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Scott breaks up with him via text, just as he’s having a coffee with Raven.
Charles stares at the phone blankly, caught by three separate, somewhat conflicting emotions at once. Part of him is smarting like he’s been burned, another part is a dull hum of ‘saw it coming,’ while yet the third one is stuck on the incredulous: ‘Really? A bloody text?’
His face must reflect some sort of confusion, because Raven snaps her fingers at him impatiently.
“Charles! Are you even listening to me?”
Charles blinks and puts the phone down. “Of course,” he says without inflection. “Paris.”
“Only you would talk about the most romantic city on the planet in that tone of voice,” Raven scoffs. “Too right I’m the one spending Christmas there while you’re going to be stuck in some smelly B&B with Scott like the old fart you are. You’d better be careful, they will probably have board games there, and we don’t want you to get all excited, grandpa.”
Charles gives her a wan smile. “I’ll try not to forget my medication,” he offers just to see Raven roll her eyes. “So what else are you going to see in Paris? Hank probably has an entire itinerary prepared.”
“He does. Museums, museums, and more museums.” Raven smirks. “I’m not contradicting him now. No need to get him all worked up before we even cross the Atlantic. Once there, however…”
She launches into an enthusiastic retelling of her actual plans, which seem to include all kinds of shenanigans that will, no doubt, make Hank turn at least thirty shades of red. Charles listens with half an ear, careful to display outward signs of attention, while still reeling inside. He’s not doing it on purpose. He just feels a bit numb.
A Christmas vacation in Paris for two was his idea, not that Raven needs to know about it. But Hank has been Charles's senior lab technician for a long time, they have become friends. Charles has been there through every stage of his ever-tempestuous, ever on-again off-again relationship drama with Raven. So when Hank had come in one morning and told him that he and Raven seemed to be in a good place for once, seemed to have settled into it, and he was thinking about proposing, asking for Charles's advice and possibly blessing with a hopeful, utterly vulnerable look on his face, it was all Charles could do to clap him on the shoulder and say ‘I’m so happy for you.’
He isn’t at all certain that it will work out. Charles loves his sister, but he also knows her. Raven is the kind of person who can never quite settle for anything, no matter how good it is. She always feels there will be something better over the next horizon, and if not, then the next. She broke up with Hank multiple times over the years in favor of whirlwind romances with an up and coming architect, a runner-up on American Idol, two of the Academy Awards nominees for best actress (in the same year), and once, memorably, with a member of the Russian bratva. Hank had taken her back every time, his devotion not blind, but steadfast, unwavering. In his less charitable moments, Charles thinks that it’s only unwavering, because it would be too much work for Hank to go and find someone else to fixate on.
But Charles chases those thoughts away. Hank loves Raven. Charles is just being cynical and bitter, because that’s who he is under the ever-smiling, ever-friendly exterior.
So he helps Hank steal one of Raven’s rings to help him with the size, and then patiently accompanies him to what amounts to at least a dozen trips to various jewelry stores, because Hank is after perfection. Perfection proves to be way out of Hank’s budget, so Charles leaves the seller his card in case there’s ever a discount, and then comes back alone, and convinces the shop to make Hank a very special offer while Charles quietly covers the difference. Hank, honest and straightforward person that he is, suspects nothing.
Charles then purchases two first-class tickets to Paris, which costs a pretty penny, seeing as it’s so last minute. Raven, he knows, won’t accept them from him. She has long convinced herself that any gift from him of substantial monetary value is patronizing and demeaning. They had dealt away with whatever was left of the family fortune shortly after Sharon had died. As a tenured professor at Columbia, Charles is not at all bad off, but he’s not exactly rich, either. Raven loves to point that out to him at every opportunity.
So Charles puts the tickets in an envelope and asks Sean to fake a call from a radio station, declaring Raven the winner of an online contest she’d taken part in months ago as a joke. Raven was so happy, she didn’t question it, though she did gloat a lot when she told Charles about it. Charles told her he was happy for her.
A vacation in Paris, he thinks idly, as Raven flags a waiter to bring the check. He wouldn’t want to go on one with Scott. It’s not that he doesn’t see the appeal. It would be great fun to go on a trip like that with someone he’s in love with or even with a dear friend. How come his boyfriend of almost two years is neither?
Charles dwells on it as he walks home. He cares about Scott, that much is true. Even now, after Scott has just dumped him, he still does. He’s attracted to him, certainly. He feels… fondness, he supposes, for the man. He and Scott were… nice. Comfortable. Stable.
Jean, he thinks, and a wave of humiliation washes over him. Scott has dumped him to be with Jean. Jean, Charles's TA. Who he met when stopping by Charles's office. Who Charles will have to continue to work with after the break. Somehow. Without combusting on the spot.
Dammit, Scott. It’s humiliating enough to be dumped. It’s twice as humiliating to be dumped in favor of his own assistant, an admittedly bright girl ten years younger and, unlike Charles, pretty as a picture.
Charles isn’t bad looking by any means, but he’s average. At thirty-six, he’s long past the age of people turning their heads after him, if that had ever happened. And that sort of thing had never mattered much to him, but it mattered a great deal to Scott.
He was always after Charles to work out more, to dress better. Always wanted to attend the charity galas and balls Charles still got invited to, thanks to his name. Scott craved the spotlight, had always been drawn to the rich and famous. When he’d learned that Charles was friends with the Erik Lehnsherr, he’d bugged Charles non-stop for an introduction.
Erik was, of course, everything Scott wished Charles had been. At the time, Charles found it funny. He just couldn’t believe that Scott was one hundred percent serious. Erik, as Charles recalls, found it a lot less amusing, and ever since tried to cross paths with Charles's boyfriend as little as possible.
That should have been a clue, right there, Charles thinks with bitter irony, that he himself had privately sided with Erik every time.
Scott isn’t a bad guy, Charles thinks, frowning at the ‘Out of service’ sign hung across the elevator doors in his building. Despite the horribly cliched situation he’s put Charles in just now, he’s not a bad guy. Charles never had illusions that Scott loved him. He just thought that what they did have was good and it was enough.
He climbs up eight flights of stairs trying to convince himself all the while that it shouldn’t hurt, therefore it doesn’t. But it’s like the more he repeats it, the more it hurts, until he feels like there’s an actual acid pit in his stomach. He sits down heavily on the second to last step and can’t make himself move again. His body trembles, and he’s biting his lips viciously, trying not to cry.
Because he tried. So maybe he’s never been head over heels in love with Scott, but he cared about him, loved him in his own way. Charles loved him as best he could. He worked tirelessly to mold himself into the most caring, attentive, devoted partner he could be. And he thought that it was working. Charles had made his mistakes, and he had learned his lessons. With Keith. With Brian. With Eli. Best not even think about Logan. He crafted himself into what any reasonably sane man would want in a partner. And now, here he sits.
It’s not the best he could do. Charles knows this, but the thing is, the best thing is beyond his capacity. Being real in a relationship, being utterly and completely himself, he hasn’t tried that since Logan, and that relationship was like a garbage can on fire. Granted, Charles had picked a really dark moment to reveal his true colors to anyone, but all the same.
The only other time the relationship had been easy, the only time it was effortless, lacking any sort of pretense, the very need for one, was forever ago, when he was seventeen and was dating Erik.
The thought brings a smile to Charles's lips, despite everything. God, but they were young. Erik was actually kind of awkward then—a moody, broody loner, who delivered scathing, sarcastic remarks, guaranteed to bring anyone down to earth. Most people in school, including upperclassmen, were scared shitless of him.
It’s almost impossible to believe that that Erik and Erik Lehnsherr, founder and CEO of Lehnsherr Corp., number twelve on the Fortune’s 500, the man whose exploits are splashed all over the gossip blogs and columns on a regular basis, are, or indeed could be, the same person.
Erik hadn’t changed so much as he had grown into himself, and Charles loved that about him. Despite running a huge company, Erik was still grumpy when forced to deal with people he didn’t know, still thought most people were idiots, still believed that capitalism was an inherently corrupt and evil system and then set out to prove that it doesn’t have to be. When he announced that every single employee of his would receive a yearly salary of no less than seventy thousand, every single one, the business community had gleefully predicted him going bankrupt within a year. By the end of next year, though, his revenue had tripled, and Harvard Business School made him a case study.
Erik's star had risen high, but he always found the time for the friends he made back before his name became a brand. Indeed, he treasured those relationships like precious jewels. And Charles was his oldest friend, and for a brief, bright year, had been his boyfriend, and life was supposed to tear them apart, but didn’t. Erik didn’t let it.
Charles wouldn’t have presumed to fight for them, wouldn’t want to cling to Erik, when it became clear that Erik was about to leave him in the dust. Charles did what he had always wanted to do—forge a career in academia, as a researcher and a professor. It was nothing to scoff at, and it made him happy, but it was nothing out of the ordinary, either. Erik was now friends with the likes of Richard Branson and was dating supermodels of every gender and variation thereof. Charles wouldn’t have dared demanding space in that glorious life.
Erik, though, was having none of it. When Charles came back from Oxford, having spent six years away, Erik was the one to pick him up from the airport, expensive suit, confident smile and all. Erik was the one who ignored Charles's blushing, stuttering awkwardness and hugged him before he could injure himself. Erik was the one who made a point to stop by and cook for Charles whenever he was in town for longer than forty-eight hours.
Erik is an aberration in Charles's messy and mostly a failure of a romantic history. They have been friends for so long now that most of the time Charles doesn’t consciously remember that they used to be together once upon a time. Except, that’s not quite true. There’s a part of him that always remembers that. It’s the same part that remembers, vividly, complete with colors, smells, and sounds, as if it happened yesterday, what it felt like to fall in love for the first time—and as it turns out, for the last time. That part had never learned how to stop.
