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nekosmuseTitle: An Ideal Grace (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?
Note: Thank you to Dr. A. Drake at UCLA, and Dr. R. Albright at Berkley, and T. Furniss at Strathclyde, for making their lectures available as podcasts.
Back to chapter 4
Midway through the second year of his undergraduate degree, Charles' mother had telephoned to say that the daughter of a family friend was coming to Baltimore to check out Johns Hopkins--Charles' school at the time--in hopes of doing her graduate work there. It was heavily implied that Charles should show her a good time. It was subtly implied that Charles should fall in love with her, marry her, and then produce well bred, well-educated children to continue the family line.
Charles, hung over and more than a little put out--he and Hank, whom Charles had only just met, had spent the better part of the night drinking Jagerbombs while bitching about their prospective families--had promptly announced that he preferred cock and would be more than happy to give Jessica--her name was Jessica--a tour of Baltimore's gay club scene.
Too late, he'd realized, he could have just introduced her to Hank--who seemed destined to a life of bachelorhood--and solved all of their problems.
His mother, horrified, had hung up. Three weeks later, Charles had received a letter--from Kurt of all people--informing him that he had thirty days to remove his belongings from the house or it would be removed for him.
As far as disownings went, it was a fairly clean affair.
A few years later, when Charles was accepted to Oxford to do his masters work--and ironically enough, Charles had started the same year Erik had left, the two of them missing each other by a few scant months--his mother had telephoned--for the first time since his disowning--and told him that she would recognize him as her son provided he never again use such disrespectful language in her presence. In other words, she was perfectly willing to speak with him--though he was still cut off from the family fortune--provided he never again acknowledged his homosexuality in her presence.
Charles had agreed, though mostly to get her off the phone. It was 6:00 in the morning, Oxford time, and Charles was half trapped under the weight of some guy he'd picked up out in front of KA--or King's Arms as the non-locals called it. He didn't think his mother would appreciate the irony.
At the time of his disowning, though, Charles and Hank had borrowed Hank's sister's car and driven to Westchester so that Charles could toss the few belongings he wanted to keep into boxes. No one had been home at the time--his mother and Kurt in Paris on one of their jaunts--so it had been an easy matter to empty his childhood room into seven cardboard boxes, and then load them into the trunk and backseat and cart them back to Baltimore. Charles had been carting them around ever since.
They lived in the basement storage room now, inside Charles' locker that smelled more and more like mildew every time he was forced to root through it. He found the box he was looking for--his collection of spiral notebooks from boarding school, Charles incapable of throwing away anything related to his academic career.
He was rather glad now that he hadn't, because despite having read Lyrical Ballads--which he'd found online, the course text only including a handful of the collection's poems, and its Preface--the Preface twice now--Charles was still rather lost. He distinctly remembered having studied Wordsworth and Coleridge at boarding school, which meant, somewhere in his basement storage repository, Charles had notes on the subject.
It was either that or regurgitate what Wikipedia had to say on the subject, and Charles doubted that was the sort of thing that would impress Erik.
Charles found the box he was looking for, and lugged it up the stairs and into his apartment, setting it on top of the folded out table. Unfolding the flaps filled Charles' nose with the sharp scent of mold, rot and something Charles suspected might have been decay. He wasn't particularly looking forward to searching through the box to find the dead whatever--rat, probably--that was undoubtedly hiding amongst his books. He certainly wasn't looking forward to removing it.
"Ah," Charles said out loud, because apparently the finding was going to be quite easy, the mouse--and it had been a mouse--quite mummified by this point. Wrinkling his brow, Charles grabbed a tea towel from the counter and slid it under the corpse. He then tied the ends in a knot around the body so that Charles could walk it into the hall, where he tossed the bundle--tea towel and all--into the garbage shoot.
After which, he promptly came inside and washed his hands. Twice.
Most of the notebooks were in no condition to be read--the whole bottom half of the box had at one point suffered water damage, the pages in these bottoms books ruined--but the ones on top were still in reasonable shape. It occurred to Charles then that he probably needed to look into a better storage system for his documents. He was fairly certain his PhD thesis was in one of those boxes.
It took the better part of forty minutes to find what he was looking for, Charles flipping through his boyhood notes--and God, there were even notes in the margins of some of them that Charles had completely forgotten having written. Charles could chart the progression of his sexuality simply by doodle alone. By sixth form, Charles had had little doubt regarding his preferences, but looking back now, it quickly became apparent that Charles had at least had some inkling much, much earlier.
He eventually found what he was looking for, a page and a half worth of notes on the collection. Most of the notes focused on the importance of the work, things like dawn of the Romantic Movement and changed course of English poetry highlighted in yellow, though neither would prove particularly helpful now. Apparently they had focused almost entirely on Rime of the Ancient Mariner, because there was a half a page worth of notes on the poem--a good thing, Charles suspected, because it was one of the poems included in the course text.
It still wasn't enough to bolster Charles' confidence--and he wished now that he hadn't left this so late, Monday morning the worst possible time to be attempting a rushed trip into the library. He should have done this yesterday, but Charles could already tell that Hank's enthusiasm for their latest project was going to consume the vast majority of his free time.
