Chapter Text
It took Erik all of two days to realize they’d made a mistake moving in together. A huge mistake. Massive. It took Charles much longer to come to the same conclusion.
It seemed ideal. They always got on well, had enough mutual interests and conversational points and understood sometimes too much of the other without ever having to say a word. It was an unspoken compatibility, mutually recognized, mutually appreciated. So when Raven moved out, declaring she needed some independence - which Charles smartly did not argue against, despite the fact she could always do what she wanted and never had to remain with him but that was an argument built on too much of their history to ever bring up - and Erik mentioned something absently about his commute, the whole thing just fell into place. Shorter underground rides for Erik, avoidance of terrifying loneliness for Charles.
Only, it didn’t last. Somehow neither noticed how grandly their schedules clashed - realized how Erik would be gone most nights, Charles most days, and anything that broke the regularity of it lined up too well with the other suddenly having some staff party, some lecture, some friend of a friend’s shower or a million other things to go through. Erik realized it the second night he returned to find the signs that Charles got an early start, so early neither kettle nor coffee pot were still warm enough he could tell which Charles was in the mood for. Early enough the only signs of life were still-damp dishes drying on the rack and the gradual shifting of items on the counter.
But no Charles. No welcome homes, no evenings together. No shared dinners, shared breakfasts. As two nights turned into two weeks, they hardly even consulted on groceries. Things came and went and both saw fit to restock slowly and independently.
Which for obvious reasons, Charles did not get to hear from Erik directly. In the fleeting - very fleeting - moments they passed, Charles read it all from snatched impressions, unintentional invasions of Erik’s emotions. And he hated that: not being able to control himself better when he was tired, or when Erik was, and it meant on one end or the other that the barrier he built up weakened a bit and he felt the things that were all too honest and all too private.
He needed distractions. He needed a way out.
-
Off early. Erik texted, always with no explanation. Charles could count on his hands how often Erik sent a message of more than three lines. If he wanted to say anything longer, he called. Charles could not count the number of voicemails he had received. Kept. Saved. He waited, watched dots appear, then vanish, then appear again announcing a continuation. Dinner?
Charles smiled and tightened it quickly before returning his attention to his class. They still shuffled in - his last one of the day and those night lectures always hosted stragglers. He fiddled with the computer again, and pressed his thumb repeatedly on the edge of his phone where the screen met metal casing. It was cold and familiar. His screen lit up again - not Erik this time, just a verification code for two-factor authentication so he could log onto the University’s machine. As everything loaded at a snail’s pace, he flicked back to his messages.
Of course, that would be lovely. Raven fussed at him once for daring to capitalize and punctuate his texts. Naturally, she did neither. Proper spelling of words was a minor miracle. So long since he had last seen all measly, glorious three of the letters in that personal pronoun “you-“ the first to fall victim to her crimes against language.
Would you prefer take away, or cooking tonight? I have all the things for one of Hank’s pasta recipes I’m dying to try. We could always go out too, if you prefer?
He debated for a solid minute - an eternity to stare at his unaltering screen and that little flashing bar - whether to end with a period or a question mark. Decision made and text sent, Charles slid his index up the side of his phone and gently locked the screen. He could look at it again after class, he reasoned to himself as the computer finished loading his document, the clock ticked to the half hour and officially marked the beginning of class, and he straightened and smiled and acknowledged all those able to show up - on time at that.
“Romantic literature,” he smiled, widening his eyes entirely for his own dramatic amusement. Sometimes he could see it in them, those who did appreciate his teaching even if they hide it behind shyness or coolness or some other façade. He still knew, and didn’t even need to dig or abuse any power to do it. “For once, I don’t actually mean the Romantic period - capital R. Today I want to discuss romance - little r. It’s not entirely necessary for the works we’ve gone over already, but romantic works provide a very important context to so many other literary traditions. You can easily conflate the two, making the valid argument that our history of romance in work, be it chivalric code or the type of tragic romance of the Hellenes cements itself quite clearly in the works of the Romantic period—“
He paced as he taught. Always. More of a stroll than a pace - a leisurely and wandering action. How anyone managed to pass the hour and a half of their classes - or heaven forbid the longer three hour lectures - planted firmly behind their podium would never cease to baffle him. The front of the hall offered him too much enticing room to stroll for him to refuse. Professor Charles Xavier glanced one final time at his tabletop to make sure he had his controller for the computer and projector and caught the message before his phone screen darkened again.