Charles has buried that part deep to enjoy what he has. A friend like Erik only happens once in a lifetime, not every lifetime. Keeping that friendship is worth a thousand times more than sulking about not being Erik's lover.
Charles sighs, leans against the wall, and closes his eyes. Everything he’s touching is hard and uncomfortable, but he has no energy to move, not yet.
Daydreaming about Erik, past or present, is always easy, but it doesn’t help him in his current situation one bit. This is Charles's life and he has to sort out his own damn messes. Being dumped on his ass three days before Christmas just happens to be one of them.
--
Amazingly, the last day of classes goes without a hitch. Charles wakes up that morning, feeling slightly subdued and sort of lighter in some strange physical sense. His jeans feel loose when he buttons them up, and he feels like he can’t get warm in his cramped but very well-heated apartment. No matter how many layers he puts on, the feeling of being slightly chilled doesn’t go away.
He only has one class to teach, and instead of giving the lecture as scheduled, he’s led by some instinct to walk in front of his desk and lean on it instead and answer the students’ questions about the course, about the papers, about what it’s like to be in the field of genetics in general. The class is surprisingly alert for eight a.m., and it’s a lovely back and forth with lots of jokes, anecdotes, and laughter. They should do this regularly, Charles thinks absently, as the kids clear out. With tea and cookies.
“Um, Professor?”
Charles looks up to see Kitty Pryde hovering near his desk. He smiles at her.
“It’s Charles, Kitty,” he reminds her gently. “I’m not as stuffy as all that yet, am I?”
He knows he can’t play this game forever, but he figures he has a few more years when having his students address him by his first name in class isn’t that awkward or trying too hard. His mentors at Oxford would have, of course, fainted in dismay, which is half the reason Charles loves doing it.
Kitty colors slightly. “Yes, Charles. Um…”
Charles stops gathering his things to give her his full attention. He knows her way by now and doesn’t prompt or prod her, just waits.
“I just wanted to say…” Kitty starts again and now she’s definitely blushing. Charles can see her girlfriend roll her eyes in fond exasperation behind her. Kitty, meanwhile, rallies and looks him in the eye firmly. “I just wanted to thank you. For your course. For the way you talk to us about genetics. I only took this class as a general education requirement—”
“I know,” Charles interjects with a smile.
“Right, but now I want to switch my majors.”
Charles blinks. “Oh.”
Kitty nods, serious as always. “I was all over the place when I first got to college. I mean, I knew I liked science, but I couldn’t really see my place in it. I only picked chemistry because it was my best subject. But the more I came to your class, the more it all became clear in my head—where the whole science of genetics is going, and I personally can contribute to it. It’s like I could see myself in context, you know? I never had that before.” She gives him a timid smile. “So… that’s what I wanted to tell you. Thank you.”
“Oh, Kitty.” Charles feels flustered suddenly himself. “No, thank you. It was a privilege to teach you. I’m glad I could uh… give you some clarity. Switching majors is… well, a major decision. But I have absolute confidence that you will succeed in any field you choose.”
“Thank you.” Kitty nods somberly. “I know this is the only undergrad course that you teach, so I suppose this is goodbye until grad school?”
Charles laughs, and she grins at him. “My door is always open, Kitty. And my mailbox definitely is.”
“That is, unfortunately, true,” a voice cuts in from the doorway.
Charles rolls his eyes at Moira, who’s clearly been standing there for some time, leaning against the doorframe.
“Professor MacTaggert!” Kitty jumps in place and even her usually unflappable girlfriend straightens up. “Uh, sorry, professor, we’ll get out of your way. Thank you again, professor—er, Charles. Happy holidays!”
They scatter. Moira watches them go with an amused and slightly menacing smile.
Charles sighs, though he is smiling. “Must you?”
Moira looks unrepentant. “Unlike you, Charles, I can’t afford the luxury of having my students call me by my first name and still have them show me the same respect they do my male colleagues.”
“I think you underestimate yourself. They’re terrified of you, no matter what they call you. I know I am.”
“Not enough, apparently.”
Charles stops packing. “Oh God, what did I do?”
Moira fixes him with a look. “Your presentation for the Boston conference.” Charles groans. “You said I’d have a draft on my desk by Monday. I’ve been very patient, Charles, I know how you hate being poked and prodded, but you’re the keynote speaker, in case it slipped your mind. You need to prepare properly for once in your life. Nobody wants a repeat of your TED talk last year.”
Charles winces.
“If you must know, Erik makes his HR department show that video to all new hires. If they have a bad reaction to it, he boots them.”
Moira rolls her eyes. “Of course, he does. Lehnsherr’s the original troll, I’m surprised he doesn’t sue people for the title.”
Charles sighs. In point of fact, Erik had called the speech inspired and visionary, but Charles was with Moira on that one. It was an unmitigated disaster.
He’d been completely swamped just prior to flying out to Texas, wrote his presentation hastily on the plane, then managed to leave his laptop on said plane, and had to improvise, fueled by too little sleep and too much caffeine.
It went viral. The younger professional crowd was ecstatic, the faculty was pissed, and Charles is still fending off book deal offers that have nothing to do with the future of genetics. It was all a bit unfortunate.
“Come.” Moira nudges his shoulder, her way of offering an apology for poking at a sore spot. “Let’s get lunch.”
“It’s not even eleven a.m.”
“I know, but I’m leaving in an hour, and you don’t have anything you can’t push back on your schedule.”
Charles isn’t feeling remotely sociable right now, but it would be more difficult to find an adequate excuse than to give in. He gives Moira as close an approximation of his usual smile as he can muster. “Lead on.”
“By the way,” she says as they step outside greeted by a gust of chilly morning air, “what happened just now with Ms. Pryde? Is the reason Robertson won’t let you drop Intro to Genetics. You’ll be teaching that class until you’re bald and grey at this rate.”
Charles shrugs. “I don’t mind teaching that class.”
Moira makes a face. “You and your patience for undergrads. I don’t get it, but suit yourself.”
He follows her into her favorite Italian bistro and orders tea and a bagel, even though their tea is crap, and he isn’t anywhere near hungry. He picks at it, while Moira shares her concerns about taking her boyfriend home to meet her parents. A delicate matter under any circumstances, but especially now, considering Sean is eight years Moira’s junior, while Moira’s father is as traditional and strict as they come.
“Are you sure Scott doesn’t want to go see his parents so that you could come with us?” Moira pleads, not for the first time.
Charles only just manages not to flinch. “Even if I could come, I don’t think you’d want a third wheel there.”
“Oh, come on, when have you ever been a third wheel? My parents adore you. My dad doesn’t like anybody, he’s as conservative as they get, but he likes you. Hell, you're basically the reason he doesn't want to shoot all gay people on sight anymore. Something about you drinking him under the table that time?"
Charles winces, one hand flying up reflexively to his stomach. "I still feel nauseated just thinking about that weekend, I'll have you know."
"I'm just saying, you'd help smooth things over. You introduced me and Sean, not to mention talked me through every meltdown since. I don’t think I’d be dating him, if it wasn’t for you. It makes sense for you to be there.”
Charles smiles at her and redirects. “You really love him, don’t you?”
Moira blushes. “I do. He’s… He makes me curious and—playful. You know me, I’m the last thing from playful. But he makes it all so easy. He’s…”
Charles listens, nods, smiles. He did help their relationship along quite a bit, because Moira was as stubborn as her father about some things, and the age gap really bothered her at the beginning. She was as confident as a woman could be about all things, except her love life, thanks to a messy divorce early on. Charles has been her sounding board for as long as they have known each other, since his first year of undergrad in Oxford. It's nice to be able to do something nice right now, even if it's just listening, instead of focusing on his own troubles.
Until his troubles catch up.
Scott always had a problem with Charles focusing on anything other than himself. He also has impeccable timing. Halfway through Moira’s poetic recitation of Sean’s favorable traits, he sends Charles another text. This time, he’s not so much asking as informing Charles that he and Jean will head out to the B&B that he and Charles were supposed to go to for Christmas. He goes as far as to point out that he was the one who found the place, and as it’s non-refundable anyway, Charles should have no objections.
Charles doesn’t have objections, precisely. He’s just reeling, sucker-punched again. Why do people do that, he wonders distantly, as if trying to breathe underwater. Why does breaking up mean that all the good things are erased? Scott wasn’t in love with him, fine, but he did care about Charles. He did. The part about not wanting to be Charles's lover anymore Charles gets, he does. But how does one go from that to not feeling anything at all in the span of a day and night cycle? Does he not care at all that he’s hurting Charles? Was everything they shared so valueless, so meaningless to him? How? And why is Charles never on the same page? Why does he still care?
“Charles?” Moira is frowning slightly, looking at him with concern. “Is everything all right?”
He’s tempted. He’s so tempted to blurt it all out, to scream at her the way he can’t scream at Scott. He opens his mouth, takes a deep breath… catches sight of her eyes, and shakes his head instead. He won’t ruin her Christmas, her happy anticipation. It can wait till after the holidays, when he’ll have calmed down.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “Um. Raven. More Hank drama.”
It’s not a lie, precisely. Raven’s message sits just below Scott’s, and she is, in fact, complaining about Hank.
“Oh,” Moira says. “She still doesn’t know you got her those tickets?”
“No, so please don’t let it slip,” Charles says. “It was amazing of Sean to help me out there.”
Moira beams, and launches into an enthusiastic agreement, back on track.
