[ 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. ]
[his own face feels like it's on fire. what is he doing encouraging this when there's not a barrier of distance between them? several, actually - from the physical distance imparted between dorm rooms, let alone how close steve is standing, and...the very distinct lack of his clothing right now. that's the one that has his cheeks burning the most, forces him to duck his head down and get to work on mixing the ingredients for batter together in a bowl. his fantasies are veering elsewhere than a floor right now - not a bed either. no, instead it's a lazy weekend morning just like this, only he's in his robe with nothing underneath as promised, and steve looks exactly the way he does now. presses up behind him with little consideration for personal space before turning and hoisting him up on the counter, a clatter of empty pans to the floor to make room before sliding a hand down and untying his robe, letting it fall open and -
and that's when he realizes steve is actually right next to him and still very much scantily clad. zemo accidentally drops the flour he'd been sifting into the mix with a clatter, a white puff of it fluttering up like smoke and catching on his forearm. some of it splatters against his cheek too, though he doesn't feel it right away.]
Ah - apologies. I suppose that'll wake you up if you're still tired.
[he looks over at steve sideways knowing full well with one glance he doesn't look it, and there's something sheepish in his own expression as steve extends the nutella in his direction. he sets down the remnants of the flour off to the side and no longer at risk of making a mess, glancing up through his lashes this time. this close, he can see just how long steve's are, speaking of - and he can also see the way the muscles in his shoulder ripple when he shifts his arm in an extension. he feels like he's holding his breath looking up into that handsome face, and his fingers brush intentionally this time as he takes the jar from his hand.]
Thanks.
[a low murmur, just barely above a whisper before they pull away.]
You know - [he swallows hard too, cheeks hallowing and lips pursing briefly like he's working something out.] Has anyone ever told you there's green in your eyes, not just the impossibly blue?
[ What would he do, if Zemo had arrived in his robe, as promised? Steve wonders, briefly, how many surfaces he would press the boy against in the kissing alone, how many hallowed walls would watch as he committed the very cavern of the boy's mouth to memory. The kitchen itself holds plenty of possibilities, even now with him mixing ingredients, what might it feel like to turn him, pin him to the curved, vinyl edge and -
The flour puffs around them, a smattering of dust on his own arm, even on the stretch of ribs from the reaching, but it's the nearness that takes even him off guard, though he'd been the one to initiate it in the first place. Zemo's speaking, he's sure of it, but he's so focused on the flour settled gracefully on the rise of a cheekbone and the way his lips move around some kind of words that surely mean something. But the jar disappears and Steve blinks, looking down at those coquettish lashes, the swell of pink lips.
He can't breathe. His heart feels like it might rattle out of his chest and it takes every ounce of restraint in him to keep from closing the distance, from actualizing the boy pressed up against the counter or, God, up on it. What could he do to make Zemo look at him like that again, to whisper softly, though he nearly misses the words for the way his Adam's apple bobs in the delicate line of his throat. ]
No, just you.
[ His hand moves without permission, thumb grazing its way along that very throat he'd been admiring, all the way to the line of his cheek where he swipes at flour, retracting his hand as though to show evidence, proof of just why he had to let his pesky fingers investigate. ]
You spilled some.
[ Quiet, warm, curious. Nervous. He reaches then to slide his thumb along the tip of Zemo's nose, dotting it white with the flour from the pad of his thumb. ]
Thought I'd help you clean it up. [ Another swipe, this time to the cleft of his chin. ] See?
[he's about to add that it's especially for things he considers beautiful, worth looking at closely - but any semblance of coherent thought flies out the window the moment steve presses his thumb against the line of his throat. he swallows instinctively again, enough that he'll feel it trailing under his skin as his eyes widen marginally. it takes everything not to let his lips fall open in surprise or do something very, very foolish like lunge forward and kiss him stupid. the warmth and tension between them is palpable enough to be cut by one of the very utensils on the counter, forgotten right now for something that has an urgency begging to be addressed.
zemo doesn't even realize he's holding his breath as the soft touch is pulled away for his observation - indeed covered in flour he hadn't realized was there. but his line of sight dips for a few moments to the white smattering on steve's forearm, then drawn further down to the side of his toned torso which is equally dotted with it. it flicks back up when steve decides to make an even bigger mess - and some mischievous glimmers its way into the rich amber of his eyes.]
Ah - noble of you.
[there's a little bit of it on his fingertips, and he lifts them to flick it in steve's general vicinity, which isn't enough to add to the light dusting already on his chest. but if the other boy is going to get cozy in his overly familiar touch which isn't at all unwelcome, two can play at that game.
he dips a fingertip into the open container of nutella behind his back, lifting it suddenly to swipe it along steve's jawline. and honestly - what he wouldn't give to lick it off later.]
