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Charles’ birthday is in three days, and Erik still doesn’t have a present.
It’s not that he’d forgotten and is now scrambling to find a suitable gift at the last minute. It’s something that has actually been at the back of his mind since a month ago, when Raven first told him about her plans to throw a birthday party for Charles and invite all the other tenants in the Genosha Complex. As the days counted down, it’s gained more and more prominence in Erik’s mind, something he broods over whenever he’s working at the deli or the mutant centre. Taking on more shifts in order to afford something nice for Charles also means he doesn’t have time to go shopping. Maybe he can find something online.
Raven is no help at all, as she’s already given up on finding any material gift suitable for Charles. They both grew up stupidly rich, blessed with iPods and elaborate doll houses and science kits when they were children, the birthday gifts morphing into sleek laptops, cars and real estate as they got older. Erik is a firsthand witness to the unintentional carelessness a lifetime of wealth has given them; the siblings think nothing of leaving their apartment door unlocked, an open invitation to the robbers and looters of Manhattan.
(Then again, Erik pities any criminal foolish enough to try and break into an apartment complex solely housing mutants.)
The others seem to have already figured out their gifts for Charles. Jean, Ororo and Jubilee are chipping in for a coffeemaker, while the Summers brothers are getting a case of some fancy Nicaraguan roast from the campus cafe they work part-time at. Janos asks Erik if he wants in on the engraved leather briefcase that he, Azazel and Emma are ordering from some boutique on Fifth Avenue. Six months ago - before he’d gotten to know Charles - Erik would have definitely said yes. But now? Erik spends more time with Charles than any other person, even Raven whom he’s known for much longer. In the space of six months, Charles has become his closest, most dependable friend. Erik can’t quite imagine putting so little thought into a birthday gift.
Erik knows he has always been a terrible gift-giver; his parents have resigned themselves to receiving the ties and headscarves he’s been giving them for years in varying colours. So he decides that he would try to make Charles something. Maybe a new cane, but Erik’s not too keen on the idea as Charles seems very fond of his current wooden one. Erik has also toyed with the idea of sculpting something out of metal for Charles, but it would end up being just one of the many knick-knacks strewn around the Xaviers’ apartment.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” a bored Emma says over breakfast, casually picking at her toast. “Charles is not going to care even if you give him a turd wrapped in silver foil, he’ll love it.” Her smirk widens. “He’s exceptionally fond of you, for some reason.”
“Just get him a book,” Azazel suggests, cramming half a bagel into his mouth. “I always see him with books.”
Erik waves them away dismissively. “You don’t understand. Charles has everything. What do you get for the man who has everything?”
Emma sighs loudly. “I don’t know. Psionic suppressants, so he wouldn’t have to listen to all the melodrama in your head?”
“Great lot of help you all are.” Rolling his eyes, Erik pushes himself away from the breakfast table and their laughter, calling his keys and watch over to him. It’s almost time for his shift, anyway.
***
Erik has always had difficulty making friends. His mother often told him that he had been a shy, sullen child, often keeping to himself and slow to trust others. This had followed him into high school, where his ability had manifested awkwardly, often frying the school’s computers and other electronic equipment. By the time he had gotten it under control, the other students had become too afraid of him.
He’d expected adulthood to be the same deal, right until he went to college and joined the Brotherhood. Meeting and mingling with other mutants had felt like an awakening of sorts after a lifetime of sleep, and that was how he’d come to know Raven. So when she’d asked him if he was interested in a roomshare at the mutant-only Genosha Complex, it had been easy for him to say yes.
Making friends with his suitemates had taken a longer time, but Azazel was relatively easy-going, and Janos had warmed up to him once he found out Erik spoke Spanish. Emma, the reigning queen of their suite, had been the most difficult to win over, but she’d been much less prickly once she decided Erik wasn’t a threat to her. Two years of living together had rubbed the edges off her, especially when Erik had accepted that Emma’s trademark barbs and veiled insults are her way of showing affection.
Telepaths, Erik had thought. Which was why meeting Charles had been such a pleasant surprise.
Charles had only moved into his sister’s six months ago. Raven had muttered something about a bigoted stepfather so the other tenants had a silent mutual agreement not to pry. The Charles who’d arrived at the doorstep of Genosha Complex had been dead-eyed and unshaven with long straggly hair, a far cry from the sweet-faced, preppy young man with his arm around Raven in her family photos. Erik, who knew pain when he saw it, had meant to keep his distance and give the siblings their space so they could reconnect.
