[fic] xm: fc - hearts and bones - pg13 - charles/erik
Title: Hearts and Bones
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Characters: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG13
Length: ~2300
Summary: Modern, non-powered AU. An impending visit with Erik's parents leaves Charles anxious and Erik unsure how to proceed.
Notes: It takes a village, etc. Thanks to brilligspoons, waxedpaperdoor, and pearl_o for assistance of all sorts. For my "Family" square for cottoncandy_bingo. Title from the Paul Simon song of the same name.
Erik wakes up to kisses on his collarbone, gentle and precise. His lips curl into a smile even before he opens his eyes and he slides his fingers down the center of Charles' back, the valley of his spine.
"Good morning," he murmurs. Charles kisses his throat and then rests his head on Erik's shoulder. His breath tickles Erik's neck.
"We could just stay here all day," Charles says. He sounds wide awake, which is odd for this early in the morning. Normally he's bargaining to keep them in bed all day, yes, but because he's exhausted and half asleep and can't be bothered to wake up fully. Erik opens his eyes and gazes down at the top of Charles' head. His mop of dark hair hides his face from Erik's line of sight.
"We're having lunch with my parents," Erik reminds him. "In--" He looks up at the bedside clock. "Three hours."
Charles makes a quiet noise. His hold on Erik--arms wrapped around his chest--tightens almost imperceptibly.
"Charles?" Erik asks. He's not sure what's going on, but if something's wrong with Charles....
"We could do it some other time," Charles says.
"Mama's been planning this for two weeks, now," Erik reminds him. "She's probably cooked more food in the past twenty-four hours than most restaurants. We can't skip out."
"We could," Charles says quietly. He doesn't say anything else, doesn't offer an excuse or an explanation, doesn't let Erik go. Erik's at a loss.
"Charles," Erik says. "What's--I'm not sure what's happening here."
"Nothing," Charles insists, but he doesn't move.
"Why, all of a sudden, do you not want to meet my parents?" Erik asks. His mother is going to adore Charles. He knows it. She knows it. Charles knows it and has teased him about it for weeks. His father will like him too, because Charles is inherently likeable. He's smart and kind and funny and handsome and polite. He's perfect parent material. He's fucked Erik into this very mattress more times than Erik can count, but he has that perfect butter-wouldn't-melt babyface that will leave Erik's mother pinching his cheeks. None of this is by design--Erik didn't look up at the man who pulled him out of the frozen lake and think, 'Yes, he'll be perfect to get my mother off my back about meeting a nice boy'--but it's a confluence of events that Erik isn't above using to his advantage.
"I just...I can't today. I can't do it today," Charles says. "I can't get out of bed. I can't do this."
Erik tries to sit up, but Charles, small as he is, weighs heavily on his chest, pressing him down into the bed.
"Charles, this is stupid, let me get up," Erik says, but Charles' grip is sure and Erik can't shake him. "Seriously! This isn't funny!"
"I bloody well know it's not!" Charles snaps, and their harsh breathing alone fills the small bedroom for long minutes. "Erik, I'm terrified."
Something about his tone of voice keeps Erik from snorting or rolling his eyes. He strokes Charles' hair and then cups the back of his head.
"I've met your family," he reminds Charles.
"You've met Raven," Charles says. "That's different. Raven is--Raven is a mess in the same way I'm a mess. A little better, probably, but she's--" Charles makes a sound that would maybe be a laugh if there was even a hint of mirth in it. "She's just as fucked up as I am. She's...safe because she's fucked up. I understand her. And you understand me, so you understand her, of course, and it's just--different." He breathes, long and noisy. The sound rattles in his lungs and Erik can feel it where their torsos are pressed together. "I don't understand families. I don't know...how they work. I can't--this isn't something I can do. This isn't something I know. Not at all."
"Charles," Erik says helplessly. "Don't be an idiot."
"I'm not," Charles says. "I'm broken. You're going to take me home to your parents and they'll see this broken thing that doesn't understand how to--"
"That's enough, you're not--"
"--function or be with people or carry on the way a family is supposed to carry on--"
"--broken, stop talking like this, you're perfect, you're fine--"
"--and they'll know I'm not good enough for you and I can't lose you."
"--stop talking, what the fuck, is that what you think of us?"
