[ Classes pass quickly on Fridays, and Steve's just gotten into his dorm room after the hustle and bustle of his day to find his roommate gone for the weekend. It's a small blessing, even if Phil is as nice as can be most days. But having a quiet room to himself for the better part of two and a half days? Well.
He flops on his bed, thinking he might spend the rest of the evening on his phone, watching a movie, or reading something, but talks himself out of it mere seconds after. If he knocks out some of his homework now, he might be able to actually relax over the quiet weekend.
His thumb hovers over the little label on his phone— Helmut Zemo— for a long few seconds before he finally presses it, listening to the ringing with the phone propped between his jaw and shoulder, his hands riffling through some of the papers they'd been using as reference. He perks up when he hears the familiar voice answer on the other line. He sounds... what? Surprised? Whoops. ]
Hey, sorry to bother you. I just thought it'd be easier to call than text, but I was looking at some of our research, and I couldn't remember if we decided to remove the first section and include that section on Keats from the lecture, or if we wanted to leave it as is. I've got something written for both, just to start, but...
[most students look forward to friday for the way it means guaranteed excuses to drink and be merry, as if most of them don't do the very same thing every night anyway and wake up paying the price the next morning. zemo's never needed an excuse for any of the above, though his own idea of drinking is a glass of imported sokovian wine or whiskey stored in is fridge and consumed as one, maybe two nightcaps. he does his work, he chats with his friends, he buries himself in research on studies he finds personally interesting. the few parties he's been to have been at steve rogers' invitation - but often they are only fun given the company he's with.
that being steve rogers himself. their project is going well given the equal amount of work they're putting in and the open line of communication through polite text messages intermixed with check-ins or anecdotes from the parties they've attended. it's stretched a bit more into the latter lately, and he finds himself actually looking forward to seeing steve's name pinging in his notifications.
phone calls are strictly reserved for his mother or his father. so he does sound surprised when he picks up, wondering if perhaps it's an accidental misdial at first. but steve's voice rings clear in his ear, a little deeper now that it's all he has to focus on.]
Not a bother. Give me a moment. [there's a rustling of paper, the click of a few keys on his already open laptop.]
Leave it as is, I think. Having the extra information can't hurt us, and Professor Kittredge simply loves Keats.
[is his eyeroll audible enough, steve? there's a small pause, and then:]
Was that all you needed?
[there's a casual note in his voice, but it's belied by the way he almost sounds as if he would prefer that it isn't.]
[ Steve has always been a fan of phone calls, but that comes by way of his own talkative mother. He spends a little time every day speaking with her on her lunch breaks, between shifts, while she's at the grocery. They've always been close, and he's aware that most people don't find phone calls as reassuring as Steve does.
He looks over his own papers as he hears Zemo rifling through his. ]
Oh, right. [ A laugh bubbles from his chest, warm and bright. ] I forgot about her Keats problem. We'll leave it.
[ He sighs softly, though Zemo's question takes him aback, something about the tone of it. ]
For the schoolwork, yeah. Phil's out out of town until next week so I've got a quiet weekend ahead me. Was going to try and get some work done, but I don't know how productive I'll actually be.
[ A beat, then: ] What about you? Busy weekend? [ He doesn't exactly want to hop off the phone yet, either. ]
[a preference for phone calls makes two of them. zemo's always found it that much easier to read people through the sound of their voice over the cold, impersonal distance of text. there's a time and a place for that - typically reserved for making plans or making good use of impartiality and checking in with his parents a few times a week. but there's much more to infer from the shift in someone's tone, the rich timbre and way they accent their words or leave poignant silence between.
steve's laugh manages to feel just as warm over the slight distortion of a receiver as it does in person, and if something blooms in his chest at the sound of it at least he isn't there to witness it pull at the corners of his lips.]
Ah, so you'll finally have the peace and quiet to get some rest.
[he remembers steve's lamenting about the snoring early on - not getting his beauty sleep, as if that was even possible. he pauses, considering his own circumstances for the weekend. he's found that many americans don't like to admit when they aren't busy, taking it to mean laziness rather than simple rest and recuperation. not a sentiment he shares, so there is no shame in admitting as much for himself.]
Not so busy for me. Some good wine and a bit of research for a philosophy dissertation, maybe.
No wild parties for you tonight then, mm?
[there's a grin audible in his voice if steve is listening for it.]
Yes, finally a little peace and quiet. I don't know, though. I'm so used to it now it kind of makes this place feel a little empty.
[ Phil is a good enough guy, and their interests run in very different veins, but they'd been friendly enough. Phil, too invested in college sports, had been utterly wowed that he was roomed with a school football player. No less one with real talent.
