![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nekosmuseTitle: An Ideal Grace (9/?)
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?
Author's note: Erik's poetry was written by the lovely afrocurl. There are no words to express how grateful I am to her lending her talent to this verse. Her insight into Erik's soul is stunning and guaranteed to break your heart. Even if you're not reading this story, you should be reading her poetry.
Back to chapter 8
For the first time in perhaps his entire career, Erik was early for a class.
He wasn't sure what he was hoping for--and okay, that was a lie, he knew exactly what he was hoping for. He was hoping Charles would show up early, too, maybe give Erik another chance to say yes--and he wanted to say yes; after a night of tossing and turning and regretting his decision he wanted to say yes.
Not that he could. It was one thing to idly fantasize about the possibility. It was another to actually go through with it; to violate every ethic he had set for himself. Still, he wanted...
To see Charles, he supposed. To know that their connection was still there--that it would maybe last the semester, and then Charles would tell him he wouldn't be back the next, that he was graduating, and Erik would offer his congratulations along with an invitation to dinner.
Erik had never been wanting for imagination.
It was strange to stand at the front of an empty room. Erik tended to time his arrival until the very minute class started--mostly to avoid having to talk to those early birds who seemed convinced he existed solely for their questions. Today he was set up and waiting long before the first students trickled in--none of them Charles. Charles was always here when he arrived, but Erik didn't know if that was because he had arrived a minute or ten before Erik. He hoped it was ten. He wanted the chance to re-gain their footing.
The few students who were early seemed startled to find him there. They sat near the back of the class, glancing between him and each other, the occasional wisp of whispered conversation reaching his ears. Erik ignored them. He did his best to appear nonchalant; leaned against the podium, coffee within reach, open text in front of him. They were finishing Wordsworth today, and he was particularly looking forward to hearing Charles' views on the actual poems.
He was also looking forward to hearing Charles' opinions on his poems. After Charles had left, Erik had made himself sick with worry--a stupid thing, considering most of his work had seen publication, had been critiqued by more people than he could count. Still, it was different sharing his work with the people in his life--and somewhere along the way Charles had become one of those people. His work was personal, a window to the soul, and he was terrified Charles would find his wanting.
Erik glanced up as another student entered the room, well aware that he probably appeared far more eager than he wanted to appear. It wasn't Charles stumbling through the door, but rather, Janos. He looked worried. Erik had left him a note, but considering Erik had never left a note--nor had he arrived for a class early--he couldn't really blame Janos for his worry. Erik offered him a reassuring smile. Janos calmed instantly and crossed the room to Erik's side.
"Is there something going on today that I don't know about?" he asked in a forced stage-whisper, as though he'd forgotten a quiz or assignment.
"No, I just wanted to come early today," Erik answered, which seemed to confuse Janos to no end, though he didn't say anything further.
Instead he dropped his stuff on the back table, pulled out the day's handouts, and began circulating them around the room.
The hour trickled away as the room slowly filled, more and more students--and where had they all come from, Erik still wondered--piling into the room. There weren't enough desks to hold them all, so that by the time the class was due to start, at least half a dozen were forced to stand.
None of them were Charles.
Erik frowned, and then waited an extra five minutes--much to the confusion of his students, who whispered amongst themselves, and Janos, who watched Erik warily. Five minutes into the start of class, Erik decided that Charles probably wasn't coming--would he never come again? Had Erik scared him off? Had he given up? Would Erik never see him again?
He started his lecture.
Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.
He could tell immediately today's lecture was going to be forced, his tone listless, his enthusiasm absent. He was distracted, and there were few in the class willing to participate without direct prompting. He did his best to muddle through his introduction, though he remained acutely aware that something--someone--was missing.
~*~
Charles sat cross-legged in the middle of his bed, coffee balanced on his knee. He stared at the time display on his iPhone, watching as it clicked over to 8:15. He was officially missing Erik's class.
He'd debated going, though mostly because he was hoping yesterday had been a fluke and today Erik would smile at him and engage him in conversation and then maybe apologize for yesterday and invite Charles to coffee.
It was exactly those kinds of delusions that had decided Charles against going, because he knew full well that wasn't going to happen, and the last thing he wanted to do was torment himself.
No, Moira was right; a clean break was what he needed. He'd focus this week on his work--Hank would undoubtedly be pleased--and on preparing for midterms--which were still several weeks away, but Charles had a tendency to wait until the last minute so maybe this year he wouldn't be struggling to set exam questions the night before. Then this weekend he'd let Moira take him out, and if he was lucky, he'd meet someone new and Erik would be a distant memory, just another one of the ones that got away.
Charles' stomach rolled with nausea at the thought, but he told himself his milk had just gone off, that he would drink his next coffee black and he would be fine. It didn't stop him from glancing across the room, to where his messenger bag sat on the floor where it had landed last night.
Erik's poems were still inside, unread.
That was the thing he didn't understand, because why would Erik give him a collection of poems if he wasn't interested? That wasn't the sort of thing people did; was it? It wasn't like Charles would be able to say much about them. Certainly Erik didn't expect him to critique them; did he? Or maybe he was trying to tell Charles something. Maybe he was trying to give Charles insight into his psyche. Maybe the answers to Charles' questions were right there, in that binder, just waiting for Charles to seek them out.
Then again, maybe Charles would end up just as confused as he was now, if not more so.
This wasn't the first time Charles had had this debate.
"Oh, to hell with it," Charles said, draining his coffee and then climbing off the bed. He crossed to the kitchen counter, where he deposited his mug, and then over to his messenger bag, where he pulled out Erik's binder.
Either way he'd get an answer. If there was nothing in them--if they gave no insight into why Erik had spent the last few weeks toying with him--then Charles would simply consider himself justified in his decision to move on. If, on the other hand, there was something in them that explained Erik's behavior, then Charles could come up with a new plan of attack. Either option was better than this endless wondering.
Charles brought the binder back to the bed, sat down, and flipped it open to the first page.
Outsider was not a poem Charles had read before, but he recognized the title from Wikipedia's list, and if he remembered correctly, it was one of the first works Erik had published.
Reading it left Charles with goose bumps, a chill running down his spine as he tried to figure out what it meant. Had Erik's life really been filled with such pain? And what could have possibly caused it? He would have been so young when he'd written it; surely no one could know such agony at such a young age. Charles was no stranger to a dysfunctional childhood, but this--and he didn't think it could be about anything else--wasn't something he could comprehend. The Erik who wrote this must have been so lost--so helpless. Unbidden, Charles felt tears come to his eyes.
