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Someone just dropped a pint of shitty beer on Erik’s boots. He curls his hand around the collar of a faux leather jacket -Doc Martens are expensive, for fuck’s sake- when someone taps him on his shoulder. It’s Emma, her trademark white form easy to recognize in a crowd full of black leather and denim.
“You’re up in ten minutes,” she says, staring at her clipboard. “Collect your minions and get your ass to the stage.”
Erik wipes the fear of his hands and goes to collect his band. The poor soul he was holding fled the moment he looked the other way.
Sean is juggling with his drumsticks and Azazel is too busy playing with a butterfly knife to hear Erik shouting their names.
“We’re up in ten,” he announces.
Azazel shreds a coaster with the tip of an even sharper looking knife he just produced from god knows where and he nods absentmindedly in his direction.
Sean grins. “Sure thing, boss.”
The tent around them moves and creaks in the September wind. Erik pulls his jacket tighter around him and goes searching for Alex and Janos. He finds them at the bar, charming the bartender into free drinks.
Well, Janos is doing the charming, Alex just glares threatening over his shoulder. The bartender looks terrified.
Erik slams his hand on the bar. “It’s our turn in a couple. Be there.”
He walks in the direction of the stage, gliding through the crowd and joins Emma backstage. She’s furiously flipping through her clipboard with one hand and texting with the other. Erik looks at the scratched plate of his old watch and rolls his eyes and at the lack of people around him. Trust his band to be late no matter what. Thanks to some miracle the rest of Brotherhood arrives just in time for Emma to announce them, without her having a homicidal breakdown.
They settle behind their instruments and Janos starts the intro to Bend, Not Break. Within minutes the crowd is jumping to the rhythm of Sean’s beat. While watching the people, Erik remembers why he puts up with dreadful places full of idiots. Performing makes him feel alive.
They switch to a darker song, something Erik had written when he was in the States for approximately a week and trying to ignore the roots that were still binding him to Germany. It ends on a heavy string of Azazel’s bass and Erik takes the time to shrug off his leather jacket, already hot from the lively atmosphere hanging in the room. They play a set of another nine songs, come back for an encore (a cover of Fall Out Boy’s Thnks Fr Th Mmrs ). After that, they thank the crowd for having them this week. Boston Local Talent Vibes Festival, BTV for most, is always fun, and a perfect way to end the summer.
He’s just gulping down a bottle of water Emma threw in his direction when he finds two blue eyes staring at him. He picks up his jacket from the floor and fiddles with the cap between his fingers.
The blue eyes come closer and a pale hand emerges. “Charles Xavier, how do you do?” He’s painfully posh, with a crisp English accent and a blue cardigan that almost matches his eyes.
What the fuck is he doing at a festival like this? Erik eyes him, shrugs his jacket on and shakes the hand.
“Erik.” After a moment of silence he adds; “Not to be rude or anything, but what are you doing here?”
Charles chuckles, finding him more amusing than rude, apparently. “I’m up in a few minutes.”
Erik raises one eyebrow, looks at Emma, looks back at Charles' cornflower blue cardigan and looks back at Emma. She turns up one corner of her mouth in a smirk that practically means don’t ask me, I know.
“Last minute addition. The board wanted more diversity.”
Erik watches Charles enter the stage, followed by a brunette carrying an acoustic guitar, a tall nerd with huge feet who goes to sit behind the keyboard, a blond haired girl who is running her hands up and down a blue double bass, of all things, and a dark-skinned fellow who twirls his drumsticks between his hands and winks at the crowd. They introduce themselves as “Cerebro, people. We hope you’re ready to be surprised!”
Erik is certainly surprised as they start a soft song about getting lost in parks. It’s nice, the sound of a soft guitar and the deep tones of the bass underneath. Erik feels like sitting on his balcony, staring at the people below him with the sun on his back.
Then the drummer leads the way into a more upbeat song about open roads and leaving everything behind. Erik finds himself humming along to the simple melody. Emma throws him a look and he glares, turns his head the other way. He can feel her smirk.
Cerebro plays another six songs about sunlight, getting lost in cities you’ve never been to and one unexpected dark number about nightmares called Paralyzed.
Charles is a vision behind the microphone. His broad hands curl around the stand and his eyes are as warm as his voice. Blue flowers and soothing tones wrapped up in a package of pale skin and worn elbow patches. Erik’s that certain the last time he felt this relaxed was when he was still drugged up from his wisdom teeth removal.
Azazel takes one look at him when he staggers to the bar and dissolves in a pile of laughter. Erik takes his scotch from an expressionless Alex, throws it back without taking his eyes off the stage.
He walks home that night and thinks about the way Charles’ white shirt stretched across his shoulder, the comforting hum of the double bass.
******
“Großvater, you don’t understand,” Erik argues into the receiver while chopping leeks for a stir fry. “It was a nice break from all the heavy political lyrics.”
His grandfather sounds like he’s smiling. “Erik, Schatz, you’ve been writing ‘the heavy political lyrics’ since you were fourteen.”
Erik shrugs, remembering. His tiny room covered in Green Day and Fall Out Boy posters. A beat up black notebook. Leaking Bics that covered his hands with almost-permanent blue stains.
“It just hit me somewhere. I don’t know.”
There are noises on the other end of the line which suggest that his grandfather is making lunch. He grips the phone a little tighter.
“How are you?” he asks, going for casual and missing it by miles.
A clock strikes in the background. Erik misses him suddenly, fiercely, misses Germany with its people and language and everything he grew up in, around.
“Schatz, Das klingt wie eine Frage, die ich Ihnen stellen sollten.” It sounds like a question I should ask you .
Erik swallows and his grandfather sighs. “Don’t lose yourself in your music, Junge, and your books. Remember, Menschen -people, whatever- are social creatures. You need interaction as much as anyone else.”
A moment of silence before he continues, his voice now lighter.
“And that boy you’ve been describing, with his nice music, sounds like a good place to start. What’s he called?”
Erik turns his thoughts back to his leeks. “Uh, Charles. Charles Xavier.”
The other side of the line falls silent.
“Großvater?” Erik asks, a bit worried. His grandfather always has something to say.
“Xavier?” His grandfather sounds strange, his voice cold and distant.
“You know him?”
His grandfather chuckles, and it’s not a light chuckle. It’s a cynical one, harsh. German, flashes through Erik’s thoughts. It’s the chuckle he uses when he tells about Auschwitz.
“Did he-did he do something?” Erik asks, careful with his words.
His grandfather snorts. “Xavier and I were in school together. He came over for one semester in Munich and I came over for a semester in Oxford.”
Sounds of chewing interrupt the otherwise slightly awkward silence. Erik tries to decipher the number of hidden messages his grandfather stuffed in two small sentences.
“Uhm, so what, you didn’t like him?” he asks, aware of the fact he’s skating over what appears to be slippery ice. There’s another snort, and the chewing stops.
“He was your grandmother’s boyfriend for a while.”
Erik blinks. “That’s it?” He’s almost pissed- he thought he had a legitimate reason for hating Charles there.
