[ For a while he's silent, but it's almost companionable, just resting beside Steve and watching the ocean. He had hoped it would be enough to dislodge whatever had clouded his brain, to pull the sheets off of the memories; but instead it's that same sense of familiarity he gets with most things that he doesn't actually remember. The knowing without knowing. His throat works for a moment, swallowing down words and sounds till he can pick the right one.

When he speaks he doesn't change his tone, doesn't turn to look at Steve, instead watches the break of the waves. ] I always remember you wrong. [ It's a bit confessional in a sense; the memories of Steve he has are distorted; and while he knows he is not the same as he had been (for as much as he remembers himself, which is barely), but that is not nearly enough to account for the differences he sees in Steve.

He knows it's him, yet he feels that it must be wrong, must be different. ] Stained hands, colored, but it's not... not blood. Not like it should be. [ He looks to his own hands, but they don't lift from their position near his knees, curling in the fabric. ] Everything is all wrong.