But that hadn’t happened.
He and Charles had fallen into friendship even quicker than he and Raven, fitting together like long-lost, extremely opinionated puzzle pieces. Erik hadn’t cared - and still doesn’t - for Charles’ pacifist views on human-mutant co-operation. Like Marvin the android, Erik is convinced this will all only end in tears. For a telepath, Charles seems determined to ignore the ugly thoughts of people that he must be privy to on a daily basis. It’s both strange and fascinating.
But despite their opposing views on key issues, Erik greatly appreciates Charles’ presence in his life. Erik spends more time in their apartment than he does his own, and anytime that someone is looking for him, they look for Charles first. They have Netflix parties and chess tournaments, and Erik cooks for both Charles and Raven because they would burn down the kitchen if they tried. Besides, Charles enjoys watching Erik conducting the various knives, pots and whisks like a culinary symphony, and Erik enjoys making Charles happy.
There are so many things Erik likes about him. Charles is generous to a fault and extremely loyal, and every day Erik does his best to be deserving of that loyalty. He wants to hurt the people who hurt Charles - the rotten stepfather, his indifferent mother, the gold-digging ex-boyfriend - and the only thing stopping him is Charles’ imminent disapproval.
If Erik can’t quite exact vengeance on his behalf, then a worthy birthday gift would have to be the next best thing.
***
Of all people, it is Azazel who offers him a solution. “I could take you to a few places,” he says, after watching Erik pacing around their living room. “It’ll be much faster for you to shop for a gift.”
It’s the day of Charles’ birthday and just hours before the party; Erik is getting desperate. Obviously it is too late to get something online, and Erik's only other option is to jump onto the F train, head into Manhattan and get Charles something. In contrast, Azazel’s suggestion isn’t quite so terrible, saving Erik some time on gift shopping instead of having to scour the whole of the city via subway. Already he’s received a few concerned texts and mental prods from Charles, asking why Erik hasn’t come over to hang out today. Erik has already cooked up every possible excuse he can think of, but it’s foolish to assume Charles can’t see right through him. Even without his telepathy, Charles can read him like an open book. Which means Erik needs to hurry up before Charles finds out what’s going on.
“Where exactly can you go?” a curious Erik asks.
Azazel shrugs. “Anywhere. I just have to think of it and we’re there.”
Erik would have to be stubborn and pigheaded to turn down such a convenient offer of help, so he relents (for Charles' sake). After a quick change of clothes, he tries to think of the best possible place where he could find something. The three hundred dollars he’d worked very hard for weighs heavily in his pocket. Azazel waits patiently for directions, a hand outstretched.
“How about Union Square, for starters?” Erik says at last. Charles loves the third level of the Strand, where they keep their rarest and most valuable books. Maybe Erik can find something nice for him there.
“Done,” Azazel says, clasping Erik’s hand. There is nary a moment to prepare before Erik is falling headlong into a whirling abyss of black and red, clutching a nonchalant Azazel for his life. Thankfully it only lasts for a second, albeit a long and terrifying one.
They materialize in the middle of a park, frightening a jogger and two mothers sitting nearby on a bench. It’s a little warmer than Erik expected, so he sloughs off his jacket and takes a good look at his surroundings. The buildings don’t look at all familiar, and there are - most curiously - palm trees dotting the perimeter of the park. “Azazel, where are we?” Erik asks with a frown.
“Union Square.” Azazel looks just as perplexed as Erik feels. “This is where you wanted to go, right?”
In the background, there is a loud ding-ding from across the park. Erik senses the heavy iron signature of something he’s never sensed before in New York: a cable car. Everything suddenly falls into place. “Wait, are we in the Union Square in San Francisco?”
“Indeed.” Understanding dawns on Azazel’s face. “Wait, you wanted to go to the one in Manhattan?”
“Of course I did! Why would I want to go across the country?”
Now Azazel looks confused again. “Why wouldn’t you?” he demands to know. “You want a unique gift for Charles, da?”
“Yes, but--” Now that Erik has had time to digest this new situation, he’s beginning to see that it’s not quite a bad idea. “I wasn’t quite expecting to travel this far.”
