[ 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.]
[ Everything about the little room feels expensive— far more expensive than any other college dorm he's seen. From the furnishings to the gold rimmed glasses, Steve feels a little out of place in his thrift-store finds and his worn sneakers. Even his bookbag is old, thinning in places from carrying too many books. From that very bookbag he draws out a notebook, a pen, and some research he'd done in advance.
The positioning of the chairs makes it so that he can practically feel the heat of the other beside him in a pleasant and yet still uncomfortable sort of way. Uncomfortable only in that he has to resist the urge to lean a little closer, to make this a little more cozy. He'd been confident in freshman year, when his life was a whirlwind of parties and people noticing him, but things tapered off as he committed to his studies, and he's lost a little bit of that touch. (He's not sure he had it to begin with). ]
The option's there, definitely, but the shared room is included in my scholarship. Phil's an alright guy, but I don't see much of him during the day. Which I guess makes the whole beauty sleep thing a little hard.
[ A small smile and he taps the butt of his pen on his notebook, letting his eyes wander over to his host, catching the way he licks his fingertip to pluck up the pages of the book. His stomach gives a pleasant swoop at the sight of plush lips and delicate hands— Zemo's hand hasn't seen the kind of rough and tumblr life his own has. He's suddenly away of the artist's notch on his middle finger, the callouses of his palms.
His eyes drop back to the book, that heat prickling at his collar again, enough for him to reach for that glass of water. ]
A place like this, though. It's obvious you have no problems getting your beauty sleep.
[ A flirt masked by a tease, a raise of eyebrows over the glass as he takes a sip and then sets it aside. He is nice to look at, isn't he? And his eyes flicker once to that pout of a mouth again before back to the book. ]
Do you want to take the first part or do you want me to? I brought some stuff we can reference, but I figured we can probably talk our way through most of the material and she'd be happy with that.
[if zemo had to take a guess based on steve's appearance, he'd think that it's very likely his dorm has a much more lived in feeling to it. he knows his room is nice, one if not the very best on campus. in fact, he's not entirely uncertain that this wasn't originally some sort of teacher's suite rather a student's, but he's never really bothered to ask. it's comfortable, and he's not ungrateful for it, but...despite being larger than the rooms at his sokovian school he attended for two years prior, this one just doesn't feel like much of a home. there's nothing comforting or familiar about it in a way that doesn't just feel like a temporary residence he needs to get through while finishing up a year here to round out his curriculum of political science with a foreign power's unique perspective.
the snoring is a drawback, certainly, but having someone there - a friend, or just someone in general might make the time pass more quickly. enjoyably, even.]
What sort of scholarship? Surely you must have had the coaches knocking down your door to play on some kind of team.
[he lets out a hum of disbelief - not in judgment of steve's admission to being here on scholarship, because he's not the sort of person who puts his wealth above others, but because the idea of steve not getting beauty sleep when he's the epitome of a walking adonis just...is laughable.]
If the number of eyes that follow you around the grounds is any indication....I'd say you're doing just fine in that department.
[he glances up just in time to see steve give him another look, one that he forces his features to pinch at slightly because the alternative is another blatant blush, and he can't allow that in close quarters. steve is simply referring to the space in the room and lack of someone to interrupt. not his appearance. not - flirting with him. he clears his throat, tipping his chin up ever so slightly with a haughty little expression like it'll be some sort of shield against whatever might or might not be happening here. he chooses to ignore it outright, instead flipping to the right page and shifting it in front of them both. he also leans in slightly, unaware the proximity might be having some sort of effect on steve too. he thinks he catches a waft of something fresh - soap maybe, or shampoo, and it smells clean and feels strangely intimate to be guessing at.]
Ah, I'll take the first part. You take another, and we can round off the last part together. Truthfully, she seems eager to hear anything that comes out of our mouths compared to the less than stellar performances from our classmates.
[that he sounds a little smug about, lips curling catlike at the corner of his mouth as he all but admits that steve and him are on a higher level. yes, together.]
[ A small laugh bubbles up out of his chest at the very idea that he'd been head-hunted for sports. He makes a mental note to tell Bucky, even, because they delight when anyone thinks that Steven Grant Rogers might have been recruited for sports of all things. And while he's on the football team now, he'd joined for fun in Sophomore year, certainly for for any collegiate advances. ]
Oh, it's an academic scholarship. I'd say I don't really do sports, but I tried out for the football team sophomore year. I wasn't exactly the sporty type in high school. I used to get sick a lot.
[ He shrugs a shoulder, nonchalant and easy as he leans in to look at the book, skimming over questions they're to answer in lecture format. From here he can see the smattering of marks along Zemo's temple, watch the way his lips begin to curl into a little smile, catch the smell of something sharp but pleasant— aftershave, maybe? Cologne. It's nice, and the thought alone makes the rise of his cheeks burn ever so slightly. ]
So everyone might look, but trust me, it's not exactly something I'm used to. [ A glance to the book again as he begins organizing himself, stacking papers and picking up his pen once again. ] But thanks for looking out for me.
[ A small, coy smile. ] But I wouldn't be so sure some of those eyes aren't looking at you, you know. I think you spend more time trying to pick at me than you do looking around. [ Though Steve can't be sure of the eyes that might wander Zemo's way, except the very idea makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest. Not that he has any purchase here, any claim to whatever it is he can feel between them— friendly academic competition? curiosity? attraction?— but it makes something hot lick through him all the same. ]
So I guess we'll have to fend off all eyes when we give this presentation together. I think we could give a dissertation on socks for all the professor cares, and we'd get away with an A anyway. [ He gives his shoulder a nudge with his own, grinning almost boyishly, before he turns back to the book, his free hand reaching to rest along the back of Zemo's chair, the other dragging the capped pen to the book, tapping one of the sections. ]
I think we should skip this part, though, and tie the whole thing back into the lecture from last week. What do you think?
[even his laugh is perfect, zemo realizes with another irritated furrow of his brow. perhaps it looks as though he thinks steve is laughing directly at him for his incorrect assumption - and in a way maybe he is. but the thought of him being sickly enough to preclude him from being involved in sports or somehow working on the physique that couldn't have just grown overnight seems dubious at best. he won't pry, though he's equally unsurprised to know that steve's scholarship is based on academics - the boy is quite smart, despite his good looks that are often mutually exclusive from such a feat among the rest of the student body. it's not like he went out of his way looking for the knowledge that steve is on the football team either. he's seen the letterman jacket, heard rumblings on monday mornings from others reliving the victorious moments on the field or clapping hands on steve's shoulder with words of camaraderie and encouragement for his winning plays.
he's been to a single game so far, on the insistence of his parents that he experience an american sporting event at least once in his life. drinking out of the back of someone's rusted up pickup truck to inebriation and getting hot and sweaty in the stands while watching fumble after fumble wasn't exactly his idea of a good time.]
Really. [not a question, sardonically rhetorical in disbelief.] After, what - 3 years, multiple times a day and you're still unused to people merely having eyes?
[his mouth falls open at the way steve suddenly pins the looking on him, as if he's only noticed because - because he wants to, or because it means he's keeping a watchful eye. and then he takes it even further by accusing him of actively engaging in their shared...whatever it is instead of integrating himself among the rest of his classmates. or noticing the nonexistent stares and supposed intrigue from other students. there's interest - it's just the kind that's akin to looking at a lab experiment for how foreign and out of place it is compared to everything else. from his accent, to his delicate features and his distinct style of elevated dress - and yes, even his dorm room, he's nothing short of a novelty. but it brings back that rush of heat all the same under his skin, prickling to the surface of his cheeks and the surprised shift of his brows before he forces it into a near scowl.]
I only spend so much time picking at you because you're wrong.
[about all of it, he wants to say, but he knows that's exceedingly childish and will be as good as admitting defeat. he glances back at steve again after the friendly nudge rubs against him and he's nearly blinded with another dazzling flash of teeth. there's another inexplicable rush of warmth as steve leans in with a familiarity that doesn't entirely feel wrong in its proximity, a certain possessiveness somehow in that casual hang slung over the back of his chair. like it wouldn't be entirely out of place along a shoulder or his lower back.
it's that dangerous thought that only makes him redouble his efforts to hunch against the table and look back down at the book. he quickly flips though their book with renewed determination.]
No, no, no - everyone will be focused on last week's lecture because it's the simplest to draw back to. Even the ones that make me question the competence of the admissions staff. [he's drawn up in the prospect of a good idea, and he leans back, momentarily forgetting that steve's hand is hovering as it bumps up against his shoulderblades lightly. this time, he doesn't pull away, just turns and tilts his head slightly with a pleased curl of his lips that narrows his eyes simultaneously in clear satisfaction.]
We keep that part, focusing instead on the overarching timeline that was referenced at the beginning of the semester. Hm?