Oops. Looks like you've been caught in the crossfire as well.
[said smugly, with no trace of remorse as his lips spread into a smirk not unlike a cat that's managed to catch its canary. what are you going to do about it? is the implication from a bounce of his brow and the way he steps back slow and deliberate. try him. maybe there's a part that's hoping he'll be messy enough to have to even things out in the state of their clothes.]
[ Steve barely expects the smear of nutella and he doesn't even have time to process it before he feels the warm, sticky line drawn by those fingers. Fingers now sticky-sweet with hazelnut spread that, for a moment, consume his focus. He's never been one overly focused on the sensual and intimate, but he can't help the fact that he wants to snatch that hand back and clean the very tip of it with his own lips, the salty taste of skin and nutella sure to be a winning combination.
The thought brings heat, fast and full, into the rise of his cheeks, the slope of his throat, into his chest. He laughs lowly, considering for a moment before he hums, reaching his own hand to touch the smear on his jaw. ]
Where did this come from?
[ A grin and he considers his options, considers how close they are, and how he feels as if he could kiss him stupid as well right now and not bother with flour, nutella, and pancakes. He reaches to spread the nutella on Zemo's jawline instead, before he dips a finger into the tub, scooping up some for the eating as he licks his finger clean, humming at the taste of it. ]
Guess I should go clean up. Get dressed. Since I have company and all.
[ Strange, though, that the very thought of leaving feels as though he's closing the door on something. That maybe walking away right now would shut down whatever warm, electric thing that buzzes between them. For a moment he wonders if he's the only one feeling it, that maybe he's just made up whatever this playful, teasing thing is. Maybe Helmut is humoring him. It wouldn't be the first, but he doesn't want to squash the tiny lick of hope the smear of nutella on his jaw might mean, never mind the way his skin burns with the touch.
A huff, and he raises his eyebrows, teasing and light, like he's making to leave before he turns around and smears the remainder on the other boy's hand, the soft back of his palm, almost like a dare, before he starts toward the kitchen door. ]
And you made the mess you know. Can't blame that one on me.
[it hasn't escaped his notice that all he would have to do is press up onto his tiptoes, tilt his head back and let the fantasy of finding out what steve rogers' lips taste like transpire. he's not sure when this became such an all-consuming thought. was it when they first exchanged a heated debate over the psychology of a main character in english class? was it the first time steve had run out after him and offered to walk him to his next class so they could carry on their spirited conversation? or was it some culmination of nearly a semester's worth of what ifs tipped to its boiling point by seeing him across his working table every day, topped off now by reminiscing the way that warm chuckle sounded directly in his ear. a nearly naked steve rogers in front of him is just the cherry on top.
he jolts when steve drags his own finger full of nutella across his jawline, and zemo lets out a noise of half-protest and half being startled. but he lifts his finger to swipe as much as he can off the underside of his chin, sticking it into his mouth and sucking it off with a small hum as he watches steve do the same. and yes - that same thought crosses his mind that really, they ought to trade. at the mention of getting dressed, however...god knows what possesses him, but he adds in boldly:]
Well, don't overdo it on my account. I'd say a shirt is optional.
[his voice is so utterly neutral that maybe steve won't take it as the flirting it is - the backhanded admission that yes, zemo has eyes and they maybe have lingered on his six-pack. he's about to get back to mixing when steve reaches for him again, this time making it worse.]
How very dare you, Steve Rogers. This means war.
[because now he's stomping off towards the door as well, smacking the back of his hand along the distinctive curve of the back of his shoulder blades with an aha of victory.]
[ Having play fights with flour and nutella isn't exactly how he had pictured his morning would go. He'd dreamed about the flirty boy on the phone, imagining him pressed into his chest, but winding up here with him? A surprise. But Helmut Zemo seems to be full of surprises, and the more they talk, the more the interact, the more he wants, well, more of it all.
Watching the other boy lick his fingers clean of nutella makes the heat in his gut rise to a simmer. Makes a pretty flush rise into the high points of his cheeks, down the line of his throat. It takes him aback, because he's felt attraction, sure. He's met pretty girls in parties and the occasional pretty-faced boy but he's never felt this at just watching someone. Someone who isn't his to kiss senseless, which is a real disappointment. ]
I'll think about the shirt. Jury's out.
