fic: this constant state of war (charles/erik, pg-13, 3700 words)
fill for a 1stclass_kink prompt. Charles and Erik are the Odd Couple. Quasi-cracky, teeth rottingly fluffy. for my buds furloughday and chrisrichfan. mucho lovo, bros. typos, probably. also this fic is geographically inaccurate. edit: thank you for the comments! i promise to respond to them soon! D:
Life at the mansion wasn’t all that difficult, but it wasn’t completely easy, either.
There were the kids to look after, and when they weren’t trying to sleep with each other or breaking family heirlooms, they were emotionally unstable and brimming with insecurity. Alex made it a point to badger Hank because he had feelings for him, feelings he could not name, he said, deeply rooted feelings that made his heart balloon with strange joy, while Sean, who was hugely unpopular with girls and cried about it every morning into his cereal bowl, wailing, even, kept coming to Erik for advice on his lack of a love life.
“I think it’s the hair,” Sean said, one time, “I need a new look.” He would lie, ankles crossed, on the lounge chair in front of Erik, who was fairly certain he didn’t invite him into the study. He would be sleeping by the window, under a beam of sunshine, when, instincts kicking in, he would wake up suddenly and find Sean looming over him with his face pinched in dejection.
“Hello,” Sean would say, smiling nervously. “Hah.”
Erik would look at him, long and unflinching. “ I was sleeping, but thanks to you I no longer am.”
Sean, because he was the youngest and needed the most supervising would then ask asinine questions such as, “If it’s a kiss on the cheek given to you by someone you only consider family but isn’t actually related to you, does that count?” Or, “ If I don’t lose my virginity by the time I’m eighteen, does that mean I’m unattractive?”
“Yes,” Erik would say to both, and really, most, questions. It was an empirical truth, one that young people needed to be reminded of from time to time. “People only love for two things: money and looks. If you have neither then you will spend the rest of your life alone.”
Sean gaped at him, then, his lower lip wobbling as he shuffled out the room quickly, his head drooping forward into his chest. Erik folded in on himself to prepare for sleep but then Charles knocked at the door and strolled inside, his hands in his pockets, his eyebrows raised incredulously.
“I heard everything,” he said, sitting with his legs crossed on the lounge chair. “Money and looks? Erik, surely you can’t be serious. That isn’t true at all, and you know it.”
“He needs to know what he’s up against,” Erik said, shrugging. “He will be well-equipped to handle rejection when the time comes.”
Charles laughed at him, loud and unexpected, his eyes softening to slits. “You, Erik, are uproariously funny.” He said uproariously a certain way, not cheeky, but with an undercurrent of... something Erik still needed to decipher.
“I’m not funny,” Erik said, finally, sighing. “I’m truthful; there’s a difference.”
Charles said nothing and picked up a book from the coffee table. Hemingway.
“Carry on sleeping,” he said, flipping through the pages, not looking up. “I promise to be as quiet as a mouse.”
“I largely doubt that,” Erik muttered.
“Sleep,” Charles said, and he must have done something, with that intrusive mind of his, because as soon as Erik closed his eyes, he was fast asleep.
=
The first month at the mansion was spent training the children.
Erik refused to think of them as anything but. Raven may walk around in tiny skirts and flip her hair over her shoulders and wear a certain shade of lipstick, but she was still and would always be a little girl to him.
“I hate you,” she said and aimed a swift kick at his head. They were working on her reaction time. She still kept the waitressing job even though she didn’t need the money, claiming she had nothing better to do and might as well stick around for the tips. The problem was that she kept getting followed home by perverts who didn’t take no for an answer.
“You hate yourself,” Erik told her, “Not me,” and she huffed and attempted to backhand him. Erik caught her wrist before she could and clicked his tongue. He pushed her gently on the shoulder and she staggered backwards a few paces.
“Training is over,” he said, waving a hand, “Shower and moon over Hank if you want, then find some time to reflect over what you learned today.”
She left but not after some carefully worded muttering. Erik went to the kitchen and found Charles sipping on a cool glass of lemonade. He smiled at Erik as Erik yanked off his sweatshirt and tossed it on an empty chair. His undershirt was damp with sweat, sticking to his skin. He smelled bad, a combination of wet grass and dried sweat, whereas Charles looked freshly showered and serene. Erik could smell him from across the table, soapy, clean, with a hint of cologne.
Charles, it seemed, always smelled good.
“Lemonade, Erik?” Charles asked, raising an eyebrow.
Erik, who was overheated and dripping with sweat, nodded his head. “Yes, please.”
