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arysteiaTitle: Ithaka
Author: arysteia
Verse: XM:FC AU (Non-Powered)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count:
Pairings: Erik/Charles, reference to Alex/Darwin
Warnings: explicit sex, period appropriate attitudes (illegal nature of homosexuality, internalised homophobia, condescension to women and racial minorities, anti-Semitism – all basically brief but present, non-violent)
Summary: The late 1950s and early 60s were an idyllic time. Haslemere School, and Windsor House in particular, was obsessed with cricket, midnight feasts, rugby, tunnelling from the House to the dining hall, cricket, winning the House competition, committing the perfect prank, and cricket. The new Housemasters, Lehnsherr and Xavier, were young, handsome, good at sports, tolerably interesting in lessons, and actually seemed to care about their charges, something which could not previously be relied upon.
A woman couldn't open a bank account in her own name, divorce required proof of adultery, the empire was breaking up, and homosexuality was not merely illegal, but classified an 'unnatural offence'. A peaceful life for all was never an option.
Charles had never fancied himself a romantic, except in that way that all public schoolboys were romantics, namely that God was an Englishman, very likely a cricketer, the English countryside was the most beautiful place on earth, and he, himself, would someday find the perfect girl to be mistress of his house in said countryside and produce the next generation of Xaviers, and their lives together would, indeed, be perfect.
When he'd envisioned a career at Oxford he'd fondly imagined this mythical bride feeding his starving but brilliant students, and helping him to host salons that were the envy of the college. In hindsight, the fact that he could see all his students and teaching fellows perfectly, and hear their conversation, but she remained a phantom, should, perhaps, have been a sign.
It was truly astounding, then, just how far and how fast he'd fallen for Erik, and how very like the callow hero of some yellow-back novel he felt. Every morning was made easier by the sight of Erik in the bed across from him, or more often dragging him out of his own bed and hurrying him along; every afternoon of endless redox experiments was made sweeter by the thought of Erik's laughter when told of the latest Third former to make something explode; every evening of detention and prep supervision and room inspection was made shorter by the prospect of chess and conversation and bed afterwards.
Erik, too, was proving the perfect storybook lover, to the point where Charles sometimes felt abashed at his own apparent shortcomings. Erik had recently taken to leaving love notes everywhere, though not in any way that the maids, or any other nosy parker, could stumble across. On the contrary, he would leave books propped open on the dresser, or randomly tucked in drawers and under pillows, or simply lying on the floor near the fireplace. Some were in languages Charles could read; others had the translations neatly written in beneath the text. All were absolutely perfect to the occasion.
In any case, Charles now had a touch more sympathy for the unfortunate Tyrell of ill fame, and his plain young wife who was, nonetheless, the apple of her husband's eye. Not a lot more, since the Tyrells had a house of their own, separate from the Shroff boarding house, and they were, after all, man and wife, which was a recognition and a respectability that Charles and Erik would never have, but he did resolve to stop laughing when other masters teased Tyrell for succumbing at the last to feminine wiles.
*****
By far the most anticipated occasion of the summer was the annual Boys-Old Boys Cricket Match, a Haslemere institution since time immemorial. Charles had played in it often, both as a Boy when he'd captained the Firsts, and for the last several years as an Old Boy. It was odd but exciting to be returning his allegiance to the Boys, and he was expecting a ribbing from his erstwhile comrades.
Sure enough, the captain of the Old Boys approached him as soon as the welcoming formalities were done, bottle of ginger beer in one hand, sandwich in the other.
"Xavier, you traitor!" he said seriously, but the twinkle in his eye betrayed him, and he crammed the entire sandwich into his mouth then reeled Charles in by his extended hand and gave him a rousing hug, slapping him heartily on the back.
"Logan, good to see you again," Charles grinned, pulling himself free with some difficulty. "But you hate cricket. How on earth did you get roped into this?"
"Well," Logan huffed. "Someone jumped ship, and then Struthers sprained an ankle trying to impress a girl, and LeBeau's got mumps or something equally ridiculous, and here I am, promoted from night-watchman to top-order."
"Generations of Old Boys are turning in their graves," Charles laughed. "Splendid. I bet you ten quid we win."
"Well, you win either way, don't you?" Logan observed sourly. "Who's your shadow?"
"What?" Charles looked around. Sure enough, Erik was standing just behind his right shoulder, looking exactly as thrilled by the proceedings as might be expected of a man who'd spent the night prior submerged in Wisden's, and complaining about the inanity of a game with positions like silly mid off, continuing his tirade even as Charles attempted to make the prospect of an entire Saturday on the green up to him.
"Ah," he said, feeling foolishly pleased to introduce his dearest friend to one of his oldest, even if he couldn't let on quite how dear the friend actually was. "My fellow Housemaster, Erik Lehnsherr. Erik, James Howlett."
"Howlett," Erik grunted, looking askance at Logan's whiskers, and clearly finding him generally wanting. He turned to Charles. "Weren't you calling him Logan?"
"Private joke," the man in question growled back, giving Erik an equally unimpressed once over. "You a Kraut?"
"Are you an American?" Erik demanded in return.
Charles stared at the pair of them in consternation. They seemed to have almost forgotten he was there, so absorbed were they in their posturing. "He's Canadian," he said quietly.
"Windsor must be a barrel of laughs this year," Logan sneered.
"Well, no one's broken both arms yet, falling off a balcony drunk," Erik volleyed back.
Logan's eyebrows rose. "Did he tell you I only fell off because I was trying to haul his paralytic arse through the window?"
Charles had not, in fact, shared that choice tidbit.
"I'll take that bet," Erik said coldly. "And I'll bet you another ten the Boys beat you by more than fifty runs."
"Erik!" Charles exclaimed. The Boys were good, but they weren't that good.
"Done!" Logan said instantly, extending a hand. Erik shook it firmly, grinning viciously, then walked off without farewell. Charles stared after him, nonplussed, and wondered if he ought to apologise.
"Ah, Charles," Logan chuckled, forestalling him, and slapped him on the back once more. "You always could pick them."
"Whatever do you mean?" Charles demanded, reminding himself that Logan had been as rude as Erik, and for just as little reason.
"Nothing at all," Logan smiled. "It really is good to see you again. You haven't changed a bit."
With that arcane observation Logan headed back to his team. Heaving a put-upon sigh, Charles left the relative civilisation of the pavilion and headed over to the changing sheds, where his own team were gathered. It did nothing for his frazzled nerves to see Erik whispering furiously to Scott and Hank and the pair of them nodding vigorously and grinning like loons.
"All ready here?" he asked sharply.
"Yes, sir," the boys chorused dutifully.
He sighed again, and decided to leave them to their conspiracy, wishing them a final good luck and heading back out, Erik once again dogging his heels.
