X-MEN BIG BANG: ITHAKA (ERIK/CHARLES; NC-17) I
Title: Ithaka
Author: arysteia
Verse: XM:FC AU (Non-Powered)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 28,000
Pairings: Erik/Charles, reference to Alex/Darwin
Warnings: explicit sex, period appropriate attitudes (illegal nature of homosexuality, internalised homophobia, condescension to women and racial minorities, anti-Semitism - all basically brief but present, non-violent)
Summary: The late 1950s and early 60s were an idyllic time. Haslemere School, and Windsor House in particular, was obsessed with cricket, midnight feasts, rugby, tunnelling from the House to the dining hall, cricket, winning the House competition, committing the perfect prank, and cricket. The new Housemasters, Lehnsherr and Xavier, were young, handsome, good at sports, tolerably interesting in lessons, and actually seemed to care about their charges, something which could not previously be relied upon.
A woman couldn't open a bank account in her own name, divorce required proof of adultery, the empire was breaking up, and homosexuality was not merely illegal, but classified an 'unnatural offence'. A peaceful life for all was never an option.
For Charles Xavier, returning to Haslemere School after an absence of six years was like coming home. Indeed, those welcoming walls felt like more of a home than Xavier Hall ever had, having sheltered him for the vast majority of some twelve years of his life. The only oddity was turning left at the top of the stairs and being shown straight into his own set of rooms, rather than turning right and continuing down the corridor to the senior studies.
For all its splendid isolation, the Housemasters' room looked very like the one Charles had shared his last year at school, though it was admittedly more attractively furnished, and the view was of the front gardens rather than the inner courtyard. There were two narrow twin beds in the bedroom, one hard up against the wall beneath the window, and one stranded in the middle of the room between the doorway to the study and the oak wardrobe, dresser and wash stand that took up the whole of the inner wall. Each bed had its own small bedside table and footlocker, leaving barely enough room to swing the proverbial cat.
The study was rather more promising, significantly bigger, with bookshelves on both long walls, a pair of writing desks facing each other at the end by the door to the corridor, and a fireplace at the other, complete with a couple of battered leather armchairs and a small table on which Charles was pleased to dump the heavy marble chess set he'd been carrying for the entire day's journey, unwilling to trust it to the vagaries of porters and train guards.
"The other master isn't arriving until tomorrow evening," the young housemaid who had shown him up said quietly from the door. "And the Headmaster said to tell you he expects you for tea in his study at two o'clock, sharp."
"Thank you, dear," Charles said absently, as he continued to peruse his new domain. From what he remembered, old Owens was a stickler for punctuality, so he had a little less than an hour and a half to get unpacked and settled in.
"I'm very sorry, too," the girl added, "but there's no dinner in the hall, as the boys aren't back yet. Cook will make you something, though, and I'll bring you up a tray."
"Marvellous," Charles murmured, secretly quite glad at the thought of some time to himself. "And what's your name, dear?"
"Angel, sir," the girl said.
"A very pretty name for a very pretty girl," Charles said, smiling as she blushed charmingly. "Now if you don't mind…?"
"Of course." She left, shutting the door after her.
It opened again a moment later, as Charles stared dreamily out the window at the roses wafting gently in the breeze. It was a porter, blissfully unaware of Charles' aspersions on his ilk, with Charles' trunks.
"Ah," Charles said, clapping his hands. "Wonderful. Just leave them there."
The man nodded, and left.
The first three trunks he opened all contained books and journals, the absolute bare minimum he could bring himself to live with, after dispatching the rest of his Oxford digs back home to Xavier Hall. They more than filled the bookcase he'd bagsed as his own, and with a mournful sigh and longing look at the other he dumped the rest in a pile on the corresponding desk. The last two trunks contained his clothes and personal belongings. The clothes were easily dealt with, hung in the wardrobe and transferred, still neatly pressed and folded, into the dresser drawers, but he was still contemplating the rest when a clock somewhere outside struck two.
"Damn." Arranging the books to his satisfaction had taken a lot longer than he'd realised. He briefly considered just leaving the trunk as it was, but the porter, whose name he now realised he'd forgotten to ask, would likely come to haul the trunks away to the box room, and it would be unfair to expect him to make yet another trip because Charles was disorganised. With a sigh, he dumped the whole lot on the bed under the window, and placed the empty trunk with its fellows.
It was five past by the time he reached the Headmaster's study, slightly out of breath from running all the way. Owens frowned at him as walked in.
"I hope you'll keep better time than this in lessons, Mr Xavier," he said sharply.
"Yes, sir, of course, sir," Charles agreed. "I'm dreadfully sorry."
"Very well," Owens said. "You weren't habitually tardy as a boy; I assume you haven't become so?"
"No, sir."
"Well, sit down then, don't loom."
Charles sat down. He couldn't help feeling like a naughty schoolboy called to account, even if it had been years since he'd last been in here on a disciplinary matter. Having Owens pour him a cup of tea and pass him a plate of Eccles cakes only made him feel more disconcerted.
"We were pleased to get you, Xavier," Owens went on, irritation evidently forgotten. "It's always good to get an old boy, someone who knows the ropes. And your references were superb; your professors sounded quite disappointed you weren't staying on as a post-graduate. Of course, you were always an excellent student."
"Thank you," Charles said, in no way willing to discuss the reasons for his change of plans. "I'm glad to be here."
"Good, good." Owens put down his teacup and leaned forward in his chair. "I trust you'll keep an eye on the new chap for me, what's his name, Lensher."
"Of course. But I'm rather a new chap myself, Headmaster."
"Nonsense. Once a Haslemere man, always a Haslemere man. But seriously, Xavier. I'm counting on you. He's an Irishman, you know."
"Oh." Charles nodded, though he didn't, in fact, know, and as best he could tell Lensher didn't sound like a terribly Irish name.
"I expect you to run a tight ship over there, Charles," Owens went on. "No nonsense in the dormitories, and no funny ideas."
"I'm sure he won't have funny ideas," Charles protested weakly.
"He's from Killarney," Owens insisted.
"But he wouldn't have been born during the civil war," Charles countered, feeling oddly moved to defend this fellow he'd never met. Perhaps it was the sacred bond of shared digs kicking in early. It had always been Fifth formers against Sixth, prefects against plebs, Windsor House against Glasgow, students generally against the masters. It took no imagination at all to grasp that Housemasters must surely - though perhaps secretly - band together against outsiders as well.
Owens snorted scornfully. "In any case," he went on. "You're in charge. Don't take any nonsense from him."
"Yes, Headmaster."
Owens softened a little. "I'm sorry you have to share with him," he allowed. "But Tyrell, you remember him, mathematics master, got married last summer - God knows why, ridiculous old duffer making a fool of himself - so he and his blushing bride get the house."
"It's quite all right," Charles insisted, "I don't mind. I'd rather be nearer the boys actually."
"Good man."
With that, it was obvious tea was at an end. They shook hands, and Charles was glad to escape back to his room. It would have been nice, he couldn't help thinking, to get one of the stand alone houses, but they had always been the preserve of the oldest and most senior masters, and young single men had always been crammed into the boarding houses. He only hoped this year's Upper Sixth weren't quite as accomplished at pranking and larking as his own cohort had been.
Returning to his room, he took one despairing look at the mess on the bed under the window and collapsed onto the other one. The infamous Lensher wasn't due till tomorrow after all, and with a smile and a kind word he could no doubt prevail upon the lovely Angel to remake the bed.
