![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nekosmuseTitle: An Ideal Grace (4/?)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Fandom: XMFC, a modern, non-powered AU
Rating: Eventual NC-17 (R for now)
Summary: Charles and Erik as university professors. Need I say more?
Back to chapter 3
Erik ran a hand over the back of his neck, stretching out the kinks from a night of tossing and turning. In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have cut off whatever it was Raven had wanted to talk about--although Erik knew exactly what she was going to say--in order to go to bed early. The end result was a more epic than usual struggle to fall asleep, Erik worn thin by the effort.
It also meant he'd woken at the ungodly hour of 4:30. The light in the bathroom was far too bright for the still twilight streaming in through the window. It made everything harsh and ugly. Erik could barely stand to look at his reflection. He did his best to ignore it as he lathered his face with shaving foam. The white of it made his teeth look yellow. They probably were. He'd only quit smoking--for the millionth time--six months ago.
So far it was looking like it might stick this time--taking up running had helped considerably with that--so possibly it was time to find a dentist, see about one of those whitening procedures. Erik shook his head at the thought. It wasn't like him to pander to vanity.
He shaved quickly, efficiently, then splashed cold water on his face and left the bathroom, patting his face dry with a hand towel as he padded to the kitchen. Erik didn't tend to form attachments to the places he lived, but he rather liked his and Raven's new apartment. The floors were cold--bare tile and endless stretches of wood--but otherwise the building held warmth better than any of the places he'd lived in so far. It bode well for the coming winter--from what little Erik remembered of New York, her winters were cold and damp, the kind of weather that made one want to stay inside for weeks on end.
The hall that ran to the bathroom and bedrooms opened into the front foyer, the kitchen to his left, the main living space straight ahead. Erik was halfway to the island counter that separated the kitchen from the living room when he realized he wasn't alone. He startled, coiling with tension as he prepared for a fight. It was an old reaction--a habit even.
Raven leaned over and clicked on the lamp next to the couch. She looked exhausted, sitting in her terry cloth robe, eyes red rimmed from where she'd obviously been crying.
"Ach, mein Gott, Raven. Are you all right?" Erik asked, wanting to scold her for startling him, but his annoyance vanished when he took in the dark circles under her eyes. She obviously hadn't slept.
It was something she did sometimes; insomnia one of her many demons. It hadn't happened in a while--tended to only when she was stressed or out of sorts. Erik had no doubt he had caused this. He shouldn't have yelled at her last night.
He crossed the room in three short strides and sat gingerly next to her on the sofa, not entirely certain how best to proceed. Sometimes she liked to be touched--an arm around the shoulder, or his fingers laced with hers--but sometimes touching made her skittish, like a frightened animal, more likely to lash out than relax into the comfort Erik was offering.
"Sorry if I woke you," she said, and Erik shook his head, because she hadn't. "It wasn't really your fault," she continued, "I was just mad because you were being a dick and then I got all worked up about it, and then I couldn't sleep."
This, Erik knew, warranted contact, so he placed his hand lightly atop her shoulder, patting her somewhat awkwardly. She leaned into the contact.
"I shouldn't have yelled. And I shouldn't have told you to drop it."
She'd said all of three words, he was cute, before Erik had exploded, had told her to mind her own business and stay the hell out of it. To make matters worse he'd stormed off without giving her a chance to reply. He was a terrible, terrible brother sometimes.
"I didn't realize it was such a touchy subject." Raven shrugged. "He just seemed nice."
"And far, far too young for me," Erik said. He wanted coffee--wanted breakfast too, the Pad Thai they'd eaten before running into Xavier not as filling as he'd hoped it would be.
"He wasn't that young," Raven said. "Twenty five. Twenty six, maybe."
Erik snorted. "He's a student in one of my undergraduate courses. Twenty-one, tops."
Not that age made much difference at this point; although he'd probably feel a lot less bad about it if Xavier was twenty-six--less of a pervert, anyway. It didn't matter, though, because Xavier was still a student and hence off limits.
"Really?" Raven asked. She leaned forward and twisted around to make eye contact. "He didn't look like a student." And he hadn't, not last night, wearing a designer suit that clung to his body, hair tussled like he'd just fallen out of some upscale club.
"Well, he is, and that makes him off limits, so please don't even try to orchestrate whatever it is you're planning to orchestrate."
And that was why he had been so angry with her last night; not because she'd embarrassed him in front of a student--even though she had--but because he knew her well enough to know that the second his back was turned she would find a way to set him and Xavier up. Raven was nothing if not persistent.
"Fine, fine," Raven said, holding up her hands in surrender. "I just thought, what with the way you were looking at him, that you were interested, and I haven't seen you interested in anyone in a very long time--if ever. Also, it was pretty clear he was interested. Are you sure Columbia has rules about those sorts of things? Maybe he's a graduate student."
