[he's been dreading this since he set foot on american soil.
it's not the first time he'll have had to pair up for a project with another classmate - but it is the first time that he'll have to make the concentrated effort to try make the deeper connection with an american one. he's been content to be a bit of an outsider - after all, it's one year abroad from the familiarity and comforts of sokovia before he'll insist on going back and finishing among his friends and peers at the university a few miles from his parents sprawling estate. he's only here because it's that much more well-rounding, and his parents have insisted he get a different perspective from a country the rest of the world considers elite. privately, zemo finds it utterly tasteless - full of offensively biased politics, fulfilling nearly every nasty stereotype he knows the rest of the world whispers about. maybe it's not as bad as those silly hollywood movies, but given his accent and his stiffer, posh appearance compared the lax clothing and demeanor of everyone else in his classes...he sticks out like a sore thumb. and maybe he's not exactly helping himself, but why should he change?
there's a difference between being alone and lonely. for the most part, he's content in the former. he does well in his classes, he spends a lot of time in his luxuriously outfitted single suite for upperclassmen or the library, and he spends his evenings either dutifully attending to his work or chatting long-distance with his friends back home.
perhaps the thing he has closest to some form of an actual relationship with anyone is the very student that's supposed to be knocking on his door any moment. steven rogers - steve, as he prefers. the blond demigod that looks like every leading man in every teenage dream of a movie. tall, buff, adored by the girls and envied by the other guys. the precise area he bucks from his onscreen counterparts, however, is his intelligence level. zemo has to give him credit for not being another dumb jock (though he's encountered plenty elsewhere on campus). if there's anyone that can hold their own in a heated, philosophical debate about classical literature, it's steve. sometimes it's irritating in the best way, and sometimes he simply finds himself impressed that someone else can match his level, or even grudgingly be forced to admit that he occasionally exceeds it. he's certain there's a percentage of students that show up solely to listen to them, and another that specifically can't wait for them to shut up as the clock ticks towards dismissal on any given day. their professor, on the other hand, has pegged them as her favorite - no surprise given their consistent participation and actual bother to read source material to such an elevated degree.
and somehow...without him even realizing, that banter had carried outside of the classroom as well. he passes steve more frequently than he initially realized, and the other student seems to always make a point to interact with him in some capacity. a friendly wave, a blinding smile, a light tease about their latest disagreement. zemo has become so used to existing in a realm above everyone else that it's something of a novelty. it's not altogether unpleasant. if he were honest with himself, he'd admit he even enjoys the acknowledgment. and on some days - he even looks forward to it.
it's no wonder why they've been paired up. but the nervousness of having to spend time with steve for an extended period in what's been his sanctuary has him on edge. he doesn't typically let anyone get close for good reason - and while perhaps he's putting too much pressure on a long-term project, it has him putting his guard up and preparing somehow for the worst. he's in a soft charcoal cashmere sweater and worn but slim-cut jeans, fidgeting with the watch on his wrist and waiting for the telltale knock at the door. steve doesn't have a single, the library was out for the amount of speaking required...so it made more sense to meet here.
relax, he tells himself. just get this over with. when he hears knuckles wrapping against the wood, he unlocks the door and opens it carefully. 5 p.m. on the dot.]
So the golden boy is punctual too, hm?
[it's not outright hostile per se. but it's also not as friendly as it could be.]
[ Generally, Steve dislikes group projects. He enjoys working with others, but the bulk of the work usually ends up in his lap and while he's willing and able to carry a team, he doesn't always feel like it's fair. So to hear the professor announce they'll have to create a presentation and present an essay on a topic, he tried not to show his disappointment.
Hearing Helmut Zemo's name called in tandem with his own, however, hadn't been altogether unpleasant. They have an easy, if not a little biting, rapport that Steve has come to find comforting in the midst of their literature classes. Their debates often lead the class discussions and inform the lectures, the professor aglow and bouncing with delight when they take her inquisitive bait.
He wouldn't say they're friends, but Steve finds himself whirling in and out of Zemo's carefully conjured social sphere, greeting him in the hallways or in classrooms, catching him at the tail end of lunch for a quick chat, seeing him on the way to the dorms. At first it had been a nicety, to offer a warm welcome to a transfer student, but he's not so sure it's all formalities now. He enjoys their banter, the intelligent company, the challenge.
It's why he suggested they meet up after class to work together, and sure enough, he finds Zemo's dorm with the ease of someone who might has well own the campus. He doesn't, but he's social enough that he's gotten around to a few small parties or study groups in his time. He'd half expected the library as their prime choice for working, and yet, here they are. Library rooms full and noisy, at least here they'll have some quiet to work.
Steve smiles when the door opens, adjusting his book bag over one shoulder, the strap buckling the fabric of his dark cardigan, the neck of his t-shirt (an old medical center logo faded on the front) bunching up on one side. ]
Of course. My mother tole me punctuality is not about being on time but respecting your own commitment, and I try my best to listen to what she says most of the time.
[ The smile turns into a little bit of a silly grin, even if he can feel the tension oozing off of the man across from him. It's strange, seeing him so casually dressed, even if they don't dress too dissimilarly in class. But there are no desks and books in between them now, no schedules or classes to peer around. It's nice. He glances up over his shoulder, then gestures toward the room. ]
Can I come in? Or should I go and come back, so I'm a little later?
Wise words from your mother. She must be so proud of you.
[it’s meant to come out sarcastically, but instead it comes out sincerely. if steve knew him better, he’d hear a pang of something forlorn in there too.
no, they’re not friends. but he might be the closest thing to one zemo has here in the states - or at least, the one person outside of his professors that he interacts with the most on a daily basis. maybe what’s most surprising is the way that steve regularly goes out of his way to do so - even when zemo isn’t always so friendly in return. if he didn’t know any better, he might think steve was something of a glutton for punishment in the way he keeps coming back for more. that or he really is as kind as everyone seems assured he actually is - not insincere, not something that’s a surface level veneer for brownie points. if anything….there’s little he can have quarrel with when it comes to steve rogers outside of their classroom debates and the wrong opinion he’s entitled to have, even though it is - again - wrong.
he receives every biting comment or needling little jab from zemo and just...takes them all in stride. laughs, delightfully, and tips back his perfect jaw with his perfect teeth and his perfect smile. like the one he’s offering now - and somehow it seems privately more authentic than the ones he flashes in class or in the middle of campus to friends and hanger-ons. it shouldn’t make something in his stomach tighten around the thread of an inexplicable flutter, it should just be a polite greeting and nothing more.
damn him and his model-esque face and figure and his ability to match zemo’s level of wit and intellect to boot. that is no easy feat, and it’s only in part given how highly he thinks of at least one of those things that he feels...flustered somehow, though thank god it isn't recognizably so to anyone who doesn't know him well enough. he swallows thickly, stepping aside with a flourish of a wave to invite him inside.]
Please, do come in. The sooner we get to work the sooner you can get back to...whatever it is you do outside of class.
[a pointed raise of an eyebrow and a glance at his shoulders.]
Lifting refrigerators for fun?
[if he had to guess. based solely on appearances. and certainly not a bad one, despite his teasing.]
[ Sarah Rogers works tirelessly helping others, doing what she can to keep him and their little house afloat. After all, the woman made his childhood absolutely warm and loving, and even speaking of her draws warmth up into Steve's eyes.
Once flourished inward, Steve steps within in the confines of the room, surprised to find the man doesn't have a second bunk wedged into one corner, doesn't have someone with headphones looking miserable or piled under school work. The room is tasteful, simple, and quiet in a way he finds himself envying. He bites it back, that lick of jealousy, his own roommate this semester a little too noisy and a little too rowdy for his liking. Next year, at least, he and Buck can room together, but he has to deal with the other guy in the meantime.
Setting his bookbag on the table, he turns, brows raised, to look at Zemo, noting the way the other guy looks him over. Heat prickles beneath his collar, at his throat. Strange. He's ogled at by half the school, or so Bucky says he is, and those stares never make him feel this. ]
Why, you need a refridgerator moved? [ His tone drops a little, almost playful, almost flirty, like he'd be saying this to any pretty thing moving out of her dorm room, but it isn't some waif of a college girl. It's Helmut Zemo, the quiet, biting boy from Sokovia who has enough knowledge that the idea of him earning college degree almost makes Steve laugh. ]
Not that I do that for a living, but I could probably figure it out. Have a few buddies with me in the reserves who are probably better at it than me, if I'm honest.
[ He reaches for his bag, then, and draws out a bag of pretzels, a bag of cheesy popcorn, and a little container of trail mix, M&Ms heavily mixed in. A sheepish shrug and he gestures toward the snacks. ]
Figured we could use some snacks while we work? Hope that's alright.
[it comes out harsher than he means, incredulous at the idea that his dorm is anything less than already perfectly settled - as if that's the priority here. that, and not the sudden rush of unexpectedness from the near punch to the gut his tone makes zemo suddenly keenly aware of. steve's voice drops into something just different enough from the banter he's used to in the halls or strolling along the pathways on plush lawns across the school's massive campus and it has that same sensation flipping in his stomach again. it sounds...deliberately flirtatious, if he didn't know better, and to his abject horror he can feel heat rising to the high points of his cheeks as the realization catches him off guard. there's no way steven rogers, the apple of everyone's eye, is flirting with the likes of him. not when he could have his pick of nearly everyone on campus. nearly - only because zemo has no interest in him besides the best way to trounce over his theories and pontificating in class. that's his story and he's sticking to it, turning away quick enough that he hopes the other boy won't have noticed it against his fair skin.
there's a small snort of disbelief at the odd moment of...self-deprecation? or whatever that is - some sense of humbleness that attempts to somehow imply there is someone more qualified or better built than he is. right. zemo barely resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead leading him further inside his surprisingly expansive dorm room to a round table tucked in the corner of what could nearly be called a den with tall windows looking out on the grounds and a small but unlit and ornate fireplace. it's a full suite - no bed in sight, the kitchen and bathroom peeking through the hallway too.]
Please - don't act so humble, Mr. Rogers. As if there are many men walking around looking like you and putting it to charitable use. Doubtful.
[that didn't come out the way he intended. if anything, it sounds like he's - complimenting steve? fixating on his looks rather than his physical strength. both of which he shouldn't even be commenting on anyway. he swallows again and gestures for steve to take a seat, only to watch himself be beat to the punch by steve's hospitality about this study session. he blinks, trying and failing at hiding his surprise.]
Oh. That was - thoughtful of you. [a pause as he looks over the options, fixating on the fact the container looks homemade and that steve apparently allows himself some sort of sweet tooth. he bites his lip, absently, snapping out of it and asking in a subdued, soft voice that comes from years of ingrained training to be on his best manners and knowing the consequence of failing them.]
[ To say Steve doesn't know his type is as apt as saying the sky is blue. When he was younger, in the halcyon days of high school when girls and boys became hormone-driven maniacs, he'd never been looked at. Sickly, scrawny, thin; the girls (and even some boys, in retrospect) always fawned over Bucky, with his broad shoulders and pale eyes. Steve never felt the stab of jealousy others might feel - he'd been happy enough to call a guy like that his friend, his family, more than anything else. He hadn't had time to curate such a thing as taste and type.
But now, with Zemo leading him into the room, to the small, round table where they're meant to work, he catches sight of heat in the apples of high cheekbones and finds his eye momentarily caught up in it. He's good looking, dark hair neat and the flush of his skin only making the dappled beauty marks stand out, and Steve wonders momentarily what they might feel like under the pads of his—
A huff of a laugh, if only to clear his throat, as his eyes fall back to the snacks, arranging them on the table. ]
I'm not being humble. Takes more than one guy to move a fridge, and it turns out I know more than one guy. [ A small grin, and he turns to survey the room. A private suite, with the fire place, the furnishings, one might not think it's a dorm room at all. It's nice, and while he's not surprised someone like Helmut Zemo can afford it, it doesn't change his wonder at it. ]
Water, if you don't mind. [ A beat, then: ] Oh, you can call me Steve, by the way. Mr. Rogers feels a little bit like my dad's in the room somewhere. [ Never mind that man is resting in Cypress Hills National, with a face Steve knows only from old photographs. He clears his throat again, pockets his hands, and idly wanders toward the kitchen. To check on the digs, of course. Not to put his eyes on Zemo again. ]
This place is incredible. I'm pretty sure my room's half the size. Feels smaller when Phil's snoring.
[it’s better his back is turned and he’s oblivious to the idea that steve rogers would be checking him out. he’s not sure he could will that flush away as quickly as he manages to compose himself now. that and he’d think it near unfathomable that someone like the other boy would be looking over the likes of him. as far as he knows steve is adored by both men and women alike, and there are whispers he hears by the simple fact that he’s among any number of students on a given day that like to chatter - that maybe steve might be something of an equal opportunist with that selection.
it’s not like it matters to someone like him - his path has long since been carved out between the expectations of his family in the hopes that he’ll add to it with some pretty girl from a good family that will produce him a proper heir and carry on the zemo name. there’s never been any consideration or awareness for the pretty boys he kissed in dark corners of nightclubs strewn across the seedy corners of europe that wouldn’t look twice and would maintain discretion. (steve might not have a type, but zemo does - tall, built, witty. which makes this arrangement…well. distracting, and steve’s not even been here for longer than five minutes.]
Not at all. Steve.