Steve's sure that he heard something about cards, signatures, and whatnot at some point in their time rooming together. ]
Wine and philosophy? [ The grin in Zemo's voice is mirrored in his own, Steve letting his head fall back onto the pillows. ] How European of you. Sounds like you're having a wild party all on your own. Nothing wild for me.
[ A soft sigh. ] I'm thinking a good book and food, if I can actually make myself get up to cook after working. I'm very exciting.
You'd better get some loud music, then. Or, ah - how do you say it here - the little machine with the noises at night?
[his fingers tighten around the slim frame of his phone as he shifts, bending down to unlace his oxfords and toe out of them before reaching to pick them up and carry them to his closet. he sets his phone down, putting it briefly on speaker so he can lift his sweater up and over his head before neatly shaking it out and putting it in a bag for dry cleaning. there's a light scoff and mock indignance when he replies again between the clink of a hanger in the background.]
It's a very large bottle of wine, Steven. Sokovian. I should have you know - I'm more adventurous than you give me credit for.
[not a lie, he just doesn't typically advertise that he could probably drink half of it in a night if he were so inclined. he pulls down the zipper on his trousers, reaching for his silk pyjama bottoms to tug on instead with a light sigh that mirrors steve's own.]
Let me guess what you'll be making: rice, something green, and enough grilled chicken to feed a small army. Isn't that the meal you Hollywood lookalikes all abide by?
[ Steve settles back into his bed, reaching over only to turn on his bedside lamp. He can tell almost immediately when he's been put on speaker, the sound of the hanger, the rustle of clothes. It feels familiar and yet intimate in a way that makes his blood pump a little faster, a little warmer. ]
I didn't say you weren't adventurous, but you'll have to break out the Sokovian wine at our next study date. Day. It's gotta be better than what we have here.
[ He laughs warmly yet again at Zemo's accusation about his food to the point he actually snorts a little at the thought. ] I'll have you know I'm ordering a pizza. So that should break the Hollywood lookalike myth to pieces.
[date. steve corrects himself immediately, but zemo hinges on that one word...and for some reason, the fact that he isn't face to face with the other boy makes him feel a little emboldened to tease. encourage, more like. speaking of the wine - he pours himself a glass of it, swirling it around and inhaling lightly before taking a sip. the thickness makes his voice a little smoother, something suggestive in his tone.]
A fine wine like this would certainly qualify for a date. With some studying.
[his cheeks redden slightly, wondering what steve would look like if he were here. every time he gives even the slightest indication he can say things that keep him on his toes...he's enjoyed the results.]
Oh, pizza. How very audacious of you. But you're leaving out the part where you spend hours sweating it off at the gym later, no doubt.
[ It's a beautiful thing that they're on the phone and Zemo can't see the burn in his cheeks, the surprise in his face. It's there, and he can't help but wonder what the other boy would do if he told him to come have pizza, to bring the wine, and... ]
I'll keep that in mind. About the wine. [ A beat, and there's no doubt someone can hear the smile on his voice when he says it: ] The date.
[ What would it be like, asking Helmut Zemo on a date? He's toyed with the idea, swept up in these flirty, suggestive moments to believe that maybe there's something there. He laughs again, though, on the heels of the man's words. ]
Yes, pizza. And actually I'm not going to the gym today or tomorrow. How's that for a wild weekend? I might just say in my PJs all day, too. Watch some trashy TV, or a movie. You'll be sad you missed out.
[it's a date, then, he almost says. no - too much. just a simple:]
Good.
[zemo doesn't need to fixate on the idea of what steve rogers at the gym looks like. he also doesn't need to think about what steve rogers has the flexibility to wear with an absent roommate in his own space to be comfortable. what if he doesn't wear anything at all? that has him nearly choking on his next sip, clearing his throat daintily like it'll also get his mind out of the gutter.]
Oh, impressive. Let me guess - sweatpants? A t-shirt for some ghastly underperforming excuse for an American football team? If - a large if - I am going to be spending the weekend in pyjamas, they are silk-blended at the very least.
[it's not an insult, just an amusing highlight at how different the two of them are.]
Define trashy for me. [is he...hinting at spending more time together?] Do it well enough and I might have to pencil it in myself. [zemo can hint right back. it hits him then that they've long since stopped talking about schoolwork altogether, and this is a non-necessity of a phone call. which is also the same time he realizes he's enjoying the easy conversation like this anyway, and he doesn't want to hang up.]
Sweatpants if guests are coming over, I guess. But you're close, yeah. Usually a sweatshirt with a bad team logo. Don't judge, alright.
