Work Text:
Erik, as Charles will discover, is not exactly well acquainted with the concept of personal space. Later, he finds out that this is due to Sebastian Shaw and his interpretation of the concept (nothing is too personal not to be shared, as intimidation and care both call for proximity), but for now, he'd be hard-pressed to ignore the way Erik always seems close by, even while he's busy with something else – for instance, sorting out some recently-acquired documents at a desk in the corner of the room.
There's a sort of hunger in him, Charles thinks. A desire to be noticed by others, to be looked at. Even as Erik's own gaze slides from person to person as though seeking to possess them with his eyes. Indeed, Charles is beginning to feel like prey.
He isn't sure if he's been singled out, until he catches himself being stared at from the other end of the dining table, across the remnants of a hearty meal and the careless laughter of the children. The look snags on something in his chest, tugging at the region somewhere between his stomach and his heart.
“You...” He starts to accuse, but by this time, Erik is finishing off the last forkful of mashed potatoes and it's Alex who's staring now, waving a hand in front of Charles's face. He'd vowed to himself to keep active use of his telepathy to a minimum, but the need to reach out and speak directly into Erik's head, to ask for confirmation, is overwhelming.
It happens again on the stairs. Erik is on the way down, while Charles, lost in thought, is on the way up. Erik, he senses, the other mutant's presence registering comfortably on his mental radar. It's the look, once again, that throws him off guard. Something hard in Erik's eyes, glinting like steel, no – the flash of teeth that one only gets to glimpse when being circled by a shark. No words are uttered, none spoken telepathically. Infuriatingly, Erik has managed to step around Charles on a staircase wide enough for three, while making it look perfectly natural.
Oddly enough, Charles admits to himself, the feeling of being cornered is less unnerving than it should have been. He forces a genial smile, murmurs a greeting, the words of which immediately start to slip from his memory because Erik, damn him, is deliberately projecting a set of skilfully-veiled intentions at Charles. “The study!” Charles calls after him. “If you feel like a game – of chess,” he adds belatedly.
Erik doesn't feel like chess, but he turns up anyway. Rather than step into the room after Charles invites him in, he chooses to hover at the doorway, leaning against the frame with one arm braced against it. “Very attractive,” Charles deadpans, mouth lopsided from the mild frustration of not. understanding. The temptation to read Erik's mind grows stronger.
The lack of response is more than enough to let Charles know that Erik isn't here for a game; that much is clear even without having to skim the surface of the other man's thoughts. He does, however, feel compelled to persuade (it's in his nature), gesturing to his side of the board (white). “I'll let you have the first-move advantage this time,” Charles offers, making a move as if to get up from his armchair. Erik quirks an eyebrow, causing Charles to flop back into his seat, defeated, mildly disappointed. “You're just here to say goodnight, then?”
Yes, Charles, Erik thinks, directing his thoughts towards the only person in the mansion who is equipped to receive them. In addition, Charles receives a smile that's all leering (dear lord no he wouldn't leer at me) and... teeth.
Goodnight.
“Goodnight, Erik.”
Later that night, Charles spends precious sleeping time tossing under his sheets, cursing himself for not being able to decide if he'd rather have Erik Lehnsherr think at him for the rest of eternity, or endure the weight of those piercing eyes for the same length of time. Then, against better judgement, he attempts to decipher the fleeting rush of thoughts-images-notwords from their earlier encounter on the stairs, which only leaves him with a confused bulge in his pyjama bottoms that he refuses (on principle) to get rid of. It wouldn't be right, he consoles himself gently, to beat off to the thoughts of his friend's fantasies. Sure, they had been directed at him, and the phantom brush of phantom lips on his neck (amongst other delectable temptations) isn't helping, but oh, it just wouldn't be right since he hadn't obtained permission.
He is also rather wrong to assume that Erik will go back to being his usual self and they can clear matters up with a straightforward talk. The coast is far from clear.
-
Breakfast that morning is a little disorientating for Charles, partially due to his loss of sleep. Breakfast is buttered toast and Erik constantly hovering at his elbow. Charles' usual rhythm of slot-toast-receive-butter-distribute is being disrupted: “No- Erik- That was meant for Raven-”, but no one seems perturbed by the sight of the stolen toast, dangling precariously by a corner from Erik's lips. “Fanks,” he grins, simultaneously biting down and catching the remainder with a plate at the very last moment. “Fanks,” repeats Alex, “it rhymes with Hanks.” And he proceeds to guffaw while the rest politely sip on their tea/coffee.
