islands and cities I have looked
More fic. More slow, agonizing, crawling along at a dying snail's pace fic. I have to update my masterlist. WHY IS THIS A MULTI PARTER, WHY COULDN'T I JUST WRITE SHAVING SESSION --> SEX, WHY. On the bright side, part 3 is mostly written. It's just that I threw out half of everything and started all over again, because I felt Erik was out of character and heaven fucking forbid our nice Jewish boys are all weird or something.
Title: These are my friends; see how they glisten
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Charles/Erik (pre-slash)
Rating: PG (for now)
Disclaimer: Absolutely none of the characters here are mine, and I didn't even come up with the premise. I didn't even come up with the phrase World Bromance Tour.
Word count: 2230/5553+
Prompt: SHAVING, from uniformly, who clearly knows my buttons. Except this isn't really about shaving anymore, and no actual shaving happens in this installment at all. It is about...UST. And trust. And how it's pretty groovy to be a telepath, but also kind of a pain.
Summary: On the road trip, Charles is whiskery, and also projecting.
The first two hours of the drive pass quietly, and this is why: Charles falls asleep nearly immediately. Erik knows where they're going, so he lets Charles sleep on.
When Charles wakes up, there is a kink in his neck and his skull hurts a little from resting awkwardly on the car door, and he thinks he might have drooled on himself a little. This is not him at his best. It's really not.
"Awake?" Erik asks, almost warily, and he seems to know the very second that Charles opens his eyes.
"For the moment," Charles says, sitting up, wiping at his eyes, trying not to yawn.
"You were projecting," Erik says.
"Projecting what?" Charles asks.
Erik shakes his head.
"Just projecting."
Charles itches with the urge to peek, but Erik's mood doesn't seem to be amenable to inquiry, secret or open, telepathic or otherwise.
"All right," Charles sighs, "As you say."
Erik drives.
++
The next mutant is another bust, one in a long line. It's a girl that can make lights glow down her chest; she does it involuntarily when she's happy or upset. It's not too hard to hide, and it's not of much use to them, and, furthermore, she's confessed her mutation--though she doesn't call it that--to her new boyfriend. She is in love, and will not go with them.
Charles doesn't need his telepathy to know that Erik thinks this is a waste of time.
It's evening by the time they give up on talking to her, and only Charles sees the vague flash of regret her body gives away once they turn to go.
++
"I can drive," Charles insists, "I'm awake."
"Oh, now you are," Erik says evenly, without breaking stride towards the driver's side of the car, "Now that it's time to sleep again."
"I didn't spend all day sleeping," Charles says.
"How did you ever make it through university?" Erik asks, as he, yes, opens the driver door, slides in, "Didn't you have morning classes?"
"Professors don't really want to teach that early, really," Charles says, "Or teach on Fridays. So there aren't too many classes to take then, actually."
Erik snorts, starts the car.
"It's only about another hour," he tells Charles.
"Tomorrow," Charles says firmly, "Tomorrow, my friend, I will drive."
Erik says nothing.
++
Before tomorrow can come, tonight needs to happen, and tonight is passing very slowly for Charles once dinner is over. He is, in fact, perfectly awake. He is also, at present, out of books to read. So he lets his mind spread out, like a puddle, calm and flat, to see what he can pick up without being really invasive. Most of the time most people are having routine thoughts: this ritual is usually soothing. It's dependable, and pleasant for how similar the sessions are to each other.
Just that now he can't do it right, can't relax, can't let himself go boneless and floppy on the bed as his mind seeps into the available thought space all around, because he has to avoid Erik. Charles wants to split past him, go around, regroup at the other end of him and spread outwards--but he can't. In principle it should be easy, and he grew up doing it for Raven, but Erik thinks and feels in a big, clouded snarl that's impossible to ignore.
Charles sighs, pushes himself back up, fiddles with the radio, tries not to think about the day, lies back down. Another old trick he used to pass the time as a child occurs to him once he fails to find any broadcasts of interest, and he stretches his mind again, looking for sensations more specific...