He flipped the page.
The second piece, Lost Child gave perhaps a clearer picture of Erik's agony. He had lost someone--Charles wondered briefly who, but worried he already knew the answer. There was something in this piece that reminded Charles of himself, in the years after his father's death. He barely remembered the man now, but he remembered then feeling so utterly, utterly alone.
Try as he might, though, he couldn't figure out who Erik's you might have been. A past love, Charles suspected--was this why Erik kept himself apart? Had he had his heart broken? Was he still in love with this person? In lieu of the answers Charles was hoping for, it seemed he was only left with more questions.
He read until his eyes began to cross, his vision blurred by tears. The more he read, the more he wanted to know this man--the more he felt a sense of connection that went beyond mere attraction. He was convinced Erik would never have shared something so personal--and Charles studiously ignored the fact that Erik had already shared these with the world at large--unless it meant something. It had to mean something. Erik wanted Charles to know him--to understand him--and why would he have done that if he wasn't interested?
As he neared the end of the binder, it became apparent that Erik's poetry revolved around several common themes. He wrote a lot about a tormented childhood--one filled with loss and displacement and isolation, even cruelty. Charles read 214782 twice, weeping harder the second time for the boy undoubtedly trapped by life's cruel fate. His poems spoke of love--the kind that seemed more akin to hero worship than anything innocent and pure of heart--and of such anger that Charles could only assume someone had thoroughly broken Erik's heart. Was this what Erik was trying to tell him? Had he been so burned by love that he was afraid to try again?
It was too simple an answer, Charles knew, but he was grasping at straws--he wanted something, anything to help him understand. It was a long time before he set the binder aside, still with the intention of reading it anew--several times before it was returned to its owner.
He'd missed the better part of Erik's class now, but there was still half a morning to waste away, so Charles wiped the still wet tracks from his cheeks, and then crawled back into his bed. Perhaps Moira was right about this too; perhaps the extra sleep would do him some good.
~*~
Erik was early for his appointment with Dr. Frost. It seemed to be a reappearing theme this week.
He wasn't even entirely certain this appointment was still standing. He'd missed his last official one--from two weeks ago--and had had it rescheduled for last week, and had since then added an impromptu appointment after finding out about Shaw. This would mark his third appointment inside of eight days. For someone whose appointments were scheduled every other week, it seemed a little excessive.
Still, there were things he wanted to talk to Dr. Frost about, especially after yesterday. It was hard to verbalize exactly how disappointed he'd been when his class ended without any sign of Charles. He'd spent the better part of the afternoon--including his Critical Methods class--moping, debating whether or not to track Charles down and apologize for any offense he might have caused.
Erik shook his head at that, the entire notion ridiculous, because Charles wasn't even registered in the class, which meant he was likely attending because of his interest in Erik--hell, Erik was perfectly aware that a good number of his students weren't there for the poetry--and that faced with Erik's rejection his interest in the class had undoubtedly waned.
He'd probably never see Charles again; something Erik very much didn't want to think about, however much he thought it might be for the best.
Angel, who was actually surprised to see him--Erik usually arrived ten minutes into the start of his session, never mind that he was paying for those ten minutes--kept giving him circuitous glances over the top of her desk, but Erik studiously ignored her. He kept his eyes trained on Dr. Frost's door, though he was still surprised when it swung open, Dr. Frost's last patient slipping from the room.
Erik didn't recognize the girl--young and unmemorable, though Erik recognized the despair that hooded her eyes. He'd seen that same expression in the mirror more times than he could count.
Dr. Frost, who had walked the girl to the door, started when she saw him sitting there. She glanced to her watch, then back to Erik, before finally turning her attention to the girl. Erik sat patiently as she made her goodbyes. Dr. Frost waited until the girl vanished through the door before giving Erik her full attention.
"You're early today, Erik," she said.
Erik stood, suddenly feeling awkward and uncertain.
"I wasn't sure if we were still on today," he said.
"Of course we are," Dr. Frost said, gesturing him through the door. For the first time since Erik had started coming here, she followed him into the room, the door clicking shut behind her.
Erik had already crossed to his chair and settled--he hadn't worn a coat today, the week's weather still unseasonably warm--before Dr. Frost took her customary place behind her desk. He didn't wait for her open the conversation--he didn't want to recount his last appointment, or talk about Shaw, or talk about Raven, or any of that. He just wanted her to fix him.
"You help people. That's what you do. It's your job," Erik said. Dr. Frost hesitated, but after a moment's consideration, she nodded.
"That is what I'm here for," she said.
"But can you actually make people better. Can you fix them?"
Now Dr. Frost frowned. Her gaze become searching, as though the answer to Erik's riddle was written in his irises. If only it were that easy, Erik mused.
"My job is to guide people down the path to self-healing, Erik," she said.
Erik scowled at that. He didn't want her sugar-coated, text-book answer. He wanted black or white, yes or no. Either she could help him or she couldn't; that was all that mattered.
"Can we cut the BS?" he asked. "I just want to know if you can make me normal."
And of course it could never be that simple--Erik knew that. He also knew that normal was a relative term; that there were few in the world that fit that definition. Still, he hoped she at least understood what he was driving at.
"What makes you abnormal, Erik?" she asked instead, which meant, no, she hadn't understood. Erik wasn't sure why he'd expected anything more.
He thought about leaving then--thought about what it might mean. He was still so very angry at Shaw--and if he thought about it long enough, he realized this whole mess with Charles was entirely Shaw's fault. He was still in danger of seeking Shaw out and hurting him, though he thought he'd at least conquered his urge to kill Shaw. What worried him more, though, was his impulse to seek Charles out, to start something that would probably end in disaster and heartbreak. What other option did he have?
Erik stayed.
"I've had a pretty fucked up life," he said.
Dr. Frost, who was listening more intently than Erik had ever seen, didn't say anything. Erik pressed on, needing to get it out quickly if he was going to get it out at all.
"My parents died when I was young, and I had to live in all these foster homes, places no child should ever be forced to live. Bad things happened; things I don't ever want to talk about. And then, when I finally get out, I stumble into a bad relationship where I get seriously taken advantage of, and now I'm afraid I'm going to end up hurting someone, because that's all I've ever been taught."