His grandfather splutters. “She almost didn’t marry me, Erik! God, I hated the Hurensohn. I think he’s dead now. Would be about right.”
“Grandpa, you can’t say that.” Erik says, laughing. Moments like this always remind him how much he and his grandfather are alike.
They chat for awhile about Erik’s upcoming classes and the weather in Germany.
"Awful,” his grandfather groans. “It’s Kalt and wet, nothing like other years. Must be the twenty-first-century global warming thing messing everything up-”
When Erik ends the call, he smiles to himself, busy with cherishing hard consonants, wry grins. A stronger sense of home than he’s had in a while.
*******
History of Arms starts out seven minutes later than expected. The professor writes his name on the board and turns to the class with a quirk of his eyebrow, daring anyone to say something about his lateness. Erik rolls his eyes and taps his pen on the spiral of his five-subject notebook. The man starts up his laptop -a small, sleek thing that forms a sharp contrast with his rugged mountain man aesthetic- and grabs an antique Chassepot rifle bayonet. Erik only recognizes it because his uncle has one on display in a family mansion.
The whole class stares. Some in shock, others in fascination. He sees violence in the curl of the professor’s smirk and Erik suddenly likes Logan, even if his jacket looks like he used it in a chase from the police.
The rest of the hour is spent analyzing the beauty. Logan takes her apart piece by piece and Erik just wants to get his hands on that amazing steel and croon loving words to her parts.
He is aware that sounds slightly problematic. He is also aware of the fact he doesn’t give a shit.
After the lecture, he packs up his books as slow as possible, can’t stop glancing at the rifle. Professor Logan is assembling it, hands quick and deft on the delicate parts. When he catches Erik staring, one corner lifts in a smirk.
“See something you like, bub?”
Erik grins back and can't help but feel like he’s met a kindred soul. “Just the beauty in your hands, professor.”
“Ah,” Logan says, his hands sliding up and down the rifle. “A passion for weapons? Didn’t think History students had it in them.”
Erik shows his teeth in a way that usually makes people take at least three steps back. “Call it a guilty pleasure.”
Logan laughs. Erik thinks it could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
His good mood is destroyed when he steps inside the library that afternoon, only to hear his favorite study room is taken.
“What do you mean, I can’t get in?”
The receptionist looks vaguely terrified. “Someone just, uhm, took it. About half an hour ago.” His hands flutter on the keyboard, nervous. “Room 7C is still free?”
Erik glares. He’s pretty sure the boy whimpers.
“You could always share,” the boy says, all wide eyes and genuine helpfulness. Erik just makes an angry sound and stalks back to his car.
He decides to get coffee because he feels he needs the caffeine to deal with the world some more. Plus, he still needs to write a paper about the effects of agriculture on social hierarchies. He parks his car near his apartment building and walks the last few meters to his favorite cafe. When he steps inside, Alex is rinsing mugs.
They grunt in acknowledgment and Alex gestures to a dark-haired girl to start on Erik’s usual. Erik himself sits down on the stool closest to the sink and just glares.
“Rough day, boss?” Erik just turns his glare up a notch and Alex makes a supportive sound.
“Here’s your coffee,” the girl says, smacking a mug down in front of him. He glares a little bit more at her. She shakes her head and walks back to the counter. Alex puts down the last of mugs and turns to him.
“Wanna tell me what’s bothering you so much?” he asks, voice casual while he reaches for a blueberry muffin and some kind of complicated cheese cracker. He shoves the cracker towards Erik and bites into the muffin.
“Study room was taken,” Erik grumbles. Alex nods. All his friends know how much the study room means to him. “And the receptionist dared to give me another one.” Erik groans, finally letting out some of his anger.
“I don’t want another one. This is the only one-” He bites into the cracker so angrily crumbs fly everywhere.
“The only one on a corner. Yeah, we know. With the amazing view.” Alex puts his muffin on the counter. “Just go tomorrow. You only have one class, right?”
Erik nods. It’s actually a good idea. He’ll go tomorrow. If he’s early, it should be free.
******
It’s seven o’clock and Erik is already in the library, clicking through the library catalog. He’s looking for Arms: A History, some additional reading for Logan’s class. There’s a steaming mug next to his left elbow, courtesy of Alex, and he takes a sip.
Somehow he’s got a feeling he’ll be needing one hell of a bit more caffeine than usual to get through this morning.
Turns out, he’s right.
“Sorry, someone else borrowed it.” The same librarian as yesterday stares at him, clearly still terrified. Good. Erik has no use for cocky employees he can’t scare into submission.
"There must be a second copy somewhere. Harvard, perhaps?” he says in a polite tone, showing too many teeth. The kid pales.
“Uhm sorry, I had it,” a voice behind them says. The boy exhales, relieved and Erik turns around.
Charles is standing there and Erik world narrows down, so sudden it almost hurts, to cornflower blue eyes. He’s wearing a brown jacket with elbow patches and has a stack of books in his hands so high they reach his chin.
“Oh,” he says. Charles smiles. It’s a good smile, wide and soft, with white teeth and Erik half expects pearls and diamond to drop from his mouth. He’s stupefied, glued to the floor, unable to speak. Talk, his mind ushers. Say something witty and intelligent. Take him out. Shackle him to you and never let him go. Huh.
Charles plucks a book out of the small collection clutched in his arms -they all wobble. Erik worries for a terrible moment for Charles’ safety- and holds it out. Arms: A History blinks at him in the fluorescent light, all innocence and expectations.
Erik takes the book and tucks it under his armpit. God, he should say something now. Something normal. Thank him, perhaps. What comes out instead makes him cringe and possibly smash his head against the wall.
“What are you majoring in?” Fuck.
But Charles just laughs, head thrown back and leaving a pale throat bared for hungry eyes to roam over. Even the murky grey walls of the library seem to brighten when he’s smiling. Erik might be gaping. Gaping or falling a little bit in love.
“Astrophysics.” Blue eyes sparkle at him and Erik’s still busy with processing the marvel that is a laughing Charles. He blinks.
“Stars?” It tumbles out of his mouth and he wants nothing more but push the words back in, reverse time.
Charles looks up at him, all bright eyes and floppy hair, and nods. “Yeah, stars. Planets, too. An occasional black hole, but only every other Thursday.”
Erik wants to smack himself.
“What are you majoring in?” Charles asks, genuine interest marking his features. He swallows. Even Erik can’t fuck this up.
“History,” he mumbles, staring at a point above Charles’ left shoulder.
“Ah,” Charles says. “That explains the...book.”
His cheeks darken and Erik wants to touch them, wants to follow the flush with his fingers until he gives Charles a whole other reason to blush. He mentally kicks himself. Public, he thinks. You’re in public, for fuck’s sake.
“Yeah.”
The librarian behind them clears his throat. “Sorry, but you’re kind of blocking the entrance?”
Charles’ blush turns the other way. “Yes, of course, Bobby. My apologies.” He’s already walking in the direction of the science-fiction section (stars, Erik thinks. Stars and planets and the occasional black hole) when he stops. The smile has reappeared.
