Archive of Our Own ^beta

 
Erik’s almost started to believe that the world might be spinning happily, everyone settled into the mansion, an abundance of paperclips and coins and metal scraps available to comfortably weigh down each one of his pockets, with no one bothering to be concerned about that fact. Charles has just published a well-received paper and so walks around radiating triumphant satisfaction to everyone in the vicinity, and the training has been going well for a change, possibly for that reason, and it’s the week before Thanksgiving, and so naturally Sean derails the conversation in the middle of spaghetti and meatballs.
 
“You know what we should do? Have an actual Thanksgiving dinner.”
 
“You mean…with turkey?”
 
“I mean with everything. Cranberries. Yams. Dressing for the turkey. Come on, didn’t you guys ever celebrate Thanksgiving?”
 
“Sean,” Angel says, “some of us didn’t exactly have families to cook for.”
 
“And some of us haven’t had much to be thankful for, ever.”
 
“Sorry! Sorry, Alex, I forgot you were—”
 
“No, actually, I am kind of thankful for my prison cell. Kept me from hurting people. Like you.”
 
“Well…” Sean gives up on Alex and looks around the table, in search of support; Hank offers, “I’m thankful for government funding for the lab,” and Raven counters, “I think that’s not exactly the point.”
 
“If you all actually want to have a Thanksgiving,” Charles starts to offer, and Raven ceases gazing at Hank to stare very intently in his direction, and, rather surprisingly, Charles stops talking. Erik, watching, instantly wants to inquire as to why, but doesn’t.
 
He doesn’t have the right to ask these things. He’s only known Charles a few short weeks, and even though those weeks feel like a lifetime, brilliant moments strung together from the cold of ocean water and golden champagne in a cheesy strip club and the warmth of evening lamplight across a chessboard, he still doesn’t know enough.
 
He wants to know more. Sometimes he thinks, when he catches Charles smiling at him, that oddly wistful smile that he’s never seen directed towards anyone else, that Charles might want that too.
 
But he’s not the mindreader, of the two of them, and he doesn’t know how to ask what he wants to know.
 
So he keeps a silent inventory of every one of those smiles, instead, and lets the memories keep him company, at night, when he’s sleeping alone.
 
“Actually,” Hank says, “Thanksgiving is a problematic holiday. When you think about it, most people don’t realize that the Pilgrims were escaping from religious repression and intolerance in England, only to ultimately practice that same intolerance here in the New World.”
 
Which earns a pause while everyone at the table contemplates the dangers of intolerance. Charles glances at Erik, and then down at his fork, as if he thinks that eye contact might bring up the pain of certain memories. That’s not true, of course; the memories are painful regardless. Erik’s just learned to live with them.
 
He’d always thought he only had the painful memories left. He’d been wrong. He has Charles to thank for that, too.
 
So he reaches out, not with his fingers, and carefully bends Charles’s fork into a circle. Charles blinks.
 
Erik?
 
Don’t worry on my account, Charles.
 
This earns one of the smiles that Erik mentally categorizes as someplace between affectionate relief and slightly dismayed amusement, sudden and warm and fleeting, like summer rain. I won’t, then. Can I have my fork back, now?
 
No.
 
Hmm. I could make you fix it for me, you know.
 
Yes, but you won’t. Why don’t you like the thought of Thanksgiving?
 
At which point Sean exercises his other special ability, namely the power to come up with incredibly bizarre conversational detours. “So…we should blame the English for what happened to the Indians?”
 
“No!”
 
“But you said—”
 
“Shut up, Sean!” That one echoes across the table from at least three different mouths.
 
“Well, you did say. Can we blame the English for inventing pumpkin pie, at least? I hate pumpkin pie.”
 
“Don’t be intolerant about pumpkin pie, Sean—”
 
“But it’s okay to not like the English?”
 
At that question, Charles makes a small and hastily muffled sound, and then, when Erik glances at him, turns it into a rather suspicious cough.
 
“Are you all right?”
 
“Oh…yes, thank you, Erik, I’m fine…”
 
And, of course, at the sound of that familiar Oxford accent, scruffily polished by medieval university spires and correspondingly ancient pubs, the entire table falls silent.
 
At least Hank has the grace to blush.
 
“Professor, I’m so sorry I mentioned—”
 
“Hank,” Raven says, “you idiot, you know Charles is English!”
 