Charles poured him a glass and Erik sighed blissfully as the cool liquid slid down his throat. Then he put the glass down and swiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Charles was watching him.
“Is there a problem?” Erik said, watching him back. He hoped Charles wasn’t reading his mind, because he was thinking, then, of a cold fifteen minute shower, of eating a steak afterwards, medium-rare and covered with horseradish sauce, then challenging Charles to a chess match, and, if beaten, challenging him again until he acquiesced and Erik won.
Charles shook his head. “Nothing,” he said and it was lie. Nobody looked at you like that, smiling, tilting their head to the side, for nothing.
Nothing always meant something but with Charles nothing could mean anything.
=
Mail came every now and then when Charles’ estranged aunt felt like writing or he had unsettled bills to pay. The mailman was called George and had a flat, squashed little nose that looked as if he’d banged it on the wall during a particularly violent seizure. He rode a white scooter and wore a grey hat that matched his standard mailman uniform, pleated pants and a zip up jacket.
“Mail for Mr. Xavier,” George would intone boredly, handing Erik a stack of envelopes.
George was polite at best but around Charles, he practically simpered. Charles seemed to have that effect on people, Erik noticed, everyone wanted to be his friend and Erik wasn’t sure if this were a good thing or not. Even old ladies at the Portobello Market fell for his charm; they wanted Charles to meet their unwed granddaughters.
Because it was a Tuesday, a good day for mail, George appeared in the driveway on his scooter. He smiled politely at Erik and lowered the brim of his hat. “Nice weather we’re having today, Mr. Lensherr,” he said, peering over Erik’s shoulder for a glimpse of Charles.
Erik rifled through the envelopes and raised his eyes. All bills. Nothing interesting. “I don’t know,” he said, tucking them under one arm. “We’ve certainly had better weather, that’s for sure.”
He shut the door before George could reply and went to finish breakfast.
“You didn’t invite him for tea and biscuits?” Charles asked, putting down the morning paper.
“He’s a mailman, you don’t invite them in for tea and biscuits.”
“Not Mr. Harrison,” Charles said. “He’s a friend.”
“Everyone is a friend to you,” Erik reminded him, not without a touch of annoyance. He stabbed his toast and frowned, stirring his lukewarm tea with a pinky finger.
Charles smiled at him, his infuriating, knowing little smile. “That isn’t true at all,” he said, flipping through the envelopes and looking up briefly. “I choose them very carefully.”
=
The nearest pub was a forty minute drive from the mansion.
They decided, one night, on a whim, to go out for drinks and escape the children who were rowdy enough on their own without their gifts. A change of scenery would be good for them both, Charles said, but failed to mention that he was a regular at the pub, which was called The Jolly Boatman and had a photographs of steamships hanging on the walls.
The barkeep, a portly man in his early forties with dishwasher blond hair curling at his hairline, waved them over and bellowed at Charles. “Charles my boy!” he laughed, slapping Charles on the shoulder.
Charles smiled sheepishly and gestured at Erik. “This is my friend,” he said, pausing curiously as if he wanted to say more. “Erik, this is Mr. Pilkington.”
“How do you do?” Pilkington thrust out a hand and gazed at Erik sideways, friendly but outwardly suspicious. The atmosphere was expressive of mutual distrust but Erik shook the man’s hand anyway, and then ordered a pint of lager. Charles sipped on his ginger ale and they sat by the window that looked out into the street. The place was nice, well-lit, and clean. Thirty minutes or an hour later, Charles saw someone he knew walk through the door, and waved. It was a friend from Oxford. The man smiled immediately and ambled over to their table.
“Charles, what a surprise! I didn’t think I’d run into you here. Why, I haven’t seen you since graduation. What on earth have you been up to?”
“Oh, a few things here and there,” Charles laughed. He scooted over to make room. “Sit, John. Sit! Let’s have a drink and reminisce.”
John winced, and then shook his head. He eyed Erik briefly and then ignored him, slipping off his hat and folding his coat over one arm. “I’m afraid I can’t right now, Charles. I’m meeting someone in five minutes.” He glanced at his watch to indicate the importance of time.
“Is it a girl?” Charles ventured.
“A lady,” John said, leaning down. They both laughed and shook hands and John left after squeezing Charles on the shoulder, heading for the bar.
Erik watched him in silence.
“He’s a nice man, that John,” Charles sighed, a little too wistfully. “Has a terrific mind for science.”
“Well, I don’t like him,” Erik said, startling himself with his candor. It must be the alcohol, he thought and pinched his lips together. He wasn’t quite sure why he said that, even though he knew it to be true.
