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Winter had come and brought snow over Brooklyn as it always did. For many, it meant the holidays were near and fireplaces were extra nice. For Steve it meant stretching his few dollars even further. The dry and frigid air juxtaposed by the warmth of indoors always irritated his lungs. And when he wasn't having an asthma attack, he was sick. But at least Bucky was always loyally by his side, nursing him or chipping in on the medical debt despite Steve's gurgled attempts at reassurance.
A recent illness forced them to buy another inhaler. Bucky was worrying himself to death over it, wondering if Steve could even afford another one if he needed it. Steve hated that he could tell. His shoulders were always tense and his smile was a little more forced. So when he realized he had lost it, the last thing he wanted to do was tell his companion.
Alas, Steve can't do anything without Bucky.
He coughed. It was nothing out of the ordinary for them but he tried to stifle it. He cleared his throat and shifted to continue sketching the room they sat in.
Bucky, who had been reading a newspaper next to him, looked up. “You ‘kay there?” he asked. His tone was casual and concerned. His blue-steel eyes peeked over the paper with an unspoken but deep regard. Even if Steve’s coughs and wheezes were normal for them, he still wanted to check in.
“Uh…” Steve was never a good liar. He’d definitely gotten better at it compared to childhood but that didn’t mean he was good at it. Especially not around someone who grew up with him. “You know that inhaler you just bought?”
Bucky set down the paper with a sigh. “You lost it.”
“I didn’t lose-lose it, I just… don’t know where it went.” Steve gave him a crooked grin and shrugged, one shoulder pushing higher than the other.
Bucky practically rolled off of the couch. “Alright, c’mon, punk. Since you can’t keep track of anything to literally save your life. Where’d you have it last? I’ll bet you 50 cents it’s in one of your jackets.”
—
“Found it yet, Buck?” Steve called from the bedroom. He was currently tearing apart their bedsheets.
“Nope.” Bucky replied from the kitchen. There was the distant sound of paper being thrown around.
Steve huffed in frustration, just barely able to hear his lungs wheeze. He had no idea where it could be. He was praying that it was somewhere in the apartment. And while Steve's apartment was tiny, neither he nor Bucky were very organized either. Stuff got shuffled around constantly, mostly because Bucky insisted his way of organizing things was better even if it wasn't his apartment.
“You sure you checked all your pockets?” Bucky shouted over the clatter of a dumped out junk drawer.
Steve dropped a pillow out of its casing. “Yeah! I ain’t that stupid.” He tossed the empty case aside.
A barely audible, “I dunno, sometimes you are,” came from across the apartment.
Steve grumbled. “And I ain’t that deaf either, jerk!” He rolled his eyes when he heard Bucky bark out a laugh.
He gave up on the bed and moved to check his nightstand for the hundredth time. As disorganized as he typically was, he had learned to keep his inhaler in only a few spots: in the bowl by the front door, in his nightstand, or by the busted toaster. In two of those spots a blind man could easily find it. Which means it was either in his nightstand, out on the streets, or Bucky was right about it being in his clothes somewhere. So… of course, Steve was going to check everywhere before he checked his pockets again.
They made a lot of bets. Bucky was always warning Steve to wear an extra coat when they’d go out, or he was telling him that he better not pet that cat otherwise risk an allergic reaction. And when Steve would wave it off, saying that ‘it wouldn’t be too bad,’ Bucky would make a bet. And then when Steve inevitably broke out in hives, he’d hold out his hands for coins before fetching his medication.
Steve slammed the nightstand drawer shut and turned to the small dresser. He picked through every drawer and tossed his clothes haphazardly to the floor. Still no inhaler. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves. He still couldn’t tell if his lungs were getting worse.
“Woah, slow down, tiger.” Bucky rounded the corner just as Steve began storming his way out of the bedroom. He reached out to hold him by small shoulders. “It's okay. You aren't havin’ an asthma attack or anything.”
“And what if I start? I'm just gonna have to hope we find it in time?” He glared at his friend. They both knew it wasn't actually directed towards him.
“I could go buy another one.”
“It's brand new, Bucky. I'm not making you go out and buy another unless I actually need it.” He pushed past him to rip apart the living room again.
“You know, you should really check your coat pockets.” Bucky followed behind him.
“You just want your money.” Steve shoved his hand in between the worn cushions of the couch. He found a couple of crumbs and some lost tissues at best. His thick brows furrowed in frustration. He then pulled the cushions completely off, and still found nothing. He listened to the rattle in his chest again. It’s getting worse. It'll be bad by morning for sure.
“What do you take me for, Rogers? A greedy asshole?” Bucky replied with a feigned offended tone.
Steve gave him a look in response as he shook the couch’s throw blanket.
“Which one did you wear to New Years? That pretty blue one, right?” Bucky seemed to completely ignore him as he wandered off to go fetch the coat.
