Chapter Text
“I’m going to sue these bastards for ADA non-compliance,” Charles Xavier - 23 years old, prodigy violinist, and student at the London Conservatory of Music - says, angrily, staring up at the three treacherous - and very high - steps currently preventing him from accessing the, y’know. Main building. Of the school he studies in. Five days a week, 7 hours a day.
He stares at the steps with a look of concentration for a minute, as if trying to mentally will the stone monoliths back into the ground, but, well. Those damn stairs - destroyers of hopes, dreams, and a good five minutes every morning - prevail. For yet another day, to Charles’ great consternation, he has not gained the magic powers necessary to quell those damn things for good. And the Conservatory still won’t pay for a ramp to be installed. Fuck, Charles had even offered to pay for the ramp himself a few weeks ago, but there was some legal jargon regarding a ‘Grade 2-Heritage Site’ and red tape around ‘historical importance’ that he’d, in all honesty, been far too hungover to bother reading.
“You say that every day, Charles,” Erik reminds him, very unhelpfully. Ah, Erik Lehnsherr, ever the pragmatic, annoyingly-practical, voice of reason. Erik, Charles’ best friend, confidant, bosom associate, reliable accompanist for concerts where Charles just didn’t want to use one of the standard accompanists, because really , Erik, they just weren’t as good , and come on , Erik, there’d be time tomorrow for you to practise, Erik.
“And one day I’ll, actually do it,” Charles replies, mournfully resigned to the fact that he is never, in fact, going to actually do it. He shifts his violin to a very precarious position on his lap, allowing Erik to help him manoeuvre his wheelchair from street-level to. Well. Door-level.
Oh, the indignity of it all. He really should sue the Conservatory. It’s not like he didn’t have the money for the best damn lawyers, after all - at least there was one thing to thank Mama and Papa Xavier for. Even if the whole situation was their fault. See, there would never have been the car accident if they hadn’t been drinking so damn much at the wedding reception, and if the car accident hadn’t happened, well, poor seven-year-old Charles would still be able to walk , and -
“One day,” Erik agrees, managing to - through an expert mix of pushing and lifting - get the damn wheelchair over the damn steps, and thank God , Charles can finally wheel himself into the actual fucking building. Small victories.
He and Erik begin making their way down the hallway to the Conservatory common room, the only sound in the empty marble hallways the neat clacking of Erik’s ridiculously-polished shoes and the soft whirring sounds as Charles pushes the wheels of his chair. “We’re doing the Tchaikovsky, right? Who’s conducting?” Erik muses, scrolling through his phone absent-mindedly, the sun reflecting through stained-glass windows of the corridors tinting his white hair appear striking shades of purple, of blue, of red; Erik’s curls are turned into a kaleidoscope of colours every time he passes through this entrance to the Conservatory.
(Charles, privately, and with a stunning lack of shame, files the view away in the section of his mind that’s definitely not reserved for jerking off in the shower. Definitely not.)
He’s abruptly snapped out of his reverie by Erik making a frustrated, disappointed noise that usually only accompanies particularly shocking misbehaviour by the younger orchestra members. Like the time half the fucking brass section had gotten on the roof of the concert hall. And decided that the best way to alert someone was to all play one note, very loudly. While one Erik Lehnsherr had been in the process of performing some very challenging Liszt in front of thousands.
“It’s fucking Shaw again,” Erik grumbles, slipping his phone into his pocket and massaging his temple with a free hand.
Alas, does the afont ever end?
“Have we not suffered enough?” Charles complains, rolling his eyes towards the heavens. Urgh . Not only was Professor Sebastain Shaw a Grade-A asshole and terrible conductor, he was also one of the most downright arrogant people Charles had ever had the dis-pleasure to meet. And that was saying something, considering he’d gone to Eton for the better part of his teenage years.
“I can’t do this,” Erik mutters, under his breath, still nursing one hand against the side of his head. “How am I meant to play the Rachmaninoff Concerto with him leading the orchestra? I need to get this piece right, it’s for my fucking Masters’ dregree , and just because that dickhead has something against me -”
Charles reaches up a hand, patting Erik on the shoulder. “There, there. Look, I know you hate the guy. We all hate the guy. Worst case, my parents are millionaires, we can hire a hitman. I’m sure there’s enough people wanting to poison that man’s tea that we can get a solid discount for services to humanity.”
