Work Text:
14 March, 1860
Dear Professor Xavier,
After careful consideration and review, it is with great pleasure that I can write to inform you that your proposal to study in Madagascar on six month’s sabbatical has been accepted by the University, as has your request that it be sponsored. The University has taken upon itself to book you passage aboard a vessel, the HMS Minotaur. As per your proposed time schedule, you will be departing England for Madagascar on the thirteenth of May and returning to England and to your post as professor at Oxford on the tenth of November, 1861.
Good luck, doctor. You’ll be missed.
Sincerely,
Dr. Barnabus Williams
On behalf of Oxford University and her trustees
----
“We’re making good time, professor,” Gibbs, the first mate of the HMS Minotaur looked up at Charles over the maps they were examining. “The wind’s with us; if we keep up this pace we’ll reach Madagascar in under a week. We’ve been blown off course due to the storms the past couple of days, but if the captain’s estimates are right, and they almost always are, we should be just below Madagascar. About here.” He gestured to a spot on the map, well off their intended course but close all the same.
Charles smiled back, clapping his hand lightly on Gibbs’ shoulder. The trip had been wholly uneventful up until this past week, when a few inopportune storms as the Minotaur was rounding the bottom of Africa pushed the ship incredibly off course. Worried as always, Charles had feared that they’re arrival had been horribly delayed, or worse, they were rather lost. But no. Madagascar was in sight. Charles felt as if his entire academic career had been working towards this trip, working towards the observations he could make on an island so isolated and therefore so very prone to its own evolutionary progress. And now it was close, so wonderfully close. Brilliant.
“Excellent, Mister Gibbs. I’m glad I put my trust-“ the smile slowly faded, a look of horror passing over Charles’ face. In quick, frantic steps the doctor was hurrying up the stairs and up onto deck, making it just in time to lean heavily on the ship’s railing as he emptied the contents of his stomach over the side. He could hear Gibbs’ hearty laugh the entire way up. Good man, but he took entirely too much pleasure in Charles’ misery. Once the academic was done he groaned, resting his head against his forearms as he tried to regain some form of equilibrium. Damnable seasickness. Charles knew he barely had any sea legs, having spent his entire life on land, swallowed by the comfort of rigorous academia, but having episodes like this nearly a month into the trip was ridiculous. At least it provided some slight amusement for the crew, experienced sailors all, even if Charles was absolutely miserable.
“A lime, doctor?” The calm, level voice of the captain of the ship, a capable man by the name of Remmington, broke through the seasick man’s introspective suffering.
Charles slowly raised his head, feeling his stomach flip uncomfortably. A lime held by long, lightly tanned fingers entered into his field of vision and he gratefully took it, biting in and sucking as he cautiously straightened. “Bless you, my friend,” he sighed, looking up at the taller Englishman and away from the endless, rolling lines of the waves in front of them. “Your bottomless supply of limes has been a great and entirely appreciated mercy.”
The captain laughed, a genial thing that sounded more suited for a society dinner than it did the open ocean. “You’re running into my personal supply, now,” Remmington admitted, young face creasing into a small, closed-mouth smile. “Though I’m glad to sacrifice for the cause.”
Charles tried to respond around his mouthful of citrus but instead he leant out over the side again, pulling the lime out just in time to avoid it being a part of his next upheaval. The same hand that had previously offered Charles his lime alighted on the professor’s back, holding the collar of his linen shirt and brown jacket tightly as Charles heaved, an almost dangerous distance over the edge of the boat.
“I think, doctor, that it would be most beneficial to your health if you’d consider a rest in your quarters,” the young captain suggested calmly, letting go as Charles righted himself again. The academic found himself agreeing, and bidding the captain a good evening he shakily headed down to his bunk, all but ignoring the rolls of thunder in the distance and the darkening sky around them.
----
Of course, the storm was rather hard to ignore nce it had caused Charles to awaken and jump ship with the rest of the crew less than half an hour later. Charles broke the surface coughing, lungs attempting to expel the vile seawater he’d inhaled while he’d been submerged. As soon as he had blinked the water out of his eyes he scanned the dark water for other survivors. There had to be others. Mr. Gibbs, Captain Remmington. Surely they’d managed to get out before the boat flipped, before the fire had engulfed it, Charles had to believe- Another wave slammed into him, dragging him further away from the rest of the surviving crew and submerging him once again. The chair he clung to began to slip from his grasp, pulled by the undertow of the wave as he was being pushed, and just as he fought his way back into control he was forced down under again, losing the chair for good as his body was spun and tossed about.
As the water calmed around him it was with a sharp pang of fear that Charles realized he couldn’t immediately determine which way the surface was; the sky above as dark as the sea below. Wreckage from the ship floated around him, dancing in the pull of the same patch of water that also seemed to be maintaining a firm hold on his body. For a moment he panicked, flailing wildly in a short burst of alarm. But there, a flash of lightning to his right, that way must be up. It was far, perhaps too far, but Charles would be damned if he didn’t at least try to get there. He struggled towards the surface but his going was too slow, too many variables working against him. Lungs burning and desperation setting in, he struggled to kick off his shoes and shrug off his jacket, hoping to lessen his weight. The current of another wave tugged on him, pulling him sideways, and even as pieces of his clothing began floating to the bottom Charles knew he wasn’t likely to make it in time.
He was going to drown.
No.
Charles’ body fought his control, yearning to take a breath; his chest felt like it was going to tear itself apart. After several more seconds of a torso painfully in spasm and a desperate pressure in his head, Charles caved. Salt water flooded his nose, reacting horribly with the tender tissue of his throat, burning all the way down until it reached his lungs. But the surface must only have been be several feet away now, if he could only reach it and get a breath, just one breath to clear the water… Charles’ searching hand brushed air as his thoughts began whiting out.
Help me, please, I’m so afraid, don’t let me die.
Help me.
----
On the island of Genosha, two and a half miles away, a telepath named Emma Frost clutched her head in her hands, screaming. Beside her a man in a red cape closed his eyes, desperately seeking metal and finding little, only the steady thrum of iron in blood, before jerking his outstretched hands back towards himself with a cry of pain and over-exertion.
----
The next time Charles regained consciousness it was to the feeling of being dumped, rather unceremoniously, onto a cold, stone floor. He groaned, his head feeling like it was about split open. He ached, muscles sore and throat raw, and for some inexplicable, definitely painful reason, it felt like someone had grabbed a hold of his heart and jerked violently. Oh, God. What had happened? Charles could remember the storm, the ship capsizing, the water… His eyes flew open, revealing a polished, white stone floor immediately in their path. Alive. How? For sure he was gone, for absolute sure, and-
A throat was cleared, almost comically loud in the stillness of the room, and Charles was so shocked that he forgot the pain and stiffness in his body long enough to scramble to his hands and knees, looking up towards the source of the noise.
