fic: i'll build you a fire (charles/erik, pg, 3747 words)
more cracky fluff, i guess. this was supposedly a response to a prompt on 1stclass_kink but then it went awry. post-missile crisis, charles has a nervous breakdown is nesting. yeah, idek. this was supposed to be c & e: mutants in heat but idk what happened. basically, charles and erik live in relative harmony with the children and charles realizes a few things about himself, besides his love of housework. meanwhile, erik builds something (not a fire despite what the title suggests).
It happened on a Wednesday.
It was so normal, really, which was why nobody took notice.
Charles woke around the same hour he often did, at seven in the morning, showered, dressed, pushed the curtains of the bay window aside and breathed in deep.
He heard the shrill call of birds in the distance and listened in on their avian thoughts, which, not unlike a five year old’s, were solely focused on the acquirement of food.
The sun was shining and the children were alive and well, still asleep.
Charles took a tentative sip of his tea. And it was the strangest thing in the world, but for the first time in his life, he felt like doing a little bit of housework.
=
Charles began with the shutters, which, over time had accumulated compacted films of dust. Then he moved on to the floors, scrubbing mildew off the corners with a yellow sponge he’d found under the sink.
He wasn’t the most disciplined housekeeper but he took comfort in the fact that he’d made most of the surfaces shine. By the time he had finished, sweat had pooled in uncomfortable places behind his knees and in the bend of his elbows. His clothes were wrinkled and his hair hung in strings in front of his eyes. He smelled a little.
He headed to the kitchen, intent on cooling off with a cold glass of water.
Erik was there, sitting at the table, reading the morning paper which he’d tucked into a sizeable rectangle. He looked up when Charles passed him and raised his eyes.
“You smell like cleaning detergent,” he said, wrinkling his forehead, as if he weren’t sure if that were a good thing or not.
Charles found orange juice in the fridge and triumphantly poured himself a glass. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said. “Seeing as I’d just finished scrubbing the entire third floor.”
He felt immensely accomplished about this and wondered why graduating university didn’t give him the same light feeling of satisfaction.
He finished his juice.
=
Next day was laundry day. Charles separated clothes into neat little piles by color and fabric but set Erik’s pants aside, knowing he wouldn’t want his things mixing in with the children’s. Besides, all of Erik’s clothes were in dark and enveloping colors - which meant a separate basket altogether - except his briefs, which were a standard Jockey white.
Raven’s underthings went in a separate basket too because Charles didn’t want to suddenly lose them in the electric washing machine which he’d bought last month and still didn’t know how to operate.
Five hours later, there were clothes lying in random heaps on the floor. They smelled fresh as cut grass and Alex tiptoed around them and picked up a bundle of shirts, most of which, Charles knew without looking up, were Hank’s.
“I’ll fold these myself,” he said.
Charles smiled. He was lulled into mediation by the repetitive movement of his hands and never felt more relaxed in his life.
Alex left, and soon enough the piles of clothes shrank until all Charles had left to fold were Erik’s shirts. He brought the clothesbasket with him to the kitchen where he grabbed a drink of water.
Erik walked in, freshly showered. His teeth were white like his shirt which hugged the planes of his back, taut where it stretched across smooth muscle. Charles was blinded momentarily and then remembered he’d promised Alex afternoon tea and biscuits.
“English breakfast or Earl Grey?” he asked Erik who stood there towelling his hair until it peaked out in tufts. Charles could smell him from the counter but couldn’t tell if it were the bath soap orshampoo that piqued his interest.
Erik threw him a bewildered look underneath the swathe of towel around his head. “English breakfast,” he said, voice muffled. “Why?”
Charles turned on the stove. “It’s three o’clock,” he explained. “Time for tea.”
He extended the tray of biscuits towards Erik and asked if he wanted one. Erik said no thank you, furrowing his brows, and continued drying his hair.
=
All the cleaning Charles did in the ensuing days made him tired so he ran a bath one afternoon, stripped out of his clothes and folded them carefully before setting them down on the closed toilet lid. Sheets of bubbles slid up his skin as he lowered himself into the water.
Charles sighed and tipped his head back, leaning against the sloped edge of the tub. Light from outside seeped between the curtains, dappling the surface of the water. It rippled with every tiny movement, mountainous suds parting as Charles waded in deeper, held his breath, and then surfaced, like an Olympic swimmer.
He felt movement from the other side of the room. Erik, Charles knew, because this particular bathroom was the one Erik often used, the one littered with soap chips on the sink and dollops of toothpaste hardened into stalagmites.
“I know you’re in there,” Erik said.
Charles smiled, closing his eyes. “This is the largest tub in the house,” he said, by way of explanation. “I’ve been cleaning all day. I think I’ve earned the right to use it.”