Erik did not want to be having this conversation. He never wanted to be having this conversation. Yes, Xavier was attractive--far more than Erik wanted him to be--but that didn't mean anything. Lots of people were attractive, and Erik didn't sleep with any of them. Whether Xavier was an undergraduate or a grad student made absolutely no difference.
"It doesn't matter what Columbia's rules are. He's a student, and I'm in a position of authority. I won't take advantage of that, period."
It should have ended the conversation--Erik wanted it to end the conversation--but something in Raven's expression shifted, comprehension written across her features, her mouth falling open and her eyes growing wide. Erik knew what was coming, and dreaded it.
"Is this about Sebastian?" she asked.
Erik didn't dignify the question with an answer, instead letting his hand fall from Raven's shoulder even as he pushed himself off the couch and headed into the kitchen. He still wanted coffee.
"Oh, my god, it is. Erik, that was sixteen years ago."
"And you were twelve, so I'm pretty sure you're not qualified to comment on it."
He knew what it meant to meet someone--the first person who had ever shown Erik any kind of positive attention--and idolize them. Knew what it was like to want to follow in their footsteps, to want to connect with them in any way possible. He thought he was so mature, standing before Professor Sebastian Shaw at seventeen, newly escaped from his childhood misery. He thought they'd fallen in love in defiance of their age differences. He thought they'd kept their relationship hidden only to preserve Sebastian's job.
To find out otherwise had been somewhat life altering.
The process of making coffee--fill the carafe, measure the scoops, line the basket--was distracting, so Erik focused on doing exactly that. Raven had left her place on the couch; had come to stand on the opposite side of the island, leaning against it on her elbows, head resting in the palms of her hands. Her skin, porcelain white, seemed tinted blue by the kitchen light's reflecting against the cerulean counter top.
"I just want you to be happy, you know. To do normal things, like date people."
"I date people," Erik said, even though it was a lie.
His last date was... three years ago, Erik realized. He'd punched the guy in the face after he'd said Erik had a pretty mouth. Too late he'd realized the message had simply gotten lost in translation, the man's English about as rusty as Erik's Lithuanian. He'd figured out later the guy had simply meant to tell him he had a nice smile.
It was entirely possible Raven had a point. Still, "You don't date people."
"That's only because I have issues," Raven said, which Erik thought more than a little preposterous. It wasn't like she was the only one. They lived in a city of eight million people, the vast majority of whom had issues, Erik included.
As if to say as much, Erik gave her a pointed look, one Raven conceded with a slight incline of her head. Erik started the coffee maker brewing. Aside from their breathing, it was the only sound in the early morning pre-dawn.
"Are you going to want a cup?" Erik asked, retrieving two mugs from the cupboard. Raven shook her head. Erik set her cup aside.
"I think I may attempt to salvage some sleep," she said. She sounded grateful--though for their conversation or the end of her insomnia, Erik couldn't say. He watched her leave, listening to the steady drip-drip of the coffee maker until it beeped its completion.
Then he poured himself a cup.
~*~
Charles woke feeling like something had died in his mouth. In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have gone toe to toe with Sean for drinks. It was entirely possible Sean's boast of being able to drink anyone under the table was well earned.
Moira had seemed more than a little unimpressed.
Still, Charles had been floating high on his chance run in with Erik and had wanted to celebrate. After, he'd waved off Moira's concern and promised he'd catch his own cab, and then had gone back to the convenience store to loiter around outside until the store's owner had threatened to call the cops.
It wasn't his best moment, but on the off chance Erik had shown up again, Charles wasn't about to miss out--also, he'd been more than a little drunk and had wanted to fall to his knees and offer to suck Erik's cock. This, of course, was after Charles had announced his intentions to Moira, Sean, Sean's group of friends--including his sister--and half the restaurant who undoubtedly overheard because Charles hadn't exactly kept his voice down. It was probably a good thing one of Sean's friends knew the head chef, because otherwise they probably would have been kicked out long before Charles had gone on his drunken quest to find Erik's cock.
The whole incident had seemed a lot less mortifying last night.
With a degree of effort Charles would have rather not thought about, he levered himself out of bed, stopping with his feet hanging off the mattress while he tried to decide if this morning called for a visit to the porcelain god. He hadn't been that drunk in ages--not since he'd successfully defended his thesis and earned his letters. He'd woken up the next morning beside some burly guy with side burns who'd grunted and then promptly thrown up over the side of Charles' bed. It marked the first time after their breakup that Charles had thought about calling Scott and begging him to take Charles back.
