Work Text:
Zemo read quietly in his bedroom, sitting by the tall, carved fireplace as a comfortable storm roared over the hills outside. Under an august coat of arms, the little inferno drove away the night's humid chills, and bathed the room in soft, pleasant hues of black and orange. The occasional flash of lightning painted the pages in a sharp silver, but this alone was not at fault for the Baron's loss of focus. It was the soft, constant pacing of a familiar pair of boots that pulled him away from the tome, which he closed with an angry 'thump' after minutes spent on a single paragraph.
"I see you have no intention of resting," he jabbed, wrapping the dressing gown tighter around himself as he stood up, and gently placed the book on a side table. "But is it really necessary that you drag me along?"
Following the light scoff he got as an answer, Helmut saw the silhouette of his Captain against the fire, with the telltale stiffness of anticipation laid upon his shoulders. He still wore his uniform, from a long day spent in office, and every metallic bit of it glistened gold under that lighting. Most fitting for America's first dictator.
Steven had always felt tense before public speeches.
With his bare feet cold against the stone tiles, Helmut walked towards him, feeling the warmth of the flames and the intricate Persian rug as he stood by his side in mute companionship, hands firmly clasped behind his back. Signs of worry were clear in Steven's half-lit expression, from the deep crease between his brows to the tight, hard line his lips had turned into, but the Baron knew him, well enough not to let such mundane details be the ones to show what he truly felt. No, it were his eyes that spoke to Zemo, and told him, in their now apathetic glaze, everything he wished to know.
"Why are you so preoccupied?," asked the Baron in hushed tones, barely louder than the most distant thunder. "After all of this time, do you still not trust your own leadership?"
Another scoff, taking the shape of a dry, soulless laugh. The Captain's chest heaved with a sigh, and he let his arms fall, one gloved hand tentatively reaching for his brother's before settling back down, defeated, uncertain.
"Weren't you the one that told me it was pride that changed angels into devils?," He smiled playfully, tilting his head to the side so he could look at the other, and take in the rare sight of an unmasked Zemo. Every line of rough, textured skin that the dim lights touched, made all the more gruesome by the contrasting shadows, filled Steven with adoration. That scarred and tortured creature was a work of art, one whose progress he'd accompanied since the first sketches, already masterpieces to his devoted eyes, but only the prelude to the true magnum opus: the might of a paladin, a blazing strength that permeated every aspect of the man he had been forged into.
"When were you ever an angel, Steven Rogers?" Helmut teased him, through the thin line of his lips, and hooked the Captain's index finger with his own, enjoying the warmth of the leather.
"Never since we met, Helmut Joachim Zemo."
Steven's smile carried the light of every star in the firmament, turning the sound of a much hated name into a beautiful melody. Zemo loved that smile, the soft marks it created at the corners of his boyish lips, and the hollow of a pair of dimples, cruelly adding more charm to the American marvel that was Steven Rogers, his very own private Apollo. They let the crackling of the fire, and the tiptap of heavy raindrops on the windows fill the night up with a peaceful laziness, something they -the living Atlas of America- could rarely afford. None of them dared to shatter this moment, not even as the lightning strikes boomed right outside the castle's walls, shaking the glass mosaics and casting shadows on the darkest places, misshapen figures that watched them silently, bringing no judgement over their dissolution.
Slowly, the flames became weaker, soft little embers on the scorched kindling, and the Captain's eyes were heavy.
"You are tired," Helmut noted, when the tiny, disguised yawn escaped the man's lips. "Come, lay down with me."
"Zemo..." Steven's voice had a playful annoyance to it, that quickly subsided the moment those piercing eyes tore into his own, assertive and imperious, as when their weapons still clashed against one another. He knew there were no lies he could tell him, so he resigned, leaning into the hand that now gently cupped his face. "Fine, fine, go on. It's no use arguing with you anyway..."
His hand slid down the soft wool fabric of the tunic, and with a loose grip on the belt across the Captain's chest, Helmut guided him through the ample room, under stone arches and a high ceiling of dark, polished oak beams. Steven's footsteps competed with the rain outside, but instead of a stern, rhythmic pacing that much resembled a march, they now were lighter, calmer, irregular in a way that was both rare and absolutely his.
