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Erik stood outside, in the wind, surrounded by falling leaves. Took aim. Fired.
Caught the bullet before it could hit the closest of Charles’s trees. As he’d caught all the others, previously.
He added this one to the collection too. They spun in the air lazily, mocking the downward drift of the leaves, red and brown as dearly-purchased blood, on the ground.
He let the next one fly further, giving himself less time to stop it. Succeeded. Smiled.
He was very good with bullets, by now.
Charles’d rolled his eyes, when Erik had picked up the gun and gone out into the crisp autumn air. Had said, not out loud, only in the tilt of the head, the set of shoulders: are you certain you need this?
Erik’d let his silence, and the swing of the mansion door, be his answer.
He could feel Charles even now, if he tried. That warmth never really went away, at the back of his mind. He ought to be unnerved by it. He wasn’t.
He aimed at a rosebush, this time. Snatched the flying speck of metal back, so late that furled petals trembled, fearful of the impact. Erik wouldn’t let them be hurt. No scratches on Charles’s rosebush.
Charles, in his head, wasn’t talking or pressuring him or even observing. Only keeping the contact alive, a hand on an arm, shoulders touching, a smile that hovered ghostily near his shoulder even without the physical presence. Contentment. Charles being comfortable with Erik’s company.
He paused to look at the gun.
He’d always been happiest with his own company. Other people were nuisances or targets or potentially useful, but not comfortable.
He liked the sensation of Charles in his thoughts. The knowledge that he could reach out if he wanted to and find a welcome waiting there, like a promise being kept.
Charles had said that he wanted to go through the library today, after breakfast. Was planning to catalog all those lonely books, most of which hadn’t been glanced at in years; Charles was utterly incapable of leaving a book untouched. Erik always shook his head, particularly when worn paperbacks materialized on the bed or the kitchen counters or the sofa, academic trails like breadcrumbs, leading everyone to blue eyes and floppy hair. To Charles, who’d only that morning been gazing around the study in a vaguely hopeless way and asking, “Have you seen volume two of my—”
Erik’d held it out, patiently—he’d collected it from the breakfast table after they’d finished eating—and Charles had laughed, ruefully, and thanked him, and their fingers had brushed, over the spine.
Erik knew where each one of those books ended up, every day. Charles might need them, after all.
He fiddled with the gun again. Thought about Charles, inside, in that house, surrounded by dust and leatherbound books and memories. They’d been here for two days. Three, as of this morning. Charles’s dreams had awakened Erik both nights.
He’d known they weren’t his. He knew his own nightmares intimately, and that blood wasn’t pouring from him.
He’d never been good at comfort, either. But he’d looked at blue eyes, shadowed by more than midnight. Sat up. Offered his arms, after a second. And Charles had smiled, slightly, and let himself be held. Had started to apologize, soundlessly, and then stopped, understanding, at Erik’s quiet No.
They’d fallen back asleep, both nights, after. Tangled up in warm arms and the sound of each other’s heartbeats, keeping time, in the dark.
He ran a hand over the barrel of the gun. The metal sang to him, cool and purposeful. Erik touched it again, because it wanted him to, and remembered touching Charles, too, that morning, pale skin and freckles dancing under his fingertips, exquisite as artwork, and as complex.
They’d made love very cautiously, in the antique sprawl of Charles’s heirloom bed. He’d not meant to be that gentle—he so rarely was, with Charles, and Charles, for his part, seemed to enjoy all the breathless roughness, Erik’s hands forceful against his skin, the intensity that crackled like thunderstorms, leaving them gasping and electrified—but somehow he’d looked at blue eyes, waking up and sleepy as tropical-ocean afternoons, and he’d found himself caressing that skin with reverence, as if entrusted with something precious, and irreplaceable, and rare.
He’d just thought the phrase made love, he realized, astonished. Not had sex with. Not taken, or fucked, or any of those cruder English words.
Had he, and Charles, made something like love?
Across the distance, very faintly, he felt Charles smile.
And then, all at once, an explosion of startlement. A brief stunned silence. And sudden pain.
Charles!!
No answer, not in words. A fuzzy sense of hurt/surprise/bewilderment, a bit vague. As if Charles had been too shaken to think straight, momentarily.
Charles, Erik whispered again. Ran for the house. Would never remember flinging himself through the back door or up the stairs or into the study. Couldn’t think.
He nearly missed the room, moving too fast. Grabbed the obliging doorframe, and skidded to a halt.
