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‘Don’t let your investors see you with a drink in hand. You’re still underage, you know.’
Charles startles at Raven’s words, so much so that he almost drops the crystal glass from his hand. The ice clanks sharply against the glass, and the daiquiri inside swirls insistently. He hadn’t sensed her arrival, not with how tightly he’s shielding his mind against the party and its guests.
Raven slips in beside him easily against the bar counter, her movements graceful despite the restless rebellion she wears like second skin. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks, brow creasing now that she’s properly looking at him. ‘You look like you’re about to hurl.’
Maybe Charles is. But all he says is, ‘You scared me, is all.’
Raven hums, glancing around the room. ‘Well, for all that I hate these fucking parties with a passion, I must admit, Kurt has outdone himself on this one.’
‘Don’t swear, Raven. I don’t like it,’ he says automatically.
Raven rolls her eyes. ‘Sometimes I forget that you’re an old fart.’
Charles doesn’t raise to the bait like he usually does. For he’s so consumed by nerves. The thing is, he loathes everything about the place, its gloss, its grandeur, its deliberate falseness. Anything touched by his stepfather’s prestige and pomp leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He’d been dreading this evening ever since he’d received the invite a week ago, dreading the thought of being in the same room as Kurt again. And now that he’s here, it’s even worse than he imagined.
His paranoia aside, Charles knows he needs to be here. If he intends to take over the company in a few weeks, he has to make a mark with the board, with the directors, with anyone who might question his place. He needs to be seen as a presence. A figure of consequence.
He’s been waiting for this moment all his adult life — the moment he turns twenty-one and pry Xavier Pharmaceuticals from the greedy grip of his stepfather. And now that it’s within reach, he can’t back out. Not now. Not even if he loathes the company and consequences that come with it.
Not that he can tell any of that to Raven.
‘Hey, do you want to get out? Azazel’s waiting outside. He said we could go get burgers or something. I told Kurt I’d wait until the auction’s over, but like fuck I care—’ Raven shrugs nonchalantly, though mischief dances in her eyes.
They’ve done this a thousand times before, sneaking out of one of their mother’s or stepfather’s elite parties when they were kids and teenagers. But they’re not kids now; or teenagers. And no matter how badly he wants to escape, Charles knows he has to stay. He needs to socialise. He needs to smile with joy he doesn’t feel, shake hands he doesn’t recognise, and hurl pleasantries he doesn’t mean. Because in two weeks, the company will be his, and the path the company takes after that will be defined by him, and him alone.
Charles takes another sip of the sweet alcohol and rearranges his features into a semblance of composure. ‘No, you guys go ahead. I’ll stick around for a while longer.’
Raven’s golden eyes go wide with concern. ‘Are you sure? Will you get to your dorm okay?’
Charles fakes a smile he hopes is reassuring. ‘Yes. Go have fun.’
Raven hesitates for only a second longer, then squeezes his arm, her face open and earnest. ‘Text me when you get to your room, okay?’
He nods absently, waving her off. A pang echoes through him as she disappears. She’s the last buoy of something real in a room full of fake smiles, hollow words and self-harm dressed as prestige.
Left alone in his quiet alcove at the bar, Charles finally lets his posture slump. He orders a second daiquiri, his fingers trembling briefly. He hates drinking when he’s like this, but sometimes, being numb is the only way to cope.
He wonders what Erik’s doing back in their dorm. He’d been working on scrap metal when Charles left their dorm room earlier that evening, hunched over a tangle of copper coils and half-melted circuits. He hadn’t been thrilled about Charles going alone either. A deep scowl had furrowed his brow as he’d asked, ‘Will you be okay?’
Charles had waved off his concern saying, ‘Don’t worry about me. Raven will be there. And don’t stay up.’
Though Erik hadn’t verbally replied, Charles had felt the all-consuming rage filling Erik’s mind.
Charles had thought that Erik was perhaps overreacting. He’s not so sure now. Still, a flicker of warmth stirs in his chest at the thought of Erik and his closeted protective streak.
As the night deepens, the party grows around him, becoming louder, glossier, more intolerable. Board members and investors drift in and out of his orbit, each one striking up a conversation he has no real desire to continue. Somewhere in the bowels of the estate, an auction begins with great fanfare and ends without incident. People in pristine tuxedos and sweeping gowns glide past with rehearsed elegance. A string quartet has begun to play in the background. Dinner has started in the meantime. And through it all, Charles is grateful for just one thing: Kurt has been nowhere near him.