"What's gotten into you?" he demanded, once they were safely out of earshot.
"Nothing," Erik said defensively. "God forbid I should be less then enamoured of your old boyfriends."
"My what?"
Erik just glared.
"Oh, my God," Charles exclaimed. "Seriously? You're jealous?"
"No."
"You are. Oh, that's marvellous."
Erik's normally pale face flushed an unattractive shade of scarlet.
"There's no need to be, though," Charles insisted, flattered beyond all get out as he was.
"You've talked about nothing but cricket and your glory days and how brilliant your beloved captain was all week," Erik said peevishly.
"It's summer! This is England!" Charles chuckled. "And Logan wasn't our captain. He was barely even on the team. He played tail, for God's sake. They must really be short of batsmen if he's moved right up the order."
"Well, that's a mixed blessing," Erik said, but a genuine smile was spreading across his face. It was full of teeth and more than a little frightening.
"Why, what have you done?" Charles asked with a sense of dawning horror.
"I may have promised that any disturbance in the night will go unheard and uninvestigated if they get him out in single figures," Erik said shamelessly.
"Oh, you!" Charles exclaimed, punching him in the shoulder. "You know they'll run amok."
Erik shrugged. "I'm given to understand the Cricket Feast is a time honoured tradition."
Charles sighed, and wished fervently he'd shared a few less stories about his own schoolboy shenanigans.
"Besides," Erik went on, "if they're all safely up to mischief in the common room, we can celebrate your mighty victory on our own."
Charles blushed, then glanced around carefully to see if anyone was looking. Satisfied that no one was, he reached out a careful hand and surreptitiously stroked one finger along the back of Erik's hand. "Seriously though," he murmured. "I kissed one boy at Oxford, and he's married now, to a very pretty, very wealthy girl. There's nothing for you to be jealous of."
Erik just smirked, prior ill temper vanished like a summer rainstorm. "There wasn't much to be jealous of anyway," he said. "He doesn't look half as good in his whites as you do."
"I'm going to remind you of all this," Charles chuckled, "when it's rugby season again and you're in your kit."
"If you find mud attractive," Erik said airily, "you're welcome to it."
They hurried over to the far side of the pitch where, for the day, partisan divisions had been set aside. The Brotherhood, the X-Men, even Shaw's lot, made camp together, tuck boxes and cushions piled haphazardly on blankets pilfered from the dorms. The small fry would be picking grass out of their beds for days. Even they, however, were filled with glee, drunk on summer sunshine, running back and forth carrying messages and placing bets for their elders and betters.
Shaw himself remained in the pavilion, exerting his considerable powers – he was, Charles had to concede, capable of great charm when the whim took him – to extort favours and donations out of the many and varied old Old Boys who had gathered to eat and drink copious quantities, reminisce about their own playing days, and, at some point, possibly, watch some of the match. The rest of the masters and visiting adults were likewise situated, and Charles was pleased to take advantage of his own status as coach to drag Erik into the midst of the boys and plump down into the space that Alex and Darwin rapidly cleared. And none too soon, for a hush fell over the chattering crowd as the players walked out onto the pitch.
The first over was bowled in solemn silence, for the price of a few scant singles. Scott had won the toss and elected to field first, and Hank opened cautiously and steadily. The third ball of the second over came straight on the willow, and the opening batsman, a jovial looking chap Charles vaguely remembered as an amateur thespian and near-professional class buffoon, played it straight back into Scott's steady hands. Caught! The boys yelled and howled and cheered, and, the ice now broken, every ball and every hit were marked and applauded as if the fate of empires depended on them.
Another of the Old Boys exited the pavilion and went quickly to work, and by the end of the third over had scored eight. Then, in stepping back to draw one of Hank’s balls, he knocked down his own wicket.
"Good Lord," Charles murmured, "they really are appalling this year. I'm embarrassed to be one of them."
"You're not one of them!" Erik insisted, a wild smile on his face. "You're ours today. And I was quite wrong. This game is brilliant. Who's next?"
Logan emerged with a face like thunder. A frisson of delight went through the boys, and luckless littlies were sent running with new odds.
Hank gripped the ball hard in hand, and walked back to the end of his run. "Play!" cried the umpire, and amid dead silence the ball shot up the pitch.
Next moment there rose a shout loud enough to deafen all Haslemere. The bails were flying wildly, and Logan was slowly walking, bat in hand, back to the pavilion he had only a moment ago quitted.
The captain had been clean bowled, first ball!
Erik collapsed onto the blanket, laughing and clutching at his ribs, and missed the triumphant look Scott threw his way. Charles acknowledged it with a nod though; the Boys were playing awfully well. The children all around them were in ecstasies, jumping to their feet, shouting, speculating on the chances of winning the match in a single innings. In the eye of the storm Charles lay down himself and grinned at Erik. He'd never felt so magnificently happy, and as Erik smiled back, a soft look in his eyes, and mouthed – soundlessly but unmistakeably – "I love you" for a moment life was very nearly perfect.
*****
All too soon the school year was drawing to a close, and it was with great pride and a distinct feeling of grit in his eyes that Charles farewelled his X-Men. Windsor had excelled all expectation and won the House Shield after all, though by a single point. Glasgow had been pushed into third behind Shroff, a coup achieved largely through Erik's willingness to coach poor Tyrell's rugby team as well as his own, and he had been insufferable about it for days, though Charles could not complain about the way he chose to celebrate the victory.
Hank was Dux, no surprises there, and departed for his parents' home, and thence to Oxford, with a slew of scholarships and his teachers' very warmest recommendations. Scott, likewise, left for the RMC in a flood of good wishes and high expectations, and the inveterate gamblers of the lower forms gave very short odds indeed that within another year he would be receiving the Sword of Honour and commissioned in his father's regiment. The other boys in turn took their leave, and while he'd certainly had his favourites, Charles found that he would miss them all, every one of them. As many boys as he would subsequently teach, these would always be his first class.
He stood in the window long after the last boys had left, staring out into the empty courtyard. An eerie silence had settled, and one by one the lights in the other Houses were going out as the masters departed. It was an odd feeling, being left behind, and he didn't like it at all. He wondered with a shudder how Erik had been able to bear it all year, even for a weekend at a time.
The man himself entered, having supervised the final dormitory checks and handed over the last of the juniors to the loving arms of their parents. He wrapped an arm around Charles waist and leaned his chin on his shoulder. "It's all right to miss them," he whispered, "they were an exceptional bunch of young people."
"Yes," Charles sighed, turning to wrap his own arms around Erik's neck. "But I'm horribly jealous that you get to keep yours."
Erik laughed. "They'll be Fifths, you know. They'll come back next term all grown up and bolshie, and not listen to a word I say."