Charles' heart is thumping so loudly in his chest that Erik can hear it. His fingers are digging bruises into Erik's flesh. Erik thinks he might be on the verge of a panic attack.
"You're not broken," Erik says fiercely. "Charles, is that what you think?" Erik wants to shake him. Does he not realize how wonderful he is? Does he not realize how brilliant he is, how sweet and personable and gorgeous? Does he not realize that, between the two of them, Erik's the one who's twisted inside, who's only just putting himself back together under Charles' tutelage? Erik's the one who thought, when he couldn't find his way to the surface that night in the lake, Well, dying won't be too bad and it will solve a lot of my problems, while Charles jumped in to save a stranger. One of them is broken. It's not Charles.
"You don't understand," Charles says. His voice is flat and very quiet. "My father died when I was five. My mother started drinking herself into an early grave soon after. My stepfather was an abusive lout. I didn't have a childhood. I didn't have a family. I don't...know how to be around people. I'm just all of these pieces that they left behind, stuck together into what I think people want to see."
"Charles," Erik says, blinking back tears. He fights again to pull away and 'fight' is the right word for it. They tug at each other, grips tight, pulling and pushing, but Erik is bigger than Charles and spends his fair share of time at the gym. It's not hard to pin Charles to the bed, to stare down at him panting and wild and desperate to make him see. Charles' eyes are red, and Erik doesn't like those implications. "You're not broken. You're not in pieces. You're not--my parents don't care if you had a perfect home life, okay? They don't expect anything except for you to love me. Do you love me, Charles?"
Charles looks scandalized.
"Of course," he croaks. "Of course. How could you--"
"Then it's fine, okay? They didn't even expect that I'd find that." It's harsh, but it's the truth. It's no fault of theirs, merely his own failing. After everything with Shaw and Magda and the years of searching and cultivated attitude of steel and razor blades, after all he went through to sever ties with everyone, to run away, to keep everyone out, they assumed he was destined for solitude. They assumed he'd burn anyone who got too close. And why should they assume differently? He burned them more than once as he spiraled away from them and then inched back towards normality, frightened of getting too close.
Charles was unburnable. Charles was something else entirely. Charles could take everything Erik threw at him and still stay with Erik through it all. Charles could offer comfort that Erik didn't even know he needed and hold him through the worst of his rage. Erik doesn't know what he did to deserve Charles, doesn't believe in fate, but he's still thankful every day that Charles is with him, that Charles stays, that Charles sees something in him worth salvaging.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever known," Charles says. "How could anyone not love you? How could anyone see you and not see all you are and--"
He wraps his arms around Erik's neck and holds on. Erik holds on too. He doesn't know when the morning before a simple lunch at his parents' house turned into a fervent need to reaffirm their affection, but he feels it now, too. His parents will love Charles--he's positive of it. They love him already. But even if they kicked him out, he needs to know that Erik would still love him. Erik will always love him. If nothing has pulled them apart so far, it's not going to.
"I know," he says. "You're not broken, okay? You're not leftovers or scraps. You're incandescent. And I love you too."
Charles' breathing is still too fast when Erik pulls away, but he allows the movement and that, in itself, is an improvement. He looks white as a corpse and just a hair shy of hysterical. He looks delicate, which is a strange on a man whose arrogance frequently fills entire rooms. Charles is loud and persuasive and dogged and those things make Erik forget that he's small and sometimes fragile.
He cups Charles' cheek. "You make me a better person than I have been in a long time," he tells Charles. "That's what they'll see. They'll love you for it."
Charles doesn't look convinced. Erik's just going to have to take him to his parents' house and prove it to him.
***
The walkway is the same as it was when he was growing up. His mother plants the same flowers every year. It's strange, how gentrification has changed the rest of the neighborhood while this tiny square of land is exactly as Erik remembers.
Charles holds his hand as they walk up the front stoop. Erik doesn't bother with the bell--he would have, six months ago, a year ago, three, but things have changed. His relationship with his parents has changed; they no longer feel lost to him and he can't pretend that Charles wasn't an impetus to that. Today, he pushes his way in the front door, dragging Charles behind him.
"Mama?" he calls out. "Papa? We're here."
He brings Charles straight to the kitchen, because that's where they'll be. His Mama is still tending to the stove, as if she hasn't already cooked enough to feed them for weeks. She's still wearing oven mitts when she puts down her wooden spoon and crosses quickly over to them. She kisses Erik's cheeks and hugs him tightly.
