Dionysus
Bucky wakes barefoot in a sun-drenched field that isn’t really a field. The grass is too soft, too fragrant. It sighs when he brushes it with his bare feet. Wildflowers coil gently up his calves like curious kittens.
He is shirtless. A garland of ivy and moonflowers rests on his brow. There's a smudge of gold paint across his collarbone, and a cluster of wine-dark grapes rests heavy in one hand. His mouth tastes like honey and something sharper.
He doesn’t remember picking the flowers. He doesn’t remember eating grapes. He doesn’t remember how he got here. He tries to, but the thought slides out of his grip like a greased olive.
Also, his fingertips are stained dark red. Wine? Blood? Blackberry jam? Unclear. Maybe all three. There are fireflies made of music, and he hears laughter in the distance. Soft, rolling. Lovely. He follows it.
There is a grove of silver fig trees nearby and fauns scatter through them as he approaches, their hooves barely disturbing the moss. They trill panpipes and giggle among themselves. He hears bells, or possibly chimes. The tilt of reality makes it hard to tell. The vines whisper secrets to him that he’s not supposed to understand.
A shadow dances at the edge of the trees. Slender, bare-chested, wrapped in animal skins and draped in decadence. Gold glints on his fingers, his ears, his throat. His eyes are wild, bright as stars and just as far away. He’s beautiful in a way that shouldn’t be real.
“There you are,” Dionysus purrs, stepping into the golden light. “My muse. My storm. My sweetest contradiction.”
Bucky sways slightly, lips parting. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet.” Dionysus smiles like he’s always known him. “But you will.”
He offers a hand, his bracelets chiming softly. Bucky doesn’t remember reaching out, but their fingers are tangled. They dance. Or perhaps they drift. Music thickens the air. Wine pools in low stone bowls at their feet. Fauns and woodland nymphs press figs and ripe peaches into his hands. Someone paints his nails a deep plum and kisses the back of his neck. There is only pleasure, lazy and drowsy and sweet.
*
Days, or hours, pass in a shimmering blur.
Bucky dances barefoot through fields of silver wheat. There are cherry-stained kisses in dappled moonlight. He floats in wine-dark rivers under the stars. He says things he doesn't remember meaning and means things he doesn’t remember saying. A fox made of moonlight kisses his cheek. A harp plays his heartbeat.
And everywhere, there is Dionysus. Laughing. Teasing. Touching his shoulder like it means something. Making love to him in languid ecstasy.
And Bucky keeps thinking that this feels so good. But it also feels not quite right. Something’s missing. Someone.
*
And then, mid-festival, at the height of a glorious, glittering dance, the music skids. There’s a ripple, a hitch in the golden glamour. The harpsong stutters.
He hears a voice slice through the haze. Sharp, amused, familiar. “Well. I suppose someone had to ruin the mood.”
Bucky turns, blinking slowly. And there’s Zemo. In full black. Boots somehow unstained by mud or crushed grapes. Completely incongruous in this fevered dream of a world, but completely himself. Cool. Poised. A little annoyed. There’s a wildness in his eyes that wasn't there before. Like something old woke up in him and said, go and get your heart back.
Bucky grins, wine-drowsy. “You came.”
Zemo lifts a brow. “Of course I came. You vanished into an orchard and reappeared in a Dionysian orgy.” He sniffs the air. “I had to walk through a vineyard that moaned at me.”
Dionysus, reclining on a chaise woven from vines, watches Zemo with open delight. “You’re just in time. The night never ends here.”
“So I noticed,” Zemo says dryly, stepping forward. His eyes meet Bucky’s, softening despite himself. “You look ridiculous.”
Bucky’s lips twitch. “Do you like it?” Bucky’s hair is a mess of vines and glitter, cheeks flushed, eyes a little lost. Zemo cups his face gently, brushes a thumb over that wine-stained mouth, and says, very softly, “Of course I do.”
Dionysus, rising with impossible grace, purrs, “You’re welcome to stay. There’s room for more than one kind of devotion here.”
Zemo eyes him. “And yet I think you know that won’t be necessary.”
Dionysus laughs, head tossed back, curls glinting. “Fine. Take your dreamer, Eko Scorpion. He’ll wake when you kiss him.”
Zemo looks to Bucky, who’s smiling at him, dreamy and wine-warm.
“Well,” Zemo murmurs, brushing a painted knuckle with his thumb. “Who am I to refuse such classic romance?”
And when he kisses him, the velvet dusk sighs. The flutes fade. The garlands fall away like mist.
And Bucky, blinking into the dawn, finds himself tucked beside Zemo on a hillside above a vineyard, still barefoot, still with grape juice on his fingers, but wholly himself again. And more in love than ever.
***