Work Text:
When Charles had said there was another place they could go to, much safer than the current ruins of the CIA’s mutant division, Erik had assumed a house at the most. One that was slightly larger than the average American house if it was to host so many people at once.
But the building in front of him isn’t a house. It’s not even a mansion, and it certainly isn’t comparable to the numerous villas and bungalows Erik’s seen in upper class neighbourhoods over many of his travels. It’s a gigantic castle with actual fucking spires, the ones that churches have, and a well-maintained, pleasingly green lawn that extends as far as he can see.
Erik remembers his conversation with Charles on their way here, one that involved a joke about Charles being tired by the time he ran from one wing of the house to the other as a child. He hadn't paid much attention to Charles talking about his house having wings like it was some kind of palace, but all he feels now is a twinge of annoyance. Charles constantly keeps reminding him that he grew up in the lap of luxury, what with his accent and his education at Oxford and now this house. He makes sure to convey as much to Charles, calling his life a hardship in his usual sarcastic tone.
What he doesn’t expect is Raven interjecting at that, shooting him a hard look before proclaiming that Charles’ life had been a hardship softened by her. Erik half expects Charles to butt in with a joke, or laugh at whatever she had said and shake it off, but all he does is kiss her temple and give Erik a look that he doesn’t quite know how to interpret.
Raven herds everyone away to give them a tour and they’re left standing alone, the large house looming in the back. Erik is still trying to parse Raven’s words and Charles’ expression.
“So you grew up here,” he says, trying to alleviate the tension in the air. He can't imagine anyone growing up here, much less Charles.
Charles looks up at the house and squints at the sun falling in his eyes. “I’d rather not talk about it, Erik,” he says, gently, but Erik still feels like he’s being rebuked. “Maybe later, but not today. I think it’s best we make sure everyone’s settling in just fine, yes?”
Erik doesn’t argue with that.
The so-called house is seriously fucking huge. Erik is certain he could get lost if he wasn’t paying attention or constantly using his powers to locate the front door. He thinks he knows the reason why Charles has asked everyone to take residence within a single wing of the house.
Everyone spends most of the day training, but when Erik gets some free time off from trying to finesse his powers and move heavy objects or help Sean and Raven in their training, there isn't much else to do. There's only so many laps he can run before he collapses in a puddle of bones and sweat. He chooses to explore the mansion instead, condemning the ostentatious display of wealth that's just everywhere.
The mansion is ancient, to begin with. Erik remembers snatches of conversations with Charles about how it has been in his family for centuries and how it has been passed on from one heir to another, and now to Charles, which had been somewhat of a hassle because of a stepbrother thrown into the mix. Charles seemed to clam up when he brought up the topic, so Erik hasn’t bothered to ask him about it since.
There are paintings of horses and lush gardens and scenes from battles adorning the hallways, and metal statues and intricate woodwork, as well as some portraits of what Erik can only assume to be Charles’ ancestors. He can see some resemblances — the same blue eyes, the same high cheekbones, the same tilts of their mouths.
Now that he thinks of it, Charles doesn’t even live here in the first place. It seems to have been under lock and key till they’d needed another place to stay, and Charles had graciously offered up this mansion. As far as he knows, Charles lives in a modest apartment in New York with Raven, having recently finished studying and defending his thesis at Columbia.
Erik finds it hard to believe that this was the house that Charles grew up in. He can’t imagine how many people might have been needed for its upkeep. It may be huge, but it looks very...impersonal. Not like the kind of place a child should grow up in.
Erik shudders to think about it. Most of his memories of home are a small but clean and well-decorated house, filled with laughter and food and pictures and a family. Charles doesn’t seem to have any family apart from Raven and the stepbrother he’d brought up briefly.
This mansion is truly the kind of comically rich place he’s seen only politicians and other people of high power have, and is not suited for someone like Charles. Charles, who thrifts at the grocery store and strikes conversations with random people in the queue, and jokes around with the kids at the dinner table and is incredibly patient with every one of them.
He also doesn’t miss the way Charles looks at him over the dining table during meals. They’re mostly glances that seem to ask if he’s comfortable, if he’s being included in the conversation everyone’s having, and Erik is amused that Charles even cares about that. He is, he reassures Charles. He’d much rather watch Charles talk animatedly and laugh over jokes than be forced to talk about something. There isn’t much he can contribute to small talk, anyway.
