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[he's been dreading this since he set foot on american soil.
it's not the first time he'll have had to pair up for a project with another classmate - but it is the first time that he'll have to make the concentrated effort to try make the deeper connection with an american one. he's been content to be a bit of an outsider - after all, it's one year abroad from the familiarity and comforts of sokovia before he'll insist on going back and finishing among his friends and peers at the university a few miles from his parents sprawling estate. he's only here because it's that much more well-rounding, and his parents have insisted he get a different perspective from a country the rest of the world considers elite. privately, zemo finds it utterly tasteless - full of offensively biased politics, fulfilling nearly every nasty stereotype he knows the rest of the world whispers about. maybe it's not as bad as those silly hollywood movies, but given his accent and his stiffer, posh appearance compared the lax clothing and demeanor of everyone else in his classes...he sticks out like a sore thumb. and maybe he's not exactly helping himself, but why should he change?
there's a difference between being alone and lonely. for the most part, he's content in the former. he does well in his classes, he spends a lot of time in his luxuriously outfitted single suite for upperclassmen or the library, and he spends his evenings either dutifully attending to his work or chatting long-distance with his friends back home.
perhaps the thing he has closest to some form of an actual relationship with anyone is the very student that's supposed to be knocking on his door any moment. steven rogers - steve, as he prefers. the blond demigod that looks like every leading man in every teenage dream of a movie. tall, buff, adored by the girls and envied by the other guys. the precise area he bucks from his onscreen counterparts, however, is his intelligence level. zemo has to give him credit for not being another dumb jock (though he's encountered plenty elsewhere on campus). if there's anyone that can hold their own in a heated, philosophical debate about classical literature, it's steve. sometimes it's irritating in the best way, and sometimes he simply finds himself impressed that someone else can match his level, or even grudgingly be forced to admit that he occasionally exceeds it. he's certain there's a percentage of students that show up solely to listen to them, and another that specifically can't wait for them to shut up as the clock ticks towards dismissal on any given day. their professor, on the other hand, has pegged them as her favorite - no surprise given their consistent participation and actual bother to read source material to such an elevated degree.
and somehow...without him even realizing, that banter had carried outside of the classroom as well. he passes steve more frequently than he initially realized, and the other student seems to always make a point to interact with him in some capacity. a friendly wave, a blinding smile, a light tease about their latest disagreement. zemo has become so used to existing in a realm above everyone else that it's something of a novelty. it's not altogether unpleasant. if he were honest with himself, he'd admit he even enjoys the acknowledgment. and on some days - he even looks forward to it.
it's no wonder why they've been paired up. but the nervousness of having to spend time with steve for an extended period in what's been his sanctuary has him on edge. he doesn't typically let anyone get close for good reason - and while perhaps he's putting too much pressure on a long-term project, it has him putting his guard up and preparing somehow for the worst. he's in a soft charcoal cashmere sweater and worn but slim-cut jeans, fidgeting with the watch on his wrist and waiting for the telltale knock at the door. steve doesn't have a single, the library was out for the amount of speaking required...so it made more sense to meet here.
relax, he tells himself. just get this over with. when he hears knuckles wrapping against the wood, he unlocks the door and opens it carefully. 5 p.m. on the dot.]
So the golden boy is punctual too, hm?
[it's not outright hostile per se. but it's also not as friendly as it could be.]
it's not the first time he'll have had to pair up for a project with another classmate - but it is the first time that he'll have to make the concentrated effort to try make the deeper connection with an american one. he's been content to be a bit of an outsider - after all, it's one year abroad from the familiarity and comforts of sokovia before he'll insist on going back and finishing among his friends and peers at the university a few miles from his parents sprawling estate. he's only here because it's that much more well-rounding, and his parents have insisted he get a different perspective from a country the rest of the world considers elite. privately, zemo finds it utterly tasteless - full of offensively biased politics, fulfilling nearly every nasty stereotype he knows the rest of the world whispers about. maybe it's not as bad as those silly hollywood movies, but given his accent and his stiffer, posh appearance compared the lax clothing and demeanor of everyone else in his classes...he sticks out like a sore thumb. and maybe he's not exactly helping himself, but why should he change?
there's a difference between being alone and lonely. for the most part, he's content in the former. he does well in his classes, he spends a lot of time in his luxuriously outfitted single suite for upperclassmen or the library, and he spends his evenings either dutifully attending to his work or chatting long-distance with his friends back home.
perhaps the thing he has closest to some form of an actual relationship with anyone is the very student that's supposed to be knocking on his door any moment. steven rogers - steve, as he prefers. the blond demigod that looks like every leading man in every teenage dream of a movie. tall, buff, adored by the girls and envied by the other guys. the precise area he bucks from his onscreen counterparts, however, is his intelligence level. zemo has to give him credit for not being another dumb jock (though he's encountered plenty elsewhere on campus). if there's anyone that can hold their own in a heated, philosophical debate about classical literature, it's steve. sometimes it's irritating in the best way, and sometimes he simply finds himself impressed that someone else can match his level, or even grudgingly be forced to admit that he occasionally exceeds it. he's certain there's a percentage of students that show up solely to listen to them, and another that specifically can't wait for them to shut up as the clock ticks towards dismissal on any given day. their professor, on the other hand, has pegged them as her favorite - no surprise given their consistent participation and actual bother to read source material to such an elevated degree.
and somehow...without him even realizing, that banter had carried outside of the classroom as well. he passes steve more frequently than he initially realized, and the other student seems to always make a point to interact with him in some capacity. a friendly wave, a blinding smile, a light tease about their latest disagreement. zemo has become so used to existing in a realm above everyone else that it's something of a novelty. it's not altogether unpleasant. if he were honest with himself, he'd admit he even enjoys the acknowledgment. and on some days - he even looks forward to it.
it's no wonder why they've been paired up. but the nervousness of having to spend time with steve for an extended period in what's been his sanctuary has him on edge. he doesn't typically let anyone get close for good reason - and while perhaps he's putting too much pressure on a long-term project, it has him putting his guard up and preparing somehow for the worst. he's in a soft charcoal cashmere sweater and worn but slim-cut jeans, fidgeting with the watch on his wrist and waiting for the telltale knock at the door. steve doesn't have a single, the library was out for the amount of speaking required...so it made more sense to meet here.
relax, he tells himself. just get this over with. when he hears knuckles wrapping against the wood, he unlocks the door and opens it carefully. 5 p.m. on the dot.]
So the golden boy is punctual too, hm?
[it's not outright hostile per se. but it's also not as friendly as it could be.]
Edited 2021-06-29 05:15 (UTC)
[ Generally, Steve dislikes group projects. He enjoys working with others, but the bulk of the work usually ends up in his lap and while he's willing and able to carry a team, he doesn't always feel like it's fair. So to hear the professor announce they'll have to create a presentation and present an essay on a topic, he tried not to show his disappointment.
Hearing Helmut Zemo's name called in tandem with his own, however, hadn't been altogether unpleasant. They have an easy, if not a little biting, rapport that Steve has come to find comforting in the midst of their literature classes. Their debates often lead the class discussions and inform the lectures, the professor aglow and bouncing with delight when they take her inquisitive bait.
He wouldn't say they're friends, but Steve finds himself whirling in and out of Zemo's carefully conjured social sphere, greeting him in the hallways or in classrooms, catching him at the tail end of lunch for a quick chat, seeing him on the way to the dorms. At first it had been a nicety, to offer a warm welcome to a transfer student, but he's not so sure it's all formalities now. He enjoys their banter, the intelligent company, the challenge.
It's why he suggested they meet up after class to work together, and sure enough, he finds Zemo's dorm with the ease of someone who might has well own the campus. He doesn't, but he's social enough that he's gotten around to a few small parties or study groups in his time. He'd half expected the library as their prime choice for working, and yet, here they are. Library rooms full and noisy, at least here they'll have some quiet to work.
Steve smiles when the door opens, adjusting his book bag over one shoulder, the strap buckling the fabric of his dark cardigan, the neck of his t-shirt (an old medical center logo faded on the front) bunching up on one side. ]
Of course. My mother tole me punctuality is not about being on time but respecting your own commitment, and I try my best to listen to what she says most of the time.
[ The smile turns into a little bit of a silly grin, even if he can feel the tension oozing off of the man across from him. It's strange, seeing him so casually dressed, even if they don't dress too dissimilarly in class. But there are no desks and books in between them now, no schedules or classes to peer around. It's nice. He glances up over his shoulder, then gestures toward the room. ]
Can I come in? Or should I go and come back, so I'm a little later?
[ A faint tease, but good natured all the same. ]
Hearing Helmut Zemo's name called in tandem with his own, however, hadn't been altogether unpleasant. They have an easy, if not a little biting, rapport that Steve has come to find comforting in the midst of their literature classes. Their debates often lead the class discussions and inform the lectures, the professor aglow and bouncing with delight when they take her inquisitive bait.
He wouldn't say they're friends, but Steve finds himself whirling in and out of Zemo's carefully conjured social sphere, greeting him in the hallways or in classrooms, catching him at the tail end of lunch for a quick chat, seeing him on the way to the dorms. At first it had been a nicety, to offer a warm welcome to a transfer student, but he's not so sure it's all formalities now. He enjoys their banter, the intelligent company, the challenge.
It's why he suggested they meet up after class to work together, and sure enough, he finds Zemo's dorm with the ease of someone who might has well own the campus. He doesn't, but he's social enough that he's gotten around to a few small parties or study groups in his time. He'd half expected the library as their prime choice for working, and yet, here they are. Library rooms full and noisy, at least here they'll have some quiet to work.
Steve smiles when the door opens, adjusting his book bag over one shoulder, the strap buckling the fabric of his dark cardigan, the neck of his t-shirt (an old medical center logo faded on the front) bunching up on one side. ]
Of course. My mother tole me punctuality is not about being on time but respecting your own commitment, and I try my best to listen to what she says most of the time.
[ The smile turns into a little bit of a silly grin, even if he can feel the tension oozing off of the man across from him. It's strange, seeing him so casually dressed, even if they don't dress too dissimilarly in class. But there are no desks and books in between them now, no schedules or classes to peer around. It's nice. He glances up over his shoulder, then gestures toward the room. ]
Can I come in? Or should I go and come back, so I'm a little later?
[ A faint tease, but good natured all the same. ]
Wise words from your mother. She must be so proud of you.
[it’s meant to come out sarcastically, but instead it comes out sincerely. if steve knew him better, he’d hear a pang of something forlorn in there too.
no, they’re not friends. but he might be the closest thing to one zemo has here in the states - or at least, the one person outside of his professors that he interacts with the most on a daily basis. maybe what’s most surprising is the way that steve regularly goes out of his way to do so - even when zemo isn’t always so friendly in return. if he didn’t know any better, he might think steve was something of a glutton for punishment in the way he keeps coming back for more. that or he really is as kind as everyone seems assured he actually is - not insincere, not something that’s a surface level veneer for brownie points. if anything….there’s little he can have quarrel with when it comes to steve rogers outside of their classroom debates and the wrong opinion he’s entitled to have, even though it is - again - wrong.
he receives every biting comment or needling little jab from zemo and just...takes them all in stride. laughs, delightfully, and tips back his perfect jaw with his perfect teeth and his perfect smile. like the one he’s offering now - and somehow it seems privately more authentic than the ones he flashes in class or in the middle of campus to friends and hanger-ons. it shouldn’t make something in his stomach tighten around the thread of an inexplicable flutter, it should just be a polite greeting and nothing more.
damn him and his model-esque face and figure and his ability to match zemo’s level of wit and intellect to boot. that is no easy feat, and it’s only in part given how highly he thinks of at least one of those things that he feels...flustered somehow, though thank god it isn't recognizably so to anyone who doesn't know him well enough. he swallows thickly, stepping aside with a flourish of a wave to invite him inside.]
Please, do come in. The sooner we get to work the sooner you can get back to...whatever it is you do outside of class.
[a pointed raise of an eyebrow and a glance at his shoulders.]
Lifting refrigerators for fun?
[if he had to guess. based solely on appearances. and certainly not a bad one, despite his teasing.]
[it’s meant to come out sarcastically, but instead it comes out sincerely. if steve knew him better, he’d hear a pang of something forlorn in there too.
no, they’re not friends. but he might be the closest thing to one zemo has here in the states - or at least, the one person outside of his professors that he interacts with the most on a daily basis. maybe what’s most surprising is the way that steve regularly goes out of his way to do so - even when zemo isn’t always so friendly in return. if he didn’t know any better, he might think steve was something of a glutton for punishment in the way he keeps coming back for more. that or he really is as kind as everyone seems assured he actually is - not insincere, not something that’s a surface level veneer for brownie points. if anything….there’s little he can have quarrel with when it comes to steve rogers outside of their classroom debates and the wrong opinion he’s entitled to have, even though it is - again - wrong.
he receives every biting comment or needling little jab from zemo and just...takes them all in stride. laughs, delightfully, and tips back his perfect jaw with his perfect teeth and his perfect smile. like the one he’s offering now - and somehow it seems privately more authentic than the ones he flashes in class or in the middle of campus to friends and hanger-ons. it shouldn’t make something in his stomach tighten around the thread of an inexplicable flutter, it should just be a polite greeting and nothing more.
damn him and his model-esque face and figure and his ability to match zemo’s level of wit and intellect to boot. that is no easy feat, and it’s only in part given how highly he thinks of at least one of those things that he feels...flustered somehow, though thank god it isn't recognizably so to anyone who doesn't know him well enough. he swallows thickly, stepping aside with a flourish of a wave to invite him inside.]
Please, do come in. The sooner we get to work the sooner you can get back to...whatever it is you do outside of class.
[a pointed raise of an eyebrow and a glance at his shoulders.]
Lifting refrigerators for fun?
[if he had to guess. based solely on appearances. and certainly not a bad one, despite his teasing.]
Edited 2021-07-02 02:38 (UTC)
I hope she is.
[ Sarah Rogers works tirelessly helping others, doing what she can to keep him and their little house afloat. After all, the woman made his childhood absolutely warm and loving, and even speaking of her draws warmth up into Steve's eyes.
Once flourished inward, Steve steps within in the confines of the room, surprised to find the man doesn't have a second bunk wedged into one corner, doesn't have someone with headphones looking miserable or piled under school work. The room is tasteful, simple, and quiet in a way he finds himself envying. He bites it back, that lick of jealousy, his own roommate this semester a little too noisy and a little too rowdy for his liking. Next year, at least, he and Buck can room together, but he has to deal with the other guy in the meantime.
