[ The sound of a chuckle in the timbre of Zemo's voice catches him by surprise. It's not the huffing, snorting sort of snark he's heard countless time in classes on the tails of a rebuttal, but it's a little more genuine, warmer at its edges, and maybe even, what? Appreciative? Surprised? He can't quite place the sound of it.
He just counters with a warm laugh of his own, a shrug of one strong shoulder, and the tip of his head. ]
There's definitely someone for everyone, you're right about that.
[ He taps the eraser of his pencil on the table a few times, letting it bounce back up over his fingertips and back down, but it pauses when he feels the easy weight of the boy's arm against his. He leans into it a little himself, sliding in his chair just so, situating himself a little closer to Zemo. The touch comes and goes, but he has no doubt the heat of the flush shows in the apples of his cheeks now. ]
Once a week? Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great. If you send me the outline I'll come with some ideas and research for the first section. Good?
[ He leans back in his chair and reaches to run fingers back into his hair, pushing it out of his face. It's grown a little overlong and he has no doubt that his mother will fuss the next time he's home. He looks at the book between them, at the laptop on the table, on the light it casts along Zemo's face, and he sucks in a slow breath and speaks, his voice almost timid, nervous. ]
Speaking of someones, though... I don't know what you're doing this weekend, but the Delta Kappa Epsilon boys are hosting a party. They're not really my thing, but I don't know, you should come, if you're free. I'll probably be there earlier in the night, but we can argue over Jungle Juice instead of textbooks.
[ A sheepish smile, another shrug of one shoulder. ] Just if you want.
[the flush doesn't go unnoticed this time, not now with such proximity and the way he finds himself studying steve more attentively than the actual content of their project. it's terribly becoming on him, mixed in with the good-natured smiles and easy shrug of his broad shoulders. and yet, somehow - zemo manages to convince himself this is just friendly rather than authentic flirting - building up the pleasant banter they share between hallways and paths across the sprawling lawns on campus. there's a certain thrill to toeing the line with someone new, in his experiences, and it doesn't necessarily have to mean anything other than feeling them out. seeing how far to push, what a well-timed tease here might mean or a poke and a prod.
that steve rogers is exceptionally good-looking is entirely besides the point. particularly when he could have his pick of the student body, and zemo would suspect that his interests lie elsewhere. he's heard whispers and gossip from clear admirers, but no straight answer one way or another has to his actual preferences. which prompts him to ask oh so casually as he starts swiftly typing in a header without looking over:]
Did you have a specific someone in mind for yourself? What with so much to choose from.
[there's an almost bored drawl in his tone, like his interest in the matter doesn't hinge whatsoever on steve's answer and he's simply asking to pass the time. only half true.]
Good. I would dare say this might be the first project I can have a little faith in my partner.
[this is the first long-term project, but even being paired up in class for small assignments has been an exercise in strong-arming his assigned classmates into letting him carefully insinuate his far superior ideas into the forefront so neither of their grades are tanked. he's busy typing away the first few sections of the outline that he doesn't quite notice what steve is doing besides some bit of movement out of the corner of his eye. it's enough that his eyes shift sidelong, doubling back when he realizes steve looks...nervous, somehow. until he finally gets out his invitation.
an invitation.
oh.
he's being invited to an actual party, by a very popular member of the student body. he's seen this in one too many coming of age films not to know that it is apparently an important rite of passage. and while normally he'd be sharp in his refusal, coming up with any number of quick excuses and plausible reasons to decline...he finds there is something in steve's smile that he does not want to see disappointed.]
I have yet to see how you Americans do a proper party. I think I would be remiss if I did not give it a look - especially if you're offering to be my tour guide.
[a pause, lips curving faintly once more with another bounce of his brow. he keeps his voice even despite the way his heart has suddenly jumped in its rhythm, thudding in his chest.]
Though I cannot promise I'll be a fan of this..."jungle juice" over top shelf liquor.
[ Not that Steve gave it much thought until this moment, but watching Zemo type away at the outline gives him a brief moment to admire his profile yet again, and he finds himself fixed with the sudden urge to press the pads of his fingers along those beauty marks, to touch his lips which, worried in concentration, look soft.
It makes the flush burn a little brighter and he lets out a little sheepish huff as he turns back to his own papers, riffling through them. ]
I'll have to see if he's interested, first. Hard to say.
[ But surely the press of that arm hadn't been absent minded, and the quips about their looks, the way Zemo had noticed people noticing him. It's a little maddening, really, that he finds himself swept up in the foreign student who meets him toe to toe on difficult subjects, who works just as hard as he does, and whose smirk is sure to haunt him once he leaves this room.
He half expects the other boy to turn down the invitation. A wild frat party doesn't seem quite his speed, but Steve raises his brows in pleasant surprise when he actually seems to agree. ]
I wouldn't mind being your tour guide. [ He wants to kick himself for how eager he sounds, voice warm and laughing. ] And I won't make you drink too much Jungle Juice either, but it is definitely a means to an end. I usually hang out for a couple of hours then ditch. They can get a little out of control the later you stay, because the freshman show up. It'll be nice having someone to actually talk to.
[ He shrugs and sits back, beginning to neatly put his papers back into a stack, but the motion of sitting further up leaves his thigh pressed against Zemo's, where he keeps it, pleasantly warm. ]
And we can always go get top shelf liquor somewhere else after.
[ After? Steven Rogers, keep your head attached to your shoulders. ]
[zemo just nods at the first part, knowing it's been long enough in the semester for steve to have his eye on someone. maybe he hasn't made his move yet, surely planning out the perfect way to ask out his potential suitor. how nice for them. but zemo is mid-type when the second part lands - and it's just the one word that has his fingers stop their clicking momentarily and his posture stiffen midly as he digests it straight from the source's mouth. i'll have to see if he's interested, first.
he.
steve rogers, apparently, has a preference that mirrors his own, even if it's not something he can announce quite so freely. on some level, he thinks his family must know of it like an open, unspoken secret. the expectation is simply that he will be discreet, he will not embarrass himself, and he will never let it interfere with the greater machinations at play regarding his future - most specifically an heir to the zemo family in ten years time, give or take. his trysts so far have either been the kind that can be written away with strong alcohol, mild party favors and the foolish games played by youthful friends looking for a good, fleeting time - or they're miles away from recognition in dark corners he wouldn't be caught in during the light of day. america could be a playground for him, he supposes. the campus is much larger and less insular than the one he's attended in sokovia...and yet somehow between the cultural reset and the way his parents are still regularly checking in, it feels like one wrong move makes the rest of his year miserable. it's not worth the risk, not to him, when he'll be gone in the spring.
so he just hums lightly, fingers resuming their typing and a mild tilt of his head as he doesn't turn to look at steve directly. between the complicated jumble of all that and the actual admission from steve, he hasn't exactly put the deeper implication together yet, glossing straight over it with another casual, nearly dismissive response right back while he quickly starts filling in the next few lines.]
Then you should just ask whoever he is. Better to know up front and stop wasting your time, isn't it?
[he's interrupted again by the sudden contact against his thigh, pleasant and firm enough that he can feel it even with two layers of jeans between them. he swallows hard, another fissure of warmth that feels like it's running straight up his spine and lingering at the back of his neck. now he does turn to face steve, fingers falling away from the keys altogether after a quick click to save his work. it strikes him just how endearing steve looks - like he'd overestimated his confidence somehow. there's a fondness in the way his lips twitch at the corners again, eyes glittering under the dim, yellowy overhead lighting.]
I like the sound of that. Only until the freshman show up, of course. But seeing as you've already solved the question of an after-party...consider my attendance a sure thing.
[he inclines his head in an acknowledging nod, a brief pause before he adds a little softer and more politely:]
[ The way Zemo's fingers stop moving along the keyboard gives Steve pause, but he doesn't dare look away from the tidying of his papers. He can't help but wonder if he'd read the room incorrectly, if maybe the strange electricity he'd felt between them had been wholly one-sided. The dismissive response does little to bolster his confidence and he can feel the flush creep up the back of his neck.
Then you should just ask whoever he is.
Isn't that what he's just done, in a way? Invited Zemo to the party, to the potential of drinking together after. He doesn't have the courage now, to speak up and boldly state that maybe the dark haired boy beside him has caught his eye, that he'd like to invite him to a more private night out instead of a raucous college party. Instead, he lets out a little huff of a laugh. ]
Yeah, well. Gotta get the timing right. Timing's important.
[ He finishes with tidying his papers, carefully stacking them into his notebook with tabs and careful notes written in the margins. Occasionally, there might be faint doodles in the corners, conjured from boredom and a wandering mind in class. But he pauses when Zemo appears to agree to come, and his lips curl into a soft smile, warm at the edges and bright behind his eyes. ]
I'm glad you're coming. [ He stacks his things neatly, pressing them carefully back into his bookbag, but he pauses for a moment, moving to take his pencil from before and reach across to scribble his phone number on the corner of the other boy's notebook. ] Just in case you need to get ahold of me. For the project, or the party.
[ Not for anything else, of course. Just for communication. But the scribbling etch of his numbers on the paper makes his heart thud heavy in his chest, keeps the warmth at bay in his cheeks. He's given his number to girls, to a couple of boys, in his time, but it's never like this. Quiet, coy, scribbled on school work as though it isn't the invitation that it is. He shifts in his seat, leg pressing a little firmer against the one beside him, but little more. ]
Same time, same place- next week? For the project.
[the time passed quicker than he thought it would, quite honestly. he thought it would be a chore to slog through this, or maybe that they'd wind up at each other's throats and find that their banter did not carry on so well in close quarters. instead it's the opposite: he'd actually enjoy seeing this continue. he'd like to know if steve rogers will ever find the right time to ask his mystery man to - whatever date it is he has planned. his eyes glance down as steve starts packing up his things, catching a few sketches along the sidelines of page after page of neat penmanship and careful notetaking. he nearly opens his mouth to ask about it or compliment the few detailed ones he sees, but he's interrupted by that same perfect handwriting suddenly occupying space within his own book. something about seeing his number printed there, among his own sprawling cursive makes him feel that stammer in his chest again.
he hesitates for just a moment, picking up his own pen and looping out his own numbers, along with the very unnecessary notation of helmut zemo at the bottom before tearing out the otherwise blank sheet and folding it crisply before offering it between two fingers.]
You'll show me a good time, won't you? Here, this is mine.
[he smirks again, teasing lightly and letting his gaze drop briefly down to where mismatched denim is pressed up against one another. he lets his own shift in too, unwilling to...back down? put back space between them? maybe they're playing some invisible game - snehový závej, snowdrift, or as they call it here apparently, "chicken".]
Same time, same place. But I will see you this weekend first. For the party.
[one party turns into two, then three - then he loses count altogether in between a mix of study sessions and a flurry of texts that turn into late night phone calls. suddenly he finds that steve rogers has become a very ingrained part of his day-to-day: in class, outside of class, when he's alone, when they're together. perhaps the most shocking fact of all is that he finds himself starting to actually enjoy it on a deeper level than he'd ever let on. there's a certain thrill at wondering what little touches they'll share at his study table in the privacy of his dorm, what little quip he might pull out to get steve to flush fetchingly, or what charming flirtation he'll toss his way.
it wouldn't be a stretch to call it a friendship, even though he resolutely refuses to call it that. and it certainly isn't anything more. it can't be.
which is why the day after steve decides to play hero and thus ensure he's utterly mortified the morning after he wakes up to the other student in his bed, that's exactly the day he ceases all communication as soon as the door closes behind him on his way out. so what if he'd gotten a bit too drunk at a party? it wouldn't be the first time, and it most certainly won't be the last. so what if he'd been entertaining attention from another handsome(ish) senior? he wouldn't have let it get farther than friendly conversation and an innuendo or two just to test the waters.
the night is a blur, hazy around the edges and lacking pieces of the puzzle that was making it into his dorm and then making it into his bed. he remembers uttering a few things he'd rather be caught dead than say to his - classmate (because that's all steve is at this point). he remembers being herded carefully into bed, a glass of cool water on his nightstand and waking up to a warm body on top of the covers beside him, clearly fallen asleep during some honorable attempt at watching over him. steve wouldn't take advantage - he already knows that. more baffling still was the way in which he took it upon himself to make breakfast and actually stay nearly into the afternoon to make sure he was alright. zemo had been much too taken aback to properly put up his walls again, and frankly - he was starving.
it's been radio silence on his end since. he doesn't text steve, he doesn't call, he ignores anything that might come his way. he even takes a different route in and out of class, leaving slightly earlier or later than usual solely to avoid seeing him in between. class is the only place he can't escape, though he does call out the day after. but when he does finally make his return, even then he makes a point to sit on opposite ends of the room and resolutely focus on the front rather than let his gaze wander. he doesn't volunteer any rebuttals, he doesn't try and take on some of the hooks steve seems like he's dangling solely for his response.
his last line of defense would be cancelling their meeting - but to what end? much as he'd like to, he can't run forever. enough time has passed that he won't be completely full of shame when he opens the door for their study session, though he does steel his face into something haughty with his lips pursed and brows pinched together.]