But it’s pleasant, this thing he has with Charles. They’ve settled into a routine of training from morning till evening with breaks in between. They divide household chores amongst themselves and Erik begrudgingly teaches the kids basic skills that they should have already known.
He’s never had this kind of thing in his life before, Erik realizes one day, when he’s throwing Alex huge hoops he's crafted from the scrap metal in the bunker that the latter destroys with his powers. Not trusting people around him is his modus operandi, and it’s even more surprising that he finds himself reaching out to all of them and looking out for them given that half of them are kids. He likes listening to them speak, likes teaching them new things, likes challenging them and finds contentment when he spends time with Charles. Moira's pretty decent company for a human, although he's never going to say that out loud.
His opinion on Charles still hasn't changed much, and he doubts it will. As much as he appreciates Charles doing this for them, it doesn't change the fact that Charles hasn't had to struggle with life the way Erik has.
Erik realizes just how wrong he is when they’re playing chess late one night. They’ve fallen into a routine — a bloody routine — of watching movies with the children on some nights, or arguing over the news when it's just them both and sometimes Moira. But for the most part they spend time trying to outwit each other in chess. Often complete with a good helping of scotch.
Tonight’s almost the same. They’re on their third round at the moment, both of them having won a round each, but Erik isn’t going down without a fight. He's fiercely competitive at everything he does, even if it's playing a simple game of chess.
Charles gets drunker as the minutes tick by, and the game is soon abandoned in favour of Charles climbing onto Erik's lap and just...sitting there. Resting his head on Erik's shoulder. This isn't the first time they've had fumbles, whether in the dark or in the confines of Charles' room, but it's definitely the first time Charles has been drunk. Erik decides to take him to bed, seeing how indisposed Charles is at the moment, and also to make sure he doesn't get a hangover.
“Telepath, darling,” Charles waves his hand as they stumble towards Charles' bedroom through the ridiculously long hallway, all of Charles' ancestors looking down at them. Erik imagines they disapprove of their descendant's antics. There's a spike of amusement in his stomach at that and he pulls Charles closer to himself as they enter his room. “Not an issue for me.”
“What isn't?”
“I can stave off a headache if I really want to. Granted, it does make me much more exhausted in the morning, but anything is less unpleasant than waking up to a marching band inside your head. Oh, would you mind undressing me? It's awfully hot today.”
Erik's hands still on Charles' waist as he shuts the door with his powers. “Careful, Charles. I might think you're flirting with me.”
“Oh? What do you think I've been doing all this while, then?”
That startles a laugh out of Erik and he makes quick work of Charles' cardigan, tugging it over his head, liking the way his hair stands up and looks so at odds with the neat quiff that Charles always insists on shaping it into. He’s also wearing a crisp white shirt underneath, and slacks and polished shoes. If Erik didn’t know better he’d have thought Charles an actual professor.
“I am an actual professor, you know,” Charles says, aiming to be haughty but with the slightest hint of laughter in his voice. “I got my PhD not too long ago.”
“In theory,” Erik corrects. “You haven’t actually started teaching any classes.”
“Mm. Maybe I have more important things to do.” Charles climbs into his covers and settles in quickly, then throws Erik a look. Not coming?
Erik wants to. But in all the while he's...been with Charles, he's never stayed in here for the night. It can't be that difficult, he supposes. They'd spent weeks together cramped in motel rooms of all sizes before Charles had given in and kissed him. They haven't looked back since. But this is new, and he doesn't want to jeopardize the peace he's surprisingly found since being here.
“Stop thinking so much,” Charles says, words muffled by his blanket. “Isn't it just easier to stay here for the night? Not that you have to.”
Fuck whatever thoughts are rolling around in his mind at the moment. Erik gives up and slides in next to Charles so that they're facing each other. Charles holds his hand out to Erik. It takes him a moment to process it. “What?”
“Take off my shirt?”
“Really?”
“As you can tell, I'm drunk.”
“And as you can also tell, you're completely coherent and in charge of your words.“
Charles frowns at him and draws his hand away, but Erik grabs his wrist. “I was joking. Here, let me...” He flicks his fingers and all of Charles' buttons get undone in an instant.
