Mm, I've moved up from Steven Rogers? Well, I'm honored to be just Steve Rogers.
[ There's a lazy smile on his voice and he shifts in bed, tucking one arm up behind his neck in a poor attempt to keep himself from settling in too comfortably, but it's a losing battle. Talking to Zemo like this in the evening, he thinks, should be a regular occurrence. Already he finds himself wondering what excuses he can use, what he can employ to insure these things happen more frequently. ]
But you should really eliminate the maybes. You bring the wine, I'll provide the popcorn and the couch. Yes, I have a couch Helmut. [ A huff, then a careful yawn turned into his own shoulder. ]
I'll make space for you whenever you want.
[ His voice has taken on something of a minute slur, the pleasantly lazy hum of someone having stumbled into the web of sleep, beginning the gradual decline. But all the same, he wonders what would happen if he invited the other boy over now? To curl up on their dorm room couch and watch a movie that Steve would inevitably fall asleep to. ]
But if it's 5 o'clock tomorrow you want, then be my guest. Door's open all day regardless. Just so you know.
Just wait, maybe one day you'll even make it all the way to just Steve.
[he can picture it, honestly. the easy stretch of steve's pink, luscious lips curving up on one side - long lashes brushing his cheeks in a wink as they slip closed. he sounds like he's lying down, and zemo wonders with a warm swoop in his gut if he's not wearing pants like he's been teasing this whole time. is he under the covers?
there's a long, considering pause. he could pump the brakes, tell him it was just a tease. it's not like he's really committed to anything yet. his fingers tighten around his phone minutely, and when he finally answers it's much, much softer than anything he's uttered yet.]
Okay then. You and me, wine, popcorn, your couch - bad movies. 5 o'clock. No more maybes.
[zemo is no stranger to the inane articles populating the pages of magazines about appealing to men. analyzing their behaviours, undertanding their attraction. men make themselves available when they want someone. it makes him nuzzle into his pillow a little more, pressing his smile against the expensive, high thread-count fabric.]
And what if I came right now, hmm? You sound awfully tired, and I haven't had a sleepover since I was a child in Sokovia.
[ Steve hums, thoughtful but sleepy. Just Steve. He'd like that, really, and even hearing his name abbreviated on the lilt of his Sokovian accent makes him smile a little more. He can see the shape of his lips as he speaks it, and even here, wrapped up in his own bed, he wonders how they might feel pressed against his skin, his hair. What it might be like to have that carefully coiffed head pressed into the juncture o his neck and shoulder.
The pause, the lull in the conversation, almost has him nodding off altogether, but the soft response draws him back out of it. ]
No more maybes. I like that.
[ What it means, he doesn't know. What maybes still lie unspoken between them? What world are they forging in this tenuous friendship turned something more?
The challenge though comes in the sound of his voice, muffled by what? Fabric? A pillow? He laughs airily and turns onto his side, pressing his own face into the pillow as if he might be able to mimic exactly what that must feel like. His voice comes out a low rumble, a sleepy blur of words and a warm chuckle: ]
The door's unlocked, and there's room for two. Sleepover's can be nice. [ A tired hum. ] But I'm a blanket hog.
[they're not together, but it feels like something has shifted in the course of this call. like it's shifted even right now, the way they're both pressed to their pillows in a mirror image of one another. if he listens closely, he can hear the soft breathing of steve's around his sleepy words, and it feels like a level of intimacy beyond mere friendship right now.
there's something in him that wants to get back up - to make the trek across campus and knock on steve's door and take him up on his very open offer. but that's the thing of daydreams - something he'll hold close but can't ever act on.]
That's a shame. I get cold easily, you see.
[a very flimsy excuse, and yet - he feels like he's waiting on bated breath for the hazy response that'll come next.]
[ The heaviness of sleep pulls at him, tugging at the edges of his consciousness, making the conversation drift in and out. All he knows is that he's imagining the pleasant weight of someone else across the bed from him, imagining curling his arms and resting with his face pressed into hair or the nape of a neck.
He hums yet again, low and graveled in the back of his throat as he stretches beneath his covers, cat-like, then curls back up on his side. Finally, he speaks, a soft but honest mumble: ]
I'll keep you warm. [ A sigh, a turn in the bed, the rustle of blankets and sheets, almost as if the neanderthal part of his brain has subconsciously started to make room for this invisible boy in his bed. ] No funny business. Promise.
[ Even in the haze of drowsiness, he can't help the little flip his stomach does, the hopeful swoop, that maybe the boy on the other line might actually come over. It's a nice thought, regardless, and it makes an easy smile curl across his lips. ]
[zemo imagines it too, tucking himself under steve's chin given the near perfect difference in height that would accommodate it. he thinks about sleeping against something firmer than flimsy dorm beds, chin pressed against the firm, broad juncture of his shoulders and against one perfect pectoral. his fingers would slip up under that t-shirt, seeking warmth and his long legs would bend and twine themselves between much stronger, starkly bigger thighs.
wouldn't that be just perfect? it has him shifting onto his side, pretending he's there in a way that's so visceral it makes his chest tighten with want as he lets out a low purr of a chuckle.]
That's what they all say.
[he's quiet for a long moment, and then barely a whisper.]
[ The purr in Zemo's voice makes a heavy flush creep into his chest, up his throat, into his face, and he sighs a little as he curls in closer to his pillow, his eyes shut heavily, lashes a pretty, dark fan against his cheekbones. ]
I don't tell lies, Helmut.
[ A sigh, a sleepy groan in protest as he tries to find a more comfortable position. Absently, his hand reaches across the mattress for the boy that sounds as though his head rests on the pillow beside him, fingers curling into the sheet, coming up empty. ]
Door's always open for you.
