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Charles woke to the sensation of fingers squeezing his shoulders hard enough to make him moan groggily. Bleary-eyed, he lifted his head—and oh, when had he fallen asleep?—and started to twist around to get a look at who had woken him. Before he could do more than straighten, a hot line of fire shot down his spine, and he hissed out in pain.
“You’re getting way too old to be falling asleep on a desk,” came a very familiar, very welcome voice from behind him.
“It’s not as if I planned it,” Charles mumbled into his arms, hunching over again to keep his back from spasming.
Erik’s hand pressed soothingly against the back of his neck. His mind radiated a soft, warm hello. “When did you get in? I thought I’d beat you here.”
“Changed flights.” Charles leaned into his touch, rolling his shoulders slightly to encourage Erik to resume the massage he’d woken Charles with. After a moment, Erik took the hint and dug his fingers into the knotted muscles in Charles’s upper back. “There was an earlier one available. I didn’t want to be so jetlagged—oh god, that feels good. Right there, ah fuck—”
The fingers ceased their wonderful pressure. When Charles whined in complaint, Erik said, “We’re meeting Raven in an hour.”
“So?”
“So if you keep making noises like that, we’re not going to make it.”
Despite himself, Charles grinned. “Oh darling,” he sighed, straightening gingerly, “I’ve missed you.”
Pulling his chair back from the desk, he got his first good look at Erik and, even now, felt his heart squeeze at the sight of him. Over the last five weeks, he and Erik had called each other countless times on Facetime and Skype—and shared the rare Snapchat when Erik actually remembered he had it—but none of that could compare to seeing each other in person. Erik’s hair had grown longer, curling at his nape, and Charles knew it must be an absolute curly mess underneath the baseball cap Erik was sporting. His usual five o’clock shadow was now skirting the edge of being called a proper beard. The circles under his eyes seemed to have darkened over the last few weeks, but his eyes were soft as they met Charles’s.
“You’re working too hard,” Charles accused gently.
Erik scratched at his scruff. “I’m fine.”
“You look tired.”
“I’m fine, Charles, really.”
“You look skinnier every time I see you.”
“You see me every day.”
“You know what I mean. Not like this.” Charles pushed his chair forward and opened his arms; with a soft sigh, Erik leaned into him, his hands cradling Charles’s head to his middle. Rubbing his face against Erik’s belly (there was truly not an ounce of spare fat on him, Charles thought with mild disapproval), Charles muttered into his shirt, “You aren’t taking care of yourself.”
“I’m taking care of myself just fine.” Erik’s hand stroked through Charles’s hair, fingernails scraping his scalp with just enough force to send a pleasant tingle down Charles’s spine. “You’re the one falling asleep on desks.”
“It’s not like I’m making a habit of it.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?”
Resisting the urge to allow his hands to wander down to Erik’s arse (they really would not be leaving the hotel room if he gave in), Charles tugged Erik down for a chaste kiss and then patted his hip. “I should get dressed. I’ve got to dig out that jumper Raven hates.”
Erik laughed. “She hates all your jumpers except the ones she bought you.”
“Precisely.”
Twenty minutes later, Charles’s face was washed, his hair was combed, and the terrible argyle jumper he’d had since Oxford was excavated from his suitcase. Picturing Raven’s appalled grimace, he grinned as he pulled it on over his t-shirt, humming appreciatively at the warmth.
“You aren’t changing?” he asked, eyeing Erik over.
“Why?” Erik arched an eyebrow. “Am I not presentable?”
Of course he was. Erik had the unique ability of looking presentable no matter what he wore, be it weeks-old t-shirts or ratty pajama pants or blue sequin dresses donned on a dare. Today, in his worn jeans and red flannel framing his old grey Greenkeep t-shirt underneath, he looked fucking delectable.
“You look perfect,” Charles said honestly. Before Erik could smirk, he added severely, “You also look like Erik Lehnsherr.”
Erik thumbed the brim of his baseball cap. “I have this.”
“Someone’s going to recognize you,” Charles huffed, exasperated. “At least change your shirt. You know every Greenkeep fan in the country’s probably gathered within a ten-mile radius right now.”
"And every Greenkeep fan's probably wearing their own shirt."
“And how many of them are six feet tall and look like a bloody model? Come on, darling, even people who have no idea who you are stare at you. You've got to face the facts."
“Which are?"
“You're unfairly gorgeous."
Erik laughed, his thoughts threaded through with amusement and the soft, almost shy pleasure that always rose within him whenever Charles lavished compliments on him. He was never diffident with his fans, or with the media—he always received their praise with all the grace and poise of British royalty. But with Charles, he became more demure, as if he couldn't quite believe that Charles meant it. Charles found that both immensely gratifying and insanely aggravating.
“You're one to talk," Erik muttered, giving Charles a slow once-over.
“Giving me bedroom eyes when I'm wearing this jumper?" Laughing, Charles felt his cheeks flush. After ten years, even a glance from Erik could still bring blood rushing to his face. “Oh, you must love me."
“You know I do,” Erik said, and that inspired an even deeper blush, heat spilling up to Charles’s ears. “And because I love you,” Erik added with a world-weary sigh, “I’ll change my shirt.”
