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The thing about living your life after the war ended was that it never really ended. You drew an imaginary line in the time of the war; there was life before the war, and there was life during the war— which wasn’t a life really, just merely survival, but there was no life after the war.
For some people, the war never really ended. For them, there was no place in their conscience to move on from what they had seen or they had felt during the war. Bucky was one of those people.
After two years since that beautiful spring day when Germany surrendered, Bucky was still often woken up in the middle of the night screaming his heart out. Flying limbs with blood splattered on his face or a scene where Steve exploded in the train filled his nightmares.
Steve— who was actually alive— stormed into his bedroom, embraced him and repeatedly told him you’re home, Buck. No more war.
Even after two years, Steve didn’t diminish Bucky’s needs for assurance. He would be there for Bucky, every single night.
Steve, on the other hand, didn’t get nightmares. Maybe he did, but either they were not as severe as Bucky’s or he just never showed it. Steve was stronger, Bucky always knew that. He might be physically weak, but he was definitely stronger in everything else, compared to Bucky.
There was nothing that Bucky wanted more after the war ended than what he was having. It was Steve and Bucky again, sharing their life together in their old apartment in Bed-Stuy. Steve went back to his art right after the war, he drew pages and pages of Peggy with her shield, stoic and beautiful— those drawings remain to be one of the most accurate reflections of Captain Carter and people would pay a fortune for it. Bucky knew Steve never wanted to sell those drawings, they were intimate for him, his love letters for Peggy; and with Bucky’s job as mechanic at Stark Industries, he didn’t think they needed extra income. But Steve, being Steve with his pompous pride, would sell one or two drawings sometimes to buy Bucky fresh oranges or fatty bacon or a brand new winter jacket.
Bucky was not greedy, this was enough for him; seeing Steve everyday, safe and sound sitting in their kitchen drinking hot coffee— no longer rained by bullets in that horrible huge armor.
“What do you want for your birthday, Steve? It’s a big one. You’re turning thirty!” Bucky slung his arm around Steve’s neck.
Steve’s gaze turned melodramatic and he said earnestly to Bucky, “Hmm… Never thought I’d see the day.”
Bucky’s heart sank. He knew what Steve meant and he hated that thought. The doctor told Steve that he would be less likely to survive his thirtieth birthday because of his poor health. “Well, that doctor can suck it, ‘cause my Stevie turns thirty next week.”
Steve tilts his head to Bucky. “Bake me a wacky cake,” he said with a wide grin.
“What?” Bucky raised his eyebrows. “You know I can’t cook—”
“My Ma used to do that when I was a kid.” Steve shrugged.
“Oh, that’s sly, you punk. You know I can’t say no if you brought up your Ma!”
The grin on his face returned, even bigger this time. It was the most infectious and placid smile, which Bucky thought, already worth a thousand burnt wacky cakes. Hell, he would burn the world down for that smile.
***
Howard Stark let out the most dramatic groan, it turned a couple of his engineers’ heads. “When did you become so dull, Barnes?”
“Can’t this week, Stark. I need to learn how to bake,” said Bucky while tinkering with the faulty armor chip.
“Look at you, making up stupid excuses.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s been too long since we went dancing with those girls.”
“No, I’m serious. I gotta bake a cake for Steve’s birthday.”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” His eyes widened. “Sergeant Barnes, baking a cake?”
Bucky shrugged. “Let’s hope he doesn’t die eating it. Well I got the recipe from Lou— down the block. I think it’s gonna be fine. He’s gonna love it.” He smiled and his eyes sparkled.
Howard narrowed his eyes and pressed his thumb on the chip. “Stop for a while. Look at me.”
Bucky did so and cocked his brow. “What?”
“God, you’re in love with him, aren’t you?” said Howard with a conviction.
Shit.
Bucky swallowed an empty air, trying to make up something with the remaining brain cells in his head, but he choked.
“It’s okay, Barnes,” said Howard with quiet empathy.
Bucky dipped his chin down, eyes fixated on the piece of metal in front of him, finding some words to say but he muttered, “he— he doesn’t, um, he’s not… with me. It’s not like that for him.”
“Shit,” Howard swore with a low voice. “It’s Peggy, isn’t it?”
Bucky mentally shrugged, he quickly added, “And he doesn’t know it. So keep your mouth shut, Stark.”