“It’s fine!” Charles interjects, before Hank actually tries to crawl under the table out of sheer mortification. “Honestly, it is, I don’t mind—”
 
“I’m sorry, too,” Sean adds, apparently in a bid to see who can demonstrate the most remorse.
 
“Yes, thank you, but you really don’t have to…”
 
“Very sorry!”
 
“Er…would you excuse me a moment,” Charles says, a little desperately, and then vanishes from the table, as Raven snaps, “Look, you did hurt his feelings!” at a terrified Hank.
 
Erik, torn between amusement and concern—surely Charles isn’t seriously upset by the conversation; he’s an intelligent person and not as easily offended as that—nevertheless murmurs, after a long minute of non-reappearance from cheerful blue eyes, “I think I am finished as well,” and moves to follow.
 
He isn’t worried. Really. He’s not.
 
He just wants to know why Charles hasn’t come back to dinner yet. That’s all.
 
The children barely even notice when he gets up; they’re too busy yelling at Hank and Sean. If he were Charles, he’d probably try to defuse this situation before someone gets hurt. But he’s not Charles, and anyway, if the children did somehow manage to injure that too-generous heart, they deserve not only each other’s censure but also whatever appropriate punishment he, Erik, can devise.
 
He’s not certain what, yet, but he does pride himself on his improvisational skills, after all.
 
He steps out into the hallway, and follows the helpful lines of the throw rugs, softening the old wooden floors, around the corner. Apparently Charles can move quite rapidly, when he wants to. Or needs to. This might be reassuring, at least to the part of his brain usually occupied with tactical planning and clinical strategy, but right now he would really just like to see those wide eyes smile at him again.
 
The throw rugs lead him around another corner, into another long hallway, and because he’s momentarily preoccupied by thoughts about certain smiling expressions, he almost runs into Charles himself, who’s hiding right on the other side of the sharp-edged turn. He’s leaning against the solid wood paneling of the wall, shoulders shaking slightly, and for one horrified second Erik thinks he might be crying, and then he realizes that Charles is, in fact, laughing, or more accurately trying very hard not to laugh, probably in case the children hear him.
 
“Oh,” Charles says, eyes sparkling up at him, “hello, I’m sorry, I really was planning to come back, did you need something?”
 
“No.” Erik leans against the wall next to him, feeling all of Charles’s amusement seep into the air, into the worn panels of aged wood, gilded by yellow lamplight, spilling out from the other rooms. Into his own bones, through all his layers of protective armor and cynicism. The small space between them practically vibrates with all that unspoken laughter.
 
He doesn’t need anything, no. Not now. Charles is here, and fine, after all, and so Erik, for this one moment, needs nothing at all.
 
“I’m fairly certain,” Charles manages to say, “that they don’t realize I still maintain dual citizenship, oh, poor Hank…” and then bites his lip to keep the noise from echoing down the hallway, out loud.
 
And Erik, watching, abruptly decides that he disapproves of this restraint. Charles doesn’t laugh that frequently, really. He smiles often—he smiles all the time, in fact, and Erik keeps that ongoing mental catalogue of all those smiles, from genuine delight to open compassion to hidden annoyance, and everything in between—but he rarely laughs, as if he’s always thinking too much about the world, always slightly distracted, never forgetting to hear only as much as he’s meant to and nothing more.
 
Erik doesn’t laugh much, either; he’s never had much to laugh about. But he likes the sound of Charles laughing, when he gets to hear it, bright and vivid and startled into forgetting all that control.
 
Charles, Erik thinks, needs to laugh more. Right now he’s obviously attempting not to, no doubt because it might hurt the children’s feelings.
 
Charles also needs to worry less about everyone else’s feelings, and more about his own. He’s still biting his lower lip, hard enough to leave small indentations in that enticing pink skin. And those summer-sea eyes are dancing, freely inviting Erik into the shared moment of amusement.
 
So Erik helpfully contributes, “I’m fairly certain that they also don’t remember I’m not an American citizen at all; why does Sean wish to put clothing on the turkey, again?” and watches as Charles stares at him, eyes huge, and then completely gives up and almost falls over laughing.
 
He does know, of course, albeit somewhat vaguely, that dressing has something to do with food, not clothing, but still, it’s entirely worth pretending ignorance, for this result.
 
He offers a shoulder for support, and Charles holds onto him, still laughing, and tries to talk and fails, at least out loud. Oh, Erik…I’m so sorry, I’m not laughing at you, I promise…
 
“Yes, you are.” I don’t mind. You should laugh more.
 