Staying in tonight. Refuse to go out. Don’t care. Surprise me.
Again, Charles smiled to himself. His grip tightened on the palm-sized remote and accidentally prompted it to the next slide. That was fine. He set the pace anyway.
-
“How was class?”
Some people - dear friends and colleagues included - asked that question lightly. Entirely out of politeness, they did not care for the answer one ounce. One iota - one scintilla. They asked to fill the space and only sometimes did they care about whatever conversations arose from the general discussions of daily routine.
Erik was not such a person. He never had been. Charles need not see into his mind to know that every word out of Erik Lensherr’s mouth was genuine. It was there in his face, in his body language, and in his voice even. It wasn’t a voice that projected careless, thoughtless things or bothered with anything indirectly.
“It was an indulgent day. Superfluous.” Charles answered, setting two pieces of garlic bread on his plate and then passing it to Erik. They settled - or rather, Charles decided on - making the anticipatory recipe of Hank’s. One of their many things in common, Hank shared things with such a passion. The recipes were, however, hit or miss sometimes. Last year, Raven issued a three month ban on further Hank-originated experimenting after a curry gone horribly, inexplicably, and ever since unspeakably wrong.
The pasta was no such failure - thankfully. He would not have known what to do with himself otherwise. Erik wouldn’t have minded, of course, but Charles would not have forgotten the mortification of it. Of privately building up the idea of a rather domestic night in and a splendid falling short.
It was not that. His fingernail tapped against his wineglass accidentally. Erik still watched him, awaiting the full answer as he sipped his beer and set his napkin in his lap.
Once, they had not known one another well at all. Raven knew Erik and Charles knew that for some time, she liked him. From the first she mentioned him, Charles saw it was with a quaint but bashful infatuation, like a childhood crush. But by the time they even met, Raven could introduce Erik to Charles with a calm, steady voice and a genuine coolness to her expression. Whatever was once there had passed and she spoke of him with a tone she had once reserved for Charles: impressed but exasperated, familiar but annoyed and deeply, deeply, uninterested.
He could never know what had been the substance of their acquaintance; to grow and then turn Raven’s feelings for though Charles knew her mind like an extension of his own, she was the one person who managed to build up mental defenses against him. A consequence of their closeness, naturally, and one he would never rebel against. So the details were not his to ascertain. Charles could live with that - quite gladly too, knowing it would grant her a privacy he could not always allow people - but sometimes he could guess what bothered her.
Not just in her presence, but always in Erik’s, there was such a steadfast watchfulness, a precision to Erik Lensherr’s gaze that Charles could assume vaguely, but safely, what qualities about the man led Raven’s hot feelings for him to inevitably cool.
Charles began again after a drink of his own, and a loose shrug. “We’ve gone over the making of English myths and histories quite well, with all the necessary discussions on the evolution of English as a language, of translations, of interpretations, and obviously of honoring what once was. I refuse to have them sit there and read slogs of reworking and modernizations and such. There’s such merit to reading the Old English—“
He stopped himself. That wasn’t his point. He knew that. Erik knew that - the awareness glinted at the back of Charles’ mind. There was that slight and familiar pull to his face not excused by the fact he had food in his mouth. Charles wanted to say Erik looked endeared but that felt, always felt, much more like wishful thinking. He firmly checked that the reaches of his mind were withdrawn to his own thoughts, his own body, and that he invaded no part of his roommate (who Charles did hope, eventually, to think of first and foremost as a friend).
“But as we transition towards Arthurian works, I couldn’t limit the scope of my lecture to just an analysis of the language as some structural and inhuman thing. It lives and breathes the culture of those who made it—“
“You just wanted an excuse.”
“They had an essay to finish this week! When I present heavy lectures on top of it something always falls to the wayside. It is much better to teach an engaging but slightly less prevalent topic for them to keep in mind while they continue to focus on their own research. An analysis of grammatical structure and the importance of it compared to rhetoric, however, is in their future. Though, I perhaps—“
“Perhaps.” Erik echoed, low and amused.