The Baron cherished those moments. The little quirks that managed to break through that hard, polished surface brought the awkward boy he met so many lifetimes ago back to his reach, and the need to care, keep and protect that frail creature resurfaced as if it'd never left, forcing his hand to grow heavy and the pull tighter, powerful, dominating. He grinded his teeth together.
The two stopped before a large, ornate dresser, above which sat a Victorian mirror, crystal clear and framed by gold leaves. Zemo came closer to his friend, and with practiced agility he unclasped the buckle of the Sam Browne's belt, gently running his fingers through the engraved surface, over the icon of their new empire. Rogers watched as he made quick work of his medals and decorations, and placed each piece in one of the many little boxes spread over the dresser, meticulous as only he could be. There was a lovely gentleness to the way he moved, hiding slight caresses and discrete touches under the distant façade he insisted on keeping.
The Captain stood still as he unbuttoned one of the shoulder boards, slipping the braided aiguillette away from him. Zemo hesitated, a millisecond that he spent with a hand hovering over the imponent Hydra armband, black and red on Steven's left bicep. He hesitated, but that quick nervousness too was removed, together with the neatly folded band. Whatever thoughts had emerged from the dark of his past were not meant to be shared, as he himself had said before, and the American would respect his decisions, even though he ached to know what else he kept hidden, if their secrets were of equal size or complete opposites, like an infinity of other things about them.
Impatient, Rogers tugged on his gloves, and the brief glimpse of him, pulling one of them out with his teeth and tired, half-lidded eyes, made the Baron pause. Teeth. Dull, white teeth on a jaw that powerful could easily break the skin of a willing throat, and spill out its blood, pain, and an exquisite pleasure unlike any other, but he swallowed hard, severing the repulsive line his thoughts were following. Those were not fitting for a man of his stature, and so he turned his mind elsewhere, to the much softer things that love granted him with: warmth, safety, trust, companionship, the delicate gifts he should learn to savor instead of the foul urges of the flesh.
The buttons on the tunic were carefully undone, then, and it was hung on the back of a chair to preserve the little ironing that remained intact at the end of the day. Steven came closer, as Helmut smoothed down the shoulders of his uniform, and let his arms snake around the Baron's waist, lightly caressing the bare skin of his abdomen beneath the folds of the silk robe, soft, immaculately white skin covering a wall of tense muscles in a perfect, balanced contrast. He rested his chin on one of the other's shoulders, leaning into his body and humming quietly at the disapproving tsk he was rewarded with.
Steve smiled, and with a quiet laugh he dotted his neck in kisses, feeling the transition between rough, scarred skin and the tantalizing smoothness of the rest of his body. The scent of Zemo, fresh and clean, but muted by the smoke from their shared fireplace, guided his lips upwards, to the soft curve of that jaw and the space behind his ear, where he always applied a dash of cologne after a warm bath.
He noted, however, how his eyes avoided their reflection, and immediately looked down the moment that mirror caught his gaze. A somber feeling stilled his caresses, giving a sour, acid-like taste to his tongue. After so many years, my Baron… The Captain moved his hand, through breast and collar and throat, pressing ever so slightly against him and the shapes of his being. That firm but mindful left wrapped its fingers around his jaw, gently forcing it upwards so their eyes could properly meet, and Zemo's hideous, disfigured face shone red under the dying embers like a distasteful parody of the Skull.
Helmut scowled, tensing his muscles against his lover's hold, but no sort of relief did he get from it. Not once did that hand ease its crushing grasp, nor did his heart diminish its rhythm, forcing blood to pool in most uncertain places. "Comes there one," he seethed, in a clear and thunderous tone to rival the greatest dramaturgs. "Comes there one, to this world's end, to have sight of my torment?"
The Captain smiled. Prometheus Bound, the twice forsaken play he's been obsessing over, reading it time and time again in such a fever that it was surprising for one not to find an indent on its cover, shaped like the man's iron-grip. Some of those verses had rubbed off on Steven's memory, those with which he could respond to the endearing references Helmut made here and there, some without even noticing, added to his vocabulary in such a discrete way that only those closer to him could perceive.