Steve's bones clicked as he dropped down onto his knees to check underneath the couch. He found nothing but a colony of dust bunnies. Grumbling, he rose back to his feet.
Bucky’s strong footsteps returned. He nudged Steve once again as he held the deep blue coat in his hands, spread out to make reaching the pockets as easy as possible. “Here. Since you're too stubborn to lose.”
“I ain’t stubborn—” Steve began.
“Have you ever even ran from a fight?” Bucky shook the jacket at him lightly. Steve huffed at Bucky's point and reached inside.
Nothing in the first pocket. His eyes flashed up towards his friend in an ‘I told you so’ way. His skinny fingers then checked the other. They just barely brushed against some kind of hard plastic. His face shifted. Bucky smiled like Steve knew he would. “See?” He gave him a glare in response, pulling the inhaler out and shaking it.
After the puff and subsequent exhale, Bucky’s face softened. “Alright. Now go put that in your nightstand and help me clean up. We oughta attach a bell to the damn thing so you quit losin’ it.” He turned to start scooping up the scattered cushions. Steve nodded in agreement and went to quickly place the inhaler back into its spot.
When he returned, Bucky was tapping the now neat pile of papers against the table. He came to his side with the two quarters. “Jerk.” he said with a less wheezy sigh. “Go sit down. I know your arms are sore.” He started reassembling the junk drawer.
“Uh-uh,” Bucky replied. He began picking up stray paper clips and pens along with Steve.
Steve scrunched his nose at him. “You worked an 18 hour shift yesterday. Go sit. This apartment is small enough, it shouldn’t take me long.”
“You’re small.” Bucky shot back. “So let me help.” He dropped the clips and pens into the drawer.
Steve realized he wasn’t going to give up. And neither would he. With a burst of speed, he shuffled the drawer back into its place and hurried off to the bedroom in record time.
Bucky was stronger, but Steve was more slippery. He made it to the bedroom just as Bucky wiggled a pillow into its case. Steve ripped the second pillow from Buck’s hands, stuffed the case, and tossed it onto the bed. The boys then nearly popped an old quilt at the seams as they attempted to take it from the other. That too was thrown messily on top of the mattress.
As Steve moved on to the clothes scattered on the floor, large hands picked him up by his crooked torso and tossed him into the bedding. Bucky bent down and gathered all of the clothes into his arms, and shoved them into the dresser. The drawers were slammed hard enough to rattle the furniture. Steve hardly even had the chance to scramble out of bed.
“Ha!” Bucky cheered victoriously, “I win twice!” He grinned, obnoxiously shooting his hands to the sky and nearly hitting the ceiling. He then came to Steve’s side, who frowned.
“You suck,” was all that Steve could mumble as he sat down on the bed in defeat. Admittedly, he was kind of butthurt about losing. He wanted to impress somebody.
“Come on, man. It was fun.” Bucky slapped his shoulder with a smile.
Steve shook his head ambiguously. He would have dwelled on his loss had it not been for the sudden irregular thump in his chest and neck. “Hold on, do you mind checking my pulse?” he asked more seriously. He held out a wrist, but Bucky instead pressed his fingers to his neck.
After a brief pause and the slight widening of Bucky’s cool eyes, his fears were confirmed. “Yeah. It’s goin’ crazy right now. Must've been the insane workout you just had,” he snickered.
“Or because you threw me, asshole,” Steve replied. He carefully laid down on the bed, waiting for his heart to settle down and for his head to stop spinning.
“Well I had to win somehow.” Bucky didn’t tear his eyes off of his friend.
He didn’t notice. His vision was fuzzy.
—
After some unknown amount of time to Steve, the soft tink of a teacup announced Bucky’s presence. “You there?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Steve replied as he slowly sat up, waiting for his vision to completely return. “Did I pass out?”
“Probably. I asked you if you wanted somethin’ to drink and you never replied so…” Bucky shrugged.
Steve was about to mumble some kind of apology before he was cut off. “I made you some tea anyway.” Bucky gestured to the still steaming cup of deep orange. “Honey’s already in it,” he told him proudly as he bounced on his toes once.
Steve reached for the small cup carefully, bringing the rim to his lips and sipping. He hummed a quick thanks. “This you apologizing for the bet?” he teased, eyes flashing upwards as he took another sip.
“That, and also tryin’ to make sure you don’t go wheezin’ up on me again.” Bucky sat at the end of the bed.
“We both know that ain’t gonna happen.” Steve put the teacup down and sank into the beaten-down pillows behind him. “Doctor said I’m all kinds of messed up from that cold.”
Bucky set a hand on his leg. “But hey, you look a helluva lot better than you did.”
“Slightly less skinny?” Steve snorted.
“And you have slightly more life in your eyes now."