Erik gives him a bleak look. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Right. Well. One time, when Charles had been uncommonly inebriated because Logan Howlett, Canadian and serial drinker, had convinced him to go on a pub crawl of London, and it had been just after Shaw had told Erik he was being replaced as the soloist in the Brahms Concerto for literally no good reason, and Charles had been angry , and the internet really was a wonderful place with many unscrupulous people -
“Of course, of course, my friend,” Charles says, hurriedly, wheeling himself forward a little so Erik can’t see the blatant lie on his face. “Come on, let’s hurry, I want to make myself a cup of tea before rehearsal begins.”
“God, you’re so damn British,” Erik mutters, shaking his head in resignation, and Charles can’t help but grin.
“Ah, but you love me anyway,” He says, breezily, taking the final turn to reach the common room.
Erik groans, quickening his step a little to keep up with Charles. “ God help me, I do.”
—----
Kurt Wagner really loves his spot in the London Conservatory of Music, ja, he really does.
He loves the city - its vibrant energy, the bustling centre, the music halls and the tourist attractions and the admittedly very dirty River Thames, he loves the people, and he loves, well, the music.
Sometimes, however -
“Oh my god,” Scott Summers, resident oboist and taker-of-no-bullshit says, sounding a mix of disgusted and horrified. “Valve oil would not work as a replacement for lube, what the fuck, oh my god.”
Various noises of agreement are made from around the break room - Kurt’s pretty sure that Jean (Scott’s on-and-off girlfriend who might also be having a thing with Logan-the-French-Horn-player, except he also be having a thing with Scott , except nobody is meant to know any of this and it’s a whole mess and the only reason that Kurt even knows in the first place is because he got Logan drunk one time and - well, none of this is relevant, wow, would you look at the time) is about two seconds away from throwing something. Or throwing up something. Mein Gott , what a mess.
“You disgust me, Pietro,” Hank says, shaking his head, almost disappointed - probably at how much grey matter he’s losing just by virtue of this conversation. Or discussion. Is it a discussion if one insane, very attractive man (whoa, who said that, definitely not Kurt), is being publicly shamed by his peers and betters?
Pietro Maximoff, infamous among the Conservatory by very nature of his being, sighs dramatically. “You guys just don’t get me,” He whines. “Come on, you guys have to have at least thought about it.”
“Uh, no,” Scott says, with a deep frown, going back to cleaning his oboe with a look of deep concern.
“ Definitely not,” Jubilee agrees decisively, and there are murmured noises of agreement from Rogue and Gambit, who are clustered away in the corner, sharing the break room’s only armchair, the damn romantics.
“Well, now tha’ ya say that-” Logan cocks his head as if in deep thought, but before he can even finish his thought (one that, no doubt, would cause severe mental damage requiring untold hours of counselling of niche types which the Conservatory insurance would likely not know exist, let alone cover), he’s rudely interrupted - not that Charles Xavier could be rude, per se, the man was (outwardly, at least) the epitome of British politeness - by said epitome-of-British-politeness wheeling into the room.
“Well,” Charles says, pleasantly, placing his violin case down on one of the tables before heading over to the kettle, opening the mini-fridge next to the break room countertop.. “I could hear some of what you were discussing from outside in the hallway, and I firmly believe I have lost more brain cells than I can reasonably spare at this stage of my life.” He sighs, before closing the fridge. “Come on, chaps, who used up all the milk?”
“Agreed,” Says a significantly sterner voice, accompanied with a harsh gaze at the offending Pietro Maximoff, and Kurt feels a distinct swell of national pride at the way the entire room of variously university-aged students and musicians crumble under the German glare of one Erik Lehnsherr.
“You’re no fun,” Pietro grumbles, folding his arms across his chest and pouting in a way that would be rather endearing if he was a five year old child, but instead ended up looking frankly quite pathetic (okay, fuck it, maybe it was a little endearing. Just a little. And, dear reader, Kurt definitely was not thinking about how stupidly pretty the silver-haired trumpetist looked at this moment. Nope. Not at all. Nein. Perish the thought.)
