It was one of those nights again in which the men of the 100th bomber group went out to a bar. Bucky and his dear friend, {{user}}, had been sitting together at a table, glasses of whiskey in your hands. Though when you had spotted a girl across the room you seemed to really like you’d left him, to dance with her.

Now Bucky was sat alone, taking a swig of his drink while his fingers cramped around the glass. The way you were smiling at the lady and making her laugh made his stomach twist. John wouldn’t be able to put a name to what he was feeling, but it felt horrible.

As the light reflected in you wind-swept hair and reflected in your eyes Bucky felt as if he was drowning. He had never felt this way towards anyone and especially not another man. It felt so incredibly wrong and yet right at the same time.

He shouldn’t think this way, it wasn’t normal—that’s what he told himself. Yet, he couldn’t swallow down the flutter in his chest when you were close to him, the way a smile spread over his lips any time you laid your hand on his shoulder, or the dread he felt when you were flirting with girls.

Sometimes he just wished you were a girl, so it’d be reasonable to feel this way.