"Oh, Prometheus, I gaze at thee now," he said, half-mocking Zemo's theatrics, but wholly captivated by the spell of that man's intellect. "And I see the same boy I met in Stuttgart," a pause, and a gentle kiss to the Baron's cheek, "with his beautiful eyes, charming smile, soft blonde hair… I want to paint you, Mutt..."
It was his turn, now, to scoff at that ridiculous adulation. Helmut was not the same being he had met back then, by any means, and the both of them knew it all too well. Steven was cruel for making this comparison, and yet Zemo couldn't find an ounce of anger in his heart to counter his advances. There was a powerful spell in the tone of his voice, in his sweet words bathed in drowsiness, that ran down the Baron's neck like thick, warm blood. It calmed him, disarmed the traps surrounding his psyche, but he couldn't ignore the slight traces of bribery in them. Rogers had a particular way of acting when ulterior motives were his driving force.
"You will not distract me, Captain," the Baron stated, with just a twitch of excitement to betray his steel-cold glare. He held onto the arms that now squeezed him tightly, compressing his lungs to a breathless gasp, and lifting the heels of his feet from the ground.
"Bathe," he said, with the strain of ache, suffocation and excitement clear on his voice, a shame that he fruitlessly tried to hide under the storm's incessant marching drums. "I won't have you in my bed while you reek of those odious cigars."
He felt a playful nip at his ear, gentle, but strong enough to leave a mark, and was eased back down to the ground. Steven chirped in, sounding innocent and guilty in equal measures: "It's not my fault that the prime minister smokes…"
To the Captain's cheerful laughter, Helmut squirmed free, and turned around to glare at him in the stern authority he used on his subjects, men much weaker and simpler than Hydra's newest champion, than him, even, in the frail human mortality that blemished his bloodline. Thoughtful, Zemo looped a finger through one of the suspenders that held up Steven's breeches, black and aggressive against the starched undershirt he wore, and in his lips bloomed a quiet little smirk, adding a dash of plutonian wickedness to his tense eyebrows and firm jaw. This marvel of genetics, the unvanquishable war machine that was Steven Rogers, could be tame as a summer breeze when the walls of their safe haven separated them from foreign, accusing stares. He was childish, joyful, sweet, smiling kindly and allowing himself to be pet like a mockery of the iron-hearted hero he was regarded as, but there were common aspects in every version of the former Captain America: the man wouldn't be himself if he were to resign.
Quickly, he grabbed hold of his partner and threw him over one shoulder, ignoring the curses and inflamed protests he fired in his native language. German had always sounded beautiful to him, with its strong consonants and puzzling regional dialects, but to hear it from Helmut's lips was an experience he would never tire of. There was something in his discrete 'R's, in the way he rolled his tongue and pushed out the 'S's in the beginning of a word, that flushed the Captain's cheeks and sent a piercing volley of tingles down his spine, no matter how harsh their meaning could be.
"Let go of me!," the Baron ordered, menacingly, as the click of heeled boots and light giggles drove them towards his bed, careless, unbothered, disregarding their irate prisoner like one would a crack in the pavement. It was that pretension, the impenetrable petulance and foolishness that this immature pest harbored, that drove him beyond himself in fury. As for Steve, he knew Helmut's entire repertoire of barks, but was yet to taste the full strength of his bite.
"Oh, shush! You like this just fine!," the American teased, his good humor standing invulnerable.
The familiar weight upon his shoulder brought back memories, some good, and some better left forgotten, where no instance of light could ever come to reach them, but those stubborn glass shards were embedded deep into his flesh, and he could see their reflection as he laid his lover down, right in the glaze of Zemo's wrathful eyes. Like a ghost, those images lingered between them, morphing the heat of their shared delight into a cold, tense tug of war, a power-struggle perfectly adequate for two statesmen. The Captain could find a glimmer of enjoyment in their bickering, however, under the guise of just another affectionate play-fight, but to the Baron, who fought and pushed him away with the strength of a pretender, it was outrageous. Insulting.