Charles sighs quietly. It’s a shitty thing he’s doing, but he has gotten so good at it over the years he can’t break the habit. He’s perfected the skill of lying without lying to deflect attention, it’s become instinct. Every time he does it, he waits, seizing up inside, to see if people know him well enough to sense that he’s evading. If they care enough to call him on it, to press until he gives the truth.
They never do.
It’s unfair to expect them to, Charles knows this. His friends are good people, the best, really. They don’t press because they trust him to say when he’s in trouble. To ask for help. It’s not their fault that they haven’t figured out that Charles is incapable of doing so.
He can’t raise his hand and say ‘We need to talk about me now, because I have a problem.’ It’s an act so alien to him, he can’t comprehend it. He supports and encourages it in others. Hell, he trains his students to be troubleshooters for themselves and their peers. But when it comes to himself, he can’t do it, because it seems to be the most selfish act he could ever commit.
His way is not without value. He discovered that most people are a lot more self-absorbed than they like to believe. Most of them would go to great lengths to help when asked, but of their own volition won’t notice someone being in pain right next to them, unless there’s literal smoke rising in the air. Or maybe it’s just when that someone is Charles that they become so perfectly unobservant.
They don’t know him, he thinks as Moira keeps talking. His closest friends, his family. They don’t know the person he really is. They haven’t looked in years, letting him pull wool over their eyes. If he died tomorrow, they will be convinced that this construct, this persona he’s always wearing is the real thing—the always friendly, less-charming-than-he-thinks-he-is, somewhat absent-minded professor.
They wouldn’t know that he’s not like that inside at all. He’s cynical, and jaded, and dark. He hopes for happy endings, but he doesn’t really believe in them. He’s always ready to help, because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself, what’s his human value. He’s afraid that it’s not much. He’s a shitty person deep down, really. If he wasn’t intelligent enough to be where he is, he’d probably be drinking the days away under a bridge somewhere, for all the good he can bring into anyone’s life. Just ask Scott. Or Brian. Or Eli.
Hell, just ask Raven.
When Sharon had first adopted her, Raven used to be the person, who, unlike Charles's mother, never let him get away with anything. Charles felt seen with her for the first time since his father died. But by the time Raven turned fourteen, she’d stopped looking. She’d seen everything she wanted to see by then, and wasn’t interested in more.
Logan was her exact opposite. Charles had somehow managed to sell him his persona at the beginning, but when Logan discovered what Charles was really like, because Charles became too exhausted to maintain it, the relationship combusted almost literally. Logan’s parting punch had sent Charles flying against the wall, and as he lay down there, disoriented and seeing stars, he knew he deserved worse.
The only other person who never let Charles get away with his bullshit was Erik, but Erik was… special. Erik had an innate ability to cut to the core with a glance, and, for some reason, what he saw in Charles, he seemed to like. Or perhaps, tolerate where he didn’t seem inclined to tolerate others. It made Charles feel not only seen, but wanted, though he knew even then, it was his own projection more than anything. He got addicted all the same. Their entire high school had hated them, because they were that obnoxious couple who absolutely couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
And Erik—Erik was generous enough not to drop him from his friends circle later, when he no longer had to contain himself to a subpar choice of available romantic partners. Charles could not compete with someone who had an entire Vogue spread to himself or starred in the Nutcracker, but at least he could remain Erik's friend, and have that one person in his life with whom he didn’t have to pretend.
Sometimes, in his darker moments, he thought that he was no more than a charity case for Erik. Sometimes, he was dead certain of it. Strangely enough, these thoughts never bothered him when he was with Erik, and Charles was too weak a person to stop seeing him.
Erik would probably be able to make a nice speech at Charles's funeral. But as the words ‘Erik’ and ‘nice’ collide in Charles's head, he snorts in involuntary laughter, startling Moira.
Fortunately, she catches sight of the clock on the wall just then, jumps to her feet, hastily wishes him happy holidays, and practically teleports out of the bistro. Charles sighs, letting the hysterical smile fade from his lips, and orders a coffee as he waits for the check.
He lingers in his office, not wanting to go home. He and Scott had never progressed to moving in together, so the space is all his, but that’s exactly the problem. There is no one there in front of whom he’d have to perform, to keep himself together. He’ll have nothing to do there, nothing to focus on. The idea terrifies him.
Eventually, it gets dark outside, and Charles realizes he’s been seriously contemplating answering emails from his spam folder. He sighs and gets ready to go. He doesn’t realize he’s been bracing himself as he walks past the lounge until it registers that it’s empty. No students seeking answers to calm their anxiety, no long-suffering TAs.
No Jean.
Charles squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. God, what a mess. He has to work with Jean. How on earth is he supposed to do that now when every interaction they have from this moment on will be unbearably awkward? Their colleagues will notice, and people in academia are the most vicious gossips he had ever met. When they learn that his boyfriend of two years had dumped him for his own TA, Charles will be a laughing stock. And they will learn, sooner or later.
Jesus. He liked Jean. Still likes her. She’s a perfectly pleasant person, a competent assistant, and a brilliant mind. He thought she at least respected him, if not actually liked him back. They made a good team. Evidently, not good enough. He never even suspected…
Charles shakes his head again, turns the light off, and walks out. He can only deal with a certain number of distressing thoughts at a time. The public scandal part of this will have to wait till after the break.
He walks home. He still lives in a shoebox of an apartment he’d rented when he’d first moved to the city. Back then, he was impatient to start his new job at Columbia, and proximity to campus seemed to be key. It was supposed to be a temporary solution until he gets on his feet, but he never did move out. Scott hated his apartment and never liked to stay here. There’s not even a drawer to be cleared out or a toothbrush to throw away. Charles doesn’t know if he feels better or worse for it.
He spends a restless evening and a sleepless night. He doesn’t want to think about Scott or Jean or any of his past failures, but he also can’t think of anything else. It becomes an exhaustive struggle, with him trying to escape his thoughts, to redirect his attention to a different subject, any subject, but nothing comes to mind. He is pathetically grateful when Raven calls him from the airport at six in the morning, complaining that Hank is late.
Charles throws himself into listening to her with almost obsessive attention, even suggesting organizing a manhunt for Hank at one point. That brings Raven up short, and there’s a bout of silence down the line, before she asks suspiciously:
“Have you been drinking? Charles! It’s not even seven in the morning.”
“What? No, of course not. I’m just trying to help—”
“Well, you’re acting weird, I… Oh, thank God! Hank! Over here! Listen, I gotta go, I’ll text you when we land if I don’t forget, okay? But if I forget, don’t panic, I’ll probably be having too much fun to remember. Unless I murder Hank, in which case I’ll definitely text you.”
“Raven—”
“Gotta go, Charles, happy holidays, you loser, love you, bye!”
She hangs up.
“Have a safe trip,” Charles tells the stale air in his apartment.
He looks down at his hands and finds them shaking. He can’t stay here, he realizes abruptly with perfect clarity. He feels like he’s suffocating, as if the walls themselves are closing in on him. If he stays here for the next few days, for the next few hours even, he’ll go insane. He already feels the beginnings of a panic attack, and he hasn’t had one in years. He has to get out.
He packs a bag haphazardly and quickly, as if he’s the one late for a plane. He’s dressed and packed in under ten minutes; he has no idea as to the contents of his bag and doesn’t care. The relief he feels when he shuts the door closed behind him is knee-buckling. Cool winter air feels absolutely divine on his face as he steps out of the building.
--
Charles isn’t insane enough to regularly drive in New York, not that he needs to, much, so he keeps his car in a garage two streets down. He buys a bagel on the way from a sleepy vendor, but flinches away from the offer of coffee. He feels jittery enough. He wonders if he can beat the rush out of town, or if it’s already too late.
He didn’t plan his route beyond ‘Out. Away. Now.’, but as he slips into traffic, some sort of autopilot takes over, and he finds himself driving north with a resigned sigh. As good a place as any, all things considered. No one will think to look for him there. Not that anyone will be looking.
The traffic is bad, with lots of accidents, plus he stops at a local store to get some groceries, waylaid by other last-minute shoppers, so it takes him over two hours to finally get there. Not that Charles finds himself particularly happy to be suddenly confronted with the sight of the family mansion.
It’s as huge as he remembers, looking both perfectly well-kept and completely uninviting. His father had left a separate trust fund solely for the care of the house, which was the only reason it was still in the family and not in ruins. Raven never liked it here, and bolted the first chance she got, mostly forgetting the property’s very existence. Charles, for his part, thought about selling it once or twice, but in the end, left it as it was.
A hefty sum is spent every year for the house to be protected and maintained. The maintenance staff know to keep Charles's and Raven’s bedrooms set and ready at all times, a few others as well, and the fridge in the kitchen is always stocked with high-end frozen food, the kind that doesn’t go bad for years and tastes mostly halfway decent. A part of Charles's mind remembered that when it directed him here.
He looks at his car sitting in the driveway, a 1966 Citroen DS, dark red and gorgeous. Charles knows enough about cars to appreciate it, not enough to obsess over it. Erik, the real connoisseur between them, would kill him for not parking it properly, but what’s the point? He’s not expecting any visitors, and it’s highly unlikely that the maintenance staff will show up during the holidays. And if they do, they’d be forewarned that he’s here, thus avoiding any awkward encounters. With a sigh, Charles leaves the car where it is, picks up his bags, and heads in.