[he cocks a brow lips parting like he's just waiting for steve to try and argue that this isn't the superior idea.]
[ Steve isn't; Bucky chides him all the time for how oblivious he can be to the simplest of flirts, the bat of eyes, the way men and women both sidle up to him at bar tops and parties. He's not much interested in it, not anymore, and with Freshman year long behind him, he spends more time exercising or reading as it is. It's better that way.
He notices the flush on Zemo's cheeks, however, but it's only for the fact that he's looking for it, and they're situated so closely that it'd be impossible to miss. He's sure his own might be evident, dusting across his cheeks, but instead he turns his attention to the book, listening as Zemo explains every step methodically, reasoning his way into a good idea and it's true - Steve can't fault him for the idea that is, in all ways, better than his own.
But the warm pressure of shoulder blades on his arm draws him in, scooting his chair a hairsbreadth closer to peer at the book, as if examining it closely against the offered idea. In truth, it just lets his arm curl closer, lets their heads tilt just so, and maybe he's childish for doing it, but he's not unhappy with the proximity. He hadn't come here for this, for the veiled flirting and looking over. He's felt Zemo's eyes on him before, and the commentary earlier certainly doesn't disprove it, but Steve feels like he's finally truly looking himself, too.
A huff of a laugh, the tilt of his head, and he sits back in his chair more comfortably, foot knocking against one of Zemo's as he gets comfortable. ]
You're right. [ A smile, and he flips a page in the book curiously. ][ Steve feels like a boy in a candy shop, unable to focus and decide which path he wants to take, because he turns to look at Zemo and it's the curve of his lips that's caught him up, that's made his brain short-circuit as they curl, part, and he wonders what they must taste like, how they might feel, and he only barely manages to tear his eyes away and look back at the text. ]
Ah... do you want to have visuals for this presentation?
[he doesn't think steve is lying about that, nor does he necessarily think it's him being willfully obtuse. there's something too genuine in the way he admits it that almost seems to indicate there's another story behind it. was steve really so different before coming to university? he tries to picture him with more rounded features, the plump cheeks of boyhood. not involved in sports and sickly, two things he'd never have attributed just looking at him now. steve seems like he'd be willing to share if zemo took the time to ask, maybe, but that's a vulnerability in admitting he wants to know more. one he'll likely have to reciprocate, and while on the surface of the life he's lead in the public eye there's no skeletons in his closet, he won't concede to it. not right now, anyway.]
I know.
[he only sounds a little smug about it, to his credit. there's a wash of pleasure at the notion that it's been admitted so quickly, however. usually their verbal sparring goes at least a few rounds right up until the bell, or until one of them wedges themselves into a corner they can't entirely pick themselves out of. zemo knows when steve has the upperhand, but he's stubborn enough to keep defending a losing talking point on occasion, if only to keep it going. out of pride, he had thought. and - maybe, if he really thinks about it deep down - for an excuse to keep steve talking.
the sudden bump of a foot against his own seems to be timed directly at the moment his heart picks up a beat, feeling as if it's thumping near audibly in his chest and beating wild at how close steve suddenly is in the span of seconds. he swallows hard, the bob of his adam's apple rolling above the rounded neck of his sweater. why hadn't he merely gone with a shirt of some kind? it's nearly uncomfortably warm in here, and he can't identify if it's because of the actual temperature or the sudden spark that seems like it's fizzling hot between them in a way that makes him feel like it's burning from the inside out. his cheeks, under his skin...it's ludicrous considering he has stared directly in steve's face dozens of times this semester and never felt quite so perceived.
if he looks closely - and he is - he sees the beginnings? end? of a similar flush along the other boy's cheeks too. interesting. it feels a bit like having the upper hand when steve forcibly looks back down to the book and only concedes to his idea. zemo tilts his head again, a note of coyness and clear teasing in his voice and another waggling lift of his brow.]
Oh, but you mean the two of us aren't enough to look at?
[ Steve envies the confidence that seems to radiate off a boy like Zemo, the way it comes naturally in the tilt of his head, the quirk of his lips, the raise of a brow. He's never had that sort of certainty, not when he was younger, and certainly not now. He should, by all rights, be more confident; he's worked to get healthy, to build his body into what it is, but more as a pillar for his mother. So that when she looks at him, it's not with the sad eyes of a woman waiting for her child to crack, to fall apart at the seams. Instead, she can look at him and see the picture of health, no matter the cost.
Anything. Absolutely anything, for Sarah Rogers.
His eyes scan the page in front of him but he doesn't take in the words, the images, the diagrams. Instead, his mind wanders to the pleasant heat of Zemo beside him, the bump of their feet under the table and he curiously keeps his foot within striking distance, knowing too well that their calves would have to spar again beneath the surface. He feels like an over-eager school boy, batting eyes at the pretty, curly-haired dame who always has the right answers to the teacher's questions. But instead, he's tucked up in a chic dorm room (do those words even go together?), shoulders hunched and ankles brushing with a guy from his Lit class.
He breathes out his surprise at the man's comment, the rush of air turning into a startled, but warm, laugh. ]
Well, I'd say one of us is plenty to look at, anyway. But I hear that sort of stuff is subjective.
[ He's not smooth, not as smooth as Bucky or Sam or Natasha, in the way they romance and charm the people around them with the ease of the sun rising and setting. Steve glances up when he says it, his smile sheepish and soft, the barest flash of teeth before he ducks his head again and returns to their work, reaching to drag the book closer to them both, his arm sliding against Zemo's in the process. ]
But I'd say we'd give the class a run for their money, definitely.
[somehow, they've gravitated that much closer to one another in the span of a few minutes. and normally this is where zemo would bristle, put his walls back up and push away. get up to leave with the excuse that he needed a drink or to use the restroom, because the pull he feels towards steve rogers in this large, practically opulent dorm room suddenly seems instead as if he is cramped into one of the small doubles with nowhere to breathe and practically on top of one another every time they shift between twin beds. it feels like he's slipped past a physical layer of defense without even trying, slotting alongside him as if he belongs right here. the brush of an arm, the slide of his leg, the affection in his smiles seeming to transcend into something palpable as the warmth of them wash over zemo like he's tipped his chin up under new york's beating sun. each one brings more of that smoldering itch under his skin, has something in his chest fluttering and seizing like a build-up of intimacy that can't be mimicked or forced.
he finds himself much more focused on the little bits of contact than he is any of the work in front of them, which is a dangerous concept and not unimpressive feat on steve rogers' part. he could just as easily put an end to it...but he doesn't, too wrapped up in the novelty of it. not actually minding it, no matter what his words would say if he could utter them instead of turning and watching the way steve's jaw shifts, lips parting around that easy laugh. there's a certain level of satisfaction knowing he keeps coaxing it as if with his own fingertips, that steve must find him pleasant to be around - maybe even more now that they're alone.
before he can think better of it, he decides to take the other boy's words at face value and accept the implication that he is the one that's plenty to look at. there's a small, throaty chuckle that resonates in the back of his throat, a quick tilt of his head in time with an almost disbelieving smirk and a quick flash of teeth.]
Well, I think I would say that my subjectivity lies elsewhere, and so does the majority of the student body. But it needn't be a competition...what is it you Americans like to say? "There's a little something for everyone."
Maybe in this case, someone.
[just out of curiosity, to see what will happen and nothing more - he lets himself lean in enough that the weight of his arm presses ever so lightly against steve's as he makes a show of glancing at the book from a different angle. as if he's actually taking in any of the words rather than trying to gauge what will land, what will seemingly ruffle steve's feathers so pleasantly in an effort to volley it right back at zemo. it's a wonder if they'll get any work done at this point, which is why he clears his throat lightly and pulls away to reach for his laptop and flip it open.]
Here, I will put together an outline for us. We can meet once a week and work section by section. Good?
[ The sound of a chuckle in the timbre of Zemo's voice catches him by surprise. It's not the huffing, snorting sort of snark he's heard countless time in classes on the tails of a rebuttal, but it's a little more genuine, warmer at its edges, and maybe even, what? Appreciative? Surprised? He can't quite place the sound of it.
He just counters with a warm laugh of his own, a shrug of one strong shoulder, and the tip of his head. ]
There's definitely someone for everyone, you're right about that.
[ He taps the eraser of his pencil on the table a few times, letting it bounce back up over his fingertips and back down, but it pauses when he feels the easy weight of the boy's arm against his. He leans into it a little himself, sliding in his chair just so, situating himself a little closer to Zemo. The touch comes and goes, but he has no doubt the heat of the flush shows in the apples of his cheeks now. ]
Once a week? Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great. If you send me the outline I'll come with some ideas and research for the first section. Good?