[he barely resists the urge to tack on the “n” sardonically like he does in class. the weight of it on his tongue feels…somehow better. like someone who actually knows him beyond the little interactions they’ve shared thus far. he takes a moment to head into the kitchen, pouring them both ice cold water into gold-tipped glasses. expensive, a family gift and somewhat out of place even among the obviously elevated decor of the rest of his room compared to the rest of the students on campus. he brings them both back and sets one down in front of his guest with a nod, sitting down next to him at an angle so they’ll be able to pore over the same books and papers easily.
it also gives him the unfortunate - or, ideal - position to notice a dusting of soft freckles along the strong bridge of steve’s nose, along with a beauty mark he’d never noticed on his cheek. he shakes his head mildly, trying to shake off the novelty of someone else in his room. that’s all this is, surely.]
Thank you. [he says it politely, not at all arrogant because he’s keenly aware it’s his parents money tha secured it.]
Upperclassmen have the option of at least a single to upgrade to - or so I was told. Are you and Phil friends enough to tolerate that? I don’t know if I could, what with the need for beauty sleep and all.
[a light tease, and he pauses to reach for his own book, licking the pad of a fingertip and fluttering through the pages nimbly.]
[ Sarah Rogers loved the rain, and there's something poetic about the fact that the day she died it rained as hard as rain could fall. Torrential flooding, the newscasters warned, their baffled meteorologists talking about how the storm seemed to swell up over night, filling the air with hazy pressure and humidity, full to bursting. He thought maybe the rain would pass, that maybe heavy storm clouds would offer some slice of sunlight in favor of the very light that seems to have guttered out in his chest, but it doesn't.
He walks to the funeral home, to the quaint chapel she'd wanted her funeral to be held in (— it has the most gorgeous stained glass I ever did see, Stevie, it's magical—), to her house, to his apartment; all of it aimless and yet with purpose, letting the rain drown him in his leather coat, wash up on his old, patent leather shoes, grip at the hems of his pant legs. War in the farthest, deepest, slavic wasteland would be easier than this.
The service goes smoothly, the pews packed with friends and old patients, the people whose lives Sarah Rogers irrevocably touched, all lined up to hear her story at an altar draped in downy lace. Steve knows he gave her eulogy, knows he tried to put his mother into words, tried to conjure her image in stories of her cooking and getting pancakes stuck to the ceiling, or the way she took in a refugee family on a whim and packed their house to the seams, the way she worked tirelessly and endlessly to make sure her patients received the car, the way she never asked for help or handouts even when she needed them, the way she loved jumping into the puddles after a nice rainstorm. Like we get to start over fresh as a daisy she'd say when the storm passed, blue sky bright and victorious between dark clouds.
But he greets every person in his pressed uniform, something she'd be so proud of, and shakes their hand and thanks them for coming. He accepts their teary condolences and listens to their stories as if their words might bring the woman back to life in front of him. As if he'd see the vibrant, energetic force of her, and not the frail thing he'd come to care for over the last several months. But ah, he'd have her any way she came. He'd care for her every day of his life if that's what it took.
He looks for someone in the crowd, occasionally. Someone with dark hair and dark eyes, and he can almost imagine the freckled marks at a hairline on the men here who he doesn't know. Yet, the chapel empties and he's left with the sense that the deja-vu never came to pass, the halls feeling empty, and he's told the graveside service will have to wait until the storm clears, for many reasons. Sarah Rogers did enjoy the rain, after all, and how could he deny her this? The chaplain tells him to stay as long as he'd like and Steve sits in the pews with silence ringing in his ears until Bucky and Sam come in, but he sends them along. They don't fight him. Not this time. ]
Jeez, Ma...
[ Quiet, under his breath, after hours of sitting. Nothing in his training prepared him for the weight of this, for the hurt, for the empty duty he still feels for a woman that no longer exists. Gone in the soft closing of eyes, the shallow rise and fall of a chest, and—
Steve stands, turns on a military heel without thinking twice, and starts for the door, forgetting, at first, that it's raining, the downpour dappling his dress blues in a way that would get him punished if his senior officers saw. But he stands in it all the same, breathing deeply, ignoring the way his throat swells and his eyes burn now that no one is around to see, to see the way the scream rises into his face but never makes a sound, trapped in his chest like a man who is holding the door shut against a monster, desperate and tight. But the pain is there in his face, in the blue of his eyes, uncontrolled and fire-bright.
He forgot, in all of this, that he didn't drive himself here. Now, not only alone, he's stranded for a while. ]
Shit.
[ The rain masks his tears, thankfully. It's good for something. ]
[sokovia has been unusually bleak this time of year - a combination of waning economy, political strife, and an already gray landscape of storms and rain and smoke somehow declining even further over the past few weeks. or perhaps he is simply biased in the way it feels as if the dark, omnipresent cloud of dread that's always been swirling angry and ominous over his shoulders has expanded and darkened into something near stifling ever since he'd slipped a ring on nikoleta's slim finger and announced with a tight, strained smile that they were engaged to be married. the press mistakes it for the closed off, arrogant sort of reservation that the stiff upper crusts are expected to maintain even in times of supposedly joyous occasions. it suits him well enough because he doesn't think he could muster up the ability to pull out a genuine smile, to really sell the narrative that this is the love of his life, a pretty young girl with long blonde hair and green eyes - tall and willowy, sokovian, conveniently born to a family just as obscenely wealthy as his own.
it's a duty. an obligation, nothing more. it will never be true love, and quite frankly - he doesn't even think it will be the kind of love that develops and grows after something comfortable has time to settle like an arranged marriage. all the money in the world, the fineries and luxuries he passes without a glance on a daily basis cannot compare to those stolen moments in a tiny cabin and on the lightly swaying dock under the stars, wrapped up in strong arms feeling safe and warm and in love. the truth is, he doesn't think he ever fell out of love with steve rogers. part of him is terrified in knowing he likely never will. he had the foolish notion in the early days that a passing resemblance in a dark club might be enough to get a small fix and get him out of his head, out of the strain of pretending to be someone he wasn't. when he realized they only made him feel emptier, he stopped altogether.
there was one moment of weakness, resolve shattered and spirit broken where he picked up the phone and dialed numbers he still knew be heart only to be greeted with an immediate voicemail. he hadn't left one, taking it as a sign to just - give it up. as much as he could.
it's been eight long, painful years since helmut zemo has set foot in these parts of the united states. there's a fiery sense of betrayal at the knowledge that he might not have if it weren't for oeznik stepping in. pulling him aside, a quiet whisper of there's something i think you might want to see, sir before handing him an american paper turned to the obituaries. it wasn't until the jet was prepped for emergency take-off and he was well past sokovian borders that he allowed himself to break down in private, all-consumed by that specifically acute pain stemming from preventable grief and lost opportunities. weeping over the woman that felt more like a mother than his own flesh and blood who has distantly pulled the strings in his life since he could walk.
sarah rogers is dead. sarah rogers, who didn't even have the heart to hate him for breaking her son's heart and choosing duty over desire. sarah rogers, who had loved and encouraged him and been there for him in a way his own parents could never even fathom. he ignores the panicked texts from nikoleta and her staff about flowers and dessert tables, overlooks the voicemail from his father and email from his mother. they can check the flight log, and he doesn't even give a damn about needing to explain himself right now. he's already missed the wake - he can't let himself miss the service or the burial. and least of all - he can't not try to be there for steve.
he's tired, jet-lagged and emotionally wrung dry with eyes red-rimmed and dark enough to prove it. it's no small miracle they make it in before the worst of the storms, but he slicks back his hair, pulls on a flawless bespoke black suit and pressed shirt, black polished oxfords and grabs an umbrella. oeznik expertly maneuvers them through traffic and flooded streets, but it means he's late when he arrives to the service - tucking himself into a spot in the back corner so as not to...startle anyone. maybe also because a part of him knows he'll draw the ire of friends like sam wilson and james barnes, and he doesn't want this to be about that. it's about paying his last wishes to sarah, to getting a proper goodbye because she deserves so much more than just that. and - it's about offering unconditional support to steve. ex-lovers or not, sarah was the core of his world. if he'd known sooner...
zemo makes a point to step into one of the unused wings of the church as people start flooding out to take shelter from the storm and wait until it's cleared enough to see her to the final resting place. steve looks devastating for more than one reason - the press of his uniform, the way he looks just as good if not better than he did the day zemo walked out on him and saw him last. but mostly it's the grief etched in every feature of his. the rain barely seems to register as it soaks him to the bone. he swallows thickly, composing himself with the practice of nearly a decade now and lets his heels click audibly on wet pavement as he extends his umbrella to suddenly stop the downpour from over steve's shoulders. it's large enough to cover them both, but not without him needing to step in a little closer. not as close as they once used to easily fall when they had the privacy or the freedom in parts unknown, but closer than he probably deserves right now.]
You'll catch a cold like that, you know.
[his voice is lower than it used to be, the rasp of his accent curling elegantly and more confidently around the words than he truly feels. they're not light or teasing, just matter-of-fact after having taken care of steve and knowing about his sickly experiences in youth. he swallows around a lump in his throat, tipping his head up to look at the other man with a rare glimpse at how he feels in his eyes.]
Steve -
[it feels good to say his name, voice raw with the mixed emotions at being able to do so at all. still quiet, reverent. fond.]
[ If the rain could chip away at him, make him the scrawny, skinny boy again, he'd let it. Allow himself to curl up into the mud and become something other than the man he is now, with his whole world crashing, pressing unbearably heavy against his shoulders. The rain chills his skin, soaks into his uniform until he begins to feel his dress shirt stick to his chest beneath. It's suffocating, and the urge to throw the jacket aside altogether nearly overwhelms him, but he resists, his body showing no sign of chaos save for the twitch of fingers curling into a fist.
It takes him a moment to realize the rain ha stopped, turned instead to the pattering on plastic, but it's the voice that takes the air out of his chest. He doesn't turn, but he can feel the heat of someone else closer, almost feel as if the ghost of something old and painful begins to seep in around the rubble and despair.
Helmut Zemo.
The accent, the voice, tired with age, but nonetheless so burned into his mind that the timbre of it rings sharp in his ears. Yes, Steve thinks, he will catch cold like this. ]
You came.
[ Anger bubbles under the damp, the embers of something hurt and confused reigniting but only enough for a smoke signal, a warning. How many times had he called the Zemo residence, how many heavily accented footmen had he spoken to? Letters wouldn't have made it soon enough, and there was no e-mail save for their publicity company.
He sat at Sarah's bedside and petted her hand while she told medicated stories of him as a boy, in high school, and oh remember when Helmut dropped the wine bottle and it stained the walls and we laughed and laughed and laughed and he'd told her, when her breathing had gone shallow, when the monitors beeped of her nearing demise, that he'd been there while she slept, that he'd kissed her brow and sang her that Sokovian jig she liked so well, oh if only she'd been awake to hear it. ]
I called. A dozen times, maybe. They said they gave you the message.
[ He could be cruel here, could tell him that she asked after him because she had, but he keeps that quietly locked in his chest. For how long, he doesn't know. Maybe an eternity. ]
Did you miss the service, too?
[ Finally, he turns beneath the umbrella, fiery eyes meeting those of the man whose portrait he could draw a thousand times over and get every detail right, even after a decade apart. God, he loves him, and it makes his stomach churn sickly in his gut. But he can see the hurt, he can see the mud behind those dark eyes and it takes him aback. No mask, no haughty tilt of a jaw, no severe pinch of his brows.
His fingers itch to touch his face, but they remain still at his side. Tears slip hotly down his cheeks, no longer masked by the rain, and without end. He can't stop them, not now. ]
It was beautiful. Everything she wanted. If you can want something like this.
[you came, steve says, like he'd be anywhere else right now. but then again, he supposes he can't blame him considering he had the chance to walk away eight years ago and he chose not to. something he's regret nearly every day since, but pushes through like another cog in the great machine of his family's legacy. it doesn't make him sound any less hurt by it, quiet to try and mask the tremor threatening to bubble up.]
Of course I came. I would have been here sooner, only -
[a dozen times? he hadn't heard a whisper of it. no messages, no notes left for him aside from the inane details of the wedding and his fiancée's new requests piling up, the bills separated to send to their family accountants. now his brow does furrow, and the pain in his expression is sapped by equal measures of confusion, as if drawn directly from steve himself.]
I didn't know. Oeznik came to me yesterday evening with the paper, and I saw the obituary. I dropped everything to get here in time for the service.
[would he believe himself if he were in steve's shoes? he's never been a liar, at least not when it comes to the small things. just the earth-shattering, course-altering and life-changing decision of their future together. he's too busy running through every possible thing he could have missed - no voicemails, no emails, not even word of mouth. not even the excuse of how busy he's been between business and the engagement party and the wedding details would have made him forget or not do what he's just done and fly immediately over. but there's no way steve is lying either. which means - god, he doesn't have the energy to run through the scenarios right now. he'll get to the bottom of it, but it's less important than focusing on why he did come, even if it was apparently too late.
his gaze drops to mask the sudden glassiness in his own eyes, fingers tightening against the umbrella handle as if it might somehow help push away the way emotion wells up in him. his voice drops to a near whisper, practically lost to thudding pinpoints of rain against the silk canpopy and crash of thunder in the distance.]
I would have wanted to see her one last time, Steve. Please, believe me.
