X-Men Men First Class WIP: Late Bloomer (29/?)
THIS IS PART OF A WIP, just so you know. All the rest (about 55,000 words so far, so if you haven't read it already it's probably not a good idea to start) can be found over on the kink memes:
Late Bloomer on
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Late Bloomer on
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Title: Late Bloomer (29/?)
Fandom: X-Men First Class
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: R
Word count: 6,000 (this part)
Warnings: References to underage/dubcon.
Summary: High school AU. Erik is a mutant jock with ISSUES. Charles is a geeky transfer student and totally human... (or is he?)
It’s like living two lives. There’s the one with Charles in it, and school and home, and then, hovering on the edge of his awareness there’s the other one, with the little background voice that says, You know what’s happening, Erik. Why aren’t you doing something about it?
Real life is comfortable, despite all its changes. Erik sets up a tentative truce with Raven and spends hours at Emma’s thinking things on command. He figures it counts as some kind of loving sacrifice since whenever Emma gets bored with the repetitive lessons she amuses herself by sticking her sugar-coated claws into him, all needle-sharp comments and smirks that make him fume and Charles giggle.
Erik’s parents have always made it clear that he’s not allowed to have boyfriends stay over, but lately they’ve also made it clear that they’ll ignore all evidence that this is happening, up to and including Charles’s occasional appearances at the breakfast table. Occasional is all it can be - much more than that and Erik feels like his limbs are going to fall off. Charles is admittedly small, but when you’re six feet of muscular teenage footballer a twin bed is cramped at the best of times. Still, he’s getting used to sleeping crunched against the wall with a mouthful of hair. He can even deal with waking up thoroughly cramped and far too hot, because the morning starts with Charles rolling over, half awake, to press them blissfully together, his hand sliding slyly down Erik’s stomach.
At school it’s just as it was, lying on the grass with Charles, meeting up between classes, exchanging kisses when they pass in the hallways. The only difference is that now Charles can reach out and touch him from across the school, like a tap on the shoulder, a whisper of Erik, are you there, are you busy, do you mind?
Sometimes he’s busy. Mostly he isn’t.
Hello, Charles says in his head, one afternoon when it’s too hot to work. I’m in French and I’m bored. I’m passing you a note.
Ok, Erik agrees. They’ve tried this before, not very successfully, as a game to train his powers the way Emma constantly trains Charles’s. He stretches out his awareness. The language classroom is just down the corridor, easy to pinpoint using door handles and electric wires. He feels his way through the table and chair legs and the myriad scraps of metal in the room until he finds Charles’s chess piece. He makes it vibrate slightly.
Stop it! Charles says. Erik can feel the way he bites his lip to smother a laugh. Look on the floor.
Erik locates the bright curl of a paperclip by the leg of Charles’s chair. He starts to drag it. You know, you could just talk to me. Do you know how difficult this is?
Do you know how difficult it is to pick out your mind in all this racket? Charles objects. I think half my class are hearing a mumbled version of what I’m saying to you. And possibly the teacher. Oops. Over and out.
Erik grins to himself and keeps dragging until the paperclip slides under the classroom door, attached to a piece of folded notepaper. He wriggles it stealthily around the room and over to his desk. Unfolded, the little scrap of paper reveals another of Charles’s dreadful cartoons, showing the two of them in tuxes, standing in front of a limousine and surrounded by a veritable fountain of hearts. Underneath, in multicoloured capital letters, are the words: I THINK YOU’RE CUTE. WILL YOU GO TO THE PROM WITH ME?
He laughs out loud.
The teacher frowns at him. ‘Something you want to share with the class, Mr Lehnsherr?’
‘No.’ Only that he’s utterly smitten with his boyfriend. But they all know that anyway.
Once the teacher has turned back to the blackboard he reaches for the paperclip again, fuses it into the word YES and tosses it towards the door, sending it scuttling back to its owner.
***
‘Milkshakes,’ Charles says hopefully one day, looking around the assembled group. School’s finished and Emma’s busy with prom-related activities, so he and Erik are free to do as they wish. Erik would prefer them to be alone and rather nakeder than they are, but Charles is so obviously delighted by the thought of milkshakes and friends that Erik can’t help but want the same. It’s a mark of how tangled up their emotions are now that he can actually feel the tug and flow of desires between them that finally settles in Charles’s favour.
‘Sure, Charles,’ Steve says, with rather forced cheerfulness. He looks like he needs some kind of pick-me-up. Tony was last seen helping the extremely pretty substitute math teacher carry her books to her car, and has now apparently vanished off the face of the earth.
None of the girls have managed to escape Emma’s reign of prom-related terror, so it’s an all-male group that descends on the diner and occupies a booth. I love this place, Charles thinks, leaning with satisfaction into Erik’s side. The counter! Waitresses with aprons! Burgers and coffee, it’s just like it is on TV.
Apparently even after several months Charles hasn’t quite twigged to the fact that he lives in America. He tends to get oddly excited about Oreos, Wal-Mart and kids playing Little League, and he never gets tired of ordering pancakes with bacon on the side. The diner is no exception. Raising his head from his menu, Azazel shoots Charles a look of mild exasperation. ‘Chill out,’ he says. ‘You’re making me feel peppy, and pep is not really my thing.’
Charles cocks his head thoughtfully. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t realise I was projecting.’
Across the table Steve laughs his big, gentle laugh. ‘I wondered why I had a hankering for a mint chocolate chip milkshake. We should be used to it by now, it’s generally down to you.’
Just a couple of weeks ago this sort of thing would have had Charles fading into a background of quiet unhappiness. Erik still feels a stab of anxiety for him, but Charles smiles. ‘You ought to want mint chocolate chip,’ he says. ‘It’s delicious. But from what I can tell you’re going to have strawberry. Erik’s having chocolate, so’s Azazel, and Peter…’ he raises his hand to his head, ‘Peter’s thinking about sock puppets singing Beatles songs, just to confuse me.’ He sticks his tongue out.
Peter pulls a face in return. ‘I can’t believe you really saw that,’ he says. ‘Like, you seriously are a telepath. It’s kind of weird to think about it.’
‘It’s a bit strange to live it, too,’ Charles says. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things I catch people thinking about. Your mind’s pretty normal compared to some.’
‘That’s scary,’ Steve says seriously.
‘Hey.’ Peter pokes at him. ‘My mind’s awesome.’
The mood is warm and relaxed. Erik finds himself accepting the mix of pleasant emotions that Charles is quietly absorbing and letting him share. It’s something worth sharing. Charles’s chattiness rarely extends to the subject of his developing powers, but snuggled up to Erik, licking thick greenish milkshake off the end of his straw, he opens up more than he usually does. By the time Erik’s halfway through his predictable chocolate shake Charles has moved on from descriptions of his lessons with Emma and mild complaints about how tiresomely vague people’s thoughts are, and is shyly explaining things that he’s barely mentioned before.
‘It’s just that I worry about what’s going to happen next,’ he says, biting his lip uncertainly. He looks down at the table, drawing patterns with one finger in the condensation from his glass, and sighs. ‘Research scientists are so protective of their ideas. I know it should be all about progress and collaboration, but people do care about who got there first. It’s important for prestige and grant applications and things. There might be a lot of fuss about me being able to see inside people’s heads.’ He directs a rueful little smile at his damp doodles. ‘I don’t know if anyone will want me around.’
‘That sucks,’ Peter says, looking a little puzzled. ‘Look, this might be a stupid question, but if they’re going to be dicks about it can’t you just not tell them? It’s not like it’s written on your forehead.’
