[ Maybe Sarah would celebrate this moment if it meant that when Steve got home, Zemo would come in to stay. Not for a few hours, not for the night, but stay and do something about the strange, open wound in his chest. He knows that his mother had hoped they'd find their way back together at some point, and he's not sure that's what's happening here, either. But Zemo's right, in a way. She'd be astonished, happy, even.
It makes the knowledge that Zemo will be gone come morning, a ghost of his past, hurt all the more. Why does he have to shoulder that, too? Among everything else, why does he have to feel the sting of a goodbye all over again?
And yet, like a moth to the flame, he can't seem to pull away. He keeps his hand anchored in Zemo's, allows the man to touch his face and turn into him, for their legs to brush, speaking as though the last eight years doesn't span between them like a gaping maw, waiting to swallow them whole. There's something magnetic between them, though, as there has always been. The natural force of something unseen that makes his torso feel heavy, makes his whole body sink so that their foreheads press together again, his own hand carefully pressed over the one on his face still. ]
She'd tell you to stay for dinner, first.
[ A watery laugh and he tilts his head back away from Zemo's, the land slipping away to smudge at the tears that won't stop, no matter how often he tries to tell the well to dry up. To tell them that no one will be there to catch them, to see them, when all this is over. His tears won't matter when he's sat alone in a dark, quiet apartment, waiting out the hours for the grief to dissolve.
There is never an easy time to lose someone you love.
The words make his throat swell, make him look away, even as his free hand falls to Zemo's wrist, fingers holding to his arm and curling into the fabric of his finely tailored sleeve. The dorm room door shutting behind him had splintered his heart, and now the sound of Sarah Roger's coffin shutting quietly after has left an angry, bottomless hole in his chest where his heart might have been, once.
If they're nearby to his apartment, if they're stopped at light or roaring through traffic, Steve can't tell. The world feels like a thick, foggy blur around him, like his ears have been stuffed full to the brim with cotton, pressured and swollen loud in its quiet.
His forehead parted from Zemo's just so, he can see the reflection of desperation in those eyes, something he's sure stands mirrored in some fashion in his own, but he doesn't know what to do with it. Comfort him? Wrap his arms around him and drag him into his chest? Kiss his temple, his hair, his cheeks, his lips, breathe him in like he used to and breathe warmth into him. He doesn't have it, though, can't muster the flame he used to wrap the man up in and urge him into calm. So he rests his forehead against his again, their noses brushing, nothing but the sound of their breathing and shivering breaths for a few long seconds. ]
Put on a record. Make us dance. Then she'd tell you to take your shoes off, stay a while.
[there's a distinct sort of agony and realizing just how much of steve has been hollowed out, and it will only linger as zemo tries to pick apart the precise percentages he is responsible for. that's a guilt he'll have to carry with him for the rest of his life now that he's seen it up close instead of just wondered and worried for the last eight years whether or not steve would ever think back of their time together as fond, forget about it outright, or harden it into something akin to hate for the way he'd been abandoned. zemo would not begin to presume that his current condition it's entirely his fault, but the way steve is - or more accurately isn't reacting to certain things tells him that this is a man who has been straddling the line of grief and loss for some time, who might be hanging on by one hand before he falls over into something he can't return from. this isn't about saving the day either, or imagining that one day might somehow be the salve and bandage for an old wound he's ripped wide open. there's a keen awareness that this might not actually be good for steve, having him here. but the alternative of thinking about him alone...that makes zemo's heart clench; that feels impossibly worse.
the steve rogers of the past might have already tried to find a way to get him to stay, to exhaust all alternatives and refuse to give up on what they had. to remind him with passion and a touch that he sometimes still feels on his skin like an invisible brand what they have together. and yet even though he's so close, pressed against zemo like this and cupping over the hand on his cheek with all the tenderness he remembers of balmy summer days on the dock and cozy fall days with brisk winds and hands hidden under too-long sweaters - the exhaustion in him has finally won out. he never thought he'd see the day where steve looked like he'd stopped fighting altogether. it's heart-wrenching, and it makes him feel like he needs to make it up for the both of them.
he hums lightly, thumb running along steve's cheek in a soft soothing swipe of a motion as he breathes in what may as well be a shared breath from that proximity. his nose shifts gently against steve's, eyes glancing upwards when he pulls away ever so slightly to drink in his expression. his own is clouded by heartbreak at seeing steve so empty from the passion he fell in love with, the hope and the good-natured strive for more. it's as if the light has been completely snuffed out, dashed by the rain that keeps beating down against their windows in a torrential smatter.
there's desperation in his gaze, yes. but maybe there's a bit of hopefulness too, for one of the first times. hope that in being here, maybe it doesn't have to be all the way as awful as steve seems to have expected. hope that they can share in this moment one more time, and maybe part on circumstances that won't feel like he's leaving half of his heart in new york all over again.]
Well, we're doing it out of order this time. But - we had our dance. The first thing I will do is take off my shoes, and then once we are warm and have dried our bodies and our tears - I will cook for you.
[a shaky exhale, the roomy side of the partition suddenly feeling like the walls are closing in.]
Yes, I'll stay awhile. For both of you.
[he hesitates one brief moment before letting his lips press to the wet, cold corner of steve's mouth as softly as he can manage. a selfish thing he can't help but steal for himself.]
[ Hollowed out. Steve feels exactly like someone has taken a knife and carefully peeled away at all the vulnerable parts of him, leaving them exposed and raw, like a white-hot nerve screaming for repair. He'd had the hope of the future on his shoulders when he met Zemo in that dorm room the last day he saw him, dreaming of traveling, schools, maybe purchasing a ring when it didn't feel too soon. Steve had let himself believe that life might allow him the easy path, just once, just once. Like the antique rug in his mother's living room, it was pulled violently from beneath his feet, and one thing has since led to the next. Zemo leaving, Steve joining the military, sending his graduation gift in the mail to a boy he knew he'd never see again, getting the call that his mother had been sick, coming home to watch her wither over two weeks.
Hollowed out. Nothing remains but the bones and scrapes, waiting for the carrion birds to come carry him away. ]
We never did anything in the right order, you know.
[ Quiet, watery. He's drawn from his thoughts by the soft swipe of a thumb, by words that go so far in soothing the white noise in his mind. So, Zemo will stay a little while. Take his shoes off, cook. But the word stay in the beautiful timbre of his voice breathes hot life back into his lungs, and his heart seems to skip a beat back into rhythm for the first time in years.
New tears pour down his cheeks, hot and sharp against his skin, but they fall for that brush of lips against the corner of his own, the nod to something that still aches in his chest. He loves this man still, and it's unfair he knows, to hold onto things he shouldn't, but what will one day hurt? One night? Whatever it is that this is, why is it such a bad thing to want something and get it, just once?
Zemo's lips leave the corner of his mouth but Steve's body moves of its own accord and he slides the hand along the man's damp sleeve to slide fingers into the wet hair at his nape before he gently pulls him in closer so that his lips brush over his. It's slow and soft at first, unsure, until the wild thing called desperation claws its way up into the back of his throat, making him lean in a little closer, part his lips and catch the man's bottom lip between his own. Like years ago, tender and loving and the quiet asking for more. ]
[no, he would agree. they certainly didn't do it in the right order. then or now, apparently, and the fact that there is a now is novelty enough. but he doesn't have time to voice it out loud, not when he's too busy whispering out a soft shhh when he feels fresh tracks of wetness that are too warm to be from the chilled rain on his skin - new tears from the circumstances that maybe zemo is in some way partly responsible for. it makes his chest clench together in an ugly reminder of everything he's lost, everything he made the active choice to walk away from and destroy with his own hand. if he hadn't - there's no doubt in his mind he and steve would have made good on all those promises they'd made one another whispered after passionate nights or giggled between stolen kisses and the escapist days at the lakehouse or in secret little corners of divebars and parts unknown. all they ever needed was each other, and deep down zemo knows that was infinitely more than anything he ever felt from his own family.
all these years he's feared making the wrong choice. he thought he was doing the right thing: honor, duty, obligation to his family and the legacy of their name. making them happy by choosing the right girl and promising the right heir, lining himself up to be the next ambassador or ranking member of sokovian government. doing something good for his country and its people. but what family wants all their own needs to supercede their child's happiness? he's always shut himself down before ever even so much as thinking about the word fatherhood - what his future will look like trying to raise a son or daughter of his own. the thought alone makes bile rise in his throat, a lump swelling in his throat or everything in his mind clouding over.
he doesn't want any of it. he never has. all he's ever wanted is to be with this man - to let their love carry them through life's adventures, to sustain them through anything.
he should pull away, stop encouraging this closeness when it's just painful for them both and probably making it worse for steve. it's making it worse for himself, but so is the distance in an utter catch twenty-two. he feels damned no matter what he decides, and then steve makes the choice for them by cupping so tenderly it makes him ache all over, a wounded noise at the back of his throat like just his touch alone is going to make him split apart. but his hand lifts to curl in his damp lapel, tilting his head back to deepen the kiss and put everything he can't vocalize into it. his tongue swipes against steve's, another needy sound reverberating against his lips.
he feels like he's on a freight train without a brake - reckless, yet utterly powerless to stop. his hand cups steve's cheek even tighter, body shifting to turn and fully face steve's like he needs even more. god, they shouldn't. this door closed eight years ago, but one crack and he's already clawing his way to try to reach the other side all over again.]
[ Kissing Zemo feels like breathing all over again, like his lungs have finally remembered how to move and flutter within his broken chest. The agonized sound makes his hand slide up and down his nape, fingernails a blunt brush against his skin, soothing out of muscle memory alone. He can't pull away to question it, to cradle him close and beckon the answer from him, so he shifts closer across the seat until their knees bump, until he's reminded of how they used to be awkward college boys trying to find dark corners to hide in, where their shins and arms and elbows jutted and jabbed.
He hums low in his chest when he feels the slide of Zemo's tongue against his own and it feels like his chest has been cleaved open, as if Zemo himself had been a dead man and here he is, having come back to life. His free hand falls to Zemo's chest, pressing down his front, sliding to his side and giving a pull that's sure to tangle their legs further, more awkwardly. They fit so much better in a car a decade ago, and yet here they are like drowned rats on a prom night, unable to tear themselves away.
And that's what this is: eight years of misery culminating into one horrific thunderstorm lost now between their lips and fingertips. But Zemo is so warm, even as he tries to curl one arm round the man's smaller waist, the low of his back, broad palm mapping the shape he knows but a shape that's still different in a way that both hurts and excites him.