Charles. On the floor. Sitting up, surrounded by fallen books like dead soldiers, lifeless paper on the once-plush carpet. The shattered remains of a bookcase filled the room with vicious wooden shards. And although Charles was smiling and saying to a horrified Hank, “I’m all right, I promise, it was my fault,” the words evaporated meaninglessly into the chilly air, because bruises were forming already, blossoming darknesses under pale skin.
Hank’d evidently just arrived, too. Was touching Charles’s left ankle gingerly; Charles shook his head in response to whatever Hank might be thinking and Erik couldn’t hear. Hair fell into his eyes with the motion, dark and scattered as the volumes on the floor.
Charles, Erik breathed, helplessly. Not even a thought. Only a need. It shocked him, with its force.
Erik! The sea-depth eyes brightened, when Charles twisted improbably around to find him in the doorway. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Not for something this ridiculous. I honestly am fine.” But I’m glad you’re here. Truth. Relief like sunrise, through shared thoughts.
“You don’t look fine.” Erik crossed the room, carefully. Picking his way between broken shelves, trying to tread on as few crumpled pages as possible. “What happened?” Of course I’m here.
“I—oh, ouch, sorry, Hank, it’s not your fault—I was trying to get a book down from the top shelf…” Oh, thank you, that helps. You’re very solid.
He put the other arm around Charles too. Attempted to project as much strength as possible, physically, mentally. “I think you succeeded.” Solid?
Supportive, then. You feel good. That mental voice still sounded worryingly uneven. Charles wasn’t hurt, not seriously—they could both feel as much—but the shock of the unexpected impact lingered; Erik held him more closely, and Charles leaned against him, appreciating the possessiveness.
“Yes, I suppose I did succeed, didn’t I…and as far as what happened, the shelves’re very old, and I might’ve been standing on the lowest one for assistance, and then Hank came in and I turned around, and they all just sort of…collapsed. On me.”
“Excuse me, um, professor, does this hurt?”
Charles went absolutely white, but still managed to say, not out loud, yes…
“Charles,” Erik said, a little desperately, and tightened his grip.
“Okay…” Hank frowned at Charles’s ankle. “I, um, I don’t think you’ve broken it but…you should stay off of it. Or get a second opinion. Or—”
“I trust you, Hank.” Charles had evidently regained some control over audible words. Smiled at Hank. “And I’m very glad you’d come in to talk to me, just then. Though…I have to admit I honestly don’t remember your actual question, I’m sorry…”
Hank opened his mouth, looked surprised, admitted, “Neither do I,” and Charles laughed, and then winced.
Are you CERTAIN you don’t want a second opinion?
No, it’s all right. It’s only sprained, I think—a pause, the lightspeed flickering of Charles taking mental inventory, testing awareness of self and rightness against newly wrong spots that sat coldly over familiar shapes—yes, that’s all. Well, that and the bruises. I’ll be fine.
“I can go bring up the first-aid kit,” Hank offered, “and tape it up for you…?”
“You can do that now.”
Erik, really.
He should’ve already done it. “Sorry.”
“Er…no problem, I’ll just go—”
“Thank you, Hank.” When would he have had the time? That isn’t even logical, you know.
Erik watched Hank scuttle away, until satisfied that he was moving fast enough. Then looked back at Charles, in his arms. “Can I put you on the sofa?” He wasn’t thinking about Charles’s last comment. If he did, he’d have to admit that when it came to Charles being hurt, even minimally so, he, Erik, wasn’t logical at all.
He’d always thought of himself as a meticulous and single-minded person. Came as a shock to discover that his mind had other desires. Not logical, no. But, like the hum of iron in his veins, inseparable from his heart.
“I can probably stand up…oh, no, never mind, that does hurt…”
“I don’t mind carrying you. Is here all right?”
“Yes.” Charles leaned against him again. One spectacular bruise was gleefully emerging over his left cheekbone, bluer and more purple than those eyes. Erik’s bones ached in sympathy. Might be his imagination; or, considering, maybe not.
Oh…sorry. I was trying not to project but…that one does rather hurt. And, out loud, turning the pain into humor, “Having ancient shelving land on one’s head tends to, I suspect.”
“It’s fine, I don’t mind if you—”
“Here.” A touch of coolness, mint and aloe and snowdrifts, soothing bruises in his mind that weren’t his to begin with. Better?
Yes, but you don’t need to—you should be doing this for yourself, Charles, you’re hurt, not me—
I can’t.
“What?”
“I never could. Not for myself.” I always know it’s me altering the sensory input, you see. Not real. But I don’t mind helping you.
