Chapter Text
The first time he notices is when his father stops commenting on how he doesn't return his calls.
The second time is when his father gets ill, restricted to the mattress of his bed, and says, "Maybe I'll get to be with your mother soon."
The third time is when he's chugging down an entire bottle of vodka, forcing it to drift drown his calloused throat, letting it spill over his favourite night gown and splash across his face to mix with his tears.
Erik notices his father is depressed, suicidal, lonely. The whole lot.
And he is a useless son who can do nothing about it.
---
The medical bills sit on his desk like shells on a shore. So fucking many.
Erik is unemployed, but worse, he's an aspiring writer. When people ask, he always says the former; it's somehow less embarrassing than his ambition.
How's Jakob, they ask. Fine, Erik grouches.
Still single, eh, Erik, they smack him on the shoulder. Yeah, Erik shrugs. Mostly to avoid the impending attack.
Hard finding a job ain't it, they pity. Erik scowls.
Don't worry, you've got that whole writing thing going for you.
Erik tosses back his scotch.
---
If there's any way at all on Earth to be introduced to your father's new partner, it's definitely not that way it goes this morning.
"Dad, I'm going to the pharmacy, what do you—"
He stops.
His brain stops.
His heart stops.
"Oh my fucking god."
The man—no, the boy in his father's bed, tangled in the red sheets with his hair askew and his leg hanging out, jerks up to conceal himself with the covers, clearing his throat and looking up at Erik with the sorriest, prettiest blue eyes he's ever seen.
"Shit," he breathes, patting his hair down and pulling the sheets up to his collar. "You must be Erik."
He doesn't have the voice to confirm or curse, he simply gapes.
"Look... Erik, we can just—"
Then he finds it.
"No, we fucking cannot. Get out of here! Out!"
"Please, let me—"
"I think you've done enough." He averts his eyes, panting like a racehorse, and bends to collect the clothes on the ground. A blue jumper. He throws it at the boy's chest. A small pair of denim jeans. He pelts them at the foot of the bed. A green tie. His father's. He clenches it in his fist, pounding it back onto the floor with a growl. He doesn't bother with touching the boy's briefs. He turns around to face the other wall. "I'm going to count to three," he says, breathing heavily. "When I turn around, you better be gone."
One, two, three.
The door slams shut.
---
He stomps around the house like a riled bull. A boy. A fucking boy.
Erik doesn't even know what's worse. The fact that there was a fucking boy in his father's bed. Or the fact that he's a boy. Or the fact that they were fucking.
He feels dizzy and sick.
He takes a cold shower, shrugs off the image of cream skin on red sheets, and goes for an angry jog around the park.
His father comes home looking pale, tumbling to the floor as soon as he enters the apartment. Erik's anger takes a backseat as he helps his father into his bed, internally wincing at the shape of the boy still creasing the sheets.
Once the coughing, spewing and vomiting takes a rest, he'll address him. For now, he has to help his father sleep.
---
Emma comes to visit.
Her father had passed away last year. She always says, Jakob is like my father now.
There must be some intervention to separate him from his father, he thinks, because the next time the door bell rings, all the guests have gone, all the usual people expected to visit have gone, and Erik is too tired to entertain anyone else.
The door opens to reveal the boy he had kicked out of his father's bed yesterday morning.
"Fuck off," he sneers
He shuts the door, hard, but the boy's hand gets caught in between. He lets out a scream. Another casualty on the doorstep.
His father hobbles out of his bed, whispering, "Is everything alright?" Then gasps when he sees the boy he had brought home the other night, holding a blood-drenched hand as he kneels on the floor. "Charles?"
"I'm okay," he croaks, face red, veins protruding. "I just... I just wanted to see you."
Erik stands there dumbly. He won't feel guilt, no. He just won't.
"Now that you look better, Dad," he says quietly. "I suggest you tell this boy yourself to get lost and never come back." He swallows, curling his hand into a fist. "And then we'll have a chat."
But his father breezes past him with wobbly legs and places his hands on the boy's shoulders.
"Are you alright, Charles? What happened? How did you get hurt?"
The boy glances up at Erik, then glances at his father, eyes suddenly soft.
"I did something silly. Don't mind me, I'm alright."
He rises from the ground, cradling his hand to his chest. He looks at his shoes, blood stained, then looks apologetically at the door frame, also blood stained, then looks up at Jakob.
"How are you? I heard you were ill, and I... I just couldn't... not come."
Erik exhales expansively, turning around to stare at the wall. But he pointedly doesn't leave.
