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Quick note: I will now be doing the annual family celebration circuit. This means I will be drunk for the next week or so. There will not be an update until the insanity is over. If you don't hear from me by middle of next week: SEND HELP.

Oh, and happy whatever it is you celebrate or don't celebrate to ease this, our darkest month of the year.

Title: Love's Own Crown (6/?)
Authors: nekosmuse wrote the prose, afrocurl the poetry
Series: The Sonnet Series (aka the sequel to An Ideal Grace)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Fandom: XMFC (non-powered, modern AU)
Summary: Follows An Ideal Grace, in which Charles and Erik navigate the complexities of their new relationship.

Back to chapter 5

Charles woke to the sweet scent of onions mingled with garlic. It took him several minutes to register where he was. His memories of coming home were fuzzy at best.

His apartment radiated soft warmth, the lamp across the room casting warm yellow light across the floor, while light from his kitchen spilled into the main living space. Charles couldn't remember his apartment ever feeling as homey as it did right now.

He sat up in the bed, catching sight of drawn shades. They highlighted blackened windows. He had a vague memory of telling Erik about his mother--oh, God, his mother--Erik bundling him off the campus and home to his apartment. Charles had moved so far past exhaustion that he'd simply collapsed onto the bed and fallen asleep the second they were through the door. Somehow, between then and now night had fallen. Somehow, between then and now, someone had carefully removed his jacket and his shoes, and then wrapped him in blankets.

It wasn't hard to figure out that last bit. Erik was still here, in the kitchen, moving over Charles' stove like he owned it--and given how infrequently Charles used the thing Erik was more than welcome to it. He must have gone out, Charles reasoned, because Charles had, at last inventory, absolutely no food in his fridge. How long had he been asleep?

"What time is it?" Charles asked, because someone had also removed his watch and the contents of his pockets. He could see them sitting on his nightstand, but he had no real interest in moving. Besides, it was somewhat amusing watching Erik jump, Erik turning from his task, seemingly surprised to find Charles awake.

"A little after six," he said. He turned back to the stove, gave whatever he was cooking a quick stir, and then set down his spoon--plastic, Charles didn't own wooden ones, even though he knew now that Erik preferred them.

Panic surged upon hearing the time, because Charles had just abandoned Hank, and he probably ought to get back to the lab if they hoped to keep on schedule. He struggled to climb from the bed, his limbs heavy and his head still foggy.

"Relax," Erik said, seeming to know exactly what had caused Charles' panic. "That Moira friend of yours called. She said to take the day--to take as many as you needed. Someone named Hank is going to cover for you."

Charles groaned. "He's been covering for me all semester," he said, but he settled back into the bed, not particularly interested in leaving his apartment, not when it was so warm and comfortable; not when it smelled so incredibly delicious. His stomach gave an appreciative grumble. Charles caught Erik's eye.

Erik was looking at him like he wasn't entirely certain what to say--or even what to do. He seemed torn between standing where he was, in the middle of Charles' kitchenette, and crossing the room to Charles' side. A second later Charles realized Erik was waiting for his cue. Charles offered a soft smile. Erik instantly relaxed.

"Are you all right?" he asked. From anyone else it would have been a ridiculous question. From Erik it was about the most touching thing anyone had ever asked Charles. There was something in the inflection of his voice that suggested he would have done anything to ensure that Charles was.

"I'm fine, well, maybe not fine, but I will be," he said. He slipped from the bed and into the kitchen, Erik perking up at Charles' approach. As soon as Charles was in range, Erik slid his hands around Charles' waist and drew him close.

"Did you really bring me home, put me to bed, buy me groceries, wait around for six hours and then cook me dinner?" Charles asked, because that, as far as he was concerned, was grounds for a proposal.

Erik looked mildly apologetic, and more than a little embarrassed. He ducked his head. Charles beamed.

"If you're not careful, I'm going to ask you to move in with me," Charles said then, intending the comment to be teasing, but Erik immediately glanced up, looking so ridiculously happy that Charles was momentarily stunned into silence.

"I could. I mean, not here; there's not enough room for all of us, but we could get a bigger place," Erik said.

Charles' eyes grew wide, which was about when Erik seemed to realize what he'd just said.

