If one thing is the hardest to write, it is the beginning. But for Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers, the beginning flowed like smooth water.
They met as kids, with patches on their knees and when Bucky's pants were too short. Kids who had no idea what the world held out for them. All the tumultuous journeys that lay in store for them, waiting anxiously to pounce, were far from their minds. All that mattered in these first moments was that they clicked. Their conversation was easy, and although they possessed very different hobbies, their mutual love of meatloaf and card games drew them close.
Soon, their mothers never saw one without the other, attached at the hip as they were. The boys were adopted into each other's homes; once the Depression hit hard, if they could not find a meal at one home, it could be found at the other. Sarah Rogers made Irish stews, stretching them thin but filling. Steve was ill often and for long periods of time, and often, Bucky was at his bedside, doing everything he could. He would read to Steve in hushed voices, and when he was sure nobody was looking, he would hold Steve's hand. Clammy and small, Bucky would hold it and pray. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to hold his hand or what the tug in his gut was trying to tell him, but all he knew was that it brought peace to Steve just as much as it did to Bucky.
When they got to high school, Steve developed a reputation for getting into fights he couldn't handle. Bucky developed a reputation for getting him out of them. Always the mediator, Bucky could talk down most of the bullies. Always being so righteous, Steve stood up to them all, and Bucky always tried to talk their way out of it. Not always did he succeed.
In their senior year, there was a fight Bucky couldn't stop. "I hate bullies," Steve said as Bucky tended his split lip before Steve would return the favor.
"I hate you standing up to bullies." Bucky would reply, tired of seeing Steve, already weak and small, stand up to people twice his size and thrice as strong. Bucky dreaded the day that Steve stood up to the wrong person, and Bucky couldn't fight him off or talk him down.
"If I don't do it, who will?" Steve exclaimed, tired of Bucky babying him. He was nearly a man, and he didn't need Bucky getting him out of trouble.
That had started their first fight, ending in shouting and words said that they couldn't take back. They went away to their own homes, hurt in more ways than one.
When Steve opened his door, however, he saw Sarah hunched over the kitchen sink. "Mom?" He called before he saw the bloodied tissues and heard the cough. He dropped his bag and ran to her before she fussed and told him not to worry, that she had just bit her cheek. He didn't believe her, but Sarah had already caught sight of the split lip and black eye, and she was fussing over him.
She was dead six months later. She had tumors in her lung, but it was either medicine for her or medicine for Steve. She chose Steve; she would always choose Steve. Steve didn't know what pain was until he lost his Mom, and he prayed he would never feel pain like that again.
Bucky was there for the funeral, holding little flowers he pruned on the way there. When everyone else had left, and it was just him and Steve, standing to the side of freshly turned dirt, Bucky carefully took Steve's hand. Steve, not taking his tear-filled eyes off the grave, clung tightly. Bucky's Pop always told him men shouldn't cry, but when the first sob escaped Steve's mouth, Bucky took Steve in his arms and tried not to, not because he thought men shouldn't cry, but because he wanted to be there for Steve. That tug in his gut was satisfied with Steve in his arms, and Bucky still didn't understand.
Steve slept on the couch at his family's place until they graduated, and late at night, Steve would sneak past the creaky floorboards and his siblings' rooms before he came to Bucky's. Steve would slip in, and Bucky would open the covers to allow Steve in. They would lay together, their warmth shared between them, and they felt a smidgen of peace.
A month after they graduated, Bucky, just falling short of being Valedictorian, moved into a shared apartment. A single room housing a bed, a threadbare sofa, and a little kitchenette that was barely used. Bucky worked long shifts at the factory, longer than he ever would have imagined, to make rent and buy Steve's medicine. Steve had a job at the Grocer's, but that was only when he could get out of bed.
Bucky would come home, bone tired and aching, but he made enough to buy Steve's medicine, and by God, if that didn't give him deep satisfaction. Steve was in bed, his breathing nasally and rough, shivering neath the mound of quilts. Just as he had been this morning when Bucky tore himself away to go to work. It pained him to leave, and Bucky had visions of coming home to Steve, still in the bed, dead. But without the job, they couldn't afford rent, food, or medicine; without any of those, Steve would surely be gone within the month. Bucky stripped off his shirt, kicked off his shoes, and climbed into the bed. They always more or less said that they couldn't afford a second bed, they couldn't, but it seemed a valid excuse for them to both crawl into the same one unashamed. Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve and pulled him close, willing his body heat to warm him. Steve uttered between shivers, "How was your day?"