He breaks the kiss as they hit a particularly nasty pothole, but he keeps his forehead close, lips hovering against Zemo's as he pants between hitched little breaths. The pothole signals they're not far from home at all, and he doesn't have time to question how the driver knows where he's going. He doesn't need to know, as he leans in to kiss him all over again, the hand at his nape sliding to the side of his neck, cradling him there like the most precious, fragile thing even though he's sure he's shattered, crystalline glass himself.
He barely registers the sound of a voice from up front, behind the closed, tinted barrier: ]
We're here, gentlemen.
[ Steve keeps his forehead against Zemo's, his fingers against his face, against his back. Can't they just freeze them as they are, right now? Take a picture of this moment and live in it until the day they die? Why did their blossoming future turn into rain clouds and pain and sorrow? He keeps his eyes closed, catching his breath, his nose nuzzled up against Zemo's. ]
Coming in?
[ Because it all still feels like a strange, twisted, surreal dream. ]
[it's a veritable deluge of emotion he's tried for the past eight years to bury deep and forget about - as if steve didn't inhabit his thoughts every single day, as if the right shade of sandy blonde hair or an easy laugh and a twinkle in blue eyes didn't make his heart stop in passing. everything was an aching reminder of what could have been, whether a painful memory making its way to the surface or a heartwrenching what if for all the moments he'd lost in his decision to commit to family. how ironic they both had sacrificed pieces of themselves for their country - utterly different in their methods, yet no less broken and empty for it now. he's willing to bet steve has the physical scars to prove it, a mimic of how he was always the one to wear his heart on his sleeve whereas zemo's are an emotional toll, not visible or skin-deep and far beyond the collected face he presents to the world every day.
how quickly it all falls apart - the impossibly complicated dam he'd built around his heart as flimsy as if it were constructed of sheer tissue paper after just one chance opportunity to be back in steve's presence. even as it lies in shambles, it's not even enough to make him consider stopping. especially not when steve reciprocates it with the same desperate intensity - like maybe he missed zemo as much even though he knows he doesn't deserve it for breaking the love of his life's heart. for never giving them a fighting chance together, for walking away because he was too scared to abandon the path his life had been mapped out along since youth. it feels like one mistake after the other up until now - like pressing himself into steve's arms and kissing him with the same reckless abandon of their university days is the first thing he's done that's right.
his knees knock against steve's, upper body twisting to get as close as possible without all but splaying in his lap. this isn't the place - maybe he shouldn't even let it get that far. it's hard to think past the safety of the back of this car, the way the world narrows into a concentrated pinpoint of steve's lips and steve's body and being in steve's arms. zemo can't stop the way he groans against steve's mouth, blatant in his need like steve is as essential as water or the very air in his lungs. his hands slide down along the broad width of his shoulders, fisting in the wet fabric and arching his back when steve's big hand splays along his lower back. they always fit so perfectly together - two halves to one whole as if made for one another in the precise shape of their bodies, all the gaps in between filled with their utter adoration and devotion.
zemo flinches when they hit the pothole, nose bumping lightly against steve in between a breathy laugh of disbelief. his eyes flick upwards, hesitant now that the initial spell of passion has been broken - like maybe steve will reconsider. god, he hopes not. but the thought barely formulates in its entirety before he's pulled into another heated kiss, fingers flexing as he works his jaw and licks into the familiar warmth of steve's mouth with a hunger that's been dormant since the day he kissed him goodbye at their dorm.
he's so lost in the moment, eyes squeezed shut and body shifting closer, closer until there's a gentle wrapping of knuckles along the partition. only then does he hear it, pulling away with audible, heavy breaths. steve still doesn't make any move to pull away, and it's just as well because zemo doesn't think he can move right away. like he's afraid this will change the course they've set themselves on, pull the emergency brake -
he's still wanted. steve asks like it's even in question, and zemo tilts his head to let his cheek rub against him in an affectionate little motion. there's a soft exhale, obvious relief as his eyes slip shut too.]
I wouldn't dream of being anywhere else. [a pause, and he huffs out a small laugh around a teasing slip around the silk of his accent.] And I can't let you freeze all alone in there, can I?
[his hand slides down, reaching for one of steve's and lacing their fingers together as the door up front opens and shuts. a few moments later the back door on steve's side opens too, an umbrella held up over to shield their exit. zemo murmurs out a thank you in sokovian, telling him not to worry about escorting them to the door and instead advising him to get a long, hot meal. his driver nods in acknowledgment, and as soon as the umbrella disappears zemo tugs at steve to run towards the familiar outline of the porch, the sheets of rain drenching them in fresh wetness until they make it up the stairs and under the archway. he feels like he's ten years younger, shivering and drenched and giddy as steve fumbles with the keys to pull him inside.
he should show some respect - take a moment to pause and see the old familiarities and the little trinkets that make it feel like sarah rogers is just around the corner, cooking up something delicious in the kitchen and waiting for zemo to set the table better than her own son. but he feels like a man starved, greedily reaching for steve to pull him down for another hungry kiss now that they have privacy stretching out in front of them.]
[ Every press of lips, every slide of hands and fingers, feels like opening the door to something that feels more like home than anything he's felt in a very, very long time. It feels like the closing of the dorm door and walking down the hall to his own, warmth and light puddling from beneath the jamb as though maybe, just maybe, everything in the past had been some strange, twisted dream.
There's no doubt in his mind that the past is real, if the heat pooling low in his belly tells him anything as they kiss, his own greedy hands dragging the man closer, sliding up his back and into his hair. Kissing Helmut Zemo feels like homecoming, it's as simple as that. The cheek against his own brings out a sigh of his own, his nose tilting to nuzzle at the soft skin beneath his ear. He'd be happy to stay like this, pressed close for warmth, affectionately breathing one another in, because Steve can't seem to get enough air, not with Zemo around.
The rain hasn't let up outside, though, and with his fingers wrapped around the man's, he runs with him up to the house. It draws out a laugh, unexpectedly bright and open in a way that Steve Rogers isn't, but this is some wild dream, he decides. He's running up to the house like they're in their boyhood again, when things were honey sweet and dewy soft. But there's little time to waste as his frigid fingers fumble his keys and let them into the old house they both know so very well.
The door clicks shut and the keys are long forgotten, dropped to the carpet as he reaches for Zemo almost immediately, dragging him in close and closing his mouth over his desperately, something more hungry and greedy than had been present in the car, accented by a heady groan the moment all air is pressed from between their bodies, the chest to chest. But kissing feels like it isn't enough, that the twining of tongues and the sharp bite of teeth can't satisfy the fiery thing welling up in him.
Hands rake up the front of Zemo's body, memorized dips and planes now on the body of an older man, but still familiar. Like roads to home that had needed repaving, though they lead to the same place. Fingers explore, undo any pesky buttons fumblingly with frigid tips, before he slides his hands up under the shoulders and pulls, dragging the wet fabric off the man. It gets caught, what for how damp it is, and he breaks the kiss for the soft huff of a laugh against that pretty mouth, though his lips become busy instead on the delicate slope of his neck, biting almost playful and soothing with the flat of his tongue after. ]
Shit. S'wet.
[ Another tug to remove Zemo's jacket, and he hums, pleased, when it finally comes free with a little help, and he slides his hands up over Zemo's ass, his hips, his back, only to pull him near for another kiss before his fingers start tripping at the buttons of his wet, pressed shirt. ]
[it's a little clumsy, fingers shaking as they slip up steve's dress blues from the bone-deep chill and sudden transition into the chilly air of the empty house now that they're inside. but his teeth don't have time to clack together when steve is kissing him again, harder and deeper and that much more passionate. it's all he can do it meet it in kind, rationalizing if he keeps steve close like this they can both get out of these clothes and into something warm before he's at risk of getting sick. he doesn't even care about his own suit being ruined - doesn't care if it ends up in a pile on the floor and doesn't even dry out to avoid wrinkles. it's so hard to think about anything else but steve's mouth on his own, the deliberate slide of tongue and soft lips working hungrily against his own. they only break briefly to breathe, and zemo hardly has time to inhale before they're both meeting again, and again, and again - like somehow the more they do it the more it can fill the gap of all that lost time and make up for it.
he's so cold he barely registers steve's hands starting to undo his shirt and tugging down his jacket until he feels the heaviness of the water-logged sleeves constricting against his elbows. he pulls away to let out a low chuckle at steve's revelation, a teasing:]
Wise deduction, Captain.
[his own hands shift back to help tug down his jacket, one arm slipping free right when steve decides to slip that talented mouth down along the dampness of his neck and add to it with his own tongue. zemo lets out a soft noise, a pleased little groan and tips his head back to give him better access. but he feels like he's lagging behind, quickly tugging free steve's tie and yanking it off with a flourish from under the sopping, previously pressed white collar of his button down. clever fingers work open the buttons on his wool uniform jacket, taking a detour to brush briefly over the pins up along his pectoral. he wants to hear the stories behind them - to know what steve had to face out there to earn them. but it's hardly the time, especially not when he captures his mouth yet again and zemo is powerless to try and interrupt. he pushes steve's hands away from his body only briefly enough to make a quick attempt at peeling him out of both his jacket and shirt at the same time, fingers sliding skittering along his cold skin.]
Work with me here, come on.
[as if he's not just as distracted - pressing needy pecks of his lips against steve's before huffing out a breath and pausing to give a good tug on his arms and hear the splat of his wet clothes landing on hardwood floors. his hands run back up those finely sculpted arms, a pleased hum as he can tell steve has gotten bigger, impossibly so. but his brows furrow when he feels a few imperfections - scars? old wounds? those weren't there before when they were young and carefree and both their hearts and bodies had been unblemished.]
[ Steve could weep for how much he has missed this, missed this man and as his own shirt and jacket come off he huffs something of a laugh, caught in his throat. It might be a downright sob, were Zemo's lips not playfully pressing against his own in feather-light brushes. The fingers that slide up his arms, his shoulders, make him shiver in line with the bite of the cool air on his damp skin. He doesn't meet the man's eyes, knowing too well that his body is not that of the spry, college athlete he loved eight years ago. That war and training and days spent beaten by the sun haven't always been kind to him. The hum reassures him, but it doesn't change the flush of heat in his cheeks, the soft huff of something incredulous. He should pull away, put a stop to all this.
Instead, he dips his head again to press a kiss against Zemo's shoulder, hands sliding down along the planes of his chest, his sides, to the dip of his low back, then up again, mapping out the man who used to be a boy he could draw to perfection from memory alone. His fingers know the way, know the dips and valleys, pleasantly surprised to find he's firmer in some places, softer in others, in ways that makes him want to dip and taste the differences on his tongue.
That thought alone makes him chuckle, low and arm against Zemo's neck. Once upon a time, he might have pushed him back against the door and had his way, but they're here, slick and cold from rainwater, trying to kindle warmth with the press of fingers and lips. It's not enough, but it's stirred something to life in him all over again, and he gives a needy hum. ]
The shower's always warmer, you know. You'll catch your death.
