It’s painfully slow, as if they just wanted to starve themselves of this, as if they shouldn’t have this in the first place, even if their bodies agreed to Yes, this is how it should be. How their bodies just simply harmonized with each other.
Sam and Bucky didn’t want to know how they ended up here, in bed, shoes off yet socks on, their hands slowly intertwining with each other by the minute it must’ve looked painful to pine this languidly. Their eyes didn’t meet, always strayed on the other’s shirt or on the thin sheet on top of them. They held onto their breaths, keeping it so slow they probably weren’t breathing at the moment.
Sam’s eyes were in a daze, but the way his eyebrows knitted together was just… it does things to Bucky; the man’s lips were just in his reach, he would just reach and lean into Sam’s space, take control of that fervor that revibrated in their bones. They wanted to feel goddamnit.
Bucky wanted to say something, to tell Sam all of the emotions that rushed through him, how the man made him want to run to the nearest cliff and scream Sam’s name out loud until his lungs turned blue, how badly he wants to cut himself open just so he could bring him inside of him forever, how much he wanted to stand in the rain just to feel the cold and finally recognize their constant misleading nature of silence was killing them in their sleep, that love was a dangerous game that they both led with bondage.
“I love you,” Bucky says instead. It seemed enough to express himself.