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The first time Steve saw it was in the paper.
The Cyclone was far from the first roller coaster on Coney Island; it was actually the third in as many years. Steve loved all of them -- or at least the idea of them -- but for some reason, it was that black and white image printed on tissue-thin paper that captured his eight-year-old heart.
His mother had taken him to Coney Island one lucky summer, and a tiny Steve ate a real Nathan's hot dog, and an ice cream cone that dripped stickily onto his fingers, and waded into the salty waters on the beach. His mother allowed him the choice of one ride, but within certain limitations: although he begged to ride the brand-new Thunderbolt, Sarah Rogers took one look at that monstrosity of wood and steel, and another, longer one at her undersized son, who never looked fed even if he was, and she could hear the rattling of his asthma at the very idea. She squeezed him tight and took him on the carousel instead, and tried not to see that terrible hurt and frustration in her son's face.
But the Cyclone was different. Steve tried to convince Sarah of this, at any rate, begging and pleading and claiming he would save up every penny of the twenty-five cents to ride, if only she would let him.
---
"What do you want?" Bucky asked, lost but loyal, his gaze earnest and a little desperate on his best friend. "Anything at all. Whatever you need to do."
But Steve was trying not to drown in his grief, and all could think to say was, "Let's go ride the Cyclone."
---
Except once they were there, he could hear his mother at his side, see her worried blue eyes looking down on him. They were the same eyes he had, and he had always liked them, because they seemed like the one nice-looking thing his health hadn't taken from him. And he hesitated.
"Hey now, you're not chickening out on me now, are you?" Bucky teased, elbowing his friend; Steve could recognize the attempt at normality. But he could also see the change in his expression, the way his smile slid away as he studied him. Bucky set a hand on his shoulder and didn't let go. "Come on," he said, firmer. "We're doing this."
---
The Cyclone was an attack. It creaked just going up the first hill, the metal gears clicking loudly as the chain drew the car to the peak. And then it toppled over and did something that felt like rocks being thrown at his body. Repeatedly. For almost two minutes. By the time they got off, his head was spinning, and one of the rocks hadn't dislodged from on top of his lungs, and suddenly he was falling because he couldn't breathe. Every attempt at air came with a burning fight, and the wheezing turned to hacking, and soon his body was imploding so much that his stomach churned and heaved and emptied itself onto the sidewalk.
And, he later realized, on Bucky, because his friend was there holding him, pressing close so he could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest and how air was supposed to work. "I've got you," he whispered. "Just breathe with me. Come on, Steve, just breathe with me. You're all right."
He wasn't sure when the wheezing turned to sobbing, but eventually he was conscious of the wet on his friend's shirt and neck and realized it was from him. The grip around him tightened, and Bucky told him how this part wasn't going to be okay, not really, and that it was goddamn shitty, but eventually he wouldn't be drowning so deep. "Because I'm gonna haul you up, you hear?" He set a hand on the back of Steve's head, fingers in his hair, and held him close. "I'm your lifesaver. You're not gonna drown, because I've got you."
---
Years later, Steve would be reaching, trying to be the lifesaver his friend had been to him, and wondering who was going to haul him up after this one.