Steven. [a tight, nod and he turns on his heel almost immediately so he doesn't have to look him in the eye.]
Come in. You want a drink?
[an excuse for him not to sit down right away, to put off the inevitable.]
[ The air changes on the heels of the party, and Steve isn't sure what line has been drawn between them. He'd spent much of the morning following trying to make sure Zemo stayed hydrated, that he ate, that he was cared for in the aftermath of the drug dosing. It had been nice, the morning spent together, Steve unaware of how awfully embarrassed the other boy had been by the incident, losing instead in his own need to help.
The days that follow are deadly silent, and while the first few seem more like a recovery period, the week stretches on and Steve notices his texts go unanswered, that he doesn't see Helmut in the halls, that even classroom quips and discussions are clipped and cold.
The guilt from that night comes back, pressing at the edges of his mind and beckoning him to re-examine it. Had he been there when he promised he would be, Hunter would not have had the opportunity to seize Zemo's drink, to prey upon a man lost to the culture and, in some ways, in lack of company. Seeing him like that and facing down the lithe boy from the swim team, has burned something deep into him. Helmut Zemo could have been ridiculed or worse, he knows from personal experience, and it would have been Steve's fault.
Maybe that's what this silence is, frigid and distant. If it's blame, if it's the condemnation that comes from being tardy (though he had no true control over it) then he deserves it. Every bit of Zemo's ire should be directed at him for not keeping his promise, staying true to his word. He tried. He did, and that part hurts more than anything else. Never in any of his dreams would he have wanted anyone to get hurt because of him. Never.
His phone reminds him, so kindly, that he has a study session set up with the boy in his dorm to return to one of their group projects and put the finishing touches on it. Considering canceling it altogether, Steve sits in his dorm room and stares at the reminder, his bag halfway slung over one shoulder. They haven't spoken in what feels like weeks and he doesn't know what to expect when he finally pushes himself up and makes his way to Zemo's floor.
Just get through this, he tries to tell himself, as the door opens and the other boy answers with as much warmth as one might find in a polar ice cap. Steve's stomach sinks deep into his gut, but he moves in to the table with familiar ease. ]
No, no. Thank you, though. I brought water.
[ Taking up his usual seat, he opens his bag and carefully pulls out his work, all pristine papers and neat handwriting, organized and clean inasmuch as he is in person. But that doesn't fill the time like he'd hoped, and he's left with his hands on the table, eyes lifting to track Zemo in the room. ]
I... gotta admit I didn't know if we were doing this. I... well, I haven't heard from you in a while.
[ Good natured, easy, but there's a reservation in the way he speaks, hesitant and guarded in a way that Steve Rogers decidedly isn't. Particularly around Helmut Zemo in the last several weeks. ]
[it's altogether unfair the way he's handling this situation - he knows. but pulling a shroud of doubt over their past actions rather than acknowledge anything he said under the influence is much easier to stomach than the alternative. particularly considering he hasn't fully established what that alternative exactly is. his own feelings on the matter are terribly complicated. does he like steve rogers? yes. does he also know that these feelings are a little less than platonic at this point? also yes. does he know this will ultimately amount to nothing and it's better to discourage these temptations up front while he still has the ability to do so? another yes. is that what he actually wants? that's where there is a very large, very blank space that could encompass it's complicated, even though this is at its core a simple yes or no question.
it's been a difficult week, to say the least. but the idea that it's because he somehow holds steve responsible for his own assumed recklessness and inebriation is so much further from the real truth of it. that would simplify so many of his problems, and yet that's a burden he wouldn't even think to put on his classmate who he knows deep down was simply trying to do the right thing. waking up next to him there hadn't been even the slightest fear that something untoward had taken place on his end. not when steve was so clearly in last night's clothes, propped up against one of the posts of his large bed and not even tucked under the velvet duvet cover in lieu of resting atop it. the only thing it had accomplished was committing a very specific image of a sleeping steve rogers with his arms folded, jaw slack and impossibly long lashes fluttering across the tops of his cheeks. it had been sweet to realize he must have stayed to make sure he made it through the night, that he took the time and effort to tuck him in and apparently make him comfortable as well.
but thinking about it now makes his skin prickle unpleasantly, a hot rush of shame at steve seeing him in a compromising position at all. it isn't necessarily about the perceived weakness of it moreso than it is steve being aware that whatever plausibly deniable attraction may have been simmering under the surface of their established relationship has now been blown wide open. there are a few things he knows he uttered that would have otherwise stayed locked away and never been spoken aloud to the light - night, actually - of day.
knowing the way steve is - he should have anticipated he would confront this head on and ask why there's been a seismic shift in the rapport they've shared. the cold shoulder is an understatement. he swallows thickly, lips pursing and chin lifting like he's already on the defensive.]
It needs to get done, doesn't it? [he's not so impolite he wouldn't have made a proper cancellation.]
I've been busy.
[said oh so lightly and without apology, even though it's a complete lie. steve will probably know it's a complete lie based on his past schedule and hours spent on the phone during their last few weekends.]
[ While the two of them don't necessarily keep tabs on one another, they'd settled into a sort of unspoken routine consisting of text messages, late night phone calls, the occasional weekend lunch, the class chatter. To have it all brought to nothing after one party night feels like he's been cut off at the knee. There's a problem there, too, that he hadn't realized how fondly attached he'd grown to the other boy who stands across from him now, all pursed lips and raised, defensive chin.
Should he have let him go with Hunter? Should he have stayed away from the party altogether? He scans his mind over that night again and tries to parse apart just what might have happened to make all of this happen, what he did. None of it makes sense, but this is the way of things for Steve Rogers - a life of half-lived moments, caught up between the sickly boy he used to be at the strong, healthy man he is now. He lives in the in-betweens, not belonging to any world and always skirting by in the projections of others, and what they think. ]
It does.
[ The work must get completed, he's right in that regard, but the answer feels so cold and distant. Coming here was a mistake. He doesn't believe for one second that Zemo was busy, but he doesn't know how to vocalize it without revealing the strange, tender part of him that has come to yearn for interactions with this standoffish boy.
Maybe he should have read the warning signs from the start. ]
Sorry to hear that. I noticed I hadn't seen you around, so I'm glad you're just busy and not sick. [ And he had worried, that first day, that maybe he left him in the throes of a drug-induced hangover too early. He looks down at his papers, wringing his hands together for a few seconds before he lets out a sigh and rakes those fingers back through his hair. ]
Guess we should get to it. [ He tilts his head, as if trying to decide what to say next, but seems to hold back, evident in the way his mouth works, the muscle in his jaw flexing. ]
[zemo makes a point to focus on his already open laptop, glancing from that back down to the papers in his possession that are a mix of his and his classmates notes - his cursive, steve's perfect penmanship all twined together in an easy mesh across pages of crisp white lines. there are a few of steve's little doodles he'd added in the margins here and there. it had been sweet at the time - now it just makes him feel guilty for the way he's intentionally been avoiding someone he thought was a friend. the thing about steve rogers is that he's simply too good for zemo to not have some sort of mar on his conscience for treating him so poorly. he hadn't done anything wrong - is just the thing, only been present for zemo's pride to be wounded and the secret he's kept so carefully guarded around his feelings to spill out into plain view.
but steve still tries. he can sense the beginnings of frustration in his body language - hands twisting, the frustrated way he pushes back his hair his jaw twitches around a near frown. he's unhappy with that answer, but he doesn't have enough to argue it one way or another. it makes zemo's lips press into a thin line too, an involuntary twitch of the muscle between his nose and upper lip in disdain as he weighs his options here.]
I wasn't sick. Not when I missed class, and absolutely not - when you took it upon yourself to play hero. I'm perfectly capable of handling myself, you know.
[ah, fuck. so much for only focusing on their work and avoiding an outburst around what's really been needling at him.]
Nevermind.
[an attempt at recovering as he shakes his head and taps out a few quick keys to pull up the outline, the first few pieces struck out as completed]
You're right, we should just focus on the work. I'm sure you have places to be. I certainly do.
[another lie, one steve could probably dismantle easily if he wanted. but zemo is feeling spiteful enough to tell it anyway, to try and distract from what's really going on beneath the surface of his cold front.]
[ For a moment, Steve feels like he's just watching his own body, that he's somehow slipped out of it and settled beside it, because he doesn't know what overcomes him when he slams his hands down on the tabletop, flustered and frustrated. The worry, anxiety, and guilt from the previous few days have finally come uncorked, the words playing hero somehow setting the fire to a roar. ]
Will you stop that? I didn't play hero, I was trying to keep you safe. That guy? Hunter? He wasn't going to let you leave there alone without making a complete fool of you. So if you think someone watching your back and giving a damn about you is playing hero, then you really need to check your priorities.
[ He lets out a frustrated sigh, despite how calm he sounds even now, he feels like he's been hit across the face and for no good reason. ]
If you're that mad that I helped you home after that guy roofied you, then I don't even know why I'm here. I was worried. That guy, he's known... let's just say I know what he was going to do to you, and I didn't want that to happen.
[ Steve runs his hands back through his hair, dropping them back to his lap and shaking his head. Sure, maybe he felt guilty for staying overlong, for possibly interrupting when he wasn't supposed to, but he knows when something is going south quickly, and with Hunter in the picture? He has no doubt that Zemo's picture would have been posted on all manner of social media. A prize, the laughing stock.
He moves to shut his notebook, needing something to do with all the furious kinetic energy he feels humming through to his very bones. He holds his hands up in mock surrender, his frown deep. ]
So if you call that playing hero - someone looking out for you when you can't - then sure, fine, I'm guilty. I'll leave.
[between the sudden movement and the loud noise of what he knows and now is quite familiar with in how strong steve's hands are, it has him flinching slightly, leaning back with his nostrils flaring and lips pressing together in a thin, indignant line. it's a kneejerk reaction to a perceived threat before steve's words really have the chance to sink in, a defensive mechanism because it's much easier to pretend he isn't at fault in any way for this outburst.
but really, there's a small part of him that's mesmerized by how vehemently steve argues his case. if he weren't so busy feeling more and more like a heel than he already did for his avoidance act, he might have a moment to appreciate how becoming frustration looks on him - the sharp line of his jaw, the twist of his lips, the slight raise to his voice and the fury burning in his eyes. it's all terribly passionate, but steve rogers has never struck him as a boy who does anything in half measures. isn't that why he bothered to spend the night? was prepared to nurse him back to health in the morning by checking in, making him breakfast, overlooking how embarrassing all of it must have been for zemo in a polite offer of kindness and compassion? he was trying to do the right thing, and zemo knows that.
and yet, he'd rather sit here and argue about it. mainly because he fixates on one core element of this that he's in disbelief over.]
I see. Someone else decides to take notice that I exist while you're off gallivanting and suddenly they're the enemy?
[he's being unnecessarily stubborn about this, but more importantly, he lets out an incredulous, mocking bit of laughter.]
Roofied? Please. That boy - Hunter - was perfectly polite. I didn't take anything from him either. It was a strong drink that got the better of me, and it wouldn't be the first time. You may think you know me, Steven, but you wouldn't recognize my friends and I after a few rounds at Ostgut.
[his own voice is tight, trying resolutely to keep his conviction even in the waning face of something that feels much more serious. the truth of the matter is - he doesn't know hunter, and he did trust steve at the time over him. there must have been a reason for it, but here he is throwing it back in his face.]
Well, if it was such a concern for my safety, why were you late? Why did you invite me in the first place? And why do you keep making the effort when all I do is keep you at arm's length anyway?
[his chin lifts, glancing at steve's book and motion to leave with a resolute shake of his head.]
Oh, but now you want to leave. How ironic that I want you to stay.
[ Steve can do nothing but justify the other boy's statements with a disbelieving stare, as if someone has struck the words straight from his mouth, leaving his cheek burning, his lips stinging. It feels like the strangest betrayal, really, to hear Helmut Zemo picking apart his actions and calling them jealous or overzealous and it just takes the words right out of his mouth.
