to bucky, steve is the sun, which must make him the moon; a shadow, an imitation, cold and distant. but to steve, bucky is the whole goddamn cosmos. he could spent hours mapping out constellations in the freckles on his shoulders, and he names each and every one of his bruised knuckles after a constellation, a personalised map of the universe with each star caught in his smile a "you are here" sign. to steve, he is imploding and collapsing and infinitely shifting and he knows he'll never keep up
sometimes, steve thinks, bucky is more than his ribs can contain. it’s like he’s hidden a supernova in his smile, and he’s got a map of forgotten stars in his eyes. he was never just the moon, he was meant for more than that, because even his shadows taste of chaos. the universe must have used him as a goddamn canvas, a continuation of their vast greatness. he exists, as an extension, of all the things we’ve never known.