"My boy," she says, stepping back just far enough to look at him. He knows she's not just checking his health, but looking for signs that he's relapsed. He's come to terms with the fact that she'll be looking for those signs for the rest of her life. He doesn't ever want her to find them again. She smiles, this morning, and then kisses him again.
"This is Charles," he says. He still has Charles' hand, small and clammy in his own. He tugs Charles forward, Charles who's nearly shaking with nerves and whose grip on Erik's hand is absolute. "Charles--Charles saved me." It's a loaded description. It means more things than Erik can put into words. Charles looks up at him with no small amount of wonder and Erik meets his gaze steadily.
"Oh, you dear boy," his mama says, shedding her oven mitts to the counter and putting her hands on Charles' shoulders. "It's good to meet you at last."
She pulls him into a hug that leaves him staring up at Erik with wide, confused eyes before he manages to hug her back.
"It's good to meet you too," he says.
His mother releases Charles and holds him at arm's length again. "Oh, you're darling," she says. "But so pale. Let's get some lunch in you, hm?"
She takes his arm and drags him into the kitchen, Erik trailing after and smiling to himself.
It's not, he realizes suddenly, that Charles is made up of the pieces that other people leave behind. More that he's made up of the things that people give him, the pieces of themselves that are his for safekeeping. He carries so much of Erik--his pain and his past and, most importantly, his heart. He carries the burdens of everyone he's ever reached out to.
Erik can give him this too, though. Erik can give him a family and acceptance and love and a sense of belonging. After all, Charles was the one who convinced him that those things weren't lost to him and then helped him get them back. It might not be enough, but at least it's a start.
He comes up behind Charles' chair as his mother whips away to the stove to stir her pots and make a pre-lunch plate for Charles, calling upstairs to his father along the way. He wraps his arms around Charles' shoulders and rests his chin on the top of Charles' head.
"How are you doing?" he asks.
"I'm okay," Charles says. "Overwhelmed but...okay."
He closes his eyes and inhales the scent of Charles' shampoo commingling with the smell of his parents' kitchen and his mother's cooking. They already seem like they were made to go together.
"Me too," Erik says.
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Characters: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG13
Length: ~2300
Summary: Modern, non-powered AU. An impending visit with Erik's parents leaves Charles anxious and Erik unsure how to proceed.
Notes: It takes a village, etc. Thanks to brilligspoons, waxedpaperdoor, and pearl_o for assistance of all sorts. For my "Family" square for cottoncandy_bingo. Title from the Paul Simon song of the same name.
Erik wakes up to kisses on his collarbone, gentle and precise. His lips curl into a smile even before he opens his eyes and he slides his fingers down the center of Charles' back, the valley of his spine.
"Good morning," he murmurs. Charles kisses his throat and then rests his head on Erik's shoulder. His breath tickles Erik's neck.
"We could just stay here all day," Charles says. He sounds wide awake, which is odd for this early in the morning. Normally he's bargaining to keep them in bed all day, yes, but because he's exhausted and half asleep and can't be bothered to wake up fully. Erik opens his eyes and gazes down at the top of Charles' head. His mop of dark hair hides his face from Erik's line of sight.
"We're having lunch with my parents," Erik reminds him. "In--" He looks up at the bedside clock. "Three hours."
Charles makes a quiet noise. His hold on Erik--arms wrapped around his chest--tightens almost imperceptibly.
"Charles?" Erik asks. He's not sure what's going on, but if something's wrong with Charles....
"We could do it some other time," Charles says.
"Mama's been planning this for two weeks, now," Erik reminds him. "She's probably cooked more food in the past twenty-four hours than most restaurants. We can't skip out."
"We could," Charles says quietly. He doesn't say anything else, doesn't offer an excuse or an explanation, doesn't let Erik go. Erik's at a loss.
"Charles," Erik says. "What's--I'm not sure what's happening here."
"Nothing," Charles insists, but he doesn't move.
