Charles folds the jacket and presses it into Erik's hands before he stretches and yawns. Erik's thoughts about the jacket make his cheeks colour a little. It is adorable that he would let Charles have it in case he was cold. It's just really nice. Usually people aren't that considerate.
"I think some coffee and maybe cherry pie," he says as he slips out of the car, locking his own door before slamming it shut.
Erik's obvious disgust at the mere thought of apple pie and cheese makes Charles laugh as they walk in, high and delighted, catching the eye of a young brunette who walks over immediately to take their orders. "I don't think she was kidding at all."
He smiles at the waitress, blue eyes bright and charming. "Good evening, darling. We'd love some coffee and your recommendations for pie and the least awful motel of the area."
She laughs at him and pulls a few cups from the tray to pour them both a cup. "Of course," she says and gives Erik one very cute and red smile as well. "You look like the apple pie type."
"Does he?" Charles asks, amused and playful, his gaze twinkling at Erik.
What for you want her number, my friend? he teases.
They get a booth, since it's so empty that they get their pick of seats. They seem overly-comfortable to Erik, cushy and extraneous. It's so violently American, but he's also surprised the waitress isn't wearing roller skates and offering free cheeseburger samples. Erik agrees with getting the apple pie, and he even puts on his best American accent doing so.
It's a complete accident.
But now he's gotta keep it up for the rest of the diner trip.
Thought she might be interested in following you to our motel room. Erik has unfortunately seen Charles flirt, and so he tries to help when he can. Because he likes Charles, thinks of him as a good friend, but sometimes he's a little hopeless with women. He supposes any man who could read minds would do so for these kinds of purposes, but he'd like to think that he didn't need it.
Either way, he's not interested in the waitress, though she does have a pretty ponytail that bounces with her walk.
She comes back with coffee and conversation, trying to ask them where they're from and if they're brothers and where they're headed. Erik has a lie for everything; they're just friends, they're driving cross-country to California to start up a business in sunny LA, and Erik's from Virginia. Sometimes he's from Delaware. But usually it's somewhere east, mid or north, just not New York.
Offhandedly, she remarks that they're famous for their milkshakes. Nice, thick and creamy. Erik says they'll think about it, and she hands them a menu of flavors and goes to check up on their pie. "Well?" Erik asks. "I've never had a milkshake before."
And you? You'd be okay with that? Charles lifts a brow in question, because he thinks that'd be extremely rude of him to take a random date to their motel room and ignore the fact that he's on this trip with Erik. It's not who he is, despite his incessant flirting. Please, I have more class than that, he bounces the thoughts at Erik, amused and light.
He follows Erik's lead even though he wonders if there really is need for all the lies. He laughs lightly at the idea of Erik being his brother and doesn't think about why it feels just not right at all.
"Obviously we're going the milkshake way, then," he tells her with a playful smile and watches her walk away over the brim of his coffee cup. Strangely it feels as if he's flirting with both Erik and the waitress and it doesn't feel all that strange at all.
"You've never had a milkshake?" he asks curiously, then can't help but tease: "Do you want help picking the flavour?"
"Funny, Charles. I never saw the point. It's just ice cream put in a blender." But hey, as long as they're in America, they should probably do as they do here and order 3 scoops of straight up blended ice cream. He can't help noticing that whenever he orders it, he always expects a smaller size than what he ordered. This keeps happening anywhere he goes, and he is not about to be disappointed with diner portions.
Honestly, whenever Charles is even vaguely flirtatious, he just figures it's part of his character. He's just got resting bedroom eyes, and Erik's learned to deal with it. There was a flicker of interest, initially, but Erik has long since decided that Charles is extremely heterosexual, but just overly-friendly with other men. Erik's never been one to chase, so he's also let it go and forgotten that he ever gave it a thought in the first place.
When the waitress comes back to take their order, Erik confidently picks a mint chocolate milkshake, and orders an omelet and a bowl of matzoh soup (mostly because he's just curious what their matzoh soup tastes like; he's never seen it at a restaurant.) Apparently the omelet comes with home fries, and he has to ask Charles why they're different from normal fries. "Don't you think it's weird that they serve breakfast food all day?" he asks.
Or that they can get breakfast food, milkshakes, and both get pie? She must think they're starving...
To be completely honest, Charles isn't exactly familiar with all of this. He's never been big to the diner culture. He grew up with a cook and maids. He didn't go out looking for food. And he's never had to go for the affordable choices either, which has made his tastes a little bit snobby along the years. He isn't about to make a big deal about it, however.