[ He almost says who needs pants to begin with, because he spends a great deal of time in his underwear when he's on his own, but it isn't like Zemo needs to know that, even if the heavy implication is there already. ]
I want to be comfortable when I'm watching bad TV. [ He laughs a little, bright and sudden, caught up by the casual back and forth of their conversation. Why is so much easier to talk to him like this than it is face-to-face? ]
Sometimes it's shows like Survivor, sometimes it's Golden Girls, sometimes it's a B horror movie. I can probably watch anything, but half the time I read while it's on the background, anyway. So, if you get bored, you know where to find me, I guess. Predictable, right?
[oh, he easily picks up on that implication. it has him ever-so grateful they're not face-to-face, because thinking about steve rogers not wearing pants is nearly enough to render him speechless. but it also feel like he needs to somehow try and compete with it - at least enough to give steve pause. he says it oh so casually, like they're simply discussing the weather.]
Well, to each their own I suppose. I have a preference for robes. Cashmere-twill - it's nice on the skin. I don't have company often enough to bother with much else.
[it is easier, isn't it? it makes him wish it could be like this all the time, something in his chest warm and bubbling. it's easier to play off when big blue eyes aren't peering right into his soul and making him feel off-footed and having to put up extra defenses.]
Ah - Golden Girls is a classic. Appalling you would rope it in with the likes of Survivor. I'm not so sure I can trust your grading scale for horror movies now. [a long pause, put-upon exhale.] Maybe you need boredom-induced supervision.
[ Much like the boy earlier, Steve has to clear his throat a little bit, and try very, very hard not to think about the fact that Zemo often lounges in nothing but a robe. Thankfully they're not seated beside one another right now, what for the way heat rises into his cheeks and makes his stomach churn, low and warm. ]
But you're right, maybe I do. Like I said, I have all weekend to myself. I won't know what to do, anyway.
[ Steve shifts down in his bed, giving up the idea of doing any work, and there's the brief rustle of papers as he sets everything aside, his phone balanced in the crook of his shoulder and jaw. After a moment there's the sound of skin on fabric, maybe something hitting the phone, as he pulls his sweatshirt off and sinks into his covers. ]
I'll leave the door unlocked, and I'd say you could dare coming over in your pajamas because I'm not going to exactly dress up myself, but your dorm to mine will be a long walk in just a robe.
[how serious is steve about this? because - quite honestly, zemo is actually giving consideration to bringing his large bottle of wine over to steve's tomorrow night. he'd even consider coming right now if it weren't so late and this weren't so new. maybe he'll lose his nerve tomorrow, maybe he won't. but for now...this feels comfortable. easier than sitting next to him and analyzing every breath, every shift between their bodies and turn over each word choice like there's a double meaning to it. there's no second guessing to this.]
It would be cruel of me to leave you to your own devices, would it? I couldn't possibly live with myself in that case.
[he chuckles lightly, shifting against his own bed like an unconscious response to the way he can hear steve moving in the back.]
Oh, that wouldn't be the strangest thing I've seen on campus by far. But - that means you'll have to keep your pants on in case I decide to pop by. Seems like a fair trade.
[ It's difficult to stay focused when he's so warm and comfortable after a long day, no less with the warm timbre of Zemo's voice drifting through the phone on the air of a tease. What is it that they've just built here, in these phone calls. In this phone call, where they're talking about pajamas and the lack thereof. ]
Hm, I can't make any promises about the pants, but I'll do my best.
[ Steve laughs warmly, shifting down further into his bed, getting comfortable. He wonders, briefly, what it would feel like if Zemo were here beside him, how warm he would be, and what it might be like to kiss him like this.
He clears his throat a little, though his voice does have the hint of something deeper, more gravel when he speaks again. ]
I'll definitely consider it. Like I said, I'll leave the door unlocked, but I'm not usually awake until 7.
Somehow I doubt you've ever had any complaints about that.
[because, who in their right mind would turn down steve rogers? well, aside from himself. and in truth - if the choice was up to him....he wouldn't. but he's not going to linger on that because this is light-hearted, giving him the illusion that he does have the freedom to keep up this easy hypothetical situation in which he turns up at steve's door, wine in hand, and merely raises an eyebrow at his lack of pants. that they have themselves a movie date. or trashy tv. whatever comes first.]
What a late riser you are.
[a pointed tease, because obviously not.]
And a risky one, leaving yourself vulnerable to any number of midnight rendezvous traipsing through your door. I'll tell you what, Steve Rogers - I will do you the favor of avoiding pesky late night suitors. You lock yourself up tight until tomorrow evening, say 5 o'clock, and maybe -
[is he really doing this? it's halfway out of his mouth, so apparently he's really doing this. it's that comfortable note of pleasant tiredness in steve's voice that tempted him in the first place. he exhales softly, shifting onto his side and lowering his own into a soft murmur so as not to disrupt whatever hazy state steve might be slipping into.]
