lucky, lucky you (i am fortune’s fool)

by roachvibes

Summary:

Charles buys a houseplant to prove to his therapist that he can take care of something. Single father Erik sells them at the local farmer’s market every Saturday.

Notes:

• For ghostofamoment.

Silly little oneshot for my friend @fancychaostraveller! This is based on his idea that Charles would be very bad at taking care of plants. I don’t know how this ended up being 17k words but I hope you enjoy!!

Content warnings: mentions of suicide, drug use, recovery from substance use, depictions of grief

It all starts with a suggestion from his therapist.

His grand task: to take care of something smaller than himself.

It’s supposed to be the first step—a baby step, everyone calls it, though Charles hates how infantilizing the term is—toward taking care of something bigger one day. Namely, himself. It’s just another one of those unavoidable self-help activities. A necessary evil in the road to getting better. Something he has to do to stay sober.

Because he has indeed forgotten how to take care of himself. It has nothing to do with the crippling accident that put him in this wheelchair—he’s long since reclaimed his independence in that regard. He can transfer himself from place to place with ease. His upper body strength has greatly improved with wheeling his full body weight around. And the furniture in his apartment has been adjusted so that he can reach everything on his own.

No, it has everything to do with the drugs and the alcohol: the narcotics he began to abuse after the accident, the hard liquor he’d drown himself in from the moment he woke to the moment he knocked himself out again. And if he’s being honest with himself—which the counselors at rehab would have just loved—maybe he did have a major drinking problem before the accident even happened. (He’s always said that it depends on how one defines the word ‘problem.’ Drinking is more like a solution to him.)

He thinks his overall situation is quite understandable if you think about it. But nobody ever stops to think about it. His therapist least of all.

A pet cat is her first suggestion. Charles already has a cat, and he is not even her sole caretaker; these days, Mittens’ litter box is most often cleaned out by his sister Raven. If Mittens was ever meant to teach him responsibility, she certainly does not meet the criteria now, though she does make a pleasant animal companion when he needs something small and furry to crawl into his lap. She keeps him alive in the barest sense of the word—he cannot kill himself simply because cats have no concept of suicide, and the dumb creature would never understand where he went if he disappeared unceremoniously. The idea breaks his heart more than imagining his own funeral does. He’ll have to wait for Mittens to die of natural causes before he can indulge the suicidal fantasies again.

(She’s only five years old, so it’ll be a while before that happens.)

“Perhaps, for now, you could practice playing a more active role in Mitten’s upkeep,” his therapist suggests. “Why don’t you help your sister with the litter this week? Just one week. You can do that, can’t you, Charles?”

He hates the way she says that to him. Like he’s a petulant child who’s refusing to do his chores for the explicit purpose of being difficult. He shrugs.

But he knows his therapist is right to suggest lending a hand in his sister’s workload. Poor Raven, always looking after him, and now Mittens by extension. Despite the guilt, he can’t ever seem to break himself out of the cycle: the sickening dependency he has on his little sister for executive function. He knows full well that, even if he promises to clean after Mittens, the box will go untouched for weeks under his watch, and Raven will end up doing it anyway, only now she’ll be extra frustrated and disappointed at him.

“That’s too much. I need something smaller,” Charles mumbles, fidgeting with a scratch on his armrest.

His therapist is overly eager to accommodate him. She asks if he’d like a pet fish, and throws out a few other animals as ideas, but he isn’t looking for another pet, and honestly he isn’t a big fan of this assignment in the first place.

“How about a houseplant?” she finally says. “The smallest houseplant you can find. It’s easy, and it’s low-stakes. It’ll be something for you to look after—watch it grow, watch it thrive. Maybe caring for it can be something tiny to look forward to in your day.”

Charles doesn’t like that at all, but of everything she’s tried so far, it is the idea he can tolerate the most. The apartment is very drab, save for the few pieces of décor that Raven had bought off of Facebook Marketplace on a whim—so maybe a plant would liven up the space.

And then, if he proves he can take care of this plant, he’ll figure out how to take care of Mittens again.

And then himself.

So that Raven can move out.

“We’re reaching the last five minutes of the session, Charles,” his therapist announces. “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss before we close out?”

“I’d kill for a drink right now,” he says bluntly, rubbing his eyes so that he doesn’t have to make eye contact with her when she hears the filthy truth. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure if something like a houseplant is going to change my mind about that.”

“I know, Charles. It probably won’t. But it’ll be something to look at everyday and feel good about, hm?” She writes something down, which Charles doesn’t much care for. “There’s a lovely farmer’s market in town this weekend. You and your sister could stop by to see if there are any locally-owned businesses you can support. Does that sound doable?”

Charles tries not to shrug, tries not to look sulky, tries to be a good patient and a good recovered addict. Every time he complains about wanting to relapse, people meet him with encouragement and kind words, but he doesn’t think there is anything praiseworthy about needing drugs to get through even the mildest inconveniences in life.

“I can manage it,” he sighs.

“Excellent. You’re doing great work here, Charles. I’ll see you next week. And remember your crisis plan if you need it until then.”

He nods tiredly, and says all the Normal Human things you’re supposed to say when interacting with a healthcare professional, and then he wheels out of there as fast as he can.

 

***

 

So that’s how it all began.

Back to present-time. Present day. They say there’s no time like the present, but if it is the best they have, then what’s the point? Charles doesn’t like it here.

It’s a Saturday morning and his head throbs for no reason. He knows that a glass of water will probably help, but a glass of bourbon would achieve the same effect, and it’s way too early to be struggling so badly with the cravings that he was promised would get better with time. He can hear his old counselor’s voice in his head—sit with your craving until you know its real name: pain, blame, shame, boredom, grief, sadness—and he’s annoyed at the platitude. Okay, so he’s feeling all of those things. He admits it. Now what? Is he expected to just take that lying down? To sit in silence with such nauseating emotions? It’s easy to advise from the outside of the addiction, but inside of it, he feels like he’d gnaw his own leg off for one sip of whiskey.

Nothing that happens today will require a drink, his counselor says in a garbled voice. Repeat after me. Nothing that happens today…

Since he’s graduated from rehab, everyone’s told him that he’s free now, but he doesn’t feel free, because every day he has this same argument with himself.

The voices are going to be loud today.

On such a turbulent morning, Charles has no intention of following up on his therapist’s suggestion. He stays in bed until the afternoon, lazily petting the cat that has made its bed on his chest. He wishes that he was high. Petting Mittens always feels better when he’s high. Her fur becomes softer, and her soul melts right into his consciousness, and then he becomes too foggy to think straight, and…

It’s Raven who serendipitously drags him outside of the house today. She pokes her head into the room without so much as knocking.

“Get dressed, Charles,” she calls. “We’re going out.”

He pretends not to hear her, so she keeps talking.

“I know you can hear me, Charles. We’re going out.”

“Raven,” he groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose and wincing in pain. “Please. I can’t today.”

“You don’t even know where we’re going yet.” She helps herself into his bedroom, hands propped reproachfully on her hips. “It’s just the farmer’s market. I want frozen lemonade.”

“I’m not coming.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too bright? My back aches? The market is crowded? I don’t know, pick one.” He rolls over sulkily, sending Mittens scurrying away. “I can’t think of an environment that will make me want to relapse any more than that, if I’m perfectly honest.”

“Well, I think you’re being perfectly dramatic. A short outing will be good for you. You spend every day cooped up in your room—except for the Tuesdays you go to therapy—and an hour in the outside world won’t make you relapse.” Raven walks over to the bed and jabs him in the ribs. She is the only one who has treated him the same post-injury: unafraid to hurt him, pushy and bossy as siblings are. He has to respect her for that. “Come on. Time to get out of your crate.” 

So he pulls himself into the wheelchair, changes into something suitable for the sunny weather, and puts sunglasses on in hopes of mitigating the oncoming migraine.

 

It looks like he’s going to be buying the stupid houseplant today after all.

The farmer market is just as crowded as he anticipated: people chattering, couples walking their dogs, food trucks blaring music, children running amok, babies crying in strollers and lines wrapping into one another. At least in the wheelchair, people give Charles a wide berth—wheelchairs make people uncomfortable, he’s learned, because nobody wants to look directly at him and acknowledge the misfortune which put him there. He can hear their pity in the back of his skull, and it aggravates him, whether the thought is spoken or private.

Poor man.

What do you think happened to his legs, Mommy?

Such an unlucky thing.

He wants to tell them all to shut up, that he is not a poor little thing, that anybody can become disabled at the drop of a hat—but right now, his sister is annoying him more than anything.

“Raven, I told you not to hang your purse on my chair,” he snaps, swiping at her. “You’re weighing me down.”

“There’s like, three things in my purse,” Raven says.

“I don’t care. Take it off.”

“You could use the upper arm workout.”

“I don’t need more than I already get.”

“Don’t you have some therapy homework to get working on?”

“I thought you just wanted frozen lemonade!”

“I’m killing two birds with one stone!”

Huffing, he flings her bag at her—she laughs, and he almost smiles back, because again, she is the only one comfortable enough to get on a handicapped man’s nerves—before wheeling after her.

After one lap around the market square, they find that there is only one booth selling plants. It leaves Charles with very little options, but he’d rather not spend the rest of his time searching for a different stall on a different street. He’s not picky in getting his therapist’s work done.

This booth is small and modest. It has a charm about it. The tables are lined with a variety of plants, some of them intended for outdoor gardens and others in small pots; there are even topiaries hanging from the canopy roof. There is only one man working the stand. He kneels with his back turned to the rest of the market. He’s focused on a Monstera plant, and is talking to himself—Charles can hear the disgruntled mumbling in his mind from here—as he frets over the droopy leaves.

There aren’t any customers at his stand. In fact, people seem to walk around his booth, as if they’re repelled by an invisible force field.

“Go on then,” Raven says, kicking his chair. “Go talk to him.”

“Talk to him? Why? I can pick something out for myself, thank you very much.”

“You may have a PhD in genetics, but I wouldn’t trust you with anything bigger than a single daisy,” she replies. “Some of these plants are really high maintenance. Trust me—ask the guy for help, or you’ll end up killing something delicate and having a mental breakdown about it.”

Charles scoffs incredulously. How fragile does she think he is? But then he thinks about it for more than a second, and he realizes that she’s unfortunately right, as he can already envision the sickening feeling that killing an innocent houseplant would give him.

He concedes with another scoff and wheels toward the shopkeeper.

Despite the engrossing nature of his work, the man turns with professional attentiveness before Charles can even clear his throat. Charles starts at that. A lot of people tend to ignore him since he is shorter in the wheelchair—and so the immediacy of the social interaction has caught him off-guard.

What throws him off next is how unbelievably attractive the owner of this shop is.