Charles, you—
At which point Hank burst in, out of breath and trailing bandages and curious companions, Raven and Sean and Moira, behind him; and Erik glared at them all until they stopped babbling stupid questions, and then watched Hank’s hands and successfully resisted the compulsion to push them away and take over himself.
He could take over. He knew a lot about bandages and field dressings. He could help take care of Charles.
You are.
Not enough, Erik said, and thought, in the deepest trenches of his mind, the places Charles wouldn’t go without permission, I think I love you. And he only thought the first two words because he had to. Because otherwise he’d have to admit, or remember, or learn, how to be in love. Because Charles wasn’t, hadn’t said it, and wouldn’t, shouldn’t, think those words back at him.
And of course he was lying to himself, with those first words. He knew he was in love. Right then, at that moment, that wounded weight so real in his arms, the spun-out sweetness of comfort in his thoughts, bruises and bandages and Charles caring enough to care for him through all the pain, Erik knew he was in love.
But he couldn’t say it. Couldn’t bring all that vulnerability to the surface, exposed.
So he sat there next to Charles, on the lumpily voiceless old couch. Held those graceful academic hands when bandages tightened and fingers tensed in his. And was, simply, silently, in love.
A day later. Another discovery about being in love. This one the not-wholly-surprising fact that he could look at Charles and want to smile and, simultaneously, throw paperclips around the bedroom in frustration.
“You are not getting up!”
“Too late!”
“You should be resting!” He barely deflected two of the tiny metal projectiles before they’d’ve hit Charles. Who, rather impressively, didn’t even flinch. As if he knew without question that Erik wouldn’t let him be hurt. More.
“I’m fine! I’m hardly an invalid, Erik, and I’m perfectly capable of getting on with things, like making this house livable again—”
“If you’re fine, stand up.”
“I am—”
“Without leaning on the bed.”
“I—” Charles set his other foot down, resting it on the carpet but not quite putting weight on it, yet. Looked at Erik’s face. Erik recognized the stubbornness in blue eyes fractionally too late, and dove across the room just after Charles tried to take a step.
Oh—oh, OW, that was stupid—
Yes, it was! Here, I’ve got you, sit down… “Are you all right? Let me see.”
“I…think it’s all right…hurts, though.” Charles was clearly trying to sound confident, but the jewel-blue eyes shone too vividly, blinking back inadvertent wetness. And I’m sorry.
“For what? Does this hurt more, or about the same?” He punctuated the question with movement, his fingers supporting that fragile ankle. I’m sorry, too. I know you’re frustrated.
“About the same, I think…” Yes, I am. I can’t even stand up on my own. And we have so much to do, and this is so ridiculous, and I just—
I know. He did. Charles would never be good at sitting still while life played itself out around him; like Erik, he wanted to be in motion, right there at the heart of the world, making things happen. Making the universe a better place. Just one more way they fit together, one more reason to love him, of course. As if Erik’d needed any more.
“About the same…that’s good. You haven’t damaged it any worse. You should stay off of it, though.” Please.
Charles started to answer, stopped, smiled. All right.
Thank you. He hesitated. Looked into those horizonless eyes again. “If you’d like…I don’t want you to stand up, but…I could carry you, again. Downstairs. Back into your library.”
“So that I can get back to cataloging books?” Thank YOU, I believe, this time.
“Yes?” No need. Not ever.
Charles lifted both eyebrows. Murmured, “No, I think need is an entirely appropriate word,” and then put one hand into Erik’s hair and kissed him, sweet and certain and full of light as the morning sky. And Erik kissed him back, swept up in all the radiance, and found himself, unexpectedly, inarguably, smiling too.
Several hours after that conversation, he peeked into the library. “Charles?”
Blue eyes lifted, found his, warmed, joyous as the sunlight, where it poured merrily over worn covers and book-stacks and ancient carpet-roses. Charles was sitting rather guiltily in the middle of a tower of texts, back propped comfortably against the wall and all the stacks forming a nearly complete circle around him. Defense, Erik thought: even the books wanted to keep Charles safe.
Of course they did. Charles cared about them, was paying attention to them—had, rather obviously, been neglecting the sorting process to read a few—and so naturally they’d fall in love with him in return. Erik could sympathize. “How’re you feeling?”
“Oh…wonderful, actually. Did you know we had a fantastic collection of nineteenth-century folklore studies? Because I didn’t. I’m learning quite a lot.”
“I…did not know that. Anything interesting?” He moved one of Charles’s fortress walls, very carefully. Sat down. Moved it back, after.
