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it didn't take steve long to start deteriorating, he always knew he was. bucky wouldn't ever let him. bucky would pour peach words from his lips and play soft piano in steve's living room. he wrote songs for him, steve would watch from his bed, a wet cloth pressed on his weak forehead, he'd smile as bucky's fingers entwined the keys to a soft melody. he never knew he could play, not until steve couldn't leave his bed and bucky would write him endless tunes to help heal him.
bucky's hands were crafted by the heavens themselves, just like the rest of him. but his hands, soft, cold during the brooklyn winter, steve's face fitted between them perfectly as he weeped with a sore stomach. they wiped steve's salted tears after a kiss on the forehead and an "i love you, sweetheart"
bucky knows he'll tuck steve into bed for one last night before he doesn't wake up, bucky wants to make sure steve lives every single day. he still buys sunflowers from peggy at 5pm, without fail he brings them home to steve. their apartment is bright yellow, seeping life and floral scents and golden auras, just the same as steve. it was as if steve wasn't dying at all, he was still fully living, around the house. painted yellow, like him, his smile leaked golden beams and his laugh sounded like heavens gates themselves.
bucky hopes steve will make it there, he knows he will.
"the rattle in your chest when you cough is enough to make a nurse cry, stevie." bucky rubs the small of steve's back as he helps him shower. "gosh i know, but i've seen one hundred nurses in my time, all i'm told to do is rest, i'll rest until i'm dead if i have too, buck." the shower rinsed the conditioning out of steve's hair as he rubbed it from his eyes. bucky helped him out with a towel and stood him in front of the steamy bathroom mirror. there they both were, a towel hanging from their hips as they stared at the reflection's height differences.
"god, steve. i know you've always been skin and bones but, look at you." bucky takes steve's left arm and holds it up to his face, kissing the fingers lightly. steve's face flushes red raw as bucky kisses lightly up his arm to his neck. "so fragile, skin and bones and still the prettiest boy in brooklyn" bucky says between soft kisses. his hands hold steve's waist softly as he kisses him, now on his cherry lips. he tasted like cold lemonade on a hot summer's evening. fresh out of the shower and he looked healthier as ever, his pink cheeks and clean hair. he couldn't have been dying.
bucky would carry steve back to bed, dress him in his soft night wear and wrap his arms around him until he slept, sometimes steve cried. steve never cried because he was dying, steve cried because he worried sick for what bucky would do when he wasn't around anymore. "i'll take care of the shop, huh? the army isn't for me anymore, or i'll farm. sunflowers on the top of the pretty hills, plant them all around so you can see them from the sky." he would wipe steve's tears as he spoke the soft words, reassuring him he'll still take care of him when he's not here.
"and every house i move into, wether it be alone or with somebody else, i'll promise to paint the walls with sunflower colours and sunshine beams. all for you, my darling. i promise you, i will. and i'll write about you when i get drafted, if i ever do. i'll write to your address as if you would have ever read the letters. you might not be here, but i won't let you die. i won't leave your side, i'm with you til the end of the line, my darling."
steve weeping softly as bucky made the soft promises. "and so will i, when i'm up there. i'll watch you, i'll watch you paint your shoebox apartment with yellow petals and plant the same ones in your backyard, oh and you can keep the cat" steve giggled before his eyes softly shut.
bucky knew steve had time left, he didn't know how long, maybe a day, a week, a month. he doesn't know. steve isn't the type to give up, he won't let his body defeat his mind, steve himself believed he was stronger than the conditions plaguing him, maybe not his body, but he, himself, he was.
and bucky knew it, when steve was spluttering behind the flower counter, he stayed working and wrapping the petty packages. he saw, he saw the way steve wobbled when he walked from a headache while he tried to work.
it made him smile, his feisty wit and determination, the way his face lights up when peggy kisses his cheek after making high sales in one day, his tiny hands neatly wrapping the bows around the rose boxes. bucky knew steve missed work, in his weak state he would still pin the sunflowers around the house and ask peggy round to look. peggy wouldn't let him set foot back into the shop until he felt better. steve has worked sick before, his determination would always win peggy over. but not this time, she would see his bloodshot eyebags, his shaky hands and his pale lips. she refused. she refused his bright spirit, she helped heal him.
she brought honey tea to the apartment after work, dance to slow jazz with bucky and wash steve's hair, she helped them. she always will, her essence was warm in their household, she left cherry tarts and strawberry cupcakes on a friday, fresh baked for them after work.
steve still had the strength to pick up a pencil and carve bucky's pretty face into the thin pages of his sketchbook, he'd draw roses around bucky, sketched every single one of bucky's details. and he hung them next to the sunflower prints in their apartment hallways.