Somewhere there's a girl listening to the new Elvis Presley single, and that entertains him for a while. It's not really for the music; it's everything that she feels for it, bright and young and filled with adolescent adoration--a sweet and easy bliss. Charles hums happily and turns over, then breaks the connection. He has the right feeling now, so he casts about for it, going further. There's a young man who just proposed to his childhood sweetheart further out, and he is filled with pride, yes, but also a grateful and humble joy. He finds a mother comforting her child in the night after a bad dream, feels both her fierce protectiveness and her soothing sounds as he touches the mind of the child, now drifting off to sleep, feeling safe, perfectly safe, and warm, and so very sleepy...
With a yawn, Charles snuggles back down into his pillow, and wishes, for a moment, that he didn't have to reach up to twist the knob to turn the light off.
If he wakes up in the middle of the night, startled and sweaty and dreaming of metal: well, he can't say that he didn't try.
++
It's a very serious matter that it isn't properly dawn yet, and yet, judging by the knocking on his door, he's expected to get up.
Charles groans, wraps himself more securely in his blankets, and sends out a sleepy wave of protest.
There's a pause and then the lock clicks open.
Somewhere there's a complaint about how his own mother never badgered him this much, really, he's not used to being badgered, but he hasn't even gotten past the point of refusing to open his eyes when Erik says,
"Up."
Charles considers his position. He is wearing pants. This gives him, he feels, the upper hand, relatively speaking.
"No," he said finally.
"Charles."
"Erik!" he calls back. "I'm not ready. I'm not used to this, all this travel. Give me a half hour, would you?"
"I'm so sorry that this taxes your delicate sensibilities," Erik says, and he yanks the blanket half off Charles, then tugs at it until he can drop it off the side of the bed.
"Don't lie, you're not sorry at all--it's too early for lies. That's awful for a telepath, you know," Charles informs him, turning over stubbornly and tapping at his temple, "That disconnect."
"If you're going to sleep, then sleep," Erik says, low and fast, "instead of broadcasting as if the world's about to end."
"What did I--" Charles starts, finally turning, opening his eyes, but Erik's already turned on his heel, and the door closes behind him. It doesn't slam--it doesn't have to--but the tiny noise of the lock clicking back into place echoes.
Charles's fingers twitch with the effort of keeping himself carefully contained, perfectly quiet, and he wills himself to sleep to keep himself from reaching out and answering his own question.
++
Blinking, Charles awakens to sunlight spilling over his face--he must have done a bad job with the curtains. He stretches, lazily, but then hops to his feet. He is bright and alert. He brushes his teeth. He gets dressed. He doesn't feel quite good, exactly, but he feels a little less exhausted, and thankful that Erik let him sleep in.
He pads around, humming to himself, before going to the next room over and knocking on Erik's door. It is, he knows, too late for breakfast. There's hesitation, but Charles can feel Erik's awareness prick up, move into a higher pitch. There's something new there, or perhaps something old, and the weight of it would make Charles sigh if not for the fact that he is a patient man. He waits, projects cheer and curiosity. The door opens. Erik is seated by the window, and he immediately says,
"You look wretched," clearly projecting frustration without the aid of telepathy, "Unshaven and like a foolish boy who can't even manage to--"
"Yes, yes," Charles agrees, waving a hand carelessly, dropping down into the chair opposite Erik, "We can't all be soldiers."
"No," Erik says shortly, "We can't, now can we?"
Charles blinks, but then meets Erik's hard gaze.
Although he's good at infusing his words with sincerity, even though he's every bit an earnest young man, Charles prefers to apologize wordlessly. Something is lost in the translation of speech, so he extends part of himself to Erik, without looking away--an apology for last night, for this morning, soft regret and sheepishness, but with a trace of confusion, because Charles doesn't know what he's supposed to be specifically sorry for. There's a hint of something else, at the very back of it, too--something that says, maybe, but this is how I am. He doesn't specify how he means it, if he's refusing to regret his telepathy or his pacifism, his dreams or his words. For him they are inseparable.