"Why, all of a sudden, do you not want to meet my parents?" Erik asks. His mother is going to adore Charles. He knows it. She knows it. Charles knows it and has teased him about it for weeks. His father will like him too, because Charles is inherently likeable. He's smart and kind and funny and handsome and polite. He's perfect parent material. He's fucked Erik into this very mattress more times than Erik can count, but he has that perfect butter-wouldn't-melt babyface that will leave Erik's mother pinching his cheeks. None of this is by design--Erik didn't look up at the man who pulled him out of the frozen lake and think, 'Yes, he'll be perfect to get my mother off my back about meeting a nice boy'--but it's a confluence of events that Erik isn't above using to his advantage.
"I just...I can't today. I can't do it today," Charles says. "I can't get out of bed. I can't do this."
Erik tries to sit up, but Charles, small as he is, weighs heavily on his chest, pressing him down into the bed.
"Charles, this is stupid, let me get up," Erik says, but Charles' grip is sure and Erik can't shake him. "Seriously! This isn't funny!"
"I bloody well know it's not!" Charles snaps, and their harsh breathing alone fills the small bedroom for long minutes. "Erik, I'm terrified."
Something about his tone of voice keeps Erik from snorting or rolling his eyes. He strokes Charles' hair and then cups the back of his head.
"I've met your family," he reminds Charles.
"You've met Raven," Charles says. "That's different. Raven is--Raven is a mess in the same way I'm a mess. A little better, probably, but she's--" Charles makes a sound that would maybe be a laugh if there was even a hint of mirth in it. "She's just as fucked up as I am. She's...safe because she's fucked up. I understand her. And you understand me, so you understand her, of course, and it's just--different." He breathes, long and noisy. The sound rattles in his lungs and Erik can feel it where their torsos are pressed together. "I don't understand families. I don't know...how they work. I can't--this isn't something I can do. This isn't something I know. Not at all."
"Charles," Erik says helplessly. "Don't be an idiot."
"I'm not," Charles says. "I'm broken. You're going to take me home to your parents and they'll see this broken thing that doesn't understand how to--"
"That's enough, you're not--"
"--function or be with people or carry on the way a family is supposed to carry on--"
"--broken, stop talking like this, you're perfect, you're fine--"
"--and they'll know I'm not good enough for you and I can't lose you."
"--stop talking, what the fuck, is that what you think of us?"
Charles' heart is thumping so loudly in his chest that Erik can hear it. His fingers are digging bruises into Erik's flesh. Erik thinks he might be on the verge of a panic attack.
"You're not broken," Erik says fiercely. "Charles, is that what you think?" Erik wants to shake him. Does he not realize how wonderful he is? Does he not realize how brilliant he is, how sweet and personable and gorgeous? Does he not realize that, between the two of them, Erik's the one who's twisted inside, who's only just putting himself back together under Charles' tutelage? Erik's the one who thought, when he couldn't find his way to the surface that night in the lake, Well, dying won't be too bad and it will solve a lot of my problems, while Charles jumped in to save a stranger. One of them is broken. It's not Charles.
"You don't understand," Charles says. His voice is flat and very quiet. "My father died when I was five. My mother started drinking herself into an early grave soon after. My stepfather was an abusive lout. I didn't have a childhood. I didn't have a family. I don't...know how to be around people. I'm just all of these pieces that they left behind, stuck together into what I think people want to see."
"Charles," Erik says, blinking back tears. He fights again to pull away and 'fight' is the right word for it. They tug at each other, grips tight, pulling and pushing, but Erik is bigger than Charles and spends his fair share of time at the gym. It's not hard to pin Charles to the bed, to stare down at him panting and wild and desperate to make him see. Charles' eyes are red, and Erik doesn't like those implications. "You're not broken. You're not in pieces. You're not--my parents don't care if you had a perfect home life, okay? They don't expect anything except for you to love me. Do you love me, Charles?"
Charles looks scandalized.
"Of course," he croaks. "Of course. How could you--"
"Then it's fine, okay? They didn't even expect that I'd find that." It's harsh, but it's the truth. It's no fault of theirs, merely his own failing. After everything with Shaw and Magda and the years of searching and cultivated attitude of steel and razor blades, after all he went through to sever ties with everyone, to run away, to keep everyone out, they assumed he was destined for solitude. They assumed he'd burn anyone who got too close. And why should they assume differently? He burned them more than once as he spiraled away from them and then inched back towards normality, frightened of getting too close.
