Chapter Text
Steve remembers that day. When he met him. His now best friend.
The year was 1929. When the United States stock market decided to take a nose dive, sending the nation into a financial struggle related frenzy.
He was eleven years old at the time.
Steve woke up that morning, in mid November, in his small, barely-holding-it-together twin sized bed. Sitting up in bed with his thin blanket pooling around his hips. Steve crawled over to his window and shoved it up, placing his hands on the sill, to let the crisp cold air in, the leaves had begun to change beautiful shades of chartreuse, brown, and orange, falling onto the grass below. He stuck his head out of the window, the gentle morning breeze caressing through his hair. He always enjoyed nature. He could look out of his window all morning and always notice something new, he liked to watch people too. But, Steve needed to get going.
He flopped back down onto his bed, his mattress squeaking under him. He lazily rolled over until he made it to the edge of his bed.
He swung his feet over the edge of his bed, and stretched with his arms overhead, after he carried about his usual routine in the morning: get changed, brush his teeth, comb his cropped blonde hair and help Ma in the kitchen and around the house. Ma was working full-time at a ward in the hospital, dealing with everyone of all ages with tuberculosis, so it was often that she was tired beyond belief. Steve helped her with dusting, sweeping, washing the dishes or helping fix tiny things around their small apartment.
His pops wasn't around. He died in World War I, exposure to mustard gas. Steve didn't get to know him. He died months before he was even born. So, Ma raised him herself. Sometimes, He felt pity for her. Steve couldn't imagine raising a kid all by yourself, making sure he's fed and has clothes on his back, and juggling a job too. So, Steve always made sure to help her, with whatever she needed. He wanted to show Ma that he appreciated her for everything she's ever done for him.
Around noon, he was done with all of the things she needed help with. He had planned to go to the park that day so Steve scrambled to his room to fetch his book, almost tripping over his own two feet. "Bye Ma! Headed to the park!" Little Steve shouted, pulling on his Converse shoes, hurriedly and tying them messily, his nimble fingers awkwardly working the strings into knots and bunny ears. He plunged toward the front door, grabbing the handle, twisting and flinging it open, ready to crack open his book and read.
" Steve, honey, take a blanket." Ma said from the doorway, wiping her hands on a used to be white now browned with dirt towel, " you'll catch your death. It's cold outside." She said, her soft, melodic voice full of affection and concern for him. Steve knew he was frail, he knew he was short, he knew he was weak. He had just recovered from pneumonia. But he wasn't glass either. "Ma, I'll be fine." He meekly assured her, with a small smile, shifting from one foot to the other because Steve was just so antsy to get out there.
" Steve."
" Okay, okay."
He begrudgingly said as he walked over to her chair that sat in the corner. It was a beat down rocking brown chair with delicate flower carvings at the headrest that Ma spent the majority of her time off at, which was really rare. If anything, she had to leave soon to the hospital. Steve grabbed the knitted blanket she had recently crafted herself, and draped it over his arm. " Okay, now I'm leaving." He turned to her with a small smile, the items in his arms now.
" Okay, sweetie. Be safe. I'll be home later tonight. Don't go getting into any trouble." She took his skinny, pale face into her soft, loving hands and placed a light kiss to his cheek then sent him on his way. Steve closed the door behind himself and hopped down the stone steps of the stairs of the front of their apartment complex. He dashed down the sidewalk to the small park at the end of our neighborhood, dry leaves crunching and breaking under his feet. A couple yelped and quickly unlocked their intertwined fingers, jumping to the side as he plunged between them. The boyfriend grumbled something, but Steve couldn't hear him.
It was normal for kids his age to go out alone, but mostly in daylight. It wasn't entirely safe, and there were pockets in Brooklyn where you couldn't walk alone unless you were looking to get slugged or robbed. But his neighborhood was pretty safe.. kind of.
After 8 minutes, (I think), he made it to the park, and walked down the dirt path before branching off to his usual tree; a big, old, Oak tree that was nearby a kiddy baseball field, a mound and three plates, where the whole population of grade school boys played. He wasn't good at sports, thanks to his bad asthma. Steve couldn't risk even playing football without his chest constricting and his lungs feeling like they were being burned alive. So, he just read or drew a picture in his sketchbook under the tree.
