There were nights when the horrible wet coughs that shook Steve's tiny chest and the low grumbles of Bucky's hollow stomach became the lullaby that abducted their consciousness. Being asleep was easier. It was easier to forget about pneumonia and malnutrition when the mind was locked away from the body. So sometimes, when Bucky's shift at the factory finally ended and he slipped into the drafty walls of the cramped apartment long after the sun had set and Steve sat up waiting for him, sketching on old newspapers with a stub of coal even though his arms were sore with fever chills, they did little more than drag themselves to bed and watch their breath mist cold in the dark.
They didn't prepare supper-they had no food.
They didn't tune in to the Lone Ranger-they had no radio.
They didn't talk about the future-they had no hope.
But they heard the sounds of a suffering body so near to their own and they knew they were not alone and for them, that was enough. Having a shoulder to punch and a hand to shake and an eye to catch was enough.
Those were enough.
Friendship was enough.
Brotherhood was enough.