His stomach seemed to be settling, so Charles stood, swaying against a brief wave of light-headedness as he crossed over to the small kitchenette that occupied the south-west corner of the room. His breakfast table--and it was one of the features Charles loved best about his apartment--folded into the wall, Charles releasing its mechanism so that it--and its bench seat--fell into room. He sat on the bench and put his head on the table. Obviously moving had been a really, really bad idea.
Across the room, his iPhone rang.
It was probably Moira, calling to make sure he'd gotten home safe--the only other person he thought might call was his mother, especially since today was Kurt's birthday, but Charles wasn't stupid enough to have given her his mobile number. Fully intending to ignore the ringing, it suddenly occurred to Charles that it might be Erik calling--though how Erik would have gotten his number was something that probably should have, but didn't, occur to Charles.
He shot up, faster than was wise, and dove across the room, finding his phone in the pocket of the jacket he'd worn last night. He cursed when he spotted Moira's name on the display.
"I was hoping you were Erik," he said in lieu of hello.
He could imagine Moira's confused frown. "Why would Erik be calling you?" she asked, sounding more than a little suspicious.
"I honestly have no idea," Charles admitted. He sat down heavily on his bed--the apartment had originally come with a bed, one that folded into the wall like his kitchen table, but Charles hadn't liked the look of it, so he'd had it removed and then had its pocket converted into a built-in bookshelf. Charles' new bed--the first piece of furniture he'd bought with his own money--looked like it belonged in a 1940s asylum, its stainless steel bars as utilitarian as they were kitsch. Charles loved the thing.
He was particularly looking forward to letting Erik handcuff him to the headboard.
It had occurred to him last night, during his convenience store vigil, that he needed more than one plan of attack. Attending Erik's lectures was all well and good--and Charles intended to do exactly that--but he wanted a chance to get to know Erik outside of a classroom--not to mention it was bound to prove more than a little challenging seducing a man in front of a room full of students.
"Do you think Scott would throw a party and then invite me if I asked him?" Charles found himself asking. Erik undoubtedly knew Scott--had met him at least once--so he wouldn't think it at all odd if Scott were to invite him to some sort of social gathering, particularly if Scott also invited the rest of the English department.
"Charles, you cannot use Scott in your bid to woo Erik. It's just not right," Moira said. She probably had a point. It was actually pretty remarkable she'd even known what Charles was talking about.
When Charles didn't say anything, Moira pressed on.
"You know, you could simply make this easy on yourself and just ask the man out." Charles scoffed. He'd tried Moira's approach, more than a few times, and every single one of those times ended in rejection. No, Charles needed to slowly wear his interests down, until they got so exasperated by his constant efforts that they gave in simply to get him to stop.
So far it had worked every time.
Moira, who obviously knew Charles wasn't going take her advice, added, "I suppose you could finagle yourself an invite to that British Poet Laureate shindig next month--I'm fairly certain the entire English department is expected to attend."
Charles perked up at that--as much as he was capable giving his current state. "What shindig?" he asked.
Moira let out an exasperated sigh. This was obviously not why she'd called.
"I don't know much about it, save what Sean was telling me, and he only knows about it because they're borrowing some musicians from the Music Department, but apparently the British Poet Laureate is coming to town and Columbia, in exchange for a speech and some press coverage, is throwing him, or her, a party. Or dinner. Or possibly gala. I'm not even sure the official invitations have gone out yet. Honestly, Charles, just ask him out."
Charles was sitting forward eagerly now, his threatened hangover forgotten. This could be good--this could be really good. He'd have to find out who Britain's Poet Laureate was, of course, read that person's poems, attend on the guise that he was a fan. Erik would be there; they could bond over their shared love of poetry, have a few drinks, and then head back to Charles' apartment to see about those handcuffs.
It was perfect.
"When is this thing?" he asked.
Moira sighed. She sounded particularly long-suffering today.
"You're really not going to listen to me, are you? Fine, have it your way. From what Sean told me, it's near the end of next month."
Charles frowned. There was no possible way he could wait that long. He'd be lucky if he made it to the end of next week before throwing himself at Erik--at the rate things were going, it would probably happen in front of his class. No, that wasn't going to work at all.
Moira, who knew Charles well, interjected before Charles could work himself into a complete lather.
"Why don't you file it away as a backup plan, and in the meantime, try a more standard approach. Invite him to coffee. But before you do that, can you please get your ass to the lab, because I got called in at six this morning by your boy Hank. Apparently he's had a eureka moment and needs you ASAP. I guess you weren't answering your phone."