Steve kicked leaves away to make space for himself on the grass, but it didn't really work. He accepted defeat as he sunk down to the slightly cold grass, shifting and wiggling against the rough bark of the oak tree to get himself comfortable. He pulled his knobby, scrape-covered knees up to his chest and cracked open his edition of 'The Great Gatsby'. He gently removed the bit of green ribbon he used as a bookmark and placed it in his lap, before immersing himself in the story of Mr. Gatsby and his insane love for Daisy Buchanan. ( Ha. Buchanan.)
Steve didn't know how much time had passed, as he had been so engrossed in the book, living the events that played out in the passages with the characters. He gasped when his book was suddenly yanked from his hands, watching as it was discarded to the grass a little ways away, with a soft thud. He looked up, finally noticing the two pairs of legs in front of him of where he sat. His eyes wandered up to the body that owned the pair of legs, then to the face of said body.
It was Clay. He had charcoal colored hair, freckles scattered like stars over his young face. But, don't let that boyish appearance foul you. He was strong for his age. Thirteen, if Steve remembered correctly. Two years older than him, but still a grade schooler.
" What do you want, Clay?" Steve asked, trying to keep the slight tremor out of his voice. "Give me my book back." He demanded, feigning bravery. (Really, he was about to piss himself.)
Clay snorted, his hands resting on his hips. " I don't take orders from you, Rogers. Go get it." He smirked, his brown eyes staring Steve down. He quirked an eyebrow in question, waiting for Steve to comply. He began to tap his foot against the grass impatiently.
Steve looked at his discarded book then back at Clay. He sighed before pushing himself up, brushing off his pants. He then began to walk over to retrieve it, glancing at Clay once over his shoulder before bending down to pick it up.
Clay moved quickly, and stretched out his arms, placing his hands onto his back and shoving Steve to the ground, sending him onto his stomach. Leaves crunched below Steve's body as he hit the ground. He didn't give the poor body a chance to react or even process that he was on the grass before he delivered a harsh kick to Steve's diaphragm.
Steve let out a croaked gasp, one of his hands flying to his mid section and the other to press at the base of his neck. The wind had been knocked out of him. He gasped and wheezed desperately, feeling his airways tightening, trying to gulp air back into his burning lungs. He began to panic, because he couldn't breathe right. He didn't want to die. Not like this. No, it was too early. His chest tightened like a vice, like someone was squeezing it with unnatural strength. (Breathe, Steve, breathe-)
Clay laughed cruelly at the display, thinking Steve was putting on an act and finding it to be one of the most amusing things he had ever seen in his life. He laughed so hard that he doubled over, a hand pressed to his stomach and a hand placed on his knee. But his laughter died down once he realized that Steve was really struggling to breathe.
" Oh shit."
" Hey! Leave him alone" A voice yelled, and the sound of rapid feet running on grass grew louder, Steve hearing it through the ringing in his ears. The voice of a male.
" I-I- I didn't do anything!" Clay protested. " I swear, Bucky! I was just tryin' to help-"
"Liar! I saw you." The other boy growled. " Leave the kid alone!"
Steve managed to strain his eyes open the slightest bit, his eye lids heavy with the exertion it took to try to get air back in as his lungs refused. He got a look at Clay, who seemed frightened and nervous, waving his hands in front of him as he denied, denied, and denied. Steve's eyes lazily drifted over to the other boy, who seemed furious.
The boy had dark brown hair, combed to the side with a few stray strands ghosting his flawless forehead. He had blue eyes, as blue as the morning sky but shimmering with anger. A pretty face. Healthy looking. Steve wondered if he was his age or older.
The brunette pushed Clay to the grass, looming over him. " Pick on someone your own size." He said coolly, challenging Clay to even take a hit at him. Clay, being smart for once, scrambled to his feet and ran away with his tail between his legs. What a coward.
" Hey, hey, hey," the brunette said, his tone changing from hard to soft almost instantly, almost a soothing whisper. He hurried over to Steve. Steve watched as he crouched beside him, before plopping down next to him. "C'mon, up you go." A gentle hand found purchase between Steve's shoulder blades, assisting him in sitting up. Steve was still a gasping, wheezing mess, his chest stuttering in time with his struggles.
" Relax, you're gonna be just fine." The brunette turned Steve to face him, his hands gentle on his knife-like shoulders. He didn't seem to be weirded out or uncomfortable with how boney his body was, or how he could feel the ridges of Steve's collarbones beneath his hands. He just cared about making sure Little Ol' Steve was taken care of.
