I thought I was far enough not to hear the gleeful screaming, the clinking glasses, the badly yet cheerfully sung songs; I really hoped I did. And yet they were everywhere, in the wind and my hurting muscles, all of the sounds swinging inside my head and distracting the ounce of rational thinking that was left inside of me.
Somebody yelled about Captain America and everybody cheered, amplifying the sickening cacophony, which almost made me miss the sweet torture of the noise german bullets made — at least, near the battlefield, I would properly focus on something : not dying.
But now there was nothing I could do but stare aimlessly at the trembling flame of the makeshift campfire I had somehow managed to ignite — it was kind of ironic, having freezing limbs while being stuck in hell.
Letting go of my flacon of whisky, I shifted my fingers closer to the fire, hoping its heat would warm not only my digits but also this thing that kept hurting inside, hurting so bad I could beg it to leave and it would still come back to crush whatever was left of me.
You couldn't play hide and seek when what you wanted to run away from was yourself.
As soon as my numbed joints recovered their flexibility, I backed my fingers away from the fire and almost unconsciously drew them to the right pocket of my military jacket. They sinked in, reaching for a small piece of paper I had been carrying around everywhere but careful not to show. It wasn't as neat as it used be, paper dirtied and corners torn, but everything was alright as long as it was pressed against my heart.
I straightened the photograph with my index and thumb, lightning washing over it to reveal the two joyful faces it captured and the few words written underneath: Steve and Bucky, 1934. We had been playing in the garden all that day, Steve sketching insects and pretty flowers and trees while I was pretending to nap when really all I was doing was peering at him. Blonde strands of hair were falling all over his forehead and I had this immense desire to run my fingers through them and kiss his nose — I was sure it would've made him giggle. Things seemed so easy back then, even when I knew I should be flashing smiles at girls in colourful dresses instead of soft boys.
But my soft boy got taken away, and all I was left with was this stained piece of paper and the aftertaste or heartbreak, which was a lot worse than our bitter coffee. I was madly in love with Steve Rogers, who was falling for the beautiful girl with red lipstick and determined hazel eyes; Peggy Carter was a marvelous woman, which would have had me questioning whom I ought to be jealous of if my heart wouldn't break at Steve's every action.
Another wave of exclamations burst out as a shiver ran along my my spine, causing me to curl up against the tree behind my back. Part of me was secretly wishing for Steve to find me, but what would I tell him anyway? How could I put into words the unhealthy surging of affection he ignited every time he was around me? There was no way i could confess, no twisted manner to make him guess. And even if he did guess, would he still want me around?
We were taught boys couldn't like boys. I had learnt that happiness was unfair.