“Cleaning,” Erik said with a scoff. Charles didn’t understand what his aversion was to that when he, most of all, benefitted from Charles’ sudden interest in housework. Charles ironed his shirts, smoothed out the creases from the corners, cleaned his gun - the origins of which he did not question - and set it on the bedside table for Erik to pick up, dismantle, and put together again in the morning.
“I might take a while,” Charles said. “I suggest you use a different bathroom. The one on the fifth floor is free, I think.”
Erik said nothing. There was a rustle, and Charles heard the sink running. And then the door closing, and then nothing.
He turned the faucet on with his toes.
=
“You’re beginning to freak me out,” Raven said the next day when Charles was bent over scrubbing grout off the bathroom floor. He sat up and peeled off his rubber glove.
“How is this freaking you out?” he asked, confused. “I’m ridding this house of mildew and dirt.”
“Well, for one,” she said, cocking her hip to the side. “You fired Maria.”
“Ah, yes, Maria,” Charles said wistfully. He’d given her a check worth five thousand dollars, told her to go on a cruise to the Caribbean and then come back after she had found herself. Maria was a Puerto Rican native who’d been with them since Charles was a teenager. She called Charles meester Charles and would often tut at him whenever he brought ladies home from the pub, something Charles realized he’d stopped doing ever since this whole recruitment business began.
Raven was still staring at him, the same horrified expression Charles recognized on Hank this morning when Charles made him tuna sandwiches for lunch.
“You’re going crazy,” she decided. “You’re having a nervous breakdown because you’d rather be teaching at a university than helping us realize our potential. You can do both, you know. You don’t have to choose one over the other. You can be two things at once.”
“That’s entirely improbable,” Charles said. “Given the time constraints and the fact that I’d just turned in my leave of absence.”
Raven sighed. “Who’s going to make breakfast then?” she asked, which was, Charles knew, the question on everyone’s minds.
“I am.”
“Lunch?”
Charles went back to scrubbing. “I am,” he said, pleasantly.
Raven made a frustrated noise then tapped the toe of her shoe against the tile. “You missed a spot,” she said before marching out the door where Alex, Hank and Sean were congregated, whispering nervously amongst themselves.
=
It was easier to do things than undo them.
Charles hadn’t meant for it to get out of hand, but all he could think of were having the shutters repaired and purchasing rugs that matched the interior. He had foreboding dreams as well, which, because of their utter meaninglessness, filled him with a desire to organize his hardbacks by year of publication.
Suddenly there he was, in the kitchen, making dinner for the children and checking on the apple pie. It still had several minutes left to bake, the inside soft and wobbly when Charles rooted around with a toothpick. He wiped his hands against the front of his apron, filled with an all-encompassing kind of satisfaction, the kind reserved for newlyweds who had yet to realize they married the wrong person and were, as a consequence, going to spend the rest of their lives living in relative misery.
Charles took the apron off.
Waiting for the food to cook, reading recipe books at the kitchen table, he felt something akin to boredom. Soon he’d be running out of things to clean and tinker with and he wasn’t particularly looking forward to digging around under the hood of his car.
Erik, who’d just finished a run, barrelled through the door in sweatpants and running shoes. He left a faint trail of grass and muck on the floor, didn’t realize it, and sat himself at the table, leaning against his arms. His head was bent forward and Charles couldn’t see his face. He was breathing hard through his nose loud enough that Charles heard him, put his recipe books away and steepled his hands in front of his face.
“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” he said, without preamble. Erik jerked upright as if the mere mention of dinner was offensive and therefore a hot button issue.
“What happened to the woman?” he said. “The housemaid?”
“She’s on leave. I gave her some money and she decided to find herself on the shores of Aruba.”
It sounded absurd in hindsight. Charles trusted her enough to return shortly after her soul-searching but he couldn’t ensure her safety. What if she never came back? What if she were shipwrecked somewhere in the Caribbean?
“You look troubled,” Erik said.
Charles, who wanted to lick him from the ankle up, and thought that that was rather odd, shrugged and said, “I hope you like apple pie because that’s what we’re having for dessert tonight.”
=
Charles realized something strange was at work, when, a week later, he went to buy handpainted acrylic bowls at the weekend flea market.
The flea market was crowded with stalls and full of people. The usual hagglers were there, shopping bags hanging from their arms as they sampled trays of homemade cheese. Charles found a button down shirt that was just the right size for Erik. He bought it at half price and asked Raven, later while they were sipping milkshakes, “Do you think he’d like it?”
“Why are you buying him things? You barely even know him, Charles,” she said.
The shirt was black and would have to be tucked in when worn. Charles bought Erik a Swiss army knife, too, from a man selling war paraphernalia.