Erik—Charles stops, still holding his arm, surprise chasing the amusement to the edges of that oceanic gaze. The lamplight, around him, catches in his messy hair like a disheveled halo. You think I should—thank you.
 
“For what?”
 
“For…noticing, I suppose. I don’t even think about it, really.” Charles shrugs, and doesn’t move away from Erik’s side. The blue of his eyes stands out, against the time-stained walnut paneling behind him, like a portrait frame, like artwork. So, thank you again, my friend.
 
Charles, why don’t you like Thanksgiving? It can’t just be a question of Englishness versus Americanisms; he knows Charles better than that, and there’s something more there, something a little sadder and left unspoken in the thoughts that Charles doesn’t share with anyone.
 
Charles shrugs again, retreating into audible speech. “It’s not important. If the children want to have a Thanksgiving, we can certainly—”
 
Please answer me.
 
Oh, Erik, you don’t really want to know all the sordid details about my long-ago childhood.
 
Yes, I do.
 
Oh. Charles smiles, after a second. This one Erik files away as mostly startled, surprised to hear the truth of that thought, but pleased, as well, by the thought that someone cares. That Erik cares.
 
Well, of course we never really celebrated the holiday—you should’ve heard my stepfather complain about gluttony and American wastefulness—but he did like to mark the occasion by explaining to me exactly what we each had to be thankful for. Usually after quite a lot of brandy, mind you. Charles glances away, at the uneven borders of shadow and electric light, where they meet voicelessly on the wall.
 
I think my personal favorite might’ve involved how glad he was that such a freakish nancy-boy hadn’t been his real son, but the lengthy rant the following year, about how grateful I should be that he hadn’t thrown me out years ago, was rather memorable.
 
Charles, I’m so sorry—
 
No, don’t worry. It was a long time ago. And it’s not—at least I had a home, and food, and Raven, and, for a few years, my mother. Many people never even get to have that much. So he was right, in a way, you know.
 
No, Erik answers, shocked and angry, the jumble of coins and paperclips in his pocket quivering with transferred rage. Of course his own childhood had been worse—at least, the abrupt and chilling end of it—but he also has some good memories. The ones that Charles has given back to him. Even when Charles himself doesn’t have many to share.
 
No. That’s— That’s just wrong; he can’t say it any more clearly than that, and he hears Charles try to protest and promptly shouts over the attempt. You’re amazing, Charles, you should never think—he should have been grateful to know you, at all, ever, to be part of your life, you know I—
 
Erik, you’re shaking the light fixtures.
 
Sorry! With some effort, he calms both himself and the world around them; the artificial light stops skittering across Charles’s hair and settles down again. I did mean it, though. If you want I can go back and yell at the children on your behalf. He’d be happy to. He could use an outlet for all the barely-restrained emotions.
 
Oh, no, it’s fine. I’m fine. And, you know, they were vastly entertaining. Though I do feel a bit guilty about what they might be saying to Sean. Charles leans against him, comfortably, fitting them together in the cozy hallway, and the smile reappears from hiding. “It wasn’t all bad, you know. My mother always loved me, despite everything. I always knew that.”
 
“I’m glad.” He’s slightly distracted; the coins have quieted themselves, and the lights have stopped shaking, but there’s another tiny bit of metal in the space, he can feel it, and it trembles softly as if it recognizes his touch.
 
Charles…?
 
Charles actually blushes, but lets Erik reach inquisitively into the pocket of today’s fuzzy professorial cardigan, not protesting.
 
He pulls the tantalizing object out, and then almost drops it, out of astonishment. “You stole the fork?”
 
“Technically it’s not stealing, since it’s my fork.” I just…wanted your company, I think. I don’t know, really. The crooked circle of metal beams encouragingly up at them in the lamplight.
 
“I can fix it for you.” Charles, you know I will always be here, if you want me to be.
 
“I rather like it this way.” Then be here. Always.
 
In answer, Erik drops the circular fork back into its fuzzy-pocket home, and Charles grins. And then adds, out loud, “My mother used to say that we should still celebrate the day. That we ought to take time to simply be thankful, for whatever we have, for whatever we are, or might still be. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, of course, but it is still a worthwhile sentiment, I think.” The sparkling eyes rest on Erik’s, and stay there, happy, inviting. “So…what are you thankful for?”
 