" Alright, in for 4, hold for 7 and out for 8. Got it?" The boy instructed Steve, his blue eyes boring into Steve's. He began to demonstrate: inhale for 4, hold for 7 and exhale for 8. " Hey, no, look at me." He commanded, noticing that Steve was too focused on clutching his shirt. "Relax."
Steve began to follow Bucky's demonstration. (in for 4, hold for 7 and out for 8.) ( You're gonna be just fine.) And the tension and tightness in his chest loosened gradually, allowing Steve to gulp back in the oxygen he needed to function, the panic induced tremors in his frail frame ceasing at once.
" There, there. You'll be alright." The boy said with a charming yet comforting smile. " Feelin' better?" He asked, with the slight tilt of his head in question. Steve nodded, his eyes subconsciously scanning the other boy's boys face, memorizing the shape of his eyebrows, the way his eyes crinkled and how they shined, the curve of his smile, his face shape.. God, he was beautiful. (Steve, why are you thinking that? That's a boy.)
" Who..?"
" Right. Uh- I'm James. James Buchanan Barnes." He grinned, grabbing Steve's book, before straightening up and dusting himself off. He outstretched a hand to Steve who was on the ground, hauling him up. "But everyone calls me Bucky." He said with a shrug, handing the book to its rightful owner.
"Thank you." Steve said softly, hugging the book to his chest.
Steve blinked. " James Buchanan like the president?"
Bucky's face dropped to an unamused one. " Har har, smart guy. But yeah, like the president." He said with a grin, playing along with Steve's quip
" and you're..?"
" Steve. Steve Rogers." He said with sudden confidence, straightening up his own posture. Steve wore a grin of his own directed at Bucky.
" Well, nice to meet you, Steve Rogers." Bucky grinned again.
Bucky sat with Steve under his tree. Steve forgot about the book then in his lap. He finally had someone to talk to! He found out he and Bucky went to the same school, which was a plus! Now, instead of sitting on the benches or the yard alone, he could sit with Bucky. They fell into easy conversation, blabbering on about teachers they liked and didn't like, who was going with who, and who hated who.
It was probably the most Steve had ever talked to someone, who didn't expect anything in return. It was a refreshing feeling.
Time passed fast. The sun was drifting toward the west, the sky beginning to turn shades of orange, red and yellow. How much time has passed? The sun planned to sleep soon.
" We should get going. Want me to walk you?" Bucky said as he pushed himself up, dusting his pants off.
" Sure. I live just down the street. So it's not too far." Steve agreed, also pushing himself up and grabbing his book, and his blanket.
" Shoot, really? I live just down here too!" Bucky said, his eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise, a grin easing on his face. It made Steve's heart flutter.
The boys started on their way home, the air was crisp, gently blowing through their hair and their shirts. The streetlights were beginning to flick on, more couples walking down the streets, probably early Christmas shopping or going on dates together. Steve tried to not shiver. He tugged the blanket around his shoulders, as a makeshift shawl to keep himself warm.
Steve wondered, even at the early age of eleven, of what love felt like. Was it as pure as they said it was? Shared milkshakes and coats? Was it like the movies he had seen with Ma? He wondered when he would know himself. Maybe one day. One day, Steve would know.
" This is it." Steve said, as they stopped in front of his apartment building.
" Alright." Bucky nodded, patting Steve's shoulder with a small smile.
"James!" A woman called. She stood on the doorstep, her attention on Steve and Bucky. She looked nice, her dress neat with an apron on top. Lovely brown hair. Maybe that's where Bucky had gotten his hair color. It was such a beautiful brown.
" That's my Ma." He said to Steve before he turned on his heel and darted off home.
"See you tomorrow, Steve!" Bucky yelled over his shoulder, waving at him. Steve watched as he hopped onto the doorstep and darted inside, followed by the woman. The door shut behind them, the porch light turning on.
"Bye!" Steve yelled back before going inside. His mom wasn't home. She was at the ward, and she wouldn't be home till later.
Steve bent down and untied his Converse, toeing them off. He went and plopped down onto the couch, cracking open his book. His eyes wandered the words, but his mind wandered elsewhere.
To the boy he now called his friend.