Maybe I come by with that wine. Maybe you make popcorn and leave some space on your couch. [a pause, the way his brows furrow likely audible in the way he double checks:] You do have a couch, right?
Mm, I've moved up from Steven Rogers? Well, I'm honored to be just Steve Rogers.
[ There's a lazy smile on his voice and he shifts in bed, tucking one arm up behind his neck in a poor attempt to keep himself from settling in too comfortably, but it's a losing battle. Talking to Zemo like this in the evening, he thinks, should be a regular occurrence. Already he finds himself wondering what excuses he can use, what he can employ to insure these things happen more frequently. ]
But you should really eliminate the maybes. You bring the wine, I'll provide the popcorn and the couch. Yes, I have a couch Helmut. [ A huff, then a careful yawn turned into his own shoulder. ]
I'll make space for you whenever you want.
[ His voice has taken on something of a minute slur, the pleasantly lazy hum of someone having stumbled into the web of sleep, beginning the gradual decline. But all the same, he wonders what would happen if he invited the other boy over now? To curl up on their dorm room couch and watch a movie that Steve would inevitably fall asleep to. ]
But if it's 5 o'clock tomorrow you want, then be my guest. Door's open all day regardless. Just so you know.
Just wait, maybe one day you'll even make it all the way to just Steve.
[he can picture it, honestly. the easy stretch of steve's pink, luscious lips curving up on one side - long lashes brushing his cheeks in a wink as they slip closed. he sounds like he's lying down, and zemo wonders with a warm swoop in his gut if he's not wearing pants like he's been teasing this whole time. is he under the covers?
there's a long, considering pause. he could pump the brakes, tell him it was just a tease. it's not like he's really committed to anything yet. his fingers tighten around his phone minutely, and when he finally answers it's much, much softer than anything he's uttered yet.]
Okay then. You and me, wine, popcorn, your couch - bad movies. 5 o'clock. No more maybes.
[zemo is no stranger to the inane articles populating the pages of magazines about appealing to men. analyzing their behaviours, undertanding their attraction. men make themselves available when they want someone. it makes him nuzzle into his pillow a little more, pressing his smile against the expensive, high thread-count fabric.]
And what if I came right now, hmm? You sound awfully tired, and I haven't had a sleepover since I was a child in Sokovia.
[ Steve hums, thoughtful but sleepy. Just Steve. He'd like that, really, and even hearing his name abbreviated on the lilt of his Sokovian accent makes him smile a little more. He can see the shape of his lips as he speaks it, and even here, wrapped up in his own bed, he wonders how they might feel pressed against his skin, his hair. What it might be like to have that carefully coiffed head pressed into the juncture o his neck and shoulder.
The pause, the lull in the conversation, almost has him nodding off altogether, but the soft response draws him back out of it. ]
No more maybes. I like that.
[ What it means, he doesn't know. What maybes still lie unspoken between them? What world are they forging in this tenuous friendship turned something more?
The challenge though comes in the sound of his voice, muffled by what? Fabric? A pillow? He laughs airily and turns onto his side, pressing his own face into the pillow as if he might be able to mimic exactly what that must feel like. His voice comes out a low rumble, a sleepy blur of words and a warm chuckle: ]
The door's unlocked, and there's room for two. Sleepover's can be nice. [ A tired hum. ] But I'm a blanket hog.
[they're not together, but it feels like something has shifted in the course of this call. like it's shifted even right now, the way they're both pressed to their pillows in a mirror image of one another. if he listens closely, he can hear the soft breathing of steve's around his sleepy words, and it feels like a level of intimacy beyond mere friendship right now.
there's something in him that wants to get back up - to make the trek across campus and knock on steve's door and take him up on his very open offer. but that's the thing of daydreams - something he'll hold close but can't ever act on.]
That's a shame. I get cold easily, you see.
[a very flimsy excuse, and yet - he feels like he's waiting on bated breath for the hazy response that'll come next.]
[ The heaviness of sleep pulls at him, tugging at the edges of his consciousness, making the conversation drift in and out. All he knows is that he's imagining the pleasant weight of someone else across the bed from him, imagining curling his arms and resting with his face pressed into hair or the nape of a neck.
He hums yet again, low and graveled in the back of his throat as he stretches beneath his covers, cat-like, then curls back up on his side. Finally, he speaks, a soft but honest mumble: ]
I'll keep you warm. [ A sigh, a turn in the bed, the rustle of blankets and sheets, almost as if the neanderthal part of his brain has subconsciously started to make room for this invisible boy in his bed. ] No funny business. Promise.