[his gaze draws back up to meet the eyes that may as well be a fixture in his dreams, still that easy, expressive blue, only now they're clouded over with wetness that isn't just from being soaked to the bone.
he has no right to do what he does next. but he can't watch the man he loved suffer in silence. he reaches with his free arm, pressing up on his toes and wrapping it around what he can reach of steve's damp back to pull him down into a comforting hug. to let him dip his head if he so chooses and let those tears sink against the juncture of his neck and shoulders. he doesn't care about ruining his suit - he doesn't care about anything other than being right here, right now. and god, if the scent of steve even through his rain-drenched and familiar weight of him doesn't hit him hard enough to make him weak in the knees and holding him tighter for more than just comfort. it feels like something illicit, an old memory stolen and replayed even if the parts played don't fit who they are anymore.]
I know. It was beautiful, and she would have been thrilled to see everyone together again on her behalf.
[his arm grips that much more, fingers splaying along the back of his neck in a gentle cradle as his other arm shakes slightly from holding up their protection. he turns his head slightly, trying to bring a bit of levity to his voice in another low murmur near steve's ear, even though he feels like he's one wrong push from breaking apart.]
She would have scolded you for forgetting an umbrella.
[ Steve knows that Helmut Zemo isn't a liar - even in their broken goodbye, he'd been honest, hadn't he? They loved one another, but the pull of duty had been too strong, the questions of the future too big, even though theirs had been planned together - simple and lovely and God if he doesn't dream about it some nights. If his sleepy, war-torn mind doesn't fashion what they could have had from dirt and debris, turning shellfire into fireworks, downpours into starry nights, balmy days into a beachy day spent lakeside.
Dreams. Nightmares. Everything blends together into one perfect, sleep-deprived storm. ]
I spoke to so many people.
[ Pleaded, really, but he needn't go that far. The footmen, the ladies, the whatever-servants they might be, the message had died on his lips the moment he spoke it. Mom's dying. You should come. She'd love to see you. What he'd wanted to say was that he, of all people, needed him. That even now, in the rain, Steve feels like he's a man sinking slowly, quicksand slowly eking him out of existence, having started the moment that dorm room shut behind him. ]
I believe you. She knows. She knew.
[ Partially. With all that money, all that power, Zemo hadn't made an effort to see her, to reach out to her before that, had he? The woman who wrapped him up in her love even when Steve's heart felt like it died on the tiled, sticky hall tiles. He knew she sent gifts, sent letters, all returned with an angry red stamp weeks later: Not Deliverable. Return to Sender.
He opens his mouth to speak again, his face a pinched, frustrated thing, when the arm hooks round his back, drags him down. His body, heavy and chilled, doesn't react at first, standing awkwardly in the embrace, as though muscle memory has gone away after years of disuse. It hurts, having him here. It rips open an old wound chock full of scar tissue (one that never really healed) and sets it delicately beside the hole where his heart bleeds from, where the name Sarah Rogers courses through his veins in an agonized wail that has yet to be freed.
His head dips, presses into his shoulder, against the slope of a neck he used to kiss, and his arms remember their stuttering reach, creaking their way around the man's thin frame, drawing him tight as though a buoy in the torrent. He thinks he'll hug him then be done with it, create space where it had been made nearly a decade ago, but his joints lock up, his shoulders shake, his breath comes up hitched in his throat.
The rain feels like roaring white noise in his ears, and it's probably for the best because he can't hear the agonized sob that claws its way free as those familiar, dangerous fingers slide into the hair at his nape.
Why are you here? You're just making it worse. Why didn't you come sooner? She needed you. I needed you.
I need you.
A shuddering breath, words left unspoken, but he gives a watery huff at the comment, the breath so warm against his ear. Steve doesn't move, fingers digging into the small of Zemo's back and the fine, bespoke fabric, the smell and feel of him safe enough for now.
For now. ]
She'd have scolded me for not dancing in it.
[ How can he, when his feet are cast from lead, when his whole body has rusted through, eaten away by the tricksy lurch of oxidation, by the years he's been only a hollowed tin man. A soldier with a gentle man tucked away inside, hiding beneath his ribs, away from the light for so long, that he’s all but forgotten his name. ]
[for a few agonizing moments he thinks steve won't return the embrace - that he's so angry, that despite his words he doesn't really believe that zemo is telling the truth. that maybe he'll push him away and ask him to just turn around leave, because being here now won't bring her back. it doesn't mean anything, and maybe he's made things worse by his half-presence. it lances through his very heart with the same intense pain it had eight years ago knowing that it's not entirely wrong, and would be completely justified if true. steve had been willing to give him the world - promised him everything to his name and zemo had walked out on it all the same like it wasn't the most precious, priceless gift he'd ever been offered. like he doesn't run through the what-ifs on a daily basis, fantasizing about the life that could have had together.
he's in the dark about the attempts to reach him. and while this is the first bit of illumination shed that perhaps something is amiss at his household, it can't be his focus now. the one singular thing on his mind is steve and what will bring him the most comfort, empty as it may be in lieu of the gaping whole sarah rogers has surely left behind. there's a piece of himself that feels like it's forever lost, and that was from less than two years of her affection. he can't imagine thirty of them, ceased in the blink of an eye. sometimes it felt like they were their own little world - those weekends and that glorious summer shared with just sarah and steve, the stuff of hollywood stories fascinated with the evolution from boys into men with the guiding light of one strong, irreplaceable influence. he'd never felt so carefree - so invincible and free to cherish the love he craved and the freedom outside of the stifling walls of his family's castle.
did she go peacefully? was it in her sleep? how long? did she ask to see me?
it's a small smattering of the dozens of thoughts that bombard him all at once, and steve feels as much like an anchor in his grief as he's trying to offer in return. the tension finally bleeds out and he feels steve all but melt against him, arms wrapping with a painful familiarity right in the same spot they always rested when he'd do this out of fondness and a need not to be apart than out of the necessity of needing something to cling to from the open, jagged edges of mourning wounds. he's not so arrogant to think he's still part of that - not in a million years. it's a double-edged sword of wanting steve to have something (someone) to look forward to as much as he doesn't know he could bear the idea of man fully moving on and letting their love be a worn, faded piece of the past.
the sob that wracks against him is so gutwrenching it brings the tears he's been keeping at bay springing to the corners of his eyes, letting them slip shut as he murmurs out a soft shhhh, it's alright, i'm here against his skin and holds him as tightly as one arm can allow. his fingers flex, slipping up into the wet, short hair at the back of his neck as they adjust and do their best to soothe what he already knows can only scratch the surface of comfort. nothing short of resurrection will make steve's life feel the same ever again, and there's no such thing as miracles - no matter how hard he's wished for them over the years himself.
he doesn't pull back either, arm staining from how tightly it's clinging around him. it strikes him so clearly that he doesn't want to let go - he can't, because he's not sure he'll ever have the chance to hold him like this again. which is exactly what he thought when that door closed on him in the dorm, and now...
he lets out a small, breathy noise of amusement to mask his own emotions in the moment. this is about steve, not his own shortcomings and the fact that he wasn't here, didn't know - ]
Well, it's not too late to do so.
[he almost teases he knows his way around a waltz, or that he remembers them swaying absently to old, staticy records wafting through that cabin. but what good will it do besides hurt them both? he's not so cruel to be dismissive of the notion. it feels very much like he's standing on eggshells, trying to balance the love he's lost and still holds under his skin and what he needs to reconcile and repurpose as...a friend? no, that would require a consistent presence he hasn't had since university. an...acquaintance, then. a deep, distant acquaintance. fuck, it hurts just to think it.]
As I recall...you don't exactly have two left feet.
[novi grad, sokovia: the first city a 7-year-old helmut zemo made a debut at his first proper family party. vienna, austria: the first city a 13-year-old helmut zemo had his first glass of champagne. berlin, germany: the first city a 16-year-old helmut zemo got drunk in a limousine with his friends in high places, pushing through the sun roof and whooping like the king of the world along cobblestone streets. moscow, russia, riga, latvia, istanbul, turkey, macau, china: a blur of drunken nights and debauchery he'll take to the grave. ithaca, united states of america: the first time helmut zemo is invited to a party and expected to drink an unknown substance out of a plastic red cup filled to the brim.
he doesn't know what possessed him to come. certainly not, he insists to himself, the source of the invite - the shy smile steve rogers had extended in his dorm with the implication he'd really like to see him here. steve isn't even a part of the massive mcmansion of a fraternity house they're currently standing in; he's just that well-liked by all that he manages to secure an invite anyway. he tells himself he's only come for the drinks and to treat it as any other spectator sport so he can say he's had a proper american collegiate experience. tuck it away like an anecdote he'll pull out years later at a dinner party and realize he's gotten as bad as his parents when he says something like, can you believe it? jungle juice from a cooler? i knew from that moment on it was only top shelf liquor for me.
he'd done his best to dress casually - a black cashmere turtleneck sweater that clings to his slim figure, tight black skinny jeans and polished black leather derby boots. and yet even in its simplicity he feels overdressed in comparison to the sneakers, bomber jackets and graphic t-shirts that have come from retail stores he sees on nearly every other young man in this...establishment, if it can be called that. what with its booming beats threatening to blow out his ear drums and vibrating the very walls that have been spray painted with some sort of temporary neon paint that are only visible under black lighting on the dance floor. there's a bar with some poor, probably hazed rushee struggling to manage pouring out shots and wasting the only good liquor here by splattering it across the sticky bartop in the corner of the room. it smells like sweat and cheap aftershave, the afternotes of alcohol clinging to the floors and breath of passerbys, accented too by the occasional waft of marijuana from closed doors.
he keeps to himself at first, as he always does. no sign of steve. then come the girls - pretty, scantily clad and fascinated by what they surely perceive to be a suave, mysterious foreigner. his accent has always won him brownie points among american women, and while they aren't outright swooning the same way they do to a certain tall, blond demigod...they do giggle at his jokes and bat their lashes when he winks in between regaling them stories of his partying in eastern europe. one of them puts a hand against his arm, and he lets his own slip to the small of her back as he leans in close enough to be heard over the spitting lyrics of some popular rap star.
it's all for show. he has no interest in taking any of them upstairs or dancing with them out on the floor, but it's good for appearances. and to practice his small talk and reaffirm he's not a total lost cause - even if he still doesn't have any real friends.
(steve rogers is decidedly not a friend. absolutely not.)
what he doesn't expect is one of the fraternity brothers - a senior, he thinks, with a strong jaw and a face that belongs in the pages (not the on the cover) of gq to slip next to him, leaning oh-so casually with a hip cocked against the wall and strike up a conversation with him. he's handsome in a conventional, small-town sort of sense. probably the best looking boy from his graduating class which has given him something of an ego and inflated sense of self-worth. and despite all that, zemo knows when someone is sizing him up like that. he's known of his own preferences since he was in his young teens - and he didn't grow up among some of the best-kept closeted and wealthy men in europe not to know when he was looking at one of his own. he takes a gulp of the syrupy sweet concoction in his cup and sets his drink down on the ledge, turning his body more fully to face the other boy. enough distance not to attract attention, but the body language enough to indicate more than just passing interest and politeness. so is the specific smirk on his lips and the swipe of his tongue to chase after the cherry flavor.
it's a delicate balance. but he's surprised enough to have encountered it here of all places, and he can at least give a fair shot to blending in just this once. maybe he'll even have fun, somehow, even if it was the furthest thing from his mind when he first set foot in here.
as for steve- well, surely he's busy fending off a bevy of beauties or being adored by all of his many friends. maybe he didn't even come at all, much too popular to make it to all the invites he must get on a regular basis. it's fine. it doesn't matter, really. (it does.) it's not like he'd been looking forward to seeing him in a different context. (he was).
after a few more minutes of it sinking in, he realizes absently that the drinks are stronger than he realized. not unpleasant just - unexpected. also unexpected: a hand lightly circling around his wrist hidden from view, thumb swiping in a soft stroke along his suddenly jumping pulse. there's something he can't quite put his finger on about this exchange, and yet...there's not reason not to let it continue. it's the most engagement he's gotten since steve himself, and the vain part of him is enjoying the silent admission of attraction. only now he knows these drinks pack more than just a punch if the risk of it isn't even stopping him from coyly tilting his head and listening to his newfound friend (hunter? hector? it was too loud to catch it and now it's much too late to ask again) talk all about summers in connecticut spent shirtless and sunbathing, not unlike some of his own. it feels like the edge has been taken off - like the part of him that gets frisky grinding against strangers on packed dance floors and whispering in dark corners might make an appearance in the united states after all. maybe he can let loose. who’s going to tell?]
Edited (a terrible type oop) 2021-07-07 03:25 (UTC)
[ The bass from the thumping PA set up in the living room and outside of the house rumbles down to the sidewalks, practically shaking the stop sign from its post on the corner. Steve's late, terribly late, and has to wade through drunk freshman, sidestep girls with pretty smiles and pretty eyes only to get through the crowds and make it to the front door. He hadn't meant to be late, but when he'd gone out to his bike, the old girl wouldn't start. The engine turned over once then sputtered to a stop. He spent the better part of forty-five minutes trying to work some life into her before he finally gave in, caved to call Bucky and beg for some help
What, Rogers, trying to impress a girl?
And Steve could only huff a gentle something like that before swiping the keys to the old Barnes family Buick and making his way to the frat house, on campus, but far enough that a fast escape wouldn't hurt if needed.
The dim light makes it hard to see, to make out faces in the flash of cheap disco lights and the haze of smoke from bongs and cigarettes, but he weaves through the crowd, ignoring the grab of hands in his shirt, along the side seam of his jeans, the coy Steve Rogers, right? from too many slurred mouths. He gets caught up, briefly, by the frat house president who shakes his hand and grabs his shoulder, shoving a solo cup of some concoction into his hand with a cheery, barking laugh.