When he speaks, there's a deadly calm to him, his voice almost low as if he's measured every syllable, playing them in time with some invisible, unheard tune. ]
My bike's transmission went out. I don't have the money to fix it, so it's still in the lot broken, if you need proof. I got there as soon as I could. I even borrowed a friends car. I wanted to be there.
[ He wanted to spend time with the boy who has uncharacteristically swept him up. The boy that, just a week prior, Bucky had made silly comments about and waggled his eyebrows over this elusive crush he knew Steve had. His hands curl into fists over his thighs, and it's all he can do not to pack his things and leave.
And why do you keep making the effort when all I do is keep you at arm's length anyway?
Yet again, he's been made a fool, hasn't he? Maybe there are no drugs in his drink, there are no videos or pictures, but the hot wash of embarrassment feels very much the same. ]
He roofied you. He put his arm around your shoulder, right? Or stood close to talk into your ear? That's when he did it. You want to know how I know? I've been there. The difference is you didn't end up on a bathroom floor. I got you home safe before he could do anything. And he was going to.
[ He moves to pack his things up, tucking away the papers and the book he'd pulled out. Anything to not look him in the eye as he speaks in vague gestures about what happened that night. ]
And did you ever consider I invited you because I liked you? It used to be fun at these study sessions, and in class, and on the phone... I invited you because I wanted to. And I'm sorry I was late. That I didn't stop that asshole from doing what he did, but I don't know what else you expect from me. I can't stand there and let someone get hurt like I did, especially you.
[ He pushes up from his seat with a harsh sigh, turning to look down at the other boy, indignant, his tone rising a step. ]
And if you want me to stay you're doing a bad job of showing it. I'm not going to apologize for what I did. I did what was right, and if you disagree then that's just what we'll have to do, but I'm not going to sit here while you try and make me the villain in this. That's not how this works.
[anything smug zemo might have tried to say, anything he was ready to dig out or volley back at steve just dies near instantly. there's one too many bombs that have been dropped and accomplished the very difficult task of leaving helmut zemo stunned and more than a little chastened. he absolutely remembers steve saying something about trouble with his ride - vividly recalls the smell of old but well-maintained leather and a vehicle as big as a boat carting him back to his dorm when steve's arms couldn't accomplish the entirety of the voyage.
he can tell he's hit a nerve by the way steve speaks, as if the expression on his face that looks equal measures incredulous and - hurt, genuinely, somehow. it makes guilt bubble up and roil in his chest, the fight deflating almost instantly even if there's a small part of him that still wants to dig in his heels and keep fighting a losing battle. because really - what kind of retort could he come up with that would justify his behavior now? he's known steve did the right thing from the beginning - that was never in question. the thing that's much harder to articulate is why he feels the way that he does, mostly in part because it means acknowledging what he's resolutely refused to explicitly acknowledge up until now.
but all of that seems inconsequential when compared to steve's own experience in the matter. the fact that he really did save zemo from something untoward, that he knows the motions because it's something he could empathize with - worse than that, because he'd experienced whatever hunter had planned in full. now the guilt is full on boiling within him, face falling into something openly stunned as his brows furrow and his lips part while he tries to carefully find the words.]
Yes - yes, he did. [he swallows thickly, something pained in his expression.] I'm sorry - I didn't know. No one deserves that, least of all you.
[there are a million other questions he'd like to ask - are you alright? did you confront him? what about the authorities? how many people has he done this to? why is he still doing it? how long ago? can you forgive me for being so callous?
but none of them seem to make it out, too much when he has one last thing to contend with: did you ever consider i invited you because i liked you? zemo has seen enough films in both sokovian, english, and plenty languages in between where the next logical question is something along the lines of but do you like like me? he's always had a suspicion that steve was...fond of him, on some level. he'd have to be to keep going out of his way like he's just thrown in his face, to keep inviting him places and making every excuse to talk to him when he has the chance. but if he didn't accept it, it meant he never had to address his own complicated feelings on the matter. except now it's out in the open, and steve is about to leave because he's behaved like an utterly heartless cad, and, all zemo can do is stand up just as quickly, coming into steve's space with something defiant mustered up.]
You're not the villain here. I trusted you for a reason, Steve. So allow me to simplify it - I'm humiliated that any number of things that came out of my mouth directly to the source were true. I keep you at arm's length because it means not having to admit that I care about you, more than I am entitled, and I can keep you guessing instead.
Only now I can't, because I've spilled all my dirty little secrets while completely inebriated and you only heard them because you were, in fact, doing the gentlemanly thing - because of course you were.
[his head tips back to look at steve directly in the face, cheeks pink with the emotional exertion of his outburst and the infuriating realization that the other student, even in his anger, still looks ridiculously handsome. maybe even more so. his gaze flits from his eyes down to his lips and back up again like pulled by a string. he can't help himself - a dangerous notion he's starting to realize when it comes to steve rogers.]
[ Freshman year feels like eons ago, but he still remembers the way Hunter had tasted like metallic alcohol, the way he had been stumblingly ushered into a bathroom at the frat house, the way it all seemed fine when they were just there for sloppy kisses and a little heavy petting. But the drinks had been too strong, or so he thought, and from there things went from strange to bad all too quickly.
If he walks out of this room knowing he at last spared Zemo that embarrassment and hurt, then he'll consider this some twisted victory. But he doesn't want to leave, doesn't understand why the boy has turned heel on him so quickly, when everything up until this point led down a different path altogether. Funny, that Steve had been thinking of asking him on a proper date, on seeing if maybe he could cast his line out to a pretty, Sokovian boy with a bite to his tongue and fire to his wit.
When Zemo starts to speak again, Steve's hackles raise, as though preparing for what will inevitably be another wild series of accusations and barbs. Why do you keep making efforts rings in the back of his mind, a hollow echo he knows he'll carry with him for a while.
But the barbs and heat never come and Steve turns back to look at the boy just as he stands into his space, close enough that he's sure he can feel the heat radiating off of his face. He doesn't move, rooted to the spot and frozen by the confession caught on the strange heels of aggression moments before. The surprise shows in his face, Steve's eyebrows raised into the ruffled blond of his hairline, unkempt from driving his fingers through it. ]
What does it matter that I heard all of that? [ Steve huffs, frustrated still and a little baffled. ] I care about you, too, so what, you think I'm going to use that against you? I got you out of there, away from everyone else, before you said anything like that. No one else knows. No one else needs to know.
[ He sighs and shakes his head, dropping his bag back onto the table, his hands coming to his own hips as he tries to work through what he wants to say, his mind fuzzied instead by how close they are, how lovely the shade of pink looks dusted across Zemo's cheeks, but all the same: ]
I want to stay. I showed up here because I wanted to, but sometimes you make it feel like it's some herculean task to sit next to me. I don't know what you want from me, Helmut. Do you want me to stay or do you want me to go? I'm tired of trying to guess all the time.
[ He sighs and looks down for a moment, trying to center himself yet again before he levels with Zemo again, eyes meeting the other boy's suddenly aware of how close they are. He's sure he sees the flicker of those eyes to his lips, but he might be making things up at this point. ]
So can you just tell me what it is you want? Please.
It matters because you were never supposed to hear any of it. No one needed to know - especially not you.
[even if steve was the subject, it was only prompted by his condition. this whole thing is utterly ridiculous, seeing as zemo knows he all but draped himself across the other boy last weekend and murmured out any matter of compliments ranging from flattering to downright embarrassing. it's no small wonder he didn't do something completely unrecoverable like try to climb into his lap or initiate something he'd regret. maybe regret is too strong a word - but he'd regret not remembering. he'd regret not letting it be special. and that's what would have happened if steve hadn't done the decent thing, hadn't stopped hunter from whatever he had planned. one thing at a time. there will be plenty to consider about how to handle hunter outside of this immediate need to...settle whatever this is with steve.
which circles back again: what does he want? it still feels like he has one foot out the door - weary from the push and pull that zemo has no one but himself to blame for initiating. it's been like that every time because distance makes it easy to succumb to the things he wants - the suggestiveness, the flirtation, the way he feels like he can be himself when steve isn't sitting across from him and able to really look and see past all his layers. it's why their phone conversations are perhaps the most honest he's been, and it's why he immediately retreats the moment they're alone or out somewhere in front of classmates - like he has to double down and convince everyone there's nothing special there. not least of all convincing himself.]
I already said it before. You should stay, if only for the project. It needs to get done and we're on a well-planned schedule.
[right, like that's the priority. it glosses over everything steve has just admit - that he's been strung along far enough and he's at the end of the rope zemo has been swinging back and forth at his own convenience. out of his own fear. why? what does he want? what does he want? steve asks like it's supposed to be something so easy vocalize, like he can't already guess or doesn't have a sense of where this is going. zemo's lips part on an audible click, an incredulous bit of laughter escaping at the density of the question. ]
You ask me that like it's so simple. Like I'm just supposed to say that I want -
[he cuts himself off, murmuring something in sokovian that has the distinct impression of oh for god's sake. his eyes roll right at the moment he lets out an exasperated sigh and without warning he's launching himself forward in a sudden movement to grip steve's face between both hands, pressing up on his toes and pulling him down the rest of the way to crush their lips together in a kiss that borders on frustration and suppressed need. everything he can't say out loud, that he's been pushing down and ignoring these past few months bubbles to the surface and the ferocity in which he lets his mouth move around steve's, and before he can worry about it being reciprocated or steve pushing him away in surprise (disgust, maybe), he pulls away himself. red-faced, breathing hard. his hands are still gripping at the side of his face, something dazed and surprised at himself in his eyes. there's only one small hitch when he asks, low and sardonically:]
Something about Helmut's flagrant disregard of everything Steve has tried to say, has admitted here, makes his blood absolutely boil. This whole time has felt like nothing but yelling at a brick wall despite Zemo's quiet confession. He sucks in a deep breath, raises a hand to press against the bridge of his nose but it doesn't quite make it. Not before other hands reach his face, drag him down, and he's... what? Kissing his study partner.
The first few seconds feel like he's suspended in ice, caught up in the anger and fury moments before, but Zemo's lips move against his, needy and frustrated and he's eager to mirror it, only to find he's pulled away. Steve stares at him, wide eyed and flushed, looking down at the pretty man with the pretty lips that have just kissed. ]
Roger. Loud and clear.
[ But once isn't enough. Maybe it should be, maybe he should let it go and file it away for analysis later, when he can't sleep. Those lips had been so soft, expert in their movement against his own mouth, and much the same as his opponent, Steve reaches for Zemo, letting his palms grip his sides first if only to tug him in closer, near flush to his chest as he bends to kiss him again, open-mouthed and wanting, fueled by the anger and frustration from moments ago.
Zemo tastes of the Sokovian wine he so oft talks about, but he doesn't care about that as he licks into his mouth with an appreciation he's put to words but not action, his fingers flexing into the low of his back. (The way his waist dips makes something in Steve burn hot but even he has the wherewithal to control himself, even if his mind wonders what it would feel like to sink lower, lower, lower).
They have a project to do, some part of his brain is idly aware, but he can't help but settle into kissing him a few moments longer. After all, it's something he's pondered much of their time spent together: how soft his lips might be, if he would taste of spice and copper as sharp as his tongue and wit, if he would feel warm and make a perfect fit against his chest. ]
[zemo thinks, quite stupidly, that this will be the end of it. that maybe steve will get the point, understand he can't pursue this further despite the way he's just thrown himself at the other student, and they can both go back to pretending there is nothing going on between them besides a need to power through this project together. and for one split second when he reads the stunned expression on steve's face followed by the nonchalant confirmation - he thinks that's all. that there will be an awkward moment of silence, he will clear his throat and gesture for steve to unpack his bookbag yet again and they can put this outburst in the past where it belongs. steve will be a gentleman enough never to mention the way he behaved in a compromised state - neither to zemo nor any friends of his, and they will settle in to their friendly but intentionally distant interactions thanks to the way he's carefully orchestrated the dynamic between them.
but of course that isn't it. it sounds stupid even when he lays it out in his head - and steve rogers isn't the type to just let something sit like that without addressing it, is he? he's expecting another round of twenty questions, of laying it out in plain, broad strokes of black and white when zemo would much rather operate in the murky shades of grey that suit this situation better.
he watches it happen like it's in slow motion - steve's hands purposefully flexing around his waist, drawing him closer as he leans down and responds in kind to the kiss zemo had intentionally left one-sided. it's not his first kiss with a man by any means, but it is his first kiss with a man like steve rogers, and that makes all the difference. it's hot and seeking and there's a barely-restrained vigor to it that holds a certain amount of grace - much in the way steve has handled himself this whole time. zemo's fists clench, balling up and pressing lightly against steve's chest like he means to push him away and put a stop to this. but it's a lot harder when he desperately wants this - has wanted it for longer than he'd care to admit.
something molten pools in his gut at the press of broad palms against his lower back, brushing lightly over the expensive woven fabric of his shirt and sending a shiver up his whole spine that shakes out in a full-body tremble. his fingers shift, splaying across his chest as he presses up on his toes and tilts his head back to deepen the kiss. he may as well while he has the opportunity, right? steve slips his tongue along the inside of his mouth first - proving that maybe he's not just some boy scout after all. zemo meets it with his own, twining against it and tasting the remnants of something fresh and minty, like steve made a hopeful point to brush his teeth before coming here.