[ Even in the haze of drowsiness, he can't help the little flip his stomach does, the hopeful swoop, that maybe the boy on the other line might actually come over. It's a nice thought, regardless, and it makes an easy smile curl across his lips. ]
[zemo imagines it too, tucking himself under steve's chin given the near perfect difference in height that would accommodate it. he thinks about sleeping against something firmer than flimsy dorm beds, chin pressed against the firm, broad juncture of his shoulders and against one perfect pectoral. his fingers would slip up under that t-shirt, seeking warmth and his long legs would bend and twine themselves between much stronger, starkly bigger thighs.
wouldn't that be just perfect? it has him shifting onto his side, pretending he's there in a way that's so visceral it makes his chest tighten with want as he lets out a low purr of a chuckle.]
That's what they all say.
[he's quiet for a long moment, and then barely a whisper.]
[ The purr in Zemo's voice makes a heavy flush creep into his chest, up his throat, into his face, and he sighs a little as he curls in closer to his pillow, his eyes shut heavily, lashes a pretty, dark fan against his cheekbones. ]
I don't tell lies, Helmut.
[ A sigh, a sleepy groan in protest as he tries to find a more comfortable position. Absently, his hand reaches across the mattress for the boy that sounds as though his head rests on the pillow beside him, fingers curling into the sheet, coming up empty. ]
Door's always open for you.
[ His breathing starts to even out despite the disappointed feeling that overcomes him when the spot beside him turns up empty. It would have been nice to turn into the warmth of another person, no less someone he's come to admire, even from arm's reach. But maybe that, too, is a dream. ]
[his own eyes slip shut, body tucking into itself like he's leaving the exact same space for steve to slot in behind him. he can tell they're both much too tired now to actually make it happen, and honestly? it's better that way. he's not liable for what he might do otherwise.]
I know.
[there's an even longer pause, zemo mesmerized by the slight shifts on the other end and the way his breathing seems to have shifted into the early telltale signs of imminent sleep. he's probably not far off either, enough that he could fall asleep just like this and forget to even hang up. absently, he muses:]
[ Steve barely registers what Zemo says, his mind being overcome completely by the pull of easy sleep. His breathing begins to slow and he hums in acknowledgement, drowsy and sleep drunk. ]
It's a good name. [ A sigh as he turns and stretches again, the stretch audible in the strain of his voice: ] Helmut.
[ He releases a pleased little exhale and sinks, melting into his covers where he nestles his face against the pillow. He goes quiet, his breathing starts slowing, deepening, and he tries to come up with something else to say, but his words fall from his lips mumbled and half finished: ]
The door's... [ The rest becomes an inaudible mush of sleepy rumblings and he goes quiet, still on the other line, curled around a spare pillow as though it might hold the same warmth of a boy with a pretty face. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
dorm room phone calls ➤ i know when that hotline bling, that can only mean one thing;
He flops on his bed, thinking he might spend the rest of the evening on his phone, watching a movie, or reading something, but talks himself out of it mere seconds after. If he knocks out some of his homework now, he might be able to actually relax over the quiet weekend.
His thumb hovers over the little label on his phone— Helmut Zemo— for a long few seconds before he finally presses it, listening to the ringing with the phone propped between his jaw and shoulder, his hands riffling through some of the papers they'd been using as reference. He perks up when he hears the familiar voice answer on the other line. He sounds... what? Surprised? Whoops. ]
Hey, sorry to bother you. I just thought it'd be easier to call than text, but I was looking at some of our research, and I couldn't remember if we decided to remove the first section and include that section on Keats from the lecture, or if we wanted to leave it as is. I've got something written for both, just to start, but...
no subject
that being steve rogers himself. their project is going well given the equal amount of work they're putting in and the open line of communication through polite text messages intermixed with check-ins or anecdotes from the parties they've attended. it's stretched a bit more into the latter lately, and he finds himself actually looking forward to seeing steve's name pinging in his notifications.
phone calls are strictly reserved for his mother or his father. so he does sound surprised when he picks up, wondering if perhaps it's an accidental misdial at first. but steve's voice rings clear in his ear, a little deeper now that it's all he has to focus on.]
Not a bother. Give me a moment. [there's a rustling of paper, the click of a few keys on his already open laptop.]
Leave it as is, I think. Having the extra information can't hurt us, and Professor Kittredge simply loves Keats.
[is his eyeroll audible enough, steve? there's a small pause, and then:]
Was that all you needed?
[there's a casual note in his voice, but it's belied by the way he almost sounds as if he would prefer that it isn't.]
no subject
He looks over his own papers as he hears Zemo rifling through his. ]
Oh, right. [ A laugh bubbles from his chest, warm and bright. ] I forgot about her Keats problem. We'll leave it.
[ He sighs softly, though Zemo's question takes him aback, something about the tone of it. ]
For the schoolwork, yeah. Phil's out out of town until next week so I've got a quiet weekend ahead me. Was going to try and get some work done, but I don't know how productive I'll actually be.