[ His breathing starts to even out despite the disappointed feeling that overcomes him when the spot beside him turns up empty. It would have been nice to turn into the warmth of another person, no less someone he's come to admire, even from arm's reach. But maybe that, too, is a dream. ]
[his own eyes slip shut, body tucking into itself like he's leaving the exact same space for steve to slot in behind him. he can tell they're both much too tired now to actually make it happen, and honestly? it's better that way. he's not liable for what he might do otherwise.]
I know.
[there's an even longer pause, zemo mesmerized by the slight shifts on the other end and the way his breathing seems to have shifted into the early telltale signs of imminent sleep. he's probably not far off either, enough that he could fall asleep just like this and forget to even hang up. absently, he muses:]
[ Steve barely registers what Zemo says, his mind being overcome completely by the pull of easy sleep. His breathing begins to slow and he hums in acknowledgement, drowsy and sleep drunk. ]
It's a good name. [ A sigh as he turns and stretches again, the stretch audible in the strain of his voice: ] Helmut.
[ He releases a pleased little exhale and sinks, melting into his covers where he nestles his face against the pillow. He goes quiet, his breathing starts slowing, deepening, and he tries to come up with something else to say, but his words fall from his lips mumbled and half finished: ]
The door's... [ The rest becomes an inaudible mush of sleepy rumblings and he goes quiet, still on the other line, curled around a spare pillow as though it might hold the same warmth of a boy with a pretty face. ]
[he says it softly, barely a whisper so he doesn't wake up a clearly sleeping steve. what would it be like if he were to take on the role of the midnight intruder he'd teased about - to slip in under the cover of darkness and slide alongside the other student's heavy limbs and steal away his warmth? to just watch his even breathing and the slight flutter of eyelids and long lashes dragged across his cheek? doesn't he wish that could be the case.]
Goodnight, Steve.
[another whisper, barely audible. rather than hang up immediately, instead he just...listens for a few moments. to make sure steve really is well and truly out, until the heaviness of sleep pulls at his own eyes and he eventually has to hang up too and avoid anything embarrassing like finding out he snores (he doesn't) via a phone call that's already carried on so far.
but there's a smile on his lips as he drifts off, curled into himself and thinking about a tall, broad body slotted up behind his own as he tugs the blankets up to his chin. his phone is still on his pillow when he wakes in the morning, well-rested and bright-eyed, glancing at the time.
8 a.m.
steve will have been up an hour, if what he said was true. and steve always tells the truth, according to his own declaration, so...
before he can bother to second guess himself, he presses the bar with steve's number and ignores the pounding in his chest. he hasn't even gotten out of bed yet, if he had anything other than the edges of sleep dissipating from his brain, he'd chide himself for looking so desperate.]
[ For the first time in a very long time, Steve sleeps right up to his alarm. Usually, he's up by five o'clock to go for a morning run before campus truly wakes up, but today the alarm sounds at seven and he's still delicately tucked into his bed, wrapped around one of his pillows. It takes him a moment to come to, to realize where he is and just how long he's slept, and he lazes in bed for the better part of an hour.
Until his phone rings.
His brow furrows and he paws around his bed for his phone, surprised to find it wedged under his pillow.
Ah. Right. The hazy memory of the night before makes a hot blush rise into his cheeks but he doesn't have time to worry about it, the phone ringing overlong as it is. Instead, he fumbles his phone, surprised to see the name Helmut Zemo on the screen. He swipes to answer, his voice half an octave lower than normal, graveled with the disuse of the morning and a good night's sleep. ]
Good morning.
[ A lazy smile, despite his own nerves, can be heard on his voice. ]
[steve sounds surprisingly like he hasn't gotten out of bed just yet. that, or he's only just recently woken up. tsk, tsk. zemo is used to doing any number of arrangements from bed out of necessity, but his voice is a little deeper too, even if he doesn't sound like he's just woken up.]
Mm, don't tell me I wore you out last night.
[picking that teasing up right where he left off, apparently, and he tells himself it's because he hasn't had the time to consider what any of this means or think twice about the flirtatious nature of these conversations. it's just - good fun. maybe something like friendship, even though he damn well knows he wouldn't speak to a friend with that level of innuendo in every word.]
[ Steve laughs softly, though he can't deny the way his face burns at the tease. ]
Mm, not really. Unless you came by in the middle of the night when I was sleeping.
[ There's a tease of his own in his voice, the curl of a smile at the corners of his lips. He yawns behind a wrist and rakes fingers into his hair with a sleepy hum. ]
Told you I was taking a lazy weekend. What, didn't believe me? [ A huff, and maybe it's the sleepy haze talking, but he grins: ] You can come see for yourself, if you really want.
[that has him shifting under the covers, rolling onto his side and squeezing his thighs together at the sudden image that brings to the forefront of his mind - something that belongs in his dreams or the late-night, sleepy mumblings they'd shared last night. but no...he'd kept his distance.]
I was all locked-up, rest assured.
[how many times had steve reminded him - the door was open? a hopeful just in case. and it seems that's carried over this morning as well, enough that zemo should really keep a tally for how many times he's been invited over at this point. it's...entirely endearing. tempting, too.]
Well, you've made a believer out of me now. Steve Rogers is capable of relaxing, incredible. [a pause.] I'm hardly presentable at the moment.
[ The push and pull of their strange flirtation brings to life that warm, fluttering feeling in his gut. He thinks for a moment that maybe Zemo isn’t into him at all, that he’s just being European like everyone says. But he can’t help the efforts all the same - he’s intrigued, interested, attracted. He’s not felt like this in a long time. ]
All the better then. Weekends aren’t supposed to be presentable.