It was a rude awakening, then, when the door slammed and a heavy suitcase hit the polished floor with no care at all. Charles startled and sat up, blinking in the sudden glare of the electric light, and glanced in surprise at the lowering dark out the window, then up at the stern face of a tall, well dressed, but frankly very grim looking man staring down at him in turn.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, struggling sleepily to stand up. "Awfully sorry. Must have nodded off. I'm Charles Xavier. You must be Mr Lensher."
"Lehns-herr," the man corrected, faint Irish lilt masking quite a different accent.
"Oh. Sorry again," Charles stammered, then blundered on, "That's not an Irish name."
"No," Lensher - no, Lehnsherr - said shortly, his irritation obvious.
"Where are you from then?" Charles asked, wondering how Owens could have gotten it quite so wrong.
"Does it matter?"
"Well, yes. We're to be room mates. I want to know everything about you."
"And do you always get everything you want?" Lehnsherr asked, casting a jaundiced eye around the room. "I see you've made yourself at home," he added, looking at the shambles on the second bed.
"Oh, God!" Charles exclaimed. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't expecting you. Here, let me shift all that rubbish."
"I finished in town more quickly than I expected, managed to get an earlier train," Lehnsherr responded. He shuffled awkwardly, then said, "Look, can I have the other one, do you mind?"
"What?" Charles looked back at the wreck of the bed he'd been sleeping on. It was the one he would have given his room mate by choice, exercising the privilege of arriving first, but it didn't seem right now he'd made such a mess.
Lehnsherr took a deep breath, then said quickly, as if defying Charles to make something of it, "I'd rather be by the door."
"Oh." Charles looked dubiously at the study door, then back at the window and the twilit view of the garden. "Of course. If you're certain. Sorry again."
"Stop apologising," Lehnsherr said, prompting Charles irrationally to want to apologise yet again. This wasn't an auspicious beginning. Before he could make a further fool of himself Lehnsherr went on more gently, "I'm sorry too. I've been very rude."
Charles smiled. "No harm done. You must be exhausted if you just got off the train. Let's start again." He stuck out his hand. "Charles Xavier. Pleased to meet you."
Lehnsherr smiled too, just a little, as he took it, and even the faint curve of his lips was enough to transform his previously grim face into something else entirely, something that gave Charles a warm feeling somewhere deep inside. "Erik Lehnsherr. Nice to meet you too."
Astoundingly, Erik only had the one suitcase and a kitbag, no trunks at all, and after his earlier pique was surprisingly biddable, encouraging Charles to take over the bulk of the second bookcase as well, his own books, evidently a more judicious selection, barely filling the top shelves.
By the time they'd gotten their shaving kits and toiletries safely put away in the washstand, and Erik had carefully positioned a small silver framed photograph of what was presumably himself and his parents on his nightstand, there was a knock on the door, rapidly followed by footsteps and Angel's voice from the study, "I'll leave your dinner on the desk, sirs."
"Thank you," they both called after her, and Charles sighed and swept the rest of the clutter off his bed into the footlocker. Erik frowned, but there was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there before, and Charles found he really didn't mind. Pre-empting any suggestion from his fastidious room mate that they eat at their desks like schoolboys, Charles shouldered past him to grab the heavily laden tray and bring it back through. Erik sighed, but acquiesced to the impromptu picnic.
As they finished what was really a very good steak and kidney pudding - though curiously, Charles noticed, Erik picked out all the chunks of kidney and left them on the side of his plate - they made idle small talk about Aston Villa's upset win over Manchester United - Erik - England's Grand Slam triumph - Charles - and the spectacle of Althea Gibson winning at Wimbledon and what it portended for coloured athletes - some common ground at last.
"Are you really not going to tell me where you're from?" Charles asked at last, replete and full of good cheer.
Erik laughed. "It's not a secret, Charles. I was born in Dusseldorf, moved to Killarney when I was fifteen, then to Dublin when I started university."
"Oh," Charles said, wondering how on earth he hadn't been able to place the accent. "Yes. I suppose life must have been rather difficult in Germany after the war."
"After?" Erik snorted.
"Well. And during," Charles concurred awkwardly. His chief memory of wartime privation was his mother bemoaning the impossibility of acquiring nylons, and his own resentment at having his cocoa made with water instead of entirely with milk. "So, are your parents still in Killarney?"
Erik looked at him in obvious surprise. "My parents died in 1942," he said flatly. "I went to Ireland on a Red Cross ship full of orphans."
Oh.
Casting round desperately for something to say that wouldn't lead to further awkwardness, Charles seized upon the first thing that sprang readily to mind. Tabula in naufragio indeed. "I don't suppose you play chess?" he asked, wondering if Erik would take it amiss if he didn't and Charles offered to teach him.
God smiled at last. "Actually, I do," Erik replied. "I saw the set. Would you like a game?"
"Yes." Charles bounded to his feet and led the way to where he'd set up the board earlier.
"This is a very nice set," Erik commented as he opened.
"It was my father's," Charles replied as he countered. "He was killed in a car accident when I was six," he went on carefully, knowing it didn't really compare to being blown to bits in a bombing raid, or whatever had happened. "Mummy married an absolute rotter and this was the only thing I thought to grab in time, and even then it was only because he never set foot in the library."
"Was he unkind to you?" Erik asked, an interested rather than an annoyed look on his face, allowing Charles to relax a bit.
"Not dreadfully," Charles answered, thinking about it for the first time in ages. "But he packed me off here that summer, and I barely saw either of them again."
"And your mother said nothing?" Erik looked annoyed again, but, strangely, not at Charles.
"She was never very interested in me," Charles said, squirming a bit under Erik's piercing blue gaze. "She'd hated being a widow, and was jolly glad to have gotten married again so quickly."
Erik frowned. "So what made him a rotter?"
"Well, I didn't understand it at the time, but he'd really only married her for her money, so he was understandably upset when it turned out she didn't have any after all. My father left everything to me; she even has to move out of the house when I get married."
Erik nodded sagely, but offered no further comment, returning his full attention to the board. Charles won the game in the end, but it was a close run thing, closer than he could remember an opponent coming to beating him in years. Erik was quick to demand a rematch, and Charles as quick to agree, though he begged off until the morrow pleading exhaustion. In truth it was Erik who looked drawn and weary, but Charles was learning quickly what he should and should not mention.
"Do we have to share the boys' bathroom?" Erik asked as he pulled his pyjamas out of the top drawer.
"God, no!" Charles exclaimed. "We'd never get any hot water. No, there's a separate one for us and the House prefects. I haven't met them yet, but they should be good sorts. We've got the Head of School in our House this year, which is always a good sign."
Erik nodded, a bemused grin on his face. "I suppose you think we're going to win the House Shield, do you?"
"I most certainly do!" Charles confirmed. "We were champions the year I was Head of House, and-"
Erik burst out laughing.
"What?"
"I'd forgotten you said you went here," Erik explained, still laughing. It was a good laugh, hearty and deep, and it was doing funny things to Charles' insides. "So where's this bathroom then?"
"Straight down the corridor, first door on the right," Charles said, burrowing in his own messy drawer to hide his sudden flush.
"Good night then," Erik said, oblivious.
"Good night."
As soon as Erik was gone Charles changed as quickly as possible, performed his nightly ablutions at the wash stand, and climbed into bed. He was still awake, barely, when Erik got back but Erik closed the door as gently as possible and got into his own bed without turning the light back on. He might make a good room mate yet.
*****
Charles had set his alarm clock for what seemed an ungodly hour, and was thus taken by surprise when he woke to find Erik already up and dressed, and staring moodily into the empty fireplace. They descended together to the dining hall where a harried Cook was frantically preparing for the return of the boys that evening from the long vac, despatching kitchen servants hither and yon like soldiers on manoeuvres. She managed to tear herself away from her Shepherd's Pie long enough to make them a pot of tea and some crumpets, and they retreated to a far corner of the hall, away from the panic. They had just about finished when a sharp featured man in academic dress walked up to their table and introduced himself as Sebastian Shaw, the Senior Master.