[ He leans back in his chair and reaches to run fingers back into his hair, pushing it out of his face. It's grown a little overlong and he has no doubt that his mother will fuss the next time he's home. He looks at the book between them, at the laptop on the table, on the light it casts along Zemo's face, and he sucks in a slow breath and speaks, his voice almost timid, nervous. ]
Speaking of someones, though... I don't know what you're doing this weekend, but the Delta Kappa Epsilon boys are hosting a party. They're not really my thing, but I don't know, you should come, if you're free. I'll probably be there earlier in the night, but we can argue over Jungle Juice instead of textbooks.
[ A sheepish smile, another shrug of one shoulder. ] Just if you want.
[the flush doesn't go unnoticed this time, not now with such proximity and the way he finds himself studying steve more attentively than the actual content of their project. it's terribly becoming on him, mixed in with the good-natured smiles and easy shrug of his broad shoulders. and yet, somehow - zemo manages to convince himself this is just friendly rather than authentic flirting - building up the pleasant banter they share between hallways and paths across the sprawling lawns on campus. there's a certain thrill to toeing the line with someone new, in his experiences, and it doesn't necessarily have to mean anything other than feeling them out. seeing how far to push, what a well-timed tease here might mean or a poke and a prod.
that steve rogers is exceptionally good-looking is entirely besides the point. particularly when he could have his pick of the student body, and zemo would suspect that his interests lie elsewhere. he's heard whispers and gossip from clear admirers, but no straight answer one way or another has to his actual preferences. which prompts him to ask oh so casually as he starts swiftly typing in a header without looking over:]
Did you have a specific someone in mind for yourself? What with so much to choose from.
[there's an almost bored drawl in his tone, like his interest in the matter doesn't hinge whatsoever on steve's answer and he's simply asking to pass the time. only half true.]
Good. I would dare say this might be the first project I can have a little faith in my partner.
[this is the first long-term project, but even being paired up in class for small assignments has been an exercise in strong-arming his assigned classmates into letting him carefully insinuate his far superior ideas into the forefront so neither of their grades are tanked. he's busy typing away the first few sections of the outline that he doesn't quite notice what steve is doing besides some bit of movement out of the corner of his eye. it's enough that his eyes shift sidelong, doubling back when he realizes steve looks...nervous, somehow. until he finally gets out his invitation.
an invitation.
oh.
he's being invited to an actual party, by a very popular member of the student body. he's seen this in one too many coming of age films not to know that it is apparently an important rite of passage. and while normally he'd be sharp in his refusal, coming up with any number of quick excuses and plausible reasons to decline...he finds there is something in steve's smile that he does not want to see disappointed.]
I have yet to see how you Americans do a proper party. I think I would be remiss if I did not give it a look - especially if you're offering to be my tour guide.
[a pause, lips curving faintly once more with another bounce of his brow. he keeps his voice even despite the way his heart has suddenly jumped in its rhythm, thudding in his chest.]
Though I cannot promise I'll be a fan of this..."jungle juice" over top shelf liquor.
[ Not that Steve gave it much thought until this moment, but watching Zemo type away at the outline gives him a brief moment to admire his profile yet again, and he finds himself fixed with the sudden urge to press the pads of his fingers along those beauty marks, to touch his lips which, worried in concentration, look soft.
It makes the flush burn a little brighter and he lets out a little sheepish huff as he turns back to his own papers, riffling through them. ]
I'll have to see if he's interested, first. Hard to say.
[ But surely the press of that arm hadn't been absent minded, and the quips about their looks, the way Zemo had noticed people noticing him. It's a little maddening, really, that he finds himself swept up in the foreign student who meets him toe to toe on difficult subjects, who works just as hard as he does, and whose smirk is sure to haunt him once he leaves this room.
He half expects the other boy to turn down the invitation. A wild frat party doesn't seem quite his speed, but Steve raises his brows in pleasant surprise when he actually seems to agree. ]
I wouldn't mind being your tour guide. [ He wants to kick himself for how eager he sounds, voice warm and laughing. ] And I won't make you drink too much Jungle Juice either, but it is definitely a means to an end. I usually hang out for a couple of hours then ditch. They can get a little out of control the later you stay, because the freshman show up. It'll be nice having someone to actually talk to.
[ He shrugs and sits back, beginning to neatly put his papers back into a stack, but the motion of sitting further up leaves his thigh pressed against Zemo's, where he keeps it, pleasantly warm. ]
And we can always go get top shelf liquor somewhere else after.
[ After? Steven Rogers, keep your head attached to your shoulders. ]
[zemo just nods at the first part, knowing it's been long enough in the semester for steve to have his eye on someone. maybe he hasn't made his move yet, surely planning out the perfect way to ask out his potential suitor. how nice for them. but zemo is mid-type when the second part lands - and it's just the one word that has his fingers stop their clicking momentarily and his posture stiffen midly as he digests it straight from the source's mouth. i'll have to see if he's interested, first.
he.
steve rogers, apparently, has a preference that mirrors his own, even if it's not something he can announce quite so freely. on some level, he thinks his family must know of it like an open, unspoken secret. the expectation is simply that he will be discreet, he will not embarrass himself, and he will never let it interfere with the greater machinations at play regarding his future - most specifically an heir to the zemo family in ten years time, give or take. his trysts so far have either been the kind that can be written away with strong alcohol, mild party favors and the foolish games played by youthful friends looking for a good, fleeting time - or they're miles away from recognition in dark corners he wouldn't be caught in during the light of day. america could be a playground for him, he supposes. the campus is much larger and less insular than the one he's attended in sokovia...and yet somehow between the cultural reset and the way his parents are still regularly checking in, it feels like one wrong move makes the rest of his year miserable. it's not worth the risk, not to him, when he'll be gone in the spring.
so he just hums lightly, fingers resuming their typing and a mild tilt of his head as he doesn't turn to look at steve directly. between the complicated jumble of all that and the actual admission from steve, he hasn't exactly put the deeper implication together yet, glossing straight over it with another casual, nearly dismissive response right back while he quickly starts filling in the next few lines.]
Then you should just ask whoever he is. Better to know up front and stop wasting your time, isn't it?
[he's interrupted again by the sudden contact against his thigh, pleasant and firm enough that he can feel it even with two layers of jeans between them. he swallows hard, another fissure of warmth that feels like it's running straight up his spine and lingering at the back of his neck. now he does turn to face steve, fingers falling away from the keys altogether after a quick click to save his work. it strikes him just how endearing steve looks - like he'd overestimated his confidence somehow. there's a fondness in the way his lips twitch at the corners again, eyes glittering under the dim, yellowy overhead lighting.]
I like the sound of that. Only until the freshman show up, of course. But seeing as you've already solved the question of an after-party...consider my attendance a sure thing.
[he inclines his head in an acknowledging nod, a brief pause before he adds a little softer and more politely:]
[ The way Zemo's fingers stop moving along the keyboard gives Steve pause, but he doesn't dare look away from the tidying of his papers. He can't help but wonder if he'd read the room incorrectly, if maybe the strange electricity he'd felt between them had been wholly one-sided. The dismissive response does little to bolster his confidence and he can feel the flush creep up the back of his neck.
Then you should just ask whoever he is.
Isn't that what he's just done, in a way? Invited Zemo to the party, to the potential of drinking together after. He doesn't have the courage now, to speak up and boldly state that maybe the dark haired boy beside him has caught his eye, that he'd like to invite him to a more private night out instead of a raucous college party. Instead, he lets out a little huff of a laugh. ]
Yeah, well. Gotta get the timing right. Timing's important.
[ He finishes with tidying his papers, carefully stacking them into his notebook with tabs and careful notes written in the margins. Occasionally, there might be faint doodles in the corners, conjured from boredom and a wandering mind in class. But he pauses when Zemo appears to agree to come, and his lips curl into a soft smile, warm at the edges and bright behind his eyes. ]
I'm glad you're coming. [ He stacks his things neatly, pressing them carefully back into his bookbag, but he pauses for a moment, moving to take his pencil from before and reach across to scribble his phone number on the corner of the other boy's notebook. ] Just in case you need to get ahold of me. For the project, or the party.
[ Not for anything else, of course. Just for communication. But the scribbling etch of his numbers on the paper makes his heart thud heavy in his chest, keeps the warmth at bay in his cheeks. He's given his number to girls, to a couple of boys, in his time, but it's never like this. Quiet, coy, scribbled on school work as though it isn't the invitation that it is. He shifts in his seat, leg pressing a little firmer against the one beside him, but little more. ]
Same time, same place- next week? For the project.