[ Worse still when that hand swipes against his back, leaving fire prickling up under his skin. He whirls without thinking, laughing and rolling his shoulder blades back against the stickiness. Without thinking he reaches for Zemo's wrist, if only to keep him from retreating as he uses his other hand to smear the remainder of the nutella from his own jawline and reach to smear it across Zemo's cheek, mouth, jaw. ]
Then it's war. [ And Zemo better hurry before Steve gets to the pot of nutella first. ]
[to be fair, it's not at all what he expected his morning to entail either. he genuinely had come here to make actual breakfast instead of smearing it all over steve's body in a dangerously flirtatious challenge. but he also can't seem to care enough to get back on task and stop either, especially not when that someone seems to square up to their full height - enough that zemo has to tip his chin as he takes a slow step back towards the counter to try and get the head start towards some line of defense. whether it's the whole spoon or the jar - doesn't really matter.
what ends up happening instead is steve's fingers trailing along his face again, and it shouldn't have him suppressing a shudder. normally he'd be furious at getting filthy or risking ruining his clothes, but it's the furthest thing from his mind right now. now he just feels the sticky-sweet dessert along the line of his jaw and brushing across his lips. it should be embarrassing that his first instinct is that he wants to slip his tongue out and lick it right off those fingers - that he has to actually forcefully suppress that urge. instead he waits until they're far enough away that he can just swipe his tongue out and lick at his own lips instead, humming lightly as he takes another step back.
at least until steve grabs his wrist - and maybe he thinks he's strong enough to keep him from continuing his escape, but zemo tugs hard enough with no intention of breaking it as opposed to dragging him closer to the counter where they'll really have to duke it out over the open jar.
except - he realizes he's backed himself up against the counter as it nudges his spine, the sudden realization that it's a very tiny space for two grown men to be in close quarters. he glances up through his lashes - at the shimmer of mischief in beautiful blue, the way steve's lips look good curled into a smile, and most importantly - how he doesn't look ready to give up at all.]
You should yield while you can, Steven.
[coming from the person in the more compromising position - that might be a little amusing.]
[ Steve hardly expects the force of the pull, no less to be pulled in instead of pushed away. It's the unexpectedness of it all that leaves him stumbling forward, free hand reaching for the counter behind Zemo to brace himself, though it does little good to prevent the closing of distance, of the way he's near-flush with the other boy, a hand on the counter just outside the tantalizing slope of his waist.
(What would it be like to grab him here, to press broad palms and trace the slim curvature of his waist, all the while pressing him back, back, back against the counter to - )
Steve's eyes flicker to Zemo's lips for a fraction of a second too long, where some nutella remains despite the absolutely naughty swipe of his tongue previous. He thinks for a moment he could lean in and clean up the mess himself, and the thought alone makes fire burn high into his cheeks. It's difficult to suppress the way warmth pools low in his belly, a warning, but something else: curiosity, want.
And Steve will see that coquettish little expression in his dreams for the way Zemo looks up through his lashes at him. He huffs a laugh, though it's tighter than before. ]
While I can? Pretty sure you're the one on enemy soil, Helmut. But maybe we can come to a truce?
[ Maybe. He shouldn't be in this predicament to begin with. Should have shooed the other boy out or gotten dressed instead of entertaining this game. But he's stubborn, of course, and his heels dug in long, long ago. So he leans in, pressing their chests flush as he reaches around him for the jar of nutella, coming back only to press the jar where his own body had been. ]
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no subject
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?
no subject
[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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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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[his own face feels like it's on fire. what is he doing encouraging this when there's not a barrier of distance between them? several, actually - from the physical distance imparted between dorm rooms, let alone how close steve is standing, and...the very distinct lack of his clothing right now. that's the one that has his cheeks burning the most, forces him to duck his head down and get to work on mixing the ingredients for batter together in a bowl. his fantasies are veering elsewhere than a floor right now - not a bed either. no, instead it's a lazy weekend morning just like this, only he's in his robe with nothing underneath as promised, and steve looks exactly the way he does now. presses up behind him with little consideration for personal space before turning and hoisting him up on the counter, a clatter of empty pans to the floor to make room before sliding a hand down and untying his robe, letting it fall open and -
and that's when he realizes steve is actually right next to him and still very much scantily clad. zemo accidentally drops the flour he'd been sifting into the mix with a clatter, a white puff of it fluttering up like smoke and catching on his forearm. some of it splatters against his cheek too, though he doesn't feel it right away.]
Ah - apologies. I suppose that'll wake you up if you're still tired.
[he looks over at steve sideways knowing full well with one glance he doesn't look it, and there's something sheepish in his own expression as steve extends the nutella in his direction. he sets down the remnants of the flour off to the side and no longer at risk of making a mess, glancing up through his lashes this time. this close, he can see just how long steve's are, speaking of - and he can also see the way the muscles in his shoulder ripple when he shifts his arm in an extension. he feels like he's holding his breath looking up into that handsome face, and his fingers brush intentionally this time as he takes the jar from his hand.]