(Look, it wasn’t Kurt’s fault if his fellow orchestra member of three years, roommate of two and a half, best friend for one, and crush for… God knows how long, too long, was damn perfect . His stupid, silly, bleach-fried hair, his stupid stupid accent, the way he can never keep his hands still…
“I think I’m in love with him,” Kurt had mumbled, once, very morosely and very drunk, half buried in Wanda Maximoff - the twin sister of the offending individual - ‘s shoulder after a long drinking binge to follow a disastrous rehearsal. Wanda was one of the singers from the Conservatory Choir, and she’d been doing a part in some German Opera - and Kurt, being the less-intimidating, generally considered more friendly, and the one who’s eyes least radiated constant, low-level homicidal intent, member of the copious (ahem, 2,) number of students who spoke German.
So, yeah, they’d become friends, and he’d gotten drunk and sobbed and complained into her shoulder in a voice half-slurred and half-speaking-in-German one too many times about his pathetic little crush on Pietro Maximoff. And she’d send Kurt videos of cute little animals and kittens in tutus and other assorted adorable things in the morning, and though they'd do nothing to cure the throbbing in his head and the ache in his heart, well, at least they made him feel a little better.)
“No, we’re just normal,” Scott says in reply, shaking his head at Pietro’s whines in protest, his brow furrowed. Kurt can’t see Scott’s eyes, the red-tinted glass covering the top half of his face, but he knows the look of disappointment in them would rival that of a middle-aged father watching his football team fail to win the Ultra Bowl, or the Soup Bowl, or whatever. Kurt didn’t interest himself in the petty rituals of those across the pond. “Pietro, you’re… something else.”
“You guys just don’t get me,” Pietro complains, waving his hands around the air like an Italian visiting a Pizza Hut. “I swear -“
Thank god the bell for the start of rehearsal rings when it does, because Kurt might be ridiculously, pathetically in love with Pietro Maximoff, but there is only a certain level of insanity he can physically endure.
—-------
It’s times like this when Erik feels fully at peace - the door to the practice room is closed, the wing of the building he’s in - practically empty, the blinds drawn and his eyes closed and his hands free to wander over the smooth, ivory wood of the keys, without judgement, without expectation, without anything but himself and the music and -
“Can you perhaps do your work a little quieter?” Erik snaps, his hands stilling above the keys, turning his head around to fix Charles with a glare that could level mountains.
(The UN, upon sensing the sheer power of this glare, immediately called an emergency meeting to decide how to outlaw and prevent further uses of this glare. It is now the one hundred and thirty-fifth article outlawed by the Geneva Convention.)
“Sorry, sorry,” Charles says, ruefully, pausing his hands on his own keys - the ones of his laptop. “You know I love listening to you play when I work. Especially the Rachmaninoff, you play it so damn well .”
And yeah, the constant tapping of Charles’ fingers against his clackety laptop keys and the rustling of noises every time he gets bored and pulls out his phone from his bag are annoying , and it’s important that Erik can practise un-disturbed otherwise he’ll never be able to learn the piece and he’ll make a complete fool of himself in front of everyone, but - well. Erik can’t really bring himself to be angry, not when Charles is looking at him like that .
“Just -” Erik sighs, the puppy-dog eyes enough to make the lecture bubbling in the back of his mind fizzle short. “You can stay. Just be quiet , okay?”
Charles nods, miming zipping his mouth shut, and even though the gesture is just a tad sarcastic, Erik can see the bashful apology in his eyes as he goes back to working on his laptop, this time the clacking of the keys significantly more silent. Thank god . Between Shaw on his case, and the constant chaos of the damn younger students, and having to finish the thesis for his Masters, and - sometimes it’s nice to just… play.
Erik turns back towards the piano, placing his hands down in the opening positions for the chords.
F, Ab, C, F in the right hand, F, C, A in the left. A steady pulse - one, two, one two.
He takes in a breath, closing his eyes, and lets himself float into a world of his own.
(author’s note: he’s playing Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto no. 2 in this scene I HIGHLY recommend listening to it)
—--------
Logan James Howlett. 22 years old, though most said he looked older. Canadian, though most said he was too rude to be one. French horn player, though - “really? I would’ve expected something, I don’t know, more… manly ,” - tended to be the first response when he’d make the mistake of sharing his current occupation with well-meaning acquaintances.
And he couldn’t deny that, well, the stereotypes were right, in a sense. He was far, far too coarse, and unwashed, and lumberjack-better-fit-for-little-to-no-contact-with-human-civilisation for a place like the Conservatory, but the Professors, and the conductors, and the Department heads would tolerate a little bit of untidiness as long as Logan. Y’know. Kept playing the way he was playing, which was fucking amazingly if he did say so himself. So, yeah, the higher-ups would grit their teeth and bear him, and most of his fellow students actually liked him -
Well, most .
