Another Cliché Love Story // S. Rogers & B. Barnes

ten

tw: panic attack, mention of physical abuse

Bucky

Bucky stared at the alarm clock with his stormy blue eyes.

3:56, it read. Taunted.

Haha, you can't go to sleep, it sang.

Bucky glared at the inanimate object and huffed, rolling over to face the opposite wall harshly before sighing. This happened almost every night.

Why was he still pissed at the alarm clock?

He rolled over again, now staring up at the ceiling. His hands rested on his chest, and he vaguely recognized his heart start palpitating.

I'm not pissed at the alarm clock, he realized with a certain jolt as he sat up abruptly. I'm pissed at my parents.

Bucky furrowed his eyebrows.

But why am I just realizing this now? I should've been pissed at them long ago. Like, years ago.

Bucky swung his legs over the side of his bed, now fully awake. His bare feet padded across the wooden floor as he made his way over to his desk and sat down, running a hand down his face.

I mean, they're the cause of these damn nightmares, right? And I started having them when I was eleven...a year after Dad hit me for the first time...six years ago. So...why am I just mad at them now?

Bucky sighed, letting his head drop into his hands.

Probably because you haven't allowed yourself to hate your parents because at the end of the day, they're still your parents. Who loved you unconditionally, who treated you like a prince, who would take you to get ice cream whenever you wanted.

Bucky scoffed, standing up and yanking at the roots of his hair.

Who abused you because you suddenly weren't good enough, who treated you like shit, who kicked you out claiming 'you aren't holy' and that you're 'the Antichrist'.

Bucky's eyes found a framed picture on his bookshelf, a ratty photo of him and his parents when he was in fifth grade. He got angrier as he stared at the perfect family.

Who hit you until you were purple with bruises, who slapped you until red hands peppered your skin, who took a knife and sliced you until blood pooled around your feet.

Bucky grabbed the frame and looked down at it with hatred, seeing his tiny, smiling self standing next to his mother and father. His mother, who had his same stormy blue eyes and sense of humor. His father, who had his strength and unruly mop of brown hair.

He thought about after his accident, when he got his metal arm. Even then, they were supportive. They didn't care that he was suddenly disabled–if anything, that made them love him more.

But they didn't accept a homosexual, he thought bitterly. He was reminded of the times when he was loved, spoiled, hugged, treasured, and admired, before he was despised, ignored, and beaten.

The scars peppering his body from his shoulders to his feet and those tucked away in his mind began to burn, as if they were being put there for the first time, over and over again. His body felt brand new and strong and pure and perfect for one, beautiful second, and then he stumbled backwards as he felt every slap, every punch, every kick, every shove, every pot of boiling water, every hurtful, hateful comment, every little bit of his dignity and self-respect and self-worth and confidence being stripped away again and again and again until he was suddenly on the floor, unable to breathe.

Bucky gasped for air, his vision blocked by endless tears, his body shaking from waves of pain washing over him.

He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on Natasha, who had stuck by his side since he moved to this stupid town, who had celebrated with him when he finally came out and became comfortable with himself, who invited him into her home when he was kicked out, who showered him with ice cream and movies and a special kind of love and care he had never felt. He focused on his best friend as he tried to calm himself down and end his panic attack.

The pain lessened a little as he thought of her, and he was able to selfishly claim a couple gulps of air and stop shaking as violently as he was.

Bucky opened his eyes and blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. He was breathing, but raggedly and heavily. He was still, but his insides felt like they were a malleable putty about to escape out of his mouth and nose, clogging his airways forever. He was fine, but he was in pain.

He forced Natasha back into his mind in an attempt to relax himself, but it barely worked, and he felt himself tense up.

Nothing's working, he realized, and another round of tears flooded his vision. He closed his eyes tightly again, and tried to focus on his shaky breaths that were increasing in size and volume.

Relax. Just breathe. Breathe.

I'm trying!! Bucky wanted to scream out, to shut his own mind up. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. He felt his heart rate speed up exponentially and started to fear for his very life.

He was going to die, right here, on the floor of his room borrowed from Natasha, without anyone to save him.

And then–

Steve.

"Yes, we're friends. We're also lab partners, gym buddies, and teammates, if you count sophomore lacrosse."

"Are you okay?"

"Do you always stumble over your words like that, or just when I'm around?"

"You deserve to be treated with respect and kindness, just like everyone else."

"Because you're still a person."

Steve's laugh.

Steve's hair.

Steve's eyes.

Thoughts of Steve flew around Bucky's mind calmly, making him feel like he should do that as well, be calm.

Steve's laugh made Bucky smile. Steve's eyes ceased his tears. Steve's comments made his muscles relax. Steve's smile made his pain dissipate.

Everything Steve-related left Bucky smiling softly, eyes closed, lost in his thoughts. He was enticed by Steve, so infused in his boy-crush that he didn't even realize his panic attack had drifted away until he opened his eyes and found himself breathing normally.

Bucky stared up at the dark ceiling, surrounded by his dark room, his dark mind suddenly filled with light, a change he had never experienced at this rate.

He didn't even care that the boy he would never be able to touch, to hold, to kiss, to love just indirectly stopped his panic attack and brought light and pureness into his dark and tainted mind. He didn't even care that what just happened would probably rank #4 on Tasha's 'creepiest creepers' list.

Steve had just saved his life.

Without him, Bucky wouldn't have been able to breathe. Without him, Bucky would have left in one of the most painful and terrible ways to leave. Without him, Bucky would be nowhere.

Steve is my crush.

Steve is my hero.

Steve is my home.