[ Having someone to share it with is usually better. He can't fault that, and he can't deny it either. Tonight, he is not alone; Steve is a solid presence beside him, strong and seemingly immovable, the hope that never falters.
He wants to hold on to that, his sole lifeline when everything else seems hell-bent on pushing him under. He could keep his eyes on Steve, and everything that he hopes, this beacon of light in the clawing darkness that surrounds him. He wants to stay in this a little longer, wants to be with Steve for a little while.
They can start there, and Bucky nods, setting off in the direction of the hallway. Gifts and cake don't hold his attention; it's Steve who does, and as much as he can, Bucky would try to share it together with Steve; he would claw out of what keeps him buried for him. He has fleeting impressions, a warmth in his heart he doesn't understand, a feeling so alien to him that it's a touch unnerving. His brows knit faintly, glancing over at him. His gaze is drawn to the thin silver chain, and a part of him wonders what he wears -- has he always been wearing that? ]
I spent many of them with you. [ Almost a question, almost. ]
It's a natural pull of his body, allowing him into that personal space as they wander the corridors toward other areas of the ship. Steve doesn't know how well Bucky's learned the inner workings of it, probably well, but he isn't thinking of that as they walk together, as they move with shared purpose. He's remembering the years they'd done this, some better than others and Bucky's golden smile in the middle of it. Life had twisted deep the second they were no longer boys, but they always had those honest moments, birthdays full of laughter and too much Steve could never give to him but still tried nonetheless. And there were harder times too, when winters lingered too cold in Brooklyn and it dug into Steve's chest. But the good of it always outweighed the bad, and a smile ghosts his mouth like a lost friend returning home from the war, the weight of it a metal noose around his neck. ]
As many as I can remember. [ Had they really been so inseparable? A lifetime doesn't feel like much now. ] I don't-- Whatever we make of this day, I want it to be for you.
[ Even if, in the end, it means nothing but a few hours passed between friends. He will take that every day and consider it better than any number of birthdays and Christmases and New Years combined, and Steve's thoughts fill with the overflow of it, of knowing that all he has to do is glance just a fraction to his left and see the reason he lets the world break him down to the very bottom of his soul. He thinks it as they step onto the lift that will take them up to the mess hall and sighs inwardly. He needs this so desperately, and it hurts him when he stops looking. ]
[ The mind forgets, but the body remembers. They move in perfect synchronicity, as if they were tailor-made for each other's every movement, instinct written into his DNA. Even when he had been a killing machine he knew Steve's moves like his own; their fights had been a fluid, brutal dance, a dialogue that on hindsight should have been its own warning sign that he knew this man and had once loved him like he had been the other half of his soul.
He senses Steve's turmoil, the pain that he tries so hard to keep under wraps that makes Bucky's mouth dry. In such close proximity, he's more aware of Steve than he ever is, some vague impressions becoming clearly, filling in spaces. They were inseparable before; the exhibit was right.
He doesn't have the heart to tell him that this birthday doesn't matter to him personally -- that he comes to find more importance in what Steve takes out of it; and that is what Steve will have. And so instead, he asks quietly, ever aware of the proverbial elephant in the room. ]
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no subject
He wants to hold on to that, his sole lifeline when everything else seems hell-bent on pushing him under. He could keep his eyes on Steve, and everything that he hopes, this beacon of light in the clawing darkness that surrounds him. He wants to stay in this a little longer, wants to be with Steve for a little while.
They can start there, and Bucky nods, setting off in the direction of the hallway. Gifts and cake don't hold his attention; it's Steve who does, and as much as he can, Bucky would try to share it together with Steve; he would claw out of what keeps him buried for him. He has fleeting impressions, a warmth in his heart he doesn't understand, a feeling so alien to him that it's a touch unnerving. His brows knit faintly, glancing over at him. His gaze is drawn to the thin silver chain, and a part of him wonders what he wears -- has he always been wearing that? ]
I spent many of them with you. [ Almost a question, almost. ]
no subject
It's a natural pull of his body, allowing him into that personal space as they wander the corridors toward other areas of the ship. Steve doesn't know how well Bucky's learned the inner workings of it, probably well, but he isn't thinking of that as they walk together, as they move with shared purpose. He's remembering the years they'd done this, some better than others and Bucky's golden smile in the middle of it. Life had twisted deep the second they were no longer boys, but they always had those honest moments, birthdays full of laughter and too much Steve could never give to him but still tried nonetheless. And there were harder times too, when winters lingered too cold in Brooklyn and it dug into Steve's chest. But the good of it always outweighed the bad, and a smile ghosts his mouth like a lost friend returning home from the war, the weight of it a metal noose around his neck. ]
As many as I can remember. [ Had they really been so inseparable? A lifetime doesn't feel like much now. ] I don't-- Whatever we make of this day, I want it to be for you.
[ Even if, in the end, it means nothing but a few hours passed between friends. He will take that every day and consider it better than any number of birthdays and Christmases and New Years combined, and Steve's thoughts fill with the overflow of it, of knowing that all he has to do is glance just a fraction to his left and see the reason he lets the world break him down to the very bottom of his soul. He thinks it as they step onto the lift that will take them up to the mess hall and sighs inwardly. He needs this so desperately, and it hurts him when he stops looking. ]
no subject
He senses Steve's turmoil, the pain that he tries so hard to keep under wraps that makes Bucky's mouth dry. In such close proximity, he's more aware of Steve than he ever is, some vague impressions becoming clearly, filling in spaces. They were inseparable before; the exhibit was right.
He doesn't have the heart to tell him that this birthday doesn't matter to him personally -- that he comes to find more importance in what Steve takes out of it; and that is what Steve will have. And so instead, he asks quietly, ever aware of the proverbial elephant in the room. ]
What are we looking for?
[ We. ]