fic: memory of water (charles/erik, g, 1020 words)
fill for a 1stclass-kink prompt: "Charles loves to swim. In a lake. In the grounds. Naked. Erik is curious where Charles disappears to and follows him."
He doesn’t mean to, of course. He gets lost sometimes, in thoughts, walking around the courtyard, listening to the shifting wind, the tinny chorus of cicadas and their intermittent shrieking.
There are hundreds out there, Erik thinks, maybe thousands hidden in the hollows of tree trunks. They come out in the summertime when the air is warm and heavy with sweetness. They come in droves, like a secret army.
There are other creatures, too, some less dangerous than the others, lurking just beyond meadow, waiting for their turn to strike. Like the yellow jacket bees that have built sturdy hives high up in trees, or the family of daddy long legs marching up and down the steep bank of Breakstone Lake. Sometimes, when Erik can’t sleep, or when Charles retires to bed an hour too early, he goes out for runs, thinking about leaving for good, thinking what am I doing here? Thinking, no.
That’s how Erik finds Charles that afternoon, after a run, his shirt damp with sweat at the collar, his mind plagued by the same old thoughts. Charles’ clothes are puddled at his feet and he’s standing on the edge of the dock, motionless. And Erik is immediately stunned by the sight of him, his smooth back, the way bright patches of light fall between his shoulderblades.
Once, Erik had walked in on Charles on his way out the second floor bathroom, his chest bare, a towel bandaging his hips. Humming off-key in the early morning, his ribs straining against the white of his skin. He’d paused, then, too, caught off guard by something he couldn’t identify, something that was not necessarily good.
Still, it’s nothing like this. Charles’ body is pale like the underbelly of a fish.
He stands straight-backed, his hip cocked to the side, one hand on his waist, the other cupped around his eyes as he surveys the view. Erik wonders what his eyes see. The sun is setting just behind the hills, casting everything in a deep orange. Erik swats at a fly that buzzes near his ear, keeps his breath even, low.
Charles leaps off the dock and dives, making a feeble splash in the water. The water is gray and weatherbeaten and ripples like a sheet when Charles surfaces, gasping for air. Erik watches, unblinking. Charles’ body is a single perfect curve as he climbs back up the dock only to dive again, flat on his belly.
Erik smiles, in spite of himself. He steps out of hiding. Charles turns in his direction, squinting, his eyelashes clumped together against his cheeks. Dark spikes.
“So you’ve decided to join me after all,” Charles says, arms spread to keep himself afloat. “How nice of you.”
Erik pockets his hands and skids down to the dock.
“Careful,” Charles warns, “It’s slippery.”
“I noticed," Erik says.
Charles’ socks are rolled together in a little ball next to his shoes and pants. Warm, probably, Erik thinks fleetingly, with his body heat, the way bread left to cool is still warm, sweet-smelling. Erik picks up the ball, examining its heft, squeezing it in one hand and then the other, juggling it between both hands.
“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it,” Charles says.
Erik lifts the ball to eye-level and shrugs a shoulder. Argyle. He’s seen the pair a few times before, once when Charles crossed his legs and the cuff of his pants slid up over his ankles, and then another time when Charles left them hanging by the sink, at a bed and breakfast in Florida, two months ago during the recruitment.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Erik tells him.
“Don’t,” Charles says.
“Don’t what?” Erik asks.
“Just don’t,” Charles says, laughing. “They’re my favourite pair of socks in the world, you know.”
Erik considers this for a moment and pockets his hands, conceding. Charles continues to wade even deeper, swimming on his back, his face tipped to the sky, his eyes closed.
“You should join me,” Charles says out of the blue. “It feels… therapeutic.”
“The water’s the perfect temperature,” he continues when Erik doesn’t answer.
“Erik,” Charles says.
“I’d rather not,” Erik says, interrupting him. He has dreams sometimes, of water rising up to his chest. Of there being not enough time. Of running, the night endless like a tunnel before him.
Charles dives into the water. He lifts his chin, scrubbing a hand through his face. He sniffs, pushing hair from his eyes, plastering it to the sides of his head. Charles swims and Erik watches him move in the water, breaking the surface, slipping back down again. He’s not graceful, not swan-like but duck-like with the frantic beating of his arms and legs.
“You look like you’re drowning,” Erik says to him.
Charles’ eyes are still closed and he says, “It’s this kind of swimming that is meant to be therapeutic.”
Then he smiles, one eye open.
When Charles heaves himself up to the dock, Erik steps back, lowering his eyes to Charles’ knees and then the curves of his legs, the span of his ankles. Charles’ toes are curled and he shivers, clutching his elbows.
Erik passes him his clothes.
“Thank you,” Charles says, slipping into his pants first. His skin is sleek, his mouth wet and open and red. Charles buttons his shirt up quickly, missing a few holes.
Erik, before he can stop himself, reaches out and adjusts the one at his collar, smoothing back the creases. He looks up, frowning when he hears Charles laugh.
“Thank you,” Charles says again. He wrinkles his forehead. “Do you hear that?” he says. “Cicadas.”
He closes his eyes, listening. Erik is about to pull back and step away when Charles’ fingers close around his wrists, holding them in place. And Erik is moved to silence, to stillness, by the warmth flooding through his bones.
“Yes,” he says.