[zemo thinks, quite stupidly, that this will be the end of it. that maybe steve will get the point, understand he can't pursue this further despite the way he's just thrown himself at the other student, and they can both go back to pretending there is nothing going on between them besides a need to power through this project together. and for one split second when he reads the stunned expression on steve's face followed by the nonchalant confirmation - he thinks that's all. that there will be an awkward moment of silence, he will clear his throat and gesture for steve to unpack his bookbag yet again and they can put this outburst in the past where it belongs. steve will be a gentleman enough never to mention the way he behaved in a compromised state - neither to zemo nor any friends of his, and they will settle in to their friendly but intentionally distant interactions thanks to the way he's carefully orchestrated the dynamic between them.
but of course that isn't it. it sounds stupid even when he lays it out in his head - and steve rogers isn't the type to just let something sit like that without addressing it, is he? he's expecting another round of twenty questions, of laying it out in plain, broad strokes of black and white when zemo would much rather operate in the murky shades of grey that suit this situation better.
he watches it happen like it's in slow motion - steve's hands purposefully flexing around his waist, drawing him closer as he leans down and responds in kind to the kiss zemo had intentionally left one-sided. it's not his first kiss with a man by any means, but it is his first kiss with a man like steve rogers, and that makes all the difference. it's hot and seeking and there's a barely-restrained vigor to it that holds a certain amount of grace - much in the way steve has handled himself this whole time. zemo's fists clench, balling up and pressing lightly against steve's chest like he means to push him away and put a stop to this. but it's a lot harder when he desperately wants this - has wanted it for longer than he'd care to admit.
something molten pools in his gut at the press of broad palms against his lower back, brushing lightly over the expensive woven fabric of his shirt and sending a shiver up his whole spine that shakes out in a full-body tremble. his fingers shift, splaying across his chest as he presses up on his toes and tilts his head back to deepen the kiss. he may as well while he has the opportunity, right? steve slips his tongue along the inside of his mouth first - proving that maybe he's not just some boy scout after all. zemo meets it with his own, twining against it and tasting the remnants of something fresh and minty, like steve made a hopeful point to brush his teeth before coming here.
(his lips are soft too, and he's the perfect height for zemo to shift closer and press himself against that rock solid chest that he now has the sobriety to really appreciate it. and if there's a content hum when he does so, immediately swallowed up by the delicious shift of steve's mouth - then it's almost like it never happened, isn't it?)
fuck, but it's good. infinitely better than the clumsy ones in dark corners at clubs with strangers who don't even know his name and taste like cheap vodka, cigarettes and marijuana while they pawed greedily and blindly at him. steve makes him want to stay awhile, to slip his hands up under what he's wearing and press intimately with skin against skin. to tug steve into his bedroom - pull them both horizontal so they can carry this on with uninterrupted purpose. and it's that thought that has him pulling away again out of necessity, licking into his mouth one last time and nipping at the plush lower lip in a teasing farewell. he's breathing harder than normal, face flushed and eyes frantically skimming along steve's for any signs of annoyance or residual anger. it's not like he wouldn't deserve it.
one hand lifts to cover over his own mouth and press fleetingly at them like he's trying to test that they've actually just been locked with steve's and he isn't hallucinating this. for once, he doesn't have a smug comeback.]
Right - well. We should, ah, get to work.
[there's a hesitance there - like one wrong (or right) excuse and he might not be able to resist another opportunity to do that again. especially while steve's hands are pressing lightly into him, the touch branded against him beyond skin-deep in a way he'll definitely be thinking about later when he's alone.]
[ Steve has kissed a handful of boys before, but this feels different somehow. There's no alcohol, no dark rooms or party lights, no loud music. Just the warm press of weight against his own chest, the soft lips moving with his own, and the low rumble of a pleased hum at the back of his throat. He's always kissing over-eager girls or boys with egos that mean they do nothing but sloppily overpower him, but the balance here feels... nice.
His fingers flex just so against Zemo's lower back, encouraging him closer as he leans in. Every move Zemo makes, Steve mirrors it almost naturally, and he bends over him easily to deepen the kiss when the opportunity arises. One hand slides up the smaller boy's side, along his arm, the side of his neck, just in time for the kiss to break, leaving him panting softly. (He can feel the teasing nip of teeth still on his lip, the ghost of a promise, if ever he felt one).
It takes half a second for him to open his eyes and when he does, they slide open slowly, but he doesn't move his hands yet, letting them relish the warmth of the other boy for a few seconds longer. A sheepish, almost shy, smile pulls at his lips.
What was that?
Even Steve knows the answer, what with the way his blood thrums warmly in his veins, the way he's already thinking of kissing him again... ]
Right.
[ A soft huff, a breath, and the faint, affectionate swipe of his thumb against Zemo's jaw before his hands move altogether, dropping to his sides so he can create cooling space between their bodies. (He already misses the way Zemo fits against him, so much that he knows for a fact it's going to haunt him when he tries to sleep tonight). A little awkwardly, sheepish, he runs a hand back through his hair and steps around the other boy, shoulder brushing with his on the pass. Never mind how red his face has gotten. Getting his work back out, he lets out another breath, and absently runs fingers along his own lips. ]
[his body doesn't quite cooperate in pulling away, instead letting steve hold him those few extra moments past their second kiss once it's ended. third time's a charm, his brain unhelpfully supplies, dragging his gaze down to the way steve's lips are that much pinker now from usage, from where his own teeth had dug in a playful bite moments before. he swallows hard, breath hitching when steve's thumb traces along his chin in a fleeting motion that lingers long after his hand drops and he steps away. he can pinpoint every place steve's hands were pressed against his body, jaw twitching and tongue slipping out to run along his lips in an absent, tangible categorization of where he's feeling the loss the most. he vaguely registers steve moving back to his spot at the table, the way his hair is slightly askew from where he's run his hands through it a few times now in both frustration and...embarrassment? awkwardness? both of which are his fault.
zemo clears his throat loudly, as if to convince them both it'll be easy to get back down to business. he braces both hands against the tabletop, sliding into his seat and trying hard to quell the rush of heat he knows is visible in his own cheeks. he's so overwhelmed with what's just transpired that he forgets to even offer steve something to drink or make the move to get water for himself.
they work mostly in quiet today, the occasional flip of a book or his laptop to get feedback or clarify a portion that needs a second eye. and he finds that even in their most uncomfortable - it's not that bad. sitting with steve isn't the herculean task he's convinced the other boy it is by his actions and sharp, put-upon barbs. it's actually quite pleasant. he sneaks glances up at the other boy frequently - still marveling at how handsome he is in his concentration and realizing how dangerously distracted he is now that he knows precisely how those hands feel against his waist and his mouth fits along his own. but all good things must come to an end, and when he finds himself stifling down a yawn behind the back of his palm, he looks up with heavy, half-lidded eyes and realizes he's both physically and mentally exhausted from....everything, the week leading up to this, the outburst, the argument, the kisses.
he closes his laptop with an airy snap, fingers lingering across the top of it nervously tracing along the emblem. he bites at his lip, glancing up through his lashes across the way at steve.]
It's getting late. We managed to get through everything, against all odds.
[there's a wry twist of his lips at that as he watches steve start to pack up his things for the second time, knowing this one is actually goodbye. it would be easy to just watch him go to the door on his own, to stay in his seat and absolutely ensure nothing else transpires and that their not-quite friendship is back on track as surely as the way they've managed to steer this project. instead, he pushes himself up onto his feet.]
[ To say his lips still burn would be an understatement. Working side by side with Zemo after their furious kiss has left him shaken in a way he can't quite name. He's had plenty of little trysts here and there, casual and easy, but something about that kiss had felt... right.
Occasionally, he sneaks glances up at Zemo, watching the way he types furiously, the way his brow pinches as he focused, the way his tongue sometimes slips across his lips. Is he thinking of the kiss, too? That motion alone makes him dare a taste of his own lips, hoping to find the drop of something sweet and rich waiting there in the faint grooves where perfect teeth had caught before. To no avail.
Dutifully, he stays on task, keeping to his work in as much as he can considering the elephant that stands in the room. How they manage to get work done is a mystery to him, but they work with relative ease and silence. By the time they begin to conclude, Steve huffs out a soft laugh and sets his pen down, only to run fingers back through his own hair. ]
Against all odds.
[ The tilt of a head, a laugh, and he carefully packs his things back into his bag a second time that night and pushes up from his spot, slinging the bag over one shoulder. Starting toward the door he breathes a laugh as he turns to walk backward, looking at Zemo amused first, but there's a quick scan of something appreciative, as if the dip of his eyes to the man's mouth and back up are simply a reflex. ]
We've already done more work than half the class, so I think we're in good shape. [ He pauses when he gets to the door, looking down at Zemo curiously. ]
[something catches in his throat when steve looks down at him and actually thanks him, like tonight wasn't an utter disaster from start to finish. it's no small miracle they were even able to power through anything at all tonight, and now...in some ways, zemo feels like the project has persevered, but where does that leave him and steve? right back where they started, only now they're just ignoring what's transpired. and that's the way it should be, or it would have been if hunter and his stupid drink and the stupid party hadn't ruined everything.
but it's hard to focus his energy on being mad about all of that when steve is standing here looking as good as he does, with the knowledge that steve likes him and put his hands along his sides and jaw, and steve actually kissed him back. gone is the frustration from when he'd first come in here, and the removal of having to second-guess zemo's thoughts has apparently done wonders to his disposition. not that steve ever really deserved any of that in the first place, but if a kiss was all it took to effectively apologize...all the better.
a kiss. instinctively his gaze drops again, right around the same time he catches steve's wandering too and it all but cements what they're both clearly itching to do again. zemo lets his eyes flick up to meet steve's, something a little apprehensive and maybe even concerned behind expressive amber.]
Same time next week, then.
[he gives a curt nod, swallowing hard and making an attempt to look away. what he should do is reach for the door behind steve and pull it open, gesture for him to go and leave zemo to his burning thoughts for the rest of the night. he'll be replaying it over and over, probably taking his smaller hands and pressing it along the places that have been all but been sealed onto his body in a poor mimic for larger, warmer ones. when they see each other next...will it be this awkward? it's the thought of steve going his separate way right now and not showing up again until their next study session or freezing him out much in the same way zemo's done to him all week that his complicated mix of emotions shot into overdrive. despite his best efforts...that isn't what he wants, not really. and he feels like though it's his fault, he needs to do something to fix it. redirect it back to what they had if it's even still possible.
he pushes up onto his toes again, one hand bracing on his shoulder and the other reaching for steve's jaw to pull him down into another searing kiss. there's enough time that steve could stop him if he wanted to - but if he doesn't, he's getting the full force of all zemo's pent up energy from the past hour - the hunger, the fear, the need to taste him again just once before he has to let him go.]
[ Steve doesn't know what he expects now. What will their study sessions be like after the kiss from earlier? They haven't spoken about it and he gets the feeling, considering how this night went, that they might not. That a name might not be given to what it was, and what it means for them now. Is there a them? Steve considers it, and the idea of spending many nights kissing Helmut Zemo doesn't seem like a bad one. Not at all.
He barely notices the way the other boy looks away, his own eyes tracing the contours of his jaw, the slant of his nose, the pull of his mouth into something tight and concerned. Another step back toward the door and he's halted by the firm plant of a hand on his shoulder and the crush of lips against his own. He stumbles back the final foot, his back against the door frame, and he all but reaches to drag Zemo up against him, strong arms looped at his waist and supporting him up against his chest. For all intents and purposes, he's practically holding him up off his feet, keeping his weight off those balanced tip-toes, and using his body as a support instead.
His fingers fist into the fine cashmere of his sweater as he parts his lips against the other boy's, licking hot and needy into his mouth, as if chasing the remnants of berry-bitter wine, of anything that might linger on his own tongue long after this dorm door shuts behind him.
Idly, he finds himself wondering what it would be like to press Zemo against the door jamb, to have those long, slender legs wrapped around his own hips or waist, and he feels heat pool low and roiling into his belly. But one arm keeps him supported all the while the other slides up his back into the hair at his nape, letting fingers rake against his scalp and hold him close, pressing out all the air between their bodies to bring them flush, chest to chest, hips to hips inasmuch as one can, legs and knees a tangle.
