Chapter Text
The door to the dorm room flew open with such force it threatened to fly off the hinges. “I am done! Totally done.”
Steve looked up from his Psychology homework to see his roommate, Sam, motioning disgustedly. “How was the trig test, Sam?” he asked, holding back a sigh.
Sam slammed the door shut as loudly as he had opened it. “Trigonometry. I am over it,” Sam said, throwing his backpack onto his bed. “Mr. Carver is harsh. It was brutal. I kid you not, I’ll be lucky if I didn’t fail.” Sam dropped onto the bed dramatically, kicking his shoes off as he did.
Steve didn’t have trigonometry this year, but he’d always been good at math, so he wasn’t too worried about taking it. “Sorry, Sam. Maybe you should have gone to the student center and asked for a tutor? Or I could help you if you need it?”
“Are you kidding me? This was the first test of the year! I don’t need a tutor, man. I need to not have to worry about trig.” Sam sighed. “I’m here to dance, not do math.”
Steve didn’t say anything. Sam did have a point, Lakewood Academy was a boarding school for students gifted in music, art and dance and while they did have to take regular academic classes, it was their talent in other areas that brought them there. But he also knew it would be pointless to argue with Sam when he was like this. They’d only been roommates for the past six weeks, but he’d learned fast.
“You mind if I call Natasha and ask her to come over?” Sam said sitting up and reaching for the phone.
“Sam! It’s Wednesday afternoon. I’ve got homework too!”
“Steve, I know man. We gotta practice our routine, go over some moves,” Sam protested.
“Yeah, moves, sure,” Steve muttered under his breath. It wouldn’t matter what Sam invited Natasha over for, they’d end up making out before too long.
Sam didn’t answer; he was already on the phone, calling Natasha.
Steve was just finishing his reading for Psychology when Natasha burst into the room. “Hey, Steve,” she called cheerfully as she flopped onto Sam’s bed next to Sam.
“What’s up, Nat?” he asked.
“Nothing much. How are my two favorite freeloaders?” she asked, referring to the fact that both Steve and Sam were attending Lakeview Academy on a full-ride scholarship.
“Hey!” Sam said, elbowing Natasha in the ribs. “Not all of us are lucky enough to be a princess like you.”
“Not a princess, Sam,” she reminded him. “Just the daughter of a diplomat.”
“Right, close enough, princess,” Sam said, standing up quickly and executing a perfect bow in front of Natasha.
Steve closed his book with a heavy hand. “That’s it, I’m leaving now before you guys make me hurl. I don’t need to sit around and listen to you two flirt.”
“I am not flirting, Rogers!” Natasha said, scowling at Steve.
“No, she’s right, the flirting is all me,” Sam said. “I can’t help it if I’ve got skills.”
“Whatever,” Steve said. He grabbed his sketchbook and tucked a pencil behind his ear. “It’s fine, I need to find something inspiring to sketch for an assignment.”
“Sure, have fun, Steve,” Sam said. He was sitting next to Natasha again, his dark hand toying with a strand of her red hair.
Steve rolled his eyes and left the dorm room, wandering aimlessly down the hall. He checked his watch, noting the time. He’d give Sam and Nat at least an hour alone before knocking very loudly to announce his return.
With his sketchbook under his arm, he trotted down the stairs, leaving the student dorms behind while he thought about what inspired him that he could sketch. Maybe his mom, she was his biggest inspiration above all. She never gave up on him, not even when he so sick and constantly in and out of the hospital when he was younger. She worked two jobs to make sure he had what he needed; medicine wasn’t cheap. But she somehow always managed to be there when he needed her.
With his mind on his mom, Steve realized too late that he had wandered into the music hall. Not that it mattered, it wasn’t off limits, he just never really went into that wing of the school, since he was an art student and had no reason to be in the music hall.
Steve was about to turn around when he heard the sound of a piano being played. He wondered if a class was still in session or if there was some sort of after school activity. He followed the sound to the open door of a classroom.