"Oh, I doubt that, my friend," Charles disagreed, but just the thought of it was enough to make him smile. "Come on, enough moping. We'd better get moving or we'll miss our train."
Erik stiffened in his arms. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" Charles snapped, in no mood to argue about it any more. "We've been over this a hundred times. Weekends are one thing, but you're not staying here for the long vac. You'll go crazy, and I don't trust you and Shaw not to kill each other if I leave you here unsupervised."
"I'm not a child, Charles."
"No, you're not. You're an adult and my friend, and you're coming home with me."
"You're sure the house is empty?"
"Quite sure. Mummy's in the south of France. God knows where Kurt is. And Raven's gone to the seaside with some girlfriends. We might see her in a few weeks, but I think you'll cope."
"All right then."
"Don't overwhelm me with your enthusiasm," Charles sniped, wondering why Erik always had to be so difficult. Anyone would think he was being sent to the salt mines, rather than to a stately home in the country.
Erik smiled weakly. "It's not that, Charles. Of course I'm grateful."
"You don't need to be grateful! I just thought it'd be nice to spend some time together. Without worrying."
"Yes, of course." Erik visibly shook himself. "Of course."
They sat primly on opposite sides of the rail carriage, Erik staring out the window at the blur of farmland passing by, Charles pretending to read the Medical Research Council's report on apparent links between cigarette smoking and lung cancer, but truthfully observing Erik. It was the first time they'd spent time together outside the confining walls of Haslemere, and Charles had been looking forward to it all term. When Erik went to the dinner car to fetch them both a cup of tea he came back with one for the harried looking woman in the corner seat as well, and a bag of sweets for the little girl playing with her doll. It made Charles smile, as Erik's random acts of thoughtfulness always did.
Erik looked askance at the car that fetched them from the station, and grew ever quieter as they drove down winding lanes and small woods. When they alighted on the gravel verge in front of the house he stared up at Xavier Hall, framed against the late summer twilight, in unabashed disbelief.
"Honestly, Charles," he managed at last. "I don't know how you survived, living in such hardship."
Charles laughed. "Well, it was a hardship softened by a dear sister, and broken up by regular escapes to school. Now that you've seen both, I'll leave you to decide which you prefer."
"There aren't going to be servants are there?" Erik asked, suddenly looking stricken.
"Good God, no," Charles replied. "Well. There's a housekeeper, obviously, and a groundsman, but we're on our own apart from that. And we'll have to somehow feed ourselves, since Mummy takes Cook to the French house with her, but I imagine we'll survive. There hasn't been a full staff since Raven went away to school."
Erik relaxed visibly.
"You must think I'm dreadfully spoiled."
Erik smiled. "Well. Not spoiled per se. And I wouldn't want to change you."
Charles took his hand, feeling greatly daring even though there was no one around for miles, and they headed upstairs. Charles' room was still set up from the last time he'd been home, and it was the work of a few short minutes to pull the dust sheets off the furniture and open the windows. Erik looked nervously at the antique four poster bed, then at their bags, dumped in the hall.
Charles smiled. "Come on," he said, taking Erik's hand once more and leading him out into the hallway. He opened the door immediately opposite. "Put your bags in here," he said, waving at the dresser. "I'll get Mabel to come up and make the bed for you."
"I can make my own bed, Charles," Erik said warningly.
"Yes, dear," he smirked. "But it's important that Mabel make it. She'll unpack your things too. And she'll straighten up when she's in in the afternoons, so you'll have to restrain your natural tendency to immaculate living and leave your pyjamas on the floor from time to time."
"On the floor?"
"Well, you certainly won't need them in my bed."
Erik flushed red to the tips of his ears, and Charles congratulated himself for a stroke well played. In truth, the mere thought of spending a whole night in his huge bed, and night after night at that, after eight months of struggling not to fall out of Erik's tiny bed in the middle of the room, or being woken by Erik's flailing if he pressed him against the wall in his, and then being always on guard lest anyone enter in the morning, and having to put down a towel to spare the sheets… Well, it was no exaggeration to say that it beckoned like the promised land.
They went downstairs to the kitchen and, after introductions, made clumsy sandwiches out of the provisions Mabel had left, and heated up tins of tomato soup. She'd offered to stay and make them a proper dinner, but Erik hadn't been the only one desperate to be on their own. It felt gloriously decadent to eat on the floor in front of the fire in the study, Ella Fitzgerald's latest playing softly on the record player, and Charles insisted on leaving the crockery lying around for a while, shoving Erik down onto his back in the midst of it and curling up against his side, head pillowed on his chest. It was the sort of gleeful domesticity they'd never allowed themselves at Haslemere, never could. They were entirely alone, and, for once, completely safe.
That spirit of gentle relaxation continued well past midnight, Erik's fingers stroking rhythmically through Charles' hair, and Charles mumbling on about whatever took his fancy; aimless, general conversation, nothing to do with work, or politics, or Shaw's machinations, or even the boys who usually occupied all their waking hours. When they finally stumbled up the stairs to bed, warm and sleepy and replete, it was the purest sort of joy just to pull off their outer clothes and let them drop where they might, then fall into bed in their underwear and drift off to the sound of each other's breathing.
When Charles woke in the morning, sunlight streaming onto his face from the picture window where they'd forgotten to close the curtains last night, Erik was already gone, the bed beside him empty, the sheets already cold. A quick glance across the hall confirmed he'd rumpled the pristine bedclothes, and his pyjamas, while not tossed with gay abandon, were tucked under the pillows. No doubt he was downstairs even now, retrieving last night's dishes, unable as always to stomach the idea of someone picking up after him.
Sure enough, once Charles had thrown on a dressing gown and headed down to the kitchen, the scrubbed pans and dishes were neatly in the rack, and Erik was sitting at the table drinking a cup of tea, the morning paper spread in front of him.
"Morning, love," he said cheerfully, leaning over to press a kiss to Erik's temple. "Is there more tea?"
"Of course," Erik smiled. "In the pot."
Charles snagged a clean mug out of the rack and poured himself a cup, breathing deep of the heady aroma before adding milk and returning to the table to sit at Erik's right hand.
"Sorry, am I in your chair?"
"What? No, of course not," Charles laughed, then bit his tongue hard on the instinctive protestation that he'd not sat at this table since he'd been a child taking supper with Nanny while his mother and Kurt entertained in the formal dining room. Never let it be said that he'd learned nothing about the sorts of silliness that could set Erik off. "Is there anything interesting happening in the world?"
"Independence in Ghana," Erik said with a smile. "Assassinations in Saigon. The usual."
"So the answer's no then," Charles grinned, dragging the paper towards him and messily folding it up.
"Charles!" Erik exclaimed, but his outrage was clearly feigned.