[the time passed quicker than he thought it would, quite honestly. he thought it would be a chore to slog through this, or maybe that they'd wind up at each other's throats and find that their banter did not carry on so well in close quarters. instead it's the opposite: he'd actually enjoy seeing this continue. he'd like to know if steve rogers will ever find the right time to ask his mystery man to - whatever date it is he has planned. his eyes glance down as steve starts packing up his things, catching a few sketches along the sidelines of page after page of neat penmanship and careful notetaking. he nearly opens his mouth to ask about it or compliment the few detailed ones he sees, but he's interrupted by that same perfect handwriting suddenly occupying space within his own book. something about seeing his number printed there, among his own sprawling cursive makes him feel that stammer in his chest again.
he hesitates for just a moment, picking up his own pen and looping out his own numbers, along with the very unnecessary notation of helmut zemo at the bottom before tearing out the otherwise blank sheet and folding it crisply before offering it between two fingers.]
You'll show me a good time, won't you? Here, this is mine.
[he smirks again, teasing lightly and letting his gaze drop briefly down to where mismatched denim is pressed up against one another. he lets his own shift in too, unwilling to...back down? put back space between them? maybe they're playing some invisible game - snehový závej, snowdrift, or as they call it here apparently, "chicken".]
Same time, same place. But I will see you this weekend first. For the party.
[one party turns into two, then three - then he loses count altogether in between a mix of study sessions and a flurry of texts that turn into late night phone calls. suddenly he finds that steve rogers has become a very ingrained part of his day-to-day: in class, outside of class, when he's alone, when they're together. perhaps the most shocking fact of all is that he finds himself starting to actually enjoy it on a deeper level than he'd ever let on. there's a certain thrill at wondering what little touches they'll share at his study table in the privacy of his dorm, what little quip he might pull out to get steve to flush fetchingly, or what charming flirtation he'll toss his way.
it wouldn't be a stretch to call it a friendship, even though he resolutely refuses to call it that. and it certainly isn't anything more. it can't be.
which is why the day after steve decides to play hero and thus ensure he's utterly mortified the morning after he wakes up to the other student in his bed, that's exactly the day he ceases all communication as soon as the door closes behind him on his way out. so what if he'd gotten a bit too drunk at a party? it wouldn't be the first time, and it most certainly won't be the last. so what if he'd been entertaining attention from another handsome(ish) senior? he wouldn't have let it get farther than friendly conversation and an innuendo or two just to test the waters.
the night is a blur, hazy around the edges and lacking pieces of the puzzle that was making it into his dorm and then making it into his bed. he remembers uttering a few things he'd rather be caught dead than say to his - classmate (because that's all steve is at this point). he remembers being herded carefully into bed, a glass of cool water on his nightstand and waking up to a warm body on top of the covers beside him, clearly fallen asleep during some honorable attempt at watching over him. steve wouldn't take advantage - he already knows that. more baffling still was the way in which he took it upon himself to make breakfast and actually stay nearly into the afternoon to make sure he was alright. zemo had been much too taken aback to properly put up his walls again, and frankly - he was starving.
it's been radio silence on his end since. he doesn't text steve, he doesn't call, he ignores anything that might come his way. he even takes a different route in and out of class, leaving slightly earlier or later than usual solely to avoid seeing him in between. class is the only place he can't escape, though he does call out the day after. but when he does finally make his return, even then he makes a point to sit on opposite ends of the room and resolutely focus on the front rather than let his gaze wander. he doesn't volunteer any rebuttals, he doesn't try and take on some of the hooks steve seems like he's dangling solely for his response.
his last line of defense would be cancelling their meeting - but to what end? much as he'd like to, he can't run forever. enough time has passed that he won't be completely full of shame when he opens the door for their study session, though he does steel his face into something haughty with his lips pursed and brows pinched together.]
Steven. [a tight, nod and he turns on his heel almost immediately so he doesn't have to look him in the eye.]
Come in. You want a drink?
[an excuse for him not to sit down right away, to put off the inevitable.]
[ The air changes on the heels of the party, and Steve isn't sure what line has been drawn between them. He'd spent much of the morning following trying to make sure Zemo stayed hydrated, that he ate, that he was cared for in the aftermath of the drug dosing. It had been nice, the morning spent together, Steve unaware of how awfully embarrassed the other boy had been by the incident, losing instead in his own need to help.
The days that follow are deadly silent, and while the first few seem more like a recovery period, the week stretches on and Steve notices his texts go unanswered, that he doesn't see Helmut in the halls, that even classroom quips and discussions are clipped and cold.
The guilt from that night comes back, pressing at the edges of his mind and beckoning him to re-examine it. Had he been there when he promised he would be, Hunter would not have had the opportunity to seize Zemo's drink, to prey upon a man lost to the culture and, in some ways, in lack of company. Seeing him like that and facing down the lithe boy from the swim team, has burned something deep into him. Helmut Zemo could have been ridiculed or worse, he knows from personal experience, and it would have been Steve's fault.
Maybe that's what this silence is, frigid and distant. If it's blame, if it's the condemnation that comes from being tardy (though he had no true control over it) then he deserves it. Every bit of Zemo's ire should be directed at him for not keeping his promise, staying true to his word. He tried. He did, and that part hurts more than anything else. Never in any of his dreams would he have wanted anyone to get hurt because of him. Never.
His phone reminds him, so kindly, that he has a study session set up with the boy in his dorm to return to one of their group projects and put the finishing touches on it. Considering canceling it altogether, Steve sits in his dorm room and stares at the reminder, his bag halfway slung over one shoulder. They haven't spoken in what feels like weeks and he doesn't know what to expect when he finally pushes himself up and makes his way to Zemo's floor.
Just get through this, he tries to tell himself, as the door opens and the other boy answers with as much warmth as one might find in a polar ice cap. Steve's stomach sinks deep into his gut, but he moves in to the table with familiar ease. ]
No, no. Thank you, though. I brought water.
[ Taking up his usual seat, he opens his bag and carefully pulls out his work, all pristine papers and neat handwriting, organized and clean inasmuch as he is in person. But that doesn't fill the time like he'd hoped, and he's left with his hands on the table, eyes lifting to track Zemo in the room. ]
I... gotta admit I didn't know if we were doing this. I... well, I haven't heard from you in a while.
[ Good natured, easy, but there's a reservation in the way he speaks, hesitant and guarded in a way that Steve Rogers decidedly isn't. Particularly around Helmut Zemo in the last several weeks. ]
[it's altogether unfair the way he's handling this situation - he knows. but pulling a shroud of doubt over their past actions rather than acknowledge anything he said under the influence is much easier to stomach than the alternative. particularly considering he hasn't fully established what that alternative exactly is. his own feelings on the matter are terribly complicated. does he like steve rogers? yes. does he also know that these feelings are a little less than platonic at this point? also yes. does he know this will ultimately amount to nothing and it's better to discourage these temptations up front while he still has the ability to do so? another yes. is that what he actually wants? that's where there is a very large, very blank space that could encompass it's complicated, even though this is at its core a simple yes or no question.
it's been a difficult week, to say the least. but the idea that it's because he somehow holds steve responsible for his own assumed recklessness and inebriation is so much further from the real truth of it. that would simplify so many of his problems, and yet that's a burden he wouldn't even think to put on his classmate who he knows deep down was simply trying to do the right thing. waking up next to him there hadn't been even the slightest fear that something untoward had taken place on his end. not when steve was so clearly in last night's clothes, propped up against one of the posts of his large bed and not even tucked under the velvet duvet cover in lieu of resting atop it. the only thing it had accomplished was committing a very specific image of a sleeping steve rogers with his arms folded, jaw slack and impossibly long lashes fluttering across the tops of his cheeks. it had been sweet to realize he must have stayed to make sure he made it through the night, that he took the time and effort to tuck him in and apparently make him comfortable as well.
but thinking about it now makes his skin prickle unpleasantly, a hot rush of shame at steve seeing him in a compromising position at all. it isn't necessarily about the perceived weakness of it moreso than it is steve being aware that whatever plausibly deniable attraction may have been simmering under the surface of their established relationship has now been blown wide open. there are a few things he knows he uttered that would have otherwise stayed locked away and never been spoken aloud to the light - night, actually - of day.
knowing the way steve is - he should have anticipated he would confront this head on and ask why there's been a seismic shift in the rapport they've shared. the cold shoulder is an understatement. he swallows thickly, lips pursing and chin lifting like he's already on the defensive.]
It needs to get done, doesn't it? [he's not so impolite he wouldn't have made a proper cancellation.]
I've been busy.
[said oh so lightly and without apology, even though it's a complete lie. steve will probably know it's a complete lie based on his past schedule and hours spent on the phone during their last few weekends.]
[ While the two of them don't necessarily keep tabs on one another, they'd settled into a sort of unspoken routine consisting of text messages, late night phone calls, the occasional weekend lunch, the class chatter. To have it all brought to nothing after one party night feels like he's been cut off at the knee. There's a problem there, too, that he hadn't realized how fondly attached he'd grown to the other boy who stands across from him now, all pursed lips and raised, defensive chin.
