Chapter Text
“Steven, do you understand what I’m saying?”
The air conditioning kicks on again and goosebumps prickle the skin of his arms. The doctor has a stain on his shirt, just below the tarnishing silver tie clip that’s holding back a grey gingham tie. He wonders if the doctor’s noticed the stain. It looks like coffee maybe.
“Steven?”
His hands feel sweaty as he clenches them into fists. He’s got to get back to work. This appointment has already ran an hour and a half later than it was supposed to. The nurse didn’t check him in and the MRI had to be done twice. He’s going to get fired. But his job doesn’t fucking matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore.
“Steven.”
He looks up at the doctor and forces a smile. “Yeah, I understand. Brain cancer. Inoperable,” Steve mutters, scrubbing his damp palms over his jeans. “I’m going to die.”
~~~
The headache starts back up as he’s running for the train and Steve spends the entire ride fighting the nausea with his head between his knees. He’d been sick for a couple months—throwing up at work, unable to get out of bed due to headaches, memory loss—and Bucky had finally forced him to make an appointment with his doctor a week before his 20th birthday. Three weeks later and he had been referred to an oncologist and, in one single moment, Steve has had his entire life turned upside down.
The bookshop is busy when he rushes in, Bucky frantically checking out a long line. Steve shrugs off his bag and mutters, “Sorry I’m late.”
“Mr. Jacobson is gonna kill you, Stevie,” Bucky says, lifting the counter to let him into the registers. “He’s been asking about you for an hour.” Steve ducks under his arm and sets up the second register. “How was your appointment?”
He shrugs. “It was fine. I’ll tell you about it later.”
It comes out strained and Steve winces a little bit at his failed display of levity. Bucky’s hands freeze on the cash drawer and his brow furrows in worry but he doesn’t try and push the issue further. Steve can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the dull throb of his headache still eating away at his concentration. But he only has four more hours of work and then he can deal with everything tonight.
Fuck, what is he going to tell Bucky?
He thinks and thinks and thinks and comes up blank. Steve wrestles for any kind of excuse for the entire rest of his shift and it’s still buzzing in the back of his mind when Bucky locks the front door and turns on him, hands on his hips. “Okay, Rogers, what the hell’s going on with you?” he asks, worry laced deep into his face. “Your headaches springing up again? You worried about next semester coming up?”
Steve shrugs and pulls the cash drawer out. “It’s nothing, Buck. I swear.”
“The doctor figure out what’s going on with you?”
His hands fumble with the stack of twenties and Steve clenches his jaw to keep it from trembling. “Yeah,” he mumbles through gritted teeth. “Yeah, they—” His voice cracks and his stomach aches. He sucks a shaking breath though his nose and fights the urge to vomit. His vision goes fuzzy around the edges and suddenly Bucky’s grabbing him and forcing him into a chair. Steve shakes with frustration and exhaustion as he snaps, “Get off me, I’m fine.”
“You’re as white as a sheet, man,” Bucky says, pushing his hair out of his face. “Seriously, Steve, you’re scaring me.”
“Stop fucking treating me like I’m gonna break just because I’ve been sick!”
“Then tell me what’s going on!” the brunet shouts. Guilt bubbles up his throat and Steve has never seen Bucky look so panicked. “Please, just tell me what the doctors said!”
Steve throws the rubber-banded cash onto the ground and swings his hands out in a wide gesture. “I’ve got fucking cancer, okay?” Bucky’s mouth falls open but his friend makes no sound. “I’ve got a big ol’ tumor inside my brain and there’s nothing the doctors can do about it. Happy now?” Steve asks. He should be crying, right? Should feel some emotion other than annoyance. “Y’know, I figured my shitty lungs or my bum heart was gonna be the way I go out. Didn’t think it was going to be the one thing in my body that actually worked that did me in.”
Bucky shakes his head, eyes glassy and rimmed in red. “M-Maybe—Maybe they got your tests m-mixed up…” he chokes weakly.
“No, they’re right, I’m just real special,” Steve says snidely. “Stage 4 Glioblastoma. 5.6 by 6.7 centimeters big. Doctor wasn’t even sure how I was still functioning. I’m a goddamn medical miracle.”
The shop is so quiet that all Steve can hear is their heavy breathing. There’s a single question hanging between the two of them that feels so heavy that he can feel the weight on both their shoulders. Bucky slumps back against the counter as the first tear slips past his eyelashes. “How…” He scrubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. “How long do you have?”