Something about Erik’s frank willingness to be open about his affections, to say I love you without hesitation or embarrassment, twisted Charles’s heart into a complicated knot. There had been a time not so long ago that they’d both danced around the words, too stubborn or proud or scared to even think them around each other, let alone say them. There had been a time that Charles had convinced himself Erik hated him more than he might ever have loved him. And now here they were, daring to share a hotel room for the first time since Greenkeep had ended four years ago, daring to risk a pap shot that might blow their relationship wide open. And the damndest thing was, Charles didn’t care.
No more hiding, Erik had said that night in Paris. Charles touched the ring hidden under his shirt and felt a swell of happiness so powerful it nearly left him breathless. Underneath that happiness rose a familiar current of unease, but he pushed it down carefully. No matter what happened, no matter what shitstorm they might be stirring up, they’d weather it together. No more hiding.
“There,” Erik said, breaking through Charles’s reverie. “Better?”
He’d swapped the Greenkeep shirt for a Mutant & Proud one. Underneath the M&P logo reared a chimera, the symbol for the local chapter in London that they made anonymous donations to every month. This particular shirt, Charles noted with a jolt of amusement, was slightly too small on Erik.
“I was wondering where that shirt had gotten to,” Charles huffed.
“What?” Erik tugged at the hem, which ended just above his belt. “This one’s mine.”
Charles laughed. “That one’s clearly mine. I have yours.”
“Aha! So you admit you stole it!”
“I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it.”
“So it was only fair that I borrow yours.”
“I suppose you have a point.” Charles smirked at the way the fabric stretched tightly across Erik’s chest. “Actually, you should keep it. It fits you better than it fits me.”
“You just enjoy ogling me,” Erik grumbled.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t enjoy being ogled.”
“I don’t.”
Heading for the door, Erik very casually stretched his arms high over his head. His shirt rode up over his jeans, exposing a narrow strip of pale skin at the small of his back. If Charles hooked his fingers through Erik’s belt loops and tugged down just a touch, he knew he’d be able to press his lips to the twin dimples over Erik’s arse. Saliva pooled in his mouth at the mere idea of it.
Erik glanced back over his shoulder, caught the expression on Charles’s face, and laughed. “You’re so easy.”
Charles groaned. “Shut up!”
Half an hour later, they pulled up to the address Raven had sent them the day before. Charles peered out the passenger window doubtfully, wondering if the GPS had gotten confused. “That’s not a restaurant. That’s a warehouse.”
“It wouldn’t be a restaurant Raven wanted to try if it wasn’t unconventional,” Erik said dryly.
“How on earth does she keep finding these places?” Charles muttered, eyeing the rusty corrugated metal doors and the sagging roof. “Is your tetanus shot up to date? Is mine?”
“You got it two years ago after you cut your hand on that set, remember?”
“Oh, right. Most miserable experience of my life.”
“That’s what you get for making Oscar-bait.”
“What can I say? Art is suffering.”
“You’re so fucking pretentious,” Erik said, laughing. “Come on, we’re already late.”
Thankfully, this restaurant seemed to be so obscure that scarcely anyone dared to even approach it, let alone venture inside. The street was nearly empty as Erik pulled Charles’s wheelchair from the backseat of the rental car and held it in place for Charles to transfer over. Not that it really mattered—Charles knew from experience that most people’s gazes skimmed quickly over him and the chair, or they stared at the chair without ever taking in him. Charles was virtually invisible in public; it was Erik who was always getting mobbed.
Though, Charles had to admit, that had started to change since March. Become the first paraplegic actor to win an Oscar and evidently people started to recognize your face. Go figure.
They were met at the door by a tall, willowy woman with vibrant orange hair pulled up into two whimsical braids that stuck straight out from her head, Pippi Longstocking-style. She wore brilliant yellow nail polish and an outfit so blindingly neon green that Charles almost couldn't look directly at her. Despite her bright appearance, she scowled as they approached, arms folded forbiddingly across her chest.
"Password," she growled, eyeing them both up and down.
"There's a password?" Charles exclaimed, appalled. What kind of establishment was this?
"Goose feathers," said Erik from behind him.
The woman—the bouncer?—allowed her scowl to relax just a fraction as she stepped to the side and gestured for them to proceed in. When Erik tugged the metal doors open with a tendril of his powers, the woman's eyebrows lifted in obvious admiration. As soon as Charles tried to thank her though, she glowered at him until he ducked his head and hurried in.
"What kind of restaurant is password protected?" he hissed as they made their way down a very dark hallway, guided only by a dim grey glow somewhere ahead of them. "And how did you know the password?"
"Raven texted it to me yesterday."
"What! Why didn't she send it to me?"
"Probably because she knew you'd forget."
Charles gave a soft sniff of disdain. "I have an eidetic memory, thank you very much."
"You have an eidetic memory when it suits you," Erik said dryly.
As they turned the corner, he laid a hand on the back of Charles’s chair, guiding it up and over a slight step Charles hadn’t noticed. When Charles brushed his mind in wordless thanks, he responded with an absent caress of Charles’s ear.
A young boy with a vape clenched between his teeth materialized at the end of the hall and waved them forward. As soon as he appeared, Erik quickly withdrew his hand. It was instinct: they’d stolen moments like these so often over the last ten years, touches disguised as friendly pats, displays of affection truncated guiltily anytime anyone else drew near. But after a long few seconds, Erik deliberately touched Charles’s shoulder again and gave a gentle squeeze. No more hiding, he thought, and Charles’s heart swelled.
