"Steve Rogers is his own personal sun-"
Back then: 1925
“Do you think God hates me, Stevie?”
The words come from a tall, gangly brunette boy, who looks much too old to be eight, with his burdened gray-blue eyes, but with his dimpled, full of missing teeth smile, he looks much younger.
A boy turns, his feet buried in sand, and the whole rest of his body buried in blankets, less of a boy, and more of a thin, reedy, pale face wrapped in pounds of cloth.
It’s cold, far too cold to be out at the beach, but Bucky and Stevie had snuck away, the cloudy storm atop them, akin to a blanket like the ones wrapped around Steve, paired with the gray of the afternoon, was almost comforting.
Bucky had carried Steve all the way here, with his four blankets, because Steve was sick again, and he’d made Bucky promise, with his blue eyes filled with tears, and a stubborn tilt to his mouth, that he didn’t want to die in his room, that he wanted to die near the water.
Bucky had been distraught; he’d been so angry he’d wanted to hit Steve, even though he was frail, and already looked dead, if not for the angry face Steve Rogers almost always makes when he’s sick like this, and his mother grounds him to his bed, to get better.
Bucky had gotten mad too, though he was more of a crybaby than Steve (though he’d never admit it), and had pinched Steve, hard on his arm.
“OW!” Steve had whined, because even when he was dying, he was a small bag of bones, of complaining and angry stares.
“What did you do that for, Buck?” He’d cried, and Bucky had crossed his arms, glaring, refusing to feel bad, even if he did worry he might have hurt Steve.
“I’ll take you, if-” Bucky stands from where he’d been seated on the floor by Stevie’s bed.
Bucky waggles his finger, like he’d seen his Ma do to Becca when she was misbehaving, and he grins, despite himself, “If you promise you ain’t dying on me, Rogers. That you’re going to live till you're a hundred!”
Steve’s morose face had lightened up, and he’d laughed so hard, he started to hack up blood, and Bucky wanted to cry again, as he rushed into the kitchen to get the boy some water.
Bucky kneels beside the bed and helps Steve drink it, and Steve shoves him away weakly, rolling his eyes, and even that simple action it looks like he's in pain.
“What would-” Steve gasps, but doesn’t finish, as he leans back on his bed, exhausted, and Bucky frowns, still holding the very much full cup of water, lukewarm water, Sarah Rogers, Stevie’s Ma would always warn him, “Always give him not too-cold, not too hot, Goldilocks rule. Okay, Bucky?”
She’d tell him, blue eyes like Stevie, that were always worried and stressed, and with a face that was far too lined, given how young she was, and Bucky had nodded his head, because Stevie’s Ma was real swell, and a nurse, and so of course he’d listen to her. Plus, he didn’t care what everybody else said about the “poor” Barnes boy befriending the scrawny kid who wouldn't make it past next week.
That’s what Bucky had overhead their neighbor, Mrs. Woodland, with her pruny old face and beady bug-like eyes, telling his Ma. Bucky remembers, because it happened last week, and Bucky had been hiding in his room because his comic books on Superman were far more interesting than Mrs. Woodland, who always liked to complain that Bucky was a rowdy child, even though he totally wasn’t.
Yet he’d heard her say his name, as she and his Ma chatted in the kitchen, and Bucky hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but he’d just wanted to find out what lies the old bat was coraking about him now.
So he’d ducked behind the kitchen doors, and watched as his Ma cut some cake she hadn’t allowed Bucky to even lick, as Mrs. Woodland spoke, her big frame blocking most of the kitchen, “Your poor boy!” She gushes, not sounding sincere at all, “Whatever will he do when poor Steve finally dies?”
His mother looked as stricken as Bucky felt by the words, and Bucky had stormed into the kitchen, furious.
“Stevie’s not dying!” He’d yelled, and Mrs. Woodland had startled, “Oh my!” She’d cried, grasping her chest, her gray ringlets flying like she was some princess out of the fairy tales, as opposed to the evil Queen, or even Captain Hook.
“Steve is my best friend!” Bucky had yelled, near tears, “And you’re poor, if you don’t know that he’s gonna live till he’s a hundred, and become the world’s best artist!”
The words were choked, and awkward given Bucky had a lisp with how many teeth he’d lost that year, but it was worth seeing Mrs. Woodland’s scrunched up, red and pink offended face. It was worth even more, as she caught the proud smile Bucky’s Ma gave him, as she stared at him behind Mrs. Woodland’s massive stature.
So Bucky makes Steve promise, even as the punk is laughing so hard he might die, and with Steve that’s a genuine worry, and he had grinned, and had stuck out a trembling pinky finger, “Okay I promise, but what the hell am I going to do all alone at a hundred years old, stupid?”
Bucky had frowned then, “You’re stupid!” He snapped, not answering, as he curled his pinky around Stevie’s trembling one, and then, grabbing Stevie and his blankets, despite Stevie’s protests (lies), that he could walk, Bucky held him close in his arms.
Because if Steve’s Ma came home early from the Disease ward to find Bucky had taken her son outside in his state, in the cold weather- well, Sarah Rogers wouldn’t yell. But she’d give you that sad, sorrow-filled look, like it hurt her to even be disappointed in you, which hurts Bucky more than anything that comes out of his Da’s mouth, when he’s drunk.
Bucky carries Steve, and they’re still in their Pj’s, and without shoes, but it’s okay because Stevie’s blankets warm Bucky too, and Steve is light, given how small he is, despite only being a year younger than Bucky, and Bucky laughs at the way Steve goes red with anger as he demands Bucky lets him down, that he’s not some “Goddamn princess!”. That Bucky’s the 'Princess’, given how he spends sixteen hours staring at himself in the mirror, to which Bucky just laughs, because what the hell Steve? Who wouldn’t admire a face as cute as his?