Peering through the door, Steve saw not a class, but a lone person sitting at a piano playing beautifully. He didn’t recognize the song, but it was haunting. The soft melody wasn’t like anything he’d ever heard before. And it wasn’t a teacher playing the piano. No, it was another student. The piano was positioned so that the player had his back to the door, but Steve saw a head of dark hair bent over the keyboard, lost in playing the song. He didn’t see any sheet music resting on the piano and he wondered if the pianist was playing from memory or composing on the spot.
It hit him then. This was inspiring. He didn’t know the tune or the player, but the music spoke to him, it tugged at something inside of him and if nothing else it inspired him to create. Leaning against the doorframe Steve slid his pencil from behind his ear and quickly flipped open his sketchbook.
With a few quick strokes of his pencil, he’d captured a rough outline of the player, back curved over the keyboard. Steve hoped he was capturing the intensity the boy at the piano was playing with. The song wasn’t fast or loud, but you could tell he was focusing his entire body on the notes his fingers were playing.
Not wanting to be caught watching uninvited, Steve hastily finished the main outlines for the sketch. He could finish it later from memory. It was hard to tear himself away from the beautiful playing though and he lingered in the doorway a moment longer, closing his sketchbook. He tried to place his pencil behind his ear again, but it slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.
The piano player abruptly stopped, turning his head to see the source of the noise. A pair of blue-gray eyes honed in on Steve and narrowed into a glare. “What the fuck are you doing?” the boy at the piano spit out at Steve. He didn’t move, didn’t attempt to get up off the piano bench, but he was clearly angry at being interrupted. “Get the hell out of here.” He didn’t raise his voice and his tone was flat and cold.
“Sorry,” Steve stammered, feeling his face heating up. He bent down, grabbed his pencil and backed hastily into the hallway. His heart was pounding and his chest felt tight as he ran down the hallway. He just made it through the double doors at the end of the music hall before he had to fumble in his pocket for his inhaler. Taking the cap off and shaking it as hard as he could, Steve brought the inhaler to his mouth. He exhaled, emptying his lungs and placed the spacer between his teeth and closing his lips tightly around it. He pressed down on the inhaler, breathing deeply as the medicine was dispensed. Holding his breath, he leaned back against the nearest wall, counting to ten before slowly exhaling through his mouth.
“Shit,” he muttered. He was going back to his dorm room and he didn’t care if Sam and Natasha were done practicing their dance routine or whatever they were doing. He didn’t know the kid who had been playing the piano but he’d made a giant ass of himself and now all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and hide.
* * * *
A week later, Steve had his nose buried in a textbook, trying to read over the chapter Ms. Kyle, the Psychology teacher, had assigned. It was a warm day, despite it being October, so he figured it was safe enough to sit outside and get his reading done. He knew his mom would freak out if she knew he was outside, in Connecticut, in October without a jacket, but his mom wasn’t here. The courtyard was empty, save for him, so of course he noticed when a body flopped down onto the bench next to him. He looked up, startled by the intrusion.
The boy beside him was definitely not dressed to follow the dress code. His dirty jeans were ripped at both knees and ended in frayed cuffs resting just above heavy black boots. A faded black t-shirt topped off his ensemble.
He tapped his boot against the pavement, as if he was hearing a beat that no one else could. A lit cigarette dangled between long fingers and his nails were covered in chipped black polish. As Steve's eyes traveled up, he found himself looking into a pair of sharp blue-gray eyes half hidden by an untidy mop of dark hair.
The dark haired boy looked at Steve and defiantly brought the cigarette to his lips, daring him to say something.
Flustered, Steve was unable to look away. This was the same boy who had played the piano so beautifully before Steve had made an idiot out of himself.
The dark haired boy's cheeks hollowed as he took a drag on the cigarette. He blew out a steady stream of smoke from his nose before he flicked away the ash angrily. His hands trembled slightly as he brought the cigarette back to his mouth. “What the fuck are you looking at?”