Erik could tell Charles was trying not to smile. He didn’t like the way that man, John, looked at Charles with familiarity, or the way John touched him so easily, knowing he could get away with it. But Erik wouldn’t readily admit to it because he still had his pride. And even a rat, when cornered, would fight to the death.
“I need a refill,” Erik said, and, with that as an excuse, climbed to his feet and staggered to the bar.
John was still there, waiting for his date, and Erik pretended not to see him when he knocked his elbow into his shoulder, completely by accident.
=
It was late when they got back, the children asleep, the lights, save the ones they left on in the living room, all turned off. The floorboards creaked under their shoes. They parted at the end of the hall and then Erik remembered Charles had borrowed his jacket on the way home and came to retrieve it, knocking on Charles’ door and pushing it open without warning when no response came.
Charles was perched on the edge of his bed, undoing his shirt. He looked up, blinked, and nodded his head vaguely.
Erik walked over to him. Charles stood, swaying slightly. “I left your jacket downstairs,” he said, looking confused.
“Yes,” Erik said, also confused.
The first kiss happened like that, born of disorientation, standing by Charles’ bed with Charles’ head tipped forward, his mouth half-open in a startled gasp. Erik, his hand cupping the back of Charles’ head, while the other hung limp and impotent at his side, not knowing what to do or where to go.
They stood, staring at each for a long moment, afterwards. Erik moved again, a minute later, to step back and give Charles space.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night,” Charles repeated. Charles nodded his head again. Then, in a moment of bravery or utter stupidity, Erik kissed him again and crowded him against the wall. He slid his hands up Charles’ knee, squeezing it, then touched his stomach under his shirt.
The skin was smooth, and warm, and later, when Erik licked it, tongue flat and breath rough against Charles’ ribs, Charles laughed and shivered, his stomach shaking underneath Erik’s mouth, like the tremor of an earthquake.
=
Erik was a firm believer that whatever didn’t make you stronger would surely kill you.
It was easy to lose sight of a higher purpose when days dragged on without much development. The children continued to train and Charles continued to perplex him by not mentioning how, this, sleeping together, would or would not change their friendship.
Erik had woken up to Charles’ gentle snoring and unlatched himself from his sticky back. He showered, wondered briefly if this meant free board and lodging indefinitely, and then came back to find that Charles had already gone and was making Eggs Benedict downstairs in the kitchen.
Erik, intent on prying answers from him, stormed into the kitchen in sleep pants and a wrinkled shirt.
“Morning,” Raven chirped around a mouthful of toast.
Charles handed him a cup of tea.
“It has cinnamon,” he explained, and when Erik sniffed it, and drank it, he realized this was true.
Sean wandered in, scratching his hip. “Mornin’,” he grumbled, and grabbed an empty bowl to fill with cereal.
=
Life went on with no discernable progress whatsoever.
=
“I found Yiddish erotica under Sean’s bed,” Charles said one morning, tossing a handful of brightly colored magazines on the table.
Erik looked up from the morning paper. “Tant mieux,” he said, turning a page. “At least now we know he has good taste.”
Charles didn’t laugh. “He said they came from you. He said you gave them to him. ”
“Did he?” Erik asked. He shrugged a shoulder. He couldn’t remember if he’d given pornography to Sean, or why he had Yiddish pornography in the first place. “I wanted to instill him with good values,” he said, finally.
“You have values?”
“Yes, I have values,” Erik said.
“Congratulations then,” Charles said.
“On what?”
“Keeping them hidden.”
Erik smiled in spite of himself. He forgot how entertaining Charles could be. He forgot he was so damned likeable. “Did you look at them?” he asked. “The magazines?”
“What do you think?”
“I can’t read minds,” Erik said. He stood to his full height, walked to where Charles stood, frowning by the bookcase, and pocketed his hands. He wanted to kiss Charles again to see if he still tasted the same, like velvet warmth, but he wasn’t sure how to go about it without seeming callous or offensive. Two weeks, Erik thought, without a hopeful signal in sight. He wasn’t entirely sure why it mattered that Charles brought it up first. Were they or weren’t they, and if so, did that mean Erik was the man or the woman?
“Think about the children,” Charles said as Erik neared. His hand hovered over Charles’ cheek then sank, curving against his face.
“I’d really rather not,” Erik said.
Charles sighed and pulled him forward by the belt loops.
“This is what praying must feel like,” Erik said. All the waiting, the skirting around, and then finally, this, Charles raising an eyebrow at him, looking dubious.
“You,” Charles said and laughed, shoulders shaking, “Are radically confused, my friend.”