Setting his bookbag on the table, he turns, brows raised, to look at Zemo, noting the way the other guy looks him over. Heat prickles beneath his collar, at his throat. Strange. He's ogled at by half the school, or so Bucky says he is, and those stares never make him feel this. ]
Why, you need a refridgerator moved? [ His tone drops a little, almost playful, almost flirty, like he'd be saying this to any pretty thing moving out of her dorm room, but it isn't some waif of a college girl. It's Helmut Zemo, the quiet, biting boy from Sokovia who has enough knowledge that the idea of him earning college degree almost makes Steve laugh. ]
Not that I do that for a living, but I could probably figure it out. Have a few buddies with me in the reserves who are probably better at it than me, if I'm honest.
[ He reaches for his bag, then, and draws out a bag of pretzels, a bag of cheesy popcorn, and a little container of trail mix, M&Ms heavily mixed in. A sheepish shrug and he gestures toward the snacks. ]
Figured we could use some snacks while we work? Hope that's alright.
[ Sarah Rogers works tirelessly helping others, doing what she can to keep him and their little house afloat. After all, the woman made his childhood absolutely warm and loving, and even speaking of her draws warmth up into Steve's eyes.
Once flourished inward, Steve steps within in the confines of the room, surprised to find the man doesn't have a second bunk wedged into one corner, doesn't have someone with headphones looking miserable or piled under school work. The room is tasteful, simple, and quiet in a way he finds himself envying. He bites it back, that lick of jealousy, his own roommate this semester a little too noisy and a little too rowdy for his liking. Next year, at least, he and Buck can room together, but he has to deal with the other guy in the meantime.
Setting his bookbag on the table, he turns, brows raised, to look at Zemo, noting the way the other guy looks him over. Heat prickles beneath his collar, at his throat. Strange. He's ogled at by half the school, or so Bucky says he is, and those stares never make him feel this. ]
Why, you need a refridgerator moved? [ His tone drops a little, almost playful, almost flirty, like he'd be saying this to any pretty thing moving out of her dorm room, but it isn't some waif of a college girl. It's Helmut Zemo, the quiet, biting boy from Sokovia who has enough knowledge that the idea of him earning college degree almost makes Steve laugh. ]
Not that I do that for a living, but I could probably figure it out. Have a few buddies with me in the reserves who are probably better at it than me, if I'm honest.
[ He reaches for his bag, then, and draws out a bag of pretzels, a bag of cheesy popcorn, and a little container of trail mix, M&Ms heavily mixed in. A sheepish shrug and he gestures toward the snacks. ]
Figured we could use some snacks while we work? Hope that's alright.
Of course not.
[it comes out harsher than he means, incredulous at the idea that his dorm is anything less than already perfectly settled - as if that's the priority here. that, and not the sudden rush of unexpectedness from the near punch to the gut his tone makes zemo suddenly keenly aware of. steve's voice drops into something just different enough from the banter he's used to in the halls or strolling along the pathways on plush lawns across the school's massive campus and it has that same sensation flipping in his stomach again. it sounds...deliberately flirtatious, if he didn't know better, and to his abject horror he can feel heat rising to the high points of his cheeks as the realization catches him off guard. there's no way steven rogers, the apple of everyone's eye, is flirting with the likes of him. not when he could have his pick of nearly everyone on campus. nearly - only because zemo has no interest in him besides the best way to trounce over his theories and pontificating in class. that's his story and he's sticking to it, turning away quick enough that he hopes the other boy won't have noticed it against his fair skin.
there's a small snort of disbelief at the odd moment of...self-deprecation? or whatever that is - some sense of humbleness that attempts to somehow imply there is someone more qualified or better built than he is. right. zemo barely resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead leading him further inside his surprisingly expansive dorm room to a round table tucked in the corner of what could nearly be called a den with tall windows looking out on the grounds and a small but unlit and ornate fireplace. it's a full suite - no bed in sight, the kitchen and bathroom peeking through the hallway too.]
Please - don't act so humble, Mr. Rogers. As if there are many men walking around looking like you and putting it to charitable use. Doubtful.
[that didn't come out the way he intended. if anything, it sounds like he's - complimenting steve? fixating on his looks rather than his physical strength. both of which he shouldn't even be commenting on anyway. he swallows again and gestures for steve to take a seat, only to watch himself be beat to the punch by steve's hospitality about this study session. he blinks, trying and failing at hiding his surprise.]
Oh. That was - thoughtful of you. [a pause as he looks over the options, fixating on the fact the container looks homemade and that steve apparently allows himself some sort of sweet tooth. he bites his lip, absently, snapping out of it and asking in a subdued, soft voice that comes from years of ingrained training to be on his best manners and knowing the consequence of failing them.]
Can I get you something to drink?
[it comes out harsher than he means, incredulous at the idea that his dorm is anything less than already perfectly settled - as if that's the priority here. that, and not the sudden rush of unexpectedness from the near punch to the gut his tone makes zemo suddenly keenly aware of. steve's voice drops into something just different enough from the banter he's used to in the halls or strolling along the pathways on plush lawns across the school's massive campus and it has that same sensation flipping in his stomach again. it sounds...deliberately flirtatious, if he didn't know better, and to his abject horror he can feel heat rising to the high points of his cheeks as the realization catches him off guard. there's no way steven rogers, the apple of everyone's eye, is flirting with the likes of him. not when he could have his pick of nearly everyone on campus. nearly - only because zemo has no interest in him besides the best way to trounce over his theories and pontificating in class. that's his story and he's sticking to it, turning away quick enough that he hopes the other boy won't have noticed it against his fair skin.
there's a small snort of disbelief at the odd moment of...self-deprecation? or whatever that is - some sense of humbleness that attempts to somehow imply there is someone more qualified or better built than he is. right. zemo barely resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead leading him further inside his surprisingly expansive dorm room to a round table tucked in the corner of what could nearly be called a den with tall windows looking out on the grounds and a small but unlit and ornate fireplace. it's a full suite - no bed in sight, the kitchen and bathroom peeking through the hallway too.]
Please - don't act so humble, Mr. Rogers. As if there are many men walking around looking like you and putting it to charitable use. Doubtful.
[that didn't come out the way he intended. if anything, it sounds like he's - complimenting steve? fixating on his looks rather than his physical strength. both of which he shouldn't even be commenting on anyway. he swallows again and gestures for steve to take a seat, only to watch himself be beat to the punch by steve's hospitality about this study session. he blinks, trying and failing at hiding his surprise.]
Oh. That was - thoughtful of you. [a pause as he looks over the options, fixating on the fact the container looks homemade and that steve apparently allows himself some sort of sweet tooth. he bites his lip, absently, snapping out of it and asking in a subdued, soft voice that comes from years of ingrained training to be on his best manners and knowing the consequence of failing them.]
Can I get you something to drink?
[ To say Steve doesn't know his type is as apt as saying the sky is blue. When he was younger, in the halcyon days of high school when girls and boys became hormone-driven maniacs, he'd never been looked at. Sickly, scrawny, thin; the girls (and even some boys, in retrospect) always fawned over Bucky, with his broad shoulders and pale eyes. Steve never felt the stab of jealousy others might feel - he'd been happy enough to call a guy like that his friend, his family, more than anything else. He hadn't had time to curate such a thing as taste and type.
But now, with Zemo leading him into the room, to the small, round table where they're meant to work, he catches sight of heat in the apples of high cheekbones and finds his eye momentarily caught up in it. He's good looking, dark hair neat and the flush of his skin only making the dappled beauty marks stand out, and Steve wonders momentarily what they might feel like under the pads of his—
A huff of a laugh, if only to clear his throat, as his eyes fall back to the snacks, arranging them on the table. ]
I'm not being humble. Takes more than one guy to move a fridge, and it turns out I know more than one guy. [ A small grin, and he turns to survey the room. A private suite, with the fire place, the furnishings, one might not think it's a dorm room at all. It's nice, and while he's not surprised someone like Helmut Zemo can afford it, it doesn't change his wonder at it. ]
Water, if you don't mind. [ A beat, then: ] Oh, you can call me Steve, by the way. Mr. Rogers feels a little bit like my dad's in the room somewhere. [ Never mind that man is resting in Cypress Hills National, with a face Steve knows only from old photographs. He clears his throat again, pockets his hands, and idly wanders toward the kitchen. To check on the digs, of course. Not to put his eyes on Zemo again. ]
This place is incredible. I'm pretty sure my room's half the size. Feels smaller when Phil's snoring.
But now, with Zemo leading him into the room, to the small, round table where they're meant to work, he catches sight of heat in the apples of high cheekbones and finds his eye momentarily caught up in it. He's good looking, dark hair neat and the flush of his skin only making the dappled beauty marks stand out, and Steve wonders momentarily what they might feel like under the pads of his—
A huff of a laugh, if only to clear his throat, as his eyes fall back to the snacks, arranging them on the table. ]
I'm not being humble. Takes more than one guy to move a fridge, and it turns out I know more than one guy. [ A small grin, and he turns to survey the room. A private suite, with the fire place, the furnishings, one might not think it's a dorm room at all. It's nice, and while he's not surprised someone like Helmut Zemo can afford it, it doesn't change his wonder at it. ]
Water, if you don't mind. [ A beat, then: ] Oh, you can call me Steve, by the way. Mr. Rogers feels a little bit like my dad's in the room somewhere. [ Never mind that man is resting in Cypress Hills National, with a face Steve knows only from old photographs. He clears his throat again, pockets his hands, and idly wanders toward the kitchen. To check on the digs, of course. Not to put his eyes on Zemo again. ]
This place is incredible. I'm pretty sure my room's half the size. Feels smaller when Phil's snoring.
[ Sarah Rogers loved the rain, and there's something poetic about the fact that the day she died it rained as hard as rain could fall. Torrential flooding, the newscasters warned, their baffled meteorologists talking about how the storm seemed to swell up over night, filling the air with hazy pressure and humidity, full to bursting. He thought maybe the rain would pass, that maybe heavy storm clouds would offer some slice of sunlight in favor of the very light that seems to have guttered out in his chest, but it doesn't.
He walks to the funeral home, to the quaint chapel she'd wanted her funeral to be held in (— it has the most gorgeous stained glass I ever did see, Stevie, it's magical—), to her house, to his apartment; all of it aimless and yet with purpose, letting the rain drown him in his leather coat, wash up on his old, patent leather shoes, grip at the hems of his pant legs. War in the farthest, deepest, slavic wasteland would be easier than this.
The service goes smoothly, the pews packed with friends and old patients, the people whose lives Sarah Rogers irrevocably touched, all lined up to hear her story at an altar draped in downy lace. Steve knows he gave her eulogy, knows he tried to put his mother into words, tried to conjure her image in stories of her cooking and getting pancakes stuck to the ceiling, or the way she took in a refugee family on a whim and packed their house to the seams, the way she worked tirelessly and endlessly to make sure her patients received the car, the way she never asked for help or handouts even when she needed them, the way she loved jumping into the puddles after a nice rainstorm. Like we get to start over fresh as a daisy she'd say when the storm passed, blue sky bright and victorious between dark clouds.
But he greets every person in his pressed uniform, something she'd be so proud of, and shakes their hand and thanks them for coming. He accepts their teary condolences and listens to their stories as if their words might bring the woman back to life in front of him. As if he'd see the vibrant, energetic force of her, and not the frail thing he'd come to care for over the last several months. But ah, he'd have her any way she came. He'd care for her every day of his life if that's what it took.
He looks for someone in the crowd, occasionally. Someone with dark hair and dark eyes, and he can almost imagine the freckled marks at a hairline on the men here who he doesn't know. Yet, the chapel empties and he's left with the sense that the deja-vu never came to pass, the halls feeling empty, and he's told the graveside service will have to wait until the storm clears, for many reasons. Sarah Rogers did enjoy the rain, after all, and how could he deny her this? The chaplain tells him to stay as long as he'd like and Steve sits in the pews with silence ringing in his ears until Bucky and Sam come in, but he sends them along. They don't fight him. Not this time. ]
Jeez, Ma...
[ Quiet, under his breath, after hours of sitting. Nothing in his training prepared him for the weight of this, for the hurt, for the empty duty he still feels for a woman that no longer exists. Gone in the soft closing of eyes, the shallow rise and fall of a chest, and—
Steve stands, turns on a military heel without thinking twice, and starts for the door, forgetting, at first, that it's raining, the downpour dappling his dress blues in a way that would get him punished if his senior officers saw. But he stands in it all the same, breathing deeply, ignoring the way his throat swells and his eyes burn now that no one is around to see, to see the way the scream rises into his face but never makes a sound, trapped in his chest like a man who is holding the door shut against a monster, desperate and tight. But the pain is there in his face, in the blue of his eyes, uncontrolled and fire-bright.
He forgot, in all of this, that he didn't drive himself here. Now, not only alone, he's stranded for a while. ]
Shit.
[ The rain masks his tears, thankfully. It's good for something. ]
He walks to the funeral home, to the quaint chapel she'd wanted her funeral to be held in (— it has the most gorgeous stained glass I ever did see, Stevie, it's magical—), to her house, to his apartment; all of it aimless and yet with purpose, letting the rain drown him in his leather coat, wash up on his old, patent leather shoes, grip at the hems of his pant legs. War in the farthest, deepest, slavic wasteland would be easier than this.
The service goes smoothly, the pews packed with friends and old patients, the people whose lives Sarah Rogers irrevocably touched, all lined up to hear her story at an altar draped in downy lace. Steve knows he gave her eulogy, knows he tried to put his mother into words, tried to conjure her image in stories of her cooking and getting pancakes stuck to the ceiling, or the way she took in a refugee family on a whim and packed their house to the seams, the way she worked tirelessly and endlessly to make sure her patients received the car, the way she never asked for help or handouts even when she needed them, the way she loved jumping into the puddles after a nice rainstorm. Like we get to start over fresh as a daisy she'd say when the storm passed, blue sky bright and victorious between dark clouds.
But he greets every person in his pressed uniform, something she'd be so proud of, and shakes their hand and thanks them for coming. He accepts their teary condolences and listens to their stories as if their words might bring the woman back to life in front of him. As if he'd see the vibrant, energetic force of her, and not the frail thing he'd come to care for over the last several months. But ah, he'd have her any way she came. He'd care for her every day of his life if that's what it took.
He looks for someone in the crowd, occasionally. Someone with dark hair and dark eyes, and he can almost imagine the freckled marks at a hairline on the men here who he doesn't know. Yet, the chapel empties and he's left with the sense that the deja-vu never came to pass, the halls feeling empty, and he's told the graveside service will have to wait until the storm clears, for many reasons. Sarah Rogers did enjoy the rain, after all, and how could he deny her this? The chaplain tells him to stay as long as he'd like and Steve sits in the pews with silence ringing in his ears until Bucky and Sam come in, but he sends them along. They don't fight him. Not this time. ]
Jeez, Ma...
