to change the lifeless wine of grief to living gold (слэш)

“Steve,” Bucky says, long past when Steve thinks he’s dozed off, “tell me a story.”
“Hmm? What kind of story?”
“A ghost story,” he says and laughs again, that strange laugh that doesn’t quite ring right. There’s no humor in Bucky’s expression when he detaches himself from Steve’s arm to look at his face. “About him. Bucky.”
“He—it’s you, Buck.” Steve tries not to let his voice waver. It’s not easy. “He’s you.”
“I know,” Bucky says, but somehow, his easy acquiescence is the opposite of reassuring.
“Then—”
“But I don’t remember it. And that matters. Memories matter, Steve.”