[ An invitation, not a demand, even as he slides his lips back up along the fair slope of his neck, worrying at a spot just where his jaw meets, a spot he found himself pressing little bruises into when they were younger and swept up in the romance of futures. It's difficult, though, to stop kissing him, to stop touching him, even with the promise of warmer, more intimate places. Letting him go now feels like letting him go forever all over again and his body resists.
His hands slide round that slender waist and fingers trip over the buckle of what is surely a bespoke, designer belt, catching the fine leather and pulling, both to relieve the hook and to drag Zemo in for another hot, needy, almost desperate kiss before he applies pressure, gently walking the man a step, then another, backwards toward the bathroom, without drawing his lips away for anything other than the quick catch of air. ]
[it's been years, but he's still so attuned to everything in steve rogers that he catches the way the other man seems to avoid his gaze when he fully pulls off his sopping shirt and jacket and starts to catalogue the new divots and raised skin along his arms and his chest. like maybe he's worried it'll be disappointing somehow, when in fact it just stokes that molten, fiery heat in his chest flooding all the way through his stomach in a way that has him forgetting his ice-cold skin for a few more moments. he's not really looking right now so much as feeling along with his hands and mouth, because he's hoping there will be time for that when they aren't barely past the threshold in a shivering mess. but zemo does take a moment to lift a hand to steve's chin before he can dip his mouth down to fixate on his neck, a soft whisper of look at me. there's a reassuring nod before he steals one last kiss from steve's lips and lets him press his lips to damp skin and trace along his body in kind.
it's not as if his body hasn't changed too - still lithe, maybe a little less full than before from running ragged trying to plan the wedding he won't let himself think about right now lest it break the magic of this moment. but there are parts of him that have gotten softer - the line of his jaw, his lower abdomen. none of which makes him insecure in the slightest, because that was never something steve ever made him feel worried about. the way they fit together was simply too perfect and too adored by his ex-lover, and frankly by his own confidence to ever feel like he wasn't enough. and the fact that they're still standing year eight years later, unable to control themselves or their wandering, desperate hands is testament enough that yeah, there's still a lot of that to go around, apparently. zemo never fell out of love, and maybe he can dare to think that steve never did either. maybe.
zemo tips his head back with a low groan, both hands dragging along steve's arms to fist into his hair and hold him where he's pressed against his neck. he's always been extra sensitive there, and steve always knew exactly how much teeth to use to get him to be marked, to lay claim to zemo's body in a more physical acknowledgment.]
You don't have to tell me twice.
[there's a lazy grin that can be heard in his tone, the murmur of it vibrating against his throat where steve's lips are still so close. he's trying not to shiver - both from the cold and the sensation of those hands he's dreamed of all over his skin yet again. they're more calloused, he can tell, and the texture of it makes his knees weak and his own fingers tighten against steve's scalp before they rake down his back with another low noise hot in his ear. steve's chest is somehow both warm and chilled when pressed against his own, and he can feel the oversensitive drag of skin and muscle against his pink, peaked nipples. he lets steve guide him back, toeing out of his sloshing oxfords and accidentally nudging at steve's knee as he kicks one to the side. he doesn't bother to apologize, instead stilling him for a moment and lunging forward for to kiss him in protest for any small separation - even if it's to breathe.
his other shoe takes some wiggling to make loose, and he busies himself with unbuckling steve's belt enough to unbutton and unzip his pants and loosen them around the enticing dip of his waist and hips. his tongue swipes along the inside of steve's mouth, lips dragging back to offer him another enamored look.]
You're still impossibly handsome, you know? How did you get even hotter, Steve Rogers?
[another quick nip, and he lets his thumbs stroke at the hard-won jut of his sculpted hipbones with a delighted hum.]
The words alone crack open something warm and surprised and vulnerable. He meets the other man's eyes and feels the creep of an old flush in his neck, his cheeks. Like he's some bright-eyed school boy dreaming about futures all over again. He doesn't feel like the war-scarred soldier, the tired captain, the quiet friend. He feels like Steve Rogers for the first time in a very, very long time. No, he hasn't fallen out of love with this man. He never did. He just locked that love away with the boy who kindled it.
The way Zemo's fingers twist in his hair make him moan, shamefully and low against the slope of his neck. The feeling of fingertips and the blunt of nails along the bare planes of his back, sends wild hot fire down his spine. His fingers work feverishly at the belt, the button of pants, loosening the wet fabric clinging to the slender dip of Zemo's hips. Stepping out of his own soggy dress shoes, letting his own pants slide once they're loose, he can't help but hum in appreciation as those fingers trace the jut of his hips. His palms know these planes and valleys as well as he knows his own name and he takes advantage of that, one pausing the journey toward the bathroom long enough to slide his hands up Zemo's chest, fingers tripping over the pretty, pink raise of a nipple, swiping a thumb over it in cautious acknowledgement, his free hand wrapped still round his hips now, letting those tricksy fingers slide beneath the waistband of wet pants and the band of some surely expensive underwear, to palm his ass, warm and soft beneath his touch. He groans, pleased. ]
I could say the same for you, you know.
[ Another nudge back (and the careful side step to avoid tripping over his own wet pants as he manages to step out of them) and they're met with the bathroom door, shut, and he lets out a low laugh. ]
I'd say you should have brought your robe, but I don't think I want anything between you and me right now.
[ Another searing kiss, his tongue sliding hot and needy along Zemo's, the hand from his chest sliding down his side to fumble with the bathroom door handle, opening it behind them and blindly pawing at the light switch, if only so he can keep kissing the other man as though Helmut Zemo is the very air that Steve needs to exist, to survive. But the shiver of cold (and want) takes over instead and he breaks the kiss, pressing their foreheads together as his hands instead reach to pull at the waistband of the man's underwear once more. ]
Out of these wet clothes. I'll get the shower.
[ Though he's having a very difficult time pulling his hands and lips away from the smoldering man across from him. ]
[it's hard not to feel like he's that young, naively hopeful boy back in the dorms - like all that mattered was planning their next excursion off-campus where they didn't have to hide stolen kisses and brief brushes of their hands behind closed doors. and maybe even more than that, it feels like eight years and simultaneously no time has passed at all despite the obvious physical and emotional toll it's taken on them. but no matter how brief this shared moment of passion and love persevering is between them, zemo can't let himself linger on that. his list of regrets when it comes to walking away from steve is already so long, he won't add another one at the bottom of it. particularly not when it feels so resolutely like the two of them just need this - the comfort of something familiar and warm and easy to slip back into, old lovers who will never forget the press of familiar flesh between fingertips.
christ, he's so giddy with it he hardly feels cold right now, even as his body is shivering lightly and his fingers are like ice. steve feels so warm and inviting despite it, the hot press of his mouth and thumb pressing across one sensitive nipple earning a gasp he couldn't stifle if he tried. it grows even firmer under his touch, and zemo pauses just before his back hits the door to drag him down more forcefully into another hungry kiss, tugging him by the neck without regard for the impact once they're there. he grins into it when steve breaks to let out a laugh and tease him about a robe, even as his hand seeks out the chilled skin of his ass underneath the waistband of his underwear. zemo moves to mimic the motion, snapping his waistband lightly with an amused hum and thumbs dipping ever so slightly down, down, downward and just barely grazing above the nestle of steve's thick cock.]
Not a chance. This - [he snaps it again, this time hooking his thumbs under and slowly starting to drag the fabric down his hips and along the strong muscle of his thighs] - is already pesky enough, hmm?
[he presses up on his toes, pecking kisses at him and lifting his legs as needed until they're both fully naked and stepping inside the bathroom. only now does the cold seem to settle in with another full body shiver, and zemo pulls away long enough for steve to fumble with the water. only when his attention is fully focused again while waiting for the water to warm up does he lean in, licking against his lips with a content sigh and arms draping along his shoulders to press their bodies flush. even with the clamminess of wet skin he can feel the heat radiating underneath, nuzzling in close and whispering against his lips.]
I missed the way you feel, Steve. Everywhere.
[he shouldn't say what inevitably follows. but the door's been opened, and he just can't stop it now. he needs steve to hear his words and know the actions that follow mean something.]
I think about it - every day. About you, us.
[and god, he hopes the ardent confession won't bring sorrow right now in lieu of something heated and so desperately needy.]
[ Steve will remember the slide of those thumbs for days and days and days to come, if only for the way it churns molten heat deep in his belly, his cock already half-hardened in light of the affections. He's missed those hands, and the snap of the waist band only draws a low, rumbling groan deep from his throat.
The awkward steps into the bathroom, carefully tripping over the sticky-wet fabric - it's a trail not unlike breadcrumbs: wet clothes leading them back to the lives they live outside of these four walls, to the lives they chose in favor of the warm, familiar fire set on the air around them. The sound of water fills his ears, the hiss of showers taking him back to hazy, dorm room days where they fumbled awkward and unknowing, trying to discover what language their bodies spoke together.
He knows it now, knows it in the press of Zemo's body up against his own and he all but purrs at the contact, shivering skin against skin, but he can feel the beating of his heart against his chest. It hurts, strangely, and he dismisses the thought with another hungry kiss, slower and deeper, tongue playfully twining with its tricksy partner. The bathroom slowly begins to warm, tiny puffs of steam drifting from the shower floor, drawing his skin up to gooseflesh.
Strong arms find their place around the man's slender waist, broad palms sliding along sides and hips to splay evenly across the small of his back, fitting where they shouldn't, but right where they should be.
His eyes flutter open when the kiss parts and all he can feel is Helmut against him, achingly familiar and perfect in a way that makes his heart burst, full to the brim with want and desperation and... so many, many other things.
Us, Zemo says, like it's torturous and dangerous, but Steve understands. Us had been a dream, once upon a time, and one that feels so close and so real, enveloped in steamy heat and the pleasant warmth of the man he's always found himself sinking into for refuge.
He's quiet at first, just panting into the soft brush of his lips, nose nuzzled and bumped against his. But his fingers flex against his back, drawing him tighter, closer, holding him there as if that alone might cement whatever it is this has become. ]
You've never left my mind.
[ He kisses him softly, fleeting little things while he tries to swallow back the lump in his throat. ]
I've missed this. I've missed you. And god you feel like... [ Like home. But he doesn't feel brave enough to say it. Instead, he uses those strong arms to carefully haul the man up like he might have years ago (though it's much easier now), encouraging those legs to find his waist so he can step them into the shower, his own back to the spray first.