With every minute, every soft-light smile Charles forces for the benefit of board members and investors is fading. Each smile becomes heavier than the last, and every conversation a burden, leaving only the faint aching pressure of his shields thrumming against his mind.
Charles hates these evenings. Hates the pettiness, hates playing at being a perfect heir, hates the way every handshake is weighed and assessed for its future value.
Just as he’s about to call it a night and slip away — dinnerless and weary — his worst nightmare steps into frame.
At first, it’s just a movement caught at the edge of his vision. Then, unmistakably, Kurt appears, sauntering up to the bar, his hands landing with dreadful familiarity against the polished counter.
‘Enjoying yourself, Charles?’ Kurt purrs, leaning in too close. Even in civilian black tie, he radiates that same quiet threat — predation dressed up as paternal charm. ‘You’re making quite the impression tonight. Investors have been very curious, and the board members even more so.’
Charles forces himself upright, posture rigid. He swallows down the sour taste rising in his throat.
‘That’s the idea,’ he replies, careful, controlled, maintaining the exact, razor-thin distance of civility.
‘Well, what can I say? It seems to me that I have no choice but to hand over the company to you now.’
Even though Kurt speaks casually, there’s something coiled beneath the words, a veiled manipulation dressed as concern, a threat masquerading as chivalry. Charles swallows against the sudden lump in his throat. He’d always known Kurt wouldn’t let go of Xavier Pharma without a tooth in the fight, and yet—
‘Ah, just the person I wanted you to meet,’ Kurt says, his voice too smooth.
A shorter man approaches them. He’s compact in build, and with a sharpness to him that makes Charles wary. He looks like someone Kurt would gravitate toward, all smiles and shared ambition.
‘Dr Trask!’ Kurt bellows, spreading his arms like they’re all old friends. ‘Come. Meet my stepson, Charles. He’s all set to take over Xavier Pharma.’
Charles extends his hand automatically as Trask does the same. Kurt smiles tightly. ‘Dr Trask is very interested in the company’s direction; particularly the suppressants programme.’
Trask launches into conversation at once, words crisp and rehearsed, something about societal impact and regulatory foresight. Charles tries to follow, but his attention slips, for Kurt has moved closer, far too close.
Then he feels it.
A hand at his back, lingering with deliberate pressure.
Charles’s breath catches. The room dulls, like someone’s turned down the volume on everything else. He can feel nothing but the weight of that touch, his stepfather’s hand resting too familiarly against the small of his back. The very thing he’d been dreading all week, here, now.
The air grows heavier as Kurt’s fingers begin to slide lower, painfully slow.
Charles freezes.
And what makes it worse — what makes his stomach twist — is that, to an onlooker, they might appear like nothing more than a proud father and doting on his son. Just a warm gesture.
It makes Charles want to scream.
Kurt’s hand slips further, fingers pressing into the curve of Charles’s backside through the fine fabric of his suit. Charles’s lungs burn with humiliation and rage. He tries to move, to pull away, but all he can do is stand there, stiff and stricken, as Kurt’s arm coils tighter around him like a noose.
He feels paralysed. He feels like he’s fifteen and helpless again, caught in the sudden rush of memory and the sick, echoing thrum of shame.
His stepfather pulls him closer, anchoring him against his side as he effortlessly hijacks the conversation with Trask.
It may be a minute. Maybe longer. Charles doesn’t know. He stays rooted to the spot, breath caught in his lungs, too afraid to let it out. The world narrows to a single, frozen frame.
Only when Trask gestures towards the dining hall does the moment shift. Kurt, with all the casualness in the world, pats Charles on the backside firmly.
Charles knows exactly what it is — a warning. As if to say: You may own your company now, but the control will always be mine.
It’s only once the two men have sauntered off, trailing expensive cologne, that Charles lets himself move. He sags against the bar counter and a long, shuddering breath escapes him. His shoulders slump as though he’s been holding up the ceiling. His body feels leaden. His soul, scraped bare.
He slugs past the remaining guests and exits the estate in haste, driven by a singular need to put as much distance between himself and his stepfather as possible.
Outside, the cold hits his face, and yet, all Charles feels is the ringing in his ear, the sweat on his palms, and the sinking weight in his gut.