“What the fuck is your problem?” The demanding, bossy as fuck voice of Scott Summers snaps out, grabbing the collar of Logan’s jacket and yanking him up until the two were almost nose-to-nose. “What the actual fuck is your problem?”
Logan just grins back. He knows it’s bad when he can make the local prissy boy-scout, the fucking model student of the Conservatory, lose his shit like this. The man still tells the others to “watch their language” when they employ a few choice words after a shitty rehearsal session, and yet here he is, eyes glimmering with barely-contained fury, mouth drawn back in a snarl, slamming Logan against the wall of one of the countless Conservatory practice rooms.
Considering how these things usually go, between the two of them, it’s a good thing that the architect had the good grace to make these walls soundproof. Though he was probably considering hundreds of practicing musicians and not two of said musicians having nasty hate sex against the wall.
“What’s got ya so ticked off, Slim?” Logan drawls, knowing full well the reason. Scott reacted just so prettily when Logan flirted with his girl, with Jean, and there was nothing more satisfying than getting the man with the biggest stick up the ass Logan had ever seen just a little riled up.
“Fuck you,” Scott hisses, pressing Logan harder against the wall, and Logan just smirks in response.
“I mean, if yer offering,” He says, lazily, completely unbothered, and Scott makes a pent-up little frustrated noise, brow furrowed, and his glasses are slightly wonky on his nose and a strand of his hair is loose from where it was perfectly combed back just an hour ago, and before Logan yearns to reach out a hand to smooth it back in - an action that he knows would drive Scott so far up the wall he’d probably be pressed against the ceiling.
And, well, Logan had always wondered if the reason Scott got so frustrated when Logan flirted with Jean was ‘cause Logan was flirting with his girl, or because Logan wasn’t flirting with him, and he’s about to make some sort of spiteful, petty remark when Scott suddenly closes the inches of distance between them, pressing his mouth furiously, bitterly hard against Logan’s.
It’s not a nice kiss, not by any means - none of them between the two are, each more a mix of biting and sucking and bruising than anything even remotely romantic - but Logan doesn’t want nice, he wants Scott. He wants the brutal, the hard, the fast, the desperation, he wants the sheer anger and coiled frustration that’s underneath Scott’s pristine, beautiful, damaged surface, he wants his lips chapped and red and far, far too ruined to even think about instrument practice for the rest of the day.
God bless that goddamn architect, Logan thinks, as he cups Scott’s jaw, his other hand going to push back that offending strand of hair. He’s pretty sure even with the soundproofing, half the building can hear Scott’s little pleading noises, Logan’s own groans. Neither of them are exactly quiet.
“Whaddaya think Jeannie would say,” Logan manages to choke out, pausing the kiss. “If she knew what you were gettin’ up to, huh?” It’s not a particularly clever or original remark, certainly far below his usual standard of spitefulness, but Logan’s thoughts are a bit - distracted, at the minute.
This had to be - what, the fifth, sixth, time they’d ended up like this? The first time had been, admittedly, a very drunken mistake, but it had been good . And just because Scott Summers was far too emotionally repressed to admit that all he wanted to do was have his brains fucked out (or fuck Logan’s brains out, he wasn’t picky) didn’t mean that he didn’t keep making excuses to get the other man alone in one of the conveniently placed, conveniently soundproof practice rooms.
Scott makes a cut-off moaning noise, one hand scrabbling lamely at the buttons of his shirt, and Logan pulls away for a minute to yank off his own clothing. “Shut- shaddup, don’t stop,” Scott says, his voice a mix of a grunt and a needy whine, his pupils so dilated behind his sunglasses, his chest rising and falling far, far, too quickly. “God, you - you drive me fucking crazy , you -”
Logan just grins, diving back into the kiss, wrapping his arms around the back of Scott’s neck to draw him closer, and Scott’s thinking about a lot of things, namely how this is a bad idea and he really needs to stop and he really needs to have a talk with Jean which will probably end in a breakup, but before he can open his mouth to say anything, Logan shoves a hand down his pants, and, well, after that -
Scott doesn’t really think about anything at all.
——
(again: they’re playing the Rach Piano Concerto, the horn solo is at around 7.40 in the Lisita recording. I actually checked to make sure the bar numbers lined up, guys.)