Should he have let him go with Hunter? Should he have stayed away from the party altogether? He scans his mind over that night again and tries to parse apart just what might have happened to make all of this happen, what he did. None of it makes sense, but this is the way of things for Steve Rogers - a life of half-lived moments, caught up between the sickly boy he used to be at the strong, healthy man he is now. He lives in the in-betweens, not belonging to any world and always skirting by in the projections of others, and what they think. ]
It does.
[ The work must get completed, he's right in that regard, but the answer feels so cold and distant. Coming here was a mistake. He doesn't believe for one second that Zemo was busy, but he doesn't know how to vocalize it without revealing the strange, tender part of him that has come to yearn for interactions with this standoffish boy.
Maybe he should have read the warning signs from the start. ]
Sorry to hear that. I noticed I hadn't seen you around, so I'm glad you're just busy and not sick. [ And he had worried, that first day, that maybe he left him in the throes of a drug-induced hangover too early. He looks down at his papers, wringing his hands together for a few seconds before he lets out a sigh and rakes those fingers back through his hair. ]
Guess we should get to it. [ He tilts his head, as if trying to decide what to say next, but seems to hold back, evident in the way his mouth works, the muscle in his jaw flexing. ]
[zemo makes a point to focus on his already open laptop, glancing from that back down to the papers in his possession that are a mix of his and his classmates notes - his cursive, steve's perfect penmanship all twined together in an easy mesh across pages of crisp white lines. there are a few of steve's little doodles he'd added in the margins here and there. it had been sweet at the time - now it just makes him feel guilty for the way he's intentionally been avoiding someone he thought was a friend. the thing about steve rogers is that he's simply too good for zemo to not have some sort of mar on his conscience for treating him so poorly. he hadn't done anything wrong - is just the thing, only been present for zemo's pride to be wounded and the secret he's kept so carefully guarded around his feelings to spill out into plain view.
but steve still tries. he can sense the beginnings of frustration in his body language - hands twisting, the frustrated way he pushes back his hair his jaw twitches around a near frown. he's unhappy with that answer, but he doesn't have enough to argue it one way or another. it makes zemo's lips press into a thin line too, an involuntary twitch of the muscle between his nose and upper lip in disdain as he weighs his options here.]
I wasn't sick. Not when I missed class, and absolutely not - when you took it upon yourself to play hero. I'm perfectly capable of handling myself, you know.
[ah, fuck. so much for only focusing on their work and avoiding an outburst around what's really been needling at him.]
Nevermind.
[an attempt at recovering as he shakes his head and taps out a few quick keys to pull up the outline, the first few pieces struck out as completed]
You're right, we should just focus on the work. I'm sure you have places to be. I certainly do.
[another lie, one steve could probably dismantle easily if he wanted. but zemo is feeling spiteful enough to tell it anyway, to try and distract from what's really going on beneath the surface of his cold front.]
[ For a moment, Steve feels like he's just watching his own body, that he's somehow slipped out of it and settled beside it, because he doesn't know what overcomes him when he slams his hands down on the tabletop, flustered and frustrated. The worry, anxiety, and guilt from the previous few days have finally come uncorked, the words playing hero somehow setting the fire to a roar. ]
Will you stop that? I didn't play hero, I was trying to keep you safe. That guy? Hunter? He wasn't going to let you leave there alone without making a complete fool of you. So if you think someone watching your back and giving a damn about you is playing hero, then you really need to check your priorities.
[ He lets out a frustrated sigh, despite how calm he sounds even now, he feels like he's been hit across the face and for no good reason. ]
If you're that mad that I helped you home after that guy roofied you, then I don't even know why I'm here. I was worried. That guy, he's known... let's just say I know what he was going to do to you, and I didn't want that to happen.
[ Steve runs his hands back through his hair, dropping them back to his lap and shaking his head. Sure, maybe he felt guilty for staying overlong, for possibly interrupting when he wasn't supposed to, but he knows when something is going south quickly, and with Hunter in the picture? He has no doubt that Zemo's picture would have been posted on all manner of social media. A prize, the laughing stock.
He moves to shut his notebook, needing something to do with all the furious kinetic energy he feels humming through to his very bones. He holds his hands up in mock surrender, his frown deep. ]
So if you call that playing hero - someone looking out for you when you can't - then sure, fine, I'm guilty. I'll leave.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
[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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
The positioning of the chairs makes it so that he can practically feel the heat of the other beside him in a pleasant and yet still uncomfortable sort of way. Uncomfortable only in that he has to resist the urge to lean a little closer, to make this a little more cozy. He'd been confident in freshman year, when his life was a whirlwind of parties and people noticing him, but things tapered off as he committed to his studies, and he's lost a little bit of that touch. (He's not sure he had it to begin with). ]
The option's there, definitely, but the shared room is included in my scholarship. Phil's an alright guy, but I don't see much of him during the day. Which I guess makes the whole beauty sleep thing a little hard.
[ A small smile and he taps the butt of his pen on his notebook, letting his eyes wander over to his host, catching the way he licks his fingertip to pluck up the pages of the book. His stomach gives a pleasant swoop at the sight of plush lips and delicate hands— Zemo's hand hasn't seen the kind of rough and tumblr life his own has. He's suddenly away of the artist's notch on his middle finger, the callouses of his palms.
His eyes drop back to the book, that heat prickling at his collar again, enough for him to reach for that glass of water. ]
A place like this, though. It's obvious you have no problems getting your beauty sleep.
[ A flirt masked by a tease, a raise of eyebrows over the glass as he takes a sip and then sets it aside. He is nice to look at, isn't he? And his eyes flicker once to that pout of a mouth again before back to the book. ]
Do you want to take the first part or do you want me to? I brought some stuff we can reference, but I figured we can probably talk our way through most of the material and she'd be happy with that.
no subject
the snoring is a drawback, certainly, but having someone there - a friend, or just someone in general might make the time pass more quickly. enjoyably, even.]
What sort of scholarship? Surely you must have had the coaches knocking down your door to play on some kind of team.
[he lets out a hum of disbelief - not in judgment of steve's admission to being here on scholarship, because he's not the sort of person who puts his wealth above others, but because the idea of steve not getting beauty sleep when he's the epitome of a walking adonis just...is laughable.]
If the number of eyes that follow you around the grounds is any indication....I'd say you're doing just fine in that department.
[he glances up just in time to see steve give him another look, one that he forces his features to pinch at slightly because the alternative is another blatant blush, and he can't allow that in close quarters. steve is simply referring to the space in the room and lack of someone to interrupt. not his appearance. not - flirting with him. he clears his throat, tipping his chin up ever so slightly with a haughty little expression like it'll be some sort of shield against whatever might or might not be happening here. he chooses to ignore it outright, instead flipping to the right page and shifting it in front of them both. he also leans in slightly, unaware the proximity might be having some sort of effect on steve too. he thinks he catches a waft of something fresh - soap maybe, or shampoo, and it smells clean and feels strangely intimate to be guessing at.]
Ah, I'll take the first part. You take another, and we can round off the last part together. Truthfully, she seems eager to hear anything that comes out of our mouths compared to the less than stellar performances from our classmates.
[that he sounds a little smug about, lips curling catlike at the corner of his mouth as he all but admits that steve and him are on a higher level. yes, together.]
no subject
Oh, it's an academic scholarship. I'd say I don't really do sports, but I tried out for the football team sophomore year. I wasn't exactly the sporty type in high school. I used to get sick a lot.
[ He shrugs a shoulder, nonchalant and easy as he leans in to look at the book, skimming over questions they're to answer in lecture format. From here he can see the smattering of marks along Zemo's temple, watch the way his lips begin to curl into a little smile, catch the smell of something sharp but pleasant— aftershave, maybe? Cologne. It's nice, and the thought alone makes the rise of his cheeks burn ever so slightly. ]
So everyone might look, but trust me, it's not exactly something I'm used to. [ A glance to the book again as he begins organizing himself, stacking papers and picking up his pen once again. ] But thanks for looking out for me.
[ A small, coy smile. ] But I wouldn't be so sure some of those eyes aren't looking at you, you know. I think you spend more time trying to pick at me than you do looking around. [ Though Steve can't be sure of the eyes that might wander Zemo's way, except the very idea makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest. Not that he has any purchase here, any claim to whatever it is he can feel between them— friendly academic competition? curiosity? attraction?— but it makes something hot lick through him all the same. ]
So I guess we'll have to fend off all eyes when we give this presentation together. I think we could give a dissertation on socks for all the professor cares, and we'd get away with an A anyway. [ He gives his shoulder a nudge with his own, grinning almost boyishly, before he turns back to the book, his free hand reaching to rest along the back of Zemo's chair, the other dragging the capped pen to the book, tapping one of the sections. ]
I think we should skip this part, though, and tie the whole thing back into the lecture from last week. What do you think?
no subject
he's been to a single game so far, on the insistence of his parents that he experience an american sporting event at least once in his life. drinking out of the back of someone's rusted up pickup truck to inebriation and getting hot and sweaty in the stands while watching fumble after fumble wasn't exactly his idea of a good time.]
