Birthday Wishes

Bucky Barnes hates the 4th of July. He didn't always. There'd been a time when he probably would have said it was his favorite holiday. He was as patriotic as the next red-blooded American man, after all. He loved a good long weekend away from work that came with an excuse to drink beer and grill out. And the holiday just happened to share the date with another day that held great importance in his life. Which is why now, sitting alone in his renovated brownstone in Brooklyn, too sullen to go out and enjoy the summer day or even think about attending a fireworks show, he decides that he just really fucking hates the 4th of July.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Bucky wasn't supposed to be depressed and frustrated and lonely today. He'd seen years into the future of what this day would look like. Imagined it a million times over. Always a celebration. Always a party. Always surrounded by friends and a great time and love and Steve. Steve. Fuck. And just like that Bucky remembers all over again why he hates the 4th of July. Steve Rogers and his stupid birthday can go straight to hell, and he can take all the flags and burgers and beach picnics with him.

Twenty-five years. That's how long it's been since Bucky has spent this day alone, without company or plans or parties to attend or throw. From Steve's 13th birthday to his 38th, every year, without question, they were together. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. Childhood best friends. Teenagers up to no good. College roommates. Men in love. Inseparable. A package deal. Until now. Because Steve had chosen exactly eight weeks ago to be a big, dumb, asshole and pull the rug out from under Bucky without so much as a warning. So he sits in a half-empty living room, staring at framed photos he hasn't talked himself into taking off the walls yet, and tries to forget what day it is. It doesn't work.

"Fuck," Bucky breathes heavily, forcing himself up off the couch and into the kitchen long enough to open the fridge and find it sadly devoid of his favorite craft beer. And pretty much everything else. Closing the door in disgust he tries to remember the last time he bought groceries outside of stopping at the bodega on the corner on his way home from work for whatever he was going to eat but not really care about that evening. He can't recall. "Fuck!" The second exclamation is shorter, sharper, more powerful. Mumbling under his breath about stupid holidays and stupid exes and an exceptionally stupid lack of alcohol, Bucky turns down the hallway towards the bedroom in search of something to wear other than boxers. Because apparently, he's going to have to actually go outside today. He kicks an empty pizza box out of the way as he goes.

The bedroom...his, not theirs...is a disaster on another level and Bucky knows it. It's too cramped. His work clothes, dress shirts and ties and well-tailored pants that he used to take such care in hanging up meticulously each night next to Steve's, are strewn across a chair in the corner of the room and atop his computer desk. There's a laptop under there somewhere but he hasn't needed it much lately. No reason to bring work home when he can just stay at the publishing company late, huddled over his desk, no one waiting on him to be around for dinner. In Bucky's defense the room is cramped and cluttered because it was never meant to be a bedroom. It was his office; had been since the day they'd moved in six years ago. But Bucky hasn't been able to bring himself to sleep in the actual bedroom...in their bed...since Steve left. He crashed on the couch for about a week before trying it. The very next day he'd dragged any essentials he thought he might need into his office and closed the door on that room behind him. He'd bought a futon and shoved it against the wall where Steve's easel and paints used to sit...where Steve would stand for hours while Bucky worked, creating such beauty on canvas...and made do.

Trying not to think about it too much, Bucky grabs the first shirt and pair of jeans he can find, doing a quick smell check to verify they're clean enough to wear before slipping them on. He's annoyed with himself almost immediately. No self-respecting 38-year-old gay man should be smelling his clothes before putting them on. Nor should they have empty pizza boxes all over their living room and a completely barren refrigerator in their kitchen. He's living like a 22-year-old straight kid who's into video games and free porn and he hates it. It's been eight weeks of nothing but spiraling and now he's here. He grabs his keys and shoves them into his pocket and then makes a quick stop in the bathroom, figuring he should probably at least look at his reflection once since he has to go out into the world and will more than likely encounter people. His dark hair is badly in need of a cut, hanging down to nearly his shoulders when it usually sits just on the edge of his collar, and he's let his typical five o'clock shadow scruff get a little out of hand. He'll have to do something about the beard, at least, before heading back to work after the long weekend. He's good at his job, but not naïve enough to think that the Grizzly Adams look would fly with his boss. For a quick trip to the corner store, though? Bucky shrugs at the mirror and pulls his hair up and out of his face quickly. Good enough.