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bitchsister · 1 month

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I havent seen anyone say this yet but the fact that Croz/bubbles and Croz/Rosie never got their happy ending in EYY either is just as heartbreaking as everything else 💔

I totally agree with you.

Actually, there’s a whole chapter that I scrapped that sort of went into what Crosby was feeling about being different. This chapter was originally how I intended for Curt to find the letter Marge had sent to Gale about the baby, but decided to take a different route altogether and bring Nosie Rosie into it instead.

So, I’ll post it here for you!

It’s not edited, but maybe it’ll help you understand why Crosby never ended up with his boy. (Guilt, internalized homophobia)

The three of them were always good about taking time apart, even if Curt found himself bored out of his mind without Bucky to drink whiskey with or Gale to mutter jokes to, whom he’d crack open bottles of Ginger Beer for with his zippo — because he was a gentlemen, and it was a decent bar trick.

He allowed himself to feel guilt for what he’d done, which was shove the letters Gale had been carrying around with him in his kit for some time now, the stack growing larger each week. Realistically, he rationed that he deserved to know what they’d been talking about — but wouldn’t that mean Marge deserved the same respect?

Perhaps so, but it’d kill her.

Stress isn’t good for the baby, Gale.

Curtis sat in the plaza overlooking the shoreline, his eyes fixated on the sentence he had read countless times. As he nervously bit his fingernails, his mind wandered to a world where he wasn't so intrusive, a world where he remained blissfully unaware of Marge's pregnancy with Gale's baby. He knew this was none of his business, he was well aware, but his body was still full of Gale, and so was his heart

The baby.

How long had Gale known?

A chill crackled over his spine like a white hot surge of electricity, a cold sweat washing over him as his hands gripped tighter the letters in his fists. “Baby.” Curtis whispered, his jaw clenched hard enough to make his jaw ache. “A baby.”

His eyes, glazed over and far away had swept across the plaza as if by chance they’d land on something safe — though, Curt had been scarcely aware of what was safe anymore, and what wasn’t. Who could he trust, if he couldn’t trust one of the men he’d laid in bed with that morning?

He wasn’t dense.

He knew Marge hadn’t deserved for her boyfriend to be balls deep in his ass only hours ago, but what Gale had going on with Marge had seemed so far out of his realm; it sounded made up, like a story of what men ought to be, what they’re meant to become — the picture perfect family, the all American man.

One of them Golden dogs, as Bucky had called it, a white picket fence, and an extra room for a nursery, which would be occupied sooner rather than later.

He’d been warned, time and time again — Bucky was right.

Stress isn’t good for the baby.

Curt sighed softly, folding the letters again and tucking them away into his back pocket where they stuck out as he walked the plaza, his arms crossed over his chest as he thought — the halcyon days of being blissfully unaware were over, and now it was time to face the music.

His eyes traced carefully each cobblestone he tiptoed, avoiding the cracks, some kind of splendid predestine leading him to the shopfront of a Gelaterie where it had seemed miles and miles of gelato had been plopped right there, just for him.

And who was he to deny destiny?

He stood in front of the gelato case, happily grabbing at the little spoons he was given by the woman working there who couldn’t seem to stop feeding him samples. Each reaction was better than the last, but he’d eventually landed on pistachio, because it was a lovely green color, and that’s about it.

Back into the plaza he went, licking at the cone in his hand, and then his knuckles once it began to melt. “You aren’t coming to dinner, Curt?” Crosby had jogged to catch up with him, slapping him on the shoulder once he did, “It’s our last one before we go back to base.”

Curt jumped, turning his head to look at Crosby who was already a little pink in the cheeks, probably hopping around with Rosie and tasting wines all day once the rain had stopped. “Why would ya think that?”

“You’re eating ice cream.”

“Well, that don’t mean shit.” Curt mumbled, licking a fat stripe over his cone and sighing, “What’s with you boys and thinkin’ sweets can’t come before supper, huh? That’s how the French do it, I heard.”

“So now you’re a frog?” Crosby reached to ruffle the messy brown waves on Curt’s head, taking note of his leisure attire — he looked like a normal boy, just like anyone he’d gone to school with, no longer the typical vision of a hardheaded pilot in the war. “Whose side are you on, Biddick?”