The boy didn’t seem to notice, or recognize them. He merely led them through a curtained doorway that opened up into a vast, softly-lit room that looked to be a converted warehouse. Various tables of different shapes and sizes filled the front of the room; some were long, some intimate, some tall, some squat. The seating options were similarly diverse: Charles spotted lounge chairs, couches, regular chairs, barstools, booths, and even a few beanbags.
“Charming,” Erik remarked.
“Lord,” Charles muttered, “what’s Raven gotten us into now?”
“This way,” said the boy, pointing them to an oblong table to their left. Puffing on his vape, he guided them over, made a half-hearted attempt to clear a space for Charles’s wheelchair, and then said, “I’ll get you some water,” and vanished.
“Charming,” Erik repeated before pulling away two of the barstools with his powers and carefully slotting Charles’s chair in.
“Well.” Charles turned to examine the gruff-looking old man perched on the barstool across from him. He had quite the distinctive face: a crooked nose; thin, cracked lips; ruddy, scarred cheeks. His beard was scraggly and black streaked with grey. One eye was a milky white. The other was brilliant blue and very familiar. “Haven’t I mentioned how unnerving it is when you wear my eyes?” Charles huffed, eyebrows rising.
Those thin lips peeled back in a grin. “Don’t worry, Charles,” Raven said, her voice low and hoarse and cigarette-rough, “I’m not actually using them for the part. Just practicing.”
“Practicing for what? Are you a sea captain?”
“Is that what I look like?”
“Sort of.”
“Pirate. Close enough, I guess.” Raven’s milky eye gleamed at him for another moment before she shifted, blue scales scattering down her face and chest and arms with mesmerizing speed. Even after all this time, he still marveled at the transformation: one second the grizzled old sea captain was glaring balefully at him, and the next, Raven appeared as if summoned out of thin air, blue and smirking.
“Is it just me or are you getting faster at that?” Charles asked, smiling.
“Nah, you just forget how good I am when you haven’t seen me in...what’s it been?” Raven pretended to think. “Five months?”
“We’ve both been busy.”
“I’ve seen Erik like, a hundred times.”
“You’re working together!” Charles protested.
“You could also be working with us,” Raven reminded him, eyebrow arched.
While Charles had been busy with Oscar campaigning and reading the new scripts piling up in his inbox, Raven and Erik had been hard at work on Erik’s new passion project, the sequel to his directorial debut last year. The studio had greenlit a second movie almost the second Genosha had hit theaters to universal acclaim. Blowing Pixar’s supposed best animated film of the year out of the water tended to inspire confidence in investors.
Erik had offered him the lead voice acting role on the sequel, but Charles’s agent had scheduled a slew of auditions for him (more of a formality than anything else, Moira had told him, since apparently everyone wanted him now that they could slap “Oscar winner” in front of his name) and he’d regretfully decided he didn’t have the time. Then Erik had recruited Raven and Sean, and then Alex, Hank, Angel, and Darwin in quick succession, and now Charles was the only one of the original Greenkeep crew not attached to the project, a fact that filled him with envy. Of course, Erik would probably write up a part just for him if he asked but...he felt awkward asking now, after he’d already said no.
“He’s busy,” Erik said, scooting his barstool close to the table. “Did he tell you Guillermo del Toro called?”
Raven whipped around to stare at Charles, eyes wide. “What?”
“Offered him a lead role in his next movie.”
“He didn’t say a lead role,” Charles clarified. “Just that he had a part in mind for me.”
“Oh my god, Charles! Guillermo del Toro!”
They were both genuinely delighted for him, he could tell even without his telepathy. Despite the teasing, despite the pictures and memes fired off in the group chat lamenting that he was missing out, Raven and Erik really didn’t hold it against him that he’d stepped away from the world of voice acting entirely and decided to focus on live action. That made it both easier and harder not to look back: easier because he knew he had their full, unconditional support, and harder because he sometimes missed working with them so fiercely it hurt.
But now the whole gang was in town for Greenkeep’s tenth anniversary, and for a few days, it would be just like old times. Charles could hardly wait.
As they chatted about the weather (abysmally hot) and Raven’s newest love interest (a writer named Irene), their server—or at least a girl Charles assumed was their server, since none of the staff here had uniforms—brought over a tall vase of water and three glasses. The boy with the vape who had originally brought them in was nowhere to be seen. When Charles asked about menus, the girl gave an ironic smile and said, “Choose a color.”
Charles suppressed a sigh of despair. Across from him, Raven grinned madly.
He gave her a mental jab. Why do you insist on inflicting these places on me?
Because you hate them so much, she replied, practically spilling over with glee.
“Blue,” Charles muttered reluctantly.
“I’ll have red,” Raven added.
Erik considered for a moment before finishing them off with, “Black.”
“Great. I’ll be back with your food soon.” The girl spun on her heel and disappeared toward the back of the room.
“Honestly, how do you find these places?” Charles demanded as soon as she was out of earshot.