What he saw shocked him.
There were mutants in front of him. Everyone in the room was one. Everyone for as far as he could feel, even in his weakened state, was a mutant. Apart from the physical mutations, Charles could sense them all, their presences echoing in the large stone room around him, some wary, some bored, though all were welcoming in their own way. But as his eyes moved interestedly from one to another (a red man with a tail, a fellow telepath who arched her perfectly-shaped eyebrow at him, a blue shapeshifter who gave him a soft smile) he felt his attention being tugged towards the man seated on a throne in the middle of them all, a man whose mind tastes of sweat and metal, so much metal, a man who was staring haughtily back at Charles. Charles was sure he had never seen him before in his entire life, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was familiar somehow, mind bending around his presence much in the way that it would one it had already met before and his heart giving a vague, pained flutter.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch, Bruder?” the man on the metal throne asked, eyebrow cocked as he relaxed back, looking down at Charles. German? How had…? Near Madagascar? Charles wanted to follow that thought through, ask the assembled group where, exactly, this tanned, tattooed man (there was a hammerhead shark, Sphyma mokarran, on his bicep) had learned flawlessly accented German, but it was clear from the rising levels of tension in the room that he was expected to answer immediately.
“Ja. Schlecht.” Poorly. A lie: Charles could speak almost perfect German, but it’s not without a large amount of effort. Effort he didn’t feel like putting his poor, pounding head through, on top of the harsh sounds of the language.
The other man’s responding laugh sounded as if it had been torn of out him, harsh, like a bark. He smiled down at the professor, revealing a wide, almost predatory grin with a suspiciously large amount of white teeth, like a shark staring down its next meal. Perhaps that had been where the tattoo had come from. It suited him, Charles thought, much in the way that gladiatorial combat suited the Roman Empire.
“English, then.” The man’s accent was heavy, though his mouth formed around the new sounds as flawlessly as he’d handled the German, no sign of hesitation or incompetence. Charles couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. Thank God this man could speak the Queen’s: Charles had always hated German.
“Who are you?” the man continued. “A mutant, obviously. The most powerful telepath any of my Brotherhood has ever seen, which is what’s important, but that’s hardly all.”
Charles bristled, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. That had been a compliment, but there was something about the man’s demeanor, the ever-present smile on his face, that made Charles feel as though every word out of his mouth was much more loaded than he was letting on. “Doctor Charles Xavier,” he replied, voice even and eyes not daring to leave the face of the tanned man in front of him. “Professor at Oxford.”
The man made a soft sound of recognition. He knew Oxford, then. Somehow. There was another question on the tip of his tongue, Charles could tell, but when one was finally asked it wasn’t the one that was first formed in the other man’s mind, the telepath could tell.
“Do you know where you are?”
Charles shook his head ‘no,’ though he’d been dying to find out from the moment he awoke to this roomful of curious mutants. He could have just plucked it out from any one of these present minds, but considering he didn’t know what sort of mental defenses they people present had, or even what they'd do to him if he was caught, he decided against it.
“Emma,” the man on the throne called, head leaning slightly to his right. Charles watched as the telepath from before, clad in all white, stepped forwards with a bored look on her face. “Yes, Magneto?” The last word was intoned with obvious cheek and the man, this Mangeto fellow, scowled, but did nothing. They were familiar then, Charles gathered. Enough for her to get away with that.
“Search him.”
The eye roll Emma gave him was one for the record books, and Charles got the distinct feeling that it wasn’t quite irritation but… pain? One small brush against her mind told him she’d overtaxed herself recently. Charles knew the feeling radiating off of her, he’d experienced it once when he’d accidentally projected a nightmare onto his entire dorm while he’d been a boy at Harrow.
“Then I suggest you hold him still.” No moniker from Emma this time, though the expression Magneto shot her in return was absolutely withering. A game, Charles realized. Magneto had requested something of her, but she wasn’t going to give it to him unless she got something back. Cheeky of her. Though he was sure she wouldn’t have done it if she didn’t think Magneto was going to acquiesce.
“Hold me still?” Charles questioned, eyes widening. “I assure you, I’m no-“
The word stopped abruptly, as if it had been snatched out of his open mouth. Oh God, he couldn’t move. Not his vocal chords to finish his sentence, not his limbs, nothing. He felt his heart slam into his chest, speeding up as if reacting to something, some external stimuli. This was familiar, this feeling. Charles didn’t know how, but it was horrifyingly, horrifyingly recognizable. With some little relief he found that he could still breathe, could still flick his eyes around the room in terror. A small mercy, then, granted to him by Magneto, whose hand was outstretched, beads of sweat already forming at his hairline. Masterful control over his mutation. Hold him still indeed. He was playing with Charles as easy as a master with his puppet. But how…?
“Your blood,” Magneto explained graciously, voice slightly strained from effort, and for a moment Charles wondered if he was really projecting that badly. It had always been hard for him to keep it together when he was under great amounts of stress. God. A mutant that could manipulate blood? It was easy to see why he was the leader of this group. At least the sympathy he clearly felt for Charles' position was rolling off of him in waves, like the king would much rather be handling this another way. Charles had never seen anything like this. He’d considered the possibility of mutants this powerful, of course, but-
“Emma!” Magneto snapped, glaring over at the blonde, hand beginning to tremble from what was obvious effort.
She smirked back, obviously enjoying watching the man. “Didn’t anyone teach you the word ‘please?’” But for all her sass, in a moment Emma leveled her gaze at Charles, pretty face creased in concentration.
Sorry about this, sugar.
And then she was in his head, and Charles could see why she wanted Magneto to hold him still, because if he’d been under his own devices he might have screamed and thrashed in pain, might even have tried to run, though he was sure he would have been crippled by pain. Oh Jesus, he’d been shielding and she’d known, her mind entering his like the edge of her consciousness was coated in something hard, something impossible to resist, and it hurt so badly that he was sure she could hear him screaming, they all could. He felt his mind being ruffled through, his memories, thoughts, everything, and it felt like he’d been laid bare in front of this Emma in a show of the very sort of telepathy Charles had been trying to avoid all his life.
Suddenly she was gone, withdrawn inelegantly and harshly, and in a small show of pity Charles wasn’t dumped onto the floor again but lowered, Magneto’s arm shaking the entire time. As soon as he touched the ground Charles’ body was under his own control again and he took in a deep, shuddering breath as he heard Magneto begin to berate Emma for taking so long to get started. But the doctor was ‘clean,’ apparently, though what that meant exactly Charles had no idea. He couldn’t even be arsed to look, his mind off kilter and his body wrecked.
A pair of blue feet came into his train of vision, and even though Charles knew he should at least try to push himself up off the floor a little, he couldn’t, he just couldn’t. But that was alright for the shapeshifter he’d seen earlier- she came to him, bending down until he could look into a pair of beautiful yellow eyes.