“Well, if they won’t give me a hundred questions about my eatin’, then yeah.” Curt plopped down at a table near the fountain in the middle of the plaza, watching Crosby sit across from him — he wore a solemn expression, one that Curt had mirrored right back. “You alright?” He timidly rose his eyebrows in his direction, well aware that they couldn’t ignore Bubbles’ absence for the rest of their days.

It didn’t seem right.

They’d both gone mute for awhile, Curt licking at his melting cone and Crosby staring off in the distance at the flying fortresses that were executing some practice runs, departing from other bases neighboring their own.

Still, he held a naive hope that Bubbles would come back, or maybe he’d made it to Switzerland somehow and he’d receive a letter any day now — perhaps even a postcard.

“I loved him.”

Curt looked up from his lap, blinking over at Crosby a few times and although he nodded, he wondered how deep that love had really gone. What were their boundaries — had there been any? Curt whispered, “I know.” As they exchanged a sapient glance. “What about Rosie? He’s been takin’ care of ya, hasn’t he?”

Crosby nodded slowly, his chin resting on his fist when he directed his attention back at Curt again, facing his own music. “He’s kind.” He cracked a smile, a blush creeping over his cheeks and painting even the tips of his ears a pinkish hue. “Hated him at first, though.”

“Don’t he gotta girl back home?”

“Doesn’t Gale?”

Curt’s shoulders deflated, his chin tilting as he chomped on the cone that was becoming a mess in his hand. “Got me there, Crozzy.” He grumbled, reaching in his back pocket and slapping the letters onto the table, a nod in his direction urging Crosby to take a look.

The two of them had never explicitly admitted their involvement with any of the other boys on base, but had seemed to come to an unspoken understanding as time went on. Curt had noticed Crosby getting handsy with Bubbles — and had once caught a glimpse of them behind the showers, to which Curt had warned him in passing, Anything that ain’t behind a closed door or under a roof ain’t safe.

After that, Crosby made sure to keep a curious eye on Curt who had taken a fond liking to Bucky first and then, like a growing cell, they absorbed Gale into their little love amoeba.

“A baby?” Crosby peeked over at Curt from behind the stack of letters, eyes squinted when he folded them back up and tucked them into the envelope decorated with hearts, where they should have stayed. “Well,” he slid them over, “You’re not surprised, are you, Curt?”

Crosby had met Marge, at least a couple times — she was kind, a little conservative, he thought, but it seemed at the time Gale had been looking for that sort of thing. He’d done his parents proud, according to him, and Crosby had thought that was reason enough for the two to be together.

That was most of the relationships he had encountered.

Until Bubbles, of course.

“He never said a single fuckin’ word to anybody about it.”

Crosby sighed, leaning over the table again and scooting closer to Curt who was wiping his hands over a napkin, “It’s better off this way, Curtis.” He whispered, reaching forward to pat his forearm, “Boys like you and I aren’t made to be wives — and boys like Buck are made for a woman.” He realized it may have sounded harsh, but at least he was alive. “And what about Bucky, anyway? We all knew Gale would knock Marge up at some point.” Crosby sat back in his chair then, his arms crossed over his chest. “Guess we just didn’t stop to think it could have already happened.”

“I love Bucky.” Curt nodded quickly, as if to confirm as much. If he had ever made it seem as though he didn’t, he was willing then to set the record straight. “I can’t really put it into words, y’know? Always been bad with that stuff.”

“And Buck makes you feel the same?”

Curt shrugged a shoulder, “I love ‘em. I do. And I know he loves me — it’s different from Bucky, though. It don’t stop me from imagining life after all this, still. Every time I picture it, Buck is there.”

“Delusion is the key to happiness for people like us, Curt.” Crosby shrugged, “I mean, you think Bubs and I would have been married or somethin’? Do you think Rosie is going to drop down on one knee for me someday?”

Maybe, Curt thought, but he stayed silent instead, wide blue eyes locked onto the only other man he’d ever met so much like himself.

“No.” Crosby shook his head, laughing at the thought of it. “Never. And, you know, I might imagine it, too. Picture it, even. A perfect life — our own version of the American dream.” He looked near the little winery on the plaza where he spotted Rosie with Bucky who was grimacing at each drop of liquid he tried, hollering about how he would have preferred a whiskey instead of all this. “But shit like that doesn’t happen, Curt. I’ve made my peace with being a placeholder — it’s just another way I’m doin’ my part in this war.” He reached over again to pat his palm gently over Curt’s sticky knuckles, “A willing piece of ass for the fighting men of the United States of America. It’s a bit more freeing to look at it that way.”

