Work Text:
Loneliness was an emotion that Bucky with Absent Mouth knew well. He was the only painting on a blank wall of Stark’s Gallery third floor. And he knew why. Red, silver, and white encompassed his entire canvas, leaving him stuck in a nightmare of acrylic and oil. His creator made him a harsh being with no emotion and little color. And no one would interact with a strained painting who didn’t even know what he was.
Next to Bucky was a devastating space. No light shone on it, leaving a dark shadow with him. As time went on again and again, the third floor began to receive more paintings. The level breathed with light. But, as time went on again and again, Bucky still had the small shadow there with him, never alight with fluorescent bulbs.
Bucky knew he wallowed in self pity, knew it made him disturbing to look at. But he wanted a friend. All the other paintings were too distant to even communicate with. He needed someone to fill the empty spaces, someone to illuminate his shadows, someone to make him feel alive in his trapped frame. His paint chipped as he wished hard for anyone to hang next to him.
...
It took two weeks for his wish to come true and bring him The Helmet of America. Workers trekked towards Bucky, holding a frame in their gloved hands. He couldn’t believe it. His heart sang, his colors transformed into a glossy sheen, because he had a friend at last. He didn’t even mind the whispers about him as the workers put up The Helmet of America. All he cared about was his new friend. They would talk together, accent each other's frames, and attract more customers. They might even be the talk of the gallery!
When The Helmet of America situated himself, Bucky could finally see him in his glory. His figure was tall and imposing, colors bright and clashing, and he held a shield to protect himself. Bucky was in awe. He immediately greeted himself, only for his welcoming to fall flat. The Helmet of America glanced once at him, froze, and ignored him all in two seconds. Bucky didn’t know it was possible to feel like his paint was melting him from canvas out.
Emotion coursed through him; nothing would complete him again. His wall filled, but with someone who’ll never acknowledge him. Of course, who was he to think he could deserve someone as great as The Helmet of America. He was revolting and his wishes would, of course, turn out the same. It was only the course of his life and he was furious. He couldn’t do this anymore! Why did his creator paint him only with unease in mind? God, why couldn’t he have been a warrior sheathed in pure red, white, and blue like his companion? Bucky looked at The Helmet of America longingly, paralyzed in a cycle of self loathing.
But then, a miracle commenced. The Helmet of America moved. His colors contorted, making his strong form crystal-clear. His navy head twisted and turned, getting used to the bright lights above him. The Helmet of America looked up, down, left, and finally right—straight towards Bucky. It didn’t seem like The Helmet of America had even noticed the other paintings now. He peered at him as if he wasn’t just a splash of disgusting colors layered upon each other to make art. He looked at Bucky as if he was something beautiful. Bucky trembled, no idea what to do.
Suddenly, The Helmet of America spoke to him, “Hello, I’m Steve. Who are you?” and Bucky couldn’t answer at all. He felt choked. Alarm and confusion overwhelmed his senses.
Finally, he sputtered out an answer, “B-Bucky…”
Steve (Steve. He knew his name now. Steve!) smiled at him with his rich smears of red and blue and whispered,
“That’s a neat name Bucky.”