“Welcome to Genosha, Doctor Xavier,” her voice was soft and, for all intents and purposes, she seemed kind enough. At least she regarded him with compassion, not pity. “Please, let me take you to your room.”
----
In the next thirty minutes, Charles’ cultural and intellectual horizons were broadened substantially. Genosha, as Raven (the shapeshifter) informed him while half-carrying him through mazes of white stone, was an island about two day’s sail away from Madagascar and was entirely populated by mutants. A safe-haven, she’d called it as she’d unlocked his room, depositing him carefully onto the large, entirely too-comfortable bed aligned along the far right wall. Charles, for all the excitement he knew he’d be feeling later when his body (still feeling the effects of almost drowning) and mind (still feeling the effects of the throne room) didn’t act as though they were painfully revolting against him, could only muster a few words to make her keep talking.
“They’re not always that bad, you know,” Raven offered eventually after her introductory ramble had died down, gently slipping Charles’ shirt off. He was too weak to complain about propriety, even if Raven was only clad in what appeared to be the most flimsy of garments. So she continued, also shedding his trousers before carefully tucking him into bed, Charles moaning in complete and total appreciation. “The king and Emma, that is. When you were drowning, you kicked up all sorts of fuss around here. Projecting badly, or at least that’s what Emma says.”
Charles closed his eyes, letting the other mutant talk as she moved away to pull the blinds in the room, the bright morning sun leaking in through the room’s wide windows. Her chatter was calming. Almost like his mother used to be when he was a boy, before she'd become a shade of herself, except Raven’s was filled with teenage enthusiasm and not motherly concern. Charles briefly wondered if anyone ever listened to her like this, and she was merely taking advantage of the opportunity. Though in fairness, he could hardly count himself as a sympathetic ear. He was, after all, close to unconsciousness.
“Though really, if anyone was to be mad it would be Erik. Magneto, rather. He had to pull you in from two miles out using only your metal fillings and the iron in your blood. Not easy for him, not easy at all. And not fair of Emma to make him do it again in the throne room earlier. He’s probably going to sleep for days after this. At least, that’s what he did the last time he tried it.”
That got Charles’ attention, and quickly. Metal, then? Not blood? That would explain the metal throne, the metal bands around the man’s wrists… even Raven had a metal anklet on, though Charles wasn’t sure if its purpose was decorative or more sinister. She did, after all, seem to be a member of what Magneto (now Erik, according to Raven) had called his ‘Brotherhood.’ Even more impressive than he’d thought, then, this Erik fellow. And to pull Charles in from so far away, to be able to find him in the storm, with all the metal debris and other people floating around… Well. Say what he would about the morality of saving just Charles, just the mutant- it was still damn powerful.
The brunet felt a gentle pressure on the mattress by his thigh, cracking his eyes open to look up at Raven. “Why?” Charles managed to croak out, voice sounding ragged against his own ears.
“Why Emma?” Raven sounded exasperated, and even though Charles wasn’t trying he could feel her annoyance at the other woman. Already, he liked Raven. “Because they needed to make sure you weren’t a plant. Genosha, it’s…” She paused, biting her lip. “We take in mutants from all around the world. Ones that are persecuted in their own countries. Word’s started getting out to the wrong sorts of people. Humans. Violent humans. We’ve been careful, but Erik’s cautious. He wanted to make sure you weren’t dangerous.”
Charles nodded slowly, closing his eyes again. That was logical. If he’d been protecting an entire island-full of mutants, the professor would have done the same thing. Admittedly, a bit more gently. He couldn’t hold too much of a grudge, not for that. Especially after Magneto had saved his life, certainly.
Raven’s cool hand touched his forehead and she made a soft, pleased sound. “You don’t seem to have caught cold,” she said, standing up. “You’d been thawing out in the kitchen next to a roaring fire, so we weren’t really worried, but…” She trailed off, and Charles could already feel himself dropping into sleep. He got the distinct impression that ‘we’ might have actually been ‘Raven.’ Bless her. She seemed like a very sweet girl.
The door opened from across the room, and by the time Raven had said her goodbyes and closed it again, Charles was asleep.
----
When Charles awoke it was to the quiet entrance of Raven bringing him food and an official summons to Magneto’s quarters that night. “Just to talk, he says,” she informed him, perching on the foot of his bed (and nearly giving Charles a heart attack in the process) as if she’d never been taught the way to conduct herself while alone in a room with a man. Though, after thinking about it, Charles realized she probably hadn’t. Proper etiquette hardly seemed to be the most pressing issue when you’re serving in the government of an island worried about the threat of the outside world.
“Just to talk?” the professor repeated dubiously, taking a huge bite out of the toast Raven had brought him. He’d been out for over a full twenty-four hours, apparently. No wonder he was so famished.
Raven nodded. “He’s good, Charles,” she insisted, toying rather childishly with the hem of her short dress, and when they’d graduated to a first-name basis Charles couldn’t remember. “A bit rough every once in awhile, but I think you’ll like him.”
Hit it off indeed. Somehow, Charles doubted it, and why Raven was so insistent was still wholly unknown (Charles was too grateful to Raven to pry). Though he did owe the man a debt, and Magneto had been acting in the best interest of his people, so Charles decided to give him a chance, appearing under escort at the king’s door two hours later after he’d bathed and gotten into a new outfit of graciously-provided clothes.
At the knock of the escort Charles heard the king answer with a gruff ‘come’ before the door was swinging open on its own accord (of course- metal hinges, metal lock). He steeled himself, spine straight as he prepared himself for the worst.
The worst, it turned out, wasn’t horrible at all. The king’s quarters were lavish, yes, but, if Charles could say such a thing, were Spartan in their lushness. While there were very few decorations, Magneto choosing practicality over aesthetics, clearly, Charles got the impression that everything was very well made and very, very expensive. He would know- Xavier Manor didn’t run itself.
The door clicked shut behind Charles, startling him for a moment, before he resumed his looking around. The room he was in seemed to be the king’s office. Interesting. Large metal desk and chair, a potted jade plant over by the picture window-
“Come in, professor.”
The king’s voice was much calmer that Charles remembered it to be from the throne room, and he followed the voice cautiously into what was certainly the man’s study, shelves of books lining the portions of wall that weren’t covered with art (one painting, Charles noted with no small amount of shock, seemed to be an original Rembrandt). It was certainly well-used and lived-in. So the king was an intellectual. Good. Charles could get along with intellectuals.
“I’m glad you decided to join me,” Magneto spoke from where he’d risen up out of his seat, hands clasped behind him as he greeted the other man.
Charles responded in kind from his place near the doorway, shifting awkwardly in place. Should he bow? He had already greeted Magneto as ‘your majesty,’ but would he expect more? And even more concerning was the change in the man's mind. In the throne room it had been much darker, much more urgent, but now he seemed a bit softer, though still guarded, and more... repentant? He knew he'd done wrong by Charles, then. Good.