He still had a few hours left before Erik's class, though, so he probably had enough time to at least skim a few texts. He'd stop on the way, Charles decided, tucking his old notebook, along with Erik's text books, into his messenger bag. His apartment still smelled vaguely like dead mouse, so Charles waited until he was in the hall to sniff his shirt. The soft scent of laundry detergent along with the subtle scent of his old-spice body wash met his nose. Unaccountably nervous, Charles smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of his pants, and then headed outside.
He had two hours before he was due in Erik's class.
~*~
Weekends always left Erik feeling more than a little out of sorts. Raven was right when she said he lacked a social life--though it had never bothered Erik before. Most of the time he relished his free time; spent it writing or running or dragging Raven to foreign language films--which, in Germany, tended to be English language films, but now that they were in New York, Erik had taken to seeing anything that came with subtitles.
He'd taken her to see a Mandarin film last night, though she had complained bitterly about having to read the dialogue--Raven had never understood his obsession with language. Had Erik not studied literature, he would have undoubtedly studied linguistics. Language fascinated him.
After, he'd taken her to a tiny, out of the way coffeehouse in Greenwich Village, where they'd eaten biscotti and drank overpriced coffee. It was something Raven had always wanted to do--she'd talked about it continuously on the flight from Frankfurt to New York. To her it epitomized New York life. Last night marked the first occasion Erik had had to take her.
It would probably be the last. Erik had hated the experience; had only agreed to go because he still felt bad about Friday night, Raven having spent the whole of Saturday either moping or sleeping, so that by the time Sunday came around, Erik had been willing to do anything she'd asked just to cheer her up.
Now it was Monday again, and Erik felt disoriented by his two day break. He had a class to teach in fifteen minutes, but Erik couldn't bring himself to move, the chair behind his desk strangely comfortable this morning. Erik blinked at the pile of cue-cards sitting before him. He'd written them out with painstaking precision on Saturday night, but today they seemed stilted and forced. All the points he wanted to make seemed obvious and redundant. Erik toyed with the idea of cancelling the class.
It wouldn't be the first time. There were days when his mood was so bleak--the fog that seemed to pierce every corner of his life so thick--that he could do little else save slump in his chair and let time pass.
Today was one of those days.
There was a rap against his closed door, Erik's visitor revealing himself to be Janos as the door swung open, Janos coming inside, two cups of coffee in his hands. Wordlessly, he handed one to Erik.
Erik smiled appreciatively.
Janos seemed to have a sixth sense about these things--or maybe he'd just been working under Erik for too long, Janos a semester away from completing his thesis. He'd been with Erik from the beginning. Erik wasn't looking forward to having to replace him.
"I guess we should get this show on the road," Erik said, sipping his coffee even as he collected his cue-cards. He'd probably end up ignoring most of what he'd written, but that was okay--sometimes his best lectures came from the heart.
Janos nodded, a curt incline of his head, and then fell into step at Erik's side. They headed outside and crossed over to Hamilton Hall. It was a stunningly beautiful day--Erik hadn't registered that this morning, had only felt the exhaustion of two days idleness, but he registered it now. He'd travelled enough in his life that he was used to such oddities in the weather, New York no different from Berlin or London or Paris. The bridge between seasons was never seamless, and although Erik would have preferred a straight march from summer to winter, he was willing to accept the peaks and dips in temperature, if only because the peaks made him that much more likely to lace on some runners and get outside.
He could tell from the noise, even before he entered the room, that his 4402 class was again filled to capacity. He exchanged a brief glance with Janos--who seemed to feel they should just kick out the students who weren't meant to be there--and then headed inside. The room fell instantly quiet, all eyes tracking his progress across the room and to the podium. Once there, Erik let his gaze sweep across the room.
Immediately his gaze fell on Charles Xavier, who was sitting at the very front of the class today. He was leaned back in his chair, legs crossed casually, head cocked to the side as he caught Erik's eye. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Erik acknowledged him with a slight nod.
If someone asked him at the end of class, after his students had left, to describe or even name any of the people currently sitting before him, Erik was fairly certain he'd flounder. People didn't grab his attention--not like this, anyway--and when they did it was through the slow, steady progress of their work. Janos had grabbed his attention after Erik had read his first paper, but even then his only interest in Janos had been in helping to shape his mind. He wanted for Janos the things someone should have wanted for him, when Erik had started this journey oh so long ago now.
But Xavier; not only did Erik know his name, but he could describe in intimate detail exactly what he was wearing--loose blue cardigan buttoned over a white collared shirt and neatly pressed grey slacks. Raven was right; he didn't look like a typical student. Scrutinizing him now--which Erik attempted to do without actually looking in Xavier's direction--Erik could tell that he was older than Erik had first assumed. Raven's assessment of twenty-five, twenty-six probably wasn't far off. That would undoubtedly make him a graduate student, and one near the end of his studies--unless of course he'd come to the university as a mature student, which Erik had seen happen on more than one occasion. It was entirely possible Xavier had needed to take on a job first, earn some money--or maybe he'd simply wanted to have some fun, do the whole touring Europe thing that seemed big among the Americans Erik had met in Germany.
