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“Buy me a beer,” someone says.
Erik turns reflexively. There’s a boy leaning over the rightmost edge of his deck, smiling at him and swaying drunkenly with the music. He has blue eyes, brown hair half covered by a ridiculous hat - the dangling pompoms look like white rabbit tails - and a very pretty mouth. His face is pink with the cold and the just-past-infrared light coming off the heat lamps above Erik’s head.
Punters buy the DJ drinks (Erik has one already), not the other way around - and there tends not to be much verbal negotiation involved. Because someone is obviously busy. “How the hell did you get up here,” says Erik.
The boy smiles some more. “But you owe me a beer,” he says, as if answering the thought Erik didn’t voice instead of the question he did. “Three, actually. Can’t dance while holding a drink - don’t quite have the knack, I’m afraid - and nowhere is safe to put them down. Thanks to your frequencies. I’ve experimented.”
"Get out of my booth," Erik says. But the boy – he's not that young, probably; he just looks it – laughs, as if this were the best joke ever. Then he squeezes behind Erik as if he has every right to be there, and steals Erik’s Solo cup from by his elbow.
Before Erik can react, he takes a sip of the beer, then sets it down near the edge of the table, with the deliberate air of a scientific demonstration.
“Bitburger,” he says. “Nice. Watch this.”
Erik considers, for a second, grabbing him by the scruff of his parka and throwing him bodily offstage. Then he realizes he’s hit the track’s breakdown and curses as he throws himself back into salvaging the set. He has to cheat – invisibly, tweaking the belt speeds directly with his power as he flips through his records - but the crowd is too distant for anyone to notice, and as for the—
—the bass drops, a blissful, filthy, world-obliterating noise. Someone in the front row screams, loud enough to be heard in the booth. Erik is looking directly at the boy, and sees him jolt, bodily, as if someone has injected him with a chemical straight into the spine. His mouth falls open, a little; his lashes slide half-shut.
Between them, the plastic cup vibrates, almost hovering off the table, then dances gracefully right off the edge, spilling a glittering spray of beer as it goes.
The boy blinks – twice – and visibly relaxes, the cheeky smile beginning to curve his lips again. “There,” he said, “quod erat demonstratum. Though I like your set! Don’t get me wrong. It’s, um. Very energetic. Like riding inside a rampaging giant robot. That’s punching an even bigger robot. You have gorgeous arms, by the way. I’ve been staring at them all evening.”
“This is not the time,” Erik says. Sixteen measures to go, and he's—
—using his power outright, no hands, not looking. Because instinct has finally started, sluggishly, to signal a threat.
Upon which the boy meets his eyes and says:
“I’m very drunk, so I’m going to do something inadvisable that I will certainly regret tomorrow. All right?”
“What,” begins Erik, and then everything slows and dampens, like someone flipped the speed on the universe from 45 to 33 and turned the volume knob down. He reaches out for every scrap of metal within range, heart suddenly hammering, and why didn’t he notice that they were having this conversation without so much as raising their voices to be heard over the music, how are they—
“You’re looking for someone,” says the boy (his voice coming through as clear as a line of typeface appearing in Erik’s brain, entirely bypassing air and ear), “but he’s not here. So, if you like, you can look for me instead... after your set. And buy me a beer. How about that?”
He reaches out, and quite deliberately runs a finger over the top of the cuff bracelet fastened around Erik’s right wrist, leaving a smudge of body heat in the metal.
“My name is Charles Xavier,” he says. “By the way.”
***
Charles is not wearing much metal, apart from the bog-usual - button and zipper on jeans, hooks on lace-up boots, coins in wallet - which makes keeping track of him more difficult within the crowd. But then, he’s not trying to hide. Erik spots him several times over the course of the next half hour, dancing or talking animatedly with a pretty blonde girl in a blue coat. Based on body language, Erik decides that she’s not a girlfriend.
When the set ends, he barely pauses to acknowledge the crowd’s cheers before grabbing his own outerwear – hoodie, leather jacket – and dashing downstairs, taking the steps two or three at a time. He flips the hood up, not wanting to be accosted by the usual trainspotting fanboys, but no one pays attention.
The grounds are snowy and damp, beginning to turn to slush with the passage of feet. Charles is standing a ways off the bulk of the crowd, near the washrooms (a row of rather bijou little wooden faux-chalets). He's alone. Erik brushes past him, not bothering to say a word, and doesn't need to turn to know he's following.
When they pass by the last of the chalets Erik grabs Charles by the arm, drags him inside – the cleaners have made their round, thankfully – and kicks the door closed behind them in the same motion. He locks them in with a thought, and Charles gives a huff of surprised laughter. His eyes are very bright.
“This is a bit dodgy, isn’t it,” he says. “In the loo? At a rave? At least it’s heated.”
Erik hasn’t let go of his arm. He gives a push and Charles stumbles, his back hitting the wall. Erik follows, crowding him close. With his power, he pins Charles’s boots by the shoelace hooks; uses his hands to physically immobilize his wrists. Charles gives a little shudder, all over, and his head falls back, shoulders relaxing into the hold. His bared skin is warm in Erik's grip.
“Tell me what you are,” Erik says.
“I’m like you,” says Charles. “I’m what you are. Did you think you were alone?"
Erik did. It occurs to him, firstly, that the situation is not safe; and secondly – dizzyingly – that he's about to do something monumentally and uncharacteristically reckless, and he does not care. "You're doing something to me," he murmurs. "You're in my head... aren't you?"
"Am I?" says Charles, sounding mildly surprised. As if Erik's pointed out an aspect of the situation that honestly did not occur to him. "Should I apologize?"
"Don't be coy with me."
"I think I've been anything but." Charles swallows, visibly. "Are you going to kiss me? I would hate to have misread the moment."
Erik curses under his breath, feelingly, and leans forward to do just that.