“Bye,” Charles says, wriggling one arm free from under his books to wave at him.
“Bye,” Erik echoes, and then he’s gone.
Erik grabs his book and stares at the tiny rifles on the spine. He’s so fucked.
********
Two days later he runs out of his last lecture with his collar turned up because he can’t find his umbrella. Even though he kept it next to his chair the whole class. And it’s magenta. How is he unable to find a fucking pink umbrella?
By the time he reaches his apartment, he’s so pissed invading a small country seems a valid option.
Janos is cooking up something on the stove when Erik storms in, dripping wet. He throws his jacket over the couch and ignores the yelp from Azazel, who was probably playing Pokemon on his DS Lite, in favor of marching to the bathroom. Under the warm water, he calms down a little bit. Enough to accept the mug Janos pushes towards him when he flunks himself in a chair later. He doesn’t quite smile, but then, he doesn’t glare either.
“Soup?” Janos asks. Erik nods. Janos makes the best soup. He lifts the mug and takes a sip. Tea. Fantastic. He lets the steam warm him up some more.
“Someone stole my umbrella,” he grumbles.
“The pink one?” Azazel asks. “Why, for fuck’s sake?”
Erik shrugs. “Magenta. And, fuck if I know.”
Janos dumps a little something in the soup and holds out a spoon for Azazel to taste.
“They might like pink,” he offers.
“Everyone know the pink one is Erik’s! They’re all terrified of him.” Azazel hands back the spoon. “Needs more pepper.”
“Magenta,” corrects Erik. “It’s magenta.”
The next day, a blonde girl walks up to him. “I’ve got something for you,” she says.
Erik squints his eyes at her. He recognizes her vaguely from somewhere, though he doesn’t remember what. She has small hands, with nimble, elegant fingers. Her small hand holds a pink umbrella. Erik raises his eyebrows. She raises her eyebrows right back.
“Where did you find that?” he asks.
“Oh, I didn’t. My brother did,” she answers. “Maybe you know him. Charles?”
“Charles stole my umbrella?” That is not possible. Charles would never steal something.
Raven looks murderous. “My brother would never. He found it.” She whips her hair over her shoulder. “He just told me to find you and give it back. Asshole.”
“Oh,” Erik says. “Well, thank him for me.” he wants to add, but the girl has already left, nothing but a blue coat visible in the crowd of students.
******
That weekend he goes to the woods with Emma, Janos, and Azazel. Alex and Sean trail behind them. Emma is wearing a fluffy white coat that terrifies Erik -honestly, who wears white in a forest?- and presses a heap of muffins in his hands.
“Thanks,” Janos says, muffin already half gone.
“They’re for Erik,” Emma says, “He’s been losing weight.”
Erik puts the muffins in his backpack. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Emma squints her eyes. “Liar.”
She might be correct. Erik’s been feeling under the weather ever since he left Germany. He spent the summer with his Großvater in Düsseldorf, but it is always hard to leave. He misses narrow streets and the old buildings. Churches and the sound of his grandfather's cane on cobblestones. He misses real coffee, not the sorry American version. Bauernbrot with strawberry marmalade in the mornings.
Walking through the Massachusetts’ woods makes him feel like he’s a little bit home again. Even though the trees are too small and his mother won’t be waiting for him at home with hot cocoa like she used to. He balances Azazel’s second favorite ax on his shoulder and stalks over the crunching leaves until he’s in front of their group.
He still eats a muffin, though.
They chop wood for Emma’s hearth, pick mushrooms and fresh herbs for Janos. When everybody is exhausted, they stop for food. Azazel is carving a pumpkin out of a piece of wood and Emma watches him like a hawk. Erik suddenly worries.
“Are you going to give that to someone?” She has her familiar squint on, the one that means she’s judging you and she’s curious at the same time.
Azazel shrugs. “There’s this girl,” he stops to examines his work for a moment, before continuing. “She’s pretty cool. Her birthday is in October.”
Janos grins “What’s her name?”
Emma’s face has fallen into an expression of quiet approval. Azazel swings his knife through the air and Erik fears for Janos’ hair. “Like I’m gonna tell you bunch of idiots.”
They keep teasing Az about girlfriend throughout their whole trip. Azazel is usually secretive about the girls he sees, motivated by some kind of weird paranoia which Erik fully understands if you consider Emma. This time, he’s sort of enthusiastic, talking about the dates they went on.
Emma looks at her perfect off-white manicure.“When are you going to bring her in, then?”
Azazel looks at her, ax on his shoulder, calculating. “Hmm, what about never?”
She makes a low sound in her throat. “We’re not good enough for you, sugar?”
Erik gets it. Emma is insecure and broken inside, but Az is, too, and inflammable at that. They’re ready to go off this instant, opposite of each other like raging bulls. Fighting always came easy to them, still comes easy, until Alex comes running from somewhere between the trees.
His face is red and he takes in huge gulps of air like he hasn't tasted air in months. There are orange leaves in his hair, autumn sending a peace offering.
“Sean’s stuck in a tree,” he manages to get out.
Emma rolls her eyes, anger gone. “Every-fucking-time.”
The woods around them breathe with him, relieved. Erik hands the ax to Azazel, who looks like he might need some time for himself.
“I’ll do it.”
After he carries Sean out of the tree, the ginger kid on his back like a little spider monkey -they agree to never bring this up again- it’s time to go home. They pile into Janos’ blue SUV and the drive to their apartment is spent singing along to bad pop music and the sound of Erik’s disapproval. No matter how well Az can carry a tune.
Janos whistles something that sounds like a Maroon 5 song while he rummages around in a cupboard for something big enough to make soup in. Erik casually plucks the strings of his guitar. Everybody turns to glare to Sean, who is drumming with chopsticks on the table until Alex puts some old episode of Friends on.
Erik likes these days. He likes the easy interaction between them. He likes the casual bickering and the way Janos’ curls his arm around Azazel’s shoulder. He likes the way Emma, cold to the outside world but never to them, rests her head on his shoulder from where she’s sprawled over them. He’s pretty sure Sean is drumming the rhythm to I’ll Be There For You on her ankle and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t mind that as much as usual.
They eat wild mushroom soup with Vollkornbrot for dinner. Emma keeps shooting him little glances over the table.
F“It’s nice,” Erik offers, dunking a piece into the soup. She doesn’t quite preen, but she’s not far off.
It’s not until later that evening, with a quietly snoring Alex next to him, that Erik realizes he hasn’t missed home once.
******
Erik is reading Arms: A History in bed. He has spent the day at Emma’s apartment, full of friendship, music and Sean’s weird pistachio-cranberry ice cream. The hand with which he’s scratching his belly stills when he hears something in the kitchen.
His mind flickers through the options. Janos is staying over at Alex’ place, who texted him that he fell asleep after hours of helping trying out new recipes for the coffee shop. Azazel is on a date with his girlfriend, and judging by his triumphant texts, will not return until tomorrow morning. Logically, no one should be home. And yet there are sounds coming from the kitchen.
