neighborhood by heading toward outdoor terraces. At small cafes like the one Steve worked at, there weren’t many indoor seats, so during the hot summer when it was hard to sit outside, there weren’t many customers. But when fall came, the number of customers would noticeably increase. Steve often wanted to remind Rumlow of the fact that he also sat outside only in spring.
“Well, I’m going to reduce my working days and just work evenings, so it’s fine.”
He answered while pouring hot water into his mug. It was thanks to his boss being understanding. When he had told Clint that he couldn’t work every day because of the semester, Clint raised one eyebrow and asked if he could work at other times. For Steve, who was always struggling with living expenses, there was no kinder word than that. When Steve repeatedly thanked him, Clint, lifting his burly body, said, "In this city, you’re the only one who can brew real coffee."
“Why?”
As Steve looked for honey while putting chamomile leaves in his mug, Rumlow leaned forward, asking. This was very unusual for him, as he didn’t usually ask questions. Steve replied while watching the honey dissolve in the golden mug.
“Because the semester started. I’m back in school.”
“Semester?”
“I have to go back soon. I have to graduate.”
“Graduate?”
Rumlow’s voice grew louder. Steve turned around and was unable to hide his surprise at the wide-eyed look of his boyfriend. It was the first time he had ever seen Brock look so shocked, someone who was usually calm and indifferent. He stared at Steve with his eyes almost popping out, and Steve was confused, holding his mug to his lips. However, Rumlow didn’t seem like he was going to drink tea. He stared at Steve, his mouth agape, before finally shouting.
“You’re a college student?”
Steve looked at Rumlow in surprise. Hadn’t he mentioned it? Why on earth was he so shocked? He quickly tried to recall the details. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t directly said it… or had he never mentioned it at all? Maybe it was natural that Rumlow didn’t know. Steve Rogers had always been a bit careless in strange ways. He sipped his hot tea and replied nonchalantly.
“I’m a college student…”
“Since when?”
“About four years ago?”
“Graduate school, right? Please tell me you’re a grad student.”
“No, I’m an undergrad. I’m studying bakery and pastry arts.”
Rumlow grabbed his hair in frustration as if he didn’t understand why Steve was being so calm, and let out a long sigh, as though completely stunned.
“I thought that was your job.”
“It is my job.”
“What I mean is—”
“After my mom passed away, I couldn’t afford tuition for a few years. You know, when something like that happens, hospital bills pile up. So I took a break from school and decided to find a job.”
Steve looked at Brock’s face, unsure whether his expression was softening or hardening. It was hard to tell since he always had a fierce face.
“So, how old are you now?”
Rumlow finally asked cautiously. The atmosphere was getting stranger.
“Twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two?”
“I turned twenty-two this summer.”
Now, Steve’s face, which had been well-tanned, turned pale. He didn’t know what the problem was, nor could he keep up with the conversation. Rumlow, staring at him with wide eyes, seemed to be lost in thought, then suddenly closed his eyes, as if gathering himself, before slowly turning his face toward Steve.
“Do you know how old I am?”
He stopped himself from saying, “I look over forty” and merely raised an eyebrow. His mother had always told him that it was wise not to say things that could hurt others, even if they were the truth.
“I’m forty-five. More than double your age.”
It wasn’t that surprising. If he had said he was in his thirties, that would have been more shocking. When Steve didn’t seem surprised, Rumlow, looking confused, sighed repeatedly and continued.
“I’m living in your house as a twenty-two-year-old college student.”
“As I’ve said, it’s fine with me.”
“Man, I’m the one who’s not fine!”
Frustrated with Steve’s lack of response, Rumlow shouted at him before turning his gaze away. He looked as though he was agonizing over the situation, as if Steve were secretly part of a neo-Nazi group.
“Someone your age could find someone much better.”
“That’s for me to decide.”
Steve replied firmly. It was never easy to hear this kind of thing. Steve Grant Rogers had always been someone who made his own decisions and judgments, and when someone treated him like a child, it made him angry. He was annoyed by people around him who pestered him about such matters, and when he heard this from his own boyfriend, the anger inside him began to rise.
“Still, this isn’t right. No, we need to think about this.”
“Think about what?”
“Yeah, first, I need to move out. I’ll pack my stuff.”
“Why are you packing your stuff?”
“Are you seriously going to let me stay here?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
The voices grew louder. Not caring about the darkening atmosphere, Steve quietly watched Rumlow, who was about to get up from the table. It seemed like he was making an unreasonable fuss over something that didn’t even make sense. What was the problem? But Rumlow didn’t seem to think that way. He shook his head and finally got up from the table.
“What’s the problem, you ask? There’s a reason why people want to be with someone like themselves.”
“What reason?”
“Because it won’t last long.”
“......”
“If you stay with me, you won’t see good things. You should be with people your own age.”
With each indifferent word from Rumlow, Steve’s composed face grew more and more rigid. Now his face had turned completely pale. Rumlow, aware of it, glanced at his younger lover and shook his head.
“Anyway, sorry. I’ll leave.”
“....”
With no reply, Steve remained silent, his mouth closed like a statue. Rumlow, awkwardly scratching his head, seemed unsure what to say next. He let out a sigh before disappearing into the room. Steve stayed sitting, not moving. In the room, he could hear the sound of Rumlow rummaging through the wardrobe, searching for the bag he had brought when he arrived. He was serious. He was packing. His attitude and the reasons behind him wanting to end their one year and ten months of dating and living together without much thought was so unbelievable that Steve felt all the strength drain from him while sitting in that chair. By now, the mug he had never touched had completely cooled.