Sorry I haven't posted in so long. Hope this is worth it.
Colors of Life
April 1937
The weight on his chest had not left in the night. Who was he kidding? It never left.
Steve lay still, listened to himself breathe, watched the odd little swirls of light, or whatever, behind his eyelids.
He realized Bucky was up, the smell of bacon and pancakes reached his nose. He turned his head into the pillow, hating the darkness, yet loath to leave its familiarity.
He opened his eyes. Across the room, his drawing board stared back. A charcoal of a single winter tree, naked against the sky. The world itself was reflected in his art; all shades of grey. He had yet to touch the box of beautiful colors Buck had given him for Christmas.
He rolled over, back to the room, buried his face in the back of the couch. There was the ache, the one that pressed hotly at his throat, the back of his eyes. Emotion was a kind of relief now, but no tears came.
Vacantly, he wondered if there was such a thing as nothing.
"Steve. Come on, wake up." A hand pulled gently at his shoulder, coaxing him to turn over.
"Not now, Buck," he mumbled. "Please, not now."
"Fine," Bucky said, and picked Steve off the couch, blankets and all, and deposited him on the floor.
"Ugh," Steve groaned, struggling with the blankets. "Jerk. Stop it."
"No. You need to get up. There's something you gotta see. Come on, Steve."
He looked up at that pleading note in Bucky's voice.
"Just get dressed and come with me. Please."
Those dark eyes, so dang hopeful. Suddenly he didn't have the energy to argue. "Sure. Fine." This seemed to be something more than those walks Bucky dragged him out for most evenings, which thankfully never lasted long. They always ended up coming back to their apartment and falling asleep on the couch. Which was really all Steve wanted to do.
He always woke again, though, to realise that Bucky had tucked him in and left some food on the nearby table, just in case he got…
Steve wandered back into the main room, buttoning his shirt.
"You hungry?" Bucky asked, pausing in pulling his shoes on. "Or can we eat when we get back?"
Steve shrugged. It hardly mattered.
Buck jerked his head at a knapsack on the floor. "Got your drawing stuff. You'll want it, trust me."
What the heck? Trust me…
Head down, hands buried in the pockets of his coat, Steve trudged after Buck. Most of the snow was gone and the sidewalks looked particularly filthy today.
They boarded a bus, Steve still not asking where they were going.
When they stepped off, a gust of sea breeze tore at Steve's hair, yanking his head up. He squinted suddenly, the morning sun behind him glinting off the water. He knew where they were: Shore Road Park. But why?
Ahead, close to the water, a small crowd had gathered, the wind snatching their shouts and twisting them away.
"They're still here!" Bucky exclaimed. "Come on!" Steve followed, curious now, in spite of himself.
They dodged around the crowd and Bucky swung up to perch on the seawall. Steve scrambled after him.
With the combination of wind and sun and water, it took him a few moments to figure out what he was seeing. When he did, he might have fallen off the wall if Bucky hadn't had a grip on his arm.
Probably a dozen killer whales frolicked in the bay, water flying, their massive bodies so oddly graceful.
Steve sat, stunned, breathless with wonder. His brain could form no coherent thought, he only opened his eyes as wide as he could.
The pod moved closer to land, still diving and slapping the water with their tails, then hoisting themselves above the waves to crash down again.
One came quite close to where Steve and Bucky perched, leaping halfway out of the water, twisting around, to flop into the water on its back. The boys were wet with the spray, and Steve laughed suddenly, wiping the drops off his face.
He felt Buck's arm around his neck, tasted the salt, took a breath of bracing air. He could feel, without looking, his grin mirrored on Bucky's face.
"Wish you could be out there with them, huh?" Bucky called.
"Yeah," he murmured.
They stayed there for hours, Steve not caring that they were missing church; this was sanctuary enough. When the whales finally moved off toward Staten Island, the two young men sat in the sunshine for a while, breathing in tandem.
It wasn't until they got back to their apartment, that Steve remembered his sketchbook. He picked up the bag Bucky had thrown his things into, and sat at his drawing table.
Buck was whistling as he worked, reheating breakfast. Steve's stomach growled, but he wanted to capture the whales while they were still fresh in his mind. He pulled out a pad of paper, and two boxes of pencils. One: his regular sketching set, worn to half their original length, and second: the colored ones.