He then proceeded to take them on a whirlwind tour of the school. He hadn't been there when Charles was a student, and Charles restrained himself, with difficulty, from correcting him on a couple of points of school history, not wanting to seem like a total prig. He could just as easily, and more pleasantly, have given Erik the tour himself, nothing had changed since he'd matriculated, but there was no point in making enemies, and he didn't have to be a mind reader to sense Shaw's basic, unmotivated hostility. To both of them, but Erik in particular.
The junior dormitories and senior studies were indeed unchanged since Charles' day; the juniors crammed in a dozen sardines to a dorm and banished to the commons for prep, the seniors in twin rooms each with a shared study, and the prefects, from their exalted position, allowed the luxury of a shared sitting room as well.
"As Housemasters, you will, of course, be responsible for everything that takes place in your House," Shaw added as they surveyed the spotless rooms. "The morals, work and play of the boys are under your direct supervision. You have three Sixth form boys in the House, who are Prefects under you, and in certain matters exercise an authority of their own without appeal to you. And the Head Boy of the School is in Windsor House this year, a great privilege. The matron, Mrs MacTaggert, superintends everything connected with the boys' health and welfare, but is under your direction in other matters. I shall introduce you to her later."
They spoke briefly about class allocations and the rest of the teaching staff. Erik was to take charge of classics and history, Charles science, the foolish - Shaw was equally scathing about the institution of marriage - Tyrell mathematics, and a Miss Frost modern languages. It was clear from Shaw's tone as he mentioned her that the idea of women teachers in boys' schools was not, to his mind, a good one. The English, geography, music, and games masters were unchanged since Charles' day, and he looked forward to meeting up with them again. The boys were also, of course, to have Divinity twice a week with the Chaplain, and Shaw himself taught them social studies.
"I refer you to the school timetable for particulars as to rising, Chapel, preparation, and lights out and so forth," he continued to expound. "Sound discipline on all these points is essential. Cases of difficulty may be referred to a session of the other masters, or in extreme cases to me, but you should be able to clean your own stoop. A Housemaster may use the cane at his own discretion, and I suggest you do so regularly."
The tour culminated in morning tea, this time in the Senior Master's study. Unlike the Headmaster, who'd been pleasant enough in a distracted sort of way, despite his preoccupation with the Irish Troubles, Shaw grew less and less attractive with every additional word out of his mouth.
"We combine a classical education in the very best traditions of public school with good Christian values," he stated blandly while pouring the tea. "To that end there will be no discussion whatsoever of personal matters."
Charles glanced over at Erik, who looked as confused as he felt.
"Personal matters?" he asked.
"Don't be obtuse," Shaw snapped. "If a student approaches you at any time with questions relating to any area other than academic, you will pass them on immediately to the Chaplain or myself."
Erik's frown returned. "Surely that would be a breach of trust."
"The only relevant trust is the one granted to us by the parents," Shaw responded. "There will be no unfortunate incidents here. And while we're on such distasteful matters, I trust you'll omit all reference to the unspeakable vice of the Greeks in your classes."
"You want me to censor the texts?" Erik asked, clearly mutinous. "Books like the Symposium are-"
"Supposedly the cornerstones of a good education, yes," Shaw agreed. "But there's nothing in the culture to be proud of. And the countries themselves are a devilish mess to prove it. I'm not asking you for a favour. I'm expressing my expectation."
"Of course," Erik replied equally coldly. "I understand."
"And I'll be expecting you to coach at least one sports team, of course. You look like a good fit sort, at least." His eyes raked unpleasantly over Erik's body. "Xavier here will have the cricket Eleven - I understand you were a Blue at Oxford?"
"Er, yes," Charles agreed. "Yes, that's fine."
"I was on the Killarney Gaelic League team for two years," Erik said, clearly irritated. "We were the all-Irish champions."
"We don't play that sort of thing here," Shaw said poisonously.
"Of course not," Erik snapped back. Charles flinched at the anger in his tone. "I didn't expect you would. I played football for the Firsts at Trinity, too."
"Yes, well, I'm afraid we don't play that either," Shaw went on. "As gentlemen we play rugby. Surely Xavier here can get you up to speed if you don't know the rules."
"I know the rules, I just don't-"
"That's sorted then," Shaw concluded, standing up abruptly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got things to do. You can take the rest of the day to yourselves, then we have Chapel at five sharp, followed by dinner in the Hall. And before you ask," he sneered, looking right at Erik, "yes, Chapel is compulsory."
"Fine," Erik gritted out. "Thank you for the tour." Without waiting for a response Erik crossed the room and left, door all but slamming behind him.
Charles stared after him a moment in shock, then turned back to Shaw. "What was that about?" he asked carefully.
"He's a Jew, you know," Shaw said waspishly. "Prone to hysteria. And if you give them an inch they'll take a mile. Don't let him play on your sympathies."
"I didn't know," Charles said, thinking back with an increasing sense of embarrassment on the many idiotic things he'd said the night before. "I'd better go after him."
"Be careful, Xavier," Shaw called as he stepped through the study door. "Remember who your friends are, and be sure you choose the right side."
The door to their room was closed but not locked when Charles made it back, and he shut it carefully behind him, walking through the study to the bedroom doorway. Erik was washing his face at the hand basin, the taps on full, water splashing everywhere.
Charles coughed quietly and Erik's head jerked up, eyes meeting his in the mirror.
"Are you all right?" he asked, feeling inane even as he said it.
"I'm fine," Erik said, swiping an already soaked shirtsleeve across his face. "Fine."
"I don't think you are," Charles insisted, like a fool rushing in where angels feared to tread.
"What would you know?" Erik hissed. "God damn it!" He slammed his fist into the heavy porcelain of the basin twice; made to do it again as Charles dived forward and got an arm around his chest and shoulder, another round his waist. Erik struggled, trying to throw him off, but Charles hung on with all his strength.
"Calm down!" he said as forcefully as he could. "Erik, please. Calm your mind."
Erik shuddered, breathed deep, and relaxed at last, slumping to his knees and cradling his battered hand in his lap. Charles could see smears of blood on the white porcelain, but didn't let go, stroking Erik's back gently but firmly until the last of the tension flowed out of him.
"Come on," he said at last. "Let me look at that."
Erik turned around, eyes resolutely on the floor at Charles' knees. His hand was swelling rapidly, several knuckles cracked and bleeding sluggishly. Charles traced a light finger over them, and the fragile bones of his hand and fingers, biting down hard on his own lip as Erik shivered. It must have hurt like hell, but he didn't pull away.
Between them they managed to get Erik's sodden shirt off, and he sat there, silent and unmoving, in his undershirt as Charles soaked a flannel in warm water. Charles dabbed as carefully as he could at the cuts on the back of Erik's hand; turned his wrist to wipe off the trickle of fresh blood snaking round. His stroke faltered as he saw the numbers, stark blue against the white of Erik's inner arm.
There was a moment of strained silence, then Erik asked, all of his customary bravado missing, "Is it a problem for you?"
"Of course not!" Charles exclaimed. "I'm just sorry I didn't know."
"You don't know anything about me."
"No," Charles agreed. "I don't. But I want to. I told you last night, I want to know everything. And you can tell me, I promise. As much or as little as you can, but it's all right, I swear."
His fingers were still curled lightly around Erik's wrist, and Erik did nothing to get free. Instead he leaned in, resting his forehead on Charles' shoulder.