He's cheeky this time, though, and instead of drawing back for air, he catches the boy's plush bottom lip between his teeth long enough to catch a breath and dive back in, his fingers curling into and mussing that perfectly coiffed hair. ]
[the realization that steve probably could lift him that last bit sends something fiery rushing through his blood, pumping very quickly south as he imagines what it'd be like to just wrap his legs around that strong waist and cling. or better yet - use it as leverage to grind against his hips - to take this a step further and really let him know where his mind's been at since...well, frankly since before the party. but good as this feels, there's a part of zemo that's afraid he'll get too carried away in the moment if he tries anything else. this was enough of a bombshell revelation, and there's still so much uncertainty as to what it means for the future of their interactions after this. in a perfect world he could tell steve he wants to do this every time he walks through that door - he wants to put a name on this, he wants to see him in this very room more than once a week and most especially he wants to start the tentative road to courting and spending more time together.
but he shouldn't. can't, really - because one wrong move and it ends up everywhere, ends in him packing a bag and catching a private jet back to sokovia for his indiscretions. the foolish part of him thinks about what steve said earlier - no one else needs to know. he feels like his head and his heart are on full display, someone else pressing fastforward and running his thoughts through an endless loop around the sensation of steve's lips and teeth and tongue and hands and the worrisome thoughts of when can i do this again? what are we?
it's that much easier to let his hand fist against steve's shirt, fingers shifting along his collarbone to grab at his bicep and squeeze appreciatively. there's a low groan as fingertips drag against the sensitive back of his neck, trailing up through his hair and using it to hold him in place as steve takes what he wants out of it too. the realization that this is so very mutual has zemo kissing him that much more insistently, tongue laving against steve's in an elegant curl. his other hand cups along his jaw, thumb pressing in to feel the way it's working against his own so hungrily. he could do this for hours, he thinks, because steve is just that good of a kisser. better than anyone else he's had, really, even a very memorable austrian boy who visited his boarding school pre-university and never enrolled.
there's a very undignified noise he realizes comes from his own mouth when steve pulls back, biting his lip like zemo had earlier to force himself to pull away. only this time steve just uses it as an interlude to breathe, something he very nearly forgets to do when his lips are crushed against his once more. zemo's fingers flex along his arm, gripping tight and steadying as his kisses grow more open-mouthed and filthy in how needy they are. there's audible little noises alongside the slickness of tongues and wet lips and heavy breaths in the air, and he doesn't care because it's too fucking good to be embarrassed or stop. steve certainly doesn't seem to mind.
but all good things must come to an end, and eventually the next time he needs a real breath, he tilts his neck back just so, body still mostly relying on the way steve's is supporting him. he's wide-eyed, flushed, lips red and swollen and eyes glimmering with excitement at the risk they've both just taken. his voice is a note huskier, like the other boy has somehow sucked it out of him with his kisses.]
[ To pull away now feels like walking away from the fire in a cold night, and Steve can't help but be drawn to the vibrancy of the other boy in his arms. But as soon as the other boy tilts his head back, he sighs softly and Steve's lip curl into an easy, but knowing, smile. He tilts his own head back against the door frame, looking down the bridge of his nose at the boy with the kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks, his hair mussed and askew. It's nigh impossible to resist, but he gives a little nod and shifts his weight forward, carefully setting him back to his feet.
Maybe it's wrong, maybe it's a step too far, but he so rarely takes anything of what he wants. He so rarely puts his neck out for the chopping, but the hand at the back of Zemo's neck slides around, thumb and forefinger catching his chin and tilting it up so that he can press one more kiss to those lips, chaste and short and sweet. ]
Goodnight, Helmut.
[ He draws away then, adjusts the strap on his bag, and ducks out of the room with a sheepish smile. And the memory of their kisses sticks with him, despite the argument, despite the fight. He texts the first two days following, but when classes roll around, he starts to feel sluggish, tired, run down. Monday, he's in classes and acts as normal as he can, but soon enough, all communication drops. Steve seems to disappear from classes, or certainly avoid the ones Zemo is in, and the texts and phone calls go radio silent.
While one might think it's a complication from a spontaneous make out session gone sloppy a few nights before, Steve instead finds himself coming down with a fever. He tries to ignore it and powers through most of his classes, but his literature course is the last of the day, and he doesn't have the energy. In doing so, he misses Zemo, but spends much of his day in bed tucked deep under the covers.
He doesn't text the boy, doesn't text his mother, doesn't bother with his roommate, but sleeps so much of his days away trying to shake whatever it is that comes over him. Three days have passed, though he's lost track of time between medicine and sleep-induced drunkenness, and by the time their next study session rolls around, Steve doesn't turn up. He stays curled up in his bed, pale and sticky with sweat, fitfully trying to sleep though he seems to come in and out of it with some difficulty.
It calls back to his days as a young boy, frail and fragile, when illnesses like this were as common as the sun rising in the east every morning. He's used to feeling like this, overcome with fever, nausea, fatigue. How many years of his life were spent tucked into a bed with his mother constantly tending to his side? How many years had he been coddled and carried into an immediate care because his fever got too high for such a small boy? He's long lost count. He doesn't want to worry his mother now, not with her workload and the stress on her shoulders, so he keeps his phone on silent on the charger, drifting in and out as the days pass.
Phil's gone yet again, has been all week for a school leadership function, and so he's been blessed with silence. Being alone, however, seems to make things worse in so many ways, the lack of care and water and food enough to force him up occasionally. He needs to eat, he knows that, but instead curls back up into his bed, burying himself in the covers as the dorms come to life at the end of the school day. He feels, in the haze of his fever and fatigue, that he's forgetting something. That he's got things to do, but he lets his his head fall back to the pillow with a heavy sigh, his eyes drifting shut. ]
[if he looks a little dazed when steve sets him back fully on the his own two feet, glancing down the bridge of his strong nose and dipping down for another kiss that somehow makes his heart flutter more than the ones they've just shared - it's because he is. that kiss? that one feels like - something more than just adolescent, biologically fueled physical need. that kiss feels like a promise of something sweeter and deeper that he'd trust a man like steve rogers with, but not anyone else. that kiss has his cheeks burning as he holds open the door and offers a small wave, watching his tall, retreating figure with a dippy little grin facing his back where he can't see it.
those hot touches and kisses are the subject of any number of his thoughts and dreams over the course of the next few days. how is he supposed to concentrate on anything else? he could initiate conversation, try to feel out where steve is at with the whole revelation. he should just drop it, but now that the door is open he's not sure how he's meant to just forget about it all. that, and he doesn't think he can at this point even if he tried. better to control it while he can, right? steve texts him, and it's not any different from their previous conversations. still flirtatious, toeing the line of that easy banter that's always somehow smoothed out by their distance, but it also ignores the elephant in the room frustratingly so.
and then...it feels like zemo is forced to get a taste of his own medicine. at first he thinks maybe something has come up, and steve misses class for the first time...ever in the semester. life happens, disappointing as it is. but then it keeps happening, and the one text zemo deigns to send on his own, a joking:
Don't tell me - my limitless knowledge on Impressionist art history and its influence on literature scared you away, hm? ;)
it goes unanswered. completely ignored. no response, no call, no steve rogers anywhere that zemo is present. maybe he won't admit it out loud, but his cold shoulder the previous week seems a tad unfair, but steve's is impossibly worse because he'd given something of himself in return - he'd let steve peek at the vulnerable boy behind the icy façade and understand that there was something deeper there. let him in on the secret that he cared. he'd trusted steve, and now he was just as bad as any other boy when the drugs wore off or the reality of the morning looming ahead would settle in and spook them away from anything meaningful. only - those ones didn't hurt.
this? this is infinitely more painful. there’s a downright sting of humiliation to it, even.
he's not exactly surprised when twenty minutes pass after their arranged time and there's no communication, no knock on his door. at least he'd had the decency to keep that aspect of their interactions open. he knows he could sit and miserably pluck away at his end of the work, passive aggressively send it to steve in a scathing email or even send him another text. but the thought of looking in any way desperate is something he'd rather die than entertain, so the next best thing is to simply confront him head on. a rare, but useful tactic that seems to fit the man he thought steve rogers was.
which is how fifteen minutes later he's standing in front of steve's room, straightening his shoulders and letting the obvious gracefully restrained fury be visible in the sharpness of his eyes, the pinched curl of his lips and the tightness in his jaw. roommate be damned - if paul or phil or whatever the hell his name was is present, he's about to get an earful. zemo has a stack of papers in one of his arms as well, and he wraps his free hand against the door in three concise thunks. no answer. he presses his ear to the door, listening for the telltale signs of rustling or the hushed tones of avoidant conversations. nothing, at least not right away, so he knocks more insistently in rapid fire presses of his knuckles. now there's something on the other side, slow-moving, and he's not sure what possesses him to reach down and test the handle (door's always open springs immediately to the forefront of his mind in an outright taunt)...and find it indeed open.
well. if he didn't want visitors, and if he didn't want zemo - he shouldn't have left it an open invitation.
he pushes open the door and strides confidently inside, chin held high and haughty and he slams the door behind him. no sign of steve in the small entryway of the room containing their desks, couch, and kitchen.]
Clearly I missed the memo that you weren't coming, because surely you wouldn't dare keep me waiting without so much as a word.
[his clipped accent echoes mildly in the empty room, and zemo wonders if he's not even here. takes a few more steps inside, tilting his head to see if he (or his roommate) are in the back bedroom space. there's another rustle, something that sounds suspiciously like the creak of bad springs in an appallingly thin mattress.]
I can hear you, you know. I never took you for a coward, Steve Rogers.
[he finally rounds the corner, and there's steve sitting up at the edge of his bed. before he can actually let the simmering heat of his anger boil over and really take a look, he tosses the stapled papers to the foot of steve's bed.]
I took the liberty of keeping us on track, though I have half a mind to finish it myself and request a new partner since you've suddenly made yourself so unreliable. I -
[he's mid-berating when he finally stops to really look at steve. he looks - not unkindly - like death. pale, a pained expression, a bed that looks like it's been clung to for more than an afternoon with sheets askew and hanging out. has he been sick this whole time? he's still angry, but not enough to let his bite sink in. instead he steps forward with a furrowed brow and concerned frown, reaching for steve's forehead despite himself.]
[ The alarm on his phone had gone off and it's taken the better part of twenty minutes to try and sit up, to will some energy back into his bones and beg muscles to work. Every movement feels glacially difficult and he barely registers the sound of the dorm room door opening and shutting loudly. It's the voice, though, echoing into the small corridor that leads to the bed area that makes him struggle a little more, sit up a little straighter and touch his feet to the floor, testing his own strength.
His head spins with fever, his skin clammy and hot, his chest heaving in slow, labored breaths. There's no recovering the time he's spent sleeping, the time he's forgotten his phone and notifications, the research for their project he has neatly laid out on the small lap desk sitting on the floor. If he can get to his feet, he might be able to put out the fire that is Helmut Zemo, help calm the part of him that both yearns for the other boy and feels incredibly guilty all at once.
He's just about to attempt to push to his feet when the slap of papers hits the ground with a sharp crack. He winces, suddenly very aware of what he must look like, in a worn tank and his underwear, his hair wild and his cheeks pale. A quiet, small part of him yearns for his mother more than anything else. She's seen him like this for many years, but he wouldn't dare worry her now when she can't be at his side to care for him.
He's put her through too much. ]
Helmut, I'm sorry. I set an alarm, but I...
[ He tries speaking over the tirade about schedules and new partners and he turns in the bed to try and stand but barely moves, the room spinning with his movement. The hand against his forehead feels cool and he can't help the grateful little sigh that passes through his lips or the way his body leans into the touch, seeking out the impossible warmth of the other boy. A shiver wracks his body, makes his fingers tremble and his sigh quiver, but his eyes flutter shut at the contact. ]
I get sick sometimes. Always have. Used to be worse.
[ It takes too long for his brain to catch up with the question, as he leans forward without thinking, letting his forehead rest against Zemo's chest, his face nestled into the fine fabric of his sweater. His expression pinches, his lips turn to a small frown. ]
[perhaps the thing that effectively drenches the fire of his anger in a cold splash near immediately is how small steve looks right now. it's the last word that should be used to describe a man of his stature - how frequently has he spent the last few days fantasizing about that same tall, built figure in his arms or pressing him up somewhere for more of those delectable kisses? everything about him looks exhausted and frail - the damp sheen of sweat along his skin that has his hair clinging to his temples and the way he looks utterly sapped of both energy and color aside from an obvious feverish blush along the high points of his cheeks and forehead. even worse - a quick glance around the room and realization as to when he'd heard from steve last makes it dawn on him that he's just been suffering in silence this whole time. alone. his roommate's bed looks neatly made, and he recalls steve telling him the last time he'd dropped by before things went to hell that phil only ever made his bed when he was gone for long bouts of his sports or - whatever it was he did away from campus.
and here zemo is, barging in and probably waking him up from rest he probably needs. it feels very selfish, even though the logical part of his brain reminds him he had no way of knowing. he had sent a text, and all of this is still so...new. unchartered waters, territory he doesn't know how they plan to navigate together.
but what he does know is that steve may as well be on fire beneath his palm, and he stops to brush some of the sweaty hair off his forehead gently with the air of apology in the kiss of his fingertips. steve shudders bodily, whether from the contact or the fever and then suddenly he shifts forward, planting himself against zemo's chest. there's a flicker of surprise at the trust inherent in the motion - the fact that steve is apologizing and still trying to explain himself when it's zemo who should be doing both. he lets his free hand drop to steve's shoulder, soothingly running along his back as he whispers out a soft shhh and lets his other hand keep carding through his hair.]
