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The ring of a lock unlatching alerted Steve to Bucky’s return from work. He lazily stepped into the living room where Steve sat, exhausted but clearly happy to be home.
Without providing any context, Bucky said, “We should write letters to Santa.”
“We should— what?” The question caught Steve by surprise. He and Bucky were both nearly grown men; 17-year-olds with their own apartment who hadn’t believed in Christmas magic since childhood.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Bucky insisted, the usual cheeky grin plastering his face. “Like when we were kids.”
Looking at his bright expression, Steve couldn’t help but smile back and assent. It was maybe an unusual way to spend an evening, but screw anyone who wanted to judge. Besides, it wasn’t like they usually did much for Christmas — they were too poor to afford a tree or many presents — so this might just be the best way to celebrate.
Steve fetched his art supplies, a few dull pencils and some paper, while Bucky showered off the sweat from working at the docks.
After a few minutes, the two of them were settled into the couch with pencils and haphazardly-ripped sheets of paper in hand. Bucky sat at the couch’s arm, one hand lazily slipped behind Steve’s head, who sat just beside him. They were both underneath a blanket, the Brooklyn weather too cold to let any body heat escape.
Steve placed his pencil on the paper carefully, then lifted it, a frown stitching his smooth chin. “It’s been so long since I’ve done this, I think I’ve forgotten how to.”
“Aww, does little Stevie need a tutorial-“
“Shut UP, asshole,” Steve groaned, punching his shoulder. The other man looked up at him with wide, innocent, beautiful eyes, and Steve laughed and rolled his. With a face like that, he could never stay mad for long.
Bucky responded with a slight giggle of his own and a ruffle of the blond’s hair, which Steve definitely didn’t lean into.
Steve put his pencil down again and wrote a meager two words.
Dear Santa.
He knew what a kid would typically write - a request for toys or true love, and a short “Have a Merry Christmas!” - but Steve really couldn’t think of what to write. He had all he wanted in his sketchbook and the person next to him.
Actually, better health and more money would probably be nice.
With those two focuses in mind, he finally began writing, graceful lines flowing on the page. His handwriting had always been nice, probably a side effect of his artistic talent. It was much nicer than Bucky’s, whose words were scrappy, large, and sharp.
Speaking of Bucky, the man had been writing furiously the whole time. His page was somehow nearly full, after scarcely more than three minutes.
“Jesus Christ, Buck- how and why are you writing so fast?” Steve interrogated.
“How aren’t you?” He responded.
“Well, I couldn’t decide on what to write, when everything I want is right here.” Steve said, a smile slipping into his words as he rubbed at Bucky’s back.
“Sap,” he said, pretending to be annoyed at the fussing, though the effort was futile considering the blush on his face and stars in his eyes. No matter what walls he erected to most, Steve was always allowed through. Best friends, together till the end of the line.
Bucky folded his finished paper with a little more aggression than necessary, then let it drift to the ground as his head flopped into Steve’s lap.
“Dramatic punk,” Steve chuckled, shaking his head.
“Shut up, you like this.” And now it was Steve’s turn to blush, because Bucky was very, very right.
Steve’s hand idly twisted through Bucky’s hair as he paused to think before writing. Occasionally, the ministrations would drift down to his neck and shoulders, which were uncharacteristically tense, likely from his long shifts at the shipyard. Bucky’d just said it was busy, but Steve had a suspicion that he’d been taking more hours to help support the two of them.
Eventually, Steve finished his letter as well, and let it drift down to join Bucky’s on the floor. He found a sense of artistic irony in it — their souls were always together, in paper and humanity.
The two of them spent the next part of the afternoon curled up on the couch, just enjoying each other’s presence. Bucky fell asleep at some point, warm, even breaths heating space where his head lay. Though Steve was a little tempted to get up and do something else — grab the radio or his sketchbook, and fill the comfortable silence with more scratching — he decided to indulge in the softness of the moment and stay.
And if anyone wanted to judge the two of them for being queers, well, screw them. He was happy here, and they could go crying to their mothers — he would protect this with fire and punches, and he would gladly take a beating if it meant having Bucky by his side. This love was the most precious thing in his life.