“Angel mostly,” Raven said, shrugging. “You know she’s into the weirdest shit. Remember the underground sushi bar she took us to back in Seattle? The one where—”
“Everyone pretended to be vampires,” Charles finished with a snort. “How could I forget?” They’d gone for the wrap party after finishing the second season of Greenkeep, and Charles had ended up with a lapful of a very drunk “vampire lord” who kept mouthing at his neck with plastic fangs. Charles had found the experience both bewildering and hilarious. Erik had been of a different opinion—after brooding in the corner of the bar for most of the night, he’d eventually marched over, wrestled the vampire lord to the ground, and proceeded to climb into Charles’s lap himself, scowling possessively.
Thankfully Greenkeep hadn’t yet hit it big then, and no one had noticed or cared about who they were. The only ones who’d taken note had been their friends and fellow cast members, who had all sworn up and down not to breathe a word. Raven had insisted that they’d all known already—“You two are so fucking obvious, it’s honestly amazing it’s taken this long,” she’d sniffed the next morning—and when Charles had demanded to know why she hadn’t said anything if she knew his crush wasn’t unrequited, she’d ruffled his hair and said fondly, “Idiot.”
“I have fond memories of that sushi bar,” Charles said now, smiling.
Erik lifted the vase and poured them each a glass of water. “I have no memories of that sushi bar.”
“That’s because you were plastered,” Charles laughed. “You were what? Five drinks in before you worked up the courage to come rescue me from that vampire?”
“You were giving me a look,” Erik grumbled. “A please save me look.”
“Oh so you were doing me a favor, hm?”
“Of course I was.”
“It wasn’t because you were insanely jealous.”
“I’m not saying I wasn’t insanely jealous,” Erik said, neatly choking off Charles’s next quip. He had a way of doing that, of abruptly confronting Charles with such naked honesty that Charles completely lost his train of thought. It was very unfair of him.
“Has anyone ever told you you two are gross?” Raven interjected.
“You’ve said it a hundred times,” Erik said serenely as Charles struggled to recover his composure. “Have we ever told you we don’t care?”
“Clearly. Otherwise you’d have some self-control—”
“You’re acting as if Erik and I go around making out in public!” Charles exclaimed, and then blushed because he and Erik had, in fact, made out in public a couple of times. Luckily that had been before either of them had become famous enough to warrant a paparazzi tail, but still. The number of times Charles had put his hand down Erik’s pants in a place where they could easily have been caught was greater than zero.
Raven rolled her eyes. “Next time we do this, I’m inviting Irene and we’re going to make gross kissy faces at each other the whole time. See how you like it.”
“Wait, you actually want us to meet Irene?” Charles asked, delighted. Normally Raven’s lovers drifted in and out of her life like butterflies, there one moment, gone the next. Rarely did one stick around long enough to earn an introduction to her family and friends.
“Not if you’re going to be weird about it.”
“We won’t be weird about it!”
“I won't be weird about it," Erik said with a wry look at Charles.
“That's as much as I can hope for," Raven sighed.
Eventually their server brought out their dishes, which, to Charles's intense relief, turned out to be normal, edible food after all, albeit doused in creative food coloring. His steak, while alarmingly blue, was decent, and the wine that accompanied it was quite good. The rest of dinner was filled with conversation about the Genosha sequel, Raven's upcoming vacation to Iceland, what kinds of roles Charles was most interested in next, and this week's con. It had been nearly three years since Charles had last attended any convention, and the anticipation was nearly killing him.
“I can't wait to see everyone," he said, stealing one of Erik's black (but surprisingly tasty) fries. “It's been ages."
“Everyone's excited to see you, too," Raven said. “Especially Hank. God, he's so desperate to talk to someone about science that he sent Sean some article he found in one of his journals. Sean!"
“Did he read it?"
“I'm pretty sure he printed it out, rolled it into a blunt, and smoked it."
Charles barked out a laugh. “That boy will never change."
Raven shot him an exasperated look. “That boy is almost twenty-seven. You're not even that much older than him, you old fart."
Twenty-seven. God! He could still remember turning up to that first script read-through for the pilot and watching as a heavily freckled boy with an unruly mop of red hair raided the refreshments table. Sean had only been seventeen then, barely. It was hard to wrap his mind around the fact that that had been ten years ago.
“I feel a lot older," Charles muttered into his wine. “Where did all that time go?" One minute he'd been twenty-six years old and heading into his first major voice acting role, starring alongside a whole cast of relatively unknown names, and now here he was, ten years down the road. His past self would have been utterly incapable of imagining the life he led now. So much had changed, most of it for the better. Even so, he felt a pang of bittersweet nostalgia for those days, which now seemed so much simpler.
“Alright," Raven said, leaning across the table to snag the wineglass out of his hand. Ignoring his cry of outrage, she downed the glass and said, “No moping around. You have all week to get all sad and nostalgic. Tonight we're having fun."
Charles's eyebrows climbed. “Fun?"
Raven answered with a wild grin. “Oh, Charles. You didn't think the night was going to end here, did you?"
*
The comic con organizers had arranged for all of the Greenkeep cast to stay in a suite of rooms on the upper floor of the hotel. Charles, Erik, and Raven had been the first to arrive, but over the next day, the rest of them came trickling in: first Angel, who had yet another new tattoo to show off; then Darwin and Alex, who arrived with only one suitcase between the two of them; then Sean, who stank so strongly of weed that Erik nearly got a contact high; and then finally Hank, who practically begged Charles to get a drink with him so they could talk about the latest research paper he’d read. Within seconds, Hank had whisked Charles away to his room, leaving Erik on his own. Some things, Erik thought with a sigh, never changed.
