dr&id: in which charles marks his territory
in which charles marks his territory
the dark roast and its dredges verse erik/charles || pg || 1272
warnings: unrepentant schmoop and ust
disclaimer: all characters belong to marvel and their respective creators erik tries to enjoy a cigarette. notes: when faor and i were planning this universe, we spent about five minutes screaming about how woobie manly erik is and how manipulative adorable charles is. i should be a little embarrassed that this is the result, but i'm really not. beta'd by my lovely waifu. ♥ also, for those who are curious, this is charles' coat.
The late November air is harsh. It cuts through the thin cotton of Erik's t-shirt more quickly than a knife and delves muscle-deep, where it flays his nerves and makes them shriek; even his worn leather jacket provides no protection. Actually, the only thing that manages to stave off the icy wind is the cadet gray, hand-knitted scarf knotted around his neck.
"Damn it all," Erik hisses as he fumbles with the latch on his cigarette case. The platinum bolt is tiny, and when Erik made the case he had been concerned with aesthetic, not numb fingers. "Come on, you little bastard."
When the latch finally clicks open, Erik barely manages to contain a triumphant shout.
It's ten in the morning. The sky above is a miserable shade of gray and only a handful of dry, dead leaves still cling determinedly to the otherwise barren trees, a stark row of skeletons along the campus sidewalk. Most of the students are bundled up in wool coats and fleece-lined hats as they hurry to their next lecture, but others are huddled in circles making stubborn conversation, words rising with the white of their breath. Erik shouldn't be smoking with all these people milling about-he's been warned about the campus wide smoking ban three times in as many months-but he needs to finish his sculpture by seven, and he's only halfway done. So he lights his roll and breathes in the harsh, unfiltered smoke; his eyelids flicker as nicotine-aided relief flushes into his blood.
He doesn't notice the girl until she says, "Hey there."
Erik exhales a cloud of sharp smoke. The girl looks familiar-but young, bleach blonde, and cultivated disinterest describes half the people in the Visual Arts department. He acknowledges her with a jerk of his chin anyway, and grunts, "Hey."
He inhales again, relentless, and the end turns as red as rust. He hopes that the silence will encourage the girl to leave, but she runs a hand through her hair and musses the already wild strands, then licks her lips and takes another step into his personal space with a coy smile. This close, Erik can see the tiny, stainless steel tunnels in her earlobes.
"So," she begins. Her brown eyes flicker to his mouth. "Can I bum a cig?"
Erik exhales-the smoke twists in the air and tries to reach the unreachable sky-and bluntly replies, "No."
Her open, flirtatious expression immediately falls and she stammers, "E-excuse me?"
It's brutally cold. His sculpture sits unformed inside a classroom less than twenty feet away and it needs to be finished in nine hours. All Erik wanted was the peace and solitude a five minute smoke break could give him before he had to face reality again, and she had unwittingly ruined that in ten syllables. So he snaps, "No, you may not bum one of my cigarettes, but you may leave and let me enjoy mine without interruption."
Erik knows he's being rude and callous; he doesn't care. A headache makes itself known as it forms between his eyes and he pinches the bridge of his nose to fend it off, squeezing his eyes shut as the girl stiffens angrily. Great, Erik thinks sarcastically.
A moment later when he opens his eyes, the girl's annoyed face is not what Erik sees. Instead, a familiar pair of blue eyes peers into his own, red-rimmed from the cold and behind a thin convex lenses. The stressed knot in Erik's chest quickly unravels and leaves him with vague sense of disorientation.
"Charles," Erik murmurs.
"Hello," Charles chirps in reply. His cheer is not as irritating as it should be. "Still flaunting your blatant disregard for authority?"
Erik raises an eyebrow and feels the corners of his mouth twitch. He has always had a mercurial temperament, switching from one extreme emotion to another within in seconds, but the transition has often been from a positive emotion to a negative. It should bother him that Charles, a man five years his junior and someone who he has only known for three months, has such an unusual effect on his mood.
It doesn't.
"Well," Charles continues flippantly. One of his hands, clad in a pair of fingerless black gloves, tumbles vaguely through the air. "Opportunity and all that."
The hand Erik was watching suddenly swoops in and the unfinished cigarette from Erik's grip, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. Charles sticks the damp, unfiltered end between his lips and inhales deeply. His red mouth is unnatural and the color high on his cheeks is so vivid it makes the world around him dull and dreary in comparison; even the unremarkable brown of Charles' hair is stunning. Only when Charles chokes, his eyelashes instantly damp and clumping together, does Erik blink.
"Dear lord," Charles exclaims, coughing and laughing as smoke spills from his tongue. He places his free hand on Erik's chest, as though to steady himself. "The last time I had something that strong, I was ten and stealing a puff from my dad's pipe!"
Erik can't help but think about a young Charles sucking in a lungful of pipe smoke, his round face turning bright red, and his bony knees knocking together. The laughter is punched out of him, strange and spontaneous. He has to throw his head and shoulders back to let it all out. Charles joins him moments later, the hand splayed on Erik's hand slipping over the deep v of his shirt. Charles' exposed fingertips pressing against his skin are a brand, but Erik has no desire to pull away.
"Sorry," Erik apologizes as soon as he catches his wayward breath. "I wasn't laughing at you."
"Yes, you were," Charles answers, his grin so wide it must hurt. His fingers shift against Erik's body again and slip underneath the knot of the scarf to steal his warmth. "But it is a funny story."
The moments that follow are quiet and heavy. Erik's hand is curled an inch above Charles' wrist; he wonders what Charles would do if he wrapped his numb fingers around the bone like a shackle and pressed into the pulse that beat beneath the veneer of his flesh. Charles hasn't been this forward with him since he gave Erik the scarf he made; the ghost of Charles' touch had lingered against his throat for days. He wants to know if he can drive Charles mad in the same way. Yet, just as he decides to risk touching Charles back, the other man's fingers slide away from his chest and he takes a small step back.
"Thank you, Erik," Charles says as he proffers what's left of the roll. "I needed that."
Erik takes it and carelessly brushes their fingers together one last time, which makes Charles smile coyly at him one last time. Then he flits away like a bird, scrambling to his next class. Erik watches him until he loses sight of Charles' hideous, mustard-yellow, tweed jacket and the fluttering tail end of his turquoise scarf. His cigarette has burnt to nothing, so he tosses it to the concrete and grinds it beneath his heel.
When he looks up, the girl is still there. It had only taken twenty seconds with Charles, but Erik had forgotten her.
"Sorry," she announces with a nonchalant shrug when he acknowledges her a second time. She isn't angry anymore; she has the trademark, disinterested art student mask back in place. "I didn't know you had a boyfriend."
By the time Erik says, "Charles isn't my boyfriend," the girl has disappeared and the words fall to the ground, unheard.