“Please, sit,” the taller man insisted, gesturing towards the chair opposite his own, and as Charles’ eyes moved to look at the chair they fell with interest on the previously-unnoticed chessboard in between the two seats.
“Do you play, your majesty?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t too out of line as he took his seat.
Erik winced. “Erik, please,” he corrected, easily shirking the 'your majesty.' “Magneto’s more of an official title. And yes, I do. Not as often as I’d like, admittedly. Azazel, my teleporter, plays, but he’s been too busy wooing Raven, the young woman who guided you to your room as of late.”
The telepath nodded, still hungrily eyeing the board. It had been awhile since he’d played himself, and certainly with the new added level of familiarity between them, the suggestion of a game wouldn’t be heinous...?
“Perhaps we could talk over a game, then, Erik?” Charles suggested, eyes flicking up to meet Erik’s fellow blues.
Surprise. Erik hadn’t been expecting the familiarity with such little argument. Clearly, most didn’t react that way. Though if the small ripple of excitement that went through the king was any indication, chess was a most welcome idea indeed.
With a flick of Erik’s wrist the drawer of the metal chess set opened, pieces floating out and settling themselves onto the board. Charles raised his eyebrows, impressed, and the king smirked back, already setting up the pieces.
Show off.
Erik’s eyes widened, and he looked back up at Charles.
“Well, you showed me yours…” the doctor shrugged in a show of faux innocence, drawing another smile from the king. No reprimand, only amusement.
Yes, Charles could see how they might like each other. Perhaps Raven was right after all.
----
To Charles’ most pleasant surprise the king was a fantastic chess player, even beating Charles one out of their three games and solidly giving him a run for his money the other two. Charles had discovered, as well, that Erik was a wonderful conversationalist when he wanted to be, and even more attentive than he let on. Charles left confused, feeling oddly charmed and knowing he probably shouldn’t be, at least by someone who seemed to have no problem taking complete control over his body like he already had.
The second time went considerably better, if that was even possible. Erik peppered him with questions about the outside world, about the anti-mutant legislation that Charles had come out strongly against, about Charles himself. In return, Charles asked everything he could about the island but was afraid to when they’d first played: population? All mutants? What do you do about schooling? What about any non-mutant children that are born to mutant parents? And, by the end of it, Charles hated Erik a bit less for the agony he’d been put through in the throne room, excess of teeth and smug grin and all.
Two games quickly turned into three, which turned into four times a week, which somehow, much to Raven’s apparent entertainment, turned into every night, even after more than a month on the island. Erik was… interesting. Harsh, yes. Wounded, certainly, though Charles had yet to determine why, exactly, apart from the fact that Erik would get sad every time his eyes fell on a cheap metal menorah that was displayed prominently in the room. But he could listen well, would respond with exactly the right statement or question to prompt further conversation, and was obviously absolutely in love with Genosha and its people, much more of a reluctant father than a true monarch. Soon Charles began to look forward with growing excitement to their nightly match, though he tried to tell himself it was because he didn’t have much else for excitement in his life, not because the way Erik talked about Genosha, passionate and proud, was one of the most effortlessly attractive things Charles had ever seen, and certainly not because when Erik laughed (soft and low, so different from his bark of a laugh in the throne room) it prodded at something buried and raw in the professor’s chest.
----
“Come here,” Raven laughed, grabbing the collar of Charles’ shirt to pull him forwards, licking her finger quickly and rubbing at the tip of the man’s nose. Charles couldn’t help but laugh in reply, feeling entirely mothered as he let the (blonde today) young woman in front of him that he’d grown so fond of in recent weeks wipe away the bit of foam from his nose. Today she’d introduced the biologist to some form of native drink, a deliciously sweet concoction that Charles could already feel rotting his teeth. Unfortunately, the beverage had a fair amount of froth to it, and while there seemed to be a fairly successful trick to drinking it, Charles had yet to master that method.
“Raven,” he protested fondly, batting her hand away. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”
Her (no doubt very witty) retort was cut short by a soft, very hesitant knock on the door of Charles’ quarters. He raised an eyebrow in mild curiosity, though he didn’t think enough of it to stop Raven’s hands when they went to his nose, wiping again. The door was probably for Raven, besides. No need for him to look presentable. Azazel, perhaps, though his knock was usually more firm. He and Raven often went hand in hand, especially considering their-
“My king!” Raven’s mirthful expression dropped quickly and she moved away from Charles as if she’s been burned, standing up and out of her chair as she bowed jerkily. Well that was strange, Charles spared a moment to think as he turned in his seat to face the newcomer. He’d never seen Raven that formal around Erik, and the feeling radiating off of her, much like she’d been caught trespassing… Odd.
“Erik!” Charles greeted, grinning widely up at the other man. He was as surprised as Raven had been, though obviously with a different secondary reaction. The king had never been down to Charles’ room before, had always made Charles come to him. This was a most pleasant change. “Please, join us.”
The metal bender stood awkwardly in the doorway, eyes flicking from Raven to Charles in an accusatory, vaguely hurt manner. “If I’ve interrupted something…” he began, already starting to back out and away.
Interrupted…? Oh. Oh. It was Charles’ turn to get out of his seat now, quickly crossing the room and familiarly taking Erik’s wrist around his bracelet, gently pulling him back into the room. He could feel Raven’s tense behind him, still feeling guilty, of all things. “You’ve interrupted a tea time between friends,” the biologist said kindly but firmly, hoping to sound reassuring. He dropped Erik’s hand as soon as the metal-bender was well into the room, letting himself be led by Charles as well as any sheep and shepherd. “And you’re more than welcome to join us.”
“Actually, I… I just remembered. I made plans with Azazel,” Raven spoke up, finally unfreezing as she swiftly ducked in to plant a kiss on Charles’ cheek, looking apologetically up at Erik as she breezed out of the room with the mental equivalent of a blush of shame following her. Charles frowned in confusion, watching her go. What had that been about? Was she truly that concerned about being around Erik? Was she not supposed to be here? Perhaps… ah, yes, that had to be it. She and Azazel, then. And Erik was in charge of both of them. Raven must not have wanted to give Erik the wrong idea about her and Charles when she was already romantically entangled with the Russian.
Now alone, Charles smiled up at Erik, sensing that the man was uncomfortable. Even without his power he would have been able to tell: Erik was glancing around the room, body tense and awkward. The telepath sent a wave of reassurance to lap quietly against the edge of the taller man’s consciousness, though he didn’t feel entirely sure of himself in this situation either. Really, what was a drink between chess partners? Nothing to get worked up about, certainly.