Charles checked now, and found that he had missed three calls, all from Hank. There were two voice messages and several texts, plus an email. Charles had no recollection of having received any of them, which meant he'd probably been more unconscious than usual--another reason not to go drinking with Sean. It occurred to him then, staring at his phone, that it was fast approaching 10:00. Charles couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so late. He brought the phone back up to his ear.
"I can't make it in until this afternoon. He'll just have to be patient," Charles said. He had absolutely no plans, but he suspected it would be several hours--and pots of coffee--before he was capable of enduring the world outside his door.
Moira grunted something that might have been acceptance--but it might have been a threat against his life, too--and then made her goodbyes. Charles hung up, and then retrieved Hank's email.
Hank had been busy, obviously taking advantage of Charles' lost class to jump head first into their proposed project. That was Hank, though, a devote researcher, who if given the choice would lock himself inside a lab and never come out. He refused to lecture--refused to interact with students at all, unless their research coincided with his. Currently he had at least twelve projects on the go--and how he kept track of all of them, Charles didn't know--though Charles knew he would prioritize theirs. They were trying--and Charles had high hopes they could succeed--to forcibly mutate a series of stem cell genetic markers. If they were successful, it would mark a huge step forward in stem cell research.
Charles suspected he was going to need to order a few pigs for this.
When he was done reading the email, he sent Hank a text letting him know Charles was on his way--he neglected to mention it would be a few hours; Hank would undoubtedly lose track of time anyway, so if Charles showed up in an hour, or three, Hank wouldn't notice the difference. After he was done, he stared at the phone in his hand, and then glanced across the room to his landline. There was no way he was up for calling Kurt just yet, so Charles tossed his iPhone down onto the bed and headed back towards the kitchenette, this time to make coffee.
He made instant, mostly because he was lazy, but also because his mother would be mortified to learn he drank the stuff and Charles--however childish it might be--loved mortifying his mother--even theoretically. Then he grabbed his laptop, meaning only to sort through his usual news blogs, but he'd set his Firefox start page to Google, and the sight of the search box reminded him that he hadn't yet looked Erik up on the internet.
He couldn't believe he hadn't thought to do this earlier. It was usually his first order of business, but obviously meeting Erik had so thoroughly short-circuited his brain that it had turned Charles into an idiot.
Taking a sip from his mug, he cracked his knuckles and then typed in: Erik Lehnsherr.
A world of information appeared at his fingertips. There were profile pages from both Heidelberg and Oxford--where apparently Erik had completed his PhD work and taught for a few years, as well as a number of citations and reference pages--no social media Charles noted, Erik obviously not the kind of guy to subscribe to Facebook or Twitter--but there at the top, the very first link, was a Wikipedia article.
It was sparse--really sparse, like someone had edited it so that it included the bare minimum of information. Charles imagined Erik doing exactly that. He seemed like the kind of guy who valued his privacy; who would go out of his way to ensure his private life remained private.
He read over the brief summary of Erik's academic career--and there was nothing about his personal life--but it was the next section that gave him pause. Erik had published poetry. A lot of poetry. Charles had never dated anyone who wrote poetry before. There was something about the idea that curled his toes--he could just imagine telling his mother, why, yes, mother, I'm dating a poet, why do you ask?.
He googled each of the poems listed, but couldn't find them online. He doubted they were the kind of thing he could just pick up in a bookstore, the work probably appearing in periodicals. He'd have to start at the university libraries. If he couldn't find anything there, he'd contact Oxford--certainly they would at least have his PhD work on hand.
Charles spent the better part of an hour researching Erik--Moira would probably call it stalking, but what did she know? It wasn't that it didn't occasionally occur to him that perhaps this was a little more obsessive than was healthy--after all, what did he really know about the man? He knew he had a lovely speaking voice, and beautiful hands, and penetrating eyes, and the most defined jawline Charles had ever seen, but he only met the man twice--once in the harsh light of a classroom, and once outside an ill lit convenience store. Was Charles really so desperate?
Charles frowned. That sounded like something Moira would say. God, she had finally rubbed off on him. This was all so much easier when Charles was still blissfully unaware of his neuroses.
But no, he decided, finding a picture of Erik attached to his University of Edinburgh profile. There was a decided connection there--Charles knew he wasn't the only one who had felt it. There was chemistry. Besides, it had been years since Charles had met someone who so thoroughly interested him. Probably not since Scott if he was honest--and looking back now, even that had paled in comparison. At the very least, Charles had to try. Besides, what was the worst that could happen?
Feeling reassured, Charles gave up searching the internet for Erik, instead turning his attention to uncovering the identity of the British Poet Laureate. He had no idea who this Sebastian Shaw fellow was, but he, at least, had a handful of poems available online.
Charles couldn't say he was particularly fond of them--some were outright creepy--but if it meant getting on Erik's good side, Charles could certainly pretend to like them.
