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Steve Rogers is eighteen years old. The sun is barely up when he makes it to the funeral home right as they open, suit just a little too big on his thin frame and inhaler in his pocket. He lets out a little sigh and slumps onto the couch at the front of the room. He hasn’t slept in over twenty-four hours and hasn’t eaten in just as long. He knows he’s dehydrated, surprised that tears are even able to prick at the corners of his eyes. That’s probably why he’s got such a damn headache.
Sam and Riley are the next two to show up. They engulf Steve in a hug and Sam tells him that his parents are planning on stopping by his apartment later, once they get out of work. Riley’s parents still aren’t even speaking to their son and Steve squeezes him a little harder hearing the tightness in his voice. If he can’t comfort himself, he can at least comfort his friend.
No family shows up because there’s no family to show up, so Sam and Riley join him on the couch instead, arms wrapped around his thin shoulders as he tries to keep it together.
Slowly but surely, more and more people pile in. People his mom worked with – her friends, people his mom helped save, neighbors, even old friends of his dad’s (that he’d never met but seemed to know all of his mom’s friends) stop by, if not for long. Everyone offers condolences and hug him tight and kiss his cheeks.
Even as tears sting his eyes he keeps a strong face, made easier by his friends that never leave his side. Everyone tells stories and laugh wetly and cling to each other as they recount the life of Sarah Rogers. He hears them whisper behind his back, asking how they think he’ll make it, how strong he is, how happy they are he’s holding up well. Whispering things like “such a shame” and about how it doesn’t even look like her.
But a lot of them didn’t see her through the treatment, didn’t see the breakdown he had just this morning, the way he’s been neglecting himself. He knows Sam and Riley have noticed the way he’s drooping and he’s sure they’re going to ask to spend the night with him. He knows Mrs. Wilson will be bringing loads of food with her.
The whole day he mostly just listens to everyone talk. He’s too lost in his own head. He’s going to have to get a roommate, he thinks. Take on more hours at work. That’s going to really put a toll on his body, but it’s what he’s going to have to do. Maybe Riley will want to move in. Maybe even with Sam. That would help. He’ll have to clean out his mom’s room, he thinks. Oh god, he’s going to have to go through all her stuff. He doesn’t know if he can do that. Shit. And what about things like her bank account? What about her hospital bills? Wasn’t arranging this damn funeral enough? Fuck.
By the time the early afternoon rolls around Steve feels like he’s going to pass out. On top of his body apparently shutting down on him due to his own neglect, he feels the panic attack the second it starts creeping up on him. His chest tightens, his heart races, his breath catches in his throat.
He has to get out of there.
He clutches his inhaler tightly in his pocket as he makes his way quickly through the funeral home. He probably shouldn’t have just disappeared like that. People are probably going to be looking for him. Sam is probably going to be looking for him. But, fuck does he need some fresh air. He’ll apologize when he feels like he can breathe again.
*
Bucky Barnes is eighteen years old. He sits at the front of the crowd and listens to everyone talk about his father while his baby sisters sit at his side. Even the youngest at eight years old doesn’t cry. The Barnes siblings sit like a perfect set of matching statues, like Russian nesting dolls or something, all tight-lipped, shoulders tense, fidgety hands clamped together in their laps.
Bucky sits there like a good son as he listens to his mother pretend her husband never laid a finger on them. He listens to his father’s co-workers and friends talking about him like he was this great guy, like he was a goddamn saint or something. They tell stories and laugh wetly and wipe at their eyes while the Barnes siblings stare on straight-faced.
And he has to give it to himself, he really does, because he sat through the two hours of milling about, of everyone telling him how sorry they were, of listening to them whisper behind their backs about how not one of the Barnes children are crying and what is wrong with them? Are they heartless? Someone else will hush them and remind them that everyone grieves differently. If you ask Bucky, grieving is not the word he’d use.