Either way, he felt marginally better for having noticed Xavier at all--not that he wasn't still off limits, but at least Erik felt secure in the knowledge that he wasn't perving on some seventeen year old.
God, he was only thirty-four. Shaw had been five years older than he was now when they'd first met. What the hell had Erik been thinking? For that matter, what had Shaw? It didn't bear thinking about, so Erik glanced down at his notes, and started the lecture.
The principal object, then, which I proposed to myself in these Poems was to choose incidents and situations from common life, and to relate or describe them, throughout, as far as was possible, in a selection of language really used by men; and, at the same time, to throw over them a certain colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary things should be presented to the mind in an unusual way; and, further, and above all, to make these incidents and situations interesting by tracing in them, truly though not ostentatiously, the primary laws of our nature: chiefly, as far as regards the manner in which we associate ideas in a state of excitement.
He glanced up to find the class watching with rapt attention. Xavier's lips were parted.
"Today we take for granted that poetry is a form of self-expression. We write--and I hope you all do write, even if it's only for yourself, because writing your own poetry is as essential in understanding the art as studying the works of others--in order to give a personal reflection of our interactions with ourselves and the world around us. This wasn't always the case.
"There was a time when poetry was meant only as an imitation of action, or an object fashioned to teach or please, but all of that changed with the Romantics. This is why studying Wordsworth is so crucial, because it is he who first sets us on the path we are on today; but more importantly, it is he who first tells us we are on the path. He maps it out, in perfect detail, contained entirely within his Preface to Lyrical Ballads."
Erik paused. Aside from the quote, none of this was what he'd written down. He was swept up in it now, his passion for the subject coming through in the candor of his tone.
"So how does Wordsworth describe poetry?" Erik asked.
He was expecting to have to lead the class--despite the answer being right there, written in black and white in Wordsworth's Preface. He did not expect Xavier to simply begin speaking; to quote directly from the Preface without ever once glancing at the page.
Erik's heart may have stuttered a little in his chest.
For all good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: and though this be true, Poems to which any value can be attached were never produced on any variety of subjects but by a man who, being possessed of more than usual organic sensibility, had also thought long and deeply.
For a moment, all Erik could do was stare. He was acutely aware of the class, waiting with baited breath--though whether they were waiting to see if Xavier had gotten the right answer, or whether they were simply interested in the exchange, Erik couldn't say. He cleared his throat, and swore Xavier's smile grew mischievous.
"The exact quote I was looking for, yes," Erik said, "but what does it mean?" He was hoping, but not really expecting Xavier to be able to answer.
"It means good poetry is an externalization of internal emotions. The poet takes what is inside him and projects it out into the world. This can't happen without contemplation, without the poet knowing himself, which is why Wordsworth tells us the poet has thought long and deeply. He also tells us the subject is unimportant; that it is only the depth of the poets understanding; the honesty of their feelings."
It occurred to Erik then that Xavier might be in want of an advisor--perhaps that was why he had been so friendly--and that Erik would soon be in want of a graduate student. The thought was alarming--though mostly because it would mean working in constant close quarters with Xavier and try as Erik might he could not picture spending time locked in his office with Xavier; at least, not without violating his own code of ethics.
"Very well said, Mr. Xavier," Erik said, needing to break contact before he got too caught up in their conversation. He suspected the other students might complain if he spent the whole of the class ignoring them.
He turned to another student, "Ms. Grey," he said, hoping he'd gotten the name right. She was one of the few students who had approached him during his office hours to ask after a particularly tricky passage. "Can you give us an example from Wordsworth's poetry that shows us why, at the time, this was such a radical concept?"
He let her answer sweep over him, keeping his eyes glued to her face even as he registered the poise of Xavier's posture; the way he watched with open interest, seeming genuinely enthralled by the subject. Ms. Grey's answer wasn't nearly as confident as Xavier's, but she made a few good points, all of which Erik pointed out, even as he dragged the conversation in a new direction, this time touching on Wordsworth's use of nature as a theme for highlighting his stance on good poetry and the new role of the poet.
~*~
Charles had a tendency to get a little more worked up than he perhaps needed to--something that had been dogging him ever since he was a child. He knew he was an intelligent man--had a genius level IQ--that he picked up and understood things faster and more instinctively than most. He also knew that unless he knew a subject inside and out--like he did genetics--he felt hopelessly inferior and incapable of providing an opinion.
It was perhaps why he had spent so much time preparing for this lecture--reading and rereading the entire collection of poems even when it turned out they were only covering the Preface today. It was also why he'd stopped at the library on his way in; although he had only managed to read a few papers on Lyrical Ballads before he was distracted by a search for Erik's poetry.
He'd found only one, a poem called House of M that was part of the collection that had won Erik the Griffin Poetry Prize--and then only because the Griffin Prize released an annual anthology that included one poem from each of the short listed collections.