He’s not just handsome, he’s Hollywood handsome: it’s almost unreal to see him working in something as ordinary as a farmer’s market booth, with clear gray eyes, long eyelashes, and cheekbones sharp enough to cut. His hair is a caramel brown in the sun, bangs falling in soft curls over his forehead, a lighter color than the ginger scruff lining his jaw. He’s wearing a tight black shirt and an apron, which only accentuates his small waist and broad shoulders.

 He appears to be roughly Charles’ age, perhaps in his late forties. Charles feels dreadfully inadequate by comparison. He hasn’t showered today, and he’s wearing the clothes he fell asleep in last night: a ragged cardigan and stained white t-shirt, jeans that should have been washed long ago, plus shoes that don’t quite match the rest of his outfit. He’s suddenly conscious of how much his muscles have atrophied since the accident. He didn’t even think to comb his hair before he left the apartment.

Suddenly, he doesn’t know how to talk to people, let alone Hollywood-handsome men at the Saturday farmer’s market.

Such speechlessness hasn’t happened to him in years. He has no idea where to go from here. He feels cornered. He is a very outgoing and confident person by nature—but that was before he was in the wheelchair. He doesn’t know who he is anymore.

Charles doesn’t realize he is staring until the man clears his throat.

“Can I help you?” he demands. His voice is cold and gravelly, which only makes him twice as attractive in Charles’ eyes, even if it’s not the most friendly tone.

Charles tries to wire his brain back together. “Hello,” he coughs. It’s one word, but it sounds clumsy and ugly in his mouth. “I’m looking for a new houseplant. I was wondering if you could point me in the right direction.”

The man crosses his arms irately, and suddenly Charles understands why there are no customers here. “Were you looking for anything in particular? Or are you just as clueless as you look?”

“I’m looking for something that’s…er, hard to kill, preferably,” Charles says. “I have absolutely no experience with plants. I would need something simple.”

The man chuckles, but not kindly. It’s more like a tiny smirk that pulls his mouth up by the corner. “Let me guess,” he says, voice tinged with scorn, “you’re looking for a new hobby to distract yourself from a mid-life crisis.”

“You could say that,” Charles replies.

“Fine. Come this way.” The man leads him around to the other side of the table, allowing time for Charles to take in the options: rows and rows of potted plants, each of them different in their leafage and colors, some of them small and some of them nearly too big to fit on the table, all of them beautiful in their own way. “These are our indoor options,” the man explains. “For a beginner, you should start with these. This one with the long leaves is called a spider plant. It’s easy to take care of; you simply trim off the dead leaves as it ages. And this one is called a nerve plant because of the veins in its leaves. It’s just as easy to grow. It comes in both red and white variations.”

“Red is my favorite color,” Charles lies, trying to make small talk.

The man ignores his attempt. He seems intent on prattling on, and he does so almost robotically, leaving no space for Charles to interrupt: he points to each plant and explains their origins, their specialties, their ideal environments, what colors they come in and how long they’re expected to live for—but Charles is a geneticist, not a botanist, and he didn’t come here to learn fun facts about plants. The information goes in one ear and out the other. Still, he must admit that it’s refreshing to see somebody care about their work as much as he cares about DNA and cell mutations.

As Charles contemplates inwardly, the man rambles on, like he’s memorized the whole routine. It occurs to Charles that perhaps he has. It would explain why people are afraid to approach the stand.

Amidst the many potted plants, there is a wooden rack on the table, containing a multitude of self-printed flyers and business cards. Charles picks up a card in the middle of Erik’s rehearsed speech. 

 

Lehnsherr’s Nursery & Garden Store

Est. 1991

Mutant-Owned • Under New Management

 

“You’re a mutant?” Charles inquires.

The man bristles at once—perhaps rightfully so, as the question seems to come bursting forth from Charles’ chest, and he fails to moderate his tone properly. The man snatches the card out of Charles’ hands.

“Yes, I am,” he snaps. “If you have a problem with it, I suggest you leave now.”

“No, no! I didn’t mean anything rude by it,” Charles exclaims. He beams up at the man with renewed confidence. This is no longer about flirting, or being perceived by a stranger as desirable—it’s about connecting with another mutant. Making them feel less alone. Reminding himself that he’s not alone.

He goes on. “I ask because I’m a mutant, too. I know it’s not obvious at first glance, but it’s not often that I encounter a business explicitly run by mutants. That’s all. I apologize if my remark came across as accusatory.”

“I see,” the man says, sounding wary and reluctant still. He’s giving Charles a proper once-over now, and he’s not making an effort to conceal the plain judgment. “And what is your…gift?”

It’s the first time in a while that Charles is eager to talk about his mutation. “I’m a telepath,” he says brightly. “My sister Raven is a shapeshifter. What’s yours, if you don’t mind me asking?”

The man’s eyes narrow, and his expression remains cold. His mind is impenetrable. The way it’s locked up at the moment, Charles couldn’t read it even if he wanted to. Yet the man appears anxious, as if Charles might enter his mind regardless.

“There’s no need to shield yourself like that,” Charles assures him. “I won’t do that. Read your mind without your permission, I mean.”

The man scowls skeptically. He looks like he might tell Charles to leave his stand and not come back. Finally, he uncrosses his arms, and he grumbles, “I can control metal.”

Charles nods in awe. The man looks to the potted plants hanging by metal hooks above them, and he raises a hand. The plants sway gently under his influence, just enough to make it seem that a small wind has passed through the market, though it is a perfectly clear and sunny day. As Charles watches with an ever-growing smile, he returns the plants to a standstill, not a single leaf on them harmed by the motion.

“You did that?” Charles asks.

“I manipulate magnetic fields,” the man says.

“Your precision is extraordinary. You clearly have great control over it.”

The man shrugs, but he’s smirking slyly at the compliment. He looks Charles over with that cocky grin of his. “Well? How about you, telepath?” he jeers. “It’s your turn to put on a show.”

“My mutation doesn’t make for a great party trick these days,” Charles sighs dismissively, feigning indifference to the idea. The truth—that he has become scared of his own powers—is much easier to pass off as apathy or even arrogance.

“Don’t be modest. Telepaths are some of the most powerful mutants to exist,” the man replies.

“Yes, and I would rather leave your mind intact.”

“How will people get to know your gifts if you clip your own wings?”

“I suppose it’s none of their business,” Charles says evenly.

The haughty smirk falls from the man’s face, his frown cementing in place once again. “I understand the urge to hide. It’s what I’ve done for many years. But you shouldn’t.”

“I don’t hide, darling. I just would rather not be caught showing off.”

“Don’t call me darling. Judging by the look on your face, it would seem that you quite enjoyed watching me show off.”

“Well, I—”

“I can bend much more than just these potted plants, you know.”

His voice is deep and coarse. It dances on the edge between threatening and flirtatious. Suddenly, Charles has lost the upper hand in this conversation. He is back to square one. He feels his face flush as he flails to switch topics.

“Oh, and where are my manners? We haven’t even exchanged names,” he coughs, hastily offering his hand. “I’m Professor Charles Xavier. Er, I used to be a professor, I mean, but I’m on a sabbatical of sorts at the moment. I can go back whenever I want. It’s a long story. Forget about it. You can just call me Charles, hm?”

The man looks like he might burst out laughing, but there is no malice behind the glint in his gray eyes this time, and for whatever reason he decides to take Charles’ hand firmly. “Pleasure to meet a man as important as you, Charles,” he says cuttingly. “I’ve no such degree myself, I’m afraid, so you can just call me Erik.”

“Erik,” Charles repeats breathlessly.

“…Well, Charles, if you’re looking for something beginner-friendly, you could also start with a succulent. They’re easy to maintain because you won’t have to water it everyday. Just leave it in a place where it can get plenty of sun.” He arches an eyebrow at Charles, who has stopped listening long ago. “Does that sound manageable, or would something else better suit your needs, professor?”

“No, no, a succulent should be fine,” Charles shakes his head. Now that he thinks about it, he is more than thrilled to chuck money at Erik and be done with his therapist’s task; a plant he can throw on the back burner and forget about watering sounds easy enough.  “Which would you suggest? Are they all the same?”

“They have differences, but not in ways that you would care, I don’t think,” Erik says. He reaches for a small pot containing a flower-shaped blossom, spring green with faint red tips. “This one is called a pinwheel. It’s almost impossible to kill.”

“Excellent. I’ll take that one.” He hands Erik the money. He realizes that he is sad to be nearing the end of their conversation, but he cannot find a way to organically prolong the interaction. Erik seems to be thinking something similar; he is taking a long time counting the bills, and he moves slowly between the register and the plants.

Finally, he hands Charles the succulent—and he smiles. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Charles,” he says once again. “Good luck.”

 

***

 

Charles can’t stop replaying the conversation in his head. It’s all he thinks about for the next few weeks.

It could have something to do with the fact that it’s the first social interaction he’s had outside of Raven and his therapist in months, but he is utterly transfixed on the memory. He watches it like a movie on the back of his eyelids before he goes to bed, and he wonders frequently how Erik is doing, wherever he is.

And yet, for all of his fantasizing, he almost immediately forgets about the plant.

Erik told him it was low-maintenance. Charles is quick to take that information and run with it: he puts it in the sunroom in his apartment, right on the window sill where the sun hits the glass for most of the afternoon, and he simply leaves it there. Raven is right about him not leaving the house often—so, being out of sight, it is quickly out of mind. He tells a couple of lies to his therapist about it doing just fine, but that’s because he hasn’t even bothered to check on it between sessions.

That’s probably why it wound up this way.

“You know, just because they’re desert plants doesn’t mean they can handle that much direct sunlight,” Raven scolds. “Look at the poor thing. It’s all dried up.”

“Deserts are dry,” Charles protests, offended at the implication that he is the fool here. He may not be a professor in botany, but it shouldn’t take a graduate degree to keep something so small alive. “It’s not my fault that we had a heat wave! How was I supposed to know the sunroom would turn into an oven? I don’t even come in here!”

“Didn’t you ask the guy at the shop how to take care of it?”

“I did everything he told me to!”

“That’s doubtful. Your listening skills are rustier than your telepathy.”

“You’re not helping me feel better, Raven.”

She laughs haughtily. “Do you want me to coddle you over a dead flower?”

“Forget it,” he snarls. “My therapist was wrong to think I could keep something so simple alive. I have no time for this. Waste of money, that’s all it was—”

“Hold on, are you actually upset about this?” Raven smirks at his frustrated tirade. “It’s only a plant, Charles. Just toss it out and try again. Your therapist doesn’t give a shit how many times it takes to get it right as long as you keep trying.”

“Oh, I have no intention to keep trying. This was a stupid assignment through and through.”