After a beat of silence, the two of them just staring at each other, Steve spoke up, “Uh, would you mind grabbing my sketchbook from the living room? I don’t wanna pass out again.”
“Yeah,” Bucky stood to go fetch it. A moment later he returned with it and some charcoal pencils. “Had to go scour for your stupid pencils since somebody decided he had to beat me in the cleaning-competition. How the hell did one of them land on the windowsill?”
Steve rolled his eyes. “You win at everything. Heaven forbid I try to be better than you at one thing.” He shook his head. He flipped open to the previous spread he was working on. Some of the charcoal got smudged, but what was he supposed to do about it? He used up the rest of his eraser a while ago.
“You’re still mad about that?” Bucky wasn’t that surprised. And frankly he wasn’t sure what money Steve did have. He did commission work, he knew that much, but was that enough? With his constant illnesses and flare-ups he could've only had a few dollars at best. Compared to Steve, Bucky was far more well off.
Steve didn’t reply, instead sticking his nose into his sketchbook. He wasn’t going to make that Buck’s problem. It was only two quarters. “I can make the money back in a day or two,” he finally said.
“Or, you know, we make another bet.” Bucky smirked.
That sentence elicited the longest groan he’s ever heard. “Ughhh! Now what?”
He kept smiling. “I bet you can’t get these dashing features down on paper.” He flexed his arms cartoonishly with a chuckle.
His friend stared at him in disbelief. “...That’s easy,” he said slowly. “It’s literally my job.”
“Yeah. But now I’m gonna haunt you every time you open your sketchbook up.”
Steve raised a brow. “So if I draw you… I get my 50 cents back?”
“Yep.”
“...Okay. Get comfortable,” Steve said with slight disbelief. He crawled out of bed to turn on a nearby lamp.
“Should I take off my shirt so I look like one of those old statues?” Bucky pulled up a stool and sat near the lamp. One half of his face was illuminated by the warm glow of the bulb and the other by the cold winter sun from a nearby window.
“Hell no. You better pay me at least a dollar for that.” Steve sat across from him on the mattress, boney knees scrunched to his chest. He set his tools next to him and got to work. He started out with extremely light lines. He gradually worked to softer and softer pencils, carving out Bucky’s strong jaw and wide nose.
Bucky himself was actually quite the well behaved model. He minimally moved. And even when he did, he always returned to his previous pose. He framed his motivations as a joke—like he often did—but he really wanted Steve to have some kind of keepsake. The war was looming ahead.
But enough of that. Focus. Bucky ticked his jaw to push down any negative thoughts. His gaze flickered to the artist in front of him, who was studying the curve of his lips. The tips of his ears reddened when he noticed.
“Almost done.” Steve mumbled with his tongue peaking out of his mouth in focus. His fingers by this point were completely blackened by charcoal. The lack of eraser made this significantly more difficult for him. Every stroke had to be purposeful. He couldn’t swipe away any pigment, couldn’t restore the warm-white of the textured paper underneath. In a way he liked the challenge.
With one quick signature, the drawing was finished. Steve turned the book around for his friend to see. Bucky left his perch on the stool with excitement.
The drawing itself was beautiful, as all of his friend’s drawings were, but something about this particular piece captured Bucky’s wonder. The lines were so sure. In some places they were so light the form was only implied, and in other spots there wasn’t a single grain of paper poking through the darkness of the charcoal. It was a full body portrait which captured every strand of Bucky’s slightly undone slickback and every curve of his fingers as he clutched the slightly too small wooden stool. But the main focus was the face.
Steve obviously spent most of his time there. He caught Bucky’s dimple on one side of his cheek, a mole hidden in his eyebrow he thought only his mother knew of, and that tiny little constant smirk in his expression. But most of all, Steve captured Bucky’s very soul. His eyes sparkled, somehow perfectly encapsulating the coolness and simultaneous warmth of them. The highlights of the eyes remained the only part of paper completely untouched by the charcoal.
Bucky—the real one—stared at the paper in awe. He glanced up at the artist, who started, “I mean, I probably could’ve done better with the legs but—”
“No. No, actually. I like them. I like what you did,” he smiled. “You did good.” He dug in his pocket for a moment, then dropped the two coins into Steve’s lap. “Thank you.”
Steve set the coins in his nightstand next to the inhaler. “Yeah, no problem. I had fun.” He smiled back. He closed the sketchbook, getting up to wash his hands.
Bucky sat on the bed, a sense of satisfaction washing over him. Sure he lost 50 cents, but he got to hang out with his best guy and annoy him to death. Plus he still won the bet. He was right, of course the inhaler would’ve been in the coat. Steve always had a bad habit of shoving things in his pockets and forgetting about them anyway.
“Actually, mind if I draw you some more? I could use the anatomy practice.”