[ Quiet, under his breath, after hours of sitting. Nothing in his training prepared him for the weight of this, for the hurt, for the empty duty he still feels for a woman that no longer exists. Gone in the soft closing of eyes, the shallow rise and fall of a chest, and—
Steve stands, turns on a military heel without thinking twice, and starts for the door, forgetting, at first, that it's raining, the downpour dappling his dress blues in a way that would get him punished if his senior officers saw. But he stands in it all the same, breathing deeply, ignoring the way his throat swells and his eyes burn now that no one is around to see, to see the way the scream rises into his face but never makes a sound, trapped in his chest like a man who is holding the door shut against a monster, desperate and tight. But the pain is there in his face, in the blue of his eyes, uncontrolled and fire-bright.
He forgot, in all of this, that he didn't drive himself here. Now, not only alone, he's stranded for a while. ]
Shit.
[ The rain masks his tears, thankfully. It's good for something. ]
Edited 2021-07-05 02:30 (UTC)
[it’s better his back is turned and he’s oblivious to the idea that steve rogers would be checking him out. he’s not sure he could will that flush away as quickly as he manages to compose himself now. that and he’d think it near unfathomable that someone like the other boy would be looking over the likes of him. as far as he knows steve is adored by both men and women alike, and there are whispers he hears by the simple fact that he’s among any number of students on a given day that like to chatter - that maybe steve might be something of an equal opportunist with that selection.
it’s not like it matters to someone like him - his path has long since been carved out between the expectations of his family in the hopes that he’ll add to it with some pretty girl from a good family that will produce him a proper heir and carry on the zemo name. there’s never been any consideration or awareness for the pretty boys he kissed in dark corners of nightclubs strewn across the seedy corners of europe that wouldn’t look twice and would maintain discretion. (steve might not have a type, but zemo does - tall, built, witty. which makes this arrangement…well. distracting, and steve’s not even been here for longer than five minutes.]
Not at all. Steve.
[he barely resists the urge to tack on the “n” sardonically like he does in class. the weight of it on his tongue feels…somehow better. like someone who actually knows him beyond the little interactions they’ve shared thus far. he takes a moment to head into the kitchen, pouring them both ice cold water into gold-tipped glasses. expensive, a family gift and somewhat out of place even among the obviously elevated decor of the rest of his room compared to the rest of the students on campus. he brings them both back and sets one down in front of his guest with a nod, sitting down next to him at an angle so they’ll be able to pore over the same books and papers easily.
it also gives him the unfortunate - or, ideal - position to notice a dusting of soft freckles along the strong bridge of steve’s nose, along with a beauty mark he’d never noticed on his cheek. he shakes his head mildly, trying to shake off the novelty of someone else in his room. that’s all this is, surely.]
Thank you. [he says it politely, not at all arrogant because he’s keenly aware it’s his parents money tha secured it.]
Upperclassmen have the option of at least a single to upgrade to - or so I was told. Are you and Phil friends enough to tolerate that? I don’t know if I could, what with the need for beauty sleep and all.
[a light tease, and he pauses to reach for his own book, licking the pad of a fingertip and fluttering through the pages nimbly.]
it’s not like it matters to someone like him - his path has long since been carved out between the expectations of his family in the hopes that he’ll add to it with some pretty girl from a good family that will produce him a proper heir and carry on the zemo name. there’s never been any consideration or awareness for the pretty boys he kissed in dark corners of nightclubs strewn across the seedy corners of europe that wouldn’t look twice and would maintain discretion. (steve might not have a type, but zemo does - tall, built, witty. which makes this arrangement…well. distracting, and steve’s not even been here for longer than five minutes.]
Not at all. Steve.
[he barely resists the urge to tack on the “n” sardonically like he does in class. the weight of it on his tongue feels…somehow better. like someone who actually knows him beyond the little interactions they’ve shared thus far. he takes a moment to head into the kitchen, pouring them both ice cold water into gold-tipped glasses. expensive, a family gift and somewhat out of place even among the obviously elevated decor of the rest of his room compared to the rest of the students on campus. he brings them both back and sets one down in front of his guest with a nod, sitting down next to him at an angle so they’ll be able to pore over the same books and papers easily.
it also gives him the unfortunate - or, ideal - position to notice a dusting of soft freckles along the strong bridge of steve’s nose, along with a beauty mark he’d never noticed on his cheek. he shakes his head mildly, trying to shake off the novelty of someone else in his room. that’s all this is, surely.]
Thank you. [he says it politely, not at all arrogant because he’s keenly aware it’s his parents money tha secured it.]
Upperclassmen have the option of at least a single to upgrade to - or so I was told. Are you and Phil friends enough to tolerate that? I don’t know if I could, what with the need for beauty sleep and all.
[a light tease, and he pauses to reach for his own book, licking the pad of a fingertip and fluttering through the pages nimbly.]
[ Everything about the little room feels expensive— far more expensive than any other college dorm he's seen. From the furnishings to the gold rimmed glasses, Steve feels a little out of place in his thrift-store finds and his worn sneakers. Even his bookbag is old, thinning in places from carrying too many books. From that very bookbag he draws out a notebook, a pen, and some research he'd done in advance.
The positioning of the chairs makes it so that he can practically feel the heat of the other beside him in a pleasant and yet still uncomfortable sort of way. Uncomfortable only in that he has to resist the urge to lean a little closer, to make this a little more cozy. He'd been confident in freshman year, when his life was a whirlwind of parties and people noticing him, but things tapered off as he committed to his studies, and he's lost a little bit of that touch. (He's not sure he had it to begin with). ]
The option's there, definitely, but the shared room is included in my scholarship. Phil's an alright guy, but I don't see much of him during the day. Which I guess makes the whole beauty sleep thing a little hard.
[ A small smile and he taps the butt of his pen on his notebook, letting his eyes wander over to his host, catching the way he licks his fingertip to pluck up the pages of the book. His stomach gives a pleasant swoop at the sight of plush lips and delicate hands— Zemo's hand hasn't seen the kind of rough and tumblr life his own has. He's suddenly away of the artist's notch on his middle finger, the callouses of his palms.
His eyes drop back to the book, that heat prickling at his collar again, enough for him to reach for that glass of water. ]
A place like this, though. It's obvious you have no problems getting your beauty sleep.
[ A flirt masked by a tease, a raise of eyebrows over the glass as he takes a sip and then sets it aside. He is nice to look at, isn't he? And his eyes flicker once to that pout of a mouth again before back to the book. ]
Do you want to take the first part or do you want me to? I brought some stuff we can reference, but I figured we can probably talk our way through most of the material and she'd be happy with that.
The positioning of the chairs makes it so that he can practically feel the heat of the other beside him in a pleasant and yet still uncomfortable sort of way. Uncomfortable only in that he has to resist the urge to lean a little closer, to make this a little more cozy. He'd been confident in freshman year, when his life was a whirlwind of parties and people noticing him, but things tapered off as he committed to his studies, and he's lost a little bit of that touch. (He's not sure he had it to begin with). ]
The option's there, definitely, but the shared room is included in my scholarship. Phil's an alright guy, but I don't see much of him during the day. Which I guess makes the whole beauty sleep thing a little hard.
[ A small smile and he taps the butt of his pen on his notebook, letting his eyes wander over to his host, catching the way he licks his fingertip to pluck up the pages of the book. His stomach gives a pleasant swoop at the sight of plush lips and delicate hands— Zemo's hand hasn't seen the kind of rough and tumblr life his own has. He's suddenly away of the artist's notch on his middle finger, the callouses of his palms.
His eyes drop back to the book, that heat prickling at his collar again, enough for him to reach for that glass of water. ]
A place like this, though. It's obvious you have no problems getting your beauty sleep.
[ A flirt masked by a tease, a raise of eyebrows over the glass as he takes a sip and then sets it aside. He is nice to look at, isn't he? And his eyes flicker once to that pout of a mouth again before back to the book. ]
Do you want to take the first part or do you want me to? I brought some stuff we can reference, but I figured we can probably talk our way through most of the material and she'd be happy with that.
[if zemo had to take a guess based on steve's appearance, he'd think that it's very likely his dorm has a much more lived in feeling to it. he knows his room is nice, one if not the very best on campus. in fact, he's not entirely uncertain that this wasn't originally some sort of teacher's suite rather a student's, but he's never really bothered to ask. it's comfortable, and he's not ungrateful for it, but...despite being larger than the rooms at his sokovian school he attended for two years prior, this one just doesn't feel like much of a home. there's nothing comforting or familiar about it in a way that doesn't just feel like a temporary residence he needs to get through while finishing up a year here to round out his curriculum of political science with a foreign power's unique perspective.
the snoring is a drawback, certainly, but having someone there - a friend, or just someone in general might make the time pass more quickly. enjoyably, even.]
What sort of scholarship? Surely you must have had the coaches knocking down your door to play on some kind of team.
[he lets out a hum of disbelief - not in judgment of steve's admission to being here on scholarship, because he's not the sort of person who puts his wealth above others, but because the idea of steve not getting beauty sleep when he's the epitome of a walking adonis just...is laughable.]
If the number of eyes that follow you around the grounds is any indication....I'd say you're doing just fine in that department.
[he glances up just in time to see steve give him another look, one that he forces his features to pinch at slightly because the alternative is another blatant blush, and he can't allow that in close quarters. steve is simply referring to the space in the room and lack of someone to interrupt. not his appearance. not - flirting with him. he clears his throat, tipping his chin up ever so slightly with a haughty little expression like it'll be some sort of shield against whatever might or might not be happening here. he chooses to ignore it outright, instead flipping to the right page and shifting it in front of them both. he also leans in slightly, unaware the proximity might be having some sort of effect on steve too. he thinks he catches a waft of something fresh - soap maybe, or shampoo, and it smells clean and feels strangely intimate to be guessing at.]
Ah, I'll take the first part. You take another, and we can round off the last part together. Truthfully, she seems eager to hear anything that comes out of our mouths compared to the less than stellar performances from our classmates.
[that he sounds a little smug about, lips curling catlike at the corner of his mouth as he all but admits that steve and him are on a higher level. yes, together.]
the snoring is a drawback, certainly, but having someone there - a friend, or just someone in general might make the time pass more quickly. enjoyably, even.]
What sort of scholarship? Surely you must have had the coaches knocking down your door to play on some kind of team.
[he lets out a hum of disbelief - not in judgment of steve's admission to being here on scholarship, because he's not the sort of person who puts his wealth above others, but because the idea of steve not getting beauty sleep when he's the epitome of a walking adonis just...is laughable.]
If the number of eyes that follow you around the grounds is any indication....I'd say you're doing just fine in that department.
[he glances up just in time to see steve give him another look, one that he forces his features to pinch at slightly because the alternative is another blatant blush, and he can't allow that in close quarters. steve is simply referring to the space in the room and lack of someone to interrupt. not his appearance. not - flirting with him. he clears his throat, tipping his chin up ever so slightly with a haughty little expression like it'll be some sort of shield against whatever might or might not be happening here. he chooses to ignore it outright, instead flipping to the right page and shifting it in front of them both. he also leans in slightly, unaware the proximity might be having some sort of effect on steve too. he thinks he catches a waft of something fresh - soap maybe, or shampoo, and it smells clean and feels strangely intimate to be guessing at.]
Ah, I'll take the first part. You take another, and we can round off the last part together. Truthfully, she seems eager to hear anything that comes out of our mouths compared to the less than stellar performances from our classmates.
[that he sounds a little smug about, lips curling catlike at the corner of his mouth as he all but admits that steve and him are on a higher level. yes, together.]
[ A small laugh bubbles up out of his chest at the very idea that he'd been head-hunted for sports. He makes a mental note to tell Bucky, even, because they delight when anyone thinks that Steven Grant Rogers might have been recruited for sports of all things. And while he's on the football team now, he'd joined for fun in Sophomore year, certainly for for any collegiate advances. ]
Oh, it's an academic scholarship. I'd say I don't really do sports, but I tried out for the football team sophomore year. I wasn't exactly the sporty type in high school. I used to get sick a lot.
[ He shrugs a shoulder, nonchalant and easy as he leans in to look at the book, skimming over questions they're to answer in lecture format. From here he can see the smattering of marks along Zemo's temple, watch the way his lips begin to curl into a little smile, catch the smell of something sharp but pleasant— aftershave, maybe? Cologne. It's nice, and the thought alone makes the rise of his cheeks burn ever so slightly. ]
So everyone might look, but trust me, it's not exactly something I'm used to. [ A glance to the book again as he begins organizing himself, stacking papers and picking up his pen once again. ] But thanks for looking out for me.
[ A small, coy smile. ] But I wouldn't be so sure some of those eyes aren't looking at you, you know. I think you spend more time trying to pick at me than you do looking around. [ Though Steve can't be sure of the eyes that might wander Zemo's way, except the very idea makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest. Not that he has any purchase here, any claim to whatever it is he can feel between them— friendly academic competition? curiosity? attraction?— but it makes something hot lick through him all the same. ]
So I guess we'll have to fend off all eyes when we give this presentation together. I think we could give a dissertation on socks for all the professor cares, and we'd get away with an A anyway. [ He gives his shoulder a nudge with his own, grinning almost boyishly, before he turns back to the book, his free hand reaching to rest along the back of Zemo's chair, the other dragging the capped pen to the book, tapping one of the sections. ]
I think we should skip this part, though, and tie the whole thing back into the lecture from last week. What do you think?
Oh, it's an academic scholarship. I'd say I don't really do sports, but I tried out for the football team sophomore year. I wasn't exactly the sporty type in high school. I used to get sick a lot.
[ He shrugs a shoulder, nonchalant and easy as he leans in to look at the book, skimming over questions they're to answer in lecture format. From here he can see the smattering of marks along Zemo's temple, watch the way his lips begin to curl into a little smile, catch the smell of something sharp but pleasant— aftershave, maybe? Cologne. It's nice, and the thought alone makes the rise of his cheeks burn ever so slightly. ]
So everyone might look, but trust me, it's not exactly something I'm used to. [ A glance to the book again as he begins organizing himself, stacking papers and picking up his pen once again. ] But thanks for looking out for me.