Erik and Azazel exchange glances. It’s almost amusing that anyone living in this world can know so little. Azazel fishes in his pocket for his wallet, pulls out his driver’s licence and slides it across the table. ‘It’s written on there,’ he says. ‘It’s written on his passport, and linked to his social security number. His abilities are listed. You can get the details if you want. Anyone can if they can show they have a good reason.’
Peter frowns over the driver’s licence. ‘Huh,’ he says, and hands it on to Steve. Even at a distance the familiar red M is clearly visible, as is the number beneath it.
Steve turns it over thoughtfully. ‘Do we have a good reason?’ he asks.
‘You go to his school,’ Erik says. ‘Of course you have a reason. His neighbours have a reason. His goddamn hairdresser has a reason.’ Almost amusing is actually not very amusing at all. He’s on edge now, ruining the comfortable atmosphere.
Charles does the mental equivalent of elbowing him in the ribs, both irritated and a little embarrassed. ‘I don’t mind,’ he says firmly. ‘I’d tell them anyway, people ought to know. I mean, what if I did steal research ideas? If nobody knew what I was then I’d get away with it completely.’
‘And because they know what I am, I’ll be the prime suspect for ever locked room mystery in the world,’ Azazel says wryly. ‘Erik too, if it’s a metal lock.’
Charles’s look of determination falters. ‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ he says. ‘It’s complicated, isn’t it? I need to think about it some more, but I’d rather tell than not.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Erik says unwisely and unnecessarily.
Charles gives off a flash of hurt. His mind edges away. ‘I am speaking for myself,’ he says. ‘My ability could hurt people. I want it to be controlled and tested and public. Yes, it’s going to cause me some problems, but that’s what I want.’ He turns to Peter and Steve. ‘Don’t you think you’d be more scared of mutants if you didn’t know who they were?’
‘I’m not scared of mutants, Charles,’ Steve says gently.
There’s a little silence. Peter finally breaks it. ‘Come on, enough with the doom and gloom,’ he complains. ‘We’re drinking milkshakes here. Reading thoughts isn’t scary. Charles wouldn’t scare me even if he could do the whole Jedi knight thing.’ He raises a hand to his forehead and stares intensely into Steve’s eyes. ‘You don’t need to see my driver’s license,’ he intones. ‘I’m not the mutant you’re looking for.’
Steve gives him an exasperated shove. He twists away, grinning. ‘That would be really cool though. Wait, can you actually do that?’
Charles smiles as the tension eases. ‘Sorry Peter,’ he says. ‘You know I’m not cool, and I definitely can’t do that.’
Tugging Charles closer against him, Erik thinks, I’m sorry, are we ok? Charles gives off a flood of eager relief, and a pleasant warmth twines them back together again. Erik focuses on it gratefully. It helps to keep his other thoughts tucked away at the back of his mind.
There are so many mutants out there like Charles, scared of themselves and waiting expectantly to be discriminated against. Maybe there are lots just like Erik, suspicious and angry, knowing but doing nothing. And all the while, everyone gets on with life. Charles and Peter can make faces at each other across the table. Azazel and Steve can argue the politics of the issue, the way the slick, impersonal mutant rights spokespeople argue their cause on current affairs shows. It’s all very simple and normal.
And there are others, like Seb or the dead fifteen-year-old murderer, who are complications. But in Erik’s experience complications have a tendency to disappear. Wherever and however they go, they leave behind them a world that’s stable enough. A world that works. The majority of people, both human and mutant, lead safe, happy lives. Stryker and his like make things simpler. Many would argue that they’re doing the right thing.
But then he looks at Charles, who is smart and strong and complicated, and who just gave Peter a very easy answer, though to be strictly accurate it needs one extra word. Yet. I can’t do it yet.
***
Despite Erik’s best efforts, the subject of Charles’s powers remains a tiny, niggling tension between them. It slides it way into their conversations, first just now and again, then more and more frequently. He can’t help saying what he thinks of Charles’s opinions, though his arguments are necessarily incomplete. Constantly downplaying his own suspicions and controlling his thoughts is exhausting, but there’s no way he’s telling Charles about what might be going on. It’s shitty stuff to hear, and it’s pointless to pass on the fear when there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
It’s a sensible plan, right up to the point where it explodes spectacularly in his face.
They’re at Emma’s house as usual, clustered around the coffee table. The lesson’s almost over, and Charles is sitting back on his heels, expression sliding from wariness to defiance. He knew this was coming, and he’s obviously been stewing over it behind his shields for a while. ‘No,’ he says again. ‘I told you I don’t want to, and I don’t see why I should.’ His tone says that the subject is closed. He’s already reaching for his bookbag, tugging it out from under the table and stashing away his notes. ‘Erik, are you giving me and Raven a ride home?’
Erik glances at Emma and pulls an exasperated face. It’s the fourth time they’ve suggested that Charles move a little deeper into his powers, and every time he shies firmly away and comes as close as he ever comes to sulking. This time, though, he’s come as close as he ever comes to snapping.
‘Ten more minutes,’ Erik says. ‘Then we can go.’
‘Fine, I’ll take the bus,’ Charles says. ‘Come on, Raven’
Raven gives an apologetic shrug. She was staunchly on Charles’s side to begin with, but she’s wavered since he pulled his cookie trick on her in some silly squabble over which t-shirt he should buy. She didn’t care about the slip, but she did care about the weight of guilty misery that Charles had carried around for the rest of the day.
‘You could just give it a try,’ she suggests. ‘It’s not like Emma actually wants you to control anyone.’
‘Charles, sugar, stop making a fuss,’ Emma adds sweetly. ‘It’s a tiny little thing, even I can do it.’ Her smile is both angelically innocent and deeply spiteful.
The hairs rise on the back of Erik’s neck. He’s suddenly horribly aware that something’s crawling over his hand. Slowly and unwillingly he casts his eyes downwards, and finds himself looking at a gigantic spider covered in white bristles, its fangs dripping with implausible but terrifying yellow poison. He yelps, flails and bats at it with his other hand. ‘Jesus Christ, Emma!’
The spider flies across the room and dissipates into thin air.
Charles and Raven are both staring at him. ‘What happened?’ Raven asks.
Emma shrugs elegantly. ‘You see? It’s nothing. I just placed a little image in his mind.’
Erik glares at her. ‘Which happened to be a tarantula.’ He can still feel the pressure of its disgusting furry feet. It wasn’t the most encouraging example. In fact, it might have been the worst example possible for Charles. Emma’s patience is apparently wearing thin. She’s catching Charles’s mood, and with two telepaths on edge the room is not a pleasant place to be.
Raven giggles nervously, but Charles just scrambles to his feet, shouldering his bag. ‘Raven, are you coming?’ he says. ‘We’re finished here.’
***
Erik drives them home anyway, because he’ll feel lousy if he doesn’t get to kiss Charles goodbye at the door. It doesn’t do much good. Charles and Raven chatter for the first half of the drive but after they drop her off the silence is uncomfortable, and the brief, awkward kiss is even worse.
‘Can I come in for a minute?’ Erik says, trying to sound normal. It would be stupid to go home with both of them irritated. If he can get in a few more kisses and a bit of snuggling then maybe they can forget all about it by tomorrow.
Charles shrugs. ‘If you like,’ he says offhandedly enough that Erik has to supress another flash of irritation.
The snuggling plan doesn’t succeed very well. Charles isn’t in the mood, and Erik finds that he isn’t either. ‘I guess I should go,’ he says eventually. ‘Sorry about before,’ he adds, making one last-ditch attempt at conciliation, ‘I just think you ought to learn about it.’ He gives Charles another quick hug and gets to his feet.
Charles hops up too and walks with him down the long marble stairs. ‘I know why you’re doing it,’ he says, ‘but I think you’re wrong. I’m still learning the basics. Dr Stryker says there’s no need to push too hard.’