He hesitated, laid Buck's gift aside. Maybe tomorrow.
And then he had a pencil in his hand, flying over the paper, trying to reproduce the huge graceful bodies, the sun-glint on the waves, a million diamond drops.
He had the outlines, when Bucky nudged his elbow with a plate. "Eat," he commanded.
Steve looked up at him, then, as his nose caught the smell of the bacon, laid the pencil down without protest. Bucky went back to the kitchen table and sat, inhaling his food. There was a comfortable silence.
It took him maybe an hour to finish the drawing. He was sitting, chin in his hand, staring at it when he felt Bucky behind him.
"Thanks," Steve said quietly.
He heard Buck's breath catch, before his hands landed on Steve's shoulders. They stayed that way for a long while.
July 1937
My darling laddie boy,
Happy birthday, and please cry if you need to. Just don't let me ruin your day.
I pray I've said everything a mother should say to her only son, about God, about life, about girls.
You're so much like your father, a born fighter, a born protector, with heart enough for an army. But I pray I have also taught you how to be gentle, how to care.
Son, I want you to remember this above all else. When you fight, don't do it because you hate your enemies. Fight for the love of your friends.
Be brave, be strong. Stand up for your beliefs.
And keep working on your art. Go to college. It mightn't make much money, but follow your dreams whenever you can. Hear me, laddie boy?
Someday you'll remember me and smile without crying. Sure, and when we see each other again, we'll be a family. Bucky will look out for you. They'll take care of you. Only family we got.
Don't stop living. Don't stop loving.
Love, Mama
Steve closed his eyes, and let his head fall back, laying the tri-folded paper on his chest. The grass was soft, the longer blades tickling his face. Behind his eyelids he could see her, standing in the sunlight, the breeze catching her skirt, grabbing her straw hat with one hand, laughing down at him.
He opened his eyes, and saw only a blurred pool of light, warmth, but no smile, no laughter. Alone on the grassy hillside, he rolled over and buried his face in his arms.
When the tears finally stopped, he sat up, hunted through his pockets for a handkerchief. Something white fluttered into the grass and he twisted around in surprise. Bucky, in dirty overalls and a short-sleeved shirt, the reflection of the sky making his eyes light, his crooked grin…
Guiltily, Steve turned away, mopped his face, blew his nose. Waited for Bucky to burst out with whatever grand news he had now.
Still without speaking, Bucky sank down beside him, and as the quiet stretched out, Steve felt the hard knot inside him undo itself.
He had visited the cousin's farm a couple times before, and always thought that if Bucky hadn't been there, it would have been dull as ditch water. But in moments like this, he could appreciate the stillness, the unhurried pace.
"That was right before she went back to the hospital," Bucky said, just above a whisper. "Late one night, I remember you fell asleep and she asked me… Made me promise to give it to you on your birthday."
Steve nodded his thanks. Bucky pulled his knees up to his chest, rested his chin on them.
A breeze ruffled their hair, Steve took a few deep breaths, smelled cut hay, earth. From the farm behind them, he heard shouts, whooping, an engine's roar, dogs barking.
Bucky stirred, lifted his head. "Thomas brought his new motorcycle home," he said, not able to disguise his excitement.
Steve scrambled to his feet. "You rode it yet?" He put out his hand, and Bucky almost pulled him down again.
"Yeah, but now we gotta teach you how."
Steve frowned up at him. "Me? Are you sure that's smart?"
Bucky laughed now, flung an arm around his neck. "Never know when you might need the skill."
"Yeah, but it's you having any skills that I'm worried about."
He had to admit though, that zooming down a country lane, the wind in his face, Bucky's hands firmly over his, was definitely the cat's pajamas. At least until they took a sharp corner and came face-to-face with a farmer's wagon, and Bucky put them in the ditch.
Author's notes:
"The quickest way for anyone to reach the sun and the light of day is not to run west, chasing after the setting sun, but to head east, plunging into the darkness until one comes to the sunrise." ― Gerald L. Sittser
"The best friends know when to drag you out into the light. They also know when to sit with you in the darkness." - Anna Preston
There was supposed to be a lot more about Bucky teaching Steve to drive a motorcycle, but that ended up going in a different direction. Still, thanks to Griselda_Banks for the inspiration.