"You should be in university, shouldn't you?" A pause, as though their eyes are talking instead. "Don't you have class?"
"I do, but—"
"Oh, for crying out loud," he turns around. "Did I not tell you to fuck off?"
"Erik."
"As you know, he's not well, he needs his rest. I assure you, nobody is fucking interested in seeing you right now."
"Erik!" he yells, coughing. "You say—" another cough, "—sorry—" an entire fit, until he doubles over and wheezes.
Erik glares at the boy when his small hand juts forward, bloodied and bruised, until it withdraws. He pats his father's back, feeds him water, and guides him back to bed. The boy stares the whole time, face fallen. Erik wants to lock himself in his room until the boy lets himself out, but when he marches back to the front entrance, the boy is leaving. He remembers his father, seconds ago, weakly hissing into his ear, "at least bandage the poor boy."
Sighing, Erik calls out, "Wait!"
The boy turns around, his eyes widen just a touch at Erik's summoning hand gesture, before he walks back in with his head ducked low.
"You don't have to. I know you must hate me," he mumbles, as Erik washes the blood on his hand under the tap. The boy doesn't wince once. He perks up when Erik shrugs. "My name's Charles."
"I don't give a shit."
Erik is tired. The boy is so pretty. He sends him "back to class" with a bandage wrapped around his palm.
---
Jakob's health improves. Erik gets an interview for a job.
They don't talk about it. But Erik's hurt.
But.
Twenty-five years is a long time to have mourned.
Still.
She was his wife for almost thirty.
Why.
Why did he have to go and bring a boy home to shag, and why him.
---
"Rejected," Erik comes home to say. His father is reading on the couch, glasses perched low on his nose.
"Don't worry," he looks above the paper to say. "Someone will hire you."
Erik huffs. "It doesn't look like it." The question bubbles up his throat like lava.
"You can stay here as long as you want, if that’s what's worrying you."
His head snaps to face his father.
"No, Dad, that's not what's worrying me." He steps closer. "You know what's worrying me? The fact that you found some indecent brat off the street and spent the night with him, and to top it all off, didn't kick him out the house to avoid your son walking in on him, all while having disappeared yourself!" he stops, only for air. "Look at how old you are and how old he is! Were you out of your mind?!"
Jakob whips off his glasses, staring back at Erik with the same blue eyes he has.
"Yes. I am. For being fifty-five and lonely."
"Lonely? What are you expecting at this age?"
Jakob stands up, steadily, despite his discomfort.
"I was simply charmed by a charming young man. That indecent brat, as you say, brought your old man a few hours of happiness. Is that a problem for you?"
"Yes! Because you neglected to think about the son you have at home and what he might think."
Jakob calmly puts his hands behind his back. "And what does he think? That the man who has been both his father and mother for twenty-five years is not entitled to feeling wanted once in a while? All these years Erik, all these years I have been alone. Single. Lonely. And one night a twenty-two year old young man comes to sit next to me on the bench, asks about me, my life, a thousand questions about my son, and makes me feel young. Healthy. Alive. Is that so wrong? Tell me, Erik, was I so undeserving?"
Erik collapses on the couch, silent.
Then he says it hollowly.
"If you love me, you'll never see him again."
Jakob sighs, walking closer to his son and placing a hand on his cheek.
"And if you love me, Erik, and care about my health," he takes in a deep breath, "you'll let me see Charles as many times as I want."
Erik shuts his eyes.
---
If he could sell a book that focuses solely on how much he hates his life, he'd be churning out bucket loads by the day. He could even classify it as a work of non-fiction.
How Bloody Devastating It Is When Your Dad's Boyfriend Is Really Fucking Hot: The Autobiography.
It would definitely not classify as a comedy.
---
The boy sheepishly trails Jakob into the house the Sunday after their talk.
Erik's typing gets significantly more louder and powerful.
"Erik."
His fingertips ache.
"Erik."
He bangs his fingers down definitively before he looks up.
"Hello, Dad. I wonder who the hell you have there?"
Jakob looks at his son sternly.
"Erik, this is Charles, as I have mentioned before." He sidesteps. The boy sidesteps with him. "I would like you to apologise to him—" the boy's eyes widen as he tugs on Jakob's sleeve, "for the way you treated him the other day. Erik, say sorry."
He smiles placidly, removing the laptop from his lap and jumping up to his feet.
"Right." He bows his head, smiling wolfishly. The boy's brows crease. "I am sorry. For never being able to accept this fucking joke of a relationship." He salutes. "Good night."