He plays along, letting his eyes roam and adjust to the dim. He'd hoped he'd be arm-locked like this with Helmut Zemo, not trying control his expression as the drunk senior spits all over him during his animated speech. Just as the man ruffles his hair in that ne'er-do-well, comradely football sort of way he catches sight of a familiar face. Tucked into a corner, sidled up with Hunter Schuster, and something wildly hot churns deep in his gut. ]
Thanks, man, great party. I'll catch you later, alright?
[ A clap on the arm, a tight smile, and Steve pushes through the crowd, passing his cup to some whiny girl at a table. He makes it to the corner just in time for Hunter to lean a little too close, and only just in time for Steve to press the meat of his shoulder into the space between them, his back to Hunter, his smile turned onto Zemo instead, genuine and warm, but concern behind his eyes in the dim. ]
Hey, you made it.
[ As if he wasn't the one that was late, and it's clear that he is late, if not for the heavy scoff he hears behind him that sounds something like his name and bastard curled all into one predatory sound. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but his eyes stay glued to Zemo's face, as if studying the slack of his mouth, the movement of his eyes, anything. He plucks up the solo cup from the table behind him, holding it up curiously, peering into it. ]
Need a refill?
[ No, no he doesn't. Steve knows this game, knows it too well, and just as he thinks Hunter might not retaliate, he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder, his hackles raising, the smile directed in Zemo's direction tightening just so at the edges. ]
[it hasn't quite sunken in that something is wrong at this point to zemo. is it unusual for him to feel quite so affected by alcohol given his upbringing? yes. but it could just as easily be chalked up to not knowing what smorgasbord of liquor had been dumped into the coolers stationed at every corner of the room and underneath the bar where said decent liquor was kept for refills and standalone shots. and he's feeling light-headed enough to think it's just a symptom of actually having a good time for a change - nothing nefarious that would make him think twice. it helps that he's resting casually and supported by the wall, however, because the second he makes an attempt to shift his posture away from it into something different, then he feels that similar crash as one standing up after a long spell of drinking. it should be embarrassing to try and gracefully mask the way his body essentially stumbles forward, but it happens all the same and instead of a furrow of his brows or a frown zemo lets out an honest to god giggle over it, teeth pearly white under the blacklight for a brief moment.
hunter reaches out, as if he's about to pull him inward for a gentlemanly bit of support, and somehow in between outstretched arms and zemo trying to get the room to stop shifting even when he's standing still...steve is there.
steve is there.
hunter is forgotten entirely in the span of a split second. zemo should be cross with him for inviting him to this idiotic party and then taking so long to show up. for being distracted by a better off, treating him like an afterthought now that he's bothered to come at all. and for one moment his face does scrunch up in disdain, eyes narrowing and mouth opening to say something cutting, one finger lifting and pressing squarely between his very firm pectorals accusingly.]
Actually, you made it, Steve Rogers.
[the lilt of his accent comes out exaggerated, and his lips pull into a hazy smile. but just as quickly it vanishes as he seems to remember there was a face here before steve's own.]
You're late. And - [his palm splays flat, pushing at steve lightly to try and steady himself and simultaneous gain sight of hunter again - ] You're interrupting my new friend.
[hunter chooses this exact moment to grip tight on steve's shoulder and shift around him without lifting his hand, coming into view again with a thinly-veiled sneer like he's planning on sidling himself between steve and resuming his previous position too close to zemo.]
You heard him Rogers. You're interrupting. Why don't you go find someone else to get lost with?
[no, i don't think i want him to do that, zemo thinks to himself. but the words don't make it to his mouth, tongue heavy and feelings oscillating between wanting to speak with steve despite his tardiness and wanting to see what someone shiny and new might bring to the table. a hand circles the wrist still pushed against steve's chest, tugging him lightly. his body is apparently pliant enough at this point to simply follow without protest, and without even acknowledging whose arm it is attached to.
(it's hunter's, which he still hasn't decided is the one he'd rather spend his time with.)]
[ Steve couldn't be sure by the look of the solo cup on the table, but the way Zemo moves, as though seized up under water, as though his limbs and joints have started to go soft, he knows that something is wrong. It licks dangerously at the nape of his neck, prickling at his skin and sending a warning rush of electricity up his spine.
Hunter isn't the sort of guy to take it easy on a date, regardless of the alcohol, and if he knows anything about this party, about the limber, strong man with a hand on his shoulder? He knows too well that it's not just jungle juice picking Helmut Zemo apart at the seams. He remembers his own hazy party here, feeling welcomed by the older student who kindly ushered a cup of something sharply strong into his hands. He remembers the stumble, the tug of a hand on his wrist, the brush of a mouth against his ear, his jaw, his lips, and more. He remembers the smell of the bathroom - a wash of bleach and old alcohol and bad, lemon-scented air freshener.
It makes bile rise hot into the back of his throat. ]
I am late. Had a bit of car trouble, but better late than never, right?
[ And yet Zemo throws the attention back to Hunter who, leaning in close, Steve makes out the line of his sneer in the dim. Carefully, he shifts between them, reaching to carefully pluck Zemo's wrist from the strong man's hand, blue eyes meeting Hunter's in the haze, his own brow set low and pinched. Something akin to danger crackles in the air between them. ]
That's not gonna happen. Unless you want me to get the campus security involved. I don't think the school would like that too much. You're on scholarship, right, Hunt?
[ The other boy's sneer darkens and even though he's given up the hold on Zemo's wrist (now blocked by the careful placement of Steve's arm, his broad palm on Zemo's bicep almost possessively) the hand on Steve's shoulder grips tight, clamping down hard. ]
Are you threatening me, Rogers? Can you believe this guy? [ Hunter looks to Zemo, almost as though he's politely offended at Steve's bulldog behavior. ] Here we were, having a nice conversation, having a good time, and he wants to ruin it for you. Tch.
[ Steve's arm slides down Zemo's, fingers curling against his elbow, forearm pressed into his side as he leans closer to the man, trying to murmur between them under the noise so Hunter can't hear. ] Let me take you home? Or we can go get a drink somewhere else, yeah? This guy's bad news, just trust me on this one. Please.
[car trouble. a valid excuse, and maybe steve is actually lucky zemo doesn't have all of his wits about him in the moment because if he did - he would likely let his wounded pride get the better of him. tip his chin up haughtily and go with hunter out of spite to let steve know that helmut zemo isn't someone to keep waiting. particularly not when zemo has let his guard down enough to allow that little spark of something bloom between him and steve rogers' apparent interest. but the alcohol and headiness of suddenly being a prize to be won between the two of them is enough to keep his mood light and pleasant, forgiving of an honest mistake. because steve has never been anything but honest up until this point, and though it hasn't been long....he feels like he can trust this wasn't meant to embarrass him or make him wait like some silly game.
his lips tip into a lopsided smirk, finger reaching out again to thunk against steve's chest and tap lightly in another tease.]
And that is why you should drive European. [a pause, lips pulling even further into a wry little grin.] But...I forgive you.
[his attention span flits from one man to the other, the suddenly tense air breaking through the cloudy haze of the way the drink has apparently effected him. his brows furrow as he looks between steve and then hunter - the tight fingers on his shoulder to the way he catches key words between them. campus security, scholarship, good time, bad news - trust me. there are warm hands shifting from wrist to forearm, to elbow - he can't keep track of whose. hunter is shifting the blame onto steve, but it's the note of something imploring in steve's voice specifically that has him looking twice, straining to focus on the undercurrent of importance in his soft words.
trust me. it's the one thing he thinks even in his clearly compromised state that he can do. his lips part, gaze flicking from the familiarity of steve's face back to hunter's. suddenly his features are that much less appealing - a mocking shift of his mouth, an intensity in his gaze that looks like it's never been told no. it's like putting an original next to its replica - seeing all the mistakes in stark contrast. hunter's jaw is nowhere near as defined as steve's, the bridge of his nose is too thin for the width of his face, cheekbones near gaunt in comparison to a specimen that may as well have been carved by a great like michelangelo himself.]
Alright, I -
[hunter doesn't seem willing to let it go yet though, unhappy playing second fiddle least of all to steve and worried about whatever response is about to finalize this choice. he uses the leverage from his hold on steve's shoulder to try and bodily yank him back, forcing zemo to stumble back against the wall again with an absent look of surprise.]
I'm not the only one on scholarship here though, am I? Rogers doesn't seem your speed. Things move pretty fast around here.
[zemo tilts his head back, a mistake when even the small movement makes the room spin again and something dazed shifts over his expression. he feels untethered at sea, floating between a rock and a hard place quite literally. but zemo takes one last look at the way hunter is trying to impose himself yet again, the other boy's nose scrunching unattractively and a low-grade simmer of rage seeping into his face as he can see the interest waning. that's all it takes to make up his mind. things need to slow down, not go faster right now. he leans into steve's space, one hand coming up to steady itself on one of his firm shoulders while his balance feels like quicksand.]
I trust you. You owe me top shelf liquor though, Steven. [he turns to hunter, smiling apologetically and trying to stay diplomatic even as he sways lightly in the tight space between the wall and both much taller men.]
[ Zemo seems unsteady on his feet the moment he tries to move and Steve watches the way he sways, the way his finger tips press against his chest, the way his lips curl in a smirk that lacks all of it's edge. The smirk that he's come to know as well as his own name called in a sneer across a classroom, over the study table, in the halls in passing. Whatever is in that cup has to go, and he needs to get Zemo out of here, something fiercely protective (though he wont question the why) rising high into his chest. He feels the urgency running hot through his veins, mingled with the simmering rise of fury.
Just as he turns again to say something to the smaller man, the weight of the hand on his shoulder jerks him back and he whirls, releasing Zemo altogether so that he can about face on Hunter, staring the fuming boy down with a quiet, but deadly, calm. Steve can't help the way his chest feels like it swells, the way his shoulders posture and broaden, the way his head lifts just so he can see Hunter better in the dim party lights.
The assessment comes quick, the flick of eyes that tells him he could put Hunter on the floor in one strike, what with the coupled problem of alcohol and poor training. He can already feel the soft of his gut on his knuckles, the crack of a temple across a bared palm. If the Reserves have taught him anything, it's how to use his body, how to defend himself. And that's the trick here, isn't it? He needs to defend himself, not attack. There isn't a side to choose when only one is in the right. He can't fight here, no matter how easily he'd win. ]
You really don't want to do this, Hunter.
[ A step closer, closing the space, and Hunter almost falters. After all, Steve Rogers hasn't exactly been known to be unfriendly, to be confrontational and this sudden, quiet severity even has knocked his opponent off kilter. It shows in the way Hunter blinks, the space between them suddenly smaller with no movement. Zemo's interjection does little to change the way Steve stands tall between them, making himself an immovable wall, a veritable shield should Hunter try and make an advance. And Hunter considers it; Steve sees it in the slight forward lean, the shift of a sneaker on the tacky carpet. ]
Yeah, sorry, Hunter. Looks like we're in for a slow night, but I'm sure your evening will pick up. I'll see you in class.
[ A tight, careful smile. His fingers flex against the small space where cashmere meets the rise of rough denim at Zemo's back. It's absent, where his hand has landed, acting only as an anchor to the torrent of the man's vision and swimming feet. He turns only when Hunter seems to stammer, trying to come up with some angry rebut, yet Steve doesn't entertain it. Instead he turns into Zemo, keeping the smaller man tucked in against his side as he urges him away, careful. ]
Top shelf liquor. Maybe not tonight, but got it. Think you can take a rain check for now? I think we should get back to the dorms. It's late.
[ Late, and Steve can tell that the longer they wait, the harder it will be for them to make a clean exit. Zemo's on the fast track to becoming a show in and of himself, and a part of him wants to shield him from the whispers and rumors that frat house dives like Hunter like to start. He also can't help the flip of guilt in his own stomach, knowing that had he been here sooner, he might have been able to prevent it. That had he been here when he promised, this night might have gone differently. ]
[ Classes pass quickly on Fridays, and Steve's just gotten into his dorm room after the hustle and bustle of his day to find his roommate gone for the weekend. It's a small blessing, even if Phil is as nice as can be most days. But having a quiet room to himself for the better part of two and a half days? Well.
He flops on his bed, thinking he might spend the rest of the evening on his phone, watching a movie, or reading something, but talks himself out of it mere seconds after. If he knocks out some of his homework now, he might be able to actually relax over the quiet weekend.
His thumb hovers over the little label on his phone— Helmut Zemo— for a long few seconds before he finally presses it, listening to the ringing with the phone propped between his jaw and shoulder, his hands riffling through some of the papers they'd been using as reference. He perks up when he hears the familiar voice answer on the other line. He sounds... what? Surprised? Whoops. ]
Hey, sorry to bother you. I just thought it'd be easier to call than text, but I was looking at some of our research, and I couldn't remember if we decided to remove the first section and include that section on Keats from the lecture, or if we wanted to leave it as is. I've got something written for both, just to start, but...
[most students look forward to friday for the way it means guaranteed excuses to drink and be merry, as if most of them don't do the very same thing every night anyway and wake up paying the price the next morning. zemo's never needed an excuse for any of the above, though his own idea of drinking is a glass of imported sokovian wine or whiskey stored in is fridge and consumed as one, maybe two nightcaps. he does his work, he chats with his friends, he buries himself in research on studies he finds personally interesting. the few parties he's been to have been at steve rogers' invitation - but often they are only fun given the company he's with.
that being steve rogers himself. their project is going well given the equal amount of work they're putting in and the open line of communication through polite text messages intermixed with check-ins or anecdotes from the parties they've attended. it's stretched a bit more into the latter lately, and he finds himself actually looking forward to seeing steve's name pinging in his notifications.
phone calls are strictly reserved for his mother or his father. so he does sound surprised when he picks up, wondering if perhaps it's an accidental misdial at first. but steve's voice rings clear in his ear, a little deeper now that it's all he has to focus on.]