Rather than moping in his own room (honestly, he had a right to it; it had been weeks since he’d last seen his boyfriend, so he was allowed to be peeved), Erik went over to Angel’s and found a party in full swing. No sooner had he opened the door than Raven thrust a cup into his hand and exclaimed, “Drink!”
“I’m getting too old for this,” Erik grumbled before throwing his head back and chugging the whole cup in three swallows. Angel whooped in delight, shouted, “You’re the only one I respect, Lehnsherr!”, and leaped down from the bed to pour him another drink.
As he settled into the armchair in the corner of the room, a wave of nostalgia swept over him. How many times during Greenkeep’s run had they hosted hotel room parties like this, before and after conventions? How many times had Raven challenged Darwin to a drinking contest, knowing full well Darwin was physically incapable of getting drunk? Even though all of them had been working in studio together on Erik’s project for the last three months, it wasn’t the same. Greenkeep had been something special, and Erik was a little surprised to realize he missed it more than he’d thought.
“It’s going to be so weird being back tomorrow,” Angel sighed as she sprawled out on the bed closest to Erik. “It’s been four years since I’ve answered any questions about the show, holy shit. I’m not going to remember what to say.”
“Say your catchphrase!” Sean said helpfully.
Angel made a face. “I hate my catchphrase.” She shot him a dangerous look as he opened his mouth. “Don’t.”
“It will be weird,” Alex said, perched on the mini-fridge nursing a beer. “I don’t even think I can do Gari’s voice anymore.” He cleared his throat and said, higher-pitched, “I don’t believe my feathers! No, that’s not—I don’t believe my feathers!”
“I don’t believe my feathers!” Raven said, a perfect imitation of Alex’s old owl character.
“That’s not fair,” Alex complained.
Raven smirked. “It’s not my fault I can do everyone’s voices in my sleep. Honestly, they should’ve just hired me for all the parts and paid me everyone’s salaries combined.”
Alex stuck out his tongue at her, which made Sean burst into giggles. “Boys,” Angel huffed. “I can’t believe you little shits are almost thirty.”
Alex groaned. “Please don’t remind me. Thirty’s a fucking scary number.”
“Erik and Charles are like forty,” Raven said, sliding Erik an evil grin.
“Thirty-five,” he grumbled. “Don’t rub it in.” Not that he minded aging, not really, but it was the principle of the thing. And, quite honestly, it was a little surreal to take a step back every once in a while and realize exactly how much time had passed. He still couldn’t believe how long it had been since he’d first set foot in the audition room, clutching the script pages with his part highlighted in pink: Miska the Red—OTTER. When he’d received the invitation for this convention, with the words Cast reunion for Greenkeep’s tenth anniversary! bolded, he’d nearly had to sit down.
“I can’t wait to field all the same questions as always,” Angel sighed. “Does Yula have a family? Did Yula know about the avalanche before she left Littlefield?”
“Oh, I hope they ask me the same questions,” Sean said, grinning. “I love telling people Timmo has a very special grass he likes to indulge in that—”
“That the studio banned you from talking about ever again,” Alex said wryly.
“Which is stupid.”
“You can’t tell people your rat smokes weed, Cassidy,” Angel snorted. “It’s a kids show.”
Sean waved his joint vaguely in her direction. “Yeah, yeah…”
Twisting on the bed, Angel shot Erik a look. “What about you? You ready for all the usual questions? You know they’re going to ask you about Miska being in love with Jess. Someone always asks that, they eat that shit up.”
When Erik had first started on Greenkeep, he could never have imagined that the perceived romance between his otter character and Charles’s mouse character would be one of the most widely debated aspects of the show. For most of the series, Miska the Red and Jess of Greenkeep vacillated wildly between enemies and friends as their dreams for the future of the woodland creatures clashed. What the writers had initially intended to be a powerful friendship had inspired endless discourse among the fans about the nature of Jess and Miska’s relationship, if it veered into romantic territory, if the chemistry between them was platonic or something more. Erik had to admit that he’d played into that a bit. Being a bisexual man himself, he’d been more than happy to deliver some non-heterosexual subtext. And being madly in love with Charles since the middle of season one, he hadn’t had to act very much to get that across.
People were going to lose their fucking minds if they noticed the rings. No, Erik couldn’t kid himself—when they noticed the rings.
“I’ll say what I always say,” he replied with a shrug. “Jess and Miska have a—”
“Profound bond that can easily be interpreted either way,” Raven intoned in his voice. “And then Charles will say”—her voice dipped into Charles’s sharp accent—“Jess loves Miska, no doubt about it, but everyone is free to interpret that love in whatever way they want, blah blah blah.”
“You might as well sit on the panel on your own and let the rest of us sleep in,” Erik told her dryly.
“Hah!” Raven took a swig of her beer. “No fucking way.”
They drank and played an abbreviated game of beer pong and jeered at American Idol until nearly eleven, when Erik wobbled for the door. “Nooo,” Raven whined from one of the beds, “stay, stay!”