Stop - it's alright. I'm sorry. Like back down for me, okay?
[he can give a proper apology later. right now he needs to know the important things, and he tips steve back gently to urge him to shift up into his bed, trying to facilitate and guide him as best as he can though he's absolutely not strong enough to lift or pull him over on his own. the fact that steve could probably do the reverse sends a very brief flutter of something in his chest that's immediately tamped down out of urgency.]
You're absolutely burning up, Steve. How long have you been like this? When's the last time you were able to get up - or to eat something?
[another quick glance around the room doesn't reveal any empty plates or even water, no cool rag. he kneels down so steve won't have to look up at him, eyes shifting quickly across his face and brows pinched with concern. it seems serious, despite his best efforts to reassure otherwise. he can't imagine what worse looks like if this is the alternative, and he's not above calling the school nurse.]
[ Steve feels like he could sleep like this, bent and leaned into the warmth of Zemo's chest, those fingers gliding through his hair and smoothing over his back. It's enough human contact, comfort, to make him feel as though his fever isn't as high as it is, that his body isn't as drained or achy. But he's sure he still hears the crack of the papers on the floor, the guilt of not reaching out welling and filling his chest. ]
I wasn't ignoring you, I swear.
[ He has no energy to fight, though, when Zemo gently urges him back. Part of him thinks about it, resisting and keeping pressed in close to the warmth of the other boy. For a brief, brief moment he remembers the press of his chest, his hips, his arms in the doorframe, and suddenly wishes he didn't feel and look so sick. But he helps himself back into the bed, sliding with a wince across sheets warm and damp from his feverish tossing and turning. He makes it as far as the wall, his back pressed against the cool drywall, which just makes him shiver all over again.
Tilting his head back against the wall he lets out a deep, labored sigh, his shoulders slumping and his eyes drifting shut before the questions come. A few seconds pass and his eyes open, hazy blues shifting to the boy knelt at his bedside. A part of him wonders if he's somehow dreaming. ]
It's just been a couple days. Monday, maybe. [ Never mind that he's clearly unaware that it's Friday. Time gets lost when all he's done is sleep. ] This happens sometimes. Used to, when I was younger. I'm okay, really. It passes it's just... it just takes a while sometimes. I promise I'm fine.
[ A tiny, frightened part of him, the part that is still very much the sickly boy, wants to ask Zemo to stay. To sit at his bedside and pet his hair or rub his back like he had, but who is he to ask something like that? ]
I'm sorry I didn't text. I think my phone's on my desk.
[ Too far to bother walking, even though it's nearly five feet away. ]
[zemo can easily see how much effort is required for steve just to hoist himself back up - how much it probably took for him to even try and make it upright to try and greet him and feels yet another pang of guilt. the sheets look uncomfortable, damp and disheveled, but he doesn't have the heart to try and get steve on two feet so he can offer to wash or change them right now. the next best solution is murmur that he'll be right back, squeezing steve's shoulder briefly to head into the bathroom and grab one of the washcloths from the cabinet instead of trying to figure out which belongs to phil or steve, running it under cool water and squeezing out the excess water before bringing it back out.
he stoops down again, pressing it against steve's forehead and hoping it'll cool him where it's hot rather than make him shiver again. it sends another pang of concern deep in the pit of his stomach when he sees just how frail and weak steve looks. but it flashes across his face again, eyes widening as he places a soft hand along his wrist and lets his thumb rub against it lightly in what he hopes is a soothing motion. his voice is low, gentle but slow and careful.]
Steve - it's...today is Friday.
[he'll let that sink in for a minute, fingers splaying across his wrist again momentarily in a soft squeeze. he swallows thickly, knowing this is a larger problem than whatever standoff he'd falsely manufactured out of his own concerns and imagined slight. his phone is on the desk, not that far, but given how he looks it must have felt miles away. his voice softens even further, a low murmur as he tips his chin up towards steve with thin, reassuring smile.]
I'm going to take care of you, okay?
[whatever they are - or aren't - it's the right thing to do. he needs food, badly, and the poor thing is likely dehydrated as well. clearly steve isn't up to taking care of himself, and leaving him to his own devices is out of the question. the terrible thought suddenly leaps into his mind what if steve had - well, died? no one would have even known until now. it's overdramatic, but doesn't seem that exaggerated given the way he looks right now. he probably needs notes and homework collected too, but considering he barely seems lucid and can't even move, that's not the priority.]
You need to eat something. Just rest for me right now while I cook.
[ Steve knows that his fevers have been much, much worse over time, but the way it's slowly burned through him over the last few days has left him completely drained. So when Zemo disappears briefly he shifts around again to find a more comfortable position before he can actually lie down. It feels good to be sitting up, to feel a little more human, but the cool cloth that appears on his forehead and he lets out an audible sigh, tilting his head back to let the cloth lie there.
Sure, he's riddled with chills, but it soothes the heat of the fever and refreshes him. He's been swaddled in damp, hot bedclothes for the last few days and this is a welcome change. ]
It wasn't this bad on Monday, but I guess time flies... Friday? Really.
[ Of course he'd had some indication of time, working in and out of his school work, but it's true: he hadn't realized how long he'd really been tucked away in his dorm room, feeling sick.
He turns his hand against Zemo's however, at the press of his fingers, and holds his land lightly, trying to sooth his concern. ]
This used to happen all the time, and I mean it when I say this isn't that bad. [ He laughs softly, fatigued and weary, though his fingers idly curl around Zemo's. Whatever they are doesn't seem to matter now, as Steve can only remember the delicious warmth of Zemo's chest and how much he misses it. ]
But I'm glad you're here. [ He says, finally, his voice a little quieter, his smile a little pained, his eyes heavy and tired already. Resting while Zemo cooks? Steve knows too well that he'd pass out almost immediately upon sinking into his pillows, and he can't. He can't just let this other boy do all the fussing and all the work, even though he knows he can't exactly do it himself.
I don't want to be alone, is what he wants to say, but instead he just sighs softly and squeezes his fingers. ] But you don't have to cook for me.
[zemo lets his fingers lace gently through steve's, no hesitation this time. it seems to bring him some small bit of comfort right now, and honestly given how bad this looks - he'd do just about anything if it meant making him even the slightest bit better. hearing that this isn't that bad doesn't do much to reassure the deep furrow of his brow and the way his lips are practically etched into a concerned frown. the fact that he was so unaware of his own surroundings and the passage of time is especially alarming - a few days, certainly, but nearly a whole week...and who knows how long it would have continued without anyone to properly care for him. steve didn't answer but his surroundings do it for him. he's dehydrated and certainly underfed, and zemo isn't going anywhere until he can fix both of those things. his fingers squeeze lightly again, as if he'd like to grip tighter but is afraid that'll somehow be too much for the way he looks so weak.]
I'm glad I came.
[he can't help but reach up with his free hand again, palm bypassing where the rag is cooling at his forehead to brush through hair again in a gentle stroke. christ, if he wasn't so clearly in need of being taken care of, zemo might stay just like this and keep repeating the motion. he can tell it soothes steve, which is something he files away for later. his voice is warm, a low murmur like he's afraid even speaking too loudly will somehow make him uncomfortable. that, and he's still feeling residual guilt for storming in here and making such a spectacle without consideration for what had happened. he'd assumed the worst, and while he knows it wasn't entirely his fault given the total lack of communication, it couldn't have been further from his imagined slights and more crushingly, his fears.]
You need to eat, Steve. [he pauses, swallowing his own pride and knowing this isn't the time to play hot and cold. he only hesitates a moment before adding quietly:] I want to cook for you.
[and then, just so it doesn't feel like he's given something of himself away he adds:] I can't trust the sort of man who makes pancake mix from a box to tell me what he should or shouldn't be doing right now. [there's a wry pull of his lips and another soft squeeze before he pulls his hand away and pats steve's lightly in parting.]
I promise I will be quick about it and come back.
[it helps having been here before - he knows exactly where the utensils and pots and pans are. thank goodness it looks like steve or his roommate have recently done some semblance of shopping - and he doesn't care if he accidentally takes something reserved for the other inhabitant of the household. to him, this literally feels like life or death right now. he pulls out a serving tray which he's willing to bet is steve's anyhow, arranging it while the food simmers with a napkin, spoon, and a glass of water. he can make tea for them both later, for now he busies himself with the food. it's not like the traditional sokovian dish back home that oeznik would bring to him when he was miserable with flu, full of garlic cloves and flavour that revived him from what felt like the brink of death - but it's the american counterpart. and it's hard to fuck up chicken noodle soup, even on short notice.
he carries it back to steve's room carefully, nudging over his desk chair to sit down at his bedside.]
[ Ah, the pancake mix. It feels like a lifetime ago they flirted and made a mess of the dorm kitchen together, but it had led to a party, a week of silence, and kiss...
And now what? Zemo arriving to take care of him, even though he certainly has no obligation to. A part of Steve feels guilty for that, for worrying and putting his care into the hands of others. But the relief at having someone here, holding his hand, touching his hair, promising to help him? It's undeniably written in the way his shoulders sag, the way he sighs and settles instead of rebutting against the offer.
He holds his hands up in a mock surrender. ]
Got me. I threw the pancake mix out in your honor.
[ But Zemo's up and gone before he can really process much else, before any other words can sleepily tumble from his lips. He shifts instead on the bed, settling his back against his headboard and pillows, reaching to tug his quilt back over him to stifle some of the fever shivers prickling beneath his skin. It's easier to think about sleeping now, knowing someone waits for him in the other room. His mother used to cook in the kitchen while he rested, peeking in from time to time with worry through the crack of the door.
She thought he hadn't seen her, but he had. The lines around the corners of her mouth when she frowned, the furrow of her brows, making divots that pry at the gentle laugh lines on her face. She wasn't built to frown, and to know he's made her do that?
Steve's nearly drifted off when Zemo returns and he blinks awake, expression pinched with brief confusion until the tray comes to rest against his bedside. The soup steams and the smell of the salty broth makes his mouth water. He hadn't felt like eating until this moment, somehow, and he moves to push himself up further in the bed, straightening his back and reaching first for the glass of water, without even asking permission. (He should, considering Zemo made this for him. Snatching things away seems rude). He drinks nearly half the glass down with a satisfied sigh, tilting his head back against the wall. ]
I needed that.
[ It makes him feel a little more human, even if he still feels the fatigue of the fever making every ounce of him feel a thousand pounds heavier. The soup is his next target, his tired hands reaching to press the bowl between his palms and pull it off the tray to cradle it for its warmth. He knows he'll need to eat it, eventually, but he seems utterly content to hold it up at his sternum, letting the steam waft up along his chest, his chin, his face. ]
You don't have to do all this. [ A small smile, his head tipping back against the wall in a lazy loll. ] It's warm. Smells good.
[ It takes a minute or so of him enjoying the warmth before he finally takes a slow bite, humming at the warmth, the water and food already beginning to bring a healthier color back into his face. ] Tastes good, too.
[for a moment, he wonders if maybe he should have offered to feed steve himself. but that felt maybe a step too far, a little insulting. something tells him steve wouldn't mind it though, even though zemo himself had bristled at the memory of steve nearly having to do the same the night he'd tucked him into bed and made sure he took aspirin and drank down water before sleeping. he'd felt utterly childish, embarrassed and exposed by his own weakness even though he knew the other boy wouldn't judge him for it. after his anger subsided now he just feels...immeasurably grateful. like he wants to pay him back in kind, and he'd happily stay at his bedside to care for him so long as steve wants him here. and for now, he's very much getting the impression his company is appreciated first and foremost, but maybe his culinary skills too - even if the likelihood of him still getting much flavor is debatable at this point.
he holds the tray steady for steve at his side, leaning in with a soft smile and tipping his head in acknowledgment of steve's compliments. it's already apparent in the way he perks up slightly, skin less pale and ruddy in the cheeks. zemo can't stop himself from reaching out to lightly brush some of his hair back again and adjusting the cool rag along the back of his neck so it doesn't slide off his forehead and right into his soup.]
You said that already. But what you're failing to identify is - I want to do it for you. You already know I like cooking.