[ Another laugh, low and rumbling, and he turns over in his bed, stretching languidly on a pleased sigh. When he speaks again, there’s a richness to his voice, like a cat sated by cream and sunlight. ]
But glad to have your support. I wouldn’t want you to catch your death in your trek across campus. Only in a robe, right?
I would agree with you while I have the luxury here in America, but where I come from...you'd better be dead before you forsake appearances.
[not exactly the best bedside conversation, but it's the truth for him, unfortunately. he doesn't want to linger on that when he can instead get lost in the pleasant timbre of steve's voice, the soft laugh ringing in his ear so enticingly.]
Mm, you remembered. Black - cashmere-twill. Very soft. Warm, but not enough for that.
[he exhales lightly, rolling further onto his side and looking out the window at what looks like heavy clouds in the distance.]
I'll put jeans on for later, don't worry.
[his heart accelerates rapidly, loud enough it's no small wonder steve can't hear it. but he gets it out before he loses his nerve, voice low and steady in a slip of his accent as silky as the material of his robe.]
Of course I remembered. You painted a very vivid picture before.
[ Steve can't help the deep, warm lull of his voice, the fatigue and drowsiness dissolving his filter and making it nigh impossible to stop himself. He had thought about that robe last night, at the way it might feel against bare skin.
His own heart rate ratchets up and he lets out a low chuckle. ]
Pants optional? That's mighty generous of you. Guess you'll have to wait and be surprised tonight over popcorn. [ A beat, and he considers this for a moment, feeling his heart beat faster in his chest. ] Unless you're the breakfast type. It's easier to cook for two.
[well. doesn't that just sink in warmly. zemo doesn't answer right away, swallowing hard and letting the ragged edge of sleep color his words.]
So what you mean to say is - you were thinking about it?
[thinking about him. did you dream about me, steve rogers? is what he wants to ask but that's...
it seems steve is still doing his best to get him over sooner rather than later. he'd agreed to the wine and the movie, but would it really be so bad to get a head start? a big one, admittedly, but...turning him down after the tenth time he's hinted just seems rude at this point.]
If you like pancakes, champagne, and don't mind sharing kitchen space...I could say I'm a breakfast type. Maybe.
[ But he might have dreamed of a fair-faced boy with angled features and sharp eyes. Might have dreamed about that robe, and it takes everything in him to hold back the beginnings of a groan. ]
Maybe? I make a mean pancake, I'll have you know. You'd be missing out. So if you decide you're the breakfast type, well. You know the deal.
[when's the last time he felt quite this connected to another person? there's an easy familiarity here - something he actually finds fairly comforting in speaking to steve rogers like this. of reading between the lines, thinking about the way he was thinking about him before drifting off. that makes it easier to admit:]
Consider it a mutual state of never knowing, then.
[the door's open, that much has been reminded so many times now. as if he hadn't been thinking about it ever since steve uttered it.]
That's right, you don't like maybes. [does steve think he won't come? he'd been serious about dinner, but this...]
Allow me to at least eliminate one of them: I'll see you later, Steven. Dovidenia.
[goodbye. it's a little abrupt, he knows. he could probably spend the rest of the morning on the phone with him if he doesn't pull away now. and there is a part of zemo that thinks about just...lazing in bed a little longer, getting himself an easy breakfast and burying himself into his books and his studies. breakfast surely hadn't been a real invitation - just a polite offer, or a test.
because of course, steve probably doesn't think he'll actually come.
and it's that which spurs zemo to do the exact opposite, not entirely out of spite, but because he considers predictability to be the death of having the upper hand in this scenario. that's how some forty minutes later he is clad in slim cut, light wash jeans and a ribbed maroon crew neck sweater holding a brown paper bag of champagne, a carton of fresh strawberries, and everything but milk and eggs for pancakes. he's standing in front of steve rogers dorm room door, staring at it like it might bite. but enough of this - he'll find out straight away if this was a fool's errand as he lifts his fist and wraps twice on the door out of politeness. he's sure it's unlocked, but barging in is uncouth and he certainly wasn't raised in a barn, even if sokovia is full of them.]
I don't like maybes, but I'm not too fond of absolutes, either.
[ But before he can get much else out, the phone call ends with the tilt of a Sokovian goodbye and he's left blinking sleepily up at his phone, returned to the home screen. He knows that their cat and mouse teasing won't lead to anything, that his morning and afternoon will be boring but idly spent until evening rolls around with the promise of a movie and popcorn.
He climbs out of bed, in only his underwear, boxer briefs, and relishes in the fact that the dorm is his for most of the weekend. Not that it stops he and Phil from roaming around in their underwear as wily boys are wont to do, but he usually puts a shirt on.
The kitchen feels far away, even from the comfort of his bed, but he drags himself out to start a kettle of a warm, black tea. It's a callback to his mother who preferred it to the bitter bite of coffee. Sometimes, when Phil is particularly cantankerous, he'll make a pot of the stuff, but today he's contentedly waiting for the kettle to come to boil. Pancakes, he'd said earlier, and the idea of the food has stuck in the back of his mind, which only leads him to rummaging through their cabinets, arms stretched high and on his tip toes to reach for a box of what looks like old pancake mix. It isn't.
It's the reason he nearly misses the sound of the door knocking and, thinking it's Phil home early (disappointing) he doesn't go to answer it. It's Phil, Sam, or Buck. Maybe Nat if she's feeling particularly antsy this morning, and he doesn't bother answering as he reaches up with his back to the door to swipe again at another box of powdery white stuff, knowing they have something somewhere. ]
Door's open! [ He only pays half a mind when it hesitantly swings open and makes a sound of victory when he comes up with a box of Bisquick. Turning, surely thinking it's a more friendly face, he holds the box up. ] Making pancakes, if—
[ Oh.