Erik scowls. The phrase ‘Dr Stryker says,’ is cropping up far too frequently. Dr Stryker says a lot of reassuring things. He says that mutants are just like other people, and Charles needn’t worry that he’s any less part of society. He says that Charles’s power is something to be very proud of, but that it doesn’t need to define him. He says that he knows Charles is going through. He says that Charles will have all the support that he needs. By now even a mention of him sets Erik teeth on edge, a fact which Charles is obviously finding more and more bewildering.
Charles is getting that mulish look again that means he thinks Erik is being unreasonable. ‘Will you stop growling inside your head?’ he says, sending Erik a quick impression of his threatening stormcloud of a brain. ‘Yes, I asked him, and I’m going to listen to him. He’s not that bad.’
‘Fine,’ Erik says, biting down on a snapped retort. ‘You like him, I get it. Forget it ok?’
Charles stops dead in the middle of the hall. ‘No, I want to talk about it,’ he says. ‘You keep pushing me to mess with people’s minds, and I don’t think I should. Dr Stryker says I don’t need to do it, and he knows what he’s talking about, doesn’t he? He’s met other telepaths, and tested them and he understands how it works. I’m glad that he does. I don’t see why I should hate him just because you do. He’s just doing his job. The government wants to find out about us, that’s all.’
‘I don’t care what they want,’ Erik says, feeling his temper fraying further. He doesn’t know what’s the matter with him, usually he can forgive worse than this, but today it’s too much. ‘Why should I be their lab rat?’
‘Oh honestly.’ Charles doesn’t quite roll his eyes, but he comes close. ‘Try to see it from their point of view. People get scared of what they don’t understand, so the test centres work to understand us. There’s nothing wrong with that. Isn’t it better than having them so terrified of us that they kill us on sight? I know you don’t like it, Erik, but maybe it’s worth it.’
‘You have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Erik snaps.
‘Then tell me!’ Charles says, caught between frustration and outright anger. ‘You never tell me anything. You’ve got this huge problem with the tests and you won’t talk about it. If you think I’m so wrong about them you could at least tell me why.’
Erik glares at the floor, wishing he hadn’t said anything. ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ he says.
It’s the wrong thing to say. Charles’s eyes go bright and intense. His cheeks are flushed. ‘That’s not true.’ He grabs Erik’s arm, gripping a little too tight. ‘Do you think I don’t know when you’re lying? You think about Stryker all the time, and Seb too. Whenever you’re on your own you’re thinking about them. I try not to spy, but I can’t help seeing. All the time, Erik. Why, for God’s sake?’
‘Leave it alone,’ Erik says, shaking off his hand. It’s such a stupid fight, the one he’s been trying to avoid for weeks, but it’s mounting now and he’s almost too angry to walk away. ‘You know why I hate the tests and you know what Seb was like. You saw it yourself.’
‘Yes, I do know,’ Charles says. ‘I know he had a completely weird obsession with you, and would have killed me just to piss you off, and that you’ve never once admitted to anyone that you were sleeping with him.’
Even Charles looks slightly shocked at the words. Erik feels like he’s been slapped in the face. ‘I told you to leave it alone,’ he says furiously, reaching for the handle of the oversized door.
‘I’m not going to leave it,’ Charles says. He’s breathing fast, though Erik can barely hear it over the thumping of his own heart. ‘You try to push me into using my powers because apparently you know better than the evil test centres, and you won’t stop asking even though you know I don’t want to.’
‘You need to learn,’ Erik snaps.
‘No, I don’t,’ Charles snaps back, quick as a flash. ‘You don’t know. You expect me to just do what you tell me and think what you tell me. It’s not fair! Do you have any idea what that feels like?’
The words resonate and echo.
Erik’s dizzy, suddenly, and confused. ‘Charles, stop,’ he manages. The world shivers. The marble and the twisting stairs are gone. Charles is gone.
It’s his own familiar room, but it’s not comforting, and he can’t get warm. He sits on his bed, scrunching himself up in the corner with his arms around his head, sore and shivering, feeling like he’s going to throw up. Seb’s a psycho. Erik hates him. It always ends like this, with him curled up here, hugging a pillow like a little kid, swearing that it will be the last time. Even as he promises himself, he knows it won’t. Tomorrow at school he’ll be completely helpless and pathetic, just nodding and agreeing with whatever Seb says or does. It only takes the snap of Seb’s fingers and Erik’s there to give him whatever he asks for. Anything at all.
He should know better. He does know better, and he’s still letting it happen. It’s his own fault. All he has to do is say no.
He never says no.
NO!
He wrenches and struggles and feels Charles’s mind falter. The bedroom fractures around him and he’s back in the hallway, but the greater part of him is still sixteen years old and cold with shame. He stumbles backwards and scrabbles for the doorknob again, with his hands, not trusting himself to use his powers. ‘Fuck you,’ he gasps, ‘stay the hell out of my head.’
Charles looks horrified. This time Erik doesn’t feel the slightest need to comfort him.
Outside, as he runs down the path with gravel crunching under his shoes, he fumbles for the control he’ll need to open the car door and wishes fervently that, just this once, he’d brought the goddamn keys.
***
He’s not sure if Charles uses telepathy to find him. It’s probably pretty obvious where he’d go. By the time Charles pedals up he’s been sitting on the slope tossing rocks down at a rusting car frame for an hour.
‘What are you doing here?’ he says.
Charles sits down cautiously on the stones, a foot or so away. ‘You didn’t answer your phone. You must have at least a million missed calls from me.’
‘I don’t want to talk.’ Erik stares down at the tumbled rocks. He loves the quarry. He’s played here for years. He’s not going to look at the substation and think of Charles crouched against the rock wall to escape the sparks, and he’s not going to look at the little sun-trap of boulders and think of the very first time Seb kissed him. The quarry is a place where he can feel free. It’s his, not Seb’s.
He throws another rock. It bounces and clatters angrily off the car. Charles shifts awkwardly on the rough ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Erik can see him fiddling nervously with pebbles and grass stems, before tossing one of the pebbles away, sending it skittering down the slope after the rock. Eventually, in a voice that’s little more than a whisper, he says, ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.’
Erik shrugs and ducks his head down so it’s pressed against his knees. He squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he could close his mind just as tightly.
‘I don’t…’ Charles begins, choked and uncertain. ‘I… oh, Erik, I shouldn’t have lost my temper. It was all nonsense, about you making me do things, it was just a way to win an argument, I can’t believe I said it.’ He sounds close to tears.
It would be nice to cry. Suddenly, stupidly, Erik wants his mom. He wants to be four years old again and sitting in her lap, back when troubles were a scraped knee or a lost toy or a mean older kid. Back when hugs and kisses made everything better.
He hears another hitch of breath and more unidentified scrabblings of rocks and twigs in fidgeting hands. There’s a pause. Charles is apparently lost for words, but not for long. When he next speaks his voice is fierce. ‘I should be saying sorry for what I did. I suppose I am sorry, but I right now I can only… I can’t think about that. I just want to hurt him.’
‘I said I don’t want to talk,’ Erik says tightly. ‘We’re not talking about it.’ It wasn’t Seb’s fault. He should have said no.
There’s another pause. Erik opens his eyes a fraction. Charles has picked up another pebble, smooth and white and speckled. He turns it over in his hands, rubbing the dirt from it with his thumb. ‘I Do you want me to go?’ he says quietly. ‘I will, if you want, but I’d rather stay. Just for a little while.’
Erik does want him to go, and that makes him angrier than all the rest. He wants to be left alone, and he doesn’t want to be touched, and he is not going to be that weak, damaged person. He half-turns towards Charles. ‘You can stay,’ he says, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘Come here.’