“Please,” the professor finally broke the silence, moving back towards his own chair and gesturing to the one Raven had just vacated. “Sit. I’m sure there’s more of this… ‘maetcha,’ is it?”
“Macheta,” the king corrected quietly, moving to sit where Charles had indicated. It was with a quick spark of curiosity that he noticed Erik’s gauntlets were gone and in their place was a small metal orb that he was kneading in his hand as if it was made of nothing more than clay.
Charles sat up excitedly in his seat, eyes flicking back and forth between Erik’s face and the space under the table where his hand was sure to be. “May I see?” he asked, curious. He hadn’t had a chance to see much of Erik’s mutation, apart from the throne room and a few quick uses during their chess matches. He didn’t think until the words were out of his mouth that his statement had probably sounded incredibly rude. “That is to say, I don’t mean to ogle, only… Mutations are my area of specialty,” the doctor tried to explain, feeling his face tint as Erik stared at him blankly. “My doctorate, that is. It was my thesis. I’d meant to go to Madagascar to study the evolutionary process there- so much biodiversity, you see- but-“
“Charles.” Erik’s voice was soft again, very much not the response Charles had been expecting. When Charles looked up from the spot of table in front of him where he’d stared while digging himself into that very sizable hole seconds previously, he found that Erik’s hand was still out of view but the metal was now a perfectly spherical, spinning orb hovering in the air between them. “It’s alright.”
The professor smiled delicately, feeling something warm and lovely begin to spread out in his chest.
Erik returned the smile.
----
Since he wasn’t yet allowed out into the general populace without an escort, apparently, Charles spent most of his time down on the king’s own private stretch of beach. When Charles had expressed his desire to “get out more,” yet hesitancy to take someone away from their official duties in order to do so, Erik had, under his breath, quietly offered up his own sandy section of coastline for the other man’s use. No sooner were the words coming out of Erik’s mouth had the doctor been enthusiastically saying yes.
The beach was lovely, cooled by a light sea breeze that leaft Charles’ hair in an almost constant state of dishevelment despite his best attempts to occasionally tame it. The water was warm and there were several stretches of reef nearby for the scientist to explore, much to his unending delight. There were more new species of fish than Charles even knew what to do with. A large stone pavilion offered shade and a respite from the hot sun that Charles and his fair British skin would often welcome most heartily, and when Raven would join him occasionally she would yell at him to lay out with her and soak up the rays of the sun, much to Charles' horror. There was no way that much direct exposure was healthy.
It had taken Charles awhile to fully trust the water again, at least enough for him to submerge himself and swim out a bit, but once he did he never looked back. The flora and fauna of Genosha’s sea was enough to captivate him so fully that he eventually forgot his fear of the harsh ocean water, and even of sharks after he'd swam with several, unbothered, for a few hours.
Sometimes, when the island could run itself, apparently, Erik would even join Charles down on the beach. The first time had incredibly formal, regressing a bit on all the progress in their friendship that they’d made during their chess sessions. Erik, apparently, had no idea what to do with a mildly sunburned, sopping-wet Charles until the professor had invited the other man in for a swim. Pandora would be proud. Much to Charles’ chagrin (and also maybe pleasure) the ruler had yet to wear an appropriate amount of clothing since, at least in comparison to Charles’ breeches and long undershirt. Though what was even more damning for Charles was how Erik swam. If the brunet didn’t know full-well that metal was the king’s domain, he would have easily guessed Erik had a secondary mutation that allowed him to move gracefully in the water, lithe swimmer’s body maneuvering like he was born there. (Charles, swimming constantly behind and toting the glass box he’d managed to procure to try and see clearly underwater with, always felt horribly uncoordinated in comparison.)
----
An equal-opportunity biologist, Charles wasn’t above offering a bribe or two to get some of the local animals to come closer to him when he was down on the beach. After all, there were other things to watch besides the lean, tanned king that was sprawled out next to him, water still drying on his skin. Their visitor, cautiously eyeing a piece of bread from Charles’ lunch, was a gorgeous little treasure indeed, and the doctor was almost giddy at the prospect of seeing the flashy, white and blue-feathered bird up close. It alighted on Charles’ foot, its red crest bobbing as it again cocked his head, hopping a bit closer.
Charles, of course, was absolutely delighted. “Erik,” he asked quietly, holding out the small piece of break to the bird in hopes of luring it further. “What kind of bird is this?”
“Oh, him?” Erik smiled slightly, knowingly, cracking an eye open and looking over at the bird Charles was so eagerly making friends with. “That’s a lung gull.”
“A ‘lung gull’?” Charles tore off another little bit of his sandwich to feed the small, pretty bird, beaming as the creature picked it right off of his hand and hopped farther up his leg. “What ever possessed people to it such an odd name?”
As if on cue the bird opened its mouth, emitting an atrociously loud, high honk that sounded as if the animal was the byproduct of a foghorn and the whine of a broken steam engine as it fluttered forward, beginning to aggressively peck at Charles and his food.
The almost-shriek of surprise that the biologist emitted as he attempted to beat the bird back echoed the gull’s so perfectly that Erik laughed too hard to even try and help Charles rid himself of the offending waterfowl.
----
Over the period of several weeks Erik’s visits grew increasingly less and less formal, until Erik stopped asking if it was all right that he “call upon” Charles and would just wander down onto the beach, all bare chest and low-slung, knee-length trousers and gleaming metal wristbands. The Oxford professor had, more than once, lectured him on the meaning of modesty and the importance of keeping one’s skin out of the sun, but Erik would just grin and retreat down into the water once more, submerging himself to politely drown out Charles’ words.
Though, if Charles was being honest with himself, he was glad Erik never took the lectures to heart.
After their swims they’d lay out under the pavilion or on the hot sand, sometimes talking for hours, sometimes just enjoying the comfortable silence between them, and, oddly enough for the usually-solitary Charles, never truly growing tired of the other’s company. When they left the beach they would leave together, eating dinner in a small room adjacent to the kitchen where they sometimes encountered other members of the Brotherhood before retiring to Erik’s rooms for chess.
If Charles slowly began to forget his life in England, the fog of home being replaced with the sun and people of Genosha and the gleam of light sparking off polished metal wristbands as Erik moved to brush a patch of sand off Charles’ bare back, he didn’t want to acknowledge it.
----
“How are your studies coming?” Erik asked one night, capturing Charles’ bishop with his queen. “Azazel tells me you’ve spent nearly all of your days exploring the beach, even when I’m not there.”
The biologist rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. Azazel, Erik’s second in command, had been keeping an eye on Charles. While Charles had understood the need when he’d first “arrived,” Azazel’s watch was now a point of curiosity and interest for Charles, so much so that he now suspected Raven’s involvement somehow. If he hadn’t had a three-hour discussion about Russian literature with the man just the other day, Charles might have been tempted to find the other mutant’s comings and goings uncanny. But he was harmless, it seemed, and his loyalty to Erik, from what Charles could glean from his (oddly shielded) mind, was absolutely unflinching.