"I suppose breakfast food is popular," he says with a mild shrug. "It's easy. Everything needs to be easy these days, Erik."
They both grew up in a different era. And while Erik had it completely different in a traditional Jewish home and later in a concentration camp and then on the road, Charles grew up with a strict ideas about food and about society, about his role in the society as a man and as a man of statue. He has made great efforts to unlearn some of that, but it does show up at times.
Especially when it comes to flirting and sexuality. And friendship for that matter. He is friendly because he can be. Because it keeps questions at bay. Because it's what is respected and desired. What Charles Xavier really is like, that's a question not many can answer. Raven has an inkling, but she's also blindsided by the fact that she's family and he has been playing the big brother role for decades now.
The people who know about what he is aren't comfortable with his powers. They don't want it used around them. It might seem like such a convenient thing to them but when it comes to reading their mind, it's not a convenience anymore, it's breaching their privacy. Charles got used to this when he was very young, everyone feeling on the edge around him, eventually disliking him for his powers. Even Raven asked him not to read her mind and he's been shielding her for a long, long while.
Erik is the first person who actively engages him in silent conversations, who seems to accept the skill that Charles has grown used to hiding.
It's made him consider the man with completely new pair of eyes. It wasn't a conscious decision to flirt. Certainly not, Charles is a man and men aren't attracted to other men, isn't that right? But there it is, and he's self-aware enough to notice it. He's just counting it as building stones of an actual friendship. A friendship like he's never had before.
"The proportions are ridiculous, though. You are quite right about that," he says after the waitress has gone away again. He only asked for some fries. Because pie and smoothie would have been quite enough, but perhaps it would be nice to eat something and it would hold his hunger until next morning.
Erik shrugs it off because he's thinking it can't be that bad. He doesn't like this coffee very much, but he won't tell the waitress. And the neon signs are making him a little more tired, but he'll battle through it, though he suppresses a long yawn. It shows in his face.
During this time, another couple come into the diner, though they appear to be a little bit drunk and definitely coming home after a night out. The girl puts coins in a jukebox and takes a long time selecting a song. So long in fact, that her boyfriend comes up behind her to hold her in his arms and help. Erik fights rolling his eyes; they are definitely in that first phase of dating where they think the other holds up the sun and chariots it through the sky.
He can't imagine what that's like; he's never felt that way about anyone.
That last thought might be a rather intrudingly loud one.
When the waitress comes back with their milkshake and appetizers (fries, soup), the couple have finally chosen a song. It's one of those doo-wop classics that Erik first heard when he washed up on American shores, trying to chase an American dream. Yeah, he remembers Earth Angel in 19...54 was it? When he was barely in his twenties and had big dreams and empty pockets.
The waitress says Erik's entree will be out in a minute and she's just going to rush back to get Charles some ketchup for those fries. Erik gives her a thank you and a smile to which she looks down and blushes. That's not at all his intent, and he focuses his attention back on Charles, stealing a fry.
"They're good," he remarks, pushing forward his soup to offer Charles the first sip.
Charles likes people in that honeymoon phase. It makes everything around them somehow brighter and more exciting. He likes that as a backdrop to the usual murmur that is pretty often rather morose and pessimistic. People don't think about good things as often as they wallow in the bad ones.
He usually doesn't focus on anyone that much, but Erik has a habit of stealing his attention. it happens with that loud thought again and Charles finds himself studying him curiously. Never? he asks after a while, because it's a curious topic.
Not that Charles has anything to bring to the table. He hasn't even dated anyone - something he pushes across the mental link as a mere idea, not words.
The waitress is cute and Charles can't help but laugh softly at her obvious infatuation with Erik. Charles understands. Between the two of them, Erik is definitely the handsome one.
He pushes the chips a bit closer to Erik, inviting him to help himself as much as he wants. "They sometimes put vinegar in chips in London," he says and then reaches for the spoon that sits beside the soup and sinks it in carefully. He licks his lips curiously after the first taste, not quite sure what to think of it.
"They sometimes put mayonnaise on chips in Germany," he replies, making a momentarily disgusted face at the thought. He doesn't like to judge what others eat, but he prefers his fries just lightly salted and peppered. He doesn't even like American ketchup, finding it too tangy and too thick. He much prefers tomatensose, which is a sweeter and milder flavor, and still has some of that tomatoey grit. He finds that Americans like to make their food a little unrecognizable from its original source. He still hasn't forgiven them for that doughy-smelling "bread" they put "wonder" in front of as if the softness and the sweetness is supposed to even come close to challah. Yuck.