He'd just told Dr. Frost more about his life--and his reasons for being here--in half a minute than he had in the months he'd been seeing her. For the longest time she didn't say anything; merely sat and absorbed what Erik had just told her. He could almost see her putting the pieces together, coming up with a narrative for why Erik was the way he was.
He wondered if he should have told her that the only good thing his life had ever given him was Raven. Perhaps then he wouldn't seem so inhuman.
"Is there someone in particular you are worried about hurting?" Dr. Frost finally asked. It was a very leading question. Erik almost burst into laughter--he restrained himself mostly for fear it would come out as hysterical crying.
"Does it matter?" he asked. "I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want to be better than the people who were supposed to be my role models."
There was no way he could say it any better than that. He wanted to be the better man. Was that really too much to ask?
"It is not usually my place to judge my patients, Erik, but I can assure you, because you are here, because this worries you, that you are already the better man. The people who hurt you--and that includes Sebastian Shaw--did so without conscience. If nothing else, I hope that you come away from our sessions knowing that you are better than that.
It was a suffocating thing to hear, something that had not occurred to him until now. He tried to picture Sebastian in his place, fretting over the things he was doing to Erik--and all the others--and could not. Still, he had not told her everything. How could she possibly know without the whole of it? Erik released a shuddering breath.
"I think I might be falling in love with one of my students," he said.
It seemed the fastest way to get to the point.
~*~
The week dragged.
There was no other way to put it. It moved forward at a snail's pace, Charles stuck knee-deep in molasses. He taught classes. He ran labs. He graded quizzes. He ran samples at Hank's direction, Charles too preoccupied by his misery to find his own inspiration. In short, he moped.
Charles was not used to moping. It wasn't something he did--at least, not for any extended period of time. By the time Friday rolled around, he was more or less completely miserable, and had pretty much done his best to make everyone around him miserable too--he'd even called his mother to congratulate him on fucking him up so much that he couldn't even attract a nice guy, and wasn't she just so proud of that, because now he'd have to turn straight and find some girl to settle down with and congratulations, mommy, dearest, you've finally won.
And okay, that last part was only what he'd wanted to say. Mostly he'd told his mother's answering machine that it looked like he wasn't going to make it home for any of the holidays this year--not that he ever did, but on some off chance that it mattered, that she cared, he always called to let her know.
When Moira came to see him on Friday evening, he was convinced he was going to cancel their night out. He didn't want to go out to a club. He didn't want to get drunk or dance or make out with some random guy in the restroom. He wanted to go home, curl up on his bed, and read Erik's poetry--again.
"Dear God, Charles," Moira said when she saw him.
She'd been particularly busy this week, and hadn't seen him since Wednesday. Charles offered her a half-hearted smile from where he sat, behind his desk, buried in lab reports.
"When was the last time you even shaved?" she asked.
Charles shrugged, because did it matter? Moira seemed to think so, because she strode across Charles' office, pushed aside his reports, grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him to his feet. Charles had always been a little intimidated by Moira's forthrightness, but never more so than he was in that moment. He tried to muster his most beseeching expression, but was fairly certain all that came out was a pathetic looking pout.
"You are going to go home, eat something that isn't coffee," she said, casting a pointed glance to the dozen or so empty cups littering his desk. "And then you're going to shower--you definitely need to shower--shave and then put on some clean, nice clothes. Sean and I will be by to pick you up at 9:30."
Charles started shaking his head, because really, he just wasn't up for it, but Moira's expression brooked no argument, so Charles swallowed nervously and then nodded--which was exactly how he found himself, not four hours later, sitting pressed between Moira and Sean in a cab, heading towards Hellfire.
They'd gone early, specifically to avoid the lines that would undoubtedly form in an hour or so. The club was only just starting to fill and the hollowness of it was startling--the last time Charles had been at Hellfire, it was packed beyond capacity and he'd had to press through dozens of sweat-soaked bodies just to reach the bar. Not that Charles had minded.
Now it was an easy walk to the bar, the bartender--a broad shouldered man whose tan looked red under the strobe lights--frowned when he caught sight of Moira, but it shifted into a smile as his gaze slid across to Sean.
Sean, oblivious to the man's attention, ordered drinks for everyone, laughing good-naturedly at whatever it was that the bartender was saying. They chatted amicably for a few minutes before Moira managed to drag Sean away, Charles feeling his mood improve for the first time in days.
He patted Sean as they found an unoccupied corner booth. Charles slid across first, letting Moira claim the middle seat, Sean the end.
"What?" Sean asked when they were seated, having to shout over the music, which was already startlingly loud. The base of it reverberated off the bench, pulsing in Charles' chest. He already felt drunk off it.
"If he asks you if you want a blow job, he's not talking about a drink," Charles advised. Sean turned scarlet, but he laughed, shaking his head even as he shot Moira a fond look.
"The things I do for you," he said.
It wasn't terrible. They spent the first hour cloistered around their booth, watching as the club slowly filled. By the time 11:00 rolled around, it was impossible to see beyond their little corner of the club, the place packed with bodies. Charles nursed his first drink--unlike him in these sorts of situations--and then his second. By the time he'd finished his third, he felt comfortable enough to get up and dance.
He knew, even without having been told--and he'd been told numerous times--that his dancing resembled more of a drunken shuffle than anything anyone might have called dancing, but he was fortunately the kind of person for whom awkward drunken dancing looked more adorable than pathetic. There were times when his youthful appearance tended to pay off, and this was one of them.
Within minutes he was no longer in want of dance partners--he even had a few guys tuck phone numbers into his pockets, copping feels while they were at it, but Charles was fuzzy enough by that point not to mind. It wasn't perfect--he found himself analyzing each guy who entered his field of vision, each time finding the prospect wanting. Six songs later, he still had no interest of taking up any of the offers he'd received--nor did he have any interest in issuing his own.
At the end of the next song, he shuffled back to his booth, where Moira and Sean were sitting side by side, laughing softly at the club's more daring patrons.
"Anyone?" Moira asked as soon as Charles was close enough to hear. Charles shook his head.
"Is it wrong that every guy I meet doesn't come close to comparing? I keep thinking; his eyes aren't green enough, or his cheekbones aren't high enough, or his accent isn't German enough. Not that I'm not having a good time," and he was, in a way, "but I don't think this is going to work."
Still, it had got him out of his house--and more importantly, out of his funk--so he couldn't help but be grateful.
"Come on, why don't we go make a circuit of the club. Maybe someone will catch your eye," Moira suggested. She paused briefly to confer with Sean, but he merely waved her on her way, so Moira slid from the booth and offered Charles a hand.
