Drawing Lessons

That Something

Steve's bright, careless laughter fluttered about the room as Bucky chewed the end of his pencil, looking on. He liked it when he made Steve laugh, it felt like he was doing something good for the universe as a whole. And he liked it when Steve laughed even when it wasn't because of something funny Bucky had said. Strangely enough, Steve just broke into laughter sometimes, even when he wasn't particularly happy. Bucky liked that.

"Okay, so," Steve began, not fully finished with his laughter but pushing forward with his thought anyway, "What's your favorite kind of tree?"

"I'm sorry, what?" Bucky said, raising his eyebrows and chuckling a little bit. It was a random question, completely unrelated to the topic of conversation, but that was one of Steve's things.

"I said, 'What's you favorite kind of tree?'" Steve responded, looking expectantly at Bucky.

"Yeah, but, like, that's kind of a random thing to say, don't you think? How'd you get on that topic?"

"Well, you see," Steve paused, leaning back where he sat next to Bucky on the bed and cracking a grin, "You were talking about musical genres, and then I thought about how generic a question 'what's your favorite musical genre?' is. Like, even though it's a good question and all that and helps you get to know someone a little bit, a question that makes you think is better. In my opinion, obviously. So, that's how the tree question came to my mind, "Steve finished, running his fingers through his blonde hair, "So, what's your favorite tree?"

"I, uh, haven't ever really thought about that..." Bucky trailed off, glancing around the room and every once in awhile back at Steve.

"My favorite type of tree isn't technically a species, but it's Axel Erlandson's art trees. He shaped them into crazy configurations. Like, insane sculptures. He never told his methods, either, so it's like a big mystery as to how he did it. Someday, I'd like to figure out how to do it myself. Maybe I could go live out in the woods and sculpt trees when I'm older. That would be cool."

As Steve rambled on about misshapen trees, Bucky couldn't help but watch him. It seemed like he'd been doing that a lot lately, and usually when he noticed himself looking at Steve for too long, he'd look quickly away. His cheeks would grow unexpectedly warm. He would forget how to breathe. Steve just had that something that was constantly driving Bucky mad.

"...And I would have this cabin, right, and it'd be painted all these bright, random colors. Just, in the middle of nowhere. No roads or nothing, just me and my trees." Steve was still contemplating his future life as a hermit in the woods sculpting trees.

"Wouldn't you be lonely?" Bucky asked him simply, looking at the smaller boy's eyes and seeing all the millions of insane ideas churning in his mind.

"No. Obviously you'd be there too." Steve said without thinking. Immediately after he realized what he'd said, his eyes broke away from Bucky's and color appeared in his pale cheeks.

Instantly, Bucky felt his own face heating up to an alarming degree. He'd be there too? What did that mean?

There was a lull in conversation. This didn't usually happen between the two close friends, but neither really knew how to follow that. There were so many things Bucky wanted to say. He couldn't get the thoughts to form properly in his mind. He couldn't put the words in his lips. He couldn't think about those things. Just couldn't.

The room, which had never been anything but comfortable, suddenly had a buzz to it in that moment. An anxious energy that Bucky couldn't explain. He wanted so bad to do something, to fix it and make it go back to the easy feeling he had grown accustomed to.

But on the other hand, he didn't want to change a thing. Glancing over at Steve with an unshakable nervousness that he couldn't put his finger on, he felt a shudder jump up his spine, shake his chest. It didn't physically move him at all, but when he saw the other boy, sitting so close to him, a sensory wave went through him; something verging on painful but that felt so, so good.

Steve just had that something. Bucky couldn't explain it. Frankly, it was nothing more than the essence of who the boy was. But it was so much. Bucky was paralyzed with... fear? He wasn't afraid of Steve, but he was afraid. Frozen with it like a deer in headlights.

His younger sister's words reverberated through his skull and he knew them to be true. She was right. Of course she was right. When was she ever not? As Bucky sifted through his thoughts, the air in the room grew stale and thick, moving sluggishly in and out of his lungs. He didn't move, he didn't dare.

Steve, being the by far the bolder of the two, took action. Reaching slowly out, he nudged Bucky's hand up where he could slide his own into it, interlacing his small fingers with Bucky's larger ones. Steve's knuckles were a bit knobbly, and his hand was shockingly warm against Bucky's soft fingers. Bucky looked silently down at their interlocked hands, not moving a muscle in his entire body.

"Buck..." Steve murmured under his breath, as if not intentionally letting it slip out.

"Mm?" Bucky responded softly, looking away at an interesting blank spot on the wall.

Instead of responding, Steve leaned over and folded his bony body up against Bucky's, inhaling deeply and breathing out a hot breath against the side of his friend's shirt. He seemed contentedly tired, as if he were about to fall asleep there, nestled against Bucky's side.

Carefully, feeling as though it was necessary, Bucky lifted his arm up and over Steve's shoulders, their fingers still loosely interlocked against Steve's chest. Reacting to this movement, Steve shifted his weight, propping himself more firmly against Bucky, his head resting on the soft part of Bucky's belly.

As the blond kid drifted off, Bucky couldn't help but stare. Yes, Steve definitely had that something. He was enchanting, enticing, almost undeniable. If was so difficult for Bucky not to react to every little thing about Steve. Even after he'd known the kid for a few months and the newness of him had faded, that something had stayed. It followed Bucky everywhere he went.

He wasn't sure if it would be right to tell Steve.

He wanted to tell Steve.

He needed to tell somebody.

He had nobody but Steve to tell.

And he really wanted to tell Steve.

But he wasn't sure if he should.

If he could.

At the very least he had Steve, and that was definitely something.