Chapter Text
Rain batters the windows in a steady rhythm. Charles is sat back in his chair, arm draped over the back lazily. His free hand holds a glass of scotch. It was unusual for Charles to drink unless there was cause for a celebration. And there is. New students! Or at least Charles likes to believe they are students. They are, however, more like an army, as Erik so kindly put it.
“Charles,” Mystique chimes. “It’s your turn.”
A chess board sits between the two mutants. Black pieces fill the board. White pieces sit defeated on the table beside their board. The black pieces are, of course, Charles’.
“Ah, yes, Raven. My apologies.”
His fingers dance above his pieces. He moves his final pawn forward one space. Raven tilts her head slightly as she uses her rook to capture one of his knights.
“That was a terrible move, Charles.”
But, of course, Charles is not listening. His mind is elsewhere. On someone else’s mind, actually. He mentally searches the mansion, intent on finding Erik.
Are you up for a game of chess? He asks Erik, once he finds him. He’s in the kitchen, by himself, it seems. Erik’s head shoots up and his eyes meet the door of the kitchen, almost expecting someone to be standing there. But there is no one.
I’m reading, Charles, Erik responds.
In the kitchen?
Am I not allowed to eat while I read?
Raven is...not the best partner to play with.
I’m black and you’re white.
Deal.
“Charles, if you don’t want to play-...”
“It’s getting rather late, Raven, isn’t it?”
Mystique narrows her eyes, as if to say, ‘I’m not a child, Charles.’ But instead she says nothing. She slowly stands.
“Good night,” Charles pipes after a sip of scotch, smiling innocently.
But Raven leaves with a simple nod. She catches Erik on the way out and rolls her eyes quite audibly. Erik can’t help but smile and say, “Good evening, Raven.”
“Oh, so I am Raven? I was under the impression that the real Raven was blue and orange.”
But Erik is gone, smirking to himself as he walks through the doors of Charles’ study. Charles’ eyes are closed; the effects of his third glass of scotch moving over him in slow waves. Erik stands, watching him, an eyebrow quirked and his arms folded. One eye opens. And then the other. A genuine smile tugs the corners of Charles’ mouth upward.
“Erik,” he sighs, pointing a finger at the older man. “Erik.”
“Charles?” Erik asks, trying to hide his smirk.
“Erik, would you like to play a rousing game of chess, hmm?”
“That is what I came down for, isn’t it?”
Charles tilts his head, seemingly deep in thought. “Oh,” he nods. “You’re right. Apologies, my friend.”
The glass in Charles’ hand is a dead giveaway. But then Erik’s gaze finds the bottle of Doc Brown scotch, nearing its end, showing just how much Charles has actually had. With a fond roll of his eyes and a little chuckle, Erik sits across from Charles and crosses his legs.
“I’m assuming Raven was white.”
And this, for some very strange reason, causes the slowly dimming Charles to burst into a fit of giggles. Not laughter, no. But giggles. The very giggles that irk Erik to no end.
“She’s blue, Erik!”
“Yes, --“
“Like your eyes!”
And Erik takes a deep breath. Ignoring Charles, he resets the board. He’s now quite curious as to how a game of chess with an almost-drunk telepath will go. But this ignoring thing doesn’t quite work when he finds Charles’ hands on his knees.
“Are they blue? They’re quite a bit green, too. Are they both? Can that happen?”
“I...don’t know, Charles. You’re the expert in genetics, are you not?”
“Am I?”
“Charles, you’re in my way.”
“...Am I? Let me look at your eyes.”
“You are looking at my eyes.”
And he certainly is looking at his eyes. He studies the pupil, dark and hole-y as they generally are. The inner rim of the iris, more green than blue. But then there’s the outer ring, blue as the sky in the middle of June. Deep and bright and lovely. God, what an OCA2 gene. His sclera. So white. It’s now that Charles realizes just how drunk he is. He’s hovering over a slightly scared Erik, admiring his sclera.
Quickly growing bored of those sclera, Charles’ eyes find their way to Erik’s nose. Being so close to it, his eyes soon become crossed and a little giggle finds its way out.
“Charles.”
“Erik.”
“Get off.”
The telepath keeps one hand on Erik’s knee, the other going to his temple.
Erik, your sclera are magnificent.
Charles, I don’t know what a sclera is.
The white parts of your eyes.
Thank you. Now get off.
But he doesn’t get off. No, no. He lets his eyes travel farther, bored of that little nose, too. Hm... Cheekbones. That one free hand gingerly traces a cheekbone, rough fingers meeting soft skin in a very tickly encounter. Erik swallows thickly, quickly growing impatient with the “dignified professor,” so close. Breath tainted with the smell of scotch. Pupils blown.
And closer and closer he grows.
Closer.
Noses touch. Erik squirms. Charles smirks.
Foreheads touch. Erik’s eyes close. Charles snickers.
Lips meet in a wet, sloppy, scotch-filled kiss. Charles’ free hand threads its fingers through Erik’s hair.
But Erik’s hand finds Charles’ chest, pushing him away, before Charles has the ability to do anything he’d forever regret. The telepath blinks and straightens up, hands quickly retreating from Erik’s body. He stumbles backward, subsequently knocking an army of chess pieces to the ground. Pawns and knights clatter and roll. Erik stands, a look of shock and anger painted across his face. The back of his hand wipes his lips.
“You’re drunk, Charles. Go to bed.”
And out he storms, leaving a very confused and butterflies-in-the-tummy-happy Charles behind.
That night Erik mulls their encounter over. Weighing the pros against the cons. Thinking too much. Dangerous, that is: thinking too much. But, Erik thinks, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to try it again.