summary: Sam signs up for an art class just to fill his credit hours. Hasn’t seen Bucky since that party months ago - walks in first day and guess who’s there, sitting like he owns the place, sleeves rolled up, tattoos out, smirk ready to ruin sam’s week? Yeah.
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The art building smelled faintly of clay and turpentine, a sharp contrast to the crisp winter air Sam had just walked through. He tugged his beanie lower over his ears, clutching the schedule printout like it might change if he blinked too hard.
Intro to Painting. Tuesday/Thursday. 9 a.m.
It wasn’t exactly on his academic bingo card, but he needed the credits, and the class had been one of the few open slots left. He figured he’d sit in the back, keep quiet, and let the semester slip by unnoticed.
He needed this credit hour, or else he could kiss the radio show goodbye. And that? That wasn’t an option.
The booth was the only place where he felt untouchable. Behind that mic, he wasn’t the kid scrambling for scholarships or the guy barely making his parents proud. He was just Sam. Or rather, the voice people tuned into when the world felt too loud.
Lose that, and he wasn’t sure who he’d be.
So yeah, an intro-level art course felt like a small price to pay. Draw a bowl of fruit, get a passing grade, keep the show. Easy.
The studio was already half full when he stepped in—students setting out brushes, stretching canvas, chatting like they’d all known each other for years. Sam kept his eyes on the nearest empty easel, weaving through the room until he found one at the far end.
Sarah would have puked her guts from all the laughing she would do if she saw him now. She knew her little brother was no good with his hands. Knew that the only good thing about him was his brain (or maybe that's what he thought of himself).
Sam made himslef smaller in the desk, shriveling up behind the easel as more students began to pile into empty chairs and couches that sat around the room.
He tugged his hoodie sleeves down over his wrists, pretending to busy himself with the battered sketchpad the supply list had demanded. The room had that mix of sharp paint fumes and something warm—maybe the constant hum of conversation, maybe the way sunlight stretched across the wood floors in long golden stripes.
He kept his head low, flipping blank pages, letting the sound of new voices wash over him. If he didn’t make eye contact, maybe no one would try to talk to him. That was the plan.
Until a shadow slid across his easel.
Sam glanced up.
And froze.
Bucky Barnes, leaning against the stool two seats over like he owned the place. Hair tied back today, loose strands falling into his face. A faint paint smudge already on his wrist like he’d been doing this all his life.
"Hello, stranger." Bucky said, the words curling into a smirk. The faintest trace of cigarette smoke clung to him—sharp, bitter, and somehow warmer than it should be. It curled around Sam’s thoughts, pulling him backward to that balcony, to the smirk that had kept him up on more than one late night since.
Sam didn't say anything, eyes staring up at Bucky like he shouldn't exist. Well, any in case, he shouldn't. Not here. This was supposed to be Sam's easy class.
Sam didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. His eyes stayed locked on Bucky like he was an optical illusion—if he blinked, maybe he’d vanish. Because Bucky shouldn’t be here. Not in this classroom. Not in the quiet little corner of Sam’s life that was supposed to be untouched.
This was supposed to be his easy class. A credit-filler. A chance to coast.
Bucky slid into the stool two seats away, his movements unhurried, like he belonged here more than anyone else in the room. He tossed a folded denim jacket onto the back of the seat, rolled up his sleeves, and reached for a charcoal stick. The smudge on his wrist was darker now, more deliberate, and it made something low in Sam’s chest tighten.
“You gonna say hi back, or just keep staring?” Bucky asked, voice low enough that the words felt like they were meant only for Sam’s ears.
Sam forced his gaze down to the blank sheet in front of him, muttering, “Hi.”
“Better,” Bucky said, leaning forward onto his elbows. “Kinda missed that voice.”
Sam’s pencil rolled off the desk and clattered to the floor.
Sam bent to grab the pencil, silently praying his ears weren’t as red as they felt. By the time he straightened, the instructor had walked in—a tall woman with streaks of paint on her jeans and the energy of someone who’d downed three espressos before noon.
“Alright, everyone, let’s get started,” she said, clapping her hands. “Today, we’re diving straight in. No warmups, no overthinking. I want you to draw the person sitting across from you.”