He's seen Charles' body quite a few times before, but it's only when he finally shrugs the shirt off and tosses it down to the floor does he see the thing on Charles' arm. It's inconspicuous, almost invisible if the light from outside wasn't glinting on it. He runs a finger down it. It's paler than the surrounding skin. Charles doesn't seem to notice; he looks content trying to hog Erik's warmth.
“Charles?” He asks softly, not wanting to disturb the peace they're wrapped in.
“Hmm?”
“What’s this?” He asks, thumb gently running across his flesh.
“Huh? Oh. Nothing major, really. I fell down the stairs when I was nine. Thankfully I didn't get more than some scrapes here and there.”
That doesn't entirely convince Erik. “Were you really that clumsy?” He asks, trying to lighten the mood.
Charles shifts. “I...it wasn't me, actually. My stepbrother was the one who pushed me down.”
Erik stills. He remembers Charles from that morning, looking up at the house and saying he'd much rather not talk about his childhood. Maybe some other day. “Your...stepbrother. The one you had a legal dispute with?”
Charles nods. “Cain. He was...” Charles sighs. “He had the ability to do well, he just never cared much about academics. About school, really. His father would compare him to me and it would irk him to no end. I can imagine. But it took a toll on him, so he pushed me down in a fit of rage one day.”
“Did your— did anyone do anything about it?”
Charles snorts, but it's hollow. “I wish. Kurt — his father — was away at work for the moment. Mother...let's just say it was nothing short of a miracle if mother remembered she had a stepson, much less that I existed. Our maid called for the family doctor and I was up and about within a week.”
Erik doesn't know what to say. Why would your mother marry someone who didn't care, someone who had a son that didn't care either, what kind of mother doesn't remember she has a child? Instead he takes a breath and rubs his hand down Charles' back. It's cold to his touch, and he can feel the contrast between Charles' skin and the warmth of his palm. “I...” What should he say? What can he say? Any response he can think of feels painfully inadequate.
Charles moves in just a bit closer to him. “It wasn't really Mother's wish to marry Kurt, you know. He just...he was Father's friend, and he'd obviously heard about his wealth, and he wanted to take some of it. If it happened by marrying into a family with an inebriated mother and a lab rat for a son, it didn't bother him. He did it. They moved into our house before first grade began.”
“A lab rat for a son?”
“Father would...nothing major, but he'd do small tests on me from time to time to determine the extent of my telepathy.”
Erik can feel his hands trembling. He knows what it's like to be subjected to tests unwillingly, but that had been at the hands of Shaw. What father would—
“Erik,” Charles says, laying a calming hand on his waist. “At least Father liked having a mutant for a son, if only for the fact that he could experiment on me. And any interest Mother paid me was because I was, well, different. Any of that was better than growing up truly by myself.”
Erik thinks back to the day he'd called Charles a lab rat, making fun of him for willingly going through Hank's experiment. “I'm sorry, Charles.”
Charles smiles at him. It's small, but it's genuine. “But you called me adorable.”
“I didn't— that's not— Charles.”
“I know,” Charles says, patting him absentmindedly. He does that a lot — casual touches regardless of whether someone's looking or not. Erik's not one for being touched, normally, but he allows it tonight. “I'm not boring you, am I?”
Erik looks down at him. He looks fairly serious, worried about the prospect that he might. “Of course not, Charles. But you don't have to tell me all this.”
“Well, I did say I'd tell you about my childhood some day. Tonight seems to be the time for it. Besides, I know most of what you've been through. It's only fair that you get to know something about me as well. But like I said, you don't have to listen.”
Erik waits till Charles' attention comes back to him before he tries to sound as convincing as possible when he says, “I want to.”
“Oh,” Charles says, in the softest tone ever, and something shifts in Erik. “Well, then. I was happy about the prospect of having a brother. I was tired of being an only child in a house this big. I was excited, but the excitement wore of soon. Cain hated me almost from the moment he saw me. For a long time I didn't understand why. But it was because Kurt would always favour me over his own son. I can't say I'm not grateful for the scrap of attention I got from him back in the day, but it was enough to make my back a target for Cain.”
Erik's hand tightens around Charles' shoulder.
“But then Raven came into my life not long after. For the most part, no one in the house was even aware that she existed, because they were so busy with their own work. Mother knew and didn't care. Kurt was barely around. Cain...knew. I always hid her from him most of the time, but sometimes I'd just...wipe out his memory so that he wouldn't trouble her. It was only when I was old enough to move to England that I realized I had no choice but to take her with me. She wouldn't last a day with just Cain in the house.”