“I’m already going to have a hangover tomorrow thanks to you,” Erik told her with a glower. “I’m going to bed.”
“Goodnight,” Darwin said.
“Sleep tight!” Angel called.
“Don’t let Charles bite!” finished Sean, which had the whole room collapsing in laughter. Rolling his eyes fondly, Erik let himself out of the room, stumbled his way two doors down to Charles’s, waved the lock open with his powers, and headed in.
Charles was sitting up in bed reading, lit by the soft light of the bedside lamp. He glanced at Erik over his glasses as he came in, grinned, and set aside the script he’d been poring over. “Hello, darling. Had a bit too much fun, did you?”
“Ngh,” Erik said, falling face first into bed beside Charles. He wriggled until his face was in Charles’s lap and mumbled, “Make my hangover go away before it starts.”
Charles laughed softly, fingers carding through Erik’s hair. “I can’t do that, but I will ease your headache when it shows up in the morning.”
“You’re a saint.”
“And you’re reeking. You’d better change before you get in bed—the smell of Sean’s weed is going to give me a headache.”
Erik’s laugh was muffled against Charles’s knees. “Are we getting old?”
“Nonsense.” Charles pressed a kiss to his hair. “We’re getting younger every day.”
With a heroic effort, Erik forced himself out of bed, somehow staggered into his pajamas, brushed his teeth and made a cursory effort of washing his face, and gratefully collapsed back into bed. Charles tucked away his glasses and pulled Erik close, nuzzling at his hair.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Erik listened to the strong, steady beat of Charles’s heart against his ear and said, finally, “Are you nervous?”
“Nervous? Why would I be? I could talk about Greenkeep in my sleep.”
You know what I mean, Erik pushed at him. Not the convention.
Charles winced. “Darling, you’re quite drunk right now.”
Oh. A pulse of chagrin. Am I shouting?
A little bit, yes.
Sorry. Erik closed his eyes and whispered, Are you though?
Charles was silent for a long moment as he stroked his fingers through Erik’s hair, tugging on the strands with enough pressure to make Erik sigh into Charles’s chest. Eventually, he said softly, “A little. Everything’s going to be different after this. Everyone’s going to know. And it won’t be a bad thing—I want people to know, I want to be able to hold your hand and tell you I love you without being paranoid someone’s going to see, or hear. But...it’s still going to be a big step.” He brushed his thumbs over Erik’s temples, rubbing lightly. “Are you ready for it?”
Erik was. Honestly he’d been ready for years. Since the moment he’d realized he was in love with Charles Xavier, he’d wanted to shout it from the rooftops, wanted to shake the truth of it in the face of every single person he came across: See? See that beautiful man over there? I’m in love with him!
But there had been their careers to think about. The industry’s ingrained homophobia. The marginalization Charles already faced as a man in a wheelchair. The fact that Charles hadn’t been out to anybody yet, especially not to his conservative family.
All of those concerns felt very far away now, smudged away to near-insignificance. Each of them now had successful careers. Gay marriage was now legal. And Charles had, for better or worse, cut off ties with his mother, whom he hadn’t seen for three years. Nothing stood in their way now except for their own hesitance, and the knowledge that once they took the leap, there was no going back.
“Erik?”
Was he ready for it? Erik smiled against Charles’s heart. “Let’s find out.”
*
They’d talked it over extensively beforehand. Neither of them liked the idea of diverting attention from the anniversary celebration, of stealing any headlines that should rightfully belong to the cast and crew of Greenkeep. So they'd agreed to keep everything under wraps for a while longer, to keep their rings safely hidden around their necks. Then, two weeks after the ten-year reunion wrapped, they'd post on social media together, just a short announcement, nothing elaborate. Charles had been composing and re-composing the Twitter caption in his head for weeks, despite the fact that Emma had informed him very firmly that as their publicist, she would handle it.
“That feels too...calculated,” Charles had complained. “I want it to be sincere.”
Emma had given him a cool look over the rim of her margarita. “Sugar, you want this to be calculated. We’ll hit Twitter and Instagram first. I’ll book a talk show. Colbert. You both like Colbert. We’ll plan a cute public outing for an hour or so, nothing over-the-top. And we’ll need engagement pictures to give to the press. Everyone’s going to want to get their hands on those.”
“Engagement pictures,” Erik had echoed, nose wrinkled. He hated photoshoots with a passion, which his agent always lamented because he, direct quote, ‘had the makings of a model.’
“Either we prepare pictures or every gossip rag out there’s going to run some terrible pap shot that we can’t control. I have a photographer in mind. She’s discreet. Don’t bother dressing yourselves, I’ll do that.” Emma had glanced briefly at her phone and then declared, “Next Wednesday, 1:00.”
“I’m—” Erik had started.
Emma had barely spared him a glance. “You’re not busy. I have both your schedules, remember? I expect you both to be at least moderately presentable by noon. That means shaving, Lehnsherr.”
Neither of them had bothered to try to argue after that; fighting Emma’s will was like fighting a river rapid: it’d leave you bruised and battered and still on whatever course the river had decided to take you on. So they had cleaned up and allowed themselves to be dressed and made up and prodded and posed until nearly two dozen pictures had come out to Emma’s satisfaction, and then they’d mercifully been released from further torment until the official announcement went out. Then, Emma had said, the real work would begin.