[ A small, coy smile. ] But I wouldn't be so sure some of those eyes aren't looking at you, you know. I think you spend more time trying to pick at me than you do looking around. [ Though Steve can't be sure of the eyes that might wander Zemo's way, except the very idea makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest. Not that he has any purchase here, any claim to whatever it is he can feel between them— friendly academic competition? curiosity? attraction?— but it makes something hot lick through him all the same. ]
So I guess we'll have to fend off all eyes when we give this presentation together. I think we could give a dissertation on socks for all the professor cares, and we'd get away with an A anyway. [ He gives his shoulder a nudge with his own, grinning almost boyishly, before he turns back to the book, his free hand reaching to rest along the back of Zemo's chair, the other dragging the capped pen to the book, tapping one of the sections. ]
I think we should skip this part, though, and tie the whole thing back into the lecture from last week. What do you think?
[sokovia has been unusually bleak this time of year - a combination of waning economy, political strife, and an already gray landscape of storms and rain and smoke somehow declining even further over the past few weeks. or perhaps he is simply biased in the way it feels as if the dark, omnipresent cloud of dread that's always been swirling angry and ominous over his shoulders has expanded and darkened into something near stifling ever since he'd slipped a ring on nikoleta's slim finger and announced with a tight, strained smile that they were engaged to be married. the press mistakes it for the closed off, arrogant sort of reservation that the stiff upper crusts are expected to maintain even in times of supposedly joyous occasions. it suits him well enough because he doesn't think he could muster up the ability to pull out a genuine smile, to really sell the narrative that this is the love of his life, a pretty young girl with long blonde hair and green eyes - tall and willowy, sokovian, conveniently born to a family just as obscenely wealthy as his own.
it's a duty. an obligation, nothing more. it will never be true love, and quite frankly - he doesn't even think it will be the kind of love that develops and grows after something comfortable has time to settle like an arranged marriage. all the money in the world, the fineries and luxuries he passes without a glance on a daily basis cannot compare to those stolen moments in a tiny cabin and on the lightly swaying dock under the stars, wrapped up in strong arms feeling safe and warm and in love. the truth is, he doesn't think he ever fell out of love with steve rogers. part of him is terrified in knowing he likely never will. he had the foolish notion in the early days that a passing resemblance in a dark club might be enough to get a small fix and get him out of his head, out of the strain of pretending to be someone he wasn't. when he realized they only made him feel emptier, he stopped altogether.
there was one moment of weakness, resolve shattered and spirit broken where he picked up the phone and dialed numbers he still knew be heart only to be greeted with an immediate voicemail. he hadn't left one, taking it as a sign to just - give it up. as much as he could.
it's been eight long, painful years since helmut zemo has set foot in these parts of the united states. there's a fiery sense of betrayal at the knowledge that he might not have if it weren't for oeznik stepping in. pulling him aside, a quiet whisper of there's something i think you might want to see, sir before handing him an american paper turned to the obituaries. it wasn't until the jet was prepped for emergency take-off and he was well past sokovian borders that he allowed himself to break down in private, all-consumed by that specifically acute pain stemming from preventable grief and lost opportunities. weeping over the woman that felt more like a mother than his own flesh and blood who has distantly pulled the strings in his life since he could walk.
sarah rogers is dead. sarah rogers, who didn't even have the heart to hate him for breaking her son's heart and choosing duty over desire. sarah rogers, who had loved and encouraged him and been there for him in a way his own parents could never even fathom. he ignores the panicked texts from nikoleta and her staff about flowers and dessert tables, overlooks the voicemail from his father and email from his mother. they can check the flight log, and he doesn't even give a damn about needing to explain himself right now. he's already missed the wake - he can't let himself miss the service or the burial. and least of all - he can't not try to be there for steve.
he's tired, jet-lagged and emotionally wrung dry with eyes red-rimmed and dark enough to prove it. it's no small miracle they make it in before the worst of the storms, but he slicks back his hair, pulls on a flawless bespoke black suit and pressed shirt, black polished oxfords and grabs an umbrella. oeznik expertly maneuvers them through traffic and flooded streets, but it means he's late when he arrives to the service - tucking himself into a spot in the back corner so as not to...startle anyone. maybe also because a part of him knows he'll draw the ire of friends like sam wilson and james barnes, and he doesn't want this to be about that. it's about paying his last wishes to sarah, to getting a proper goodbye because she deserves so much more than just that. and - it's about offering unconditional support to steve. ex-lovers or not, sarah was the core of his world. if he'd known sooner...
zemo makes a point to step into one of the unused wings of the church as people start flooding out to take shelter from the storm and wait until it's cleared enough to see her to the final resting place. steve looks devastating for more than one reason - the press of his uniform, the way he looks just as good if not better than he did the day zemo walked out on him and saw him last. but mostly it's the grief etched in every feature of his. the rain barely seems to register as it soaks him to the bone. he swallows thickly, composing himself with the practice of nearly a decade now and lets his heels click audibly on wet pavement as he extends his umbrella to suddenly stop the downpour from over steve's shoulders. it's large enough to cover them both, but not without him needing to step in a little closer. not as close as they once used to easily fall when they had the privacy or the freedom in parts unknown, but closer than he probably deserves right now.]
You'll catch a cold like that, you know.
[his voice is lower than it used to be, the rasp of his accent curling elegantly and more confidently around the words than he truly feels. they're not light or teasing, just matter-of-fact after having taken care of steve and knowing about his sickly experiences in youth. he swallows around a lump in his throat, tipping his head up to look at the other man with a rare glimpse at how he feels in his eyes.]
Steve -
[it feels good to say his name, voice raw with the mixed emotions at being able to do so at all. still quiet, reverent. fond.]
I'm so sorry.
it's a duty. an obligation, nothing more. it will never be true love, and quite frankly - he doesn't even think it will be the kind of love that develops and grows after something comfortable has time to settle like an arranged marriage. all the money in the world, the fineries and luxuries he passes without a glance on a daily basis cannot compare to those stolen moments in a tiny cabin and on the lightly swaying dock under the stars, wrapped up in strong arms feeling safe and warm and in love. the truth is, he doesn't think he ever fell out of love with steve rogers. part of him is terrified in knowing he likely never will. he had the foolish notion in the early days that a passing resemblance in a dark club might be enough to get a small fix and get him out of his head, out of the strain of pretending to be someone he wasn't. when he realized they only made him feel emptier, he stopped altogether.
there was one moment of weakness, resolve shattered and spirit broken where he picked up the phone and dialed numbers he still knew be heart only to be greeted with an immediate voicemail. he hadn't left one, taking it as a sign to just - give it up. as much as he could.
it's been eight long, painful years since helmut zemo has set foot in these parts of the united states. there's a fiery sense of betrayal at the knowledge that he might not have if it weren't for oeznik stepping in. pulling him aside, a quiet whisper of there's something i think you might want to see, sir before handing him an american paper turned to the obituaries. it wasn't until the jet was prepped for emergency take-off and he was well past sokovian borders that he allowed himself to break down in private, all-consumed by that specifically acute pain stemming from preventable grief and lost opportunities. weeping over the woman that felt more like a mother than his own flesh and blood who has distantly pulled the strings in his life since he could walk.
sarah rogers is dead. sarah rogers, who didn't even have the heart to hate him for breaking her son's heart and choosing duty over desire. sarah rogers, who had loved and encouraged him and been there for him in a way his own parents could never even fathom. he ignores the panicked texts from nikoleta and her staff about flowers and dessert tables, overlooks the voicemail from his father and email from his mother. they can check the flight log, and he doesn't even give a damn about needing to explain himself right now. he's already missed the wake - he can't let himself miss the service or the burial. and least of all - he can't not try to be there for steve.
he's tired, jet-lagged and emotionally wrung dry with eyes red-rimmed and dark enough to prove it. it's no small miracle they make it in before the worst of the storms, but he slicks back his hair, pulls on a flawless bespoke black suit and pressed shirt, black polished oxfords and grabs an umbrella. oeznik expertly maneuvers them through traffic and flooded streets, but it means he's late when he arrives to the service - tucking himself into a spot in the back corner so as not to...startle anyone. maybe also because a part of him knows he'll draw the ire of friends like sam wilson and james barnes, and he doesn't want this to be about that. it's about paying his last wishes to sarah, to getting a proper goodbye because she deserves so much more than just that. and - it's about offering unconditional support to steve. ex-lovers or not, sarah was the core of his world. if he'd known sooner...
zemo makes a point to step into one of the unused wings of the church as people start flooding out to take shelter from the storm and wait until it's cleared enough to see her to the final resting place. steve looks devastating for more than one reason - the press of his uniform, the way he looks just as good if not better than he did the day zemo walked out on him and saw him last. but mostly it's the grief etched in every feature of his. the rain barely seems to register as it soaks him to the bone. he swallows thickly, composing himself with the practice of nearly a decade now and lets his heels click audibly on wet pavement as he extends his umbrella to suddenly stop the downpour from over steve's shoulders. it's large enough to cover them both, but not without him needing to step in a little closer. not as close as they once used to easily fall when they had the privacy or the freedom in parts unknown, but closer than he probably deserves right now.]
You'll catch a cold like that, you know.
[his voice is lower than it used to be, the rasp of his accent curling elegantly and more confidently around the words than he truly feels. they're not light or teasing, just matter-of-fact after having taken care of steve and knowing about his sickly experiences in youth. he swallows around a lump in his throat, tipping his head up to look at the other man with a rare glimpse at how he feels in his eyes.]
Steve -
[it feels good to say his name, voice raw with the mixed emotions at being able to do so at all. still quiet, reverent. fond.]
I'm so sorry.
Edited 2021-07-05 22:32 (UTC)
[even his laugh is perfect, zemo realizes with another irritated furrow of his brow. perhaps it looks as though he thinks steve is laughing directly at him for his incorrect assumption - and in a way maybe he is. but the thought of him being sickly enough to preclude him from being involved in sports or somehow working on the physique that couldn't have just grown overnight seems dubious at best. he won't pry, though he's equally unsurprised to know that steve's scholarship is based on academics - the boy is quite smart, despite his good looks that are often mutually exclusive from such a feat among the rest of the student body. it's not like he went out of his way looking for the knowledge that steve is on the football team either. he's seen the letterman jacket, heard rumblings on monday mornings from others reliving the victorious moments on the field or clapping hands on steve's shoulder with words of camaraderie and encouragement for his winning plays.
he's been to a single game so far, on the insistence of his parents that he experience an american sporting event at least once in his life. drinking out of the back of someone's rusted up pickup truck to inebriation and getting hot and sweaty in the stands while watching fumble after fumble wasn't exactly his idea of a good time.]
Really. [not a question, sardonically rhetorical in disbelief.] After, what - 3 years, multiple times a day and you're still unused to people merely having eyes?
[his mouth falls open at the way steve suddenly pins the looking on him, as if he's only noticed because - because he wants to, or because it means he's keeping a watchful eye. and then he takes it even further by accusing him of actively engaging in their shared...whatever it is instead of integrating himself among the rest of his classmates. or noticing the nonexistent stares and supposed intrigue from other students. there's interest - it's just the kind that's akin to looking at a lab experiment for how foreign and out of place it is compared to everything else. from his accent, to his delicate features and his distinct style of elevated dress - and yes, even his dorm room, he's nothing short of a novelty. but it brings back that rush of heat all the same under his skin, prickling to the surface of his cheeks and the surprised shift of his brows before he forces it into a near scowl.]
I only spend so much time picking at you because you're wrong.
[about all of it, he wants to say, but he knows that's exceedingly childish and will be as good as admitting defeat. he glances back at steve again after the friendly nudge rubs against him and he's nearly blinded with another dazzling flash of teeth. there's another inexplicable rush of warmth as steve leans in with a familiarity that doesn't entirely feel wrong in its proximity, a certain possessiveness somehow in that casual hang slung over the back of his chair. like it wouldn't be entirely out of place along a shoulder or his lower back.
it's that dangerous thought that only makes him redouble his efforts to hunch against the table and look back down at the book. he quickly flips though their book with renewed determination.]
No, no, no - everyone will be focused on last week's lecture because it's the simplest to draw back to. Even the ones that make me question the competence of the admissions staff. [he's drawn up in the prospect of a good idea, and he leans back, momentarily forgetting that steve's hand is hovering as it bumps up against his shoulderblades lightly. this time, he doesn't pull away, just turns and tilts his head slightly with a pleased curl of his lips that narrows his eyes simultaneously in clear satisfaction.]
We keep that part, focusing instead on the overarching timeline that was referenced at the beginning of the semester. Hm?
[he cocks a brow lips parting like he's just waiting for steve to try and argue that this isn't the superior idea.]
he's been to a single game so far, on the insistence of his parents that he experience an american sporting event at least once in his life. drinking out of the back of someone's rusted up pickup truck to inebriation and getting hot and sweaty in the stands while watching fumble after fumble wasn't exactly his idea of a good time.]
Really. [not a question, sardonically rhetorical in disbelief.] After, what - 3 years, multiple times a day and you're still unused to people merely having eyes?
[his mouth falls open at the way steve suddenly pins the looking on him, as if he's only noticed because - because he wants to, or because it means he's keeping a watchful eye. and then he takes it even further by accusing him of actively engaging in their shared...whatever it is instead of integrating himself among the rest of his classmates. or noticing the nonexistent stares and supposed intrigue from other students. there's interest - it's just the kind that's akin to looking at a lab experiment for how foreign and out of place it is compared to everything else. from his accent, to his delicate features and his distinct style of elevated dress - and yes, even his dorm room, he's nothing short of a novelty. but it brings back that rush of heat all the same under his skin, prickling to the surface of his cheeks and the surprised shift of his brows before he forces it into a near scowl.]
I only spend so much time picking at you because you're wrong.
[about all of it, he wants to say, but he knows that's exceedingly childish and will be as good as admitting defeat. he glances back at steve again after the friendly nudge rubs against him and he's nearly blinded with another dazzling flash of teeth. there's another inexplicable rush of warmth as steve leans in with a familiarity that doesn't entirely feel wrong in its proximity, a certain possessiveness somehow in that casual hang slung over the back of his chair. like it wouldn't be entirely out of place along a shoulder or his lower back.
it's that dangerous thought that only makes him redouble his efforts to hunch against the table and look back down at the book. he quickly flips though their book with renewed determination.]
No, no, no - everyone will be focused on last week's lecture because it's the simplest to draw back to. Even the ones that make me question the competence of the admissions staff. [he's drawn up in the prospect of a good idea, and he leans back, momentarily forgetting that steve's hand is hovering as it bumps up against his shoulderblades lightly. this time, he doesn't pull away, just turns and tilts his head slightly with a pleased curl of his lips that narrows his eyes simultaneously in clear satisfaction.]
We keep that part, focusing instead on the overarching timeline that was referenced at the beginning of the semester. Hm?
[he cocks a brow lips parting like he's just waiting for steve to try and argue that this isn't the superior idea.]