"Sorry," he said, looking more than a little chagrined. "That was too fast. My psychiatrist keeps telling me I'm moving too fast with you, which I probably shouldn't have told you either, and this is probably a conversation we should have later, because your mother just passed and..." Erik trailed off, as out of sorts as Charles had ever seen him. There was something in the way his voice caught on mother that piqued Charles' attention, not to mention he was more than a little curious to learn that Erik had a psychiatrist, but mostly he was too busy absorbing the fact that Erik had just said he wanted them to live together to do anything aside from blink at the man.

When Charles was once again capable of speech, the first thing that came out--and it was the last thing he intended to say--was, "All of us?"

Erik's eyes grew wide, and he opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it a second later, sniffing the air as he did, his expression becoming mildly alarmed. He turned back to the stove, then, where his garlic and onions were undoubtedly well-browned.

"Scheisse," he said, his attention well and truly distracted. Charles stepped back and watched him work, Erik moving frantically around the kitchen as he tried to salvage their dinner. The thought of living with Erik, as shocking as it was--as quick as it was--was also probably the most appealing notion Charles had ever heard.

He'd been dating Scott for the better part of two years when Scott started making plans for them to live together. The thought of doing so had filled Charles with a vague sense of dread. The thought of living with Erik filled Charles with a giddy sense of anticipation.

Thirty minutes of avoided conversation later, Charles was eating what was easily the best mushroom soup he had ever tasted--this despite Erik apologizing for having burned rather than caramelized the onions. They were seated at Charles' pull-out table, sipping what was left of the white wine--not Charles' favourite--the rest having gone into the making of the soup. Erik had been strangely quiet throughout the making of dinner, which Charles had attributed to the meal requiring his full attention, but he remained quiet now, strangely hesitant in a way a man who'd just spent hours waiting for someone to wake up shouldn't have been.

"You meant Raven. You and me and Raven," Charles said between mouthfuls of soup. It was astounding how talented this man was in the kitchen. Had it not been a terribly cliche thing to do, Charles would have let his toes curl with each mouthful.

Erik glanced up at the statement. He shook his head, but before he could say anything, Charles pressed on.

"I mean, yes, I want to live with you. It's probably too soon, but you can spend years with someone and never reach that point, and then sometimes you can know someone for weeks and just know."

There was more he wanted to say, but Erik was smiling at him, soft around the edges like he couldn't actually believe Charles was real.

"I'd like that, but I think we should probably talk about it after you've had a chance to grieve." There was something in the cadence of his words that reminded Charles sharply that Erik had lost both of his parents. He wasn't simply making a suggestion; he was speaking from experience.

There was something else there, too, some heavy uncertainty that made Charles ache just a little bit. He pushed aside his now empty bowl, stood and reached for Erik's hand. Erik let Charles pull him to his feet, but he hesitated when Charles tried to tug him away from the table, glancing into the kitchen.

"I should probably clean that up," he said, meaning the mess, but Charles shook his head.

"We can do that later," Charles said, wanting then only to have Erik in his bed, to forget about his mother and his stepfather and the business card he'd tucked into his wallet. He needed this distraction.

Erik seemed to sense that, because when Charles tugged a second time, he came willingly. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked when they got there.

"I will be," Charles said, pushing against Erik's shoulders until he took the hint and climbed, backwards, onto the bed. Charles followed, straddling his lap, Erik's arms coming around Charles' waist to hold him in place. Charles pressed their mouths together.

It took Erik a long time to relax into the kiss. He seemed to be holding himself back, as though he was half terrified Charles might break. At the same time, he kept a tight grip on Charles' waist, like he expected Charles to bolt at any minute. Charles smiled into the kiss, though it was a weak smile, tinged around the edges with the weight of the day. Erik's grip tightened.

"We don't have to do this," he said when Charles pulled back for air.

Charles pressed their foreheads together before answering. "Is it okay if we do?" he asked.

He felt Erik nod against him, Charles tilting down at the same time that Erik leaned up, their lips meeting a second time. This time there was no hesitation in Erik's kiss, only fierce determination, like he fully intended to kiss Charles happy. A bubble of laughter welled up at the thought, Charles chuckling into Erik's mouth, Erik's lips curving upwards at the sound.

