Chapter Text
The first thing Charles does is take a long, hot shower. He never knew tap water could be a luxury, that weeks of grime could seep into one’s skin until it feels like it will never wash off. As Raven sleeps in the room across from his, he strips off and basks in the warm spray and thinks of never coming out.
There are clean clothes ready when he comes out, though not the sort he’s used to. These are more colorful, more fashionable than anything he’s ever worn, though they’re a few sizes too large. He wonders if these are Mr. Shaw’s own clothes.
Days later, he has a closet full to bursting with his own wardrobe. Raven delights in selecting ensembles for him, some brightness returning to her dull eyes when she makes him turn this way and that. Charles wishes he knew whether to say how beautiful she looks in her new dresses. He refuses to look behind the veil and know for sure.
Not all of his resolve stems from ethics.
They don’t speak of what happened, or what he did afterward. He doesn’t get a full night’s sleep for over the first three weeks, waking every few hours with another man’s terror tightening his chest, fumbling for the lights so he can know the blood isn’t real. Eventually he gives up on turning off the lamp at all.
Instead he and Raven talk of their new life. How exciting it is to live on a ship, watching coastlines drift by or spending weeks without sight of dry land. How large the library is – they could probably sit and read until they grew old, and die without finishing. Soon they’ll have tutors to guide them through it, and though they complain, he misses the work.
All of this is thanks to Mr. Shaw, who calls him “son” and invites him into his suite some evenings after Raven’s gone to sleep so they can play chess and talk as if they were equals. Mr. Shaw who touches his knee or his shoulder and makes him feel strange and fumbling.
Mr. Shaw who knows what Charles did and refuses to call him a monster.
*
It could be anyone’s game, Charles realizes as he stares at the blown glass figures on the board. His pieces are clear as crystal, and Mr. Shaw’s are a smoky black.
“What is it like to have your gift, Charles?”His mentor’s eyes on him are thoughtful, meditative.
“I…” For once Charles is without words; no one’s ever asked him that before, and he’s never imagined life without the brush of other minds against his.
Mr. Shaw runs a finger along the edge of the board, not touching any one piece. “Can you tell what my next move will be?”
“I wouldn’t – “
“That’s not what I asked, my boy.” Mr. Shaw’s smile is warm and not accusing; Charles lets out a breath he didn't notice he was holding.
“I could reach deeper and find out, yes. If I wanted to, I could find your first memory of playing chess, or make you move your queen into my bishop’s reach, only to wonder minutes later how it got there.”
“And what are you getting from me now?” Mr. Shaw’s smile doesn’t slip as he moves a pawn.
“I… it’s more the shape of your mind, right now. The feel of it from the outside.” Charles grips his knight tightly. “If I close my eyes, I’ll still know you’re there. Just like I know Riptide is a few doors down, and the captain is doing his rounds through the hallway.”
“So what’s stopping you from reaching deeper right now?”
Charles sets the piece down again, frowning. “Sir, it – wouldn’t be right. There’d be no point in this game, and… well, there are plenty of things one could do but ought not to, aren’t there?”
“Exactly, my boy.” Mr. Shaw’s smile brightens. “And you’ll keep those morals in mind at all times, won’t you?”
He swallows. “Of course, sir.”
Mr. Shaw pats Charles’ knee, then moves to take his knight.
*
Months pass. Their tutors are excellent, often stretching Raven’s and Charles’ minds to satisfied exhaustion. Mr. Shaw refuses to interrupt their studies, and his evening talks with Charles grow fewer and far between.
That is, until Charles’ birthday. He doesn’t know how Mr. Shaw found out, unless Raven told him, and she rarely speaks to anyone besides Charles and the tutors these days. The cook brings up the largest chocolate cake Charles has seen, and the other mutants offer congratulations, though no song is sung. Azazel offers him his first shot of vodka, then a second and a third, laughing and clapping him on the back. It’s not a party, but it’s far more than he ever expected.
The alcohol is still a pleasant burn in his throat and belly when Mr. Shaw invites him into his suite. The room is messier than he remembers, strewn with papers, but Charles gravitates to what he thinks of as his spot.
“How’s it feel to be a man, my boy?”
Charles frowns, looking up at the ceiling. “I guess I never thought of it that way. Surely twenty-four hours hasn’t left some indelible mark. And I haven’t done anything to deserve adulthood.”
“You stood up to your family.” Mr. Shaw supplies. “You’ve lived on your own, gotten a job and a roof over your sister’s head – you’re not doing bad, so far.”
“I didn’t keep her safe, though.” Charles says, rubbing his eyes with both hands.
“You didn’t have the resources then. Now I’m giving them to you.”
“Why are you giving them to me? You don’t have to do – any of this.” Charles gestures widely – the ship, his new clothes, his new life; the only thing here that hasn’t been given to him is Raven, away in her room.
“Because you’re a very special young man.” Mr. Shaw says, laying a hand on Charles’ knee. Once again the touch unsettles and intrigues him, makes him want to peel apart the layers of the other man’s mind to see what lies beneath. Only that’s no way to repay Mr. Shaw’s kindness.
Instead Charles says, “I’ve missed our talks.”
To his surprise, Shaw agrees without hesitation, and what’s more, without the condemnation he expected for wanting to take Shaw away from his work for Charles’ amusement.
“Are you really that busy?” he asks.
Shaw looks thoughtful, as if considering how much he should say. “It’s... not that.”
Charles can’t quite hide the hurt in his voice when he asks what else it could be.
“I’ve been concerned that you weren’t ready. That you wouldn’t…“
“That’s absurd – don’t you trust me?”
Shaw inspects his face carefully, as if the set of Charles’ mouth or the color of his eyes might tell him what he needs to know. “I guess it’s not fair to hide it; I’ll have to show you. More importantly, Charles, do you trust me?”
“Of course. I owe you everything.”
Mr. Shaw reaches slowly for Charles’ chin, tilting it up. Charles watches, startled, as his mentor closes the space between their faces – their mouths – until they’re touching. His eyes shut without his meaning them to, and Shaw sighs deep in his throat, brushing their lips together in a motion that sets sparks off Charles’ skin. The hand on his knee traces slow circles, and his mouth falls open. Shaw seizes the opportunity to lap at Charles’ lips and the tip of his tongue, strange, provocative sensations he’s never experienced.
Finally Shaw pulls back, carefully watching his face, and Charles’ cheeks flush so hot he thinks he might burst. He swallows once, twice, and bites his still-tingling lip.
“Mr. Shaw –“
“Sebastian.” he corrects gently.
Panic washes over him in waves. “I –I’m sorry, I can’t - “ He can see it all falling around his ears – their safe haven, this new life, his new friend, all because he’s too afraid to do what Mr. Shaw wants, whatever it is he wants.
Shaw smoothes a hand down Charles’ cheek. “There’s no reason to apologize. It was my mistake, and I won’t be angry that I – misjudged you.”
“R-really?”
“Absolutely.” Shaw rises to his feet, his hand falling from Charles’ face. “Now off to bed with you. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Charles leaves, but he doesn’t sleep for a long time, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about warm lips on his, long games of chess after dark, or cold nights huddled against brick walls.