"When you woke up, did the world seem like a dream come true?"
"When I woke up, I felt I had awoken into a nightmare."
Coasting on the eddying wave of a dream, he wakes up. In that split second between slumber and consciousness, he is nameless. Formless mist coalescing into form and on the verge of dissolution.
Limp and weary, his limbs tighten and tense, a knot in a rope setting, in preparation for movement. He inhales; he exhales. The air is different, he knows for certain. There's an unnameable quality to it that pricks his hindbrain. Wrong, wrong, his senses scream.
Steve Rogers wishes he had never woken up (incomplete).
What remains of Bucky Barnes begins to wonder why he continues to wake up (jaggedly).
"I am a puzzle full of pieces that saw at each other. Wear and tear from all these years I should not have existed in."
"Do you ever think you truly existed in those years?"
In the end, we are fighters unable to stand idle.
Polycephaly, you and I, biting each other's heads off, unwilling and blind.
"Wait for me! I'm coming."
"There's nothing left to wait for. It's time you went home."
Together, we laugh about the American Dream.
Worn down and dissolute.
"My heart is yours."
"If you let me, I'd claw it right out of your chest."
Your voice is the dream that sets me free.
Remembering a better past and hoping for a new tomorrow.
"Remember."
"With a mind like this; a body like this?"
You're the sand.
I'm the sieve.
"Let's go to sleep."
"If we did, would you ever want to wake up?"
Crushed grass beneath your feet, earthy and sharp.
Yellow flowers in full bloom, catching your gaze.
"And now what do you think?"
"We're dreaming together."