There was no finesse to it. Gone was Charles's plans--alongside that damned worksheet he'd made, because if this man wanted to live with him, if this man had spent six hours waiting in Charles' dingy little apartment for him to wake up, then Charles could be more than patient where sex was concerned. Hell, he'd spend the rest of his life topping if that was what Erik wanted.

Right now, all he wanted was a chance to touch.

He wanted that human connection, the reminder that he was alive and breathing, that life moved on despite the finality of death. He found it in Erik's collarbone, shirt pushed aside to allow Charles access, Charles running shaking fingers along it. He found it in the curve of Erik's jaw, Charles running his tongue across it, nipping along the underside simply because he could. He found it by rubbing their cheeks together, stubble against stubble.

Erik sat passively beneath him, letting Charles dictate where they were going, and for the first time in his life Charles was more than content to lead. He'd spent too much of his life seeking approval in bed--seeking approval everywhere in life, and now the approval he'd wanted most of all was forever outside his grasp. Tonight he was content to simply take what he needed, Erik seeming perfectly willing to let him.

He wanted them bare, chest to chest, the taste of wine and mushrooms on Erik's tongue intoxicating. He dragged Erik's shirt from his pants and pulled until he had swept it over Erik's head. As soon as Erik was free, he reached for Charles' buttons, systematically releasing each without ever breaking Charles' gaze.

I love you, Charles wanted to say, because he was starting to realize that he did; that somehow Erik, in the short span of time Charles had known him, had completely and utterly claimed Charles' heart. He found himself incapable of speech, though, unable to do anything save stare into Erik's eyes and wait for Erik to strip him of his clothes.

Erik finished with his buttons and pushed, Charles' shirt sliding over his shoulders, falling to the floor with a simple flick of his wrists, Erik having been kind enough to release the buttons on Charles' cuffs. The second it was off Erik's hands settled on Charles' hips, pulling him forward until they were pressed chest to chest, like he had read Charles' mind. Charles tilted his head back so that Erik could kiss the underside of his jaw.

Would his mother have been happy for him, he wondered. She'd hated his homosexuality--hated having a fag for a son--had gone out of her way to avoid it at every turn, denial practically an occupation as far as his mother was concerned, but didn't every mother want their child to be happy, to find someone they could spend the rest of their lives with?

The train of thought was doing nothing for his libido, so Charles shook it aside, concentrating instead on running his hands over Erik's shoulders and then down the lines of his arms. He had such lovely arms.

"What do you want?" Erik asked, the words a low whisper in Charles' ear. He sucked Charles' earlobe into his mouth as he said it, thoroughly distracting Charles from the question, though not enough to register that it was the first time Erik had asked.

It was almost unfortunate Charles didn't want Erik to fuck him--not tonight--that he wanted to enjoy that particular event, to have it filled with light and love and laughter, not sorrow and confusion and anger. Tonight he only wanted distraction; that and Erik, always Erik, wrapped around him until Charles couldn't tell where he began and Erik ended.

"Your hand," Charles said, "wrapped around us both." Erik made an appreciative sound. One of the hands currently tracing abstract patterns across Charles' shoulder blades slid around to cup Charles through his pants. Charles arched into the sensation.

This wasn't frantic tear-each-other's-clothes-off sex, nor was it leisurely we-have-all-the-time-in-the-world sex. There was an edge of desperation to it, something dark around the edges that Charles didn't want to examine too hard. He was used to sex being fun--to enjoying sex thoroughly, at least while he was having it--and while he still enjoyed the feel of Erik unfastening his belt, Erik popping his top button and sliding down his zipper before reaching into his shorts to pull his cock free, Charles had never in his life felt more like crying.

Some of that must have shown on his face, because Erik paused, hand wrapped around him.

"Please," Charles found himself saying, Erik staring into his eyes for several moments before he nodded and ran his hand down Charles' length and then back up.

Charles closed his eyes against the sensation.

Erik did it again, the feel of his fingers, dipping into Charles' precome now--not as much as he usually produced, but enough to act as lubricant--so distracting that it was all Charles could do to lean his head against Erik's shoulder and just hang on.

It was still a struggle to reach his peak, something that had never happened to Charles before. Erik worked him through it patiently, stroking Charles with such tenderness something caught in Charles' throat and remained lodged there until long after he'd come. It wasn't until after he'd come that he realized Erik hadn't joined him.