There are silences and then there are silences. His childhood home. The house he grew up in. It’s dark and too quiet even for ghosts. For a moment, Charles feels absurdly as if he’s broken into someone else’s property, a mausoleum of some sort, abandoned so long ago that even the faintest echoes of the previous inhabitants have long become history. He stands just a few feet inside for a few moments, absorbing that silence, and it crushes into him then, the weight of it, the unmistakable knowledge that this is his, all his, the part of him he doesn’t want anyone to know about, the part he likes to pretend does not exist.
He hears the door close behind him and has to fight back the absurd notion that he’s just been locked in a tomb. Nonsense. He’s feeling morose being all alone, that’s all. He’s never been particularly happy in this house, but it’s not a castle of horrors, either. Maybe he’s made the right decision to come here now. God knows what he would have done with himself in a confined space.
He finds his way to his childhood bedroom on autopilot. The room is kept impeccably, like a suit at a luxury hotel, and has about as much personality about it. Charles never really got to lend it any character. First, his mother wouldn’t stand for it. And later, he didn’t really care to. The last time he called this place home he was seventeen, packing for Oxford thanks to his early acceptance, and never really planning on coming back.
The first time he’d come back after that was four years later. Sharon’s funeral. That was the last time Raven had set foot in the house. It fell on Charles to dismiss the staff—the only action that had made him cry that day, and close everything up. Kurt had showed up, even though Sharon had divorced him a year ago. Charles felt sorry for him. It had been a few months since Cain had come back from Afghanistan in a box with a flag draped over it. Kurt, though, had little use for Charles's condolences, though they had reconciled a few years later, shortly before Kurt had finally lost his battle with cancer.
Charles unpacks what little there is to unpack and then sits on his bed in silence for a few moments, his restless thoughts not settling, really, but slowing down, attaining a sepia-colored patina. What was his plan exactly when he decided to come here? If this place is good for anything anymore, it’s to hide a body where no one would find it for a few weeks at least.
For a few morbidly fascinating minutes, Charles contemplates that scenario. How long does he have before someone will miss him? Not until the start of the term in January. He can delay them, send a note asking for some family time. They won’t be happy, but what would that be to him by then? And even if someone realizes he’s actually missing, he can make it really difficult to trace his last track.
First, remove his things from the closet, bring everything back to the car. Park his car in the garage, cover it with canvas, same as the rest of his father’s rare auto collection. Then, pick a room that is on the once-per-quarter maintenance schedule. Something in the East wing probably. As for the method, probably something that wouldn’t create too gruesome a display. He has no penchant for drama and there’s no need to make it any harder on Raven when someone finds him eventually. Will she be sad? Stupid question. Of course, she will be. Hopefully, not for too long…
Woah.
Charles bolts upright, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. How did it come to that? He’s not that person. He doesn’t have thoughts like that. Sure, he’s just been dumped, but that’s an experience long known to him. And yes, he feels a little lonely—all right, a lot lonely and rejected by everyone, but he knows it’s irrational. He is a happy person! Just ask anyone who knows him. He is a happy person and he has a good life. A job he loves. Great friends. Family. He’s not someone who has those kinds of thoughts casually floating about in his head.
Or is he?
Movement. He needs movement. Exercise, endorphins, whatever. He’s been whining about not being able to run as much as he used to lately. No time like the present to rectify that.
Quickly, before he has a chance to talk himself out of it, he changes into a pair of old sweats and running shoes he brought along, and skids down the stairs, shattering the sticky silence of the house. After one circle around the mansion, he feels like he might collapse. Scott was right, it seems. Charles is woefully out of shape. After two, he begins feeling the kind of thrill that only comes from physical exertion. After completing the third, he catches himself grinning at nothing, and after the fourth one, he collapses on the cold gravel, breathless and overheated, and thinks of nothing at all.
He’s loath to go back inside, so he walks again around the house, following a narrower path into what used to be a garden when his mother was alive to care about such things. It has fared surprisingly well, for all that it has gleefully gone wild, superseding its proper English-garden shape by light years. Charles has never shown much interest in gardening, but now he pokes and prods at the rose bushes, dormant but no less obnoxious once they’ve shaken off the crust of culture, and admires some stubbornly blooming flowers that he doesn’t know the name for. He picks up a few stray brunches, and then discovers a water culvert in dire need of cleaning.
When he comes back to the house, trailing mud, the sun has set, his clothes are wet, and he’s chilled to the bone, but he’s feeling better. Not lighter, really. But more tired in the normal way, a simple physical exhaustion, as opposed to whatever it was earlier. A hot shower feels like a revelation he’s never had before.
Just as he predicted, the freezer is stocked with enough to feed a dozen people for a month, provided they don’t care that much for the taste. Charles reheats some salmon and eats it mechanically, while reading a volume of O’Brien he unearthed from the library. It’s a habit his mother had spent years trying to break him out of, but could never quite manage. He doesn’t last long. The sleepless night before, the drive, and the workout all conspire to make him feel like he’s falling asleep where he sits.
He contemplates a trip to the wine cellar, and then shudders with a jolt of fear. Alcohol is a depressant, and, apparently, Charles is already halfway there. He doesn’t actually want Raven to find his body, and definitely not the same way she found Sharon’s. He cleans up as best he can and goes back to his bedroom.
His phone shows an unequivocal lack of calls and messages. There’s not a single one, not even an automated ‘Merry Christmas’ from his bank or an update from the weather service. Charles switches the phone off, drops it into his bag, shoves it under the bed, and goes to sleep.
--
Morning is better. He wakes up woozy and for a long disorienting moment can’t figure out where he is. It hits him all at once—the mansion, Scott, Raven being in Paris. He doesn’t want to get up. At all. He does anyway.
He goes for another run, not because he particularly wants to—his muscles are still sore, but because yesterday had spooked him. Charles has never been a Xanax kind of person. He thinks it would be a really bad time to start now. The thing is, he has a purpose. He has students to teach which he seems to be doing halfway decently. He can just forget the idea of finding a partner and just focus on being there for the people who actually have use for him. He can become one of those hopeless bachelors who live for their work. It’s mostly true, anyway, and by far not the worst fate ever.
His run turns into a walk after the first torturous circle, his body protesting the abuse loudly after such a long period of complacency. There’s an ache in his side, for God’s sake. Charles shakes his head at himself and swears to up his fitness regime when he’s back in the city. By the looks of it, there’ll be no one around to help him move about in his old age, so he’d better postpone its arrival as much as possible.
After a shower and a quick breakfast, he goes back to working in the garden. The house is depressing in its emptiness, but outside the sun is peeking through the clouds, the wind is moist and soft and smells of something sweet.
Charles has no idea what he’s doing, but he figures a clean up can do no harm. Not without difficulty, he unearths a rake from the shed and spends a couple of hours gathering fallen leaves and tree branches. His thoughts flow unimpeded, but less anxious now that he’s simply watching them pass. It’s almost meditative.
Some time later, Charles stops abruptly, all senses on alert. He can’t immediately say what alarmed him, but then it happens again—his ears pick up a noise he’s not responsible for. It’s a sound of gravel being disturbed when someone steps on it.
Charles freezes. The sound repeats, gaining in definition. Someone is walking along the path to the house. Slowly, but surely gaining.
Charles feels his heartrate spike. The only thought in his head is that he’s here alone and that no one is supposed to be here. He grips the rake like a bat and, heart in his throat, creeps up toward the shed as quickly and quietly as he can. He must have made noise anyway, of course, because the sound of footsteps suddenly intensifies, becoming more confident. It’s not a light step at all. Whoever’s approaching has got impressive mass to infuse into his step.
Charles grips the handle of the rake almost painfully, and, just as the intruder is almost upon him, he jumps out from around the corner, swinging the rake like a bat. His opponent exhales sharply, but reacts incredibly fast, catching the rake descending on him and draining the force of Charles's blow like it’s nothing. Charles gasps, stumbling back, gaping.
“Erik?”
Erik, in full possession of the rake now, examines it curiously before aiming a sardonic look at Charles.
“Hello to you too.”
“What the hell,” Charles breathes out, stepping back and clutching at his chest. “You scared the crap out of me!”
Erik lifts an eyebrow. “I’m not the one who jumps people from around the corner with gardening tools.” He sets the rake against the wall with exaggerated delicacy. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Am I—” Charles stares at him, trying to catch his breath. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Singapore?”
“I was,” Erik says, watching him with a smile. “Are you going to say hi properly or should I still brace for impact?”
Charles laughs a little as the last of the tension leaves him and pulls Erik into a hug. “Hi,” he says, breathing in the familiar scent of Erik's aftershave and just Erik. “Seriously, what are you doing here?” he asks as he pulls back. “How are you here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Erik says, eyes way too keen on Charles for Charles's liking. “But I was hoping for some coffee first maybe? Then we can interrogate each other to our hearts’ content?”
“What an enticing prospect.” Charles grins ruefully. “But you’re right of course, I’ve been dreadfully remiss as a host. Come on.”
He leads Erik into the mansion’s roomy kitchen that somehow feels smaller and cozier now that Erik is there, looking around curiously. Charles moves to put the kettle on, while Erik opens the fridge.
“Oh hell,” he mutters, examining the contents. “New plan. Turn that off and get your coat. We’re going to the farmers’ market.”
“Uh…” Charles says intelligently.
Before he can string two thoughts together, Erik smoothly reaches around him and turns the kettle off. He doesn’t step back after, looking down at Charles the way most people would look at an adorable but not particularly bright toddler.
“Er…” Charles tries again, flustered by Erik's proximity. He usually has a lot more time and a few advanced warnings to prepare himself for it and handles it a lot better. Erik's sudden appearance is throwing him off his game. “That’s not really… uh, necessary?”
