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A staff soirée, is how Tony advertises it. Intimate. He follows it with the dreaded word—mandatory—and all the other Department Heads look toward Erik with varying degrees of amusement and uncertainty. Erik doesn’t need to be a telepath to know what they’re thinking; his spotty attendance record for company events is the stuff of legends.
As it turns out, intimate is the last thing it ends up being. Erik hadn’t really thought it would be—he’s not naïve enough to think a gathering orchestrated by Tony Stark could ever be anything but extravagant—but even he had missed the mark. Where he’d hoped for something on the quiet side, something he could tolerate, he gets a crowded building and blaring music, every turn and corner lit with another garish display. He only lasts three seconds before he considers turning back the way he came.
But dedication is a virtue, and if nothing else, Erik is committed to his work. He’s also a decent strategist. Staff attendance might be required, but Tony had never specified how long they had to stay for. A few memorable moments in the presence of the right people, and Erik should be free to leave. If any of his less important colleagues ask him later, he’ll just say they missed him in the crowd.
The first thing he needs to do is find Tony himself. It’s not a particularly difficult feat—anything so much as associated with the name Stark tends to draw attention, never mind the man himself. Erik only has to follow the murmurs, the preening, hopeful potential hires. He makes his way through the sea of people, offers a strained smile at the Head of Engineering when she calls his name, side-steps the new, overeager R&D recruit, and finds himself on the 39th floor.
Scanning the area, he spots Stark on the balcony, his back facing the city skyline as he talks to a crowd, a man tucked against his side. The man, Erik guesses, is Tony’s date. He always has one; like one of life’s certainties. Good arm candy is important for any business, he likes to say. Erik has been propositioned more times than he cares to admit.
Tonight’s companion, however, feels distinctly different from the last few Erik had had the displeasure of meeting. The man is pretty, sure—Tony’s dates always were, almost as if he plucked them from a catalogue filled with the world’s most beautiful—but he plays it better. He looks comfortable at Stark’s side, watching with a practiced smile as Tony recites whatever story he’s telling, his laugh chiming in with the others at all the appropriate intervals. As Erik approaches them, he wonders just how much Tony had had to dish out to hire him.
The thought has barely formed when the man turns, his eye catching Erik’s across the crowd. For a split-second, Erik feels as if he’s being assessed; the man’s expression is calculating, his forehead creased with the slightest furrow. It vanishes as quickly as it comes, though, the look replaced by an easy smirk, the man’s eyes bright—almost sparkling—as he looks away from Erik and back toward Stark.
Erik settles at the edges of the crowd, completely ignoring Tony as his attention drifts toward his date. This close, Erik can appreciate the finer details: The man’s suit is worth thousands, that much he can tell. It’s tailored to him perfectly, the lean lines of his body on clear display, no creases or marks to be found. He’s even more attractive up close, Erik thinks, which feels unfair somehow, but he’s not unappreciative. Quite the opposite.
Erik doesn’t realise he’s staring until someone nudges past him, the crowd dissipating now that Tony’s story has come to an end. He snaps into focus, any shame he feels at realising the man was most definitely staring back forcefully shoved aside as his boss finally spots him.
“Erik!” Tony calls. He skips toward him, claps him on the shoulder. “You came.”
There’s a surprised edge to it, a shock that Erik knows is only there for show. He can tell by the shit-eating grin on Tony’s face.
He returns the look with a blank stare. “You threatened to fire me.”
His voice is a deadpan, his gaze flicking between Tony and his date; it’s surprisingly hard to look away from the latter, especially when he laughs, soft and lovely, his expression fond as he comes to stand beside them.
“That’s no way to treat an employee,” he tells Tony. The reprimand is gentle, teasing, his voice warm. Erik tries not to startle at the accent, or the easy familiarity.
Tony looks genuinely offended. “I’ll have you know,” he starts, jabbing his date in the shoulder, “I was voted World’s Best Boss.”
“Mmhm.” The guy’s smile is indulgent, laughter creeping into its edges. “And how much bribery was involved?”
It’s a playful jab, that much is obvious. Tony still goes silent for a moment, his lips pursed, over-dramatic. “I resent that,” he says. He turns to Erik with a single sharp motion and gives him a pointed look. “Tell Charles I’m a good boss.”
Erik doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re tolerable for a few hours every second Tuesday,” he offers.