“Very interesting. This one’s from France. About werewolves. Do you think that could’ve been early documentation of cases of spontaneous genetic mutation, because—is that tea? Did you bring me tea?”
“I did. And yes, that would make sense. They’d’ve been misunderstood, feared…I could see that.” He handed it over. Watched Charles take a sip and then stare at him, eyes wide.
“…pineapple tea?”
“You like pineapple.” Victory.
“I—you—where’d you find this?”
“I’m allowed some secrets, Charles.” You did notice you haven’t seen me in the past hour. Or were you preoccupied with werewolves?
I noticed, but I thought that was only because I’d lectured you about checking up on me every ten minutes before that. Charles took another sip. Smiled happily. There was dust in his hair, and over one bared forearm, smudges of grey beneath that rolled-up sleeve. Erik tried not to be envious that it’d got to rest on that soft skin while he wasn’t there.
He picked up Charles’s free hand. Laced their fingers together. The dust couldn’t do that, so it could just be jealous. “You didn’t answer my question. How are you feeling?”
“Well…it doesn’t not hurt, but you were right. Staying put helps.” Charles ran a thumb over the back of Erik’s hand, lightly, amused. “And I have the books—and the dust—for company. So you were out buying me delicious tea?”
“Not only tea.” He eyed the teetering literary edifices. “Are you nearly done?”
“Ah…almost. But I don’t know what I’m going to do with them, since the shelves’re apparently a lost and somewhat malevolent cause. Any ideas?”
“Yes, in fact.” He waved a hand at the door. Tried, not all that hard, not to look smug when the packing crates floated in, airborne courtesy of metal staples.
He set them down in the only available non-book-occupied space. Looked over at Charles. Flicked the top one open, and held his breath.
“You…bought us bookshelves. New ones.” Erik, you—you didn’t have to do this, you—
I know. I wanted to. “If you don’t like the color I can—”
“This is perfect!” And suddenly he found himself with a lapful of enthusiastic Charles, seemingly intent on thanking him in every conceivable way. You’re incredible. You bought us furniture. I love you!
The afternoon, around them, went utterly still. The dust, the tattered books, the gleaming dark new wood, listened breathlessly. No one, in the sunlit library, moved.
Charles was gazing at him, eyes wider and bluer than the burning autumn sky, from inches away. Laughter remained, caught around the corners of that mobile mouth, but silenced now, tentative, unsure.
Erik—
“Yes,” Erik said, “I bought us furniture, and yes, Charles, yes,” and captured those wonderfully astounded lips with his, feeling Charles all around him, in his arms, in his head, in his heart. I love you.
Yes. You do.
I do! And you love me.
And I love that you bought us bookshelves.
I love you and the bookshelves. I can build bookshelves for you always.
“Always,” Charles said out loud, into the kiss, and then laughed again, delight too brilliant to hold inside, heedless of bruises or forgotten teacups or dust-streaks decorating both of them gleefully. Though I think you mean we can build bookshelves together.
Erik raised an eyebrow.
“Oh…all right, you can build them. But I can help.” I’m very good at reading instructions.
Erik considered this for a minute. Pictured Charles encircled by sunlight, telling him in that elegant voice what to do. Wondered when the room’d gotten hotter.
Oh, really?
Ah…maybe? Yes? “But not now. You can’t even stand up.”
Charles tipped his head to one side. Hair leapt gaily into his eyes. Wouldn’t THAT involve me not standing up? “Erik?”
“Yes?” I love you. He brushed the hair back, because Charles wanted him to, and felt the corresponding smile, in their thoughts.
Love you. “Build me a bookshelf, then. And perhaps afterwards I can reward you.” Despite the mock-imperious tone, the eyes were sparkling; Erik could feel the answering elation, with each heartbeat, rushing through him, everywhere.
So he said, cheerfully obedient, “Yes, Charles,” and started pulling planks out of boxes, pushing up his sleeves, having to use his hands on wood that slid through them like velvet. Collected hammer and nails, absently, and hung them in the air.
Then thought, abruptly, about the previous morning. About bullets, and how they’d spun the same way, in the cold. Except not the exact same way. Because bullets weren’t nails. They had different purposes. They’d never move identically.
Charles, stretched out on the floor amid a pile of sympathetic books, was very loudly saying nothing at all. He did look up, though, and met Erik’s eyes. And one solitary sunbeam highlighted that bruised cheek with gold.
“So,” Erik said, into the quiet. And held out the packet of instructions, unwrapped and ready. “I believe you were planning to tell me what to build?”