Steve paled; he hadn’t meant to stare. “I— just… I wondered if you could maybe not smoke here? It’s bad for my asthma and—”
A sharp look from the dark haired boy made him stop mid-sentence. Steve swallowed loudly. “Never mind. I’ll just—”
"You want me to do what?" the dark haired boy asked, narrowing his eyes through the cloud of smoke that hung around him.
"Could you maybe put your cigarette out? Please?"
There was an indeterminate pause before the dark haired boy dropped the cigarette, stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. He pursed his lips and blew out the smoke from his last drag. “You the new kid?” he asked disinterestedly.
Steve nodded. “Steve Rogers,” he said, holding out his hand.
The other boy looked at Steve’s outstretched hand for a moment, and then wiped his own on his jeans before shaking hands. “James Barnes. You can call me Bucky, though.”
Feeling bold, Steve said, “I saw you, or heard you I guess. Playing piano on Wednesday night. I walked past the piano room and I don’t know what you were playing, but it was really nice.”
Bucky stared at him, narrowing his eyes. “That was you. What the hell were you doing anyway?”
Steve didn’t know what would sound worse, admitting that he had been drawing Bucky or admitting that he had basically been spying on him. “Uh, you know, just listening?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Telling you,” Steve said, deciding not to mention the sketch he’d done. “It was good, you sounded great. It was pretty.”
Bucky snorted. “Pretty? Let me guess, you’re an art student?”
Steve drew up his shoulders. “I am. What’s it to you?”
“Nothin’, punk, don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m just sayin’, I figured you for an art student because if you were in music, or even a dancer you never woulda said it was ‘pretty’, that’s all.”
“Makes sense I guess. How come I’ve never seen you in any of my classes?”
Bucky shrugged. “Probably because I just don’t show up to most of the classes I’m supposed to.”
“Oh, right. I see,” Steve said, unsure what to say to Bucky’s admission of simply not attending classes.
Bucky looked at Steve as he stood up from the bench. “See ya ‘round, punk.”
Steve watched Bucky walk away, wondering what exactly had just happened.
* * * *
Steve didn’t see Bucky around, even though he specifically kept an eye out for him. After a few days it became clear to him that Bucky really didn’t show up to most of his classes. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to know more about Bucky, he didn’t even know if Bucky was a junior like he was or if he were older. At least Steve was pretty sure Bucky wasn’t younger. Finally, his curiosity got the better of him and he decided to ask Natasha. She seemed to know everyone and everything that went on around Lakewood Academy. And she was always hanging around with Sam anyway, so it gave Steve the perfect opportunity to talk to her about Bucky.
“Hey, Natasha,” Steve started, trying to sound casual.
“Yeah, what is it?” Natasha asked, looking up from her Trigonometry book. Sam had finally asked her for help, and for once they were doing homework instead of making out.
“Do you know a kid named Bucky Barnes? He plays the piano—”
“James.” Natasha said, sitting up straighter. “What about him?”
Steve tipped his head to the side. “I dunno, I just wondered why I never saw him in any classes. What grade is he in?”
“He’s a junior, like we are,” she said. “Why are you asking about Bucky?”
“I… well he…” Steve sighed. “I met him the other day and I was just wondering.”
“Yeah, well, don’t wander too far Steve, you might get lost,” Natasha quipped.
“Nat, please, just tell the poor guy what he wants to know,” Sam chimed in.
“Fine, whatever. Bucky’s trouble, Steve. He can get away with pretty much anything and the worst thing that ever happens to him is detention. You call me a princess? Well trust me, Bucky is more of a princess than I’ll ever be.”
Steve frowned. “What are you talking about? I didn’t get a princess vibe from him, not at all.”
“Nah, James is pretty laid back. But his parents, well, they’ve got connections. Let’s just say that they’re richer than my parents could ever dream of being.”
“So, he gets in trouble a lot?” Steve asked.
“You could say that. Yeah, Steve, if by being in detention more than any of the rest of the junior class combined means he’s in trouble a lot, then sure, you could say that.” Natasha said, returning her attention to her textbook.