Once upon a time, he might have let him back to his feet, might have drawn him in for showery kisses drenched and laughing amid the spray. Instead, he presses him up against one of the tiled walls, humming low and deep into a sloppy, needy kiss, as his own dick brushes the soft swell of his lover's ass, as one hand leaves to tweak the pretty pink nipple he'd neglected earlier.
They've been here, once upon a time. And maybe this is just how they're destined to meet from now on - frantic, fiery, longing, and yet always running away from one another. ]
[what outside world? nothing could pull him away right now - absolutely nothing. his whole focus begins and ends with steve in this moment. and honestly, isn't that how it's been since he left eight years ago? his life has been split into three very distinct parts with one marker of measurement: before steve rogers, with steve rogers, and after steve rogers. zemo only knew true happiness during one part of it, replaced by the devastation of aching loss and a hollowed out shell of himself the moment that dorm room door closed behind him. the early days were the most difficult: taking the tickets steve had left for them both and naively making the attempt to fasten them into a tool of forgetting him, or at least dulling the pain. a string of buff blondes in his drunken hazes that were close enough in appearance if he squinted just the right angle ultimately made it that much worse.
he never thought part three would bleed back into part two...well, ever. hasn't he tried to move past it? they say grief gets a little easier every day, but privately zemo wonders if those people have ever experienced grief for someone still living - the all-consuming suffering of heartbreak. even worse still: involuntary heartbreak. the truth is, he hasn't stopped loving steve. and judging by the response he's getting now, he wouldn't have the audacity to assume it's still love after what he did, but there's still deep admiration. and clearly there's no shortage of pent-up physical desire from either party in the moment. but that was never really their problem, was it?
no. and it's certainly not now, not when steve hefts him up like he still weighs nothing in arms that have surely gotten stronger by the looks of it over time. you feel like home - zemo can easily finish because the sentiment feels like it's going to burst out of his own heart. steve feels safe, just like he always did. it could have been them against the world until he shattered it all to pieces. he can't linger on that right now, not when he lets out sharp gasp and instinctively wraps his legs around steve's impossibly trim waist and slings both his arms around broad shoulders to hold on.]
Careful -
[he says it between a grin before nosing in for another kiss, swallowing back the emotion for something more lighthearted right now because if he lets anything else through he doesn't think he'll be able to stop, and he wants this to be a happy memory instead of a bittersweet one to join so many others. he knows steve won't drop him, and he's tempted to tease otherwise, but steve has other plans apparently. zemo can't help the hitch of breath lost underneath the pattering of running water when steve's fingers tease sensitive skin, a hungry groan that steve swallows between his lips. he hasn't been touched like this in years - and even if he had, nothing could even come close to having it be steve. his fingertips dig at the corded muscle of strong shoulders, desperately holding on as slides his tongue inside steve's mouth to twine with his lover's again and again and again.
it's only when he feels the telltale nudge of steve's cock between his legs that he pulls away, hand sliding to cup his cheek and press their foreheads together again. it's warmer now, but he thinks even without the steaming water his skin would be alight with the heat of the moment anyway.]
I want you, Steve. I need you.
[i never stopped wanting you, he cuts himself off from saying with a soft nip at steve's lips before he whispers against them.]
[ Steve tries not to think of the boys they were too terribly often. He feels so far away from the bright-eyed, football playing hopeful he'd been, who dreamt of a world he and Zemo could take by storm. Who dreamt of kisses in sleepy mornings, of hands twined where they whole world could see, where his love was something to be celebrated and not hidden away in stuffy dorm rooms.
He needed nothing if he had Zemo. He wanted for nothing if he had Zemo.
There's a hole, shaped like the needy, perfect, beautiful boy he loved (loves) burned into his chest, his ribs reformed into the very shape of him, his heart beating a stuttering rhythm around the sounds of a foreign, lilting name. But here he is, that very same boy, worn with the years but still handsome, still just as perfect, still just as beautiful and he somehow fits. The sound of his voice fills up the space left between his ribs, makes his heart ache, makes his throat swell.
There's a sob somewhere, drowned by the hiss of water and swallowed up by Zemo's kiss, and Steve leans into the press of that mouth, the desperate wrap of his tongue. He allows his hands to wander, the pad of a thumb over that same raise of pink, fingers digging against hips and the low of his back, pressing faint bruises as though to say Steve Rogers was here, with a date hastily scrawled beneath.
If he cold promise dozens more, their names pressed together like two teenagers carving the bark of a tree? God.
Steve whines, unintentionally, when Zemo pulls away, his own chest heaving, his body pressed flush, holding his lover (yes, lover - that's what they are? not strangers, not friends, but two parts of a shattered whole) up against the wet tile. ]
Fuck, Zee.
[ A whisper, shaking and trembling before he leans his forehead against his. It's impossible to deny what those words do to him, the way his blood runs from a simmer to a roiling boil, the way his cock aches for want of friction, of something, muscle memory and all.
He dips his head for a moment, finding the very same place against his neck the way he had when they were young, and sucks at the skin there, laving it and soothing it with the warmth of his tongue. It's impossible to ignore the hot press of Zemo's prick against his abdomen, trapped between them. ]
No lube.
[ Well, this is his mother's house, and his mother's guest bathroom. There's a huff of a laugh there, husky and needy and desperate, and he presses his hips closer, flush, inching Zemo up along the wall, free hand dragging the blunt of his nails along his side, his hip, to the curve of his ass where he palms the skin, brief, before his hand dips down, down, down, slicking himself with pearls of needy precome he's nearly ashamed of for how desperately his cock's all but weeping.
There's no time for the gentle ravishings of their youth, no time for patient, careful love making beneath the heat of the spray. This is different, fueled by eight years of want and hurt and love. ]
I'll be gentle. I need you. [ Earnest, even if he can't help the way his hips roll, grinding insatiable heat against him, followed closely by a soft, whispered echo: ]
I'm yours.
[ He'll regret that, one day. He can feel it sink its hooks in and subtly pull. ]
[stupidly he wonders if this will feel like the first time all over again. he's tried for years not to tug on that string - to erase every single thing that reminded him of steve rogers and keep it at arm's length just like he tried to do with steve back before their lives ever permanently intertwined. a stupid, naive part of him assumed it would go away eventually if he pushed it down enough or let some magic number of days pass by without the painful, physical presence to haunt him. but it could never be that simple - not when the neat and tidy signature of steve rogers was here has already been scrawled across his heart since that needy, frantic kiss in the threshold of his dorm room. the specter of steve rogers was perhaps the one constant in his ever-shifting world. not even the duty and obligation he'd given up their life together for could take that from him - and truthfully? despite the pain, he would have done it all over again. wasn't knowing real love better than never having it at all? after all, neither of them have ever done anything in half-measures with one another.
one hand splays across steve's cheek again, thumb sliding under his jaw with a soft noise meant to soothe as steve sobs against him. he's cried so many nights at the thought of never having this moment again, utterly hollowed out as he puts on the aloof face the rest of the world thinks he's snide for having. none of them will ever understand it except the man holding him so tenderly right now, gripping and clinging and marking him all over again - a fresh bit of ink coating over the memory of what once was with a shakier hand.
zemo lets his head thud back carefully against the wet tiles, giving steve easier access to his neck and stifling a moan out of habit - the quiet boy always afraid of letting his fervor for steve rogers, the boy he loved, spill out into the rest of the unforgiving world that wouldn't understand or tolerate it. but it's not the same anymore, is it? this was their sanctuary, and it can be yet again. his fingers rake up the back of steve's neck, digging into his wet hair and scratching along his scalp with an insistence as he feels the tease of teeth between the heat of tongue.
no lube would normally be an ironically cold spray of disappointment, but right now? he'd have gotten down on his knees in front of the church if it meant having this moment. there's not a chance in hell he's going to waste it over a little discomfort. there's too much desperation threatening to overflow - there always was. he lets out an honest to god giggle at the matter-of-fact declaration, the reality kicking in that yes...sarah wouldn't have a need for that. somehow, he doesn't think she'd be judging them for it though.
It's fine, Steve, I can take it.
[it comes out in a breathy rush, in between a hard press of his lips as he glances down at steve's hand working over himself. fuck, how many times have those perfect hands done the same for him? he remembers every tough - from feather-light to frantic and everything in between. his legs tighten instinctively, not willing to risk slipping downward from where he's perfectly lined up and aching for steve to slide inside him.
i'm yours hits like a punch to the gut, and he lets out a guttural, wounded sound not completely drowned out by the rush of water against steve's cheek. he reaches down, biting his lip as his fingers slip along the throb of his own cock and shift between his own legs to start slowly pressing a fingertip in and testing just how uncomfortable this might start out. it's going to be tight - it's been years since he did this. part of him wishes he could say it only ever belonged to steve, but there's a string of mistakes that would beg to differ. but he can say with utter certainty: no one ever made him feel so utterly adored, like something to be protected and treasured like steven grant rogers.]
You were the best thing that ever happened to me.
[there's a soft murmur, and zemo closes his eyes against the wetness pricking at the corners that aren't from the hot spray of the shower.]
[ What would those eight years have looked and felt like had they been together through it? Would his body be bruised and scarred? Would they both be tired and sad and desperate now beneath the spray of the shower if they had just taken a dangerous chance on one another? He doesn't allow himself to think about the would-bes and could-have-beens, doesn't let himself think of the happiness that somehow slipped through his fingers, no matter how hard he'd tried to hold on.
Please stay. Plaintive, on the voice of a boy having the whole future he'd begun to nurture torn from beneath his skin. But Zemo hadn't stayed and Steve left for war, and it seems they've both come out of eight years of battles battered and weary.
In another time he might have taken his time here, might have mapped the lines of Zemo's body with his mouth, might have gently begun to work him open and pliant with the delicate curve and push of fingers but there's nothing of that gentle caution from years ago, though there should be. But his lover practically giggles and it brings up the huff of a chuckle in him, lips curved in a smile behind an open mouthed, needy kiss, unable to stifle the way the sound turns into a guttural moan as the other man's fingers tangle in his hair, bringing fire to a roar beneath his skin.
Carefully he lines up the head of his cock at the man's entrance, that sensation alone enough to send electric pulses up his spine. It's been years, since they last tumbled in the spare bedroom or dorm room bunks. Part of him wonders if he even remembers, if his body will recall the rhythm and angles and so much more that could make Helmut Zemo fall apart. He wants that: to make him fall apart, to undo eight years of stitches and curl himself around the tiny, guttering flame they shared, once upon a time.