[he shrugs lightly, as if it's nothing. but there's a pause and a clearly small hesitation, as he leans forward and places a hand at steve's shoulder with a soft squeeze. he hunches in a bit, as if doing so might somehow add levity to the very serious thing he chooses to admit in this moment. steve surely isn't delirious enough to forget it, and this more than anything should prove he isn't holding any grudges for the unintentional disappearing act.]
And...did it occur to you that maybe I want to take care of a boy that I like?
[his eyes flick up slowly, and if steve meets them he'll surely see the nervousness zemo is letting peek through as authentic - no mask of haughtiness, no mistaking his implication. that's right, he likes steve rogers. and whatever this tentative thing they've started is...at least they both know it's mutual now. it's been bumpy and full of misunderstandings, but for maybe the first time now it feels as if they're both on even footing and ready to take the next step together.
which is maybe another selfish reason he has for dropping everything to take care of steve. nursing him back to health means the sooner he's up and about, the sooner he comes back to zemo's dorm room, and the sooner they pick up where they left off. which is decidedly not anything to do with the chapter they're paused at in their studies and entirely to do with getting steve's mouth on his own again - maybe this time wandering down his neck, maybe somewhere more comfortable where zemo can slide a hand under his shirt -
focus, he has to remind himself, jaw twitching as he swallows hard and clears away this dangerous train of thought.]
It isn't much, but it will do the trick for tonight.
[ The soup does a great deal to perk him up, filling his belly and chest with a slow, easy warmth. He doesn't remember when he ate last, when he last crawled out of bed to fill his water bottle, so this small meal is enough to make him feel a little more human already. He should be eating more of it, instead of savoring the warmth of the bowl, and so dutifully, he takes another bite.
He pauses when that hand reaches to brush hair from his face and his eyes dip, a dark fan of lashes against pink cheeks, moving in slow motion to the gentle touch. A sigh falls from his lips, the cool cloth moved to his neck almost as delectable as the very touch itself. His eyes open under the gentle pressure on his shoulder, and he's met with the pretty boy at his bedside leaning in. For a moment, even in the haze of his fever, he wants to lean to kiss him. But he knows, even now, that this pretty, posh boy might not be too keen on chicken-noodle-soup-kisses, as much as Steve finds himself following the line of the boy's lips.
His own curve, lazy and warm at the comment. A boy that he likes? Steve gently lowers the soup to rest on a thigh, and one warmed hand reaches for the arm held up by his shoulder, tracing the line of his forearm to his elbow. ]
A boy that you like? Well, that boy's one lucky fella. I'd wager he likes you, too.
[ He huffs softly and lets his hand drop back down to stabilize the bowl against his quad, smiling quietly into the brothy reflection. Another bite, then another, humming at the pleasant warmth that seems to take root in his bones, replacing the shivering chill from before. It isn't much, no, but Zemo's right. It's working. ]
That's probably the fever talking. [ He huffs a small laugh. ] But if he asks you to a movie one day then I'll come back and say I told you so.
[ Steve looks back up into those nervous eyes and smiles, faint and tired, but leans his head just so his cheek can rest against the other boy's arm, wanting the contact, the warmth, the comfort. Just as he pressed in against his chest before. ]
I'm glad you're here. [ Quiet, vulnerable, and he noses the skin of his wrist with a soft, tired sigh. ] I feel terrible.
[it wasn't a stretch to say he'd been on edge about how bad steve's condition looked when he first got here. bad enough that he was still strongly considering calling the school nurse, gut roiling with concern and fear that one wrong move and steve would be unconscious or worse. but now that he's eating and getting proper fluids, it seems he'll be on the mend at least for the night. they can re-evaluate in the morning.
in the morning - oh. subconsciously he's already made the decision to stay the night, apparently, which is just fine considering he'd consciously do the same. especially now - and especially when steve looks at him like that. it doesn't strike him until he sees the way his mouth pulls into an easy albeit hazy smile and then reaches for him just how much he's missed the boys presence back at his dorm and in class. ironic, given he'd abandoned the very same thing a week prior and expected it to be easy for steve to swallow. he blinks lightly when steve reaches for his arm, fingers light and bringing to stark realization just how affected he is by even the barest amount of contact as he suppresses a shudder and nods.]
If he asks - I'll tell him I had a lovely one with a terribly handsome boy recently he'll have to measure up to. Even if he was a blanket hog and made a mess of the popcorn.
[said wryly, his confidence coming back almost immediately now that steve's reciprocated it and the sky hasn't fallen in a crash to the ground. they like each other. still. it's a dangerous thing to embark on, but the longer he pushes it away the harder it'll be...and he can't do it anymore.
he's lost in thought for a moment about all the ways this could go wrong that he nearly misses what steve is saying, brought back to the present by another soft touch against his arm. this time he's able to reciprocate it, letting him nuzzle in before shifting to cup his cheek gently and not that thank god he doesn't feel completely like he's burning up anymore. still too warm, but mildly improved. his fingers flex against the soft skin, and before he can overthink it he leans down to press a soft kiss to his temple, fighting every urge to want to press one to his lips. he barely pulls back, just enough to lock eyes with steve up close and let his concern be visible in the furrow of his brow.]
I would have come sooner. Next time - I won't wait so long.
[it's not his fault he couldn't call or didn't tell him. but he can - that door is open now on zemo's end, finally. his thumb brushes across the high point of steve's cheekbones in an affectionate swipe before he shifts it along his back, letting steve lean into his body and give him more of what he's so clearly seeking.]
Eat more. [it's a soft whisper, as he lets his chin nuzzle against the top of steve's head.] full of fond concern.] Have you taken anything for the fever?
[ The soup sits forgotten, resting against the curve of his own thigh, Steve finding that the warmth Zemo emanates is far better than that of the salty broth. He smiles, lazy and tired, and tips his head back just a little to look into the other boy's face, blue eyes soaking in the features of him up close like this. ]
Mm, darn. I'll let him know you've got other plans. But he might be a blanket hog, too. [ For emphasis, he plucks at the quilt on his bed, the way its bunched around him and under him, certainly not for the sharing in a moment like this. But the idea that he can call him, now, and have him here? It makes something flutter in the pit of his stomach. They aren't barbs and flirty remarks or rushed kisses in a dorm room door frame. Steve doesn't know what they are, but whatever it is feels safe.
The lips against his temple make his eyes flutter, lashes a dark fan against the pink rise of his cheeks where Steve's sure he can still feel the brush of finger tips grazing his skin. He's never felt this way before, not about anyone. They never quite leave such a lingering effect in their wake, and Steve suddenly finds he's sad, too, that those soft lips landed anywhere but his own. ]
Next time - I'll call you.
[ I want you here with me, is everything it implies, and once he's welcomed into Zemo's side he lets himself relax, his body going soft and pliant, his face tipped up against the soft pulse-point at Zemo's throat. He should eat more, he should pry himself away from the warmth of the other boy and eat, drink water, sleep, but even now he feels the fatigue pull at him, heavy and slow. ]
I don't think I can eat anymore. [ Apologetic, because he knows it's for his own benefit, but his appetite has all but left. A soft nuzzle, a sigh.]
There might be some advil in the bedside drawer. [ The bottle's near empty, enough for one dose but little else, but he fears that admitting it would mean Zemo would leave his side, would fetch something else. ] But I'm okay. This happens sometimes, it passes eventually.
[looking at steve feels an awful like looking straight into the sun - even with the visible effects of his sickness - and zemo cannot fathom going a day without this radiant warmth. maybe he'd been lying to himself all along in pretending not to know why steve had always pushed to be in his presence, to pop up at seemingly random times or keep extending invites just to share space together. looking at all the affection so raw in his face right now - how could he have ever wasted such a precious resource, a privilege others would beg for? his gaze slips down, categorizing the things he missed from afar - a light dusting of beauty marks on both cheeks, the precise shade of pink on plush lips and impossibly long, dark lashes despite the light gold threaded through his perfect hair.
it seems wholly unfair that now they've both laid themselves bare and he's ready to kiss steve senseless only for him to have fallen so ill. he wouldn't have believed it unless he'd seen it with his own eyes - the invincible steve rogers isn't a god among men, completely human and susceptible to the same things the rest of them are. but the reality of him so vulnerable in the moment makes zemo want to protect him with a fierceness that is overwhelming, that aches deeply in his chest and has him nuzzling in even closer to the boy lying against him. he presses another kiss to the top of his head, knowing he'll have that many more opportunities the faster he gets better.
so....he's decided he'll just have to see to it that his recovery is as quick as possible.]
It's alright. Your coloring looks better already.
[his fingers press gently atop steve's for one brief moment before they slip past to grip the edge of the bowl and carefully pull it from his lap. he turns to set it down on the top of his neatly organized dresser and away from any risk it'll spill. though, eventually if steve can actually manage sitting upright somewhere that isn't bed, he'll gladly change the sweat-drenched sheets for something fresh and far more comfortable.
he hums lightly, brows lifting and trying to sound conversational despite the way his heart is thudding in his chest at his next statement.]
Maybe next time you won't even need to call. That is - I'll already be at your side.
[his gaze peeks back over, even as he's rifling one-handed for the feel of the advil bottle which rattles disappointingly in response. he pours out the last two pills and extends them in his palm, offering him the water in his other hand.]
Take this for me, okay? [a soft, reassuring smile in steve's direction that turns a little mischievous at the end.] I've always wanted to play Florence Nightingale for someone, you know. Aside from my poor entrance, I am not so bad, hm? But I could use the little ah - [he gestures to the top of his head, mimicking a nurse's cap.]
[ Steve mourns the loss of him instantaneously, the very warmth of the other boy gone as he fusses with the soup bowl, the water, the medicine. Sure, he knows too well it's for its own benefit, that the medicine will temper his fever, will return his appetite, will set him on the course of mending, but it doesn't change his disappointment. He hums lowly, a grumbling sound, as he sits back up a little more in the absence of him.
His eyes follow his movements, a hazy, slow thing, and he nearly misses the implication in the words: ]
I'd like that.
[ A soft smile, and he leans to take the pills from the extended hand, but not before he presses the faintest of kisses in against Zemo's lips, more a press and a mush of the tips of their noses than a kiss proper. But he stays close, be it for effect or the fact that he's just that fatigued. ] It feels like you were always meant to be here. By my side.
[ A soft huff passes between his lips before he sits back, the leaning almost too much to sustain overlong. He pops the pills into his mouth, fumbles a drink from the glass, then another. He practically finishes off the glass before he meekly offers it back, letting his mussed, blond head fall back against the headboard. His eyes never leave Zemo's face, watching the way his lips quirk, the way he moves, the gesture to the top of his head and -
For a brief moment, Steve pictures him as a modern Florence Nightingale, all wrapped up in a nurse's uniform that trims his waist in and makes his legs look impossibly long. His eyes flutter briefly to the bend of Zemo's knee, where he half expects to see a skirt and ivory skin, maybe a mole or a freckle somewhere he hasn't yet found -
He swallows hard and he lets his eyes drift shut on a sigh. A tired smile falls into place and he reaches to snare up Zemo's fingers in his own. ]
Not so bad at all. I'm glad you're here, but I don't know how much longer I can stay awake. I'm sorry.
[it's a little messy and more than a little unexpected the way steve suddenly sneaks in a soft insistence of his lips. not a proper kiss at all, but enough to make zemo smile against them even as he tastes the remnants of soup broth and chicken between a flutter of lashes and nuzzling noses. he wishes he could let steve rest against him like this for the rest of the night - taking comfort in the fact that he isn't alone, that he will be taken care of by zemo who feels as if his heart might burst from how quickly he's fallen head over heels now that he's decided it's easier to let the chips fall where they may. he hums in acknowledgment, pulling back with a small frown tugging down his lips in regret at the separation.]
I like it here. Better than quietly trying to sneak a glance across the way at study sessions, anyhow. But before we can make the most of it...we need to get you well.
[before they can even so much as think about heated kisses that won't be interrupted by second-guesses or frustrated outbursts. the thought makes him giddy, bolstered even higher by the warm fingers that twine with his own and the consideration in steve's gaze from head to toe like he's actually picturing zemo in a full nurse's attire. maybe someday. and with that internal admission comes the realization that yes - this feels different than anything else he's ever embarked on. not that he has much to compare it to, but even the closest thing he had to adoring another person in boarding school seems so small and far away in comparison. there's a heaviness to this, a devotion that he feels all the way down to his bones that warms him to his core thinking about them. steven rogers and helmut zemo. together, a packaged deal.
nevermind the reality of it waiting outside these dorm room walls. for now...he can feel like he's floating as he can't stop the stupid smile pulling at his mouth or the way his fingers flex fondly around steve's.]
