stevexbucky "I just really need to have you here right now." if you're still doing this :)
The weather is finally getting warmer, much to Bucky’s relief. There should be enough of a grace period between too cold and too hot that Steve’s chest will clear up, get a little stronger.
He takes the steps up to Steve’s place two at a time, change jingling in his pocket. He knocks a couple times on Steve’s door and steps back. After a few minutes with no answer, he knocks again, harder this time.
“Go away, Bucky.”
Bucky sighs. “Not happening, pal. Come on, let me in.”
Bucky pushes the rock next to the railing over with his foot. The key is still there, forgotten by Steve. He lets himself in, dropping the key on the front table. “Steve?”
He finds Steve in the bedroom, curtains pulled closed, sitting cross legged on the bed. Scattered around him on the blankets are about a dozen different pages torn from Steve’s sketch books. He’s holding a picture in his hands, either looking at it very hard or not looking at Bucky, just as hard.
“Hey,” Bucky says softly, leaning against the door jam. Steve doesn’t answer, just sniffles and wipes at his nose. Bucky’s heart thumps. Crying jags always trigger an asthma attack with Steve, and that’s the last thing the kid needs today.
Bucky walks over to the bed and sits on the corner. He picks up one of the papers. A pencil drawing of Steve’s mother smiles up at him, looking over her shoulder.
“I was gonna go to the cemetery and put down some flowers by her headstone. You know, for her birthday. But I didn’t have the extra money for it.”
“You know I would have bought some –”
“That’s why I didn’t ask.” Silence hangs between them.
Bucky looks around the dark room, not knowing what to say. “My, uh, my family wants to know if you want to come over for dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You can’t not eat, Steve.”
“I love your mom, I really do, Buck. But I can’t see her right now, alright?”
“Then let me buy you something to eat. Get you out of this room. Some sun will do you good.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. He grips the photo of his mother – a portrait of her younger than Bucky ever remembers her being – and rolls onto his side, away from Bucky. The papers rustle when Steve stretches out his legs.
He waits, but Steve just lays there, so Bucky gathers up the sketches and sets the pile on the chair in the corner. He goes up to the bed again, looking at Steve’s back. “I’ll come back in the morning,” he says, stepping back.
“No.” Steve reaches behind him and grabs Bucky’s sleeve, stopping him. “Don’t go. Please?”
“I won’t,” Bucky says immediately. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to.” He kneels on the bed, absently rubbing Steve’s arm.
“I just really need to have you here right now.” The words come out watery.
“I’m here. I’m always here for you, Steve.”
Nodding, Steve pulls on Bucky’s arm until he lays down next to him. Bucky wraps himself around his friend, holding him as he absolutely does not cry.