A collective groan rippled through the room.
Sam glanced at the empty stool across from him, relief flooding in. Maybe he’d get to sketch a pile of supplies or a coat someone left behind—anything but a real person.
And then Bucky moved.
He slid out from his seat, crossing the small space with that same unhurried swagger, and dropped into the stool across from Sam. He leaned back slightly, arms draped over his knees, smirk returning like it had never left.
“Guess we’re partners,” Bucky said.
Sam’s mouth went dry. “You could’ve picked anyone else.”
“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, tilting his head like he was sizing Sam up. “But where’s the fun in that?”
The instructor passed by, nodding approvingly at their setup. “Good—eye contact is key. Really see the person in front of you.”
Bucky’s gaze locked on his, steady and unreadable. “You heard her,” he murmured. “Really see me, Sam.”
And just like that, the noise of the room faded. It was the balcony all over again—just the two of them, and nowhere to hide.
Bucky, in the light of the morning, had the softest blue eyes Sam had ever seen.
No— they weren’t even really blue. They were green and gray, flecks of something that almost looked blue, shifting with every subtle movement. Sam couldn’t help the way his gaze lingered, how the angles of Bucky’s jaw and the curve of his neck drew attention like gravity. Every stray lock of hair falling into his face made him look effortless, dangerous, magnetic.
And Sam hated himself for noticing. For feeling the pull he knew he shouldn’t. His stomach twisted—not with hunger or nerves, but with the sharp, unfamiliar ache of wanting.
What would his parents think if they knew? Or Sarah? They’d mock him, tease him, call him soft, call him ridiculous. And yet, even imagining their teasing didn’t undo the way Bucky’s presence rooted him to the chair, made his chest tighten and palms sweat.
And then the guilt hit. His parents. They had spent years drilling into him what was “proper,” what was “acceptable.” Straight-A student, responsible, dependable—never reckless, never distracted by… this.
What would they think if they knew he was sitting here, staring at someone like Bucky and feeling something that wasn’t logical, something he couldn’t name without judgment shadowing it? His chest tightened even more at the thought. They’d call it foolish, a distraction from the path he’d carefully laid out.
"Where did you go?" Bucky asked.
He was already working on his drawing, shading what he wanted. No guidelines to follow.
Sam’s pencil hovered over the paper, hesitant, like touching it too soon would shatter something fragile. He glanced at Bucky, who was calm, unbothered, as if the chaos of the classroom and Sam’s internal storm didn’t exist.
“I… got distracted,” Sam muttered, finally letting the words slip. "I hate drawing. I don't know what I'm doing here." He confessed. And it was the truth about a lot of things. With this class. With college. With himself.
Bucky’s eyes met his, calm and steady. “Yeah. Who does?” he said with a soft shrug, like it was no big deal to admit confusion.
Sam let out a quiet laugh, nervous and self-conscious. “Guess I’m just not good at this… drawing.”
Bucky leaned back, smirk tugging at his lips. “Really? That’s your excuse?” His tone was teasing, light, but not cruel. “You hate art, you hate drawing, yet here you are. Care to explain your existence, Sam Wilson?”
Sam groaned, pressing the pencil harder into the page. “Credits. That’s it. Purely practical.”
“Practical,” Bucky repeated, arching an eyebrow. “Right. Because everyone knows the only reason to pick up a pencil is for bureaucracy.”
Sam’s cheeks warmed, but he tried to hide it behind a shrug. “You’d be surprised how boring college can be when you stick to what you’re good at.”
Bucky tilted his head, smirk softening, but still mischievous. “Yeah, well… maybe getting out of your comfort zone isn’t so bad. You might even enjoy it.”
Sam rolled his eyes, but a small, reluctant smile slipped through.
"So," Bucky posed in his chair - head titled back and eyes closed. A smirk laid bare across his face. "Are you going to draw me, or are we going to keep talking?"
Sam didn't know which was better.
Bucky lingered, deliberately slow, dragging his hand along the edge of the table as the other students filed out around him. He didn’t know why he wanted to stick around, not really. Maybe it was Sam—his steady, awkward, golden‑boy energy that made him feel… something. Something he couldn’t quite name. He shook his head. Didn’t matter. Just be near him. That was enough.
