Well-worn (слэш)

Bucky was halfway out the window when Steve grumbled, “Can’t believe you named a chicken after me.”
He turned back to look at Steve over his shoulder.
“Just missed you, I guess.”
He was still smiling, but it was the honest kind that grew from both corners of his mouth. Not teasing. The weight on Steve’s chest widened, a familiar measure of dread that lasted all summer, long after the hand-me-down sweater stopped smelling like Bucky.
It really would’ve been easier if he were teasing.
—
Five times Steve tried on Bucky’s clothes, and the one time they fit.