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Bucky feels his back sink into the ground, grass prickling his legs. He had to borrow his shorts from Sam, because the amount of clothes he owned was reduced to about two shirts and a pair of jeans. And today was too hot - he’d forgotten what summer felt like on his face.
His knees are bent, his hands resting on his chest. When he was a child, he believed in guardian angels. As he watches Sam fly, red wings against the bright sky, he knows he was right in believing in them. What else could Sam Wilson possibly be?
He reaches out his hand, follows Sam’s path across the sky like he’s trying to catch him. Sam says he has to train - he must fly, just as he must run to stay in shape. Bucky thinks that’s a bad excuse. He’d believe it more if Sam said ‘my home is the sky’ . He’s seen the way Sam moves in the air, how Sam looks when he lands. Some say our shoulder blades are where our wings used to be - Sam is proof of that.
The red dot gets progressively closer until it becomes Sam, grinning. He lands on the grass next to Bucky, green flying everywhere. He kneels and kisses Bucky’s still extended hand.
“Darling,” Sam says, and lays down next to Bucky. “Enjoy the show?”
Bucky rolls on the ground, supports himself on his elbows. Flowers poke his belly, and his back feels damp. He doesn’t reply, because it’s always a wonder to witness your lover flying, there are no words to describe the divinity of it all. So instead he kisses Sam.
His face is hot underneath his, Sam’s lips are like honey melting on his mouth. Sam pulls Bucky on top of him, grips him by his waist, Bucky digs his hands into the dirt. That’s how Bucky wants to spend that summer afternoon: kissing Sam, sinking into him, hoping to be enveloped by his wings, seeing halos that aren’t there but should be. And so he does.