"I was sure I'd be alone here," he whispered.
"You're not alone," Charles said, and he knew as he did it had all the weight of a vow. "Erik. You're not alone."
"It's ironic," Erik confided, still in that hoarse whisper, his breath warm even through Charles' shirt. "I should have known better. I do know better. I only mentioned it because the Headmaster seemed convinced I was some kind of Fenian fifth columnist. I don't even practise." He sucked in a tortured breath. "But I can't hide everything I am. I can't be German, can't be Irish, can't be Jewish; I can't be-" He broke off suddenly.
"Can't be what?" Charles asked.
"Nothing," Erik said quickly, pulling away at last. "Isn't that enough for you?"
Charles shrugged and climbed to his feet, pulling Erik up after him. "Let's go see Matron."
"Charles…"
"Trust me."
Matron MacTaggert was a lovely woman, perhaps a few years older than Charles, friendly and open. It was clear she didn't entirely believe Charles' story that they'd been shifting furniture - "My fault completely; butterfingers…" - but when he pleaded with her wordlessly over Erik's shoulder she nodded and carried on as though it was the most plausible excuse in the world. She bustled Erik onto a bed in the sickroom, and set to examining his hand, waving Charles off to make cocoa in the tiny kitchenette.
He took his time, thinking Erik could probably do with a moment to himself, a cool, professional demeanour and a smile from a pretty lady who didn't know any of his secrets probably just the thing he needed. In truth, Charles needed a moment himself, his mind reeling from the revelations of the past hour, and he filled a glass from the tap and drank it quickly; filled it again.
He'd never known a Jew before, not unless you counted Lowenstein who'd been in the Sixth when he was a Third, and the bane of Cook's life for refusing to eat sausages or bacon, insisting on kippers at every breakfast. But he'd been English, at least six generations back, and his family's shipping business had made them almost as wealthy as the Xaviers, and he was both a devastatingly fast bowler and a decent fly-half, so all in all he'd been allowed his funny habits.
It was hard to imagine Erik being granted such indulgence, and that struck Charles as fundamentally unfair, un-English in the worst possible way, not cricket. It had been obvious from Shaw's tone and demeanour that if Charles wasn't demonstrably with him he would be considered against him, and equally obvious that such was a very dangerous thing to be, but everything in him rebelled at the thought of being allied with such a man, a bully, no gentleman at all. No, his first impulse was undoubtedly the right one, and he would burn in it at the stake. He was with Erik, and good luck to anyone who tried to make something of it.
Charles took a deep breath and returned to the main room. Matron pronounced no bones broken and set to judiciously applying iodine and bandages, and Charles handed over the triple strength cocoa he'd made, silencing Erik's attempt to demur with a look. He'd added massive quantities of sugar to it, and Erik grimaced as he swallowed, but he appeared to have largely regained his equilibrium. Just as well too, as they barely had time to get back, get changed, and get to Chapel.
It was a fairly typical start of term service, one Charles had attended dozens of times as a schoolboy. Lord behold us, the parable of the Talents followed by a sermon about using one's gifts and opportunities wisely, prayers for selves and others - in this case for a quick and peaceful end to the uprising in Kenya - and a collection.
Erik was strung as tense as piano wire, almost stepping on his heels as they were piped into the hall, but once he was safely in the seat nearest the clerestory window Charles made a point of sitting forward in his own seat and blocking him from Shaw's sight. He pressed his thigh against Erik's knee, safely under cover of his hymn book, and sure enough his breathing calmed and he slowly relaxed.
Dinner was pleasant enough, though Charles couldn't help looking down from their lofty perch at the high table and wishing he was back in his habitual seat at the head of the Windsor table. The buzz and clatter at the boys’ tables, however, growing occasionally to a hubbub, amply made up for the sombreness of the exalted company, and even Erik smiled once or twice at the high spirits of the newly returned boys.
*****
After dinner they had time for a quick game while the boys bustled their way back into the dorms; Erik, still unsettled, lost more quickly this time, but he was willing to make small talk about lessons and sports practices so it wasn't a total loss. Shortly after they finished there was a polite knock at the study door.
"Mr Xavier, Mr Lehnsherr," said a tall blond boy, extending his hand to each of them in turn. "I'm Scott Summers. Head of Windsor and Head of School. Are you ready to meet the House?"
"My God," Charles laughed, taken aback. "Summers? You were in what, the First form when I was Head of House?"
"Yes," Scott agreed, smiling. "And a bit of an oily tick, I think. I'm much improved, I assure you."
"Well, you're much taller, certainly" Charles laughed. "You're taller than me now."
"Not much of an achievement," Erik snorted at his shoulder, and Charles wanted to be cross but just couldn't; it was so nice to see his new friend comfortable enough to make a joke, even if it was at his expense.
"Don't spoil this, Erik," he said instead. "Let's go meet the boys."
The boys of Windsor House, some sixty odd, were assembled for inspection in the junior common room on the first floor. The two House prefects, who their Head introduced as Henry McCoy and Robert Drake, shook hands with Charles and Erik, then returned to their appointed duties as baleful watchmen at the far ends of the congregation. The rest of the Sixth looked like decent enough sorts; the Fifth, by contrast, had a vaguely mutinous air, no doubt born of envy at the privileges of their betters, near enough now to be within sight and yet still so far beyond their reach. Charles remembered the feeling well.
The Third and Fourth were the usual motley selection of young reprobates, already curdling into visible factions. Charles noted to himself the need for a surprise inspection of the dormitory after lights out, sooner rather than later. Better by far to get off on the right foot, and relax later. Lastly, the First and Second formers were a worried knot of immaculate uniforms and shining, scrubbed faces, eager to please and be pleased. It was a great relief indeed to have the prep boys housed over in the main building with Matron; Charles couldn't imagine anything worse than dealing with homesickness and bed-wetting, far better to leave such things to a woman's tender touch. This lot, however, would do nicely.
"Right," he said, "marvellous," when it became obvious they were waiting for him to say something. "I'm Mr Xavier, this is Mr Lehnsherr, and we're your new Housemasters. Now Windsor may have fallen on hard times recently" - there was a chorus of boos - "but there's no doubt in my mind that our day will come again, and soon. We're all very lucky to have the Head of School in our House, so we must rally to support him" - now a chorus of cheers - "and show Glasgow" - a stamping of feet for the old enemy - "we're made of sterner stuff than they think."
There was a round of applause, and a general murmur that perhaps the future was not quite so bleak as forecast.
"Mr Xavier," one of the Fourth dared to ask, all eyes swivelling his way.
"Yes?"
"Summers junior," the boy said, and, indeed, the resemblance to his brother was glaring. "Is it true that you once dug a tunnel from Windsor all the way to the refectory?"
"Not at all," Charles said, even as Erik choked beside him trying not to laugh, and Scott stared stony-faced straight ahead. The younger Summers did not look convinced.
"I'm afraid we only made it as far as the music room," he admitted. "Still, it was a good effort."
There was an uproar of delighted good cheer, and the instant launching of a thousand plots.
"You realise you've effectively just challenged them to do better," Erik murmured, leaning in.
"I do indeed, my friend," Charles agreed. "There's nothing like a bit of shared mischief to unite a House."
"All fun and games till the damn thing collapses," Erik insisted.
"Nonsense. My deputy Head went on to study Engineering. It was brilliantly shored up. We even strung it with electric light from the science lab."
Erik shook his head in good natured exasperation, but it was the longest Charles had seen him with a smile on his face since his arrival, so all told his gambit had been a masterful one, on several fronts.
"Well, then," he said. "I'll leave you all to it. Summers, see that lights are out by nine."