“Right.” Curt looked at the cone in his hand, obliterated from the anxious grip he held it with. He’d be a liar if he said he’d never thought of it that way — it was human nature to seek sexual fulfillment and to a man whose last breath could be any minute, someone else’s genitals may not have been the most important attribute to their company. “What do you think Bubbles would have said, if he heard you sayin’ that?”

Crosby smiled, hunching over the table yet again and knocking the cone out of Curt’s hand, replacing it with a wad of napkins, “I know wherever he is, we’re happy.” Their eyes met, Curt’s curious gaze begging for Crosby to explain himself. “We get to live how we wanted. If heaven is what they crack it up to be — well, that was the heaven we always talked about.”

“Well, why couldn’t ya make that real, Croz? What’s so hard about it?” Curt urged, wiping his hands free of the green sticky mess he’d made of them.

“This world wasn’t made for men like us, Curt.” It had come out in a whisper, as if he hadn’t wanted to say it, but he’d already said it in five million different ways already.

“So, you think heaven is? Don’t gays go to hell, or somethin’?”

Crosby snorted, shaking his head, “I don’t think so.” He mused, adverting his gaze again to make sure the boys who were growing in numbers near the winery were still visible — he’d inadvertently blown their cover, making eye contact with Foxwood. “That’s not how I look at it.”

“Well, you gotta real stupid way of lookin’ at it.” Curt had refused to believe his daydreams could never come to fruition — without hope, they had nothing.

“Hey! Croz!” A voice called out, making Curtis groan into his lap. “Curt! Get your asses over here!”

“Ah, I think we’re being summoned.” Crosby stood and followed Curt to the fountain where he stuck his hands under the spray, washing them clean. “You don’t have to live your life for anybody else, Curt. Live it for you. We fear dying too often for it to be any other way.”

“That’s what I thought I was doin’, idiot.”

“No,” Crosby nudged his shoulder, “You’re livin’ for everybody but your goddamn self. You stole those letters. Was that even somethin’ you needed to know?”

“I think so.” Curt turned and shook his hands dry, nudging into Crosby to push him to walk first.

“Nah.” Croz shoved his hands in his pockets, his sights trained on every step they made as to not meet the eyes of the boys who were watching them. “But now that you have, you need to talk to him about it.”

Their conversation had ended there, the two of them finding their respective seats that had been saved, one next to Rosie, for Crosby, and one in the middle of Gale and Bucky for Curtis.

Once they’d all gotten themselves good and wine drunk, Crosby had been the sensible one to raise a finger, “Fellas, fellas! We gotta nice dinner tonight. Behave, behave.” He swatted some of the wine out of hands, even stole a few glasses from those who seemed to be a little too drunk for five o’clock in the afternoon. “Pay the sweet people and let’s get a move on. I have to shower, Curt got his ice cream hands on me.”

The walk back was a stumbly one for just about everyone and yet Curt had still taken care not to step on any cracks in the cobblestone, still sharp as a thumbtack and thinking again and again about what he’d say to Gale, or if he’d say anything at all.

A placeholder, a willing piece of ass, like Crosby had said.

Perhaps there was truth in that.

“You okay?” Bucky asked once they’d made it back into their apartment, Gale locking himself behind the bathroom door to get himself ready for dinner, leaving the two of them alone. “Been quiet.” He stood in the threshold as he watched Curt gather his things and drag them into an unoccupied room down the hall, grunting all the while.

“Fine.” Curt murmured, pushing past Bucky again to grab his shirt, which he’d forgotten, and the towel he’d claimed as his own.

“Don’t look fine.” Bucky walked behind Curt at a distance that he hoped wasn’t smothering, but he was cautious as ever now that he’d seen what could happen when Curt’s mood changed.

“I’m great.” Curt stood in the middle of the room he’d picked, painted blue and decorated with tacky old lamps and a dresser that couldn’t hold his weight like the other one could. “Any more questions I could answer for ya, John?”

“Woah,” Bucky waved his hands, “Don’t go all government name on me now, Curtie. You’re movin’ your shit out of the room like a pissed off girlfriend.” He watched Curt’s shoulders tense in that very instant, his body slowly turning to face Bucky who was drunk, and stupid looking.