Well. ]
Helmut. [ Did the room get warmer? It definitely got warmer. Steve's face burns, and he doesn't register what, exactly, the other man has in his arms. ] Long time no see. Or. Talk. Right.
[oh. he was hoping to see the look of surprise on steve's face when he pulled the door open, but maybe he wasn't being as unpredictable as he'd planned. was steve actually expecting him? had he been played here instead? that has him frowning from behind the bag, shifting it into one arm and hoisting it up as he uses his free one to twist open the door and nudge it open with the toe of his shoe. his view is half obscured by the bag as he closes it with the same foot before adjusting it in both arms at stomach level.
only to promptly nearly drop the entirety of it because - steve is standing there, nearly naked as the day he was born sans boxer briefs that do nothing to deter from the incredibly sculpted physique that's on full display here. his mouth curves into a small "o" shape, and he has a hard time closing it as his gaze flits from head to toe and tries not to linger on every muscle that much more solid and toned as the next. he doesn't think he could stare enough to really drink in the firmness of his massive arms, the slim cut of his waist and washboard abs, strong thighs and jutting hip bones and -
it is hot in here. very much so. and he feels foolishly overdressed in his sweater and jeans, warm under the collar in a flush that feels like fever up the back of his neck and surely infusing color into his cheeks. forget breakfast - steve rogers looks like a meal all himself.
not that he would ever say as much out loud. he holds up the bag a little lamely, tilting his head with a short exhale. once he manages to drag away his lingering gaze from steve's body, it fixes on the box with a small frown.]
I come bearing gifts. You're going to need them if you think we're making pancake mix out of a box, Steven.
[said much more confidently than he feels as he finally strides into the kitchen and sets the bag down on the counter and tries not to get too close to the body that feels obscene next to his own. but still - there's an easy comfort at being here at all. he clears his throat lightly, gaze flicking sideways with a soft.]
Good morning, by the way. I see you were serious about the ah - sleeping arrangement. [his fingers gesture lightly in steve's general direction, but there's nothing in his tone indicating this is a bad thing.]
[ To say he is surprised to see Helmut Zemo waltzing into his kitchen is an understatement. He'd whole-heartedly thought the tease about coming over had been smoke and mirrors, all part of their playful, flirty little game. Otherwise, he might have tried to tidy up a bit, to make himself a little more decent. The flit of Zemo's eyes brings heat under his skin, warm and rosy pink rising into his chest, along his throat, into the high rise of his cheeks. There's no hiding it, not now. ]
Pancakes from a box taste the same as pancakes made from scratch, you know.
[ If his voice comes in a little airy he can't help it, and he'll blame it instead on the sleep-addled part of his brain that seems very much hyper focused on the fit of Zemo's sweater, the confidence he carries as he moves through the kitchen beside him. Deja-vu overcomes him for a moment, as though they've done this dozens of times before, for how comfortable and easy it is.
A small, quiet part of him wonders what it must be like to truly wake up to Helmut Zemo, who no doubt would be warmer than the covers, with tantalizing long limbs all tangled with his own. His own eyes flit, from the expensive shoe, the length of his leg, and he forces himself to tear his eyes away when he fixates on the careful dip of his waist. (What would his hands feel like, resting there? Pulling him in, to feel the press of his chest, hip bones, to tousle his hair, and-) ]
Well, I don't tell lies. [ He clears his throat and turns back to put the box of pancake mix away, unaware of how close the other boy is, and how he stretches long and lean up to the cabinet space. When he comes back down, he finds the heat raging under his skin is almost out of control. ]
Believe me now? [ A small, awkward huff of a laugh and he runs his hands through his unkempt hair. To get dressed or not. Would throwing a sweater on be a form of surrender in whatever game they're playing? He likes the way Zemo looks at him, no less the approving sort of tone in the other boy's voice. Maybe he'll stay like this, just a few minutes longer. ]
Since you've taken over my kitchen, though, what can I help with? [ He steps closer, moving to help arrange the items brought on the counter. ]
[there's a clicking noise of his tongue, playfully mocking as he sets the bag on the counter and shakes his head. he pulls at the wrist of his sleeves, carefully rolling them up to his elbows and out of the way. he feels a bit overdressed, which isn't necessarily a new phenomenon in america, but this....this is something else. one hand rests at his hip, cocked against the counter briefly while he raises an eyebrow and gives steve a somewhat disbelieving look.]
I believed you before. I also believe that no one would kick you out of bed for it, but if you utter that again and really think there's no difference in taste - that might end with you on the floor.
[his own cheeks warm at what a brazen declaration it is - picking right up where they left off over the phone apparently. tone innuendo and all. he turns almost immediately to busy himself with the ingredients and lay them out the way he likes, hoping it'll hide the way he's trying and failing to stifle a grin at both his own boldness and the way he catches steve looking back at him. as if somehow his current state of dress is even remotely comparable - either he's feeling a little sheepish or, is he...? that's a dangerous thought, particularly now that he knows steve rogers likes boys and steve rogers apparently likes him on some level, enough to have him invited him here near incessantly over the past twelve hours. he's so distracted thinking about it that he reaches out to shift something right at the same time steve does, fingers brushing against his generously.
he glances up, slightly startled from the warmth and what he must be imagining as a shot of electricity shivering straight down his spine. he pulls them back with a soft sorry murmured out, glancing downward before peeking back up at the other boy through his lashes. it's not meant to be coquettish, just...he's usually not in anyone's space like this. it's terribly intimate in a way he's never shared with anyone. and he likes it, enough that he almost wishes he was in his robe and he had spent the night with steve prior. what would it be like to share a bed, press his cheek against that perfect line of collarbone and let his hands rest against pectorals that could double as firm pillows - his slim body slotted up against washboard abs and -
stop it, helmut.
he hums lightly, shaking his head again with a soft exhale and reaching for the still chilled champagne.]