It's not one of his best apologies, but Erik's lips twitch into a frown, and he looks away first.
"Fine," Erik tells him, with a bitterness that Charles finds strange, as he stands.
"Lunch?" Charles asks hopefully.
Erik shakes his head.
"We're losing time."
"...keys?" Charles tries.
Erik holds out his hand, and the keys fly from the nightstand to his hand, staying there, and Charles sighs.
++
Most days, on most drives, they have talked. It isn't always profound, soul baring--it often isn't--but it's been companionable. They have listened to the radio. They have complained about songs; they have relished the weather; they have discussed strategy, tragedy and philosophy; they have catalogued the slowly shifting fauna of the United States; they have discussed the later, further trips to find mutants; they have compared notes on various European cities, as well as other places, because Erik's been everywhere.
Today there is silence, and when Charles toys with the radio--he finds some Motown; The Contours are singing do you love me, do you really do--the dial turns underneath his fingers, twists itself into silence. Charles glances at Erik. He turns his head to look out the window, folds his hands in his lap, and reminds himself that he is a patient man.
He knows Erik is slowing down for him, of course. Erik's hunted war criminals, men with resources and cunning, all over the world, plowing after them without the aid of telepathy. If Charles had--well. Charles wouldn't ever do such a thing, of course, but if he had, he probably would have done so from the comfort of his own home. His power is a great and rambling thing, and Charles knows this, knows he that doesn't know how far it goes. But Erik is sleek and skilled and strong, and he hunts with the single mindedness of an apex predator.
"Stop that," Erik says.
"What?" Charles asks, distracted because the biologist in him is spinning out thoughts about trophic levels suddenly, and it seems terribly important.
"You were thinking about sharks."
"I was doing nothing of the kind," Charles says, "And in any case, I was also not thinking of wolves."
Erik spares a moment to glance at him, but lets it go.
++
Another round of seedy bars sees them back to a hotel without much progress. Charles wants to talk, but Erik growls some sort of excuse and disappears into his room. A sigh, and shrug, and Charles goes to his own. There is, he supposes, not much to do but sleep.
So he undresses, sprawls out in bed, and flips through his memories as if he's someone else. The brain codes in memories more firmly when they are sensory--the hippocampus going into sweet overdrive--and there are parts of Charles's life that are very sensory indeed. It's very difficult for a telepath to not pick up something from a partner during sex, so there's a lot to choose from while Charles jerks himself off. His teeth sink into his lip--he's being quick and methodical, no need to draw this out--and his breath comes a little faster. He tastes the beer still on his tongue, he thinks of the last girl he picked up in a bar; he thinks of how tomorrow will bring more driving; he hopes he'll be able to sleep; he remembers the feel of the razor scraping along his skin.
Except it hadn't really been scraping, right, not with the way Erik's hands were so deft, not with the way Erik was so used to handling sharp edges. It had been more of a slide. Something smooth.
Yes.
The inner debate on semantics concludes with Charles's orgasm. He wipes himself clean before rolling over and falling asleep.
++
When Charles awakens the next morning of his own accord again, he begins to get suspicious. He does a quick, shallow check--Erik is next door--and doesn't bother with shoes as he throws on a shirt and pads over. He announces his intent before he's out the door, and so the lock is undone for him even when if he has to turn the doorknob himself.
"My friend," he says, grinning, "I appreciate your sudden understanding, but if you don't wake me up at all, we'll never leave anywhere before noon."
There's a sudden lurch in his stomach and he isn't sure where it comes from, but Erik is packed and dressed and frowning.
"You haven't shaved," he says.
"I haven't done much of anything, yet," Charles agrees, looking down at himself.
"You would rather look unkempt and disheveled than shave."
"Well, someone did throw away my last razor, if you recall," Charles keeps his tone light, because nothing in Erik's bearing is light. He scratches at his chin. It is rather whiskery.
"That thing wasn't a razor."
"Nonetheless," Charles says, shrugging.
Erik is staring, silent. The moment's tense and brittle like ice, something that should be liquid, and isn't.