“You know what, to make you feel better, I, too, did share my affection with some fellas in the past.” Howard smirked.
Bucky couldn’t really tell if this guy was being serious because he did sound obnoxious in almost everything he said.
“Of course, maybe in my case, more for research purposes.” He winked playfully. “Come on, Barnes, let’s go out dancing then, to soothe your pain.” There he was again, back to his initial agenda.
Bucky ended up going dancing with Howard and a couple of girls that night.
***
It was past midnight when Bucky came home to the apartment. There was no light on and since he was a little tipsy, he stumbled upon Steve’s easel when he walked past the living room. It fell and the paint tubes clattered on the floor. Shit, he thought, Steve was a light sleeper, he didn’t want to wake him up.
With July's heat climbing up, he went to the bathroom to splash some water on his face to cool down. He walked past Steve’s room afterwards, the door was ajar. He couldn’t help but peek— Steve was laying on his bed, blanket covering him— before he continued to his own room.
Bucky heard Steve’s coughing when he changed into his pajamas. The wall was thin enough for Bucky to know it didn’t sound like a normal cough. He asked loudly, “Steve? Are you okay?”
No answer, just a more severe cough. Fear creeped into Bucky’s spine. There was an unexplainable jitter in Bucky’s chest everytime Steve’s safety was at risk. This happened hundreds, if not millions of times during the war. Every single time the Hydra Stomper got shot at, Bucky’s stomach flipped. He felt it again now.
He bolted into Steve’s room and turned the light on. Steve was still laying down, his body shivering, his jaw clenched and his lips blue.
“Fucking hell,” Bucky swore and approached Steve. “Geez, Steve, I’m sorry. I should’ve come home earlier.”
“Buck,” Steve muttered. “Tin can…”
“What are you talking about? Stay here, Stevie. Let me get you some water.” Bucky rushed to the kitchen for a glass of water and handed it over to Steve.
He only sipped a little. “Tin…”
“Shut up, Steve. Close your eyes and try to sleep. We’ll go to the hospital in the morning!” Bucky put a cold compress on his forehead and brushed his hair with his fingers. He did this when Steve was sick— learnt it from his Ma. They might not have the money to go to the hospital in the past so Bucky or Steve’s Ma would nurse Steve day and night with medicines and prayers.
But now, Bucky wouldn’t risk even just one percent chance of Steve being sick. They had another lifeline now, scientific medicine.
Seeing Steve like this broke Bucky, it reminded Bucky of how weak he was without Steve, of how his life would be meaningless without Steve.
Those gentle strokes in his hair lulled Steve to sleep, his fever was still burning and Bucky sat by his side until the sun creeped in through the window pane.
“Buck…” Steve’s hoarse voice woke him up. Bucky sat up straight right away and grabbed a glass of water. He offered him water and he took it. “The tin can,” said Steve.
“Huh?” Bucky cocked his brow. He touched Steve’s face and god it was burning hot like Bucky never felt before. He was gonna die at this rate.
Bucky helped Steve to stand up but he didn’t have the energy, he was not even fully conscious. So Bucky lifted him and carried the little guy downstairs, looking for a cab.
***
Steve didn’t get better even after he was admitted to the ward. He was still unconscious with a high fever. The doctor told Bucky that Steve would be all right if he survived the fever another night.
Bucky hated it. He hated all doctors and their ambiguous words.
If he survived.
Less likely to survive his thirtieth birthday.
Fuck ‘em.
The nurse advised Bucky to go home and bring clean clothes for Steve— and suggested he take shower because he was reeked of alcohol and sweat. But before Bucky did what he was asked, he stopped by the telephone booth and notified Howard’s assistant that he was not coming to work.
The apartment felt ten times larger and quieter without Steve sitting in the kitchen, or drawing by the window. It felt cold even though it was summer. It was just not right.
His life was not right without Steve.
Bucky went to Steve’s room, opened his closet and packed a couple of shirts and pants. That was when he saw the tin can. Steve kept saying tin can.
Under the tin can were stacks of sketch books. The one on the top was opened and it was like Bucky looking at the mirror, just a younger version of himself. He took the sketchbook and flipped the pages, all of them were filled with his faces. Steve had been drawing him.
The pictures became blurry when he realized the tears filled up his eyes. He let the tears roll down his cheeks and he gritted his teeth. How could he not know?
