The Color Of Blood

Part One; Color

The first color Bucky ever saw was blood.

It didn't have a name then, not that he knew anyway, but he knew instantly it was different.

From childhood, they tell stories-- fact and fairy tale-- about what happens when you meet your Match. Teachers drone on about the science of it; something about how seeing a certain person for the first time triggers part of the occipital lobe of the brain, allowing color to be perceived where it wasn't able to be before. Parents tell stories about soulmates; eyes meeting across the room, love at first sight, literally blooming with color.

Bucky always thought it was kind of stupid, until he saw the blood.

It was smeared across a smaller boy's cheek, his knuckles, his shirt. And in that instant it was all Bucky could see.

It took him only a few seconds to put together exactly what was happening-- this small, bloody boy with his fists raised, and a bigger kid who looked murderous. Not much of a choice, Bucky decided, and then pounced onto the kid who was almost twice the size of him. When the bigger kid realized what was happening, he took off, not wanting much of a fight after all.

When he turned back to the small boy, he was frowning at Bucky. "I could have handled it on my own." His voice wobbled and so did his wrists. He looked fragile, like a strong breeze could knock him down.

But Bucky smiled at him. "I know. I'm Bucky."

The boy finally dropped his fists, appraising Bucky with his bright eyes-- another nameless color Bucky had never seen before. He must have deemed Bucky as a non-threat because he stuck out his little hand and said, "I'm Steve Rogers."

They didn't talk about the color for a long time, though Bucky knew Steve must have seen it, too. It was a lot to wrap his head around after the initial shock of seeing the blood. Bucky wasn't stupid. He knew what the colors were supposed to mean. He just wasn't sure what they meant for him and Steve.

There was so much that science couldn't explain-- no one knew how Matches were chosen. It was just some innate thing that everyone was born with. Some people developed the ability to see color while others never did. All that was truly known was that it created some kind of special bond between the people it affected. Romantic, sexual, platonic... the bonds were limitless. In Bucky's case, the bond with Steve was nothing short of complex.

It didn't take long for Bucky to fall completely in love with Steve. But loving Steve Rogers, Bucky grew to realize, was not an easy thing.

As they grew older, Bucky hit growth spurts and puberty and Steve... didn't. He stayed small. One doctor said that his small stature was what caused his myriad of health problems, while another doctor said it was his health that kept him small. Whatever the cause and effect, it didn't change that Steve was a spitfire; regardless of his size, Steve was made up of all heart and stupidity. He liked to pick fights, for reasons Bucky could not fathom, and refused to run away when the fight got too big for him to handle.

That's where Bucky stepped in. He knew Steve could carry his own, but sometimes Bucky just wanted to carry him instead.

It was in the winter of 1933, as Steve battled another bout of pneumonia, when they first spoke of the colors. Bucky sat next to a bedridden Steve-- he didn't like to call it babysitting, but someone had to make sure Steve didn't die while his mother was away at work--when Steve woke up in a coughing fit.

By then, it was pretty much routine to help Steve into a sitting position, hold the cup to his lips for him to drink. They'd been through this so many times before, but it felt different when they locked eyes over the brim of the mug. Bucky lowered the cup, setting it back on the nightstand. He tossed a crooked smile in Steve's direction, though it hurt his face to do so. He didn't feel like smiling.

He was so pale, seeming to disappear into the white sheets. Cheeks hollow, collar bones sticking out of the stretched neck of the oversized T-shirt. He was still the most beautiful creature Bucky had ever laid eyes on.

They sat there, watching each other, for an indefinite amount of time. Hours could have passed, or seconds, or years. Steve's eyes were easy to get lost in.

Slowly, Steve lifted a hand to point a fragile finger at Bucky's face. "Blue," he said.

And the word, it sounded short and simple, but as Bucky repeated it back, it tasted foreign on his tongue. Something scratched at the back of his mind, but he couldn't place where he'd heard it before. "What does that mean?"

"Your eyes," Steve said. He dropped his hand, falling back against the pillows, and let an easy smile stretch across his chapped lips. "Your eyes are blue."

Bucky jolted as if shocked. That's where he's heard that word before; blue is a color.

"They have classes down at the rec center," Steve said, not acknowledging Bucky's shock in the slightest. "They're for pairs only, so I hid behind the bleachers to listen--" He paused here to cough some more, shaking his head when Bucky offered him water. With a soft sigh, he said, "They teach all about colors. They have different names. And there's so many of them. Blue is my favorite. Just like your eyes."

A lump settled in Bucky's throat and he cleared it a couple of times. He can't seem to look directly at Steve. He knew he needed to say something, but his heart felt like it was beating too fast, too slow, stopping and restarting instantaneously.

A small wheeze escaped Steve, not sounding like the laugh it was intended to be. "Geez, Buck. I'm kind of pouring my heart out over here. You should say something."

Bucky's mouth felt dry. "What do you want me to say?"

"Say that you see it, too." Steve's voice sounded smaller than normal, but when Bucky cast a glance at him, his expression was steady, intent and focused. "Say that I'm not crazy. Say you can feel it, like I can."

Bucky thought back to the moment he first saw Steve, the color that overwhelmed him, but more than that, the feeling. The warmth that rushed through his veins when he saw the scrawny kid with blood smeared on his face. He felt it presently, too, that warmth, and realized it's the feeling he always gets when he looks at Steve.

"What is blood?" Bucky asked quietly. "It has a name, right? The color of blood?"

"Red," Steve said too quickly-- Bucky almost rolled his eyes. Steve had seen a lot of blood in his fifteen years of life, mostly his own. Of course he's familiar with it.

"Red," Bucky repeats. It tastes heavy on his tongue, like copper, but right. A word he would want to say over and over again. "Red. That's the first one I saw. That one is my favorite."

Steve beamed up at him, his cheeks lighting up the color of blood. Red. Bucky couldn't contain himself. He leaned over and pressed his lips against Steve's. It lasted less than a second, barely even a brush of skin against skin, because Steve started coughing again.

They smiled at each other. Steve scooted over on the bed and lifted the blanket. He didn't use words, but Bucky understood the question. He climbed in next to Steve, their noses just inches apart, their legs pressed together.

"Get some sleep, punk," Bucky said, and placed a gentle kiss on Steve's forehead.

"Not tired," Steve said. His eyes were half-lidded, looking on the verge of sleep or death. Bucky didn't want to think about that, about Steve dying. This wasn't the first time Steve got sick and it certainly wouldn't be the last. His body was kind of frail, but Steve had always been one hell of a fighter.