Well, why don't you make the mimosas to start?
[he pulls out the strawberries, holding them up and gesturing towards the fridge.]
And put these in there for now. Oh - do you have any whipped cream? Chocolate? [a long-suffering sigh, and he braces himself.] Nutella, if we must?
[ To say that Steve burns red at the sheer thought of ending up on the floor with Helmut Zemo is an absolute understatement. It feels like time stops for a brief moment as he glances up at Zemo, eyes a little wide and surprised, before his expression melts into something warmer, and fondly amused. He hums softly, turning to pull down a mixing bowl and whisk. ]
The floor. You don't say?
[ God, he sounds far more cool in his head when he thinks about these things but always sounds so incredibly lame when it speaks out loud. So he, too, tries to ignore the way their hands brush, the way fire has all but come to life deep in his belly, up his spine, everywhere and he's suddenly regretting leaving a sweatshirt behind.
But the image of the pretty boy beside him spread out on the floor beneath him, Steve's hands and lips laying claim to every spot that might make the other squirm and squeal. Wait. Is Zemo noisy? Or would he be beneath him at all? If he was on top then - ]
Mimosas. On it.
[ Like a dutiful soldier, though the laugh in his voice would certainly never be allowed on the lines. Taking up the strawberries, he turns toward the fridge which, should Zemo note, is filled with left over dishes, fresh produce and fruit, save for the one gallon of chocolate milk that's been half diminished. Boys their sweet teeth.
He sets them in there and plucks up a can of whipped cream and bottle of chocolate syrup and sets them on the counter. He leans a hip into it, watching Zemo work and set up his prep station, before he clucks his tongue. ]
Phil might have nutella, actually. Hold on. [ Without thinking, as though it were Phil in the kitchen and not a boy he's bashfully attracted to, he steps close and reaches high over his head to a small cabinet over the range, opening it with a small sound of victory, only to offer the tub of nutella to him.
Never mind that when he looks down, there's bare inches of space between them, and Zemo's face is right there, close, ripe for the kissing.
Steve swallows hard around a sudden, dry lump in his throat. ]
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no subject
[ There's a lazy smile on his voice and he shifts in bed, tucking one arm up behind his neck in a poor attempt to keep himself from settling in too comfortably, but it's a losing battle. Talking to Zemo like this in the evening, he thinks, should be a regular occurrence. Already he finds himself wondering what excuses he can use, what he can employ to insure these things happen more frequently. ]
But you should really eliminate the maybes. You bring the wine, I'll provide the popcorn and the couch. Yes, I have a couch Helmut. [ A huff, then a careful yawn turned into his own shoulder. ]
I'll make space for you whenever you want.
[ His voice has taken on something of a minute slur, the pleasantly lazy hum of someone having stumbled into the web of sleep, beginning the gradual decline. But all the same, he wonders what would happen if he invited the other boy over now? To curl up on their dorm room couch and watch a movie that Steve would inevitably fall asleep to. ]
But if it's 5 o'clock tomorrow you want, then be my guest. Door's open all day regardless. Just so you know.
no subject
[he can picture it, honestly. the easy stretch of steve's pink, luscious lips curving up on one side - long lashes brushing his cheeks in a wink as they slip closed. he sounds like he's lying down, and zemo wonders with a warm swoop in his gut if he's not wearing pants like he's been teasing this whole time. is he under the covers?
there's a long, considering pause. he could pump the brakes, tell him it was just a tease. it's not like he's really committed to anything yet. his fingers tighten around his phone minutely, and when he finally answers it's much, much softer than anything he's uttered yet.]
Okay then. You and me, wine, popcorn, your couch - bad movies. 5 o'clock. No more maybes.
[zemo is no stranger to the inane articles populating the pages of magazines about appealing to men. analyzing their behaviours, undertanding their attraction. men make themselves available when they want someone. it makes him nuzzle into his pillow a little more, pressing his smile against the expensive, high thread-count fabric.]
And what if I came right now, hmm? You sound awfully tired, and I haven't had a sleepover since I was a child in Sokovia.
no subject
The pause, the lull in the conversation, almost has him nodding off altogether, but the soft response draws him back out of it. ]
No more maybes. I like that.
[ What it means, he doesn't know. What maybes still lie unspoken between them? What world are they forging in this tenuous friendship turned something more?
The challenge though comes in the sound of his voice, muffled by what? Fabric? A pillow? He laughs airily and turns onto his side, pressing his own face into the pillow as if he might be able to mimic exactly what that must feel like. His voice comes out a low rumble, a sleepy blur of words and a warm chuckle: ]
The door's unlocked, and there's room for two. Sleepover's can be nice. [ A tired hum. ] But I'm a blanket hog.
no subject
there's something in him that wants to get back up - to make the trek across campus and knock on steve's door and take him up on his very open offer. but that's the thing of daydreams - something he'll hold close but can't ever act on.]
That's a shame. I get cold easily, you see.
[a very flimsy excuse, and yet - he feels like he's waiting on bated breath for the hazy response that'll come next.]