Erik doesn't know why he's surprised to hear Charles wiping out his stepbrother's memory. He supposes it's because Charles has always had such strict boundaries about telepathy that even the slightest slip up would result in an elaborate apology. And no wonder Charles is so protective of Raven even now, even if he's heard Raven complain about it being stifling at times. “How did you...pay for everything? Moving out and settling down in a new country, I mean.”
“Father had drawn up a will long before I could even walk. We have...old money. You've probably seen it everywhere.” Charles winces. “And since Kurt married into our money, he made a will too. But my share was much larger than anything Cain would ever receive, and he wanted to get his hands on it. That resulted in the dispute I mentioned.”
Erik gets fleeting images of a younger, desolate Charles standing outside a courthouse. All of sixteen years with no guarantee that he would win because Cain had outed him as a telepath.
It was common knowledge that I was a telepathic mutant, Charles says, his arm around Erik's waist tightening infinitesimally, but he said it in a way that implied I'd had an influence on the will, somehow.
“I did win, though. One of Father's old friends managed to dig up evidence of Kurt indulging in fraudulent activities, so they ruled the decision in my favour. Not that I wanted any of the money. I just wanted to keep it all away from Cain because knowing him, he'd find a way to gamble it all before I could even finish a drink.”
“Did he...” Erik asks, trying to find a delicate way to ask if Cain had done anything else while also trying to process everything Charles has told him. Have you ever seen him again?
“Hurt me? Not much. He'd always call me names and try to pop around the door and scare me, but after my telepathy manifested fully, I could maintain my distance for a while by sensing and avoiding him.” I don't know where he is these days.
Erik is angry and upset and feeling a bunch of emotions he'd never expected to feel for another person. Charles traces his spine, fingertips featherlight on his skin. “I'm alright now, Erik. I'm more than capable of protecting myself if I ever see him again.”
Erik turns to look at Charles. He looks boyish in the light of the night, nothing like the professor he is during the day. “How are you so...” Kind. Calm. Patient. The exact opposite of me despite everything you've been through, too.
“I just...” Charles shoots Erik a look. “I tend to redirect my frustration into something that might help others. People aren't born kind. No one is. Circumstances shape them so. I mean, look at me. I'd like to think I've turned out to be pretty okay considering how I was raised, don't you think?”
It's all too much for Erik. He doesn't understand how or why Charles is so heartbreakingly optimistic, always choosing to believe in the good in people no matter how twisted they might be. He's done that for so many people already, and he's done that for Erik too. So unhesitatingly.
“God, Charles,” he says, hands scrambling to pull Charles closer to himself. He hadn't suspected at all. That Charles was a stronger person than he thought, underneath all his smiles and cheerfulness and those awful pick-up lines. How well he's managed to hide himself despite being so open. He wants to feel all of Charles, hear his heartbeat, be as connected to him as possible. “I'm sorry I—” Thought that way of you. I didn't have a right to. There's so much good in you. I'm so far from who you are. I'm not worthy of you, of your companionship.
“I'll decide that, thank you very much,” Charles yawns and presses his face into Erik's shoulder. There's good in you too, Erik. There's good in everyone. You just fail to see it. And I don't mind being the one to help you realize it. “I'm sleepy, and I'd like you to hold me for a while. Unless that's not what you want.”
“No,” Erik says hastily, throat closing up at Charles' revelation. Charles has bared himself tonight, and the least Erik can do is repay the favour however Charles sees fit. He quite likes the fact that Charles fits into his arms perfectly, like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle slotting into place.
He can feel Charles smile against his skin as he drifts off.
When he sees Charles across the field the next morning, an encouraging smile on his face even when his shirt is a bit singed from Alex's uncontained beams, Erik can only think there's so much more to Charles than he knows. And he's lucky to be able to see even a bit of it. Charles hears his thoughts and sends him the impression of a shoulder bumping against his. Come, now, he says. Don't tell me the great Erik Lehnsherr is going all mushy on me.
Not being mushy, Erik thinks back. Just honest.
And if he holds Charles' hand underneath the table at night, as a show of support, as a thank you for everything he's trusted Erik with, or simply out of affection, well. The kids are better off not knowing.