Erik still doesn’t back off, just lifts an eyebrow. “I’m staying,” he informs Charles as if issuing a royal decree. “I’m not eating that. You’re not eating that while I’m here to see it. Ergo get your coat. I’m driving.”
Charles doesn’t usually respond well to orders, but there is something in the way Erik is looking at him and the way he’s still more or less looming over him that makes Charles's heart skip a beat and his shoulders sag, signifying tactical submission. Anything to get away from whatever this unnerving feeling is.
“Oh, very well,” he sighs, sounding to his own ears extremely put upon, and pushes past Erik, who steps out of the way with a taunting smirk.
Charles probably should change, since his attire wasn’t exactly chosen to be seen by other people, but just to spite Erik and his ever-present impeccable elegance, he doesn’t. He puts on his parka and catches sight of himself in the mirror. In his thick woolen sweater worn on top of an old plaid shirt and the oldest pair of jeans he apparently owns, with his hair all over the place from the wind, he looks like a disheveled scarecrow. If Erik insists on showing up unannounced and dragging him out of the house, he’ll just have to deal with it.
Erik doesn’t say a word, though his smirk widens to resemble the shark grin the tabloids love so much. Charles elbows him in the ribs as he passes toward the door.
They take Charles's car, and just as Charles predicted, Erik bitches, albeit halfheartedly, about Charles not taking proper care of it. Charles stares out the window, and lets the sound of Erik's voice wash over him, drifting in time through dozens of moments just like that, spread over the years, of friendship and companionship, and Erik mocking his quirks and being ready to punch anyone else who dares do the same. Had punched someone once, a long time ago, as Charles recalls. Feels like it was forever ago and at the same time only yesterday.
The local farmers’ market is open even on Christmas Eve, thanks to a humble but steady stream of seasonal tourists passing through at this time and various religious and ethnic backgrounds of the stand owners. Charles trails after Erik who has procured a huge basket from somewhere and is waving it around like a weapon, clearing the way, as he moves from stand to stand.
Erik selecting his ingredients is a show in and of itself. He drops his business-shark persona at the door and smiles at vendors as he picks zucchinis and tomatoes, shares a quick recipe with another customer over butternut squashes, selects a rack of lamb while asking the farmer about his stock. He picks up a few bright winter apples, inhaling the aroma with satisfaction, before handing one to Charles, who smiles in surprise. Nuts, spices, produce. They sell hot chocolate at a tiny stand by the entrance, and Erik buys them both a cup. It’s rich and very hot, and Charles feels a little drunk on it.
He doesn’t understand how he is here now, giddy on the cheery mood of everyone around him, and yet at the same time is the person who thought those thoughts the day before. One doesn’t feel any more real than the other, and he’s struggling to figure out if he had a nightmare yesterday or if he’s dreaming now. Erik takes him by the arm, ostensibly to pull him out of someone’s way, and then doesn’t release him as he talks to an elderly woman about the best way to bake bread. Charles listens, smiles, and has to remind himself constantly not to shift closer, no matter how many ‘You two are so cute’ looks the kind lady throws their way.
It’s lunch time by the time they get back to the mansion, and Charles does dig up a few bottles of wine for Erik to choose, while Erik rolls up his sleeves and makes himself at home in Charles's kitchen. Charles grins as he watches him and pours them both a glass. Before he can take a sip, though, Erik catches his hand.
“Wait,” he says, and feeds him a thick slice of cheese he’s just cut. “What do you think?”
Charles chews thoughtfully, only just realizing how hungry he is. His eyebrows rise. “Surprisingly good.”
“Have another,” Erik says, lifting another slice to his lips. Charles hopes his blush isn’t too noticeable, as the kitchen doesn’t get that much light from outside. “If Emma goes through with her restaurant idea, I think I’d connect her to this guy.” Erik looks at the remaining cheese on the board thoughtfully. “You’d think it’s too sharp a taste, but—”
“It works.” Charles nods, picking up another slice himself and moving away for good measure to avoid any more of Erik's completely unsubtle attempts to feed him before he drinks. “Goes really well with the wine, too.”
Erik hums his agreement, but his glass is barely touched. Charles sits down at the table and watches as Erik chops vegetables, spices the meat, and begins doing some fragrant and bubbling magic in a huge cast iron pot he’d unearthed from somewhere. Usually, conversation flows easily between them at moments like this, but, even with the fresh air and the wine, Charles is feeling antsy.
“How did you know I was here?” he asks at last.
“I didn’t,” Erik says calmly, never pausing as he adds the rest of the ingredients to the pan and leaves it to simmer. He turns around, leaning against the counter, and picks up his own glass. “I hoped you would be, since I was fresh out of ideas. But I didn’t know.”
Charles blinks. “I don’t… Sorry. I don’t understand.”
Erik considers him in that blunt, unnerving manner he has sometimes that really puts Charles on edge. He’s slouching slightly against the counter, like a predator, coiling on himself before pouncing.
“I called you from Singapore two nights ago. Mostly, to complain.” Erik shrugs. “The conference was a wash. Two of the main suppliers didn’t even show, no warning, because that’s how they do things, apparently. Good thing we found out now, but all the same, a wasted trip. I called you and got no response.”
Charles thinks back, but can’t remember a missed call. Then again, his head was hardly in the right place to pay attention.
“I thought you were busy, but you always call back,” Erik says, studying him dispassionately. “So when I realized you hadn’t by the time I landed at JFK, I called again, and it said ‘Out of service.’ I stopped by your place, which was empty. I knew you were going away with Scott, but I don’t know—I guess I wanted to be sure. You do always call me back. So then I called Raven.”
“Oh God,” Charles groans, dropping his face into his palms.
Erik smiles. “It gets better. It was four in the morning in Paris, as it turns out, and she told me to fuck off the first few times, but I kept calling back. At long last she told me that you were supposed to be at a B&B somewhere in Vermont, and the only thing she remembered about it was that it had the word ‘Mountain’ in its name somewhere.”
Charles groans again, not looking up.
“I pulled up a list of every B&B in Vermont with that word and called all of them until I found the right one. Imagine my surprise when they offered me to talk to Scott and, when they learned who I was, gladly shared that he’d arrived not with a man, but with a young lady called Jean Grey, and they were staying for the holidays, apparently, very much in love.”
Charles looks up from his palms, though just barely. Erik is sipping wine like he’s reciting an amusing anecdote at a cocktail party.
“I did have the pleasure of talking to Scott,” Erik says vindictively. “I doubt he’d enjoyed our conversation as much as I did, but he did explain. So the question remained, where did you go off to? I called Moira to check you weren’t with her—”
Charles hides his face again.
“—and it turned out you weren’t, and then I heard Sean wailing something and a gunshot, so it’s possible she’s too preoccupied with her own drama to care about yours right now. I, however, was at square one. So, I had my people pull up the data to see if you bought a plane or a train ticket somewhere.”
“I don’t think that’s legal,” Charles says weakly.
“As it happens, you didn’t,” Erik says, as if he couldn’t possibly care less about such things. “Then, I was really at a loss, until I remembered about this behemoth of a house. I called Raven again—”
“Oh, dear God.”
“—to make sure you didn’t sell it. Then I drove here.”
Charles drops his hands and stares at him. “You did all that because I didn’t return one phone call?”
Erik stares back, but there is something tired, almost defeated in his expression. “After all these years, Charles, honestly, how is that surprising?”
Charles's mouth goes dry. “I… didn’t mean to imply…” He trails off, dropping his eyes.
It’s all too easy to believe that Erik means more than he actually does when he says things like that. When he’s looking at Charles like that. It’s an illusion, yes, but an illusion so powerful that it always makes Charles teeter on the brink of making a complete fool of himself. He sends Erik a pleading look.
Erik sighs, takes a sip of his wine. His tone, when he speaks, indicates that he’s backing off.
“You could have called, you know. When that asshole dumped you. You could have called, and said: ‘Erik, get me drunk’, like a normal person. For that matter, you could have told Moira. Hank. Someone. I don’t understand why you always have to hide these things.”
Charles stares down at his hands. “I didn’t want to be a bother. Everyone had plans, and I… This isn’t exactly an emergency.”
“That’s a cop out, and you know it.”
Charles glares up at him and then he remembers. This is Erik. Erik never lets him get away with anything.
“Maybe I just wanted a few days to myself.”
“And you couldn’t have said so?”
“You assume I was thinking clearly.”
“Why wouldn’t you be?” Erik's eyes narrow slightly in calculation. “You didn’t love him.”
“Maybe not, but it’s hardly an ego-boosting experience to be dumped three days before Christmas in such a completely humiliating manner. Not that it would have felt better, had it happened in a more considerate way.”
“If Scott had some class, you mean.”
“Does it matter? Truly? Being dumped sucks, Erik. You wouldn’t know, so take my word for it.”
When Charles looks up, Erik is smiling softly, as if amused by a private joke. “Oh, I’ve been dumped in my time, Charles. Rest assured, that experience did not pass me by.”
Charles frowns, raking his brain. “The Slovenian ballet star? No, wait, you sent her packing yourself, I remember. Hm. The Armenian wrestling champion? Didn’t he go back home when his visa expired? Um…”
Erik snorts into his glass. “Miss and miss. I wasn’t aware you followed the gossip blogs so avidly.”
Charles refuses to blush. “Well, it’s not like you tell me these things or actually introduce me to any of them,” he says peevishly. “Of course, I understand. A humble college professor is hardly acceptable company for your glamorous friends—”
Erik laughs out loud, almost like it’s startled out of him, and has to set his glass down or risk splashing wine everywhere. Charles glares at him, but his own lips are twitching.