“Here, let me see the damage. Maybe we can water it back to life.”

For all his angry talk, Charles stops and watches with curious eyes as Raven prods the dry, crackling leaves. It no longer looks like a cactus or a flower, but instead like something that was burnt in the microwave and left to wilt at the bottom of the produce shelf. He knows plants don’t have pain receptors—he’s not that delusional—but he still feels sorrow for having deprived this poor living thing of a proper lifespan. It looks nothing like the beautiful plants lining Erik’s stand at the farmer’s market.

Raven pokes one of the leaves, and the brittle material snaps in her fingers like it’s  made of dust. Something inside of Charles snaps, too.

“Fuck,” he groans, and Raven cackles. “I most certainly killed it. It’s not salvageable.”

“Do you think we could plant it outside? So that the roots…I don’t know, revive in the soil, or something?”

“It wouldn’t last a day in the city dirt. Also, I don’t think that’s how plants work. But hey, what do I know? I’m just a fucking junkie.”

“We could give it a shot,” she says, worry creeping into her tone now. She’s doing the thing his therapist does: trying to give him a task, trying to distract him from the self-deprecating talk.

“It’s not a dead pet we need to bury, Raven,” he retorts.

“Well, I know you. I’m not going to let you beat yourself up over a dollar-store plant that probably didn’t have a very long lifespan to begin with. Let’s just go to the market next week.”

“The farmer’s market?” he repeats, heart skipping a beat—and not in a good way this time. “Erik will recognize me. We had a lengthy chat last time. He’s going to ask what happened to this one.”

“Just tell him you want another,” Raven says.

“Why don’t we fetch one from the supermarket instead?”

“That’s a long drive from here.”

“I’ll pay for the gas.”

The fact that her brother doesn’t want to cooperate only makes her dig her heels in deeper. “You’re being ridiculous now,” she snaps. “The farmer’s market is good for you. It’s fresh air, sunshine, and most of all, there are friendly people there. It’s one hour out of your Saturday, Charles. We’ll go this weekend and you’ll see you’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

“But Erik—”

“Why do you have to tell him that this one died at all? He doesn’t care! He’s there to sell shit, not judge his customers on their gardening skills.”

“He’ll ask how the plant is doing. You know I can’t lie.”

“You lied just fine to your therapist.”

“That’s because it doesn’t matter as much.”

Raven scoffs at his jumbled priorities. “You know I love you, Charles, but even this is too dumb to be worrying about. It’s a non-issue. Get a grip.”

Charles inhales sharply and slams the pot onto the table. He’s half-hoping that it will shatter and make an even bigger mess so that he’s given the proper right to throw his tantrum. But it was never in his personality to deliberately destroy things, or to lash out in anger. Maybe he would indulge that rage if Raven weren’t here to witness it—but she is, and so he’s forced to bottle it all back in.

“He was handsome,” he murmurs, wistful now.

“Who? Erik?”

“It’s so unfair. It’s so unfair that somebody that old is that handsome. I look like somebody’s leftovers.”

“Charles, you know that’s not true.”

“I’m not good-looking anymore. I’m forty-six. He looked at me like I was nobody.”

“Who cares what one man thinks?” Raven punches his shoulder, an unsuccessful attempt to cheer him up. “If he’s handsome, then this is the perfect excuse to visit his stand again! And to actually dress nicely this time. Show him how handsome you are. In fact, it’s possible he likes you just as much, even when you’re looking unemployed. We won’t know until you have the chance to get inside his mind, yeah?”

“Why are you encouraging me?” he says suspiciously.

“Because you haven’t gone on a date since you were in your twenties?” she replies. “I don’t know, Charles, but it makes me sad to see you mope around all day, and I’d almost rather watch you go back to whoring yourself out.”

“I wasn’t a whore!”

“You must have fucked at least half the student body, but alright. The guy works at the market. You can pull him, easy.”

Charles broods some more, but he can see that Raven is not going to budge, and he is tired of going in circles.

“Fine,” he sighs, and hands Raven the dying succulent for her to toss out. It’s dramatic, he knows, but can’t bear to look at such a tangible reminder of his failure anymore. “I’ll go with you. Next Saturday.”

“Attaboy. Was that so hard?”

He wheels in an angry huff down the hall.

“Charles,” she calls.

“What?” he groans.

“Promise me you’ll talk about this to your therapist next time you see her.”

“I have much better things to worry about, Raven,” he laughs. “Why would I spend any of my precious session talking about a stupid plant?”

“I meant about your dating life,” she says. Charles looks like he’s been punched in the face by the words—betrayed, almost, at the direct mention of it. “I think it could be a good idea for you to get out there again. Casual dates. Something to lure you out of the house. At least give the idea a chance, okay?”

“Will you finally leave me alone if I do?”

“Nothing would give me more pleasure, Charles.”

“Then fine.” He storms off, leaving the dead plant in her hands.

 

***

 

As Charles approaches the stand, he sees that Erik is not alone today.

There is a small girl with him, a tiny little thing in the shadow of a man as tall as Erik, and she is helping him with the stand. Charles wheels just close enough to make out her features: bright hazel eyes and blockish bangs, denim overalls and a striped shirt beneath, huge front teeth that she has yet to grow into. She looks like a little girl who’s lived her whole life in a cottage in the woods.

Charles immediately notes that the girl looks nothing like Erik. Her hair is darker and she has a nose that must have come from her mother. Nevertheless, it’s obvious that she is Erik’s daughter—she clings to his legs constantly, judging customers in bright-eyed silence, receiving the occasional pat on the back from Erik as a reward for handling some cash. She seems afraid to be separated from her father, even for seconds at a time. She trails behind him like she is attached to him by a string.

Charles can’t help but smile mournfully at the sight. He’s grateful that he left the house today if it means he can witness such a tender display of parental love.

Even if a daughter means that Erik might be married.

Charles hasn’t been around children in a very long time, but contrary to the history of drug abuse and his sad bachelor’s lifestyle, he once was very good with them. He enjoys their minds because they are so full of hope and curiosity, unlike the dreary voices that adults tend to project without meaning to. Children have life in them. They know how to look forward to things, little things. Charles has always felt like he learns from them, more so than he could impart any kind of academic knowledge on them.

He misses his students, he realizes. He misses being in the mentor role that a professor plays for young adults beginning their careers. And more than that, he misses…

He shakes the thought away. Not today. He can’t do this today.

After a bit of introspection, Charles feels like a creep for watching from afar, and he realizes his wheelchair must be horribly conspicuous in the crowd. He wheels forward with a shaky breath. He begins rehearsing his fabricated story under his breath when Erik spots him.

“Charles,” Erik says, a slight warmth in his tone, “come back for more?”

“Good morning, Erik. And good morning to you too, dear,” Charles greets the child. In the wheelchair, he is perfectly eye-level with her, and to speak there is no need to kneel down or stoop like he has with children in the past. “What’s your name?”

She looks at her father expectantly, and Erik answers, “This is my daughter, Nina. Say hi to Mr. Charles, Nina. He’s a new friend.”

Nina waves. Charles is stunned that Erik remembers his name and face. Well, he supposes the wheelchair makes the latter easier—but he doesn’t know what to make of the former.

“It’s nice to meet you, Nina,” he says. “Your father sells the most beautiful plants I’ve seen, you know. It’s the first place we think of when we need another one for the apartment.”

She nods in fervent agreement, and an unconscious flare of pride radiates from Erik’s mind. Charles smiles at that.

“I see you’re helping your daddy with the stand today, aren’t you?”

Nina hides behind her father again, decidedly finished with this social interaction for the time being, and Charles can’t help but laugh at the bluntness of it. Children simply do not do the things they don’t want to do.

“She’s a bit skittish around strangers,” Erik explains, stroking her back as she burrows her face into his coat. “It’s not her fault. She’s been through a lot these past few years. When she’s ready, she’ll come out of her shell again. Right, bubbeleh?” He squeezes her once, and murmurs something soothing in Yiddish.

 It is well within Charles’ ability to translate a foreign language telepathically, but probing through either Erik or Nina’s thoughts right now feels like a violation of privacy that he is not willing to commit. He waits respectfully while Erik consoles his child. And he tries not to feel jealous.

Not of Nina, but of Erik.

He shakes his head slightly to rid himself of the intrusive thoughts. The repressed memories. The unwanted feelings.

“Don’t worry about her. It’s the attention she dislikes,” Erik finally says to Charles, snapping him out of his downward spiral. “It’s good to see you again. I was wondering about you just the other day, and for a second, I was worried I wouldn’t be seeing any more of you around here.”

Charles smiles. “Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty of business left to give.”

“Need a new plant?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I’ve ruined the last one you sold me.” Charles laughs nervously as his time to explain himself arises. “I have a cat, you see, a rather curious one at that, and she knocked it right off the counter.”

Erik looks confused. “Were you unable to re-pot the plant?”

“Well, the pot shattered, and—”

“We have pots, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Well, yes, but she’s chewed it all up, you see. Ate it right down to the roots by the time I came home from work.” Charles shakes his head in feigned disappointment; he doesn’t even mean to throw in the self-contradictory lie that he is currently employed, but it slips out before he can stop himself. “Damn thing knocks everything she sees off tables and counters. This time I’ll be sure to put it in a higher place.”

“Ah, I see. You better do that. I’m not sure if cat tummies are meant to digest desert succulents.” Erik laughs. “I know about cat grass, but I don’t think that’s the same thing.”

“My Mittens is certainly a handful,” Charles sighs. “She’s like a child all on her own.”

Erik laughs a little harder than the small talk warrants. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he does so, and it makes his whole face softer, kinder—gentler. It’s very different than the stoic face he was wearing on the first day they met.

Charles waits anxiously to be called out on his lies, but Erik does not say more.

“I’ll get it right this time,” Charles promises hastily. “I’ll put it somewhere my cat won’t reach it. I’ll take better  care of it.”

“By the sounds of it, you ought to lock her in a different room altogether,” Erik teases. Charles relaxes a little, seeing he is not in trouble, and Erik claps his hands together. “Well, that’s that—can’t change the past. What type of plant would you like this time? Another succulent? Or do you feel ready to upgrade to something different?”

“I liked the old one you picked for me,” Charles confesses.

“The pinwheel? Alright. Nina, could you fetch one for Mr. Charles?”

She nods and rushes off dutifully. There is a brief moment where it is just the two of them at the front, and Charles feels a flare of courage take over his better judgment.

“So, you’ve got a daughter,” he blurts out. “Are you married?”

He knows it's overly straightforward. He knows he might not like the answer. But he can’t go home without it. It’ll drive him insane if he doesn’t find out now.

If Erik is offended, it does not show on his face. “Not currently,” he says. “My wife passed away last year.”