Charles countered, putting Erik’s king into check. Azazel’s observations were correct, but the question was so broad that Charles only realized as he began to wind down from his answer that his enthusiasm for the island and its unique animal life had caused him to speak for nearly half an hour in reply, pausing only when he had to think about his move. Another product of Erik’s kind ear and expert prompting.
“Oh, my friend, I’m sorry,” the scientist immediately offered, wincing sympathetically as he stretched back away from the chessboard, popping something in his back. “Please, feel free to stop me if I ever go off like that again.”
The look that passed over Erik’s face and the quick accompanying jolt of emotion made Charles realize that Erik never considered doing it, and furthermore…
“’My friend?’” the ruler said quietly, fixing Charles with a carefully guarded stare.
For a moment, Charles was speechless. “Oh. I…” My friend. It was just Charles’ way of speaking, wasn’t it? Surely he’d called Erik “my friend” before…? His colleagues, his students, even strangers, on occasion, had been the victim of the professor’s “my friend.” But this wasn’t a colleague, definitely not a student, and not quite a stranger. This was Erik, the king, the man who he’d formed an uncannily close connection with, and-
“Yes. My friend.” Charles swallowed, risking a look up and into the other man’s bitingly clear eyes.
Erik responded immediately, eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiled at Charles, a surprisingly soft, entirely winning thing that bore none of the sharpness Charles had seen in the throne room two months ago. It was enough to make the telepath’s breath catch slightly, though he managed to convince himself it was due to the way Erik’s mind felt right now (warm, tentative, and so, so happy), nothing more. Charles dropped his gaze and withdrew his mind, looking back down at the chessboard as his heart pounded loudly in his red-tipped ears.
Three moves later Erik put Charles into checkmate, and as the loser of the game rose to leave for the night, Erik brought up a question.
“You mentioned the desire to go out into the city,” he cocked his head, still seated in his chess chair as he absentmindedly formed and reformed a rook. It levitated over his hand as he did so, cold metal as pliable as hot wax in the monarch’s hands.
Charles dipped his head in confirmation, watching what he had now identified in Erik as something akin to a nervous tic. “The palace is wonderful,” Charles replied, trying to be diplomatic about the situation. “But I’d very much like to explore the capitol, yes. I know that it’s your concern for me that’s kept me here,” he explained quietly. “But from what I can see from the castle, the city is beautiful.”
The king smiled, his sense of pride in Genosha clearly pandered to.
“Perhaps you’ll find a solution soon,” the king began, reforming the chess piece and sending it back towards its space on the board with a final flick of his wrist. The tattoos on Erik’s right shoulder shifted with his skin as he did so, momentarily transfixing Charles. They were still an unfamiliar sight for the high-society Englishman, even though he had seen them enough by now: the king very rarely wore sleeves. (It’s just the tattoos, Charles promised himself. Not the muscle underneath them that has you curious.)
“Sleep well, my friend.”
The words, Charles’ own thrown back at him, caught the professor off guard. His smile, when he managed it, is glowing.
----
The next morning, Charles had a written invitation from Erik asking for the “pleasure of his company” that afternoon as Erik “inspected" the city. It was, of course, one of the most bold-faced lies Charles had ever seen on paper, but the mere fact Erik had come up with it just to take Charles out made him feel oddly giddy. He was excited to see the city, yes, but he’d been in the palace for months now, and while Erik (especially Erik), Raven, and the other occasional member of the Brotherhood were wonderful company, even the thought of getting out was enough to send Charles over the moon.
Though the trip didn't come without its setbacks. Almost the very moment he and Erik stepped out the gate he was overwhelmed, so many different smells and noises and even though he had lived in London during his formative years, there was no way he could have been prepared. There were minds everywhere, hundreds and hundreds and he could feel them pushing against him, swallowing him, most completely unaware of Charles but some responding in interest. They slammed against his consciousness, cracking his carefully-constructed shields, but why, why was that? Charles had no problem at Oxford, in London, why-? They were all different, he realized quickly, squeezing his eyes shut as he swayed on his feet. There wasn’t the basic, underlying human hum he’d learned so long ago to block out. This required more concentration; a different approach.
Charles staggered backwards, mind whirring and afraid he might fall before he felt a strong arm around him, anchoring him. Erik cursed above him, snapping at the guard at the gate to send ahead to have someone prepare Charles’ room, but through the haze the doctor managed to wave him off.
“I’m fine, Erik,” he responded as he began to rework his shields, remaking them into a pattern that Genosha and its unique minds would accept. “Thank you, my friend-“ that burst of happiness again, this time tinged with worry- “But if you’ll kindly just steady me for a moment, I’ll soon be right as rain.”
Erik’s hand arm tightened around the smaller man’s waist, holding Charles firmly against the king’s (much firmer, less academic) body. “Emma thought this might happen,” he murmured quietly, carefully bracing Charles. “It’s why I kept you in the palace for so long, I’m sorry Charles, if I’d known you still weren’t ready…”
“Oh, nonsense,” the doctor gently chided, already beginning to feel better as he straightened and reluctantly pulled away from Erik, missing the man’s steadfast presence against him as soon as he did so. “I know you meant the best, and this is just a hiccup. I’m fine now, see?”
Erik looked dubious, but followed when Charles smiled up at him and began to walk towards the entrance of what seemed to be one of the city’s main streets.
Charles didn’t know where to look first. Obviously, the knowledge that this fascinating, bustling city with its beautiful, well-kept buildings (influenced by what seemed to be every architectural style under the sun) and seemingly happy citizens was built entirely by mutant hands made his heart swell with pride, but there was more to it than that. The fact that it was all but crime-free, Erik proudly boasted as they continued down the sidewalk, Charles whipping his head around like some over-excited tourist, the thriving school system, or the harnessed electricity that flowed through more than two-thirds of their city. (The castle itself, built, according to Erik, in the mid-1600s, needed an entire overhaul that he was reluctant to supervise if electricity was to be brought up to it.) Though it was mainly the fact that their kind was safe here, not persecuted, free and happy that made Charles want to well up and throw his arms around Erik and thank him. For what, exactly, he wasn’t sure. Saving him, perhaps, so he could live to see this. For keeping the people here so obviously happy and prosperous and safe.
After a few blocks of aimless walking, Erik volunteering information faster than Charles could ask questions, the feeling of being mentally and emotionally overwhelmed began to fade away. When it was less of a factor, Charles could focus on the other sensory impacts that the city was having on him. God, everything was beautiful. Sights, smells- Tastes, quite possibly, Charles’ stomach decided to remind him as they passed a street cart selling some sort of delicious-looking bread treat. Erik had apparently caught Charles’ longing glance because he chuckled, hand soft on the small of Charles’ back as he leaned in so he could be heard, the passing of an electrically-powered street car (much to Charles’ surprise and wonder) loud in the air.