He doesn’t remember much of anything after that. He doesn’t remember booking the cab, or the ride back to the city, a ghostly blur of street lights and passing reflections.
Until, he’s standing in the dimly lit corridor outside his dorm. His keys must have worked, or perhaps Erik sensed him outside and opened the door with a flick of metal in the lock, because suddenly, he’s back in a place he can almost call home.
That’s ironic in its own way because Charles was in his home a few hours ago.
As though anticipating his arrival, Erik is there, standing in the small passage between their desks and the beds, his shape more solid than anything in Charle’s world right now, and his face lined with worry, or rage, or both.
Charles doesn’t dare dip into his mind. He’s too afraid of what he might find; or unleash.
Charles’s hands are shaking still. His tongue refuses to work. Even his telepathy feels stuck, locked down by fear and shame.
For a split, suspended second, they simply look at each other.
‘Charles,’ Erik asks carefully, ‘What happened?’
For a moment, Charles wants to ask Erik how he knew, how he assumed something had happened at all. Then, he almost laughs, as though it isn’t already written all over his face.
Maybe it is, because all the metal in the room begins to stir at once, rumbling in earnest, slowly at first and building in intensity. Belatedly Charles notices the coils Erik had been working on all evening have melted and fused themselves to the desk.
Though Erik’s face looks like it could have been carved from stone and nothing else, there’s a thunder in his eyes that could melt all the metal on earth through a sheer look alone. ‘Did Kurt hurt you?’ Erik all but spits the words between them like swallowed venom.
Charles just stares, unable to muster words.
That’s all the acquiescence that Erik seems to need for his quiet restraint breaks into an equally thunderous storm. ‘I’ll fucking kill him,’ Erik growls as he moves toward the door, intent to turn rage into action.
‘No — Erik.’ It bursts from Charles in a rasp, the first sound he’s managed since leaving the estate. He stumbles forward, propelled by something deeper than exhaustion, grabs a fistful of Erik’s shirt, and collapses against his chest.
Charles doesn’t want to be alone. Not now.
Erik freezes, his whole body going rigid, as though he’s uncertain what staying still means in his world where violence is his native tongue.
Charles presses closer, curling into the heat of Erik’s body as though it might stop the shaking in his limbs.
Minutes pass, and then, slowly, awkwardly, Erik’s arms come up and circle around Charles’s shoulders as though protective or lost, or both. They hover uncertainly over his back for a minute before settling fully around Charles. Erik’s body relaxes, as though he’s reined in all the anger that he had unleashed a minute ago, gathered it all, and redistributed it to every cell in his body to be kept safe in case it needed to be reaped again in the future.
The silence is thick, broken only by the uneven rhythm of Charles’s breath.
Charles doesn’t think. He simply clings tighter, letting the pulse of Erik’s presence and mind fill the hollow places inside him. He presses his face to the curve of Erik’s neck, hiding from the world and the memory of the evening.
They stand like that for a long, uncounted minute, Charles gripping on tightly to something fragile, something that might last, if only they don’t name it.
Erik smells faintly of cigarette smoke, and Charles hadn’t thought, until that moment, that even the smell of cigarettes — which he so adamantly hates — could be soothing.
At last, Erik’s chin settles, tentative, atop Charles’s head. ‘Did he hurt you?’
‘No,’ Charles says finally, ‘But he did touch me.’
The windows in the room rattle in response and the screws in the bedframes shudder with silent rage.
Erik does not move to leave. He does not shout, does not rage this time. His hands simply stay, awkward but constant, holding Charles together, awkwardly anchoring him. He asks, finally, ‘Did you at least eat?’
Charles almost laughs. For all the world tells him to stay away from Erik, he’s the one most attuned to his wellbeing. ‘No,’ he replies feebly.
‘Then I’ll mix some protein powder for you later,’ Erik says conclusively. It’s not a request or an order. It’s care, raw and unpolished, but unmistakable.
Charles almost laughs again. Moira would tell him off for finding comfort in a man who doesn’t know how to offer it. But he can’t tell her — not now, not like this — that in Erik’s arms, he feels the safest he ever has.
Later, perhaps, there will be questions, and anger, and the sharp edges of reality. For now, there is only this strange, solid comfort: the warmth of Erik’s chest under his cheek, the rumble of his breath, the honest, unwavering presence beside him. He probably looks a little small and silly in Erik's arms. But that matters little when he feels completely safe.
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