The poem seemed to be about a woman succumbing to mental breakdown following the loss of her children. It was a hauntingly beautiful poem--in Charles' opinion--poignant and written with such open vulnerability that Charles' breath had caught in his throat. It was hard to sit in class now, watching Erik lecture, interacting with Erik, and not think of that poem--not imagine the painstaking effort that had gone into it creation, or the agony Erik had undoubtedly felt in writing it.
Erik's lecture was coming to an end now--and Charles could have listened to him all day--Charles realizing that he had dominated the better part of Erik's interaction with his students. He probably should have felt bad about that--he wasn't technically a student, so it probably wasn't his place, never mind that he was probably distracting from Erik's actual students' education. Charles frowned at that. If he was honestly they probably didn't care; some, he imagined, were probably thankful for Charles distracting Erik's attention.
Still, he'd contributed a lot to today's discussion--so much so in fact that every time Erik asked a new question, he first glanced in Charles' direction and offered an arched eyebrow. Charles answered, even when he wasn't entirely certain, always giving his opinion--even if he had to think about it first. Erik seemed more and more delighted as the lecture wore on. Charles mentally tallied today as a victory.
It was an easy thing, to approach Erik at the end of class. Charles was even starting to think that maybe Moira was right; maybe he should just cut to the chase and ask Erik out.
He wasn't the only one wanting a minute of Erik's time, however, two girls Charles didn't recognize--not his former students then--beating him to the front of the room. One of the girls turned and offered Charles a shy, somewhat coy smile. Charles startled. It wasn't the first time a student had hit on him, but it still left Charles feeling incredibly awkward. He never knew what to do in these situations; never knew how best to turn someone down without damaging their self-esteem.
In the end, he decided his best course of action was to smile non-committedly and then promptly ignore her.
He stood aside as the girls asked Erik their questions--and it was obvious the second girl, the one not smiling at Charles, had only wanted a moment to bask in Erik's presence--waiting until they had left to step forward. Erik's eyes flashed when he turned and found Charles standing there.
"You're very good at that," Charles said, elaborating at the confused expression that settled over Erik's features. "The lecturing, I mean."
"Thank you," Erik said. "Your contribution to the lecture was very insightful. It's nice to meet someone who shares my passion."
Charles was fairly certain he had undoubtedly lit up like a Christmas tree. He practically beamed. "I feel bad, though, dominating the discussion; I don't want to distract from anyone's education."
Erik laughed even as he shook his head. "It's fine. I for one appreciate a keen mind who is actually interested in learning."
Charles took that for what it was--an invitation to continue attending Erik's lectures. It was entirely possible Erik honestly enjoyed having someone willing to contribute to the discussion in his class, but Charles was hoping it was also because he wanted an excuse to continue seeing Charles--although, if that were the case, Charles wasn't sure why Erik didn't just ask him out. Certainly Charles had made no effort to hide his own interest. Maybe Erik was just the type to enjoy a long, leisurely seduction. He was European, after all.
Still, Erik's interest made for an interesting opening, so Charles stepped forward, leaned his hip against the podium and gave Erik his most seductive smile.
"Are you planning on attending that Poet Laureate affair?" he asked, already planning his next move. Erik would say yes, and Charles would suggest they attend together, and then say that maybe they ought to grab coffee before that.
He wasn't expecting Erik's expression to grow cloudy with confusion.
"What Poet Laureate affair?" he asked, and Charles remembered then that Moira wasn't certain whether the invitations had gone out. Obviously they hadn't.
"I'm not sure if it's official yet, but rumour has it Britain's Poet Laureate is coming to Columbia next month. I guess they're throwing him a big to-do."
Charles wasn't sure what he was expecting--at worse indifference, at best excitement--but he wasn't expecting Erik's face to fall, something Charles could only identify as horror creeping into his expression. He looked as though someone had just murdered his entire family, right before his eyes. Charles froze, all his carefully practiced lines abandoning him as he floundered, uncertain what had just happened.
"Are you all right?" he settled on asking, bringing a hand up to touch Erik's forearm--he'd marvel later at the solid warmth he found there.
Erik flinched at the contact, causing Charles to draw his hand back as though burnt. He watched, mystified and more than a little concerned, as Erik mastered himself, shoulders squaring as his expression shifted into something more neutral.
"I'm fine," he said. He glanced over his shoulder, towards the door, where his TA was now waiting, seeming utterly confused by what he was witnessing. Charles cleared his throat.
"Was it something I said?" he asked.
"No. No, I'm sorry; I just have to go. I'll see you on Wednesday."
Charles watched, feeling both perplexed and dejected as Erik all but fled from the room--he hadn't even bothered to take his notes, which were still spread across the podium. Erik's TA glanced between Charles and Erik's retreating back, and then silently slipped from the room to follow Erik down the hall. Charles hesitated for the briefest of moments before gathering the things Erik had left behind, tucking them neatly into his messenger bag--though not before he had admired Erik's penmanship.
Whatever had happened, at the very least, Erik still wanted to see him on Wednesday. Charles took that to heart as he left the room, Erik growing increasingly more fascinating the longer Charles knew him.