And Erik, standing there closer to Charles than he’s ever been to anyone, knows that he could back away, or lie. Or pretend that there’s no answer, that there’s been nothing in the cold extent of his life so far to thank anyone for. He knows that Charles wouldn’t push him on that response, wouldn’t ask again.
 
But Charles kept his flippantly twisted fork. And thanked Erik for making him laugh. And the impossibly blue eyes are still looking up at him, and Erik, looking down into that endless welcome, finds abruptly that he only has room for the truth, at this moment, between the two of them.
 
“Charles,” he says, and then, not out loud but as clearly as he can, you saved my life. I am thankful that you did that, would do that, for me—I am thankful for you. And stops, because that’s more than he meant to say. And the words are all still true.
 
You mean that?
 
Yes.
 
Charles smiles at him one more time, for that. This one is a new smile, Erik thinks distantly. He doesn’t have a space in the mental catalogue, yet, for this one.
 
But he wants to see it again.
 
You’ve been keeping track of my smiles?
 
Oh, god. No?
 
A flicker of brilliantly amused happiness, the wordless sunshine of an answer, cuts him off there. “Would you like to know,” Charles inquires, and leans a little more weight against him, “what I might be thankful for, as well?”
 
“Yes?” Erik says, because there’s no other possible reply, and the smile stretches up into azure eyes, light reflecting off the ocean waves.
 
“Well, then…” I’m thankful that I saved you, too. I’d save you again if you needed me to. Every single day.
 
“Charles?”
 
“Yes?”
 
The lamplight shivers around them in a momentary lapse of control, because all that warmth is too close to him, so close that Erik can see every freckle, every individual eyelash sweeping across pale skin when Charles blinks, and he puts the other arm around Charles too, because he can’t find any words to fit the absolute rightness of the moment, the two of them and the fading echoes of laughter and the quietly approving antique wood of the mansion hallway.
 
Charles, he says again, you are saving me. Every single day.
 
Oh, Charles breathes, soundless, astonished, hesitating on the edge of happiness as if he can’t quite believe it. His lips part with the word, too, and Erik, who has spent his life trying never to be helpless again, finds himself helpless now, unable to do anything except lean down and capture those lips with his own.
 
He should be frightened by that feeling. But he isn’t. Not at all.
 
And Charles kisses him back, there in the middle of the hallway, the children still chattering in the next room, the contented hum of metal from the still-bent fork in Charles’s pocket all around them. And Erik knows exactly what, and whom, he has to be thankful for.
 
After a while, Charles observes, I know you know what dressing is, you know.
 
Ah. He’s not going to apologize for that.
 
I think I might be in love with you.
 
I love you too, Erik answers, because he does, he knows that beyond any doubt, the same way he knows that Charles loves him in return. But he does have to admit to some confusion regarding the mental leap from Thanksgiving food to confessions of love.
 
And Charles laughs again, but only in their heads, because his lips are pleasantly occupied elsewhere.
 
Well…I’m thankful for both you, and food, I suppose?
 
Yes, I’ve seen you being thankful for candied pineapple. Impressive.
 
I like pineapple!
 
Did I say I was complaining? He shares a mental image: Charles blissfully licking sugar off of elegant fingertips. And then replaces Charles’s tongue with his own. He’d wanted to at the time, after all.
 
Mmm. Please try that, next time. I do love you, you know. And you—I told you I’d always try to save you if I could. But, Erik—you make me laugh when I don’t remember how, and you worry about me when you don’t have to, and you tell me when I’m wrong, and, you see, you’re saving me, too.
                              
Charles, I love you.
 
And Charles kisses him again, and answers, I love you, too.
 
The following week, they end up having Thanksgiving dinner after all. The children, particularly Sean, wax ecstatic about the size of the turkey; Raven looks at her brother, across the table, and squeezes his hand, quickly enough to go unnoticed by anyone who isn’t Erik. When the pie appears, Charles claims that he’s full and excuses himself, innocently, and Erik can’t follow him right away because Charles has thoughtfully said I also bought candied pineapple into his head. With accompanying images.
 
But when he does make it upstairs, he demonstrates exactly how thankful he is for candied pineapple. And silk sheets. And for Charles himself, of course, a demonstration which leaves them both exhausted and sticky and laughing, because the pineapple turns out to be decidedly messy, because they’re discovering this fact together, because they’ll fall asleep to the sound of each other’s heartbeats again that night.
 
Because they both have someone to be thankful for.