It’s difficult for Charles to focus during AP French. Not because he finds French difficult , not at all. In fact, it’s a rather simple course for him. He just doesn’t pay much attention to the material. It is completely Mr. Lehnsherr’s fault.
Charles is a perfect student. That is, he always was a perfect student before Mr. Lehnsherr’s French class in freshman year, of course. It was then that perfection began to steadily fall downhill. His grades didn’t suffer, Charles certainly would never stand for that. No, his grades definitely weren’t the object of suffering. The suffering Charles endured was on a strictly emotional level. Pure teenage emotional angst.
He was intensely, horrifically attracted to his French professor from the first moment he saw him. Over the two years in his French classes, it’s been worsening gradually. He stares at his professor’s lips, his eyes fixed upon the way Mr. Lehnsherr forms those words perfectly. He also gazes at his teacher’s throat, watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down with each rough roll of the “r.” Charles often wonders how those lips would feel against his own, or how that stubbled neck would feel nestled against his. He knows, of course, that no matter how much he wants it to be so, Mr. Lehnsherr is out of his league, especially in a legal sense. Not only that, but Mr. Lehnsherr has never even so much as nodded at him in the hallways.
This doesn’t stop Charles from slowly, leisurely blinking at Mr. Lehnsherr during French class. It doesn’t stop his activities in bed, in the shower or even in the school bathrooms if he really can’t wait. It does stop him from acting in a completely inappropriate fashion, despite the want that settles so deeply and powerfully in his mind. He still stares wishfully at Mr. Lehnsherr’s lips in class. He still doodles nonsense (Charles Francis Xavier-Lensherr, good god) in cursive like a fucking schoolgirl in the margins of his notes, which are all exact quotations of Mr. Lehnsherr’s lectures. Exact. Quotations.
Academic propriety isn’t what takes Charles to Mr. Lehnsherr to ask for a recommendation letter for his journey to university, nor is it any kind of honorable intent. Charles does intend to lie through his teeth for a possible outcome that he has wanted for years. It’s only selfishness and the kind of bold stupidity which Charles has never once acted on in the past. It’s his hypothesis, his desperate desire for his guess to be as educated as Mr. Lehnsherr himself.
Charles is not nearly as talented as his sister in the art of fabricating stories, but he practiced this particular one enough that he knows exactly what to say under any circumstance. Of course, he hasn’t yet figured out what to do if Mr. Lehnsherr starts something. He’s completely confident in his assertions, however, that it will come to him at the very last moment. The best ideas often do.
He steps into the classroom, smiling brightly. Approaching the desk, he clears his throat to coax Mr. Lehnsherr’s attention to him. When those intense eyes meet his, he has to swallow thickly before saying softly, “Sir? I’d like you to consider writing me a recommendation for college.”
Mr. Lehnsherr raises an eyebrow contemplatively. “What will you be studying, Charles?”
Charles smiles kindly, and braces himself for his lie. “French.”
“You won’t survive in a collegiate French course,” Mr. Lehnsherr informs Charles blandly, and he goes back to his paperwork without another word.
Desperate, Charles asks frantically, “Why not?”
“Because all you’ve ever done in my course is stare at me with your gorgeous doe eyes like I’m a piece of meat, Mr. Xavier, and whatever will you do if your college professor is just as desirable to you? You can learn outside the classroom here, but not there,” and Mr. Lehnsherr doesn’t seem to realize what he’s said until it’s too late. He drops his grading pen and stares up at Charles, horrified. His expression is one Charles has seen on Raven multiple times, eyes wide and mouth parted in abject horror.
Charles doesn’t hesitate to dive around the desk, kissing him heatedly. At first, Mr. Lehnsherr pushes him away, but it’s only to move the two of them into his office and shut the door--and he’s locking that door with a sharp click, god. Charles is soon pressed against the door, being thoroughly kissed by the French teacher he’s desired since his first day of freshman year.
It’s everything he had ever dreamed and more, because he truly doubts that the hardness grinding into his thigh is Mr. Lehnsherr’s cell phone in his pocket.
Well, it could be, Charles thinks while wrapping his arms around his professor’s neck. But he sincerely hopes it isn’t.