Not a bother. Give me a moment. [there's a rustling of paper, the click of a few keys on his already open laptop.]
Leave it as is, I think. Having the extra information can't hurt us, and Professor Kittredge simply loves Keats.
[is his eyeroll audible enough, steve? there's a small pause, and then:]
Was that all you needed?
[there's a casual note in his voice, but it's belied by the way he almost sounds as if he would prefer that it isn't.]
[ Steve has always been a fan of phone calls, but that comes by way of his own talkative mother. He spends a little time every day speaking with her on her lunch breaks, between shifts, while she's at the grocery. They've always been close, and he's aware that most people don't find phone calls as reassuring as Steve does.
He looks over his own papers as he hears Zemo rifling through his. ]
Oh, right. [ A laugh bubbles from his chest, warm and bright. ] I forgot about her Keats problem. We'll leave it.
[ He sighs softly, though Zemo's question takes him aback, something about the tone of it. ]
For the schoolwork, yeah. Phil's out out of town until next week so I've got a quiet weekend ahead me. Was going to try and get some work done, but I don't know how productive I'll actually be.
[ A beat, then: ] What about you? Busy weekend? [ He doesn't exactly want to hop off the phone yet, either. ]
[a preference for phone calls makes two of them. zemo's always found it that much easier to read people through the sound of their voice over the cold, impersonal distance of text. there's a time and a place for that - typically reserved for making plans or making good use of impartiality and checking in with his parents a few times a week. but there's much more to infer from the shift in someone's tone, the rich timbre and way they accent their words or leave poignant silence between.
steve's laugh manages to feel just as warm over the slight distortion of a receiver as it does in person, and if something blooms in his chest at the sound of it at least he isn't there to witness it pull at the corners of his lips.]
Ah, so you'll finally have the peace and quiet to get some rest.
[he remembers steve's lamenting about the snoring early on - not getting his beauty sleep, as if that was even possible. he pauses, considering his own circumstances for the weekend. he's found that many americans don't like to admit when they aren't busy, taking it to mean laziness rather than simple rest and recuperation. not a sentiment he shares, so there is no shame in admitting as much for himself.]
Not so busy for me. Some good wine and a bit of research for a philosophy dissertation, maybe.
No wild parties for you tonight then, mm?
[there's a grin audible in his voice if steve is listening for it.]
Yes, finally a little peace and quiet. I don't know, though. I'm so used to it now it kind of makes this place feel a little empty.
[ Phil is a good enough guy, and their interests run in very different veins, but they'd been friendly enough. Phil, too invested in college sports, had been utterly wowed that he was roomed with a school football player. No less one with real talent.
Steve's sure that he heard something about cards, signatures, and whatnot at some point in their time rooming together. ]
Wine and philosophy? [ The grin in Zemo's voice is mirrored in his own, Steve letting his head fall back onto the pillows. ] How European of you. Sounds like you're having a wild party all on your own. Nothing wild for me.
[ A soft sigh. ] I'm thinking a good book and food, if I can actually make myself get up to cook after working. I'm very exciting.
You'd better get some loud music, then. Or, ah - how do you say it here - the little machine with the noises at night?
[his fingers tighten around the slim frame of his phone as he shifts, bending down to unlace his oxfords and toe out of them before reaching to pick them up and carry them to his closet. he sets his phone down, putting it briefly on speaker so he can lift his sweater up and over his head before neatly shaking it out and putting it in a bag for dry cleaning. there's a light scoff and mock indignance when he replies again between the clink of a hanger in the background.]
It's a very large bottle of wine, Steven. Sokovian. I should have you know - I'm more adventurous than you give me credit for.
[not a lie, he just doesn't typically advertise that he could probably drink half of it in a night if he were so inclined. he pulls down the zipper on his trousers, reaching for his silk pyjama bottoms to tug on instead with a light sigh that mirrors steve's own.]
Let me guess what you'll be making: rice, something green, and enough grilled chicken to feed a small army. Isn't that the meal you Hollywood lookalikes all abide by?
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partner up ➤ if i could say what i want i'd say i want to blow you away
it's not the first time he'll have had to pair up for a project with another classmate - but it is the first time that he'll have to make the concentrated effort to try make the deeper connection with an american one. he's been content to be a bit of an outsider - after all, it's one year abroad from the familiarity and comforts of sokovia before he'll insist on going back and finishing among his friends and peers at the university a few miles from his parents sprawling estate. he's only here because it's that much more well-rounding, and his parents have insisted he get a different perspective from a country the rest of the world considers elite. privately, zemo finds it utterly tasteless - full of offensively biased politics, fulfilling nearly every nasty stereotype he knows the rest of the world whispers about. maybe it's not as bad as those silly hollywood movies, but given his accent and his stiffer, posh appearance compared the lax clothing and demeanor of everyone else in his classes...he sticks out like a sore thumb. and maybe he's not exactly helping himself, but why should he change?
there's a difference between being alone and lonely. for the most part, he's content in the former. he does well in his classes, he spends a lot of time in his luxuriously outfitted single suite for upperclassmen or the library, and he spends his evenings either dutifully attending to his work or chatting long-distance with his friends back home.
perhaps the thing he has closest to some form of an actual relationship with anyone is the very student that's supposed to be knocking on his door any moment. steven rogers - steve, as he prefers. the blond demigod that looks like every leading man in every teenage dream of a movie. tall, buff, adored by the girls and envied by the other guys. the precise area he bucks from his onscreen counterparts, however, is his intelligence level. zemo has to give him credit for not being another dumb jock (though he's encountered plenty elsewhere on campus). if there's anyone that can hold their own in a heated, philosophical debate about classical literature, it's steve. sometimes it's irritating in the best way, and sometimes he simply finds himself impressed that someone else can match his level, or even grudgingly be forced to admit that he occasionally exceeds it. he's certain there's a percentage of students that show up solely to listen to them, and another that specifically can't wait for them to shut up as the clock ticks towards dismissal on any given day. their professor, on the other hand, has pegged them as her favorite - no surprise given their consistent participation and actual bother to read source material to such an elevated degree.
and somehow...without him even realizing, that banter had carried outside of the classroom as well. he passes steve more frequently than he initially realized, and the other student seems to always make a point to interact with him in some capacity. a friendly wave, a blinding smile, a light tease about their latest disagreement. zemo has become so used to existing in a realm above everyone else that it's something of a novelty. it's not altogether unpleasant. if he were honest with himself, he'd admit he even enjoys the acknowledgment. and on some days - he even looks forward to it.
it's no wonder why they've been paired up. but the nervousness of having to spend time with steve for an extended period in what's been his sanctuary has him on edge. he doesn't typically let anyone get close for good reason - and while perhaps he's putting too much pressure on a long-term project, it has him putting his guard up and preparing somehow for the worst. he's in a soft charcoal cashmere sweater and worn but slim-cut jeans, fidgeting with the watch on his wrist and waiting for the telltale knock at the door. steve doesn't have a single, the library was out for the amount of speaking required...so it made more sense to meet here.
relax, he tells himself. just get this over with. when he hears knuckles wrapping against the wood, he unlocks the door and opens it carefully. 5 p.m. on the dot.]
So the golden boy is punctual too, hm?
[it's not outright hostile per se. but it's also not as friendly as it could be.]
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Hearing Helmut Zemo's name called in tandem with his own, however, hadn't been altogether unpleasant. They have an easy, if not a little biting, rapport that Steve has come to find comforting in the midst of their literature classes. Their debates often lead the class discussions and inform the lectures, the professor aglow and bouncing with delight when they take her inquisitive bait.
He wouldn't say they're friends, but Steve finds himself whirling in and out of Zemo's carefully conjured social sphere, greeting him in the hallways or in classrooms, catching him at the tail end of lunch for a quick chat, seeing him on the way to the dorms. At first it had been a nicety, to offer a warm welcome to a transfer student, but he's not so sure it's all formalities now. He enjoys their banter, the intelligent company, the challenge.
It's why he suggested they meet up after class to work together, and sure enough, he finds Zemo's dorm with the ease of someone who might has well own the campus. He doesn't, but he's social enough that he's gotten around to a few small parties or study groups in his time. He'd half expected the library as their prime choice for working, and yet, here they are. Library rooms full and noisy, at least here they'll have some quiet to work.
Steve smiles when the door opens, adjusting his book bag over one shoulder, the strap buckling the fabric of his dark cardigan, the neck of his t-shirt (an old medical center logo faded on the front) bunching up on one side. ]
Of course. My mother tole me punctuality is not about being on time but respecting your own commitment, and I try my best to listen to what she says most of the time.
[ The smile turns into a little bit of a silly grin, even if he can feel the tension oozing off of the man across from him. It's strange, seeing him so casually dressed, even if they don't dress too dissimilarly in class. But there are no desks and books in between them now, no schedules or classes to peer around. It's nice. He glances up over his shoulder, then gestures toward the room. ]
Can I come in? Or should I go and come back, so I'm a little later?
[ A faint tease, but good natured all the same. ]
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[it’s meant to come out sarcastically, but instead it comes out sincerely. if steve knew him better, he’d hear a pang of something forlorn in there too.
no, they’re not friends. but he might be the closest thing to one zemo has here in the states - or at least, the one person outside of his professors that he interacts with the most on a daily basis. maybe what’s most surprising is the way that steve regularly goes out of his way to do so - even when zemo isn’t always so friendly in return. if he didn’t know any better, he might think steve was something of a glutton for punishment in the way he keeps coming back for more. that or he really is as kind as everyone seems assured he actually is - not insincere, not something that’s a surface level veneer for brownie points. if anything….there’s little he can have quarrel with when it comes to steve rogers outside of their classroom debates and the wrong opinion he’s entitled to have, even though it is - again - wrong.
he receives every biting comment or needling little jab from zemo and just...takes them all in stride. laughs, delightfully, and tips back his perfect jaw with his perfect teeth and his perfect smile. like the one he’s offering now - and somehow it seems privately more authentic than the ones he flashes in class or in the middle of campus to friends and hanger-ons. it shouldn’t make something in his stomach tighten around the thread of an inexplicable flutter, it should just be a polite greeting and nothing more.
damn him and his model-esque face and figure and his ability to match zemo’s level of wit and intellect to boot. that is no easy feat, and it’s only in part given how highly he thinks of at least one of those things that he feels...flustered somehow, though thank god it isn't recognizably so to anyone who doesn't know him well enough. he swallows thickly, stepping aside with a flourish of a wave to invite him inside.]
Please, do come in. The sooner we get to work the sooner you can get back to...whatever it is you do outside of class.
[a pointed raise of an eyebrow and a glance at his shoulders.]
Lifting refrigerators for fun?
[if he had to guess. based solely on appearances. and certainly not a bad one, despite his teasing.]
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[ Sarah Rogers works tirelessly helping others, doing what she can to keep him and their little house afloat. After all, the woman made his childhood absolutely warm and loving, and even speaking of her draws warmth up into Steve's eyes.
Once flourished inward, Steve steps within in the confines of the room, surprised to find the man doesn't have a second bunk wedged into one corner, doesn't have someone with headphones looking miserable or piled under school work. The room is tasteful, simple, and quiet in a way he finds himself envying. He bites it back, that lick of jealousy, his own roommate this semester a little too noisy and a little too rowdy for his liking. Next year, at least, he and Buck can room together, but he has to deal with the other guy in the meantime.
Setting his bookbag on the table, he turns, brows raised, to look at Zemo, noting the way the other guy looks him over. Heat prickles beneath his collar, at his throat. Strange. He's ogled at by half the school, or so Bucky says he is, and those stares never make him feel this. ]
Why, you need a refridgerator moved? [ His tone drops a little, almost playful, almost flirty, like he'd be saying this to any pretty thing moving out of her dorm room, but it isn't some waif of a college girl. It's Helmut Zemo, the quiet, biting boy from Sokovia who has enough knowledge that the idea of him earning college degree almost makes Steve laugh. ]
Not that I do that for a living, but I could probably figure it out. Have a few buddies with me in the reserves who are probably better at it than me, if I'm honest.
[ He reaches for his bag, then, and draws out a bag of pretzels, a bag of cheesy popcorn, and a little container of trail mix, M&Ms heavily mixed in. A sheepish shrug and he gestures toward the snacks. ]
Figured we could use some snacks while we work? Hope that's alright.
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[it comes out harsher than he means, incredulous at the idea that his dorm is anything less than already perfectly settled - as if that's the priority here. that, and not the sudden rush of unexpectedness from the near punch to the gut his tone makes zemo suddenly keenly aware of. steve's voice drops into something just different enough from the banter he's used to in the halls or strolling along the pathways on plush lawns across the school's massive campus and it has that same sensation flipping in his stomach again. it sounds...deliberately flirtatious, if he didn't know better, and to his abject horror he can feel heat rising to the high points of his cheeks as the realization catches him off guard. there's no way steven rogers, the apple of everyone's eye, is flirting with the likes of him. not when he could have his pick of nearly everyone on campus. nearly - only because zemo has no interest in him besides the best way to trounce over his theories and pontificating in class. that's his story and he's sticking to it, turning away quick enough that he hopes the other boy won't have noticed it against his fair skin.
there's a small snort of disbelief at the odd moment of...self-deprecation? or whatever that is - some sense of humbleness that attempts to somehow imply there is someone more qualified or better built than he is. right. zemo barely resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead leading him further inside his surprisingly expansive dorm room to a round table tucked in the corner of what could nearly be called a den with tall windows looking out on the grounds and a small but unlit and ornate fireplace. it's a full suite - no bed in sight, the kitchen and bathroom peeking through the hallway too.]