Really. [not a question, sardonically rhetorical in disbelief.] After, what - 3 years, multiple times a day and you're still unused to people merely having eyes?
[his mouth falls open at the way steve suddenly pins the looking on him, as if he's only noticed because - because he wants to, or because it means he's keeping a watchful eye. and then he takes it even further by accusing him of actively engaging in their shared...whatever it is instead of integrating himself among the rest of his classmates. or noticing the nonexistent stares and supposed intrigue from other students. there's interest - it's just the kind that's akin to looking at a lab experiment for how foreign and out of place it is compared to everything else. from his accent, to his delicate features and his distinct style of elevated dress - and yes, even his dorm room, he's nothing short of a novelty. but it brings back that rush of heat all the same under his skin, prickling to the surface of his cheeks and the surprised shift of his brows before he forces it into a near scowl.]
I only spend so much time picking at you because you're wrong.
[about all of it, he wants to say, but he knows that's exceedingly childish and will be as good as admitting defeat. he glances back at steve again after the friendly nudge rubs against him and he's nearly blinded with another dazzling flash of teeth. there's another inexplicable rush of warmth as steve leans in with a familiarity that doesn't entirely feel wrong in its proximity, a certain possessiveness somehow in that casual hang slung over the back of his chair. like it wouldn't be entirely out of place along a shoulder or his lower back.
it's that dangerous thought that only makes him redouble his efforts to hunch against the table and look back down at the book. he quickly flips though their book with renewed determination.]
No, no, no - everyone will be focused on last week's lecture because it's the simplest to draw back to. Even the ones that make me question the competence of the admissions staff. [he's drawn up in the prospect of a good idea, and he leans back, momentarily forgetting that steve's hand is hovering as it bumps up against his shoulderblades lightly. this time, he doesn't pull away, just turns and tilts his head slightly with a pleased curl of his lips that narrows his eyes simultaneously in clear satisfaction.]
We keep that part, focusing instead on the overarching timeline that was referenced at the beginning of the semester. Hm?
[he cocks a brow lips parting like he's just waiting for steve to try and argue that this isn't the superior idea.]
no subject
[ Steve isn't; Bucky chides him all the time for how oblivious he can be to the simplest of flirts, the bat of eyes, the way men and women both sidle up to him at bar tops and parties. He's not much interested in it, not anymore, and with Freshman year long behind him, he spends more time exercising or reading as it is. It's better that way.
He notices the flush on Zemo's cheeks, however, but it's only for the fact that he's looking for it, and they're situated so closely that it'd be impossible to miss. He's sure his own might be evident, dusting across his cheeks, but instead he turns his attention to the book, listening as Zemo explains every step methodically, reasoning his way into a good idea and it's true - Steve can't fault him for the idea that is, in all ways, better than his own.
But the warm pressure of shoulder blades on his arm draws him in, scooting his chair a hairsbreadth closer to peer at the book, as if examining it closely against the offered idea. In truth, it just lets his arm curl closer, lets their heads tilt just so, and maybe he's childish for doing it, but he's not unhappy with the proximity. He hadn't come here for this, for the veiled flirting and looking over. He's felt Zemo's eyes on him before, and the commentary earlier certainly doesn't disprove it, but Steve feels like he's finally truly looking himself, too.
A huff of a laugh, the tilt of his head, and he sits back in his chair more comfortably, foot knocking against one of Zemo's as he gets comfortable. ]
You're right. [ A smile, and he flips a page in the book curiously. ][ Steve feels like a boy in a candy shop, unable to focus and decide which path he wants to take, because he turns to look at Zemo and it's the curve of his lips that's caught him up, that's made his brain short-circuit as they curl, part, and he wonders what they must taste like, how they might feel, and he only barely manages to tear his eyes away and look back at the text. ]
Ah... do you want to have visuals for this presentation?
no subject
I know.
[he only sounds a little smug about it, to his credit. there's a wash of pleasure at the notion that it's been admitted so quickly, however. usually their verbal sparring goes at least a few rounds right up until the bell, or until one of them wedges themselves into a corner they can't entirely pick themselves out of. zemo knows when steve has the upperhand, but he's stubborn enough to keep defending a losing talking point on occasion, if only to keep it going. out of pride, he had thought. and - maybe, if he really thinks about it deep down - for an excuse to keep steve talking.
the sudden bump of a foot against his own seems to be timed directly at the moment his heart picks up a beat, feeling as if it's thumping near audibly in his chest and beating wild at how close steve suddenly is in the span of seconds. he swallows hard, the bob of his adam's apple rolling above the rounded neck of his sweater. why hadn't he merely gone with a shirt of some kind? it's nearly uncomfortably warm in here, and he can't identify if it's because of the actual temperature or the sudden spark that seems like it's fizzling hot between them in a way that makes him feel like it's burning from the inside out. his cheeks, under his skin...it's ludicrous considering he has stared directly in steve's face dozens of times this semester and never felt quite so perceived.
if he looks closely - and he is - he sees the beginnings? end? of a similar flush along the other boy's cheeks too. interesting. it feels a bit like having the upper hand when steve forcibly looks back down to the book and only concedes to his idea. zemo tilts his head again, a note of coyness and clear teasing in his voice and another waggling lift of his brow.]
Oh, but you mean the two of us aren't enough to look at?
no subject
Anything. Absolutely anything, for Sarah Rogers.
His eyes scan the page in front of him but he doesn't take in the words, the images, the diagrams. Instead, his mind wanders to the pleasant heat of Zemo beside him, the bump of their feet under the table and he curiously keeps his foot within striking distance, knowing too well that their calves would have to spar again beneath the surface. He feels like an over-eager school boy, batting eyes at the pretty, curly-haired dame who always has the right answers to the teacher's questions. But instead, he's tucked up in a chic dorm room (do those words even go together?), shoulders hunched and ankles brushing with a guy from his Lit class.
He breathes out his surprise at the man's comment, the rush of air turning into a startled, but warm, laugh. ]
Well, I'd say one of us is plenty to look at, anyway. But I hear that sort of stuff is subjective.
[ He's not smooth, not as smooth as Bucky or Sam or Natasha, in the way they romance and charm the people around them with the ease of the sun rising and setting. Steve glances up when he says it, his smile sheepish and soft, the barest flash of teeth before he ducks his head again and returns to their work, reaching to drag the book closer to them both, his arm sliding against Zemo's in the process. ]
But I'd say we'd give the class a run for their money, definitely.
no subject
he finds himself much more focused on the little bits of contact than he is any of the work in front of them, which is a dangerous concept and not unimpressive feat on steve rogers' part. he could just as easily put an end to it...but he doesn't, too wrapped up in the novelty of it. not actually minding it, no matter what his words would say if he could utter them instead of turning and watching the way steve's jaw shifts, lips parting around that easy laugh. there's a certain level of satisfaction knowing he keeps coaxing it as if with his own fingertips, that steve must find him pleasant to be around - maybe even more now that they're alone.
before he can think better of it, he decides to take the other boy's words at face value and accept the implication that he is the one that's plenty to look at. there's a small, throaty chuckle that resonates in the back of his throat, a quick tilt of his head in time with an almost disbelieving smirk and a quick flash of teeth.]
Well, I think I would say that my subjectivity lies elsewhere, and so does the majority of the student body. But it needn't be a competition...what is it you Americans like to say? "There's a little something for everyone."
Maybe in this case, someone.
[just out of curiosity, to see what will happen and nothing more - he lets himself lean in enough that the weight of his arm presses ever so lightly against steve's as he makes a show of glancing at the book from a different angle. as if he's actually taking in any of the words rather than trying to gauge what will land, what will seemingly ruffle steve's feathers so pleasantly in an effort to volley it right back at zemo. it's a wonder if they'll get any work done at this point, which is why he clears his throat lightly and pulls away to reach for his laptop and flip it open.]
Here, I will put together an outline for us. We can meet once a week and work section by section. Good?
no subject
He just counters with a warm laugh of his own, a shrug of one strong shoulder, and the tip of his head. ]
There's definitely someone for everyone, you're right about that.
[ He taps the eraser of his pencil on the table a few times, letting it bounce back up over his fingertips and back down, but it pauses when he feels the easy weight of the boy's arm against his. He leans into it a little himself, sliding in his chair just so, situating himself a little closer to Zemo. The touch comes and goes, but he has no doubt the heat of the flush shows in the apples of his cheeks now. ]
Once a week? Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great. If you send me the outline I'll come with some ideas and research for the first section. Good?