“It’s for your toenails,” Charles told Erik, sliding it across the table. “I trust you won’t use it to dismember other people or yourself.”
Erik picked it up and examined it with an unreadable face and Charles realized this was the first time he’d given Erik a present.
“You’re welcome,” he said before Erik could thank him, then went to change the curtains in the living room with Raven’s help.
=
Charles was planting rosebushes in the garden when he felt a presence behind him. It wasn’t a friendly presence, but it was neither sinister nor threatening, so Charles deduced it could only be Erik and smiled.
“Erik,” he said, without looking up, digging around with his shovel for any stray weeds.
He heard Erik grunt, mutter his discontent, and finally, sigh.
“You’re blocking the sun,” Charles told him not unkindly, raising his eyes but not smiling. Erik didn’t move out of the way but he did bend down to his knees on the dirt. He watched Charles pick up a tiny bush and lower it into the hole he’d made in the ground.
Erik reached past him, undoing the knot. “You’re scaring the children,” he said, watching Charles pile dirt around the roots, messy with his fingernails caked in mud.
“By doing housework?” Charles asked.
“Raven says you’ve never even touched a cleaning implement before and now look at yourself. Aren’t you ashamed?”
“There’s no shame in wanting a neat and tidy home,” Charles said. He stood up to his full height and pushed the brim of his straw hat up his forehead. He’d found it lying around in the shed that afternoon and decided to put it to good use. The rubber boots, too, were especially helpful, although a size too big, when he had to plough through the muck in the garden and didn’t want to get his shoes dirty.
Erik wasn’t looking at him directly but Charles felt the intensity of his gaze. Charles spoke first to give Erik time to gather his thoughts. “I can’t stop,” he said, staring down a this mud-caked boots. “I want to but I can’t. I need to do this. I need to prepare.”
“Prepare for what?”
Charles shrugged. He peered up the sky, which was blue that afternoon and blinding, and then he sighed, leaning against the handle of his rake. “It feels important that I do this,” he said. “Housework. Gardening. I need to keep my hands full. I need to take care of -”
He felt Erik’s hand against his cheek, cupping it gently. Erik was frowning deeply, his expression doubtful, as he flaked dirt off the side of Charles’ face with his thumb. The gesture was soft, something Charles did not expect from him this soon.
Then Erik pulled his hand back as if it were nothing, shook his head and then flattened a mound of dirt on the ground with the point of his shoe. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.
“I don’t,” Charles confessed, chewing his lip for a moment. “But supposing I do…”
“My problem is that I can’t suspend disbelief for a moment,” Erik said, interrupting him. He tilted his head to the side, eyeing Charles’ lopsided rosebush on the ground, a bemused little smile on his otherwise unflinchingly stoic face.
“Try not to overdo it, Charles,” he said, gently, tapping the brim of Charles’ hat a few times. “I can’t train them alone and I won’t tolerate you shirking on your teaching duties.”
“Teaching duties,” Charles repeated. “There’s a funny way of putting things.”
Erik didn’t smile. Charles watched dirt crumble off Erik’s knees and adjusted his hat as Erik turned and went on his way.
The air was warmer than usual today, Charles thought. He kicked at the rosebush so that it stood straight one moment before topping over to the side in one fell swoop.
=
Erik was in the study, lying with his ankles crossed, on the chaise, a book propped open on his face when Charles walked in on him. He was snoring softly and he dreamed of things that were formless and swam endlessly like fish. Good things.
Charles sat across from him and watched, entranced. He didn’t have to probe Erik’s mind to know that he was having a good sleep, the sleep of men somewhat at peace with themselves. Not entirely at peace as Erik still had nightmares from time to time, but only somewhat. Only relatively.
Charles leafed through a furniture catalogue, only half attuned to Erik’s dreaming. It was nice, he thought, to be able to sit with someone in silence and bask in their presence. He could get used to this, to the gentle cadence of Erik’s snoring and his shoes leaving trails of dirt on the carpeting.
He could live with it, Charles thought.
Something bubbled in his chest and the feeling eased under his skin, warm like a fever.
=
“You’re nesting,” Hank said. He scratched his ankle with his shoe and shifted. “Your estrus cycle is active.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t even know,” Hank said. “You’ve been really weird lately,” he finished lamely, “It’s all just speculation, but I’ve gathered enough data to come to that conclusion.”
He’d invited Charles to his room which he’d turned into a makeshift lab with a five foot corkboard in one corner and a sagging shelf of books. There were beakers filled with bubbling multi-colored liquid on his desk. Fat embroidered pillows sat on the daybed.
