Wallowing in my own stupidity, Erik thinks, but does not say; instead he reaches out to the nearest lump of scrap iron and presses it between his palms as he thinks, rolls it into a ball and stretches it out again, over and over. It catches underneath his fingernails, smears across his skin when he makes it too liquid, and it takes concentration to firm it up again to something more the consistency of modelling clay, or play-doh, malleable but not dripping. “I’m working, Charles.”
“You bloody well are not, you liar.” There is a barely-audible sigh. “Look. I’m sorry if I seemed unappreciative. It really was a very thoughtful thing for you to do, and I’m grateful, Erik. Would you please open up? Or at least turn the lights on in there if you’re going to pretend that you’re doing something, I can see it’s dark in there through the gap under the door.”
Enough of this.
Charles jerks backward when Erik opens the door without warning, nearly tripping over his own feet, and Erik snaps out a hand to grab at the other man’s upper arm to catch him, letting go only once Charles is steady again. “Look,” he says, folding his arms and making himself meet Charles’ eyes, keeping his expression as neutral as possible. “Look. You don’t have to pretend to be happy. You don’t have to pretend to like anything you don’t, you don’t have to placate me if you think I’m angry with you. Don’t say things you don’t mean. Don’t play games.”
“What,” Charles says bluntly, and stares at Erik wide-eyed and flabbergasted, putting his hands on his hips and leaning forward into Erik’s space, somehow looming despite his short stature, “are you talking about, you madman? When have I ever pretended to like something I didn’t? First you’re complaining that I’m complaining about not being happy cooped up in here for months, and now you’re complaining that I’m not complaining? Erik, we’ve done that conversation to death already. Forgive me for not wanting to hash it out every moment of every day.”
“It’s not that.” Erik looks away down the hall, back towards the living room and the mountains of paper where they’re spread around the floor, hidden from here by distance and furniture. “I don’t want you to feel that you have to - ”
“Erik, shut up,” Charles says, and reaches up to clasp Erik’s face, one hand on either side turning him back to look at Charles. “That’s not why - I promise I’ll never do something I don’t want to just to - what was your word? - placate you. I might be stuck in a tower but I’m not a delicate little princess, alright? I am quite happy to tell you when to fuck off. Can we be done with this now?”
“How can you be sure?” There is a long silence between them after Erik speaks, Charles’ palms still warm against his cheeks, and each word that follows drops into the quiet like a pebble into water, one after another. “How do you know that you’re not just telling yourself that, to make it easier?”
“Fuck off,” Charles says, and does not look away.
“That doesn’t really answer my question.”
“Then fuck off again,” Charles says, and when he smiles, tentative and slow, Erik lets his head droop so that his forehead leans against Charles’, breath mingling on a sigh.
XXI
“I don’t know,” Charles whispers later in the dead of night, “but I hope not,” and Erik keeps his eyes closed and pretends not to hear him.
XXII
He knows as soon as he walks in the next day that something is wrong. Raven and Charles’ heads jerk guiltily upright from where they’re sitting tight tangled together on the couch, his arms around her shoulders and hers twined around his waist, her head tucked under Charles’ chin and both of them tear-streaked.
“What’s happened?” Erik asks sharply, looking from one to the other for any clue, but there are none; he wonders if Azazel has done something, or if there is something wrong with the baby, or if -
“The Resistance burned down the mansion,” Raven says in a voice thick with crying, and squeezes her brother’s waist tighter as Charles winces with shared pain, digging his chin into the top of her head and not so much as trying to wipe his wet face.
FILL: Everyday Love in Stockholm 124/?
“You bloody well are not, you liar.” There is a barely-audible sigh. “Look. I’m sorry if I seemed unappreciative. It really was a very thoughtful thing for you to do, and I’m grateful, Erik. Would you please open up? Or at least turn the lights on in there if you’re going to pretend that you’re doing something, I can see it’s dark in there through the gap under the door.”
Enough of this.
Charles jerks backward when Erik opens the door without warning, nearly tripping over his own feet, and Erik snaps out a hand to grab at the other man’s upper arm to catch him, letting go only once Charles is steady again. “Look,” he says, folding his arms and making himself meet Charles’ eyes, keeping his expression as neutral as possible. “Look. You don’t have to pretend to be happy. You don’t have to pretend to like anything you don’t, you don’t have to placate me if you think I’m angry with you. Don’t say things you don’t mean. Don’t play games.”
“What,” Charles says bluntly, and stares at Erik wide-eyed and flabbergasted, putting his hands on his hips and leaning forward into Erik’s space, somehow looming despite his short stature, “are you talking about, you madman? When have I ever pretended to like something I didn’t? First you’re complaining that I’m complaining about not being happy cooped up in here for months, and now you’re complaining that I’m not complaining? Erik, we’ve done that conversation to death already. Forgive me for not wanting to hash it out every moment of every day.”
“It’s not that.” Erik looks away down the hall, back towards the living room and the mountains of paper where they’re spread around the floor, hidden from here by distance and furniture. “I don’t want you to feel that you have to - ”
“Erik, shut up,” Charles says, and reaches up to clasp Erik’s face, one hand on either side turning him back to look at Charles. “That’s not why - I promise I’ll never do something I don’t want to just to - what was your word? - placate you. I might be stuck in a tower but I’m not a delicate little princess, alright? I am quite happy to tell you when to fuck off. Can we be done with this now?”
“How can you be sure?” There is a long silence between them after Erik speaks, Charles’ palms still warm against his cheeks, and each word that follows drops into the quiet like a pebble into water, one after another. “How do you know that you’re not just telling yourself that, to make it easier?”
“Fuck off,” Charles says, and does not look away.
“That doesn’t really answer my question.”
“Then fuck off again,” Charles says, and when he smiles, tentative and slow, Erik lets his head droop so that his forehead leans against Charles’, breath mingling on a sigh.
“I don’t know,” Charles whispers later in the dead of night, “but I hope not,” and Erik keeps his eyes closed and pretends not to hear him.
He knows as soon as he walks in the next day that something is wrong. Raven and Charles’ heads jerk guiltily upright from where they’re sitting tight tangled together on the couch, his arms around her shoulders and hers twined around his waist, her head tucked under Charles’ chin and both of them tear-streaked.
“What’s happened?” Erik asks sharply, looking from one to the other for any clue, but there are none; he wonders if Azazel has done something, or if there is something wrong with the baby, or if -
“The Resistance burned down the mansion,” Raven says in a voice thick with crying, and squeezes her brother’s waist tighter as Charles winces with shared pain, digging his chin into the top of her head and not so much as trying to wipe his wet face.