On to chapter 6
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?
Note: Thank you to Dr. A. Drake at UCLA, and Dr. R. Albright at Berkley, and T. Furniss at Strathclyde, for making their lectures available as podcasts.
Back to chapter 4
Midway through the second year of his undergraduate degree, Charles' mother had telephoned to say that the daughter of a family friend was coming to Baltimore to check out Johns Hopkins--Charles' school at the time--in hopes of doing her graduate work there. It was heavily implied that Charles should show her a good time. It was subtly implied that Charles should fall in love with her, marry her, and then produce well bred, well-educated children to continue the family line.
Charles, hung over and more than a little put out--he and Hank, whom Charles had only just met, had spent the better part of the night drinking Jagerbombs while bitching about their prospective families--had promptly announced that he preferred cock and would be more than happy to give Jessica--her name was Jessica--a tour of Baltimore's gay club scene.
Too late, he'd realized, he could have just introduced her to Hank--who seemed destined to a life of bachelorhood--and solved all of their problems.
His mother, horrified, had hung up. Three weeks later, Charles had received a letter--from Kurt of all people--informing him that he had thirty days to remove his belongings from the house or it would be removed for him.
As far as disownings went, it was a fairly clean affair.
A few years later, when Charles was accepted to Oxford to do his masters work--and ironically enough, Charles had started the same year Erik had left, the two of them missing each other by a few scant months--his mother had telephoned--for the first time since his disowning--and told him that she would recognize him as her son provided he never again use such disrespectful language in her presence. In other words, she was perfectly willing to speak with him--though he was still cut off from the family fortune--provided he never again acknowledged his homosexuality in her presence.
Charles had agreed, though mostly to get her off the phone. It was 6:00 in the morning, Oxford time, and Charles was half trapped under the weight of some guy he'd picked up out in front of KA--or King's Arms as the non-locals called it. He didn't think his mother would appreciate the irony.
At the time of his disowning, though, Charles and Hank had borrowed Hank's sister's car and driven to Westchester so that Charles could toss the few belongings he wanted to keep into boxes. No one had been home at the time--his mother and Kurt in Paris on one of their jaunts--so it had been an easy matter to empty his childhood room into seven cardboard boxes, and then load them into the trunk and backseat and cart them back to Baltimore. Charles had been carting them around ever since.
They lived in the basement storage room now, inside Charles' locker that smelled more and more like mildew every time he was forced to root through it. He found the box he was looking for--his collection of spiral notebooks from boarding school, Charles incapable of throwing away anything related to his academic career.
He was rather glad now that he hadn't, because despite having read Lyrical Ballads--which he'd found online, the course text only including a handful of the collection's poems, and its Preface--the Preface twice now--Charles was still rather lost. He distinctly remembered having studied Wordsworth and Coleridge at boarding school, which meant, somewhere in his basement storage repository, Charles had notes on the subject.
It was either that or regurgitate what Wikipedia had to say on the subject, and Charles doubted that was the sort of thing that would impress Erik.
Charles found the box he was looking for, and lugged it up the stairs and into his apartment, setting it on top of the folded out table. Unfolding the flaps filled Charles' nose with the sharp scent of mold, rot and something Charles suspected might have been decay. He wasn't particularly looking forward to searching through the box to find the dead whatever--rat, probably--that was undoubtedly hiding amongst his books. He certainly wasn't looking forward to removing it.
"Ah," Charles said out loud, because apparently the finding was going to be quite easy, the mouse--and it had been a mouse--quite mummified by this point. Wrinkling his brow, Charles grabbed a tea towel from the counter and slid it under the corpse. He then tied the ends in a knot around the body so that Charles could walk it into the hall, where he tossed the bundle--tea towel and all--into the garbage shoot.
After which, he promptly came inside and washed his hands. Twice.
Most of the notebooks were in no condition to be read--the whole bottom half of the box had at one point suffered water damage, the pages in these bottoms books ruined--but the ones on top were still in reasonable shape. It occurred to Charles then that he probably needed to look into a better storage system for his documents. He was fairly certain his PhD thesis was in one of those boxes.
It took the better part of forty minutes to find what he was looking for, Charles flipping through his boyhood notes--and God, there were even notes in the margins of some of them that Charles had completely forgotten having written. Charles could chart the progression of his sexuality simply by doodle alone. By sixth form, Charles had had little doubt regarding his preferences, but looking back now, it quickly became apparent that Charles had at least had some inkling much, much earlier.
He eventually found what he was looking for, a page and a half worth of notes on the collection. Most of the notes focused on the importance of the work, things like dawn of the Romantic Movement and changed course of English poetry highlighted in yellow, though neither would prove particularly helpful now. Apparently they had focused almost entirely on Rime of the Ancient Mariner, because there was a half a page worth of notes on the poem--a good thing, Charles suspected, because it was one of the poems included in the course text.
It still wasn't enough to bolster Charles' confidence--and he wished now that he hadn't left this so late, Monday morning the worst possible time to be attempting a rushed trip into the library. He should have done this yesterday, but Charles could already tell that Hank's enthusiasm for their latest project was going to consume the vast majority of his free time.