Charles would usually scrabble over the ground and into Erik’s lap at top speed. This time he edges cautiously, until their elbows are just brushing. Erik refuses to flinch away. He holds himself very still.
The quarry rustles around them with the light breeze and the tiny movements that might be living things, and mingled with that is the sound of Charles’s breath and his own. They can sit together and breathe, watching the darkening sky.
As dusk falls the air cools quickly and soon Charles is shivering slightly in his thin, summery t-shirt. Sighing, Erik wraps an arm around him. Charles leans in inch by inch, melting against him until they’re pressed together as they always are. His hand nudges against Erik’s, and, when Erik opens his fingers, presses the pebble into his palm. Erik looks at it for a while, then carefully places it on the ground and pulls Charles properly into his arms. Touching him is so entirely different from touching Seb. They never held each other. They never hugged.
‘Don’t do that to me again,’ he says.
***
Three days later Charles makes his first attempt at influencing another mind.
The intervening days were strange, with Erik feeling oddly shaken up. It was all two years ago, over and almost forgotten, and there’s no reason why it should still bother him, but it does. It’s hard to talk, and harder to relax without Charles pressed up against him or touching his knee or his wrist. The feeling fades though. He makes it fade, forcing himself to set Seb aside, a long way away, where he belongs. After the first couple of days he’s back to normal again. He’s fine.
Neither of them brings up what Charles did, but they both know they have to do something about it.
‘With you,’ Charles said on day two, in a small voice, holding on tight around Erik’s neck and projecting a tiny hum of nervousness. ‘I mean, not if you don’t want to, but… I’d prefer to try it with just you there, not Emma. I promise I won’t do anything you wouldn’t like.’
‘Yeah, Erik had agreed, feeling a spike of nervousness himself, ‘ok.’
Emma gives Charles strict instructions and a disapproving look, but she’s relieved enough that he’s given in to let them escape her supervision. They choose Erik’s bedroom for the venue, since there’s probably nowhere in the world that Charles feels more secure. Even so, he hedges and delays until Erik has to shake him gently, sit him down on the bed and tell him to get the hell on with it.
‘Just try,’ he says. ‘It’s cool, you’ll be ok.’
‘It’s not me I’m worried about,’ Charles says unhappily, but he raises his hand to his temple. ‘Ok, yes, I can do it.’
Erik waits, standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor while Charles concentrates, chews on his lip and occasionally frowns. Nothing happens. Erik shifts from foot to foot. His nose itches, and he gives in to the urge to rub at it.
Charles blinks.
Rubbing doesn’t help. Neither does scratching.
An uncertain, slightly mischievous look spreads across Charles’s face. Erik stares at him, realisation dawning. The itch slowly moves down his neck and onto his back. He squirms. ‘Ok, great, well done.’
‘Thank you,’ Charles says, hiding a smile.
The itch intensifies, and Erik has to scratch again, stretching his fingers to their fullest extent. ‘Will you at least put it somewhere I can reach it?’
Charles glances down pointedly.
‘No,’ Erik says, ‘don’t you dare.’
Thankfully, the itch dissipates. Charles looks pink with success, and just a little anxious. Erik strides over to the bed, grabs him and kisses him before the worry can increase. ‘Sadist,’ he says fondly, feeling drunk with relief. They got through it and neither of them died. ‘Alright, try something else.’
Over the next half hour or so they run through the senses in turn. Erik hears a tinkling tune from a music box, smells his mother’s chocolate chip cookies and tastes something deeply unpleasant that makes it very difficult not to spit the non-existent mouthful out. Charles makes an apologetic attempt to explain the concept of toast and marmite. ‘It’s really very nice,’ he says, inaccurately, and sends Erik vanilla ice cream instead.
Vision is more difficult. The first attempts have Erik seeing out of Charles’s eyes, then back to front, then upside down. He’s getting a serious case of motion sickness by the time the walls finally turn pink. This is apparently what Charles was going for, giving Erik very little faith in his ability to make interior decorating decisions.
‘I think I’ve got the hang of it now,’ Charles says, flopping backward onto the bed and closing his eyes. ‘You have to understand how the other person sees first. It’s just a little bit different.’
Erik flops down too. The whole thing’s left him exhausted, and they’re still not quite done with Emma’s orders. ‘Ok,’ he says, ‘last thing, put it all together for a proper illusion.’
Charles pulls the pillow over his face. ‘No more,’ he pleads. ‘I can’t take it.’ It’s only half a protest. Erik can still feel him bubbling with excitement and unanticipated pleasure at his newfound abilities.
‘Just get it over with.’ Erik gathers together his remaining energy and pointedly imagines himself kissing his way across the exposed strip of skin where Charles’s t-shirt has risen up and sliding his tongue teasingly into his belly button.
Charles sits up hurriedly. ‘Ok, one quick illusion, and then… yes. That. You stand over there.’
Erik dubiously takes up his stance in the middle of the room. Charles frowns and raises his hand again, pressing two fingers to their usual spot. ‘Right, just let me… ok, ok, got it.’
Something breathes hot breath on the back of Erik’s neck. Swallowing hard, he turns around to see what Charles has chosen to show him.
It’s a little unexpected. ‘Charles,’ he says, very calmly, ‘there’s a baby giraffe in my bedroom.’
The giraffe is a little taller than he is, all gangly legs and knobbly knees, with big, liquid eyes and an expression of mild curiosity. It bends its head to snuffle at him. He backs hastily away, just too late to escape its long, friendly blue tongue. It slurps at him, and follows him as he jams himself up against his wardrobe, fluttering its eyelashes and nuzzling its head against him lovingly.
‘Quit it!’ Erik orders, fending off the creature with one hand and craning his head desperately around its speckled neck. ‘Charles!’
‘It likes you,’ Charles says.
‘I don’t like it!’ The damn thing licks him again.
Charles looks at him. His lip twitches. His shoulders start to shake.
‘You are going to pay for this,’ Erik threatens. ‘You are going to be paying for this for the rest of your life. Get it off me!’
Apparently Charles can’t maintain an illusion while in the grips of a helpless giggling fit. The giraffe disappears with a pop and Erik finds himself flailing at empty air. He scrubs at his face, trying to rid himself of the sensation of giraffe slobber.
‘I can’t believe you just did that,’ he says, advancing on the bed
Charles scrambles backwards. ‘Oh, oh, you should have seen your face,’ he says, cracking up completely.
Erik grabs for him and they roll over together until Charles is lying sprawled on his back on the bed, howling with laughter, and Erik is on top of him growling dire threats of reprisal into the skin of his neck.
‘You’re ridiculous,’ Erik says, interspersing the words with gentle sucks and nips of his teeth. ‘You’re ridiculous and you make giraffes and I love you.’
Charles wriggles underneath him, then snakes an arm around his neck and pulls him down for a kiss. There’s something especially joyful running through him that makes Erik pull back and give him an inquiring look.
‘You’ve never said that before,’ Charles explains, still giggling, and Erik realises that he hasn’t. He’s thought it, and felt it, and known it, but he’s never said it. It matters less with them than it might with other people.
‘I love you too,’ Charles whispers into his ear, ‘just in case you were wondering. Maybe all the hearts I’ve been drawing gave you a clue.’
‘Maybe,’ Erik says, tugging Charles’s t-shirt up and drawing hearts with his tongue on every exposed piece of skin.
The next few minutes make him realise that he wasn’t nearly as tired as he thought he was. An hour later, though, he’s aware that any further movement is not going to be possible for quite a while.
Charles’s hips are still trembling, pressed into the mess of come smeared between them. He’s utterly mussed and flushed and his mind projects raw, heady satisfaction. ‘I don’t know what I was so worried about,’ he says, laughing breathlessly. ‘This has turned out to be a rather nice afternoon.'
