#wsmb

“Y/N?” You blink, the orange reflection of flames in your eyes as you wiggle to look over your shoulder at your mother. Her brows are raised, nose tilted to look down at you. “Should we do presents now?”

Nodding, you reach out to try and place your glass on the table by Steve. Noticing your struggle, he takes the glass from you and slides it onto the surface- just out of reach. He leans the chair forward so you can get up, trying not to step on the cat sitting by his feet.

The tree towers over your head and you kneel down, reaching for the gifts to pass them around. Boxes and bags in various sizes, a few different wrapping papers, go out one at a time. You had forgotten, until you find From: Steve, To: Bucky, that there’s another person sitting by the tree, leaning with his back pressed against the wall, looking like he’d like to disappear just as much as you had. Passing him the gift, his gaze meets yours silently. He does not smile as he pulls it into his lap, fingers tracing where the paper is taped down.

The last present, you realize, is the one you wish had gotten left behind. Even though you haven’t the slightest clue what it is, you’re still afraid of what might be inside. Hiding it between presents from your parents, you clamor back into Steve’s lap, legs tossed over one side of the chair. His hands rest on your lap, one thumb rubbing circles on your thigh as you tear into a present from your mother. The rest of the room takes that as the cue, the sound of shredding paper echoing loudly in your ears.

Steve kisses your cheek as he opens his gift from you, his stubble scratching your cheek. His eyes are bright as you tear into paper wrappings. The last gift, when there’s nothing more to mask it, sits heavily in your lap. Looking up, you make eye contact with Bucky. His arms are propped on his knees, his gifts sitting next to him, forgotten as he waits. There’s something unreadable in his expression and he swallows, eyes dropping as you slide your finger under the paper and, reluctantly, tear it open.

It’s a book. A sleek, blue cover, golden, shining letters scrawled across the cover. Your fingers trace the scrawling letters as Steve peers over your shoulder at it. “I didn’t know you liked poetry.”

You don’t answer him, running your hands down the spine and peering at the pages between the cover. One of them is folded in, bookmarked, and you almost open it to the page before thinking better of it. A tight smile stretched over your lips and you looked back up at Bucky, but he refused to look up again.

Steve cleared his throat, patting your leg. You stood up, clutching the book against your chest as Steve made his way toward the tree. “I did get you something,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes. Your heart thudded in your chest, in your throat and in your head, as Steve reached into the branches of the tree and withdrew something from the branches. “I’m just, uh, sorry I wasn’t here on the actual day, but-”

 “What’re you doing?” It came out a whisper, your tongue heavy and throat thick as Steve moved toward you with slow but determined steps. He stopped in front of you, lips twitching into a smirk. “Steve?”

“Y/N,” Steve mumbled, his thumb running over the velvet cover of the box in his hands. “I know we’ve only known each other a couple years now. But… You’ve been a part of me for my entire life. From the moment those letters appeared on my skin, I knew you. I knew your laughter and I knew your cries. I knew the sound of your voice before I could hear it. I knew that I loved the way you smile. I knew you before I even knew myself. When we met, it was like seeing the stars for the first time. I knew that you were mine.”

Steve’s tongue ran over his teeth and he chuckled to himself, fingers still playing with the box. He looked up at you, then, a million stars twinkling in his eyes; a million butterflies in your stomach, fluttering, their wings stretching against your insides as they tried to burst free. Were you going to be sick?

“I love you,” Steve said, mumbling, more to himself than to you. Then his smile, if it ever could, grew more and more, teeth bright. “I always knew that. I’ve always known that I was destined to find you, to love you, to let you be a part of me. To be a part of you. So, I gotta ask-”

Steve paused, a hopeful look on his face. Slowly, he knelt down at your feet, reaching up. His hand slid along your forearm and grasped your hands. His skin was warm, fingers laced between yours, and you gripped his hand for your life, afraid to let him go. Afraid that if you did let go, he would sink.

“Will you let me, be a part of you, for the rest of our lives? Would you marry me?”

It’s cold. Even with the fire roaring in the fireplace beside you, casting an orange glow over Steve’s face, the air is freezing. The hairs on the back of your neck stick up, your skin covered in goose bumps. Everywhere except for the hand gripping Steve’s is cold, barren; particularly your cheeks are cold and wet. Lips trembling, you glance, eyes dropping to the book still pressed tightly against your chest. It feels suffocating, cutting off the air in your lungs. The book presses heavy against you, the edges sharp as your other hand curls around it. The pages could cut you like a knife, could rip away your flesh and leave you bleeding.

 Your eyes raise to Steve again, eyes weary as he waits for you to answer. His tongue darts out again, teeth biting his lip. His fingers, wrapped delicately around your hand, give you a squeeze and yank you back to reality. Blinking, carefully, you nod, slowly at first, your neck aching.