[ If the rain could chip away at him, make him the scrawny, skinny boy again, he'd let it. Allow himself to curl up into the mud and become something other than the man he is now, with his whole world crashing, pressing unbearably heavy against his shoulders. The rain chills his skin, soaks into his uniform until he begins to feel his dress shirt stick to his chest beneath. It's suffocating, and the urge to throw the jacket aside altogether nearly overwhelms him, but he resists, his body showing no sign of chaos save for the twitch of fingers curling into a fist.
It takes him a moment to realize the rain ha stopped, turned instead to the pattering on plastic, but it's the voice that takes the air out of his chest. He doesn't turn, but he can feel the heat of someone else closer, almost feel as if the ghost of something old and painful begins to seep in around the rubble and despair.
Helmut Zemo.
The accent, the voice, tired with age, but nonetheless so burned into his mind that the timbre of it rings sharp in his ears. Yes, Steve thinks, he will catch cold like this. ]
You came.
[ Anger bubbles under the damp, the embers of something hurt and confused reigniting but only enough for a smoke signal, a warning. How many times had he called the Zemo residence, how many heavily accented footmen had he spoken to? Letters wouldn't have made it soon enough, and there was no e-mail save for their publicity company.
He sat at Sarah's bedside and petted her hand while she told medicated stories of him as a boy, in high school, and oh remember when Helmut dropped the wine bottle and it stained the walls and we laughed and laughed and laughed and he'd told her, when her breathing had gone shallow, when the monitors beeped of her nearing demise, that he'd been there while she slept, that he'd kissed her brow and sang her that Sokovian jig she liked so well, oh if only she'd been awake to hear it. ]
I called. A dozen times, maybe. They said they gave you the message.
[ He could be cruel here, could tell him that she asked after him because she had, but he keeps that quietly locked in his chest. For how long, he doesn't know. Maybe an eternity. ]
Did you miss the service, too?
[ Finally, he turns beneath the umbrella, fiery eyes meeting those of the man whose portrait he could draw a thousand times over and get every detail right, even after a decade apart. God, he loves him, and it makes his stomach churn sickly in his gut. But he can see the hurt, he can see the mud behind those dark eyes and it takes him aback. No mask, no haughty tilt of a jaw, no severe pinch of his brows.
His fingers itch to touch his face, but they remain still at his side. Tears slip hotly down his cheeks, no longer masked by the rain, and without end. He can't stop them, not now. ]
It was beautiful. Everything she wanted. If you can want something like this.
It takes him a moment to realize the rain ha stopped, turned instead to the pattering on plastic, but it's the voice that takes the air out of his chest. He doesn't turn, but he can feel the heat of someone else closer, almost feel as if the ghost of something old and painful begins to seep in around the rubble and despair.
Helmut Zemo.
The accent, the voice, tired with age, but nonetheless so burned into his mind that the timbre of it rings sharp in his ears. Yes, Steve thinks, he will catch cold like this. ]
You came.
[ Anger bubbles under the damp, the embers of something hurt and confused reigniting but only enough for a smoke signal, a warning. How many times had he called the Zemo residence, how many heavily accented footmen had he spoken to? Letters wouldn't have made it soon enough, and there was no e-mail save for their publicity company.
He sat at Sarah's bedside and petted her hand while she told medicated stories of him as a boy, in high school, and oh remember when Helmut dropped the wine bottle and it stained the walls and we laughed and laughed and laughed and he'd told her, when her breathing had gone shallow, when the monitors beeped of her nearing demise, that he'd been there while she slept, that he'd kissed her brow and sang her that Sokovian jig she liked so well, oh if only she'd been awake to hear it. ]
I called. A dozen times, maybe. They said they gave you the message.
[ He could be cruel here, could tell him that she asked after him because she had, but he keeps that quietly locked in his chest. For how long, he doesn't know. Maybe an eternity. ]
Did you miss the service, too?
[ Finally, he turns beneath the umbrella, fiery eyes meeting those of the man whose portrait he could draw a thousand times over and get every detail right, even after a decade apart. God, he loves him, and it makes his stomach churn sickly in his gut. But he can see the hurt, he can see the mud behind those dark eyes and it takes him aback. No mask, no haughty tilt of a jaw, no severe pinch of his brows.
His fingers itch to touch his face, but they remain still at his side. Tears slip hotly down his cheeks, no longer masked by the rain, and without end. He can't stop them, not now. ]
It was beautiful. Everything she wanted. If you can want something like this.
[you came, steve says, like he'd be anywhere else right now. but then again, he supposes he can't blame him considering he had the chance to walk away eight years ago and he chose not to. something he's regret nearly every day since, but pushes through like another cog in the great machine of his family's legacy. it doesn't make him sound any less hurt by it, quiet to try and mask the tremor threatening to bubble up.]
Of course I came. I would have been here sooner, only -
[a dozen times? he hadn't heard a whisper of it. no messages, no notes left for him aside from the inane details of the wedding and his fiancée's new requests piling up, the bills separated to send to their family accountants. now his brow does furrow, and the pain in his expression is sapped by equal measures of confusion, as if drawn directly from steve himself.]
I didn't know. Oeznik came to me yesterday evening with the paper, and I saw the obituary. I dropped everything to get here in time for the service.
[would he believe himself if he were in steve's shoes? he's never been a liar, at least not when it comes to the small things. just the earth-shattering, course-altering and life-changing decision of their future together. he's too busy running through every possible thing he could have missed - no voicemails, no emails, not even word of mouth. not even the excuse of how busy he's been between business and the engagement party and the wedding details would have made him forget or not do what he's just done and fly immediately over. but there's no way steve is lying either. which means - god, he doesn't have the energy to run through the scenarios right now. he'll get to the bottom of it, but it's less important than focusing on why he did come, even if it was apparently too late.
his gaze drops to mask the sudden glassiness in his own eyes, fingers tightening against the umbrella handle as if it might somehow help push away the way emotion wells up in him. his voice drops to a near whisper, practically lost to thudding pinpoints of rain against the silk canpopy and crash of thunder in the distance.]
I would have wanted to see her one last time, Steve. Please, believe me.
[his gaze draws back up to meet the eyes that may as well be a fixture in his dreams, still that easy, expressive blue, only now they're clouded over with wetness that isn't just from being soaked to the bone.
he has no right to do what he does next. but he can't watch the man he loved suffer in silence. he reaches with his free arm, pressing up on his toes and wrapping it around what he can reach of steve's damp back to pull him down into a comforting hug. to let him dip his head if he so chooses and let those tears sink against the juncture of his neck and shoulders. he doesn't care about ruining his suit - he doesn't care about anything other than being right here, right now. and god, if the scent of steve even through his rain-drenched and familiar weight of him doesn't hit him hard enough to make him weak in the knees and holding him tighter for more than just comfort. it feels like something illicit, an old memory stolen and replayed even if the parts played don't fit who they are anymore.]
I know. It was beautiful, and she would have been thrilled to see everyone together again on her behalf.
[his arm grips that much more, fingers splaying along the back of his neck in a gentle cradle as his other arm shakes slightly from holding up their protection. he turns his head slightly, trying to bring a bit of levity to his voice in another low murmur near steve's ear, even though he feels like he's one wrong push from breaking apart.]
She would have scolded you for forgetting an umbrella.
Of course I came. I would have been here sooner, only -
[a dozen times? he hadn't heard a whisper of it. no messages, no notes left for him aside from the inane details of the wedding and his fiancée's new requests piling up, the bills separated to send to their family accountants. now his brow does furrow, and the pain in his expression is sapped by equal measures of confusion, as if drawn directly from steve himself.]
I didn't know. Oeznik came to me yesterday evening with the paper, and I saw the obituary. I dropped everything to get here in time for the service.
[would he believe himself if he were in steve's shoes? he's never been a liar, at least not when it comes to the small things. just the earth-shattering, course-altering and life-changing decision of their future together. he's too busy running through every possible thing he could have missed - no voicemails, no emails, not even word of mouth. not even the excuse of how busy he's been between business and the engagement party and the wedding details would have made him forget or not do what he's just done and fly immediately over. but there's no way steve is lying either. which means - god, he doesn't have the energy to run through the scenarios right now. he'll get to the bottom of it, but it's less important than focusing on why he did come, even if it was apparently too late.
his gaze drops to mask the sudden glassiness in his own eyes, fingers tightening against the umbrella handle as if it might somehow help push away the way emotion wells up in him. his voice drops to a near whisper, practically lost to thudding pinpoints of rain against the silk canpopy and crash of thunder in the distance.]
I would have wanted to see her one last time, Steve. Please, believe me.
[his gaze draws back up to meet the eyes that may as well be a fixture in his dreams, still that easy, expressive blue, only now they're clouded over with wetness that isn't just from being soaked to the bone.
he has no right to do what he does next. but he can't watch the man he loved suffer in silence. he reaches with his free arm, pressing up on his toes and wrapping it around what he can reach of steve's damp back to pull him down into a comforting hug. to let him dip his head if he so chooses and let those tears sink against the juncture of his neck and shoulders. he doesn't care about ruining his suit - he doesn't care about anything other than being right here, right now. and god, if the scent of steve even through his rain-drenched and familiar weight of him doesn't hit him hard enough to make him weak in the knees and holding him tighter for more than just comfort. it feels like something illicit, an old memory stolen and replayed even if the parts played don't fit who they are anymore.]
I know. It was beautiful, and she would have been thrilled to see everyone together again on her behalf.
[his arm grips that much more, fingers splaying along the back of his neck in a gentle cradle as his other arm shakes slightly from holding up their protection. he turns his head slightly, trying to bring a bit of levity to his voice in another low murmur near steve's ear, even though he feels like he's one wrong push from breaking apart.]
She would have scolded you for forgetting an umbrella.
[ Steve knows that Helmut Zemo isn't a liar - even in their broken goodbye, he'd been honest, hadn't he? They loved one another, but the pull of duty had been too strong, the questions of the future too big, even though theirs had been planned together - simple and lovely and God if he doesn't dream about it some nights. If his sleepy, war-torn mind doesn't fashion what they could have had from dirt and debris, turning shellfire into fireworks, downpours into starry nights, balmy days into a beachy day spent lakeside.
Dreams. Nightmares. Everything blends together into one perfect, sleep-deprived storm. ]
I spoke to so many people.
[ Pleaded, really, but he needn't go that far. The footmen, the ladies, the whatever-servants they might be, the message had died on his lips the moment he spoke it. Mom's dying. You should come. She'd love to see you. What he'd wanted to say was that he, of all people, needed him. That even now, in the rain, Steve feels like he's a man sinking slowly, quicksand slowly eking him out of existence, having started the moment that dorm room shut behind him. ]
I believe you. She knows. She knew.
[ Partially. With all that money, all that power, Zemo hadn't made an effort to see her, to reach out to her before that, had he? The woman who wrapped him up in her love even when Steve's heart felt like it died on the tiled, sticky hall tiles. He knew she sent gifts, sent letters, all returned with an angry red stamp weeks later: Not Deliverable. Return to Sender.
He opens his mouth to speak again, his face a pinched, frustrated thing, when the arm hooks round his back, drags him down. His body, heavy and chilled, doesn't react at first, standing awkwardly in the embrace, as though muscle memory has gone away after years of disuse. It hurts, having him here. It rips open an old wound chock full of scar tissue (one that never really healed) and sets it delicately beside the hole where his heart bleeds from, where the name Sarah Rogers courses through his veins in an agonized wail that has yet to be freed.
His head dips, presses into his shoulder, against the slope of a neck he used to kiss, and his arms remember their stuttering reach, creaking their way around the man's thin frame, drawing him tight as though a buoy in the torrent. He thinks he'll hug him then be done with it, create space where it had been made nearly a decade ago, but his joints lock up, his shoulders shake, his breath comes up hitched in his throat.
The rain feels like roaring white noise in his ears, and it's probably for the best because he can't hear the agonized sob that claws its way free as those familiar, dangerous fingers slide into the hair at his nape.
Why are you here? You're just making it worse. Why didn't you come sooner? She needed you. I needed you.
I need you.
A shuddering breath, words left unspoken, but he gives a watery huff at the comment, the breath so warm against his ear. Steve doesn't move, fingers digging into the small of Zemo's back and the fine, bespoke fabric, the smell and feel of him safe enough for now.
For now. ]
She'd have scolded me for not dancing in it.
[ How can he, when his feet are cast from lead, when his whole body has rusted through, eaten away by the tricksy lurch of oxidation, by the years he's been only a hollowed tin man. A soldier with a gentle man tucked away inside, hiding beneath his ribs, away from the light for so long, that he’s all but forgotten his name. ]
Dreams. Nightmares. Everything blends together into one perfect, sleep-deprived storm. ]
I spoke to so many people.
[ Pleaded, really, but he needn't go that far. The footmen, the ladies, the whatever-servants they might be, the message had died on his lips the moment he spoke it. Mom's dying. You should come. She'd love to see you. What he'd wanted to say was that he, of all people, needed him. That even now, in the rain, Steve feels like he's a man sinking slowly, quicksand slowly eking him out of existence, having started the moment that dorm room shut behind him. ]
I believe you. She knows. She knew.
[ Partially. With all that money, all that power, Zemo hadn't made an effort to see her, to reach out to her before that, had he? The woman who wrapped him up in her love even when Steve's heart felt like it died on the tiled, sticky hall tiles. He knew she sent gifts, sent letters, all returned with an angry red stamp weeks later: Not Deliverable. Return to Sender.
He opens his mouth to speak again, his face a pinched, frustrated thing, when the arm hooks round his back, drags him down. His body, heavy and chilled, doesn't react at first, standing awkwardly in the embrace, as though muscle memory has gone away after years of disuse. It hurts, having him here. It rips open an old wound chock full of scar tissue (one that never really healed) and sets it delicately beside the hole where his heart bleeds from, where the name Sarah Rogers courses through his veins in an agonized wail that has yet to be freed.
His head dips, presses into his shoulder, against the slope of a neck he used to kiss, and his arms remember their stuttering reach, creaking their way around the man's thin frame, drawing him tight as though a buoy in the torrent. He thinks he'll hug him then be done with it, create space where it had been made nearly a decade ago, but his joints lock up, his shoulders shake, his breath comes up hitched in his throat.
The rain feels like roaring white noise in his ears, and it's probably for the best because he can't hear the agonized sob that claws its way free as those familiar, dangerous fingers slide into the hair at his nape.
Why are you here? You're just making it worse. Why didn't you come sooner? She needed you. I needed you.
I need you.
A shuddering breath, words left unspoken, but he gives a watery huff at the comment, the breath so warm against his ear. Steve doesn't move, fingers digging into the small of Zemo's back and the fine, bespoke fabric, the smell and feel of him safe enough for now.