Azazel mutters something under his breath that sounds like ‘bozhe’. “Look, do you want a gift for Charles or not?” he asks. “It doesn’t matter if we go to Harlem or Hawaii, it takes the same amount of time for me to travel. So I suggest you make the most of this.”
Erik can’t quite find any flaw in his argument.
***
They can’t quite find anything suitable in Union Square, which is filled with the same shops that are already available in Manhattan, but he does end up getting a little pewter replica of the Golden Gate Bridge. The artist who had made it obviously doesn’t have Erik’s degree of control and attention to detail, but it is a close thing. It would be a nice souvenir.
“Okay then, where to next?” Azazel raises an expectant eyebrow at him.
Erik already has the next destination in mind, since distance is obviously no limit for Azazel. Charles had also mentioned visiting Prague when he was an undergrad at Oxford, spending long weekends at nearby European destinations. Erik remembers how animated Charles’ gestures had been when describing the astronomical clock in the city centre to Erik, his eyes warm and bright with memory. “We should go together one day,” Charles had said. “You’d be privy to the intricate inner workings of the clock with your abilities. I’d love to see it through your eyes.” Charles had also shown Erik the ‘meta’ picture a friend had taken of him on the Charles Bridge, his laughter warming the shell of Erik’s ear.
Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, Erik turns to Azazel and takes his hand. “Praha.”
This time they materialize in a long, crooked alleyway just a few steps from the main square. It is already nighttime in Prague, but there are still plenty of tourists hurrying towards the direction of the clock, waiting for the hourly show when the animated figures would emerge from the clock. Erik can feel the pull of it with his senses; it’s a marvel of centuries-old engineering, well-built and designed to last forever.
As much as he wants to stay and watch the show, time is of the essence. “Come on,” he tells a reluctant Azazel. “I still need to find a gift.”
Despite the various markets and artists painting scenes from the city, there is nothing Erik wants to buy for Charles. The souvenirs are tacky and mass-produced, while the paintings are soulless vistas meant to appeal to the tourist hordes. When he catches sight of the Charles Bridge, something tugs at his breastbone. “Take a picture of me on the bridge,” he says, floating his phone into Azazel’s hands.
Erik tries to approximate the same place where a young, carefree Charles had stood so many years ago, unaware of Erik waiting for him in the future. Erik’s toothy smile for the camera is genuine, even if it unnerves Azazel a little.
***
Their next few stops are the picturesque cities of Italy. Erik browses the leather shops in Florence, eyeing a few handstitched briefcases for Charles before Azazel reminds him that he, Janos and Emma had already gotten something similar for Charles. Frustrated, Erik decides to head over to the late-night shops outside the closed Accademia, getting Charles a replica of David to replace the one in his room that had been accidentally broken by a drunk Raven.
The waters of Venice are dark and mysterious, the waves glinting in the moonlight. Azazel watches the roosting pigeons in St Mark’s Square while Erik contemplates buying a pair of authentic curly-toed gondolier shoes for Charles, just as a laugh. But if he’d decided to actually wear them, they would only get in the way of his cane, so Erik dismisses the idea. He buys a beautiful indigo and purple Venetian mask instead, imagining Charles putting it on and how blue his eyes would be. He rubs a thumb over the cheek, deep in thought.
Azazel meets up with him on the Rialto bridge, staring down dryly at the loot that Erik’s slowly amassed and carefully placed in a recyclable bag. “I’ve never seen anyone go to this length for their friends before.”
The bag is suddenly very heavy in Erik’s arms.
Erik makes his decision after a long moment; after all, he owes Azazel this much for traipsing around the globe with him. “Charles is not a friend,” he scrapes out, his voice embarrassingly hoarse. It’s so strange, how saying it out loud to another person gives his admission life when Erik has been locking it away in his chest for so long. Erik is not used to letting down all his defenses like this, but he's tired and worries and aches to be with Charles. Erik wonders if distances ever matter to Azazel, especially when he can cross them as easily as blinking. For Erik, he is feeling every single one of the 4000-odd miles between Venice and New York.
To make things worse, Azazel seems to have this look of understanding on his face, as though someone had just confirmed a long-held suspicion for him. The corner of his wide mouth crooks up in the tiniest smile. “Tokyo?” he says instead.
“Tokyo,” Erik agrees as Azazel claps a hand down on his shoulder, and they vanish into the night.