(his lips are soft too, and he's the perfect height for zemo to shift closer and press himself against that rock solid chest that he now has the sobriety to really appreciate it. and if there's a content hum when he does so, immediately swallowed up by the delicious shift of steve's mouth - then it's almost like it never happened, isn't it?)
fuck, but it's good. infinitely better than the clumsy ones in dark corners at clubs with strangers who don't even know his name and taste like cheap vodka, cigarettes and marijuana while they pawed greedily and blindly at him. steve makes him want to stay awhile, to slip his hands up under what he's wearing and press intimately with skin against skin. to tug steve into his bedroom - pull them both horizontal so they can carry this on with uninterrupted purpose. and it's that thought that has him pulling away again out of necessity, licking into his mouth one last time and nipping at the plush lower lip in a teasing farewell. he's breathing harder than normal, face flushed and eyes frantically skimming along steve's for any signs of annoyance or residual anger. it's not like he wouldn't deserve it.
one hand lifts to cover over his own mouth and press fleetingly at them like he's trying to test that they've actually just been locked with steve's and he isn't hallucinating this. for once, he doesn't have a smug comeback.]
Right - well. We should, ah, get to work.
[there's a hesitance there - like one wrong (or right) excuse and he might not be able to resist another opportunity to do that again. especially while steve's hands are pressing lightly into him, the touch branded against him beyond skin-deep in a way he'll definitely be thinking about later when he's alone.]
[ Steve has kissed a handful of boys before, but this feels different somehow. There's no alcohol, no dark rooms or party lights, no loud music. Just the warm press of weight against his own chest, the soft lips moving with his own, and the low rumble of a pleased hum at the back of his throat. He's always kissing over-eager girls or boys with egos that mean they do nothing but sloppily overpower him, but the balance here feels... nice.
His fingers flex just so against Zemo's lower back, encouraging him closer as he leans in. Every move Zemo makes, Steve mirrors it almost naturally, and he bends over him easily to deepen the kiss when the opportunity arises. One hand slides up the smaller boy's side, along his arm, the side of his neck, just in time for the kiss to break, leaving him panting softly. (He can feel the teasing nip of teeth still on his lip, the ghost of a promise, if ever he felt one).
It takes half a second for him to open his eyes and when he does, they slide open slowly, but he doesn't move his hands yet, letting them relish the warmth of the other boy for a few seconds longer. A sheepish, almost shy, smile pulls at his lips.
What was that?
Even Steve knows the answer, what with the way his blood thrums warmly in his veins, the way he's already thinking of kissing him again... ]
Right.
[ A soft huff, a breath, and the faint, affectionate swipe of his thumb against Zemo's jaw before his hands move altogether, dropping to his sides so he can create cooling space between their bodies. (He already misses the way Zemo fits against him, so much that he knows for a fact it's going to haunt him when he tries to sleep tonight). A little awkwardly, sheepish, he runs a hand back through his hair and steps around the other boy, shoulder brushing with his on the pass. Never mind how red his face has gotten. Getting his work back out, he lets out another breath, and absently runs fingers along his own lips. ]
[his body doesn't quite cooperate in pulling away, instead letting steve hold him those few extra moments past their second kiss once it's ended. third time's a charm, his brain unhelpfully supplies, dragging his gaze down to the way steve's lips are that much pinker now from usage, from where his own teeth had dug in a playful bite moments before. he swallows hard, breath hitching when steve's thumb traces along his chin in a fleeting motion that lingers long after his hand drops and he steps away. he can pinpoint every place steve's hands were pressed against his body, jaw twitching and tongue slipping out to run along his lips in an absent, tangible categorization of where he's feeling the loss the most. he vaguely registers steve moving back to his spot at the table, the way his hair is slightly askew from where he's run his hands through it a few times now in both frustration and...embarrassment? awkwardness? both of which are his fault.
zemo clears his throat loudly, as if to convince them both it'll be easy to get back down to business. he braces both hands against the tabletop, sliding into his seat and trying hard to quell the rush of heat he knows is visible in his own cheeks. he's so overwhelmed with what's just transpired that he forgets to even offer steve something to drink or make the move to get water for himself.
they work mostly in quiet today, the occasional flip of a book or his laptop to get feedback or clarify a portion that needs a second eye. and he finds that even in their most uncomfortable - it's not that bad. sitting with steve isn't the herculean task he's convinced the other boy it is by his actions and sharp, put-upon barbs. it's actually quite pleasant. he sneaks glances up at the other boy frequently - still marveling at how handsome he is in his concentration and realizing how dangerously distracted he is now that he knows precisely how those hands feel against his waist and his mouth fits along his own. but all good things must come to an end, and when he finds himself stifling down a yawn behind the back of his palm, he looks up with heavy, half-lidded eyes and realizes he's both physically and mentally exhausted from....everything, the week leading up to this, the outburst, the argument, the kisses.
he closes his laptop with an airy snap, fingers lingering across the top of it nervously tracing along the emblem. he bites at his lip, glancing up through his lashes across the way at steve.]
It's getting late. We managed to get through everything, against all odds.
[there's a wry twist of his lips at that as he watches steve start to pack up his things for the second time, knowing this one is actually goodbye. it would be easy to just watch him go to the door on his own, to stay in his seat and absolutely ensure nothing else transpires and that their not-quite friendship is back on track as surely as the way they've managed to steer this project. instead, he pushes himself up onto his feet.]
[ To say his lips still burn would be an understatement. Working side by side with Zemo after their furious kiss has left him shaken in a way he can't quite name. He's had plenty of little trysts here and there, casual and easy, but something about that kiss had felt... right.
Occasionally, he sneaks glances up at Zemo, watching the way he types furiously, the way his brow pinches as he focused, the way his tongue sometimes slips across his lips. Is he thinking of the kiss, too? That motion alone makes him dare a taste of his own lips, hoping to find the drop of something sweet and rich waiting there in the faint grooves where perfect teeth had caught before. To no avail.
Dutifully, he stays on task, keeping to his work in as much as he can considering the elephant that stands in the room. How they manage to get work done is a mystery to him, but they work with relative ease and silence. By the time they begin to conclude, Steve huffs out a soft laugh and sets his pen down, only to run fingers back through his own hair. ]
Against all odds.
[ The tilt of a head, a laugh, and he carefully packs his things back into his bag a second time that night and pushes up from his spot, slinging the bag over one shoulder. Starting toward the door he breathes a laugh as he turns to walk backward, looking at Zemo amused first, but there's a quick scan of something appreciative, as if the dip of his eyes to the man's mouth and back up are simply a reflex. ]
We've already done more work than half the class, so I think we're in good shape. [ He pauses when he gets to the door, looking down at Zemo curiously. ]
[something catches in his throat when steve looks down at him and actually thanks him, like tonight wasn't an utter disaster from start to finish. it's no small miracle they were even able to power through anything at all tonight, and now...in some ways, zemo feels like the project has persevered, but where does that leave him and steve? right back where they started, only now they're just ignoring what's transpired. and that's the way it should be, or it would have been if hunter and his stupid drink and the stupid party hadn't ruined everything.
but it's hard to focus his energy on being mad about all of that when steve is standing here looking as good as he does, with the knowledge that steve likes him and put his hands along his sides and jaw, and steve actually kissed him back. gone is the frustration from when he'd first come in here, and the removal of having to second-guess zemo's thoughts has apparently done wonders to his disposition. not that steve ever really deserved any of that in the first place, but if a kiss was all it took to effectively apologize...all the better.
a kiss. instinctively his gaze drops again, right around the same time he catches steve's wandering too and it all but cements what they're both clearly itching to do again. zemo lets his eyes flick up to meet steve's, something a little apprehensive and maybe even concerned behind expressive amber.]
Same time next week, then.
[he gives a curt nod, swallowing hard and making an attempt to look away. what he should do is reach for the door behind steve and pull it open, gesture for him to go and leave zemo to his burning thoughts for the rest of the night. he'll be replaying it over and over, probably taking his smaller hands and pressing it along the places that have been all but been sealed onto his body in a poor mimic for larger, warmer ones. when they see each other next...will it be this awkward? it's the thought of steve going his separate way right now and not showing up again until their next study session or freezing him out much in the same way zemo's done to him all week that his complicated mix of emotions shot into overdrive. despite his best efforts...that isn't what he wants, not really. and he feels like though it's his fault, he needs to do something to fix it. redirect it back to what they had if it's even still possible.
he pushes up onto his toes again, one hand bracing on his shoulder and the other reaching for steve's jaw to pull him down into another searing kiss. there's enough time that steve could stop him if he wanted to - but if he doesn't, he's getting the full force of all zemo's pent up energy from the past hour - the hunger, the fear, the need to taste him again just once before he has to let him go.]
[ Steve doesn't know what he expects now. What will their study sessions be like after the kiss from earlier? They haven't spoken about it and he gets the feeling, considering how this night went, that they might not. That a name might not be given to what it was, and what it means for them now. Is there a them? Steve considers it, and the idea of spending many nights kissing Helmut Zemo doesn't seem like a bad one. Not at all.
He barely notices the way the other boy looks away, his own eyes tracing the contours of his jaw, the slant of his nose, the pull of his mouth into something tight and concerned. Another step back toward the door and he's halted by the firm plant of a hand on his shoulder and the crush of lips against his own. He stumbles back the final foot, his back against the door frame, and he all but reaches to drag Zemo up against him, strong arms looped at his waist and supporting him up against his chest. For all intents and purposes, he's practically holding him up off his feet, keeping his weight off those balanced tip-toes, and using his body as a support instead.
His fingers fist into the fine cashmere of his sweater as he parts his lips against the other boy's, licking hot and needy into his mouth, as if chasing the remnants of berry-bitter wine, of anything that might linger on his own tongue long after this dorm door shuts behind him.
Idly, he finds himself wondering what it would be like to press Zemo against the door jamb, to have those long, slender legs wrapped around his own hips or waist, and he feels heat pool low and roiling into his belly. But one arm keeps him supported all the while the other slides up his back into the hair at his nape, letting fingers rake against his scalp and hold him close, pressing out all the air between their bodies to bring them flush, chest to chest, hips to hips inasmuch as one can, legs and knees a tangle.