---
He sleeps with ear muffs on that night.
When he takes them off, it's not what he expects.
The boy is crying in the living room. He can hear his father say,
"Erik is a little... shocked, that's all. He'll come around."
Few hours of happiness, he scoffs. Fuck.
They really want this to work.
They really want Erik to come the fuck around.
Erik turns to smother his face with the pillow and screams.
---
The worst part—
Or the best part—
(There's a fine line, these days.)
Is that Jakob is happy all the time.
He exercises now. (Not when Erik had told him.)
He drinks fruit smoothies instead of alcohol. (Erik had made him shit tons.)
He smiles and laughs and pats Erik on the back every time he sees him.
But he only jogs with that stupid boy in his stupid fucking shorts and knee-high socks.
He only drinks the smoothies when that stupid boy wakes up early in the morning and makes them using the fresh fucking fruit he plucks out from the trees of heaven, where he also gets those fucking eyes from.
Erik sees them racing past his window every morning. He pulls back the drapes, eyes down. The boy is up on his tip-toes adjusting the sweat band on Jakob's head. Jakob holds him by his waist, leaning down for a kiss. That's usually the part where Erik swallows and looks away.
Erik wakes up this morning, early because of a job search, and walks into a catastrophic racket.
The blender is on full speed, a concoction of pink muck and green leaves spinning in it wildly.
The boy is sitting on the counter top, Jakob between his legs, kissing him senseless. The boy has his (still bandaged) hand in his white hair, carding through and through as the older (much older) man's mouth devours him.
Erik picks up the thick phonebook and lets it slap onto the floor.
Both of them break apart.
"Whoops. Did that disturb you?" He stalks up to the kitchen and unearths a cereal box from the cabinet. He mutters, "I certainly found that disturbing." The boy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He slides off the aisle, shirt riding up.
"You're early," Jakob points out, as he pours the smoothie into three glasses.
"And the two of you are gross, but guess what." He looks from the back of his father's head to the boy's, as they stand with their backs turned to him. "Life is full of unpleasant surprises."
--
"He wants your money."
"Charles owns a fortune."
"Then you want his money."
"I have sufficient."
Erik drops his fork onto his plate.
"Then I want his damn money."
The whole conversation is had in front of the boy himself, of course.
"I don't mind if you—"
"Charles," his father warns solemnly, placing a hand on the young boy's hand. He turns to his son. "Erik I did not raise you to be so rude. I have plenty money I already give you. Show some respect."
Erik grinds his jaw.
"I really don't mind lending—"
Erik flips his plate and stands, shouting.
"SHUT UP!"
He'd warned his father.
Don't bring that fucking boy to dinner.
Don't bring him into my fucking life.
---
The boy is always grabbing his satchel and fleeing the room whenever Erik walks into it. Every morning. Same look of terror, same nervous clutch, same desperate escape. He says hellogoodbye in one breath.
Then there's the day Erik wakes up first.
The boy exits Jakob's room leisurely, ending a yawn. He freezes when he sees Erik standing near the sink.
"Sleep well?" Erik asks him. He rakes his eyes down the boy's very nice, very shapely legs.
"Um." The boy squeaks.
"It isn't a difficult question." He shifts past the counter towards the boy, as he fingers his shirt cuffs. The boy takes a step back, tripping over nothing.
"Fine, thank you," the boy hisses.
"I thought you were a smart one. That's what the old man always says. He's so smart." Erik tilts his head, placing his hand on the wall next to the boy's ear. "So clever. So intelligent. Is that why he keeps bringing you home against my wishes? Because of your brain?"
The boy swallows. His blush is deep.
"What does my father find so bloody amazing about you that he keeps seeing you despite my protests? Have I not made it clear enough to you both? Huh?"
The boy's bottom lip curls into his mouth. He looks at the ground.
"You have, Erik."
"Oh. So." He folds his arms, to the boy's relief. "What is it about you that my father wanted so badly after resisting in others for twenty-five years? What kind of marvel are you?"
The boy's lashes flicker.
"I simply care for him, Erik. A lot."
He slaps the wall. "Dammit and I don't!?"
"You do! I—just, just not in the way—"
But Erik doesn't even realise he can't hear the boy because he's sinking to the floor, crying.
The boy is insane for reaching forward and petting his hair, bending down and rubbing circles into his back, leaving him a smoothie before he goes to give Jakob his morning medicine.
---
"What the hell did you do, Erik."