On to Chapter 30!
Late Bloomer on
1stclass_kink
Late Bloomer on
xmen_firstkink
Title: Late Bloomer (29/?)
Fandom: X-Men First Class
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: R
Word count: 6,000 (this part)
Warnings: References to underage/dubcon.
Summary: High school AU. Erik is a mutant jock with ISSUES. Charles is a geeky transfer student and totally human... (or is he?)
It’s like living two lives. There’s the one with Charles in it, and school and home, and then, hovering on the edge of his awareness there’s the other one, with the little background voice that says, You know what’s happening, Erik. Why aren’t you doing something about it?
Real life is comfortable, despite all its changes. Erik sets up a tentative truce with Raven and spends hours at Emma’s thinking things on command. He figures it counts as some kind of loving sacrifice since whenever Emma gets bored with the repetitive lessons she amuses herself by sticking her sugar-coated claws into him, all needle-sharp comments and smirks that make him fume and Charles giggle.
Erik’s parents have always made it clear that he’s not allowed to have boyfriends stay over, but lately they’ve also made it clear that they’ll ignore all evidence that this is happening, up to and including Charles’s occasional appearances at the breakfast table. Occasional is all it can be - much more than that and Erik feels like his limbs are going to fall off. Charles is admittedly small, but when you’re six feet of muscular teenage footballer a twin bed is cramped at the best of times. Still, he’s getting used to sleeping crunched against the wall with a mouthful of hair. He can even deal with waking up thoroughly cramped and far too hot, because the morning starts with Charles rolling over, half awake, to press them blissfully together, his hand sliding slyly down Erik’s stomach.
At school it’s just as it was, lying on the grass with Charles, meeting up between classes, exchanging kisses when they pass in the hallways. The only difference is that now Charles can reach out and touch him from across the school, like a tap on the shoulder, a whisper of Erik, are you there, are you busy, do you mind?
Sometimes he’s busy. Mostly he isn’t.
Hello, Charles says in his head, one afternoon when it’s too hot to work. I’m in French and I’m bored. I’m passing you a note.
Ok, Erik agrees. They’ve tried this before, not very successfully, as a game to train his powers the way Emma constantly trains Charles’s. He stretches out his awareness. The language classroom is just down the corridor, easy to pinpoint using door handles and electric wires. He feels his way through the table and chair legs and the myriad scraps of metal in the room until he finds Charles’s chess piece. He makes it vibrate slightly.
Stop it! Charles says. Erik can feel the way he bites his lip to smother a laugh. Look on the floor.
Erik locates the bright curl of a paperclip by the leg of Charles’s chair. He starts to drag it. You know, you could just talk to me. Do you know how difficult this is?
Do you know how difficult it is to pick out your mind in all this racket? Charles objects. I think half my class are hearing a mumbled version of what I’m saying to you. And possibly the teacher. Oops. Over and out.
Erik grins to himself and keeps dragging until the paperclip slides under the classroom door, attached to a piece of folded notepaper. He wriggles it stealthily around the room and over to his desk. Unfolded, the little scrap of paper reveals another of Charles’s dreadful cartoons, showing the two of them in tuxes, standing in front of a limousine and surrounded by a veritable fountain of hearts. Underneath, in multicoloured capital letters, are the words: I THINK YOU’RE CUTE. WILL YOU GO TO THE PROM WITH ME?
He laughs out loud.
The teacher frowns at him. ‘Something you want to share with the class, Mr Lehnsherr?’
‘No.’ Only that he’s utterly smitten with his boyfriend. But they all know that anyway.
Once the teacher has turned back to the blackboard he reaches for the paperclip again, fuses it into the word YES and tosses it towards the door, sending it scuttling back to its owner.
***
‘Milkshakes,’ Charles says hopefully one day, looking around the assembled group. School’s finished and Emma’s busy with prom-related activities, so he and Erik are free to do as they wish. Erik would prefer them to be alone and rather nakeder than they are, but Charles is so obviously delighted by the thought of milkshakes and friends that Erik can’t help but want the same. It’s a mark of how tangled up their emotions are now that he can actually feel the tug and flow of desires between them that finally settles in Charles’s favour.
‘Sure, Charles,’ Steve says, with rather forced cheerfulness. He looks like he needs some kind of pick-me-up. Tony was last seen helping the extremely pretty substitute math teacher carry her books to her car, and has now apparently vanished off the face of the earth.
None of the girls have managed to escape Emma’s reign of prom-related terror, so it’s an all-male group that descends on the diner and occupies a booth. I love this place, Charles thinks, leaning with satisfaction into Erik’s side. The counter! Waitresses with aprons! Burgers and coffee, it’s just like it is on TV.
Apparently even after several months Charles hasn’t quite twigged to the fact that he lives in America. He tends to get oddly excited about Oreos, Wal-Mart and kids playing Little League, and he never gets tired of ordering pancakes with bacon on the side. The diner is no exception. Raising his head from his menu, Azazel shoots Charles a look of mild exasperation. ‘Chill out,’ he says. ‘You’re making me feel peppy, and pep is not really my thing.’
Charles cocks his head thoughtfully. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t realise I was projecting.’
Across the table Steve laughs his big, gentle laugh. ‘I wondered why I had a hankering for a mint chocolate chip milkshake. We should be used to it by now, it’s generally down to you.’
Just a couple of weeks ago this sort of thing would have had Charles fading into a background of quiet unhappiness. Erik still feels a stab of anxiety for him, but Charles smiles. ‘You ought to want mint chocolate chip,’ he says. ‘It’s delicious. But from what I can tell you’re going to have strawberry. Erik’s having chocolate, so’s Azazel, and Peter…’ he raises his hand to his head, ‘Peter’s thinking about sock puppets singing Beatles songs, just to confuse me.’ He sticks his tongue out.
Peter pulls a face in return. ‘I can’t believe you really saw that,’ he says. ‘Like, you seriously are a telepath. It’s kind of weird to think about it.’
‘It’s a bit strange to live it, too,’ Charles says. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things I catch people thinking about. Your mind’s pretty normal compared to some.’
‘That’s scary,’ Steve says seriously.
‘Hey.’ Peter pokes at him. ‘My mind’s awesome.’
The mood is warm and relaxed. Erik finds himself accepting the mix of pleasant emotions that Charles is quietly absorbing and letting him share. It’s something worth sharing. Charles’s chattiness rarely extends to the subject of his developing powers, but snuggled up to Erik, licking thick greenish milkshake off the end of his straw, he opens up more than he usually does. By the time Erik’s halfway through his predictable chocolate shake Charles has moved on from descriptions of his lessons with Emma and mild complaints about how tiresomely vague people’s thoughts are, and is shyly explaining things that he’s barely mentioned before.
‘It’s just that I worry about what’s going to happen next,’ he says, biting his lip uncertainly. He looks down at the table, drawing patterns with one finger in the condensation from his glass, and sighs. ‘Research scientists are so protective of their ideas. I know it should be all about progress and collaboration, but people do care about who got there first. It’s important for prestige and grant applications and things. There might be a lot of fuss about me being able to see inside people’s heads.’ He directs a rueful little smile at his damp doodles. ‘I don’t know if anyone will want me around.’
‘That sucks,’ Peter says, looking a little puzzled. ‘Look, this might be a stupid question, but if they’re going to be dicks about it can’t you just not tell them? It’s not like it’s written on your forehead.’
Erik and Azazel exchange glances. It’s almost amusing that anyone living in this world can know so little. Azazel fishes in his pocket for his wallet, pulls out his driver’s licence and slides it across the table. ‘It’s written on there,’ he says. ‘It’s written on his passport, and linked to his social security number. His abilities are listed. You can get the details if you want. Anyone can if they can show they have a good reason.’