Tony’s groan is drowned out only by his companion’s laughter. “You’re lucky you’re both pretty,” Tony says, then sighs. He slips his arm back around Erik’s shoulders and nudges him toward his date. “Chuck, meet my pet project,” he starts. Erik scowls, but it goes ignored—he scares Tony about as much as Tony scares him, which is to say they don’t scare each other at all. “You might remember him, actually. Head of the Mutant Division? We were at MIT together.” He flashes Erik a grin. “He’s the—”
“—foreign student who refused to sleep with you,” Charles finishes. “Yes, I remember.” To Erik, he adds, “He was terribly upset, you know. You ruined his streak.”
Erik blinks, looking between the two of them. It hits him, suddenly, that whatever their situation, Charles and Tony have known each other for a long time. Longer even than he and Tony have known each other, and Erik still remembers when Tony wasn’t legally allowed to drink.
“Streak?” he asks, partly because it’s the easiest thing to cling to, and partly because he has no idea what they’re talking about.
“Ask eleven, bag eleven,” Tony supplies, like it’s supposed to explain things. “You were my first no.”
That jogs his memory. Erik’s early years at MIT are fragmented, and his memories of the semester he’d shared with one Tony Stark are no exception. In fact, they’re probably the worst of the lot; he’d been too preoccupied with his father’s health—too worried—to care much about the alleged teenage genius who’d joined his Advanced Elements of Mechanical Design class. He’d written Stark off as another privileged baseline whose parents had bought their way in, and had only changed his mind once he’d seen Stark work. But even then, it wasn’t until later, when the kid—barely sixteen and already bold as brass—had propositioned him that Erik really took notice. If he remembers correctly, his no hadn’t been so much a ‘no’ as it’d been him laughing in Tony’s face.
“You weren’t my type,” Erik says, coming back to himself.
Tony looks as if it’s the first time he’s ever been told that. “Too smart?” he asks. He grins, leans his chin on Erik’s shoulder. “Or too pretty?”
Erik barely refrains from rolling his eyes. “Too annoying,” he corrects. He shrugs Tony off, gives him a pointed look. “And too young.”
The concern is waved away. “Four years is nothing,” Tony says, and Erik arches an eyebrow.
“Four years is a lifetime when one of you is sixteen,” he shoots back. Tony rolls his eyes and makes a bluegh sound, turning to look back toward Charles.
“Now he sounds like Rhodey.”
Erik watches as Charles reaches out, his arm linking with Tony’s. “Darling, I think that’s a good thing,” he says, patting Tony’s arm.
Tony relaxes into Charles’ touch, all but clinging to him. “And here I thought you’d be on my side,” he grumbles. It actually sounds betrayed, and for a moment, Erik feels as if they’re a world away. Like he may as well not be there at all.
It only lasts a second. Charles rolls his eyes, looks past Tony to talk to Erik. “Is he always this dramatic,” he asks, “or does he save it for me? I’ve never been able to tell.”
Erik snorts. “He’s always this dramatic,” he answers. He looks at the two of them, at Tony tucked into Charles’ side, at the casual, affectionate way they touch each other, the ease to their intimacy. They look like an actual couple, he realises, remembering his earlier assumption with more than a little bit of guilt. He clears his throat. “So…”
He trails off. This kind of conversation isn’t Erik’s area of expertise; he doesn’t actually know what to ask. Charles is smirking, though, the little twitch of his lips growing into a smile as Tony looks between them.
“What?”
Charles’ smirk widens to a grin. He drops his hand and intertwines his fingers with Tony’s, inclining his head toward Erik. “Our friend was under the assumption that I was your paid companion,” he says, matter-of-fact. It makes Erik want to grimace.
But Tony only laughs, loud and barking. Hot wisps of embarrassment creep up Erik’s neck, and Erik tries to banish them with sheer force of will. He only half-succeeds.
Charles takes pity. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course,” he carries on, “but Tony and I are old friends. Our parents ran in the same circles.”
It’s a polite way of saying that they’ve both been filthy rich their entire lives, Erik thinks, unable to help the twinge of disdain. Charles inclines his head as if he knows what Erik’s thinking.
“My actual job is far more mundane,” he says, taking the opportunity to shift the conversation. “I teach genetics at Columbia. It’s why I’m here, actually.”
That catches Erik’s attention. If Tony is talking to someone involved with genetics, chances are it’s about his division, or about his work specifically. “Oh?” he says, trying—and failing—to hide his interest.
