I've had this idea in my head for a while and even though it didn't come out in quite the way I first envisioned it would, I'm glad it's finally out in the open and not bouncing around in the confines of my mind anymore. Also, I realized I haven't had any first person pov since chap 1. So I thought, why not do it again?
Bucky's 14 and Steve's 13.
I wake to a hand grabbing my shoulder and shaking me roughly. My first instinct is to swat it with my pillow. I do so and then roll over, turning my back on the person who interrupted my sleep. The hand comes back. I growl drowsily, hoping the sound is more of a deterrent than the pillow was. When the shaking starts again, it's more insistent, rattling my teeth inside my skull and causing the thin blanket to slip off my quaking body. Well past the threshold of annoyance, I flip over and snap, "Leave me alone, Steve."
The next instant, I'm bolt upright in bed and now, I'm the one grabbing his shoulder. He's not breathing. If I hadn't been so focused on my own slumber I would have noticed sooner. His chest jerks in the tiniest of motions but I can tell it's his own desperate reflexes causing the spasms, not the actual expansion of his lungs. His mouth opens and closes in sporadic, frantic attempts to suck in oxygen.
Quickly, I launch myself off the mattress and kneel in front of him. Even the dim light of my sparse bedroom can't hide the shine of naked panic in his eyes. His bony fingers fly to his throat and he claws desperately at it, as if he can scratch through the skin to yank out the mucus clogging his airways.
"Easy, Steve, calm down," I soothe, dragging his hand away from his neck.
My words have no effect on him. His efforts only increase in intensity, pupils blown wide in terror.
"Hey, hey, Steve, you need to calm yourself. Okay?" I hastily gather my composure, drawing from my memory of the single other time I've seen him have an episode like this. Of course at that time, we were at his house and his mother stayed with him just long enough to quiet him before rushing to get his inhaler. He doesn't have his inhaler here.
"Alright, pal," I take his hands, in spite of how he fights me for control of them, and position them on my chest. His left hand goes on the right side of my sternum, his right I place on the left side. "Let me show you how it's done." I take an exaggerated breath in.
As my lungs fill, my chest rises and so do his hands. When I exhale, they sink as my chest does.
"You feel that?" I repeat the slow breaths. "Now listen." This time, when I breathe, I do it through my mouth, not my nose. It's louder this way.
Steve seems mesmerized by the movement of his hands and his frenzied struggles start fading. I maintain the same steady rhythm of breath, extending my inhales and exhales, allowing the noise of them to fill the room. Gradually, whether he's aware of it or not, Steve begins to copy me. His hysteria ebbs and finally, finally, he draws a breath. The relief is evident in his expression and he tries to gulp in several more. The result is that he starts choking again. I shake my head and grab his wrists, holding them to my chest.
"Not that fast, Steve. Slower. Like me," I instruct, never changing the pace of my breathing.
Steve obediently forces himself to take the deeper, slower breaths. I smile approvingly.
"There you go. That's better, isn't it?" I encourage.
He nods and the action dislodges a stray tear. Whether it's one of relief or a leftover trace of panic doesn't matter. We stay that way for some time, breathing steadily in perfect synchrony. In and out, inhale and exhale, acquisition of oxygen and then the release. Once I'm satisfied he's caught the hang of it, I release his hands and they eventually slide off my chest.
"You okay?" I question quietly.
He just looks at me like I saved his life. And then I realize that I did. Suddenly uncomfortable, I shift my weight before reaching up and ruffling his hair.
"Only you would forget how to breathe," I mumble.
He ducks out from beneath my palm, a small smile just barely visible on the edges of his lips.
"Do you think you'll be able to go back to sleep?" I inquire more seriously.
Tilting his head, he considers the question. Then he answers, "Yes," before climbing onto the couch cushions that double as his bed when he sleeps over. After he pulls the blanket up to his shoulder, I reclaim my own position in bed. But now I'm facing in his direction. And I stay awake the rest of the night, listening for his breath in the quiet of the night.