Peter frowns over the driver’s licence. ‘Huh,’ he says, and hands it on to Steve. Even at a distance the familiar red M is clearly visible, as is the number beneath it.
Steve turns it over thoughtfully. ‘Do we have a good reason?’ he asks.
‘You go to his school,’ Erik says. ‘Of course you have a reason. His neighbours have a reason. His goddamn hairdresser has a reason.’ Almost amusing is actually not very amusing at all. He’s on edge now, ruining the comfortable atmosphere.
Charles does the mental equivalent of elbowing him in the ribs, both irritated and a little embarrassed. ‘I don’t mind,’ he says firmly. ‘I’d tell them anyway, people ought to know. I mean, what if I did steal research ideas? If nobody knew what I was then I’d get away with it completely.’
‘And because they know what I am, I’ll be the prime suspect for ever locked room mystery in the world,’ Azazel says wryly. ‘Erik too, if it’s a metal lock.’
Charles’s look of determination falters. ‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ he says. ‘It’s complicated, isn’t it? I need to think about it some more, but I’d rather tell than not.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Erik says unwisely and unnecessarily.
Charles gives off a flash of hurt. His mind edges away. ‘I am speaking for myself,’ he says. ‘My ability could hurt people. I want it to be controlled and tested and public. Yes, it’s going to cause me some problems, but that’s what I want.’ He turns to Peter and Steve. ‘Don’t you think you’d be more scared of mutants if you didn’t know who they were?’
‘I’m not scared of mutants, Charles,’ Steve says gently.
There’s a little silence. Peter finally breaks it. ‘Come on, enough with the doom and gloom,’ he complains. ‘We’re drinking milkshakes here. Reading thoughts isn’t scary. Charles wouldn’t scare me even if he could do the whole Jedi knight thing.’ He raises a hand to his forehead and stares intensely into Steve’s eyes. ‘You don’t need to see my driver’s license,’ he intones. ‘I’m not the mutant you’re looking for.’
Steve gives him an exasperated shove. He twists away, grinning. ‘That would be really cool though. Wait, can you actually do that?’
Charles smiles as the tension eases. ‘Sorry Peter,’ he says. ‘You know I’m not cool, and I definitely can’t do that.’
Tugging Charles closer against him, Erik thinks, I’m sorry, are we ok? Charles gives off a flood of eager relief, and a pleasant warmth twines them back together again. Erik focuses on it gratefully. It helps to keep his other thoughts tucked away at the back of his mind.
There are so many mutants out there like Charles, scared of themselves and waiting expectantly to be discriminated against. Maybe there are lots just like Erik, suspicious and angry, knowing but doing nothing. And all the while, everyone gets on with life. Charles and Peter can make faces at each other across the table. Azazel and Steve can argue the politics of the issue, the way the slick, impersonal mutant rights spokespeople argue their cause on current affairs shows. It’s all very simple and normal.
And there are others, like Seb or the dead fifteen-year-old murderer, who are complications. But in Erik’s experience complications have a tendency to disappear. Wherever and however they go, they leave behind them a world that’s stable enough. A world that works. The majority of people, both human and mutant, lead safe, happy lives. Stryker and his like make things simpler. Many would argue that they’re doing the right thing.
But then he looks at Charles, who is smart and strong and complicated, and who just gave Peter a very easy answer, though to be strictly accurate it needs one extra word. Yet. I can’t do it yet.
***
Despite Erik’s best efforts, the subject of Charles’s powers remains a tiny, niggling tension between them. It slides it way into their conversations, first just now and again, then more and more frequently. He can’t help saying what he thinks of Charles’s opinions, though his arguments are necessarily incomplete. Constantly downplaying his own suspicions and controlling his thoughts is exhausting, but there’s no way he’s telling Charles about what might be going on. It’s shitty stuff to hear, and it’s pointless to pass on the fear when there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
It’s a sensible plan, right up to the point where it explodes spectacularly in his face.
They’re at Emma’s house as usual, clustered around the coffee table. The lesson’s almost over, and Charles is sitting back on his heels, expression sliding from wariness to defiance. He knew this was coming, and he’s obviously been stewing over it behind his shields for a while. ‘No,’ he says again. ‘I told you I don’t want to, and I don’t see why I should.’ His tone says that the subject is closed. He’s already reaching for his bookbag, tugging it out from under the table and stashing away his notes. ‘Erik, are you giving me and Raven a ride home?’
Erik glances at Emma and pulls an exasperated face. It’s the fourth time they’ve suggested that Charles move a little deeper into his powers, and every time he shies firmly away and comes as close as he ever comes to sulking. This time, though, he’s come as close as he ever comes to snapping.
‘Ten more minutes,’ Erik says. ‘Then we can go.’
‘Fine, I’ll take the bus,’ Charles says. ‘Come on, Raven’
Raven gives an apologetic shrug. She was staunchly on Charles’s side to begin with, but she’s wavered since he pulled his cookie trick on her in some silly squabble over which t-shirt he should buy. She didn’t care about the slip, but she did care about the weight of guilty misery that Charles had carried around for the rest of the day.
‘You could just give it a try,’ she suggests. ‘It’s not like Emma actually wants you to control anyone.’
‘Charles, sugar, stop making a fuss,’ Emma adds sweetly. ‘It’s a tiny little thing, even I can do it.’ Her smile is both angelically innocent and deeply spiteful.
The hairs rise on the back of Erik’s neck. He’s suddenly horribly aware that something’s crawling over his hand. Slowly and unwillingly he casts his eyes downwards, and finds himself looking at a gigantic spider covered in white bristles, its fangs dripping with implausible but terrifying yellow poison. He yelps, flails and bats at it with his other hand. ‘Jesus Christ, Emma!’
The spider flies across the room and dissipates into thin air.
Charles and Raven are both staring at him. ‘What happened?’ Raven asks.
Emma shrugs elegantly. ‘You see? It’s nothing. I just placed a little image in his mind.’
Erik glares at her. ‘Which happened to be a tarantula.’ He can still feel the pressure of its disgusting furry feet. It wasn’t the most encouraging example. In fact, it might have been the worst example possible for Charles. Emma’s patience is apparently wearing thin. She’s catching Charles’s mood, and with two telepaths on edge the room is not a pleasant place to be.
Raven giggles nervously, but Charles just scrambles to his feet, shouldering his bag. ‘Raven, are you coming?’ he says. ‘We’re finished here.’
***
Erik drives them home anyway, because he’ll feel lousy if he doesn’t get to kiss Charles goodbye at the door. It doesn’t do much good. Charles and Raven chatter for the first half of the drive but after they drop her off the silence is uncomfortable, and the brief, awkward kiss is even worse.
‘Can I come in for a minute?’ Erik says, trying to sound normal. It would be stupid to go home with both of them irritated. If he can get in a few more kisses and a bit of snuggling then maybe they can forget all about it by tomorrow.
Charles shrugs. ‘If you like,’ he says offhandedly enough that Erik has to supress another flash of irritation.
The snuggling plan doesn’t succeed very well. Charles isn’t in the mood, and Erik finds that he isn’t either. ‘I guess I should go,’ he says eventually. ‘Sorry about before,’ he adds, making one last-ditch attempt at conciliation, ‘I just think you ought to learn about it.’ He gives Charles another quick hug and gets to his feet.
Charles hops up too and walks with him down the long marble stairs. ‘I know why you’re doing it,’ he says, ‘but I think you’re wrong. I’m still learning the basics. Dr Stryker says there’s no need to push too hard.’