He still had a few hours left before Erik's class, though, so he probably had enough time to at least skim a few texts. He'd stop on the way, Charles decided, tucking his old notebook, along with Erik's text books, into his messenger bag. His apartment still smelled vaguely like dead mouse, so Charles waited until he was in the hall to sniff his shirt. The soft scent of laundry detergent along with the subtle scent of his old-spice body wash met his nose. Unaccountably nervous, Charles smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of his pants, and then headed outside.
He had two hours before he was due in Erik's class.
~*~
Weekends always left Erik feeling more than a little out of sorts. Raven was right when she said he lacked a social life--though it had never bothered Erik before. Most of the time he relished his free time; spent it writing or running or dragging Raven to foreign language films--which, in Germany, tended to be English language films, but now that they were in New York, Erik had taken to seeing anything that came with subtitles.
He'd taken her to see a Mandarin film last night, though she had complained bitterly about having to read the dialogue--Raven had never understood his obsession with language. Had Erik not studied literature, he would have undoubtedly studied linguistics. Language fascinated him.
After, he'd taken her to a tiny, out of the way coffeehouse in Greenwich Village, where they'd eaten biscotti and drank overpriced coffee. It was something Raven had always wanted to do--she'd talked about it continuously on the flight from Frankfurt to New York. To her it epitomized New York life. Last night marked the first occasion Erik had had to take her.
It would probably be the last. Erik had hated the experience; had only agreed to go because he still felt bad about Friday night, Raven having spent the whole of Saturday either moping or sleeping, so that by the time Sunday came around, Erik had been willing to do anything she'd asked just to cheer her up.
Now it was Monday again, and Erik felt disoriented by his two day break. He had a class to teach in fifteen minutes, but Erik couldn't bring himself to move, the chair behind his desk strangely comfortable this morning. Erik blinked at the pile of cue-cards sitting before him. He'd written them out with painstaking precision on Saturday night, but today they seemed stilted and forced. All the points he wanted to make seemed obvious and redundant. Erik toyed with the idea of cancelling the class.
It wouldn't be the first time. There were days when his mood was so bleak--the fog that seemed to pierce every corner of his life so thick--that he could do little else save slump in his chair and let time pass.
Today was one of those days.
There was a rap against his closed door, Erik's visitor revealing himself to be Janos as the door swung open, Janos coming inside, two cups of coffee in his hands. Wordlessly, he handed one to Erik.
Erik smiled appreciatively.
Janos seemed to have a sixth sense about these things--or maybe he'd just been working under Erik for too long, Janos a semester away from completing his thesis. He'd been with Erik from the beginning. Erik wasn't looking forward to having to replace him.
"I guess we should get this show on the road," Erik said, sipping his coffee even as he collected his cue-cards. He'd probably end up ignoring most of what he'd written, but that was okay--sometimes his best lectures came from the heart.
Janos nodded, a curt incline of his head, and then fell into step at Erik's side. They headed outside and crossed over to Hamilton Hall. It was a stunningly beautiful day--Erik hadn't registered that this morning, had only felt the exhaustion of two days idleness, but he registered it now. He'd travelled enough in his life that he was used to such oddities in the weather, New York no different from Berlin or London or Paris. The bridge between seasons was never seamless, and although Erik would have preferred a straight march from summer to winter, he was willing to accept the peaks and dips in temperature, if only because the peaks made him that much more likely to lace on some runners and get outside.
He could tell from the noise, even before he entered the room, that his 4402 class was again filled to capacity. He exchanged a brief glance with Janos--who seemed to feel they should just kick out the students who weren't meant to be there--and then headed inside. The room fell instantly quiet, all eyes tracking his progress across the room and to the podium. Once there, Erik let his gaze sweep across the room.
Immediately his gaze fell on Charles Xavier, who was sitting at the very front of the class today. He was leaned back in his chair, legs crossed casually, head cocked to the side as he caught Erik's eye. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Erik acknowledged him with a slight nod.
If someone asked him at the end of class, after his students had left, to describe or even name any of the people currently sitting before him, Erik was fairly certain he'd flounder. People didn't grab his attention--not like this, anyway--and when they did it was through the slow, steady progress of their work. Janos had grabbed his attention after Erik had read his first paper, but even then his only interest in Janos had been in helping to shape his mind. He wanted for Janos the things someone should have wanted for him, when Erik had started this journey oh so long ago now.
But Xavier; not only did Erik know his name, but he could describe in intimate detail exactly what he was wearing--loose blue cardigan buttoned over a white collared shirt and neatly pressed grey slacks. Raven was right; he didn't look like a typical student. Scrutinizing him now--which Erik attempted to do without actually looking in Xavier's direction--Erik could tell that he was older than Erik had first assumed. Raven's assessment of twenty-five, twenty-six probably wasn't far off. That would undoubtedly make him a graduate student, and one near the end of his studies--unless of course he'd come to the university as a mature student, which Erik had seen happen on more than one occasion. It was entirely possible Xavier had needed to take on a job first, earn some money--or maybe he'd simply wanted to have some fun, do the whole touring Europe thing that seemed big among the Americans Erik had met in Germany.