[ A beat, then: ] What about you? Busy weekend? [ He doesn't exactly want to hop off the phone yet, either. ]
no subject
steve's laugh manages to feel just as warm over the slight distortion of a receiver as it does in person, and if something blooms in his chest at the sound of it at least he isn't there to witness it pull at the corners of his lips.]
Ah, so you'll finally have the peace and quiet to get some rest.
[he remembers steve's lamenting about the snoring early on - not getting his beauty sleep, as if that was even possible. he pauses, considering his own circumstances for the weekend. he's found that many americans don't like to admit when they aren't busy, taking it to mean laziness rather than simple rest and recuperation. not a sentiment he shares, so there is no shame in admitting as much for himself.]
Not so busy for me. Some good wine and a bit of research for a philosophy dissertation, maybe.
No wild parties for you tonight then, mm?
[there's a grin audible in his voice if steve is listening for it.]
no subject
Yes, finally a little peace and quiet. I don't know, though. I'm so used to it now it kind of makes this place feel a little empty.
[ Phil is a good enough guy, and their interests run in very different veins, but they'd been friendly enough. Phil, too invested in college sports, had been utterly wowed that he was roomed with a school football player. No less one with real talent.
Steve's sure that he heard something about cards, signatures, and whatnot at some point in their time rooming together. ]
Wine and philosophy? [ The grin in Zemo's voice is mirrored in his own, Steve letting his head fall back onto the pillows. ] How European of you. Sounds like you're having a wild party all on your own. Nothing wild for me.
[ A soft sigh. ] I'm thinking a good book and food, if I can actually make myself get up to cook after working. I'm very exciting.
no subject
[his fingers tighten around the slim frame of his phone as he shifts, bending down to unlace his oxfords and toe out of them before reaching to pick them up and carry them to his closet. he sets his phone down, putting it briefly on speaker so he can lift his sweater up and over his head before neatly shaking it out and putting it in a bag for dry cleaning. there's a light scoff and mock indignance when he replies again between the clink of a hanger in the background.]
It's a very large bottle of wine, Steven. Sokovian. I should have you know - I'm more adventurous than you give me credit for.
[not a lie, he just doesn't typically advertise that he could probably drink half of it in a night if he were so inclined. he pulls down the zipper on his trousers, reaching for his silk pyjama bottoms to tug on instead with a light sigh that mirrors steve's own.]
Let me guess what you'll be making: rice, something green, and enough grilled chicken to feed a small army. Isn't that the meal you Hollywood lookalikes all abide by?
no subject
I didn't say you weren't adventurous, but you'll have to break out the Sokovian wine at our next study date. Day. It's gotta be better than what we have here.
[ He laughs warmly yet again at Zemo's accusation about his food to the point he actually snorts a little at the thought. ] I'll have you know I'm ordering a pizza. So that should break the Hollywood lookalike myth to pieces.
no subject
A fine wine like this would certainly qualify for a date. With some studying.
[his cheeks redden slightly, wondering what steve would look like if he were here. every time he gives even the slightest indication he can say things that keep him on his toes...he's enjoyed the results.]
Oh, pizza. How very audacious of you. But you're leaving out the part where you spend hours sweating it off at the gym later, no doubt.
no subject
I'll keep that in mind. About the wine. [ A beat, and there's no doubt someone can hear the smile on his voice when he says it: ] The date.
[ What would it be like, asking Helmut Zemo on a date? He's toyed with the idea, swept up in these flirty, suggestive moments to believe that maybe there's something there. He laughs again, though, on the heels of the man's words. ]
Yes, pizza. And actually I'm not going to the gym today or tomorrow. How's that for a wild weekend? I might just say in my PJs all day, too. Watch some trashy TV, or a movie. You'll be sad you missed out.
no subject
Good.
[zemo doesn't need to fixate on the idea of what steve rogers at the gym looks like. he also doesn't need to think about what steve rogers has the flexibility to wear with an absent roommate in his own space to be comfortable. what if he doesn't wear anything at all? that has him nearly choking on his next sip, clearing his throat daintily like it'll also get his mind out of the gutter.]
Oh, impressive. Let me guess - sweatpants? A t-shirt for some ghastly underperforming excuse for an American football team? If - a large if - I am going to be spending the weekend in pyjamas, they are silk-blended at the very least.
[it's not an insult, just an amusing highlight at how different the two of them are.]