One hand grips the muscle of his ass, bracing the pretty man against the wall as his hips shift just so, pushing in slowly, slowly, with a quivering sort of restraint. ]
Zee, I —
[ I love you, I've missed you, I need you, I wish you'd — Steve closes his mouth over Zemo's, licking hot and slow into his mouth, emptying a heady groan against his lips as the tight heat of the other man all but overwhelms him, his cock practically throbbing for the want of friction, speed, more, but made needier for the way Steve slowly presses up into him and, with the hand on his ass, carefully brings him flush and down, as if he could bury himself here and stay this way. ]
S'it alright? [ Words a panting whisper against Zemo's jaw, his ear, his fingers digging in to bruise, all the while his free arm braces against the slick tile. ] You feel —
[ Another inch and he stifles a practically filthy, wanton grunt against Zemo's throat, stilling his hips long enough to clear the stars from his vision. (It might be tears, too, slipping out from the cracks newly pressed into his heart). ]
[his head arches back against the slippery tile as he swallows around a curse, fingers digging in hard around steve's shoulders - enough to leave a few marks of his own as his thighs start trembling from how they're trying desperately to cling and find some sort of leverage. the thought of leaving steve a souvenir burns low in his gut, a pleasing ripple all the way up his spine and curling at the corner of his mouth. it's been years since anyone has had him like this, and longer still since it was someone who used to know every intimate spot, every secret press and would whisper adoring words against his temple or in his ear every time they came together. it isn't an exaggeration to call it making love - why would it? that's what they were back then - young, in love, full of unbridled passion as if no one else existed in the world besides them. he loved steve, and the truth is he still loves him now, maybe more than eight years ago if it were even possible.
it's not fair to say it, even though he desperately wants to, especially when steve groans the affectionate nickname against his neck and starts to push inside. it's tight, and he'd be lying if he tried to pretend there wasn't a burn from the stretch of it, especially without the careful attention that came from nothing but the luxury of time and softer moments. these feel utterly stolen, the two of them suspended here to wade through the ache of memories years old, yet hurtling them faster and faster toward dawn all at the same time in some illogical paradox.
zemo exhales hard, biting down on his lip to hold in a high, keening noise as he feels steve finally manage to bury himself up to the hilt and holds him in place with one big, warm palm like he used to. his stomach trembles, breath heaving as his body finally adjusts - remembers that steve belonged here, once upon a time, laid claim to it nearly as possessively if not moreso than the handprints and bruises that fade from the surface of his skin. his eyes open slowly, half-lidded with droplets clinging to dark lashes as he nods against steve's cheek.]
You're perfect. It's good, Steve - go on.
[uttered reverently between shaky breaths, before he lets steve swallow up another moan and shift his hips upwards and make him realize just how full he feels - like for one blissful moment maybe he can be whole again. he can handle it, legs digging into his hips intentionally digging into his hips as if he were wordlessly commanding an unruly stallion. and - if that's not enough to convey his abject need - the way he intentionally squeezes around steve, accentuating the nearly unbearable tightness should do the trick.]
Take me.
[he leans in again to nip at those plush, reddened lips that stand out among the stark white of the shower and shivering skin. it's playful as he whispers against steve's lips in a soft murmur - words maybe he'll remember even if they aren't in english.]
If his heart could break again, just like it had in their shared dorm eight years ago, it might. The shards could turn to glittering dust to dissolve in the wind. Steve hasn't stopped loving this man, hasn't stopped yearning for this man, even though he's never said as much out loud. To have him here like this, the steamy spray of the shower against his shoulders and Zemo's lips nipping at his own? It feels like a dream.
The heels dig into his hips, coupled with the sting of teeth and the keen that slips between those pretty lips, and Steve begins to move, one hand keeping Zemo supported as he draws out, painfully slow, and back in, setting a slow, diligent pace despite the burning need he feels deep in his gut. But each time his hips slide flush, burying himself to the hilt and back. ]
Lúbim—
[ He shouldn't. Not after the time that has spanned the distance between them, even though all of that is lost in the steady pump of his hips and the way he pants against Zemo's throat, lips peppering kisses, tongue lapping at the soft curve of his jaw until he finally finds his lips again.
Strangle out the desperate need to tell him just what he feels, just how deeply he misses him, and just how complete he feels like this. His free hand slides up into Zemo's hair, tugging it back to bare his throat so his mouth can fixate on the gentle rise of his adam's apple. The hand drops back down, fingers sliding to his ass, hands braced on either side to hold him up all while the rhythm of his hips begins to quicken. ]
You're so— shit.
[ Spoken against his skin, desperate and hot. Eight years since he could love and be loved like this, eight years of yearning all flooding out now in the damp air between them. His mouth drags its way back to meet Zemo's, panting and wanting, before he speaks: ]
You're beautiful.
[ The next thrust drives hard, the sound of wet skin slapping amid the trickle of water, body suddenly remembering the angles, the touches, the way Zemo so liked it back when they were younger, hopeful things. ]
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no subject
It makes the knowledge that Zemo will be gone come morning, a ghost of his past, hurt all the more. Why does he have to shoulder that, too? Among everything else, why does he have to feel the sting of a goodbye all over again?
And yet, like a moth to the flame, he can't seem to pull away. He keeps his hand anchored in Zemo's, allows the man to touch his face and turn into him, for their legs to brush, speaking as though the last eight years doesn't span between them like a gaping maw, waiting to swallow them whole. There's something magnetic between them, though, as there has always been. The natural force of something unseen that makes his torso feel heavy, makes his whole body sink so that their foreheads press together again, his own hand carefully pressed over the one on his face still. ]
She'd tell you to stay for dinner, first.
[ A watery laugh and he tilts his head back away from Zemo's, the land slipping away to smudge at the tears that won't stop, no matter how often he tries to tell the well to dry up. To tell them that no one will be there to catch them, to see them, when all this is over. His tears won't matter when he's sat alone in a dark, quiet apartment, waiting out the hours for the grief to dissolve.
There is never an easy time to lose someone you love.
The words make his throat swell, make him look away, even as his free hand falls to Zemo's wrist, fingers holding to his arm and curling into the fabric of his finely tailored sleeve. The dorm room door shutting behind him had splintered his heart, and now the sound of Sarah Roger's coffin shutting quietly after has left an angry, bottomless hole in his chest where his heart might have been, once.
If they're nearby to his apartment, if they're stopped at light or roaring through traffic, Steve can't tell. The world feels like a thick, foggy blur around him, like his ears have been stuffed full to the brim with cotton, pressured and swollen loud in its quiet.
His forehead parted from Zemo's just so, he can see the reflection of desperation in those eyes, something he's sure stands mirrored in some fashion in his own, but he doesn't know what to do with it. Comfort him? Wrap his arms around him and drag him into his chest? Kiss his temple, his hair, his cheeks, his lips, breathe him in like he used to and breathe warmth into him. He doesn't have it, though, can't muster the flame he used to wrap the man up in and urge him into calm. So he rests his forehead against his again, their noses brushing, nothing but the sound of their breathing and shivering breaths for a few long seconds. ]
Put on a record. Make us dance. Then she'd tell you to take your shoes off, stay a while.
[ If only you could stay. ]
no subject
the steve rogers of the past might have already tried to find a way to get him to stay, to exhaust all alternatives and refuse to give up on what they had. to remind him with passion and a touch that he sometimes still feels on his skin like an invisible brand what they have together. and yet even though he's so close, pressed against zemo like this and cupping over the hand on his cheek with all the tenderness he remembers of balmy summer days on the dock and cozy fall days with brisk winds and hands hidden under too-long sweaters - the exhaustion in him has finally won out. he never thought he'd see the day where steve looked like he'd stopped fighting altogether. it's heart-wrenching, and it makes him feel like he needs to make it up for the both of them.
he hums lightly, thumb running along steve's cheek in a soft soothing swipe of a motion as he breathes in what may as well be a shared breath from that proximity. his nose shifts gently against steve's, eyes glancing upwards when he pulls away ever so slightly to drink in his expression. his own is clouded by heartbreak at seeing steve so empty from the passion he fell in love with, the hope and the good-natured strive for more. it's as if the light has been completely snuffed out, dashed by the rain that keeps beating down against their windows in a torrential smatter.
there's desperation in his gaze, yes. but maybe there's a bit of hopefulness too, for one of the first times. hope that in being here, maybe it doesn't have to be all the way as awful as steve seems to have expected. hope that they can share in this moment one more time, and maybe part on circumstances that won't feel like he's leaving half of his heart in new york all over again.]
Well, we're doing it out of order this time. But - we had our dance. The first thing I will do is take off my shoes, and then once we are warm and have dried our bodies and our tears - I will cook for you.
[a shaky exhale, the roomy side of the partition suddenly feeling like the walls are closing in.]
Yes, I'll stay awhile. For both of you.
[he hesitates one brief moment before letting his lips press to the wet, cold corner of steve's mouth as softly as he can manage. a selfish thing he can't help but steal for himself.]
no subject
Hollowed out. Nothing remains but the bones and scrapes, waiting for the carrion birds to come carry him away. ]
We never did anything in the right order, you know.
[ Quiet, watery. He's drawn from his thoughts by the soft swipe of a thumb, by words that go so far in soothing the white noise in his mind. So, Zemo will stay a little while. Take his shoes off, cook. But the word stay in the beautiful timbre of his voice breathes hot life back into his lungs, and his heart seems to skip a beat back into rhythm for the first time in years.
New tears pour down his cheeks, hot and sharp against his skin, but they fall for that brush of lips against the corner of his own, the nod to something that still aches in his chest. He loves this man still, and it's unfair he knows, to hold onto things he shouldn't, but what will one day hurt? One night? Whatever it is that this is, why is it such a bad thing to want something and get it, just once?
Zemo's lips leave the corner of his mouth but Steve's body moves of its own accord and he slides the hand along the man's damp sleeve to slide fingers into the wet hair at his nape before he gently pulls him in closer so that his lips brush over his. It's slow and soft at first, unsure, until the wild thing called desperation claws its way up into the back of his throat, making him lean in a little closer, part his lips and catch the man's bottom lip between his own. Like years ago, tender and loving and the quiet asking for more. ]
no subject
all these years he's feared making the wrong choice. he thought he was doing the right thing: honor, duty, obligation to his family and the legacy of their name. making them happy by choosing the right girl and promising the right heir, lining himself up to be the next ambassador or ranking member of sokovian government. doing something good for his country and its people. but what family wants all their own needs to supercede their child's happiness? he's always shut himself down before ever even so much as thinking about the word fatherhood - what his future will look like trying to raise a son or daughter of his own. the thought alone makes bile rise in his throat, a lump swelling in his throat or everything in his mind clouding over.
he doesn't want any of it. he never has. all he's ever wanted is to be with this man - to let their love carry them through life's adventures, to sustain them through anything.
he should pull away, stop encouraging this closeness when it's just painful for them both and probably making it worse for steve. it's making it worse for himself, but so is the distance in an utter catch twenty-two. he feels damned no matter what he decides, and then steve makes the choice for them by cupping so tenderly it makes him ache all over, a wounded noise at the back of his throat like just his touch alone is going to make him split apart. but his hand lifts to curl in his damp lapel, tilting his head back to deepen the kiss and put everything he can't vocalize into it. his tongue swipes against steve's, another needy sound reverberating against his lips.
he feels like he's on a freight train without a brake - reckless, yet utterly powerless to stop. his hand cups steve's cheek even tighter, body shifting to turn and fully face steve's like he needs even more. god, they shouldn't. this door closed eight years ago, but one crack and he's already clawing his way to try to reach the other side all over again.]
no subject
He hums low in his chest when he feels the slide of Zemo's tongue against his own and it feels like his chest has been cleaved open, as if Zemo himself had been a dead man and here he is, having come back to life. His free hand falls to Zemo's chest, pressing down his front, sliding to his side and giving a pull that's sure to tangle their legs further, more awkwardly. They fit so much better in a car a decade ago, and yet here they are like drowned rats on a prom night, unable to tear themselves away.