He's cheeky this time, though, and instead of drawing back for air, he catches the boy's plush bottom lip between his teeth long enough to catch a breath and dive back in, his fingers curling into and mussing that perfectly coiffed hair. ]
[the realization that steve probably could lift him that last bit sends something fiery rushing through his blood, pumping very quickly south as he imagines what it'd be like to just wrap his legs around that strong waist and cling. or better yet - use it as leverage to grind against his hips - to take this a step further and really let him know where his mind's been at since...well, frankly since before the party. but good as this feels, there's a part of zemo that's afraid he'll get too carried away in the moment if he tries anything else. this was enough of a bombshell revelation, and there's still so much uncertainty as to what it means for the future of their interactions after this. in a perfect world he could tell steve he wants to do this every time he walks through that door - he wants to put a name on this, he wants to see him in this very room more than once a week and most especially he wants to start the tentative road to courting and spending more time together.
but he shouldn't. can't, really - because one wrong move and it ends up everywhere, ends in him packing a bag and catching a private jet back to sokovia for his indiscretions. the foolish part of him thinks about what steve said earlier - no one else needs to know. he feels like his head and his heart are on full display, someone else pressing fastforward and running his thoughts through an endless loop around the sensation of steve's lips and teeth and tongue and hands and the worrisome thoughts of when can i do this again? what are we?
it's that much easier to let his hand fist against steve's shirt, fingers shifting along his collarbone to grab at his bicep and squeeze appreciatively. there's a low groan as fingertips drag against the sensitive back of his neck, trailing up through his hair and using it to hold him in place as steve takes what he wants out of it too. the realization that this is so very mutual has zemo kissing him that much more insistently, tongue laving against steve's in an elegant curl. his other hand cups along his jaw, thumb pressing in to feel the way it's working against his own so hungrily. he could do this for hours, he thinks, because steve is just that good of a kisser. better than anyone else he's had, really, even a very memorable austrian boy who visited his boarding school pre-university and never enrolled.
there's a very undignified noise he realizes comes from his own mouth when steve pulls back, biting his lip like zemo had earlier to force himself to pull away. only this time steve just uses it as an interlude to breathe, something he very nearly forgets to do when his lips are crushed against his once more. zemo's fingers flex along his arm, gripping tight and steadying as his kisses grow more open-mouthed and filthy in how needy they are. there's audible little noises alongside the slickness of tongues and wet lips and heavy breaths in the air, and he doesn't care because it's too fucking good to be embarrassed or stop. steve certainly doesn't seem to mind.
but all good things must come to an end, and eventually the next time he needs a real breath, he tilts his neck back just so, body still mostly relying on the way steve's is supporting him. he's wide-eyed, flushed, lips red and swollen and eyes glimmering with excitement at the risk they've both just taken. his voice is a note huskier, like the other boy has somehow sucked it out of him with his kisses.]
[ To pull away now feels like walking away from the fire in a cold night, and Steve can't help but be drawn to the vibrancy of the other boy in his arms. But as soon as the other boy tilts his head back, he sighs softly and Steve's lip curl into an easy, but knowing, smile. He tilts his own head back against the door frame, looking down the bridge of his nose at the boy with the kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks, his hair mussed and askew. It's nigh impossible to resist, but he gives a little nod and shifts his weight forward, carefully setting him back to his feet.
Maybe it's wrong, maybe it's a step too far, but he so rarely takes anything of what he wants. He so rarely puts his neck out for the chopping, but the hand at the back of Zemo's neck slides around, thumb and forefinger catching his chin and tilting it up so that he can press one more kiss to those lips, chaste and short and sweet. ]
Goodnight, Helmut.
[ He draws away then, adjusts the strap on his bag, and ducks out of the room with a sheepish smile. And the memory of their kisses sticks with him, despite the argument, despite the fight. He texts the first two days following, but when classes roll around, he starts to feel sluggish, tired, run down. Monday, he's in classes and acts as normal as he can, but soon enough, all communication drops. Steve seems to disappear from classes, or certainly avoid the ones Zemo is in, and the texts and phone calls go radio silent.
While one might think it's a complication from a spontaneous make out session gone sloppy a few nights before, Steve instead finds himself coming down with a fever. He tries to ignore it and powers through most of his classes, but his literature course is the last of the day, and he doesn't have the energy. In doing so, he misses Zemo, but spends much of his day in bed tucked deep under the covers.
He doesn't text the boy, doesn't text his mother, doesn't bother with his roommate, but sleeps so much of his days away trying to shake whatever it is that comes over him. Three days have passed, though he's lost track of time between medicine and sleep-induced drunkenness, and by the time their next study session rolls around, Steve doesn't turn up. He stays curled up in his bed, pale and sticky with sweat, fitfully trying to sleep though he seems to come in and out of it with some difficulty.
It calls back to his days as a young boy, frail and fragile, when illnesses like this were as common as the sun rising in the east every morning. He's used to feeling like this, overcome with fever, nausea, fatigue. How many years of his life were spent tucked into a bed with his mother constantly tending to his side? How many years had he been coddled and carried into an immediate care because his fever got too high for such a small boy? He's long lost count. He doesn't want to worry his mother now, not with her workload and the stress on her shoulders, so he keeps his phone on silent on the charger, drifting in and out as the days pass.
Phil's gone yet again, has been all week for a school leadership function, and so he's been blessed with silence. Being alone, however, seems to make things worse in so many ways, the lack of care and water and food enough to force him up occasionally. He needs to eat, he knows that, but instead curls back up into his bed, burying himself in the covers as the dorms come to life at the end of the school day. He feels, in the haze of his fever and fatigue, that he's forgetting something. That he's got things to do, but he lets his his head fall back to the pillow with a heavy sigh, his eyes drifting shut. ]
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no subject
He just counters with a warm laugh of his own, a shrug of one strong shoulder, and the tip of his head. ]
There's definitely someone for everyone, you're right about that.
[ He taps the eraser of his pencil on the table a few times, letting it bounce back up over his fingertips and back down, but it pauses when he feels the easy weight of the boy's arm against his. He leans into it a little himself, sliding in his chair just so, situating himself a little closer to Zemo. The touch comes and goes, but he has no doubt the heat of the flush shows in the apples of his cheeks now. ]
Once a week? Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great. If you send me the outline I'll come with some ideas and research for the first section. Good?
[ He leans back in his chair and reaches to run fingers back into his hair, pushing it out of his face. It's grown a little overlong and he has no doubt that his mother will fuss the next time he's home. He looks at the book between them, at the laptop on the table, on the light it casts along Zemo's face, and he sucks in a slow breath and speaks, his voice almost timid, nervous. ]
Speaking of someones, though... I don't know what you're doing this weekend, but the Delta Kappa Epsilon boys are hosting a party. They're not really my thing, but I don't know, you should come, if you're free. I'll probably be there earlier in the night, but we can argue over Jungle Juice instead of textbooks.
[ A sheepish smile, another shrug of one shoulder. ] Just if you want.
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that steve rogers is exceptionally good-looking is entirely besides the point. particularly when he could have his pick of the student body, and zemo would suspect that his interests lie elsewhere. he's heard whispers and gossip from clear admirers, but no straight answer one way or another has to his actual preferences. which prompts him to ask oh so casually as he starts swiftly typing in a header without looking over:]
Did you have a specific someone in mind for yourself? What with so much to choose from.
[there's an almost bored drawl in his tone, like his interest in the matter doesn't hinge whatsoever on steve's answer and he's simply asking to pass the time. only half true.]
Good. I would dare say this might be the first project I can have a little faith in my partner.
[this is the first long-term project, but even being paired up in class for small assignments has been an exercise in strong-arming his assigned classmates into letting him carefully insinuate his far superior ideas into the forefront so neither of their grades are tanked. he's busy typing away the first few sections of the outline that he doesn't quite notice what steve is doing besides some bit of movement out of the corner of his eye. it's enough that his eyes shift sidelong, doubling back when he realizes steve looks...nervous, somehow. until he finally gets out his invitation.
an invitation.
oh.
he's being invited to an actual party, by a very popular member of the student body. he's seen this in one too many coming of age films not to know that it is apparently an important rite of passage. and while normally he'd be sharp in his refusal, coming up with any number of quick excuses and plausible reasons to decline...he finds there is something in steve's smile that he does not want to see disappointed.]
I have yet to see how you Americans do a proper party. I think I would be remiss if I did not give it a look - especially if you're offering to be my tour guide.
[a pause, lips curving faintly once more with another bounce of his brow. he keeps his voice even despite the way his heart has suddenly jumped in its rhythm, thudding in his chest.]
Though I cannot promise I'll be a fan of this..."jungle juice" over top shelf liquor.
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[ Not that Steve gave it much thought until this moment, but watching Zemo type away at the outline gives him a brief moment to admire his profile yet again, and he finds himself fixed with the sudden urge to press the pads of his fingers along those beauty marks, to touch his lips which, worried in concentration, look soft.
It makes the flush burn a little brighter and he lets out a little sheepish huff as he turns back to his own papers, riffling through them. ]
I'll have to see if he's interested, first. Hard to say.
[ But surely the press of that arm hadn't been absent minded, and the quips about their looks, the way Zemo had noticed people noticing him. It's a little maddening, really, that he finds himself swept up in the foreign student who meets him toe to toe on difficult subjects, who works just as hard as he does, and whose smirk is sure to haunt him once he leaves this room.
He half expects the other boy to turn down the invitation. A wild frat party doesn't seem quite his speed, but Steve raises his brows in pleasant surprise when he actually seems to agree. ]
I wouldn't mind being your tour guide. [ He wants to kick himself for how eager he sounds, voice warm and laughing. ] And I won't make you drink too much Jungle Juice either, but it is definitely a means to an end. I usually hang out for a couple of hours then ditch. They can get a little out of control the later you stay, because the freshman show up. It'll be nice having someone to actually talk to.
[ He shrugs and sits back, beginning to neatly put his papers back into a stack, but the motion of sitting further up leaves his thigh pressed against Zemo's, where he keeps it, pleasantly warm. ]
And we can always go get top shelf liquor somewhere else after.
[ After? Steven Rogers, keep your head attached to your shoulders. ]
no subject
he.
steve rogers, apparently, has a preference that mirrors his own, even if it's not something he can announce quite so freely. on some level, he thinks his family must know of it like an open, unspoken secret. the expectation is simply that he will be discreet, he will not embarrass himself, and he will never let it interfere with the greater machinations at play regarding his future - most specifically an heir to the zemo family in ten years time, give or take. his trysts so far have either been the kind that can be written away with strong alcohol, mild party favors and the foolish games played by youthful friends looking for a good, fleeting time - or they're miles away from recognition in dark corners he wouldn't be caught in during the light of day. america could be a playground for him, he supposes. the campus is much larger and less insular than the one he's attended in sokovia...and yet somehow between the cultural reset and the way his parents are still regularly checking in, it feels like one wrong move makes the rest of his year miserable. it's not worth the risk, not to him, when he'll be gone in the spring.
so he just hums lightly, fingers resuming their typing and a mild tilt of his head as he doesn't turn to look at steve directly. between the complicated jumble of all that and the actual admission from steve, he hasn't exactly put the deeper implication together yet, glossing straight over it with another casual, nearly dismissive response right back while he quickly starts filling in the next few lines.]
Then you should just ask whoever he is. Better to know up front and stop wasting your time, isn't it?
[he's interrupted again by the sudden contact against his thigh, pleasant and firm enough that he can feel it even with two layers of jeans between them. he swallows hard, another fissure of warmth that feels like it's running straight up his spine and lingering at the back of his neck. now he does turn to face steve, fingers falling away from the keys altogether after a quick click to save his work. it strikes him just how endearing steve looks - like he'd overestimated his confidence somehow. there's a fondness in the way his lips twitch at the corners again, eyes glittering under the dim, yellowy overhead lighting.]
I like the sound of that. Only until the freshman show up, of course. But seeing as you've already solved the question of an after-party...consider my attendance a sure thing.
[he inclines his head in an acknowledging nod, a brief pause before he adds a little softer and more politely:]
Thank you for the invitation.
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Then you should just ask whoever he is.
Isn't that what he's just done, in a way? Invited Zemo to the party, to the potential of drinking together after. He doesn't have the courage now, to speak up and boldly state that maybe the dark haired boy beside him has caught his eye, that he'd like to invite him to a more private night out instead of a raucous college party. Instead, he lets out a little huff of a laugh. ]
Yeah, well. Gotta get the timing right. Timing's important.
[ He finishes with tidying his papers, carefully stacking them into his notebook with tabs and careful notes written in the margins. Occasionally, there might be faint doodles in the corners, conjured from boredom and a wandering mind in class. But he pauses when Zemo appears to agree to come, and his lips curl into a soft smile, warm at the edges and bright behind his eyes. ]
I'm glad you're coming. [ He stacks his things neatly, pressing them carefully back into his bookbag, but he pauses for a moment, moving to take his pencil from before and reach across to scribble his phone number on the corner of the other boy's notebook. ] Just in case you need to get ahold of me. For the project, or the party.
[ Not for anything else, of course. Just for communication. But the scribbling etch of his numbers on the paper makes his heart thud heavy in his chest, keeps the warmth at bay in his cheeks. He's given his number to girls, to a couple of boys, in his time, but it's never like this. Quiet, coy, scribbled on school work as though it isn't the invitation that it is. He shifts in his seat, leg pressing a little firmer against the one beside him, but little more. ]
Same time, same place- next week? For the project.
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he hesitates for just a moment, picking up his own pen and looping out his own numbers, along with the very unnecessary notation of helmut zemo at the bottom before tearing out the otherwise blank sheet and folding it crisply before offering it between two fingers.]
