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A six-year old’s idea of a great birthday present for his bestest teacher at his school: it could leave something to the imagination. Logan, art teacher, sat with Erik while the little boy, still much smaller than all the other boys in his grade, took a small lump of red clay and rolled it between his hands.
“Good,” Logan said, “you want to keep rolling it to make it soft, but not too thin. You don’t want it to crack in the fire, do you?”
Erik shook his head, “No, Mr. Logan.”
“Kid, it’s just Logan.”
“But,” Erik paused, “Mr. Charles says it’s not polite to call you Logan.”
“When we’re not in class,” Logan said, “you can call me Logan. Deal?” Erik nodded slowly, clearly unsure if it was a good idea to go against Mr. Charles. “That’s the right idea, but I think your clay’s a little too thin, bub. Why don’t we smash it back together and try again?”
“Okay, Logan!” Erik said, carefully taking the very thin piece of clay, long enough to be an earthworm, in his palm, and clapping his hands together.
“Good work, kid.”
-
In a library that had never been designed to hold scores of young students, a birthday party started with a low-level hum known throughout the school as “organized chaos”. Bobby’s icicles were falling from the mahogany shelves as John’s fireballs flew across the room.
A small corner saw some of the smaller children eating large slices of yellow cake with chocolate frosting. Charles’ attention was drawn to that table as he admired all that the children and staff had done to give him a birthday party.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Erik walking towards him. Charles had not hidden his fondness for the young boy; it was clear that Erik had great potential, even if his mutation hadn’t manifested just yet. Charles had felt lucky to tell that Erik was a mutant without having to see Erik’s powers when he’d showed up at the crowded group home in Brooklyn. In the interest of enjoying his birthday, Charles pushed those thoughts away, concentrating on the young boy in his black short pants and equally black braces.
“Happy birthday, Mr. Charles,” Erik cheered, pushing his small arms out to reveal a small box wrapped in purple paper with a red ribbon.
“Oh, thank you, Erik. Do you want me to open this right now?” Charles knew the answer to the question, Erik’s glee radiating from his small frame, but Charles also knew that it was best to let the children explicitly express their enthusiasm than not.
Erik nodded.
Charles took the box out of the boy’s hands and carefully untied the red ribbon. He managed to not shred the paper into a mess on the floor, which made him smile. Underneath the wrapping was a simple box with a top attached. Pulling up the top, Charles looked down at a small oddly shaped cat--odd in that its torso dipped more than was normal for any feline.
Charles took the cat out of the box, and placed the gift in his hand to get a better look. As Charles focused on the brick-colored cat, he could hear Erik’s mind racing through what he had thought when he’d made the gift. Erik’s thoughts revealed that he knew just how hard Charles worked and how he always used an old-fashioned fountain pen that might need a different way to rest than just on his desk.
“Oh, Erik, this is lovely! It’s just what I’ve been needing so I don’t dry out my fountain pen. How did you know?”
Erik shrugged his tiny shoulders. “I saw you working the day you brought me here; I peeked into your office.”
“It’s a wonderful present. It’s lovely. Thank you.” Charles ruffled Erik’s hair a bit to show the boy just how much he appreciated the gift. “Now, why don’t you have a small slice of cake?”
Erik trotted away towards the children laughing around mouthfuls of cake.
Charles smiled as he put the small cat into his jacket pocket. It would find a special place on his desk later.
-
Many birthdays passed, Charles still running his school for “gifted and talented” students.
To Charles’ delight, Erik’s powers had manifested three years earlier, at the time he became a bar mitzvah, delighting the house with his metal-moving skills.
Despite the strength of his power, Erik was still a small boy, his body still not fully grown. He was currently curled up at a small table in the study, a notebook of US History homework stuck to his face, with the small cat he’d made as a child at his side.
“Erik, it’s time for bed,” Charles said quietly.
Erik stirred slowly, his eyes blinking a few times, adjusting to the light.
“Okay, Mr. Charles,” Erik mumbled. “Have a good birthday?”
“I did. I’m glad you liked getting back the cat.”
Erik clutched the small clay figure as he rose from the seat.
Charles watched Erik walk away, content with how his small--in comparison--party had gone this year, compared to every year before.
-
Charles blew out the single candle on his cupcake, making a wish as he did.
-
Unlike every other morning, Erik didn’t wake to the feeling of his back against the sheets of his extra-long twin bed: instead, he felt trapped. He hadn’t felt this way since he was five, huddled in on himself in one group home after another.
Looking around, Erik didn’t see the familiar poster on his wall, but instead realized he was face-to-face with his prone body on his bed.
Confused, he tried to move, only to find himself rocking back and forth against the wooden desk.
This isn’t how it should be.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Erik saw his favorite fountain pen next to him. He hadn’t left it there the night before, but he let that pass as he tried to make sense of being inside a figure he’d made a decade ago.
No, this isn’t right, Erik, he heard beside him. The pen had been transformed too? I have, Erik. It wasn’t quite what I’d planned.
Erik couldn’t tell who was next to him. Who are you?
It’s Charles.
Erik, if in his body, would have blushed. It was too much to be this close to Mr. Charles, especially after ten years of knowing the older man. It was not easy to admit, even to himself, that he had a crush on the man who’d saved his life, but as it was, he couldn’t do anything but think of it.
How did this happen? Erik asked, knowing that continuing his previous train of thought would only end badly.
It was a wish, I think, came Charles’ reply. It was just a silly thought as I blew out the candle on my cupcake.
Seems it worked too well, Mr. Charles. Erik wasn’t usually prone to sarcasm with his teachers, but it seemed like it was a fitting time, trapped inside the body of a clay cat.
Don’t be quippy. It doesn’t suit you.
What would suit me, then? Erik asked.
To be a kind pen rest and let me up?
What?
Erik, if we’re going to be stuck like this, I might as well let us both serve some purpose. You designed the cat to hold a pen, yes?
Yes.
In fact, until today, I was happy to use that cat every day before I realized I could give the same joy back to you.
Erik would have blushed again. Okay, but that doesn’t explain why I should let you up.
You won’t take pity on your old teacher, will you?
Not so much.
Too bad. I’ve decided that I’d like to have all of my gifts used for their original design, ergo, you must hold me.
Your birthday’s over, Mr. Charles.
Doesn’t mean I can’t still get my way.
I think it does. At least that’s what Mr. Logan would say.
Mr. Logan can go pound sand.
Erik looked over as carefully as he could before answering. Okay, fine. I’ll give in, but only because I like you more than the rest.
The feeling is mutual.
A moment later, Erik felt the smooth surface of the fountain pen against the curve in his middle.
They stayed like that for hours, Erik content to let Mr. Charles talk about how it all came to be: a wish.
Erik might have said it was all silly if he didn’t like that he was this close to his favorite teacher. Even if they were both trapped inside inanimate objects.
-
Mr. Logan, now known as the school’s biggest troll, said nothing at breakfast the next day. Erik was totally fucked, if he knew anything.
Mr. Charles, being the responsible man who ran a school, said nothing as Erik sat in Physics. Erik wished he had, just so he could stop trying to hide the slight blush on his face.
“You okay?” Kitty asked. “We missed you yesterday.”
“Yeah. Fine. Something at the party didn’t agree with me.”
Shitty excuse, but he didn’t care. No one needed to know how he’d spent the day: trapped inside an old gift with Mr. Charles resting on top of him.
Because that didn’t sound creepy at all.