As Charles moves to make himself a stronger pot of coffee, he notices Erik at his side, practically vibrating with energy. “You're such a morning person,” he groans, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes. “I don't think we're meant to be friends after all. One of us, and by that I do mean me, is going to break eventually.” He yawns.
“I know,” Erik says brightly, and Charles very nearly does a double take. Did he just pat my – my hip?
“You don't really have a say in this, but I hope you're partial to death by toast. Your doom,” Charles rambles on, “shall be served to you in approximately three minutes. Death. By toast.”
Erik grins. “That sounds delicious.”
-
Charles does not maim his friend with sliced bread, although the number of minor mishaps since the move to Westchester continues to climb. By mid-afternoon, Sean is dabbing saline solution onto his cheek and cursing both his blind faith in Charles' words, his own panicking at the very last moment, and the 'sharp edges' of leaves. Hank has almost had his eyebrows singed right off after the contents of a test tube mysteriously ignited. Raven, in her attempt to cheer everyone up, had managed to set the fire alarm off after burning a batch of cookies, and Alex is nursing a black eye and the thought that it is never a good idea to spar with a trained CIA agent.
Since the group had split up after breakfast, Charles had scampered about the mansion like a nervous rodent, checking on everyone and their progress, encouraging and comforting when he can. He can feel the excitement and apprehension, the desperation and the doubt, seeping into the walls and brushing against his mind like a thick, noxious haze.
“It's been three days. Three whole days. I hope I'm steering them all in the right directions,” he says to Erik.
In desperate need of someone to talk to, he'd taken a detour after sensing Erik's presence, all toast-related threats forgotten. He's tired and he can feel his ability edging towards involuntary overdrive. If he isn't careful, he's going to be overwhelmed by his own state of hyper-awareness.
Erik is – has always been – a bright spot of focus, and he seems to be burning brighter still, after having spent the last two hours sitting with his legs crossed on the carpet of the study, meditating. Though the focus is a little too sharp for Charles to appreciate right now, he takes comfort in being close to his friend, basking in the relative sanity. It's a welcome change from all that he's been picking up in the recent hours, and practically inconsequential to the fluttery feeling in his chest (considerably a minor annoyance) that, he noticed, started up from the moment he made eye contact with Erik.
He takes a deep breath, wilfully ignoring it. “We're all new to pushing ourselves. Well, aside from you, obviously, and Hank – his mind is amazing, though he really should explore his physical capabilities. I seem to be rubbish at organising. It's so much easier to just, go with things, you know?” Leaning forward, he pinches the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes, hoping to massage the impending headache away. “It's surprisingly difficult to be in charge.”
A reassuring hand lands on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “It is,” Erik agrees. “Take it from a one-man show.”
“Former one-man show,” Charles corrects him, smiling for what seems like the first time in ages. “No, make that 'former one-mutant–” He stops himself to stifle a yawn.
“Clearly, you aren't tired enough to deserve a nap if you're bothered by technicalities.”
“Who said I was going to have a nap?” Charles retorts, but he stretches out on the carpet anyway, to hell with propriety. Once his eyes are closed, he allows himself to drift off.
He could have sworn that a split-second before he did, Erik's hand was resting on his knee.
Charles wakes up in the same room, just as it's being flooded with the deep orange of the setting sun. He's clutching a pillow for some reason, but one look at the figure seated beside him and he has at least some idea of how it got there.
“Erik,” he croaks, props himself up on an elbow, hastily clears his throat, “how long have you been sitting there? You're going to get pins and needles in one or perhaps even both of your legs when you try to stand. I bet you will.” His own body feels stiff, he feels tense all over from having gone to sleep on a surface much harder than he is used to sleeping on. Stretching his limbs furtively, sitting up at last, he gradually becomes more aware of his surroundings, the stillness of the air, the blunt-scratchy sound of fabric on fabric, the faintly musty smell of a house that is badly in need of more open windows and fresher air. His other senses are no longer under the threat of being drowned out by his telepathy; having the balance back allows him to breath easier.
Erik's expression is close to one of kindness, which he actually does manage to pull off, helped along by the shadows that soften the hard lines of his face. “To answer your question, I haven't been sitting here for as long as you probably think I've been. Prolonged meditation tends to make me weary, ironically. I need more practice.” He shrugs and makes a vague 'enough about me' gesture. “Feeling better now?”