“Seventeen weeks without treatment, at the most,” Steve whispers, scaring even himself with how calm he sounds. “Thirty-two if I go through radiation.” Bucky’s cheeks flush and the rest of his skin goes pale. “Buck, hey, are you okay?”
The taller boy shakes his head and swallows back a sob. “No,” he says thickly. “No, fuck this. Fuck this Steve. Fuck, I can’t—” Bucky reaches down and grabs the wad of cash and throws it at the cash drawer. “Come on, we’re going out for a fucking drink. Jacobson can fucking deal with this shit in the morning.”
“Buck, we gotta—we’ll get fired if we—”
“Then we’ll get fired, holy shit Steve, it doesn’t matter!” Bucky shouts, spinning on him, cheeks wet with tears. “You just told me you have thirty-two weeks to live and you’re worried about your fucking job?!”
“I’m not—”
Bucky disappears to the back office and comes back full of unsteady rage at the world. How can he feel all of these things—anger, grief, sadness, fury—when Steve feels absolutely nothing. “Come on, we can go to that little dive bar over by our apartment. I know they don’t ID and then you can—”
“Bucky, stop!” he says, cutting the other boy off mid-ramble. Bucky blinks and freezes as Steve climbs down from the chair. They’re close, suddenly too close for his liking but he can’t bear to move away from his friend. Not now. Steve swallows the lump in his throat and looks up at Bucky. “It’s not going to be thirty-two weeks, Buck. I’m not going to do treatment.”
The world screeches to a frightening halt.
“You what?” Bucky whispers, breathless and horrified.
“I’m not doing radiation,” he repeats. “Do you know how much radiation costs? I’m a fucking college student; I have no money, no family, and I make $3.75 an hour. How is spending a couple thousand dollars that I don’t have worth getting four more extra months to just spend being sick?”
Bucky is still staring at him like Steve grew an extra head or is missing a couple limbs. The older boy clenches his fists and grits his teeth. “You don’t think other people are gonna want four more months with you?” he snaps, spitting venom with every syllable. “You don’t think I would kill for just a little more time to spend with you? Fuck off, Steve.” His footsteps echo through the silent store as Bucky storms off out the back, slamming the door on his way out.
Steve sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. Fuck.
~~~
It’s late when he makes it back to the apartment, only to find it empty—Bucky gone and no note. Steve grabs his jean jacket and throws it on before heading down the block towards the bar. His headache and nausea have subsided and he’s so goddamn exhausted from the day, but he knows he has to patch things up with Bucky before he can sleep.
There’s a George Michael song playing on the radio as he walks in and Steve can instantly spot his friend at table in the corner. Bucky’s bent over a pint glass, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. He doesn’t look up as Steve sits silently across from him, just wipes his face with his palms and croaks, “I don’t want you to die, Stevie…”
“I know,” Steve says, reaching across the table and carefully taking Bucky’s hand. “I know and I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t happening, trust me.”
Bucky shudders through a sob and a silent tear drops from the tip of his nose down to the table. “What am I g-gonna do without you?” He finally raises his head and his face is splotchy and red. “You’re the best thing in my life…” he slurs.
“Nothing we can do now, Buck,” Steve says as he takes the glass out of Bucky’s hand. “Come on, lets get you back home. I think you’ve had enough.”
Bucky slumps across his shoulder as he all but drags the older boy back down the street. “‘m sorry, Stevie,” he mumbles, voice on the edge of a sob. “I jus—” Bucky whimpers, low and broken and drunk, and Steve just wants to get him into the apartment and put him to bed so he can stop being reminded that all of this is real. He’s got cancer. He’s got a goddamn tumor in his brain. He’s going to die, sooner than either of them ever thought.
And Bucky was going to have to bury him.
God, what he wouldn’t give to change everything.
The taller boy’s eyes are half lidded as Steve rolls him into the single bed, tugging Bucky’s worn boots off his feet. Bucky stares at the ceiling, chin wobbling as he sucks in an unsteady breath. “What are you gonna miss th’most?” he whispers, reaching out a trembling hand for Steve.
Other than you? Steve thinks, his stomach clenching.
He kicks his own shoes off and sits on the edge of the bed, unable to look at Bucky. If he does, all of his strength will leave his body and he’ll be lost. So instead, Steve shrugs, looks at the flickering light on the ceiling of their shitty studio loft. “Gonna miss this, I guess,” he mumbles. “Gonna miss not getting to see everything I wanted to. Money was always tight and Mom did her best, but I’ve never been out of New York City.”