You'll show me a good time, won't you? Here, this is mine.
[he smirks again, teasing lightly and letting his gaze drop briefly down to where mismatched denim is pressed up against one another. he lets his own shift in too, unwilling to...back down? put back space between them? maybe they're playing some invisible game - snehový závej, snowdrift, or as they call it here apparently, "chicken".]
Same time, same place. But I will see you this weekend first. For the party.
[one party turns into two, then three - then he loses count altogether in between a mix of study sessions and a flurry of texts that turn into late night phone calls. suddenly he finds that steve rogers has become a very ingrained part of his day-to-day: in class, outside of class, when he's alone, when they're together. perhaps the most shocking fact of all is that he finds himself starting to actually enjoy it on a deeper level than he'd ever let on. there's a certain thrill at wondering what little touches they'll share at his study table in the privacy of his dorm, what little quip he might pull out to get steve to flush fetchingly, or what charming flirtation he'll toss his way.
it wouldn't be a stretch to call it a friendship, even though he resolutely refuses to call it that. and it certainly isn't anything more. it can't be.
which is why the day after steve decides to play hero and thus ensure he's utterly mortified the morning after he wakes up to the other student in his bed, that's exactly the day he ceases all communication as soon as the door closes behind him on his way out. so what if he'd gotten a bit too drunk at a party? it wouldn't be the first time, and it most certainly won't be the last. so what if he'd been entertaining attention from another handsome(ish) senior? he wouldn't have let it get farther than friendly conversation and an innuendo or two just to test the waters.
the night is a blur, hazy around the edges and lacking pieces of the puzzle that was making it into his dorm and then making it into his bed. he remembers uttering a few things he'd rather be caught dead than say to his - classmate (because that's all steve is at this point). he remembers being herded carefully into bed, a glass of cool water on his nightstand and waking up to a warm body on top of the covers beside him, clearly fallen asleep during some honorable attempt at watching over him. steve wouldn't take advantage - he already knows that. more baffling still was the way in which he took it upon himself to make breakfast and actually stay nearly into the afternoon to make sure he was alright. zemo had been much too taken aback to properly put up his walls again, and frankly - he was starving.
it's been radio silence on his end since. he doesn't text steve, he doesn't call, he ignores anything that might come his way. he even takes a different route in and out of class, leaving slightly earlier or later than usual solely to avoid seeing him in between. class is the only place he can't escape, though he does call out the day after. but when he does finally make his return, even then he makes a point to sit on opposite ends of the room and resolutely focus on the front rather than let his gaze wander. he doesn't volunteer any rebuttals, he doesn't try and take on some of the hooks steve seems like he's dangling solely for his response.
his last line of defense would be cancelling their meeting - but to what end? much as he'd like to, he can't run forever. enough time has passed that he won't be completely full of shame when he opens the door for their study session, though he does steel his face into something haughty with his lips pursed and brows pinched together.]
Steven. [a tight, nod and he turns on his heel almost immediately so he doesn't have to look him in the eye.]
Come in. You want a drink?
[an excuse for him not to sit down right away, to put off the inevitable.]
no subject
The days that follow are deadly silent, and while the first few seem more like a recovery period, the week stretches on and Steve notices his texts go unanswered, that he doesn't see Helmut in the halls, that even classroom quips and discussions are clipped and cold.
The guilt from that night comes back, pressing at the edges of his mind and beckoning him to re-examine it. Had he been there when he promised he would be, Hunter would not have had the opportunity to seize Zemo's drink, to prey upon a man lost to the culture and, in some ways, in lack of company. Seeing him like that and facing down the lithe boy from the swim team, has burned something deep into him. Helmut Zemo could have been ridiculed or worse, he knows from personal experience, and it would have been Steve's fault.
Maybe that's what this silence is, frigid and distant. If it's blame, if it's the condemnation that comes from being tardy (though he had no true control over it) then he deserves it. Every bit of Zemo's ire should be directed at him for not keeping his promise, staying true to his word. He tried. He did, and that part hurts more than anything else. Never in any of his dreams would he have wanted anyone to get hurt because of him. Never.
His phone reminds him, so kindly, that he has a study session set up with the boy in his dorm to return to one of their group projects and put the finishing touches on it. Considering canceling it altogether, Steve sits in his dorm room and stares at the reminder, his bag halfway slung over one shoulder. They haven't spoken in what feels like weeks and he doesn't know what to expect when he finally pushes himself up and makes his way to Zemo's floor.
Just get through this, he tries to tell himself, as the door opens and the other boy answers with as much warmth as one might find in a polar ice cap. Steve's stomach sinks deep into his gut, but he moves in to the table with familiar ease. ]
No, no. Thank you, though. I brought water.
[ Taking up his usual seat, he opens his bag and carefully pulls out his work, all pristine papers and neat handwriting, organized and clean inasmuch as he is in person. But that doesn't fill the time like he'd hoped, and he's left with his hands on the table, eyes lifting to track Zemo in the room. ]
I... gotta admit I didn't know if we were doing this. I... well, I haven't heard from you in a while.
[ Good natured, easy, but there's a reservation in the way he speaks, hesitant and guarded in a way that Steve Rogers decidedly isn't. Particularly around Helmut Zemo in the last several weeks. ]
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it's been a difficult week, to say the least. but the idea that it's because he somehow holds steve responsible for his own assumed recklessness and inebriation is so much further from the real truth of it. that would simplify so many of his problems, and yet that's a burden he wouldn't even think to put on his classmate who he knows deep down was simply trying to do the right thing. waking up next to him there hadn't been even the slightest fear that something untoward had taken place on his end. not when steve was so clearly in last night's clothes, propped up against one of the posts of his large bed and not even tucked under the velvet duvet cover in lieu of resting atop it. the only thing it had accomplished was committing a very specific image of a sleeping steve rogers with his arms folded, jaw slack and impossibly long lashes fluttering across the tops of his cheeks. it had been sweet to realize he must have stayed to make sure he made it through the night, that he took the time and effort to tuck him in and apparently make him comfortable as well.
but thinking about it now makes his skin prickle unpleasantly, a hot rush of shame at steve seeing him in a compromising position at all. it isn't necessarily about the perceived weakness of it moreso than it is steve being aware that whatever plausibly deniable attraction may have been simmering under the surface of their established relationship has now been blown wide open. there are a few things he knows he uttered that would have otherwise stayed locked away and never been spoken aloud to the light - night, actually - of day.
knowing the way steve is - he should have anticipated he would confront this head on and ask why there's been a seismic shift in the rapport they've shared. the cold shoulder is an understatement. he swallows thickly, lips pursing and chin lifting like he's already on the defensive.]
It needs to get done, doesn't it? [he's not so impolite he wouldn't have made a proper cancellation.]
I've been busy.
[said oh so lightly and without apology, even though it's a complete lie. steve will probably know it's a complete lie based on his past schedule and hours spent on the phone during their last few weekends.]
no subject
Should he have let him go with Hunter? Should he have stayed away from the party altogether? He scans his mind over that night again and tries to parse apart just what might have happened to make all of this happen, what he did. None of it makes sense, but this is the way of things for Steve Rogers - a life of half-lived moments, caught up between the sickly boy he used to be at the strong, healthy man he is now. He lives in the in-betweens, not belonging to any world and always skirting by in the projections of others, and what they think. ]
It does.
[ The work must get completed, he's right in that regard, but the answer feels so cold and distant. Coming here was a mistake. He doesn't believe for one second that Zemo was busy, but he doesn't know how to vocalize it without revealing the strange, tender part of him that has come to yearn for interactions with this standoffish boy.
Maybe he should have read the warning signs from the start. ]
Sorry to hear that. I noticed I hadn't seen you around, so I'm glad you're just busy and not sick. [ And he had worried, that first day, that maybe he left him in the throes of a drug-induced hangover too early. He looks down at his papers, wringing his hands together for a few seconds before he lets out a sigh and rakes those fingers back through his hair. ]
Guess we should get to it. [ He tilts his head, as if trying to decide what to say next, but seems to hold back, evident in the way his mouth works, the muscle in his jaw flexing. ]
no subject
but steve still tries. he can sense the beginnings of frustration in his body language - hands twisting, the frustrated way he pushes back his hair his jaw twitches around a near frown. he's unhappy with that answer, but he doesn't have enough to argue it one way or another. it makes zemo's lips press into a thin line too, an involuntary twitch of the muscle between his nose and upper lip in disdain as he weighs his options here.]
I wasn't sick. Not when I missed class, and absolutely not - when you took it upon yourself to play hero. I'm perfectly capable of handling myself, you know.
[ah, fuck. so much for only focusing on their work and avoiding an outburst around what's really been needling at him.]
Nevermind.
[an attempt at recovering as he shakes his head and taps out a few quick keys to pull up the outline, the first few pieces struck out as completed]
You're right, we should just focus on the work. I'm sure you have places to be. I certainly do.
[another lie, one steve could probably dismantle easily if he wanted. but zemo is feeling spiteful enough to tell it anyway, to try and distract from what's really going on beneath the surface of his cold front.]
no subject
Will you stop that? I didn't play hero, I was trying to keep you safe. That guy? Hunter? He wasn't going to let you leave there alone without making a complete fool of you. So if you think someone watching your back and giving a damn about you is playing hero, then you really need to check your priorities.
[ He lets out a frustrated sigh, despite how calm he sounds even now, he feels like he's been hit across the face and for no good reason. ]
If you're that mad that I helped you home after that guy roofied you, then I don't even know why I'm here. I was worried. That guy, he's known... let's just say I know what he was going to do to you, and I didn't want that to happen.
[ Steve runs his hands back through his hair, dropping them back to his lap and shaking his head. Sure, maybe he felt guilty for staying overlong, for possibly interrupting when he wasn't supposed to, but he knows when something is going south quickly, and with Hunter in the picture? He has no doubt that Zemo's picture would have been posted on all manner of social media. A prize, the laughing stock.
He moves to shut his notebook, needing something to do with all the furious kinetic energy he feels humming through to his very bones. He holds his hands up in mock surrender, his frown deep. ]
So if you call that playing hero - someone looking out for you when you can't - then sure, fine, I'm guilty. I'll leave.
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but really, there's a small part of him that's mesmerized by how vehemently steve argues his case. if he weren't so busy feeling more and more like a heel than he already did for his avoidance act, he might have a moment to appreciate how becoming frustration looks on him - the sharp line of his jaw, the twist of his lips, the slight raise to his voice and the fury burning in his eyes. it's all terribly passionate, but steve rogers has never struck him as a boy who does anything in half measures. isn't that why he bothered to spend the night? was prepared to nurse him back to health in the morning by checking in, making him breakfast, overlooking how embarrassing all of it must have been for zemo in a polite offer of kindness and compassion? he was trying to do the right thing, and zemo knows that.
and yet, he'd rather sit here and argue about it. mainly because he fixates on one core element of this that he's in disbelief over.]
I see. Someone else decides to take notice that I exist while you're off gallivanting and suddenly they're the enemy?
[he's being unnecessarily stubborn about this, but more importantly, he lets out an incredulous, mocking bit of laughter.]
Roofied? Please. That boy - Hunter - was perfectly polite. I didn't take anything from him either. It was a strong drink that got the better of me, and it wouldn't be the first time. You may think you know me, Steven, but you wouldn't recognize my friends and I after a few rounds at Ostgut.
[his own voice is tight, trying resolutely to keep his conviction even in the waning face of something that feels much more serious. the truth of the matter is - he doesn't know hunter, and he did trust steve at the time over him. there must have been a reason for it, but here he is throwing it back in his face.]
Well, if it was such a concern for my safety, why were you late? Why did you invite me in the first place? And why do you keep making the effort when all I do is keep you at arm's length anyway?
[his chin lifts, glancing at steve's book and motion to leave with a resolute shake of his head.]
Oh, but now you want to leave. How ironic that I want you to stay.
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When he speaks, there's a deadly calm to him, his voice almost low as if he's measured every syllable, playing them in time with some invisible, unheard tune. ]
My bike's transmission went out. I don't have the money to fix it, so it's still in the lot broken, if you need proof. I got there as soon as I could. I even borrowed a friends car. I wanted to be there.
[ He wanted to spend time with the boy who has uncharacteristically swept him up. The boy that, just a week prior, Bucky had made silly comments about and waggled his eyebrows over this elusive crush he knew Steve had. His hands curl into fists over his thighs, and it's all he can do not to pack his things and leave.