"I'm sorry, my friend," Charles said, "I know it's all devilishly important, but I just cannot care when you are sitting in front of me in a t-shirt."
Erik's jaw dropped and he instinctively pulled his arms in towards his chest.
"Don't," Charles said gently, catching Erik's wrists in a loose grip. "I like it. I never get to look at you in the light." It was true. Erik still mostly dressed and undressed in the bathroom, and they never made the slightest move towards each other until after lights out. Even when he returned from rugby practice, sweat-soaked and flushed, Erik inevitably had his jersey sleeves immaculately in place. Charles sat back and drank his fill, eyes raking hard over Erik's defined biceps and strongly corded forearms. Even the smudge of blue that he was trying to surreptitiously hide had a wild beauty of its own.
"I felt stupid getting fully dressed when you were still asleep," Erik said feebly, nodding at his casual trousers and bare feet.
"I like it," Charles repeated. "And it's a good thing, because clothes have no place in what I want to do to you right now."
"Right now?"
"Yes, right now," Charles affirmed, standing up and pulling a blushing Erik to his feet. "We're going back upstairs to my bedroom, and we are going to open all the windows, and we are going to make love in the sunshine, all morning."
"What about Mabel?" Erik choked.
"Mabel comes in at two," Charles said decisively. "It's now," – he glanced over Erik's shoulder at the kitchen clock – "a quarter past nine, for my sins and thanks to your inability to sleep in. I appreciate your confidence in my prowess, but I think that's sufficient time."
"We're locking the door," Erik said sternly.
Charles just smiled.
*****
It felt, somewhat, a strange thing to be considered the 'experienced' one when it came to love-making, having had a total of two serious girlfriends, neither of whom had been particularly experienced or adventurous themselves, but given that the bulk of Erik's ideas were based on two thousand year old literature and art it was a burden Charles gladly took on.
Certainly they'd come a long way since that first night together, progressing with only minor hesitations from using their hands on each other to using their mouths, from stroking and caressing to penetration with fingers, from the aptly named Oxford style to one awkward, painful, and ultimately abandoned, attempt at intercourse. Charles had thought about the problem since, and decided that it was science that was needed, not classics. Which he would enjoy teasing Erik about later, no doubt, but as he watched Erik's stomach muscles ripple as he stripped out of his t-shirt, teasing was the last thing on his mind.
He'd pored over every biology text he owned, and while none were particularly pertinent or helpful, their meagre commentary, coupled with logic and common sense, suggested relaxation was key. It didn't take a genius to figure out that a cramped single bed, in the pitch dark, with one of his hands clamped over Erik's mouth, was hardly conducive. Likewise, the need for ample lubrication was self-evident, and while tins of Vaseline were ubiquitous in a school, he'd seized the opportunity before heading downstairs to rifle through his mother's drawers and steal the nicest of her face and hand creams. They all smelt a bit girly, but it was an improvement on the smell of petroleum, and the texture was nicer.
"You look like a Bond villain, standing there like that," Erik said suddenly, breaking into Charles' reverie.
"Do I?" Charles asked, shaken once again by how very much he loved this prickly, sarcastic, unbelievably sweet and wonderful man. "I still can't believe you read that rubbish."
Erik shrugged and stepped out of his trousers. He was every bit as magnificent in the sunlight as Charles had imagined.
"Get on the bed," Charles said hoarsely. Erik complied at once, and, God, that was a thrill too.
It was all very well being high-minded, and Charles often thought that sex wasn't even the most important part, that he could be quite happy playing chess and talking and just being with Erik for the rest of their lives, as long as Erik never, ever, left him, but that was revealed for a lie in the sudden, sharp rush of want making his blood surge. There was a reason men risked everything for this.
He shucked his dressing gown and underclothes and clambered onto the bed, kneeing his way up it to where Erik was sprawled against the pillows. His legs were slightly open, and, if his thigh muscles were tense, he didn't hesitate as Charles gripped his knees and pulled them apart to make more room for himself in between.
He did raise an eyebrow when he saw the bottle Charles was carefully opening. "That's not attar of roses?"
"Shut up," Charles said. "I'm about to have my wicked way with you."
Erik burst out laughing at that, and his muscles relaxed under Charles' questing hand, allowing him to do what he needed to.
"I love you so much," he said as he positioned himself, and Erik's strong arms pulled him down so that they could kiss. Mouths locked together, he felt rather than heard Erik's moan as he pushed into him, but his hands, tight on his shoulders, were pressing down not pushing him away, and as he moved further inside him he knew that Erik had been right, he couldn't separate everything he felt in that moment; love, and friendship, and desire; two people as close to each other as it was possible to be.
*****
"Can I ask you something?" Erik said later, as they lay on their backs, naked and unashamed, basking in the streaming sunshine.
"Of course," Charles said, astonished at the thought that there was anything left that might not be shared.
Erik leaned up on his elbow and looked at him seriously. "I know I was an ass when we arrived," he said, "but this place is beautiful. If I lived here I don't think I'd ever leave. You can't possibly need the money. What on earth are you doing at Haslemere?"
"I wish you could live here too," Charles said, and meant it, though that wasn't what Erik was asking. "But it's not really mine. Not yet. And that's the reason I suppose, or part of it. Mummy and Kurt do come home, sometimes, when they get tired of living in hotels, and there's only so much of that I can bear."
"It can't be easy for them, either," Erik said, "waiting for you to announce you've met your bride and give them their marching orders."
"Don't be sorry for them," Charles said sharply. "They don't deserve it. And anyway, they've got a reprieve now, though they'll never know it."
Erik smiled.
"It's not just that though," Charles went on. "I think I'd go mad if I sat around all day doing nothing at all. Whereas Haslemere… I love what we do there. And I was always happy there. Always. I looked forward to going back every term. I know you find that strange."
Erik shrugged, eloquent as ever with one shoulder. "You grew up there. It's not so very strange."
"So I loved school," Charles said, thinking about it for the first time, "and I loved being away at school, and I think I thought I'd just stay at Oxford. Do my PhD, stay on as a don. It's what bookish people like me did. The go-getters went into the City to run banks, or their fathers' companies. And when it wasn't an option any more I didn't know what to do with myself. And then I heard that Mr Lang had finally retired at the ripe old age of eighty, and I thought about how the prefects had practically been running the place by the end, and it seemed a perfect solution. So there you are. It's no To Sir, With Love, I admit."
"I do believe you read that," Erik said. "I also think you're selling yourself short."
"Maybe," Charles agreed, glancing at the clock on the bedside table then reaching out to seize Eric by his biceps and pull him over to sprawl on top of him. "But right now I'm thinking that I've shown you my best effort, and we've got just enough time for you to show me yours."