“Stevie?” He glances over his shoulder, only to find Bucky staring at him like he’s trying not to forget what Steve’s face looks like. “Don’t go. Not till the end, okay?” Bucky’s hand wraps around his thin bicep, pulling him down next to him. Steve closes his eyes and presses his face into the older boy’s too-warm neck. “Promise y’won’t leave me.”
Bucky’s heavy hand strokes through the golden hair at the crown of his head and salty tears begin to bite at Steve’s eyes. “I promise, Buck.”
Exhaustion soaks into every cell of his body, through every bone and drop of blood. Steve’s eyelids hang heavy as they finally slip shut. He dreams of swimming in the Atlantic Ocean, dreams of Bucky’s grin as he rises from the waves, reaching out to him. He dreams of places he’s heard about but will never go. He dreams of a life he’ll never live.
It’s the worst sleep he has since the headaches first started.
~~~
It’s early in the afternoon when Steve finally lurches back into consciousness. Bucky isn’t beside him; there’s no warmth to keep him company. His body feels stiff, muscles pulling at his joints as Steve sits up in bed. The dresser drawers they share have been pulled open and emptied and the suitcases that usually perched on top of the bookcase have disappeared.
The room spins and Steve’s hands shake as he grips the edge of the bed.
Bucky had just left him.
His legs feel weak as he stands, looking around their small apartment. It had been their home for the last two years, since his Mom had passed, cramped and drafty in the winters and unbearably hot in the summers, but still, it was home. Steve half expects a note. Anything that would explain Bucky just up and leaving him, but then again, he did drop the news of having an inoperable brain tumor and the decision of foregoing treatment in a span of 5 minutes.
Maybe after all that, he deserves to die alone.
Steve fumbles in the bathroom for the half a dozen pills the doctor sent him home and forces some toast into his stomach to try and combat the rising nausea. It’s almost a constant at this point, even with the meds he’s been given. He hadn’t really thought much of it, what with the ulcers he routinely got, until the headaches had started and Bucky made him book a doctor’s appointment.
And now it was too late. Now it was just a waiting game for his motor function to decline, for his seizures to get stronger, for his organs to start giving out. Now all he had to do was wait to die.
The fatigue gets to him quickly and he find himself fast asleep on the lumpy couch before it’s even 3pm.
“Steve? Steve, buddy, wake up.”
Steve jerks awake, grabbing at Bucky’s hands on his face. “Wha—What’re you—” he gasps, gaze coming back into focus. “You…you left.”
The older boy’s face falls and his hands tighten on either side of Steve’s jaw. “God, no, Steve, why would you even think that?” Bucky says, brow furrowing. “I’m not ever leaving you, especially not now. How could you—”
“You were gone when I woke up,” Steve says, still trying to fight the clutches of sleep. His nausea is back and his voice is shaking for reasons he doesn’t understand. “I thought—”
The room spins as Bucky pulls him up into a tight, crushing hug. It’s that warm familiar scent of sweat and Calvin Klein cologne that instantly melts all of Steve’s worries away, even when he’s too stubborn to let them go. “I’m sorry, I was gonna tell you but you were so out of it that I didn’t want to wake you,” he murmurs, stroking the ends of Steve’s hair. “I’m sorry, I should’ve left a note but I wanted it to be a surprise.”
Steve pulls out of his grip. “Surprise?”
Outside, he puts his hands on his hips
“You can’t be serious, Buck.”
The car is a piece of shit. Steve can’t even believe it’s all in once piece. It’s gotta be almost twenty years old, an old 1960’s Ambassador, covered in rust with the hood strapped to the fender to keep it shut. But Bucky is standing in front of it like it’s the best thing in the entire world.
“You can’t be serious,” Steve repeats again, shoulders sagging in defeat as Bucky’s grin widens. “This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“This is the best idea I’ve ever had, Steve. Think about it, what else are we gonna do with the time you’ve got left? Sit around in Brooklyn?” the older boy says, stepping closer to him. Steve looks up at him, sighing softly. There’s a glorious hopefulness in Bucky’s eyes that he can’t tear his gaze away from, even when Bucky steps closer, their chests almost touching. “I remembered what you told me last night. That you’ve never been outside the city. I need you to do this with me, Steve. It’s the last chance we’ll get.”