"Fine," Bucky said, rubbing Steve's arms, desperately trying to generate heat. Their furnace hadn't worked in over a month, and no matter how many pennies they saved, they couldn't afford to get it fixed. Steve's body was all sharp angles and bones, but Bucky didn't know more comfort than to hold him. Bucky didn't understand why but Steve never argued, so Bucky put it up to him being cold and enjoying sharing body heat. Somehow, it meant something else to Bucky, but he didn't know how to describe it. Sometimes, something in his gut told him he knew exactly what this was and why it made him feel so…complete. But he shut that voice down and satiated it with watered-down reason.
"Have you eaten?" Bucky whispered, tucking the quilts further around Steve's chin; his own back was bare, but he didn't care. The cold was of little importance to him; it only mattered to keep Steve warm.
"No," Steve stuttered, "Was too cold." His lungs rattled in a way that Bucky knew wasn't healthy.
"Do you want me to find you something?" He offered, he was so tired, and if it had been just him, he would already be asleep. But it wasn't just him; he had to take care of Steve.
"No," There was a hesitant pause, "Just, please. Stay right here." Steve nestled further against Bucky, and Bucky allowed himself to admit that he was afraid.
Steve had been doing good this year, his heart was still weak, and the asthma kept him from so much, but he hadn't had any severe sickness. Until a week ago, when Bucky noticed him layering more shirts than usual, and a rattle started deep in his chest. Bucky had urged him to go to the doctor, he would figure out how to pay later, but he needed Steve to be okay. Steve refused, and by God, there was nothing Bucky could do once Steve set his mind to it. And so, Bucky just held him.
His mother was Lutheran, and Mrs. Sarah, Steve's mother, was a devout Catholic, but neither one of their religions had worn too heavily on their children. Bucky wasn't sure about a big man in the sky, nor was he sure about how much good it did for Mrs. Sarah, but in times like this, he prayed. He would pray over and over in his head as he held Steve's body, praying that if there was a God and if He ever cared about any of them, He would take Bucky instead of Steve.
Steve's shivers were starting to subside, little by little, but Bucky held him still. Slowly, Bucky realized the pattern of Steve beginning to fall into sleep. It was times like this that Bucky allowed himself to breathe, allowed himself to cry. When he knew that Steve couldn't hear his sob or feel his tears, he would allow himself to let go. Bucky knew that Steve wouldn't want him to cry on his behalf, but selfishly, Bucky did not wail for Steve; he wept for himself. Because Bucky couldn't imagine a life without Steve, he couldn't imagine waking up in bed alone or coming home to an empty apartment. Couldn't imagine not cautiously taking Steve's hand when he was sure no one was looking, and he couldn't imagine lacking that contentment in his gut when he was with Steve. He thought of all the things he loved about Steve, his heart, his courage, his hands, his eyes.
In the dark apartment holding Steve, it was then that he realized what he had thought. Loved about Steve. With another tear, he realized he couldn't deny it any longer; he loved Steven Grant Rogers. He had loved him since they were kids when he would dig Steve out of any hole he got himself in, take any punch or beating if he knew he was delivering it from Steve. He loved Steve when he was covered in blankets on Saturday mornings, holding a pencil and sketchbook as Bucky read the morning paper. Steve never let him see those drawings, but Bucky somehow knew they were of him. Bucky loved Steve when they would sit and drink coffee before going to work when Steve was well. Bucky loved Steve to the point that it hurt; it hurt to see Steve lying so sick that Bucky prayed he would make it to the morning. It was the kind of love that was so bitter because, goddammit, why couldn't he be normal? Why couldn't some pretty dame fill the gaping hole in him like Steve did? Why couldn't some dame make him feel whole and at peace like Steve? He was setting himself up for failure because even if Steve reciprocated his feelings, they could never love one another – not in the way he wanted to. Their love would be stolen kisses when no one could see, and trying so hard to avoid talking about them. They could be arrested; dammit, they could be killed. No one liked a queer; no one welcomed a fairy.
So, Bucky wouldn't ever tell Steve how he felt because Steve deserved fucking better than him. He deserved to hold hands with a dame in public, have kids and grandkids, and live to ripe old age. But dammit, even if Steve found a dame, he wouldn't live to see grandkids and may not even be able to have kids. Because he was so sick and weak, he couldn't support a girl or own a house. Let it be known that Bucky did not care that Steve was like this; sure, he wanted him to be healthy and whole, but Bucky loved Steve, no matter what condition he came in.
At that moment, Bucky hated the world. He hated God for making him like this and the world for being so damn cruel. Steve didn't deserve any of this, Steve deserved the world and all the great things it held, but it seemed that that was not in the cards. And so, Bucky lay there, holding Steve, and he mourned. Because he loved Steve Rogers, and it wasn't damn fair.