Define trashy for me. [is he...hinting at spending more time together?] Do it well enough and I might have to pencil it in myself. [zemo can hint right back. it hits him then that they've long since stopped talking about schoolwork altogether, and this is a non-necessity of a phone call. which is also the same time he realizes he's enjoying the easy conversation like this anyway, and he doesn't want to hang up.]
no subject
[ He almost says who needs pants to begin with, because he spends a great deal of time in his underwear when he's on his own, but it isn't like Zemo needs to know that, even if the heavy implication is there already. ]
I want to be comfortable when I'm watching bad TV. [ He laughs a little, bright and sudden, caught up by the casual back and forth of their conversation. Why is so much easier to talk to him like this than it is face-to-face? ]
Sometimes it's shows like Survivor, sometimes it's Golden Girls, sometimes it's a B horror movie. I can probably watch anything, but half the time I read while it's on the background, anyway. So, if you get bored, you know where to find me, I guess. Predictable, right?
no subject
Well, to each their own I suppose. I have a preference for robes. Cashmere-twill - it's nice on the skin. I don't have company often enough to bother with much else.
[it is easier, isn't it? it makes him wish it could be like this all the time, something in his chest warm and bubbling. it's easier to play off when big blue eyes aren't peering right into his soul and making him feel off-footed and having to put up extra defenses.]
Ah - Golden Girls is a classic. Appalling you would rope it in with the likes of Survivor. I'm not so sure I can trust your grading scale for horror movies now. [a long pause, put-upon exhale.] Maybe you need boredom-induced supervision.
no subject
[ Much like the boy earlier, Steve has to clear his throat a little bit, and try very, very hard not to think about the fact that Zemo often lounges in nothing but a robe. Thankfully they're not seated beside one another right now, what for the way heat rises into his cheeks and makes his stomach churn, low and warm. ]
But you're right, maybe I do. Like I said, I have all weekend to myself. I won't know what to do, anyway.
[ Steve shifts down in his bed, giving up the idea of doing any work, and there's the brief rustle of papers as he sets everything aside, his phone balanced in the crook of his shoulder and jaw. After a moment there's the sound of skin on fabric, maybe something hitting the phone, as he pulls his sweatshirt off and sinks into his covers. ]
I'll leave the door unlocked, and I'd say you could dare coming over in your pajamas because I'm not going to exactly dress up myself, but your dorm to mine will be a long walk in just a robe.
no subject
It would be cruel of me to leave you to your own devices, would it? I couldn't possibly live with myself in that case.
[he chuckles lightly, shifting against his own bed like an unconscious response to the way he can hear steve moving in the back.]
Oh, that wouldn't be the strangest thing I've seen on campus by far. But - that means you'll have to keep your pants on in case I decide to pop by. Seems like a fair trade.
no subject
Hm, I can't make any promises about the pants, but I'll do my best.
[ Steve laughs warmly, shifting down further into his bed, getting comfortable. He wonders, briefly, what it would feel like if Zemo were here beside him, how warm he would be, and what it might be like to kiss him like this.
He clears his throat a little, though his voice does have the hint of something deeper, more gravel when he speaks again. ]
I'll definitely consider it. Like I said, I'll leave the door unlocked, but I'm not usually awake until 7.
no subject
[because, who in their right mind would turn down steve rogers? well, aside from himself. and in truth - if the choice was up to him....he wouldn't. but he's not going to linger on that because this is light-hearted, giving him the illusion that he does have the freedom to keep up this easy hypothetical situation in which he turns up at steve's door, wine in hand, and merely raises an eyebrow at his lack of pants. that they have themselves a movie date. or trashy tv. whatever comes first.]
What a late riser you are.
[a pointed tease, because obviously not.]
And a risky one, leaving yourself vulnerable to any number of midnight rendezvous traipsing through your door. I'll tell you what, Steve Rogers - I will do you the favor of avoiding pesky late night suitors. You lock yourself up tight until tomorrow evening, say 5 o'clock, and maybe -
[is he really doing this? it's halfway out of his mouth, so apparently he's really doing this. it's that comfortable note of pleasant tiredness in steve's voice that tempted him in the first place. he exhales softly, shifting onto his side and lowering his own into a soft murmur so as not to disrupt whatever hazy state steve might be slipping into.]
Maybe I come by with that wine. Maybe you make popcorn and leave some space on your couch. [a pause, the way his brows furrow likely audible in the way he double checks:] You do have a couch, right?
no subject
[ There's a lazy smile on his voice and he shifts in bed, tucking one arm up behind his neck in a poor attempt to keep himself from settling in too comfortably, but it's a losing battle. Talking to Zemo like this in the evening, he thinks, should be a regular occurrence. Already he finds himself wondering what excuses he can use, what he can employ to insure these things happen more frequently. ]
But you should really eliminate the maybes. You bring the wine, I'll provide the popcorn and the couch. Yes, I have a couch Helmut. [ A huff, then a careful yawn turned into his own shoulder. ]
I'll make space for you whenever you want.