Thanks.
[a low murmur, just barely above a whisper before they pull away.]
You know - [he swallows hard too, cheeks hallowing and lips pursing briefly like he's working something out.] Has anyone ever told you there's green in your eyes, not just the impossibly blue?
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The flour puffs around them, a smattering of dust on his own arm, even on the stretch of ribs from the reaching, but it's the nearness that takes even him off guard, though he'd been the one to initiate it in the first place. Zemo's speaking, he's sure of it, but he's so focused on the flour settled gracefully on the rise of a cheekbone and the way his lips move around some kind of words that surely mean something. But the jar disappears and Steve blinks, looking down at those coquettish lashes, the swell of pink lips.
He can't breathe. His heart feels like it might rattle out of his chest and it takes every ounce of restraint in him to keep from closing the distance, from actualizing the boy pressed up against the counter or, God, up on it. What could he do to make Zemo look at him like that again, to whisper softly, though he nearly misses the words for the way his Adam's apple bobs in the delicate line of his throat. ]
No, just you.
[ His hand moves without permission, thumb grazing its way along that very throat he'd been admiring, all the way to the line of his cheek where he swipes at flour, retracting his hand as though to show evidence, proof of just why he had to let his pesky fingers investigate. ]
You spilled some.
[ Quiet, warm, curious. Nervous. He reaches then to slide his thumb along the tip of Zemo's nose, dotting it white with the flour from the pad of his thumb. ]
Thought I'd help you clean it up. [ Another swipe, this time to the cleft of his chin. ] See?
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[he's about to add that it's especially for things he considers beautiful, worth looking at closely - but any semblance of coherent thought flies out the window the moment steve presses his thumb against the line of his throat. he swallows instinctively again, enough that he'll feel it trailing under his skin as his eyes widen marginally. it takes everything not to let his lips fall open in surprise or do something very, very foolish like lunge forward and kiss him stupid. the warmth and tension between them is palpable enough to be cut by one of the very utensils on the counter, forgotten right now for something that has an urgency begging to be addressed.
zemo doesn't even realize he's holding his breath as the soft touch is pulled away for his observation - indeed covered in flour he hadn't realized was there. but his line of sight dips for a few moments to the white smattering on steve's forearm, then drawn further down to the side of his toned torso which is equally dotted with it. it flicks back up when steve decides to make an even bigger mess - and some mischievous glimmers its way into the rich amber of his eyes.]
Ah - noble of you.
[there's a little bit of it on his fingertips, and he lifts them to flick it in steve's general vicinity, which isn't enough to add to the light dusting already on his chest. but if the other boy is going to get cozy in his overly familiar touch which isn't at all unwelcome, two can play at that game.
he dips a fingertip into the open container of nutella behind his back, lifting it suddenly to swipe it along steve's jawline. and honestly - what he wouldn't give to lick it off later.]
Oops. Looks like you've been caught in the crossfire as well.
[said smugly, with no trace of remorse as his lips spread into a smirk not unlike a cat that's managed to catch its canary. what are you going to do about it? is the implication from a bounce of his brow and the way he steps back slow and deliberate. try him. maybe there's a part that's hoping he'll be messy enough to have to even things out in the state of their clothes.]
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The thought brings heat, fast and full, into the rise of his cheeks, the slope of his throat, into his chest. He laughs lowly, considering for a moment before he hums, reaching his own hand to touch the smear on his jaw. ]
Where did this come from?
[ A grin and he considers his options, considers how close they are, and how he feels as if he could kiss him stupid as well right now and not bother with flour, nutella, and pancakes. He reaches to spread the nutella on Zemo's jawline instead, before he dips a finger into the tub, scooping up some for the eating as he licks his finger clean, humming at the taste of it. ]
Guess I should go clean up. Get dressed. Since I have company and all.
[ Strange, though, that the very thought of leaving feels as though he's closing the door on something. That maybe walking away right now would shut down whatever warm, electric thing that buzzes between them. For a moment he wonders if he's the only one feeling it, that maybe he's just made up whatever this playful, teasing thing is. Maybe Helmut is humoring him. It wouldn't be the first, but he doesn't want to squash the tiny lick of hope the smear of nutella on his jaw might mean, never mind the way his skin burns with the touch.
A huff, and he raises his eyebrows, teasing and light, like he's making to leave before he turns around and smears the remainder on the other boy's hand, the soft back of his palm, almost like a dare, before he starts toward the kitchen door. ]
And you made the mess you know. Can't blame that one on me.