It's okay - you need the rest.
[he dips down again, lips pressing softly against steve's temple for a gentle kiss. but mostly it's so he can whisper what follows in a soft drag against his skin.]
Was wird da künftig erst sein? Schlafe, mein Prinzchen, schlaf ein.
[but what will the future bring? sleep, my little prince, sleep. a german lullaby he remembers from his youth, back when he was struggling to juggle french and german alongside refining his sokovian. english was always the hardest - so different from the similarity of the others. maybe someday he can tell steve how he really feels in every language he knows.]
[ The tug of fatigue is unmanageable, undeniable, even if all he wants is to stay tucked up against this boy, whispering back and forth until the night turns to morning. His eyes stay heavy, lashes a dark fan against skin rubbed darker by exhaustion. The rosy hit of fever has dulled in his cheeks now, aided by the soup and the medicine, though he's sure it's more the company that's raised his spirits than anything else.
He hasn't ever considered being drawn to someone like he is this boy, with his sharp remarks and upturned nose, and yet he finds himself remembering coy little smiles, their intellectual arguments, the way beauty marks and freckles speckle his skin. Never has he felt the urge to memorize someone, to take quiet ownership of everything about someone and cherish it, whole and deep.
He's had girlfriends and a rogue boyfriend, but this feels different. ]
I think we can still sneak glances all we want, right?
[ He makes a point to sleepily open his eyes, half-lidded, and tug their joined hands to rest against his chest instead of in the bed beside them. He settles, finally, sliding down onto his back proper, his blond hair a mess of wild fringe in his face, around the pillow, cow-licked and sleep worn. If Zemo can look at him like that, while he's like this? Something stirs, warm and fond in his chest.
Eyes flicker closed again when he feels the pull of lips and whispers against his temple. He recognizes some of the words, enough to string together the phrases after a few years of studying languages, and a smile pulls at his lips, slow and lazy. He pulls Zemo's hands up, pressing a soft kiss against his knuckles with a tired sigh. ]
That make you my princess then? [ He looks up at him, cheeky and tired, but there's not much fight in his voice. Instead, he turns onto his side in the bed, keeping his fingers linked with Zemo's, resting just near the edge of the mattress. ]
Thank you.
[ His lips move like he might say something else, like there's more he wants to say, but the fatigue wins and finally, Steve slips into light sleep, fingers slackening around Zemo's as he settles, dreamless and still. ]
Only when everyone is looking. When it's just us...we have nothing to hide.
[he looks miles better already, and zemo would like to think it's a combination of the cooking and his presence. eventually he'll gladly help change the sheets and make it even more refreshing, but for now he can quietly tidy up elsewhere while steve hopefully rests a little easier. his first consideration had been to simply sit with him until he drifted away into a more comfortable version of sleep - keep cooling skin, hold his hand, brush the errant and damp strands of hair from his forehead. and once he was fully asleep - steal a few moments to admire the gentle flutter of long lashes against his skin and start committing the light dusting of beauty marks across his cheek and bare arms to memory. and after he'd had his fill, steal away in the cover of the night when no one else was watching and sleep in his own bed. but seeing just how vulnerable steve actually is now - he can't imagine setting foot out of this room until sunlight is streaming in and making gold out of steve's hair.
he watches with a soft smile as steve gently tugs his hand up, brushing even softer lips across the backs of his fingers before seeming to deflate again from the energy that alone takes. he twists his hand - not to pull it away but to lightly cup at the warm cheek and let his thumb stroke across stubble that he's been too weak to get rid of. the slight flush that creeps into his cheeks is unavoidable when steve makes the comparison, and he dips his head briefly in a somewhat sheepish acknowledgment.]
That's exactly what it means. But even princes need their beauty sleep.
[he pauses, glancing back up and watching steve shift one last time before really starting to let himself be pulled into that enthralling lull. only when his breathing evens out does he lean forward and press another soft kiss to his forehead, lips dragging lightly against his skin.]
I'll be here in the morning. I promise.
[only when he's confident steve won't wake does he gently tug his hand away, pressing his palm briefly against the back of his hand as if to physically repeat what he's uttered. he wants to make good on his original mission - cleaning up the kitchen, doing the small bit of dishes that have piled up and been left sitting. wiping down the sinks and the mirror in the bathroom, then rummaging in both their drawers for some more aspirin which he triumphantly finds and sets down on steve's side of the sink. it easily be replaced before his roommate gets back, but for now desperate times. only when he's satisfied with the slightly more organized state of things does he quietly tiptoe back towards the bedroom and tug over a chair. his back won't thank him for it in the morning, but he'll be the first thing steve sees, and that far outweighs any discomfort.]
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but of course that isn't it. it sounds stupid even when he lays it out in his head - and steve rogers isn't the type to just let something sit like that without addressing it, is he? he's expecting another round of twenty questions, of laying it out in plain, broad strokes of black and white when zemo would much rather operate in the murky shades of grey that suit this situation better.
he watches it happen like it's in slow motion - steve's hands purposefully flexing around his waist, drawing him closer as he leans down and responds in kind to the kiss zemo had intentionally left one-sided. it's not his first kiss with a man by any means, but it is his first kiss with a man like steve rogers, and that makes all the difference. it's hot and seeking and there's a barely-restrained vigor to it that holds a certain amount of grace - much in the way steve has handled himself this whole time. zemo's fists clench, balling up and pressing lightly against steve's chest like he means to push him away and put a stop to this. but it's a lot harder when he desperately wants this - has wanted it for longer than he'd care to admit.
something molten pools in his gut at the press of broad palms against his lower back, brushing lightly over the expensive woven fabric of his shirt and sending a shiver up his whole spine that shakes out in a full-body tremble. his fingers shift, splaying across his chest as he presses up on his toes and tilts his head back to deepen the kiss. he may as well while he has the opportunity, right? steve slips his tongue along the inside of his mouth first - proving that maybe he's not just some boy scout after all. zemo meets it with his own, twining against it and tasting the remnants of something fresh and minty, like steve made a hopeful point to brush his teeth before coming here.
(his lips are soft too, and he's the perfect height for zemo to shift closer and press himself against that rock solid chest that he now has the sobriety to really appreciate it. and if there's a content hum when he does so, immediately swallowed up by the delicious shift of steve's mouth - then it's almost like it never happened, isn't it?)
fuck, but it's good. infinitely better than the clumsy ones in dark corners at clubs with strangers who don't even know his name and taste like cheap vodka, cigarettes and marijuana while they pawed greedily and blindly at him. steve makes him want to stay awhile, to slip his hands up under what he's wearing and press intimately with skin against skin. to tug steve into his bedroom - pull them both horizontal so they can carry this on with uninterrupted purpose. and it's that thought that has him pulling away again out of necessity, licking into his mouth one last time and nipping at the plush lower lip in a teasing farewell. he's breathing harder than normal, face flushed and eyes frantically skimming along steve's for any signs of annoyance or residual anger. it's not like he wouldn't deserve it.
one hand lifts to cover over his own mouth and press fleetingly at them like he's trying to test that they've actually just been locked with steve's and he isn't hallucinating this. for once, he doesn't have a smug comeback.]
Right - well. We should, ah, get to work.
[there's a hesitance there - like one wrong (or right) excuse and he might not be able to resist another opportunity to do that again. especially while steve's hands are pressing lightly into him, the touch branded against him beyond skin-deep in a way he'll definitely be thinking about later when he's alone.]
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His fingers flex just so against Zemo's lower back, encouraging him closer as he leans in. Every move Zemo makes, Steve mirrors it almost naturally, and he bends over him easily to deepen the kiss when the opportunity arises. One hand slides up the smaller boy's side, along his arm, the side of his neck, just in time for the kiss to break, leaving him panting softly. (He can feel the teasing nip of teeth still on his lip, the ghost of a promise, if ever he felt one).
It takes half a second for him to open his eyes and when he does, they slide open slowly, but he doesn't move his hands yet, letting them relish the warmth of the other boy for a few seconds longer. A sheepish, almost shy, smile pulls at his lips.
What was that?
Even Steve knows the answer, what with the way his blood thrums warmly in his veins, the way he's already thinking of kissing him again... ]
Right.
[ A soft huff, a breath, and the faint, affectionate swipe of his thumb against Zemo's jaw before his hands move altogether, dropping to his sides so he can create cooling space between their bodies. (He already misses the way Zemo fits against him, so much that he knows for a fact it's going to haunt him when he tries to sleep tonight). A little awkwardly, sheepish, he runs a hand back through his hair and steps around the other boy, shoulder brushing with his on the pass. Never mind how red his face has gotten. Getting his work back out, he lets out another breath, and absently runs fingers along his own lips. ]
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zemo clears his throat loudly, as if to convince them both it'll be easy to get back down to business. he braces both hands against the tabletop, sliding into his seat and trying hard to quell the rush of heat he knows is visible in his own cheeks. he's so overwhelmed with what's just transpired that he forgets to even offer steve something to drink or make the move to get water for himself.
they work mostly in quiet today, the occasional flip of a book or his laptop to get feedback or clarify a portion that needs a second eye. and he finds that even in their most uncomfortable - it's not that bad. sitting with steve isn't the herculean task he's convinced the other boy it is by his actions and sharp, put-upon barbs. it's actually quite pleasant. he sneaks glances up at the other boy frequently - still marveling at how handsome he is in his concentration and realizing how dangerously distracted he is now that he knows precisely how those hands feel against his waist and his mouth fits along his own. but all good things must come to an end, and when he finds himself stifling down a yawn behind the back of his palm, he looks up with heavy, half-lidded eyes and realizes he's both physically and mentally exhausted from....everything, the week leading up to this, the outburst, the argument, the kisses.
he closes his laptop with an airy snap, fingers lingering across the top of it nervously tracing along the emblem. he bites at his lip, glancing up through his lashes across the way at steve.]
It's getting late. We managed to get through everything, against all odds.
[there's a wry twist of his lips at that as he watches steve start to pack up his things for the second time, knowing this one is actually goodbye. it would be easy to just watch him go to the door on his own, to stay in his seat and absolutely ensure nothing else transpires and that their not-quite friendship is back on track as surely as the way they've managed to steer this project. instead, he pushes himself up onto his feet.]
Let me walk you to the door.
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Occasionally, he sneaks glances up at Zemo, watching the way he types furiously, the way his brow pinches as he focused, the way his tongue sometimes slips across his lips. Is he thinking of the kiss, too? That motion alone makes him dare a taste of his own lips, hoping to find the drop of something sweet and rich waiting there in the faint grooves where perfect teeth had caught before. To no avail.
Dutifully, he stays on task, keeping to his work in as much as he can considering the elephant that stands in the room. How they manage to get work done is a mystery to him, but they work with relative ease and silence. By the time they begin to conclude, Steve huffs out a soft laugh and sets his pen down, only to run fingers back through his own hair. ]
Against all odds.
[ The tilt of a head, a laugh, and he carefully packs his things back into his bag a second time that night and pushes up from his spot, slinging the bag over one shoulder. Starting toward the door he breathes a laugh as he turns to walk backward, looking at Zemo amused first, but there's a quick scan of something appreciative, as if the dip of his eyes to the man's mouth and back up are simply a reflex. ]
We've already done more work than half the class, so I think we're in good shape. [ He pauses when he gets to the door, looking down at Zemo curiously. ]
Thank you. For tonight.
[ For explaining. For the kiss. For all of it? ]
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[something catches in his throat when steve looks down at him and actually thanks him, like tonight wasn't an utter disaster from start to finish. it's no small miracle they were even able to power through anything at all tonight, and now...in some ways, zemo feels like the project has persevered, but where does that leave him and steve? right back where they started, only now they're just ignoring what's transpired. and that's the way it should be, or it would have been if hunter and his stupid drink and the stupid party hadn't ruined everything.
but it's hard to focus his energy on being mad about all of that when steve is standing here looking as good as he does, with the knowledge that steve likes him and put his hands along his sides and jaw, and steve actually kissed him back. gone is the frustration from when he'd first come in here, and the removal of having to second-guess zemo's thoughts has apparently done wonders to his disposition. not that steve ever really deserved any of that in the first place, but if a kiss was all it took to effectively apologize...all the better.
a kiss. instinctively his gaze drops again, right around the same time he catches steve's wandering too and it all but cements what they're both clearly itching to do again. zemo lets his eyes flick up to meet steve's, something a little apprehensive and maybe even concerned behind expressive amber.]
Same time next week, then.