Erik scowls. The phrase ‘Dr Stryker says,’ is cropping up far too frequently. Dr Stryker says a lot of reassuring things. He says that mutants are just like other people, and Charles needn’t worry that he’s any less part of society. He says that Charles’s power is something to be very proud of, but that it doesn’t need to define him. He says that he knows Charles is going through. He says that Charles will have all the support that he needs. By now even a mention of him sets Erik teeth on edge, a fact which Charles is obviously finding more and more bewildering.
Charles is getting that mulish look again that means he thinks Erik is being unreasonable. ‘Will you stop growling inside your head?’ he says, sending Erik a quick impression of his threatening stormcloud of a brain. ‘Yes, I asked him, and I’m going to listen to him. He’s not that bad.’
‘Fine,’ Erik says, biting down on a snapped retort. ‘You like him, I get it. Forget it ok?’
Charles stops dead in the middle of the hall. ‘No, I want to talk about it,’ he says. ‘You keep pushing me to mess with people’s minds, and I don’t think I should. Dr Stryker says I don’t need to do it, and he knows what he’s talking about, doesn’t he? He’s met other telepaths, and tested them and he understands how it works. I’m glad that he does. I don’t see why I should hate him just because you do. He’s just doing his job. The government wants to find out about us, that’s all.’
‘I don’t care what they want,’ Erik says, feeling his temper fraying further. He doesn’t know what’s the matter with him, usually he can forgive worse than this, but today it’s too much. ‘Why should I be their lab rat?’
‘Oh honestly.’ Charles doesn’t quite roll his eyes, but he comes close. ‘Try to see it from their point of view. People get scared of what they don’t understand, so the test centres work to understand us. There’s nothing wrong with that. Isn’t it better than having them so terrified of us that they kill us on sight? I know you don’t like it, Erik, but maybe it’s worth it.’
‘You have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Erik snaps.
‘Then tell me!’ Charles says, caught between frustration and outright anger. ‘You never tell me anything. You’ve got this huge problem with the tests and you won’t talk about it. If you think I’m so wrong about them you could at least tell me why.’
Erik glares at the floor, wishing he hadn’t said anything. ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ he says.
It’s the wrong thing to say. Charles’s eyes go bright and intense. His cheeks are flushed. ‘That’s not true.’ He grabs Erik’s arm, gripping a little too tight. ‘Do you think I don’t know when you’re lying? You think about Stryker all the time, and Seb too. Whenever you’re on your own you’re thinking about them. I try not to spy, but I can’t help seeing. All the time, Erik. Why, for God’s sake?’
‘Leave it alone,’ Erik says, shaking off his hand. It’s such a stupid fight, the one he’s been trying to avoid for weeks, but it’s mounting now and he’s almost too angry to walk away. ‘You know why I hate the tests and you know what Seb was like. You saw it yourself.’
‘Yes, I do know,’ Charles says. ‘I know he had a completely weird obsession with you, and would have killed me just to piss you off, and that you’ve never once admitted to anyone that you were sleeping with him.’
Even Charles looks slightly shocked at the words. Erik feels like he’s been slapped in the face. ‘I told you to leave it alone,’ he says furiously, reaching for the handle of the oversized door.
‘I’m not going to leave it,’ Charles says. He’s breathing fast, though Erik can barely hear it over the thumping of his own heart. ‘You try to push me into using my powers because apparently you know better than the evil test centres, and you won’t stop asking even though you know I don’t want to.’
‘You need to learn,’ Erik snaps.
‘No, I don’t,’ Charles snaps back, quick as a flash. ‘You don’t know. You expect me to just do what you tell me and think what you tell me. It’s not fair! Do you have any idea what that feels like?’
The words resonate and echo.
Erik’s dizzy, suddenly, and confused. ‘Charles, stop,’ he manages. The world shivers. The marble and the twisting stairs are gone. Charles is gone.
It’s his own familiar room, but it’s not comforting, and he can’t get warm. He sits on his bed, scrunching himself up in the corner with his arms around his head, sore and shivering, feeling like he’s going to throw up. Seb’s a psycho. Erik hates him. It always ends like this, with him curled up here, hugging a pillow like a little kid, swearing that it will be the last time. Even as he promises himself, he knows it won’t. Tomorrow at school he’ll be completely helpless and pathetic, just nodding and agreeing with whatever Seb says or does. It only takes the snap of Seb’s fingers and Erik’s there to give him whatever he asks for. Anything at all.
He should know better. He does know better, and he’s still letting it happen. It’s his own fault. All he has to do is say no.
He never says no.
NO!
He wrenches and struggles and feels Charles’s mind falter. The bedroom fractures around him and he’s back in the hallway, but the greater part of him is still sixteen years old and cold with shame. He stumbles backwards and scrabbles for the doorknob again, with his hands, not trusting himself to use his powers. ‘Fuck you,’ he gasps, ‘stay the hell out of my head.’
Charles looks horrified. This time Erik doesn’t feel the slightest need to comfort him.
Outside, as he runs down the path with gravel crunching under his shoes, he fumbles for the control he’ll need to open the car door and wishes fervently that, just this once, he’d brought the goddamn keys.
***
He’s not sure if Charles uses telepathy to find him. It’s probably pretty obvious where he’d go. By the time Charles pedals up he’s been sitting on the slope tossing rocks down at a rusting car frame for an hour.
‘What are you doing here?’ he says.
Charles sits down cautiously on the stones, a foot or so away. ‘You didn’t answer your phone. You must have at least a million missed calls from me.’
‘I don’t want to talk.’ Erik stares down at the tumbled rocks. He loves the quarry. He’s played here for years. He’s not going to look at the substation and think of Charles crouched against the rock wall to escape the sparks, and he’s not going to look at the little sun-trap of boulders and think of the very first time Seb kissed him. The quarry is a place where he can feel free. It’s his, not Seb’s.
He throws another rock. It bounces and clatters angrily off the car. Charles shifts awkwardly on the rough ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Erik can see him fiddling nervously with pebbles and grass stems, before tossing one of the pebbles away, sending it skittering down the slope after the rock. Eventually, in a voice that’s little more than a whisper, he says, ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.’
Erik shrugs and ducks his head down so it’s pressed against his knees. He squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he could close his mind just as tightly.
‘I don’t…’ Charles begins, choked and uncertain. ‘I… oh, Erik, I shouldn’t have lost my temper. It was all nonsense, about you making me do things, it was just a way to win an argument, I can’t believe I said it.’ He sounds close to tears.
It would be nice to cry. Suddenly, stupidly, Erik wants his mom. He wants to be four years old again and sitting in her lap, back when troubles were a scraped knee or a lost toy or a mean older kid. Back when hugs and kisses made everything better.
He hears another hitch of breath and more unidentified scrabblings of rocks and twigs in fidgeting hands. There’s a pause. Charles is apparently lost for words, but not for long. When he next speaks his voice is fierce. ‘I should be saying sorry for what I did. I suppose I am sorry, but I right now I can only… I can’t think about that. I just want to hurt him.’
‘I said I don’t want to talk,’ Erik says tightly. ‘We’re not talking about it.’ It wasn’t Seb’s fault. He should have said no.
There’s another pause. Erik opens his eyes a fraction. Charles has picked up another pebble, smooth and white and speckled. He turns it over in his hands, rubbing the dirt from it with his thumb. ‘I Do you want me to go?’ he says quietly. ‘I will, if you want, but I’d rather stay. Just for a little while.’
Erik does want him to go, and that makes him angrier than all the rest. He wants to be left alone, and he doesn’t want to be touched, and he is not going to be that weak, damaged person. He half-turns towards Charles. ‘You can stay,’ he says, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘Come here.’
Charles would usually scrabble over the ground and into Erik’s lap at top speed. This time he edges cautiously, until their elbows are just brushing. Erik refuses to flinch away. He holds himself very still.