Charles pulled away from Erik's shoulder, vision a little hazy, feeling pleasantly wrung out, if a little heavy. He blinked at the look on Erik's face, filled with such tentative patience that it took Charles half a minute to identify it. Charles glanced down at the mess he'd made, across his stomach and all over Erik's hand, Erik's pants stained with Charles' come, and noticed then that Erik hadn't even unfastened his belt. Charles reached for it.

Erik caught his hand.

"No," he said, causing Charles to glance up sharply, protest on his tongue, but Erik shook his head a second time. "I haven't been given the opportunity to say no before, so please let me now."

Charles' eyes grew wide at that, but he immediately withdrew his hand, ignoring the outline of Erik's erect cock in favour of meeting Erik's steady gaze.

"Thank you," Erik said, pulling Charles towards him, Charles finding himself enveloped into a hug, the warmth of it so startling the thing lodged in his throat escaped as a sob.

Erik's hand found its way into Charles' hair. He ran his fingers through it, Charles leaning into the sensation even as he released a steady breath, willing himself to keep it together. Erik said nothing, but he kept stroking Charles' hair and the arm around Charles' waist tightened perceptibly.


Erik traced the line of Charles' bare hip, the faintest outline of ink still visible. He could no longer read the words, but he remembered them exactly. Charles had asked him to write something to replace them, and he wanted to now, but he didn't want to displace the stillness between them.

"I'm still waiting on that replacement," Charles said, as though he'd read Erik's mind. Erik chuckled, letting his fingers trail over the jut of Charles' hip.

They hadn't bothered getting out of bed, the mess in the kitchen abandoned. The pot he'd used to cook the soup would undoubtedly be unsalvageable come morning, but Charles had seemed disinclined to getting up, and Erik was disinclined to leaving Charles' side. They'd cleaned themselves up a little, and had stripped off their clothes and curled beneath the covers. Charles was a warm weight in his arms.

The silence between them shifted somehow. It wasn't the same easy silence Erik was used to, but rather something that threatened to grow tense should they attempt to leave it alone. Erik attacked it head-on.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, not the first time. He wouldn't press, but he wanted Charles to know that he could talk to Erik, if he needed to.

Erik knew what it was like having no one to talk to. He wouldn't have wished that on anyone, least of all Charles.

He'd had an aid worker try to talk to him about his parents' death, right after it had happened, while he was still trying to adjust to life in that first foster home--a horrible place where Erik hadn't been permitted to eat dinner until after the natural kids had had their fill. He hadn't been able to bring himself to talk about his parent's death then, and after, when he might have been ready, he was so lost in the system that he doubted anyone even knew his full story, let alone cared. He'd told Shaw once, but Shaw had only shushed him and told him he was stronger for it. After that it seemed a rather pointless thing to think about.

It seemed it was all he could think about now.

"I don't think I'm quite ready," Charles said. "I haven't really processed it."

Erik could understand that. It had taken him months--that period of his life hazy--before he'd processed it. By then, he'd had bigger things to worry about.

"I was so young when my dad died that I didn't really understand what had happened. It wasn't until I was older that I was able to make sense of it. I'm not a little kid anymore, though, so I should be able to..."

"No," Erik interrupted. "No one should have to make sense of something like this."

It was something he'd told Raven once, though on an entirely different subject. People wanted to make sense of their experiences, but the truth was most experiences defied logic.

"You were older when your parents died, weren't you?" Charles asked. "Nine, I think you said." There was hesitancy in his voice, like he half expected Erik to ignore the question. Knowing Charles as he did now, Erik wasn't surprised that he remembered that conversation.

"Yes," he answered immediately.

As soon as he said it Charles went very still. Erik wasn't sure if it was out of respect, or because he was expecting Erik to elaborate. Was that what Charles needed, Erik wondered. He let his fingers splay across Charles' belly, pulling Charles' back further into his chest.

"I'm not sure I ever processed it," Erik admitted. "I got really confused after it happened."

That was probably an understatement, he realized. There were whole months of his life that he couldn't account for in the immediate years following their deaths. The memories he had scattered in between were so hazy he wasn't even sure they could be called memories. They were more like figments of dreams.