“If you’re hungry, Charles, I know I place we can go…?” He tapered off, clearly not wanting to make any presumptions. Charles couldn’t help the small shiver that went through him at the feel of Erik’s mouth so close to his ear that he could feel his warm breath against the back of his neck.
“That would be most agreeable, yes,” the professor responded, quickly trying to regroup himself after the feel of Erik so close.
The hand on his back stayed in place as Erik began to walk, moving with a purpose now as he guided Charles down one street after another. Erik was recognized a few times, clearly, though he wasn’t approached, only receiving broad smiles and waves. Charles was impressed with how gracious he was, retuning every greeting in turn and blushing after an older mutant called out “long live Magneto!” from her window. It was clear the people of Genosha loved Erik and had great respect for him as their leader. Good, Charles thought, the press of Erik’s hand still warm against his back. They should love him.
The two walked in companionable silence for a while, Charles simply enjoying the feel of the city around him and of Erik’s hand soft on his back, before Erik paused them in front of a small storefront, looking down at Charles for his approval.
“Kosher?” Charles questioned, eyeing the sign in Hebrew that hung on a metal signpost above the doorway. Erik nodded, eyes already focused hungrily on the welcoming interior of the restaurant. Even if Charles hadn’t been prepared to go anywhere that Erik led him, the look on the king’s face would have been enough to change his mind into staying.
“They looked closed, though,” Charles said rather disappointedly, glancing in himself, but Erik was already forcing the lock on the door open, pressing his fingers to his lips in a kiss and touching the mezuzah as he entered. The professor curiously followed, hearing a loud “we’re closed!” echo from the back of the establishment as he did so.
“Not for me, you’re not,” was Erik’s reply, and just as Charles was about to chastise him for using his kingly privilege a loud cry arose from the back of the restaurant.
“Erik Lensherr!”
An older woman, perhaps in her late fifties, popped out from the kitchen. Erik’s smile immediately fell, face taking on the expression of child that had just been chastised.
“I know you’re king, Mister High-and-Mighty, but that doesn’t give you the right to break into people’s restaurants when they’re not open.” She was advancing on them, German accent sharp, and if Charles had never thought to be intimidated by a middle-aged woman, he certainly was now. But Erik stood fast, and with good reason: as soon as the woman was within distance she practically threw herself at the king, dragging him down into what looked like a bone-crushing hug that Erik soon returned.
The emotion in the air was so thick, so fond, that Charles couldn’t help feeling like he was a bit out of place.
“Don’t forget, I raised you through puberty. And a fine job I did, too. Though it seems as if you don’t remember any of it: look at you, not introducing me to your friend.”
Erik snorted, drawing away long enough to smile over at Charles, happy and relaxed in a way that Charles hadn’t seen from Erik outside of their own time together.
“Charles,” he began, sounding vaguely nervous, like he was seeking someone’s approval. “This is my aunt, Ruth.”
Aunt? Charles arched an eyebrow. He’d learned, after many, many nights of chess and conversation, that Erik’s mother had died when he was twelve and that he’d been raised "by someone else." Never had he mentioned an aunt. Strange, considering they were obviously so close, but Charles knew that Erik was a highly protective, highly private person. Even if please like each other, please like each other, please like each other hadn’t been radiating off of the other man like heat off of a furnace, Charles would have known to treat this woman in front of him with the utmost respect.
As such, he turned on his charm.
“Miss Ruth,” he greeted warmly, bending down to kiss her outstretched hand. “It’s so good to finally meet you. Erik has told me so much about you.”
“Oh has he now?” Ruth colored, looking back at her surrogate son and elbowing him in the ribs. “You must like this one, Erik. Well, you obviously do, if you’re bringing him here. Good. Ilike him. You know how that works about me. Keep him.”
Erik’s mortification was palpable, along with a growing sense of fear. Charles coughed, mind flooded with Erik and also his own innocent confusion. “Excuse me…?” he began, but the king quickly interrupted.
“We’ll take the table by the window.” He sounded panicked, taking Charles by the arm and leaving Ruth behind as he all but dragged the professor away, depositing him in a chair by the window as he took the other seat at their two-person table. As soon as he was seated he hid himself behind the menu, and from Charles’ seat he could tell that the tips of Erik’s ears were red. A touchy subject had just been brought up, then.
Erik? He floated softly, trying to look over the menu as he heard Ruth, disgruntled, return to the kitchen. What she said, it was… it was flattering. No harm done. Truth be told the thought of Erik wanting to "keep him," was more than flattering, but the other man was so obviously out of sorts about what his aunt had said that he dared not bring that subject up. Not now.
“I’ll bring you boys some matzah ball soup, yes? It’s always your favorite, Erik. Your fellow will like it, too. Way to a man’s heart, and all that.”
Oh God, did Ruth have poor timing. Charles felt Erik retreat further back into himself, his mood growing close to murderous, and there was shame and regret there, so much of it that Charles felt like choking.
“My friend,” the brunet tried this time, reaching across the table to rest his hand on Erik’s wrist. The man tensed underneath him, and Charles could hear the cutlery out on all the tables around them begin to rattle. Charles had seen this happen before, once only, when Azazel had brought him a particularly bad piece of news about the teleporter’s trip out to retrieve some mutants in America that had requested asylum. The request had been a trap, but luckily Azazel had escaped. It hadn’t ended well for Erik's poor desk chair. If Erik had one major flaw it was his temper.
“Erik,” he said quietly. “Calm your mind. Please.” It would be easy for Charles to reach in, to take a hold of Erik’s anger and disperse it, making the man as docile as a kitten, but he knew his friend would never forgive him afterwards.
“It… it wouldn’t be a bad thing,” he continued, trying desperately to halt the steady progression of Erik’s anger. “If you liked me. If you wanted to keep me around.”
Everything stopped. The rattling of the silverware and the heating up of Erik’s wristbands under Charles’ touch, the storm in his mind. The menu dropped.
“What did you just say?” The hope in Erik’s eyes, guarded, afraid, made Charles want to hold the monarch close. Comfort him, though he knew not from what.
Charles cleared his throat. “It’s just… I was under the impression that we’re friends, yes?”
Erik nodded slowly, and Charles tried to ignore the growing disappointment he felt from the other.
“I like you very much, Erik,” he awkwardly continued, feeling his own face flush. It was an understatement by country mile. “All I’m saying… Well. If you wanted…”
Suddenly, a bowl of steaming matzah ball soup was placed in front of both of the men, cutting off Charles’ train of thought. Ruth leaned in, planting a kiss to the shell-shocked Erik, who honestly looked like he’d just been hit by one of those streetcars they’d encountered earlier in the day.