Please - don't act so humble, Mr. Rogers. As if there are many men walking around looking like you and putting it to charitable use. Doubtful.
[that didn't come out the way he intended. if anything, it sounds like he's - complimenting steve? fixating on his looks rather than his physical strength. both of which he shouldn't even be commenting on anyway. he swallows again and gestures for steve to take a seat, only to watch himself be beat to the punch by steve's hospitality about this study session. he blinks, trying and failing at hiding his surprise.]
Oh. That was - thoughtful of you. [a pause as he looks over the options, fixating on the fact the container looks homemade and that steve apparently allows himself some sort of sweet tooth. he bites his lip, absently, snapping out of it and asking in a subdued, soft voice that comes from years of ingrained training to be on his best manners and knowing the consequence of failing them.]
Can I get you something to drink?
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But now, with Zemo leading him into the room, to the small, round table where they're meant to work, he catches sight of heat in the apples of high cheekbones and finds his eye momentarily caught up in it. He's good looking, dark hair neat and the flush of his skin only making the dappled beauty marks stand out, and Steve wonders momentarily what they might feel like under the pads of his—
A huff of a laugh, if only to clear his throat, as his eyes fall back to the snacks, arranging them on the table. ]
I'm not being humble. Takes more than one guy to move a fridge, and it turns out I know more than one guy. [ A small grin, and he turns to survey the room. A private suite, with the fire place, the furnishings, one might not think it's a dorm room at all. It's nice, and while he's not surprised someone like Helmut Zemo can afford it, it doesn't change his wonder at it. ]
Water, if you don't mind. [ A beat, then: ] Oh, you can call me Steve, by the way. Mr. Rogers feels a little bit like my dad's in the room somewhere. [ Never mind that man is resting in Cypress Hills National, with a face Steve knows only from old photographs. He clears his throat again, pockets his hands, and idly wanders toward the kitchen. To check on the digs, of course. Not to put his eyes on Zemo again. ]
This place is incredible. I'm pretty sure my room's half the size. Feels smaller when Phil's snoring.
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it’s not like it matters to someone like him - his path has long since been carved out between the expectations of his family in the hopes that he’ll add to it with some pretty girl from a good family that will produce him a proper heir and carry on the zemo name. there’s never been any consideration or awareness for the pretty boys he kissed in dark corners of nightclubs strewn across the seedy corners of europe that wouldn’t look twice and would maintain discretion. (steve might not have a type, but zemo does - tall, built, witty. which makes this arrangement…well. distracting, and steve’s not even been here for longer than five minutes.]
Not at all. Steve.
[he barely resists the urge to tack on the “n” sardonically like he does in class. the weight of it on his tongue feels…somehow better. like someone who actually knows him beyond the little interactions they’ve shared thus far. he takes a moment to head into the kitchen, pouring them both ice cold water into gold-tipped glasses. expensive, a family gift and somewhat out of place even among the obviously elevated decor of the rest of his room compared to the rest of the students on campus. he brings them both back and sets one down in front of his guest with a nod, sitting down next to him at an angle so they’ll be able to pore over the same books and papers easily.
it also gives him the unfortunate - or, ideal - position to notice a dusting of soft freckles along the strong bridge of steve’s nose, along with a beauty mark he’d never noticed on his cheek. he shakes his head mildly, trying to shake off the novelty of someone else in his room. that’s all this is, surely.]
Thank you. [he says it politely, not at all arrogant because he’s keenly aware it’s his parents money tha secured it.]
Upperclassmen have the option of at least a single to upgrade to - or so I was told. Are you and Phil friends enough to tolerate that? I don’t know if I could, what with the need for beauty sleep and all.
[a light tease, and he pauses to reach for his own book, licking the pad of a fingertip and fluttering through the pages nimbly.]
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you taught me the courage of stars before you left;
He walks to the funeral home, to the quaint chapel she'd wanted her funeral to be held in (— it has the most gorgeous stained glass I ever did see, Stevie, it's magical—), to her house, to his apartment; all of it aimless and yet with purpose, letting the rain drown him in his leather coat, wash up on his old, patent leather shoes, grip at the hems of his pant legs. War in the farthest, deepest, slavic wasteland would be easier than this.
The service goes smoothly, the pews packed with friends and old patients, the people whose lives Sarah Rogers irrevocably touched, all lined up to hear her story at an altar draped in downy lace. Steve knows he gave her eulogy, knows he tried to put his mother into words, tried to conjure her image in stories of her cooking and getting pancakes stuck to the ceiling, or the way she took in a refugee family on a whim and packed their house to the seams, the way she worked tirelessly and endlessly to make sure her patients received the car, the way she never asked for help or handouts even when she needed them, the way she loved jumping into the puddles after a nice rainstorm. Like we get to start over fresh as a daisy she'd say when the storm passed, blue sky bright and victorious between dark clouds.
But he greets every person in his pressed uniform, something she'd be so proud of, and shakes their hand and thanks them for coming. He accepts their teary condolences and listens to their stories as if their words might bring the woman back to life in front of him. As if he'd see the vibrant, energetic force of her, and not the frail thing he'd come to care for over the last several months. But ah, he'd have her any way she came. He'd care for her every day of his life if that's what it took.
He looks for someone in the crowd, occasionally. Someone with dark hair and dark eyes, and he can almost imagine the freckled marks at a hairline on the men here who he doesn't know. Yet, the chapel empties and he's left with the sense that the deja-vu never came to pass, the halls feeling empty, and he's told the graveside service will have to wait until the storm clears, for many reasons. Sarah Rogers did enjoy the rain, after all, and how could he deny her this? The chaplain tells him to stay as long as he'd like and Steve sits in the pews with silence ringing in his ears until Bucky and Sam come in, but he sends them along. They don't fight him. Not this time. ]
Jeez, Ma...
[ Quiet, under his breath, after hours of sitting. Nothing in his training prepared him for the weight of this, for the hurt, for the empty duty he still feels for a woman that no longer exists. Gone in the soft closing of eyes, the shallow rise and fall of a chest, and—
Steve stands, turns on a military heel without thinking twice, and starts for the door, forgetting, at first, that it's raining, the downpour dappling his dress blues in a way that would get him punished if his senior officers saw. But he stands in it all the same, breathing deeply, ignoring the way his throat swells and his eyes burn now that no one is around to see, to see the way the scream rises into his face but never makes a sound, trapped in his chest like a man who is holding the door shut against a monster, desperate and tight. But the pain is there in his face, in the blue of his eyes, uncontrolled and fire-bright.
He forgot, in all of this, that he didn't drive himself here. Now, not only alone, he's stranded for a while. ]
Shit.
[ The rain masks his tears, thankfully. It's good for something. ]
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it's a duty. an obligation, nothing more. it will never be true love, and quite frankly - he doesn't even think it will be the kind of love that develops and grows after something comfortable has time to settle like an arranged marriage. all the money in the world, the fineries and luxuries he passes without a glance on a daily basis cannot compare to those stolen moments in a tiny cabin and on the lightly swaying dock under the stars, wrapped up in strong arms feeling safe and warm and in love. the truth is, he doesn't think he ever fell out of love with steve rogers. part of him is terrified in knowing he likely never will. he had the foolish notion in the early days that a passing resemblance in a dark club might be enough to get a small fix and get him out of his head, out of the strain of pretending to be someone he wasn't. when he realized they only made him feel emptier, he stopped altogether.
there was one moment of weakness, resolve shattered and spirit broken where he picked up the phone and dialed numbers he still knew be heart only to be greeted with an immediate voicemail. he hadn't left one, taking it as a sign to just - give it up. as much as he could.
it's been eight long, painful years since helmut zemo has set foot in these parts of the united states. there's a fiery sense of betrayal at the knowledge that he might not have if it weren't for oeznik stepping in. pulling him aside, a quiet whisper of there's something i think you might want to see, sir before handing him an american paper turned to the obituaries. it wasn't until the jet was prepped for emergency take-off and he was well past sokovian borders that he allowed himself to break down in private, all-consumed by that specifically acute pain stemming from preventable grief and lost opportunities. weeping over the woman that felt more like a mother than his own flesh and blood who has distantly pulled the strings in his life since he could walk.
sarah rogers is dead. sarah rogers, who didn't even have the heart to hate him for breaking her son's heart and choosing duty over desire. sarah rogers, who had loved and encouraged him and been there for him in a way his own parents could never even fathom. he ignores the panicked texts from nikoleta and her staff about flowers and dessert tables, overlooks the voicemail from his father and email from his mother. they can check the flight log, and he doesn't even give a damn about needing to explain himself right now. he's already missed the wake - he can't let himself miss the service or the burial. and least of all - he can't not try to be there for steve.
he's tired, jet-lagged and emotionally wrung dry with eyes red-rimmed and dark enough to prove it. it's no small miracle they make it in before the worst of the storms, but he slicks back his hair, pulls on a flawless bespoke black suit and pressed shirt, black polished oxfords and grabs an umbrella. oeznik expertly maneuvers them through traffic and flooded streets, but it means he's late when he arrives to the service - tucking himself into a spot in the back corner so as not to...startle anyone. maybe also because a part of him knows he'll draw the ire of friends like sam wilson and james barnes, and he doesn't want this to be about that. it's about paying his last wishes to sarah, to getting a proper goodbye because she deserves so much more than just that. and - it's about offering unconditional support to steve. ex-lovers or not, sarah was the core of his world. if he'd known sooner...
zemo makes a point to step into one of the unused wings of the church as people start flooding out to take shelter from the storm and wait until it's cleared enough to see her to the final resting place. steve looks devastating for more than one reason - the press of his uniform, the way he looks just as good if not better than he did the day zemo walked out on him and saw him last. but mostly it's the grief etched in every feature of his. the rain barely seems to register as it soaks him to the bone. he swallows thickly, composing himself with the practice of nearly a decade now and lets his heels click audibly on wet pavement as he extends his umbrella to suddenly stop the downpour from over steve's shoulders. it's large enough to cover them both, but not without him needing to step in a little closer. not as close as they once used to easily fall when they had the privacy or the freedom in parts unknown, but closer than he probably deserves right now.]
You'll catch a cold like that, you know.
[his voice is lower than it used to be, the rasp of his accent curling elegantly and more confidently around the words than he truly feels. they're not light or teasing, just matter-of-fact after having taken care of steve and knowing about his sickly experiences in youth. he swallows around a lump in his throat, tipping his head up to look at the other man with a rare glimpse at how he feels in his eyes.]
Steve -
[it feels good to say his name, voice raw with the mixed emotions at being able to do so at all. still quiet, reverent. fond.]
I'm so sorry.
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It takes him a moment to realize the rain ha stopped, turned instead to the pattering on plastic, but it's the voice that takes the air out of his chest. He doesn't turn, but he can feel the heat of someone else closer, almost feel as if the ghost of something old and painful begins to seep in around the rubble and despair.
Helmut Zemo.
The accent, the voice, tired with age, but nonetheless so burned into his mind that the timbre of it rings sharp in his ears. Yes, Steve thinks, he will catch cold like this. ]
You came.
[ Anger bubbles under the damp, the embers of something hurt and confused reigniting but only enough for a smoke signal, a warning. How many times had he called the Zemo residence, how many heavily accented footmen had he spoken to? Letters wouldn't have made it soon enough, and there was no e-mail save for their publicity company.
He sat at Sarah's bedside and petted her hand while she told medicated stories of him as a boy, in high school, and oh remember when Helmut dropped the wine bottle and it stained the walls and we laughed and laughed and laughed and he'd told her, when her breathing had gone shallow, when the monitors beeped of her nearing demise, that he'd been there while she slept, that he'd kissed her brow and sang her that Sokovian jig she liked so well, oh if only she'd been awake to hear it. ]
I called. A dozen times, maybe. They said they gave you the message.
[ He could be cruel here, could tell him that she asked after him because she had, but he keeps that quietly locked in his chest. For how long, he doesn't know. Maybe an eternity. ]
Did you miss the service, too?
[ Finally, he turns beneath the umbrella, fiery eyes meeting those of the man whose portrait he could draw a thousand times over and get every detail right, even after a decade apart. God, he loves him, and it makes his stomach churn sickly in his gut. But he can see the hurt, he can see the mud behind those dark eyes and it takes him aback. No mask, no haughty tilt of a jaw, no severe pinch of his brows.
His fingers itch to touch his face, but they remain still at his side. Tears slip hotly down his cheeks, no longer masked by the rain, and without end. He can't stop them, not now. ]
It was beautiful. Everything she wanted. If you can want something like this.
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Of course I came. I would have been here sooner, only -
[a dozen times? he hadn't heard a whisper of it. no messages, no notes left for him aside from the inane details of the wedding and his fiancée's new requests piling up, the bills separated to send to their family accountants. now his brow does furrow, and the pain in his expression is sapped by equal measures of confusion, as if drawn directly from steve himself.]
I didn't know. Oeznik came to me yesterday evening with the paper, and I saw the obituary. I dropped everything to get here in time for the service.