"I was in the car with them," Erik said, without really meaning to. He hadn't meant to make this about him--it was about Charles--but Charles was listening intently, tucked into Erik's chest, so Erik suspected this might be helping.

"That must have been terrifying," Charles said, and it was, Erik realized. He hadn't considered that before, the entire incident so detached in his mind that he could no longer ascribe emotion to it.

Erik shook head. "I don't really remember."

Which wasn't precisely true, but what he did remember of the accident made little sense. He remembered staring out a window at passing streaks of grey, the day dreary, the rain just the other side of freezing. He remembered the jarring jolt of impact, and then the empty weightlessness of flying. He didn't remember hitting the water, only struggling to open his door and finding it impossible against the pressure of the water. He'd rolled his window down then, though whether he'd known to do it on his own or his mother had instructed him to do so, he couldn't say. He remembered it getting stuck halfway, not enough for him to get through, water rushing into the car.

The other car had impacted the driver's side, he found out later, so that was likely why his window had stuck, but at the time he'd only willed it to move, imagining then the side of the car bowing out, like he could control its frame. The car lurched as it hit the river's bottom, the window coming free, falling into the door, Erik swimming out and up. He'd spent a very long time after that wondering what he had done; thinking that perhaps he had powers he was not aware of, that it was he and not some random quirk of fate that moved that window, made room for it inside the door.

The deluded imaginings of a nine year old boy, and not something Charles needed to hear.

"When I was eighteen, I put in a request to see my father's crime scene photographs," Charles said then, and while Erik had known Charles' father had died, he didn't know how.

"How did he die?" he asked, uncertain if he was crossing a line, but Charles wouldn't have brought it up if he didn't want to talk about it.

Charles still hesitated before answering, "He shot himself in the head."

There was little Erik could say to that, so he tightened his grip on Charles' waist, pulled him close and whispered, "I'm so sorry," into the shell of Charles' ear. The words felt wholly inadequate.

Charles twisted his head, so that he was looking over his shoulder, their eyes barely meeting. "We're quite a pair, you and me," he said. Erik huffed out a laugh. It sounded more than a little tragic.

"Yeah, yeah we are." And maybe this was why he felt such an instant connection to Charles, like fate and destiny actually existed; like they had been made exclusively for each other. Erik rather liked the idea.

"I still can't believe that asshole didn't tell me she'd died."

He was talking about his stepfather now, Erik knew, and it was almost nice to hear Charles angry. Anger they could deal with; anger they could do something about. Erik knew a lot about being angry.

"You should call that lawyer," he said, because while he didn't know the full story--only what he had pieced together from second-hand sources--he didn't think Summers would have given Charles the card if he hadn't thought it in Charles' best interest to use it. Erik may not have particularly liked Summers, but he was more than willing to accept any overtures made on Charles' behalf, especially in this.

"Do you know, I think I will," Charles said, turning then--not an easy feat given the death grip Erik had on him. He immediately settled himself back into Erik's embrace, only now they were facing nose-to-nose. "But first," he continued, shifting up to nip at Erik's lips, Erik more than a little surprised by the gesture. "You owe me a poem."

Erik couldn't help but laugh at that.

"I have something in mind, but you might not like it," he admitted, because Charles hadn't seemed particularly pleased by Erik's territorial displays.

"I guarantee you I will love it."

There was something soft in the way Charles spoke, an underlying happiness that transcended everything else that had happened today. What else was there for Erik to do save fumble in Charles' bedside drawer for a pen, and then turn Charles onto his stomach. There was something about the sweep of his shoulder that rather appealed to Erik today.



foreign; unfamiliar

with you


isn't a

but a


Charles looked younger when he slept; innocent in a way few people on the planet could claim to be. Erik knew it was only an illusion, but it still reminded him sharply of how young he'd first thought Charles.

There was still so much about Charles he didn't know. So much he wanted to know. He wanted to know if Charles was serious yesterday when he'd said he wanted to live with Erik. He wanted to know if Charles had ever had this before--with Summers?--and if so why it hadn't worked out. He wanted to know what to do to avoid that same fate; to ensure this was something that would last a lifetime.

Mostly he wanted to know how he'd managed to get so incredibly lucky.