“A student of mine came to me for help,” Charles explains. “Well,” he amends. “students. They’re part of the Mutant Rights group at the university. One’s having a bit of trouble with her daughter’s mutation—from what I’ve been told, her and her wife have tried everything they can get their hands on, but they haven’t found anything that helps without also harming their daughter.” He looks between Erik and Tony, mouth curled in a small smile. “I’ve heard quite a bit about your work,” he admits, catching Erik’s eye. “I thought I’d at least ask.”
Erik nods, understanding; he’s been sought after by worried parents more than once. “I’m always willing to help a fellow mutant,” he says, and it makes Charles’ smile widen into a grin, bright and blinding.
“So I’ve heard,” Charles says. He shakes his head then, as if something has just occurred to him. “I’m terribly sorry,” he tells Erik, “I seem to have forgotten my manners.” He steps forward, hand letting go of Tony’s to grasp Erik’s instead; his shake is firm, practiced. “Charles Xavier. I take it Tony hasn’t mentioned me?”
Erik blinks, stares. Feels almost as if he’s just been dunked into a tub of ice water. “Xavier?” he repeats, Charles’ question going ignored as all thoughts aside from Charles’ name swiftly vanish from his brain. “A Map of the Mutant Genome, Xavier? Integration or Separation, Xavier? That Charles Xavier?”
Charles’ face lights up. He looks—sounds—delightfully surprised. “You’ve read my work?” he asks, at about the same time Tony makes an overly obnoxious snoring sound, his head rolling across his shoulders as he shifts to face Charles.
“Boring,” he says, before Erik can get a word in. “Chuck, I told you. It’s a party. No academia at a party. You used to be more fun.”
Charles doesn’t look remotely put-off, his smile growing wider still. “Oh, shush,” is what he says, his hand reaching up to pat Tony’s cheek like Stark is some sort of misbehaving puppy. “James just got here,” he tells him. He points vaguely toward the stairwell, his other hand nudging Tony lightly. “Why don’t you go pester him?”
Apparently no other prompting is needed. Erik watches as Tony plants a kiss to the corner of Charles’ mouth, mumbling something about project plans before making a b-line toward Colonel Rhodes. It’s only once he’s disappeared into the crowd that Charles returns his attention to Erik.
“Would you like to go somewhere quieter?” he asks, and the hint of hope that underpins the proposition isn’t lost on Erik.
Yes, is out of his mouth before Charles can so much as close his.
Somewhere quieter ends up being the 110th floor balcony. Technically, the whole floor is out of bounds—an explosion in the R&D department had torn big, gaping holes through all the ceilings, and floors 110-113 had been under construction for going on three weeks. It’s only Erik’s staff ID that gets them through the door, and even then, only his status that authorises it.
Charles follows him through the maze of hallways, his hand briefly touching Erik’s elbow for balance as he side-steps a piece of rubble. On the balcony, he drops to the floor without a second thought and leans his back against the railing, one hand patting the spot beside him as the other waves a stolen champagne bottle, his face split in a grin as he looks up at Erik.
Erik blinks, hesitating only briefly before taking the seat beside him. The floor is tiled—cold and dusty, but clean enough that he doesn’t need to worry about ruining his suit.
“I feel like I’m thirteen again,” Charles says as he pops the cork. It flies across to the other side of the balcony, the bottle held to the side as liquid fizzes lightly at the top, spilling down the sides. “This is what Tony and I used to do at our parents’ parties.”
Erik raises an eyebrow but dutifully holds out the glasses he’d grabbed, watching as Charles pours both their drinks. He passes one along once it’s full but keeps the other, then wastes no time in ripping into Integration or Separation, Charles’ fifth and most surprising publication.
He still remembers when he first read it; its actual title was Integration or Separation: Mutant Living in the Modern Age, and it was notable because prior to it, Charles had only ever published scientific articles. The book’s mere existence had propelled him out of strictly academic circles and into the midst of a heated political debate, and, consequently, right into Erik’s orbit. To this day, its well-worn pages sit on his favourite bookshelf. It wasn’t that Erik agreed with Charles—quite the opposite, really—it’s that the book had revolutionised certain discourses in separatist and integrationist circles. The academic debate was over-saturated with human voices; a mutant opinion, even one as on the fence as Charles’, had been a breath of fresh air.