“You’ve got school starting back up in a month,” he says desperately, picking at the skin around his nails anxiously. “You can’t just fuck off for two months and—”
“I’m not going back to school.”
And just like that, another ball drops. Steve blinks and shakes his head. “No, you’re not dropping out.”
Bucky motions to the car again. “How the hell did you think I got the money for this, Steve? I pulled all four thousand from my college fund to buy this car and pay for the trip,” he says.
“You have to go back!” he shouts, shoving Bucky hard in the chest. “You can’t throw away your entire future just because I’m sick. Don’t be so fucking stupid!” Steve’s mind is racing and he hits Bucky again. “You’re fucking going back to school!”
“There’s no point to going back after you—” Bucky’s voice fails him and Steve’s heart sinks straight into his stomach. The first tears slip down Bucky’s face and he scrubs the heel of his hand roughly over his eyes. Steve reaches out and wraps his hand around Bucky’s wrist, stilling the frantic movement. The brunet closes his eyes and shudders through a trembling breath. “Please just tell me you’ll do this with me. Please.”
Steve sighs and asks, “When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
~~~
They don’t talk about it the rest of the night. Part of Steve thinks it’s all some big dream. The last twenty four hours can’t have happened. But then he looks over at the spread map in the middle of the floor with every stop plotted out and knows it’s real.
Four months, Bucky said. That’s how long this road trip was supposed to take. Two months to get out to California and two months to get back home, just in time to die in Brooklyn. Steve knows he should feel lucky—not everyone gets that certainty of when—but the news is beginning to catch up with him. The fact that his time is running out one day at a time faster than he ever thought it would.
He watches Bucky strip down to his underwear, skin glistening in the summer heat as he tosses the couch cushions in a pile on the floor. The sofa bed legs creak as the older boy pulls them free and Steve’s heart thuds in his chest. He scrubs his hands over his bare legs and mumbles, “You can sleep with me again tonight, if you want.”
Bucky’s head turns to him but he doesn’t say anything, like he hadn’t quite heard what he said. But maybe he hadn’t said anything at all.
“I know how much it messes up your back,” Steve spits, staring down at his lap. “I’ve got enough space in my bed.” The pull out bed squeaks again as Bucky returns it to its original position. “Buck?”
“Are you actually worried about me or are you just lonely?” He looks up at Bucky and watches the brunet cross his arms over his chest. Steve sets his jaw and stares him down petulantly, refusing to answer the question out of sheer pride. But Bucky makes no move to sit down next to him—only says, “You better answer me, Stevie or I’m gonna go get the pull-out back open. Do you want me to sleep next to you? Will it help?”
Steve huffs out a short breath and digs his fingers into his thighs. He bounces his legs anxiously and feels his shoulders sag. “Please don’t make me ask you. Not now.”
It’s something familiar—the two of them in bed together. They’ve been friends since they were babies, have done everything together since before Steve has memories, and they’ve never been far apart. They curled up together during sleepovers and whenever they were sick. Bucky had spent most of last winter curled around him at night when their heat busted and their super couldn’t be bothered to fix it. But now all Steve wanted was someone next to him to hold him and pretend like everything was okay.
Bucky sighs and gives in, padding over quietly. The mattress dips under his weight as he sits next to Steve and nudges their shoulders together. “You know, you can be one stubborn asshole when you want to be.”
Steve forces a weak smile and jokes, “Gimme a pass because I’m dyin’?”
A shaky breath falls out of the other boy’s mouth and Bucky nods, pulling Steve into his chest. “Yeah, just this once, okay?” he mumbles into Steve’s hair. “But don’t get used to it.”
They stay up late watching Top Gun and he spends the entire movie tucked into the warm space underneath Bucky’s arm. Sirens wail outside and Steve stifles a yawn, feeling the medicine beginning to kick in. It’s hot and sweat drips down the center of his crooked spine but he’s never felt more safe in his entire life.
There’s some deep, nagging thought that seeps deep into his bones, filling up the hollow spaces he’s carried around, but Steve is too much of a coward to put it to words. If he does, he’s doomed. If he does, it’ll all become real.
“You should get some sleep, Steve,” Bucky whispers against the crown of his head, low and soft and gentle like it’s a secret. “It’s been a long day.” Fingers comb through his hair, brush over the top of his ear. “Sleep—I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.” The tide begins to turn in the battle to keep his eyes open and Steve settles down on the pillow, letting sleep take its hold on him.
Bucky’s hand rests warm and heavy on the side of his neck the entire night.