Charles tries very hard to not think about shaving.
"Go get dressed, Xavier," Erik sighs.
Dismissed, Charles heads back to his room, and tries not to feel like he's leaving with his tail tucked between his legs.
Title: These are my friends; see how they glisten
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Charles/Erik (pre-slash)
Rating: PG (for now)
Disclaimer: Absolutely none of the characters here are mine, and I didn't even come up with the premise. I didn't even come up with the phrase World Bromance Tour.
Word count: 2230/5553+
Prompt: SHAVING, from uniformly, who clearly knows my buttons. Except this isn't really about shaving anymore, and no actual shaving happens in this installment at all. It is about...UST. And trust. And how it's pretty groovy to be a telepath, but also kind of a pain.
Summary: On the road trip, Charles is whiskery, and also projecting.
The first two hours of the drive pass quietly, and this is why: Charles falls asleep nearly immediately. Erik knows where they're going, so he lets Charles sleep on.
When Charles wakes up, there is a kink in his neck and his skull hurts a little from resting awkwardly on the car door, and he thinks he might have drooled on himself a little. This is not him at his best. It's really not.
"Awake?" Erik asks, almost warily, and he seems to know the very second that Charles opens his eyes.
"For the moment," Charles says, sitting up, wiping at his eyes, trying not to yawn.
"You were projecting," Erik says.
"Projecting what?" Charles asks.
Erik shakes his head.
"Just projecting."
Charles itches with the urge to peek, but Erik's mood doesn't seem to be amenable to inquiry, secret or open, telepathic or otherwise.
"All right," Charles sighs, "As you say."
Erik drives.
++
The next mutant is another bust, one in a long line. It's a girl that can make lights glow down her chest; she does it involuntarily when she's happy or upset. It's not too hard to hide, and it's not of much use to them, and, furthermore, she's confessed her mutation--though she doesn't call it that--to her new boyfriend. She is in love, and will not go with them.
Charles doesn't need his telepathy to know that Erik thinks this is a waste of time.
It's evening by the time they give up on talking to her, and only Charles sees the vague flash of regret her body gives away once they turn to go.
++
"I can drive," Charles insists, "I'm awake."
"Oh, now you are," Erik says evenly, without breaking stride towards the driver's side of the car, "Now that it's time to sleep again."
"I didn't spend all day sleeping," Charles says.
"How did you ever make it through university?" Erik asks, as he, yes, opens the driver door, slides in, "Didn't you have morning classes?"
"Professors don't really want to teach that early, really," Charles says, "Or teach on Fridays. So there aren't too many classes to take then, actually."
Erik snorts, starts the car.
"It's only about another hour," he tells Charles.
"Tomorrow," Charles says firmly, "Tomorrow, my friend, I will drive."
Erik says nothing.
++
Before tomorrow can come, tonight needs to happen, and tonight is passing very slowly for Charles once dinner is over. He is, in fact, perfectly awake. He is also, at present, out of books to read. So he lets his mind spread out, like a puddle, calm and flat, to see what he can pick up without being really invasive. Most of the time most people are having routine thoughts: this ritual is usually soothing. It's dependable, and pleasant for how similar the sessions are to each other.
Just that now he can't do it right, can't relax, can't let himself go boneless and floppy on the bed as his mind seeps into the available thought space all around, because he has to avoid Erik. Charles wants to split past him, go around, regroup at the other end of him and spread outwards--but he can't. In principle it should be easy, and he grew up doing it for Raven, but Erik thinks and feels in a big, clouded snarl that's impossible to ignore.
Charles sighs, pushes himself back up, fiddles with the radio, tries not to think about the day, lies back down. Another old trick he used to pass the time as a child occurs to him once he fails to find any broadcasts of interest, and he stretches his mind again, looking for sensations more specific...