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He hums yet again, low and graveled in the back of his throat as he stretches beneath his covers, cat-like, then curls back up on his side. Finally, he speaks, a soft but honest mumble: ]
I'll keep you warm. [ A sigh, a turn in the bed, the rustle of blankets and sheets, almost as if the neanderthal part of his brain has subconsciously started to make room for this invisible boy in his bed. ] No funny business. Promise.
[ Even in the haze of drowsiness, he can't help the little flip his stomach does, the hopeful swoop, that maybe the boy on the other line might actually come over. It's a nice thought, regardless, and it makes an easy smile curl across his lips. ]
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wouldn't that be just perfect? it has him shifting onto his side, pretending he's there in a way that's so visceral it makes his chest tighten with want as he lets out a low purr of a chuckle.]
That's what they all say.
[he's quiet for a long moment, and then barely a whisper.]
But you're the only one I'd believe.
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I don't tell lies, Helmut.
[ A sigh, a sleepy groan in protest as he tries to find a more comfortable position. Absently, his hand reaches across the mattress for the boy that sounds as though his head rests on the pillow beside him, fingers curling into the sheet, coming up empty. ]
Door's always open for you.
[ His breathing starts to even out despite the disappointed feeling that overcomes him when the spot beside him turns up empty. It would have been nice to turn into the warmth of another person, no less someone he's come to admire, even from arm's reach. But maybe that, too, is a dream. ]
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I know.
[there's an even longer pause, zemo mesmerized by the slight shifts on the other end and the way his breathing seems to have shifted into the early telltale signs of imminent sleep. he's probably not far off either, enough that he could fall asleep just like this and forget to even hang up. absently, he muses:]
My name sounds good when you say it like that.
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It's a good name. [ A sigh as he turns and stretches again, the stretch audible in the strain of his voice: ] Helmut.
[ He releases a pleased little exhale and sinks, melting into his covers where he nestles his face against the pillow. He goes quiet, his breathing starts slowing, deepening, and he tries to come up with something else to say, but his words fall from his lips mumbled and half finished: ]
The door's... [ The rest becomes an inaudible mush of sleepy rumblings and he goes quiet, still on the other line, curled around a spare pillow as though it might hold the same warmth of a boy with a pretty face. ]
me never getting to use this icon
[he says it softly, barely a whisper so he doesn't wake up a clearly sleeping steve. what would it be like if he were to take on the role of the midnight intruder he'd teased about - to slip in under the cover of darkness and slide alongside the other student's heavy limbs and steal away his warmth? to just watch his even breathing and the slight flutter of eyelids and long lashes dragged across his cheek? doesn't he wish that could be the case.]
Goodnight, Steve.
[another whisper, barely audible. rather than hang up immediately, instead he just...listens for a few moments. to make sure steve really is well and truly out, until the heaviness of sleep pulls at his own eyes and he eventually has to hang up too and avoid anything embarrassing like finding out he snores (he doesn't) via a phone call that's already carried on so far.
but there's a smile on his lips as he drifts off, curled into himself and thinking about a tall, broad body slotted up behind his own as he tugs the blankets up to his chin. his phone is still on his pillow when he wakes in the morning, well-rested and bright-eyed, glancing at the time.
8 a.m.
steve will have been up an hour, if what he said was true. and steve always tells the truth, according to his own declaration, so...
before he can bother to second guess himself, he presses the bar with steve's number and ignores the pounding in his chest. he hasn't even gotten out of bed yet, if he had anything other than the edges of sleep dissipating from his brain, he'd chide himself for looking so desperate.]
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Until his phone rings.
His brow furrows and he paws around his bed for his phone, surprised to find it wedged under his pillow.
Ah. Right. The hazy memory of the night before makes a hot blush rise into his cheeks but he doesn't have time to worry about it, the phone ringing overlong as it is. Instead, he fumbles his phone, surprised to see the name Helmut Zemo on the screen. He swipes to answer, his voice half an octave lower than normal, graveled with the disuse of the morning and a good night's sleep. ]
Good morning.
[ A lazy smile, despite his own nerves, can be heard on his voice. ]
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Mm, don't tell me I wore you out last night.
[picking that teasing up right where he left off, apparently, and he tells himself it's because he hasn't had the time to consider what any of this means or think twice about the flirtatious nature of these conversations. it's just - good fun. maybe something like friendship, even though he damn well knows he wouldn't speak to a friend with that level of innuendo in every word.]
Still in bed?
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Mm, not really. Unless you came by in the middle of the night when I was sleeping.
[ There's a tease of his own in his voice, the curl of a smile at the corners of his lips. He yawns behind a wrist and rakes fingers into his hair with a sleepy hum. ]
Told you I was taking a lazy weekend. What, didn't believe me? [ A huff, and maybe it's the sleepy haze talking, but he grins: ] You can come see for yourself, if you really want.
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I was all locked-up, rest assured.
[how many times had steve reminded him - the door was open? a hopeful just in case. and it seems that's carried over this morning as well, enough that zemo should really keep a tally for how many times he's been invited over at this point. it's...entirely endearing. tempting, too.]
Well, you've made a believer out of me now. Steve Rogers is capable of relaxing, incredible. [a pause.] I'm hardly presentable at the moment.
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All the better then. Weekends aren’t supposed to be presentable.
[ Another laugh, low and rumbling, and he turns over in his bed, stretching languidly on a pleased sigh. When he speaks again, there’s a richness to his voice, like a cat sated by cream and sunlight. ]
But glad to have your support. I wouldn’t want you to catch your death in your trek across campus. Only in a robe, right?
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[not exactly the best bedside conversation, but it's the truth for him, unfortunately. he doesn't want to linger on that when he can instead get lost in the pleasant timbre of steve's voice, the soft laugh ringing in his ear so enticingly.]