And that's what this is: eight years of misery culminating into one horrific thunderstorm lost now between their lips and fingertips. But Zemo is so warm, even as he tries to curl one arm round the man's smaller waist, the low of his back, broad palm mapping the shape he knows but a shape that's still different in a way that both hurts and excites him.
He breaks the kiss as they hit a particularly nasty pothole, but he keeps his forehead close, lips hovering against Zemo's as he pants between hitched little breaths. The pothole signals they're not far from home at all, and he doesn't have time to question how the driver knows where he's going. He doesn't need to know, as he leans in to kiss him all over again, the hand at his nape sliding to the side of his neck, cradling him there like the most precious, fragile thing even though he's sure he's shattered, crystalline glass himself.
He barely registers the sound of a voice from up front, behind the closed, tinted barrier: ]
We're here, gentlemen.
[ Steve keeps his forehead against Zemo's, his fingers against his face, against his back. Can't they just freeze them as they are, right now? Take a picture of this moment and live in it until the day they die? Why did their blossoming future turn into rain clouds and pain and sorrow? He keeps his eyes closed, catching his breath, his nose nuzzled up against Zemo's. ]
Coming in?
[ Because it all still feels like a strange, twisted, surreal dream. ]
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how quickly it all falls apart - the impossibly complicated dam he'd built around his heart as flimsy as if it were constructed of sheer tissue paper after just one chance opportunity to be back in steve's presence. even as it lies in shambles, it's not even enough to make him consider stopping. especially not when steve reciprocates it with the same desperate intensity - like maybe he missed zemo as much even though he knows he doesn't deserve it for breaking the love of his life's heart. for never giving them a fighting chance together, for walking away because he was too scared to abandon the path his life had been mapped out along since youth. it feels like one mistake after the other up until now - like pressing himself into steve's arms and kissing him with the same reckless abandon of their university days is the first thing he's done that's right.
his knees knock against steve's, upper body twisting to get as close as possible without all but splaying in his lap. this isn't the place - maybe he shouldn't even let it get that far. it's hard to think past the safety of the back of this car, the way the world narrows into a concentrated pinpoint of steve's lips and steve's body and being in steve's arms. zemo can't stop the way he groans against steve's mouth, blatant in his need like steve is as essential as water or the very air in his lungs. his hands slide down along the broad width of his shoulders, fisting in the wet fabric and arching his back when steve's big hand splays along his lower back. they always fit so perfectly together - two halves to one whole as if made for one another in the precise shape of their bodies, all the gaps in between filled with their utter adoration and devotion.
zemo flinches when they hit the pothole, nose bumping lightly against steve in between a breathy laugh of disbelief. his eyes flick upwards, hesitant now that the initial spell of passion has been broken - like maybe steve will reconsider. god, he hopes not. but the thought barely formulates in its entirety before he's pulled into another heated kiss, fingers flexing as he works his jaw and licks into the familiar warmth of steve's mouth with a hunger that's been dormant since the day he kissed him goodbye at their dorm.
he's so lost in the moment, eyes squeezed shut and body shifting closer, closer until there's a gentle wrapping of knuckles along the partition. only then does he hear it, pulling away with audible, heavy breaths. steve still doesn't make any move to pull away, and it's just as well because zemo doesn't think he can move right away. like he's afraid this will change the course they've set themselves on, pull the emergency brake -
he's still wanted. steve asks like it's even in question, and zemo tilts his head to let his cheek rub against him in an affectionate little motion. there's a soft exhale, obvious relief as his eyes slip shut too.]
I wouldn't dream of being anywhere else. [a pause, and he huffs out a small laugh around a teasing slip around the silk of his accent.] And I can't let you freeze all alone in there, can I?
[his hand slides down, reaching for one of steve's and lacing their fingers together as the door up front opens and shuts. a few moments later the back door on steve's side opens too, an umbrella held up over to shield their exit. zemo murmurs out a thank you in sokovian, telling him not to worry about escorting them to the door and instead advising him to get a long, hot meal. his driver nods in acknowledgment, and as soon as the umbrella disappears zemo tugs at steve to run towards the familiar outline of the porch, the sheets of rain drenching them in fresh wetness until they make it up the stairs and under the archway. he feels like he's ten years younger, shivering and drenched and giddy as steve fumbles with the keys to pull him inside.
he should show some respect - take a moment to pause and see the old familiarities and the little trinkets that make it feel like sarah rogers is just around the corner, cooking up something delicious in the kitchen and waiting for zemo to set the table better than her own son. but he feels like a man starved, greedily reaching for steve to pull him down for another hungry kiss now that they have privacy stretching out in front of them.]
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There's no doubt in his mind that the past is real, if the heat pooling low in his belly tells him anything as they kiss, his own greedy hands dragging the man closer, sliding up his back and into his hair. Kissing Helmut Zemo feels like homecoming, it's as simple as that. The cheek against his own brings out a sigh of his own, his nose tilting to nuzzle at the soft skin beneath his ear. He'd be happy to stay like this, pressed close for warmth, affectionately breathing one another in, because Steve can't seem to get enough air, not with Zemo around.
The rain hasn't let up outside, though, and with his fingers wrapped around the man's, he runs with him up to the house. It draws out a laugh, unexpectedly bright and open in a way that Steve Rogers isn't, but this is some wild dream, he decides. He's running up to the house like they're in their boyhood again, when things were honey sweet and dewy soft. But there's little time to waste as his frigid fingers fumble his keys and let them into the old house they both know so very well.
The door clicks shut and the keys are long forgotten, dropped to the carpet as he reaches for Zemo almost immediately, dragging him in close and closing his mouth over his desperately, something more hungry and greedy than had been present in the car, accented by a heady groan the moment all air is pressed from between their bodies, the chest to chest. But kissing feels like it isn't enough, that the twining of tongues and the sharp bite of teeth can't satisfy the fiery thing welling up in him.
Hands rake up the front of Zemo's body, memorized dips and planes now on the body of an older man, but still familiar. Like roads to home that had needed repaving, though they lead to the same place. Fingers explore, undo any pesky buttons fumblingly with frigid tips, before he slides his hands up under the shoulders and pulls, dragging the wet fabric off the man. It gets caught, what for how damp it is, and he breaks the kiss for the soft huff of a laugh against that pretty mouth, though his lips become busy instead on the delicate slope of his neck, biting almost playful and soothing with the flat of his tongue after. ]
Shit. S'wet.
[ Another tug to remove Zemo's jacket, and he hums, pleased, when it finally comes free with a little help, and he slides his hands up over Zemo's ass, his hips, his back, only to pull him near for another kiss before his fingers start tripping at the buttons of his wet, pressed shirt. ]
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he's so cold he barely registers steve's hands starting to undo his shirt and tugging down his jacket until he feels the heaviness of the water-logged sleeves constricting against his elbows. he pulls away to let out a low chuckle at steve's revelation, a teasing:]
Wise deduction, Captain.
[his own hands shift back to help tug down his jacket, one arm slipping free right when steve decides to slip that talented mouth down along the dampness of his neck and add to it with his own tongue. zemo lets out a soft noise, a pleased little groan and tips his head back to give him better access. but he feels like he's lagging behind, quickly tugging free steve's tie and yanking it off with a flourish from under the sopping, previously pressed white collar of his button down. clever fingers work open the buttons on his wool uniform jacket, taking a detour to brush briefly over the pins up along his pectoral. he wants to hear the stories behind them - to know what steve had to face out there to earn them. but it's hardly the time, especially not when he captures his mouth yet again and zemo is powerless to try and interrupt. he pushes steve's hands away from his body only briefly enough to make a quick attempt at peeling him out of both his jacket and shirt at the same time, fingers sliding skittering along his cold skin.]
Work with me here, come on.
[as if he's not just as distracted - pressing needy pecks of his lips against steve's before huffing out a breath and pausing to give a good tug on his arms and hear the splat of his wet clothes landing on hardwood floors. his hands run back up those finely sculpted arms, a pleased hum as he can tell steve has gotten bigger, impossibly so. but his brows furrow when he feels a few imperfections - scars? old wounds? those weren't there before when they were young and carefree and both their hearts and bodies had been unblemished.]
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Instead, he dips his head again to press a kiss against Zemo's shoulder, hands sliding down along the planes of his chest, his sides, to the dip of his low back, then up again, mapping out the man who used to be a boy he could draw to perfection from memory alone. His fingers know the way, know the dips and valleys, pleasantly surprised to find he's firmer in some places, softer in others, in ways that makes him want to dip and taste the differences on his tongue.
That thought alone makes him chuckle, low and arm against Zemo's neck. Once upon a time, he might have pushed him back against the door and had his way, but they're here, slick and cold from rainwater, trying to kindle warmth with the press of fingers and lips. It's not enough, but it's stirred something to life in him all over again, and he gives a needy hum. ]
The shower's always warmer, you know. You'll catch your death.
[ An invitation, not a demand, even as he slides his lips back up along the fair slope of his neck, worrying at a spot just where his jaw meets, a spot he found himself pressing little bruises into when they were younger and swept up in the romance of futures. It's difficult, though, to stop kissing him, to stop touching him, even with the promise of warmer, more intimate places. Letting him go now feels like letting him go forever all over again and his body resists.