But he is a little surprised at the idea that Charles has never dated. Ever. Ever? Erik knows he's no virgin, for certain, but he would've assumed one of those girls held his attention long enough to stay in his bed more than a handful of times and maybe could've cajoled him out for dinner beforehand or breakfast after.
Erik was obsessed with the romanticism of freedom when he first arrived. He got emotional, looking at the statue of liberty. And he met a string of women and finally one who captured his attention for a few months. But as he continued seeing how America wasn't so friendly to the poor and the hungry and downtrod as Lady Liberty claimed, as he started to notice little things that marred the whole of society that everyone else was content to sweep under a rug, his relationship with America soured. So then, did his relationships in general.
Never, he responds, and are you surprised? I find that sort of public display... excessive. No one's ever quite captured his heart, but his heart is not meant to be tied down in someone's hands. No, he's still constantly moving, constantly searching. For peace, for vengeance, for a place to lie his head and feel like home, feel like something good. Some world that Charles sees in his mind's eye, the perfect little enclave in his neighborhood (of which he owns entirely), with his books and his bars and his command of whatever room he walks into.
Erik would like to know what that's like.
Instead, he tries the milkshake, and wrinkles his nose. "It's too sweet," he remarks. The matzoh ball soup, on the other hand, with its little stray noodles and its one giant ball in the middle of the cup, gets a bit higher praise. It's not like the kind mama used to make, but it's still pretty good. Not bad. A passable facsimile.
He steals more fries as the couple dance in the background and laugh loudly and with mirth.
He supposes they might be the kind of people to like maraschino cherries. He offers theirs to Charles; he finds them juvenile, and hates the way they stain everything they touch.
Chips and coffee. It feels almost like his student years. Living off of grease and easy food while blowing through countless books and academic merits, high on the arrogant notion of his own intelligence. As if no one before him came to the same high brow conclusions. Intoxicated by youth and the power that come with knowledge. How a plate of chips and some fish could carry him through a whole day and a good part of the next one, how arrogant laughter was much more nutritious and indignant anger kept him full. He's much older now, calmer, amused by Erik's half thought notions about the food and America.
Charles doesn't hold any animosity towards his country. Or the food, even if he doesn't indulge in something like ketchup and milkshakes. He was brought up to be an old man from birth. Used to measured proportions and steady rhythm of the dinner bell. He knows how to cook, simple things, easy things. He likes pure flavours but sometimes gets curious simply because he knows the pleasure in the minds that beat through his when eating something with strong, unfamiliar flavour. Periodically he thinks he can handle spicy food and goes for it with gusto. Then regrets his life when it turns out he actually can't.
It is similar to his dating life. Or the lack of there of. He shared these thoughts with Erik without bothering to formulate them around words - he finds that he edits himself often through speech and sometimes it's just easier to share without checking himself first. There have been times when he's thought he could date, times when he's shared his bed in the drunken state sharing a mind has felt good, how she was more than grateful when he could read her mind, but how he also realised in the morning after listening to her reverberating thoughts about throwing up how she would never feel comfortable with him inside her head. Sometimes he has made effort not to pry and suddenly he's the most boring man alive. Sometimes he has taken a girl out several times without any flirting involved. These people have become friends who can't think of him below the waist. And he knows it. It's a halted existence, knowing what people want and how they know just as well as he does that he's not letting them close enough to see who he really is. They are happy to cross paths with him but nothing more. All this is just a cut through of the latter years. There is his youth and his bright eyed chase of knowledge, of the secreted truths of the universe. There were those would kept up with him, but they were vessels for truth and higher purpose, not for each other.
Charles' thoughts are full of mirth and self-depreciation. He isn't afraid to admit that he's been young and foolish, definitely not ashamed of his growth either. He isn't sorry or disappointed for the lack of connection in his life. But perhaps a little bit of longing might seep through, and is eagerly ignored.
He asks for another cup of coffee when the waitress arrives with their pies and slices a piece of the treat with his fork, offering it to Erik, handle first. It's cherry and almond, perfect with coffee. She returns with the pot and her thoughts spiral out of order when she fills his cup, suddenly looking at them with surprised understanding - or what she perceives to be understanding, a misconception. It doesn't help that she seems to have a quite vivid imagination and Charles finds himself pushing back to sit straighter, clearing his throat.
"Could I have some more milk for my coffee?" he asks, a bit sharply, and she blushes all the way to the roots of her hair before escaping to the kitchen in search for unnecessary dairy products.
Erik hears Charles loud and clear and does think he was a bit of a fool. Is a bit of a fool. It's hard to change out of something, he understands, and sometimes Charles with his bright-eyed optimism overlooks what disasters might be lurking right in front of his face. But they're only young once, and Erik even remembers being that boy, with hopes filling in his too-big shoes, his wishfully-thinking coat.