The quarry rustles around them with the light breeze and the tiny movements that might be living things, and mingled with that is the sound of Charles’s breath and his own. They can sit together and breathe, watching the darkening sky.
As dusk falls the air cools quickly and soon Charles is shivering slightly in his thin, summery t-shirt. Sighing, Erik wraps an arm around him. Charles leans in inch by inch, melting against him until they’re pressed together as they always are. His hand nudges against Erik’s, and, when Erik opens his fingers, presses the pebble into his palm. Erik looks at it for a while, then carefully places it on the ground and pulls Charles properly into his arms. Touching him is so entirely different from touching Seb. They never held each other. They never hugged.
‘Don’t do that to me again,’ he says.
***
Three days later Charles makes his first attempt at influencing another mind.
The intervening days were strange, with Erik feeling oddly shaken up. It was all two years ago, over and almost forgotten, and there’s no reason why it should still bother him, but it does. It’s hard to talk, and harder to relax without Charles pressed up against him or touching his knee or his wrist. The feeling fades though. He makes it fade, forcing himself to set Seb aside, a long way away, where he belongs. After the first couple of days he’s back to normal again. He’s fine.
Neither of them brings up what Charles did, but they both know they have to do something about it.
‘With you,’ Charles said on day two, in a small voice, holding on tight around Erik’s neck and projecting a tiny hum of nervousness. ‘I mean, not if you don’t want to, but… I’d prefer to try it with just you there, not Emma. I promise I won’t do anything you wouldn’t like.’
‘Yeah, Erik had agreed, feeling a spike of nervousness himself, ‘ok.’
Emma gives Charles strict instructions and a disapproving look, but she’s relieved enough that he’s given in to let them escape her supervision. They choose Erik’s bedroom for the venue, since there’s probably nowhere in the world that Charles feels more secure. Even so, he hedges and delays until Erik has to shake him gently, sit him down on the bed and tell him to get the hell on with it.
‘Just try,’ he says. ‘It’s cool, you’ll be ok.’
‘It’s not me I’m worried about,’ Charles says unhappily, but he raises his hand to his temple. ‘Ok, yes, I can do it.’
Erik waits, standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor while Charles concentrates, chews on his lip and occasionally frowns. Nothing happens. Erik shifts from foot to foot. His nose itches, and he gives in to the urge to rub at it.
Charles blinks.
Rubbing doesn’t help. Neither does scratching.
An uncertain, slightly mischievous look spreads across Charles’s face. Erik stares at him, realisation dawning. The itch slowly moves down his neck and onto his back. He squirms. ‘Ok, great, well done.’
‘Thank you,’ Charles says, hiding a smile.
The itch intensifies, and Erik has to scratch again, stretching his fingers to their fullest extent. ‘Will you at least put it somewhere I can reach it?’
Charles glances down pointedly.
‘No,’ Erik says, ‘don’t you dare.’
Thankfully, the itch dissipates. Charles looks pink with success, and just a little anxious. Erik strides over to the bed, grabs him and kisses him before the worry can increase. ‘Sadist,’ he says fondly, feeling drunk with relief. They got through it and neither of them died. ‘Alright, try something else.’
Over the next half hour or so they run through the senses in turn. Erik hears a tinkling tune from a music box, smells his mother’s chocolate chip cookies and tastes something deeply unpleasant that makes it very difficult not to spit the non-existent mouthful out. Charles makes an apologetic attempt to explain the concept of toast and marmite. ‘It’s really very nice,’ he says, inaccurately, and sends Erik vanilla ice cream instead.
Vision is more difficult. The first attempts have Erik seeing out of Charles’s eyes, then back to front, then upside down. He’s getting a serious case of motion sickness by the time the walls finally turn pink. This is apparently what Charles was going for, giving Erik very little faith in his ability to make interior decorating decisions.
‘I think I’ve got the hang of it now,’ Charles says, flopping backward onto the bed and closing his eyes. ‘You have to understand how the other person sees first. It’s just a little bit different.’
Erik flops down too. The whole thing’s left him exhausted, and they’re still not quite done with Emma’s orders. ‘Ok,’ he says, ‘last thing, put it all together for a proper illusion.’
Charles pulls the pillow over his face. ‘No more,’ he pleads. ‘I can’t take it.’ It’s only half a protest. Erik can still feel him bubbling with excitement and unanticipated pleasure at his newfound abilities.
‘Just get it over with.’ Erik gathers together his remaining energy and pointedly imagines himself kissing his way across the exposed strip of skin where Charles’s t-shirt has risen up and sliding his tongue teasingly into his belly button.
Charles sits up hurriedly. ‘Ok, one quick illusion, and then… yes. That. You stand over there.’
Erik dubiously takes up his stance in the middle of the room. Charles frowns and raises his hand again, pressing two fingers to their usual spot. ‘Right, just let me… ok, ok, got it.’
Something breathes hot breath on the back of Erik’s neck. Swallowing hard, he turns around to see what Charles has chosen to show him.
It’s a little unexpected. ‘Charles,’ he says, very calmly, ‘there’s a baby giraffe in my bedroom.’
The giraffe is a little taller than he is, all gangly legs and knobbly knees, with big, liquid eyes and an expression of mild curiosity. It bends its head to snuffle at him. He backs hastily away, just too late to escape its long, friendly blue tongue. It slurps at him, and follows him as he jams himself up against his wardrobe, fluttering its eyelashes and nuzzling its head against him lovingly.
‘Quit it!’ Erik orders, fending off the creature with one hand and craning his head desperately around its speckled neck. ‘Charles!’
‘It likes you,’ Charles says.
‘I don’t like it!’ The damn thing licks him again.
Charles looks at him. His lip twitches. His shoulders start to shake.
‘You are going to pay for this,’ Erik threatens. ‘You are going to be paying for this for the rest of your life. Get it off me!’
Apparently Charles can’t maintain an illusion while in the grips of a helpless giggling fit. The giraffe disappears with a pop and Erik finds himself flailing at empty air. He scrubs at his face, trying to rid himself of the sensation of giraffe slobber.
‘I can’t believe you just did that,’ he says, advancing on the bed
Charles scrambles backwards. ‘Oh, oh, you should have seen your face,’ he says, cracking up completely.
Erik grabs for him and they roll over together until Charles is lying sprawled on his back on the bed, howling with laughter, and Erik is on top of him growling dire threats of reprisal into the skin of his neck.
‘You’re ridiculous,’ Erik says, interspersing the words with gentle sucks and nips of his teeth. ‘You’re ridiculous and you make giraffes and I love you.’
Charles wriggles underneath him, then snakes an arm around his neck and pulls him down for a kiss. There’s something especially joyful running through him that makes Erik pull back and give him an inquiring look.
‘You’ve never said that before,’ Charles explains, still giggling, and Erik realises that he hasn’t. He’s thought it, and felt it, and known it, but he’s never said it. It matters less with them than it might with other people.
‘I love you too,’ Charles whispers into his ear, ‘just in case you were wondering. Maybe all the hearts I’ve been drawing gave you a clue.’
‘Maybe,’ Erik says, tugging Charles’s t-shirt up and drawing hearts with his tongue on every exposed piece of skin.
The next few minutes make him realise that he wasn’t nearly as tired as he thought he was. An hour later, though, he’s aware that any further movement is not going to be possible for quite a while.
Charles’s hips are still trembling, pressed into the mess of come smeared between them. He’s utterly mussed and flushed and his mind projects raw, heady satisfaction. ‘I don’t know what I was so worried about,’ he says, laughing breathlessly. ‘This has turned out to be a rather nice afternoon.'
On to Chapter 30!