His hands slide round that slender waist and fingers trip over the buckle of what is surely a bespoke, designer belt, catching the fine leather and pulling, both to relieve the hook and to drag Zemo in for another hot, needy, almost desperate kiss before he applies pressure, gently walking the man a step, then another, backwards toward the bathroom, without drawing his lips away for anything other than the quick catch of air. ]
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it's not as if his body hasn't changed too - still lithe, maybe a little less full than before from running ragged trying to plan the wedding he won't let himself think about right now lest it break the magic of this moment. but there are parts of him that have gotten softer - the line of his jaw, his lower abdomen. none of which makes him insecure in the slightest, because that was never something steve ever made him feel worried about. the way they fit together was simply too perfect and too adored by his ex-lover, and frankly by his own confidence to ever feel like he wasn't enough. and the fact that they're still standing year eight years later, unable to control themselves or their wandering, desperate hands is testament enough that yeah, there's still a lot of that to go around, apparently. zemo never fell out of love, and maybe he can dare to think that steve never did either. maybe.
zemo tips his head back with a low groan, both hands dragging along steve's arms to fist into his hair and hold him where he's pressed against his neck. he's always been extra sensitive there, and steve always knew exactly how much teeth to use to get him to be marked, to lay claim to zemo's body in a more physical acknowledgment.]
You don't have to tell me twice.
[there's a lazy grin that can be heard in his tone, the murmur of it vibrating against his throat where steve's lips are still so close. he's trying not to shiver - both from the cold and the sensation of those hands he's dreamed of all over his skin yet again. they're more calloused, he can tell, and the texture of it makes his knees weak and his own fingers tighten against steve's scalp before they rake down his back with another low noise hot in his ear. steve's chest is somehow both warm and chilled when pressed against his own, and he can feel the oversensitive drag of skin and muscle against his pink, peaked nipples. he lets steve guide him back, toeing out of his sloshing oxfords and accidentally nudging at steve's knee as he kicks one to the side. he doesn't bother to apologize, instead stilling him for a moment and lunging forward for to kiss him in protest for any small separation - even if it's to breathe.
his other shoe takes some wiggling to make loose, and he busies himself with unbuckling steve's belt enough to unbutton and unzip his pants and loosen them around the enticing dip of his waist and hips. his tongue swipes along the inside of steve's mouth, lips dragging back to offer him another enamored look.]
You're still impossibly handsome, you know? How did you get even hotter, Steve Rogers?
[another quick nip, and he lets his thumbs stroke at the hard-won jut of his sculpted hipbones with a delighted hum.]
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The words alone crack open something warm and surprised and vulnerable. He meets the other man's eyes and feels the creep of an old flush in his neck, his cheeks. Like he's some bright-eyed school boy dreaming about futures all over again. He doesn't feel like the war-scarred soldier, the tired captain, the quiet friend. He feels like Steve Rogers for the first time in a very, very long time. No, he hasn't fallen out of love with this man. He never did. He just locked that love away with the boy who kindled it.
The way Zemo's fingers twist in his hair make him moan, shamefully and low against the slope of his neck. The feeling of fingertips and the blunt of nails along the bare planes of his back, sends wild hot fire down his spine. His fingers work feverishly at the belt, the button of pants, loosening the wet fabric clinging to the slender dip of Zemo's hips. Stepping out of his own soggy dress shoes, letting his own pants slide once they're loose, he can't help but hum in appreciation as those fingers trace the jut of his hips. His palms know these planes and valleys as well as he knows his own name and he takes advantage of that, one pausing the journey toward the bathroom long enough to slide his hands up Zemo's chest, fingers tripping over the pretty, pink raise of a nipple, swiping a thumb over it in cautious acknowledgement, his free hand wrapped still round his hips now, letting those tricksy fingers slide beneath the waistband of wet pants and the band of some surely expensive underwear, to palm his ass, warm and soft beneath his touch. He groans, pleased. ]
I could say the same for you, you know.
[ Another nudge back (and the careful side step to avoid tripping over his own wet pants as he manages to step out of them) and they're met with the bathroom door, shut, and he lets out a low laugh. ]
I'd say you should have brought your robe, but I don't think I want anything between you and me right now.
[ Another searing kiss, his tongue sliding hot and needy along Zemo's, the hand from his chest sliding down his side to fumble with the bathroom door handle, opening it behind them and blindly pawing at the light switch, if only so he can keep kissing the other man as though Helmut Zemo is the very air that Steve needs to exist, to survive. But the shiver of cold (and want) takes over instead and he breaks the kiss, pressing their foreheads together as his hands instead reach to pull at the waistband of the man's underwear once more. ]
Out of these wet clothes. I'll get the shower.
[ Though he's having a very difficult time pulling his hands and lips away from the smoldering man across from him. ]
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christ, he's so giddy with it he hardly feels cold right now, even as his body is shivering lightly and his fingers are like ice. steve feels so warm and inviting despite it, the hot press of his mouth and thumb pressing across one sensitive nipple earning a gasp he couldn't stifle if he tried. it grows even firmer under his touch, and zemo pauses just before his back hits the door to drag him down more forcefully into another hungry kiss, tugging him by the neck without regard for the impact once they're there. he grins into it when steve breaks to let out a laugh and tease him about a robe, even as his hand seeks out the chilled skin of his ass underneath the waistband of his underwear. zemo moves to mimic the motion, snapping his waistband lightly with an amused hum and thumbs dipping ever so slightly down, down, downward and just barely grazing above the nestle of steve's thick cock.]
Not a chance. This - [he snaps it again, this time hooking his thumbs under and slowly starting to drag the fabric down his hips and along the strong muscle of his thighs] - is already pesky enough, hmm?
[he presses up on his toes, pecking kisses at him and lifting his legs as needed until they're both fully naked and stepping inside the bathroom. only now does the cold seem to settle in with another full body shiver, and zemo pulls away long enough for steve to fumble with the water. only when his attention is fully focused again while waiting for the water to warm up does he lean in, licking against his lips with a content sigh and arms draping along his shoulders to press their bodies flush. even with the clamminess of wet skin he can feel the heat radiating underneath, nuzzling in close and whispering against his lips.]
I missed the way you feel, Steve. Everywhere.
[he shouldn't say what inevitably follows. but the door's been opened, and he just can't stop it now. he needs steve to hear his words and know the actions that follow mean something.]
I think about it - every day. About you, us.
[and god, he hopes the ardent confession won't bring sorrow right now in lieu of something heated and so desperately needy.]
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The awkward steps into the bathroom, carefully tripping over the sticky-wet fabric - it's a trail not unlike breadcrumbs: wet clothes leading them back to the lives they live outside of these four walls, to the lives they chose in favor of the warm, familiar fire set on the air around them. The sound of water fills his ears, the hiss of showers taking him back to hazy, dorm room days where they fumbled awkward and unknowing, trying to discover what language their bodies spoke together.
He knows it now, knows it in the press of Zemo's body up against his own and he all but purrs at the contact, shivering skin against skin, but he can feel the beating of his heart against his chest. It hurts, strangely, and he dismisses the thought with another hungry kiss, slower and deeper, tongue playfully twining with its tricksy partner. The bathroom slowly begins to warm, tiny puffs of steam drifting from the shower floor, drawing his skin up to gooseflesh.
Strong arms find their place around the man's slender waist, broad palms sliding along sides and hips to splay evenly across the small of his back, fitting where they shouldn't, but right where they should be.
His eyes flutter open when the kiss parts and all he can feel is Helmut against him, achingly familiar and perfect in a way that makes his heart burst, full to the brim with want and desperation and... so many, many other things.
Us, Zemo says, like it's torturous and dangerous, but Steve understands. Us had been a dream, once upon a time, and one that feels so close and so real, enveloped in steamy heat and the pleasant warmth of the man he's always found himself sinking into for refuge.
He's quiet at first, just panting into the soft brush of his lips, nose nuzzled and bumped against his. But his fingers flex against his back, drawing him tighter, closer, holding him there as if that alone might cement whatever it is this has become. ]
You've never left my mind.
[ He kisses him softly, fleeting little things while he tries to swallow back the lump in his throat. ]
I've missed this. I've missed you. And god you feel like... [ Like home. But he doesn't feel brave enough to say it. Instead, he uses those strong arms to carefully haul the man up like he might have years ago (though it's much easier now), encouraging those legs to find his waist so he can step them into the shower, his own back to the spray first.
Once upon a time, he might have let him back to his feet, might have drawn him in for showery kisses drenched and laughing amid the spray. Instead, he presses him up against one of the tiled walls, humming low and deep into a sloppy, needy kiss, as his own dick brushes the soft swell of his lover's ass, as one hand leaves to tweak the pretty pink nipple he'd neglected earlier.
They've been here, once upon a time. And maybe this is just how they're destined to meet from now on - frantic, fiery, longing, and yet always running away from one another. ]
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he never thought part three would bleed back into part two...well, ever. hasn't he tried to move past it? they say grief gets a little easier every day, but privately zemo wonders if those people have ever experienced grief for someone still living - the all-consuming suffering of heartbreak. even worse still: involuntary heartbreak. the truth is, he hasn't stopped loving steve. and judging by the response he's getting now, he wouldn't have the audacity to assume it's still love after what he did, but there's still deep admiration. and clearly there's no shortage of pent-up physical desire from either party in the moment. but that was never really their problem, was it?
no. and it's certainly not now, not when steve hefts him up like he still weighs nothing in arms that have surely gotten stronger by the looks of it over time. you feel like home - zemo can easily finish because the sentiment feels like it's going to burst out of his own heart. steve feels safe, just like he always did. it could have been them against the world until he shattered it all to pieces. he can't linger on that right now, not when he lets out sharp gasp and instinctively wraps his legs around steve's impossibly trim waist and slings both his arms around broad shoulders to hold on.]
Careful -
[he says it between a grin before nosing in for another kiss, swallowing back the emotion for something more lighthearted right now because if he lets anything else through he doesn't think he'll be able to stop, and he wants this to be a happy memory instead of a bittersweet one to join so many others. he knows steve won't drop him, and he's tempted to tease otherwise, but steve has other plans apparently. zemo can't help the hitch of breath lost underneath the pattering of running water when steve's fingers tease sensitive skin, a hungry groan that steve swallows between his lips. he hasn't been touched like this in years - and even if he had, nothing could even come close to having it be steve. his fingertips dig at the corded muscle of strong shoulders, desperately holding on as slides his tongue inside steve's mouth to twine with his lover's again and again and again.
it's only when he feels the telltale nudge of steve's cock between his legs that he pulls away, hand sliding to cup his cheek and press their foreheads together again. it's warmer now, but he thinks even without the steaming water his skin would be alight with the heat of the moment anyway.]
I want you, Steve. I need you.
[i never stopped wanting you, he cuts himself off from saying with a soft nip at steve's lips before he whispers against them.]
Inside me - please. I'm all yours.
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He needed nothing if he had Zemo. He wanted for nothing if he had Zemo.