[he gives a curt nod, swallowing hard and making an attempt to look away. what he should do is reach for the door behind steve and pull it open, gesture for him to go and leave zemo to his burning thoughts for the rest of the night. he'll be replaying it over and over, probably taking his smaller hands and pressing it along the places that have been all but been sealed onto his body in a poor mimic for larger, warmer ones. when they see each other next...will it be this awkward? it's the thought of steve going his separate way right now and not showing up again until their next study session or freezing him out much in the same way zemo's done to him all week that his complicated mix of emotions shot into overdrive. despite his best efforts...that isn't what he wants, not really. and he feels like though it's his fault, he needs to do something to fix it. redirect it back to what they had if it's even still possible.
he pushes up onto his toes again, one hand bracing on his shoulder and the other reaching for steve's jaw to pull him down into another searing kiss. there's enough time that steve could stop him if he wanted to - but if he doesn't, he's getting the full force of all zemo's pent up energy from the past hour - the hunger, the fear, the need to taste him again just once before he has to let him go.]
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[ Steve doesn't know what he expects now. What will their study sessions be like after the kiss from earlier? They haven't spoken about it and he gets the feeling, considering how this night went, that they might not. That a name might not be given to what it was, and what it means for them now. Is there a them? Steve considers it, and the idea of spending many nights kissing Helmut Zemo doesn't seem like a bad one. Not at all.
He barely notices the way the other boy looks away, his own eyes tracing the contours of his jaw, the slant of his nose, the pull of his mouth into something tight and concerned. Another step back toward the door and he's halted by the firm plant of a hand on his shoulder and the crush of lips against his own. He stumbles back the final foot, his back against the door frame, and he all but reaches to drag Zemo up against him, strong arms looped at his waist and supporting him up against his chest. For all intents and purposes, he's practically holding him up off his feet, keeping his weight off those balanced tip-toes, and using his body as a support instead.
His fingers fist into the fine cashmere of his sweater as he parts his lips against the other boy's, licking hot and needy into his mouth, as if chasing the remnants of berry-bitter wine, of anything that might linger on his own tongue long after this dorm door shuts behind him.
Idly, he finds himself wondering what it would be like to press Zemo against the door jamb, to have those long, slender legs wrapped around his own hips or waist, and he feels heat pool low and roiling into his belly. But one arm keeps him supported all the while the other slides up his back into the hair at his nape, letting fingers rake against his scalp and hold him close, pressing out all the air between their bodies to bring them flush, chest to chest, hips to hips inasmuch as one can, legs and knees a tangle.
He's cheeky this time, though, and instead of drawing back for air, he catches the boy's plush bottom lip between his teeth long enough to catch a breath and dive back in, his fingers curling into and mussing that perfectly coiffed hair. ]
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but he shouldn't. can't, really - because one wrong move and it ends up everywhere, ends in him packing a bag and catching a private jet back to sokovia for his indiscretions. the foolish part of him thinks about what steve said earlier - no one else needs to know. he feels like his head and his heart are on full display, someone else pressing fastforward and running his thoughts through an endless loop around the sensation of steve's lips and teeth and tongue and hands and the worrisome thoughts of when can i do this again? what are we?
it's that much easier to let his hand fist against steve's shirt, fingers shifting along his collarbone to grab at his bicep and squeeze appreciatively. there's a low groan as fingertips drag against the sensitive back of his neck, trailing up through his hair and using it to hold him in place as steve takes what he wants out of it too. the realization that this is so very mutual has zemo kissing him that much more insistently, tongue laving against steve's in an elegant curl. his other hand cups along his jaw, thumb pressing in to feel the way it's working against his own so hungrily. he could do this for hours, he thinks, because steve is just that good of a kisser. better than anyone else he's had, really, even a very memorable austrian boy who visited his boarding school pre-university and never enrolled.
there's a very undignified noise he realizes comes from his own mouth when steve pulls back, biting his lip like zemo had earlier to force himself to pull away. only this time steve just uses it as an interlude to breathe, something he very nearly forgets to do when his lips are crushed against his once more. zemo's fingers flex along his arm, gripping tight and steadying as his kisses grow more open-mouthed and filthy in how needy they are. there's audible little noises alongside the slickness of tongues and wet lips and heavy breaths in the air, and he doesn't care because it's too fucking good to be embarrassed or stop. steve certainly doesn't seem to mind.
but all good things must come to an end, and eventually the next time he needs a real breath, he tilts his neck back just so, body still mostly relying on the way steve's is supporting him. he's wide-eyed, flushed, lips red and swollen and eyes glimmering with excitement at the risk they've both just taken. his voice is a note huskier, like the other boy has somehow sucked it out of him with his kisses.]
Well, goodnight then, Steven.
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Maybe it's wrong, maybe it's a step too far, but he so rarely takes anything of what he wants. He so rarely puts his neck out for the chopping, but the hand at the back of Zemo's neck slides around, thumb and forefinger catching his chin and tilting it up so that he can press one more kiss to those lips, chaste and short and sweet. ]
Goodnight, Helmut.
[ He draws away then, adjusts the strap on his bag, and ducks out of the room with a sheepish smile. And the memory of their kisses sticks with him, despite the argument, despite the fight. He texts the first two days following, but when classes roll around, he starts to feel sluggish, tired, run down. Monday, he's in classes and acts as normal as he can, but soon enough, all communication drops. Steve seems to disappear from classes, or certainly avoid the ones Zemo is in, and the texts and phone calls go radio silent.
While one might think it's a complication from a spontaneous make out session gone sloppy a few nights before, Steve instead finds himself coming down with a fever. He tries to ignore it and powers through most of his classes, but his literature course is the last of the day, and he doesn't have the energy. In doing so, he misses Zemo, but spends much of his day in bed tucked deep under the covers.
He doesn't text the boy, doesn't text his mother, doesn't bother with his roommate, but sleeps so much of his days away trying to shake whatever it is that comes over him. Three days have passed, though he's lost track of time between medicine and sleep-induced drunkenness, and by the time their next study session rolls around, Steve doesn't turn up. He stays curled up in his bed, pale and sticky with sweat, fitfully trying to sleep though he seems to come in and out of it with some difficulty.
It calls back to his days as a young boy, frail and fragile, when illnesses like this were as common as the sun rising in the east every morning. He's used to feeling like this, overcome with fever, nausea, fatigue. How many years of his life were spent tucked into a bed with his mother constantly tending to his side? How many years had he been coddled and carried into an immediate care because his fever got too high for such a small boy? He's long lost count. He doesn't want to worry his mother now, not with her workload and the stress on her shoulders, so he keeps his phone on silent on the charger, drifting in and out as the days pass.
Phil's gone yet again, has been all week for a school leadership function, and so he's been blessed with silence. Being alone, however, seems to make things worse in so many ways, the lack of care and water and food enough to force him up occasionally. He needs to eat, he knows that, but instead curls back up into his bed, burying himself in the covers as the dorms come to life at the end of the school day. He feels, in the haze of his fever and fatigue, that he's forgetting something. That he's got things to do, but he lets his his head fall back to the pillow with a heavy sigh, his eyes drifting shut. ]
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[if he looks a little dazed when steve sets him back fully on the his own two feet, glancing down the bridge of his strong nose and dipping down for another kiss that somehow makes his heart flutter more than the ones they've just shared - it's because he is. that kiss? that one feels like - something more than just adolescent, biologically fueled physical need. that kiss feels like a promise of something sweeter and deeper that he'd trust a man like steve rogers with, but not anyone else. that kiss has his cheeks burning as he holds open the door and offers a small wave, watching his tall, retreating figure with a dippy little grin facing his back where he can't see it.
those hot touches and kisses are the subject of any number of his thoughts and dreams over the course of the next few days. how is he supposed to concentrate on anything else? he could initiate conversation, try to feel out where steve is at with the whole revelation. he should just drop it, but now that the door is open he's not sure how he's meant to just forget about it all. that, and he doesn't think he can at this point even if he tried. better to control it while he can, right? steve texts him, and it's not any different from their previous conversations. still flirtatious, toeing the line of that easy banter that's always somehow smoothed out by their distance, but it also ignores the elephant in the room frustratingly so.
and then...it feels like zemo is forced to get a taste of his own medicine. at first he thinks maybe something has come up, and steve misses class for the first time...ever in the semester. life happens, disappointing as it is. but then it keeps happening, and the one text zemo deigns to send on his own, a joking:
Don't tell me - my limitless knowledge on Impressionist art history and its influence on literature scared you away, hm? ;)
it goes unanswered. completely ignored. no response, no call, no steve rogers anywhere that zemo is present. maybe he won't admit it out loud, but his cold shoulder the previous week seems a tad unfair, but steve's is impossibly worse because he'd given something of himself in return - he'd let steve peek at the vulnerable boy behind the icy façade and understand that there was something deeper there. let him in on the secret that he cared. he'd trusted steve, and now he was just as bad as any other boy when the drugs wore off or the reality of the morning looming ahead would settle in and spook them away from anything meaningful. only - those ones didn't hurt.
this? this is infinitely more painful. there’s a downright sting of humiliation to it, even.
he's not exactly surprised when twenty minutes pass after their arranged time and there's no communication, no knock on his door. at least he'd had the decency to keep that aspect of their interactions open. he knows he could sit and miserably pluck away at his end of the work, passive aggressively send it to steve in a scathing email or even send him another text. but the thought of looking in any way desperate is something he'd rather die than entertain, so the next best thing is to simply confront him head on. a rare, but useful tactic that seems to fit the man he thought steve rogers was.
which is how fifteen minutes later he's standing in front of steve's room, straightening his shoulders and letting the obvious gracefully restrained fury be visible in the sharpness of his eyes, the pinched curl of his lips and the tightness in his jaw. roommate be damned - if paul or phil or whatever the hell his name was is present, he's about to get an earful. zemo has a stack of papers in one of his arms as well, and he wraps his free hand against the door in three concise thunks. no answer. he presses his ear to the door, listening for the telltale signs of rustling or the hushed tones of avoidant conversations. nothing, at least not right away, so he knocks more insistently in rapid fire presses of his knuckles. now there's something on the other side, slow-moving, and he's not sure what possesses him to reach down and test the handle (door's always open springs immediately to the forefront of his mind in an outright taunt)...and find it indeed open.
well. if he didn't want visitors, and if he didn't want zemo - he shouldn't have left it an open invitation.
he pushes open the door and strides confidently inside, chin held high and haughty and he slams the door behind him. no sign of steve in the small entryway of the room containing their desks, couch, and kitchen.]
Clearly I missed the memo that you weren't coming, because surely you wouldn't dare keep me waiting without so much as a word.
[his clipped accent echoes mildly in the empty room, and zemo wonders if he's not even here. takes a few more steps inside, tilting his head to see if he (or his roommate) are in the back bedroom space. there's another rustle, something that sounds suspiciously like the creak of bad springs in an appallingly thin mattress.]
I can hear you, you know. I never took you for a coward, Steve Rogers.
[he finally rounds the corner, and there's steve sitting up at the edge of his bed. before he can actually let the simmering heat of his anger boil over and really take a look, he tosses the stapled papers to the foot of steve's bed.]
I took the liberty of keeping us on track, though I have half a mind to finish it myself and request a new partner since you've suddenly made yourself so unreliable. I -
[he's mid-berating when he finally stops to really look at steve. he looks - not unkindly - like death. pale, a pained expression, a bed that looks like it's been clung to for more than an afternoon with sheets askew and hanging out. has he been sick this whole time? he's still angry, but not enough to let his bite sink in. instead he steps forward with a furrowed brow and concerned frown, reaching for steve's forehead despite himself.]
You look like hell. What happened?
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His head spins with fever, his skin clammy and hot, his chest heaving in slow, labored breaths. There's no recovering the time he's spent sleeping, the time he's forgotten his phone and notifications, the research for their project he has neatly laid out on the small lap desk sitting on the floor. If he can get to his feet, he might be able to put out the fire that is Helmut Zemo, help calm the part of him that both yearns for the other boy and feels incredibly guilty all at once.
He's just about to attempt to push to his feet when the slap of papers hits the ground with a sharp crack. He winces, suddenly very aware of what he must look like, in a worn tank and his underwear, his hair wild and his cheeks pale. A quiet, small part of him yearns for his mother more than anything else. She's seen him like this for many years, but he wouldn't dare worry her now when she can't be at his side to care for him.
He's put her through too much. ]
Helmut, I'm sorry. I set an alarm, but I...
[ He tries speaking over the tirade about schedules and new partners and he turns in the bed to try and stand but barely moves, the room spinning with his movement. The hand against his forehead feels cool and he can't help the grateful little sigh that passes through his lips or the way his body leans into the touch, seeking out the impossible warmth of the other boy. A shiver wracks his body, makes his fingers tremble and his sigh quiver, but his eyes flutter shut at the contact. ]
I get sick sometimes. Always have. Used to be worse.