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[it hasn't escaped his notice that all he would have to do is press up onto his tiptoes, tilt his head back and let the fantasy of finding out what steve rogers' lips taste like transpire. he's not sure when this became such an all-consuming thought. was it when they first exchanged a heated debate over the psychology of a main character in english class? was it the first time steve had run out after him and offered to walk him to his next class so they could carry on their spirited conversation? or was it some culmination of nearly a semester's worth of what ifs tipped to its boiling point by seeing him across his working table every day, topped off now by reminiscing the way that warm chuckle sounded directly in his ear. a nearly naked steve rogers in front of him is just the cherry on top.
he jolts when steve drags his own finger full of nutella across his jawline, and zemo lets out a noise of half-protest and half being startled. but he lifts his finger to swipe as much as he can off the underside of his chin, sticking it into his mouth and sucking it off with a small hum as he watches steve do the same. and yes - that same thought crosses his mind that really, they ought to trade. at the mention of getting dressed, however...god knows what possesses him, but he adds in boldly:]
Well, don't overdo it on my account. I'd say a shirt is optional.
[his voice is so utterly neutral that maybe steve won't take it as the flirting it is - the backhanded admission that yes, zemo has eyes and they maybe have lingered on his six-pack. he's about to get back to mixing when steve reaches for him again, this time making it worse.]
How very dare you, Steve Rogers. This means war.
[because now he's stomping off towards the door as well, smacking the back of his hand along the distinctive curve of the back of his shoulder blades with an aha of victory.]
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Watching the other boy lick his fingers clean of nutella makes the heat in his gut rise to a simmer. Makes a pretty flush rise into the high points of his cheeks, down the line of his throat. It takes him aback, because he's felt attraction, sure. He's met pretty girls in parties and the occasional pretty-faced boy but he's never felt this at just watching someone. Someone who isn't his to kiss senseless, which is a real disappointment. ]
I'll think about the shirt. Jury's out.
[ Worse still when that hand swipes against his back, leaving fire prickling up under his skin. He whirls without thinking, laughing and rolling his shoulder blades back against the stickiness. Without thinking he reaches for Zemo's wrist, if only to keep him from retreating as he uses his other hand to smear the remainder of the nutella from his own jawline and reach to smear it across Zemo's cheek, mouth, jaw. ]
Then it's war. [ And Zemo better hurry before Steve gets to the pot of nutella first. ]
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what ends up happening instead is steve's fingers trailing along his face again, and it shouldn't have him suppressing a shudder. normally he'd be furious at getting filthy or risking ruining his clothes, but it's the furthest thing from his mind right now. now he just feels the sticky-sweet dessert along the line of his jaw and brushing across his lips. it should be embarrassing that his first instinct is that he wants to slip his tongue out and lick it right off those fingers - that he has to actually forcefully suppress that urge. instead he waits until they're far enough away that he can just swipe his tongue out and lick at his own lips instead, humming lightly as he takes another step back.
at least until steve grabs his wrist - and maybe he thinks he's strong enough to keep him from continuing his escape, but zemo tugs hard enough with no intention of breaking it as opposed to dragging him closer to the counter where they'll really have to duke it out over the open jar.
except - he realizes he's backed himself up against the counter as it nudges his spine, the sudden realization that it's a very tiny space for two grown men to be in close quarters. he glances up through his lashes - at the shimmer of mischief in beautiful blue, the way steve's lips look good curled into a smile, and most importantly - how he doesn't look ready to give up at all.]
You should yield while you can, Steven.
[coming from the person in the more compromising position - that might be a little amusing.]
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(What would it be like to grab him here, to press broad palms and trace the slim curvature of his waist, all the while pressing him back, back, back against the counter to - )
Steve's eyes flicker to Zemo's lips for a fraction of a second too long, where some nutella remains despite the absolutely naughty swipe of his tongue previous. He thinks for a moment he could lean in and clean up the mess himself, and the thought alone makes fire burn high into his cheeks. It's difficult to suppress the way warmth pools low in his belly, a warning, but something else: curiosity, want.
And Steve will see that coquettish little expression in his dreams for the way Zemo looks up through his lashes at him. He huffs a laugh, though it's tighter than before. ]
While I can? Pretty sure you're the one on enemy soil, Helmut. But maybe we can come to a truce?
[ Maybe. He shouldn't be in this predicament to begin with. Should have shooed the other boy out or gotten dressed instead of entertaining this game. But he's stubborn, of course, and his heels dug in long, long ago. So he leans in, pressing their chests flush as he reaches around him for the jar of nutella, coming back only to press the jar where his own body had been. ]
What do you say? I'll surrender first.