“The humble thing is cute,” Erik says when he gets himself under control somewhat. “I’m sure the SXSW organizers find it particularly charming. But actually, no. That’s not the reason.”
“Oh?” Charles straightens up, curiosity instantly piqued. Erik acknowledging that there is, in fact, a reason is not something he’d expected to happen, ever. “Pray tell, what is the reason then?”
The kitchen timer chooses that moment to go off.
Erik smirks. “Maybe if you eat all your vegetables.”
Charles resists the urge to stick his tongue out and gets up to grab the plates.
--
Uncharacteristically, Erik carries the bulk of the conversation during the meal. He’s normally content to let Charles ramble away at him, but since Charles's favorite topics are his research and his students, neither of which he feels particularly inclined to talk about right now, Erik steps in seamlessly with entertaining stories from his many travels.
In private, Erik is easily charming, Charles notes not for the first time. A sharp pang of jealousy shoots through him at the thought of Erik finally picking someone to share all those hidden, intimate moments with—moments, when all his weapons are powered down and his armor is set aside, when he allows himself to express wonder and child-like fascination, to be open and vulnerable and completely uncensored. Someone else will be seeing this Erik, the real Erik, Charles thinks and has to fight not to let the thought spoil the moment. Erik was never his, and regrets are poison and make the most delicious food taste bitter.
Winter sunsets come early, and, by the time they migrate to the library, it’s dark outside. Erik coaxes the fireplace to life in a matter of minutes—a task that would have taken Charles at least half an hour. Charles sticks to his strengths and opens another bottle of wine. He has company, he figures. And he had never felt more alive than when he was within Erik's aura.
Erik gives the bottle a cursory look, but doesn’t comment as he picks up his glass. Chares curls up in an armchair, feeling both wonderfully relaxed and strangely keyed up. A companionable silence stretches, as Erik leans back against the back of the couch and watches the fire, and Charles watches him, basking in it, not even trying to hide it.
Erik exudes his usual air of confidence, filling up every room he walks in with his presence. It has a subduing effect on most people, a phenomenon Charles had curiously observed time and time again. He never felt intimidated by the aura Erik projects, and now he wonders at it.
“What are you smirking about?” Erik asks, still staring at the fire.
“Oh, just you.” Charles grins, feeling just buzzed enough to be reckless. “Mostly, I was thinking about how you intimidate most people on sight, and that makes me insanely curious about where you managed to find the one brave soul who dared to dump you and lived to tell the tale. I assume they’re alive, at least.”
Erik smirks, watching him over the rim of his glass. “That’s what you think of me? That I scare most people?”
“Not in a bad way,” Charles sighs. “But you’re very… powerful. People can feel that.”
Erik's eyes darken. “Careful, Charles, or I’ll begin to think you’re coming on to me.”
Charles laughs. “I’m not so keen on being rejected twice within so many days, and besides. Scott, I can recover from. Losing you had nearly killed me the first time around. I’d never risk it again.”
Silence stretches between them, during which it is slowly sinking in for Charles that he’d never admitted as much to Erik before. When he’d come back from Oxford and saw Erik for the first time, his heart nearly gave. But Erik, for all that he’d hugged him, had seemed so perfectly poised, so completely aloof in response to Charles's exuberant babbling, that any hope Charles had harbored over the years of Erik somehow, miraculously, still wanting him was gone. Charles had never stopped—not before, not after, but he had never burdened Erik with that knowledge, choosing to let their friendship blossom instead.
But all things hidden come out sooner or later, and he’s had just enough wine to stave off the panic attack he will undoubtedly have about this tomorrow.
“That’s ironic,” Erik says quietly after a while.
“Hm?”
“That one person brave enough to dump me that you were so curious about? You do realize that was you?”
Charles blinks, turning toward him slowly. “What?”
Erik tears his gaze away from the fire and looks at him. “I don’t hold it against you, but you were the one who broke up with me.”
“What?” Charles yelps this time, sitting up straight. “No, I wasn’t!”
“I was there, Charles.”
“So was I! Obviously. We talked about how I was going to Oxford, and you were going to Cornell, and since neither of us believed in long-distance, we decided—together, Erik, that we had to break up.”
“No, Charles.” Erik sits up straighter as well and leans forward. “You came in that day, glowing because you got your acceptance letter from Oxford. And then you said everything you’ve just said, and looked at me like it was all so clear for you, and so—easy. You had already decided. What was I supposed to say?”
“That’s—” Charles chokes for a moment, indignant. “You could have said you didn’t want it! You could have argued with me—God knows, we argued about everything else. You could have asked me to stay!”
“Ask you to stay—when I knew how much you hated it here?” Erik gestures around them to encompass the house. “When I knew exactly how desperate you were to put an ocean between you and this place? I couldn’t do that, and I couldn’t go with you, so yes, I never argued with you about us breaking up. And I have regretted that choice my entire life.”
All anger drains out of Charles in an instant. “Erik…”
Erik shifts back, his shoulders a tight, frustrated line. “You’re right. You were right then, and you are right now. Long-distance wouldn’t have worked. I’m not sure that it would have even worked if we went to the same college, not with how young we were, both of us idiots. I know that we did the right thing back then. I know, all right? But I still lie awake at night sometimes, thinking about that night, about how, if I could go back, I would have said anything to get you to change your mind. How I would have been selfish and careless, and how I would have fought for you, and how I absolutely should have, no matter where we’d have ended up.” He looks up at Charles. “I still think that.”
Charles is staring at him, not really processing. “You… think you should have—fought for me?” he manages at last, his voice breaking strangely at the end.
Erik sighs. “Folly, I know.” He smiles wryly as he leans back again, the intensity draining out of him. “Even when we were still at school, I knew that you weren’t as—invested in me as I was in you. When you came in with your Oxford news, not even slightly sad that you’d be leaving me behind, I knew for sure. I never wanted to pressure you. Not then, and not after you came back from England, even though not much had changed for me. But you weren’t subtle at all about how much you valued our friendship, and I could take a hint.” His expression turns wistful. “And yet sometimes I wonder, if I had pressed just once, any one of those times, when you looked at me the way you used to, when it almost seemed like you…” He trails off and shakes his head with a smile, the glass cradled in his palm as he takes a sip. “This is really good wine, you know.”
It takes a long time, with only the sound of the fire crackling in the fireplace sending ripples through the silence, for Erik to finally look up. He winces.
“Oh hell. Charles, don’t—come on. Just forget I said anything, it’s not—”
“Of course, I was sad,” Charles cuts him off, barely controlling his voice. Erik freezes. “I was devastated to leave you. But I couldn’t show it. Couldn’t even let myself feel it for one moment, because one moment would have been all it took for me to stay, and I—I couldn’t stay here, Erik. I didn’t realize it then—of course, I didn’t, I just…” He looks away and shakes his head, blinking rapidly to stop his vision from getting blurry. It doesn’t help. “I suppose I chose myself,” comes out as an anguished whisper. “Though at the time, it didn’t feel like a choice at all.”
He loses his battle against the tears, and then Erik is on his knees next to him on the floor, taking his hand, cupping his face gently, to make him turn. Charles resists, shame making him stubborn, and Erik settles for running his thumb over his cheekbone softly.
“Charles, no, no, hey. Hey. I know. I knew it then, too, that’s what I’m saying, you—”
Charles turns toward him abruptly and meets his eyes. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. I never stopped.”
Erik reels back, visibly stunned, and Charles can’t take it. He pushes to his feet, clumsy in his haste, muttering, “Excuse me,” as he rushes out of the room.
He doesn’t make it one foot past the door, before strong fingers circle his wrist and Erik pulls him back, caging him against the wall. His breath is a hot, angry hiss against Charles's face.
“Oh, you idiot.”
The kiss is angry, but this is Erik, and Erik had kissed him angrily before, and Charles had never forgotten, except maybe he had, because this feels like nothing else ever had, and he whimpers into it, and drags Erik in closer, terrified to let go.
“You should have said,” Erik chides him between kisses, easing up, but not pulling back. “You should have said ages ago, Charles. I’ve been waiting… tethered to you all this time… hoping… but you—”
Charles moans as Erik kisses down his neck, his spine threatening to turn liquid. “Didn’t think… I could compete… all your glamorous friends… and I’m just…”
“You were the one I really wanted,” Erik growls and sucks a mark into the base of his throat, dragging a low whine from Charles. “I couldn’t have you. How do you think it made me feel?”
The next kiss steals his breath entirely, and Charles finds himself nearly bursting through his skin with frustrated want and disbelief.
“I still remember the way to your bedroom,” Erik murmurs, voice husky and low.
“Oh,” Charles breathes out, fingers curling in Erik's sweater. “We’re doing this?”
Erik's tone is half exasperation, half fondness. “Yes, Charles, we’re doing this. Unless you tell me not to. Although, in light of tonight’s revelations, I’m not sure I’d listen.”
“Oh,” Charles says again, feeling something give within him, dousing him with knee-weakening warmth. “Good.”
It’s a short trek upstairs, and Charles spends most of it feeling simultaneously high out of his mind and the most stark-sober he’s ever been, but it’s long enough, too. His doubts resurface, and how can they not? So maybe Erik still carries the torch for the boy Charles used to be once, decades ago, but won’t that only make him more disappointed? Charles hasn’t exactly aged like fine wine, and as beautiful and magical as this moment feels, won’t it be that much more crushing if it falls to pieces over the contrast between memory and reality?
But Erik—Erik must sense something, and Charles is struck breathless with how well Erik knows him, how well he can read him with no effort at all. That kind of knowledge can only be fueled by one reason and one reason alone, and Charles is astounded all anew at how blind he must have been not to have realized it sooner.