“You heard my girl, Steve,” Sam said, “Don’t mess with Bucky.” Muttering under his breath to Natasha, Sam added, “I still don’t understand why they call him Bucky. What kinda name is Bucky?”
“It’s a long story,” Natasha said. “Now, shut up and finish your homework, so we can do something else, Sam.” Natasha’s intentions were clear even if Steve hadn’t caught what she was hinting at.
“Thank god, I’ve got a class. I’ll be back later,” he told them, but neither Sam nor Natasha were listening.
* * * *
Three hours later, Steve scowled and slouched down in his seat. Detention. He had earned it, sure. Fighting was against the rules and he knew it. But why the hell was he sitting in detention when the guy he’d punched wasn’t? He alternated staring at the chalkboard in the front of the room and the back of Mr. Peretti’s head, silently fuming.
“So how’d you end up in detention?”
Steve whipped his head around at the sound of the familiar voice from the desk next to him. Bucky.
“I didn’t like the way some guy was treating the life model we were drawing today. He called her some really shitty names so I called him out about it. He laughed in my face so I punched him.”
“Jesus, you punched someone?” Bucky asked incredulously.
“Yeah, what’s it to you?” Steve said, tensing up.
“Whoa, chill out. Good for you though.” Bucky leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the desk.
“Well, he stopped calling her names after that, but the teacher believed that scumbag’s story over mine and sent me to detention and not him.” Steve wondered why Bucky looked so happy for someone in detention. “Why are you here?”
“Didn’t feel like going to my piano technique class,” Bucky said nonchalantly.
“Do you ever go to any of your classes? Let me guess. No, you don’t and you’re in detention every day because of it.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Something like that.” He examined his fingernails disinterestedly. “I guess I hafta start. Dean Phillips said he talked to my father. Apparently he’s not happy with me.”
“Apparently?”
“Well, it’s not like he’d talk to me and tell me that. Pretty bad right, when your parents are so disappointed in you they won’t even tell you how disappointed they are?”
Once again, Steve didn’t know what to say to Bucky. “Hmm, yeah,” he finally said.
“Anyway,” Bucky said, “Wanna get out of here?”
“How? We’re in detention.”
“Yeah, so. Besides, Peretti is asleep. Come on, Rogers.” Bucky got up and started walking, not towards the door, towards the window.
“Bucky, what are you doing?” Steve hissed. “We’re on the second floor!”
“Yeah and there’s a fire escape one room over. Just walk along the ledge until you get there and you’re home free,” Bucky said, prying open the window.
Steve sidled over the window, keeping his voice low. Just because Mr. Peretti was asleep didn’t mean he’d stay that way. “Why d’you want me to sneak out with you?”
“I dunno, why not. You’re clearly a troublemaker, Rogers. Now come on, before the teacher wakes up!” Bucky hissed and climbed out the window, stepping onto the ledge like sneaking out of detention was a regular occurrence.
“Fine, but if we get caught, we’re gonna be in deep shit!” Steve whispered as he climbed out the window too. He could already feel his chest tightening. Jesus, the last thing he needed was to have a full blown asthma attack and fall off the side of the building.
Bucky climbed onto the fire escape, waiting for Steve to join him. “Live a little!”
Steve made in onto the wobbly fire escape, yanking his inhaler from his pocket. He wasted no time using it, holding up a finger, letting Bucky know he needed a minute.
“You alright?” Bucky asked, sounding slightly concerned.
After a minute, Steve could finally answer, “Yeah, ‘m fine. Just not used to such dangerous exits.”
“Well, stick with me, Rogers, and I’ll give you more danger than you bargained for,” Bucky said, smirking as he began climbing down the fire escape’s ladder.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Steve answered. He clung to the railing on the fire escape as it swayed with Bucky’s movements and watched as Bucky hopped off the end of the ladder, tossing a wave over his shoulder.
“Catch you later, Rogers.”