It's that tone. That tone, when you just know your father's had enough of your intolerable behaviour.
"Something wonderful, I'm guessing."
He nonchalantly continues to flick through the newspaper ads.
"What did you say to Charles."
"I told him his hips looked fat in his jeans."
Sometimes they do.
The newspaper is ripped out from under him in a flurry of grey and black.
"Erik I've had enough of your petty nonsense!"
His father is screaming at him.
Oh.
"He hasn't returned my calls in three days! He hasn't—he hasn't sent me one of his how are you or good morning or hope you're well, take your meds texts in three bloody days Erik!" He coughs and splutters until Erik has to stand up, but the older man stretches his hand out to stop him. "And he won't come to see me at the park! Won't attend his door! Nor will he come here! Why, Erik, why? What the hell have you said?!" he pauses to cough gutturally from the very back of his throat. The sound is painful. Tears form in dejected eyes. "I—I miss him so much, Erik, I—"
Can't breathe.
His face goes blue.
The route to the hospital becomes more and more revised.
---
Bed rest. Four pills twice a day. So many colours, so many shapes.
A text to Charles Xavier.
Dad needs you ASAP.
It's urgent.
The boy is there in—Erik counts—nine minutes.
Nine fucking minutes.
---
Four, actually.
He just doesn't want it to be true.
He'll write nine in the auto-bio anyway.
Fucking four.
---
"Where is he? What's wrong? Oh god!"
The boy beelines for Jakob's bedroom door. Erik follows.
"… Charles?" his father's frail voice comes before the boy has even opened the door.
"Jakob!" He pushes the door open. "Jakob, oh gosh, I am so sorry."
The boy sits at his bedside, clasps onto his hand. Erik just stands there.
"Charles," his old man whispers. "Don't do that again. I got so worried."
"I'm so sorry!" the boy cries, burrowing his head under Jakob's chin. "I will never—I promise, I will never do that ever again."
The older man's hand runs along the boy's glossy hair as he sobs.
"I know."
He very sharply stares at his son.
---
It's the fifth day of the-boy-as-the-nurse-who-has-practically-moved-in-but-also-so-they-can-sleep-together.
It gets out of hand that morning.
All his medical bills have been paid for. Every single one.
He tries to breathe and compose himself.
Just before he's about to roar, the boy is exiting the bedroom. He breezes past Erik to refill a water bottle at the sink. He leaves it under the tap as he turns to go to the fridge but bumps straight into the hardness of Erik's chest.
"Sorry," he gasps. "Didn't see you there." He tucks a hair behind his ear and tries to evade him, but Erik grabs hold of his wrist. The boy looks up at him. Erik's never noticed the slight dimples in his cheeks. They become noticeable in the fake smile he musters.
"There is only one person I suspect foolish enough to have paid for all those medical bills on my table. So tell me now, yes or no, did you or did you not."
"I did," he blinks.
"Why," he growls.
"Your father's ill. You're going through a lot. It must be hard for you to deal with everything. I didn't think you'd mind if I sorted those out. They weren't much."
Six thousand.
Ten, actually, but the auto-bio doesn't need to have that mentioned in it.
"Who do you think you are? I don't understand whether you're trying to replace me or bring us apart."
"Heavens, no!" the boy insists. "I just thought it'd stop the two of you from arguing over something so... trivial like money. You can say you've paid them yourself! And Erik I—I would never try and replace you. I am nothing, but you are his blood."
But he's losing so much blood.
Erik's grip falters.
Dumbly, he says, "I am looking for a job."
The boy looks at him with a tiny, faithful smile.
"I know you are. You're trying your hardest."
He sighs. "I am."
"We know." Then he perks up, his hands spread. "I could get you one!"
Erik snarls, narrowing his eyes.
"You really are just trying to be a fucking little—"
"Ever heard of Tony Stark? F-Friend of mine."
Erik looks from the boy's eyes to the freckles on his nose to his mouth. Then his eyes again.
He grabs him by the throat and pins him against the wall. It's playful, really. The boy's Adam's apple jumps under his palm.
Erik leans forward, mouth dangerously close to the boy's.
Water overflows. Shhhhhhh, it's saying.
"You really are a fucking little shit, aren't you?"
The boy's gaze doesn't stray far from Erik's eyes. His breath is soft against Erik's lips.
"Guilty," he shrugs.
---
I hate you, you pretty little moth.
Why can't I be your beam of light?
---
And so it begins.
(He falls in love.)
But that doesn't go into the auto-bio either.
His readers won't be that thick.