He grabs the first weapon he can find, one of Azazel’s katanas, and what is that doing in his room, but it doesn’t matter because when he storms into the kitchen the only person there is Charles. Erik drops the katana and stares.
He’s wearing a white t-shirt and khakis and Erik’s first instinct is to get a sweater for him, something thick and soft because it might be September, two-thirty in the morning is not a time to go walking around in a t-shirt. Two-thirty in the morning.
It’s two-thirty and Charles is here, in his apartment and Erik is pretty sure he should be angry.
“Charles?”
Blue eyes look up. Erik kicks the katana under the couch and steps forward. “What are you doing here?” he asks, trying to find his usual pissed-at-the-world attitude, the one people seem to find so intimidating, but it’s lost. With Charles, he can’t be anything but gentle.
He puts a hand on one white-clad shoulder and leads him to the couch. Charles is babbling about someone named Moira and tequila shots. Erik pushes him into the cushions.
“Stay here.” he blurts out and sprints to his room. He grabs the softest looking sweater he can find, a blue thing his grandfather pressed into his arms before he left last summer, mumbling something about the New England cold. It will be too big on Charles and Erik mentally stomps on what could be a surge of affection. He steps back into the living room, nerves singing through his body.
“Here,” he grunts, and the sweater lands on Charles’ lap. Much to Erik’s satisfaction, he immediately puts it on. He sits down next to blue eyes and cotton wool. Swallows.
“Charles, what are you doing in my apartment at,” his eyes shoot towards the Deadpool clock Azazel placed above the tv, “a quarter to three in the morning?”
“Uhm, tequila sort of made me forget which apartment belonged to my friend. Your door was open.” Charles pulls on the sleeves of his sweater -no, Erik’s sweater, Erik thinks, warm all over- and avoid his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He almost can’t believe he’s saying that. It’s not okay. Erik was sleeping, for fuck’s sake. Any other person would’ve been thrown out of the flat by now. Not Charles, apparently. Erik is really losing his street cred here.
“Do you wanna watch a movie or something?” Why does this feel like an awkward first date, why, why, why? Charles nods. Erik is happy and terrified at the same time.
They watch Dogma, because of course, the only thing on around three in the morning is a weird-ass movie about angels who can’t get drunk and a thirteenth apostle. When he looks over, Charles is laughing, giggling, hand pressed over his mouth. Erik’s heart seems to climb up to his throat, eager to catch a glimpse of sparkling blue eyes and rosy cheeks.
During the course of the movie, they seem to inch closer and closer together, until Charles presses his face in his chest to muffle a laugh. Erik has absolutely no memory of how they ended up like this. He wraps his arm around Charles’ shoulders nonetheless. Somehow they manage to fall asleep like that. Tangled in each other. Dark hair tickling his nose. Easy breathing to calm him down.
He wakes up to Charles making little sniffing sounds on his chest. Carefully, he replaces himself with one of Janos’ body pillows they keep on the couch for Emma and goes to make breakfast.
When he glances out of the window, the morning mist still hangs in the air. The multicolored trees outside seem to smile at him, friendly, encouraging. He makes hot chocolate and french toast and goes to wake Charles.
Charles wakes up in stages. He stretches first, sleepy blinks and half-open blue eyes staring at Erik like he can’t quite comprehend him. Then he hauls his body up, shuffles to the table and flops down in the first chair he sees. He seems to alert the moment Erik hands him a plate of french toast and a steaming cup. Burying his face into the mug, he sighs. A happy sound to break through the morning silence. His hair sticks up in different directions. He’s still wearing a sweater that’s obviously not his.
He’s so beautiful Erik’s heart hurts in his chest.
Later, after Charles has apologized so profoundly it almost embarrassed him and left in a whirlwind of dark hair and general loveliness, he realizes his sweater is still missing.
*******
After a week full of thinking about the way Charles sights in his sleep, Erik is happy to throw his mind into any distraction he can find. The distraction shows itself in the form of an after-class discussion with his History of Arms professor. The lecture ended half an hour ago. Erik is discussing the merits of ankle knives over butterflies hidden in a sleeve, which Professor Logan has seen it in a game and finds rather interesting. Erik just finds it idiotic and unnecessary.
“You need to reach your ankle first,” Logan grunts while lighting a cigar. “It takes time. You can just snap out the butterfly knife and cut the motherfucker a new asshole.”
That was twenty-five minutes ago. The cigar in Logan’s hand is almost gone when they end the discussion, and Erik still has a five-page essay that needs researching.
He’s currently sprinting over slippery asphalt to the orange light that shines through the library’s glass door. Pulling his messenger bag closer to him he mentally curses every deity in the universe for making it rain, today, right now. He slides into the hall and there’s the librarian, Bobby, glaring. Erik glares back.
“Room 7F, please.” The please almost gets stuck between his teeth. It is, after all, not a word he uses often.
Some kind of sadistic pleasure lights up on Bobby’s face. “You can’t have it.” he declares satisfaction rising from his miserable little pores. “It’s taken.”
Erik decides that desperate times call for desperate measures. His hand fists in the uniform collar and he hauls the librarian over the counter.
“Listen,” he starts, soft and polite and dangerous, “I’m wet and on a deadline. Today might not be a good day to argue with me.”
The boy nods fervently, eyes widened in fear and clicks with his mouse a few times. For the record, Erik has lowered him enough to do so. He’s not a complete monster.
“Pleasure doing business, kid,” he says with his scariest grin. It shows most of his teeth and has a glowing record of success.
He pushes the elevator button six times. Decides it’s too slow for him. Begins taking the stairs two steps at the time. By the time he has reached the third floor, he’s out of breath. The elevator chimes next to him and he accepts the peace offer the universe has decided to bring him. Running out of the elevator, he scans the gold plates next to the doors until he has found 7F. He stops, takes a deep breath and kicks the door open.
Charles – because he’s a sneaky bastard who has decided to become the bane of Erik’s existence for nothing but the thrill of it – looks up at him.
“You?” Erik says, feeling increasingly dramatic and ridiculous by the second, but it needs to be said. 7F is his fucking room.
Well, not his fucking room. Although the startled blue eyes are giving him ideas. Really, really obscene ideas about ruining the innocence of certain tweed-wearing Astrophysics students. Said certain Astrophysics student is still staring at Erik.
“Me?” Charles asks, voice unsure.
“You’ve been taking this room for the past three weeks.”
Charles frowns and closes his book. (Erik can just make something out about black holes. Thinks back to the evening spent on his couch, curled up in the arms of this almost-not-quite friend) “I’m sorry?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll find another one.” No, it’s not okay, and Erik should be kicking him out. Erik should be scaring him into never entering the library again, at least. Erik should be wiping tears off the steel toes of his Dr. Martens right now. Not cowering before the sight of warm blue eyes and floppy brown hair.
Suddenly, a smile spreads over Charles’ face, his expression shifting from thinking to iridescent enthusiasm and Erik is again rendered formless. Useless. Speechless.
“We can share!”
Jesus H. Christ on a red motorbike. He should say no.