On to chapter 5
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Fandom: XMFC, a modern, non-powered AU
Rating: Eventual NC-17 (R for now)
Summary: Charles and Erik as university professors. Need I say more?
Back to chapter 3
Erik ran a hand over the back of his neck, stretching out the kinks from a night of tossing and turning. In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have cut off whatever it was Raven had wanted to talk about--although Erik knew exactly what she was going to say--in order to go to bed early. The end result was a more epic than usual struggle to fall asleep, Erik worn thin by the effort.
It also meant he'd woken at the ungodly hour of 4:30. The light in the bathroom was far too bright for the still twilight streaming in through the window. It made everything harsh and ugly. Erik could barely stand to look at his reflection. He did his best to ignore it as he lathered his face with shaving foam. The white of it made his teeth look yellow. They probably were. He'd only quit smoking--for the millionth time--six months ago.
So far it was looking like it might stick this time--taking up running had helped considerably with that--so possibly it was time to find a dentist, see about one of those whitening procedures. Erik shook his head at the thought. It wasn't like him to pander to vanity.
He shaved quickly, efficiently, then splashed cold water on his face and left the bathroom, patting his face dry with a hand towel as he padded to the kitchen. Erik didn't tend to form attachments to the places he lived, but he rather liked his and Raven's new apartment. The floors were cold--bare tile and endless stretches of wood--but otherwise the building held warmth better than any of the places he'd lived in so far. It bode well for the coming winter--from what little Erik remembered of New York, her winters were cold and damp, the kind of weather that made one want to stay inside for weeks on end.
The hall that ran to the bathroom and bedrooms opened into the front foyer, the kitchen to his left, the main living space straight ahead. Erik was halfway to the island counter that separated the kitchen from the living room when he realized he wasn't alone. He startled, coiling with tension as he prepared for a fight. It was an old reaction--a habit even.
Raven leaned over and clicked on the lamp next to the couch. She looked exhausted, sitting in her terry cloth robe, eyes red rimmed from where she'd obviously been crying.
"Ach, mein Gott, Raven. Are you all right?" Erik asked, wanting to scold her for startling him, but his annoyance vanished when he took in the dark circles under her eyes. She obviously hadn't slept.
It was something she did sometimes; insomnia one of her many demons. It hadn't happened in a while--tended to only when she was stressed or out of sorts. Erik had no doubt he had caused this. He shouldn't have yelled at her last night.
He crossed the room in three short strides and sat gingerly next to her on the sofa, not entirely certain how best to proceed. Sometimes she liked to be touched--an arm around the shoulder, or his fingers laced with hers--but sometimes touching made her skittish, like a frightened animal, more likely to lash out than relax into the comfort Erik was offering.
"Sorry if I woke you," she said, and Erik shook his head, because she hadn't. "It wasn't really your fault," she continued, "I was just mad because you were being a dick and then I got all worked up about it, and then I couldn't sleep."
This, Erik knew, warranted contact, so he placed his hand lightly atop her shoulder, patting her somewhat awkwardly. She leaned into the contact.
"I shouldn't have yelled. And I shouldn't have told you to drop it."
She'd said all of three words, he was cute, before Erik had exploded, had told her to mind her own business and stay the hell out of it. To make matters worse he'd stormed off without giving her a chance to reply. He was a terrible, terrible brother sometimes.
"I didn't realize it was such a touchy subject." Raven shrugged. "He just seemed nice."
"And far, far too young for me," Erik said. He wanted coffee--wanted breakfast too, the Pad Thai they'd eaten before running into Xavier not as filling as he'd hoped it would be.
"He wasn't that young," Raven said. "Twenty five. Twenty six, maybe."
Erik snorted. "He's a student in one of my undergraduate courses. Twenty-one, tops."
Not that age made much difference at this point; although he'd probably feel a lot less bad about it if Xavier was twenty-six--less of a pervert, anyway. It didn't matter, though, because Xavier was still a student and hence off limits.
"Really?" Raven asked. She leaned forward and twisted around to make eye contact. "He didn't look like a student." And he hadn't, not last night, wearing a designer suit that clung to his body, hair tussled like he'd just fallen out of some upscale club.
"Well, he is, and that makes him off limits, so please don't even try to orchestrate whatever it is you're planning to orchestrate."
And that was why he had been so angry with her last night; not because she'd embarrassed him in front of a student--even though she had--but because he knew her well enough to know that the second his back was turned she would find a way to set him and Xavier up. Raven was nothing if not persistent.
"Fine, fine," Raven said, holding up her hands in surrender. "I just thought, what with the way you were looking at him, that you were interested, and I haven't seen you interested in anyone in a very long time--if ever. Also, it was pretty clear he was interested. Are you sure Columbia has rules about those sorts of things? Maybe he's a graduate student."