For now. ]
She'd have scolded me for not dancing in it.
[ How can he, when his feet are cast from lead, when his whole body has rusted through, eaten away by the tricksy lurch of oxidation, by the years he's been only a hollowed tin man. A soldier with a gentle man tucked away inside, hiding beneath his ribs, away from the light for so long, that he’s all but forgotten his name. ]
Edited 2021-07-06 03:11 (UTC)
[for a few agonizing moments he thinks steve won't return the embrace - that he's so angry, that despite his words he doesn't really believe that zemo is telling the truth. that maybe he'll push him away and ask him to just turn around leave, because being here now won't bring her back. it doesn't mean anything, and maybe he's made things worse by his half-presence. it lances through his very heart with the same intense pain it had eight years ago knowing that it's not entirely wrong, and would be completely justified if true. steve had been willing to give him the world - promised him everything to his name and zemo had walked out on it all the same like it wasn't the most precious, priceless gift he'd ever been offered. like he doesn't run through the what-ifs on a daily basis, fantasizing about the life that could have had together.
he's in the dark about the attempts to reach him. and while this is the first bit of illumination shed that perhaps something is amiss at his household, it can't be his focus now. the one singular thing on his mind is steve and what will bring him the most comfort, empty as it may be in lieu of the gaping whole sarah rogers has surely left behind. there's a piece of himself that feels like it's forever lost, and that was from less than two years of her affection. he can't imagine thirty of them, ceased in the blink of an eye. sometimes it felt like they were their own little world - those weekends and that glorious summer shared with just sarah and steve, the stuff of hollywood stories fascinated with the evolution from boys into men with the guiding light of one strong, irreplaceable influence. he'd never felt so carefree - so invincible and free to cherish the love he craved and the freedom outside of the stifling walls of his family's castle.
did she go peacefully? was it in her sleep? how long? did she ask to see me?
it's a small smattering of the dozens of thoughts that bombard him all at once, and steve feels as much like an anchor in his grief as he's trying to offer in return. the tension finally bleeds out and he feels steve all but melt against him, arms wrapping with a painful familiarity right in the same spot they always rested when he'd do this out of fondness and a need not to be apart than out of the necessity of needing something to cling to from the open, jagged edges of mourning wounds. he's not so arrogant to think he's still part of that - not in a million years. it's a double-edged sword of wanting steve to have something (someone) to look forward to as much as he doesn't know he could bear the idea of man fully moving on and letting their love be a worn, faded piece of the past.
the sob that wracks against him is so gutwrenching it brings the tears he's been keeping at bay springing to the corners of his eyes, letting them slip shut as he murmurs out a soft shhhh, it's alright, i'm here against his skin and holds him as tightly as one arm can allow. his fingers flex, slipping up into the wet, short hair at the back of his neck as they adjust and do their best to soothe what he already knows can only scratch the surface of comfort. nothing short of resurrection will make steve's life feel the same ever again, and there's no such thing as miracles - no matter how hard he's wished for them over the years himself.
he doesn't pull back either, arm staining from how tightly it's clinging around him. it strikes him so clearly that he doesn't want to let go - he can't, because he's not sure he'll ever have the chance to hold him like this again. which is exactly what he thought when that door closed on him in the dorm, and now...
he lets out a small, breathy noise of amusement to mask his own emotions in the moment. this is about steve, not his own shortcomings and the fact that he wasn't here, didn't know - ]
Well, it's not too late to do so.
[he almost teases he knows his way around a waltz, or that he remembers them swaying absently to old, staticy records wafting through that cabin. but what good will it do besides hurt them both? he's not so cruel to be dismissive of the notion. it feels very much like he's standing on eggshells, trying to balance the love he's lost and still holds under his skin and what he needs to reconcile and repurpose as...a friend? no, that would require a consistent presence he hasn't had since university. an...acquaintance, then. a deep, distant acquaintance. fuck, it hurts just to think it.]
As I recall...you don't exactly have two left feet.
he's in the dark about the attempts to reach him. and while this is the first bit of illumination shed that perhaps something is amiss at his household, it can't be his focus now. the one singular thing on his mind is steve and what will bring him the most comfort, empty as it may be in lieu of the gaping whole sarah rogers has surely left behind. there's a piece of himself that feels like it's forever lost, and that was from less than two years of her affection. he can't imagine thirty of them, ceased in the blink of an eye. sometimes it felt like they were their own little world - those weekends and that glorious summer shared with just sarah and steve, the stuff of hollywood stories fascinated with the evolution from boys into men with the guiding light of one strong, irreplaceable influence. he'd never felt so carefree - so invincible and free to cherish the love he craved and the freedom outside of the stifling walls of his family's castle.
did she go peacefully? was it in her sleep? how long? did she ask to see me?
it's a small smattering of the dozens of thoughts that bombard him all at once, and steve feels as much like an anchor in his grief as he's trying to offer in return. the tension finally bleeds out and he feels steve all but melt against him, arms wrapping with a painful familiarity right in the same spot they always rested when he'd do this out of fondness and a need not to be apart than out of the necessity of needing something to cling to from the open, jagged edges of mourning wounds. he's not so arrogant to think he's still part of that - not in a million years. it's a double-edged sword of wanting steve to have something (someone) to look forward to as much as he doesn't know he could bear the idea of man fully moving on and letting their love be a worn, faded piece of the past.
the sob that wracks against him is so gutwrenching it brings the tears he's been keeping at bay springing to the corners of his eyes, letting them slip shut as he murmurs out a soft shhhh, it's alright, i'm here against his skin and holds him as tightly as one arm can allow. his fingers flex, slipping up into the wet, short hair at the back of his neck as they adjust and do their best to soothe what he already knows can only scratch the surface of comfort. nothing short of resurrection will make steve's life feel the same ever again, and there's no such thing as miracles - no matter how hard he's wished for them over the years himself.
he doesn't pull back either, arm staining from how tightly it's clinging around him. it strikes him so clearly that he doesn't want to let go - he can't, because he's not sure he'll ever have the chance to hold him like this again. which is exactly what he thought when that door closed on him in the dorm, and now...
he lets out a small, breathy noise of amusement to mask his own emotions in the moment. this is about steve, not his own shortcomings and the fact that he wasn't here, didn't know - ]
Well, it's not too late to do so.
[he almost teases he knows his way around a waltz, or that he remembers them swaying absently to old, staticy records wafting through that cabin. but what good will it do besides hurt them both? he's not so cruel to be dismissive of the notion. it feels very much like he's standing on eggshells, trying to balance the love he's lost and still holds under his skin and what he needs to reconcile and repurpose as...a friend? no, that would require a consistent presence he hasn't had since university. an...acquaintance, then. a deep, distant acquaintance. fuck, it hurts just to think it.]
As I recall...you don't exactly have two left feet.
Edited 2021-07-06 05:00 (UTC)
[novi grad, sokovia: the first city a 7-year-old helmut zemo made a debut at his first proper family party. vienna, austria: the first city a 13-year-old helmut zemo had his first glass of champagne. berlin, germany: the first city a 16-year-old helmut zemo got drunk in a limousine with his friends in high places, pushing through the sun roof and whooping like the king of the world along cobblestone streets. moscow, russia, riga, latvia, istanbul, turkey, macau, china: a blur of drunken nights and debauchery he'll take to the grave. ithaca, united states of america: the first time helmut zemo is invited to a party and expected to drink an unknown substance out of a plastic red cup filled to the brim.
he doesn't know what possessed him to come. certainly not, he insists to himself, the source of the invite - the shy smile steve rogers had extended in his dorm with the implication he'd really like to see him here. steve isn't even a part of the massive mcmansion of a fraternity house they're currently standing in; he's just that well-liked by all that he manages to secure an invite anyway. he tells himself he's only come for the drinks and to treat it as any other spectator sport so he can say he's had a proper american collegiate experience. tuck it away like an anecdote he'll pull out years later at a dinner party and realize he's gotten as bad as his parents when he says something like, can you believe it? jungle juice from a cooler? i knew from that moment on it was only top shelf liquor for me.
he'd done his best to dress casually - a black cashmere turtleneck sweater that clings to his slim figure, tight black skinny jeans and polished black leather derby boots. and yet even in its simplicity he feels overdressed in comparison to the sneakers, bomber jackets and graphic t-shirts that have come from retail stores he sees on nearly every other young man in this...establishment, if it can be called that. what with its booming beats threatening to blow out his ear drums and vibrating the very walls that have been spray painted with some sort of temporary neon paint that are only visible under black lighting on the dance floor. there's a bar with some poor, probably hazed rushee struggling to manage pouring out shots and wasting the only good liquor here by splattering it across the sticky bartop in the corner of the room. it smells like sweat and cheap aftershave, the afternotes of alcohol clinging to the floors and breath of passerbys, accented too by the occasional waft of marijuana from closed doors.
he keeps to himself at first, as he always does. no sign of steve. then come the girls - pretty, scantily clad and fascinated by what they surely perceive to be a suave, mysterious foreigner. his accent has always won him brownie points among american women, and while they aren't outright swooning the same way they do to a certain tall, blond demigod...they do giggle at his jokes and bat their lashes when he winks in between regaling them stories of his partying in eastern europe. one of them puts a hand against his arm, and he lets his own slip to the small of her back as he leans in close enough to be heard over the spitting lyrics of some popular rap star.
it's all for show. he has no interest in taking any of them upstairs or dancing with them out on the floor, but it's good for appearances. and to practice his small talk and reaffirm he's not a total lost cause - even if he still doesn't have any real friends.
(steve rogers is decidedly not a friend. absolutely not.)
what he doesn't expect is one of the fraternity brothers - a senior, he thinks, with a strong jaw and a face that belongs in the pages (not the on the cover) of gq to slip next to him, leaning oh-so casually with a hip cocked against the wall and strike up a conversation with him. he's handsome in a conventional, small-town sort of sense. probably the best looking boy from his graduating class which has given him something of an ego and inflated sense of self-worth. and despite all that, zemo knows when someone is sizing him up like that. he's known of his own preferences since he was in his young teens - and he didn't grow up among some of the best-kept closeted and wealthy men in europe not to know when he was looking at one of his own. he takes a gulp of the syrupy sweet concoction in his cup and sets his drink down on the ledge, turning his body more fully to face the other boy. enough distance not to attract attention, but the body language enough to indicate more than just passing interest and politeness. so is the specific smirk on his lips and the swipe of his tongue to chase after the cherry flavor.
it's a delicate balance. but he's surprised enough to have encountered it here of all places, and he can at least give a fair shot to blending in just this once. maybe he'll even have fun, somehow, even if it was the furthest thing from his mind when he first set foot in here.
as for steve- well, surely he's busy fending off a bevy of beauties or being adored by all of his many friends. maybe he didn't even come at all, much too popular to make it to all the invites he must get on a regular basis. it's fine. it doesn't matter, really. (it does.) it's not like he'd been looking forward to seeing him in a different context. (he was).
after a few more minutes of it sinking in, he realizes absently that the drinks are stronger than he realized. not unpleasant just - unexpected. also unexpected: a hand lightly circling around his wrist hidden from view, thumb swiping in a soft stroke along his suddenly jumping pulse. there's something he can't quite put his finger on about this exchange, and yet...there's not reason not to let it continue. it's the most engagement he's gotten since steve himself, and the vain part of him is enjoying the silent admission of attraction. only now he knows these drinks pack more than just a punch if the risk of it isn't even stopping him from coyly tilting his head and listening to his newfound friend (hunter? hector? it was too loud to catch it and now it's much too late to ask again) talk all about summers in connecticut spent shirtless and sunbathing, not unlike some of his own. it feels like the edge has been taken off - like the part of him that gets frisky grinding against strangers on packed dance floors and whispering in dark corners might make an appearance in the united states after all. maybe he can let loose. who’s going to tell?]
he doesn't know what possessed him to come. certainly not, he insists to himself, the source of the invite - the shy smile steve rogers had extended in his dorm with the implication he'd really like to see him here. steve isn't even a part of the massive mcmansion of a fraternity house they're currently standing in; he's just that well-liked by all that he manages to secure an invite anyway. he tells himself he's only come for the drinks and to treat it as any other spectator sport so he can say he's had a proper american collegiate experience. tuck it away like an anecdote he'll pull out years later at a dinner party and realize he's gotten as bad as his parents when he says something like, can you believe it? jungle juice from a cooler? i knew from that moment on it was only top shelf liquor for me.
he'd done his best to dress casually - a black cashmere turtleneck sweater that clings to his slim figure, tight black skinny jeans and polished black leather derby boots. and yet even in its simplicity he feels overdressed in comparison to the sneakers, bomber jackets and graphic t-shirts that have come from retail stores he sees on nearly every other young man in this...establishment, if it can be called that. what with its booming beats threatening to blow out his ear drums and vibrating the very walls that have been spray painted with some sort of temporary neon paint that are only visible under black lighting on the dance floor. there's a bar with some poor, probably hazed rushee struggling to manage pouring out shots and wasting the only good liquor here by splattering it across the sticky bartop in the corner of the room. it smells like sweat and cheap aftershave, the afternotes of alcohol clinging to the floors and breath of passerbys, accented too by the occasional waft of marijuana from closed doors.
he keeps to himself at first, as he always does. no sign of steve. then come the girls - pretty, scantily clad and fascinated by what they surely perceive to be a suave, mysterious foreigner. his accent has always won him brownie points among american women, and while they aren't outright swooning the same way they do to a certain tall, blond demigod...they do giggle at his jokes and bat their lashes when he winks in between regaling them stories of his partying in eastern europe. one of them puts a hand against his arm, and he lets his own slip to the small of her back as he leans in close enough to be heard over the spitting lyrics of some popular rap star.
it's all for show. he has no interest in taking any of them upstairs or dancing with them out on the floor, but it's good for appearances. and to practice his small talk and reaffirm he's not a total lost cause - even if he still doesn't have any real friends.
