I Hear Sirens While We Make Love
I/I
The water drips and then they’re fucking. Fucking like crazy. Fucking like animals. Like savage beasts. No force can stop their solid and sinewy embrace. It’s magnetic and electric and dangerous and sinful, but eternal fucking damnation means nothing when a man has his legs wide open with his lover pounding rhythmically into him, and they’re both seeing stars and having angels and prophets and saints congratulate them on their ecstasy, and they’re howling each others names, and they’re praying to the good Lord above, in a wall of sound that is orchestral and illustrious, and there’s the simple ‘drip drip’ that falls from the pipes like the faraway cracks of coming thunder, a sound more important in that moment than any noise in the world when it’s paired with the slap of skin-on-skin and operatic moans of joy. The world stills. The world stops. They breathe. They remain.
-
The room is hazy with smoke and feels too hot, a sticky kind of hot – the smoke attaches itself to skin like a grey, dusty veil, and Steve feels blanketed. The room feels like a watercolour to him, the curtains run down the walls, and the pink of Bucky’s lips is aqueous against his warm pallor. The sound of the traffic and the music they’re listening to is large, loud and distorted – the lone trumpet an accompaniment to the honk of a car’s horn and to the wail of a siren.
Two long, slender fingers and a callused thumb loop around Bucky’s pulsating wrist, Steve’s thumb stroking light circles onto his wrist bone in an anti-clockwise motion. “You never said why you were hiding from the cops, Buck.” Steve’s voice is a low rumble in the haze and Bucky’s mouth curls into a lazy smile. He lowers himself and Steve down onto the bed, holding Steve’s smaller body closer to his, so that their bare, damp torsos barely touch.
His voice feels like velvet in Steve’s ear, and he shudders when Bucky replies, his mouth and breath ghosting below Steve’s earlobe. “Obscenity, sodomy, indecency, and corruption of the innocent. Y’know, just the usual.” Steve curls into Bucky’s hold and pushes up his glasses, his head shakes. Soft lips press into the golden crown of Steve’s hair, and he feels Bucky chuckle. “Let’s pray for all the other queer communists out there.”
The smaller, blond man scratches at his sandy coloured beard and then presses his fingertips against Bucky’s firm shoulders. “You’re not a queer communist.”
An outright laugh comes from the larger man, and his laughter shakes the creaky springs of the mattress below them. “That doesn’t explain the kicks I was getting from you fucking me into the couch, or how when I came, I was crying Joseph Stalin’s name in a state of pure pleasure.” He rolls onto his back and sighs, grasping Steve’s hands and holding them to where his chest beats. Steve feels the beginnings of laughter warm within him, but the heat of the laughter is quelled by tepid pangs of sadness, which cause his knees to rise, arranging himself in the fetal position, so the bottoms of his kneecaps sit delicately in the dip of Bucky’s hipbone. “Hide me from the fuckin’ cops, Steve. Hide me from this fuckin’ society. Hide me from this fuckin’ world.” He groans and rubs his eyes, “I never want to leave this bed, Stevie.”
Steve presses his lips to Bucky’s bicep, and leans his forehead against his shoulder. “Then don’t leave, you jerk.” Bucky nudges him with his upper body and mutters something under his breath with a smile, linking their fingers together in a mess of extremities. “Was it the book?”
He nods, and Steve swallows, pressing his lips together in a solemn line. “Book reading did it, I think. Portraying homosexuality, socialist values, liberal views on drug use, and fuckin’ sex in general don’t go down too well with the normal kinds’a people.” He squeezes Steve’s hands and a smile spreads across his face, “The book will be in good company on the banned list, though. I’ll probably be in good company too; though they might separate us queer communists in case we somehow overthrow the fuckin’ government and turn the country as goddamn red as blood.”
Steve sits up, pulls his hands away and places them in his lap. “You’re just gonna take what they give you? You’re gonna let them think they’re right? Lies just spread more fear, Buck.” Steve’s position is mirrored, and Bucky lowers his head, to press his forehead to that of the smaller man. Steve pushes the side of his glasses up, and his breath hitches as Bucky’s lips touch his gently.
“How could I not? What would I do? Tell ‘em I love eating pussy as much as I love sucking cock? Tell ‘em that yeah, I don’t agree with their political choices, but I’m not a damn Soviet spy because I own the fucking Communist Manifesto and I read the pamphlets people give me? Tell ‘em that, uh, I thought "freedom" meant freedom, not fuckin’ censorship?” His words are spat out, in a quiet, seething manner that scares Steve to the core. He licks his top lip and frowns, “My book shouldn’t be getting banned, Steve.”