Erik did not want to be having this conversation. He never wanted to be having this conversation. Yes, Xavier was attractive--far more than Erik wanted him to be--but that didn't mean anything. Lots of people were attractive, and Erik didn't sleep with any of them. Whether Xavier was an undergraduate or a grad student made absolutely no difference.
"It doesn't matter what Columbia's rules are. He's a student, and I'm in a position of authority. I won't take advantage of that, period."
It should have ended the conversation--Erik wanted it to end the conversation--but something in Raven's expression shifted, comprehension written across her features, her mouth falling open and her eyes growing wide. Erik knew what was coming, and dreaded it.
"Is this about Sebastian?" she asked.
Erik didn't dignify the question with an answer, instead letting his hand fall from Raven's shoulder even as he pushed himself off the couch and headed into the kitchen. He still wanted coffee.
"Oh, my god, it is. Erik, that was sixteen years ago."
"And you were twelve, so I'm pretty sure you're not qualified to comment on it."
He knew what it meant to meet someone--the first person who had ever shown Erik any kind of positive attention--and idolize them. Knew what it was like to want to follow in their footsteps, to want to connect with them in any way possible. He thought he was so mature, standing before Professor Sebastian Shaw at seventeen, newly escaped from his childhood misery. He thought they'd fallen in love in defiance of their age differences. He thought they'd kept their relationship hidden only to preserve Sebastian's job.
To find out otherwise had been somewhat life altering.
The process of making coffee--fill the carafe, measure the scoops, line the basket--was distracting, so Erik focused on doing exactly that. Raven had left her place on the couch; had come to stand on the opposite side of the island, leaning against it on her elbows, head resting in the palms of her hands. Her skin, porcelain white, seemed tinted blue by the kitchen light's reflecting against the cerulean counter top.
"I just want you to be happy, you know. To do normal things, like date people."
"I date people," Erik said, even though it was a lie.
His last date was... three years ago, Erik realized. He'd punched the guy in the face after he'd said Erik had a pretty mouth. Too late he'd realized the message had simply gotten lost in translation, the man's English about as rusty as Erik's Lithuanian. He'd figured out later the guy had simply meant to tell him he had a nice smile.
It was entirely possible Raven had a point. Still, "You don't date people."
"That's only because I have issues," Raven said, which Erik thought more than a little preposterous. It wasn't like she was the only one. They lived in a city of eight million people, the vast majority of whom had issues, Erik included.
As if to say as much, Erik gave her a pointed look, one Raven conceded with a slight incline of her head. Erik started the coffee maker brewing. Aside from their breathing, it was the only sound in the early morning pre-dawn.
"Are you going to want a cup?" Erik asked, retrieving two mugs from the cupboard. Raven shook her head. Erik set her cup aside.
"I think I may attempt to salvage some sleep," she said. She sounded grateful--though for their conversation or the end of her insomnia, Erik couldn't say. He watched her leave, listening to the steady drip-drip of the coffee maker until it beeped its completion.
Then he poured himself a cup.
~*~
Charles woke feeling like something had died in his mouth. In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have gone toe to toe with Sean for drinks. It was entirely possible Sean's boast of being able to drink anyone under the table was well earned.
Moira had seemed more than a little unimpressed.
Still, Charles had been floating high on his chance run in with Erik and had wanted to celebrate. After, he'd waved off Moira's concern and promised he'd catch his own cab, and then had gone back to the convenience store to loiter around outside until the store's owner had threatened to call the cops.
It wasn't his best moment, but on the off chance Erik had shown up again, Charles wasn't about to miss out--also, he'd been more than a little drunk and had wanted to fall to his knees and offer to suck Erik's cock. This, of course, was after Charles had announced his intentions to Moira, Sean, Sean's group of friends--including his sister--and half the restaurant who undoubtedly overheard because Charles hadn't exactly kept his voice down. It was probably a good thing one of Sean's friends knew the head chef, because otherwise they probably would have been kicked out long before Charles had gone on his drunken quest to find Erik's cock.
The whole incident had seemed a lot less mortifying last night.
With a degree of effort Charles would have rather not thought about, he levered himself out of bed, stopping with his feet hanging off the mattress while he tried to decide if this morning called for a visit to the porcelain god. He hadn't been that drunk in ages--not since he'd successfully defended his thesis and earned his letters. He'd woken up the next morning beside some burly guy with side burns who'd grunted and then promptly thrown up over the side of Charles' bed. It marked the first time after their breakup that Charles had thought about calling Scott and begging him to take Charles back.