Charles took it, and let her navigate them through the crowd.
It was hard not to get swept up in the enthusiasm of the club. Charles' body pulsed with alcohol and the steady thrum of music, his vision blurred by flashing lights and the occasional wisp of smoke. Bodies painted with glitter skirted the edge of his vision, Charles registering then just how young most of the guys here were. God, maybe he was getting too old for this. Maybe he was going about this all wrong. It was no wonder he had no interest in taking any of these people home. Hell, now that he was looking, at least half of them had blown pupils. Twice in their circuit Charles was asked if he wanted to roll, three people offering him Tina, and at least one of the numbers he'd pulled from his pocket had PNP written beside the guy's number.
What was he doing here?
He reached forward to grab Moira's shoulder, pulling her back until she was close enough to speak into her ear.
"See something you like?" she asked, like this was a fucking candy store and these kids--oh, God, they were all kids--were something Charles could just buy. When he was younger, he used to make fun of the guys his age he saw in clubs like this. What the hell had happened?
"No. Decidedly not, and I think it's time we go," he said.
Moira looked momentarily surprised, but as soon as she caught his expression she nodded, glancing back to their booth--which they were nearing again--to find Sean chatting with a couple of guys.
"Let me just go extract my boyfriend. If you want, we'll meet you outside."
Charles nodded.
It was only steady determination that got him outside without another dozen or so numbers in his pocket--circling the club with Moira had been like walking around with repellent, their path easily navigated. As soon as he was through the door--and the line now stretched around the corner--he released a steady breath.
"Three coming out," he told the bouncer, who looked vaguely familiar until Charles realized he'd slept with the guy--and wasn't that just great. In a desperate bid to get away, Charles turned away from the crowd and slipped into the short alley between Hellfire and its neighbouring building.
He stood there breathing steadily, trying to clear his head for several minutes before he realized he wasn't alone. The scent of cigarette smoke reached his nose, Charles turning just as Raven stood, recognition dawning on her features.
"Oh my God, it's you," she said, standing from where she was sat on some rusty iron steps that led out of the club's fire exit.
"Raven, isn't it?" Charles asked, stepping forward to meet her. She smiled even as she nodded.
"What are you doing here, Charles?" she asked, and either she had a good memory for names, or Erik had mentioned him since their one and only introduction. Charles really hoped it was the latter.
It didn't answer her question, which was still hanging in the air between them. It was entirely probable that Charles had had too much to drink, because his first instinct was blunt honesty.
"Trying to get over your brother, actually," he said.
Raven's expression fell.
"Oh don't do that," she said. Charles wasn't sure what to say to that, so he simply stared at her, well aware that he probably looked as dumbfounded as he felt. "I know Erik can be a bit of an ass, but he likes you; he really, really does. He just has some boundary issues, but trust me he'll get over them. You just need to give him time."
That was more of an answer than Charles was expecting. Certainly it was more than he'd gotten from Erik's poetry. It still wasn't entirely reassuring.
"He likes me?" he asked, because that seemed to be Charles' sticking point, and really, it could mean almost anything.
Raven gave him a pointed look, tilting her head even as she raised her eyebrows.
"He's writing poetry about you," she said, and that... Charles had no idea what to do with that.
He felt himself smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, a goofy, teeth-filled smile appearing on his face. Given his current state of inebriation, he probably looked like a complete idiot--and he was glad now it was Raven he had run into and not Erik.
"Really?" he asked, sounding far, far too self-conscious to his own ears. Raven nodded, her expression turning conspiratorial. She leaned towards him.
"He's practically obsessed with you."
Charles brought his hand to his mouth, eyes growing wide as he tried to process what Raven was telling him. He felt giddy just thinking about it. In his entire life no one had ever been obsessed with him. It was always him nursing an obsession until he convinced the object of his desire to give him a chance. He had never been pursued; never been chased.
Give him time, Raven had said. Charles could do that. He could give Erik all the time in the world if it eventually meant having him--and Charles rather intended to keep him forever after that.
"Okay, good. Okay," Charles managed, because, really, what else was there to say?
Raven, who had finished her smoke, tossed the butt down onto the ground and stubbed it out with her heel. She offered Charles a pleased smile.
"Give me your phone," she said. Charles didn't hesitate in doing so.
As soon as she had it she pulled out hers and copied over his number, then added one to his before handing it back. Charles, who was expecting Raven's, was startled to find she'd given him Erik's. His breath caught in his throat.
"Don't call him, yet. Wait until you hear from me, but for God's sake, please start attending his lectures. If I have to deal with him moping again because you didn't turn up for class I'm going have to kill him."
Hearing that was just icing on the cake, because Charles had rather convinced himself that Erik wouldn't care that Charles had stopped attending his lectures. To learn otherwise made him even giddier than he already was--which, honestly, Charles wouldn't have thought possible. He smiled at Raven, even as he cradled his iPhone to his chest.
"I can do that," he said. Raven nodded, and then glanced over her shoulder. It occurred to Charles then that she probably worked here. He hadn't seen her inside, but then it was rather hard to find anyone in Hellfire--even if you were looking for them.
"I should get back," she said, so Charles let her go, still grinning when Moira and Sean found him five minutes later. Moira's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline when she saw him.
"It's only been ten minutes. What happened?" she demanded, clearing thinking he'd scored in that short period of time--and to be fair, it wasn't without precedence.
Charles didn't say anything. He merely lifted his phone and showed her Erik's number.
On to chapter 10
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?
Author's note: Erik's poetry was written by the lovely afrocurl. There are no words to express how grateful I am to her lending her talent to this verse. Her insight into Erik's soul is stunning and guaranteed to break your heart. Even if you're not reading this story, you should be reading her poetry.
Back to chapter 8
For the first time in perhaps his entire career, Erik was early for a class.
He wasn't sure what he was hoping for--and okay, that was a lie, he knew exactly what he was hoping for. He was hoping Charles would show up early, too, maybe give Erik another chance to say yes--and he wanted to say yes; after a night of tossing and turning and regretting his decision he wanted to say yes.
Not that he could. It was one thing to idly fantasize about the possibility. It was another to actually go through with it; to violate every ethic he had set for himself. Still, he wanted...
To see Charles, he supposed. To know that their connection was still there--that it would maybe last the semester, and then Charles would tell him he wouldn't be back the next, that he was graduating, and Erik would offer his congratulations along with an invitation to dinner.