Bucky’s attention then shifted back to the tin can. The air stood still when he opened the lid. Steve’s and his dog tags were in it, and there was a letter folded in half. Bucky unfolded it and Steve’s handwriting was all over it.
Dear Bucky,
The other day you said that you were grateful to have me, that I was the strong one, always sheltering you. You got me wrong, Buck. I’m not strong. At least not when I’m alone.
You see, I’m the moon and you are the sun. Without you I’m nothing, without you I’m weak, useless, dark, empty.
I was so fucking scared when you were drafted. I counted each day you were away. Everyday felt like I was walking on the thin glass, Buck. Worrying when it would all crumble and I’d fall, wondering if it would be the day I receive your dog tag.
But even with all the fragility, it’s ironically daunting to me on why I can’t tell you that I love you.
I’m so scared I’d die without you knowing. Told you I’m weak.
I’m more frightened to see your face knowing it, because I know you don’t love me like that.
Do you know why I was so stubbornly following you to the war zone? I gotta watch your sorry ass because you can’t die first, Buck. I forbid you to die first!
I have to die first, goddamnit. Because I’m selfish, Buck. Dying first is a luxury because god knows it’s Hell for me to live in a world where Bucky Barnes doesn’t exist. Trust me, I tried.
Goddamnit, Rogers, no you’re not dying for fuck’s sake! Bucky folded the letter and shoved it to his back pocket angrily. He didn’t want to read the rest of it because it infuriated him. How dare Steve wrote something like this, saying goodbye to him through a fucking letter, that punk.
He took a cab back to the hospital and planned to sock Steve in the face.
I realized I was a goner when I was sixteen. You were helping your Ma carrying sacks of potato and flour. It was a hot summer day and you were sweating and you took off your shirt and threw it to me while laughing. There wasn’t a light bulb moment nor fireworks, it wasn’t an epiphany really. I guess I just finally accepted the fact that I fell in love with my best friend. And I will be forever cursed.
After the cab ride that felt like forever, Bucky finally arrived at the hospital again and he saw Howard sitting on the bench in front of the ward.
“What are you doing here, Stark?”
“Hey, Barnes. You look like shit.” He gestured his hands up and down.
“I couldn’t care less,” Bucky sneered.
“How is he?” asked Howard earnestly.
“Still unconscious.” Bucky kept his answer short.
“You have to tell him, Barnes…” said Howards softly.
“Huh?”
“Tell him... what you feel,” Howard emphasized.
Bucky sat down, the lump in his throat choked him, his eyes welled up and he started to mutter between his sobs, “God, I hope I’d have the chance. I hope he— Christ!”
I never stopped loving you, Buck. Not even when I loved Peggy.
I admit that I finally found someone I thought of marrying, because we both know you’d marry a beautiful dame too. But somehow deep down, I hoped that maybe, just maybe, you loved me too. Guess I would never know.
But know this, Bucky…
I loved you,
when we were sixteen, and when we were at war, and when I gave you oranges, and when I secretly drew you, and when I leaned a little closer every time you slung your arms around me.
And I love you, still. And always.
I fucking love you and I need you so fucking much, it’s killing me. This could actually kill me.
But Steve Rogers didn’t die when he was shot right before he supposedly take the serum, he didn’t die after he fell off the train, he didn’t die rained by bullets million of times in the Hydra Stomper, he didn’t die during the war, he didn’t die when he was twelve having scarlet fever, he didn’t die then and he won’t die now.
Because Steve Rogers was just too stubborn to die.
So when he opened his eyes— the eyes as blue as the clear sky on Sunday morning— , Bucky hugged him tight— murmuring “you punk! Don’t you fucking do this to me”, Steve gave him the widest and most infectious grin. The one that Bucky would burn the world for.
“Buck…” he called him softly. “I lo—”
“I know.” Bucky hugged him again, restrained himself not to crush his bone. “Me too, Steve. Me too. You have no idea how fucking much.”
You’d think I’m selfish.
Maybe I am.
Because when it comes to you, I’d be the most selfish person in the world.
When it comes to you, I’d defy gravity, I’d deny laws, hell, I’d fight the whole world.
In another universe, maybe I’d get to live longer than you.
In another universe, maybe you wrote me letters instead.
In another universe, maybe we were ripped apart.
But in this one, I love you, so deeply, so much it hurts. It hurts so much, dying feels like a picnic.
Yours, SGT