“Enjoy, boys. I’ll get a candle for the table. More romantic that way.”
Though Charles didn’t choose to continue, Erik’s mental state indicating that he would much prefer not to discuss anything that just happened, the doctor didn’t correct Ruth when she returned, lit candle in hand, and placed it in the center of the table.
But by that token, nether did Erik.
----
On Fridays, Charles and Erik would go into the city. Charles couldn’t get enough of the electric mental energy of Genosha, let alone the physical attributes. He could pick people’s minds out from a crowd, of course, shifting from one city-dweller to the next, but even so, there was just something that felt alive deep inside Genosha. A strange, almost island-wide collective consciousness that Charles could feel everywhere he went since his first trip into the city a month ago. He loved it.
Each excursion had Erik showing Charles a new part of the city, followed by dinner at a new restaurant. They hadn’t been back to Ruth’s, let alone mentioned the incident since, and the telepath hadn’t pushed it. The first time it had been the city’s largest art museum (which Charles had liked), the second time it had been a holiday street fair (which Charles had loved), and the third time had been the national university (which Charles had adored). The Genoshian school system was impressive, even by Charles’ high standards, and he’d even gotten to meet the head of the university’s science department, a fantastically brilliant man named Hank McCoy. Only a few years younger than Charles, he and the Oxford professor had hit it off immediately, talking for hours, much to Erik’s amusement. Their conversation had ended with an open offer of employment, and though Charles knew deep in his heart that he would love nothing more, England was still where his obligations lay.
It didn’t, however, stop him from seriously considering it more and more with every passing day.
----
Charles sensed Erik (presence hard and edged in iron and steel) before the needle on the compass on the desk in front of him began to spin leisurely, the monarch asking permission to visit from his room halfway across the castle. Come, my friend, he gently floated back, taking the compass in hand as he watched it slow, then still, red needle edge pointing, not north, but towards Charles’ door. The professor smiled, closing his eyes and resting his head against the back of his chair. Erik. Almost half a year ago he would have never thought this possible- that he could be happy here, that he would have grown close, to terribly close, to the man that he’d once viewed (though admittedly momentarily) as his tormenter. But here he was, here they were, about to play the first game of chess they’d ever played in Charles’ quarters. It felt good.
It was, however, November. The time he was supposed to have returned from Madagascar. And Charles had something to ask of Erik.
When Erik grew close Charles felt him, his mind instinctively seeking out and wrapping around the other man’s presence before Charles could even order it to do so. Two minutes later and his door opened, and five minutes later their game began. It took Charles until the game was halfway over to even realize something wasn’t right. Erik was too silent, jaw clenched, and he’d been playing with any and every bit of metal he could get his hands on.
“Erik?” Charles asked a moment later, looking worriedly up at the taller man. He wanted to bring up the prospect of staying here in Genosha tonight, but not if Erik was in a bad place. “My friend?” The bristle against that expression was certainly not something Charles was hoping to see, and it worried him. He could, of course, just look, but apart from that being a gross invasion of privacy, he’d rather Erik tell him. Especially because it was Erik.
The answer came quickly, Erik snapping up straight in his chair as he asked: “Charles, do you ever wish you could leave?”
Charles blinked. That hadn’t been what he was expecting, but…
“I… I don’t know,” Charles responded honestly, biting his lip. London? Oxford? The idea seemed foreign, like something out of a previous lifetime. God, it had only been five months, it hadn’t been that long ago. Yet they thought him dead, no doubt. A memorial service had been carried out; maybe Oxford had even named a classroom after him. The idea would have thrilled him four months ago, but now…
“I’m happy here,” he answered. “And that is what matters, Erik.”
Erik nodded. After what must have been a solid minute of the only uncomfortable silence between them that Charles could ever remember, Erik finally spoke, head ducking as he avoided Charles’ eyes. The tension held in his shoulders was obvious.
“You can leave, if you’d like. I don’t… If I’ve ever given you the impression that you had to stay here, I…”
Charles’ eyes widened, heart clenching. “Erik you don’t, I can’t-“
“Take it, Charles.” Erik’s voice was harsh, angry in a way Charles had never heard.
The professor immediately snapped back away from the chessboard, staring scared back at Erik. What was going on with the other man? He’d never felt Erik’s mind like this before, so pained and, for lack of a better word, soupy. The king’s thoughts were jumbled and black, and Charles quickly pulled away from his mind, as well.
“If it’s all the same to you,” he said quietly after almost half a minute, voice more faint that he’d cared to admit. “I’d rather stay.”
Erik's head jerked up. “Stay?” Erik’s voice was small as well, blue eyes searching Charles’ face questioningly, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.
Charles nodded, almost not trusting his voice. “I… I’m a dead man, Erik,” he began, slowly leaning back closer to the other man as if his proximity could help calm the raging in Erik’s mind. “There’s nothing left for me in England. An estate, a title, my position, yes. But no family that hasn’t already gotten over my ‘death.’ And… and if I’m being honest, I thought… well. I thought I could have a new future here. With you. With our people.”
Well, there it was, then. Five months of build up, of slowly escalating tension and friendship and respect, finally leading up to the love Charles had just thrown down on the table. If it was rejected...
Erik’s reaction was almost immediate. “With me?” Another question, so soft and disbelieving, and a burst of hope and trepidation and love, so much of it that Charles felt like he was drowning again, like he was searching for air and sky and Erik was pulling him out of the ocean.
Charles nodded, already beginning to smile. “With you. Together. If you’ll have me, for as long as you’ll have me.”
Moments later Charles’ lips were captured in a bruising kiss as Erik all but vaulted over the chessboard, hands framing the doctor’s face, tangling in his hair, roaming over his body and it was all Charles could do to hang on for the ride, enthusiastically returning the kiss. Erik’s mind fully opened to him and he jumped in, murmuring I love you the entire way down, so full of bliss and pleasant surprise that he almost couldn't react when Erik began pulling him up out of his chair.
----
“I do love you, you know,” Erik whispered, lips cool and wet against the hot skin of Charles’ back as he pressed kiss after kiss to the soft skin laid out before him.
Charles made a soft, contented sound as he rolled over in his bed, his body sated and his mind basking in the newfound connectedness with Erik’s. “Darling, I never had any doubts that you’d still respect me in the morning, but the sentiment is appreciated all the same.”
“Darling?” Erik repeated, his reaction much the same as when Charles had first let “my friend” slip, though this time there was much more enthusiastic kissing.
Charles pulled away laughing, playfully batting the amorous king away as Erik held himself above the telepath, already kissing down Charles’ front, as well. “Another round, Erik? God, you’ll be the death of me.”
Flopping back down onto the bed and pulling Charles close, Erik buried his nose in the crook of Charles’ neck, nuzzling a small patch of skin as he did so.
“If you’ll have me, for as long as you’ll have me, Charles.”