[would he believe himself if he were in steve's shoes? he's never been a liar, at least not when it comes to the small things. just the earth-shattering, course-altering and life-changing decision of their future together. he's too busy running through every possible thing he could have missed - no voicemails, no emails, not even word of mouth. not even the excuse of how busy he's been between business and the engagement party and the wedding details would have made him forget or not do what he's just done and fly immediately over. but there's no way steve is lying either. which means - god, he doesn't have the energy to run through the scenarios right now. he'll get to the bottom of it, but it's less important than focusing on why he did come, even if it was apparently too late.
his gaze drops to mask the sudden glassiness in his own eyes, fingers tightening against the umbrella handle as if it might somehow help push away the way emotion wells up in him. his voice drops to a near whisper, practically lost to thudding pinpoints of rain against the silk canpopy and crash of thunder in the distance.]
I would have wanted to see her one last time, Steve. Please, believe me.
[his gaze draws back up to meet the eyes that may as well be a fixture in his dreams, still that easy, expressive blue, only now they're clouded over with wetness that isn't just from being soaked to the bone.
he has no right to do what he does next. but he can't watch the man he loved suffer in silence. he reaches with his free arm, pressing up on his toes and wrapping it around what he can reach of steve's damp back to pull him down into a comforting hug. to let him dip his head if he so chooses and let those tears sink against the juncture of his neck and shoulders. he doesn't care about ruining his suit - he doesn't care about anything other than being right here, right now. and god, if the scent of steve even through his rain-drenched and familiar weight of him doesn't hit him hard enough to make him weak in the knees and holding him tighter for more than just comfort. it feels like something illicit, an old memory stolen and replayed even if the parts played don't fit who they are anymore.]
I know. It was beautiful, and she would have been thrilled to see everyone together again on her behalf.
[his arm grips that much more, fingers splaying along the back of his neck in a gentle cradle as his other arm shakes slightly from holding up their protection. he turns his head slightly, trying to bring a bit of levity to his voice in another low murmur near steve's ear, even though he feels like he's one wrong push from breaking apart.]
She would have scolded you for forgetting an umbrella.
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Dreams. Nightmares. Everything blends together into one perfect, sleep-deprived storm. ]
I spoke to so many people.
[ Pleaded, really, but he needn't go that far. The footmen, the ladies, the whatever-servants they might be, the message had died on his lips the moment he spoke it. Mom's dying. You should come. She'd love to see you. What he'd wanted to say was that he, of all people, needed him. That even now, in the rain, Steve feels like he's a man sinking slowly, quicksand slowly eking him out of existence, having started the moment that dorm room shut behind him. ]
I believe you. She knows. She knew.
[ Partially. With all that money, all that power, Zemo hadn't made an effort to see her, to reach out to her before that, had he? The woman who wrapped him up in her love even when Steve's heart felt like it died on the tiled, sticky hall tiles. He knew she sent gifts, sent letters, all returned with an angry red stamp weeks later: Not Deliverable. Return to Sender.
He opens his mouth to speak again, his face a pinched, frustrated thing, when the arm hooks round his back, drags him down. His body, heavy and chilled, doesn't react at first, standing awkwardly in the embrace, as though muscle memory has gone away after years of disuse. It hurts, having him here. It rips open an old wound chock full of scar tissue (one that never really healed) and sets it delicately beside the hole where his heart bleeds from, where the name Sarah Rogers courses through his veins in an agonized wail that has yet to be freed.
His head dips, presses into his shoulder, against the slope of a neck he used to kiss, and his arms remember their stuttering reach, creaking their way around the man's thin frame, drawing him tight as though a buoy in the torrent. He thinks he'll hug him then be done with it, create space where it had been made nearly a decade ago, but his joints lock up, his shoulders shake, his breath comes up hitched in his throat.
The rain feels like roaring white noise in his ears, and it's probably for the best because he can't hear the agonized sob that claws its way free as those familiar, dangerous fingers slide into the hair at his nape.
Why are you here? You're just making it worse. Why didn't you come sooner? She needed you. I needed you.
I need you.
A shuddering breath, words left unspoken, but he gives a watery huff at the comment, the breath so warm against his ear. Steve doesn't move, fingers digging into the small of Zemo's back and the fine, bespoke fabric, the smell and feel of him safe enough for now.
For now. ]
She'd have scolded me for not dancing in it.
[ How can he, when his feet are cast from lead, when his whole body has rusted through, eaten away by the tricksy lurch of oxidation, by the years he's been only a hollowed tin man. A soldier with a gentle man tucked away inside, hiding beneath his ribs, away from the light for so long, that he’s all but forgotten his name. ]
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he's in the dark about the attempts to reach him. and while this is the first bit of illumination shed that perhaps something is amiss at his household, it can't be his focus now. the one singular thing on his mind is steve and what will bring him the most comfort, empty as it may be in lieu of the gaping whole sarah rogers has surely left behind. there's a piece of himself that feels like it's forever lost, and that was from less than two years of her affection. he can't imagine thirty of them, ceased in the blink of an eye. sometimes it felt like they were their own little world - those weekends and that glorious summer shared with just sarah and steve, the stuff of hollywood stories fascinated with the evolution from boys into men with the guiding light of one strong, irreplaceable influence. he'd never felt so carefree - so invincible and free to cherish the love he craved and the freedom outside of the stifling walls of his family's castle.
did she go peacefully? was it in her sleep? how long? did she ask to see me?
it's a small smattering of the dozens of thoughts that bombard him all at once, and steve feels as much like an anchor in his grief as he's trying to offer in return. the tension finally bleeds out and he feels steve all but melt against him, arms wrapping with a painful familiarity right in the same spot they always rested when he'd do this out of fondness and a need not to be apart than out of the necessity of needing something to cling to from the open, jagged edges of mourning wounds. he's not so arrogant to think he's still part of that - not in a million years. it's a double-edged sword of wanting steve to have something (someone) to look forward to as much as he doesn't know he could bear the idea of man fully moving on and letting their love be a worn, faded piece of the past.
the sob that wracks against him is so gutwrenching it brings the tears he's been keeping at bay springing to the corners of his eyes, letting them slip shut as he murmurs out a soft shhhh, it's alright, i'm here against his skin and holds him as tightly as one arm can allow. his fingers flex, slipping up into the wet, short hair at the back of his neck as they adjust and do their best to soothe what he already knows can only scratch the surface of comfort. nothing short of resurrection will make steve's life feel the same ever again, and there's no such thing as miracles - no matter how hard he's wished for them over the years himself.
he doesn't pull back either, arm staining from how tightly it's clinging around him. it strikes him so clearly that he doesn't want to let go - he can't, because he's not sure he'll ever have the chance to hold him like this again. which is exactly what he thought when that door closed on him in the dorm, and now...
he lets out a small, breathy noise of amusement to mask his own emotions in the moment. this is about steve, not his own shortcomings and the fact that he wasn't here, didn't know - ]
Well, it's not too late to do so.
[he almost teases he knows his way around a waltz, or that he remembers them swaying absently to old, staticy records wafting through that cabin. but what good will it do besides hurt them both? he's not so cruel to be dismissive of the notion. it feels very much like he's standing on eggshells, trying to balance the love he's lost and still holds under his skin and what he needs to reconcile and repurpose as...a friend? no, that would require a consistent presence he hasn't had since university. an...acquaintance, then. a deep, distant acquaintance. fuck, it hurts just to think it.]
As I recall...you don't exactly have two left feet.
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sorry for me im feral
im also feral just slower
plz slow and steady makes this race bish
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(uni years) party ➤ i hold out for one more drink, before i think i'm looking too desperately
he doesn't know what possessed him to come. certainly not, he insists to himself, the source of the invite - the shy smile steve rogers had extended in his dorm with the implication he'd really like to see him here. steve isn't even a part of the massive mcmansion of a fraternity house they're currently standing in; he's just that well-liked by all that he manages to secure an invite anyway. he tells himself he's only come for the drinks and to treat it as any other spectator sport so he can say he's had a proper american collegiate experience. tuck it away like an anecdote he'll pull out years later at a dinner party and realize he's gotten as bad as his parents when he says something like, can you believe it? jungle juice from a cooler? i knew from that moment on it was only top shelf liquor for me.
he'd done his best to dress casually - a black cashmere turtleneck sweater that clings to his slim figure, tight black skinny jeans and polished black leather derby boots. and yet even in its simplicity he feels overdressed in comparison to the sneakers, bomber jackets and graphic t-shirts that have come from retail stores he sees on nearly every other young man in this...establishment, if it can be called that. what with its booming beats threatening to blow out his ear drums and vibrating the very walls that have been spray painted with some sort of temporary neon paint that are only visible under black lighting on the dance floor. there's a bar with some poor, probably hazed rushee struggling to manage pouring out shots and wasting the only good liquor here by splattering it across the sticky bartop in the corner of the room. it smells like sweat and cheap aftershave, the afternotes of alcohol clinging to the floors and breath of passerbys, accented too by the occasional waft of marijuana from closed doors.
he keeps to himself at first, as he always does. no sign of steve. then come the girls - pretty, scantily clad and fascinated by what they surely perceive to be a suave, mysterious foreigner. his accent has always won him brownie points among american women, and while they aren't outright swooning the same way they do to a certain tall, blond demigod...they do giggle at his jokes and bat their lashes when he winks in between regaling them stories of his partying in eastern europe. one of them puts a hand against his arm, and he lets his own slip to the small of her back as he leans in close enough to be heard over the spitting lyrics of some popular rap star.
it's all for show. he has no interest in taking any of them upstairs or dancing with them out on the floor, but it's good for appearances. and to practice his small talk and reaffirm he's not a total lost cause - even if he still doesn't have any real friends.
(steve rogers is decidedly not a friend. absolutely not.)
what he doesn't expect is one of the fraternity brothers - a senior, he thinks, with a strong jaw and a face that belongs in the pages (not the on the cover) of gq to slip next to him, leaning oh-so casually with a hip cocked against the wall and strike up a conversation with him. he's handsome in a conventional, small-town sort of sense. probably the best looking boy from his graduating class which has given him something of an ego and inflated sense of self-worth. and despite all that, zemo knows when someone is sizing him up like that. he's known of his own preferences since he was in his young teens - and he didn't grow up among some of the best-kept closeted and wealthy men in europe not to know when he was looking at one of his own. he takes a gulp of the syrupy sweet concoction in his cup and sets his drink down on the ledge, turning his body more fully to face the other boy. enough distance not to attract attention, but the body language enough to indicate more than just passing interest and politeness. so is the specific smirk on his lips and the swipe of his tongue to chase after the cherry flavor.
it's a delicate balance. but he's surprised enough to have encountered it here of all places, and he can at least give a fair shot to blending in just this once. maybe he'll even have fun, somehow, even if it was the furthest thing from his mind when he first set foot in here.
as for steve- well, surely he's busy fending off a bevy of beauties or being adored by all of his many friends. maybe he didn't even come at all, much too popular to make it to all the invites he must get on a regular basis. it's fine. it doesn't matter, really. (it does.) it's not like he'd been looking forward to seeing him in a different context. (he was).
after a few more minutes of it sinking in, he realizes absently that the drinks are stronger than he realized. not unpleasant just - unexpected. also unexpected: a hand lightly circling around his wrist hidden from view, thumb swiping in a soft stroke along his suddenly jumping pulse. there's something he can't quite put his finger on about this exchange, and yet...there's not reason not to let it continue. it's the most engagement he's gotten since steve himself, and the vain part of him is enjoying the silent admission of attraction. only now he knows these drinks pack more than just a punch if the risk of it isn't even stopping him from coyly tilting his head and listening to his newfound friend (hunter? hector? it was too loud to catch it and now it's much too late to ask again) talk all about summers in connecticut spent shirtless and sunbathing, not unlike some of his own. it feels like the edge has been taken off - like the part of him that gets frisky grinding against strangers on packed dance floors and whispering in dark corners might make an appearance in the united states after all. maybe he can let loose. who’s going to tell?]
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What, Rogers, trying to impress a girl?
And Steve could only huff a gentle something like that before swiping the keys to the old Barnes family Buick and making his way to the frat house, on campus, but far enough that a fast escape wouldn't hurt if needed.
The dim light makes it hard to see, to make out faces in the flash of cheap disco lights and the haze of smoke from bongs and cigarettes, but he weaves through the crowd, ignoring the grab of hands in his shirt, along the side seam of his jeans, the coy Steve Rogers, right? from too many slurred mouths. He gets caught up, briefly, by the frat house president who shakes his hand and grabs his shoulder, shoving a solo cup of some concoction into his hand with a cheery, barking laugh.
He plays along, letting his eyes roam and adjust to the dim. He'd hoped he'd be arm-locked like this with Helmut Zemo, not trying control his expression as the drunk senior spits all over him during his animated speech. Just as the man ruffles his hair in that ne'er-do-well, comradely football sort of way he catches sight of a familiar face. Tucked into a corner, sidled up with Hunter Schuster, and something wildly hot churns deep in his gut. ]
Thanks, man, great party. I'll catch you later, alright?
[ A clap on the arm, a tight smile, and Steve pushes through the crowd, passing his cup to some whiny girl at a table. He makes it to the corner just in time for Hunter to lean a little too close, and only just in time for Steve to press the meat of his shoulder into the space between them, his back to Hunter, his smile turned onto Zemo instead, genuine and warm, but concern behind his eyes in the dim. ]
Hey, you made it.