*****
Part II
Author: arysteia
Verse: XM:FC AU (Non-Powered)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 28,000
Pairings: Erik/Charles, reference to Alex/Darwin
Warnings: explicit sex, period appropriate attitudes (illegal nature of homosexuality, internalised homophobia, condescension to women and racial minorities, anti-Semitism - all basically brief but present, non-violent)
Summary: The late 1950s and early 60s were an idyllic time. Haslemere School, and Windsor House in particular, was obsessed with cricket, midnight feasts, rugby, tunnelling from the House to the dining hall, cricket, winning the House competition, committing the perfect prank, and cricket. The new Housemasters, Lehnsherr and Xavier, were young, handsome, good at sports, tolerably interesting in lessons, and actually seemed to care about their charges, something which could not previously be relied upon.
A woman couldn't open a bank account in her own name, divorce required proof of adultery, the empire was breaking up, and homosexuality was not merely illegal, but classified an 'unnatural offence'. A peaceful life for all was never an option.
For Charles Xavier, returning to Haslemere School after an absence of six years was like coming home. Indeed, those welcoming walls felt like more of a home than Xavier Hall ever had, having sheltered him for the vast majority of some twelve years of his life. The only oddity was turning left at the top of the stairs and being shown straight into his own set of rooms, rather than turning right and continuing down the corridor to the senior studies.
For all its splendid isolation, the Housemasters' room looked very like the one Charles had shared his last year at school, though it was admittedly more attractively furnished, and the view was of the front gardens rather than the inner courtyard. There were two narrow twin beds in the bedroom, one hard up against the wall beneath the window, and one stranded in the middle of the room between the doorway to the study and the oak wardrobe, dresser and wash stand that took up the whole of the inner wall. Each bed had its own small bedside table and footlocker, leaving barely enough room to swing the proverbial cat.
The study was rather more promising, significantly bigger, with bookshelves on both long walls, a pair of writing desks facing each other at the end by the door to the corridor, and a fireplace at the other, complete with a couple of battered leather armchairs and a small table on which Charles was pleased to dump the heavy marble chess set he'd been carrying for the entire day's journey, unwilling to trust it to the vagaries of porters and train guards.
"The other master isn't arriving until tomorrow evening," the young housemaid who had shown him up said quietly from the door. "And the Headmaster said to tell you he expects you for tea in his study at two o'clock, sharp."
"Thank you, dear," Charles said absently, as he continued to peruse his new domain. From what he remembered, old Owens was a stickler for punctuality, so he had a little less than an hour and a half to get unpacked and settled in.
"I'm very sorry, too," the girl added, "but there's no dinner in the hall, as the boys aren't back yet. Cook will make you something, though, and I'll bring you up a tray."
"Marvellous," Charles murmured, secretly quite glad at the thought of some time to himself. "And what's your name, dear?"
"Angel, sir," the girl said.
"A very pretty name for a very pretty girl," Charles said, smiling as she blushed charmingly. "Now if you don't mind…?"
"Of course." She left, shutting the door after her.
It opened again a moment later, as Charles stared dreamily out the window at the roses wafting gently in the breeze. It was a porter, blissfully unaware of Charles' aspersions on his ilk, with Charles' trunks.
"Ah," Charles said, clapping his hands. "Wonderful. Just leave them there."
The man nodded, and left.
The first three trunks he opened all contained books and journals, the absolute bare minimum he could bring himself to live with, after dispatching the rest of his Oxford digs back home to Xavier Hall. They more than filled the bookcase he'd bagsed as his own, and with a mournful sigh and longing look at the other he dumped the rest in a pile on the corresponding desk. The last two trunks contained his clothes and personal belongings. The clothes were easily dealt with, hung in the wardrobe and transferred, still neatly pressed and folded, into the dresser drawers, but he was still contemplating the rest when a clock somewhere outside struck two.
"Damn." Arranging the books to his satisfaction had taken a lot longer than he'd realised. He briefly considered just leaving the trunk as it was, but the porter, whose name he now realised he'd forgotten to ask, would likely come to haul the trunks away to the box room, and it would be unfair to expect him to make yet another trip because Charles was disorganised. With a sigh, he dumped the whole lot on the bed under the window, and placed the empty trunk with its fellows.
It was five past by the time he reached the Headmaster's study, slightly out of breath from running all the way. Owens frowned at him as walked in.
"I hope you'll keep better time than this in lessons, Mr Xavier," he said sharply.
"Yes, sir, of course, sir," Charles agreed. "I'm dreadfully sorry."
"Very well," Owens said. "You weren't habitually tardy as a boy; I assume you haven't become so?"
"No, sir."
"Well, sit down then, don't loom."
Charles sat down. He couldn't help feeling like a naughty schoolboy called to account, even if it had been years since he'd last been in here on a disciplinary matter. Having Owens pour him a cup of tea and pass him a plate of Eccles cakes only made him feel more disconcerted.
"We were pleased to get you, Xavier," Owens went on, irritation evidently forgotten. "It's always good to get an old boy, someone who knows the ropes. And your references were superb; your professors sounded quite disappointed you weren't staying on as a post-graduate. Of course, you were always an excellent student."
"Thank you," Charles said, in no way willing to discuss the reasons for his change of plans. "I'm glad to be here."
"Good, good." Owens put down his teacup and leaned forward in his chair. "I trust you'll keep an eye on the new chap for me, what's his name, Lensher."
"Of course. But I'm rather a new chap myself, Headmaster."
"Nonsense. Once a Haslemere man, always a Haslemere man. But seriously, Xavier. I'm counting on you. He's an Irishman, you know."
"Oh." Charles nodded, though he didn't, in fact, know, and as best he could tell Lensher didn't sound like a terribly Irish name.
"I expect you to run a tight ship over there, Charles," Owens went on. "No nonsense in the dormitories, and no funny ideas."
"I'm sure he won't have funny ideas," Charles protested weakly.
"He's from Killarney," Owens insisted.
"But he wouldn't have been born during the civil war," Charles countered, feeling oddly moved to defend this fellow he'd never met. Perhaps it was the sacred bond of shared digs kicking in early. It had always been Fifth formers against Sixth, prefects against plebs, Windsor House against Glasgow, students generally against the masters. It took no imagination at all to grasp that Housemasters must surely - though perhaps secretly - band together against outsiders as well.
Owens snorted scornfully. "In any case," he went on. "You're in charge. Don't take any nonsense from him."
"Yes, Headmaster."
Owens softened a little. "I'm sorry you have to share with him," he allowed. "But Tyrell, you remember him, mathematics master, got married last summer - God knows why, ridiculous old duffer making a fool of himself - so he and his blushing bride get the house."
"It's quite all right," Charles insisted, "I don't mind. I'd rather be nearer the boys actually."
"Good man."
With that, it was obvious tea was at an end. They shook hands, and Charles was glad to escape back to his room. It would have been nice, he couldn't help thinking, to get one of the stand alone houses, but they had always been the preserve of the oldest and most senior masters, and young single men had always been crammed into the boarding houses. He only hoped this year's Upper Sixth weren't quite as accomplished at pranking and larking as his own cohort had been.
Returning to his room, he took one despairing look at the mess on the bed under the window and collapsed onto the other one. The infamous Lensher wasn't due till tomorrow after all, and with a smile and a kind word he could no doubt prevail upon the lovely Angel to remake the bed.
It was a rude awakening, then, when the door slammed and a heavy suitcase hit the polished floor with no care at all. Charles startled and sat up, blinking in the sudden glare of the electric light, and glanced in surprise at the lowering dark out the window, then up at the stern face of a tall, well dressed, but frankly very grim looking man staring down at him in turn.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, struggling sleepily to stand up. "Awfully sorry. Must have nodded off. I'm Charles Xavier. You must be Mr Lensher."