(steve rogers is decidedly not a friend. absolutely not.)
what he doesn't expect is one of the fraternity brothers - a senior, he thinks, with a strong jaw and a face that belongs in the pages (not the on the cover) of gq to slip next to him, leaning oh-so casually with a hip cocked against the wall and strike up a conversation with him. he's handsome in a conventional, small-town sort of sense. probably the best looking boy from his graduating class which has given him something of an ego and inflated sense of self-worth. and despite all that, zemo knows when someone is sizing him up like that. he's known of his own preferences since he was in his young teens - and he didn't grow up among some of the best-kept closeted and wealthy men in europe not to know when he was looking at one of his own. he takes a gulp of the syrupy sweet concoction in his cup and sets his drink down on the ledge, turning his body more fully to face the other boy. enough distance not to attract attention, but the body language enough to indicate more than just passing interest and politeness. so is the specific smirk on his lips and the swipe of his tongue to chase after the cherry flavor.
it's a delicate balance. but he's surprised enough to have encountered it here of all places, and he can at least give a fair shot to blending in just this once. maybe he'll even have fun, somehow, even if it was the furthest thing from his mind when he first set foot in here.
as for steve- well, surely he's busy fending off a bevy of beauties or being adored by all of his many friends. maybe he didn't even come at all, much too popular to make it to all the invites he must get on a regular basis. it's fine. it doesn't matter, really. (it does.) it's not like he'd been looking forward to seeing him in a different context. (he was).
after a few more minutes of it sinking in, he realizes absently that the drinks are stronger than he realized. not unpleasant just - unexpected. also unexpected: a hand lightly circling around his wrist hidden from view, thumb swiping in a soft stroke along his suddenly jumping pulse. there's something he can't quite put his finger on about this exchange, and yet...there's not reason not to let it continue. it's the most engagement he's gotten since steve himself, and the vain part of him is enjoying the silent admission of attraction. only now he knows these drinks pack more than just a punch if the risk of it isn't even stopping him from coyly tilting his head and listening to his newfound friend (hunter? hector? it was too loud to catch it and now it's much too late to ask again) talk all about summers in connecticut spent shirtless and sunbathing, not unlike some of his own. it feels like the edge has been taken off - like the part of him that gets frisky grinding against strangers on packed dance floors and whispering in dark corners might make an appearance in the united states after all. maybe he can let loose. who’s going to tell?]
Edited (a terrible type oop) 2021-07-07 03:25 (UTC)
[ Steve loses himself to the tears for a few seconds longer than he expects, pressing into the easy warmth of a body his own still knows. How his fingers know exactly where to press, where the slope of a waist is, where the bend of a throat or where the prickle of a bear starts long before its owner lets it grow out. His body knows this man, knows how to move with and around it.
He shouldn't be holding him, shouldn't be entertaining him, shouldn't be willing to let him in when he shut that door eight years ago. But there's the rain, the memory of his mother tucked in a chapel with beautiful stained glass windows, and he can already hear her voice in the back of his head that begs him to give him a chance.
What is there to lose? Steve's heart dissolved out of his chest years ago, fading to some protective little cage of sinew and bone, and with Sarah gone? Steve breathes heavily into his shoulder, catching his breath, the air hitching shakily with each inhale.
Well it's not too late to do so.
There would be no greater delight in anything than there would be in hitting Helmut Zemo now, for how charming he still is, for how he needles his way in between kevlar and iron, finding the scraps of a man called Steven Rogers and pressing them into the light. ]
We'd have to lose the umbrella. Your suit would be ruined.
[ Trivial, distant, spoken against the very suit, cheek pressed into his neck, which only takes a tilt for it to be his nose pressed to warm skin above the starched collar line. Everything in him tells him to leave, to run to the swampy, muddy burial site and sit there in the rain until it clears, until someone tells him its time to put the delicate, pearly box into the ground. A small, foolish part of him thinks he'll walk back into his apartment or into their family home (full now to the brim with medical equipment and hospice beds) and she'll be there, cooking and singing along to Carly Simon on the radio.
She won't be. He knows that. But having Zemo here, folding himself into the man's chest, makes him think of days when the three of them had been invincible, untouchable. It makes new tears burn into his eyes. Sarah Rogers would not turn down the invitation to a dance, would she? He draws himself away with a sigh, wipes at his teary eyes and with a watery sort of smile, offers his hand. It doesn't reach his eyes, the light of that little smile, but the sorrow behind his blue eyes swallows up everything save for the tiniest hint of fondness. A yearning sort of sorrow that comes from love and not rage. ]
Seems only right to give her a party on the way out. I'm out of practice.
[ I miss her, I miss her, I miss her. I miss you. ]
He shouldn't be holding him, shouldn't be entertaining him, shouldn't be willing to let him in when he shut that door eight years ago. But there's the rain, the memory of his mother tucked in a chapel with beautiful stained glass windows, and he can already hear her voice in the back of his head that begs him to give him a chance.
What is there to lose? Steve's heart dissolved out of his chest years ago, fading to some protective little cage of sinew and bone, and with Sarah gone? Steve breathes heavily into his shoulder, catching his breath, the air hitching shakily with each inhale.
Well it's not too late to do so.
There would be no greater delight in anything than there would be in hitting Helmut Zemo now, for how charming he still is, for how he needles his way in between kevlar and iron, finding the scraps of a man called Steven Rogers and pressing them into the light. ]
We'd have to lose the umbrella. Your suit would be ruined.
[ Trivial, distant, spoken against the very suit, cheek pressed into his neck, which only takes a tilt for it to be his nose pressed to warm skin above the starched collar line. Everything in him tells him to leave, to run to the swampy, muddy burial site and sit there in the rain until it clears, until someone tells him its time to put the delicate, pearly box into the ground. A small, foolish part of him thinks he'll walk back into his apartment or into their family home (full now to the brim with medical equipment and hospice beds) and she'll be there, cooking and singing along to Carly Simon on the radio.
She won't be. He knows that. But having Zemo here, folding himself into the man's chest, makes him think of days when the three of them had been invincible, untouchable. It makes new tears burn into his eyes. Sarah Rogers would not turn down the invitation to a dance, would she? He draws himself away with a sigh, wipes at his teary eyes and with a watery sort of smile, offers his hand. It doesn't reach his eyes, the light of that little smile, but the sorrow behind his blue eyes swallows up everything save for the tiniest hint of fondness. A yearning sort of sorrow that comes from love and not rage. ]
Seems only right to give her a party on the way out. I'm out of practice.
[ I miss her, I miss her, I miss her. I miss you. ]
Yeah, you could say I'm not used to it.
[ Steve isn't; Bucky chides him all the time for how oblivious he can be to the simplest of flirts, the bat of eyes, the way men and women both sidle up to him at bar tops and parties. He's not much interested in it, not anymore, and with Freshman year long behind him, he spends more time exercising or reading as it is. It's better that way.
He notices the flush on Zemo's cheeks, however, but it's only for the fact that he's looking for it, and they're situated so closely that it'd be impossible to miss. He's sure his own might be evident, dusting across his cheeks, but instead he turns his attention to the book, listening as Zemo explains every step methodically, reasoning his way into a good idea and it's true - Steve can't fault him for the idea that is, in all ways, better than his own.
But the warm pressure of shoulder blades on his arm draws him in, scooting his chair a hairsbreadth closer to peer at the book, as if examining it closely against the offered idea. In truth, it just lets his arm curl closer, lets their heads tilt just so, and maybe he's childish for doing it, but he's not unhappy with the proximity. He hadn't come here for this, for the veiled flirting and looking over. He's felt Zemo's eyes on him before, and the commentary earlier certainly doesn't disprove it, but Steve feels like he's finally truly looking himself, too.
A huff of a laugh, the tilt of his head, and he sits back in his chair more comfortably, foot knocking against one of Zemo's as he gets comfortable. ]
You're right. [ A smile, and he flips a page in the book curiously. ][ Steve feels like a boy in a candy shop, unable to focus and decide which path he wants to take, because he turns to look at Zemo and it's the curve of his lips that's caught him up, that's made his brain short-circuit as they curl, part, and he wonders what they must taste like, how they might feel, and he only barely manages to tear his eyes away and look back at the text. ]
Ah... do you want to have visuals for this presentation?
[ Steve isn't; Bucky chides him all the time for how oblivious he can be to the simplest of flirts, the bat of eyes, the way men and women both sidle up to him at bar tops and parties. He's not much interested in it, not anymore, and with Freshman year long behind him, he spends more time exercising or reading as it is. It's better that way.
He notices the flush on Zemo's cheeks, however, but it's only for the fact that he's looking for it, and they're situated so closely that it'd be impossible to miss. He's sure his own might be evident, dusting across his cheeks, but instead he turns his attention to the book, listening as Zemo explains every step methodically, reasoning his way into a good idea and it's true - Steve can't fault him for the idea that is, in all ways, better than his own.
But the warm pressure of shoulder blades on his arm draws him in, scooting his chair a hairsbreadth closer to peer at the book, as if examining it closely against the offered idea. In truth, it just lets his arm curl closer, lets their heads tilt just so, and maybe he's childish for doing it, but he's not unhappy with the proximity. He hadn't come here for this, for the veiled flirting and looking over. He's felt Zemo's eyes on him before, and the commentary earlier certainly doesn't disprove it, but Steve feels like he's finally truly looking himself, too.
A huff of a laugh, the tilt of his head, and he sits back in his chair more comfortably, foot knocking against one of Zemo's as he gets comfortable. ]
You're right. [ A smile, and he flips a page in the book curiously. ][ Steve feels like a boy in a candy shop, unable to focus and decide which path he wants to take, because he turns to look at Zemo and it's the curve of his lips that's caught him up, that's made his brain short-circuit as they curl, part, and he wonders what they must taste like, how they might feel, and he only barely manages to tear his eyes away and look back at the text. ]
Ah... do you want to have visuals for this presentation?
[it's selfish the way his first instinct is to want to pull him in tighter for a longer embrace, to try and stretch this one moment out into something that could fill the gap he's had for the last eight years. the truth is, it'll never be enough. and if he doesn't stop now then what? then maybe he never will, and seeing as he has to get right back on a plane to sokovia after the service whenever the skies have finally ceased shedding tears of their own for sarah rogers - it's not fair. a part of him has the deeper sense that steve is simply too grief-stricken right now, and it's that outweighing any resentment, disbelief, or anger at the audacity for him to turn up now after he'd walked out of their lives all too resolutely that afternoon. now it's too late to go back; there's nothing he'll ever be able to do to make up for it. and that's something he'll have to live with every day for the rest of his life.
but he does let himself settle back down onto his heels, reluctantly shifting his arm down from his shoulders even if he doesn't do the entirely decent thing and pull out of steve's space completely. in fact, he lets his hand drag around the curve of his shoulder, palm resting flat against the dampness where his decorated lapel is. it only just now registers what all of that symbolizes - what it must mean for his career the last several years. it strikes him so viscerally, painfully in that moment that there's so much he doesn't know and does have the right to ask about now.
his head tips up to meet the glassy look in steve's eyes, still as beautiful and piercing and blue as he remembers - lashes dark and clumped together from drops of rain and looking unfairly good despite that. it's a bad habit zemo had back then, and apparently still has now when the line of his sight drops to the pretty plush pink of wet lips, trying not to think about what they'd feel like pressed against the skin he'd nosed at moments before like old times. he forces himself to tear it back up to take in his wavering smile, the glimpse of something achingly familiar that makes him remember so vividly what it had been like to be the center of this man's world once upon a time.
steve extends a hand. an olive branch, nearly. he looks down at it, swallowing a lump in his throat before looking back up again with a barely masked sliver of surprise in his own expression.]
Ah, I don't give a damn about the suit.
[maybe back when had more arrogance and the need to tease would outweigh the need to admit his deep feelings, he would have haughtily said something like as if i can't afford a dozen more. but admitting that now feels like rubbing salt in the wound that boils down to zemo's inability to walk away from a foundation built on obscene wealth, even if it was never about the money. stability - he told himself, duty, obligation, legacy. but money, that diry, insidious thing felt like something to grease the wheels with all the same.
he tosses the umbrella aside, letting it thwack against the cement and land somewhere upside down, collecting water from the inside out. it's frigid as it pours over him, easily tugging strands loose from his carefully coiffed hair and drenching the fabric of his white shirt nearly translucent under the heavier sink of wool along his shoulders. he squints, trying to keep majority of it from his eyes and lets his hand slip into steve's easily as he leans in to murmur gently.]
Come, it'll be like riding a bike.
[if only the rest of it was so simple,, he thinks with a bittersweet clench in his chest that prompts a fleeting quirk of his lips. his now free hand slips up to steve's other shoulder as he steps in not quite flush, but enough that they can either sway lightly or try to gingerly slip into the steps of an easy one, two, three.]
but he does let himself settle back down onto his heels, reluctantly shifting his arm down from his shoulders even if he doesn't do the entirely decent thing and pull out of steve's space completely. in fact, he lets his hand drag around the curve of his shoulder, palm resting flat against the dampness where his decorated lapel is. it only just now registers what all of that symbolizes - what it must mean for his career the last several years. it strikes him so viscerally, painfully in that moment that there's so much he doesn't know and does have the right to ask about now.
his head tips up to meet the glassy look in steve's eyes, still as beautiful and piercing and blue as he remembers - lashes dark and clumped together from drops of rain and looking unfairly good despite that. it's a bad habit zemo had back then, and apparently still has now when the line of his sight drops to the pretty plush pink of wet lips, trying not to think about what they'd feel like pressed against the skin he'd nosed at moments before like old times. he forces himself to tear it back up to take in his wavering smile, the glimpse of something achingly familiar that makes him remember so vividly what it had been like to be the center of this man's world once upon a time.
steve extends a hand. an olive branch, nearly. he looks down at it, swallowing a lump in his throat before looking back up again with a barely masked sliver of surprise in his own expression.]
Ah, I don't give a damn about the suit.
[maybe back when had more arrogance and the need to tease would outweigh the need to admit his deep feelings, he would have haughtily said something like as if i can't afford a dozen more. but admitting that now feels like rubbing salt in the wound that boils down to zemo's inability to walk away from a foundation built on obscene wealth, even if it was never about the money. stability - he told himself, duty, obligation, legacy. but money, that diry, insidious thing felt like something to grease the wheels with all the same.
he tosses the umbrella aside, letting it thwack against the cement and land somewhere upside down, collecting water from the inside out. it's frigid as it pours over him, easily tugging strands loose from his carefully coiffed hair and drenching the fabric of his white shirt nearly translucent under the heavier sink of wool along his shoulders. he squints, trying to keep majority of it from his eyes and lets his hand slip into steve's easily as he leans in to murmur gently.]
Come, it'll be like riding a bike.
[if only the rest of it was so simple,, he thinks with a bittersweet clench in his chest that prompts a fleeting quirk of his lips. his now free hand slips up to steve's other shoulder as he steps in not quite flush, but enough that they can either sway lightly or try to gingerly slip into the steps of an easy one, two, three.]
[he doesn't think steve is lying about that, nor does he necessarily think it's him being willfully obtuse. there's something too genuine in the way he admits it that almost seems to indicate there's another story behind it. was steve really so different before coming to university? he tries to picture him with more rounded features, the plump cheeks of boyhood. not involved in sports and sickly, two things he'd never have attributed just looking at him now. steve seems like he'd be willing to share if zemo took the time to ask, maybe, but that's a vulnerability in admitting he wants to know more. one he'll likely have to reciprocate, and while on the surface of the life he's lead in the public eye there's no skeletons in his closet, he won't concede to it. not right now, anyway.]