Mm, you remembered. Black - cashmere-twill. Very soft. Warm, but not enough for that.
[he exhales lightly, rolling further onto his side and looking out the window at what looks like heavy clouds in the distance.]
I'll put jeans on for later, don't worry.
[his heart accelerates rapidly, loud enough it's no small wonder steve can't hear it. but he gets it out before he loses his nerve, voice low and steady in a slip of his accent as silky as the material of his robe.]
For you though, the pants can stay optional.
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[ Steve can't help the deep, warm lull of his voice, the fatigue and drowsiness dissolving his filter and making it nigh impossible to stop himself. He had thought about that robe last night, at the way it might feel against bare skin.
His own heart rate ratchets up and he lets out a low chuckle. ]
Pants optional? That's mighty generous of you. Guess you'll have to wait and be surprised tonight over popcorn. [ A beat, and he considers this for a moment, feeling his heart beat faster in his chest. ] Unless you're the breakfast type. It's easier to cook for two.
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So what you mean to say is - you were thinking about it?
[thinking about him. did you dream about me, steve rogers? is what he wants to ask but that's...
it seems steve is still doing his best to get him over sooner rather than later. he'd agreed to the wine and the movie, but would it really be so bad to get a head start? a big one, admittedly, but...turning him down after the tenth time he's hinted just seems rude at this point.]
If you like pancakes, champagne, and don't mind sharing kitchen space...I could say I'm a breakfast type. Maybe.
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I might have been. Guess you'll never know.
[ But he might have dreamed of a fair-faced boy with angled features and sharp eyes. Might have dreamed about that robe, and it takes everything in him to hold back the beginnings of a groan. ]
Maybe? I make a mean pancake, I'll have you know. You'd be missing out. So if you decide you're the breakfast type, well. You know the deal.
[ The door's open. ]
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Consider it a mutual state of never knowing, then.
[the door's open, that much has been reminded so many times now. as if he hadn't been thinking about it ever since steve uttered it.]
That's right, you don't like maybes. [does steve think he won't come? he'd been serious about dinner, but this...]
Allow me to at least eliminate one of them: I'll see you later, Steven. Dovidenia.
[goodbye. it's a little abrupt, he knows. he could probably spend the rest of the morning on the phone with him if he doesn't pull away now. and there is a part of zemo that thinks about just...lazing in bed a little longer, getting himself an easy breakfast and burying himself into his books and his studies. breakfast surely hadn't been a real invitation - just a polite offer, or a test.
because of course, steve probably doesn't think he'll actually come.
and it's that which spurs zemo to do the exact opposite, not entirely out of spite, but because he considers predictability to be the death of having the upper hand in this scenario. that's how some forty minutes later he is clad in slim cut, light wash jeans and a ribbed maroon crew neck sweater holding a brown paper bag of champagne, a carton of fresh strawberries, and everything but milk and eggs for pancakes. he's standing in front of steve rogers dorm room door, staring at it like it might bite. but enough of this - he'll find out straight away if this was a fool's errand as he lifts his fist and wraps twice on the door out of politeness. he's sure it's unlocked, but barging in is uncouth and he certainly wasn't raised in a barn, even if sokovia is full of them.]
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[ But before he can get much else out, the phone call ends with the tilt of a Sokovian goodbye and he's left blinking sleepily up at his phone, returned to the home screen. He knows that their cat and mouse teasing won't lead to anything, that his morning and afternoon will be boring but idly spent until evening rolls around with the promise of a movie and popcorn.
He climbs out of bed, in only his underwear, boxer briefs, and relishes in the fact that the dorm is his for most of the weekend. Not that it stops he and Phil from roaming around in their underwear as wily boys are wont to do, but he usually puts a shirt on.
The kitchen feels far away, even from the comfort of his bed, but he drags himself out to start a kettle of a warm, black tea. It's a callback to his mother who preferred it to the bitter bite of coffee. Sometimes, when Phil is particularly cantankerous, he'll make a pot of the stuff, but today he's contentedly waiting for the kettle to come to boil. Pancakes, he'd said earlier, and the idea of the food has stuck in the back of his mind, which only leads him to rummaging through their cabinets, arms stretched high and on his tip toes to reach for a box of what looks like old pancake mix. It isn't.
It's the reason he nearly misses the sound of the door knocking and, thinking it's Phil home early (disappointing) he doesn't go to answer it. It's Phil, Sam, or Buck. Maybe Nat if she's feeling particularly antsy this morning, and he doesn't bother answering as he reaches up with his back to the door to swipe again at another box of powdery white stuff, knowing they have something somewhere. ]
Door's open! [ He only pays half a mind when it hesitantly swings open and makes a sound of victory when he comes up with a box of Bisquick. Turning, surely thinking it's a more friendly face, he holds the box up. ] Making pancakes, if—
[ Oh.
Well. ]
Helmut. [ Did the room get warmer? It definitely got warmer. Steve's face burns, and he doesn't register what, exactly, the other man has in his arms. ] Long time no see. Or. Talk. Right.
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only to promptly nearly drop the entirety of it because - steve is standing there, nearly naked as the day he was born sans boxer briefs that do nothing to deter from the incredibly sculpted physique that's on full display here. his mouth curves into a small "o" shape, and he has a hard time closing it as his gaze flits from head to toe and tries not to linger on every muscle that much more solid and toned as the next. he doesn't think he could stare enough to really drink in the firmness of his massive arms, the slim cut of his waist and washboard abs, strong thighs and jutting hip bones and -
it is hot in here. very much so. and he feels foolishly overdressed in his sweater and jeans, warm under the collar in a flush that feels like fever up the back of his neck and surely infusing color into his cheeks. forget breakfast - steve rogers looks like a meal all himself.
not that he would ever say as much out loud. he holds up the bag a little lamely, tilting his head with a short exhale. once he manages to drag away his lingering gaze from steve's body, it fixes on the box with a small frown.]