"Lehns-herr," the man corrected, faint Irish lilt masking quite a different accent.
"Oh. Sorry again," Charles stammered, then blundered on, "That's not an Irish name."
"No," Lensher - no, Lehnsherr - said shortly, his irritation obvious.
"Where are you from then?" Charles asked, wondering how Owens could have gotten it quite so wrong.
"Does it matter?"
"Well, yes. We're to be room mates. I want to know everything about you."
"And do you always get everything you want?" Lehnsherr asked, casting a jaundiced eye around the room. "I see you've made yourself at home," he added, looking at the shambles on the second bed.
"Oh, God!" Charles exclaimed. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't expecting you. Here, let me shift all that rubbish."
"I finished in town more quickly than I expected, managed to get an earlier train," Lehnsherr responded. He shuffled awkwardly, then said, "Look, can I have the other one, do you mind?"
"What?" Charles looked back at the wreck of the bed he'd been sleeping on. It was the one he would have given his room mate by choice, exercising the privilege of arriving first, but it didn't seem right now he'd made such a mess.
Lehnsherr took a deep breath, then said quickly, as if defying Charles to make something of it, "I'd rather be by the door."
"Oh." Charles looked dubiously at the study door, then back at the window and the twilit view of the garden. "Of course. If you're certain. Sorry again."
"Stop apologising," Lehnsherr said, prompting Charles irrationally to want to apologise yet again. This wasn't an auspicious beginning. Before he could make a further fool of himself Lehnsherr went on more gently, "I'm sorry too. I've been very rude."
Charles smiled. "No harm done. You must be exhausted if you just got off the train. Let's start again." He stuck out his hand. "Charles Xavier. Pleased to meet you."
Lehnsherr smiled too, just a little, as he took it, and even the faint curve of his lips was enough to transform his previously grim face into something else entirely, something that gave Charles a warm feeling somewhere deep inside. "Erik Lehnsherr. Nice to meet you too."
Astoundingly, Erik only had the one suitcase and a kitbag, no trunks at all, and after his earlier pique was surprisingly biddable, encouraging Charles to take over the bulk of the second bookcase as well, his own books, evidently a more judicious selection, barely filling the top shelves.
By the time they'd gotten their shaving kits and toiletries safely put away in the washstand, and Erik had carefully positioned a small silver framed photograph of what was presumably himself and his parents on his nightstand, there was a knock on the door, rapidly followed by footsteps and Angel's voice from the study, "I'll leave your dinner on the desk, sirs."
"Thank you," they both called after her, and Charles sighed and swept the rest of the clutter off his bed into the footlocker. Erik frowned, but there was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there before, and Charles found he really didn't mind. Pre-empting any suggestion from his fastidious room mate that they eat at their desks like schoolboys, Charles shouldered past him to grab the heavily laden tray and bring it back through. Erik sighed, but acquiesced to the impromptu picnic.
As they finished what was really a very good steak and kidney pudding - though curiously, Charles noticed, Erik picked out all the chunks of kidney and left them on the side of his plate - they made idle small talk about Aston Villa's upset win over Manchester United - Erik - England's Grand Slam triumph - Charles - and the spectacle of Althea Gibson winning at Wimbledon and what it portended for coloured athletes - some common ground at last.
"Are you really not going to tell me where you're from?" Charles asked at last, replete and full of good cheer.
Erik laughed. "It's not a secret, Charles. I was born in Dusseldorf, moved to Killarney when I was fifteen, then to Dublin when I started university."
"Oh," Charles said, wondering how on earth he hadn't been able to place the accent. "Yes. I suppose life must have been rather difficult in Germany after the war."
"After?" Erik snorted.
"Well. And during," Charles concurred awkwardly. His chief memory of wartime privation was his mother bemoaning the impossibility of acquiring nylons, and his own resentment at having his cocoa made with water instead of entirely with milk. "So, are your parents still in Killarney?"
Erik looked at him in obvious surprise. "My parents died in 1942," he said flatly. "I went to Ireland on a Red Cross ship full of orphans."
Oh.
Casting round desperately for something to say that wouldn't lead to further awkwardness, Charles seized upon the first thing that sprang readily to mind. Tabula in naufragio indeed. "I don't suppose you play chess?" he asked, wondering if Erik would take it amiss if he didn't and Charles offered to teach him.
God smiled at last. "Actually, I do," Erik replied. "I saw the set. Would you like a game?"
"Yes." Charles bounded to his feet and led the way to where he'd set up the board earlier.
"This is a very nice set," Erik commented as he opened.
"It was my father's," Charles replied as he countered. "He was killed in a car accident when I was six," he went on carefully, knowing it didn't really compare to being blown to bits in a bombing raid, or whatever had happened. "Mummy married an absolute rotter and this was the only thing I thought to grab in time, and even then it was only because he never set foot in the library."
"Was he unkind to you?" Erik asked, an interested rather than an annoyed look on his face, allowing Charles to relax a bit.
"Not dreadfully," Charles answered, thinking about it for the first time in ages. "But he packed me off here that summer, and I barely saw either of them again."
"And your mother said nothing?" Erik looked annoyed again, but, strangely, not at Charles.
"She was never very interested in me," Charles said, squirming a bit under Erik's piercing blue gaze. "She'd hated being a widow, and was jolly glad to have gotten married again so quickly."
Erik frowned. "So what made him a rotter?"
"Well, I didn't understand it at the time, but he'd really only married her for her money, so he was understandably upset when it turned out she didn't have any after all. My father left everything to me; she even has to move out of the house when I get married."
Erik nodded sagely, but offered no further comment, returning his full attention to the board. Charles won the game in the end, but it was a close run thing, closer than he could remember an opponent coming to beating him in years. Erik was quick to demand a rematch, and Charles as quick to agree, though he begged off until the morrow pleading exhaustion. In truth it was Erik who looked drawn and weary, but Charles was learning quickly what he should and should not mention.
"Do we have to share the boys' bathroom?" Erik asked as he pulled his pyjamas out of the top drawer.
"God, no!" Charles exclaimed. "We'd never get any hot water. No, there's a separate one for us and the House prefects. I haven't met them yet, but they should be good sorts. We've got the Head of School in our House this year, which is always a good sign."
Erik nodded, a bemused grin on his face. "I suppose you think we're going to win the House Shield, do you?"
"I most certainly do!" Charles confirmed. "We were champions the year I was Head of House, and-"
Erik burst out laughing.
"What?"
"I'd forgotten you said you went here," Erik explained, still laughing. It was a good laugh, hearty and deep, and it was doing funny things to Charles' insides. "So where's this bathroom then?"
"Straight down the corridor, first door on the right," Charles said, burrowing in his own messy drawer to hide his sudden flush.
"Good night then," Erik said, oblivious.
"Good night."
As soon as Erik was gone Charles changed as quickly as possible, performed his nightly ablutions at the wash stand, and climbed into bed. He was still awake, barely, when Erik got back but Erik closed the door as gently as possible and got into his own bed without turning the light back on. He might make a good room mate yet.
*****
Charles had set his alarm clock for what seemed an ungodly hour, and was thus taken by surprise when he woke to find Erik already up and dressed, and staring moodily into the empty fireplace. They descended together to the dining hall where a harried Cook was frantically preparing for the return of the boys that evening from the long vac, despatching kitchen servants hither and yon like soldiers on manoeuvres. She managed to tear herself away from her Shepherd's Pie long enough to make them a pot of tea and some crumpets, and they retreated to a far corner of the hall, away from the panic. They had just about finished when a sharp featured man in academic dress walked up to their table and introduced himself as Sebastian Shaw, the Senior Master.