Charles had those engagement pictures locked down and secured in a folder on his phone, as well as his laptop. On some of his more morose days, missing Erik badly, he’d scroll through them and feel his heart flip end over end in an endless cycle of anticipation, joy, and terror. That was his fiancé. One day Erik would be his husband. And soon, the whole world would know it.
A select number of their friends and family had already been told. Charles had sent the Greenkeep WhatsApp group a selfie of himself and Erik holding up their rings the instant Erik had said yes. They’d had an hours-long Skype chat with Erik’s mother the day after, during which she’d cried (which had made Charles cry), consumed three glasses of wine in celebration, and then drunkenly lectured Charles about Jewish weddings. Raven had appointed herself as their wedding planner and was already badgering Charles about colors and themes.
Charles’s mother, Charles had decided, could find out through the morning papers.
All this to say, there had been a very carefully curated plan put in place by Emma and her media team, and Charles, for one, had had no intentions of deviating from it. Most of the convention rolled by as expected: the Greenkeep cast and crew hosted a dozen panels featuring the making of Greenkeep, their favorite character moments, live readings of fan-favorite episodes, speculation about a possible live-action reboot, studio release of never-before-seen behind-the-scenes videos. Every afternoon, they signed posters and DVDs and, occasionally, body parts, and posed for hundreds of pictures. Angel sent everyone into a tizzy when she leaped up onto a table and perfectly recited Yula’s most famous monologue from the penultimate episode. Erik nearly caused a stampede when he revealed he’d brought his original Miska cape, the one he’d worn in the voice recording studio for every single episode, and was giving it away to a lucky fan.
As much as Charles loved interacting with their fanbase and sharing fun facts about which of the cast was the absolute worst at remembering their lines, his favorite time of day was when the panels and meet-and-greets were over for the day, and he and the others could retreat upstairs to their suites. They lay around reminiscing. They played a hell of a lot of card games. They drank more than they probably should have and mocked each other’s music tastes. Erik cobbled together a replica Oscar statuette out of coat hangers, and everyone paraded around pretending to be Charles, who had fucked up his Oscar speech so horribly because of nerves (and, yes, five glasses of champagne) that he’d become a meme.
And at the end of the day, Charles crawled into bed with Erik and nestled his head on Erik’s shoulder and thought, I could do this every day for the rest of my life.
“I changed my mind,” he murmured sleepily into Erik’s shirt one evening. “I’m tossing all the scripts Moira gave me. I want to work on your movie with you.”
Erik stroked his shoulder and laughed, the sound rumbling against Charles’s cheek. “You’re just saying that because you miss being with everyone.”
“So what? I do.”
“But you love live-acting.”
“Yeah. But I love you lot more.”
He felt Erik’s smile, a gentle warmth that flowed between their points of physical contact: Charles’s head on Erik’s shoulder, his hand on Erik’s chest, Erik’s fingers pressed against his arm, their legs intertwined. “Don’t throw away those scripts yet,” Erik said, kissing his forehead. “I’ll figure out something for you to do, a smaller role maybe. And you know you can always come by the studio to say hello.”
“I know,” Charles sighed. “I just miss you terribly anytime I’m away.”
“Raven’s planning that two-month honeymoon, remember? You’re going to be sick of me by the time that’s over.”
Charles laughed and hugged him close. “Oh darling. As if.”
On the second-to-last day of the convention, he and Erik were booked for an afternoon panel called, “Greenkeep and Politics: The Themes of Season Six and Their Parallels to Real Life.” Erik was raring to go—he loved doing deep dives into the complex morality of the series, especially in the later seasons. Charles was mostly just happy to watch the way Erik’s mind lit up with passion anytime anyone asked him to expound on Miska’s more militant views.
They were halfway through the allotted hour when the moderator handed the microphone over to a young man in the back, who offered a quick hello and said, “I always wondered why Miska didn’t just overthrow Jess and take over Greenkeep, especially after Jess made the mistake of trusting Hawthorn. It would’ve been so easy for Miska to put himself in charge and that probably would’ve saved lives in the last battle.”
“It might have,” Erik replied, shifting in his seat to cross his legs, “but the problem is, Miska has far too much respect for Jess to ever challenge him for Greenkeep. Also he’s a loner. He’s a leader by necessity, not by choice. He’d never enjoy running Greenkeep like Jess does.”
“Also,” called someone from the back, “they’re in love!”
That earned a smattering of laughter, hooting, and applause. Charles grinned. Erik allowed a small smile. This wasn’t anything unusual—it was common knowledge that a large share of the Greenkeep fanbase subscribed to the idea that Jess and Miska were, in fact, madly in love, and he and Erik had fielded at least a dozen questions about Jess and Miska’s relationship over the last few days. Yesterday a very nice girl had given Charles a plushie she’d made of Miska cradling Jess in his arms. It had been utterly adorable.
But the young man who had asked the question whirled in the direction of the commenter and snapped, “Do you guys have to ruin every single panel with that bullshit?”
The hall went deadly silent. No one moved or breathed for a long, loaded moment.
Then Erik said, suddenly very cold, “Care to elaborate on what you mean by ‘bullshit’?”