It was a log road to recovery. Erik's still on it.
He doesn't catch the waitress's thoughts, naturally, so he arches a bit of a brow when Charles speaks to her so sharply and when she blushes as if understanding what he means and moves away. What was that about? he asks, prodding in such a way mentally that he's hoping it's conveyed that he wants an answer and won't settle for a sanitized version of events.
Erik meanwhile, enjoys the rest of his soup as she brings out the entree. Because she's embarrassed, she doesn't say a word, but Erik doesn't even notice that because there's a mountain of food in front of him. This must've been five eggs, and there's at least two whole potatoes. Plus she's already buttered his toast and left him some jam, which is, again... Why does he have two slices of bread? Even if this was presented to him alone without the other food, he wouldn't be able to finish it.
Now would be a good time for an, I told you so, from Charles. Erik is balking, and shovels about half an omelet onto a shared plate between the two of them. "You need protein," is all Erik says. He doesn't know why he bothers to pretend; he's friends with a telepath.
Our little friend, the waitress, has a vivid and active imagination, is all Charles goes for. This time censuring himself quite happily. He has been at the butt end of everyone's thoughts since he was just a little boy, he knows how these things go, Erik doesn't have that kind of experience. He probably would find it quite terrible.
Charles can't help but laugh at Erik's desperation about the size of the proportions. He doesn't go for the low blow but it is quite well suggested in his high tone of voice: "I certainly do. Thank you."
He will nibble. Not bother with eating himself to a coma but he smears the food on the shared plate enough that it seems like he's made effort. The eggs are too salty and he has a feeling he's going to regret even this little but happily their waitress is more than happy to come with a pitcher of water as he smiles at the girl calmly, offering an olive branch even if she doesn't know what the problem was in the first place.
Erik still doesn't know what Charles means by the waitress, but he's too busy trying to figure out what to do about all this food. He gives Charles a grateful look when he accepts the piece of omelet that Erik's cut off for him, and starts on his second dinner while being serenaded by more songs that the couple has decided to put on.
The milkshake, meanwhile, melts in the cup, and Erik is definitely going into both food and sweets overload after having consumed a few bites of pie. Apple, cinnamon, buttery flaky crust. Usually, he'd enjoy it a lot. And honestly he thinks most of this food is a bit greasy tasting. He finally discovered what he disliked about the coffee; it was a bit... greasy, almost.
He's not sure he's sold on diners, and he drinks more of the coffee as all the buttery food starts threatening to put him to sleep.
Are you going to tell me what she was thinking? he asks mentally, because he knows Charles and knows he doesn't often get offended at other people's thoughts. After all, he's privy to all of them. He knows everyone's deepest, darkest secrets. It must be really very bad and very sudden for him to have reacted in such a way. Erik just wants to know if they need to get out of here quickly without making too much fuss. She could be anti-mutant.
There is a lot of food and Charles feels like he's filling up as Erik keeps eating, feeling heavier and heavier and eventually there will be nausea...
Eventually he waves the waitress over and asks for a check. Because he can't just watch Erik destroy everything and then roll out of the diner. When she goes to add everything together, Charles turns to Erik, pulling some plates away from him and piles them on the side.
"I think we've had enough. You're not going to sleep tonight if you finish all this."
She had a wayward thought, nothing else. It had nothing to do with mutants, you do not need to worry. Just you and me. And her scandalised curiosity was rude. The mental image had startled Charles, but he wasn't upset about it. Just a little surprised.
Scandalized curiosity? What's that supposed to mean? You know, the more vague you are about this, the more curious I get. He throws money on the table and leaves a large tip for the waitress, because he thinks that the couple might not leave anything. And then he stands up, groaning a bit because he's definitely eaten way too much. There's barely a pooch in his stomach, of course, regardless of how much he's consumed. The bastard.
The waitress lets them know where the nearest motels are, but seems to not really want to interact with them anymore. Even when Erik smiles at her and offers his goodbyes, she seems curt and disinterested. Total 180. He's left there with his hand outstretched, jaw slack in the middle of a word; she'd just taken the check and left when Erik said they didn't need change.
He gets into the car and he's still disturbed by the transpiration of events, looking over at Charles disapprovingly and then back towards the road. This can wait until they're settled in. And maybe until tomorrow. "Should we try the nicer hotel?" he asks. The first motel that she'd described seemed no better than the one they'd left, and the nicer one didn't seem that much more expensive. Truth be told, it didn't seem that much nicer either, just... livable.
