everything has consequences. it doesn't matter if someone thinks about them or not, no one has canceled the cause-and-effect relationship. some people forget about it, take another step forward, not paying attention — right up to the moment when the consequences hit them hard on the back. then, willy-nilly, you have to remember all your mistakes and try to smooth out the blows somehow. but does it even make sense if it's too late?

Zemo didn't have an answer. there was only an instinctive desire to avoid problems that worsen an already difficult life. his thoughts invariably returned to Barnes, the memories of whom haunted him — he could not escape them. reason is both a gift and a curse that you can't get rid of, just as you can't get rid of the obsessive memory flashes that raise a sticky lump in your throat. he had managed to get involved with the winter soldier, fall for a forbidden feeling, surrender to it, allow passion to subdue him. how long has he been sitting there, staring at the same spot on the desk? an hour? two? the minutes drag by as if he could have lived several lifetimes in that time. and the itchy pain in his chest remained his constant companion in this world.

what would Heinrich, his father, say? nothing good, and thank god he can't do any harm right now. but the habits left over from living with him tried to pull out the resignation and fear that had firmly settled in the dark corners of Helmut’s soul. the habit of being afraid, of obeying, of upholding other people's ideals. it was worth imagining what the twelfth baron would do to the thirteenth if the former fascist found out about his son's act — Zemo’s legs trembled. when was the last time he was so afraid? when he was in a fever from the image of his father, ready to get rid of the "pathetic geek"? or from the reproaches of Heike, another novice of his father's ideas, but not his real wife? it doesn't seem like it's been a long time.

as if in a trance, Zemo rubbed the skin of his face, rough from the frequent scars hidden under the mask. it would seem that Barnes was curious about them. he greedily covered every inch of Helmut’s face with kisses, but not in search of disgust — just recognizing someone else's pain in them. Bucky understood the value of every scar: he was covered in scars, except for the ring at the junction of vibranium and flesh. to some, this sight might seem terrible, but it wasn't. their meetings continued to flash before his eyes. being enemies, they rarely talked, but they always let lust take over. although Bucky is now the new captain america, he meekly obeyed in these moments, giving up control. in his memories, Zemo relived over and over again how weak Barnes was under him, how their fingers intertwined, how he wanted to bite his lip even harder. he knew it would only take one more meeting, and he couldn't escape Bucky’s obsession. the old hatred had somehow turned into a strange love, as if everything had turned the other way around: they usually say that it's one step from love to hate, but the way back is just as short.

he stood up abruptly, stubbornly clutched the edge of the table, leaned on it, trying to distract himself from his painful feelings. he licked his lips imperceptibly, which seemed to have absorbed Bucky’s taste, and pulled down the purple cloth, hiding all emotions under it. the mask does not betray facial expression, but there is a dense line of fear and desire behind it. meeting Barnes seems to him now a necessity, now a test, now almost a salvation. maybe it's only with him that he somehow finds himself-even if he never decides to admit it out loud.

in the end, Helmut Zemo still picks up his phone and dials Barnes’ number, one of many, but the one he’d certainly get an answer from.