Erik had never been wanting for imagination.
It was strange to stand at the front of an empty room. Erik tended to time his arrival until the very minute class started--mostly to avoid having to talk to those early birds who seemed convinced he existed solely for their questions. Today he was set up and waiting long before the first students trickled in--none of them Charles. Charles was always here when he arrived, but Erik didn't know if that was because he had arrived a minute or ten before Erik. He hoped it was ten. He wanted the chance to re-gain their footing.
The few students who were early seemed startled to find him there. They sat near the back of the class, glancing between him and each other, the occasional wisp of whispered conversation reaching his ears. Erik ignored them. He did his best to appear nonchalant; leaned against the podium, coffee within reach, open text in front of him. They were finishing Wordsworth today, and he was particularly looking forward to hearing Charles' views on the actual poems.
He was also looking forward to hearing Charles' opinions on his poems. After Charles had left, Erik had made himself sick with worry--a stupid thing, considering most of his work had seen publication, had been critiqued by more people than he could count. Still, it was different sharing his work with the people in his life--and somewhere along the way Charles had become one of those people. His work was personal, a window to the soul, and he was terrified Charles would find his wanting.
Erik glanced up as another student entered the room, well aware that he probably appeared far more eager than he wanted to appear. It wasn't Charles stumbling through the door, but rather, Janos. He looked worried. Erik had left him a note, but considering Erik had never left a note--nor had he arrived for a class early--he couldn't really blame Janos for his worry. Erik offered him a reassuring smile. Janos calmed instantly and crossed the room to Erik's side.
"Is there something going on today that I don't know about?" he asked in a forced stage-whisper, as though he'd forgotten a quiz or assignment.
"No, I just wanted to come early today," Erik answered, which seemed to confuse Janos to no end, though he didn't say anything further.
Instead he dropped his stuff on the back table, pulled out the day's handouts, and began circulating them around the room.
The hour trickled away as the room slowly filled, more and more students--and where had they all come from, Erik still wondered--piling into the room. There weren't enough desks to hold them all, so that by the time the class was due to start, at least half a dozen were forced to stand.
None of them were Charles.
Erik frowned, and then waited an extra five minutes--much to the confusion of his students, who whispered amongst themselves, and Janos, who watched Erik warily. Five minutes into the start of class, Erik decided that Charles probably wasn't coming--would he never come again? Had Erik scared him off? Had he given up? Would Erik never see him again?
He started his lecture.
Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.
He could tell immediately today's lecture was going to be forced, his tone listless, his enthusiasm absent. He was distracted, and there were few in the class willing to participate without direct prompting. He did his best to muddle through his introduction, though he remained acutely aware that something--someone--was missing.
~*~
Charles sat cross-legged in the middle of his bed, coffee balanced on his knee. He stared at the time display on his iPhone, watching as it clicked over to 8:15. He was officially missing Erik's class.
He'd debated going, though mostly because he was hoping yesterday had been a fluke and today Erik would smile at him and engage him in conversation and then maybe apologize for yesterday and invite Charles to coffee.
It was exactly those kinds of delusions that had decided Charles against going, because he knew full well that wasn't going to happen, and the last thing he wanted to do was torment himself.
No, Moira was right; a clean break was what he needed. He'd focus this week on his work--Hank would undoubtedly be pleased--and on preparing for midterms--which were still several weeks away, but Charles had a tendency to wait until the last minute so maybe this year he wouldn't be struggling to set exam questions the night before. Then this weekend he'd let Moira take him out, and if he was lucky, he'd meet someone new and Erik would be a distant memory, just another one of the ones that got away.
Charles' stomach rolled with nausea at the thought, but he told himself his milk had just gone off, that he would drink his next coffee black and he would be fine. It didn't stop him from glancing across the room, to where his messenger bag sat on the floor where it had landed last night.
Erik's poems were still inside, unread.
That was the thing he didn't understand, because why would Erik give him a collection of poems if he wasn't interested? That wasn't the sort of thing people did; was it? It wasn't like Charles would be able to say much about them. Certainly Erik didn't expect him to critique them; did he? Or maybe he was trying to tell Charles something. Maybe he was trying to give Charles insight into his psyche. Maybe the answers to Charles' questions were right there, in that binder, just waiting for Charles to seek them out.
Then again, maybe Charles would end up just as confused as he was now, if not more so.
This wasn't the first time Charles had had this debate.
"Oh, to hell with it," Charles said, draining his coffee and then climbing off the bed. He crossed to the kitchen counter, where he deposited his mug, and then over to his messenger bag, where he pulled out Erik's binder.
Either way he'd get an answer. If there was nothing in them--if they gave no insight into why Erik had spent the last few weeks toying with him--then Charles would simply consider himself justified in his decision to move on. If, on the other hand, there was something in them that explained Erik's behavior, then Charles could come up with a new plan of attack. Either option was better than this endless wondering.
Charles brought the binder back to the bed, sat down, and flipped it open to the first page.
Outsider was not a poem Charles had read before, but he recognized the title from Wikipedia's list, and if he remembered correctly, it was one of the first works Erik had published.
Reading it left Charles with goose bumps, a chill running down his spine as he tried to figure out what it meant. Had Erik's life really been filled with such pain? And what could have possibly caused it? He would have been so young when he'd written it; surely no one could know such agony at such a young age. Charles was no stranger to a dysfunctional childhood, but this--and he didn't think it could be about anything else--wasn't something he could comprehend. The Erik who wrote this must have been so lost--so helpless. Unbidden, Charles felt tears come to his eyes.
He flipped the page.
The second piece, Lost Child gave perhaps a clearer picture of Erik's agony. He had lost someone--Charles wondered briefly who, but worried he already knew the answer. There was something in this piece that reminded Charles of himself, in the years after his father's death. He barely remembered the man now, but he remembered then feeling so utterly, utterly alone.
Try as he might, though, he couldn't figure out who Erik's you might have been. A past love, Charles suspected--was this why Erik kept himself apart? Had he had his heart broken? Was he still in love with this person? In lieu of the answers Charles was hoping for, it seemed he was only left with more questions.
He read until his eyes began to cross, his vision blurred by tears. The more he read, the more he wanted to know this man--the more he felt a sense of connection that went beyond mere attraction. He was convinced Erik would never have shared something so personal--and Charles studiously ignored the fact that Erik had already shared these with the world at large--unless it meant something. It had to mean something. Erik wanted Charles to know him--to understand him--and why would he have done that if he wasn't interested?