I know.
[he only sounds a little smug about it, to his credit. there's a wash of pleasure at the notion that it's been admitted so quickly, however. usually their verbal sparring goes at least a few rounds right up until the bell, or until one of them wedges themselves into a corner they can't entirely pick themselves out of. zemo knows when steve has the upperhand, but he's stubborn enough to keep defending a losing talking point on occasion, if only to keep it going. out of pride, he had thought. and - maybe, if he really thinks about it deep down - for an excuse to keep steve talking.
the sudden bump of a foot against his own seems to be timed directly at the moment his heart picks up a beat, feeling as if it's thumping near audibly in his chest and beating wild at how close steve suddenly is in the span of seconds. he swallows hard, the bob of his adam's apple rolling above the rounded neck of his sweater. why hadn't he merely gone with a shirt of some kind? it's nearly uncomfortably warm in here, and he can't identify if it's because of the actual temperature or the sudden spark that seems like it's fizzling hot between them in a way that makes him feel like it's burning from the inside out. his cheeks, under his skin...it's ludicrous considering he has stared directly in steve's face dozens of times this semester and never felt quite so perceived.
if he looks closely - and he is - he sees the beginnings? end? of a similar flush along the other boy's cheeks too. interesting. it feels a bit like having the upper hand when steve forcibly looks back down to the book and only concedes to his idea. zemo tilts his head again, a note of coyness and clear teasing in his voice and another waggling lift of his brow.]
Oh, but you mean the two of us aren't enough to look at?
I know.
[he only sounds a little smug about it, to his credit. there's a wash of pleasure at the notion that it's been admitted so quickly, however. usually their verbal sparring goes at least a few rounds right up until the bell, or until one of them wedges themselves into a corner they can't entirely pick themselves out of. zemo knows when steve has the upperhand, but he's stubborn enough to keep defending a losing talking point on occasion, if only to keep it going. out of pride, he had thought. and - maybe, if he really thinks about it deep down - for an excuse to keep steve talking.
the sudden bump of a foot against his own seems to be timed directly at the moment his heart picks up a beat, feeling as if it's thumping near audibly in his chest and beating wild at how close steve suddenly is in the span of seconds. he swallows hard, the bob of his adam's apple rolling above the rounded neck of his sweater. why hadn't he merely gone with a shirt of some kind? it's nearly uncomfortably warm in here, and he can't identify if it's because of the actual temperature or the sudden spark that seems like it's fizzling hot between them in a way that makes him feel like it's burning from the inside out. his cheeks, under his skin...it's ludicrous considering he has stared directly in steve's face dozens of times this semester and never felt quite so perceived.
if he looks closely - and he is - he sees the beginnings? end? of a similar flush along the other boy's cheeks too. interesting. it feels a bit like having the upper hand when steve forcibly looks back down to the book and only concedes to his idea. zemo tilts his head again, a note of coyness and clear teasing in his voice and another waggling lift of his brow.]
Oh, but you mean the two of us aren't enough to look at?
Edited 2021-07-07 02:57 (UTC)
[ That hand sits warmly in his and the eight years feels like it disappears for a brief moment. It drags him into the past, where fingers twined with his in a damp, dark club, or in a movie theater, or in shared moments in a thin dorm room bed. He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't entertain the many ghosts standing before him, but something in the rain (the grief) makes his logic go sideways, makes it all skew funny and he finds himself holding the man's hand again as he steps in.
The surprise doesn't leave his face when the umbrella is left for naught, because a Zemo of the past might have made a fussy comment about the expensiveness of his suit, or insisted maybe Steve hold the umbrella, and so on, and yet seeing him in the rain like this, raw and open and willing makes that terrible wound in his chest burst back open.
Eight years. Eight long years and Helmut Zemo waltzes in on rain clouds and plucks the very air out his chest somehow in a way that other guests haven't been able to reach, haven't been able to tap into for all their efforts. The distance between them feels wrong, the space where rain divides them, and he doesn't know why but his free arm reaches around the slender dip of his waist and pulls him in close, letting his chin rest upon rain-kissed locks, knocked loose from their pristine coif.
Selfish, to take this. To soak up the warmth of him like he'd never left, but it does something small to ease the screaming despair waiting to crawl out of his throat. It slows the tears, calms the beat of his heart. No easy one, two, threes, but a simple, close sway, the tilt of his head to rest his cheek on his hair, and he can almost hear the crackle of an old record playing in a dimly lit dorm room. ]
I was thinking Glenn Miller, maybe. The one Ma liked so well. Moonlight Serenade?
[ Stay, the old, scared boy from senior year wants to say. Choose me. Please, Stay. The words die at the back of his throat regardless and he sucks in a shaking breath, the tears still slipping hot down his cheeks as he sways easily in the rain, the hiss of it hitting the pavement the only sound. The sorrow of his mother's death will fix nothing, it will only make regrets and stack them carefully atop all the others.
Steve's eyes slip closed for a few long moments, his breathing coming in little hitches still, until finally he speaks again, his voice quiet: ]
I didn't think you'd come. [ A beat. ] I'm glad you're here.
[ I've missed you. ]
Not many people knew her like you did. It helps. [ The grief, the pain. He and Zemo surely share one in the same sorrow right now, but he doesn't say as much. ]
The surprise doesn't leave his face when the umbrella is left for naught, because a Zemo of the past might have made a fussy comment about the expensiveness of his suit, or insisted maybe Steve hold the umbrella, and so on, and yet seeing him in the rain like this, raw and open and willing makes that terrible wound in his chest burst back open.
Eight years. Eight long years and Helmut Zemo waltzes in on rain clouds and plucks the very air out his chest somehow in a way that other guests haven't been able to reach, haven't been able to tap into for all their efforts. The distance between them feels wrong, the space where rain divides them, and he doesn't know why but his free arm reaches around the slender dip of his waist and pulls him in close, letting his chin rest upon rain-kissed locks, knocked loose from their pristine coif.
Selfish, to take this. To soak up the warmth of him like he'd never left, but it does something small to ease the screaming despair waiting to crawl out of his throat. It slows the tears, calms the beat of his heart. No easy one, two, threes, but a simple, close sway, the tilt of his head to rest his cheek on his hair, and he can almost hear the crackle of an old record playing in a dimly lit dorm room. ]
I was thinking Glenn Miller, maybe. The one Ma liked so well. Moonlight Serenade?
[ Stay, the old, scared boy from senior year wants to say. Choose me. Please, Stay. The words die at the back of his throat regardless and he sucks in a shaking breath, the tears still slipping hot down his cheeks as he sways easily in the rain, the hiss of it hitting the pavement the only sound. The sorrow of his mother's death will fix nothing, it will only make regrets and stack them carefully atop all the others.
Steve's eyes slip closed for a few long moments, his breathing coming in little hitches still, until finally he speaks again, his voice quiet: ]
I didn't think you'd come. [ A beat. ] I'm glad you're here.
[ I've missed you. ]
Not many people knew her like you did. It helps. [ The grief, the pain. He and Zemo surely share one in the same sorrow right now, but he doesn't say as much. ]
Edited 2021-07-09 02:18 (UTC)
[ Steve envies the confidence that seems to radiate off a boy like Zemo, the way it comes naturally in the tilt of his head, the quirk of his lips, the raise of a brow. He's never had that sort of certainty, not when he was younger, and certainly not now. He should, by all rights, be more confident; he's worked to get healthy, to build his body into what it is, but more as a pillar for his mother. So that when she looks at him, it's not with the sad eyes of a woman waiting for her child to crack, to fall apart at the seams. Instead, she can look at him and see the picture of health, no matter the cost.
Anything. Absolutely anything, for Sarah Rogers.
His eyes scan the page in front of him but he doesn't take in the words, the images, the diagrams. Instead, his mind wanders to the pleasant heat of Zemo beside him, the bump of their feet under the table and he curiously keeps his foot within striking distance, knowing too well that their calves would have to spar again beneath the surface. He feels like an over-eager school boy, batting eyes at the pretty, curly-haired dame who always has the right answers to the teacher's questions. But instead, he's tucked up in a chic dorm room (do those words even go together?), shoulders hunched and ankles brushing with a guy from his Lit class.
He breathes out his surprise at the man's comment, the rush of air turning into a startled, but warm, laugh. ]
Well, I'd say one of us is plenty to look at, anyway. But I hear that sort of stuff is subjective.
[ He's not smooth, not as smooth as Bucky or Sam or Natasha, in the way they romance and charm the people around them with the ease of the sun rising and setting. Steve glances up when he says it, his smile sheepish and soft, the barest flash of teeth before he ducks his head again and returns to their work, reaching to drag the book closer to them both, his arm sliding against Zemo's in the process. ]
But I'd say we'd give the class a run for their money, definitely.
Anything. Absolutely anything, for Sarah Rogers.
His eyes scan the page in front of him but he doesn't take in the words, the images, the diagrams. Instead, his mind wanders to the pleasant heat of Zemo beside him, the bump of their feet under the table and he curiously keeps his foot within striking distance, knowing too well that their calves would have to spar again beneath the surface. He feels like an over-eager school boy, batting eyes at the pretty, curly-haired dame who always has the right answers to the teacher's questions. But instead, he's tucked up in a chic dorm room (do those words even go together?), shoulders hunched and ankles brushing with a guy from his Lit class.
He breathes out his surprise at the man's comment, the rush of air turning into a startled, but warm, laugh. ]
Well, I'd say one of us is plenty to look at, anyway. But I hear that sort of stuff is subjective.
[ He's not smooth, not as smooth as Bucky or Sam or Natasha, in the way they romance and charm the people around them with the ease of the sun rising and setting. Steve glances up when he says it, his smile sheepish and soft, the barest flash of teeth before he ducks his head again and returns to their work, reaching to drag the book closer to them both, his arm sliding against Zemo's in the process. ]
But I'd say we'd give the class a run for their money, definitely.
[ The bass from the thumping PA set up in the living room and outside of the house rumbles down to the sidewalks, practically shaking the stop sign from its post on the corner. Steve's late, terribly late, and has to wade through drunk freshman, sidestep girls with pretty smiles and pretty eyes only to get through the crowds and make it to the front door. He hadn't meant to be late, but when he'd gone out to his bike, the old girl wouldn't start. The engine turned over once then sputtered to a stop. He spent the better part of forty-five minutes trying to work some life into her before he finally gave in, caved to call Bucky and beg for some help
What, Rogers, trying to impress a girl?
And Steve could only huff a gentle something like that before swiping the keys to the old Barnes family Buick and making his way to the frat house, on campus, but far enough that a fast escape wouldn't hurt if needed.
The dim light makes it hard to see, to make out faces in the flash of cheap disco lights and the haze of smoke from bongs and cigarettes, but he weaves through the crowd, ignoring the grab of hands in his shirt, along the side seam of his jeans, the coy Steve Rogers, right? from too many slurred mouths. He gets caught up, briefly, by the frat house president who shakes his hand and grabs his shoulder, shoving a solo cup of some concoction into his hand with a cheery, barking laugh.
He plays along, letting his eyes roam and adjust to the dim. He'd hoped he'd be arm-locked like this with Helmut Zemo, not trying control his expression as the drunk senior spits all over him during his animated speech. Just as the man ruffles his hair in that ne'er-do-well, comradely football sort of way he catches sight of a familiar face. Tucked into a corner, sidled up with Hunter Schuster, and something wildly hot churns deep in his gut. ]
Thanks, man, great party. I'll catch you later, alright?
[ A clap on the arm, a tight smile, and Steve pushes through the crowd, passing his cup to some whiny girl at a table. He makes it to the corner just in time for Hunter to lean a little too close, and only just in time for Steve to press the meat of his shoulder into the space between them, his back to Hunter, his smile turned onto Zemo instead, genuine and warm, but concern behind his eyes in the dim. ]
Hey, you made it.
[ As if he wasn't the one that was late, and it's clear that he is late, if not for the heavy scoff he hears behind him that sounds something like his name and bastard curled all into one predatory sound. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but his eyes stay glued to Zemo's face, as if studying the slack of his mouth, the movement of his eyes, anything. He plucks up the solo cup from the table behind him, holding it up curiously, peering into it. ]
Need a refill?
[ No, no he doesn't. Steve knows this game, knows it too well, and just as he thinks Hunter might not retaliate, he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder, his hackles raising, the smile directed in Zemo's direction tightening just so at the edges. ]
What, Rogers, trying to impress a girl?
And Steve could only huff a gentle something like that before swiping the keys to the old Barnes family Buick and making his way to the frat house, on campus, but far enough that a fast escape wouldn't hurt if needed.
The dim light makes it hard to see, to make out faces in the flash of cheap disco lights and the haze of smoke from bongs and cigarettes, but he weaves through the crowd, ignoring the grab of hands in his shirt, along the side seam of his jeans, the coy Steve Rogers, right? from too many slurred mouths. He gets caught up, briefly, by the frat house president who shakes his hand and grabs his shoulder, shoving a solo cup of some concoction into his hand with a cheery, barking laugh.
He plays along, letting his eyes roam and adjust to the dim. He'd hoped he'd be arm-locked like this with Helmut Zemo, not trying control his expression as the drunk senior spits all over him during his animated speech. Just as the man ruffles his hair in that ne'er-do-well, comradely football sort of way he catches sight of a familiar face. Tucked into a corner, sidled up with Hunter Schuster, and something wildly hot churns deep in his gut. ]
Thanks, man, great party. I'll catch you later, alright?
[ A clap on the arm, a tight smile, and Steve pushes through the crowd, passing his cup to some whiny girl at a table. He makes it to the corner just in time for Hunter to lean a little too close, and only just in time for Steve to press the meat of his shoulder into the space between them, his back to Hunter, his smile turned onto Zemo instead, genuine and warm, but concern behind his eyes in the dim. ]
Hey, you made it.
[ As if he wasn't the one that was late, and it's clear that he is late, if not for the heavy scoff he hears behind him that sounds something like his name and bastard curled all into one predatory sound. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but his eyes stay glued to Zemo's face, as if studying the slack of his mouth, the movement of his eyes, anything. He plucks up the solo cup from the table behind him, holding it up curiously, peering into it. ]
Need a refill?
[ No, no he doesn't. Steve knows this game, knows it too well, and just as he thinks Hunter might not retaliate, he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder, his hackles raising, the smile directed in Zemo's direction tightening just so at the edges. ]
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