*****
Part IV
Author: arysteia
Verse: XM:FC AU (Non-Powered)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count:
Pairings: Erik/Charles, reference to Alex/Darwin
Warnings: explicit sex, period appropriate attitudes (illegal nature of homosexuality, internalised homophobia, condescension to women and racial minorities, anti-Semitism – all basically brief but present, non-violent)
Summary: The late 1950s and early 60s were an idyllic time. Haslemere School, and Windsor House in particular, was obsessed with cricket, midnight feasts, rugby, tunnelling from the House to the dining hall, cricket, winning the House competition, committing the perfect prank, and cricket. The new Housemasters, Lehnsherr and Xavier, were young, handsome, good at sports, tolerably interesting in lessons, and actually seemed to care about their charges, something which could not previously be relied upon.
A woman couldn't open a bank account in her own name, divorce required proof of adultery, the empire was breaking up, and homosexuality was not merely illegal, but classified an 'unnatural offence'. A peaceful life for all was never an option.
Charles had never fancied himself a romantic, except in that way that all public schoolboys were romantics, namely that God was an Englishman, very likely a cricketer, the English countryside was the most beautiful place on earth, and he, himself, would someday find the perfect girl to be mistress of his house in said countryside and produce the next generation of Xaviers, and their lives together would, indeed, be perfect.
When he'd envisioned a career at Oxford he'd fondly imagined this mythical bride feeding his starving but brilliant students, and helping him to host salons that were the envy of the college. In hindsight, the fact that he could see all his students and teaching fellows perfectly, and hear their conversation, but she remained a phantom, should, perhaps, have been a sign.
It was truly astounding, then, just how far and how fast he'd fallen for Erik, and how very like the callow hero of some yellow-back novel he felt. Every morning was made easier by the sight of Erik in the bed across from him, or more often dragging him out of his own bed and hurrying him along; every afternoon of endless redox experiments was made sweeter by the thought of Erik's laughter when told of the latest Third former to make something explode; every evening of detention and prep supervision and room inspection was made shorter by the prospect of chess and conversation and bed afterwards.
Erik, too, was proving the perfect storybook lover, to the point where Charles sometimes felt abashed at his own apparent shortcomings. Erik had recently taken to leaving love notes everywhere, though not in any way that the maids, or any other nosy parker, could stumble across. On the contrary, he would leave books propped open on the dresser, or randomly tucked in drawers and under pillows, or simply lying on the floor near the fireplace. Some were in languages Charles could read; others had the translations neatly written in beneath the text. All were absolutely perfect to the occasion.
In any case, Charles now had a touch more sympathy for the unfortunate Tyrell of ill fame, and his plain young wife who was, nonetheless, the apple of her husband's eye. Not a lot more, since the Tyrells had a house of their own, separate from the Shroff boarding house, and they were, after all, man and wife, which was a recognition and a respectability that Charles and Erik would never have, but he did resolve to stop laughing when other masters teased Tyrell for succumbing at the last to feminine wiles.
*****
By far the most anticipated occasion of the summer was the annual Boys-Old Boys Cricket Match, a Haslemere institution since time immemorial. Charles had played in it often, both as a Boy when he'd captained the Firsts, and for the last several years as an Old Boy. It was odd but exciting to be returning his allegiance to the Boys, and he was expecting a ribbing from his erstwhile comrades.
Sure enough, the captain of the Old Boys approached him as soon as the welcoming formalities were done, bottle of ginger beer in one hand, sandwich in the other.
"Xavier, you traitor!" he said seriously, but the twinkle in his eye betrayed him, and he crammed the entire sandwich into his mouth then reeled Charles in by his extended hand and gave him a rousing hug, slapping him heartily on the back.
"Logan, good to see you again," Charles grinned, pulling himself free with some difficulty. "But you hate cricket. How on earth did you get roped into this?"
"Well," Logan huffed. "Someone jumped ship, and then Struthers sprained an ankle trying to impress a girl, and LeBeau's got mumps or something equally ridiculous, and here I am, promoted from night-watchman to top-order."
"Generations of Old Boys are turning in their graves," Charles laughed. "Splendid. I bet you ten quid we win."
"Well, you win either way, don't you?" Logan observed sourly. "Who's your shadow?"
"What?" Charles looked around. Sure enough, Erik was standing just behind his right shoulder, looking exactly as thrilled by the proceedings as might be expected of a man who'd spent the night prior submerged in Wisden's, and complaining about the inanity of a game with positions like silly mid off, continuing his tirade even as Charles attempted to make the prospect of an entire Saturday on the green up to him.
"Ah," he said, feeling foolishly pleased to introduce his dearest friend to one of his oldest, even if he couldn't let on quite how dear the friend actually was. "My fellow Housemaster, Erik Lehnsherr. Erik, James Howlett."
"Howlett," Erik grunted, looking askance at Logan's whiskers, and clearly finding him generally wanting. He turned to Charles. "Weren't you calling him Logan?"
"Private joke," the man in question growled back, giving Erik an equally unimpressed once over. "You a Kraut?"
"Are you an American?" Erik demanded in return.
Charles stared at the pair of them in consternation. They seemed to have almost forgotten he was there, so absorbed were they in their posturing. "He's Canadian," he said quietly.
"Windsor must be a barrel of laughs this year," Logan sneered.
"Well, no one's broken both arms yet, falling off a balcony drunk," Erik volleyed back.
Logan's eyebrows rose. "Did he tell you I only fell off because I was trying to haul his paralytic arse through the window?"
Charles had not, in fact, shared that choice tidbit.
"I'll take that bet," Erik said coldly. "And I'll bet you another ten the Boys beat you by more than fifty runs."
"Erik!" Charles exclaimed. The Boys were good, but they weren't that good.
"Done!" Logan said instantly, extending a hand. Erik shook it firmly, grinning viciously, then walked off without farewell. Charles stared after him, nonplussed, and wondered if he ought to apologise.
"Ah, Charles," Logan chuckled, forestalling him, and slapped him on the back once more. "You always could pick them."
"Whatever do you mean?" Charles demanded, reminding himself that Logan had been as rude as Erik, and for just as little reason.
"Nothing at all," Logan smiled. "It really is good to see you again. You haven't changed a bit."
With that arcane observation Logan headed back to his team. Heaving a put-upon sigh, Charles left the relative civilisation of the pavilion and headed over to the changing sheds, where his own team were gathered. It did nothing for his frazzled nerves to see Erik whispering furiously to Scott and Hank and the pair of them nodding vigorously and grinning like loons.
"All ready here?" he asked sharply.
"Yes, sir," the boys chorused dutifully.
He sighed again, and decided to leave them to their conspiracy, wishing them a final good luck and heading back out, Erik once again dogging his heels.
