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“Steve?” Bucky calls, dropping his bag by the door.
“Out here,” Steve replies, waving a hand in front of the open window. Moth eaten curtains stand still in the hot summer night. Bucky makes his way across the room, stepping over the old newspapers and kicking away a few cigarette butts.
“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky says again, climbing out of the window, sitting himself on the fire escape. “Does anyone know you’re here?”
“Who would care?” Steve asks, staring at his hands. “No one’s left.”
“You can’t spend every day in this abandoned apartment.”
“The hell I can’t,” Steve replies heatedly. “My Ma’s gone, and no one at the orphanage cares where I am. I can disappear for days and no one will look twice. I’m thirteen now…the nuns are all busy with the little boys and babies.”
“Now that’s not true,” Bucky argues. They’ve had this discussion before. It’s gone the same way each time. “I care,” he says in a smaller voice.
Steve smiles softly. “I know you do.” He nudges Bucky’s boney shoulder with his own. “Now why don’t you tell me about your day sellin’ papes. I’m sure it’s much more exciting than mine.”
Bucky’s body language transforms. He goes from defensive and closed off to open and exuberant. He’d started working for the paper companies at an early age. Small and full of energy, Bucky’s able to sell 100 papes a day. The ones that looked younger always sell more. He’s been selling for years by this point, but he doesn’t look a day older than he did when he started. Small in frame, thin face, bright eyes, and devastating smile. Always polite with the ladies and funny with the men. His chocolate brown eyes could melt the heart of a prison warden.
His shirt hangs loosely off his narrow shoulders and his suspenders seem to do all the work in keeping his pants up. When Bucky opens the top button, the sharp lines of collar bone peak through. He’s got nimble fingers, but they’re terrible with a needle and thread, so Steve, with his large hands, delicately fixes any holes or tears.
Bucky unbuttons his shirt, letting it hang open. His suspenders are down by his knees, and his slender hips do nothing to help his pants stay up. It’s only because he’s sitting that they’re not falling down completely. His sweat stained undershirt is stretched loosely across his ribcage, pooling near his hips.
“Oh, it was amazing, Steve,” he gushes, “every day is better than the last. I know I’ve been doin’ this for years, but it never gets old!” He picks himself up off the floor and pulls his pants up as far as they’ll go. They fall back to where they began, so he tugs on strap of one suspender over his shoulder. He leans over the railing of the fire escape, looking out to the lights of Brooklyn.
“I wish you could see it, Steve,” he says, still facing away.
“What?” Steve asks. He always has trouble understanding Bucky when he’s turned away.
Bucky swings around, resting his outstretched arms on the cool railing. He tips his head back, breathing in the stale air wafting up from the alley below.
“I wish you could see it,” he repeats. “The places I see, the people I meet. There’s a whole world out there, Steve. This city is beautiful! There’s always so much goin’ on…it’s like it never sleeps.”
A huge smile graces Bucky’s face and Steve can’t help but smile back. There’s nothing Steve loves more than seeing Bucky so carefree and happy. He rolls his short pencil between his fingers, drawing broad strokes on his sketchpad. It had been a birthday present from Bucky, using earnings from selling the papers. He draws the sweep of Bucky’s cheek and the swoop of his shoulder. He pencils in the way one suspender is on and the other dangles by his knee. He shades in Bucky’s smile, making sure that it reaches his eyes, dancing in the brown irises.
Steve looks back at Bucky, realizing that he’d been talking the whole time. Steve stills his pencil so he can focus on Bucky’s words.
“When we get older, we’re going to travel the world,” Bucky rambles, pushing himself to where Steve is sitting. He drops to his knees and takes Steve’s graphite stained hands in his own. He can’t quite reach all the way around Steve’s big hands, but he holds them tight. “It’ll be just the two of us. We’ll go to Los Angeles and London and even to Asia! We’ll have the greatest adventures anyone could ever think of.”
Bucky shakes Steve’s hands, holding his gaze. “Imagine it, Steve…you and me…conquerin’ the world.” Bucky lets go of one hand and broadly gestures to the sky. “How does that sound?”
Steve can only smile. “Sounds amazing, Buck, I can’t wait.”
Bucky wriggles in excitement. He tucks himself back at Steve’s side, the suspender falling from his shoulder. A small breeze catches the two boys, ruffling their hair and soothing the slick layer of sweat coating their faces.
“But for now, we’ll have adventures here in Brooklyn,” Bucky continues. “We’ll cross the Brooklyn Bridge and climb trees and play stick balls with some of the local boys.” Bucky tips his head back and looks at Steve. “Isn’t life grand?”
Steve runs a hand through his hair, getting a streak of graphite on his forehead. He looks over to Bucky, who has turned back to looking at the sparking stars. “Yeah, Bucky,” Steve begins, “life is mighty grand.”
Steve feels Bucky rest his head on his shoulder, and Steve shuffles so his shoulder is at a more comfortable height. Steve leans his head against Bucky’s and they stare out at the glittering lights of the city together. Bucky’s breathing evens out and his head drops from Steve’s shoulder to his chest. Steve likes to feel Bucky’s weight against his body, because it helps him breath better when there’s a little weight on it. He likes knowing that Bucky’s listening to his erratic heartbeat.