As he neared the end of the binder, it became apparent that Erik's poetry revolved around several common themes. He wrote a lot about a tormented childhood--one filled with loss and displacement and isolation, even cruelty. Charles read 214782 twice, weeping harder the second time for the boy undoubtedly trapped by life's cruel fate. His poems spoke of love--the kind that seemed more akin to hero worship than anything innocent and pure of heart--and of such anger that Charles could only assume someone had thoroughly broken Erik's heart. Was this what Erik was trying to tell him? Had he been so burned by love that he was afraid to try again?
It was too simple an answer, Charles knew, but he was grasping at straws--he wanted something, anything to help him understand. It was a long time before he set the binder aside, still with the intention of reading it anew--several times before it was returned to its owner.
He'd missed the better part of Erik's class now, but there was still half a morning to waste away, so Charles wiped the still wet tracks from his cheeks, and then crawled back into his bed. Perhaps Moira was right about this too; perhaps the extra sleep would do him some good.
~*~
Erik was early for his appointment with Dr. Frost. It seemed to be a reappearing theme this week.
He wasn't even entirely certain this appointment was still standing. He'd missed his last official one--from two weeks ago--and had had it rescheduled for last week, and had since then added an impromptu appointment after finding out about Shaw. This would mark his third appointment inside of eight days. For someone whose appointments were scheduled every other week, it seemed a little excessive.
Still, there were things he wanted to talk to Dr. Frost about, especially after yesterday. It was hard to verbalize exactly how disappointed he'd been when his class ended without any sign of Charles. He'd spent the better part of the afternoon--including his Critical Methods class--moping, debating whether or not to track Charles down and apologize for any offense he might have caused.
Erik shook his head at that, the entire notion ridiculous, because Charles wasn't even registered in the class, which meant he was likely attending because of his interest in Erik--hell, Erik was perfectly aware that a good number of his students weren't there for the poetry--and that faced with Erik's rejection his interest in the class had undoubtedly waned.
He'd probably never see Charles again; something Erik very much didn't want to think about, however much he thought it might be for the best.
Angel, who was actually surprised to see him--Erik usually arrived ten minutes into the start of his session, never mind that he was paying for those ten minutes--kept giving him circuitous glances over the top of her desk, but Erik studiously ignored her. He kept his eyes trained on Dr. Frost's door, though he was still surprised when it swung open, Dr. Frost's last patient slipping from the room.
Erik didn't recognize the girl--young and unmemorable, though Erik recognized the despair that hooded her eyes. He'd seen that same expression in the mirror more times than he could count.
Dr. Frost, who had walked the girl to the door, started when she saw him sitting there. She glanced to her watch, then back to Erik, before finally turning her attention to the girl. Erik sat patiently as she made her goodbyes. Dr. Frost waited until the girl vanished through the door before giving Erik her full attention.
"You're early today, Erik," she said.
Erik stood, suddenly feeling awkward and uncertain.
"I wasn't sure if we were still on today," he said.
"Of course we are," Dr. Frost said, gesturing him through the door. For the first time since Erik had started coming here, she followed him into the room, the door clicking shut behind her.
Erik had already crossed to his chair and settled--he hadn't worn a coat today, the week's weather still unseasonably warm--before Dr. Frost took her customary place behind her desk. He didn't wait for her open the conversation--he didn't want to recount his last appointment, or talk about Shaw, or talk about Raven, or any of that. He just wanted her to fix him.
"You help people. That's what you do. It's your job," Erik said. Dr. Frost hesitated, but after a moment's consideration, she nodded.
"That is what I'm here for," she said.
"But can you actually make people better. Can you fix them?"
Now Dr. Frost frowned. Her gaze become searching, as though the answer to Erik's riddle was written in his irises. If only it were that easy, Erik mused.
"My job is to guide people down the path to self-healing, Erik," she said.
Erik scowled at that. He didn't want her sugar-coated, text-book answer. He wanted black or white, yes or no. Either she could help him or she couldn't; that was all that mattered.
"Can we cut the BS?" he asked. "I just want to know if you can make me normal."
And of course it could never be that simple--Erik knew that. He also knew that normal was a relative term; that there were few in the world that fit that definition. Still, he hoped she at least understood what he was driving at.
"What makes you abnormal, Erik?" she asked instead, which meant, no, she hadn't understood. Erik wasn't sure why he'd expected anything more.
He thought about leaving then--thought about what it might mean. He was still so very angry at Shaw--and if he thought about it long enough, he realized this whole mess with Charles was entirely Shaw's fault. He was still in danger of seeking Shaw out and hurting him, though he thought he'd at least conquered his urge to kill Shaw. What worried him more, though, was his impulse to seek Charles out, to start something that would probably end in disaster and heartbreak. What other option did he have?
Erik stayed.
"I've had a pretty fucked up life," he said.
Dr. Frost, who was listening more intently than Erik had ever seen, didn't say anything. Erik pressed on, needing to get it out quickly if he was going to get it out at all.
"My parents died when I was young, and I had to live in all these foster homes, places no child should ever be forced to live. Bad things happened; things I don't ever want to talk about. And then, when I finally get out, I stumble into a bad relationship where I get seriously taken advantage of, and now I'm afraid I'm going to end up hurting someone, because that's all I've ever been taught."
He'd just told Dr. Frost more about his life--and his reasons for being here--in half a minute than he had in the months he'd been seeing her. For the longest time she didn't say anything; merely sat and absorbed what Erik had just told her. He could almost see her putting the pieces together, coming up with a narrative for why Erik was the way he was.
He wondered if he should have told her that the only good thing his life had ever given him was Raven. Perhaps then he wouldn't seem so inhuman.
"Is there someone in particular you are worried about hurting?" Dr. Frost finally asked. It was a very leading question. Erik almost burst into laughter--he restrained himself mostly for fear it would come out as hysterical crying.
"Does it matter?" he asked. "I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want to be better than the people who were supposed to be my role models."
There was no way he could say it any better than that. He wanted to be the better man. Was that really too much to ask?
"It is not usually my place to judge my patients, Erik, but I can assure you, because you are here, because this worries you, that you are already the better man. The people who hurt you--and that includes Sebastian Shaw--did so without conscience. If nothing else, I hope that you come away from our sessions knowing that you are better than that.