"What's gotten into you?" he demanded, once they were safely out of earshot.
"Nothing," Erik said defensively. "God forbid I should be less then enamoured of your old boyfriends."
"My what?"
Erik just glared.
"Oh, my God," Charles exclaimed. "Seriously? You're jealous?"
"No."
"You are. Oh, that's marvellous."
Erik's normally pale face flushed an unattractive shade of scarlet.
"There's no need to be, though," Charles insisted, flattered beyond all get out as he was.
"You've talked about nothing but cricket and your glory days and how brilliant your beloved captain was all week," Erik said peevishly.
"It's summer! This is England!" Charles chuckled. "And Logan wasn't our captain. He was barely even on the team. He played tail, for God's sake. They must really be short of batsmen if he's moved right up the order."
"Well, that's a mixed blessing," Erik said, but a genuine smile was spreading across his face. It was full of teeth and more than a little frightening.
"Why, what have you done?" Charles asked with a sense of dawning horror.
"I may have promised that any disturbance in the night will go unheard and uninvestigated if they get him out in single figures," Erik said shamelessly.
"Oh, you!" Charles exclaimed, punching him in the shoulder. "You know they'll run amok."
Erik shrugged. "I'm given to understand the Cricket Feast is a time honoured tradition."
Charles sighed, and wished fervently he'd shared a few less stories about his own schoolboy shenanigans.
"Besides," Erik went on, "if they're all safely up to mischief in the common room, we can celebrate your mighty victory on our own."
Charles blushed, then glanced around carefully to see if anyone was looking. Satisfied that no one was, he reached out a careful hand and surreptitiously stroked one finger along the back of Erik's hand. "Seriously though," he murmured. "I kissed one boy at Oxford, and he's married now, to a very pretty, very wealthy girl. There's nothing for you to be jealous of."
Erik just smirked, prior ill temper vanished like a summer rainstorm. "There wasn't much to be jealous of anyway," he said. "He doesn't look half as good in his whites as you do."
"I'm going to remind you of all this," Charles chuckled, "when it's rugby season again and you're in your kit."
"If you find mud attractive," Erik said airily, "you're welcome to it."
They hurried over to the far side of the pitch where, for the day, partisan divisions had been set aside. The Brotherhood, the X-Men, even Shaw's lot, made camp together, tuck boxes and cushions piled haphazardly on blankets pilfered from the dorms. The small fry would be picking grass out of their beds for days. Even they, however, were filled with glee, drunk on summer sunshine, running back and forth carrying messages and placing bets for their elders and betters.
Shaw himself remained in the pavilion, exerting his considerable powers – he was, Charles had to concede, capable of great charm when the whim took him – to extort favours and donations out of the many and varied old Old Boys who had gathered to eat and drink copious quantities, reminisce about their own playing days, and, at some point, possibly, watch some of the match. The rest of the masters and visiting adults were likewise situated, and Charles was pleased to take advantage of his own status as coach to drag Erik into the midst of the boys and plump down into the space that Alex and Darwin rapidly cleared. And none too soon, for a hush fell over the chattering crowd as the players walked out onto the pitch.
The first over was bowled in solemn silence, for the price of a few scant singles. Scott had won the toss and elected to field first, and Hank opened cautiously and steadily. The third ball of the second over came straight on the willow, and the opening batsman, a jovial looking chap Charles vaguely remembered as an amateur thespian and near-professional class buffoon, played it straight back into Scott's steady hands. Caught! The boys yelled and howled and cheered, and, the ice now broken, every ball and every hit were marked and applauded as if the fate of empires depended on them.
Another of the Old Boys exited the pavilion and went quickly to work, and by the end of the third over had scored eight. Then, in stepping back to draw one of Hank’s balls, he knocked down his own wicket.
"Good Lord," Charles murmured, "they really are appalling this year. I'm embarrassed to be one of them."
"You're not one of them!" Erik insisted, a wild smile on his face. "You're ours today. And I was quite wrong. This game is brilliant. Who's next?"
Logan emerged with a face like thunder. A frisson of delight went through the boys, and luckless littlies were sent running with new odds.
Hank gripped the ball hard in hand, and walked back to the end of his run. "Play!" cried the umpire, and amid dead silence the ball shot up the pitch.
Next moment there rose a shout loud enough to deafen all Haslemere. The bails were flying wildly, and Logan was slowly walking, bat in hand, back to the pavilion he had only a moment ago quitted.
The captain had been clean bowled, first ball!
Erik collapsed onto the blanket, laughing and clutching at his ribs, and missed the triumphant look Scott threw his way. Charles acknowledged it with a nod though; the Boys were playing awfully well. The children all around them were in ecstasies, jumping to their feet, shouting, speculating on the chances of winning the match in a single innings. In the eye of the storm Charles lay down himself and grinned at Erik. He'd never felt so magnificently happy, and as Erik smiled back, a soft look in his eyes, and mouthed – soundlessly but unmistakeably – "I love you" for a moment life was very nearly perfect.
*****
All too soon the school year was drawing to a close, and it was with great pride and a distinct feeling of grit in his eyes that Charles farewelled his X-Men. Windsor had excelled all expectation and won the House Shield after all, though by a single point. Glasgow had been pushed into third behind Shroff, a coup achieved largely through Erik's willingness to coach poor Tyrell's rugby team as well as his own, and he had been insufferable about it for days, though Charles could not complain about the way he chose to celebrate the victory.
Hank was Dux, no surprises there, and departed for his parents' home, and thence to Oxford, with a slew of scholarships and his teachers' very warmest recommendations. Scott, likewise, left for the RMC in a flood of good wishes and high expectations, and the inveterate gamblers of the lower forms gave very short odds indeed that within another year he would be receiving the Sword of Honour and commissioned in his father's regiment. The other boys in turn took their leave, and while he'd certainly had his favourites, Charles found that he would miss them all, every one of them. As many boys as he would subsequently teach, these would always be his first class.
He stood in the window long after the last boys had left, staring out into the empty courtyard. An eerie silence had settled, and one by one the lights in the other Houses were going out as the masters departed. It was an odd feeling, being left behind, and he didn't like it at all. He wondered with a shudder how Erik had been able to bear it all year, even for a weekend at a time.
The man himself entered, having supervised the final dormitory checks and handed over the last of the juniors to the loving arms of their parents. He wrapped an arm around Charles waist and leaned his chin on his shoulder. "It's all right to miss them," he whispered, "they were an exceptional bunch of young people."
"Yes," Charles sighed, turning to wrap his own arms around Erik's neck. "But I'm horribly jealous that you get to keep yours."
Erik laughed. "They'll be Fifths, you know. They'll come back next term all grown up and bolshie, and not listen to a word I say."
