“Nobody wants to look at that,” Charles says, though Erik is leaning in closer to see the pristine white gown baby Charles is wearing in the photograph, the disgruntled look on his little face as though he cannot wait around to have his picture taken, he has things to be doing. He looks very uncomfortable, actually, and the woman looks uncomfortable too, holding him half away from her body, just secure enough not to drop him, but not enough to keep him from wriggling. In the next photograph Charles is in the man’s arms instead, and looks much happier, hand creeping up towards the tight-knotted tie, about to tug.
“Your parents?” Erik hardly has to wait for the nod, it’s not a giant leap of logic.
“Brian and Sharon Xavier. He died when I was little, and Mother remarried not long after.” Charles grips a thicker chunk of pages this time instead of turning them one by one, and is successful in bypassing the rest of his baby photos - on the next page revealed there are two boys staring back at them, one much bigger than the other, ham-fisted and broad-featured and clearly not Charles; Erik would suspect this of being Raven if it weren’t for the shudder that runs down Charles’ spine when he sees it, and the way he quickly moves them along to the next photograph, which is again two children, but this time one of them is a little blonde girl, and both of them are laughing.
Blonde, blonde, blonde. In every photograph Raven is blonde, blue-eyed, the perfect little Aryan human, the shape of her nose shifting slightly through time, the tilt of her eyes and the proportions of her body, but always, always pink-skinned and unscaled. “Are there no pictures of you?” he asks, as Charles goes for the third album, the first two set aside.
Raven snorts, jabs a finger at the first new photograph, the two of them lolling around in the dappled shade under a tree on a picture-perfect checkered blanket, a wicker hamper between them, like something out of an Enid Blyton book. “Who do you think that is?”
“I don’t know,” and Erik points at the photograph too, “I guess it depends on who you were copying the day you decided on a face.”
“We didn’t dare take any of her blue,” Charles says, brushing both of their hands away so that he can look, tugs a handkerchief from his pocket so he can wipe away their fingerprints from the paper. “In retrospect I wish we had, but there was too much of a risk someone might see. We couldn’t risk it.”
“A pity,” is all Erik says, though he could say much more. It wouldn’t change anything if he did. She looks happy, at least, sprawled across the ground with leaves caught in her hair and head tipped back to enjoy the sunlight where it spangles her skin with leopard-print through the shade of the tree, Charles looking into the camera with a bottle of pop in one hand and a book in the other.
The Raven on the sofa sits up straight and claps her hands in sudden excitement, smiling just as broadly as she is in the photograph, but Erik likes this one more, because it’s really hers. “We should take some!”
“You just want to play at being Twiggy,” Charles laughs, a comment which goes right over Erik’s head, and pokes her in the side, “though you’ve not got the figure for it at the moment.”
“I take it back, you are a prig,” and Raven leans around him to stare soulfully at Erik, who raises an eyebrow at her fluttering eyelashes and does not say anything. “Erik, would you be a dear and get my camera? I left it on the shelf over there and my feet hurt. Because I’m pregnant. And I already got up once and Charles is being horrible to me.”
He tries not to smile, fails miserably, and finds he does not mind overly much. “I’m not getting involved in this.” But he reached out for the camera and floats it carefully over to her waiting hands.
“Smile,” she says, and both he and Charles recoil as the flash goes off in their faces.
“Ow!”
“Damn it, Raven!”
Her laugh is light and breezy and free of the upset of earlier, ringing out loud above the whirring of the camera as it spits out the photograph. “You big babies. Erik, do you think you could hold the camera out and take a picture of all three of us together?”
FILL: Everyday Love in Stockholm 129/?
“Your parents?” Erik hardly has to wait for the nod, it’s not a giant leap of logic.
“Brian and Sharon Xavier. He died when I was little, and Mother remarried not long after.” Charles grips a thicker chunk of pages this time instead of turning them one by one, and is successful in bypassing the rest of his baby photos - on the next page revealed there are two boys staring back at them, one much bigger than the other, ham-fisted and broad-featured and clearly not Charles; Erik would suspect this of being Raven if it weren’t for the shudder that runs down Charles’ spine when he sees it, and the way he quickly moves them along to the next photograph, which is again two children, but this time one of them is a little blonde girl, and both of them are laughing.
Blonde, blonde, blonde. In every photograph Raven is blonde, blue-eyed, the perfect little Aryan human, the shape of her nose shifting slightly through time, the tilt of her eyes and the proportions of her body, but always, always pink-skinned and unscaled. “Are there no pictures of you?” he asks, as Charles goes for the third album, the first two set aside.
Raven snorts, jabs a finger at the first new photograph, the two of them lolling around in the dappled shade under a tree on a picture-perfect checkered blanket, a wicker hamper between them, like something out of an Enid Blyton book. “Who do you think that is?”
“I don’t know,” and Erik points at the photograph too, “I guess it depends on who you were copying the day you decided on a face.”
“We didn’t dare take any of her blue,” Charles says, brushing both of their hands away so that he can look, tugs a handkerchief from his pocket so he can wipe away their fingerprints from the paper. “In retrospect I wish we had, but there was too much of a risk someone might see. We couldn’t risk it.”
“A pity,” is all Erik says, though he could say much more. It wouldn’t change anything if he did. She looks happy, at least, sprawled across the ground with leaves caught in her hair and head tipped back to enjoy the sunlight where it spangles her skin with leopard-print through the shade of the tree, Charles looking into the camera with a bottle of pop in one hand and a book in the other.
The Raven on the sofa sits up straight and claps her hands in sudden excitement, smiling just as broadly as she is in the photograph, but Erik likes this one more, because it’s really hers. “We should take some!”
“You just want to play at being Twiggy,” Charles laughs, a comment which goes right over Erik’s head, and pokes her in the side, “though you’ve not got the figure for it at the moment.”
“I take it back, you are a prig,” and Raven leans around him to stare soulfully at Erik, who raises an eyebrow at her fluttering eyelashes and does not say anything. “Erik, would you be a dear and get my camera? I left it on the shelf over there and my feet hurt. Because I’m pregnant. And I already got up once and Charles is being horrible to me.”
He tries not to smile, fails miserably, and finds he does not mind overly much. “I’m not getting involved in this.” But he reached out for the camera and floats it carefully over to her waiting hands.
“Smile,” she says, and both he and Charles recoil as the flash goes off in their faces.
“Ow!”
“Damn it, Raven!”
Her laugh is light and breezy and free of the upset of earlier, ringing out loud above the whirring of the camera as it spits out the photograph. “You big babies. Erik, do you think you could hold the camera out and take a picture of all three of us together?”