His stomach seemed to be settling, so Charles stood, swaying against a brief wave of light-headedness as he crossed over to the small kitchenette that occupied the south-west corner of the room. His breakfast table--and it was one of the features Charles loved best about his apartment--folded into the wall, Charles releasing its mechanism so that it--and its bench seat--fell into room. He sat on the bench and put his head on the table. Obviously moving had been a really, really bad idea.
Across the room, his iPhone rang.
It was probably Moira, calling to make sure he'd gotten home safe--the only other person he thought might call was his mother, especially since today was Kurt's birthday, but Charles wasn't stupid enough to have given her his mobile number. Fully intending to ignore the ringing, it suddenly occurred to Charles that it might be Erik calling--though how Erik would have gotten his number was something that probably should have, but didn't, occur to Charles.
He shot up, faster than was wise, and dove across the room, finding his phone in the pocket of the jacket he'd worn last night. He cursed when he spotted Moira's name on the display.
"I was hoping you were Erik," he said in lieu of hello.
He could imagine Moira's confused frown. "Why would Erik be calling you?" she asked, sounding more than a little suspicious.
"I honestly have no idea," Charles admitted. He sat down heavily on his bed--the apartment had originally come with a bed, one that folded into the wall like his kitchen table, but Charles hadn't liked the look of it, so he'd had it removed and then had its pocket converted into a built-in bookshelf. Charles' new bed--the first piece of furniture he'd bought with his own money--looked like it belonged in a 1940s asylum, its stainless steel bars as utilitarian as they were kitsch. Charles loved the thing.
He was particularly looking forward to letting Erik handcuff him to the headboard.
It had occurred to him last night, during his convenience store vigil, that he needed more than one plan of attack. Attending Erik's lectures was all well and good--and Charles intended to do exactly that--but he wanted a chance to get to know Erik outside of a classroom--not to mention it was bound to prove more than a little challenging seducing a man in front of a room full of students.
"Do you think Scott would throw a party and then invite me if I asked him?" Charles found himself asking. Erik undoubtedly knew Scott--had met him at least once--so he wouldn't think it at all odd if Scott were to invite him to some sort of social gathering, particularly if Scott also invited the rest of the English department.
"Charles, you cannot use Scott in your bid to woo Erik. It's just not right," Moira said. She probably had a point. It was actually pretty remarkable she'd even known what Charles was talking about.
When Charles didn't say anything, Moira pressed on.
"You know, you could simply make this easy on yourself and just ask the man out." Charles scoffed. He'd tried Moira's approach, more than a few times, and every single one of those times ended in rejection. No, Charles needed to slowly wear his interests down, until they got so exasperated by his constant efforts that they gave in simply to get him to stop.
So far it had worked every time.
Moira, who obviously knew Charles wasn't going take her advice, added, "I suppose you could finagle yourself an invite to that British Poet Laureate shindig next month--I'm fairly certain the entire English department is expected to attend."
Charles perked up at that--as much as he was capable giving his current state. "What shindig?" he asked.
Moira let out an exasperated sigh. This was obviously not why she'd called.
"I don't know much about it, save what Sean was telling me, and he only knows about it because they're borrowing some musicians from the Music Department, but apparently the British Poet Laureate is coming to town and Columbia, in exchange for a speech and some press coverage, is throwing him, or her, a party. Or dinner. Or possibly gala. I'm not even sure the official invitations have gone out yet. Honestly, Charles, just ask him out."
Charles was sitting forward eagerly now, his threatened hangover forgotten. This could be good--this could be really good. He'd have to find out who Britain's Poet Laureate was, of course, read that person's poems, attend on the guise that he was a fan. Erik would be there; they could bond over their shared love of poetry, have a few drinks, and then head back to Charles' apartment to see about those handcuffs.
It was perfect.
"When is this thing?" he asked.
Moira sighed. She sounded particularly long-suffering today.
"You're really not going to listen to me, are you? Fine, have it your way. From what Sean told me, it's near the end of next month."
Charles frowned. There was no possible way he could wait that long. He'd be lucky if he made it to the end of next week before throwing himself at Erik--at the rate things were going, it would probably happen in front of his class. No, that wasn't going to work at all.
Moira, who knew Charles well, interjected before Charles could work himself into a complete lather.
"Why don't you file it away as a backup plan, and in the meantime, try a more standard approach. Invite him to coffee. But before you do that, can you please get your ass to the lab, because I got called in at six this morning by your boy Hank. Apparently he's had a eureka moment and needs you ASAP. I guess you weren't answering your phone."
Charles checked now, and found that he had missed three calls, all from Hank. There were two voice messages and several texts, plus an email. Charles had no recollection of having received any of them, which meant he'd probably been more unconscious than usual--another reason not to go drinking with Sean. It occurred to him then, staring at his phone, that it was fast approaching 10:00. Charles couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so late. He brought the phone back up to his ear.