[ It takes too long for his brain to catch up with the question, as he leans forward without thinking, letting his forehead rest against Zemo's chest, his face nestled into the fine fabric of his sweater. His expression pinches, his lips turn to a small frown. ]
I tried to get up, I did.
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and here zemo is, barging in and probably waking him up from rest he probably needs. it feels very selfish, even though the logical part of his brain reminds him he had no way of knowing. he had sent a text, and all of this is still so...new. unchartered waters, territory he doesn't know how they plan to navigate together.
but what he does know is that steve may as well be on fire beneath his palm, and he stops to brush some of the sweaty hair off his forehead gently with the air of apology in the kiss of his fingertips. steve shudders bodily, whether from the contact or the fever and then suddenly he shifts forward, planting himself against zemo's chest. there's a flicker of surprise at the trust inherent in the motion - the fact that steve is apologizing and still trying to explain himself when it's zemo who should be doing both. he lets his free hand drop to steve's shoulder, soothingly running along his back as he whispers out a soft shhh and lets his other hand keep carding through his hair.]
Stop - it's alright. I'm sorry. Like back down for me, okay?
[he can give a proper apology later. right now he needs to know the important things, and he tips steve back gently to urge him to shift up into his bed, trying to facilitate and guide him as best as he can though he's absolutely not strong enough to lift or pull him over on his own. the fact that steve could probably do the reverse sends a very brief flutter of something in his chest that's immediately tamped down out of urgency.]
You're absolutely burning up, Steve. How long have you been like this? When's the last time you were able to get up - or to eat something?
[another quick glance around the room doesn't reveal any empty plates or even water, no cool rag. he kneels down so steve won't have to look up at him, eyes shifting quickly across his face and brows pinched with concern. it seems serious, despite his best efforts to reassure otherwise. he can't imagine what worse looks like if this is the alternative, and he's not above calling the school nurse.]
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I wasn't ignoring you, I swear.
[ He has no energy to fight, though, when Zemo gently urges him back. Part of him thinks about it, resisting and keeping pressed in close to the warmth of the other boy. For a brief, brief moment he remembers the press of his chest, his hips, his arms in the doorframe, and suddenly wishes he didn't feel and look so sick. But he helps himself back into the bed, sliding with a wince across sheets warm and damp from his feverish tossing and turning. He makes it as far as the wall, his back pressed against the cool drywall, which just makes him shiver all over again.
Tilting his head back against the wall he lets out a deep, labored sigh, his shoulders slumping and his eyes drifting shut before the questions come. A few seconds pass and his eyes open, hazy blues shifting to the boy knelt at his bedside. A part of him wonders if he's somehow dreaming. ]
It's just been a couple days. Monday, maybe. [ Never mind that he's clearly unaware that it's Friday. Time gets lost when all he's done is sleep. ] This happens sometimes. Used to, when I was younger. I'm okay, really. It passes it's just... it just takes a while sometimes. I promise I'm fine.
[ A tiny, frightened part of him, the part that is still very much the sickly boy, wants to ask Zemo to stay. To sit at his bedside and pet his hair or rub his back like he had, but who is he to ask something like that? ]
I'm sorry I didn't text. I think my phone's on my desk.
[ Too far to bother walking, even though it's nearly five feet away. ]
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[zemo can easily see how much effort is required for steve just to hoist himself back up - how much it probably took for him to even try and make it upright to try and greet him and feels yet another pang of guilt. the sheets look uncomfortable, damp and disheveled, but he doesn't have the heart to try and get steve on two feet so he can offer to wash or change them right now. the next best solution is murmur that he'll be right back, squeezing steve's shoulder briefly to head into the bathroom and grab one of the washcloths from the cabinet instead of trying to figure out which belongs to phil or steve, running it under cool water and squeezing out the excess water before bringing it back out.
he stoops down again, pressing it against steve's forehead and hoping it'll cool him where it's hot rather than make him shiver again. it sends another pang of concern deep in the pit of his stomach when he sees just how frail and weak steve looks. but it flashes across his face again, eyes widening as he places a soft hand along his wrist and lets his thumb rub against it lightly in what he hopes is a soothing motion. his voice is low, gentle but slow and careful.]
Steve - it's...today is Friday.
[he'll let that sink in for a minute, fingers splaying across his wrist again momentarily in a soft squeeze. he swallows thickly, knowing this is a larger problem than whatever standoff he'd falsely manufactured out of his own concerns and imagined slight. his phone is on the desk, not that far, but given how he looks it must have felt miles away. his voice softens even further, a low murmur as he tips his chin up towards steve with thin, reassuring smile.]
I'm going to take care of you, okay?
[whatever they are - or aren't - it's the right thing to do. he needs food, badly, and the poor thing is likely dehydrated as well. clearly steve isn't up to taking care of himself, and leaving him to his own devices is out of the question. the terrible thought suddenly leaps into his mind what if steve had - well, died? no one would have even known until now. it's overdramatic, but doesn't seem that exaggerated given the way he looks right now. he probably needs notes and homework collected too, but considering he barely seems lucid and can't even move, that's not the priority.]
You need to eat something. Just rest for me right now while I cook.
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Sure, he's riddled with chills, but it soothes the heat of the fever and refreshes him. He's been swaddled in damp, hot bedclothes for the last few days and this is a welcome change. ]
It wasn't this bad on Monday, but I guess time flies... Friday? Really.
[ Of course he'd had some indication of time, working in and out of his school work, but it's true: he hadn't realized how long he'd really been tucked away in his dorm room, feeling sick.
He turns his hand against Zemo's however, at the press of his fingers, and holds his land lightly, trying to sooth his concern. ]
This used to happen all the time, and I mean it when I say this isn't that bad. [ He laughs softly, fatigued and weary, though his fingers idly curl around Zemo's. Whatever they are doesn't seem to matter now, as Steve can only remember the delicious warmth of Zemo's chest and how much he misses it. ]
But I'm glad you're here. [ He says, finally, his voice a little quieter, his smile a little pained, his eyes heavy and tired already. Resting while Zemo cooks? Steve knows too well that he'd pass out almost immediately upon sinking into his pillows, and he can't. He can't just let this other boy do all the fussing and all the work, even though he knows he can't exactly do it himself.
I don't want to be alone, is what he wants to say, but instead he just sighs softly and squeezes his fingers. ] But you don't have to cook for me.
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I'm glad I came.
[he can't help but reach up with his free hand again, palm bypassing where the rag is cooling at his forehead to brush through hair again in a gentle stroke. christ, if he wasn't so clearly in need of being taken care of, zemo might stay just like this and keep repeating the motion. he can tell it soothes steve, which is something he files away for later. his voice is warm, a low murmur like he's afraid even speaking too loudly will somehow make him uncomfortable. that, and he's still feeling residual guilt for storming in here and making such a spectacle without consideration for what had happened. he'd assumed the worst, and while he knows it wasn't entirely his fault given the total lack of communication, it couldn't have been further from his imagined slights and more crushingly, his fears.]
You need to eat, Steve. [he pauses, swallowing his own pride and knowing this isn't the time to play hot and cold. he only hesitates a moment before adding quietly:] I want to cook for you.
[and then, just so it doesn't feel like he's given something of himself away he adds:] I can't trust the sort of man who makes pancake mix from a box to tell me what he should or shouldn't be doing right now. [there's a wry pull of his lips and another soft squeeze before he pulls his hand away and pats steve's lightly in parting.]
I promise I will be quick about it and come back.
[it helps having been here before - he knows exactly where the utensils and pots and pans are. thank goodness it looks like steve or his roommate have recently done some semblance of shopping - and he doesn't care if he accidentally takes something reserved for the other inhabitant of the household. to him, this literally feels like life or death right now. he pulls out a serving tray which he's willing to bet is steve's anyhow, arranging it while the food simmers with a napkin, spoon, and a glass of water. he can make tea for them both later, for now he busies himself with the food. it's not like the traditional sokovian dish back home that oeznik would bring to him when he was miserable with flu, full of garlic cloves and flavour that revived him from what felt like the brink of death - but it's the american counterpart. and it's hard to fuck up chicken noodle soup, even on short notice.
he carries it back to steve's room carefully, nudging over his desk chair to sit down at his bedside.]
See? That was nothing.
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And now what? Zemo arriving to take care of him, even though he certainly has no obligation to. A part of Steve feels guilty for that, for worrying and putting his care into the hands of others. But the relief at having someone here, holding his hand, touching his hair, promising to help him? It's undeniably written in the way his shoulders sag, the way he sighs and settles instead of rebutting against the offer.
He holds his hands up in a mock surrender. ]
Got me. I threw the pancake mix out in your honor.
[ But Zemo's up and gone before he can really process much else, before any other words can sleepily tumble from his lips. He shifts instead on the bed, settling his back against his headboard and pillows, reaching to tug his quilt back over him to stifle some of the fever shivers prickling beneath his skin. It's easier to think about sleeping now, knowing someone waits for him in the other room. His mother used to cook in the kitchen while he rested, peeking in from time to time with worry through the crack of the door.
She thought he hadn't seen her, but he had. The lines around the corners of her mouth when she frowned, the furrow of her brows, making divots that pry at the gentle laugh lines on her face. She wasn't built to frown, and to know he's made her do that?
Steve's nearly drifted off when Zemo returns and he blinks awake, expression pinched with brief confusion until the tray comes to rest against his bedside. The soup steams and the smell of the salty broth makes his mouth water. He hadn't felt like eating until this moment, somehow, and he moves to push himself up further in the bed, straightening his back and reaching first for the glass of water, without even asking permission. (He should, considering Zemo made this for him. Snatching things away seems rude). He drinks nearly half the glass down with a satisfied sigh, tilting his head back against the wall. ]
I needed that.
[ It makes him feel a little more human, even if he still feels the fatigue of the fever making every ounce of him feel a thousand pounds heavier. The soup is his next target, his tired hands reaching to press the bowl between his palms and pull it off the tray to cradle it for its warmth. He knows he'll need to eat it, eventually, but he seems utterly content to hold it up at his sternum, letting the steam waft up along his chest, his chin, his face. ]
You don't have to do all this. [ A small smile, his head tipping back against the wall in a lazy loll. ] It's warm. Smells good.
[ It takes a minute or so of him enjoying the warmth before he finally takes a slow bite, humming at the warmth, the water and food already beginning to bring a healthier color back into his face. ] Tastes good, too.
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he holds the tray steady for steve at his side, leaning in with a soft smile and tipping his head in acknowledgment of steve's compliments. it's already apparent in the way he perks up slightly, skin less pale and ruddy in the cheeks. zemo can't stop himself from reaching out to lightly brush some of his hair back again and adjusting the cool rag along the back of his neck so it doesn't slide off his forehead and right into his soup.]
You said that already. But what you're failing to identify is - I want to do it for you. You already know I like cooking.
[he shrugs lightly, as if it's nothing. but there's a pause and a clearly small hesitation, as he leans forward and places a hand at steve's shoulder with a soft squeeze. he hunches in a bit, as if doing so might somehow add levity to the very serious thing he chooses to admit in this moment. steve surely isn't delirious enough to forget it, and this more than anything should prove he isn't holding any grudges for the unintentional disappearing act.]
And...did it occur to you that maybe I want to take care of a boy that I like?
[his eyes flick up slowly, and if steve meets them he'll surely see the nervousness zemo is letting peek through as authentic - no mask of haughtiness, no mistaking his implication. that's right, he likes steve rogers. and whatever this tentative thing they've started is...at least they both know it's mutual now. it's been bumpy and full of misunderstandings, but for maybe the first time now it feels as if they're both on even footing and ready to take the next step together.
which is maybe another selfish reason he has for dropping everything to take care of steve. nursing him back to health means the sooner he's up and about, the sooner he comes back to zemo's dorm room, and the sooner they pick up where they left off. which is decidedly not anything to do with the chapter they're paused at in their studies and entirely to do with getting steve's mouth on his own again - maybe this time wandering down his neck, maybe somewhere more comfortable where zemo can slide a hand under his shirt -
focus, he has to remind himself, jaw twitching as he swallows hard and clears away this dangerous train of thought.]
It isn't much, but it will do the trick for tonight.
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He pauses when that hand reaches to brush hair from his face and his eyes dip, a dark fan of lashes against pink cheeks, moving in slow motion to the gentle touch. A sigh falls from his lips, the cool cloth moved to his neck almost as delectable as the very touch itself. His eyes open under the gentle pressure on his shoulder, and he's met with the pretty boy at his bedside leaning in. For a moment, even in the haze of his fever, he wants to lean to kiss him. But he knows, even now, that this pretty, posh boy might not be too keen on chicken-noodle-soup-kisses, as much as Steve finds himself following the line of the boy's lips.