“Stop thinking,” Erik orders in that low no-nonsense voice that sends tendrils of excitement down Charles's spine, as his hands slide beneath Charles's layers with no hesitation, seeking skin. “I want you. I always want you; I’ve never stopped. The humble routine, Charles. It’s only cute unless you really believe it. And you shouldn’t.”
Charles's sweater and shirt join each other on the floor in rapid succession, and Charles shivers in the drafty room, while Erik's eyes roam all over him, hungrier by the second.
“God, but you really shouldn’t,” Erik groans, hoarse, his hands shaking a little when he reaches out to touch, and Charles doesn’t care about anything else anymore.
They learn the old-new shape of each other, every touch a revelation and recognition both. Charles marvels at the coiled strength, the tamed intensity that Erik seems to be entirely made of, at the power of his hands, his thighs, his back, at the way he’s almost inhumanly precise, relentless, and focused so entirely on Charles it’s almost too much.
Charles has spent too much time dreaming about this to be shy now, and it’s a power trip to see how his every touch, every kiss and stroke unravels Erik, strips him of his control, and throws him at Charles's mercy. He ends up on top of Erik, riding him, and he hasn’t felt that alive in years; he feels like he can taste colors, see music, and breathe in touch until he can feel it in every single cell. And then incredulity creeps in and breaks his rhythm, and he wonders if any of this is real, and he can feel his eyes prickling again.
Erik, ever attuned to him, catches him instantly, rolls them over and takes over, cradling Charles with his body, holding him as he rocks them, kissing him without any control or finesse, raw and real. They shake apart within seconds of one another, echoing with reflected sensations, like an exquisite feedback loop, resonating with pleasure. When awareness returns, Charles finds himself being held securely from behind in the circle of Erik's arms.
“We’re doing this,” Erik murmurs. “We never stop doing this.”
Charles twists his head back for a kiss, and it’s an awkward angle, but neither of them cares.
“I’m not the only idiot here,” Charles says, sleepy and happy in a quiet, glowing way. “You could have said something.”
“When?” Erik chuckles. “You’re like Scarlett O’Hara, Charles. Every time you broke up with someone, you were free for all of five minutes before you were dating the next hapless schmuck.”
“Hey.”
“What? It’s true. Why do you think I came down here so fast? If I hadn’t, you’d have had a new boyfriend by the end of the holidays.”
“No, I wouldn’t have,” Charles laughs. “I’m not that terrible, Erik.”
“Yes, you are.” Erik's hold tightens, his amusement audible.
“That’s not why you came.”
Erik lets go of him then, just enough that he can look at Charles.
“No, it’s not.”
Something in his expression makes Charles's intuition flare, and he hastens to interrupt, because Charles had said it, frequently, when they were seventeen, and again less than an hour ago, but Erik never had.
“You don’t have to—”
“I came here because I love you,” Erik says, like it’s suddenly easy for him, and Charles falls silent, awed. “I needed to make sure you were all right. I didn’t think too far ahead beyond that, but I had to know.” His fingers trace the contours of Charles's face, feather-light. “You’re vital to me. You always have been.”
“I didn’t return one phone call,” Charles says meekly, knowing that’s not at all what he’s saying.
Erik, as always, gets it. “That’s one too many.”
When Charles wakes up later that night, it’s to Erik trailing gentle kisses down his body, whispering ‘I love you’ every time, like he can’t get enough of being able to freely say it. Charles knows then, because he knows Erik, too, that those words will never leave the confines of the bedroom or some rare, intense private moments, that in the light of day Erik will always be his usual slightly aloof, sarcastic self, but that’s entirely all right. Every time they look at each other, he will feel what Erik can’t say anyway.
--
Charles wakes up to the sound of distant pounding. It takes him a few long, confused moments to find his way from under the covers and realize that he’s not imagining the noise. Erik is starfished on the other side of the bed, gorgeous like a Greek sculpture and somehow completely oblivious to both the chill of the room and the clamor.
“Erik.” Charles tries to shake him and gets a grunt in response. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
He throws the covers on top of Erik, hoping to annoy him into waking, and jumps out of bed, cursing at the cold. His limbs not particularly cooperative just yet, it takes him a few long minutes to get at least partially dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater that he’s pretty sure is Erik's, but it’s warm and, more importantly, there, and Charles can’t be bothered to find an undershirt. He stumbles out of his room, throwing a contemptuous look at the bed, the sole inhabitant of which shows no signs of movement.
When he steps into the corridor, the noise intensifies and clears. Someone is pounding at the door, prompting loud echoes. As Charles gets closer to the stairs, he realizes there’s shouting, too.
“Charles! I know you’re in there! Open up, dammit, I don’t have my key!”
Charles swears, skids the last few steps, and throws the door open.
“Raven? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Finally, thank Christ,” Raven grumbles, all but falling through the doorway, dragging her enormous suitcase behind her. “I’ve been calling you, why the hell is your phone off?”
He’s forgotten, that’s why, but Raven looks furious enough without that information.
“Get in here, you look frozen,” he says instead.
Raven is actually shaking in a thin woolen cardigan and a t-shirt. Her lips are remarkably blue.
“I was dressed for Paris!”
“I’m pretty sure it’s December in Paris also,” Charles points out smartly, earning himself a glare. He lifts up a placating hand and takes her arm. “Come on, let’s get some hot tea into you. How did you get so cold?”
“I had to walk all the way from town, there are no cabs this far out, and no one would drive all the way up here from downtown, because it’s fucking Christmas Day.”
“Oh, right. Er, merry Christmas?”
“Charles! I’ll slap you, I swear to God—”
“Fine, fine. Tea. And some food, probably.”
He’s grateful beyond words that Erik had gotten a few fresh pastries at the market yesterday.
Raven is predictably uncooperative until she’s somewhat warmed up, and then the entire tale spills out of her in annoyed, abortive sentences.
“Hank proposed to me, can you believe it?” Raven wails, sounding completely appalled.
“After seven or eight years of dating, yes, I completely understand your shock. The gall of the man.”
“Charles!” Raven slaps his arm. “Whose side are you on anyway? I don’t know what he was even thinking. I am not the kind of woman who can ever be tied down! After nine years, thank you, he should bloody well know that. He ruined a perfectly good vacation when I had to say no, with his sad eyes and moping. Argh, men.”
Charles wisely swallows half a dozen replies he could have offered and pushes the plate closer to her. “Have another pastry.”
Raven glares at him, but grabs it. “I mean, I thought he’d grown out of this—this patriarchal need to control me,” she complains, chewing furiously. “He said as much the last time. He lied! Why does he always have to be so difficult, I don’t understand. Just because I occasionally see Az doesn’t mean I don’t love him. I never lied to him, and he said—he said he was fine with it. And now he goes and does this—what the fuck?”
“Have you tried breaking up with him and not crawling back into his bed two weeks later?” a leisurely voice asks from the doorway. “Might just do the trick.”
“You!” Raven glares.
Charles turns around to see Erik, who rakes his eyes over him and smirks smugly. Erik, of course, had the time to take a shower and get dressed in something other than yesterday’s clothes, the bastard, and looks as impeccable as ever, apart from the still damp hair. Charles wants to smack him and kiss him at the same time.
“You find a fucking time-zone converter!” Raven snaps as Erik walks further into the kitchen and turns on the coffee machine. “Did you know that he called me at four in the morning?”
“I… heard something about that,” Charles says, swallowing a smile.
“Five times!” Raven yells. “He called me five fucking times, because once was not enough!”
“It sounds like I didn’t interrupt much,” Erik says, unbothered, retrieving a cup from the cupboard and setting it to fill. “And you should keep better tabs on your brother.”
“I should—you’re insufferable! You didn’t even apologize!”
Erik takes a sip of his espresso, and his eyes glint malevolently as he fixes Raven with a look. He opens his mouth, and Charles braces himself for sharp objects flying within the next five seconds, but just then there’s another loud knock on the door, even though Charles knows for a fact that there’s a doorbell. Raven freezes and Charles sighs.
“That would be Hank, I imagine,” he says, getting up to his feet. Erik watches him go with a mixture of chagrin and amusement.
It is, indeed Hank, dressed a lot more reasonably than Raven, but looking every bit as miserable.
“I had to catch the next plane,” he explains quietly, shaking snowflakes out of his hair. Behind him, Charles can see a perfectly serviceable cab departing.
“It’s snowing?” Charles asks in wonder as Hank trudges inside past him, dragging a beaten suitcase in.
“Just started,” Hank replies. “Raven?”
“In the kitchen,” Charles sighs. “But I’d rather you didn’t. No offense, but I’d like to have breakfast at some point today without risking cups being thrown at my head. Go to the living room through there, have a drink. I’m sure she’ll be about in no time.”
“Right,” Hank sighs heavily. “I’m sorry about this.”
“No, no, I get it.” Charles shakes his head and pats Hank’s shoulder. “Just try not to propose to her again, there’s a good chap.”
Hank sighs again, nods tiredly, and walks toward the room Charles suggested. Charles doesn’t even make it back to the kitchen, before Raven nearly topples him, shooting through the hallway like a rocket with its target locked. He’s grateful she chooses to slam the door after her.
Erik greets him in the kitchen by pressing a fresh cup of tea into his hand.
“Oh, bless you,” Charles exhales in relief, perfectly awake now, yet still feeling partly like he’s fallen through a rabbit hole. He eyes Erik warily. “So. Are we still doing this?”