Erik placed a kiss to Charles' shoulder, just above where his poem was scrawled in nearly illegible pen. Apparently he'd found one of Charles' more ticklish spots, and he'd squirmed and shifted throughout the writing of it. He'd demanded to see it as soon as it was finished, handing Erik his iPhone and begging a picture, so instead of lying perfectly still and allowing it to dry, Charles had moved too much. Several lines were smeared.

When Charles showed no signs of waking, Erik gently extracted himself, placing his sleep-warmed pillow at Charles' back so that he didn't topple over in Erik's absence. Charles merely grunted, a warm, contented sound, Erik momentarily struck with the urge to crawl back into bed and stay there forever.

Certainly they'd done that last night, which was why the dishes from their dinner were still not cleared away. Charles didn't have a dishwasher, so Erik filled the sink with hot, soapy water, and began clearing the table. He made it through the bowls, glasses and cutlery, and was about to start on the pot--though he suspected it was beyond saving--when a quick glance at the bed showed Charles, propped up on one elbow, blinking sleepily in Erik's direction.

"Good morning," Erik said.

Charles gave a weak smile and pushed himself up, shifting to the edge of the bed where he swung his feet out onto the floor. He ran his hands across his face and then through his hair. Erik didn't miss the tinge of sadness still etched in his features. On his arm, Erik's doodle from last night looked strangely out of place, comedy amidst tragedy.

Charles' expression cleared a minute later, Charles slowly coming awake, seeming to register exactly what Erik was doing in his kitchen. A soft smile began tugging at the sides of his mouth.

"Are you doing my dishes?" he asked.

Erik coloured. "I needed some room to make breakfast."

Charles eyes grew wide. He ran a hand through his hair. It was starting to get long; longer certainly than it was when they first met.

"You're making me breakfast?"

Erik couldn't help but chuckle at that. He'd actually planned on serving Charles breakfast in bed, their conversation from earlier in the week coming back to him. He was almost glad Charles had woken before he could. There was something in Charles' shock that Erik was enjoying immensely. The man wore incredulity well.

"It's only bagels and coffee, I'm afraid, so don't get too excited."

It was almost remarkable, how quickly Charles' mood had shifted. He was grinning outright now.

"You bought me bagels and coffee?"

Erik didn't bother dignifying that with a reply. He'd had to ask somebody in Charles' lobby for directions to the nearest grocery store. The kid had sent him on a four block hike to a twenty-four hour place that had, in Erik's opinion, a rather subpar selection of, well, everything. They'd had enough for his soup--though he'd had to leave out the truffle oil entirely--but he couldn't bring himself to buy any of their pre-packaged baked goods, so on the way back he got directions to the nearest bakery. Their bagel selection was almost enough to warrant travelling uptown every weekend.

Charles was still staring at him, somewhat fondly Erik thought, so Erik rolled his eyes at him and then turned back to the now lukewarm dishwater. He opted for draining the sink and filling the pot the water, letting it soak while he made coffee and toasted a couple of bagels. He'd bought little packages of cream cheese and jam from the bakery, like the kind they gave away at hotels to go along with the continental breakfast. By the time he'd finished putting together enough for a meal, Charles had slipped on a pair of boxers and joined him in the kitchen.

"I'm starting to think I made you up," he said, taking one of the proffered coffees and inhaling its sent. "You're entirely too perfect to be real."

Erik chuckled at that, though mostly because he'd found himself thinking the same thing about Charles several times this last week.

He wanted to say as much, but then Charles' expression turned serious.

"Thank you," he said, "for last night, and this morning."

Erik wanted to tell him not to be ridiculous, because this was what boyfriends did for each other--at least he was fairly certain this was what they did for each other, just like he was fairly certain he had the right to call Charles that--but before he could protest, Charles pressed on.

"I do need to go into the lab today." Charles held up his hand, the one still wrapped in it splint, as if to stave off any objections Erik might have. "I actually think it might be good for me, but I was hoping you might come with me when I go to see Scott's lawyer."

"Of course," Erik answered without hesitation.

Charles nodded, seeming strangely relieved, as though he honestly thought Erik might refuse. Erik could have told him there was nothing he would refuse Charles. Nothing.

Instead he shooed Charles towards the pull-out table and then slid a toasted bagel in front of him. Charles chose the cream cheese.

On to chapter 7

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