Forget that, Erik should punch him so hard Charles ridiculous tweed jacket ends up floating around in Boston Harbor.It’s not punk rock to feel a lot of warm things at the thoughts of sharing a study room with a physics nerd. Who also reads books about weapons in his spare time, god, he’s perfect.
Before he can stop it, a small smile stretches his mouth in what Charles obviously thinks is an agreement. He starts shoving aside small mountains of paper. It would be rude to leave when he’s already established a perfect square for himself in the middle of Hurricane Charles.
********
Erik keeps sharing the study room.
He turns up, hair sticking in a thousand different directions, glaring like a leather-wrapped menace. Other students tend to avoid him, part like the Red Sea, but not Charles. For some reason, Charles seems to seek him out.
He is staring in his notebook, focused on scribbles about planetary astronomy when a cup nudges his elbow. Pale eyes look away. There’s a sound of a pen furiously writing on paper. Charles smiles and takes a sip of his chai tea latte. Erik always seems to know what he wants.
Over the course of the next week, Arms: A History disappears from Erik’s hands. It’s just something Charles read because it seemed like fun because no one realised that Charles Francis Xavier was interested in things beyond the stars. He mourns the loss of their shared companion. It reminds him of that day in the library. Of the way light reflected of old leather. Erik’s dripping hair. The way he smiled.
For all Erik Lensherr’s reputation as a cold-hearted son of a bitch, he is rather sweet once you get closer to him.
Charles has every intention of getting closer to him. Close enough to discover what he smells like. Close enough to find out if the rumours about numerous tattoos are true or not. He blushes at the mental image of Erik’s torso covered in ink and stares back at the page he’s supposed to be reading. Planets. Dandy.
Erik clears his throat. “Is it hard?”
Charles looks down. Planetary astronomy is what most people might consider hard, yes. “It’s interesting,” he offers instead, because he's never been most people. “Is what you’re doing hard?”
Erik stares down at his book like it’s the first time he sees it. “I suppose,” he mumbles, squinting at the pages.
They continue studying in silence. It should be awkward, but it isn’t.
Charles is well aware of all the other, staring, students right now. It’s a commonly known fact that Erik Lehnsherr isn’t a nice person. The only people he seems to talk to are that Frost girl, a black-haired man with curling red tattoos, some lanky ginger kid that goes by the name of Sean, a buff blond who runs the coffee shop opposite of the library and a silent Chemistry student. Almost always clad in leather and strategically ripped jeans, they make hard, unforgiving music. About the scars of life. About wearing them with dignity.
Over the past few weeks, Charles has seen Erik play for an ecstatic audience. Has seen him dripping wet and grumpy. Has shared a couch with him (Charles would like to never talk about that night ever, ever again. No matter how nice it actually was). Right now he can see the little frown between his eyebrows when he concentrates on a particularly hard question. He can’t be scared of him.
He’s not unaware of the fact that Erik seems terrifying. Cold. Uncaring to the outside world. Charles has seen enough warmth in his eyes to know that he’s just not one to spill his beans. Silent, yes. Terrible, no. This realisation might be the reason for the next sentence that comes out of Charles’ mouth.
“You want to get a cup of coffee? You know, without all..this,” he flaps his hand around the room.
Erik tucks a pen behind his ear, evoking a wave of fond feelings inside Charles. Contemplates the offer. A crooked grin appears and the rush of feelings swirl through his body. Erik is already packing up his books when Charles feels like he can breathe again.
“I suppose that might be a tad more fun than the bloody reign of Napoleon.”
Charles smiles and sweeps his papers inside his bag.
Outside it’s cold. The October wind already whooshes around. Charles watches Erik crushing crisp leaves under his heavy boots. They step inside what must be the cafe run by Erik’s friend because a blond guy clasps him on the shoulder and begins preparing a drink without any order coming up.
“So, boss, who is this?” Curious blue eyes stare at him from over the counter. Charles turns to Erik.
“Boss?”
The collection of chipped mugs seems to be the most interesting thing around, judging by how intense Erik is staring at them.
“I call him boss,” the blond says, “because he’s bossy.”
“Shut up, Alex. This is Charles,” Erik grunts, clearly embarrassed. “He would like some tea.”
Charles lifts his eyebrows. Gives him a look that should make clear he’s more than capable of ordering for himself. It doesn't work.
“Earl Gray, right?” Erik throws him a questioning look. What else can Charles do but nod, at the sight of such a big bad motherfucker asking him if he’d like tea?
The blond guy, Alex, chuckles and reaches for a blue mug. “One tea coming up.”
The coffee shop is a cozy affair. Mismatched chairs and tables. Big windows. Filled with regulars. A dark-haired girl is distributing tiny pumpkins through the whole room, which is already dressed up in quite an autumnal spirit, judging by the fairy light and orange leaves. Alex and the girl seem to fit in for some reason, even with their aggressive band t-shirts and ripped jeans.
“This is nice,” Charles says, decidedly not looking at Erik. When he risks a glance over, he almost topples off his stool. Erik looks happy. His shoulders are more relaxed than ever, and he leans against the bar with a warm expression on his face. When his eyes focus on Charles, they’re not the pale, cold green he remembers. This is more of a warm, pine green. It reminds him of forests and Christmas.
A mug lands in front of him. “If you’re done staring, would you like to eat anything with that?” Alex says, smirking.
Charles looks up at Erik again, who looks suspiciously flustered. He gestures to a cake display. “The only thing you’ve got that’s not made of sugar.”
Charles considers appearing tough but orders an iced pumpkin spice muffin instead.
When they both have their orders, Erik points towards a big table in the middle of the shop. “You wanna move?”
Charles nods. How can he refuse him anything when he looks so at ease here? The fairy lights around them glitter and reflect in pale eyes. Charles hasn’t felt this warm and comfortable in a long time. They sit down and he eyes a wooden chessboard.
“Do you play?”
Erik smirks. “I don’t play. I win.”
They both laugh after that. Charles drags the board closer. “We’ll see about that, my friend.”
********
He’s just come home, still shrugging off his jacket when the attack begins.
“Little birdie told me you had a date today, brother,” Raven sings from where she’s draped over the couch. “With Lethal Lehnsherr, of all people.”
“Do people really call him that?” Charles is already halfway in the kitchen. “He’s not so bad once you get to know him, you know.”
Raven reappears next to him and sits on the table. “Aren’t you focussing on the ‘date’ aspect of this at all?”
“It wasn’t a date,” Charles insists. “We were sharing a study room and I asked if he wanted to take a break. With coffee. And, uh, me.”
Raven’s eyebrows have risen to a point that Charles is surprised they haven’t fallen off yet. “Sharing a study room? Room 7F, the one everyone avoids because it’s Lehnsherr’s and he’s fucking scary?”
Charles shuffles towards the sink to fill up the kettle. “I was studying there and he had no problems with sharing.”
“When did this start?” Raven’s eyes are doing some kind of angry squint.
“Last week? Maybe ten days ago, I don’t know.” He takes their tea basket. Earl Gray, or English Breakfast? “He’s really nice.” The silence between them speaks for itself. Charles picks a bag of Earl Gray and turns to his sister.