“Yep.” Erik doesn’t look up from where he’s whisking eggs. “I can handle your sister. If you’re trying to get rid of me, you should try harder.”
“I’m not,” Charles says, but he still feels a surge of adrenaline as he crosses over to wrap his arms around Erik's waist and hook his chin over his shoulder. “I can’t believe I’m allowed to do this,” he blurts out, unable to contain it.
Erik twists around then, moving purposefully until they’re well enough away from the eggs and Charles's back is pressed against the counter. Erik cups his face and kisses him, deep and thorough, waking tantalizing echoes of the night before. Charles is feeling light-headed when they finally pull apart.
“I can’t believe you didn’t know this,” Erik tells him, voice low and husky, eyes still glued to Charles's lips. “You have two PhDs, for God’s sake.”
“You’re hard to read,” Charles complains. “You could have thrown me a bone, too, you know.”
Erik bites his lower lip, making him gasp. “I’ve been doing nothing but this whole time. But you’re right. I should have just gone for it. Like that night, at Emma’s party, when you were flirting with me like a fiend, driving me crazy, and then you just—left. And the next time I saw you, it was like nothing happened.”
Charles looks away, blushing. “I didn’t realize I was doing that, but then… Raven found me. Told me I was making a fool of myself, throwing myself at you, just because your date couldn’t be there.”
Erik growls, arms sliding around Charles with a complete lack of gentleness. “You’d listen to Raven over me? Charles. God, I just want to shake you. What gave you the idea that I’d suffer in silence if I didn’t want it? Have you ever known me to do anything I didn’t want to do?”
Charles looks up at him. “You’re nicer than you think.”
Erik groans. “You are the only person who thinks that. I wonder why.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Charles says with a frown. “In fact, it’s—”
Erik kisses him silent almost ferociously, and Charles wants to keep on arguing, but gives in. Who cares if they were both idiots anymore? They’re here now, and he has no will to object when Erik slides down to the floor in front of him, and presses his face against his crotch.
--
Raven, bless her, is too much Charles's sister to keep her arguments short. Charles has time not only to eventually eat breakfast, but also to take a shower and clean up, though Erik's presence throughout is a hindrance rather than help.
They finally emerge to find Hank and Raven talking and laughing quietly over coffee in the living room. Hank looks between Charles and Erik speculatively, but wisely chooses to say nothing. Raven only rolls her eyes.
The morning is almost pleasant between more tea and coffee and toast, Erik teasing Raven, and Raven embarrassing both Charles and Erik by telling Hank stories about their teenage exploits. They are beginning to entertain lunch ideas, when there’s a sound of a car approaching through the snow outside. Charles is only half-surprised when he opens the door to let in a harried-looking Moira towing a spooked Sean after her.
“I texted Erik, and he said you were here,” she says, kissing Charles on both cheeks. “Merry Christmas. Sorry to crash your silent retreat or whatever, but my father tried to shoot Sean twice, and that was before dessert on the first day, so… um. Here we are.”
“You’re very welcome, though we’ve got mostly frozen food and you might have to make up your own room,” Charles says.
“We’ll take it,” Moira says gratefully.
“Yes, normal people food will have to wait till something opens tomorrow,” Erik says in a disgusted voice, appearing next to Charles and taking Moira’s bag. “But he’s got some decent frozen pizza in there and a wine cellar to kill for.”
“That part I remember.” Moira grins. “Hello, Erik.” She kisses his cheek. “Glad you found him.”
“Do you know, I think I am, too,” Erik says, smirking at Charles. “For the most part.”
Charles elbows him in the side. “Shut up, darling, and carry the lady’s bags. Sean, are you all right? You look a little… er, shell-shocked over there.”
“Yeah, he said all of three words since we left the house this morning.” Moira pats her boyfriend’s arm sympathetically. “I might have to exchange him for a functioning model.”
Sean blinks, focusing on Charles. “You weren’t kidding about getting the army and the navy mixed up.”
Charles stares at him. “You didn’t. Moira? Tell me he didn’t?”
Moira sighs. “It’s been a long two days.”
Lunch is a loud, boisterous affair, filled with strange toasts that make everyone laugh, half-decent food, and really good wine. Raven is wheezing, tears streaming down her face, as she listens to Moira recounting the story of her parents meeting her boyfriend. Charles is not far behind, Hank is grinning, Erik is smirking, and even Sean begins to thaw enough to add a sarcastic comment here and there.
It’s lovely, but Charles is still reeling a bit, disoriented by the abrupt switch from being resignedly alone to being surrounded by friends and family. Not to mention Erik, who is both and so much more at the same time. It’s a happy change, but Charles is struggling to catch up, falling hopelessly behind.
Suddenly people are hunting down the old Christmas decorations to put up in the living room, there’s apparently a hunt for a tree, Sean and Hank drive into town for some sweets in case anything is open and end up kidnapping a stranded group of carolers waiting for their ride. The house is transformed within hours, filled with light, laughter, songs, and sparkles.
Charles feels years younger all of a sudden, distinctly reminded of his first Christmas at Oxford, feeling completely alone and so sick with missing Erik he couldn’t think straight. He roamed the streets for hours as some sort of penance and an attempt to escape the crippling loneliness. When he finally gave up and stopped at a pub to warm up, he all but tripped over a pretty dark-haired girl, spilling ale all over her. She slapped him. He bought her a pint. The next thing he knew, Moira dragged him over to an impromptu celebration in someone’s flat, introduced him to all her friends, got him fed and drunk in that order, and sat with him on the toilet floor a few hours later, patting his hair as he vomited the entire contents of his stomach and listening without complaint about the love he had and lost.
Charles neither intends nor needs to overindulge tonight, but he still spins Moira around the room, both of them remembering and laughing.
“You should have told me,” Moira tells him at some point, the two of them spooning ice cream into bowls in the kitchen. “You can’t just expect the rest of us to read your mind like Erik does.”
Charles winces. “I know. I’m sorry.”
She touches his arm. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Charles sighs. “You were all up in your holiday plans, and—”
“That’s not even an excuse—”
“No, I know, I just mean… You were all—so put together.” He shrugs helplessly. “Like your life makes sense and you have everything under control, whereas me… I suppose I felt too ashamed to admit it.”
“Charles,” Moira sighs.
“I know.”
She eyes him consideringly for a few moments, but then her shoulders relax as she decides against a lecture. Charles smiles at her tentatively.
“Well,” Moira says, reluctantly charmed, “at least this is finally happening.” She pokes at the mark at the base of his throat indelicately. “Can’t really stay mad at you when you’ve finally done something right. It’s been painful to watch all these years, let me tell you. So who snapped?”
Charles shifts out of her reach, trying and failing to subdue his blush. “Life has a way of working things out,” he tells her primly.
She grins. “So Erik then?”
Charles refuses to dignify that with a response.
The ice cream is a hit, as if they’re hosting a party of five-year-olds. Privately, Charles thinks this might be quite on the money. Raven and Sean hit it off, discussing their favorite bands and concerts they have been to, reenacting key moments loudly. Hank stopped looking like he’s going to faint every time Erik asks him something, though only just. The carolers are singing an NC-17 version of Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Overall, Charles can’t reconcile the house as he’d found it not two days ago and this, and wants to pinch himself. He catches Erik's look and grins. It’s all rather overwhelming.
Later, he can’t quite tell how he finds his way outside and to the forgotten garden. He just knows at some point that he’s standing amidst the snow-covered plants, trying to make out the fantastical shapes they make. He tugs the sleeves of his sweater over his knuckles unconsciously as the chill registers, but he doesn’t want to go back in.
It's quiet. Even with all the background noise, it's quiet and cold, and for a moment, he gets a horrible, claustrophobic feeling of being stuck here, in a liveless frozen wasteland, fitting in better here than within the cheery fullness inside. It's irrational, but he can't shake it. He's almost afraid to look back and discover he'd imagined all of it. Somehow, that possibility seems more probable, even comforting to a degree, because it feels more real than the actual physical reality.
Oh damn. He should have had more wine.
The sounds of the party consume the sounds of footsteps, but the presence at his back isn’t a surprise. Charles knows Erik is behind him without needing to turn. The silence stretches, a sort of inarguable quiet that snow instills in everything. Eventually, Erik shifts.
“Too much?”
Charles shrugs, the movement bringing him back into his body. God, he’s chilled. How long has he been standing here?
“Not the noise,” he says at last.
There’s another pause. Erik doesn’t come nearer.
“Look, Charles,” he begins, and Charles braces himself. The other shoe he’s been waiting for. It never fails to drop. “I know we joked about it, but if this is too much too soon, if you need me to back off, give you space, I—”
Charles whirls around in place. “Do you want out?”
Erik's eyes catch his, steady, not a trace of hesitation. “Never.”
Charles gives in to the urge to hug himself, shivering now. “Neither do I.”
Erik's arms around him. Erik's thick woolen coat draped over his shoulders. Erik, leaning down to kiss his forehead.
“Let’s get back inside.”
“I don’t—”
“We don’t have to join them. We’ll go straight to your room. We’ll barricade the door if we have to. Alternately”—Erik begins to steer him slowly along the snowed path back toward the house—“I can make a few calls and get us on the next plane to somewhere with no cell reception within an hour.”
Charles snorts. “Tempting. But we should probably stay. Someone might burn the house down.”
“Don’t tell me you’d shed tears over it.”
“Oh, I might when the insurance paperwork comes in.”
Erik laughs, tugs him closer.
After a while, Charles says, quietly, “Erik... Thank you.”
"Yes." Erik kisses his temple. “Yes, we're doing this.”
Charles sighs contentedly as he snuggles closer. They go back inside.
--