“Oh! Good, good. I mean—” Charles clears his throat hastily, and Erik tilts his head, bemused. “It’s not good, obviously. I am so sorry to hear that happened to you. But—”

“No, keep talking. I love watching a stupid man dig his own grave.” Erik’s mouth tugs up like it does. “What about you, professor? Ever been married?”

“No, but I was a father.”

“Was a father?” Erik repeats.

“You heard me correctly.”

Now it’s Erik’s turn to pause as he silently gauges the appropriate response to such information. He seems to know that today is not the right time to unpack the full story, but he is curious nonetheless; his face becomes drawn and serious, like he’s trying to figure out how to look properly empathetic, and the effort endears Charles, especially as he puts one hand over Charles’, which is laying idle on his chair armrest.

“I’m sorry,” Erik says.

“It’s alright,” Charles says, feeling like he might cry.

The time for sharing heavy details of the past has passed. Erik lets go of Charles just as Nina returns with the potted succulent in her hands.

 Charles is beginning to unfurl his wallet when Erik holds a hand out.

“It’s alright,” he says. “This one is on me.”

“Oh, Erik.” Charles looks around frantically, having forgotten the script for politely declining a gift. “You don’t have to give me free things just because you feel sorry for me.”

“That’s not what this is!” Erik protests, offended that his offer of goodwill is being warped into malicious intent. “I—listen, just take it, Charles. I’m trying to be nice.” Erik pushes away the cash and nods his head curtly.

Charles stares with his mouth ajar like a stupid fish, and slowly he realizes that maybe Erik does like him, at least a little. He allows himself a tiny, hopeful smile. Erik doesn’t smile back, but his words have already left a warm impact on Charles’ heart.

“Promise me you’ll stop by again sometime,” Erik says, stoic as ever.

“I will,” Charles agrees. “Once I get the proper hang of this plant care thing, I’ll be back to buy your whole stock. You can make sure of that.”

“Then I’ll hold you to it. Good luck with that cat of yours, professor.”

 

***

 

Charles waters his new succulent diligently, at the same time everyday. He tries not to overwater it, giving only a few drops at a time and leaving it in the window sill where the sun strikes the window in the mornings. He draws the shades just after his lunchtime tea, so that it doesn’t shrivel into a husk like it did last time.

He tells himself that he doesn’t care if the plant dies. He’s just investing in his future—avoiding a future trip to the farmer’s market, a crowded environment which drains him so. If he kills the plant, it’d also prove to his therapist that life is difficult, and meaningless, and everything dies an untimely death in the end so why bother with this stupid exercise? It proves nothing about whether or not he is capable of caring for himself.

On the other hand, he finds himself thinking more and more about Erik, and the promise he made to see him again sometime. He isn’t sure how serious Erik is about that. Sometimes people say things they don’t mean—not in a malicious way, but in a let’s grab coffee sometime sort of way.

It’s better to be safe than sorry. He doesn’t want to appear clingy by materializing at the farmer’s market too soon. Play hard to get—that’s what got women to chase after him in college. 

And that’s mostly why he waters the plant so diligently. Because he wants his crush to like him back. And because he doesn’t want Erik Lehnsherr to make fun of him for being bad at taking care of things.

 

Raven is in the bathroom when Charles has his second plant-related meltdown. She hears him yell, very dramatically, in frustration that probably is not warranted by something as small as a succulent plant, and then she hears him start throwing things. Everything sets her brother off these days.

Accustomed to being his on-call caretaker, she immediately takes care of business and runs to check on him. 

She peers into his bedroom, inspecting the damage from afar. Luckily, he doesn't appear to be hurt—just angry beyond what is reasonable for the situation.

“What’s the matter now?” she asks, knowing perfectly well what the matter is.

Charles wipes a sweaty strand of hair from his face, breathing like he’d just run up and down the stairs for the first time since he’d become paraplegic. “I’m fine,” he breathes. “I’m fine.”

“Okay, calm down. Let me see what we’re working with. It’s probably not that—oh, wow,” she says, stifling a laugh as her brother gives her the biggest, saddest eyes she’s ever seen. “It looks like a purple balloon. You really overwatered it this time, didn’t you?”

“I noticed!” Charles yells. “Fuck, Raven, I care too much or too little, and there’s no in between—I do the same thing in real life, too! I overwater people. I have too much love to give and it smothers people and then they leave and at the end of it, I have nobody—”

“Breathe, Charles.” Raven puts an arm around his shoulder and rubs in circles, though on the inside she feels more like slapping him upside the head. The only reason she doesn’t is because she hates seeing him cry. It reminds her too much of what he was like when he was drunk and high all day. He cries a lot less now that he’s received his twelve-months token, but on bad days, stupid little things like this can easily send him back into a spiral.

A relapse.

Even if it technically isn’t her job to maintain his sobriety, she feels responsible for keeping him as far away from the edge as possible.

 “Now you’re jumping to conclusions,” she says softly, still stroking him. “You’re not bad at taking care of things…usually. It’s just a plant.”

“I killed it.”

Raven hesitates. Well, yes. He has killed two of them in a row. She has no words for that.

“First off, get all the tears out,” she sighs, handing him a tissue. Charles sniffles pitifully and leans his head on her shoulder. “Second off, this has an easy solution. We’ll go back to the market on Saturday. I’ll pay for this one. They’re like, three bucks each. And I’m sure Erik can give you a discount for customer loyalty at this point.”

“The money is not why I’m upset. You know that’s not why I’m upset!” Charles cries, on the border of hysterics, wringing his hands helplessly. “Erik is going to be so disappointed that I can’t do this one thing. He’s going to think I’m helpless. He’s going to think I wasn’t listening when he told me what to do the first hundred times.”

“Erik was very nice the last time you explained what happened,” Raven reassures him. “I don’t think he would yell at you for such a silly reason.”

But Charles isn’t listening to reason, and maybe it’s her fault for trying to make him be rational in the middle of his meltdown. He is biting his nails the way he does when he wants to burst out into tears again.

So she lets him.

“Oh, God, Raven, if I can’t take care of a fucking plant, how on earth am I ever going to take care of myself? You’re going to be stuck with me forever! I’m going to have to rehome Mittens and move into a retirement home. I’m going to die there with all the other crippled old men.”

“Come on…you’re not that old yet. Give it another five or ten years.” Charles doesn’t laugh at the joke, but Raven pats her brother’s knees, allowing him some time to find humor in the morbid—or rather, to simply sit with his sadness. “You’re forty-six. You still have half of your life left.”

“I want a drink,” Charles mumbles. “I’ve wanted a drink all day.”

“Shitty day?” she asks.

“When isn’t it?”

“You’re still clean, though. You win.”

Charles doesn’t say anything about that. He sniffs and nods, wiping his eyes. She feels like she is consoling a temperamental toddler, but, she supposes, it isn’t easy to survive the things Charles has. She wouldn’t be doing much better in his position.

She just hopes he doesn’t find a way to kill the third plant.

 

***

 

“Back again, Charles? And so soon! Your cat must have it out for you.”

Charles laughs back, but it is obvious by how wet his eyes look that he might burst into tears any moment now. Erik has caught him on a fragile day, and crisis is imminent. Raven steps in before Charles can overreact to what is otherwise a very playful comment.

He’s flirting with you, she thinks at him. Relax.

I don’t think that’s what this is, Charles objects.

You’re being ridiculous. If you don’t believe me, read his mind. You flirt so easily with women at bars, why can’t you just—?

It’s not the same with men!

Erik hesitated, glancing between the two siblings, confused by their sudden silence. He seems to put two and two together just as Raven points to the plants hanging on the canopy.

“Those are pretty,” she says.

“Yes,” Erik says, awkward as the day they met.

“Erik,” Charles says, noticing Erik’s immediate chill towards his sister, “this is the sister I told you about, the shapeshifter. Raven, this is Erik.”

“Do you have anything easier than succulents?” she asks. “Charles is good with routine. I think if he has something he needs to water everyday, say, he’d be less likely to forget about it.”

Erik tilts his head, bemused. “Succulents are probably the easiest to take care of. I can try to find—”

“Okay, I’m going to stop by the embroidery stand while you two do that,” Raven interrupts. Charles shoots her a pleading look, but she pretends not to see it, and she shoves her psychic walls up before he can telepathically force her to stay. “See you boys.”

Charles can feel himself beginning to sweat—at least more than before—as he turns to face Erik, who’s already gathered several options on the table.

“I was thinking that flowers could be a better choice for you,” he explains. “You put them in a small pot, and trim the dead ones off as they wilt, and that’s pretty much it.”

“That’s not the same as a houseplant,” Charles argues.

“No, but, maybe you’ll feel better about your ability to nurture something this way,” Erik says sagely. “Or will your cat eat flowers, too?”

“Ha, ha. I can’t exactly do yard work, Erik.”

“I understand. Because you are paralyzed.” Though he states this bluntly, it’s obvious he has no ill intent in regards to Charles’ disability. “We have flowers that can be kept on the porch or backyard in a small pot, as long as they get enough sunlight. That way you won’t have to bend over them in the dirt.”

“Well…”

“It’s merely a suggestion. You don’t have to do everything I tell you.”

At that moment, Nina comes over from the bean bag in the plant stand, and Erik brightens as he notices her. 

“Hello, dear. Tata was just helping Mr. Charles pick some flowers for his garden,” Erik greets her. He puts an arm around her as she shrinks behind his knees. “You have an amazing eye for flower arrangements. Would you like to lend us a hand?”

Nina looks up at Charles in wonder, as if asking permission to help with something so important. Even without reading her mind, Charles could feel the warmth that most children’s psyches had. 

“I would love it if you could pick a color for me,” Charles tells her, wheeling back so she has space to peruse the potted flowers before them.

Nina picks almost immediately. She settles on a small plastic pot containing several flowers the color of the sky in a child’s painting.

“Morning glories,” she says matter-of-factly, handing it to him with a sort of firmness that indicates he has no room for turning them down. “Matches your eyes.”

“They do, don’t they?” he laughs. “Thank you, darling.”

“Tata says you have the bluest eyes he’s ever seen,” Nina adds.

“Nina.” Erik makes a strangled sound, gripping her shoulder tightly, and she looks back at him without understanding her transgression. “Why don’t you go with your brother and sister? Hm?”

Nina pouts, clearly not thrilled by the notion. “I don’t know where they are.”

“Okay. See. Here’s five dollars.” Having no qualms with bribing a child, Erik quickly slips her the cash from the register. “Go buy yourself an ice cream.”

“It’s crowded,” she complains.

“I promise you’ll be okay. Tata will keep an eye on you from here.”

