While There's Still Something Left

Peter Saying Steve in Varying Levels of Concern: The Sequel

Steve headed to his art room, clutching one of his older sketchbooks by his side, rubbing his thumb over the leather surface. Some nights in the army camps, he would do the same thing, to the point where the top layer would start to peel back, leaving little holes like honeycomb in the cover. This one wasn't as weathered as the one bought shortly after being pulled from the ice, but there was a slight discoloration there, the rich brown fading to a grey-tinged tan.

The sun was shining though the windows when he stepped inside, almost too bright for the early hour, but Steve didn't mind. He would rather paint with the natural light anyway. Steve felt off kilter for some reason he couldn't explain, like there was a fuzzy, almost buzzing sensation in his mind. He couldn't focus on anything. All he knew was that he needed to paint. He needed to get out of his head and into his art for a while.

Steve looked over his collection of paints and grabbed a few from the shelves, different hues of reds and blues and blacks, and the glass clinked as a few of his favorite brushes settled into the mason jar in his hands.

Once Steve was settled at his easel, the warmth of the sun shining on his back, it didn't take long for Steve to get lost in his work. He started a little hesitant, but gained confidence in every sharp line, finding himself in the various strokes. The colors and shapes were awash in his mind, not quite forming a proper image yet, but he could feel in his bones that it was coming together. He could assure it with the same confidence that the tides would rise and rain would fall. It was an inevitability.

"Steve?"

Steve startled at the sound of Peter's voice, knocking his paint water to the floor and almost dropping his paintbrush. Peter was sitting cross legged on a stool by the window behind him, watching Steve with a strange expression in his face. He was wearing his Spider-Man suit, but his mask was hanging from limply at his side. Steve did a double take before setting his brush down and turning to face him fully.

"Peter? What are you doing in here?"

Steve would be lying if he said he wasn't happy to see him, even through the surprise. After not getting to see him the night before, he'd had a hard time falling asleep, too busy remembering the good days, and wondering if letting Peter leave when Steve knew something was wrong had put and end to them.

"Why did you do it?"

Steve quirked his head and he felt his hair on the base of his neck stand on end. Something was wrong here. Where Steve usually drew comfort in the sound of Peter's voice, the words sounded foreign and unnatural falling from Peter's pale, chapped lips. They sent shivers of disgust down his spine, like nails on a chalkboard.

Steve shook his head slightly, working to correct his thoughts. No, it was Peter's voice. One of his best friend's voices. It was. Even if it didn't sound right it was still just Peter. That couldn't be what was wrong. Steve's eyes flitted over Peter. Maybe it was his face. It reminded him of the first few drawings he'd made of Peter, where he couldn't quite get the angles right. Steve's stomach knotted uncomfortably, trying to shake off the feeling.

"I don't know what-" he started slowly, leaning forward in his seat.

"Why did you do it?" Peter asked again, his voice low and emotionless. Steve gaped at him, then looked to the floor, where the dark red-tinted water was seeping deep into the carpet. The curtain behind Peter swayed, and Steve swallowed, unease prickling across his skin.

Steve slowly looked back to Peter, who was still waiting expectantly for an answer. It was just a question. All Steve had to do was ask him what he meant, then he could give Peter an answer. It was simple. Yet Steve didn't want to ask-was afraid to, if he was being honest. He managed to ground the words out, his voice like gravel. "Do what?"