It was a suffocating thing to hear, something that had not occurred to him until now. He tried to picture Sebastian in his place, fretting over the things he was doing to Erik--and all the others--and could not. Still, he had not told her everything. How could she possibly know without the whole of it? Erik released a shuddering breath.
"I think I might be falling in love with one of my students," he said.
It seemed the fastest way to get to the point.
~*~
The week dragged.
There was no other way to put it. It moved forward at a snail's pace, Charles stuck knee-deep in molasses. He taught classes. He ran labs. He graded quizzes. He ran samples at Hank's direction, Charles too preoccupied by his misery to find his own inspiration. In short, he moped.
Charles was not used to moping. It wasn't something he did--at least, not for any extended period of time. By the time Friday rolled around, he was more or less completely miserable, and had pretty much done his best to make everyone around him miserable too--he'd even called his mother to congratulate him on fucking him up so much that he couldn't even attract a nice guy, and wasn't she just so proud of that, because now he'd have to turn straight and find some girl to settle down with and congratulations, mommy, dearest, you've finally won.
And okay, that last part was only what he'd wanted to say. Mostly he'd told his mother's answering machine that it looked like he wasn't going to make it home for any of the holidays this year--not that he ever did, but on some off chance that it mattered, that she cared, he always called to let her know.
When Moira came to see him on Friday evening, he was convinced he was going to cancel their night out. He didn't want to go out to a club. He didn't want to get drunk or dance or make out with some random guy in the restroom. He wanted to go home, curl up on his bed, and read Erik's poetry--again.
"Dear God, Charles," Moira said when she saw him.
She'd been particularly busy this week, and hadn't seen him since Wednesday. Charles offered her a half-hearted smile from where he sat, behind his desk, buried in lab reports.
"When was the last time you even shaved?" she asked.
Charles shrugged, because did it matter? Moira seemed to think so, because she strode across Charles' office, pushed aside his reports, grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him to his feet. Charles had always been a little intimidated by Moira's forthrightness, but never more so than he was in that moment. He tried to muster his most beseeching expression, but was fairly certain all that came out was a pathetic looking pout.
"You are going to go home, eat something that isn't coffee," she said, casting a pointed glance to the dozen or so empty cups littering his desk. "And then you're going to shower--you definitely need to shower--shave and then put on some clean, nice clothes. Sean and I will be by to pick you up at 9:30."
Charles started shaking his head, because really, he just wasn't up for it, but Moira's expression brooked no argument, so Charles swallowed nervously and then nodded--which was exactly how he found himself, not four hours later, sitting pressed between Moira and Sean in a cab, heading towards Hellfire.
They'd gone early, specifically to avoid the lines that would undoubtedly form in an hour or so. The club was only just starting to fill and the hollowness of it was startling--the last time Charles had been at Hellfire, it was packed beyond capacity and he'd had to press through dozens of sweat-soaked bodies just to reach the bar. Not that Charles had minded.
Now it was an easy walk to the bar, the bartender--a broad shouldered man whose tan looked red under the strobe lights--frowned when he caught sight of Moira, but it shifted into a smile as his gaze slid across to Sean.
Sean, oblivious to the man's attention, ordered drinks for everyone, laughing good-naturedly at whatever it was that the bartender was saying. They chatted amicably for a few minutes before Moira managed to drag Sean away, Charles feeling his mood improve for the first time in days.
He patted Sean as they found an unoccupied corner booth. Charles slid across first, letting Moira claim the middle seat, Sean the end.
"What?" Sean asked when they were seated, having to shout over the music, which was already startlingly loud. The base of it reverberated off the bench, pulsing in Charles' chest. He already felt drunk off it.
"If he asks you if you want a blow job, he's not talking about a drink," Charles advised. Sean turned scarlet, but he laughed, shaking his head even as he shot Moira a fond look.
"The things I do for you," he said.
It wasn't terrible. They spent the first hour cloistered around their booth, watching as the club slowly filled. By the time 11:00 rolled around, it was impossible to see beyond their little corner of the club, the place packed with bodies. Charles nursed his first drink--unlike him in these sorts of situations--and then his second. By the time he'd finished his third, he felt comfortable enough to get up and dance.
He knew, even without having been told--and he'd been told numerous times--that his dancing resembled more of a drunken shuffle than anything anyone might have called dancing, but he was fortunately the kind of person for whom awkward drunken dancing looked more adorable than pathetic. There were times when his youthful appearance tended to pay off, and this was one of them.
Within minutes he was no longer in want of dance partners--he even had a few guys tuck phone numbers into his pockets, copping feels while they were at it, but Charles was fuzzy enough by that point not to mind. It wasn't perfect--he found himself analyzing each guy who entered his field of vision, each time finding the prospect wanting. Six songs later, he still had no interest of taking up any of the offers he'd received--nor did he have any interest in issuing his own.
At the end of the next song, he shuffled back to his booth, where Moira and Sean were sitting side by side, laughing softly at the club's more daring patrons.
"Anyone?" Moira asked as soon as Charles was close enough to hear. Charles shook his head.
"Is it wrong that every guy I meet doesn't come close to comparing? I keep thinking; his eyes aren't green enough, or his cheekbones aren't high enough, or his accent isn't German enough. Not that I'm not having a good time," and he was, in a way, "but I don't think this is going to work."
Still, it had got him out of his house--and more importantly, out of his funk--so he couldn't help but be grateful.
"Come on, why don't we go make a circuit of the club. Maybe someone will catch your eye," Moira suggested. She paused briefly to confer with Sean, but he merely waved her on her way, so Moira slid from the booth and offered Charles a hand.
Charles took it, and let her navigate them through the crowd.
It was hard not to get swept up in the enthusiasm of the club. Charles' body pulsed with alcohol and the steady thrum of music, his vision blurred by flashing lights and the occasional wisp of smoke. Bodies painted with glitter skirted the edge of his vision, Charles registering then just how young most of the guys here were. God, maybe he was getting too old for this. Maybe he was going about this all wrong. It was no wonder he had no interest in taking any of these people home. Hell, now that he was looking, at least half of them had blown pupils. Twice in their circuit Charles was asked if he wanted to roll, three people offering him Tina, and at least one of the numbers he'd pulled from his pocket had PNP written beside the guy's number.
What was he doing here?
He reached forward to grab Moira's shoulder, pulling her back until she was close enough to speak into her ear.
"See something you like?" she asked, like this was a fucking candy store and these kids--oh, God, they were all kids--were something Charles could just buy. When he was younger, he used to make fun of the guys his age he saw in clubs like this. What the hell had happened?