So as they’re walking to the beach, Bucky wonders whether he made the right choice as Steve coughs and sputters at every gust of wind that blows their way. Until Bucky repositions his arms, his grip awkward and failing as he tries not to drop his best friend, and he turns him and his cocoon of blankets around, so he’s staring face to face with an exhausted, pale, grouchy one.
Bucky grins, delighted, “Hey Stevie.”
Steve smiles slightly, and he looks tired. “Hey, Buck.” He croaks.
“You didn’t answer my question-” The boy rasps quietly, and Bucky focuses on that whisper and not at the strange men who leer at him from the alleyways, or Stevie’s neighbors who give them incredulous glances.
“What question? The one where I said you’ll live to a hundred, and you started complaining about what you'll do, all by your lonesome?”
Bucky grins, and Steve manages a weak nod in response, and Bucky continues, not allowing him to speak, because he knows it hurts for Steve to talk and the weather will probably make that worse, so despite the fact Bucky is shivering in just his own shorts and white tank, he burrows himself into Stevie’s warmth and answers with a joking edge.
See this is why you’re stupider!” He laughs, “ Because I’ll be with you, dummy, till we’re both a hundred years old! Till the end of the line! That’s how long we’ll be best friends for!”
Steve looks suspiciously close to tears, as he glares, “Promise?” and he sounds angry, and Bucky rolls his eyes, because the punk is always angry about something.
He’s almost nose to nose with Steve, as he gives a wide, endearing smile, “I already pinky promised, didn’t I? Now keep yours, and don’t die from a stupid Fever.” Bucky replies, and Steve gives a crooked grin in reply.
They reach the beach what seems to be hours later, and Steve’s hacking so badly, Bucky’s scared, and as they sit on the freezing sand, Steve’s blankets are wrapped around his head, so that only his pale face is exposed, so that he looks like some sort of warped caterpillar.
The clouds are as angry as Steve, as they thunder up above, and Bucky leans closer to Steve because he hates that angry growl in the sky.
“Stevie?” Bucky croaks, and his hands are shaking, both from the cold and the fear that if it’s this cold for him, it must really be too cold for Steve, and if Stevie dies from this, Bucky will hate himself forever.
Steve turns, his blue eyes are as pretty as the watercolours Bucky likes drawing with, in school. Even though he’s not nearly as good as Steve at drawing. Which is okay, because Bucky’s better at reading, and they help each other out, even though Steve barely goes to school because he’s so sick. But Bucky reads comics to him when he’s sick, and Steve helps (more so, does most of Bucky’s art homework), when they have a sleepover, and it works out.
“I don’t think God hates you.” The shivering boy says, frowning. As if he couldn't imagine why anyone could hate the inherent goodness that was James Bucky Barnes.
Bucky makes a face and buries cold sand against the goosebumps on his pale legs, “That’s what my dad says.” He says quietly, and slightly sad, “That God hates me and our whole family because Ma's daddy was a Jew.”
Steve’s face twists in anger, “That’s stupid!” He cries, so loudly and with so much force that his little body shakes with it.
“-And if God does, then he’s stupid!”
Bucky makes a horrified noise, “Steve!” He hisses, appalled, “You can’t call God stupid, Stupid! Apologise right now!” he yells, and Steve gives him a strange look like he’s worried Bucky will start slow dancing naked right there on the beach.
“To god?” He repeats slowly, as though Bucky’s simple, and Bucky nods, angrily.
“Yes!” Bucky cries, worried, like he’s afraid a lightning bolt will come down and strike them, right this minute.
“Because Jesus Christ, Rogers! You’re already dying! Do you want to worsen your chances by pissing off the only person who can save you?”
Steve rolls his eyes at Bucky’s frantic, stressed words, but he closes his eyes, and tilts his face to the grumbling, roaring clouds up above, and as the first bit of rain drips down on that pale, fragile face, Bucky’s stomach feels weird, and he thinks for a minute-Steve Rogers, even when he’s being bad, and cursing at god, looks so goddamn nice when he prays.
“Sorry-” Steve murmurs, and whatever else he mumbles, Bucky can’t hear, because he’s too busy staring at the way Steve looks to the heavens, the way his browns pinch, and he gets that serious look on his face, as his lips murmur soundless pleas, and Bucky can’t breathe.
Steve looks back at him, and Bucky looks away, flushed, and Steve frowns, “I told God I’m sorry, and that he should like you, because I like you, and you’re the best pal a guy like me could ask for.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, fixing a smile on his face, which isn’t as true as he wants it to be, as he jokes, “A guy like me? So tragic, Rogers.”
Steve rolls his eyes, and they’re squabbling, and the anxious fluttering in Bucky’s chest that he doesn’t understand loosens. Because Stevie is Stevie, and somehow, despite his Da’s mean words, and meaner hands-despite Sarah Rogers's grief for her son, despite all the sadness and gray and cold that seems to fill the lives of Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers is his own personal sun, his own version of heaven, and warmth and with him at Bucky’s side, he never feels the cold.
So a little before they leave, and Steve finds himself being able to walk better, Bucky lies and says he left something in the sand, yet as he pretends to look, his bare knees aching at the feel of the rough, coarse sand, as he kneels and closes his eyes, Bucky prays.
“God-please let Stevie get better. Please let us live to a hundred, I’ll do whatever it takes to make him live to a hundred.” Bucky promises, and he hurts, and he gazes up at the growly sky, and almost as if to answer, there’s a resounding crack, and Bucky grins so widely, his face hurts. He stands up and runs to Steve, laughing, and the pair run back to Stevie’s apartment, soaking wet, and freezing-yet happy.
Steve miraculously got better after that, and he lived longer than anyone thought he would, far longer. Except he was alone, until he wasn’t.