***
Azazel takes them to the Tsujiki Fish market, which is already bustling despite the early hour. Some of the vendors in the outer market shoot Azazel alarmed looks, but he seems completely unbothered by it, instead eyeing the delicious rows of snacks for sale.
“You can eat at the party,” Erik chides him, before it dawns on him that they haven’t exactly been keeping an eye on the clock, and his phone has been ominously silent. He floats it out, grimacing when he remembers that he does not have international roaming. Erik lost track of timezones a city or two ago, and he feels for the hands of someone’s passing watch. It would be just past 10 in Brooklyn now.
“Shit.” Erik reminds himself not to panic. “All right, if we leave now, we’ll make it for the tail end of the party before Raven shoos everyone out at midnight.”
Azazel nods, frowning. “Get something for Charles here, at least, before we head back.”
A quick browse at the stalls has Erik picking out a beautiful set of chopsticks that are probably decorative and not meant for eating with, while Azazel goes to pick up a few trays of fresh-cut sushi to placate a surely furious Raven. Once they’re done, Azazel brings them back right to the doorstep of Raven’s and Charles’ apartment.
As usual, the door is wide open, and guests are milling in and out. It’s obvious the party is already winding down; it’s just their core nucleus of friends lounging on and around the couch, surrounded by mostly empty wine bottles and plates littered with the crumbs of chips. The pizza boxes on the dining room are greasy and battered, the top one half-open to reveal a lone leftover slice.
Raven jumps up in incredulous fury when she spots Erik and Azazel. “Where the hell have you two been?”
As if on cue, Erik’s phone suddenly jumps back to life, buzzing with all the messages and voicemails he must have missed throughout the day.
“We thought you weren’t coming,” Janos says, before his gaze fell on the platters of sushi. “Wait, is that more food?”
“Fresh from Tokyo.” Azazel nervously lays the stack out on the table under Raven’s glare.
“Tokyo, my ass!” she snaps, shoving her wine glass in Hank’s hands. “Seriously, what happened? Charles was really upset.”
“Wait.” Jean’s eyes grow distant, and Erik feels a light prickling at the back of his skull. “They’re telling the truth, they were in Tokyo.” She’s sitting up now, her eyes widening. “And so many other places!”
There’s a noisy babble now as people start attacking the sushi in earnest and peppering Azazel with questions, while Raven yanks Erik aside. “I’m serious, you need to go talk to him.”
“I know, I know.” It’s too bad Erik’s mutation doesn’t involve the ability to kick himself. He holds up the bag of gifts, which at least placates Raven a little. “I went to get these for his birthday. Where is he?”
Raven tilts her head towards the slanted glass windows of the living room, the ones they would climb through to smoke or get to the balcony. Erik can just about make out the shape of Charles leaning against the parapet, deep in conversation with Armando. “Don’t come back in till you’ve fixed things,” she warns him, and Erik wonders whether she’s known for longer than he has.
Charles must be truly despondent, for he doesn’t even notice Erik in his mental periphery until Erik is climbing through the window. Erik? Charles turns towards him, eyes a little too bright. I thought you weren’t coming.
“Sorry,” Erik says out loud. He’s standing there, unsure, holding the bag a little awkwardly.
Astute as always, Armando pats Charles on the back. “I’ll leave you guys to talk,” he says, giving Erik a meaningful look before he climbs back into the living room. Erik can hear him holler, ‘Hey save some sushi for me, you locusts!’ as he rejoins the party.
Once the window is closed and they're finally alone, Erik takes a few tentative steps towards Charles. Even when Charles is upset with him, Erik can’t quite take his eyes off him. The beard that plagued the early days of his arrival is long gone, and Charles had gotten his hair trimmed, keeping it long enough just so that it brushes his collar and taming it with pomade when necessary. Too often Erik’s been tempted to run his fingers through Charles' hair, just to see if it’s as soft as it really looks. At least Erik knows it smells good, from all the times Charles rested his head against Erik’s shoulder as they watched TV.
Erik wants Charles' proximity again so badly that it aches.
Charles finally glances at him. His expression - polite, shuttered - makes Erik’s stomach plummet. The lines under Charles’ eyes are especially pronounced, and Erik knows Charles only gets like this in times of duress. He looks so exhausted and vulnerable that Erik wants to fold his arms around Charles and hide him away forever.