“Perhaps… am always looking for an excuse to bring up chivalric code.” Charles smiled, fighting it at first and then unable to smother the grin breaking out. He took a bite and let them just eat, their home filled with the sounds of silverware clinking on the plates and the bass of someone’s sound system the house over. One day they might— he might, Charles might, just him because he could not expect or ask that of Erik — live in a detached house and have to worry less about neighbors and noise. Possibly a country place. Out of the city for a bit. It could be nice. Charming, even.
The thumping bass stopped, silence dragged, and then someone exclaimed - some expletive on behalf of their silenced music.
Erik winked.
“Superfluous or not, it was worth it.” Erik said, quite more seriously than Charles thought necessary.
He raised an eyebrow curiously, sitting back in his chair. “You don’t seem to have any doubts about that.”
“I don’t. You care about it, it’s your class, your students love you,” he shrugged. “What other reason would there be to teach something?”
“To have it fit the curriculum.”
“Charles, you make your curriculum.”
“I know-“ he groaned, and jerked his head and downed the rest of his class. “I just wish the department would let me teach a class dedicated entirely to it. Just one class!”
Erik’s thumb slid around the lip of his bottle, a hard and rhythmic press. “You wouldn’t be satisfied with just once.”
“No,” Charles agreed, rather dejected. “I wouldn’t. I want to teach it and I want it to be a regular offering. But I’ll be wrinkled and bald before I’m department head - if I ever am, and then I would have my number of teaching hours reduced to accommodate the administrative workload which would lead to all that power and not the one benefit I want out of it… That’s not entirely true. If in that position, I would do more with it than just guarantee I taught what I wished, of course… But it would be nice to have the opportunity, even once.”
Erik just watched him levelly. Patiently. Charles stood and fetched first the wine bottle to fill his own glass and to leave it at the table because honestly - and second another beer for Erik. He set both down and cleared their dirty plates swiftly, ignoring the silent but quite present insistence on Erik’s end that Charles need not do that. He almost pricked him with a single word, a single thought, “Irrelevant” but in opening that link he got an image of himself from Erik’s eyes and shut everything up quite quickly.
“You didn’t say how your day went,” he redirected as he slid back in his seat. Enough about me, Charles knew screamed from his words. Please, fuck, enough about me.
Erik blew lightly from tightly pressed lips, leaning forward and holding his bottle with both hands against the table. A bead of condensation ran down it and Charles watched it stop as it hit the second knuckle of his index finger. “Short.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Erik grimaced a little, “It wasn’t a productive day, or a passionate one. Or a superfluous one. It appears that despite all the paperwork for it, the approval for it, and the confirmation it would happen today, someone forgot to send power to the new wing.”
“Oh-“
“It’s fine. I mean, half the day was intended to check that the power and all security measures would even work but without any power, my presence was useless. So: half day.”
It was entirely the opposite of the usual run of Erik’s work days. Were there problems? Yes. All the time. Charles knew that. All the time. As an underfunded group and volunteer home for largely youth, more particularly mutants, any aid or recognition at all from the city came sparingly. Fighting for the new wing - so residences could be proper, clean, and actually up-to-code livable conditions - was a matter of years only to come to this: bureaucratic mismanagement.
But Erik had him swear once - years ago, after only their third meeting when Erik politely answered all questions posed about “and what do you do?” that Charles pushed forward with rising fervor at every answer that fell from the man’s lips - that he would not get angry on Erik’s behalf (again). (Or verbally, at least. How and when and why Charles got angry privately and silently was his own business and it did not matter what he agreed to at that coffee shop with Raven rolling her eyes because couldn’t he just be normal about things, he would get angry when he saw Erik devote himself to those kids and the city turned their backs again, predictably.)
Besides, sometimes, when he thinks it all over, Charles has to realize the anger doesn’t even stem from him. It isn’t his sort of rage, a boiling over and a volatile heat. It’s a thing he never felt before Erik and he’s never sure whether that’s good or not. Whether he enjoys it or not.
No - it’s unusual not because it’s a bad day. Erik has enough of those, and makes the most of them anyhow. Usually they keep him there for every problem, every tangled and nagging roadblock, because if anyone has a solution, it’s Erik Lehnsherr.