Sam was packing up too, pencil tucked behind his ear, still fumbling with his sketchbook. Bucky caught the faintest blush creeping across his cheeks and smirked to himself. Yeah, he liked it—liked seeing Sam flustered, liked the quiet hesitation that lingered in his movements. Even if he didn’t fully understand why.
“So…” Bucky started, sliding his sketchpad under his arm. “WGHR, huh? Your little late-night empire?” His tone was teasing, but curious. “Been listening for a while, but… I gotta say, no one plays any good music.”
Sam froze mid-zip of his backpack. “Uh… well, it’s… it’s not exactly for—”
“Don’t tell me,” Bucky interrupted, grinning. “It’s for the lonely engineers and philosophy majors, right?” He fell into step beside Sam as they left the studio, the hallway buzzing faintly behind them.
Sam’s hands fidgeted with the straps of his bag. Bucky noticed, of course. Every little twitch, every careful avoidance of eye contact—it all fascinated him. And he knew exactly why Sam did it, even if Sam didn’t. That little edge of nerves, that awareness… Bucky thrived on it, just a little.
“So,” Bucky said casually, voice low as they headed toward the cafeteria, “how long have you been doing this thing? WGHR?” He let the silence hang just long enough to draw Sam out. “I mean, you don’t strike me as the type to do… well, anything anonymously.”
Sam hesitated, then mumbled a few words about starting it freshman year, about Joaquin, about keeping it low-key. Bucky listened, nodding, not because he cared about the details—but because Sam was talking, and that was enough.
And the truth was… Bucky already knew him. He knew him better than Sam suspected. Every late-night dedication, every soft voice on the air—it had been him, all along. Icarus. And Sam had no idea.
Bucky glanced at him, catching the faint curve of a nervous smile, and thought: yeah. That was exactly why he was here. Not the cafeteria. Not the class. Sam. Just Sam.
"Is Joaquin your boyfriend?" Bucky asked, just to see how Sam would react to such a question.
Sam’s head jerked up, eyes wide. “No! Joaquin’s like… like a brother to me. I’d never—never think about dating him.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a teasing smirk. “Hmm. Not even a little?”
Sam shook his head quickly, cheeks heating. “Not even a little. I mean… it’s just not that way.”
Bucky chuckled, falling into step beside him as they walked toward the cafeteria. “Alright then,” he said smoothly, tone curious, deliberate. “So who do you see yourself dating, huh? If it’s not your so-called brother.”
Sam swallowed, fumbling with his bag strap, blinking at Bucky like he’d just been caught in a spotlight. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted softly, voice tight with hesitation. “I haven’t really thought about it. Or… maybe I have, but…” He trailed off, unsure how much to give away.
Bucky smirked, sensing the nervous tension radiating off him. "What about Natasha?" Bucky pointed to one of his friends that was making her way into study hall.
Sam’s eyes flicked to Natasha, who was walking past with her sister and friends, her laughter carrying across the room. He glanced back at Bucky, cheeks flushed, eyes darting away like he was trying to shrink into himself. His hands fidgeted with the strap of his bag, betraying the calm he usually tried to project.
Bucky noticed everything—the subtle bite of Sam’s lip, the nervous shift in his weight—and couldn’t help but smirk. “She your type or…?” he asked, casual but teasing. He knew Natasha; she’d been in his art workshops last semester, a hookup whenever they both grew too bored to do anything else.
Sam shook his head quickly, avoiding Bucky’s gaze. “She's pretty." he muttered, voice tight. “But, no. Not my type”
Bucky chuckled softly, enjoying the way Sam’s nervous energy radiated in waves. “Ah, so she’s out. Good to know,” he said, walking a step closer. “Then… what is your type?”
Sam’s throat tightened. He fumbled with the strap of his bag, eyes flicking anywhere but Bucky’s. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted, voice low and hesitant. “I haven’t really thought about it… seriously.”
Bucky tilted his head, the smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Huh. So you’re saying you’ve got no one in mind… or you’re just scared to say?”
Sam’s cheeks burned hotter. “Maybe a little of both,” he muttered, trying—and failing—to sound casual.