“I didn’t know an entire orchestra could be so damn incompetent,” Sebastian Shaw, bane of the entire student body at the Conservatory, sneers, tapping his conductor’s baton impatiently against his music stand. “ Again, you fools, from the bar before Figure 13. Mr Howlett, can you please try to not miss your entrance this time? It is a French Horn solo, I’ll have you know, and we do have a concert coming up, as you might be aware. And Mr Summers, you’re horribly sharp. The oboe is meant to be an elegant instrument. You’re making it sound like you’re torturing a cat.”
“Lord, have mercy,” Kurt hears Jubilee mutter behind him, the younger girl clenching her clarinet with enough force to bend one of the keys out of shape. “If you’re real, God, please kill this man.”
Religious blasphemy aside, Kurt does somewhat sympathise with Jubilee’s feelings. Shaw was a total hardass, a massive dickhead, and, well, Scott wasn’t even playing sharp. And Logan hadn’t missed his entrance. Jean, the other clarinettist, rapidly shushed Jubilee - her whispers had been a tad too loud - but the damage was done.
“Oh, sorry, Ms Lee, do you have something to add?” Shaw says, fixing her with a gaze so patronisingly lecherous Kurt felt like he needed to take a long, hot shower to wipe off any residual effects of simply having witnessed it.
Jubilee gave a shudder, replying a little too quickly. “Uh, no, sir. I was just asking - asking if I could borrow Jean’s pencil?” She squeaks. It’s a weak lie, and Shaw knows; Shaw knows they all hate his guts with enough force to push Sisyphus’ boulder up that hill.
And Kurt knows that Shaw never passes up an opportunity to humiliate, to belittle someone; he couldn’t fathom why the Conservatory still had a man so awful , so arrogant and vile on their payroll. He wasn’t even a good conductor - half the time, the orchestra had to rely on Charles, the first violin (and his saintly patience), to remind Shaw of what damn time signature they were playing in. It’s not like it was written on Shaw’s score or anything.
Sometimes, Kurt had doubts about whether Shaw could even read sheet music.
“Oh, I’m sure,” He - well, speak of the devil - sneers, getting up from where he had been leaning against the stand. “Interrupt my rehearsal again, Ms Lee, and I’ll have you thrown out faster than you can blink , you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Is Jubilee’s mumbled reply, a deep furrow on her face, her gaze a mix of embarrassment and indignation. Kurt couldn’t help but feel bad. The girl was new, just a first year student, and an amazing clarinettist. Shaw didn’t have to have it out for her (or have it out for any of them) like he did. But being the greasy bastard that he was -
Mein Gott, Kurt sometimes wished he had a gun. In a totally non-violent, cool-with-Catholicism, turn-the-other cheek way.
(He resolved to ask his pastor - this chill guy called Father Matthew, who was apparently from some place in America called “Hell’s Kitchen,” wasn’t that a cool name - the next time he went to Mass if murder was allowed if the victim was particularly infuriating. Shaw’s very existence was an insult to Catholicism, maybe God would be cool with just a tiny bit of killing? A use-it-or-lose-it one time pass?)
“Good,” Shaw snaps, tapping his baton a few more times against the stand for emphasis, before flicking back a few pages. “Right, from Figure 13, and I swear to God , Summers, if your entrance isn’t in tune I’ll make you watch as I snap your reed collection to pieces.”
Scott looks like he’s about to protest something - which showed just how awful Shaw was, Scott Summers was the man least likely to retort against authority - but a quick glance at the now-furious Jubilee reminds him of the consequences, and he just jerks out a quick nod, clearly steaming with humiliation.
“I’ll count two bars,” Shaw continues, raising his hands, and Kurt snaps back into focus.
One, two, one, two -
—--
“I’m going to fucking kill myself,” Erik groans, slamming his head against the wooden desk of the library with a loud thunk , causing the librarian - a middle-aged woman with impossibly round glasses - to shoot him a positively lethal look that threatened nasty things, like dismemberment and death and multiple very small puppies or kittens or something appropriately fuzzy getting squashed by a chair.
“Okay, let’s not give ourselves brain damage, honey,” Charles says, reaching a hand over to pat Erik’s curls, his face still buried in the piles of paper and books and stationery crowding the desk. In the past two hours the two of them had been here - accompanied by far too much work and far too much coffee - he’d heard similar grievances from Erik approximately every twenty minutes or so. Charles was deliberating how many times it you had to hear your best friend graphically detail their suicide before it was appropriate to alert the healthcare authorities.