And why do you keep making the effort when all I do is keep you at arm's length anyway?
Yet again, he's been made a fool, hasn't he? Maybe there are no drugs in his drink, there are no videos or pictures, but the hot wash of embarrassment feels very much the same. ]
He roofied you. He put his arm around your shoulder, right? Or stood close to talk into your ear? That's when he did it. You want to know how I know? I've been there. The difference is you didn't end up on a bathroom floor. I got you home safe before he could do anything. And he was going to.
[ He moves to pack his things up, tucking away the papers and the book he'd pulled out. Anything to not look him in the eye as he speaks in vague gestures about what happened that night. ]
And did you ever consider I invited you because I liked you? It used to be fun at these study sessions, and in class, and on the phone... I invited you because I wanted to. And I'm sorry I was late. That I didn't stop that asshole from doing what he did, but I don't know what else you expect from me. I can't stand there and let someone get hurt like I did, especially you.
[ He pushes up from his seat with a harsh sigh, turning to look down at the other boy, indignant, his tone rising a step. ]
And if you want me to stay you're doing a bad job of showing it. I'm not going to apologize for what I did. I did what was right, and if you disagree then that's just what we'll have to do, but I'm not going to sit here while you try and make me the villain in this. That's not how this works.
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he can tell he's hit a nerve by the way steve speaks, as if the expression on his face that looks equal measures incredulous and - hurt, genuinely, somehow. it makes guilt bubble up and roil in his chest, the fight deflating almost instantly even if there's a small part of him that still wants to dig in his heels and keep fighting a losing battle. because really - what kind of retort could he come up with that would justify his behavior now? he's known steve did the right thing from the beginning - that was never in question. the thing that's much harder to articulate is why he feels the way that he does, mostly in part because it means acknowledging what he's resolutely refused to explicitly acknowledge up until now.
but all of that seems inconsequential when compared to steve's own experience in the matter. the fact that he really did save zemo from something untoward, that he knows the motions because it's something he could empathize with - worse than that, because he'd experienced whatever hunter had planned in full. now the guilt is full on boiling within him, face falling into something openly stunned as his brows furrow and his lips part while he tries to carefully find the words.]
Yes - yes, he did. [he swallows thickly, something pained in his expression.] I'm sorry - I didn't know. No one deserves that, least of all you.
[there are a million other questions he'd like to ask - are you alright? did you confront him? what about the authorities? how many people has he done this to? why is he still doing it? how long ago? can you forgive me for being so callous?
but none of them seem to make it out, too much when he has one last thing to contend with: did you ever consider i invited you because i liked you? zemo has seen enough films in both sokovian, english, and plenty languages in between where the next logical question is something along the lines of but do you like like me? he's always had a suspicion that steve was...fond of him, on some level. he'd have to be to keep going out of his way like he's just thrown in his face, to keep inviting him places and making every excuse to talk to him when he has the chance. but if he didn't accept it, it meant he never had to address his own complicated feelings on the matter. except now it's out in the open, and steve is about to leave because he's behaved like an utterly heartless cad, and, all zemo can do is stand up just as quickly, coming into steve's space with something defiant mustered up.]
You're not the villain here. I trusted you for a reason, Steve. So allow me to simplify it - I'm humiliated that any number of things that came out of my mouth directly to the source were true. I keep you at arm's length because it means not having to admit that I care about you, more than I am entitled, and I can keep you guessing instead.
Only now I can't, because I've spilled all my dirty little secrets while completely inebriated and you only heard them because you were, in fact, doing the gentlemanly thing - because of course you were.
[his head tips back to look at steve directly in the face, cheeks pink with the emotional exertion of his outburst and the infuriating realization that the other student, even in his anger, still looks ridiculously handsome. maybe even more so. his gaze flits from his eyes down to his lips and back up again like pulled by a string. he can't help himself - a dangerous notion he's starting to realize when it comes to steve rogers.]
So...no need to apologize. Go if you want.
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If he walks out of this room knowing he at last spared Zemo that embarrassment and hurt, then he'll consider this some twisted victory. But he doesn't want to leave, doesn't understand why the boy has turned heel on him so quickly, when everything up until this point led down a different path altogether. Funny, that Steve had been thinking of asking him on a proper date, on seeing if maybe he could cast his line out to a pretty, Sokovian boy with a bite to his tongue and fire to his wit.
When Zemo starts to speak again, Steve's hackles raise, as though preparing for what will inevitably be another wild series of accusations and barbs. Why do you keep making efforts rings in the back of his mind, a hollow echo he knows he'll carry with him for a while.
But the barbs and heat never come and Steve turns back to look at the boy just as he stands into his space, close enough that he's sure he can feel the heat radiating off of his face. He doesn't move, rooted to the spot and frozen by the confession caught on the strange heels of aggression moments before. The surprise shows in his face, Steve's eyebrows raised into the ruffled blond of his hairline, unkempt from driving his fingers through it. ]
What does it matter that I heard all of that? [ Steve huffs, frustrated still and a little baffled. ] I care about you, too, so what, you think I'm going to use that against you? I got you out of there, away from everyone else, before you said anything like that. No one else knows. No one else needs to know.
[ He sighs and shakes his head, dropping his bag back onto the table, his hands coming to his own hips as he tries to work through what he wants to say, his mind fuzzied instead by how close they are, how lovely the shade of pink looks dusted across Zemo's cheeks, but all the same: ]
I want to stay. I showed up here because I wanted to, but sometimes you make it feel like it's some herculean task to sit next to me. I don't know what you want from me, Helmut. Do you want me to stay or do you want me to go? I'm tired of trying to guess all the time.
[ He sighs and looks down for a moment, trying to center himself yet again before he levels with Zemo again, eyes meeting the other boy's suddenly aware of how close they are. He's sure he sees the flicker of those eyes to his lips, but he might be making things up at this point. ]
So can you just tell me what it is you want? Please.
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[even if steve was the subject, it was only prompted by his condition. this whole thing is utterly ridiculous, seeing as zemo knows he all but draped himself across the other boy last weekend and murmured out any matter of compliments ranging from flattering to downright embarrassing. it's no small wonder he didn't do something completely unrecoverable like try to climb into his lap or initiate something he'd regret. maybe regret is too strong a word - but he'd regret not remembering. he'd regret not letting it be special. and that's what would have happened if steve hadn't done the decent thing, hadn't stopped hunter from whatever he had planned. one thing at a time. there will be plenty to consider about how to handle hunter outside of this immediate need to...settle whatever this is with steve.
which circles back again: what does he want? it still feels like he has one foot out the door - weary from the push and pull that zemo has no one but himself to blame for initiating. it's been like that every time because distance makes it easy to succumb to the things he wants - the suggestiveness, the flirtation, the way he feels like he can be himself when steve isn't sitting across from him and able to really look and see past all his layers. it's why their phone conversations are perhaps the most honest he's been, and it's why he immediately retreats the moment they're alone or out somewhere in front of classmates - like he has to double down and convince everyone there's nothing special there. not least of all convincing himself.]
I already said it before. You should stay, if only for the project. It needs to get done and we're on a well-planned schedule.
[right, like that's the priority. it glosses over everything steve has just admit - that he's been strung along far enough and he's at the end of the rope zemo has been swinging back and forth at his own convenience. out of his own fear. why? what does he want? what does he want? steve asks like it's supposed to be something so easy vocalize, like he can't already guess or doesn't have a sense of where this is going. zemo's lips part on an audible click, an incredulous bit of laughter escaping at the density of the question. ]
You ask me that like it's so simple. Like I'm just supposed to say that I want -
[he cuts himself off, murmuring something in sokovian that has the distinct impression of oh for god's sake. his eyes roll right at the moment he lets out an exasperated sigh and without warning he's launching himself forward in a sudden movement to grip steve's face between both hands, pressing up on his toes and pulling him down the rest of the way to crush their lips together in a kiss that borders on frustration and suppressed need. everything he can't say out loud, that he's been pushing down and ignoring these past few months bubbles to the surface and the ferocity in which he lets his mouth move around steve's, and before he can worry about it being reciprocated or steve pushing him away in surprise (disgust, maybe), he pulls away himself. red-faced, breathing hard. his hands are still gripping at the side of his face, something dazed and surprised at himself in his eyes. there's only one small hitch when he asks, low and sardonically:]
Does that spell it out more clearly for you?
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Something about Helmut's flagrant disregard of everything Steve has tried to say, has admitted here, makes his blood absolutely boil. This whole time has felt like nothing but yelling at a brick wall despite Zemo's quiet confession. He sucks in a deep breath, raises a hand to press against the bridge of his nose but it doesn't quite make it. Not before other hands reach his face, drag him down, and he's... what? Kissing his study partner.
The first few seconds feel like he's suspended in ice, caught up in the anger and fury moments before, but Zemo's lips move against his, needy and frustrated and he's eager to mirror it, only to find he's pulled away. Steve stares at him, wide eyed and flushed, looking down at the pretty man with the pretty lips that have just kissed. ]
Roger. Loud and clear.
[ But once isn't enough. Maybe it should be, maybe he should let it go and file it away for analysis later, when he can't sleep. Those lips had been so soft, expert in their movement against his own mouth, and much the same as his opponent, Steve reaches for Zemo, letting his palms grip his sides first if only to tug him in closer, near flush to his chest as he bends to kiss him again, open-mouthed and wanting, fueled by the anger and frustration from moments ago.
Zemo tastes of the Sokovian wine he so oft talks about, but he doesn't care about that as he licks into his mouth with an appreciation he's put to words but not action, his fingers flexing into the low of his back. (The way his waist dips makes something in Steve burn hot but even he has the wherewithal to control himself, even if his mind wonders what it would feel like to sink lower, lower, lower).
They have a project to do, some part of his brain is idly aware, but he can't help but settle into kissing him a few moments longer. After all, it's something he's pondered much of their time spent together: how soft his lips might be, if he would taste of spice and copper as sharp as his tongue and wit, if he would feel warm and make a perfect fit against his chest. ]
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but of course that isn't it. it sounds stupid even when he lays it out in his head - and steve rogers isn't the type to just let something sit like that without addressing it, is he? he's expecting another round of twenty questions, of laying it out in plain, broad strokes of black and white when zemo would much rather operate in the murky shades of grey that suit this situation better.
he watches it happen like it's in slow motion - steve's hands purposefully flexing around his waist, drawing him closer as he leans down and responds in kind to the kiss zemo had intentionally left one-sided. it's not his first kiss with a man by any means, but it is his first kiss with a man like steve rogers, and that makes all the difference. it's hot and seeking and there's a barely-restrained vigor to it that holds a certain amount of grace - much in the way steve has handled himself this whole time. zemo's fists clench, balling up and pressing lightly against steve's chest like he means to push him away and put a stop to this. but it's a lot harder when he desperately wants this - has wanted it for longer than he'd care to admit.
something molten pools in his gut at the press of broad palms against his lower back, brushing lightly over the expensive woven fabric of his shirt and sending a shiver up his whole spine that shakes out in a full-body tremble. his fingers shift, splaying across his chest as he presses up on his toes and tilts his head back to deepen the kiss. he may as well while he has the opportunity, right? steve slips his tongue along the inside of his mouth first - proving that maybe he's not just some boy scout after all. zemo meets it with his own, twining against it and tasting the remnants of something fresh and minty, like steve made a hopeful point to brush his teeth before coming here.
(his lips are soft too, and he's the perfect height for zemo to shift closer and press himself against that rock solid chest that he now has the sobriety to really appreciate it. and if there's a content hum when he does so, immediately swallowed up by the delicious shift of steve's mouth - then it's almost like it never happened, isn't it?)
fuck, but it's good. infinitely better than the clumsy ones in dark corners at clubs with strangers who don't even know his name and taste like cheap vodka, cigarettes and marijuana while they pawed greedily and blindly at him. steve makes him want to stay awhile, to slip his hands up under what he's wearing and press intimately with skin against skin. to tug steve into his bedroom - pull them both horizontal so they can carry this on with uninterrupted purpose. and it's that thought that has him pulling away again out of necessity, licking into his mouth one last time and nipping at the plush lower lip in a teasing farewell. he's breathing harder than normal, face flushed and eyes frantically skimming along steve's for any signs of annoyance or residual anger. it's not like he wouldn't deserve it.
one hand lifts to cover over his own mouth and press fleetingly at them like he's trying to test that they've actually just been locked with steve's and he isn't hallucinating this. for once, he doesn't have a smug comeback.]
