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    Summary

    Bucky tried to say Steve's name, but all he could say was, "I feel like I know the artist," and Steve wasn't paying attention. He was tapping the brush against his mouth, looking forward at the painting. The liquid rose, around his ankles, his thighs, his chest. It wasn't cold; it was hot.

    Eventually Steve looked back at Bucky again. He just looked sad, now. Disappointed, maybe. The red liquid lapped around his chin. "If you're not having a good time," he said, his voice muffled and distorted as the paint crept into his mouth, "we can leave."

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