"Oh, I doubt that, my friend," Charles disagreed, but just the thought of it was enough to make him smile. "Come on, enough moping. We'd better get moving or we'll miss our train."
Erik stiffened in his arms. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" Charles snapped, in no mood to argue about it any more. "We've been over this a hundred times. Weekends are one thing, but you're not staying here for the long vac. You'll go crazy, and I don't trust you and Shaw not to kill each other if I leave you here unsupervised."
"I'm not a child, Charles."
"No, you're not. You're an adult and my friend, and you're coming home with me."
"You're sure the house is empty?"
"Quite sure. Mummy's in the south of France. God knows where Kurt is. And Raven's gone to the seaside with some girlfriends. We might see her in a few weeks, but I think you'll cope."
"All right then."
"Don't overwhelm me with your enthusiasm," Charles sniped, wondering why Erik always had to be so difficult. Anyone would think he was being sent to the salt mines, rather than to a stately home in the country.
Erik smiled weakly. "It's not that, Charles. Of course I'm grateful."
"You don't need to be grateful! I just thought it'd be nice to spend some time together. Without worrying."
"Yes, of course." Erik visibly shook himself. "Of course."
They sat primly on opposite sides of the rail carriage, Erik staring out the window at the blur of farmland passing by, Charles pretending to read the Medical Research Council's report on apparent links between cigarette smoking and lung cancer, but truthfully observing Erik. It was the first time they'd spent time together outside the confining walls of Haslemere, and Charles had been looking forward to it all term. When Erik went to the dinner car to fetch them both a cup of tea he came back with one for the harried looking woman in the corner seat as well, and a bag of sweets for the little girl playing with her doll. It made Charles smile, as Erik's random acts of thoughtfulness always did.
Erik looked askance at the car that fetched them from the station, and grew ever quieter as they drove down winding lanes and small woods. When they alighted on the gravel verge in front of the house he stared up at Xavier Hall, framed against the late summer twilight, in unabashed disbelief.
"Honestly, Charles," he managed at last. "I don't know how you survived, living in such hardship."
Charles laughed. "Well, it was a hardship softened by a dear sister, and broken up by regular escapes to school. Now that you've seen both, I'll leave you to decide which you prefer."
"There aren't going to be servants are there?" Erik asked, suddenly looking stricken.
"Good God, no," Charles replied. "Well. There's a housekeeper, obviously, and a groundsman, but we're on our own apart from that. And we'll have to somehow feed ourselves, since Mummy takes Cook to the French house with her, but I imagine we'll survive. There hasn't been a full staff since Raven went away to school."
Erik relaxed visibly.
"You must think I'm dreadfully spoiled."
Erik smiled. "Well. Not spoiled per se. And I wouldn't want to change you."
Charles took his hand, feeling greatly daring even though there was no one around for miles, and they headed upstairs. Charles' room was still set up from the last time he'd been home, and it was the work of a few short minutes to pull the dust sheets off the furniture and open the windows. Erik looked nervously at the antique four poster bed, then at their bags, dumped in the hall.
Charles smiled. "Come on," he said, taking Erik's hand once more and leading him out into the hallway. He opened the door immediately opposite. "Put your bags in here," he said, waving at the dresser. "I'll get Mabel to come up and make the bed for you."
"I can make my own bed, Charles," Erik said warningly.
"Yes, dear," he smirked. "But it's important that Mabel make it. She'll unpack your things too. And she'll straighten up when she's in in the afternoons, so you'll have to restrain your natural tendency to immaculate living and leave your pyjamas on the floor from time to time."
"On the floor?"
"Well, you certainly won't need them in my bed."
Erik flushed red to the tips of his ears, and Charles congratulated himself for a stroke well played. In truth, the mere thought of spending a whole night in his huge bed, and night after night at that, after eight months of struggling not to fall out of Erik's tiny bed in the middle of the room, or being woken by Erik's flailing if he pressed him against the wall in his, and then being always on guard lest anyone enter in the morning, and having to put down a towel to spare the sheets… Well, it was no exaggeration to say that it beckoned like the promised land.
They went downstairs to the kitchen and, after introductions, made clumsy sandwiches out of the provisions Mabel had left, and heated up tins of tomato soup. She'd offered to stay and make them a proper dinner, but Erik hadn't been the only one desperate to be on their own. It felt gloriously decadent to eat on the floor in front of the fire in the study, Ella Fitzgerald's latest playing softly on the record player, and Charles insisted on leaving the crockery lying around for a while, shoving Erik down onto his back in the midst of it and curling up against his side, head pillowed on his chest. It was the sort of gleeful domesticity they'd never allowed themselves at Haslemere, never could. They were entirely alone, and, for once, completely safe.
That spirit of gentle relaxation continued well past midnight, Erik's fingers stroking rhythmically through Charles' hair, and Charles mumbling on about whatever took his fancy; aimless, general conversation, nothing to do with work, or politics, or Shaw's machinations, or even the boys who usually occupied all their waking hours. When they finally stumbled up the stairs to bed, warm and sleepy and replete, it was the purest sort of joy just to pull off their outer clothes and let them drop where they might, then fall into bed in their underwear and drift off to the sound of each other's breathing.
When Charles woke in the morning, sunlight streaming onto his face from the picture window where they'd forgotten to close the curtains last night, Erik was already gone, the bed beside him empty, the sheets already cold. A quick glance across the hall confirmed he'd rumpled the pristine bedclothes, and his pyjamas, while not tossed with gay abandon, were tucked under the pillows. No doubt he was downstairs even now, retrieving last night's dishes, unable as always to stomach the idea of someone picking up after him.
Sure enough, once Charles had thrown on a dressing gown and headed down to the kitchen, the scrubbed pans and dishes were neatly in the rack, and Erik was sitting at the table drinking a cup of tea, the morning paper spread in front of him.
"Morning, love," he said cheerfully, leaning over to press a kiss to Erik's temple. "Is there more tea?"
"Of course," Erik smiled. "In the pot."
Charles snagged a clean mug out of the rack and poured himself a cup, breathing deep of the heady aroma before adding milk and returning to the table to sit at Erik's right hand.
"Sorry, am I in your chair?"
"What? No, of course not," Charles laughed, then bit his tongue hard on the instinctive protestation that he'd not sat at this table since he'd been a child taking supper with Nanny while his mother and Kurt entertained in the formal dining room. Never let it be said that he'd learned nothing about the sorts of silliness that could set Erik off. "Is there anything interesting happening in the world?"
"Independence in Ghana," Erik said with a smile. "Assassinations in Saigon. The usual."
"So the answer's no then," Charles grinned, dragging the paper towards him and messily folding it up.
"Charles!" Erik exclaimed, but his outrage was clearly feigned.