Somewhere there's a girl listening to the new Elvis Presley single, and that entertains him for a while. It's not really for the music; it's everything that she feels for it, bright and young and filled with adolescent adoration--a sweet and easy bliss. Charles hums happily and turns over, then breaks the connection. He has the right feeling now, so he casts about for it, going further. There's a young man who just proposed to his childhood sweetheart further out, and he is filled with pride, yes, but also a grateful and humble joy. He finds a mother comforting her child in the night after a bad dream, feels both her fierce protectiveness and her soothing sounds as he touches the mind of the child, now drifting off to sleep, feeling safe, perfectly safe, and warm, and so very sleepy...
With a yawn, Charles snuggles back down into his pillow, and wishes, for a moment, that he didn't have to reach up to twist the knob to turn the light off.
If he wakes up in the middle of the night, startled and sweaty and dreaming of metal: well, he can't say that he didn't try.
++
It's a very serious matter that it isn't properly dawn yet, and yet, judging by the knocking on his door, he's expected to get up.
Charles groans, wraps himself more securely in his blankets, and sends out a sleepy wave of protest.
There's a pause and then the lock clicks open.
Somewhere there's a complaint about how his own mother never badgered him this much, really, he's not used to being badgered, but he hasn't even gotten past the point of refusing to open his eyes when Erik says,
"Up."
Charles considers his position. He is wearing pants. This gives him, he feels, the upper hand, relatively speaking.
"No," he said finally.
"Charles."
"Erik!" he calls back. "I'm not ready. I'm not used to this, all this travel. Give me a half hour, would you?"
"I'm so sorry that this taxes your delicate sensibilities," Erik says, and he yanks the blanket half off Charles, then tugs at it until he can drop it off the side of the bed.
"Don't lie, you're not sorry at all--it's too early for lies. That's awful for a telepath, you know," Charles informs him, turning over stubbornly and tapping at his temple, "That disconnect."
"If you're going to sleep, then sleep," Erik says, low and fast, "instead of broadcasting as if the world's about to end."
"What did I--" Charles starts, finally turning, opening his eyes, but Erik's already turned on his heel, and the door closes behind him. It doesn't slam--it doesn't have to--but the tiny noise of the lock clicking back into place echoes.
Charles's fingers twitch with the effort of keeping himself carefully contained, perfectly quiet, and he wills himself to sleep to keep himself from reaching out and answering his own question.
++
Blinking, Charles awakens to sunlight spilling over his face--he must have done a bad job with the curtains. He stretches, lazily, but then hops to his feet. He is bright and alert. He brushes his teeth. He gets dressed. He doesn't feel quite good, exactly, but he feels a little less exhausted, and thankful that Erik let him sleep in.
He pads around, humming to himself, before going to the next room over and knocking on Erik's door. It is, he knows, too late for breakfast. There's hesitation, but Charles can feel Erik's awareness prick up, move into a higher pitch. There's something new there, or perhaps something old, and the weight of it would make Charles sigh if not for the fact that he is a patient man. He waits, projects cheer and curiosity. The door opens. Erik is seated by the window, and he immediately says,
"You look wretched," clearly projecting frustration without the aid of telepathy, "Unshaven and like a foolish boy who can't even manage to--"
"Yes, yes," Charles agrees, waving a hand carelessly, dropping down into the chair opposite Erik, "We can't all be soldiers."
"No," Erik says shortly, "We can't, now can we?"
Charles blinks, but then meets Erik's hard gaze.
Although he's good at infusing his words with sincerity, even though he's every bit an earnest young man, Charles prefers to apologize wordlessly. Something is lost in the translation of speech, so he extends part of himself to Erik, without looking away--an apology for last night, for this morning, soft regret and sheepishness, but with a trace of confusion, because Charles doesn't know what he's supposed to be specifically sorry for. There's a hint of something else, at the very back of it, too--something that says, maybe, but this is how I am. He doesn't specify how he means it, if he's refusing to regret his telepathy or his pacifism, his dreams or his words. For him they are inseparable.
It's not one of his best apologies, but Erik's lips twitch into a frown, and he looks away first.
"Fine," Erik tells him, with a bitterness that Charles finds strange, as he stands.
"Lunch?" Charles asks hopefully.