“Mhm,” Charles said, and gave it some thought. It made sense. He’d been feeding the children as of late, making sure they ate three meals per day. He’d been making repairs, laughing ruefully at himself after realizing he was no handyman, far from it, or a plumber.
“Well,” Charles said after a pause. “It will pass in time, like all things.”
Hank shrugged and said, “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
=
Charles resumed training the children after that, but the urge to shop for tea cosies at a discounted price was all consuming. He tried not to think about dusting the fireplace or about buying silverware that matched, or even about having the walls repainted to complement the floors. He tried to think about the children, especially Sean, who kept breaking things that once belonged to Charles’ great grand aunties, by accident.
They were under his care now and relied on him. He wanted good things for them, for Erik, which was why he made sure their rooms were adequately heated, that the food on their table was warm, and that they felt protected and comfortable at all times.
At home, Charles thought with a sudden heavy heart. He wanted them to feel at home.
=
“Hank tells me that you’re nesting,” Erik said to him, a bemused little smile on his face as he strolled into the kitchen. He smelled like wood oil. He eyed the leftover pie in the corner, poked around the drawers and produced a fork.
“I’m surprised he volunteered information so freely,” Charles said.
“I pried the truth out of him with a crowbar.”
“Erik.”
“You’re - nesting.” Erik repeated, huffing out a laugh. He smiled cruelly and picked up Charles’ latest creation - a blue five inch scarf that Charles gave up on soon after he realized knitting was not his trade. As a child, he’d always fancied jobs that required him to wear a uniform. He wanted to be a train conductor at some point, checking peoples’ tickets and tipping his hat at them how-do-you-do, but then his father died and his mother remarried and that ushered in a whole new life, one that did not make itself conducive to boyish silliness.
“It’s biology,” Charles said defensively, for lack of a better excuse. “I can’t help it if I want to decorate a room with oriental jars or wear tasselled loafers. Or rid the sofa of winestains, which, by the way, I hold you largely responsible for.”
He sighed noisily.
Erik twirled the scarf between his fingers and appeared to be thinking at length of what to say next. Then he decided he couldn’t be bothered and began eating his slice of pie. The crust was soft when he speared it with a fork.
Charles listened to his methodical chewing. He looked up as Erik slid the plate across the table, confused.
“When I met you three months ago,” Erik began, a tale Charles was curious to hear but not necessarily interested in. “I looked at you and thought to myself, ‘here is a remarkable man who knows nothing about the world of men’. You wore your heart on your sleeve, Charles, and trusted people with such blind faith. I thought you were mentally deranged.”
“You still do,” Charles said.
Erik smiled, the first honest and true smile he’d given Charles since they’d met.
“And yet you’re here,” Charles pointed out, leaning back in his chair. “You haven’t left my house. What does that say about you?” he asked.
Erik shrugged and swiped crumbs off his chin with his fingers. “I don’t know what that says about me,” he said, pausing tentatively, his face inscrutable. “but it does say something about you.”
=
Charles woke the next day and realized they were running out of clean bed sheets. “Sorry,” Sean said, flushing to the tips of his ears. “It just happens, y’know? At night I get these thoughts and--”
Charles raised a hand, code for say no more.
He went to wash the sheets he’d left piled in the hamper for dirty laundry. Alex found him in the kitchen, searching under the sink for detergent, bent forward on his hands and knees.
“Um,” he said, shifting. “Doing housework again?”
Charles nodded and smiled, climbing up to his feet.
“You and Erik are so weird,” Alex muttered, shaking his head and trying to stifle his laughter.
“What do you mean?” Charles asked.
“He’s been out there all morning building something. You didn’t know?” He pointed out the kitchen window, jerking his head in that direction.
Charles peered outside and squinted. All he could see was Erik’s back so he went outside to check.
Erik was wearing a white undershirt and a line of skin showed above the waistline of his pants. He’d sweated profusely and there were wet patches under his arms and chest.
And then Charles saw what Alex meant:
Erik had built a washing line, two poles about twelve feet apart held together with a nylon cord. There were four washing lines standing parallel to each other.
Erik, who didn’t look too surprised to see Charles there, wiped his forehead against the back of his arm and put down his saw. He smelled a little, but in a good way, salty and dry like a desert. He said nothing and stood behind Charles, running his hands down the front of his pants which were stained with grass for some reason and raggedy at the knees with dirt.
Charles walked up to the washing line and admired its sturdy craftsmanship. He touched the wooden pole reverently, marvelling over its smoothness.
“Is this in response to the Swiss army knife I’d given you?” he asked, suddenly full of wonder and awe.
Charles turned when no response came, eyebrows raised, but Erik had already gone back inside, the door to the kitchen slamming soundly behind him.
Charles pursed his lips together, smiled, and got to work.