=
Erik wasn’t happy, of course, not quite, even after that, even though life, afterwards, reached a certain level of droll calm after regular sexual intercourse. He supposed you had to make do with what you had and find happiness in the little things, but he’d long since forgotten what it was like to be well and truly happy.
Sitting there in the study, listening to the faint crackle and hiss of the evening fire, Erik found himself in a kind of meditative state. Reading seemed tedious to him, a complete and utter waste of time, and he couldn’t fathom how some people, like Charles, preferred it over other forms of entertainment. They could be doing something else right now, he thought, something interesting like drinking, or driving into town. Instead they were reading.
Charles caught Erik staring and smiled softly. “I’ll be finished soon,” he promised, squeezing Erik’s knee before patting it.
Erik said nothing and flexed his arm, letting it slide around the back of the sofa as he tipped back his head. And if it curved around Charles’ shoulder or if his hand brushed the back of Charles’ neck and Charles shivered, they didn’t talk about it.
They didn’t even talk about how, later on, after they had undressed in Charles’ bedroom, Charles touched his fingers to the numbers branding Erik’s arm and kissed them with an open mouth, his lips moving up Erik’s bicep where he pressed his forehead and breathed, closing his eyes with a long sigh.
=
Charles installed a chore wheel by the fridge a week later.
Chores were divided among them.
Erik, for example, was in charge of picking up the groceries. Raven made breakfast every other morning but Sunday. Sean sulked around and mopped the floors. Hank, who could neither cook nor clean, offered to mend the tears in the curtains.
“I made us suits,” he explained. “I might as well make us curtains while we’re at it.”
It felt like a family, from time to time, when Alex was not discreetly staring at Hank across the breakfast table, over the bowl of mashed potatoes. And it was especially nice during dinner time when they would all share whatever was for dessert, equally. Cake, ice cream, Sean belching and turning pink as Alex laughed uproariously.
When the children went to bed, which was often late into the next morning, Charles would knock at Erik’s door with a bottle of wine tucked under one arm, his shirt wrinkled from where he’d slept on it, the first few buttons loose. His hair, soft and endless, peaking up in tufts.
Erik would be freshly showered, then, and feign surprise.
“I was wondering,” Charles would say, grinning. “If you would care for a drink?”
=
Of course, that didn’t mean that things were perfect both inside and out.
They argued, occasionally, because Charles had ideals that he wanted to uphold in his household, ideals that Erik didn’t necessarily agree with, because, growing up with Shaw hovering over his shoulder, he realized some things could only be settled by war. Kill or be killed, run to survive. He didn’t trust Moira, who would come by every now and then to update them on political goings-on.
So Erik left, one day, without preamble, and drove to the next town. He came back, eventually, not half a day later. He had to, of course he had to, because he had nowhere else to go and he didn’t mean to leave, anyway. He wondered if Charles labored over his absence or if he’d even noticed Erik had gone.
Erik disembarked the car and stared at the spires of Charles’ mansion which seemed to gleam in the light.
It looked stately and handsome in the afternoon sunshine. Erik felt as if he were seeing it for the first time, how vast the courtyard was, green with trees. The sun was just about to set behind the hills, casting the mansion in a band of gold. Everything seemed warm and lush.
I could live here, Erik thought and unshouldered his jacket. He climbed up the front steps and made his way to the kitchen. Charles was at the table, reading a periodical. He looked up as Erik barreled into the room, dog-earing the page he was on and leaning forward on his arms.
“You're back,” he said, raising his eyes, even though he didn’t seem like the least bit surprised.
Erik grunted his assent and hunkered down on an empty seat, the one across from Charles, tipping it back. He could see why the children never wanted to leave Charles’ house. The kitchen smelled like bread, the kind Erik’s mother used to make with her own hands, warm and fresh with cinnamon.
“I thought you’d left for good,” Charles said.
Erik leveled him with a look. “Often times I wish this would all be over,” he said, “but then somehow you do something like find Yiddish pornography under Sean’s bed or put cinnamon in my tea.” He didn’t mention the silk neckties Charles had bought for him the other week, or Charles’ button-up shirts that he was just beginning to enjoy buttoning down. Life with Charles was easy. Too easy, it seemed, sometimes, and always Erik feared there would be a catch.
Charles stood up and smiled lopsidedly. “Well, I suppose that’s a good thing then?” he said. “Would you like a cup of tea, my darling?”
“My darling?” Erik repeated, scoffing, but the look on Charles’ face made him stop and buck up. He thought about what to say for a moment and felt something inside him unravel, something good.
“Yes,” he said, and folded his jacket neatly over the back of his seat. “Please. And thank you.”