So he really has to give it to himself. Because not only does he sit through two grueling hours of that shit show, he makes it through an hour and a half of the bastards getting up and talking about his father like he wasn’t the devil incarnate. The douchebags who ignored the bruises his mother could only partially hide, even under layers and layers of makeup, if she bothered at all. The fucking pricks who ignored Bucky’s black eyes and split lips and the occasional hand-shaped bruise around his throat. All those self-absorbed, goddamned piece of shit assholes who ignored the way his little sisters’ hands all shook and Becca’s bottom lip trembled around him.
He’s proud of himself, really. He made it through three and a half hours of those motherfuckers praising his dad before he can’t take it anymore. He practically slams his chair back as he jumps to his feet. The only reason is doesn’t fall is because his oldest baby sister catches it by the seat half way to the floor. He storms out of the room and out of the funeral home without even glancing back. He doesn’t care. He hears his sisters try to come after him and his mom tell them to let him have a little space, a little time.
When he finally makes it outside he sits on the wall around the small raised garden at the front of the funeral home, hands balled into fists at his sides and cigarette dangling from his lips. His teeth aren’t clenched but his jaw is tight as he breathes in the smoke and blows it out the corner of his mouth.
*
He turns his head as the skinny little blond makes his way out the front door of the building. He’s tiny and gorgeous and he looks so fucking sad Bucky feels the anger start to ebb and drain out of him instantly. The guy either hasn’t noticed him yet or is ignoring him as he pulls an inhaler from his pocket and takes two long pulls off it.
“Those things’ll kill you,” the blond wheezes without looking up at him. He stuffs his inhaler back in his pocket and he seems to be catching his breath as he hops up onto the wall, a few feet upwind from the brunet so the smoke won’t blow into his face.
“Well,” Bucky says flatly, “if I’m gonna go, this is the place to do it I guess.”
The blond snorts and rolls his eyes, kicking his feet mindlessly. They sit there in a comfortable silence until Bucky finishes his cigarette. He flicks the butt and turns to the stranger, holding out a hand and offering a forced smile.
“I’m Bucky,” he says.
“Bucky?” Steve asks with another snort as he shakes the brunet’s hand. “My name’s Steve.”
“’S a nickname,” Bucky explains quickly, then changes the subject. “So, who was it for you Stevie?” he asks.
A blush blooms on the guy’s cheeks at the use of the nickname and his face works back into the frown it had been in when he first came out of the funeral home. “My –“ his voice cracks on the short word and Bucky can tell he’s fighting back tears already. “Uh, my mom. Cancer,” he explains. Ah, okay. Him nagging about the cigarette makes sense now. There’s a short beat before he asks, “You?”
Bucky’s face pulls itself into a scowl and he mumbles. “Dad.” Then he spits on the ground and adds a vehement, “Mai più.” Good riddance.
“That bad, huh?” Steve says, and he almost sounds timid about it. “My friend Riley, his parents kicked him out when he came out a coupl’a weeks ago. Had to move in with his boyfriend and his family. They still won’t even talk to him,” he rambles, trying to comfort him or something. Bucky’s not really sure.
“That sucks,” Bucky mumbles, running a hand through his hair. He hesitates, not sure why he feels so compelled to open up to this stranger. Maybe it’s because he’s a stranger. Maybe it’s those summer sky eyes.
“He used to beat me and my ma,” he says with a little sigh. “Up until the motherfucker’s dying day.” He spits on the ground again and whispers another little “mai più” under his breath. “Then I get to sit in there listening to his work friends talk about how amazing he was.” He can’t help the gratuitous eye roll. Well, let’s be real, he wouldn’t even if he could.
The blond is frowning as he looks over to him and he rests a hand on his knee. “Gee Buck, I’m sorry,” he says softly and squeezes his knee gently.
*
Steve completely loses track of time as he sits in front of the funeral home with Bucky. He honestly has no idea how long they’ve been talking. All he knows is that Bucky is the most gorgeous man he’s ever laid his eyes on and he’s starting to feel like things might - someday - actually be okay again. He even manages to crack a genuine smile.
“Jesus Christ!” Steve turns at the sound of Riley’s distinct southern lilt. “We’ve been lookin’ for you Stevie.”