The man turned back to the stage, obviously flustered. His face red, he said, “I just mean, can’t we talk about Greenkeep without...that? It’s a kids show.”
“Kids can understand love just as well as adults,” Erik said, eyes narrowed. “Better than adults sometimes.”
“But—” The man waved his free hand, exasperated. “They’re not actually gay. People just make that stuff up, and it ruins things for everyone who doesn’t want to see that kind of thing.”
“Yula and Egrin were together on the show,” Erik said, in that slow, deliberate way that meant he was gearing up for a kill. Charles considered, very briefly, reaching out to soothe him, to hold him back, then decided to lean back in his chair a little further, leaving his own microphone in his lap. “So were Doven and Tallulo.”
“That’s—different. They’re...”
“Straight?”
A low murmur of oooohs swept through the crowd.
“I’m not a—a homophobe,” the man stammered, his confidence fading fast. Charles almost felt sorry for him. “It’s not like I have anything against gay people. I just think it’s unnecessary to put something like that in a show for kids.”
“Well, in that case, let me clear something up,” Erik said pleasantly. “Miska absolutely loves Jess.”
The room erupted into applause and wolf whistles. Despite having to clamp down on his mental barriers to keep from getting overwhelmed by the energy of the room, Charles couldn’t suppress a grin. Now you’ve stirred them up, love, he sent to Erik, whose only reply was to smirk.
The young man was now bright red and, after some jeering, handed the microphone back over and practically fled the hall. Charles felt a pang of regret that must have shivered through his mental contact to Erik because Erik said, Don’t feel bad for him. He’s probably made enough gay kids feel bad about themselves, in real life or online.
Charles had to admit that was fair.
Once the moderator managed to quiet the hall again, practically twenty hands shot up to ask the next question. The girl who eventually got the microphone asked, rather breathlessly, “I know it’s not considered, um, canon that Jess and Miska are in love—”
“It is now!” someone whooped, to great laughter and cheering.
The girl laughed shyly into the microphone, blushed, and continued, “I just want to say that I really appreciated watching their relationship grow and change throughout the show and—I really loved that they obviously cared about each other a lot. I was wondering how you guys developed that chemistry in real life? Like, did you do lots of bonding activities or did you talk about what you wanted their relationship to be like or…?”
A strange current in the air made Charles glance over at Erik with a slight frown. Something in Erik’s mind shifted and settled, like a bolt sliding into place. He raised an eyebrow at Charles. It took a second for Charles to catch his meaning, and then his breath snagged in his throat. Here? Now? Without any of their prepared statements, without any of their carefully considered talking points?
Slowly, heart suddenly racing, Charles nodded.
Erik cleared his throat. “Well, it helped that we already had that chemistry in real life from day one. It’s not hard to act out your characters being in love when you’re already in love with each other.”
Even through his shields, Charles could sense the nervous surprise and confusion that buzzed through the room. Several people leaned forward, brows furrowed. Fragments of thoughts filtered through, swift and overlapping: Did I hear that right? He didn’t mean it that way. Did he?
“Oh,” said the girl faintly, then stopped.
Now Charles couldn’t resist raising his microphone. “I’ve always imagined Jess and Miska love each other just like Erik and I love each other. We channeled those feelings into our characters, and we’re really happy that resonated with so many of you.”
Someone shouted from the back, quite sincerely, “Has anyone told you guys you’re amazing allies?”
Charles barked a laugh of surprise. “I’m sorry, was I unclear? I didn’t mean that Erik and I love each other as friends, though he is very much my best friend. I mean Erik and I are in love. We’ve been in love for almost eight years now.”
“And actually,” Erik said, reaching over to take Charles’s hand, “we’re engaged.”
The hall exploded. Charles thought, Emma is going to be furious.
Erik replied with obvious delight, Oh yeah, she’s going to kill us.
*
That night as they lay in bed together, Charles scrolled through endless news headlines, Twitter threads, and blog posts, and mused, “I think that went well.”
“Emma’s flying in to skin us alive tomorrow but”—Erik nudged a kiss against Charles’s bare shoulder—“I agree.”
“#Jesska is trending on Twitter.” So was, Charles saw to his amusement, #ImSorryWasIUnclear. “People are posting threads and threads about how they knew all along. Maybe we weren’t so subtle after all.” He found a comment thread typed in all caps, frowned, and muttered, “Not everyone’s so supportive though.”
His phone lifted out of his hand and floated itself over to the table across the room, far out of reach. Before Charles could protest, Erik pressed him down into the bed and started to mouth at his throat. “Who cares what other people think?” he said between kisses. “Everyone knows now, and we can live our lives. Together.” He drew back briefly to meet Charles’s eyes. “That’s all that matters, right?”
Together. For the first time since they’d met, Charles could hold Erik’s hand in public without fear of being caught. He could pull Erik down for a kiss whenever he felt like it without experiencing that nagging terror of, What if someone sees? And he could call Erik his partner, his boyfriend, his fiancé, his husband, and it wouldn’t have to be a secret. It wouldn’t be anything other than the truth.
His heart filled with such aching, joyful love that he could hardly breathe through it. Together. Wrapping his arms around Erik’s neck to draw him closer, Charles whispered, “That’s all that ever matters,” and Erik bent down and kissed him, sweet and slow and perfect.