Chapter 1
There was something, just something off-putting about Charles Xavier. Erik had been in his presence for less than a week and he could tell that he did not like him, not even a little.
For starters, Charles was just the type of easygoing rich boy Erik could not relate to in the slightest, and that was just as much Charles’ fault as his own, but still. Charles moved with such languidness, such leisure, and somehow still managed to look someone square in the eyes, convincingly enthralled in whatever story was being told, utterly enraptured by being in someone else’s presence. He always had a pat on the shoulder or his hand to a waist prepared, stretched his arms high above his head like a cat between stories to be polite, and he knew which fork to use during which course. Charles emptied his food into the bins. Charles kissed hands. Charles winked and made people laugh. Charles moved about a room and carried on ten conversations at once with ease and with affection. It was all effortless, the way he carried himself and behaved. It was enviously effortless, and it was making Erik’s jaw hurt from all the gritting he did in Charles’ presence.
Naturally, Erik was vastly different, and the negative attitude toward otherness tended to drive wedges between groups of people, so he let it happen.
He did not enjoy the company of others as a rule anyway, and therefore he did not entertain it. He moved with an awkward stiffness around people, human or mutant, and did not like physical contact. He skittered away from standing next to Charles when he could manage, rather like an antisocial animal, because Charles liked touches that lingered. He ate alone often, and he ate like a beast. He was well aware of the weight of fullness, both in his own stomach and in the universe. After spending such a long time being empty, being so obsessed with the idea of a filling meal, he did not allow himself to be picky, or to be wasteful. He was plain in dress and in the way he styled his hair and he tried to make himself as invisible to those around him constantly. For the most part it worked.
Erik also hated eye contact. Despised it, really. Angel and Raven were easiest to talk to, because he could analyse their makeup, the delicate wing across Raven’s false skin or the fading smoky grey that scaled up to Angel’s brows. Hank never looked him in the eyes anyway, so he never had to worry, and Alex and Darwin tended not to, either. They found him rather odd to be around, and cleared their throats and looked up at the ceiling or at one another often when in his presence. Sean was scarce anyway, choosing to spend his time throwing rocks in the fountain outside the CIA building or whistling holes in whatever shatterable object he could find for Angel’s amusement, and when he talked to Erik, it was mostly to ask him to change the channel on the small telly they shared.
And that left Charles. Charles had the warmest blue eyes he had ever seen, wide and bare, and it made Erik immensely uncomfortable. He felt often scrutinized by the big wet things, and he fidgeted easily under their gaze, something that seemed to amuse Charles greatly.
Tonight they sat across from one another, Erik’s eyes locked on the chess match between them, long legs folded awkwardly in the recliner he sat in, knees under his chin. Only when Charles’ finger motioned to pick up a chess piece did Erik glance nervously up at Charles, and he found himself always annoyed by what he saw. Charles, eyebrows relaxed even as they furrowed, moving his hands around the board as he calculated the movements Erik had caught him in.
(Charles was a little awful at chess. Erik thought it incredulous that he was, because English people were typically good at chess and things like that, but he was well aware the two of them knew that Erik had Charles beat eleven matches to three, and that Charles was infuriatingly not cheating.)
“So, Erik,” Charles mused once he’d settled on a piece to move, pressing it firmly into the wooden board and reaching to take a sip of his cup of tea. Erik looked away immediately, fearing being caught, unconsciously mirroring and going to his coffee. It was getting a little on the cold side, and making him feel a bit disgusted, but he downed half the contents of the cup anyway to avoid saying something for a while. Charles did not say anything further, and a pregnant pause passed between them.
“Charles?” His voice croaked under the thickness of the coffee coating it. Damn.
Charles let out one of his effortless twinkly laugh, one Erik is sure is insincere, and he adjusted himself. His trouser leg rode up his ankle a little, and between its hem and the sock on his foot, Erik could see a thin sliver of his pale peach skin. It transfixed him for a while. “You really are rather great at chess,” he conceded with a sigh, leaning in and watching bemusedly as Erik anxiously slammed his knight against the board without touching it, as though it were the first time watching Erik move the metal pieces. “I was curious as to who taught you. I should like to get their guidance so I don’t lose to you every time.”
Erik tensed, fingers clenching. The pieces vibrated for a moment on the board before Erik gained control of himself again, and if Charles noticed, he didn’t say. Erik simply brought his cup to his lips again, silver spoon hovering beside and dripping cold coffee onto Erik’s brown leather shoe. Was Charles trying to get a rise out of him? Surely he couldn’t know that it was Klaus Schmidt who had taught him to play chess, the very same Sebastian Shaw that they were gathering information on, that he had pocketed the case file of all those nights ago. It felt like forever. Erik frowned at him, back stiff in his chair, unable to say anything.
Charles seemed to get it, even though Erik knew he had not read his mind. Perhaps he was projecting. “Oh,” he said, face contorting into that of apologetic horror, almost pity. Erik seethed. “I’m so sorry, Erik. I didn’t mean to upset you, my friend. I had no idea.” Suddenly, as though he could not move, Erik allowed Charles to scoot his chair closer, placing a sad hand on Erik’s clenched fist at his knee, an incomprehensible look in his big blue eyes. Erik was looking him in the eyes. Fuck, he felt trapped, mouth going a little dry over the sheer emotion in them. What the fuck did he want from Erik? “I had only meant to say your chess skills are just as impressive as your mutation, Erik.”
“Yes, well,” Erik managed dryly, his fingers twitching on the hand not occupied by Charles’. He was shaking quite badly now, stuck under Charles’ friendly gesture, and his throat felt closed up. He forgot that he hated compliments directed toward himself. He never knew what to do with them, had no experience with them past the lilt of his poor mama or the disgusting snarl of Schmidt. He was much better with insults. The chess board was vibrating.
“Are you alright, Erik?” What the fuck did Charles want from him? His concern was audible in his voice, but Erik didn’t understand it; he had been standoffish and rude to everyone he had met, especially the telepath in front of him, had told him firmly to stay out of his head, had avoided him at all cost, and yet Charles was still persistent, thumb running soothing circles over Erik’s knuckles.
Erik stood suddenly, bumping the table with the chess board and the drinks between them, and the soft brown of Charles’ tea mixed with the almost black of Erik’s coffee on the soft carpet between them as the cups jostled around from the contact. He extracted his hand from Charles’ and cleared his throat. “I need a moment,” he said, and he could tell it was much too loud to be normal, and Charles could tell something was wrong, but he absolutely needed to leave.
He was vaguely aware that Charles stood after him, calling his name, but Erik shut the door and made a hasty retreat out into the courtyard of the complex they were staying in, tremors in his shadow made evident by the fluorescent street lamps that lit his path.