“He is, you know. He buys me tea and lets me ramble about planets.”
Raven jumps off the table with such a force she takes three chairs with her. In the shocked silence of the kitchen, she points an accusing finger in the direction of Charles.
“Oh my god, you like him!”
He’s staring at her, cup in his hand. “Uh, yes.” He feels his cheeks heat up. Erik with his broad hands and his warm eyes. The surprise chai lattes. His friendly silences. How can he not like him? “Yes, I believe so.”
“You’re so weird,” Raven says. “And emotionally helpless. Did you only just realize this?”
Charles stares at his teacup. “Maybe?”
“You’re unbelievable,” Raven groans. “God only knows how this will play out.”
*******
It’s pouring outside and Charles hurries over the street, coat pulled over his head. He finally sets foot inside a small bookstore, happy for a dry refuge. He looks around and sees rows and rows of books, all crammed together on wobbling shelves. The window reads ‘S. Lee Bookstore: Used, Old and Rare’ and he immediately feels at home. Maybe he can find the 1951 copy of Asimov’s Foundation here.
He walks over to the structural maze with the plaque science fiction dangling above it. Rows of old Star Trek paperbacks and H.G. Well’s with broken spines welcome him. He starts to browse.
“No, it’s a pretty new book. 2010, I think. Weapon, by Ford. Roger Ford. Yes? Next week. Yes, fantastic, I’ll come and pick it up myself. Have a good day.”
Erik emerges from behind the autobiographies with a cell phone pressed against his ear. Charles is sure he's having a heart attack. He grabs the first book he can find -Star Wars, thank God, it could’ve been something embarrassing, imagine that- and hides between two shelves.
He has no clue why he’s hiding. Erik’s nice, with a fantastic dry sense of humor and really beautiful eyes, and yes, okay, maybe he knows. Ever since that conversation with Raven, he’s been thinking about ways to ask Erik out in a way that would mean something. A date, rather than just coffee with a friend. Study buddy. Whatever.
Pretending you’re absorbed in a book while studying a man whirling through a bookstore while you’re also hiding behind a bookshelf proves itself quite difficult. It doesn’t help that Erik is a restless person. The one moment he’s stacking books in the corner, the other he almost runs past Charles, only to return with more books.
At some point in the afternoon, a dripping wet man stalks in, clad in a scruffy leather jacket and engineers boots. He greets Erik like an old friend and lights a cigar. (Charles doesn’t think it’s all that smart to do that around so many books. Erik just grins.) They talk about weapons for a long time. Erik jumps around to grab several books from shelves. The two of them are flipping through pages, occasionally pointing things out to each other. Charles slips down between the two bookshelves he’s still hiding behind, and this is ridiculous, he and Erik are friends. Except he’s more than content to watch Erik be happy and talk about weapons.
He wakes up to a hand shaking his shoulders. “Hey kid, you okay?” The man in the leather jacket stares down at him.
Charles’ drowsy mind thinks his jacket looks like it got dragged over the pavement by a motorcycle.
“Lehnsherr, we’ve got company!”
Erik appears from deep within one of the mazes, confused. “Charles?”
He wishes quite sudden he could melt into the novel that was crammed in his hand. “Uh, hi?”
“You look dead on your feet, bub. When was the last time you slept?” the man asks and suddenly Charles has a vision of seeing him around on campus.
He replays the question in his mind. When was the last time he slept? Erik’s face turns more and more into stone over the course of Charles’ silence. He marches back to the counter, climbs over it and returns with his jacket in his hand.
“My car, now.”
“Uhm, Erik, you really don’t have to-” His sentence is interrupted by a hand on the small of his back. The hand pushes him out of the shop. They stop outside for Erik to lock up. Around them, the air is cold, the incoming evening dark. Charles feels all kinds of nervous.
Erik’s car turns out to be an ancient Volkswagen Golf. In the true spirit of punk, it’s also magenta and covered in graffiti. Charles loves it. What he doesn’t love, though, is the expression on Erik’s face.
He gets it now, a little bit, why people call him Lethal Lehnsherr.
When they’re in the car, there’s a brief silence before Erik clears his throat. “Address.” he orders, face still doing a rather immaculate impression of a Roman statue.
Charles whips his head to the side and stares out of the window. Plays Benjamin Francis Leftwich in his mind. “Not until you act like a normal person, not a Neanderthal.”
Erik at least has the decency to look ashamed. “You need to take care of yourself, Charles. When you don’t, it makes me...angry.”
All the music inside him comes to a screeching halt. He blinks a few times.
“You want me to take care of myself.”
Erik is staring at the steering wheel. They both listen to the engine coming to life before Erik rakes a hand through his hair. “Well, since you’re too much of an idiot to do that right now, I’m taking over.” A small smile curls the corners of his mouth upward.
It's the first time it's clear, obvious, this feeling of falling hard and fast he hears the rest of the world rush by. It isn’t the first time he’s felt frozen by the feelings Erik seems to wring out of him. This is the first time he aches because of it.
The rest of the journey is quiet. Charles occasionally offers directions. Erik’s grunts in response. They stop in front of his apartment building. Charles opens the car door and hesitates.
“You wanna come up?” He’s stupid. It’s stupid. He makes it sound like they’re ending a date instead of a friend taking care of another friend.
When he looks up Erik’s already yanking the keys out of the contact. He grins in his heart-stopping, shark-like way that makes most people gulp. Charles grins back.
“I make really good coffee.”
“I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” Erik says, voice lazy with something Charles likes to think is affection. The whole trip from the elevator to his apartment is spent in some sort of giddy anticipation.
The anticipation comes to a grinding halt when Raven peeks her head around the corner of the living room. “Thank God you’re home, I was ready to let Moira set up a search-” her voice stops when she sees who exactly is following him. “Party,” she finishes.
“You must be Raven,” Erik says.
She does her patented angry squint at him. “Yes. We’ve met, I believe.” She glances Charles’ way. “Umbrella, remember?”
Oh, yes. Charles had found a pink umbrella in a lecture theatre. Someone behind him had muttered, wide-eyed, scared, “that’s Lethal Lehnsherr’s”. It was pouring outside. He remembers thinking Jesus, poor Erik, which he admits is not the most typical response to Lethal Lehnsherr losing his umbrella. Nagged Raven until she agreed to give it back. He shakes his head and walks into the kitchen.
“I believe I promised coffee.”
Erik follows him, green eyes turning warm again. “I believe so.”
Charles starts the coffee maker. The whole kitchen tries to accommodate to the sudden tension that hisses between them. With Raven out of the way, he feels the anticipation again. While the coffee maker drips, he watches Erik moving around. His shoulders and the line of his back and the way he seems out of place in Charles’ apartment but so at home at the same time.
He can’t wait to invite him up more often. Until there’s nothing left of the uncertainty that colours the edges of this bright, beautiful, fantastic person now. Until he moves around the apartment like it’s his own. Until he wraps his arms around Charles. Until he leans his head on his shoulder and they’re reading the morning paper together.
God, he’s fucked.