"No. Decidedly not, and I think it's time we go," he said.
Moira looked momentarily surprised, but as soon as she caught his expression she nodded, glancing back to their booth--which they were nearing again--to find Sean chatting with a couple of guys.
"Let me just go extract my boyfriend. If you want, we'll meet you outside."
Charles nodded.
It was only steady determination that got him outside without another dozen or so numbers in his pocket--circling the club with Moira had been like walking around with repellent, their path easily navigated. As soon as he was through the door--and the line now stretched around the corner--he released a steady breath.
"Three coming out," he told the bouncer, who looked vaguely familiar until Charles realized he'd slept with the guy--and wasn't that just great. In a desperate bid to get away, Charles turned away from the crowd and slipped into the short alley between Hellfire and its neighbouring building.
He stood there breathing steadily, trying to clear his head for several minutes before he realized he wasn't alone. The scent of cigarette smoke reached his nose, Charles turning just as Raven stood, recognition dawning on her features.
"Oh my God, it's you," she said, standing from where she was sat on some rusty iron steps that led out of the club's fire exit.
"Raven, isn't it?" Charles asked, stepping forward to meet her. She smiled even as she nodded.
"What are you doing here, Charles?" she asked, and either she had a good memory for names, or Erik had mentioned him since their one and only introduction. Charles really hoped it was the latter.
It didn't answer her question, which was still hanging in the air between them. It was entirely probable that Charles had had too much to drink, because his first instinct was blunt honesty.
"Trying to get over your brother, actually," he said.
Raven's expression fell.
"Oh don't do that," she said. Charles wasn't sure what to say to that, so he simply stared at her, well aware that he probably looked as dumbfounded as he felt. "I know Erik can be a bit of an ass, but he likes you; he really, really does. He just has some boundary issues, but trust me he'll get over them. You just need to give him time."
That was more of an answer than Charles was expecting. Certainly it was more than he'd gotten from Erik's poetry. It still wasn't entirely reassuring.
"He likes me?" he asked, because that seemed to be Charles' sticking point, and really, it could mean almost anything.
Raven gave him a pointed look, tilting her head even as she raised her eyebrows.
"He's writing poetry about you," she said, and that... Charles had no idea what to do with that.
He felt himself smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, a goofy, teeth-filled smile appearing on his face. Given his current state of inebriation, he probably looked like a complete idiot--and he was glad now it was Raven he had run into and not Erik.
"Really?" he asked, sounding far, far too self-conscious to his own ears. Raven nodded, her expression turning conspiratorial. She leaned towards him.
"He's practically obsessed with you."
Charles brought his hand to his mouth, eyes growing wide as he tried to process what Raven was telling him. He felt giddy just thinking about it. In his entire life no one had ever been obsessed with him. It was always him nursing an obsession until he convinced the object of his desire to give him a chance. He had never been pursued; never been chased.
Give him time, Raven had said. Charles could do that. He could give Erik all the time in the world if it eventually meant having him--and Charles rather intended to keep him forever after that.
"Okay, good. Okay," Charles managed, because, really, what else was there to say?
Raven, who had finished her smoke, tossed the butt down onto the ground and stubbed it out with her heel. She offered Charles a pleased smile.
"Give me your phone," she said. Charles didn't hesitate in doing so.
As soon as she had it she pulled out hers and copied over his number, then added one to his before handing it back. Charles, who was expecting Raven's, was startled to find she'd given him Erik's. His breath caught in his throat.
"Don't call him, yet. Wait until you hear from me, but for God's sake, please start attending his lectures. If I have to deal with him moping again because you didn't turn up for class I'm going have to kill him."
Hearing that was just icing on the cake, because Charles had rather convinced himself that Erik wouldn't care that Charles had stopped attending his lectures. To learn otherwise made him even giddier than he already was--which, honestly, Charles wouldn't have thought possible. He smiled at Raven, even as he cradled his iPhone to his chest.
"I can do that," he said. Raven nodded, and then glanced over her shoulder. It occurred to Charles then that she probably worked here. He hadn't seen her inside, but then it was rather hard to find anyone in Hellfire--even if you were looking for them.
"I should get back," she said, so Charles let her go, still grinning when Moira and Sean found him five minutes later. Moira's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline when she saw him.
"It's only been ten minutes. What happened?" she demanded, clearing thinking he'd scored in that short period of time--and to be fair, it wasn't without precedence.
Charles didn't say anything. He merely lifted his phone and showed her Erik's number.
On to chapter 10
Yay!
Date: 2011-11-07 08:16 pm (UTC)Seriously, whenever I see an update, I first go "OMYGOD!", proceed to do a small happy dance, think and wonder frantically about whether this chapter will be that chapter where Erik finally realizes that Charles is in fact not a student, and then finally begin to read with a big grin on my face. It does sound a little crazy... but I seriously love this!
I love Charles' revelation that he may be a bit too old to be going to clubs looking for young guys. Just shows how similar Charles and Erik think :D
I also enjoyed the poem and the lovely imagery! ACtually, I was wondering where the McAvoy dancing gif came from. He looks like he's wearing a Catholic priest outfit?
Re: Yay!
Date: 2011-11-08 12:48 am (UTC)Shall I tell you when Erik will find out? I'll give you a hint, it's coming soon when that question mark in my chapters disappears. *g*
As for the McAvoy gift, it's from the film Starter for 10 (which everyone should see, because McAvoy is fantastic in it, and it also has Benedict Cumberbatch (Sherlock!) who is always awesome. It's a costume he's wearing for some kind of party.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-07 09:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-08 12:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-08 12:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-08 02:36 am (UTC)That was awesome. I am in awe. Is it wrong that I saw this on my reading page, looked at my research paper, and went "Y'know, the universe just didn't want me to do any biophysics today. Sorry, universe." ? Because this. This is what your fic has done to me. (Actually, the entire flipping kink meme has broken me. I swear I was a good student once.)
:D
no subject
Date: 2011-11-08 04:05 am (UTC)Seriously, though, I'm so glad there were no kink memes when I was in uni. I would have failed. I would have.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-08 09:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-08 12:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-10 03:12 am (UTC)Also, I am so in love with Sean and Moira because they made this possible I was grinning like a loon when I read this<3
I bet Raven is the one thats going to figure it all out first. Or one of Charles' friends. Because their too fucking oblivious to do it themselves DX
no subject
Date: 2011-11-10 01:24 pm (UTC)