“Had me worried outta my damn mind,” Sam scolds him. His brow furrows as he notices that Steve’s got company. “A friend of yours?” he asks even though he already knows the answer. He glances to his boyfriend and they exchange knowing looks.
Steve knows he’s blushing by now and he rubs the back of his neck. “Now he is, yeah,” he replies, and it comes out much more nonchalant than he feels. Thank god.
Still, though, the appearance of his friends has made him remember why he’s here. It reminds him that his mother’s death really did happen and now he’s got a million more responsibilities to face than he already did.
“Bucky Barnes,” the brunet says to Sam, a wide, easy grin playing on his lips and reaching out a hand to shake. “Nice to meetcha.”
“Sam.” Steve can see his friend physically fighting the urge to scrunch his face up. “Don’t see many smiles like that at a funeral home,” he says.
Riley nudges his boyfriend roughly in the ribs and hisses, “Sammy! Don’t be rude!” under his breath. He gives a little wave and smiles apologetically. “I’m Riley.”
“’S a long story,” Bucky mumbles to Sam, looking a little bashful now.
Sam lets out a thoughtful little hum and eyes him while Riley holds a hand out to Steve. “C’mon Stevie,” he says, wiggling his fingers just a little, “gotta get back in there and tell everyone what’s going on with the church and shit.” He’s got this sweet, sympathetic look on his face and it warms Steve’s heart a little.
He wonders if Bucky has people like this, people he can turn to who actually give a shit about him. His heart aches at even the possibility that he doesn’t. He really wants to give Bucky his number, tell him to call if he ever needs someone. Just in case. But they did just meet, and he’s so worried about coming off as a desperate creep that he knows he’s not gonna do it.
He chews his lip as he takes Riley’s hand and lets the other blond tug him down to his feet. “Do I have to?” he asks quietly.
It’s just then that three girls make their way out of the funeral home and race over to Bucky. They look to be from about eight to twelve or so and they crowd around the brunet, tugging at his hands and pant legs.
“Bucky,” the youngest whines, “you’ve been gone forever.”
“Mom said to come get you. It’s almost time to go,” the oldest says.
The middle girl just keeps tugging at his hand, pouting.
“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky grumbles, pushing them away gently as he hops down from the wall himself. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’.”
“We gotta go too,” Sam reminds him, a little more firm this time.
Steve sighs and stuffs his hands in his pockets, giving a defeated little nod. “Yeah, alright.” He turns to Bucky and manages a smile. “It was really nice to meet you Buck,” he says, unable to look up from where he’s scuffing his shoes on the pavement.
“You too,” Bucky replies, and Steve can hear the smile in his voice as he approaches him. “Hey Stevie?” he asks, that easy grin back in place.
Steve forces himself to glance up and he can’t help but smile when he sees the brunet’s. “Yeah?” he asks.
Bucky holds out a torn little scrap of paper with a number scrawled on it. “Give me a call sometime, yeah?” he asks with a little wink.
Steve can’t help himself, he honest to god lets out a little squeak. He can feel a blush spreading all the way down his chest and his hands are shaking as he takes the paper (though that’s probably mostly from the lack of sleeping and eating, if he’s honest with himself). “Y-Yeah…” he stutters out, stunned.
Bucky’s sisters giggle and ‘ooooo’ at their older brother, but Bucky looks totally composed. He winks one last time and even takes one more step forward to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “It was really nice to meet you too,” he says, then he turns and heads back into the funeral home with his siblings.
“Well shit,” Riley says once Bucky’s out of earshot. He’s got this dopey grin on his face that mimics pretty accurately what Steve’s insides feel like.
“Who fuckin’ hits on someone at a damn funeral?” Sam scowls, arms crossed over his chest.
But Riley snorts and rolls his eyes fondly, nudging his boyfriend again. “Oh my god shut up,” he teases.
Steve is still too stunned to say anything, or move for that matter. As he stands there, paper clutched tightly in his hand, he’s already planning his next conversation with Bucky.