Nina looks nervous to be separated from her father again, but she does seem enticed by the promise of a sweet treat. She says goodbye to them both—Charles is pleasantly surprised that she has acknowledged his presence at all—and shuffles off awkwardly.

Charles laughs affectionately at the way she walks. “She’s adorable,” he remarks. “Reminds me of my daughter when she was that age.”

“She is growing up very fast,” Erik nods.

“You’re good with her.”

“I just gave her five dollars to leave us alone.”

Charles laughs heartily, and Erik looks proud of himself for the little joke. 

“You know, it’s nice seeing you again,” Charles admits, and he finds that he is telling the truth—not just saying something that he knows will get the girl. (Or in this case, the grumpy man running a stand at the Saturday market.) “I don’t often stop for a proper chat with people. This might be the most pleasant bit of my weekend.”

This makes Erik smile. Really smile. He has a very wide and teethy grin, the sort that makes his mouth look comically large, and even then Charles can’t help but find it charming, the way those eyes crinkle at the corners—because Erik’s reaction is so heartfelt that it makes him look like someone Charles would fall in love with.

“Well, I could say the same to you,” Erik finally manages. “But as much as I enjoy giving you free things, I do have a business to run, and you are tearing through these plants faster than I can stock them. Let me ring you up.”

“Oh. Of course. Right.” Charles reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

“We don’t take Google Pay, or whatever the hell that is,” Erik warns. “I’ll put it on your tab. I figure you’ll return once these flowers live out their natural lifespan with you, which, based on past experience, should be about a week or less.”

“No, no. I have cash,” Charles insists. “First, I just wanted to—erm, well, I’d like your number, if that’s alright with you. I’d rather not wait until these flowers die…to see you again.”

Charles turns the phone toward him, displaying the screen for a new entry in his contacts. Erik’s jaw falls slightly ajar. For a moment, Charles is terrified of the rejection that is sure to follow: he has read the signals all wrong, he has imagined everything between them, Erik is still mourning his dead wife, and there is truly nothing there—

“I don’t have a cell phone,” Erik apologizes.

“Oh,” Charles says.

“But I can give you my landline.”

Charles breathes out in relief. He is grounded to the planet Earth once again. “Absolutely,” he says. “Here. You can call me anytime.”

Erik takes Charles’ phone, and he acts like he’s never held a smartphone in his life: he holds it up to his face, poking tentatively with his index finger, seemingly perplexed by the numerous features on the screen and pausing several times to squint. Charles watches happily, content to take in these little idiosyncrasies until Erik hands the phone back to him.

Erik Lehnsherr, his screen reads.

It’s the first time he’s seen it written down, and he wants to engrave it on the back of his hand so that he never forgets the way it looks.

“At any rate, I would love to see you when I’m not wearing this silly apron,” Erik says. “What are the odds of that happening with your schedule, professor? Or are you fully booked with that ‘sabbatical’?”

“Oh, I’m not on sabbatical,” Charles confesses. “I actually took disability pay when I got into my accident. With no intention of going back.”

“I assumed as much,” Erik says.

“What? You did?”

“Did you think I actually believed your lie?”

“A little!”

“I’m not stupid. The day we met, you weren’t dressed like someone who was actively employed.”

“Oh, do shut up. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone I cared about at the fucking farmer’s market,” Charles laughs. “And clearly my shabby outfit wasn’t a dealbreaker for you, seeing as I’m standing here with your number.”

“You aren’t standing at all,” Erik says, gesturing to the wheelchair.

At this, the two men burst into laughter. The sound shocks Charles to his core—because up until this point, he hasn’t yet learned how to laugh at himself. He hasn’t yet learned how to find humor in the misfortune. It’s more like him to take things to heart; at best, to put on a mask that claims he’s unbothered by reality. But that’s not what’s happening right now. For some reason, he isn’t terribly upset that Erik has exposed one of his many lies, and he isn’t embarrassed that Erik has made verbal acknowledgement of his disability.

Their moment of shared humor seems to put the both of them at ease, if only for the time being. They regard one another with a comfortable fondness as the laughter dies down.

“Well, I’m free tomorrow evening,” Charles offers. “I would love to have you over for dinner.”

Erik grimaces. “I’m the only one watching Nina tomorrow.”

“You could bring her.”

“To dinner? Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sincere.”

“If we eat at your house, I have dietary restrictions,” Erik cautions. “I’m Jewish.”

“I’m happy to accommodate.”

“Even Nina?”

“Really, Erik, your daughter seems like a lovely girl. I wouldn’t mind having her with us.”

“I ask because most people aren’t thrilled about going on a date with someone who has a child. Multiple children, as it were.” Erik raises his eyebrows, challenging Charles to comment on this. “I won’t be offended if you back out now.”

“Oh, don’t say that.”

“Alright. Don’t say I didn’t give you a fair warning.” Erik reaches for a business card on the booth, flipping it to the backside and clicking the nearest pen. “Tell me your address.”

Charles gives him the details and double-checks that he’s written it down correctly. They confirm a time, say some last words, and then depart.

It’s impossible to tell by just the look on his face—Charles wishes he had the guts to use his telepathy now—but Erik looks quite happy to have made these plans.

Charles decides that in this moment, he is happy, too.

 

***

 

Charles spends a lot of time on Google the next morning.

Jewish dietary restrictions, he types.

He takes notes on what he reads. It’s the first time he’s written anything by hand since he was working at the university. He writes it all down on the notebook he once used for taking notes in his stats class. He writes in red pen and underlines the words several times so that there is no mistaking them, even at a glance, when he hands the list to Raven at the grocery market.

(In case of an emergency, he buys three frozen pizzas to keep in the freezer.)

It’s been years since Charles properly attempted to cook something. Raven points out that microwaving dinner plates from Trader Joe’s and pouring boiling water onto insta-ramen does not count as cooking. So this is going to be something new.

It’s not that Charles can’t cook. He just hasn’t. Since the accident. They fed him in the hospital; they fed him when he was in rehab; Raven feeds him now that he’s in outpatient care. Besides, the kitchen is not rated for somebody in a wheelchair, and so he has to use this humiliating metal arm with a clamp at the ends to reach things off the shelves, which takes forever and also requires a lot of coordination that he can’t be assed to muster. He can’t even see the stove. Or the sink. And he hates having to ask Raven for help.

But today, Charles cooks, and he cooks with Raven’s help, and he tells himself that it’s okay to ask for help, if not only because he will have a very handsome man come over in a few hours.

 

Raven is usually peculiar about the way she keeps the kitchen, but today, she treats Charles with special kindness that would make him feel infantilized if he wasn’t so nervous to please Erik.

He doesn’t read her mind, but he can tell: his sister is excited that he has a date, and that he’s looking forward to something for the first time in years. She doesn’t make rude jokes, or whine when he bosses her around in the kitchen. She lets him cut vegetables at the table instead of the counter, which is too high for his chair, and doesn’t complain that he’s making a mess even though he knows he is.

They cook dinner in silence. They finish with about an hour to spare. She is about to leave the kitchen when Charles gets his voice to work.

“Thank you,” he chokes out.

It’s something he hasn’t said to her, at least in earnest, for far too long. She looks at him with the disgust that usually comes with an annoying little sister, but then she rolls her eyes affectionately.

“You’re welcome,” she replies. “I hope your date goes well. Really.”

“You’re welcome to sit with us, if you like.”

“And watch you two make bedroom eyes at each other? I think I’ll pass. As much as I do want to see what this Erik guy is made of,” she snickers. “I would love to make sure this man is good enough for my big brother. But I think you’re plenty capable of looking after yourself.”

“I’m more worried that I’m not good enough for him,” Charles admits. “I’ve spent so many years on my own. I don’t think I remember how to be in a relationship, if that’s what this becomes.” 

Raven turns and studies Charles carefully. Her yellow eyes and scaly blue skin might have been terrifying to others, but to Charles, he feels safe, and seen, and he knows that she knows him better than he knows himself.

“You’ll remember,” she promises. “Love isn’t something a person like you forgets how to do.”

“I’m still terribly nervous.”

“That just means you like him. You care what he thinks of you. It’s a good thing.”

“What if he doesn’t like me?”

“He clearly does!”

“But the way he feels right now is not guaranteed to last forever. He might change his mind. In the future. When he sees who I truly am.”

Raven sighs. “I’m sorry, but that’s just what dating is, Charles. We can’t control or predict the future of a relationship. We wouldn’t need to date at all if we could tell those things from the get-go.”

“I know.” He sighs sadly. “I wish I was a precog instead. That’d make everything easier on my heart.”

“You have telepathy, which is just as good, if not better,” Raven argues. “Can’t you feel how much he likes you?”

“I’m still trying to convince myself of that.”

“Listen, if he doesn’t like you for whatever reason, then it wasn’t meant to be in the first place. Come on. Go read one of your books until he gets here. No sense worrying your head off about the little details.”

“Fine.”

But Raven’s words, like most tidbits of well-intentioned advice, are easier said than done. He stares blankly at the words on the paper until the doorbell rings.

 

It rings at precisely six o’clock. Erik is a punctual man, it seems, and Charles likes that. It makes things slightly more predictable, if only because the clock tells him so.

Erik has overdressed for the occasion. His gray blazer matches his iron-pressed slacks, and he’s chosen a formal button-up shirt to go with his dark-gray tie. He looks better suited for the red carpet than Charles’ midtown apartment, and it makes his heart race. Nina is at his side in a flowy floral dress, her hair curled and done special for the occasion. The image of Erik getting his daughter ready for the evening makes Charles’ heart melt even more.

“Erik,” he breathes, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Charles.”

“You look amazing.”

Erik smiles in that soft way he has where his whole face wrinkles with a happiness that he has not experienced enough in this lifetime. “It’s not too much? I wasn’t sure what to wear.”

“Not at all. I like your suit. It matches your eyes.” Charles looks over to Nina, remembering a little too late to acknowledge her presence as well. “Hello, darling! Thank you for coming over. Your dress is very pretty.”

“I picked it myself,” Nina boasts.

Erik smiles some more, then peers around Charles’ shoulder. “Erm…Could we come in? It’s way too hot to be wearing a suit in this weather.”

“Oh! Of course, right this way—”

He wheels back and allows Erik and Nina to pass through the foyer. Aside from his exhausting efforts in the kitchen today, Charles has spent the remainder of his morning deep-cleaning the apartment. Charles hopes Erik notices, in a good way. It’s the first time he’s bothered to do anything related to chores in a long, long time.

“Lovely home,” Erik remarks. “I see the flowers you bought from me are still alive.”

“For now,” Charles jokes.

“Where’s your cat?” Nina demands. She stares at them expectantly, hazel eyes wide, and Charles laughs at the mortified look on Erik’s face. “I can hear her. She’s in this room. Where is she?”