Helmut felt the air be pushed out of his lungs when his hips were straddled, but the space of a gasp was stolen by a tactful pair of lips, and burning palms that traveled up and down the sides of his body in yet another soulless bribe, a treat for him to enjoy and forget about… about... His own hands, the Baron noticed, were drawn to him, hungry like starved animals before a freshly downed prey, and as such, they were violent, gripping, pulling and scratching the precious surface of his shirt, yearning to sink its fangs of the flesh beneath it. Rage, lust, panic, every one of his aches were fused into an energized trance out of which he could no longer crawl, for the years he'd spent in frustration have made him weak, vulnerable to the Captain's undeniable charm and the shapes and edges of his figure, from the golden strands of hair that fell over his forehead to the lone freckle he had on the right shoulder. It was infuriating, to love and despise, need and refuse, to hold him close and want to drive a sword through his naked gut, but the conflict was dangerously addictive.
Snaking in between tense thighs, Steven pressed firmly against the source of his ache, angling their hips and moving back and forth in a slow, changeless rhythm, until he felt the distinctive sigh of Helmut's surrender, blended wonderfully fine into the motions of their kiss. The cornered beast's vicious writhing began to die down, as he expected them to, its knees were finally raised and mouth slightly opened, giving him access, permission to dive deeper into the searing embrace that was still every bit as intimate despite the barrier of clothes separating them.
Calmly, he leaned back to savor the sight of Helmut's desire, that colored him red and slowed down his breathing, but did not change the hateful look in his eyes, that by itself was acidic enough to melt even the thickest vibranium. Steve let out a slight chuckle, shaking his head at the length of that man's denial. "Why are you like this?," he thought aloud, low and hoarse, then reached out to caress his cheek with the back of a hand.
In a cruel fit of stubbornness, he turned his face away, bony-white teeth bared and ready to defend his broken honor. Satisfied in having anticipated that, Steven rolled his eyes, maintaining the golden smile on his bitten lips, before kissing a languid path downwards -through a tense, bruised neck, stark collarbones, and a chest in soft hues of pink and white-, to the waist of Helmut's tightened pants. The Baron then, taken by the shame of his undoing, closed his eyes, as the warm breath of his lover against him, mercilessly close to pleasure, set his body aflame.
Zemo read quietly in his bed, covered in warm blankets and a feeling warmer still, from the hand that laid sprawled over his chest. Its owner rested peacefully beside him, a flawless marble statue if not for the rhythmic heaving of his ribcage, with his front against the mattress and a messy posture, limbs loose and lifeless except for the one left hand above the Baron's heart.
Aside from the last droplets of rain, falling gently but never less somber, everything was shrouded in a sepulchral silence. The words of Aeschylus flowed beautifully now, building themselves into the complexities of the ancient folk's literature, and even the most archaic expressions revealed themselves to him, clear as the waters of river Styx. But his strained body, swallowed by soft pillows, calm, distant rainfall, and the comfortable rapture of intimacy, pulled him ever closer to the maws of slumber.
Once again he found himself drifting away from the book, as his hand and eyelids both threatened to fall, and accompany the rest of him in solid numbness. Yawning quietly, he looked at his idol, the magnificent thorn on his side, and through the fog and haze of sleep that gnawed at him he saw a beauty far greater than the most well crafted painting, illuminated by the sparse lights of the moon and of Zemo's night lamp, as the roaring of the fireplace had long since died out. Deep within himself he felt a rumble, much like the thunder that still echoed outside, a discrete burst of emotion that forced his lips apart in a wavering smile, barely more than a tentative stretch of the skin.
He still smells of cigar smoke, he reflected, setting the book aside and delicately removing the hand from atop his chest. From the motion, the Captain shifted, repositioning himself, and in one final act of boldness, Helmut moved closer, thanking whichever God had made his paramour a heavy sleeper. Discreetly, as if a sound could shatter the world, he brought their foreheads together, and though he was certain to never be able to finish reading that play as long as Steven was with him, he still smiled, basking in the comfort of their bond. It was a pleasant punishment, to be annoyed by him.