"I can't make it in until this afternoon. He'll just have to be patient," Charles said. He had absolutely no plans, but he suspected it would be several hours--and pots of coffee--before he was capable of enduring the world outside his door.
Moira grunted something that might have been acceptance--but it might have been a threat against his life, too--and then made her goodbyes. Charles hung up, and then retrieved Hank's email.
Hank had been busy, obviously taking advantage of Charles' lost class to jump head first into their proposed project. That was Hank, though, a devote researcher, who if given the choice would lock himself inside a lab and never come out. He refused to lecture--refused to interact with students at all, unless their research coincided with his. Currently he had at least twelve projects on the go--and how he kept track of all of them, Charles didn't know--though Charles knew he would prioritize theirs. They were trying--and Charles had high hopes they could succeed--to forcibly mutate a series of stem cell genetic markers. If they were successful, it would mark a huge step forward in stem cell research.
Charles suspected he was going to need to order a few pigs for this.
When he was done reading the email, he sent Hank a text letting him know Charles was on his way--he neglected to mention it would be a few hours; Hank would undoubtedly lose track of time anyway, so if Charles showed up in an hour, or three, Hank wouldn't notice the difference. After he was done, he stared at the phone in his hand, and then glanced across the room to his landline. There was no way he was up for calling Kurt just yet, so Charles tossed his iPhone down onto the bed and headed back towards the kitchenette, this time to make coffee.
He made instant, mostly because he was lazy, but also because his mother would be mortified to learn he drank the stuff and Charles--however childish it might be--loved mortifying his mother--even theoretically. Then he grabbed his laptop, meaning only to sort through his usual news blogs, but he'd set his Firefox start page to Google, and the sight of the search box reminded him that he hadn't yet looked Erik up on the internet.
He couldn't believe he hadn't thought to do this earlier. It was usually his first order of business, but obviously meeting Erik had so thoroughly short-circuited his brain that it had turned Charles into an idiot.
Taking a sip from his mug, he cracked his knuckles and then typed in: Erik Lehnsherr.
A world of information appeared at his fingertips. There were profile pages from both Heidelberg and Oxford--where apparently Erik had completed his PhD work and taught for a few years, as well as a number of citations and reference pages--no social media Charles noted, Erik obviously not the kind of guy to subscribe to Facebook or Twitter--but there at the top, the very first link, was a Wikipedia article.
It was sparse--really sparse, like someone had edited it so that it included the bare minimum of information. Charles imagined Erik doing exactly that. He seemed like the kind of guy who valued his privacy; who would go out of his way to ensure his private life remained private.
He read over the brief summary of Erik's academic career--and there was nothing about his personal life--but it was the next section that gave him pause. Erik had published poetry. A lot of poetry. Charles had never dated anyone who wrote poetry before. There was something about the idea that curled his toes--he could just imagine telling his mother, why, yes, mother, I'm dating a poet, why do you ask?.
He googled each of the poems listed, but couldn't find them online. He doubted they were the kind of thing he could just pick up in a bookstore, the work probably appearing in periodicals. He'd have to start at the university libraries. If he couldn't find anything there, he'd contact Oxford--certainly they would at least have his PhD work on hand.
Charles spent the better part of an hour researching Erik--Moira would probably call it stalking, but what did she know? It wasn't that it didn't occasionally occur to him that perhaps this was a little more obsessive than was healthy--after all, what did he really know about the man? He knew he had a lovely speaking voice, and beautiful hands, and penetrating eyes, and the most defined jawline Charles had ever seen, but he only met the man twice--once in the harsh light of a classroom, and once outside an ill lit convenience store. Was Charles really so desperate?
Charles frowned. That sounded like something Moira would say. God, she had finally rubbed off on him. This was all so much easier when Charles was still blissfully unaware of his neuroses.
But no, he decided, finding a picture of Erik attached to his University of Edinburgh profile. There was a decided connection there--Charles knew he wasn't the only one who had felt it. There was chemistry. Besides, it had been years since Charles had met someone who so thoroughly interested him. Probably not since Scott if he was honest--and looking back now, even that had paled in comparison. At the very least, Charles had to try. Besides, what was the worst that could happen?
Feeling reassured, Charles gave up searching the internet for Erik, instead turning his attention to uncovering the identity of the British Poet Laureate. He had no idea who this Sebastian Shaw fellow was, but he, at least, had a handful of poems available online.
Charles couldn't say he was particularly fond of them--some were outright creepy--but if it meant getting on Erik's good side, Charles could certainly pretend to like them.
On to chapter 5