Right - well. We should, ah, get to work.
[there's a hesitance there - like one wrong (or right) excuse and he might not be able to resist another opportunity to do that again. especially while steve's hands are pressing lightly into him, the touch branded against him beyond skin-deep in a way he'll definitely be thinking about later when he's alone.]
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His fingers flex just so against Zemo's lower back, encouraging him closer as he leans in. Every move Zemo makes, Steve mirrors it almost naturally, and he bends over him easily to deepen the kiss when the opportunity arises. One hand slides up the smaller boy's side, along his arm, the side of his neck, just in time for the kiss to break, leaving him panting softly. (He can feel the teasing nip of teeth still on his lip, the ghost of a promise, if ever he felt one).
It takes half a second for him to open his eyes and when he does, they slide open slowly, but he doesn't move his hands yet, letting them relish the warmth of the other boy for a few seconds longer. A sheepish, almost shy, smile pulls at his lips.
What was that?
Even Steve knows the answer, what with the way his blood thrums warmly in his veins, the way he's already thinking of kissing him again... ]
Right.
[ A soft huff, a breath, and the faint, affectionate swipe of his thumb against Zemo's jaw before his hands move altogether, dropping to his sides so he can create cooling space between their bodies. (He already misses the way Zemo fits against him, so much that he knows for a fact it's going to haunt him when he tries to sleep tonight). A little awkwardly, sheepish, he runs a hand back through his hair and steps around the other boy, shoulder brushing with his on the pass. Never mind how red his face has gotten. Getting his work back out, he lets out another breath, and absently runs fingers along his own lips. ]
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zemo clears his throat loudly, as if to convince them both it'll be easy to get back down to business. he braces both hands against the tabletop, sliding into his seat and trying hard to quell the rush of heat he knows is visible in his own cheeks. he's so overwhelmed with what's just transpired that he forgets to even offer steve something to drink or make the move to get water for himself.
they work mostly in quiet today, the occasional flip of a book or his laptop to get feedback or clarify a portion that needs a second eye. and he finds that even in their most uncomfortable - it's not that bad. sitting with steve isn't the herculean task he's convinced the other boy it is by his actions and sharp, put-upon barbs. it's actually quite pleasant. he sneaks glances up at the other boy frequently - still marveling at how handsome he is in his concentration and realizing how dangerously distracted he is now that he knows precisely how those hands feel against his waist and his mouth fits along his own. but all good things must come to an end, and when he finds himself stifling down a yawn behind the back of his palm, he looks up with heavy, half-lidded eyes and realizes he's both physically and mentally exhausted from....everything, the week leading up to this, the outburst, the argument, the kisses.
he closes his laptop with an airy snap, fingers lingering across the top of it nervously tracing along the emblem. he bites at his lip, glancing up through his lashes across the way at steve.]
It's getting late. We managed to get through everything, against all odds.
[there's a wry twist of his lips at that as he watches steve start to pack up his things for the second time, knowing this one is actually goodbye. it would be easy to just watch him go to the door on his own, to stay in his seat and absolutely ensure nothing else transpires and that their not-quite friendship is back on track as surely as the way they've managed to steer this project. instead, he pushes himself up onto his feet.]
Let me walk you to the door.
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Occasionally, he sneaks glances up at Zemo, watching the way he types furiously, the way his brow pinches as he focused, the way his tongue sometimes slips across his lips. Is he thinking of the kiss, too? That motion alone makes him dare a taste of his own lips, hoping to find the drop of something sweet and rich waiting there in the faint grooves where perfect teeth had caught before. To no avail.
Dutifully, he stays on task, keeping to his work in as much as he can considering the elephant that stands in the room. How they manage to get work done is a mystery to him, but they work with relative ease and silence. By the time they begin to conclude, Steve huffs out a soft laugh and sets his pen down, only to run fingers back through his own hair. ]
Against all odds.
[ The tilt of a head, a laugh, and he carefully packs his things back into his bag a second time that night and pushes up from his spot, slinging the bag over one shoulder. Starting toward the door he breathes a laugh as he turns to walk backward, looking at Zemo amused first, but there's a quick scan of something appreciative, as if the dip of his eyes to the man's mouth and back up are simply a reflex. ]
We've already done more work than half the class, so I think we're in good shape. [ He pauses when he gets to the door, looking down at Zemo curiously. ]
Thank you. For tonight.
[ For explaining. For the kiss. For all of it? ]
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[something catches in his throat when steve looks down at him and actually thanks him, like tonight wasn't an utter disaster from start to finish. it's no small miracle they were even able to power through anything at all tonight, and now...in some ways, zemo feels like the project has persevered, but where does that leave him and steve? right back where they started, only now they're just ignoring what's transpired. and that's the way it should be, or it would have been if hunter and his stupid drink and the stupid party hadn't ruined everything.
but it's hard to focus his energy on being mad about all of that when steve is standing here looking as good as he does, with the knowledge that steve likes him and put his hands along his sides and jaw, and steve actually kissed him back. gone is the frustration from when he'd first come in here, and the removal of having to second-guess zemo's thoughts has apparently done wonders to his disposition. not that steve ever really deserved any of that in the first place, but if a kiss was all it took to effectively apologize...all the better.
a kiss. instinctively his gaze drops again, right around the same time he catches steve's wandering too and it all but cements what they're both clearly itching to do again. zemo lets his eyes flick up to meet steve's, something a little apprehensive and maybe even concerned behind expressive amber.]
Same time next week, then.
[he gives a curt nod, swallowing hard and making an attempt to look away. what he should do is reach for the door behind steve and pull it open, gesture for him to go and leave zemo to his burning thoughts for the rest of the night. he'll be replaying it over and over, probably taking his smaller hands and pressing it along the places that have been all but been sealed onto his body in a poor mimic for larger, warmer ones. when they see each other next...will it be this awkward? it's the thought of steve going his separate way right now and not showing up again until their next study session or freezing him out much in the same way zemo's done to him all week that his complicated mix of emotions shot into overdrive. despite his best efforts...that isn't what he wants, not really. and he feels like though it's his fault, he needs to do something to fix it. redirect it back to what they had if it's even still possible.
he pushes up onto his toes again, one hand bracing on his shoulder and the other reaching for steve's jaw to pull him down into another searing kiss. there's enough time that steve could stop him if he wanted to - but if he doesn't, he's getting the full force of all zemo's pent up energy from the past hour - the hunger, the fear, the need to taste him again just once before he has to let him go.]
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[ Steve doesn't know what he expects now. What will their study sessions be like after the kiss from earlier? They haven't spoken about it and he gets the feeling, considering how this night went, that they might not. That a name might not be given to what it was, and what it means for them now. Is there a them? Steve considers it, and the idea of spending many nights kissing Helmut Zemo doesn't seem like a bad one. Not at all.
He barely notices the way the other boy looks away, his own eyes tracing the contours of his jaw, the slant of his nose, the pull of his mouth into something tight and concerned. Another step back toward the door and he's halted by the firm plant of a hand on his shoulder and the crush of lips against his own. He stumbles back the final foot, his back against the door frame, and he all but reaches to drag Zemo up against him, strong arms looped at his waist and supporting him up against his chest. For all intents and purposes, he's practically holding him up off his feet, keeping his weight off those balanced tip-toes, and using his body as a support instead.
His fingers fist into the fine cashmere of his sweater as he parts his lips against the other boy's, licking hot and needy into his mouth, as if chasing the remnants of berry-bitter wine, of anything that might linger on his own tongue long after this dorm door shuts behind him.
Idly, he finds himself wondering what it would be like to press Zemo against the door jamb, to have those long, slender legs wrapped around his own hips or waist, and he feels heat pool low and roiling into his belly. But one arm keeps him supported all the while the other slides up his back into the hair at his nape, letting fingers rake against his scalp and hold him close, pressing out all the air between their bodies to bring them flush, chest to chest, hips to hips inasmuch as one can, legs and knees a tangle.
He's cheeky this time, though, and instead of drawing back for air, he catches the boy's plush bottom lip between his teeth long enough to catch a breath and dive back in, his fingers curling into and mussing that perfectly coiffed hair. ]
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but he shouldn't. can't, really - because one wrong move and it ends up everywhere, ends in him packing a bag and catching a private jet back to sokovia for his indiscretions. the foolish part of him thinks about what steve said earlier - no one else needs to know. he feels like his head and his heart are on full display, someone else pressing fastforward and running his thoughts through an endless loop around the sensation of steve's lips and teeth and tongue and hands and the worrisome thoughts of when can i do this again? what are we?
it's that much easier to let his hand fist against steve's shirt, fingers shifting along his collarbone to grab at his bicep and squeeze appreciatively. there's a low groan as fingertips drag against the sensitive back of his neck, trailing up through his hair and using it to hold him in place as steve takes what he wants out of it too. the realization that this is so very mutual has zemo kissing him that much more insistently, tongue laving against steve's in an elegant curl. his other hand cups along his jaw, thumb pressing in to feel the way it's working against his own so hungrily. he could do this for hours, he thinks, because steve is just that good of a kisser. better than anyone else he's had, really, even a very memorable austrian boy who visited his boarding school pre-university and never enrolled.
there's a very undignified noise he realizes comes from his own mouth when steve pulls back, biting his lip like zemo had earlier to force himself to pull away. only this time steve just uses it as an interlude to breathe, something he very nearly forgets to do when his lips are crushed against his once more. zemo's fingers flex along his arm, gripping tight and steadying as his kisses grow more open-mouthed and filthy in how needy they are. there's audible little noises alongside the slickness of tongues and wet lips and heavy breaths in the air, and he doesn't care because it's too fucking good to be embarrassed or stop. steve certainly doesn't seem to mind.
but all good things must come to an end, and eventually the next time he needs a real breath, he tilts his neck back just so, body still mostly relying on the way steve's is supporting him. he's wide-eyed, flushed, lips red and swollen and eyes glimmering with excitement at the risk they've both just taken. his voice is a note huskier, like the other boy has somehow sucked it out of him with his kisses.]
Well, goodnight then, Steven.
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Maybe it's wrong, maybe it's a step too far, but he so rarely takes anything of what he wants. He so rarely puts his neck out for the chopping, but the hand at the back of Zemo's neck slides around, thumb and forefinger catching his chin and tilting it up so that he can press one more kiss to those lips, chaste and short and sweet. ]
Goodnight, Helmut.
[ He draws away then, adjusts the strap on his bag, and ducks out of the room with a sheepish smile. And the memory of their kisses sticks with him, despite the argument, despite the fight. He texts the first two days following, but when classes roll around, he starts to feel sluggish, tired, run down. Monday, he's in classes and acts as normal as he can, but soon enough, all communication drops. Steve seems to disappear from classes, or certainly avoid the ones Zemo is in, and the texts and phone calls go radio silent.
While one might think it's a complication from a spontaneous make out session gone sloppy a few nights before, Steve instead finds himself coming down with a fever. He tries to ignore it and powers through most of his classes, but his literature course is the last of the day, and he doesn't have the energy. In doing so, he misses Zemo, but spends much of his day in bed tucked deep under the covers.
He doesn't text the boy, doesn't text his mother, doesn't bother with his roommate, but sleeps so much of his days away trying to shake whatever it is that comes over him. Three days have passed, though he's lost track of time between medicine and sleep-induced drunkenness, and by the time their next study session rolls around, Steve doesn't turn up. He stays curled up in his bed, pale and sticky with sweat, fitfully trying to sleep though he seems to come in and out of it with some difficulty.
It calls back to his days as a young boy, frail and fragile, when illnesses like this were as common as the sun rising in the east every morning. He's used to feeling like this, overcome with fever, nausea, fatigue. How many years of his life were spent tucked into a bed with his mother constantly tending to his side? How many years had he been coddled and carried into an immediate care because his fever got too high for such a small boy? He's long lost count. He doesn't want to worry his mother now, not with her workload and the stress on her shoulders, so he keeps his phone on silent on the charger, drifting in and out as the days pass.
Phil's gone yet again, has been all week for a school leadership function, and so he's been blessed with silence. Being alone, however, seems to make things worse in so many ways, the lack of care and water and food enough to force him up occasionally. He needs to eat, he knows that, but instead curls back up into his bed, burying himself in the covers as the dorms come to life at the end of the school day. He feels, in the haze of his fever and fatigue, that he's forgetting something. That he's got things to do, but he lets his his head fall back to the pillow with a heavy sigh, his eyes drifting shut. ]
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