Either way, he felt marginally better for having noticed Xavier at all--not that he wasn't still off limits, but at least Erik felt secure in the knowledge that he wasn't perving on some seventeen year old.
God, he was only thirty-four. Shaw had been five years older than he was now when they'd first met. What the hell had Erik been thinking? For that matter, what had Shaw? It didn't bear thinking about, so Erik glanced down at his notes, and started the lecture.
The principal object, then, which I proposed to myself in these Poems was to choose incidents and situations from common life, and to relate or describe them, throughout, as far as was possible, in a selection of language really used by men; and, at the same time, to throw over them a certain colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary things should be presented to the mind in an unusual way; and, further, and above all, to make these incidents and situations interesting by tracing in them, truly though not ostentatiously, the primary laws of our nature: chiefly, as far as regards the manner in which we associate ideas in a state of excitement.
He glanced up to find the class watching with rapt attention. Xavier's lips were parted.
"Today we take for granted that poetry is a form of self-expression. We write--and I hope you all do write, even if it's only for yourself, because writing your own poetry is as essential in understanding the art as studying the works of others--in order to give a personal reflection of our interactions with ourselves and the world around us. This wasn't always the case.
"There was a time when poetry was meant only as an imitation of action, or an object fashioned to teach or please, but all of that changed with the Romantics. This is why studying Wordsworth is so crucial, because it is he who first sets us on the path we are on today; but more importantly, it is he who first tells us we are on the path. He maps it out, in perfect detail, contained entirely within his Preface to Lyrical Ballads."
Erik paused. Aside from the quote, none of this was what he'd written down. He was swept up in it now, his passion for the subject coming through in the candor of his tone.
"So how does Wordsworth describe poetry?" Erik asked.
He was expecting to have to lead the class--despite the answer being right there, written in black and white in Wordsworth's Preface. He did not expect Xavier to simply begin speaking; to quote directly from the Preface without ever once glancing at the page.
Erik's heart may have stuttered a little in his chest.
For all good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: and though this be true, Poems to which any value can be attached were never produced on any variety of subjects but by a man who, being possessed of more than usual organic sensibility, had also thought long and deeply.
For a moment, all Erik could do was stare. He was acutely aware of the class, waiting with baited breath--though whether they were waiting to see if Xavier had gotten the right answer, or whether they were simply interested in the exchange, Erik couldn't say. He cleared his throat, and swore Xavier's smile grew mischievous.
"The exact quote I was looking for, yes," Erik said, "but what does it mean?" He was hoping, but not really expecting Xavier to be able to answer.
"It means good poetry is an externalization of internal emotions. The poet takes what is inside him and projects it out into the world. This can't happen without contemplation, without the poet knowing himself, which is why Wordsworth tells us the poet has thought long and deeply. He also tells us the subject is unimportant; that it is only the depth of the poets understanding; the honesty of their feelings."
It occurred to Erik then that Xavier might be in want of an advisor--perhaps that was why he had been so friendly--and that Erik would soon be in want of a graduate student. The thought was alarming--though mostly because it would mean working in constant close quarters with Xavier and try as Erik might he could not picture spending time locked in his office with Xavier; at least, not without violating his own code of ethics.
"Very well said, Mr. Xavier," Erik said, needing to break contact before he got too caught up in their conversation. He suspected the other students might complain if he spent the whole of the class ignoring them.
He turned to another student, "Ms. Grey," he said, hoping he'd gotten the name right. She was one of the few students who had approached him during his office hours to ask after a particularly tricky passage. "Can you give us an example from Wordsworth's poetry that shows us why, at the time, this was such a radical concept?"
He let her answer sweep over him, keeping his eyes glued to her face even as he registered the poise of Xavier's posture; the way he watched with open interest, seeming genuinely enthralled by the subject. Ms. Grey's answer wasn't nearly as confident as Xavier's, but she made a few good points, all of which Erik pointed out, even as he dragged the conversation in a new direction, this time touching on Wordsworth's use of nature as a theme for highlighting his stance on good poetry and the new role of the poet.
~*~
Charles had a tendency to get a little more worked up than he perhaps needed to--something that had been dogging him ever since he was a child. He knew he was an intelligent man--had a genius level IQ--that he picked up and understood things faster and more instinctively than most. He also knew that unless he knew a subject inside and out--like he did genetics--he felt hopelessly inferior and incapable of providing an opinion.
It was perhaps why he had spent so much time preparing for this lecture--reading and rereading the entire collection of poems even when it turned out they were only covering the Preface today. It was also why he'd stopped at the library on his way in; although he had only managed to read a few papers on Lyrical Ballads before he was distracted by a search for Erik's poetry.
He'd found only one, a poem called House of M that was part of the collection that had won Erik the Griffin Poetry Prize--and then only because the Griffin Prize released an annual anthology that included one poem from each of the short listed collections.