“What I mean,” Erik says, after spending almost an hour on critiques alone, “is that you failed to take a proper stance.” Even high as they are, the night’s breeze gently grazing past, Erik can feel his face is hot, thinks his cheeks must be flushed with colour. It’s partly the alcohol, he knows, but it’s also a by-product of passion, possibly even a by-product of the way Charles has been looking at him over the past hour, his attention intense and absolute. “Your integrity suffered for it. You should have picked a side.”
Charles shakes his head, finishing the last dregs of his fourth drink. “It’s more nuanced than that,” he says, for what is probably the third time in under an hour. For someone who’s just had their life’s work torn to shreds by a stranger, he’s in a remarkably good mood. “You’re looking at it from an Us-vs-Them perspective, and it’s not. If we’re truly the next stage of evolution, then separation isn’t feasible. You need to consider—”
Erik cuts him off with a groan, his head tilting back to rest against the glass railing. “Trust the rich white boy to be an idealist,” he mumbles, looking at Charles from the corner of his eye. “How are you a genius and an idiot at the same time?”
Charles, surprisingly, takes it in stride. “You work for a human!” he says, laughter back in his voice. “You obviously don’t think they’re all bad.”
Erik waves his hand, dismissive. “Tony doesn’t count,” he says. It’s not so surprising that he means it; as far as bosses go, Tony honestly isn’t that bad. Bat shit crazy, definitely, but Erik’s had worse. His current position gives him a frankly ridiculous amount of creative freedom, but more than that, Tony respects him. Not only as an employee, but as a mutant. After a long string of companies who hadn’t cared for him beyond how far they could exploit his mutation, Tony’s job offer had been a blessing. “And besides,” Erik continues, “it’s not as if there’s a multitude of options. Stark Industries is the only company in the last decade to have a mutant-specific division that’s also mutant-led, never mind that we’re the only company aiming to actually help mutants, not just slap a suppressant collar on them and call it a day.” The last part is spat, bitter; Erik downs the rest of his drink to mask the taste.
He has other, more personal reasons for trusting Tony, but Erik isn’t sure they’re the kind of thing you mention two hours after meeting someone. Not long after he’d been hired, Erik had been arrested: Instigating a riot, they’d tried to claim, when all he’d actually done was shield a teenage girl from harm while protesting Senate Bill 1039’s proposition to give business owners the right to refuse service on the basis of visible mutations. If he’d hurt a few humans in the process, well. They shouldn’t have tried to make an example out of a girl who couldn’t’ve been older than seventeen. He’d been denied bail, and had missed two days of work as a result. Convinced he was going to be fired, Erik had been more than a little shocked when Tony offered to pay his legal fees instead. Can’t lose my best engineer, is all Tony had said. And then he’d winked, that easy smile back on his face. Or the eye candy. Erik had agreed to simply let it go.
Now, he sighs, swallowing hard as his gaze drifts back to Charles’ smile, the way his eyes crinkle at the sides. “It is good, isn’t it?” Charles says, soft. He shakes his head, rests his empty glass on the floor beside him. “Tony’s got a bigger heart than he likes to showcase. It’s why I knew he’d help if I asked.”
Erik hums, low. He discards his glass as well, finally dragging his gaze away from Charles and toward the balcony’s doors, to where the city skyline shimmers in their reflection. “You think he wants us to work together?” he asks. It’s a reminder that they’re there for a reason; that, despite how friendly he’s been, Charles is here for business, not to be ogled at by his boyfriend’s employee.
He’s not looking, so Erik misses the way Charles looks at him, eyebrows drawn together and lips quirked as if he wants to laugh. “We drafted some preliminary plans,” Charles admits eventually. “I think he wants to discuss them properly in the coming week. Our combined knowledge ought to achieve something, don’t you think?”
Before Erik can answer, a series of incoherent shouts ring out from the floor below them, a chorus of laughter following. Both Charles and Erik look behind them, down toward the balcony beneath them, to where people are milling about, enjoying the party. Erik turns away as someone shouts again.
“I’ve been a terrible co-host,” Charles mumbles, speaking mostly to himself. He doesn’t sound the least bit worried.
Erik offers an apology anyway. “Sorry,” he says, because he knows he’s the one keeping Charles away from whatever else Tony had planned. He’s not actually sorry, though—Charles’ presence has made his night tolerable. If not for him, Erik would have found an excuse to leave ages ago.