Steve’s always had it a little tough. He’s only thirteen, but he’s growing at a rapid rate. Muscles are filling in quicker than he knows what to do with, making him gawky and awkward. He’ll run into door frames or knock into people by accident. His outward appearance makes other people think he’s fit to do work in places like the docks, but his arrhythmia and asthma keep him from doing anything active. He draws mostly in pencil, because he’s colorblind and some colors are tough for him to discern.
Finding Bucky had been a godsend to Steve. It was five years ago.
*
Steve was at school during recess when an asthma attack hit. He had sat in the middle of the playground wheezing, trying to regulate his breathing. Some older boys came over and started to make fun of him for not being able to play like all the others. The added stress of being taunted did nothing for Steve’s ability to get himself under control. His lips tinged blue as he continued to fight for breath.
“Hey!” yelled a small voice. Steve looked up to see a tiny boy standing with his hands on his hips and a murderous glare in his eye. “Can’t you see he needs help?”
Steve moved his lips to try and say that he was fine, but no air came out.
“He’s just a sissy,” one of the boys said, “can’t even play a game of ball.”
“Well you wouldn’t be able to either, if you couldn’t breathe. Now get lost!”
Steve was surprised to see the boys snicker and saunter off. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing. In and out. In and out. Slow, steady, full breaths.
He felt a small hand settle on his sternum, pressing lightly. Another hand made small circles on his back, rubbing soothingly.
“Can you match your breaths to mine?” the boy asked softly. Steve closed his eyes tighter, zeroing in on the hands pushing against his lungs. “Open your eyes and look at me,” said the boy gently. Steve pried his eyes open and was staring in the face of an angel. Floppy brown hair and deep brown eyes with pink lips and a smudge of dirt on his nose. “That’s it,” the boy said. The boy took a large breath in and waited until Steve did the same. Then he let it out, and Steve did the same.
They sat like that, the two boys, in the center of the playground for what felt like hours, but was more like minutes. Steve’s breathing became more regular, and color returned to his lips. When the boy felt Steve’s breathing ease, he removed his hands.
“Hi,” the boy said, holding out one of his hands. “I’m James, but call me Bucky. What’s your name?”
“I’m Steve,” Steve rasped. His voice still hadn’t become completely normal. “I have something called asthma.”
“I figured,” Bucky replied. “My sister has it too. I’ve watched my parents help her through the attacks.”
“That was real nice of you, Bucky,” Steve said. “Thanks for helpin’ me out.”
“It was no problem,” Bucky shrugged, “you looked like you could use a hand.”
Steve smiled at Bucky for the first time. “Yeah…thanks.”
Bucky returned the smile and thus a friendship was born.
*
“Stevie,” Bucky says, pulling Steve out of his memory.
“Yeah, Buck?”
“Can you draw an adventure book for us?”
“Sure,” Steve replies. He flips to a fresh page and twirls his pencil. “Where do you want to go to start?”
Bucky’s brow furrows as he thinks about it. “Coney Island!” he cries.
Steve nods and puts his pencil to paper. He draws as he talks, broad lines…carefree, whimsical, excited. “First we’ll take the subway all the way there and we won’t get lost once. Then we’ll walk along the boardwalk munching on the goodies that are for sale. We’ll play some of the games, even if they’re rigged, but I’m sure you’ll win somethin’. We’ll go on some rides, but the one we both want to go on is the Cyclone.”
Steve flips to a new page so he has enough space to draw the massive roller coaster. He’s never seen it in real life, so he makes it up. It’s got twists and turns and loop-de-loops! “There’ll be a line, but we’ll be together so the wait will be quick. We’ll get in, humming with excitement. Then it’ll start to move. I’ll shriek and you’ll laugh at me and call me a wuss. I’ll be holdin’ on till my knuckles are white, but you’ll throw your hands up and tilt your head back. You’ll be laughin’ and screamin’ and tryin’ t’get me to do the same. I’ll feel your excitement, but I’ll be feelin’ a bit green, so I don’t let go. We’ll feel the wind in our hair and it’ll stop momentarily at the tippy-top and we’ll be on top of the world. Maybe we’ll even see Lady Liberty!” Steve sketches a small Statue of Liberty in a far off corner.
“Then we’ll start going down,” he continues, his voice getting more and more animated. “Faster and faster, and our screaming will get louder and louder, and we’ll be laughing and yelling, and we’ll never want it to end.”
Bucky’s smiling ear to ear. “That sounds amazing, Stevie,” he says, completely raptured. He looks at the page and feels the energy coming off the drawing. Steve had drawn them at the top of the roller coaster, exactly how he’d described. It’s loose lines, almost more of an idea of a tableau than an actual sketch. “And this is amazing. You’re so good at doin’ these.”
Steve blushes. “’M okay,” he says, closing the sketch pad.
Bucky punches him lightly. “Steve, you’re better than okay. You’re swell. You’re grand. You’re top of the line. You’re—”
“Stop it, Bucky!” Steve cries, laughing and shoving Bucky.
Bucky settles back against the wall. “Just callin’ it as I see it.”
“Jerk,” Steve groans.
“Punk.”
Steve turns to look at Bucky, who’s all cuddled into his side. Sure, they’re both thirteen. Sure, they’re on a fire escape of an abandoned building far after Bucky’s curfew. Sure, Steve knows neither of them is going to go on a grand adventure across the world. But for now, sitting there on that hot, summer night, Steve closes his eyes, and everything is just grand.