Charles was unburnable. Charles was something else entirely. Charles could take everything Erik threw at him and still stay with Erik through it all. Charles could offer comfort that Erik didn't even know he needed and hold him through the worst of his rage. Erik doesn't know what he did to deserve Charles, doesn't believe in fate, but he's still thankful every day that Charles is with him, that Charles stays, that Charles sees something in him worth salvaging.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever known," Charles says. "How could anyone not love you? How could anyone see you and not see all you are and--"
He wraps his arms around Erik's neck and holds on. Erik holds on too. He doesn't know when the morning before a simple lunch at his parents' house turned into a fervent need to reaffirm their affection, but he feels it now, too. His parents will love Charles--he's positive of it. They love him already. But even if they kicked him out, he needs to know that Erik would still love him. Erik will always love him. If nothing has pulled them apart so far, it's not going to.
"I know," he says. "You're not broken, okay? You're not leftovers or scraps. You're incandescent. And I love you too."
Charles' breathing is still too fast when Erik pulls away, but he allows the movement and that, in itself, is an improvement. He looks white as a corpse and just a hair shy of hysterical. He looks delicate, which is a strange on a man whose arrogance frequently fills entire rooms. Charles is loud and persuasive and dogged and those things make Erik forget that he's small and sometimes fragile.
He cups Charles' cheek. "You make me a better person than I have been in a long time," he tells Charles. "That's what they'll see. They'll love you for it."
Charles doesn't look convinced. Erik's just going to have to take him to his parents' house and prove it to him.
***
The walkway is the same as it was when he was growing up. His mother plants the same flowers every year. It's strange, how gentrification has changed the rest of the neighborhood while this tiny square of land is exactly as Erik remembers.
Charles holds his hand as they walk up the front stoop. Erik doesn't bother with the bell--he would have, six months ago, a year ago, three, but things have changed. His relationship with his parents has changed; they no longer feel lost to him and he can't pretend that Charles wasn't an impetus to that. Today, he pushes his way in the front door, dragging Charles behind him.
"Mama?" he calls out. "Papa? We're here."
He brings Charles straight to the kitchen, because that's where they'll be. His Mama is still tending to the stove, as if she hasn't already cooked enough to feed them for weeks. She's still wearing oven mitts when she puts down her wooden spoon and crosses quickly over to them. She kisses Erik's cheeks and hugs him tightly.
"My boy," she says, stepping back just far enough to look at him. He knows she's not just checking his health, but looking for signs that he's relapsed. He's come to terms with the fact that she'll be looking for those signs for the rest of her life. He doesn't ever want her to find them again. She smiles, this morning, and then kisses him again.
"This is Charles," he says. He still has Charles' hand, small and clammy in his own. He tugs Charles forward, Charles who's nearly shaking with nerves and whose grip on Erik's hand is absolute. "Charles--Charles saved me." It's a loaded description. It means more things than Erik can put into words. Charles looks up at him with no small amount of wonder and Erik meets his gaze steadily.
"Oh, you dear boy," his mama says, shedding her oven mitts to the counter and putting her hands on Charles' shoulders. "It's good to meet you at last."
She pulls him into a hug that leaves him staring up at Erik with wide, confused eyes before he manages to hug her back.
"It's good to meet you too," he says.
His mother releases Charles and holds him at arm's length again. "Oh, you're darling," she says. "But so pale. Let's get some lunch in you, hm?"
She takes his arm and drags him into the kitchen, Erik trailing after and smiling to himself.
It's not, he realizes suddenly, that Charles is made up of the pieces that other people leave behind. More that he's made up of the things that people give him, the pieces of themselves that are his for safekeeping. He carries so much of Erik--his pain and his past and, most importantly, his heart. He carries the burdens of everyone he's ever reached out to.
Erik can give him this too, though. Erik can give him a family and acceptance and love and a sense of belonging. After all, Charles was the one who convinced him that those things weren't lost to him and then helped him get them back. It might not be enough, but at least it's a start.
He comes up behind Charles' chair as his mother whips away to the stove to stir her pots and make a pre-lunch plate for Charles, calling upstairs to his father along the way. He wraps his arms around Charles' shoulders and rests his chin on the top of Charles' head.
"How are you doing?" he asks.
"I'm okay," Charles says. "Overwhelmed but...okay."
He closes his eyes and inhales the scent of Charles' shampoo commingling with the smell of his parents' kitchen and his mother's cooking. They already seem like they were made to go together.
"Me too," Erik says.