A shoulder brushes his as Charles shifts closer, warmth seeping from his body and into Erik’s. “Oh, don’t be,” he says, dismissive. “I’ve rather enjoyed your company.” He smiles up at Erik, tongue peeking out between his teeth to swipe at his bottom lip. “Now tell me about your department,” he says, his fingers brushing Erik’s knee where it rests beside his own. “I like to have a feel of who I work with.”
Charles appears genuine, even if the request sounds like one of the worst double entendres Erik has ever heard. Who was he to deny him?
Erik stops keeping track of time, but he’s sure it’s at least another hour before they finally join the other guests. Surprisingly, he’s the one who suggests it. Over the course of explaining his past projects, Charles had inched ever-closer, his attention never wavering, not even as Erik had grown increasingly distracted. He blames it on the champagne, but quietly, Erik knows that’s the least of it. He isn’t above admitting that he’s had a tiny, tiny crush on Charles since the first time he’d read Integration or Separation; it’s just that, until now, that crush had been purely academic, and fuelled in equal measure by interest and annoyance. Putting a face to Charles’ name had tipped the scale in favour of interest; spending hours in Charles’ presence had broken it entirely. By the third time he’d caught himself staring at Charles’ mouth, Erik had had to stand up just to clear his head—he doesn’t know what the deal between Charles and Tony is, but enough signs point to something, and as much as he enjoys undermining Tony’s authority, Erik isn’t quite sure he’s up for crossing that particular line.
Charles, for his part, had been kind enough to ignore Erik’s unease.
“There you are,” Tony calls, as they finally reunite on the 5th floor. He looks between them, first to Erik, then to Charles, his forehead furrowed for a split second before he groans. “I told you to discuss project plans,” he says to Charles. “Not get into Lehnsherr’s pants.”
Erik opens his mouth, ready to defend himself, but whatever he’d been thinking of saying dies on his tongue as Charles laughs, light and easy. “Please,” he says, and he almost sounds offended. “He’d look quite a bit more dishevelled if I’d managed to do that.”
Erik stills. Charles looks at him and winks, uncaring of who’s watching, and a sudden rush of heat swarms Erik’s body: not just embarrassment this time, but desire. Hot and real and obvious, if the way Tony is looking at him is anything to go off. He does his best to school his features into a neutral expression.
“Yeah, yeah. Keep it in your pants,” Tony says, which is nothing at all like what Erik had been expecting. He watches as Tony takes a whole tray of hors d’oeuvres from a passing waiter and pops one in his mouth. “Just exchange numbers if you haven’t,” he tells them. “We start Monday afternoon.”
He’s gone after that, walking to where Colonel Rhodes is waiting, another tray held in hand and a grin on his face. Tony greets him with a kiss, quick and fleeting, and Erik only gets a half-second to be surprised before his attention shifts back toward Charles.
“Should I have mentioned that Tony is my ex,” Charles says, casual. He’s grinning again, a knowing look in his eye, his smile unwavering even as Erik glares. “Loosely speaking, of course—we never actually dated. It was more friends with benefits, I think. A rebound here and there. There was one time wh—”
“Stop talking,” Erik says, and Charles dutifully shuts his mouth. His eyes are still shining, though, amusement sparkling bright. Erik swallows a sigh. “He kissed you,” he says. It’s the only defence he offers, as if he’s saying, What was I supposed to think?
“Yes, well.” Charles shrugs, one-shouldered. “You know what they say about old habits.”
Erik does sigh, now, his hand reaching to rub tiredly at his eyes. “You’re both as bad as each other,” he says, but Charles only laughs. Erik wonders if he can feel the relief unfurling beneath Erik’s breastbone, the stubborn hope that simmers in his stomach. He feels ridiculous for it—he’s far too old for crushes, for god’s sake—but that doesn’t make the feeling go away. He imagines Charles must feel it, strong as it is.
But Charles only smiles. “You look lovely when you’re flustered,” he tells Erik. He steps closer, retrieves his phone from his pocket, and reaches for Erik’s hand. His fingertips are soft, gentle—he runs his thumb over Erik’s wrist lightly, the touch a tease, and looks up at Erik from beneath his eyelashes, the expression one that’s obviously been practiced. Erik swallows. Hard. “And I think you’ve been ordered to give me your number.”