Erik has found Charles’ collection of plectrums. Stares at it with a fascination in his eyes that makes some part of Charles' body ache. He doesn’t know if it’s arousal or some kind of intense emotion he doesn’t want to address, so he just walks towards the cupboard and reaches for two mugs.
Seeing Erik inside his home, this space where so much has happened to Charles, does something to him. Erik sits down at the table where Moira declared that they had to stop the occasional jamming and start a proper band. He plays with one of the coasters Darwin bought Charles for his birthday because ‘a table like that needs protection from all the drinking we do.’ He drinks out of the first mug Charles bought, the first thing he bought for himself when he was in junior year and got really into coffee.
He sits down next to him. Watches how evening lights from outside give Erik’s auburn hair a slight halo. His dark brown leather jacket hangs over the chair. His Metallica t-shirt stretches over his shoulders.
His boots have seen more bar fights than Charles can possibly imagine. His hands are covered in calluses from a life he’d like to know everything about. He wants German whispered in the crook of his neck while they fall asleep together. He wants to stand in the audience of every single gig The Brotherhood will play. He wants to find Erik in every crowd surrounding Cerebro, too.
It doesn’t occur to him that they’re drinking coffee in silence until Raven barges in and dives headfirst into the fridge. She comes back with a red velvet cupcake and eats it, staring at them. Judging.
Erik drains the last of his coffee. “I think it’s time for me to leave. Got an 8 AM lecture tomorrow.”
“I’ll walk you down,” Charles says, almost slamming his cup down on the table in his haste. Erik does his half-smile thing again. Charles smiles back. Raven eats her cupcake. Their hands touch when Charles hands Erik his jacket. They both linger a little longer than could be described as casual. Raven huffs into her cupcake.
The elevator ride is again silent. Charles remembers the first time they were working together, quiet. How he was so relieved he didn’t have to talk about anything. With Erik, there are no difficult social clues he could be missing. No hidden meaning behind seemingly simple words. No unspoken rules he can cross. Just silence, and them.
Outside, the pavement glows in the aftermath of a rain pour. They walk over the parking lot and stop in front of Erik’s magenta Volkswagen.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome.”
Green eyes capture his. For a moment Charles doesn’t know how it’s supposed to get better than this. There’s a rumble around them. It starts to rain, soaking them both to the bone. Before Charles can realise he’s wearing nothing but a blue polo, a heavy weight lands on his shoulders. It’s Erik’s leather jacket. The Metallica shirt turns a dark gray that clings to broad shoulders and a tapered waist. The air around them is vibrating.
Charles focuses on the moment. Captures it with his mind. Intends to never let go. Erik plays with his keys, eyes still on Charles. He can feel himself shake. This not usually how he acts.
A broad hand closes around his wrist. He can feel himself being dragged headfirst into a solid chest. He looks up. All he can see are warm green eyes, the soft, private smile he’s been secretly dubbing as ‘the Charles smile.’ They’re standing on a parking lot in Boston, soaked and cold. Charles has never felt this incredible in his entire life.
A thumb rises, tips his chin up. Erik looks down, hair dripping and eyes an intense dark green.
All the oxygen is taken from him. He gulps, desperate to get it back and then pair of strong lips land on his and they’re kissing. It’s something, this fragile, fearless thing between them. Feels like diving and coming up for air. All the oxygen returns to him in a rush when they both gasp against each other's lips.
Charles curls one hand in the hair at Erik’s nape. Presses himself impossibly closer to the body already flush against him. It’s all lovely and sweet until Charles moans under a tooth nibbling on his bottom lip and opens his mouth.
What follows is not so much a battle, dance or any other ridiculous word books use to describe first kisses. It’s an open-mouthed exchange of emotion. He tastes coffee and something fresh. Pinewood. Old leather. Erik. They’re both making noises, he realises in some far corner of his mind before he’s turned around and pressed against that stupid Volkswagen. Erik’s mouth slides down, to his jaw, presses small kisses along the line of his neck. Charles makes a sound deep in his throat.
Eyes capture his and they’re dark, all the green almost disappeared in favour of black. Their panting fills the air because even after this, even now, they don’t need words. Erik buries his face in Charles’ shoulder. Laughs, muffled in leather and cotton.
“Shit, Sonnenblümchen. That was a long time coming.”
He can’t stop the moan at the sound of harsh consonants. Lips find his again and again until the rush of oxygen makes him breathless. He’s squirming against the car and hooks one leg around Erik’s waist. They both make a sound at that and their kiss takes a desperate note.
Erik mumbles something in German, voice hoarse and frantic. Charles fists his hand in the collar of the Metallica shirt. Hears something rip in the distance. Finds he doesn’t give two fucks. Green eyes, almost black by now, try to focus.
“Touch me,” Erik says, accent heavy in the air.
Charles throws his head back. “Jesus.” He wraps his other leg around Erik’s waist too and captures his chin in two hands. “Always, always, always,” he can hear himself mumble before they’re kissing again.
After another two hours, week, ten minutes of kissing, Charles pulls back.
“You have a lecture in the morning,” he says, hating himself for sounding so disappointed.
Erik traces figures on the skin of his collarbone, exposed due to long fingers undoing buttons a minute, second, month ago. They find each other for one more kiss. Charles pushes Erik into the Volkswagen, the both of them grinning like idiots.
“See you tomorrow?” he asks through the lowered window.
Erik smirks, full of teeth and intent and Charles goes a little bit weak in the knees. He steals one more kiss. Wrings himself in an impossible position just to find the other’s mouth again.
“You bet, Liebling.” Erik’s mouth mumbles against his. “You bet.”
******
The next week is filled with Erik’s arm around Charles’ shoulder. Erik’s jacket draped over his couch. Erik buying him special kinds of tea. Erik falling asleep on him while watching Star Wars. They haven’t defined this thing between them yet. Honestly, Charles doesn’t care what Erik calls him, as long as they can keep kissing.
Today, Erik brought him breakfast. Charles loses himself in cinnamon rolls and brioche donuts. Erik is cleaning his boots, the autumn morning on the background. It’s all comfortable, easy.
Erik wipes his fingers on his jeans and clears his throat. “So, there’s this thing.”
Charles puts down his donut. “Yes?”
“There’s this thing at Alex’ coffee shop tonight. I was wondering, since Brotherhood is playing, if you would-”
“I’d love to come,” Charles says, smiling. Erik always gets so nervous over the smallest things. “Especially since my sister is dating one of your best friends.”
A boot hits the floor. “What? Which one?”
“The one with the red tattoos,” Charles says. Donut or cinnamon roll? He’s already eaten three donuts. Dilemma.
He discovered the relationship between Raven and Erik’s friend when he came back from a lecture early and found them having sex on his couch. He'd backed away slowly and hid in the library afterwards. Also, there’s been a suspicious increase of small wooden statues in Raven’s room. (Erik told him his friend has a way with knives.)
“Azazel?” Erik is gaping at him. “That’s the girl he’s dating? Your fucking sister?”
Cinnamon roll it is, he decides. “I believe so,” he says around a mouthful of puff pastry.