His own curve, lazy and warm at the comment. A boy that he likes? Steve gently lowers the soup to rest on a thigh, and one warmed hand reaches for the arm held up by his shoulder, tracing the line of his forearm to his elbow. ]
A boy that you like? Well, that boy's one lucky fella. I'd wager he likes you, too.
[ He huffs softly and lets his hand drop back down to stabilize the bowl against his quad, smiling quietly into the brothy reflection. Another bite, then another, humming at the pleasant warmth that seems to take root in his bones, replacing the shivering chill from before. It isn't much, no, but Zemo's right. It's working. ]
That's probably the fever talking. [ He huffs a small laugh. ] But if he asks you to a movie one day then I'll come back and say I told you so.
[ Steve looks back up into those nervous eyes and smiles, faint and tired, but leans his head just so his cheek can rest against the other boy's arm, wanting the contact, the warmth, the comfort. Just as he pressed in against his chest before. ]
I'm glad you're here. [ Quiet, vulnerable, and he noses the skin of his wrist with a soft, tired sigh. ] I feel terrible.
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in the morning - oh. subconsciously he's already made the decision to stay the night, apparently, which is just fine considering he'd consciously do the same. especially now - and especially when steve looks at him like that. it doesn't strike him until he sees the way his mouth pulls into an easy albeit hazy smile and then reaches for him just how much he's missed the boys presence back at his dorm and in class. ironic, given he'd abandoned the very same thing a week prior and expected it to be easy for steve to swallow. he blinks lightly when steve reaches for his arm, fingers light and bringing to stark realization just how affected he is by even the barest amount of contact as he suppresses a shudder and nods.]
If he asks - I'll tell him I had a lovely one with a terribly handsome boy recently he'll have to measure up to. Even if he was a blanket hog and made a mess of the popcorn.
[said wryly, his confidence coming back almost immediately now that steve's reciprocated it and the sky hasn't fallen in a crash to the ground. they like each other. still. it's a dangerous thing to embark on, but the longer he pushes it away the harder it'll be...and he can't do it anymore.
he's lost in thought for a moment about all the ways this could go wrong that he nearly misses what steve is saying, brought back to the present by another soft touch against his arm. this time he's able to reciprocate it, letting him nuzzle in before shifting to cup his cheek gently and not that thank god he doesn't feel completely like he's burning up anymore. still too warm, but mildly improved. his fingers flex against the soft skin, and before he can overthink it he leans down to press a soft kiss to his temple, fighting every urge to want to press one to his lips. he barely pulls back, just enough to lock eyes with steve up close and let his concern be visible in the furrow of his brow.]
I would have come sooner. Next time - I won't wait so long.
[it's not his fault he couldn't call or didn't tell him. but he can - that door is open now on zemo's end, finally. his thumb brushes across the high point of steve's cheekbones in an affectionate swipe before he shifts it along his back, letting steve lean into his body and give him more of what he's so clearly seeking.]
Eat more. [it's a soft whisper, as he lets his chin nuzzle against the top of steve's head.] full of fond concern.] Have you taken anything for the fever?
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Mm, darn. I'll let him know you've got other plans. But he might be a blanket hog, too. [ For emphasis, he plucks at the quilt on his bed, the way its bunched around him and under him, certainly not for the sharing in a moment like this. But the idea that he can call him, now, and have him here? It makes something flutter in the pit of his stomach. They aren't barbs and flirty remarks or rushed kisses in a dorm room door frame. Steve doesn't know what they are, but whatever it is feels safe.
The lips against his temple make his eyes flutter, lashes a dark fan against the pink rise of his cheeks where Steve's sure he can still feel the brush of finger tips grazing his skin. He's never felt this way before, not about anyone. They never quite leave such a lingering effect in their wake, and Steve suddenly finds he's sad, too, that those soft lips landed anywhere but his own. ]
Next time - I'll call you.
[ I want you here with me, is everything it implies, and once he's welcomed into Zemo's side he lets himself relax, his body going soft and pliant, his face tipped up against the soft pulse-point at Zemo's throat. He should eat more, he should pry himself away from the warmth of the other boy and eat, drink water, sleep, but even now he feels the fatigue pull at him, heavy and slow. ]
I don't think I can eat anymore. [ Apologetic, because he knows it's for his own benefit, but his appetite has all but left. A soft nuzzle, a sigh.]
There might be some advil in the bedside drawer. [ The bottle's near empty, enough for one dose but little else, but he fears that admitting it would mean Zemo would leave his side, would fetch something else. ] But I'm okay. This happens sometimes, it passes eventually.
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it seems wholly unfair that now they've both laid themselves bare and he's ready to kiss steve senseless only for him to have fallen so ill. he wouldn't have believed it unless he'd seen it with his own eyes - the invincible steve rogers isn't a god among men, completely human and susceptible to the same things the rest of them are. but the reality of him so vulnerable in the moment makes zemo want to protect him with a fierceness that is overwhelming, that aches deeply in his chest and has him nuzzling in even closer to the boy lying against him. he presses another kiss to the top of his head, knowing he'll have that many more opportunities the faster he gets better.
so....he's decided he'll just have to see to it that his recovery is as quick as possible.]
It's alright. Your coloring looks better already.
[his fingers press gently atop steve's for one brief moment before they slip past to grip the edge of the bowl and carefully pull it from his lap. he turns to set it down on the top of his neatly organized dresser and away from any risk it'll spill. though, eventually if steve can actually manage sitting upright somewhere that isn't bed, he'll gladly change the sweat-drenched sheets for something fresh and far more comfortable.
he hums lightly, brows lifting and trying to sound conversational despite the way his heart is thudding in his chest at his next statement.]
Maybe next time you won't even need to call. That is - I'll already be at your side.
[his gaze peeks back over, even as he's rifling one-handed for the feel of the advil bottle which rattles disappointingly in response. he pours out the last two pills and extends them in his palm, offering him the water in his other hand.]
Take this for me, okay? [a soft, reassuring smile in steve's direction that turns a little mischievous at the end.] I've always wanted to play Florence Nightingale for someone, you know. Aside from my poor entrance, I am not so bad, hm? But I could use the little ah - [he gestures to the top of his head, mimicking a nurse's cap.]
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His eyes follow his movements, a hazy, slow thing, and he nearly misses the implication in the words: ]
I'd like that.
[ A soft smile, and he leans to take the pills from the extended hand, but not before he presses the faintest of kisses in against Zemo's lips, more a press and a mush of the tips of their noses than a kiss proper. But he stays close, be it for effect or the fact that he's just that fatigued. ] It feels like you were always meant to be here. By my side.
[ A soft huff passes between his lips before he sits back, the leaning almost too much to sustain overlong. He pops the pills into his mouth, fumbles a drink from the glass, then another. He practically finishes off the glass before he meekly offers it back, letting his mussed, blond head fall back against the headboard. His eyes never leave Zemo's face, watching the way his lips quirk, the way he moves, the gesture to the top of his head and -
For a brief moment, Steve pictures him as a modern Florence Nightingale, all wrapped up in a nurse's uniform that trims his waist in and makes his legs look impossibly long. His eyes flutter briefly to the bend of Zemo's knee, where he half expects to see a skirt and ivory skin, maybe a mole or a freckle somewhere he hasn't yet found -
He swallows hard and he lets his eyes drift shut on a sigh. A tired smile falls into place and he reaches to snare up Zemo's fingers in his own. ]
Not so bad at all. I'm glad you're here, but I don't know how much longer I can stay awake. I'm sorry.
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I like it here. Better than quietly trying to sneak a glance across the way at study sessions, anyhow. But before we can make the most of it...we need to get you well.
[before they can even so much as think about heated kisses that won't be interrupted by second-guesses or frustrated outbursts. the thought makes him giddy, bolstered even higher by the warm fingers that twine with his own and the consideration in steve's gaze from head to toe like he's actually picturing zemo in a full nurse's attire. maybe someday. and with that internal admission comes the realization that yes - this feels different than anything else he's ever embarked on. not that he has much to compare it to, but even the closest thing he had to adoring another person in boarding school seems so small and far away in comparison. there's a heaviness to this, a devotion that he feels all the way down to his bones that warms him to his core thinking about them. steven rogers and helmut zemo. together, a packaged deal.
nevermind the reality of it waiting outside these dorm room walls. for now...he can feel like he's floating as he can't stop the stupid smile pulling at his mouth or the way his fingers flex fondly around steve's.]
It's okay - you need the rest.
[he dips down again, lips pressing softly against steve's temple for a gentle kiss. but mostly it's so he can whisper what follows in a soft drag against his skin.]
Was wird da künftig erst sein? Schlafe, mein Prinzchen, schlaf ein.
[but what will the future bring? sleep, my little prince, sleep. a german lullaby he remembers from his youth, back when he was struggling to juggle french and german alongside refining his sokovian. english was always the hardest - so different from the similarity of the others. maybe someday he can tell steve how he really feels in every language he knows.]
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He hasn't ever considered being drawn to someone like he is this boy, with his sharp remarks and upturned nose, and yet he finds himself remembering coy little smiles, their intellectual arguments, the way beauty marks and freckles speckle his skin. Never has he felt the urge to memorize someone, to take quiet ownership of everything about someone and cherish it, whole and deep.
He's had girlfriends and a rogue boyfriend, but this feels different. ]
I think we can still sneak glances all we want, right?
[ He makes a point to sleepily open his eyes, half-lidded, and tug their joined hands to rest against his chest instead of in the bed beside them. He settles, finally, sliding down onto his back proper, his blond hair a mess of wild fringe in his face, around the pillow, cow-licked and sleep worn. If Zemo can look at him like that, while he's like this? Something stirs, warm and fond in his chest.
Eyes flicker closed again when he feels the pull of lips and whispers against his temple. He recognizes some of the words, enough to string together the phrases after a few years of studying languages, and a smile pulls at his lips, slow and lazy. He pulls Zemo's hands up, pressing a soft kiss against his knuckles with a tired sigh. ]
That make you my princess then? [ He looks up at him, cheeky and tired, but there's not much fight in his voice. Instead, he turns onto his side in the bed, keeping his fingers linked with Zemo's, resting just near the edge of the mattress. ]
Thank you.
[ His lips move like he might say something else, like there's more he wants to say, but the fatigue wins and finally, Steve slips into light sleep, fingers slackening around Zemo's as he settles, dreamless and still. ]
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[he looks miles better already, and zemo would like to think it's a combination of the cooking and his presence. eventually he'll gladly help change the sheets and make it even more refreshing, but for now he can quietly tidy up elsewhere while steve hopefully rests a little easier. his first consideration had been to simply sit with him until he drifted away into a more comfortable version of sleep - keep cooling skin, hold his hand, brush the errant and damp strands of hair from his forehead. and once he was fully asleep - steal a few moments to admire the gentle flutter of long lashes against his skin and start committing the light dusting of beauty marks across his cheek and bare arms to memory. and after he'd had his fill, steal away in the cover of the night when no one else was watching and sleep in his own bed. but seeing just how vulnerable steve actually is now - he can't imagine setting foot out of this room until sunlight is streaming in and making gold out of steve's hair.
he watches with a soft smile as steve gently tugs his hand up, brushing even softer lips across the backs of his fingers before seeming to deflate again from the energy that alone takes. he twists his hand - not to pull it away but to lightly cup at the warm cheek and let his thumb stroke across stubble that he's been too weak to get rid of. the slight flush that creeps into his cheeks is unavoidable when steve makes the comparison, and he dips his head briefly in a somewhat sheepish acknowledgment.]
That's exactly what it means. But even princes need their beauty sleep.
[he pauses, glancing back up and watching steve shift one last time before really starting to let himself be pulled into that enthralling lull. only when his breathing evens out does he lean forward and press another soft kiss to his forehead, lips dragging lightly against his skin.]
I'll be here in the morning. I promise.
[only when he's confident steve won't wake does he gently tug his hand away, pressing his palm briefly against the back of his hand as if to physically repeat what he's uttered. he wants to make good on his original mission - cleaning up the kitchen, doing the small bit of dishes that have piled up and been left sitting. wiping down the sinks and the mirror in the bathroom, then rummaging in both their drawers for some more aspirin which he triumphantly finds and sets down on steve's side of the sink. it easily be replaced before his roommate gets back, but for now desperate times. only when he's satisfied with the slightly more organized state of things does he quietly tiptoe back towards the bedroom and tug over a chair. his back won't thank him for it in the morning, but he'll be the first thing steve sees, and that far outweighs any discomfort.]