“Mmmhm. Much better, thanks,” Charles replies. The pillow is still in his arms, and the scent of it is faintly familiar (cologne – Erik's – definitely Erik's; travelling round the country with someone does acquaint you with little things like that), causing scattered thoughts to float, unprovoked, to the surface of his mind. Or perhaps they are emanating from Erik himself, indistinct daydreams of lazy afternoons, freshly-pressed white sheets, the sticky warmth of a body other than his own, pressing against him in the sticky heat of a summer's day. No, Charles thinks to himself. They are mundane, peaceful fantasies. Those wants are my own. “Thanks for this, too,” he says after the moment of quick introspection has passed. He tucks the pillow under his arm as he prepares to stand. “I'll have it returned to your room shortly.”
“I'll come with you.”
And then Erik is leaning in and Charles' heart jumps like a startled rabbit, but the taller mutant is only reaching out to brush an errant lock of hair out of Charles' eyes, tucking it behind his ear. As Erik's fingertips ghost along his skin, Charles just wants to guide them to his temple, press his own fingers over them and ask, ask, ask with all the focus and the clarity he can possibly muster. (Is this what all this is about? Are you- attracted to me?). Instead, he mimics the movement, fussing with his own hair, flustered and not quite daring to reconcile with the other half of the equation. Am I attracted to him?
Charles, like Erik, is used to having his personal space encroached upon. He'd been raised in a household that was stingy with physical contact. Then, when he was twelve, Raven walked into his life, bringing with her what eventually bloomed into the habit of clinging, limpet-like, to the one person she trusted enough to cling to. This familiarity with having his personal space invaded comes in handy at places like bars, or at parties, where Charles did manage to discover that if he doesn't shy away, he is able to blend in, have a good time, then quietly slip away. When it comes to determining if he's being hit on, at the very same parties no less, it is no help at all. Seduction, to Charles, is ritualised, complex. A little like delivering the same memorised pick-up lines to different people. A little like chess.
It seems that Erik is testing him, motioning for him to go ahead and, just as Charles starts to get to his feet, leaning towards him again with the perfect excuse; it's just the way they'd been sitting, both with legs crossed. It's inevitable that a simultaneous change in positions would cause the appearance of two bodies tilting towards each other. Their faces, though, are still far from touching, but the air between them seems to be heating as they both stride towards the door, Charles wanting to press his palms to his cheeks, to know for sure if they are burning with his confusion and his wants.
“I'll take that,” Erik is saying, and somehow he's right behind Charles, and slipping the pillow out from under the telepath's arm. Instinctively, Charles turns, and then Erik is kissing him.
Erik is kissing him and there are lips against his, and there's stubble, the faint scent of aftershave. There is Erik's cool resolve, brushing against Charles' mind, and there is Charles opening his mouth to gasp, forgetting to exhale when Erik's tongue slips in. He parts his lips more, demands – nearly begs – with a tiny, trapped groan that mingles with the muffled shuffling of feet as the both blindly struggle not to lose their balance; he's been starved for intimacy and though this is rushed, it is perfect because he's falling into a gap in time. Falling through a crack in the pavement of the world, into a place where wars, hot or cold, are but distant stars, and fading.
Someone. Someone is coming. His shoulders are bumping against the red mahogany door, somehow, he can feel his eyelashes fluttering against Erik's cheek and he's stuttering, words stumbling over themselves in his head and in his mouth. Heated breath, everything alternating between a numbing, pulsating blob of insignificance and razor-sharp awareness. He pulls away, takes a step backwards, takes quick note of the longing he feels when he does.
“Someone is coming and he wants to speak to me.” The one mind in the vicinity that radiates such pure certainty. Such naïve, yet hopeful certainty. Charles forces his breaths to slow, presses first one cheek to the door, then the other, irrationally hoping to cool them. “It's Hank with some sort of... breakthrough. Probably hoping to catch me before dinner.”
“I know.” Erik's eyes are unreadable, but the outermost layer of his thoughts are not. This, Charles skims greedily, focusing only on what he needs to confirm that Erik intends for this to lead to... something.
“I should get going,” Erik says, “unless you would like me to stay and regale him with the details of your nap. You snore. Just a bit.” The hint of a smirk tugs at a corner of his lips. In a smooth motion, he bends down to pick the fallen pillow from the floor, giving it a couple of good, solid smacks to rid it of dust.
“How did you know that it was Hank?” Charles asks, feeling himself return to the bright-eyed, insatiable collector of mutant-related knowledge that he is most comfortable being.
Erik shrugs carelessly, starts to walk away. “He is the only person that carries a substantial amount of loose change around with him.” Then he rounds a corner, disappears from sight just as Charles starts moving off in the opposite direction so that Hank can run into him.