Feeling himself fade away must be one of the strangest experiences he's ever gone through, the ashlike substance his hand was turning into right before his eyes circled and turned on its way down until it hit the ground beneath his feet.
And suddenly he was afraid of dying.
He'd never found it something to be scared of until that very moment.
In his childhood it had been sad but not scary, a thing he had quickly gotten used quite early on.
The dog they had always given leftovers he had found on the street one day, muddy and cold, fur wet from the rain. They had buried it in the woods that laid near the city.
Only five years went by and they buried his dad's ashes in that same forest, his mom not wanting to have them standing around in the house as it made her upset, his little sister not saying a word until they got back to their home.
When his mother died two years after that he didn't cry anymore.
He had started to understand that it was unavoidable and not something to be upset about.
All living creatures die, nothing that could prevent it from happening.
Back in the military, it had been an unavoidable thing. Something you want to avoid as long as possible but would come to haunt them all eventually.
Most men training and later on fighting alongside him acted like they would all survive the war. Every time they were allowed to go out drinking they would play a game of 'when the war is over'. Most of the futurists talked about going back to their girl that was waiting for them back home, some speaking of kids and dogs and their mothers cooking, others smiling and drinking, maybe dreaming about their own future or, like him, just dreaming about surviving long enough so they got to live it.
When asked about his future plans he would just quickly shrug it off with a quick 'I don't know'. Not necessarily because he didn't want to talk about the 'damsel' that would be waiting for him, god, if he would be able to he'd talk for hours on end about his life back home.
No, he mostly didn't because his damsel was a ninety-pound man with the fight instinct of a wolfhound and the height of an eighth grader.
Not that the army didn't know any homosexuals. It was quite common, considering the fact that they were surrounded by mostly other males for a good part of the war and that every man has his basic needs, a relationship between two male soldiers was not something unusual. But it was technically still strictly forbidden, and he had been in a relationship with his significant other for far longer than the war had gone on for.
When he was captured and used as a lab rat for Zola's experiments he wasn't afraid of it.
Sure, he was terrified of what would happen to his boyfriend when he passed, what his lover would do once he got the news, god knows he would try to enlist again in his name, but he knew this day would come eventually.
The methods they used could be described as torture, the things they pumped into his veins setting his body on fire and wiping his brain in a way that felt like his skull was being split open.
But he remembered, residing his serial numbers and status, residing his name out loud as everything faded around him.
Once Steve had actually found him those were the only things he was able to remember clearly, the only things he was sure of were his memories and not some fever-dream that Zola had implanted in his brain.
And Steve had grown taller, on their way back to the camp explaining how he enlisted, how a scientist told him he had a chance on getting into the super soldier program and how the program consisted of experimental drugs being put into his body.
And he'd asked if it had hurt. And Steve had described the fire in his veins and screams that had been torn out of his throat, how he had told them to continue because if this didn't work then what would?
And for the first time in years, he felt helpless.
Because Steve had grown taller, didn't need his protection anymore.
And it was his Steve, but when he ran his hands over the large, muscle-packed arms later that night in the tent Steve had requested and gotten because he had saved a thousand or so men, he didn't feel like his Steve.
The same blue eyes looking at him as they laid by each other's side, him trying so hard to find something familiar in the man's body because god knows what he'd do if they had taken him away too.
But where he had been boney had been replaced with toned muscles, strong arms wrapping around him as they laid together perhaps feeling right but not like Steve.
And where he had been bruised each and every day no matter what there now was no scratch in sight even though they had gotten out of the heat of the fight just hours ago.
And his Steve would have gotten tired and been out of breath after a few punches.
And his Steve was soft and always cold.
That was the first time he cried in years.
Clutching the shirt on the chest that was too broad to be his chest while his sobs were muffled into it, the other man just holding him, too strong arms wrapped around him protectively as he asked what was wrong.
And his voice was the same.
His voice was the same.
And it was his Steve.
But God, he was so afraid that he had lost him as well, the only thing he was certain if he truly wanted in his life had changed so drastically that he was afraid that they might've replaced it altogether.
But the man spoke in his voice, the caring tone and careful touch so familiar. And it was his eyes that looked at him while he quietly asked him how he could help.
And for the first time in years, he realised that he wasn't afraid of dying, but rather leaving his loved one behind. Leaving Steve behind.
And when he fell he screamed, reaching out for Steve, his Steve, muscles and all, to catch him.
Because he couldn't leave him there.
And when they met again on the helicarrier he saw that his Steve hadn't changed.
The only thing clear in his melt pot of a mind was those two words, repeated over and over and over.
HisStevehisStevehisSteve
Saving him wasn't as much of a conscious decision that it was one that was etched into the core of his very being. His need to save him overpowering the all-consuming darkness that Hydra had put him in long enough for him to pull Steve out of the burning water.
And he wasn't afraid of dying when they were fighting Ironman in the cold bunker that they had kept him in for decades.
Because he understood him, really he did. But fight and flight had kicked in and Steve shattered the glowing circle in the man's chest that he assumed power the suit. And his arm had been blown off but he couldn't feel it anyway.
If holding himself up on a motorcycle with said arms hand scrapping over the asphalt to keep his balance this would be alright as well.
And when he went back under he wasn't afraid of dying, smiling at Steve to tell him it was alright, that it was better this way.
And they shared a soft kiss. Because he might remember but they were taking it slow; both of them different people then who they once were, both of them needing to gain each other's trust as well as their own.
And he wasn't afraid of dying.
But when he looked at his hand, flakes of his being as a whole trickling to the ground, it breaks off before his eyes, he realised once again that no, he wasn't afraid of dying, but he couldn't leave him. Not like this. Not again.
"Steve?"
He had to hold on, whatever this was he had to hold on until he had seen him one last time, wrapped his arms around him one last time.
And then Steve looked at him, eyes widening as he stared at Bucky's hand as well and took a step forward, unsure of what was happening or what to do about it.
And he let out a shuddering breath, watching Steve's face closely as he let his control slip, fading into nothingness, it had felt more like he was drifting off to sleep in one smooth motion.
Almost peaceful.
Almost.
And no, he wasn't afraid of dying, Steve knew that.
But as Steve stumbled forward, grabbing at the ash-like substance that the centre of his universe had turned into, he felt as if he should have been.
Because if he was then it wouldn't feel like it was his fault as much as it did.
And if he was, he would've perhaps held on long enough for Steve to hold James Buchanan Barned in his arms while he went.
And Steve wasn't afraid of dying.
But for the first time, he wished he could fade away as well.