[ He leans back in his chair and reaches to run fingers back into his hair, pushing it out of his face. It's grown a little overlong and he has no doubt that his mother will fuss the next time he's home. He looks at the book between them, at the laptop on the table, on the light it casts along Zemo's face, and he sucks in a slow breath and speaks, his voice almost timid, nervous. ]
Speaking of someones, though... I don't know what you're doing this weekend, but the Delta Kappa Epsilon boys are hosting a party. They're not really my thing, but I don't know, you should come, if you're free. I'll probably be there earlier in the night, but we can argue over Jungle Juice instead of textbooks.
[ A sheepish smile, another shrug of one shoulder. ] Just if you want.
no subject
that steve rogers is exceptionally good-looking is entirely besides the point. particularly when he could have his pick of the student body, and zemo would suspect that his interests lie elsewhere. he's heard whispers and gossip from clear admirers, but no straight answer one way or another has to his actual preferences. which prompts him to ask oh so casually as he starts swiftly typing in a header without looking over:]
Did you have a specific someone in mind for yourself? What with so much to choose from.
[there's an almost bored drawl in his tone, like his interest in the matter doesn't hinge whatsoever on steve's answer and he's simply asking to pass the time. only half true.]
Good. I would dare say this might be the first project I can have a little faith in my partner.
[this is the first long-term project, but even being paired up in class for small assignments has been an exercise in strong-arming his assigned classmates into letting him carefully insinuate his far superior ideas into the forefront so neither of their grades are tanked. he's busy typing away the first few sections of the outline that he doesn't quite notice what steve is doing besides some bit of movement out of the corner of his eye. it's enough that his eyes shift sidelong, doubling back when he realizes steve looks...nervous, somehow. until he finally gets out his invitation.
an invitation.
oh.
he's being invited to an actual party, by a very popular member of the student body. he's seen this in one too many coming of age films not to know that it is apparently an important rite of passage. and while normally he'd be sharp in his refusal, coming up with any number of quick excuses and plausible reasons to decline...he finds there is something in steve's smile that he does not want to see disappointed.]
I have yet to see how you Americans do a proper party. I think I would be remiss if I did not give it a look - especially if you're offering to be my tour guide.
[a pause, lips curving faintly once more with another bounce of his brow. he keeps his voice even despite the way his heart has suddenly jumped in its rhythm, thudding in his chest.]
Though I cannot promise I'll be a fan of this..."jungle juice" over top shelf liquor.
no subject
[ Not that Steve gave it much thought until this moment, but watching Zemo type away at the outline gives him a brief moment to admire his profile yet again, and he finds himself fixed with the sudden urge to press the pads of his fingers along those beauty marks, to touch his lips which, worried in concentration, look soft.
It makes the flush burn a little brighter and he lets out a little sheepish huff as he turns back to his own papers, riffling through them. ]
I'll have to see if he's interested, first. Hard to say.
[ But surely the press of that arm hadn't been absent minded, and the quips about their looks, the way Zemo had noticed people noticing him. It's a little maddening, really, that he finds himself swept up in the foreign student who meets him toe to toe on difficult subjects, who works just as hard as he does, and whose smirk is sure to haunt him once he leaves this room.
He half expects the other boy to turn down the invitation. A wild frat party doesn't seem quite his speed, but Steve raises his brows in pleasant surprise when he actually seems to agree. ]
I wouldn't mind being your tour guide. [ He wants to kick himself for how eager he sounds, voice warm and laughing. ] And I won't make you drink too much Jungle Juice either, but it is definitely a means to an end. I usually hang out for a couple of hours then ditch. They can get a little out of control the later you stay, because the freshman show up. It'll be nice having someone to actually talk to.
[ He shrugs and sits back, beginning to neatly put his papers back into a stack, but the motion of sitting further up leaves his thigh pressed against Zemo's, where he keeps it, pleasantly warm. ]
And we can always go get top shelf liquor somewhere else after.
[ After? Steven Rogers, keep your head attached to your shoulders. ]
no subject
he.
steve rogers, apparently, has a preference that mirrors his own, even if it's not something he can announce quite so freely. on some level, he thinks his family must know of it like an open, unspoken secret. the expectation is simply that he will be discreet, he will not embarrass himself, and he will never let it interfere with the greater machinations at play regarding his future - most specifically an heir to the zemo family in ten years time, give or take. his trysts so far have either been the kind that can be written away with strong alcohol, mild party favors and the foolish games played by youthful friends looking for a good, fleeting time - or they're miles away from recognition in dark corners he wouldn't be caught in during the light of day. america could be a playground for him, he supposes. the campus is much larger and less insular than the one he's attended in sokovia...and yet somehow between the cultural reset and the way his parents are still regularly checking in, it feels like one wrong move makes the rest of his year miserable. it's not worth the risk, not to him, when he'll be gone in the spring.
so he just hums lightly, fingers resuming their typing and a mild tilt of his head as he doesn't turn to look at steve directly. between the complicated jumble of all that and the actual admission from steve, he hasn't exactly put the deeper implication together yet, glossing straight over it with another casual, nearly dismissive response right back while he quickly starts filling in the next few lines.]
Then you should just ask whoever he is. Better to know up front and stop wasting your time, isn't it?
[he's interrupted again by the sudden contact against his thigh, pleasant and firm enough that he can feel it even with two layers of jeans between them. he swallows hard, another fissure of warmth that feels like it's running straight up his spine and lingering at the back of his neck. now he does turn to face steve, fingers falling away from the keys altogether after a quick click to save his work. it strikes him just how endearing steve looks - like he'd overestimated his confidence somehow. there's a fondness in the way his lips twitch at the corners again, eyes glittering under the dim, yellowy overhead lighting.]
I like the sound of that. Only until the freshman show up, of course. But seeing as you've already solved the question of an after-party...consider my attendance a sure thing.
[he inclines his head in an acknowledging nod, a brief pause before he adds a little softer and more politely:]
Thank you for the invitation.
no subject
Then you should just ask whoever he is.
Isn't that what he's just done, in a way? Invited Zemo to the party, to the potential of drinking together after. He doesn't have the courage now, to speak up and boldly state that maybe the dark haired boy beside him has caught his eye, that he'd like to invite him to a more private night out instead of a raucous college party. Instead, he lets out a little huff of a laugh. ]
Yeah, well. Gotta get the timing right. Timing's important.
[ He finishes with tidying his papers, carefully stacking them into his notebook with tabs and careful notes written in the margins. Occasionally, there might be faint doodles in the corners, conjured from boredom and a wandering mind in class. But he pauses when Zemo appears to agree to come, and his lips curl into a soft smile, warm at the edges and bright behind his eyes. ]
I'm glad you're coming. [ He stacks his things neatly, pressing them carefully back into his bookbag, but he pauses for a moment, moving to take his pencil from before and reach across to scribble his phone number on the corner of the other boy's notebook. ] Just in case you need to get ahold of me. For the project, or the party.
[ Not for anything else, of course. Just for communication. But the scribbling etch of his numbers on the paper makes his heart thud heavy in his chest, keeps the warmth at bay in his cheeks. He's given his number to girls, to a couple of boys, in his time, but it's never like this. Quiet, coy, scribbled on school work as though it isn't the invitation that it is. He shifts in his seat, leg pressing a little firmer against the one beside him, but little more. ]
Same time, same place- next week? For the project.
no subject
he hesitates for just a moment, picking up his own pen and looping out his own numbers, along with the very unnecessary notation of helmut zemo at the bottom before tearing out the otherwise blank sheet and folding it crisply before offering it between two fingers.]
You'll show me a good time, won't you? Here, this is mine.
[he smirks again, teasing lightly and letting his gaze drop briefly down to where mismatched denim is pressed up against one another. he lets his own shift in too, unwilling to...back down? put back space between them? maybe they're playing some invisible game - snehový závej, snowdrift, or as they call it here apparently, "chicken".]
Same time, same place. But I will see you this weekend first. For the party.
