Work Text:
It felt almost silly to be sitting how he was, on his bed without a shirt on as be stared at his mirro- waiting. For what, he wasn't sure. Yet, he couldn't stop sitting there, his body still somewhat wet from the shower but his arms too preoccupied with holding his chest to put any effort towards drying off.
The world was overwhelmingly loud on that day. So much so that his thoughts were left twirling around in circles, the overstimulation too much for him to be capable of producing anything resembling coherency. So much so that his mouth stung, the corners of his mouth- his lips so numb, thanks to anxious punishing teeth. The world was loud, so he waited in silence now.
His stomach was turning, the waist band of his pants suddenly too tight though they were loose just a moment before. Soon enough, they sat with his briefs of the floor, his now completely naked body hiding under a heavy but cold duvet. Equally chilly hands ran over pale skin, a human shield against the queasiness that was slowly crawling up his chest, penetrating the once neutral zone of his throat.
In his mind, he tried to distract from the situation, focus on his own palms running over his stomach. But his thoughts were like a hundred lottery balls in a spinning container, randomly chucked out before repeating in his head.
2 86 40 62 45 24 43
2 86 40 64 45 24 43
72. Seventy two. Se-ven-ty two. 72? 727272727272.
Clocks are ticking why do clocks tick? Tick tock tock tock tock
My chest feels like pudding? The taste of pudding? Lindsay lohan pumping pudding mayonnaise mayonnaise mayonnaise
What a bad taste
Bad bad bad bad.
Empty shoes walking, seventy two, tick tock, empty shoes walking seventy two tick tock tick tock tic tock empty shoes.....
He took deep breaths until his mind focused on them too much, then tried his hardest to distract himself from that so the repeating thoughts didn't make him even more prone to throwing up. The next deep breath made his throat burn, his head spin, his body become even more overcome with nausea.
He tried counting, a stim he'd often used when he was younger in moments of happiness. But after a minute or two he was back to lying on his bed, breathing hard as he tried even harder not to vomit.
What more was there to do? Any hard thinking only brought on more discomfort in his stomach. Any more touch than what he was doing caused him to feel bile at the back of his throat.
It was in this moment of loss that he finally felt his mind wander to something that didn't take too much effort to dwell on. The easiness of his friendship with Natasha.
She was in no way like a long lost sister, nor a future partner in a romance waiting to happen. The first idea made him feel as though somebody had taken a sticker from its page before putting it back on just slightly off of the edge of where it belonged. The second was just wrong. He didn't know how to describe it other than that it just wouldn't work. Sure, he could cuddle with her when they watched tv, tell her he loved her as much as he wanted, but he couldn't ever be with her romantically.
Of course, it wasn't that he never found himself attracted to women. It was just that, in his heart of hearts, he could never feel that way about her. She was just his best friend, somebody he trusted with his life.
They were just Steve and Natasha, and the idea of that helped his body ease back into itself slowly.
As it did, his thoughts carefully strayed, somewhat under his control at he considered how that relationship compared to his with Bucky.
Nat had nothing in common with him except their friendship coupled with work experience. Bucky had that as well as everything in common with him. They liked the same things, same movies, same games.
Natasha, he decided, was what a best friend should be. She was loyal, trustworthy (to an extent), and it was never a question of if or how she loved him. The two carried the torch of a purely platonic love that happened once in a lifetime.
But Bucky.
That sort of love was the kind that happened once in a millennium, maybe. They were two halves of one imperfectly human whole, soulmates like in a fairytale. That kind of friendship, kind of romance, kind of living, was something that made Steve's heart trill, his soul settle into his body begging to stay in this life for as long as possible just to be around Bucky.
Then, finally Steve felt better, thinking through these thoughts that would not stray, could not be misinterpreted. So much that when Bucky got back to their apartment after work, he found in his bedroom one sleeping, calm Steve Rogers, buried under the couple's sky blue duvet.
And all was well.