Charles places his phone in Erik’s palm as he says it, contacts app already open. It takes Erik a moment to drag his eyes away, but he eventually takes it, retrieving his own phone with his powers.
“8-9-9-5-7-3,” he offers as he floats the device toward Charles, fingers tapping across Charles’ screen as he inputs his information.
Show off, is the reply, Charles’ voice resonating inside Erik’s head. It’s accompanied by a burst of something inexplicably warm, affection-amusement-delight all wrapped in one, and Erik feels the emotion mirrored in himself, weaving its way through blood tissue and bone, as if there’s always been a vacancy waiting.
He hands Charles’ phone back once he’s done and waits patiently for his own, but Charles takes a considerably longer time with inputting his information than Erik had. Erik watches, an eyebrow arched as Charles scrolls through pages and pages of Erik’s emoji keyboard, adding them to the end of his name with no restraint nor remorse. When he’s done, he turns the screen toward Erik, a proud grin on his face.
Charles Xavier 💖🥂🥰💘🔥💦👨❤️💋👨🔗💓😚 (PhD 🎓)
“Really?” is all Erik asks, but there’s a begrudging fondness to it; he can’t quite believe he’s been reduced to a crushing thirteen-year-old so quickly.
Charles hums, giving his work one last contemplative glance before finally clicking the little tick. “The eggplant emoji has no class,” he says by way of explanation, and then he steps closer, his hand reaching behind Erik to return his phone, fingers pressing against the back pocket of Erik’s pants as he slips the device inside.
It’s there, standing in a crowd with Charles’ hand on his ass, that Erik thinks he can finally admit that all of Charles’ flirtatious remarks—all of his little touches, all of his looks—had been real, not a mere product of his imagination.
Charles laughs at the thought, the huff of it ghosting over Erik’s cheek, hot and damp and inviting. “Oh, good,” Charles says, still very much in Erik’s personal space. “I was starting to think you were hopeless.”
If they weren’t standing in a room full of his employees, Erik might’ve kissed him.
When it’s time to leave, Charles is the one to go first. Erik had half-hoped they would leave together, but Charles had turned to him just as he’d started to think about asking, a genuinely apologetic look on his face as he said something about emails and marking. But I’ll see you Monday, yes? he’d asked, happy and hopeful, and it’d been enough to dull the ache of Erik’s disappointment.
Monday, he’d answered, surprisingly unsurprised at the excitement that coiled low in his stomach, the anticipation that itched beneath his skin.
He’d left not long after, a half-hearted goodbye thrown Tony’s way as he headed for the door. Tony had shouted something back—threats to use him as target practice if he ever dared hurt Charles, if Erik had heard correctly—but had let him leave. No one had bothered him on his way out, either, the sea of guests substantially smaller than what he’d first arrived, and Erik had been thankful. Once left alone, the social exhaustion had hit him like a truck.
It’s not until he’s finally home, not until he’s in the middle of unlocking his apartment door, that someone bothers him. His phone vibrates as he pushes his door open, and Erik stands in his unlit hallway, phone in hand before he so much as switches on a light. He has every intention of ignoring it—his social quota for the day is well and truly full—but he falters when he sees Charles’ name and its row of obnoxious emojis above the message notification.
Kicking the door shut behind him, he opens his messages and pulls up Charles’ contact. If I *were* in a catalogue filled with the world’s most beautiful people, reads the lone text, I’d want my page to be beside yours.
Erik blinks. Reads and rereads the text. It’s only as his confused, little, What? appears as delivered that the realisation hits him. He stills, ashamed when he feels that now-familiar heat of embarrassment crawling up his spine (and really, a distant part of Erik thinks, Charles deserves some sort of award for that—he’s never been one to embarrass so easily before). But in all his excitement, he’d forgotten that Charles was a telepath. That Charles had likely heard all of his earlier thoughts, from the ogling to the escort accusations to every time he’d thought of kissing Charles—
Erik groans, his head dropping. “Did Emma teach you nothing?” he asks himself, finally flicking on his light and walking further into his apartment. He’s half-way through a mental pros and cons list of throwing his phone out the window when another text notification comes through. It takes a full five minutes of staring at the screen before Erik can swallow his pride and open it.
So we could kiss when it’s closed ;)
It’s ridiculous, Erik thinks. Well and truly ridiculous—quite possibly the worst line he’s ever heard.
He wonders what the sudden burst of endearment spreading like wildfire says about Charles’ effect on him.