Erik stares at his lonely boot. “Jesus H. Christ on a red motorbike,” he says. “The sneaky shitbag.”
Charles pushes a cinnamon roll in his hand. “Here, eat this. It’s no big deal.” Erik takes a big bite. Behind him, the sun starts to push through the clouds. “More tea?”
Erik buries his face in the pastry clutched in his hands. “My friends never tell me anything,” he complains while stuffing the entire cinnamon roll in his mouth.
“They’ve been dating since September.” Charles says while he pours more tea, black with a hint of orange, in both their cups.
Erik makes a miserable sound.
To cheer him up, they spend the rest of the day in the woods, running around in orange leaves. Charles wears Erik’s sweater plus a huge gray scarf. He doesn’t miss the way green eyes follow him and he smiles. Erik huffs but uses the ends of his scarf to pull him close and plant a kiss on his nose.
They get hot drinks at the coffee shop. The whole place is busy with preparations for that evening. Alex’ blond hair is fiercely illuminated by the fairy lights when he grins at them, a caramel latte and a black Americano already in his hands. He greets them with a nod and his eyes glitter with amusement.
“I had a feeling. Hello, Erik. Erik’s sweater.”
Charles laughs at Erik’s embarrassed face and gives him his cookie to comfort him. Erik likes to pretend he’s a bad, punk, intimidating rebel who doesn’t like sweets. Charles knows the truth. Underneath all the leather, he’s just a big loser with a soft spot for cookies.
They return to the apartment to have dinner. When they step inside, Raven is painting her nails blue. He watches Erik’s face, which is flickering through a few expressions but ultimately settles on vague disinterest.
“So, you’re dating Azazel.” Raven snorts, looks from Erik to Charles and goes back to her nails. “Well, you figured that out, apparently.”
Charles shakes his head and moves to the kitchen to carry the pumpkins from the counter to the table. He’s just grabbing knives when a man in a red leather jacket and gelled black hair sticks his head out of the door leading to Raven’s bedroom.
“Hey babe, I can’t find my-”
“Well, this is awkward.” Charles says, cheerful because he is a little bit sadistic under all his fluffy sweater vests. “You must be the guy my sister thinks she’s been dating in secret for the past three months.”
“Uhm,” Azazel says, dumbstruck. “Yes?”
“I heard you’re good with knives,” Charles says, waving with a knife of his own. “Think you can you help me?”
Erik and Raven walk in on them cutting up pumpkins, swearing and laughing. “This is a terrifying thing to witness,” Raven says.
Azazel dangles three knives from his left hand. “We’re making pumpkin soup.” He stares at Erik and bears a pair of sharp teeth in a smile. “Hey boss, you’re here too?”
Erik stares at the pumpkins, at the knife in Charles’ hands, at Azazel and then flops down in a chair. “Gott, I need alcohol.”
Raven throws a beer at him. “Your wish is my command.”
They eat the soup while the outside world darkens. Azazel and Erik are having some kind of conversation carried out through looks and small grunts. Raven and Charles are drinking wine like civilized people. They end dinner with Charles giving Azazel an anatomical map.
“What do the blue spots mean?” the man asks, and he grins. “Those are the places I will stab you if you hurt my sister.”
Azazel pales and Erik looks at him with wide eyes. “Impressive.”
Charles shrugs. “I’m more than just cuddly sweaters.”
Green eyes crinkle in the small smile Charles has come to lo-appreciate so much. “Yeah, I know.”
Later that evening, Charles is seriously regretting his decision to come to the concert. The coffee shop is packed and he’s crammed between a table and about twenty people. They’re all shouting along with a song he doesn’t know the lyrics to. It features the phrase ‘bigots can go fuck themselves’ often enough that he just yells that at the right moments. Erik gives him a proud look from time to time. Charles feels satisfaction inside him swell.
The gig has been going on for what must be one and a half hour now but feels much shorter. He didn’t know he had it in him to enjoy punk rock. Here he is, stomping along with Sean’s beat. They’re doing a mixture of original songs and covers, and the next song they start is Green Day’s Having A Blast. He vaguely remembers the lyrics from Raven’s teenage rebellion phase, so he hums along, eyes focused on Erik.
Earlier in the evening, they did Mr. Brightside and Charles had laughed, loud. The entire band stared at him while their main singer flipped him the bird and mouthed ‘fuck you’ at him. The irony of that song, performed by Lethal Lehnsherr, is not lost on him.
The music stops and Erik clears his throat in the microphone. He’s sweating through his purple t-shirt, the leather jacket tied around his waist. Charles couldn’t take his eyes off him even if he wanted. He’s still staring when Erik winks at him. He can never fully comprehend it, how easy-going Erik is on stage. Shy, introverted, awkward in real life, but give him a guitar and a crowd and he turns into a real charmer. God forbid the day Erik Lehnsherr gets into politics.
“Brothers and sisters. I’m sad to say we’ve almost reached the end of our little get-together,”
There’s a chorus of boos and nos. Erik smiles. “Yes, we’re as devastated as you are. But before we end our evening together, you have to help me. It’s time to take a break from the heavy political lyrics, and focus on emotions instead.”
The whole cafe cheers and whistles. Erik slings his guitar on his back and turns to grab the microphone. “There’s someone here tonight,” Erik starts.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. He’s looking at Charles. He’s not going to- No, he wouldn’t. Or would he?
“A very special someone,” Erik continues, unfazed by Charles quietly panicking in the audience.
“We’ve been sort of circling around each other for weeks. Recently we’ve both gotten our heads out of our asses. But,” he’s now staring at Charles with intent, with emotion, “no clear labels. Since I’m sort of going crazy... Dear Charles, how can I sing a song about planets and not dedicate it to you? Let’s hope you wanna be, uhm, boyfriends.”
People around him cheer, clap, stomp. A soft melody starts. Erik is singing about smoky clouds of laughter. Shouting out loud. Shells cracking. Planets bending.
“So they could hear it in America,” his deep voice croons. “It’s all for you.”
Charles has a feeling he might be crying. Then he brings his hands up to his cheeks and yes, he’s definitely crying. The song fades out Erik is looking at him again, eyes uncertain this time. Charles sighs. The man can be such an idiot sometimes. He hoists himself up on the stage, cheers and catcalls following him. A broad hand stretches out towards him. Charles grabs it.
“You know, you could’ve just asked me,” he says, voice light and casual. Erik’s face darkens. Shit, that was not the reaction he was going for.
“Nonetheless, you know what they say. Nothing is as romantic as a serenade.”
Erik still looks unsure of himself, shoulders hunched and eyes wide. This demands actions, rather than words, then. Erik's always been a man of action.
He stands on his tiptoes, grabs the square chin with two hands. In a bold move he’d never thought he would be capable of, he swiftly captures his lips. The noise around him is deafening. Crowd screaming. The rushing in his ears. When they pull back, Erik is pink-cheeked and lovely. With a sheepish grin, he says; “I just can’t resist a man who sings to me about planets.”
Erik’s answering laugh might be his new favorite sound in the world.