Erik shakes his head.
"We're losing time."
"...keys?" Charles tries.
Erik holds out his hand, and the keys fly from the nightstand to his hand, staying there, and Charles sighs.
++
Most days, on most drives, they have talked. It isn't always profound, soul baring--it often isn't--but it's been companionable. They have listened to the radio. They have complained about songs; they have relished the weather; they have discussed strategy, tragedy and philosophy; they have catalogued the slowly shifting fauna of the United States; they have discussed the later, further trips to find mutants; they have compared notes on various European cities, as well as other places, because Erik's been everywhere.
Today there is silence, and when Charles toys with the radio--he finds some Motown; The Contours are singing do you love me, do you really do--the dial turns underneath his fingers, twists itself into silence. Charles glances at Erik. He turns his head to look out the window, folds his hands in his lap, and reminds himself that he is a patient man.
He knows Erik is slowing down for him, of course. Erik's hunted war criminals, men with resources and cunning, all over the world, plowing after them without the aid of telepathy. If Charles had--well. Charles wouldn't ever do such a thing, of course, but if he had, he probably would have done so from the comfort of his own home. His power is a great and rambling thing, and Charles knows this, knows he that doesn't know how far it goes. But Erik is sleek and skilled and strong, and he hunts with the single mindedness of an apex predator.
"Stop that," Erik says.
"What?" Charles asks, distracted because the biologist in him is spinning out thoughts about trophic levels suddenly, and it seems terribly important.
"You were thinking about sharks."
"I was doing nothing of the kind," Charles says, "And in any case, I was also not thinking of wolves."
Erik spares a moment to glance at him, but lets it go.
++
Another round of seedy bars sees them back to a hotel without much progress. Charles wants to talk, but Erik growls some sort of excuse and disappears into his room. A sigh, and shrug, and Charles goes to his own. There is, he supposes, not much to do but sleep.
So he undresses, sprawls out in bed, and flips through his memories as if he's someone else. The brain codes in memories more firmly when they are sensory--the hippocampus going into sweet overdrive--and there are parts of Charles's life that are very sensory indeed. It's very difficult for a telepath to not pick up something from a partner during sex, so there's a lot to choose from while Charles jerks himself off. His teeth sink into his lip--he's being quick and methodical, no need to draw this out--and his breath comes a little faster. He tastes the beer still on his tongue, he thinks of the last girl he picked up in a bar; he thinks of how tomorrow will bring more driving; he hopes he'll be able to sleep; he remembers the feel of the razor scraping along his skin.
Except it hadn't really been scraping, right, not with the way Erik's hands were so deft, not with the way Erik was so used to handling sharp edges. It had been more of a slide. Something smooth.
Yes.
The inner debate on semantics concludes with Charles's orgasm. He wipes himself clean before rolling over and falling asleep.
++
When Charles awakens the next morning of his own accord again, he begins to get suspicious. He does a quick, shallow check--Erik is next door--and doesn't bother with shoes as he throws on a shirt and pads over. He announces his intent before he's out the door, and so the lock is undone for him even when if he has to turn the doorknob himself.
"My friend," he says, grinning, "I appreciate your sudden understanding, but if you don't wake me up at all, we'll never leave anywhere before noon."
There's a sudden lurch in his stomach and he isn't sure where it comes from, but Erik is packed and dressed and frowning.
"You haven't shaved," he says.
"I haven't done much of anything, yet," Charles agrees, looking down at himself.
"You would rather look unkempt and disheveled than shave."
"Well, someone did throw away my last razor, if you recall," Charles keeps his tone light, because nothing in Erik's bearing is light. He scratches at his chin. It is rather whiskery.
"That thing wasn't a razor."
"Nonetheless," Charles says, shrugging.
Erik is staring, silent. The moment's tense and brittle like ice, something that should be liquid, and isn't.
Charles tries very hard to not think about shaving.
"Go get dressed, Xavier," Erik sighs.
Dismissed, Charles heads back to his room, and tries not to feel like he's leaving with his tail tucked between his legs.