He then proceeded to take them on a whirlwind tour of the school. He hadn't been there when Charles was a student, and Charles restrained himself, with difficulty, from correcting him on a couple of points of school history, not wanting to seem like a total prig. He could just as easily, and more pleasantly, have given Erik the tour himself, nothing had changed since he'd matriculated, but there was no point in making enemies, and he didn't have to be a mind reader to sense Shaw's basic, unmotivated hostility. To both of them, but Erik in particular.
The junior dormitories and senior studies were indeed unchanged since Charles' day; the juniors crammed in a dozen sardines to a dorm and banished to the commons for prep, the seniors in twin rooms each with a shared study, and the prefects, from their exalted position, allowed the luxury of a shared sitting room as well.
"As Housemasters, you will, of course, be responsible for everything that takes place in your House," Shaw added as they surveyed the spotless rooms. "The morals, work and play of the boys are under your direct supervision. You have three Sixth form boys in the House, who are Prefects under you, and in certain matters exercise an authority of their own without appeal to you. And the Head Boy of the School is in Windsor House this year, a great privilege. The matron, Mrs MacTaggert, superintends everything connected with the boys' health and welfare, but is under your direction in other matters. I shall introduce you to her later."
They spoke briefly about class allocations and the rest of the teaching staff. Erik was to take charge of classics and history, Charles science, the foolish - Shaw was equally scathing about the institution of marriage - Tyrell mathematics, and a Miss Frost modern languages. It was clear from Shaw's tone as he mentioned her that the idea of women teachers in boys' schools was not, to his mind, a good one. The English, geography, music, and games masters were unchanged since Charles' day, and he looked forward to meeting up with them again. The boys were also, of course, to have Divinity twice a week with the Chaplain, and Shaw himself taught them social studies.
"I refer you to the school timetable for particulars as to rising, Chapel, preparation, and lights out and so forth," he continued to expound. "Sound discipline on all these points is essential. Cases of difficulty may be referred to a session of the other masters, or in extreme cases to me, but you should be able to clean your own stoop. A Housemaster may use the cane at his own discretion, and I suggest you do so regularly."
The tour culminated in morning tea, this time in the Senior Master's study. Unlike the Headmaster, who'd been pleasant enough in a distracted sort of way, despite his preoccupation with the Irish Troubles, Shaw grew less and less attractive with every additional word out of his mouth.
"We combine a classical education in the very best traditions of public school with good Christian values," he stated blandly while pouring the tea. "To that end there will be no discussion whatsoever of personal matters."
Charles glanced over at Erik, who looked as confused as he felt.
"Personal matters?" he asked.
"Don't be obtuse," Shaw snapped. "If a student approaches you at any time with questions relating to any area other than academic, you will pass them on immediately to the Chaplain or myself."
Erik's frown returned. "Surely that would be a breach of trust."
"The only relevant trust is the one granted to us by the parents," Shaw responded. "There will be no unfortunate incidents here. And while we're on such distasteful matters, I trust you'll omit all reference to the unspeakable vice of the Greeks in your classes."
"You want me to censor the texts?" Erik asked, clearly mutinous. "Books like the Symposium are-"
"Supposedly the cornerstones of a good education, yes," Shaw agreed. "But there's nothing in the culture to be proud of. And the countries themselves are a devilish mess to prove it. I'm not asking you for a favour. I'm expressing my expectation."
"Of course," Erik replied equally coldly. "I understand."
"And I'll be expecting you to coach at least one sports team, of course. You look like a good fit sort, at least." His eyes raked unpleasantly over Erik's body. "Xavier here will have the cricket Eleven - I understand you were a Blue at Oxford?"
"Er, yes," Charles agreed. "Yes, that's fine."
"I was on the Killarney Gaelic League team for two years," Erik said, clearly irritated. "We were the all-Irish champions."
"We don't play that sort of thing here," Shaw said poisonously.
"Of course not," Erik snapped back. Charles flinched at the anger in his tone. "I didn't expect you would. I played football for the Firsts at Trinity, too."
"Yes, well, I'm afraid we don't play that either," Shaw went on. "As gentlemen we play rugby. Surely Xavier here can get you up to speed if you don't know the rules."
"I know the rules, I just don't-"
"That's sorted then," Shaw concluded, standing up abruptly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got things to do. You can take the rest of the day to yourselves, then we have Chapel at five sharp, followed by dinner in the Hall. And before you ask," he sneered, looking right at Erik, "yes, Chapel is compulsory."
"Fine," Erik gritted out. "Thank you for the tour." Without waiting for a response Erik crossed the room and left, door all but slamming behind him.
Charles stared after him a moment in shock, then turned back to Shaw. "What was that about?" he asked carefully.
"He's a Jew, you know," Shaw said waspishly. "Prone to hysteria. And if you give them an inch they'll take a mile. Don't let him play on your sympathies."
"I didn't know," Charles said, thinking back with an increasing sense of embarrassment on the many idiotic things he'd said the night before. "I'd better go after him."
"Be careful, Xavier," Shaw called as he stepped through the study door. "Remember who your friends are, and be sure you choose the right side."
The door to their room was closed but not locked when Charles made it back, and he shut it carefully behind him, walking through the study to the bedroom doorway. Erik was washing his face at the hand basin, the taps on full, water splashing everywhere.
Charles coughed quietly and Erik's head jerked up, eyes meeting his in the mirror.
"Are you all right?" he asked, feeling inane even as he said it.
"I'm fine," Erik said, swiping an already soaked shirtsleeve across his face. "Fine."
"I don't think you are," Charles insisted, like a fool rushing in where angels feared to tread.
"What would you know?" Erik hissed. "God damn it!" He slammed his fist into the heavy porcelain of the basin twice; made to do it again as Charles dived forward and got an arm around his chest and shoulder, another round his waist. Erik struggled, trying to throw him off, but Charles hung on with all his strength.
"Calm down!" he said as forcefully as he could. "Erik, please. Calm your mind."
Erik shuddered, breathed deep, and relaxed at last, slumping to his knees and cradling his battered hand in his lap. Charles could see smears of blood on the white porcelain, but didn't let go, stroking Erik's back gently but firmly until the last of the tension flowed out of him.
"Come on," he said at last. "Let me look at that."
Erik turned around, eyes resolutely on the floor at Charles' knees. His hand was swelling rapidly, several knuckles cracked and bleeding sluggishly. Charles traced a light finger over them, and the fragile bones of his hand and fingers, biting down hard on his own lip as Erik shivered. It must have hurt like hell, but he didn't pull away.
Between them they managed to get Erik's sodden shirt off, and he sat there, silent and unmoving, in his undershirt as Charles soaked a flannel in warm water. Charles dabbed as carefully as he could at the cuts on the back of Erik's hand; turned his wrist to wipe off the trickle of fresh blood snaking round. His stroke faltered as he saw the numbers, stark blue against the white of Erik's inner arm.
There was a moment of strained silence, then Erik asked, all of his customary bravado missing, "Is it a problem for you?"
"Of course not!" Charles exclaimed. "I'm just sorry I didn't know."
"You don't know anything about me."
"No," Charles agreed. "I don't. But I want to. I told you last night, I want to know everything. And you can tell me, I promise. As much or as little as you can, but it's all right, I swear."
His fingers were still curled lightly around Erik's wrist, and Erik did nothing to get free. Instead he leaned in, resting his forehead on Charles' shoulder.