"I'm sorry, my friend," Charles said, "I know it's all devilishly important, but I just cannot care when you are sitting in front of me in a t-shirt."
Erik's jaw dropped and he instinctively pulled his arms in towards his chest.
"Don't," Charles said gently, catching Erik's wrists in a loose grip. "I like it. I never get to look at you in the light." It was true. Erik still mostly dressed and undressed in the bathroom, and they never made the slightest move towards each other until after lights out. Even when he returned from rugby practice, sweat-soaked and flushed, Erik inevitably had his jersey sleeves immaculately in place. Charles sat back and drank his fill, eyes raking hard over Erik's defined biceps and strongly corded forearms. Even the smudge of blue that he was trying to surreptitiously hide had a wild beauty of its own.
"I felt stupid getting fully dressed when you were still asleep," Erik said feebly, nodding at his casual trousers and bare feet.
"I like it," Charles repeated. "And it's a good thing, because clothes have no place in what I want to do to you right now."
"Right now?"
"Yes, right now," Charles affirmed, standing up and pulling a blushing Erik to his feet. "We're going back upstairs to my bedroom, and we are going to open all the windows, and we are going to make love in the sunshine, all morning."
"What about Mabel?" Erik choked.
"Mabel comes in at two," Charles said decisively. "It's now," – he glanced over Erik's shoulder at the kitchen clock – "a quarter past nine, for my sins and thanks to your inability to sleep in. I appreciate your confidence in my prowess, but I think that's sufficient time."
"We're locking the door," Erik said sternly.
Charles just smiled.
*****
It felt, somewhat, a strange thing to be considered the 'experienced' one when it came to love-making, having had a total of two serious girlfriends, neither of whom had been particularly experienced or adventurous themselves, but given that the bulk of Erik's ideas were based on two thousand year old literature and art it was a burden Charles gladly took on.
Certainly they'd come a long way since that first night together, progressing with only minor hesitations from using their hands on each other to using their mouths, from stroking and caressing to penetration with fingers, from the aptly named Oxford style to one awkward, painful, and ultimately abandoned, attempt at intercourse. Charles had thought about the problem since, and decided that it was science that was needed, not classics. Which he would enjoy teasing Erik about later, no doubt, but as he watched Erik's stomach muscles ripple as he stripped out of his t-shirt, teasing was the last thing on his mind.
He'd pored over every biology text he owned, and while none were particularly pertinent or helpful, their meagre commentary, coupled with logic and common sense, suggested relaxation was key. It didn't take a genius to figure out that a cramped single bed, in the pitch dark, with one of his hands clamped over Erik's mouth, was hardly conducive. Likewise, the need for ample lubrication was self-evident, and while tins of Vaseline were ubiquitous in a school, he'd seized the opportunity before heading downstairs to rifle through his mother's drawers and steal the nicest of her face and hand creams. They all smelt a bit girly, but it was an improvement on the smell of petroleum, and the texture was nicer.
"You look like a Bond villain, standing there like that," Erik said suddenly, breaking into Charles' reverie.
"Do I?" Charles asked, shaken once again by how very much he loved this prickly, sarcastic, unbelievably sweet and wonderful man. "I still can't believe you read that rubbish."
Erik shrugged and stepped out of his trousers. He was every bit as magnificent in the sunlight as Charles had imagined.
"Get on the bed," Charles said hoarsely. Erik complied at once, and, God, that was a thrill too.
It was all very well being high-minded, and Charles often thought that sex wasn't even the most important part, that he could be quite happy playing chess and talking and just being with Erik for the rest of their lives, as long as Erik never, ever, left him, but that was revealed for a lie in the sudden, sharp rush of want making his blood surge. There was a reason men risked everything for this.
He shucked his dressing gown and underclothes and clambered onto the bed, kneeing his way up it to where Erik was sprawled against the pillows. His legs were slightly open, and, if his thigh muscles were tense, he didn't hesitate as Charles gripped his knees and pulled them apart to make more room for himself in between.
He did raise an eyebrow when he saw the bottle Charles was carefully opening. "That's not attar of roses?"
"Shut up," Charles said. "I'm about to have my wicked way with you."
Erik burst out laughing at that, and his muscles relaxed under Charles' questing hand, allowing him to do what he needed to.
"I love you so much," he said as he positioned himself, and Erik's strong arms pulled him down so that they could kiss. Mouths locked together, he felt rather than heard Erik's moan as he pushed into him, but his hands, tight on his shoulders, were pressing down not pushing him away, and as he moved further inside him he knew that Erik had been right, he couldn't separate everything he felt in that moment; love, and friendship, and desire; two people as close to each other as it was possible to be.
*****
"Can I ask you something?" Erik said later, as they lay on their backs, naked and unashamed, basking in the streaming sunshine.
"Of course," Charles said, astonished at the thought that there was anything left that might not be shared.
Erik leaned up on his elbow and looked at him seriously. "I know I was an ass when we arrived," he said, "but this place is beautiful. If I lived here I don't think I'd ever leave. You can't possibly need the money. What on earth are you doing at Haslemere?"
"I wish you could live here too," Charles said, and meant it, though that wasn't what Erik was asking. "But it's not really mine. Not yet. And that's the reason I suppose, or part of it. Mummy and Kurt do come home, sometimes, when they get tired of living in hotels, and there's only so much of that I can bear."
"It can't be easy for them, either," Erik said, "waiting for you to announce you've met your bride and give them their marching orders."
"Don't be sorry for them," Charles said sharply. "They don't deserve it. And anyway, they've got a reprieve now, though they'll never know it."
Erik smiled.
"It's not just that though," Charles went on. "I think I'd go mad if I sat around all day doing nothing at all. Whereas Haslemere… I love what we do there. And I was always happy there. Always. I looked forward to going back every term. I know you find that strange."
Erik shrugged, eloquent as ever with one shoulder. "You grew up there. It's not so very strange."
"So I loved school," Charles said, thinking about it for the first time, "and I loved being away at school, and I think I thought I'd just stay at Oxford. Do my PhD, stay on as a don. It's what bookish people like me did. The go-getters went into the City to run banks, or their fathers' companies. And when it wasn't an option any more I didn't know what to do with myself. And then I heard that Mr Lang had finally retired at the ripe old age of eighty, and I thought about how the prefects had practically been running the place by the end, and it seemed a perfect solution. So there you are. It's no To Sir, With Love, I admit."
"I do believe you read that," Erik said. "I also think you're selling yourself short."
"Maybe," Charles agreed, glancing at the clock on the bedside table then reaching out to seize Eric by his biceps and pull him over to sprawl on top of him. "But right now I'm thinking that I've shown you my best effort, and we've got just enough time for you to show me yours."
*****
Part IV