Bucky’s shoulders drop and Steve rests his upper arms on Bucky’s collarbones, feeling his heart race. “It shouldn’t.” A police siren echoes outside of the apartment and their embrace collapses; Bucky rolls off from the bed onto the floor, and Steve scrambles around for his sweater. “And for the record, Buck, I think you should tell ‘em that. Just maybe in a more gentle, less aggressive manner.” Steve hears him snigger against the floor, and he pulls his mustard yellow sweater over his head, cleaning at the lenses of his glasses with the scratchy wool.
He approaches the mirror as the siren stops, and he sighs in an exasperated way, that makes Bucky’s head pop up from below the bed. “I look like a-a streetwalker.” Bucky snorts. “Don’t.” He traces over his swollen and red lips, and rolls his eyes. “This is your fault.”
“If they ask – you had scurvy, and you were sucking on lemons. Not my dick.” Steve throws a sock towards the bed, and Bucky disappears out of sight.
Three knocks come from the door, and Steve breathes in through his nose. He slowly undoes the latches, and twists the handle of the door. He is met by two stony faced men, who shove past him. “We have a warrant.” Steve closes his eyes, leans against the door, and feels himself seize up, his breath becoming erratic and unsteady.
Bucky is dragged up from the floor, shirtless and snarling, and he catches Steve’s hazy gaze, and he swallows. Steve sucks in a breath, and parts his lips, “’til the end of the line.” Bucky smiles sadly, and mouths his reply. Steve sinks down to the floor, his eyes closed, and when he opens his eyes, he is curled up, the door is closed, and Bucky is gone.
-
“He is my everything, and without him I am nothing. He is the ocean to my river. He is the sun to my moon. He is the stars to my galaxy. He is the heart to my blood, and he keeps it pumping. I am nothing. I am meat, and I am bone, and nerves. He is emotion, and he is love. He is the love to my hate, and I love him. I need him. I am him, and I am not him.”
They begin as friends, become brothers, and end as lovers. But they do not end. They can not end. The end is finality, and the last domino has not yet fallen.
The last domino must fall.
They still. The world remains.
-
The room is hazy with smoke and feels too hot, a sticky kind of hot – the smoke attaches itself to skin like a grey, dusty veil, and Steve feels blanketed. The room feels like a watercolour to him, the curtains run down the walls, and the pink of Bucky’s lips is aqueous against his warm pallor. The sound of the traffic and the music they’re listening to is large, loud and distorted – the lone trumpet an accompaniment to the honk of a car’s horn and to the wail of a siren.
Two long, slender fingers and a callused thumb loop around Bucky’s pulsating wrist, Steve’s thumb stroking light circles onto his wrist bone in an anti-clockwise motion. “You never said why you were hiding from the cops, Buck.” Steve’s voice is a low rumble in the haze and Bucky’s mouth curls into a lazy smile. He lowers himself and Steve down onto the bed, holding Steve’s smaller body closer to his, so that their bare, damp torsos barely touch.
His voice feels like velvet in Steve’s ear, and he shudders when Bucky replies, his mouth and breath ghosting below Steve’s earlobe. “Obscenity, sodomy, indecency, and corruption of the innocent. Y’know, just the usual.” Steve curls into Bucky’s hold and pushes up his glasses, his head shakes. Soft lips press into the golden crown of Steve’s hair, and he feels Bucky chuckle. “Let’s pray for all the other queer communists out there.”
The smaller, blond man scratches at his sandy coloured beard and then presses his fingertips against Bucky’s firm shoulders. “You’re not a queer communist.”
An outright laugh comes from the larger man, and his laughter shakes the creaky springs of the mattress below them. “That doesn’t explain the kicks I was getting from you fucking me into the couch, or how when I came, I was crying Joseph Stalin’s name in a state of pure pleasure.” He rolls onto his back and sighs, grasping Steve’s hands and holding them to where his chest beats. Steve feels the beginnings of laughter warm within him, but the heat of the laughter is quelled by tepid pangs of sadness, which cause his knees to rise, arranging himself in the fetal position, so the bottoms of his kneecaps sit delicately in the dip of Bucky’s hipbone. “Hide me from the fuckin’ cops, Steve. Hide me from this fuckin’ society. Hide me from this fuckin’ world.” He groans and rubs his eyes, “I never want to leave this bed, Stevie.”
Steve presses his lips to Bucky’s bicep, and leans his forehead against his shoulder. “Then don’t leave, you jerk.” Bucky nudges him with his upper body and mutters something under his breath with a smile, linking their fingers together in a mess of extremities. “Was it the book?”