Charles wheels toward the couch and pats the cushions, Nina trailing after him with quiet feet. “She’s under here somewhere, most likely,” he explains. “She’s quite shy. But once she warms up, she’s a very affectionate creature.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Erik teases, jostling Nina slightly.

“You’re welcome to pet her if she decides to come out.”

Nina lights up and immediately peers under the couch. Erik readily takes this as his cue to let his daughter distract herself with other matters. He turns to Charles, smiling crookedly.

“Dinner smells wonderful,” he says. His hands are in his pockets, trying to appear nonchalant. “I appreciate you going to these lengths for me and my daughter. Not many would.”

“Of course. The rolls are still in the oven, but they should be finished soon. Let me show you to the kitchen.”

“It’s been a while since I shared a home-cooked meal with someone besides my family.”

“I could say the same,” Charles replies, and Erik smiles warmly.

He shows Erik the kitchen and the sunroom, but there’s not much else to the apartment besides the bedroom, which he deliberately avoids so long as a child is present. Raven is in her own bedroom with the door shut, but he can feel her tuning into their conversation, trying to eavesdrop through the door. It makes him smile, even as he and Erik make small talk about his day at work.

It’s comfortable. It’s peaceful. And most shockingly of all, Charles is sober. He can’t think of the last time he had a good time doing anything sober.

When dinner is served, Charles seats his guest and goes to retrieve Nina. He finds her squatting by the fireplace, scratching Mittens, who lays with his belly open and vulnerable, tail thumping in rhythmic contentment. It’s a complete switch from her usual behavior, but Charles doesn’t think to question it in the moment.

“Nina, dinner is ready,” he calls gently.

She looks up at him with a childish smile. Her eyes are a bright yellow, an unnatural color and very different than how they normally look—but then they shift back to their usual hazel hue. She rushes obediently to Charles’ side.

With Nina sitting at the dinner table, the atmosphere feels way more intimate than Charles anticipated. Not that he minds it. Again, he had always wanted to have children someday—and like this, as sad as it might sound, he can sort of pretend that he has a family of his own. They are eating dinner together after a long day, and he is going to ask about how their days went, and he is going to ask them to pass the salt…

“How is school, Nina?” Charles asks, determined to have at least one proper conversation with her tonight.

Blinking, Nina looks to her father. It reminds him of how a child might look to their mother during a doctor’s appointment.

“Why are you looking at me, bubbeleh?” Erik laughs, reaching out to gently caress her cheek. “Mr. Charles asked you, not me. Don’t be scared.”

Nina looks back at her plate and begins to eat wordlessly.

Erik is obviously accustomed to her moments of silence, and pushes no more. He interjects on her behalf, “Nina used to be home-schooled. After my wife passed, we enrolled her at a private school with other mutants. So that’s where she is now.”

“Oh, that’s interesting. Do you like it there, darling?” Charles asks.

“No,” Nina says. “There aren’t any animals there.”

“Ah.” Charles nods, like this is the most normal response, and then remembers that Erik briefly mentioned having more than one child. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he tries.

Again, the girl doesn’t reply, but she at least makes an effort to speak with him telepathically this time: she deliberately projects the image of an older brother and sister, a pair of twins much older than her. Their names are Pietro and Wanda. They are mutants, too, but they are teenagers, which means they don’t quite have an interest in interfacing with a little girl whose powers are still beginning to manifest. She feels very sad about their dissonance, but she doesn’t want Erik to know, and as far as she can tell, Erik has not noticed.

“Ah,” Charles says again, wallowing momentarily in her sadness.

From Erik’s direction, there comes another projection, this one subconscious and barely loud enough for Charles to overhear without meaning to. He sees the image of a tall girl with green hair—a mutant named Lorna. She is Nina’s half-sister. She wields the same magnetic powers as her father, though she seems to have come from a different mother, a woman who kept the pregnancy a secret from Erik for many years. Lorna doesn’t talk to the Lehnsherrs often because of this. But Erik thinks about her everyday and feels regret.

Now Charles is bogged down in both Erik and Nina’s sadness, and he doesn’t know how to break out of it. This is why he tries to keep his psychic shields up on most days. It’s with a heavy heart that he realizes having a big family does not mean they are free from problems and sorrows; life is difficult for everyone, it seems, and the fact disheartens him greatly.

“I see,” Charles murmurs.

Nina nods, and Erik chews without a worry in his world. Charles is working hard not to be completely discouraged from further conversation. He and Erik are similar in age, yet Erik has already started a family, more than once, even—he has lived several lifetimes, and Charles, by comparison, feels that he has not even begun to live his yet.

“So, you clearly prefer the company of animals to your siblings,” Charles remarks, not unkindly, but in an attempt to unglue his dark mood, to distract himself from the possibility of becoming Erik’s next mistake in a long string of failed relationships. “I’m quite the same way myself. Humans can be difficult to communicate with.”

Nina perks up. “Yes. I like your cat,” she says. “She told me what happened to your last houseplant. She says you overwatered it.”

“Oh?” Erik says, suddenly verbal again, smirking at Charles now. “I thought you said your cat pushed it over. And ate it.”

“Well, I did say that, but—”

“Mr. Charles was lying,” Nina explains, “because he didn’t want you to know, Tata.”

Charles expects Erik to do something drastic: stand up screaming, flip the table in rage, grab his daughter by the wrist and storm out without finishing the meal. He doesn’t know where this fear comes from. But he doesn’t think that his heart would be able to handle something like that. He watches Erik anxiously for a reaction.

Instead, Erik bursts out into laughter. Rich, pure laughter.

“Oh, Charles!” he booms. “Do you really think I believed the bit about your cat knocking the plants over to begin with?”

Charles feels the color rising to his face now. “You knew I was lying about that, too?”

“Of course I knew! You’re a terrible liar!”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because it was more fun to watch. You were so caught up in your own lie,” Erik says happily. “It’s such a foolish thing to be insecure about. Do you think I know how to take care of houseplants? Maybe if you had used your mind powers, you might have noticed I was being sarcastic back. Oh, you are ridiculous.”

Charles begins to take a long, exaggerated sip from his tea, so that he doesn’t have to see everyone else’s faces: Erik giggling heartily to himself, Nina looking around with a blank face. She meets Charles’ eyes again, and for a moment it seems that she understands that she has made Charles uncomfortable with the reveal of his secret.

“Don’t feel sad that you killed your plant,” she says, attempting to comfort him. “Animals can tell us what’s wrong, but plants can’t. Plus, you weren’t lying to be a bad kid. You just really, really want my tata to like you. Mittens says so.”

Charles chokes on the tea he was sipping from. Erik freezes, eyebrows high.

“Which you shouldn’t worry about,” Nina goes on. “Tata already tells Auntie Emma that he really, really likes you. You have a crush on each other. It’s true love.”

“Nina, that’s enough chit-chat for now,” Erik interrupts, loudly but not unkindly, and Charles is almost amused to see that he, too, is turning red in the face. “Eat your dinner. Mr. Charles went a long way to cook it for us, okay?”

“Okay,” she says.

Charles and Erik say nothing more as all three of them return to their meals, both men humiliated by the truth.

Eventually, Erik clears his throat. “So,” he coughs, “you used to be a professor?”

“Yes, at Oxford,” Charles answers, proudly at first, and then with the tinge of shame that comes with remembering he is no longer employed there. He tries not to deflate. “I received my graduate degree in genetics. I wrote my thesis about the X-gene and the way it affects younger mutants: namely the ones who manifest before puberty. I used to teach a class on mutant genetics, a lab in mutant microbiology, and a political science course on human-mutant relations.”

Erik chews on his food thoughtfully, as small talk is not something he often engages in, and he wants to show Charles that he is trying his best to be polite about it. “I suppose if the science of Homo superior is being taught in schools now, it’s best discussed by its own kind,” he acknowledges, “but studying any marginalized population at a government-funded institution can be a dangerous line to walk.”

“It’s important that mutants be integrated into the curriculum of higher education,” Charles points out.

“And what about your colleagues? Were the rest of these mutant-centric courses taught by humans?”

“None of my fellow professors were mutants, at least that I knew of,” Charles admits regretfully. “But I worked with many good people, both mutant and human. I don’t believe that one’s genetic makeup should be the basis for determining which classes they can and cannot teach, since we all have the same degree and training.”

Erik chuckles dryly at this. They sit in silence for a moment, allowing both men’s points to marinate.

“I wouldn’t have the patience to work a day in that environment,” Erik says. “My coworkers in construction were humans, but that was much different—you keep your head down, do your work, and nobody cares who or what you are. I’m sure being a mutant in academia is rife with opportunities to encounter bigots.”

“Not as often as you’d believe. Humans and mutants are capable of coexisting in peace when they are provided with spaces to better discuss and understand one another.”

“Are these spaces safe for mutants? Or just for the humans?” Erik challenges.

“You’d resent them less if you gave them a chance to learn about mutantkind,” Charles counters swiftly. “It’s all still very new to them.”

“I have given them many chances. Not all of them want to learn.”

“Maybe certain people are harder to convince than others, but we can be the better man by offering them the opportunity regardless,” Charles replies. “I’m of the personal belief that a handful of ill-acting individuals cannot speak for their entire race. Most people aren’t good or bad; they’re somewhere in between. I’ve seen it, when I’m in their heads, and the world might be a more peaceful place if we all understood that.”

“Yeah? You wouldn’t think that if you’d been in my head,” Erik says, huffing, and it’s hard to tell if he’s telling a dry joke or starting an argument in earnest. Nina looks uncomfortable, but Charles doesn’t back down—he’s not afraid of Erik, right now, in this moment, because this is his domain, debating and discussing and arguing about mutant politics. Erik might know more about plants, but Charles has defended his research for years. In fact, he almost feels like he’s back at the university giving a talk on human-mutant relations.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve seen the worst side of humanity,” Erik says.

“And I have seen the best,” Charles replies.

“Humans are the only species who seem intent on destroying one another to the psychological and emotional degree which they do.”

“And we are also the only species that can experience empathy and compassion the way we do,” Charles replies.

“That’s not true. There are plenty of animals that can express compassion. I don’t think it’s untrue to say that a dog has more kindness bred into it than some human beings.”

“Mutants aren’t animals. This is a logically infallible comparison.”

“I don’t like this argument,” Nina says suddenly.

“We’re not arguing,” Erik protests. “I’m just picking Mr. Charles’ mind. It’s a fascinating one, and I haven’t had the privilege of exploring it in my own right, you know.” He wiggles his fingers against his temple in demonstration of the telepathic powers his friend has been hiding thus far. Then, more to Nina, “Don’t worry, bubbeleh. We aren’t mad at one another.”

