things of dry hours (слэш)

Bucky’s clothes rustle when he pulls a pocket knife from his jacket. He eyes the scratchings in the trees before carefully carving his name next to a crude stick figure with a gun.
“You remember what it was like,” Bucky says, knife still in hand. “Don’t you?”
Steve thinks of the flat surface of an ocean, the dreams of floating. A lukewarm sea lapping against his knees as he drifted alone. Water dripping off his chin. His eyes opened in a strange bed and a strange world. “Just a little, yeah.”
Bucky nods. “I don’t feel cold anymore.”
“I—me too.”
In the year after they leave the bunker in Siberia, Steve and Bucky find solace in painting, and maybe in the process, relearn how to be around each other again.