“I’m not no fuckin’ girl.” Curt threw his crumpled shirt at Bucky, and then a shoe from his left foot which Bucky had caught, despite the wine that had stained his lips red. “And I never fuckin’ will be.” He took his right shoe off and threw it, too. And then a pillow, and an old, broken alarm clock which Bucky had dodged by a hair.

“Good thing you aren’t a gunner, Baby. Your aim is tragic.” Bucky narrowly dodged yet another piece of decor flying toward his head, an angry and red in the face Curtis stomping toward him.

“Don’t call me that.” Curt’s jaw had clenched again, his fists balled at his sides as he stood before Bucky, neck craned upward to look at him. “Don’t fuckin’ call me that. I’m not your baby, and I’m not your fuckin’ girlfriend.”

Bucky’s expression had changed then to all five stages of grief, and just about every emotion he’d ever felt. “Of course you’re my baby.” He whispered, reaching his hands forward to grab onto Curtis who swiped them away.

“Who you got at home, Bucky? Somebody I don’t know about? You get some bird pregnant, too?” Curt surged forward again, poking at Bucky’s chest to taunt him. “Oh, better yet — you probably knew, huh? Didn’t ya?” He was bordering hysteria and yet Bucky wouldn’t back away from him. In fact, he stepped closer. “You told me about that fuckin’ nursery. Probably did it so I wouldn’t be surprised when I found out. Hm? Admit it.”

“What are you talkin’ about, Curt?”

Curtis yanked the crumbled envelope from his back pocket, covered in sticky melted gelato from earlier and shoved it into Bucky’s chest where he’d been poking him. There was no way he’d be able to feign innocence now — he’d stolen them, read them, and now he’s taking their contents out on Bucky who unfolded the papers and scanned the neat cursive writing.

Stress isn’t good for the baby.

His eyes met Curt’s again. “I didn’t know.” He whispered, thumbing through the pages and finding the first letter, one that had been dated nearly ten months back. If his limited knowledge about pregnancy was correct, then Marge had already given birth by now and Gale was a father, not soon-to-be. “These letters are old, honey. From before we ever—“

Curt ripped them from his hands again, “I don’t give a fuck!” He shouted. If he could see himself, he’d feel embarrassed. “How does that make anything better, huh? Some poor innocent baby’s militant, absent daddy.” He threw his arms up, the letters falling at their feet in crumpled heaps. “Who likes to watch his friends fuck. Oh - not just that, huh? Not just that.” He shoved Bucky’s chest with his hands then who tried again to catch his wrists and pull him in, “Not just that.” His voice wavered, his cheeks were red, “We promised what we did when we went all the way was for us, Bucky. Nobody else.”

“Are you sayin’ you didn’t want to fuck him?”

Curt growled with anger, shoving him yet again but that time Bucky had caught him by the forearms which he twisted behind Curt’s back, pressing him against the wall and holding him there. “Stop it.” Bucky’s voice was firm, his knee pressing into the base of his spine to prevent him from wiggling free. “Fucking stop it, Curtis.” He listened to Curt whine and huff out of his nose, body wiggling to try and break free. “I’m not leavin’ you. You won’t sleep without me. I’ll sleep at your door, Curt. Try to get rid of me all you want, you can’t.”

Curtis groaned, his cheek squished against the wall, “This world ain’t meant for people like us.” He whispered, relaying to Bucky the exact sentiment Crosby had fed him earlier. Each word had tasted like pistachio, burned so viciously into his memory.

He felt sick, in more ways than one.

“Maybe it’s not.” Bucky leaned his head against Curt’s shoulder but kept him pinned to the wall, his maneuver softening just slightly from that of restraint to more of a forced embrace. “But we’re together in that, aren’t we?” He nuzzled his face into Curt’s neck, murmuring against his damp skin. “You can’t get rid of me. I’ve already lost you once.”

Curt had never liked to cry. Rarely ever had he let anyone else so much as see a mist in his eyes whenever they’d watch an old film in the mess hall, or even when his friends never made it back. When he fell as a child, he never made a peep — but it seemed all that had built up, the pressure hitting its high and causing him to erupt.

He was eventually turned around by Bucky who held him, swiping the letters under the bed with his foot as to not bring Gale into all of it just yet, though he couldn’t help but to wonder how dinner would go that evening — Curt was bad at hiding his emotions and Bucky had never been the most skilled at pretending nothing was wrong when there certainly was.

#💌#eat your young #yoyo writes

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