Bucky chuckled, catching the twitch of a smile that betrayed Sam’s nerves. “Alright, I’ll take that as a challenge,” he said, stepping just a little closer, letting the teasing weight of his presence settle around Sam. “Guess we’ll see who makes the cut, huh?”
Right now, Bucky was deliberately skipping his next class, letting the empty hallway echo with his footsteps just to keep Sam in his orbit a little longer—curious, teasing, enjoying the way Sam fidgeted under his gaze.
Sam topped short of the entrance to the cafeteria, eyeing the stairs that lead down to the basement where WGHR was recorded.
“You heading down there?” Bucky asked casually, nodding toward the stairs. “Radio time?”
Sam’s cheeks warmed, and he shifted his weight awkwardly. “Yeah… just for a bit.” His voice was quiet, almost defensive, like he wasn’t used to someone noticing so much.
"Can I put a request in now?" Bucky asked.
Sam blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… sure, I guess.” His fingers twitched at his bag strap, and he quickly added, “Just… don’t expect anything fancy. It’s just a request board.”
Bucky’s smirk deepened, leaning a little closer as if the small space between them made the world shrink. “That’s fine. I like simple.”
Sam felt his chest tighten, a mix of nerves and something else he didn’t want to name. “Okay… go ahead.”
Bucky pulled out his phone, typing casually, but Sam couldn’t stop noticing the way his fingers moved, the faint crease between his brows, the way he didn’t look at Sam while doing it—and yet somehow, Sam felt every ounce of attention on him.
Then, the quietness filled the gap between them. Finally, Bucky looked up, a slow, deliberate smirk tugging at his lips. “Done,” he said, voice low, teasing. “Don’t make me wait to hear if you actually play it.”
Sam smiled and headed downstairs.
Sam padded down the stairs to the basement, the muffled hum of the campus building fading behind him. The familiar scent of old vinyl, electronics, and a hint of coffee filled the small WGHR booth, instantly grounding him.
He flicked on the equipment, a few songs from his morning playlist still looping softly in the background. Fingers dancing over the controls, he queued up the next track, letting the low bass settle into the room like a heartbeat.
Once the music hummed steadily, he pulled up the request board, expecting the usual flood of student notes and late-night jokes. Two new messages blinked at him.
First, the usual:
morning sunshine, anything exciting happen in class today? (song request : im on fire) - icarus
Then, the newst one that made Sam smile:
back to the old house - the smiths. see you in class wednesday, golden boy - smokingart
Sam’s stomach knotted at the coincidence—or maybe it wasn’t a coincidence at all. He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard, aware of the familiar tug of excitement and nerves. The past two months had been quiet, controlled… until now.
His fingers hesitated over the play button, thumb hovering, then finally pressing it with a reluctant click. The opening chords filled the booth, warm and familiar, but Sam’s smile faltered almost immediately.
In that moment, he made a decision. Swear off Bucky Barnes. Not out of anger or dislike—he’d never truly hated him—but because Bucky was a complication he didn’t need. A distraction in the form of smirks and easy confidence, a presence that made his chest tighten without reason.
He hated how, even in the empty basement of the station, he found himself smiling to himself at thoughts of Bucky. Hated how he knew he would scan the hallway for Bucky’s familiar figure, anticipating those long walks from class like a fool.
He didn’t want Bucky. Not the free, careless Bucky who drifted through life without a care, smiling at everyone and breaking hearts with ease. He wanted this Bucky—the one who made his chest tighten, whose smirk haunted his thoughts, who had somehow wormed his way into the quiet corners of his mind.
The realization made his stomach twist with frustration. How could he crave someone so infuriating? Someone he’d sworn he’d avoid? His hands tightened around the edge of the console, nails pressing into the plastic. Anger flared, sharp and unexpected.
Without thinking, he paused the music and switched the track mid-song, replacing it with the glowing message from Icarus:
morning sunshine, anything exciting happen in class today? (song request : im on fire) - icarus
The new music cut through the tension, but Sam’s chest still burned. He scowled at the screen, telling himself it wasn’t about Bucky—it was about keeping control. Keeping himself sane. But deep down, he knew the lie wouldn’t last long.