“I mean it,” Erik mumbles to the table, closing his eyes and tilting his head a little to the side, further into Charles’ hand. “I want to go home and sleep. And quit piano. I’ll leave you my sheet music in the will.”
“There, there,” Charles says, fondly, retracting his hand and going back to flipping through the textbook he was currently reading, his other hand absent-mindedly tapping out a rhythm against the desk. “Come on, get your head up before you bend your glasses out of shape.”
Erik groans, but lifts his head, taking his reading glasses off and folding them neatly, placing them down next to him. “There,” He grumbles, stifling a yawn. “Now when I try to bash my brains out, at least my lenses will be intact.”
There’s a large spot of ink - oh, fuck , the fountain pen on the table had leaked - on Erik’s cheek, and Charles fights the urge to wipe it off with his thumb, instead rummaging in his pocket for a tissue. “Ink all over your face,” He explains, passing the crumpled napkin to Erik, who accepts it - well, not gratefully , he’s far too grumpy for that, but with a certain level of thanks.
Erik furrows his brow in concentration, scrubbing at his cheek, but he’s - “A bit to your left,” Charles supplements, before eventually giving up and grabbing the tissue himself, his thumb brushing against Erik’s cheekbone as he tries to clean off the ink, eventually managing to get - well, most - of it off. He leans back, looking at his handiwork.
Erik looks almost owlish like this - his hair ruffled, eyes blinking a few times, a slight squint as he tries to focus in the dim light of the library without his reading glasses. There’s a pale dust of stubble against his jaw, the blue inkstain just barely staining a few of the hairs a strange, navy colour. He looks tired, and overworked, and -
He looks beautiful .
“All done,” Charles has to say, voice a little higher-pitched - and wow, something really weird and tight and uncomfortable has happened to his throat, what the hell - before shaking his head, snapping himself out of his reverie. “All done, yeah,” He repeats, clearing his throat, trying to ground himself. “Okay. Do you want to keep working, or -”
“Pub?” Erik offers, eyes brightening at the suggestion of getting the fuck out of this library, and abandoning the piles of revision and work and tattered sheet music for a place where dim lighting and musty air doesn’t mean squinting at old textbooks, but means actual fun , and alcohol, and fifty-something British men shouting at a tiny, greasy TV screen showing re-runs of some football match from half a century ago.
“It’s raining quite a bit, no?” Charles says, jabbing a finger towards the window where the usual London downpour is drumming neat patterns against the sidewalk. It’s not that he doesn’t want to go, he really does, but he didn’t bring an umbrella because, of course, the forecast predicted sunny skies, and he’s got all his sheet music…
But, then again, the thought of getting pissfaced at some random pub is quite appealing, especially after the shitshow of a rehearsal earlier today. Shaw really needed to be poisoned. Or electrocuted. Or disposed of in a manner incredibly painful and incredibly drawn-out.
“Fine, fine,” Charles sighs, eventually, grabbing his textbooks and putting them in his bag, Erik not even needing to resort to pleading to convince him. God, he’s weak. Whether for alcohol or Erik himself - that’s a thought he’s going to very neatly file away into the “not-to-think-about-ever” section of his head. Alongside a lot of other things. Most of them about Erik. Or alcohol.
He waits a brief moment for Erik to finish shoving his own pages in his bag before wheeling himself out of the library, giving an apologetic little wave to the librarian - for having to witness Erik’s complaints and general threats of self-mutilation, for having to put up with hearing their occasionally moronic conversations for hours, and as a sort of plea for discretion. He knew for a fact that Pietro volunteered at this library sometimes, and he was an awful gossip, and the younger students did love to talk and make assumptions and, well, his relationship with Erik is not like that but he’d rather like it to be and -
“Let’s go before the tube gets delayed because of the rain,” Erik says, rummaging for an umbrella in his bag, drops of rain already clinging to his curls and Charles realises that he’s rather wet from the insistent downpour already, his sweater damp, his bag dripping water, and he wonders why on Earth he agreed to get all his work - and, oh fuck, his violin - completely soaked in rain just to go out to some likely-mediocre pub, but Erik shoots him one of those rare little smiles of his as they head down the street towards the nearest tube station and. Well. Charles finds that he doesn’t really mind at all.