[one party turns into two, then three - then he loses count altogether in between a mix of study sessions and a flurry of texts that turn into late night phone calls. suddenly he finds that steve rogers has become a very ingrained part of his day-to-day: in class, outside of class, when he's alone, when they're together. perhaps the most shocking fact of all is that he finds himself starting to actually enjoy it on a deeper level than he'd ever let on. there's a certain thrill at wondering what little touches they'll share at his study table in the privacy of his dorm, what little quip he might pull out to get steve to flush fetchingly, or what charming flirtation he'll toss his way.
it wouldn't be a stretch to call it a friendship, even though he resolutely refuses to call it that. and it certainly isn't anything more. it can't be.
which is why the day after steve decides to play hero and thus ensure he's utterly mortified the morning after he wakes up to the other student in his bed, that's exactly the day he ceases all communication as soon as the door closes behind him on his way out. so what if he'd gotten a bit too drunk at a party? it wouldn't be the first time, and it most certainly won't be the last. so what if he'd been entertaining attention from another handsome(ish) senior? he wouldn't have let it get farther than friendly conversation and an innuendo or two just to test the waters.
the night is a blur, hazy around the edges and lacking pieces of the puzzle that was making it into his dorm and then making it into his bed. he remembers uttering a few things he'd rather be caught dead than say to his - classmate (because that's all steve is at this point). he remembers being herded carefully into bed, a glass of cool water on his nightstand and waking up to a warm body on top of the covers beside him, clearly fallen asleep during some honorable attempt at watching over him. steve wouldn't take advantage - he already knows that. more baffling still was the way in which he took it upon himself to make breakfast and actually stay nearly into the afternoon to make sure he was alright. zemo had been much too taken aback to properly put up his walls again, and frankly - he was starving.
it's been radio silence on his end since. he doesn't text steve, he doesn't call, he ignores anything that might come his way. he even takes a different route in and out of class, leaving slightly earlier or later than usual solely to avoid seeing him in between. class is the only place he can't escape, though he does call out the day after. but when he does finally make his return, even then he makes a point to sit on opposite ends of the room and resolutely focus on the front rather than let his gaze wander. he doesn't volunteer any rebuttals, he doesn't try and take on some of the hooks steve seems like he's dangling solely for his response.
his last line of defense would be cancelling their meeting - but to what end? much as he'd like to, he can't run forever. enough time has passed that he won't be completely full of shame when he opens the door for their study session, though he does steel his face into something haughty with his lips pursed and brows pinched together.]
Steven. [a tight, nod and he turns on his heel almost immediately so he doesn't have to look him in the eye.]
Come in. You want a drink?
[an excuse for him not to sit down right away, to put off the inevitable.]
no subject
The days that follow are deadly silent, and while the first few seem more like a recovery period, the week stretches on and Steve notices his texts go unanswered, that he doesn't see Helmut in the halls, that even classroom quips and discussions are clipped and cold.
The guilt from that night comes back, pressing at the edges of his mind and beckoning him to re-examine it. Had he been there when he promised he would be, Hunter would not have had the opportunity to seize Zemo's drink, to prey upon a man lost to the culture and, in some ways, in lack of company. Seeing him like that and facing down the lithe boy from the swim team, has burned something deep into him. Helmut Zemo could have been ridiculed or worse, he knows from personal experience, and it would have been Steve's fault.
Maybe that's what this silence is, frigid and distant. If it's blame, if it's the condemnation that comes from being tardy (though he had no true control over it) then he deserves it. Every bit of Zemo's ire should be directed at him for not keeping his promise, staying true to his word. He tried. He did, and that part hurts more than anything else. Never in any of his dreams would he have wanted anyone to get hurt because of him. Never.
His phone reminds him, so kindly, that he has a study session set up with the boy in his dorm to return to one of their group projects and put the finishing touches on it. Considering canceling it altogether, Steve sits in his dorm room and stares at the reminder, his bag halfway slung over one shoulder. They haven't spoken in what feels like weeks and he doesn't know what to expect when he finally pushes himself up and makes his way to Zemo's floor.
Just get through this, he tries to tell himself, as the door opens and the other boy answers with as much warmth as one might find in a polar ice cap. Steve's stomach sinks deep into his gut, but he moves in to the table with familiar ease. ]
No, no. Thank you, though. I brought water.
[ Taking up his usual seat, he opens his bag and carefully pulls out his work, all pristine papers and neat handwriting, organized and clean inasmuch as he is in person. But that doesn't fill the time like he'd hoped, and he's left with his hands on the table, eyes lifting to track Zemo in the room. ]
I... gotta admit I didn't know if we were doing this. I... well, I haven't heard from you in a while.
[ Good natured, easy, but there's a reservation in the way he speaks, hesitant and guarded in a way that Steve Rogers decidedly isn't. Particularly around Helmut Zemo in the last several weeks. ]
no subject
it's been a difficult week, to say the least. but the idea that it's because he somehow holds steve responsible for his own assumed recklessness and inebriation is so much further from the real truth of it. that would simplify so many of his problems, and yet that's a burden he wouldn't even think to put on his classmate who he knows deep down was simply trying to do the right thing. waking up next to him there hadn't been even the slightest fear that something untoward had taken place on his end. not when steve was so clearly in last night's clothes, propped up against one of the posts of his large bed and not even tucked under the velvet duvet cover in lieu of resting atop it. the only thing it had accomplished was committing a very specific image of a sleeping steve rogers with his arms folded, jaw slack and impossibly long lashes fluttering across the tops of his cheeks. it had been sweet to realize he must have stayed to make sure he made it through the night, that he took the time and effort to tuck him in and apparently make him comfortable as well.
but thinking about it now makes his skin prickle unpleasantly, a hot rush of shame at steve seeing him in a compromising position at all. it isn't necessarily about the perceived weakness of it moreso than it is steve being aware that whatever plausibly deniable attraction may have been simmering under the surface of their established relationship has now been blown wide open. there are a few things he knows he uttered that would have otherwise stayed locked away and never been spoken aloud to the light - night, actually - of day.
knowing the way steve is - he should have anticipated he would confront this head on and ask why there's been a seismic shift in the rapport they've shared. the cold shoulder is an understatement. he swallows thickly, lips pursing and chin lifting like he's already on the defensive.]
It needs to get done, doesn't it? [he's not so impolite he wouldn't have made a proper cancellation.]
I've been busy.
[said oh so lightly and without apology, even though it's a complete lie. steve will probably know it's a complete lie based on his past schedule and hours spent on the phone during their last few weekends.]
no subject
Should he have let him go with Hunter? Should he have stayed away from the party altogether? He scans his mind over that night again and tries to parse apart just what might have happened to make all of this happen, what he did. None of it makes sense, but this is the way of things for Steve Rogers - a life of half-lived moments, caught up between the sickly boy he used to be at the strong, healthy man he is now. He lives in the in-betweens, not belonging to any world and always skirting by in the projections of others, and what they think. ]
It does.
[ The work must get completed, he's right in that regard, but the answer feels so cold and distant. Coming here was a mistake. He doesn't believe for one second that Zemo was busy, but he doesn't know how to vocalize it without revealing the strange, tender part of him that has come to yearn for interactions with this standoffish boy.
Maybe he should have read the warning signs from the start. ]
Sorry to hear that. I noticed I hadn't seen you around, so I'm glad you're just busy and not sick. [ And he had worried, that first day, that maybe he left him in the throes of a drug-induced hangover too early. He looks down at his papers, wringing his hands together for a few seconds before he lets out a sigh and rakes those fingers back through his hair. ]
Guess we should get to it. [ He tilts his head, as if trying to decide what to say next, but seems to hold back, evident in the way his mouth works, the muscle in his jaw flexing. ]
no subject
but steve still tries. he can sense the beginnings of frustration in his body language - hands twisting, the frustrated way he pushes back his hair his jaw twitches around a near frown. he's unhappy with that answer, but he doesn't have enough to argue it one way or another. it makes zemo's lips press into a thin line too, an involuntary twitch of the muscle between his nose and upper lip in disdain as he weighs his options here.]
I wasn't sick. Not when I missed class, and absolutely not - when you took it upon yourself to play hero. I'm perfectly capable of handling myself, you know.
[ah, fuck. so much for only focusing on their work and avoiding an outburst around what's really been needling at him.]
Nevermind.
[an attempt at recovering as he shakes his head and taps out a few quick keys to pull up the outline, the first few pieces struck out as completed]
You're right, we should just focus on the work. I'm sure you have places to be. I certainly do.
[another lie, one steve could probably dismantle easily if he wanted. but zemo is feeling spiteful enough to tell it anyway, to try and distract from what's really going on beneath the surface of his cold front.]
no subject
Will you stop that? I didn't play hero, I was trying to keep you safe. That guy? Hunter? He wasn't going to let you leave there alone without making a complete fool of you. So if you think someone watching your back and giving a damn about you is playing hero, then you really need to check your priorities.
[ He lets out a frustrated sigh, despite how calm he sounds even now, he feels like he's been hit across the face and for no good reason. ]
If you're that mad that I helped you home after that guy roofied you, then I don't even know why I'm here. I was worried. That guy, he's known... let's just say I know what he was going to do to you, and I didn't want that to happen.
[ Steve runs his hands back through his hair, dropping them back to his lap and shaking his head. Sure, maybe he felt guilty for staying overlong, for possibly interrupting when he wasn't supposed to, but he knows when something is going south quickly, and with Hunter in the picture? He has no doubt that Zemo's picture would have been posted on all manner of social media. A prize, the laughing stock.
He moves to shut his notebook, needing something to do with all the furious kinetic energy he feels humming through to his very bones. He holds his hands up in mock surrender, his frown deep. ]
So if you call that playing hero - someone looking out for you when you can't - then sure, fine, I'm guilty. I'll leave.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)