[ As if he wasn't the one that was late, and it's clear that he is late, if not for the heavy scoff he hears behind him that sounds something like his name and bastard curled all into one predatory sound. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but his eyes stay glued to Zemo's face, as if studying the slack of his mouth, the movement of his eyes, anything. He plucks up the solo cup from the table behind him, holding it up curiously, peering into it. ]
Need a refill?
[ No, no he doesn't. Steve knows this game, knows it too well, and just as he thinks Hunter might not retaliate, he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder, his hackles raising, the smile directed in Zemo's direction tightening just so at the edges. ]
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hunter reaches out, as if he's about to pull him inward for a gentlemanly bit of support, and somehow in between outstretched arms and zemo trying to get the room to stop shifting even when he's standing still...steve is there.
steve is there.
hunter is forgotten entirely in the span of a split second. zemo should be cross with him for inviting him to this idiotic party and then taking so long to show up. for being distracted by a better off, treating him like an afterthought now that he's bothered to come at all. and for one moment his face does scrunch up in disdain, eyes narrowing and mouth opening to say something cutting, one finger lifting and pressing squarely between his very firm pectorals accusingly.]
Actually, you made it, Steve Rogers.
[the lilt of his accent comes out exaggerated, and his lips pull into a hazy smile. but just as quickly it vanishes as he seems to remember there was a face here before steve's own.]
You're late. And - [his palm splays flat, pushing at steve lightly to try and steady himself and simultaneous gain sight of hunter again - ] You're interrupting my new friend.
[hunter chooses this exact moment to grip tight on steve's shoulder and shift around him without lifting his hand, coming into view again with a thinly-veiled sneer like he's planning on sidling himself between steve and resuming his previous position too close to zemo.]
You heard him Rogers. You're interrupting. Why don't you go find someone else to get lost with?
[no, i don't think i want him to do that, zemo thinks to himself. but the words don't make it to his mouth, tongue heavy and feelings oscillating between wanting to speak with steve despite his tardiness and wanting to see what someone shiny and new might bring to the table. a hand circles the wrist still pushed against steve's chest, tugging him lightly. his body is apparently pliant enough at this point to simply follow without protest, and without even acknowledging whose arm it is attached to.
(it's hunter's, which he still hasn't decided is the one he'd rather spend his time with.)]
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Hunter isn't the sort of guy to take it easy on a date, regardless of the alcohol, and if he knows anything about this party, about the limber, strong man with a hand on his shoulder? He knows too well that it's not just jungle juice picking Helmut Zemo apart at the seams. He remembers his own hazy party here, feeling welcomed by the older student who kindly ushered a cup of something sharply strong into his hands. He remembers the stumble, the tug of a hand on his wrist, the brush of a mouth against his ear, his jaw, his lips, and more. He remembers the smell of the bathroom - a wash of bleach and old alcohol and bad, lemon-scented air freshener.
It makes bile rise hot into the back of his throat. ]
I am late. Had a bit of car trouble, but better late than never, right?
[ And yet Zemo throws the attention back to Hunter who, leaning in close, Steve makes out the line of his sneer in the dim. Carefully, he shifts between them, reaching to carefully pluck Zemo's wrist from the strong man's hand, blue eyes meeting Hunter's in the haze, his own brow set low and pinched. Something akin to danger crackles in the air between them. ]
That's not gonna happen. Unless you want me to get the campus security involved. I don't think the school would like that too much. You're on scholarship, right, Hunt?
[ The other boy's sneer darkens and even though he's given up the hold on Zemo's wrist (now blocked by the careful placement of Steve's arm, his broad palm on Zemo's bicep almost possessively) the hand on Steve's shoulder grips tight, clamping down hard. ]
Are you threatening me, Rogers? Can you believe this guy? [ Hunter looks to Zemo, almost as though he's politely offended at Steve's bulldog behavior. ] Here we were, having a nice conversation, having a good time, and he wants to ruin it for you. Tch.
[ Steve's arm slides down Zemo's, fingers curling against his elbow, forearm pressed into his side as he leans closer to the man, trying to murmur between them under the noise so Hunter can't hear. ] Let me take you home? Or we can go get a drink somewhere else, yeah? This guy's bad news, just trust me on this one. Please.
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his lips tip into a lopsided smirk, finger reaching out again to thunk against steve's chest and tap lightly in another tease.]
And that is why you should drive European. [a pause, lips pulling even further into a wry little grin.] But...I forgive you.
[his attention span flits from one man to the other, the suddenly tense air breaking through the cloudy haze of the way the drink has apparently effected him. his brows furrow as he looks between steve and then hunter - the tight fingers on his shoulder to the way he catches key words between them. campus security, scholarship, good time, bad news - trust me. there are warm hands shifting from wrist to forearm, to elbow - he can't keep track of whose. hunter is shifting the blame onto steve, but it's the note of something imploring in steve's voice specifically that has him looking twice, straining to focus on the undercurrent of importance in his soft words.
trust me. it's the one thing he thinks even in his clearly compromised state that he can do. his lips part, gaze flicking from the familiarity of steve's face back to hunter's. suddenly his features are that much less appealing - a mocking shift of his mouth, an intensity in his gaze that looks like it's never been told no. it's like putting an original next to its replica - seeing all the mistakes in stark contrast. hunter's jaw is nowhere near as defined as steve's, the bridge of his nose is too thin for the width of his face, cheekbones near gaunt in comparison to a specimen that may as well have been carved by a great like michelangelo himself.]
Alright, I -
[hunter doesn't seem willing to let it go yet though, unhappy playing second fiddle least of all to steve and worried about whatever response is about to finalize this choice. he uses the leverage from his hold on steve's shoulder to try and bodily yank him back, forcing zemo to stumble back against the wall again with an absent look of surprise.]
I'm not the only one on scholarship here though, am I? Rogers doesn't seem your speed. Things move pretty fast around here.
[zemo tilts his head back, a mistake when even the small movement makes the room spin again and something dazed shifts over his expression. he feels untethered at sea, floating between a rock and a hard place quite literally. but zemo takes one last look at the way hunter is trying to impose himself yet again, the other boy's nose scrunching unattractively and a low-grade simmer of rage seeping into his face as he can see the interest waning. that's all it takes to make up his mind. things need to slow down, not go faster right now. he leans into steve's space, one hand coming up to steady itself on one of his firm shoulders while his balance feels like quicksand.]
I trust you. You owe me top shelf liquor though, Steven. [he turns to hunter, smiling apologetically and trying to stay diplomatic even as he sways lightly in the tight space between the wall and both much taller men.]
Apologies, maybe we can continue another time.
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Just as he turns again to say something to the smaller man, the weight of the hand on his shoulder jerks him back and he whirls, releasing Zemo altogether so that he can about face on Hunter, staring the fuming boy down with a quiet, but deadly, calm. Steve can't help the way his chest feels like it swells, the way his shoulders posture and broaden, the way his head lifts just so he can see Hunter better in the dim party lights.
The assessment comes quick, the flick of eyes that tells him he could put Hunter on the floor in one strike, what with the coupled problem of alcohol and poor training. He can already feel the soft of his gut on his knuckles, the crack of a temple across a bared palm. If the Reserves have taught him anything, it's how to use his body, how to defend himself. And that's the trick here, isn't it? He needs to defend himself, not attack. There isn't a side to choose when only one is in the right. He can't fight here, no matter how easily he'd win. ]
You really don't want to do this, Hunter.
[ A step closer, closing the space, and Hunter almost falters. After all, Steve Rogers hasn't exactly been known to be unfriendly, to be confrontational and this sudden, quiet severity even has knocked his opponent off kilter. It shows in the way Hunter blinks, the space between them suddenly smaller with no movement. Zemo's interjection does little to change the way Steve stands tall between them, making himself an immovable wall, a veritable shield should Hunter try and make an advance. And Hunter considers it; Steve sees it in the slight forward lean, the shift of a sneaker on the tacky carpet. ]
Yeah, sorry, Hunter. Looks like we're in for a slow night, but I'm sure your evening will pick up. I'll see you in class.
[ A tight, careful smile. His fingers flex against the small space where cashmere meets the rise of rough denim at Zemo's back. It's absent, where his hand has landed, acting only as an anchor to the torrent of the man's vision and swimming feet. He turns only when Hunter seems to stammer, trying to come up with some angry rebut, yet Steve doesn't entertain it. Instead he turns into Zemo, keeping the smaller man tucked in against his side as he urges him away, careful. ]
Top shelf liquor. Maybe not tonight, but got it. Think you can take a rain check for now? I think we should get back to the dorms. It's late.
[ Late, and Steve can tell that the longer they wait, the harder it will be for them to make a clean exit. Zemo's on the fast track to becoming a show in and of himself, and a part of him wants to shield him from the whispers and rumors that frat house dives like Hunter like to start. He also can't help the flip of guilt in his own stomach, knowing that had he been here sooner, he might have been able to prevent it. That had he been here when he promised, this night might have gone differently. ]
Just lean on me, alright?
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dorm room phone calls ➤ i know when that hotline bling, that can only mean one thing;
He flops on his bed, thinking he might spend the rest of the evening on his phone, watching a movie, or reading something, but talks himself out of it mere seconds after. If he knocks out some of his homework now, he might be able to actually relax over the quiet weekend.
His thumb hovers over the little label on his phone— Helmut Zemo— for a long few seconds before he finally presses it, listening to the ringing with the phone propped between his jaw and shoulder, his hands riffling through some of the papers they'd been using as reference. He perks up when he hears the familiar voice answer on the other line. He sounds... what? Surprised? Whoops. ]
Hey, sorry to bother you. I just thought it'd be easier to call than text, but I was looking at some of our research, and I couldn't remember if we decided to remove the first section and include that section on Keats from the lecture, or if we wanted to leave it as is. I've got something written for both, just to start, but...
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that being steve rogers himself. their project is going well given the equal amount of work they're putting in and the open line of communication through polite text messages intermixed with check-ins or anecdotes from the parties they've attended. it's stretched a bit more into the latter lately, and he finds himself actually looking forward to seeing steve's name pinging in his notifications.
phone calls are strictly reserved for his mother or his father. so he does sound surprised when he picks up, wondering if perhaps it's an accidental misdial at first. but steve's voice rings clear in his ear, a little deeper now that it's all he has to focus on.]
Not a bother. Give me a moment. [there's a rustling of paper, the click of a few keys on his already open laptop.]
Leave it as is, I think. Having the extra information can't hurt us, and Professor Kittredge simply loves Keats.
[is his eyeroll audible enough, steve? there's a small pause, and then:]
Was that all you needed?
[there's a casual note in his voice, but it's belied by the way he almost sounds as if he would prefer that it isn't.]
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He looks over his own papers as he hears Zemo rifling through his. ]
Oh, right. [ A laugh bubbles from his chest, warm and bright. ] I forgot about her Keats problem. We'll leave it.
[ He sighs softly, though Zemo's question takes him aback, something about the tone of it. ]
For the schoolwork, yeah. Phil's out out of town until next week so I've got a quiet weekend ahead me. Was going to try and get some work done, but I don't know how productive I'll actually be.
[ A beat, then: ] What about you? Busy weekend? [ He doesn't exactly want to hop off the phone yet, either. ]
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steve's laugh manages to feel just as warm over the slight distortion of a receiver as it does in person, and if something blooms in his chest at the sound of it at least he isn't there to witness it pull at the corners of his lips.]
Ah, so you'll finally have the peace and quiet to get some rest.
[he remembers steve's lamenting about the snoring early on - not getting his beauty sleep, as if that was even possible. he pauses, considering his own circumstances for the weekend. he's found that many americans don't like to admit when they aren't busy, taking it to mean laziness rather than simple rest and recuperation. not a sentiment he shares, so there is no shame in admitting as much for himself.]
Not so busy for me. Some good wine and a bit of research for a philosophy dissertation, maybe.
No wild parties for you tonight then, mm?
[there's a grin audible in his voice if steve is listening for it.]
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Yes, finally a little peace and quiet. I don't know, though. I'm so used to it now it kind of makes this place feel a little empty.
[ Phil is a good enough guy, and their interests run in very different veins, but they'd been friendly enough. Phil, too invested in college sports, had been utterly wowed that he was roomed with a school football player. No less one with real talent.
Steve's sure that he heard something about cards, signatures, and whatnot at some point in their time rooming together. ]
Wine and philosophy? [ The grin in Zemo's voice is mirrored in his own, Steve letting his head fall back onto the pillows. ] How European of you. Sounds like you're having a wild party all on your own. Nothing wild for me.
[ A soft sigh. ] I'm thinking a good book and food, if I can actually make myself get up to cook after working. I'm very exciting.
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[his fingers tighten around the slim frame of his phone as he shifts, bending down to unlace his oxfords and toe out of them before reaching to pick them up and carry them to his closet. he sets his phone down, putting it briefly on speaker so he can lift his sweater up and over his head before neatly shaking it out and putting it in a bag for dry cleaning. there's a light scoff and mock indignance when he replies again between the clink of a hanger in the background.]
It's a very large bottle of wine, Steven. Sokovian. I should have you know - I'm more adventurous than you give me credit for.
[not a lie, he just doesn't typically advertise that he could probably drink half of it in a night if he were so inclined. he pulls down the zipper on his trousers, reaching for his silk pyjama bottoms to tug on instead with a light sigh that mirrors steve's own.]
Let me guess what you'll be making: rice, something green, and enough grilled chicken to feed a small army. Isn't that the meal you Hollywood lookalikes all abide by?
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me never getting to use this icon
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