The poem seemed to be about a woman succumbing to mental breakdown following the loss of her children. It was a hauntingly beautiful poem--in Charles' opinion--poignant and written with such open vulnerability that Charles' breath had caught in his throat. It was hard to sit in class now, watching Erik lecture, interacting with Erik, and not think of that poem--not imagine the painstaking effort that had gone into it creation, or the agony Erik had undoubtedly felt in writing it.
Erik's lecture was coming to an end now--and Charles could have listened to him all day--Charles realizing that he had dominated the better part of Erik's interaction with his students. He probably should have felt bad about that--he wasn't technically a student, so it probably wasn't his place, never mind that he was probably distracting from Erik's actual students' education. Charles frowned at that. If he was honestly they probably didn't care; some, he imagined, were probably thankful for Charles distracting Erik's attention.
Still, he'd contributed a lot to today's discussion--so much so in fact that every time Erik asked a new question, he first glanced in Charles' direction and offered an arched eyebrow. Charles answered, even when he wasn't entirely certain, always giving his opinion--even if he had to think about it first. Erik seemed more and more delighted as the lecture wore on. Charles mentally tallied today as a victory.
It was an easy thing, to approach Erik at the end of class. Charles was even starting to think that maybe Moira was right; maybe he should just cut to the chase and ask Erik out.
He wasn't the only one wanting a minute of Erik's time, however, two girls Charles didn't recognize--not his former students then--beating him to the front of the room. One of the girls turned and offered Charles a shy, somewhat coy smile. Charles startled. It wasn't the first time a student had hit on him, but it still left Charles feeling incredibly awkward. He never knew what to do in these situations; never knew how best to turn someone down without damaging their self-esteem.
In the end, he decided his best course of action was to smile non-committedly and then promptly ignore her.
He stood aside as the girls asked Erik their questions--and it was obvious the second girl, the one not smiling at Charles, had only wanted a moment to bask in Erik's presence--waiting until they had left to step forward. Erik's eyes flashed when he turned and found Charles standing there.
"You're very good at that," Charles said, elaborating at the confused expression that settled over Erik's features. "The lecturing, I mean."
"Thank you," Erik said. "Your contribution to the lecture was very insightful. It's nice to meet someone who shares my passion."
Charles was fairly certain he had undoubtedly lit up like a Christmas tree. He practically beamed. "I feel bad, though, dominating the discussion; I don't want to distract from anyone's education."
Erik laughed even as he shook his head. "It's fine. I for one appreciate a keen mind who is actually interested in learning."
Charles took that for what it was--an invitation to continue attending Erik's lectures. It was entirely possible Erik honestly enjoyed having someone willing to contribute to the discussion in his class, but Charles was hoping it was also because he wanted an excuse to continue seeing Charles--although, if that were the case, Charles wasn't sure why Erik didn't just ask him out. Certainly Charles had made no effort to hide his own interest. Maybe Erik was just the type to enjoy a long, leisurely seduction. He was European, after all.
Still, Erik's interest made for an interesting opening, so Charles stepped forward, leaned his hip against the podium and gave Erik his most seductive smile.
"Are you planning on attending that Poet Laureate affair?" he asked, already planning his next move. Erik would say yes, and Charles would suggest they attend together, and then say that maybe they ought to grab coffee before that.
He wasn't expecting Erik's expression to grow cloudy with confusion.
"What Poet Laureate affair?" he asked, and Charles remembered then that Moira wasn't certain whether the invitations had gone out. Obviously they hadn't.
"I'm not sure if it's official yet, but rumour has it Britain's Poet Laureate is coming to Columbia next month. I guess they're throwing him a big to-do."
Charles wasn't sure what he was expecting--at worse indifference, at best excitement--but he wasn't expecting Erik's face to fall, something Charles could only identify as horror creeping into his expression. He looked as though someone had just murdered his entire family, right before his eyes. Charles froze, all his carefully practiced lines abandoning him as he floundered, uncertain what had just happened.
"Are you all right?" he settled on asking, bringing a hand up to touch Erik's forearm--he'd marvel later at the solid warmth he found there.
Erik flinched at the contact, causing Charles to draw his hand back as though burnt. He watched, mystified and more than a little concerned, as Erik mastered himself, shoulders squaring as his expression shifted into something more neutral.
"I'm fine," he said. He glanced over his shoulder, towards the door, where his TA was now waiting, seeming utterly confused by what he was witnessing. Charles cleared his throat.
"Was it something I said?" he asked.
"No. No, I'm sorry; I just have to go. I'll see you on Wednesday."
Charles watched, feeling both perplexed and dejected as Erik all but fled from the room--he hadn't even bothered to take his notes, which were still spread across the podium. Erik's TA glanced between Charles and Erik's retreating back, and then silently slipped from the room to follow Erik down the hall. Charles hesitated for the briefest of moments before gathering the things Erik had left behind, tucking them neatly into his messenger bag--though not before he had admired Erik's penmanship.
Whatever had happened, at the very least, Erik still wanted to see him on Wednesday. Charles took that to heart as he left the room, Erik growing increasingly more fascinating the longer Charles knew him.
On to chapter 6