“Yes, we’re only having a discussion,” Charles agrees, embarrassed to have been caught acting this way in front of a child.

“Discussions are good to have,” Erik tells his daughter. “Educators hold a lot of power in what the next generation will grow up to believe. Today’s teachers have a major influence in the public’s understanding of the mutant genome. And so I’m simply curious to hear what Mr. Charles’ opinions on important issues are.”

Nina stares blankly at him, clearly unable to understand whatever complex hill her father has chosen to die on now, but she returns to her meal with a look of complacency.

“I’ve presented at quite a few conferences and conventions,” Charles offers, trying to steer the conversation in a friendlier place. “I was even working on a book, before—”

Charles stops himself, realizing too late that he has encroached on unspeakable territory. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. He has always been so talented at putting his own foot in his mouth.

“What about you? What do you do for work?” Charles asks, and then he realizes how stupid a question this is. “I mean, you obviously attend the farmer’s market on weekends. But is that full-time work for you?”

Erik exchanges a knowing look with him. Charles refuses to indulge the earlier topic with a child at the table. It’s part of the reason he invited Nina—as conversational fodder. Erik hums in thought. “I suppose it’s full-time work now,” he decides. “I worked in construction before my wife passed; the nursery belonged to her. Plants are most certainly not my…thing. I just didn’t have the heart to close it down for good once she was gone.”

Both men chew in silence at the release of this information. Charles can see that Nina is completely unbothered by the mention of her deceased mother; now that the discomfort of the earlier ‘discussion’ has passed, she seems intent on cutting up her food into little pieces.

“I regret not paying closer attention to all the plant business while she was still around,” Erik says. “Running a business is more difficult than it looks. I’m not sure I’m doing anything right. We get a lot less customers than ever before, and my teens hate working there with me, but I can’t afford to hire anybody else.”

“I’m sure she would have appreciated the effort,” Charles says earnestly. “You’re doing your part to keep her memory alive. And, in my humble opinion—coming from somebody who’s been on ‘sabbatical’ for longer than he should—you seem to be doing a fantastic job.”

Erik pauses, then nods, wiping his nose with the hasty swipe of his finger. The sudden wave of bittersweet gratitude feels thick and smothering in Charles’ mind. Charles wishes, for only a brief second, that he had not invited Nina, because he might have otherwise reached across the table to hold Erik’s hand in comfort.

Instead, he pushes the vague feeling of warmth and sunlight, in the hopes that it will cheer Erik up even a little bit. He can’t tell if it works or not. Perhaps it’s the thought that counts.

 

Charles is collecting dirty dishes now—he is disabled, but he is not useless, and refuses to let Erik see his sister doing all the work around here.

On a more self-centered note, he is simply doing chores to buy time. Trying to keep Erik here a little bit longer.

Is your sister home? Erik’s voice comes.

Charles tries not to look surprised that Erik is able to effectively communicate with a telepath. Not many people can do it, especially when Charles’ head is already so full of the overlapping voices that brains project unconsciously. He gives Erik a sideways look from across the kitchen.

Yes, he responds. In her room.

Do you think she’d be able to…distract Nina for a minute?

You’re always trying to shoo that poor girl away, Charles smiles, and he can see out of the corner of his eye that Erik smiles back, a small joke between only the two of them. But perhaps I could ask Raven to take her for a walk.

Please. Please do.

Behind him, Nina asks if she can play with Mittens again. Erik says yes, then proceeds to fold his hands on the table. He is pretending to be occupied with the clock on the wall.

Raven, Charles thinks, putting his finger to his temple as subtly as he can.

It takes a moment, but he can feel his sister enter the periphery of his psyche. She is incredulous—not upset at the intrusion, per se, but shocked that he’s dared to engage in a telepathic link of any sort at all during his date.

Charles? she says. What are you doing here?

I have a grand favor to ask of you. I’ll never ask for anything again. Ever. I promise.

God, what is it?

Charles doesn’t know how to put his request into words. It feels selfish and juvenile. He hasn’t asked for something like it since they were in high school. Before he can help it, he accidentally slips the image of making out with Erik on the couch, and Raven yelps in disgust.

I didn’t want to see that! she cries.

Sorry. You understand I cannot do it with Nina here.

You invited her! 

I’ll clean Mittens’ litter box this week, he begs. And I’ll wash the dishes every night for the week, too.

Raven is silent for several moments, probably thinking of all the other times her brother promised to do something and then proceeded not to follow up on his words. Where is the girl? she finally asks, sounding tired.

In the living room, playing with the cat.

Fine. You owe me. You owe me dearly, you stupid man-whore.

There’s the sound of a door creaking from down the hallway. Charles pretends not to be surprised when footsteps pad into the room. He turns around to greet her with a playful grin. She looks much less enthused to be gracing his presence.

“So nice of you to join us, Raven,” he says.

Fuck off, she thinks.

“Everyone, this is my sister, Raven. Raven, this is Erik, whom you’ve met before. This is his daughter, Nina.”

“Ms. Raven, why is your skin blue?” Nina asks.

Erik chides her immediately, but instead of taking offense or switching into her human form, Raven kneels down beside Nina and holds an arm out. Nina touches her skin gently.

“I’m a mutant, just like you,” she explains softly. “I can turn into anything I want, using these scales on my body. That’s why I’m blue.”

“Can you turn into animals?” Nina gasps.

“Yes, even animals. What’s your favorite animal?”

“Cats!” Nina shouts loudly, louder than Charles has ever heard her be before. “Can you turn into a cat? A big, fat cat, with lots of fluffy fur?”

Raven sighs inwardly before she begins to shift forms. Nina squeals with delight at the transformation. Even Charles laughs aloud at the sight of his sister in cat form.

As she continues to indulge Nina’s silly game, Charles rolls himself beside Erik at the kitchen table. Neither of them speak a word, and neither of them dare reach out to the other for physical contact. They are both waiting, desperately, for the girls to leave together, but they know it’s unfair to rush Nina when she is already so skittish about leaving her father’s side. Raven is right—he did invite her, and it’s unfair to kick her out unceremoniously.

So they wait patiently, and let Nina have her fun. When Raven shifts back to her usual form, the adults begin to make small talk with one another—Erik, surprisingly, gets along very well with her, and she is more than delighted to tell him embarrassing stories about Charles from childhood.

Eventually, Nina appears to be getting restless, waiting around on a conversation that doesn’t include her. Raven sees her chance and takes Nina gently by the hand.

“That was a good meal, wasn’t it?” she asks. “I think we should go on a walk to digest it better. There’s a park on the corner that Charles and I used to play at when we were little.”

“Are there animals there?” Nina asks.

“So many,” she promises. “Let’s go visit them before it gets too dark.”

Nina turns to her father with unbridled glee. Raven shoots them an apologetic look that says I tried.

“Tata can’t come, baby,” Erik says, sounding sad when really he isn’t at all, reaching out to offer her a hug. “He has some business talk he needs to do with Mr. Charles. It’s boring adult talk. You don’t want to sit around and wait all night for us, do you?”

Nina hesitantly trudges forward. Erik takes her into his arms, pats her back a couple of times. She eventually wiggles out of his grasp and looks up at him.

“Okay,” she says. “I can go with Ms. Raven.”

“Are you sure? Without me?”

“Yes. I’m a big girl now. But me and Ms. Raven are going to have way more fun than you and Mr. Charles.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure,” Erik replies, giving her a kiss on the forehead while Charles stifles a laugh.

They put their shoes on—not fast enough, Charles thinks—and then they’re gone, leaving just Charles and Erik alone in the living room.

Finally.

Charles would love to pin Erik down at once, but he restrains himself even further. Erik is not a one-night-stand, and he is not a fling that he’s seduced at the bar in town. He’s important, and there’s more to this than wanting to shove his tongue down Erik’s throat.

“Fancy a game of chess?” he asks.

“I’d love one,” Erik says, more enthusiastic than Charles is used to people being when he suggests that. Accordingly, he quickly fetches the board and starts to arrange the pieces. 

“I’m sorry about dinner,” Charles says, moving his first pawn forward.

“Why?” Erik moves his own pawn next. “The food was lovely. I appreciate you cooking something kosher.”

“I meant, I apologize if the conversation became uncomfortable at any point.”

“Such is the risk of having a small child at the dinner table,” Erik says indifferently. “Children have no filter.”

Charles smiles. “They tell the truth, though.”

“That they do.”

“And everything else was fine?” he presses anxiously.

“Why wouldn’t it be? I enjoy a good discussion. I spend so much time with my teens these days, and they don’t talk about anything but video games and boys.” Erik gives him a stern look. “I admire your passion, Charles. I’d rather be with a man who stands up for his incredibly wrong opinions than a man who rolls over and has none.”

“Thank you, I think?” Charles laughs. “I admire your spirit as well. It’s hard to explain, but even though I find you cynical…it makes me want to be hopeful, if only to spite you.”

Erik grins. “Whatever motivates you, my friend.”

“I don’t think I’ve had hope about anything since I wound up in this wheelchair,” Charles confesses. “It’s an impressive feat you’ve managed in itself, getting me to feel it again.”

“I’ll admit we complement one another in that way.”

For a second, it seems that Erik might ask him about the accident—in fact, mentioning the wheelchair right now was an invitation to do so—but he does not. Maybe he thinks it’d be impolite. Maybe he doesn’t care how Charles wound up there. Whatever the reason, he readjusts himself in his chair, and in resettling, he rests his hand atop Charles’. Charles takes the hint and intertwines their fingers.

Even without actively sneaking into his mind, he can feel the psychic jolt of Erik’s surprise. He clearly hadn’t been expecting the reciprocation of physical contact.

“So…your daughter is a mutant,” Charles says, the next subject of small talk that comes to mind. “When were you going to tell me she could speak to animals?”

Erik laughs. “It didn’t seem like relevant information beforehand. But there you have it. She’s going to be talking about your cat for weeks now.”

“It’s a very unique gift. My daughter was a telepath.”

“Oh, just like you,” Erik says warmly. “Nina’s mother was a human, but all three of our children turned out to be mutants. Wanda has telekinetic abilities. And her brother Pietro moves as fast as sound.”

“That’s astounding. I’ve never met somebody who had that many mutant children with a human partner. And with all such different mutations.”

“You really didn’t know? I’d assume you’d have picked up on it telepathically,” Erik says, tapping his head. “You telepaths tend to be the nosy type. My friend is one and she’s always poking around up here.”

“I try not to intrude on people’s privacy if I can help it. I feel things that people project extra loudly, and I already dislike overhearing those thoughts as it is. So I don’t make an entrance unless I’m invited.”

“Isn’t that the whole appeal of being a telepath? Reading people’s minds and using it to get a leg up in life?”