“Too bad you missed most of the party,” Charles says a little too lightly. “Raven had planned the most embarrassing games, you'll know what I mean when she uploads the photos. Poor old Hank was threatening to delete his Facebook, you know.”
Erik knows that tone. In fact, he hates it; it’s the one Charles employs during his dutiful monthly phone call to his mother, or whenever he’s on the brink of emotional collapse.
“I didn’t mean to miss the party,” Erik blurts out. He simply wants Charles to never wear that polite, robotic mask around him ever again. “Azazel and I-- wait, it is my fault. I asked Azazel to take me shopping for your birthday gift.”
At least Charles’ curiosity is piqued now. When Erik hands him the bag, Charles sets his cane aside and takes it from him wordlessly. Sitting down in one of the deck chairs Hank had hauled out onto the balcony, Charles starts rummaging through the items while Erik takes the seat opposite him.
“Wait.” Erik grabs Charles’ hand, startling him. He presses Charles’ fingers to his temple, an open invitation for Charles to read his mind. Charles once told Erik that he hasn’t needed that crutch since his teens, but Erik needs a way to make Charles see he’s welcome in the very place he occupies so much of.
“If you’re sure,” Charles says, tentative even now, and Erik nods impatiently. He’s never shut Charles out of his mind before, but as a rule Charles rarely dips beyond surface thoughts due to his own self-imposed mental guidelines.
Erik can feel the moment Charles begins rifling through his memories, a prickling awareness that spreads all over Erik’s mind like the waves at the beach lapping at his feet. He keeps his eyes closed, concentrating on the moments he's wanted to show Charles. When Erik hears Charles’ sharp inhale, he knows he’s hit the jackpot.
“You went to Prague,” Charles whispers in disbelief. “The bridge. My bridge.”
Erik deliberately pushes the image of the two of them posing for a picture together, right in the same spot where Charles and now Erik stood, overlapping like a Venn diagram. Charles’ breath stutters in a chuckle.
After what feels like the longest moments of Erik’s life, Charles finally takes his fingers away. His eyes are large and pensive, boring into Erik’s profile as though he is still reading his mind. Maybe he is. “Did you mean to show me your memory of Venice?” he asks quietly.
There’s no lying or fooling a telepath, even one saddled with as many moral codes as Charles. “Yes,” Erik says. Whatever else he wants to say dies in his throat.
“I would dearly like to smack you for being so foolish.” Charles’ hand is back on Erik’s face now, except that his fingers are tracing Erik’s cheek instead of pressing against his temple. “I was going to smack you for missing my birthday, but that’s alright because you’ve got a teacher’s note.”
That surprises a laugh out of Erik, who finally has the courage to look up into Charles’ eyes. They're that insidious, piercing shade of blue that can stop Erik in his tracks even from across a room, knocking the breath out of him with just one glance. Erik allows himself to get lost, sliding his fingers into Charles' hair and earning a breathy sigh from Charles. He can finally confirm that Charles’ hair is indeed as soft as it looks, perfect for burying his nose in.
“Happy birthday,” Erik says, leaning forward to press a kiss to Charles’ invitingly parted lips. It’s slow and splendid, and already Erik wants to yank Charles over to Venice and Tokyo. And especially Prague, of course, so that they can take that promised picture on his namesake.
Charles suddenly stiffens, and the way he pulls away makes Erik’s heart jump into his throat. It seems we have company, his mental voice sounds amused, and they both turn to face the windows behind them.
Everyone is plastered against the glass, watching them with wide eyes. Sean is craning his neck at the back, cramming more sushi into his mouth. Emma just looks unbearably smug, as though she’d predicted this months ago. Janos, Azazel, Darwin and Alex look completely innocent, although Erik thinks he spots money changing hands.
It is Jean who suddenly erupts in applause, and everyone quickly follows with cheers and wolf-whistles and I-knew-it fistpumps.
“Hello, life-changing moment here?” Erik calls out irritably. “A little privacy, please!”
“It’s all right,” Charles says, beaming. “It’s been really quite a brilliant birthday.” I really do love you, you know.
“I love you too.” Erik counts his blessings, pressing his forehead against Charles’. It's hard to completely ignore the hooting peanut gallery in the background, but he manages.
He’ll get his revenge another time.
THE END