He nods, and Steve swallows, pressing his lips together in a solemn line. “Book reading did it, I think. Portraying homosexuality, socialist values, liberal views on drug use, and fuckin’ sex in general don’t go down too well with the normal kinds’a people.” He squeezes Steve’s hands and a smile spreads across his face, “The book will be in good company on the banned list, though. I’ll probably be in good company too; though they might separate us queer communists in case we somehow overthrow the fuckin’ government and turn the country as goddamn red as blood.”
Steve sits up, pulls his hands away and places them in his lap. “You’re just gonna take what they give you? You’re gonna let them think they’re right? Lies just spread more fear, Buck.” Steve’s position is mirrored, and Bucky lowers his head, to press his forehead to that of the smaller man. Steve pushes the side of his glasses up, and his breath hitches as Bucky’s lips touch his gently.
“How could I not? What would I do? Tell ‘em I love eating pussy as much as I love sucking cock? Tell ‘em that yeah, I don’t agree with their political choices, but I’m not a damn Soviet spy because I own the fucking Communist Manifesto and I read the pamphlets people give me? Tell ‘em that, uh, I thought "freedom" meant freedom, not fuckin’ censorship?” His words are spat out, in a quiet, seething manner that scares Steve to the core. He licks his top lip and frowns, “My book shouldn’t be getting banned, Steve.”
Bucky’s shoulders drop and Steve rests his upper arms on Bucky’s collarbones, feeling his heart race. “It shouldn’t.” A police siren echoes outside of the apartment and their embrace collapses; Bucky rolls off from the bed onto the floor, and Steve scrambles around for his sweater. “And for the record, Buck, I think you should tell ‘em that. Just maybe in a more gentle, less aggressive manner.” Steve hears him snigger against the floor, and he pulls his mustard yellow sweater over his head, cleaning at the lenses of his glasses with the scratchy wool.
He approaches the mirror as the siren stops, and he sighs in an exasperated way, that makes Bucky’s head pop up from below the bed. “I look like a-a streetwalker.” Bucky snorts. “Don’t.” He traces over his swollen and red lips, and rolls his eyes. “This is your fault.”
“If they ask – you had scurvy, and you were sucking on lemons. Not my dick.” Steve throws a sock towards the bed, and Bucky disappears out of sight.
Three knocks come from the door, and Steve breathes in through his nose. He slowly undoes the latches, and twists the handle of the door. He is met by two stony faced men, who shove past him. “We have a warrant.” Steve closes his eyes, leans against the door, and feels himself seize up, his breath becoming erratic and unsteady.
Bucky is dragged up from the floor, shirtless and snarling, and he catches Steve’s hazy gaze, and he swallows. Steve sucks in a breath, and parts his lips, “’til the end of the line.” Bucky smiles sadly, and mouths his reply. Steve sinks down to the floor, his eyes closed, and when he opens his eyes, he is curled up, the door is closed, and Bucky is gone.
-
“He is my everything, and without him I am nothing. He is the ocean to my river. He is the sun to my moon. He is the stars to my galaxy. He is the heart to my blood, and he keeps it pumping. I am nothing. I am meat, and I am bone, and nerves. He is emotion, and he is love. He is the love to my hate, and I love him. I need him. I am him, and I am not him.”
They begin as friends, become brothers, and end as lovers. But they do not end. They can not end. The end is finality, and the last domino has not yet fallen.
The last domino must fall.
They still. The world remains.
♠ ♠ ♠
The fifties was a horrific time period, and I had no idea until I started to do research for this. Having studied Allen Ginsberg's Howl (the poem and the court case surrounding it were an huge inspiration for this) and the context behind it to death gave me some kind of idea of 1950s western culture and how society treated its people (badly). I had never studied McCarthyism and the communist witch hunts of the early decade before, and I never knew how widely spread persecution and oppression was across the US (and the UK, and probably other countries too), and how much fear-instilling propaganda there was. Apparently, it's rather ironic placing Steve and Bucky in this environment, as victims of 1950s fear and persecution, as explained in this article.I apologise about the mini essay! Also, did I try and reference Aristotle? I did, and I think I did it wrong, but nevermind! Unfortunately, I cannot imagine the events following this would be too peachy; but I think this turned out quite well!
The title comes from Part II (On the Run) by Jay-Z, featuring Beyoncé; and as mentioned somewhere in there, the inspiration for the piece comes from Allen Ginsberg's Howl. Follow me on tumblr here!
Steve also has a beard, and is skinny as hell, fyi.
Thank you for reading, if you'd like to comment and leave recommendations, I would love you forever! :*
(this was on my AO3, so if you read it there, I apologise for your double reading?)