“I hate sneaking into people’s heads.”

“A beautiful reserve you have,” Erik jokes. “I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.”

“Even if I had no moral quandary with it, I haven’t used my powers much since the accident,” Charles adds. “The painkillers gave me very little control over my telepathy. I’m twelve months clean now, but it still feels dangerous. Like I could hurt somebody. Again. I lost control in rehab a few times, and…” Charles swallows, not ready to process that part of his guilt yet. He looks up to realize Erik is listening with concerned eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says. This isn’t the most pleasant topic for a first date.”

A beam of joy radiates from Erik like sun rays through a glass window. The words echo in Charles’ head: date, date, date—he said we’re on a date. Maybe Erik is more of a romantic than he lets off.

“Don’t apologize,” Erik scolds, the flustered warmth still emanating from his person. “I understand that not everybody’s story has a happy beginning. Or even a happy middle.”

“And the ending?”

“I don’t know if I believe in those myself, but if anyone could change my mind, it’s you.”

Charles locks eyes with Erik now. He realizes that they are both leaning over the table, just slightly, as if pulled together by unseen forces. He wonders if he’s supposed to lean closer to show interest. How will he know if a kiss is supposed to happen? How old was he when he forgot how to do romance?

Silencing his doubts, Erik takes him by the other hand, and presses it against his temple.

“You’re welcome in here, you know,” he says softly. “I’ve invited you since day one. So do it. Come in, and read my mind.”

“I can’t,” Charles whispers, his eyes darting back and forth across Erik’s face. “I’m out of practice. I could hurt you.”

“I promise there’s very little you can do with your powers that will hurt me—either physically or mentally.”

“Don’t say that like it’s a challenge.”

“If it helps you to think of it that way, then maybe it is.”

Charles sighs. It’s not an exaggeration to say his telepathy is even rustier than the muscles of his atrophied legs—harming Erik is a very real possibility. But Erik doesn’t flinch. He relaxes under Charles’ touch with an uncharacteristic willingness to be exposed.

With great reluctance, Charles shuts his eyes.

Something like euphoria immediately pulses through his chest at the sensation of their forged telepathic link. It all comes back at once: the rush of entering someone’s mind; pressing gently at the edges until there is permission to push past the initial barrier; the colorful experience of swimming through firing synapses and galaxies of brain cells; the pleasantness of sinking into somebody’s unspoken thoughts, with fuzzy edges wrapping around him like a hand-knitted blanket.

Erik, in particular, has a mind that’s blue and dark like a winter evening, but the cozy kind—like watching snow fall from the comfort of indoors. He finds that each snowflake is filled with the muted joys of the present: the thrill of being here, in Charles’ apartment, playing chess, his fingers interlocked with the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. A man he’d been thinking about since the day they’d met.

Charles laughs breathlessly.

Erik’s mind is just as beautiful as he is.

And then he feels something else, too—something much more pressing. Beyond the way of the present, there is the dark sky of the past, and it is riddled with terrible, terrible things. Charles can feel it without even looking or touching. There is anger, pain, tragedy—all normal occurrences in the average human lifespan, and yet, it would seem that Erik has suffered a disproportionate amount of it.

He can feel Erik subconsciously beckoning him closer. So he obeys.

He is promptly overwhelmed with the emotions that follow. His chest feels tight enough to burst. His head fills with electric static, and his body becomes so light that he might float away into the sky of Erik’s mind if he doesn’t anchor himself quickly. He squeezes Erik’s hand in the real world, as tight as he can, before proceeding any further.

There is loss at every turn. He sees Erik’s mother, and he watches her die. He sees Erik’s father, and watches him die as well. Then he sees a woman with long, curly hair, with dark eyes and a smile as contagious as Erik’s. Her name is Magda, but she is gone before Charles can reach out to touch the memory of her. She is gone in a whirlwind of fire and ash and emotions that Erik himself hasn’t even seemed to fully have processed yet. Little Nina is there to witness it all. There are blurry-faced humans shouting, and Erik is crying, and he is so painfully angry that Charles feels like his whole body has been set on fire, along with the rest of the wretched world.

He is drowning in Erik’s pain. There is red-hot guilt for not saving his innocent wife. There is black loneliness on the mornings he wakes up expecting her to still be there. There is a sickly green swirl of confusion when Nina does something that only a mother would have had the answers to. There is the blurred tangle of frustration and helplessness when Nina looks for her mom, or cries in her sleep, and Erik wants desperately to bring Magda back, if only to make his daughter feel safe again, because maybe he, as a single father, will never be enough for her. And there is, more than anything, a gray ugliness stored deep, deep down—a conglomeration of rage, resentment, and destruction—an earthquake waiting to roar to life at the drop of the hat, the way grief rears its unwanted head the instant one thinks it has made its last appearance. It wants revenge. More than anything. It yearns and yearns for a different world, one where Erik can avenge Magda, bring her back to life, return that familiar sense of comfort and intimacy to his side, before utterly destroying the human race who wrongfully claimed her life in the first place. The rage is agonizing and all-consuming, but Erik puts out the fires in order to be a present father, because his youngest daughter is all he has left of Magda, and if he fails Nina, then he fails her mother a second time.

Charles chokes, struggling to hold himself together. He tells himself he can manage for a few more seconds. These are pains that Erik has been carrying alone for much longer than that. This is his gift: to share in the burdens of his loved ones.

Show me yours, Erik pleads. 

Charles shakily pushes one of his own memories. It is not done with the intent of overshadowing Erik’s grief, nor of rewriting the irreversible past. He simply wants Erik to feel that they are together in their suffering. That he is not the only one who has had things taken away with seemingly no explanation.

He fights to keep a tight rein on the images he sends; he knows sharing a memory can be traumatic for the recipient, especially for somebody who isn’t a telepath. He permits faint wisps of the past to enter their telepathic link. He gingerly offers up the image of his Jean—smiling in braces, her red hair in a ponytail, her telepathy even stronger than his. The two of them have been linked as father and daughter since the day they met. He watches her grow. He teaches her how to use her powers for good. But then she’s gone in a burst of flames, too. She’s just a mirage that he replays in his head, usually to himself—and there is nothing left of her when she goes. There is nothing to show that Charles ever did have a daughter, adopted or not. All that’s left is her name on a gravestone.

Then, as if Jean’s death hadn’t already harrowed him to the soul, next comes the accident. It is a demon of his own creation, but it haunts him nonetheless. He vividly remembers the day. He’s trying to get drunk. He’s downed the last bottle of whiskey. He’s still not drunk enough, never drunk enough, so he gets in the car with the intention of driving to town for more, and the rest is history. 

He remembers waking up in excruciating pain. Nobody is there to visit him, not even his sister, who is out of town with her partner at the time of the accident. The doctors tell him that he’s had a nasty accident. He’s broken his right shoulder, two ribs, a collarbone, and his left hip—but worst of all, he’s fractured his spine. The fracture is so severe that they say there’s a chance he’s never going to walk again. Right now, though, the doctors have hope, and maybe so does Charles. He’s put in physical therapy, and he’s working himself to tears, and the weeks go by, and slowly, he realizes it’s all pointless, and he loses himself in the narcotics that they give him to alleviate the pain, and he doesn’t stop even once his bones heal. He doesn’t stop, in fact, until it nearly kills him again, and Raven finds him half-dead on the floor of his apartment, covered in his own vomit and tears.

In real time, Charles halts himself, realizing he’s shared too much. He’s shocked to see that Erik hasn’t pulled away yet. For some reason, he is listening, very intently, and he can even feel Erik’s heart swelling with…

Respect?

Sorrow?

The pity, he expects, but respect is something that Charles would never have counted on. Whenever he contemplates the past—how he used to be before rehab, before Raven moved in to be his suicide-watchdog—he wants to throw up. He wants to beat himself to a bloody pulp and then hide in a corner until he disappears from this world. He does not like who he was. He does not like anything about who he is. And yet…

Charles blinks, a single tear spilling down his cheek. He withdraws tentatively from the telepathic link, the way that one might lay a sleeping infant to rest in its crib. 

“Oh, my friend,” Charles weeps. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Erik opens his eyes, the same look of patience and endearment ever-present. “Why should you apologize?” he asks lowly.

“This is who I was. Who I am. I know it’s disgusting. But I cannot lie to you any more than I already have. I’m sorry.”

Erik thinks about this. As always, he is careful in choosing his words, only saying what he means and meaning what he says with his whole heart and soul. “I’m not dating you for your past,” he states. “The Charles I’ve been getting to know seems quite different than the Charles you just showed me in your mind.”

“No, but you misunderstand. Everyone keeps telling me that, that I’m not who I used to be. That I have better things ahead of me from now on. But it doesn’t feel that way. It’s more like I’m tricking everyone. Including the both of us.”

Charles looks away, unwilling to face Erik as his voice cracks. He distantly feels Erik’s hands, real and solid, reaching out to wipe the tears from his cheeks. He feels an unexpected wave of protectiveness surging forward—a sense of great possessiveness, an overwhelming desire to keep someone or something from being damaged further.

Charles knows that feeling well. It’s how he used to feel about Raven when they were children. It’s how Raven feels about him now. It’s how he used to feel about Jean when she was still alive to worry constantly about. And it’s how he feels when he listens to Erik talk about missing Magda.

He shivers. Who the hell is Erik Lehnsherr, and why does he make him feel this way? 

He has absolutely no answer to that. So he decides, fuck it, because who ever had all the answers anyway, and he leans in to press his lips against Erik’s.

A small sigh escapes Erik, as if he’d been holding his breath since he sat down across from Charles. He kisses back softly. There’s joy and fear and exhilaration flooding the two of them at once. Their kiss deepens until Erik is reaching around Charles’ head, caressing his hair gently.

Both shudder with want as they pull away for air.

“Charles,” he murmurs dazedly. “I’ve wanted to do that, so badly, for so long now.”

“I felt it,” Charles assures him, smiling; his lips feel tender where Erik was, and he has to stop himself from swiping a tongue over it. “How haven’t I scared you off yet?”

“It’ll take a lot more than that,” Erik laughs. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me to.”

He leans back in, and they kiss again. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and suddenly, Charles understands why people want to live in the moment, because he never wants to leave this one.

 

Notes:

Canon cherik would never resolve a conversation this quickly but this version of Charles and Erik have ~been to therapy~. THESE boys will not be spending the next 30 years in an on-and-off situationship I’m afraid.

Edit: “Tateh” is dad and “bubbeleh” is sweetie, in Yiddish :-) I used a derivative "tata" for this fic but yeah this fic is old.

Thank you again for reading! I share my cherik art on tumblr if you’d like to join me on the brainrot @stinkrat-aleks !