"I was sure I'd be alone here," he whispered.
"You're not alone," Charles said, and he knew as he did it had all the weight of a vow. "Erik. You're not alone."
"It's ironic," Erik confided, still in that hoarse whisper, his breath warm even through Charles' shirt. "I should have known better. I do know better. I only mentioned it because the Headmaster seemed convinced I was some kind of Fenian fifth columnist. I don't even practise." He sucked in a tortured breath. "But I can't hide everything I am. I can't be German, can't be Irish, can't be Jewish; I can't be-" He broke off suddenly.
"Can't be what?" Charles asked.
"Nothing," Erik said quickly, pulling away at last. "Isn't that enough for you?"
Charles shrugged and climbed to his feet, pulling Erik up after him. "Let's go see Matron."
"Charles…"
"Trust me."
Matron MacTaggert was a lovely woman, perhaps a few years older than Charles, friendly and open. It was clear she didn't entirely believe Charles' story that they'd been shifting furniture - "My fault completely; butterfingers…" - but when he pleaded with her wordlessly over Erik's shoulder she nodded and carried on as though it was the most plausible excuse in the world. She bustled Erik onto a bed in the sickroom, and set to examining his hand, waving Charles off to make cocoa in the tiny kitchenette.
He took his time, thinking Erik could probably do with a moment to himself, a cool, professional demeanour and a smile from a pretty lady who didn't know any of his secrets probably just the thing he needed. In truth, Charles needed a moment himself, his mind reeling from the revelations of the past hour, and he filled a glass from the tap and drank it quickly; filled it again.
He'd never known a Jew before, not unless you counted Lowenstein who'd been in the Sixth when he was a Third, and the bane of Cook's life for refusing to eat sausages or bacon, insisting on kippers at every breakfast. But he'd been English, at least six generations back, and his family's shipping business had made them almost as wealthy as the Xaviers, and he was both a devastatingly fast bowler and a decent fly-half, so all in all he'd been allowed his funny habits.
It was hard to imagine Erik being granted such indulgence, and that struck Charles as fundamentally unfair, un-English in the worst possible way, not cricket. It had been obvious from Shaw's tone and demeanour that if Charles wasn't demonstrably with him he would be considered against him, and equally obvious that such was a very dangerous thing to be, but everything in him rebelled at the thought of being allied with such a man, a bully, no gentleman at all. No, his first impulse was undoubtedly the right one, and he would burn in it at the stake. He was with Erik, and good luck to anyone who tried to make something of it.
Charles took a deep breath and returned to the main room. Matron pronounced no bones broken and set to judiciously applying iodine and bandages, and Charles handed over the triple strength cocoa he'd made, silencing Erik's attempt to demur with a look. He'd added massive quantities of sugar to it, and Erik grimaced as he swallowed, but he appeared to have largely regained his equilibrium. Just as well too, as they barely had time to get back, get changed, and get to Chapel.
It was a fairly typical start of term service, one Charles had attended dozens of times as a schoolboy. Lord behold us, the parable of the Talents followed by a sermon about using one's gifts and opportunities wisely, prayers for selves and others - in this case for a quick and peaceful end to the uprising in Kenya - and a collection.
Erik was strung as tense as piano wire, almost stepping on his heels as they were piped into the hall, but once he was safely in the seat nearest the clerestory window Charles made a point of sitting forward in his own seat and blocking him from Shaw's sight. He pressed his thigh against Erik's knee, safely under cover of his hymn book, and sure enough his breathing calmed and he slowly relaxed.
Dinner was pleasant enough, though Charles couldn't help looking down from their lofty perch at the high table and wishing he was back in his habitual seat at the head of the Windsor table. The buzz and clatter at the boys’ tables, however, growing occasionally to a hubbub, amply made up for the sombreness of the exalted company, and even Erik smiled once or twice at the high spirits of the newly returned boys.
*****
After dinner they had time for a quick game while the boys bustled their way back into the dorms; Erik, still unsettled, lost more quickly this time, but he was willing to make small talk about lessons and sports practices so it wasn't a total loss. Shortly after they finished there was a polite knock at the study door.
"Mr Xavier, Mr Lehnsherr," said a tall blond boy, extending his hand to each of them in turn. "I'm Scott Summers. Head of Windsor and Head of School. Are you ready to meet the House?"
"My God," Charles laughed, taken aback. "Summers? You were in what, the First form when I was Head of House?"
"Yes," Scott agreed, smiling. "And a bit of an oily tick, I think. I'm much improved, I assure you."
"Well, you're much taller, certainly" Charles laughed. "You're taller than me now."
"Not much of an achievement," Erik snorted at his shoulder, and Charles wanted to be cross but just couldn't; it was so nice to see his new friend comfortable enough to make a joke, even if it was at his expense.
"Don't spoil this, Erik," he said instead. "Let's go meet the boys."
The boys of Windsor House, some sixty odd, were assembled for inspection in the junior common room on the first floor. The two House prefects, who their Head introduced as Henry McCoy and Robert Drake, shook hands with Charles and Erik, then returned to their appointed duties as baleful watchmen at the far ends of the congregation. The rest of the Sixth looked like decent enough sorts; the Fifth, by contrast, had a vaguely mutinous air, no doubt born of envy at the privileges of their betters, near enough now to be within sight and yet still so far beyond their reach. Charles remembered the feeling well.
The Third and Fourth were the usual motley selection of young reprobates, already curdling into visible factions. Charles noted to himself the need for a surprise inspection of the dormitory after lights out, sooner rather than later. Better by far to get off on the right foot, and relax later. Lastly, the First and Second formers were a worried knot of immaculate uniforms and shining, scrubbed faces, eager to please and be pleased. It was a great relief indeed to have the prep boys housed over in the main building with Matron; Charles couldn't imagine anything worse than dealing with homesickness and bed-wetting, far better to leave such things to a woman's tender touch. This lot, however, would do nicely.
"Right," he said, "marvellous," when it became obvious they were waiting for him to say something. "I'm Mr Xavier, this is Mr Lehnsherr, and we're your new Housemasters. Now Windsor may have fallen on hard times recently" - there was a chorus of boos - "but there's no doubt in my mind that our day will come again, and soon. We're all very lucky to have the Head of School in our House, so we must rally to support him" - now a chorus of cheers - "and show Glasgow" - a stamping of feet for the old enemy - "we're made of sterner stuff than they think."
There was a round of applause, and a general murmur that perhaps the future was not quite so bleak as forecast.
"Mr Xavier," one of the Fourth dared to ask, all eyes swivelling his way.
"Yes?"
"Summers junior," the boy said, and, indeed, the resemblance to his brother was glaring. "Is it true that you once dug a tunnel from Windsor all the way to the refectory?"
"Not at all," Charles said, even as Erik choked beside him trying not to laugh, and Scott stared stony-faced straight ahead. The younger Summers did not look convinced.
"I'm afraid we only made it as far as the music room," he admitted. "Still, it was a good effort."
There was an uproar of delighted good cheer, and the instant launching of a thousand plots.
"You realise you've effectively just challenged them to do better," Erik murmured, leaning in.
"I do indeed, my friend," Charles agreed. "There's nothing like a bit of shared mischief to unite a House."
"All fun and games till the damn thing collapses," Erik insisted.
"Nonsense. My deputy Head went on to study Engineering. It was brilliantly shored up. We even strung it with electric light from the science lab."
Erik shook his head in good natured exasperation, but it was the longest Charles had seen him with a smile on his face since his arrival, so all told his gambit had been a masterful one, on several fronts.
"Well, then," he said. "I'll leave you all to it. Summers, see that lights are out by nine."
*****
Part II