[ His voice has taken on something of a minute slur, the pleasantly lazy hum of someone having stumbled into the web of sleep, beginning the gradual decline. But all the same, he wonders what would happen if he invited the other boy over now? To curl up on their dorm room couch and watch a movie that Steve would inevitably fall asleep to. ]
But if it's 5 o'clock tomorrow you want, then be my guest. Door's open all day regardless. Just so you know.
no subject
[he can picture it, honestly. the easy stretch of steve's pink, luscious lips curving up on one side - long lashes brushing his cheeks in a wink as they slip closed. he sounds like he's lying down, and zemo wonders with a warm swoop in his gut if he's not wearing pants like he's been teasing this whole time. is he under the covers?
there's a long, considering pause. he could pump the brakes, tell him it was just a tease. it's not like he's really committed to anything yet. his fingers tighten around his phone minutely, and when he finally answers it's much, much softer than anything he's uttered yet.]
Okay then. You and me, wine, popcorn, your couch - bad movies. 5 o'clock. No more maybes.
[zemo is no stranger to the inane articles populating the pages of magazines about appealing to men. analyzing their behaviours, undertanding their attraction. men make themselves available when they want someone. it makes him nuzzle into his pillow a little more, pressing his smile against the expensive, high thread-count fabric.]
And what if I came right now, hmm? You sound awfully tired, and I haven't had a sleepover since I was a child in Sokovia.
no subject
The pause, the lull in the conversation, almost has him nodding off altogether, but the soft response draws him back out of it. ]
No more maybes. I like that.
[ What it means, he doesn't know. What maybes still lie unspoken between them? What world are they forging in this tenuous friendship turned something more?
The challenge though comes in the sound of his voice, muffled by what? Fabric? A pillow? He laughs airily and turns onto his side, pressing his own face into the pillow as if he might be able to mimic exactly what that must feel like. His voice comes out a low rumble, a sleepy blur of words and a warm chuckle: ]
The door's unlocked, and there's room for two. Sleepover's can be nice. [ A tired hum. ] But I'm a blanket hog.
no subject
there's something in him that wants to get back up - to make the trek across campus and knock on steve's door and take him up on his very open offer. but that's the thing of daydreams - something he'll hold close but can't ever act on.]
That's a shame. I get cold easily, you see.
[a very flimsy excuse, and yet - he feels like he's waiting on bated breath for the hazy response that'll come next.]
no subject
He hums yet again, low and graveled in the back of his throat as he stretches beneath his covers, cat-like, then curls back up on his side. Finally, he speaks, a soft but honest mumble: ]
I'll keep you warm. [ A sigh, a turn in the bed, the rustle of blankets and sheets, almost as if the neanderthal part of his brain has subconsciously started to make room for this invisible boy in his bed. ] No funny business. Promise.
[ Even in the haze of drowsiness, he can't help the little flip his stomach does, the hopeful swoop, that maybe the boy on the other line might actually come over. It's a nice thought, regardless, and it makes an easy smile curl across his lips. ]
no subject
wouldn't that be just perfect? it has him shifting onto his side, pretending he's there in a way that's so visceral it makes his chest tighten with want as he lets out a low purr of a chuckle.]
That's what they all say.
[he's quiet for a long moment, and then barely a whisper.]
But you're the only one I'd believe.
no subject
I don't tell lies, Helmut.
[ A sigh, a sleepy groan in protest as he tries to find a more comfortable position. Absently, his hand reaches across the mattress for the boy that sounds as though his head rests on the pillow beside him, fingers curling into the sheet, coming up empty. ]
Door's always open for you.
[ His breathing starts to even out despite the disappointed feeling that overcomes him when the spot beside him turns up empty. It would have been nice to turn into the warmth of another person, no less someone he's come to admire, even from arm's reach. But maybe that, too, is a dream. ]
no subject
I know.
[there's an even longer pause, zemo mesmerized by the slight shifts on the other end and the way his breathing seems to have shifted into the early telltale signs of imminent sleep. he's probably not far off either, enough that he could fall asleep just like this and forget to even hang up. absently, he muses:]
My name sounds good when you say it like that.
no subject
It's a good name. [ A sigh as he turns and stretches again, the stretch audible in the strain of his voice: ] Helmut.
[ He releases a pleased little exhale and sinks, melting into his covers where he nestles his face against the pillow. He goes quiet, his breathing starts slowing, deepening, and he tries to come up with something else to say, but his words fall from his lips mumbled and half finished: ]
The door's... [ The rest becomes an inaudible mush of sleepy rumblings and he goes quiet, still on the other line, curled around a spare pillow as though it might hold the same warmth of a boy with a pretty face. ]
me never getting to use this icon
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)