There's a hole, shaped like the needy, perfect, beautiful boy he loved (loves) burned into his chest, his ribs reformed into the very shape of him, his heart beating a stuttering rhythm around the sounds of a foreign, lilting name. But here he is, that very same boy, worn with the years but still handsome, still just as perfect, still just as beautiful and he somehow fits. The sound of his voice fills up the space left between his ribs, makes his heart ache, makes his throat swell.
There's a sob somewhere, drowned by the hiss of water and swallowed up by Zemo's kiss, and Steve leans into the press of that mouth, the desperate wrap of his tongue. He allows his hands to wander, the pad of a thumb over that same raise of pink, fingers digging against hips and the low of his back, pressing faint bruises as though to say Steve Rogers was here, with a date hastily scrawled beneath.
If he cold promise dozens more, their names pressed together like two teenagers carving the bark of a tree? God.
Steve whines, unintentionally, when Zemo pulls away, his own chest heaving, his body pressed flush, holding his lover (yes, lover - that's what they are? not strangers, not friends, but two parts of a shattered whole) up against the wet tile. ]
Fuck, Zee.
[ A whisper, shaking and trembling before he leans his forehead against his. It's impossible to deny what those words do to him, the way his blood runs from a simmer to a roiling boil, the way his cock aches for want of friction, of something, muscle memory and all.
He dips his head for a moment, finding the very same place against his neck the way he had when they were young, and sucks at the skin there, laving it and soothing it with the warmth of his tongue. It's impossible to ignore the hot press of Zemo's prick against his abdomen, trapped between them. ]
No lube.
[ Well, this is his mother's house, and his mother's guest bathroom. There's a huff of a laugh there, husky and needy and desperate, and he presses his hips closer, flush, inching Zemo up along the wall, free hand dragging the blunt of his nails along his side, his hip, to the curve of his ass where he palms the skin, brief, before his hand dips down, down, down, slicking himself with pearls of needy precome he's nearly ashamed of for how desperately his cock's all but weeping.
There's no time for the gentle ravishings of their youth, no time for patient, careful love making beneath the heat of the spray. This is different, fueled by eight years of want and hurt and love. ]
I'll be gentle. I need you. [ Earnest, even if he can't help the way his hips roll, grinding insatiable heat against him, followed closely by a soft, whispered echo: ]
I'm yours.
[ He'll regret that, one day. He can feel it sink its hooks in and subtly pull. ]
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one hand splays across steve's cheek again, thumb sliding under his jaw with a soft noise meant to soothe as steve sobs against him. he's cried so many nights at the thought of never having this moment again, utterly hollowed out as he puts on the aloof face the rest of the world thinks he's snide for having. none of them will ever understand it except the man holding him so tenderly right now, gripping and clinging and marking him all over again - a fresh bit of ink coating over the memory of what once was with a shakier hand.
zemo lets his head thud back carefully against the wet tiles, giving steve easier access to his neck and stifling a moan out of habit - the quiet boy always afraid of letting his fervor for steve rogers, the boy he loved, spill out into the rest of the unforgiving world that wouldn't understand or tolerate it. but it's not the same anymore, is it? this was their sanctuary, and it can be yet again. his fingers rake up the back of steve's neck, digging into his wet hair and scratching along his scalp with an insistence as he feels the tease of teeth between the heat of tongue.
no lube would normally be an ironically cold spray of disappointment, but right now? he'd have gotten down on his knees in front of the church if it meant having this moment. there's not a chance in hell he's going to waste it over a little discomfort. there's too much desperation threatening to overflow - there always was. he lets out an honest to god giggle at the matter-of-fact declaration, the reality kicking in that yes...sarah wouldn't have a need for that. somehow, he doesn't think she'd be judging them for it though.
It's fine, Steve, I can take it.
[it comes out in a breathy rush, in between a hard press of his lips as he glances down at steve's hand working over himself. fuck, how many times have those perfect hands done the same for him? he remembers every tough - from feather-light to frantic and everything in between. his legs tighten instinctively, not willing to risk slipping downward from where he's perfectly lined up and aching for steve to slide inside him.
i'm yours hits like a punch to the gut, and he lets out a guttural, wounded sound not completely drowned out by the rush of water against steve's cheek. he reaches down, biting his lip as his fingers slip along the throb of his own cock and shift between his own legs to start slowly pressing a fingertip in and testing just how uncomfortable this might start out. it's going to be tight - it's been years since he did this. part of him wishes he could say it only ever belonged to steve, but there's a string of mistakes that would beg to differ. but he can say with utter certainty: no one ever made him feel so utterly adored, like something to be protected and treasured like steven grant rogers.]
You were the best thing that ever happened to me.
[there's a soft murmur, and zemo closes his eyes against the wetness pricking at the corners that aren't from the hot spray of the shower.]
Do it - please.
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Please stay. Plaintive, on the voice of a boy having the whole future he'd begun to nurture torn from beneath his skin. But Zemo hadn't stayed and Steve left for war, and it seems they've both come out of eight years of battles battered and weary.
In another time he might have taken his time here, might have mapped the lines of Zemo's body with his mouth, might have gently begun to work him open and pliant with the delicate curve and push of fingers but there's nothing of that gentle caution from years ago, though there should be. But his lover practically giggles and it brings up the huff of a chuckle in him, lips curved in a smile behind an open mouthed, needy kiss, unable to stifle the way the sound turns into a guttural moan as the other man's fingers tangle in his hair, bringing fire to a roar beneath his skin.
Carefully he lines up the head of his cock at the man's entrance, that sensation alone enough to send electric pulses up his spine. It's been years, since they last tumbled in the spare bedroom or dorm room bunks. Part of him wonders if he even remembers, if his body will recall the rhythm and angles and so much more that could make Helmut Zemo fall apart. He wants that: to make him fall apart, to undo eight years of stitches and curl himself around the tiny, guttering flame they shared, once upon a time.
One hand grips the muscle of his ass, bracing the pretty man against the wall as his hips shift just so, pushing in slowly, slowly, with a quivering sort of restraint. ]
Zee, I —
[ I love you, I've missed you, I need you, I wish you'd — Steve closes his mouth over Zemo's, licking hot and slow into his mouth, emptying a heady groan against his lips as the tight heat of the other man all but overwhelms him, his cock practically throbbing for the want of friction, speed, more, but made needier for the way Steve slowly presses up into him and, with the hand on his ass, carefully brings him flush and down, as if he could bury himself here and stay this way. ]
S'it alright? [ Words a panting whisper against Zemo's jaw, his ear, his fingers digging in to bruise, all the while his free arm braces against the slick tile. ] You feel —
[ Another inch and he stifles a practically filthy, wanton grunt against Zemo's throat, stilling his hips long enough to clear the stars from his vision. (It might be tears, too, slipping out from the cracks newly pressed into his heart). ]
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[his head arches back against the slippery tile as he swallows around a curse, fingers digging in hard around steve's shoulders - enough to leave a few marks of his own as his thighs start trembling from how they're trying desperately to cling and find some sort of leverage. the thought of leaving steve a souvenir burns low in his gut, a pleasing ripple all the way up his spine and curling at the corner of his mouth. it's been years since anyone has had him like this, and longer still since it was someone who used to know every intimate spot, every secret press and would whisper adoring words against his temple or in his ear every time they came together. it isn't an exaggeration to call it making love - why would it? that's what they were back then - young, in love, full of unbridled passion as if no one else existed in the world besides them. he loved steve, and the truth is he still loves him now, maybe more than eight years ago if it were even possible.
it's not fair to say it, even though he desperately wants to, especially when steve groans the affectionate nickname against his neck and starts to push inside. it's tight, and he'd be lying if he tried to pretend there wasn't a burn from the stretch of it, especially without the careful attention that came from nothing but the luxury of time and softer moments. these feel utterly stolen, the two of them suspended here to wade through the ache of memories years old, yet hurtling them faster and faster toward dawn all at the same time in some illogical paradox.
zemo exhales hard, biting down on his lip to hold in a high, keening noise as he feels steve finally manage to bury himself up to the hilt and holds him in place with one big, warm palm like he used to. his stomach trembles, breath heaving as his body finally adjusts - remembers that steve belonged here, once upon a time, laid claim to it nearly as possessively if not moreso than the handprints and bruises that fade from the surface of his skin. his eyes open slowly, half-lidded with droplets clinging to dark lashes as he nods against steve's cheek.]
You're perfect. It's good, Steve - go on.
[uttered reverently between shaky breaths, before he lets steve swallow up another moan and shift his hips upwards and make him realize just how full he feels - like for one blissful moment maybe he can be whole again. he can handle it, legs digging into his hips intentionally digging into his hips as if he were wordlessly commanding an unruly stallion. and - if that's not enough to convey his abject need - the way he intentionally squeezes around steve, accentuating the nearly unbearable tightness should do the trick.]
Take me.
[he leans in again to nip at those plush, reddened lips that stand out among the stark white of the shower and shivering skin. it's playful as he whispers against steve's lips in a soft murmur - words maybe he'll remember even if they aren't in english.]
Som tvoja, moja láska.
[i'm yours, my love.]
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If his heart could break again, just like it had in their shared dorm eight years ago, it might. The shards could turn to glittering dust to dissolve in the wind. Steve hasn't stopped loving this man, hasn't stopped yearning for this man, even though he's never said as much out loud. To have him here like this, the steamy spray of the shower against his shoulders and Zemo's lips nipping at his own? It feels like a dream.
The heels dig into his hips, coupled with the sting of teeth and the keen that slips between those pretty lips, and Steve begins to move, one hand keeping Zemo supported as he draws out, painfully slow, and back in, setting a slow, diligent pace despite the burning need he feels deep in his gut. But each time his hips slide flush, burying himself to the hilt and back. ]
Lúbim—
[ He shouldn't. Not after the time that has spanned the distance between them, even though all of that is lost in the steady pump of his hips and the way he pants against Zemo's throat, lips peppering kisses, tongue lapping at the soft curve of his jaw until he finally finds his lips again.
Strangle out the desperate need to tell him just what he feels, just how deeply he misses him, and just how complete he feels like this. His free hand slides up into Zemo's hair, tugging it back to bare his throat so his mouth can fixate on the gentle rise of his adam's apple. The hand drops back down, fingers sliding to his ass, hands braced on either side to hold him up all while the rhythm of his hips begins to quicken. ]
You're so— shit.
[ Spoken against his skin, desperate and hot. Eight years since he could love and be loved like this, eight years of yearning all flooding out now in the damp air between them. His mouth drags its way back to meet Zemo's, panting and wanting, before he speaks: ]
You're beautiful.
[ The next thrust drives hard, the sound of wet skin slapping amid the trickle of water, body suddenly remembering the angles, the touches, the way Zemo so liked it back when they were younger, hopeful things. ]