I come bearing gifts. You're going to need them if you think we're making pancake mix out of a box, Steven.
[said much more confidently than he feels as he finally strides into the kitchen and sets the bag down on the counter and tries not to get too close to the body that feels obscene next to his own. but still - there's an easy comfort at being here at all. he clears his throat lightly, gaze flicking sideways with a soft.]
Good morning, by the way. I see you were serious about the ah - sleeping arrangement. [his fingers gesture lightly in steve's general direction, but there's nothing in his tone indicating this is a bad thing.]
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Pancakes from a box taste the same as pancakes made from scratch, you know.
[ If his voice comes in a little airy he can't help it, and he'll blame it instead on the sleep-addled part of his brain that seems very much hyper focused on the fit of Zemo's sweater, the confidence he carries as he moves through the kitchen beside him. Deja-vu overcomes him for a moment, as though they've done this dozens of times before, for how comfortable and easy it is.
A small, quiet part of him wonders what it must be like to truly wake up to Helmut Zemo, who no doubt would be warmer than the covers, with tantalizing long limbs all tangled with his own. His own eyes flit, from the expensive shoe, the length of his leg, and he forces himself to tear his eyes away when he fixates on the careful dip of his waist. (What would his hands feel like, resting there? Pulling him in, to feel the press of his chest, hip bones, to tousle his hair, and-) ]
Well, I don't tell lies. [ He clears his throat and turns back to put the box of pancake mix away, unaware of how close the other boy is, and how he stretches long and lean up to the cabinet space. When he comes back down, he finds the heat raging under his skin is almost out of control. ]
Believe me now? [ A small, awkward huff of a laugh and he runs his hands through his unkempt hair. To get dressed or not. Would throwing a sweater on be a form of surrender in whatever game they're playing? He likes the way Zemo looks at him, no less the approving sort of tone in the other boy's voice. Maybe he'll stay like this, just a few minutes longer. ]
Since you've taken over my kitchen, though, what can I help with? [ He steps closer, moving to help arrange the items brought on the counter. ]
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I believed you before. I also believe that no one would kick you out of bed for it, but if you utter that again and really think there's no difference in taste - that might end with you on the floor.
[his own cheeks warm at what a brazen declaration it is - picking right up where they left off over the phone apparently. tone innuendo and all. he turns almost immediately to busy himself with the ingredients and lay them out the way he likes, hoping it'll hide the way he's trying and failing to stifle a grin at both his own boldness and the way he catches steve looking back at him. as if somehow his current state of dress is even remotely comparable - either he's feeling a little sheepish or, is he...? that's a dangerous thought, particularly now that he knows steve rogers likes boys and steve rogers apparently likes him on some level, enough to have him invited him here near incessantly over the past twelve hours. he's so distracted thinking about it that he reaches out to shift something right at the same time steve does, fingers brushing against his generously.
he glances up, slightly startled from the warmth and what he must be imagining as a shot of electricity shivering straight down his spine. he pulls them back with a soft sorry murmured out, glancing downward before peeking back up at the other boy through his lashes. it's not meant to be coquettish, just...he's usually not in anyone's space like this. it's terribly intimate in a way he's never shared with anyone. and he likes it, enough that he almost wishes he was in his robe and he had spent the night with steve prior. what would it be like to share a bed, press his cheek against that perfect line of collarbone and let his hands rest against pectorals that could double as firm pillows - his slim body slotted up against washboard abs and -
stop it, helmut.
he hums lightly, shaking his head again with a soft exhale and reaching for the still chilled champagne.]
Well, why don't you make the mimosas to start?
[he pulls out the strawberries, holding them up and gesturing towards the fridge.]
And put these in there for now. Oh - do you have any whipped cream? Chocolate? [a long-suffering sigh, and he braces himself.] Nutella, if we must?
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The floor. You don't say?
[ God, he sounds far more cool in his head when he thinks about these things but always sounds so incredibly lame when it speaks out loud. So he, too, tries to ignore the way their hands brush, the way fire has all but come to life deep in his belly, up his spine, everywhere and he's suddenly regretting leaving a sweatshirt behind.
But the image of the pretty boy beside him spread out on the floor beneath him, Steve's hands and lips laying claim to every spot that might make the other squirm and squeal. Wait. Is Zemo noisy? Or would he be beneath him at all? If he was on top then - ]
Mimosas. On it.
[ Like a dutiful soldier, though the laugh in his voice would certainly never be allowed on the lines. Taking up the strawberries, he turns toward the fridge which, should Zemo note, is filled with left over dishes, fresh produce and fruit, save for the one gallon of chocolate milk that's been half diminished. Boys their sweet teeth.
He sets them in there and plucks up a can of whipped cream and bottle of chocolate syrup and sets them on the counter. He leans a hip into it, watching Zemo work and set up his prep station, before he clucks his tongue. ]
Phil might have nutella, actually. Hold on. [ Without thinking, as though it were Phil in the kitchen and not a boy he's bashfully attracted to, he steps close and reaches high over his head to a small cabinet over the range, opening it with a small sound of victory, only to offer the tub of nutella to him.
Never mind that when he looks down, there's bare inches of space between them, and Zemo's face is right there, close, ripe for the kissing.
Steve swallows hard around a sudden, dry lump in his throat. ]
Here it is.
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