There were days where it felt like a burden to try and go to sleep. Like another task to either master or fail at. As if there was permission to hate himself when not going to bed punctually or feeling insomniac for the ninth time this month. Then there were days where he really, actively felt like going to sleep, as if going to sleep was a reward or a sweet treat. Well and then there were days where he simply dragged his body to bed, was on the edge between falling asleep and being awake, like one of those dreams where you fell down a hole, through the floor or jumped down a whole staircase at once. Yeah. Those stupid dreams.
Except, it wasn't a dream that made Bucky flinch back into the world of the awake but rather his boyfriend reaching for his hand, squeezing it friendly. "Jes's Rogers y'scar'd th'crap outta me." Heavy eyes still felt as if they were glued shut so he didn't even start thinking about opening them, just squeezed back a little, because he was in love with this idiot from head to toe, before letting his muscles relax again, not having the brains to worry right now or the nerves, really. So the tall man sighed, surrounded by the smell of dried cherries and wood (why did it smell like dired cherries in here? Or anywhere?), hearing the faint rustling of sheets somewhere in the corner of his mind. A second later and Bucky gasped awake again as nails dug into the palm of his hand, accompanied by a small whimper just beside him. Another jump down a staircase. God damn those dreams.
"Go t'sleep S'eve. Jump'd down a goddamn staircase 'cause o'you." And god damn the absence of a brain-to-mouth-filter at night. And the feeling, he was drugged. "Don't fall asleep, Buck...Can't you stay awake a little?" "Why? S'wrong?" Unlike he, himself, Steve seemed not to be disgusted by Bucky's thick and rough sleepy-voice, kind of a plus point if only he understood why he had to stop himself from falling asleep now 'cause...well screw consciousness as a homosexual young man living in goddamn Brooklyn with his boyfriend in 1937.
As there seemed to be no answer the older one felt himself being lulled back to sleep by literally everything surrounding him including Steve's touch, his scent (although he still sorta smelled like the medical kit did after he was beat up again earlier), the soft moonlight and breeze, Steve's breathing pattern that went in-out, in-in-out, in-in-out- wait what?
Finally Bucky forced his eyes open bit by bit.
"S'eve, hey, your breaths all over th'place."
"I'm nervous, Buck..."
"Nervous? Why?"
"I dunno, m'just nervous. My chest hurts..."
And in this very second he was wide awake. "Thought it was my back but changing positions doesn't work...What if it's my heart? I don't...I don't know." The little fearful squeal that followed pulled on his heartstrings as he eyed his boyfriend carefully, taking mental notes, trying to get his not really properly functioning brain cells to connect the dots. Chest pains. Nerviosity. Nothing about his back. Steve's face was a little pale, even at night, more so than usual, his grip grew tighter as his pupils widened in fear and his cheeks lost their usual pink-ish blush. Thanks to Bucky not wearing a shirt, his back could be seen, looked at and touched but Steve's was covered by the thin fabric of a white shirt due to his asthma. "You sure it's not your spine causing you trouble, Steve? Wouldn't be the first time." Said person shook his head no, then shimmied closer to his boyfriend, trying to eliminate his anxiety by creating physical contact.
Did it work?
"Lemme massage you a little, just in case. Back then chest?" Steve for his part just whined as another of those stupid stings worked their way through his chest and tried to twist away from it, almost crying, almost squeezing Bucky's hand cold and numb. "Shhh hey, none of that now, no panicking, okay? You're fine, just a little knotted up from sleeping like an octopus again." "Nghhh..." "Stevie, hey...You gotta calm yourself down now. Come on, scoot closer."
As soon as Steve was resting his head in Bucky's chest the older one sighed in concern, wrapped up in a little anxiety. He wasn't a doctor. In fact, he was nowhere close. He didn't know for sure and obviously just wanted to keep himself and Steve calm. "There we go, that's it. Just relax now...think of some' nice like...some ice cream orrrr the beach-" While talking he began working carefully rubbing up and down, left to right on his cold-sweaty back. "Mhhh..." God, if Steve kept whining like that that'd drive him crazy with concern. Each time he did, his own chest vibrated along with the sound, each one higher than the last. His hands deepened the back rub.
"What's that favorite ice cream flavor of yours called again?" Ask him questions, Bucky thought to himself. Distract him, kiss him, love him. "Blue angel, wasn't it?" He received a little nod, eventually. "Huh. Well, I'm a fan of good ol' chocolate. Strawberry's usually too sour and vanilla's too...I dunno it's to bland, just too standard. I need a little somethin' extra. Like you." This time he felt Steve's fingertips burying themselves somewhere near his traps. Just keep talking to him. Distraction was the key to nervous chest pains. Even at 4:22 in the freakin' morning with a sleepy little Steve laying on top of his strong upper body.
"You're...You're like the chocolate ice cream to my cone. Like the cherry on top. Like the sprinkles on my goddamn cheesecake. My best man."
"W-Who eats sp-sprink-kles on chee-secake?" Bucky's eyes sure sparkled like some sprinkles at that question, laughing as quietly possible, not to disturb the people they shared a wall with or give Steve's lungs a too rough shake. "Uh-huh thought you were in pain, Rogers? Shut up 'bout ma eating habits and lemme massage you. Your back's as solid as a rock lemme tell ya."
Distraction was the key.
And so they talked about ice cream a lot. Specualted about ice cream flavors of the future, laughed about the possibility of colored ice cream cones, talked about the day they met and how they fell in love.
"You wanna get some ice cream tomorrow?"
"I'd love that, Buck."