"Yeah," Erik says, when they approach the first recommendation. The sign is half-broken so that it lights up "M TE : v c y" and it looks a bit run-down. "We're going to the hotel."
Charles finds his jaw tightening with the attitude of the waitress. He can hear her buzzing thoughts, the scandalised curiosity mixed with disgust and unusually for him, he doesn't even look at her when she comes to collect. Because he might say something unkind.
She thinks we're together, he tells Erik quietly. And doesn't seem very pleased about it. His answer is very curt and irritated. Not because of what she assumes but how she behaves about it. Sometimes Charles finds himself with similar thoughts because it is how he was brought up, but the matter is so very similar to the mutant issue that he would be such a hypocrite if he hadn't already talked himself out of that pot hole several years ago. Gay, hetero, it shouldn't matter.
He usually is one of those customers who will pile up plates and make the table clean before leaving but this time he leaves it, doesn't touch a damn thing. He wants to get out of there as quickly as possible. Even the pleasant buzz and loving thoughts of the couple have just melted into the background.
He nods to Erik's suggestion about the nicer hotel. "I'd like that, please." He doesn't need to have a perfect place to sleep in but if he keeps expecting cockroaches to climb into his bed, he probably isn't going to get a wink of sleep.
"How are you not fast asleep after all that food?" Charles asks and yawns, because he feels heavy and Erik consumed so much more than he did.
Erik isn't sure what to think when Charles tells him the truth. Oh, is what he sends back. He starts to think, Why didn't you just tell her we aren't? and sends the idea more than the words, because he puts that away almost immediately. There are people who can't claim they aren't mutants. Erik could not and would not pretend to be anything other than Jewish. And there's no reason they should contribute to the problem by assuring the woman that they are, in fact, not together.
His expression sours, but he gets in the car anyway, and it's kind of a quieter drive until they reach the motel. "I don't think you'd want me to be fast asleep; I still have to drive." He shrugs his jacket off again. "Take it," he says. "I'll wake you when we get to the hotel." He has a stray thought that he'd rather Charles stay awake or he really will fall asleep and instead of getting a room, they'll have to spend the night in whatever parking lot Erik's pulled off into... But he tries to squash that thought before it fully forms.
There's something about how Charles looks when he's illuminated only by street lamps, dark cut out of him appearing as they pass by a theater, a late-night café, another gas station. He just seems so innocent like this, which is much, much better than when he's in the driver's seat. In the driver's seat, it's hard to sympathize with Charles because he's a goddamn menace. But just like this, Erik feels little pangs of satisfaction settling in like dust. He doesn't know why. He doesn't question it.
Because first of all it's none of her business, and secondly, he shouldn't bother her in the slightest. I'm not going to-- Charles pauses in a middle of a tirade and then reaches out to touch Erik's shoulder. You know what I mean.
The last thought he sends Erik's way is just a whisper of an idea. He doesn't like anyone else but him and Erik defining what they are to each other. He wonders what makes him so possessive of a simple thought process. But that's a question he keeps firmly to himself.
"I am very thankful of your willpower," he admits with a small chuckle and doesn't offend Erik by refusing the jacket. But instead drapes it over himself with a pleasant sigh. He doesn't go to sleep, though. Because unfortunately for Erik, he is aware even those thoughts that are just forming. "I think I'm too full to sleep, actually."
He's never had this kind of layered conversation with anyone. Mostly people want him to stop reading their minds when their thoughts hit a more personal dive, when they think of something that isn't exactly flattering or there's something embarrassing or too intimate. Charles is used to bypassing thoughts about himself. It took him years to master that. People are so very, very honest inside their heads and it's hardly ever flattering for very long. Either he has a big nose or oh, his eyes are so blue, look at that red mouth or man, those freckles. There are also comments about his height, the way he walks or runs, the way he speaks, everything and anything. Irritations, annoyances, random passing notes about every little thing. Erik's observation about him looking innocent isn't the first who comments about his naivete but he is the first one ever to feel so satisfied about it.
He's also the first one that Charles is comfortable responding to, not just by smiling and ghosting over it, but actually giving him a thought or two. They come in a form of sleepy thoughts, nothing filled into words or even syllables, just ideas. He likes how Erik's profile is cast in the same flickering lights. There's intimacy in it, something that is unique to sharing the space within a car late at night. There's darkness that holds them so tightly but every now and then a flash of a streetlamp illuminates the car and paints them both with yellow, soft light. Erik has bold features, clean cut and handsome. But it's not because his face is nice to look at why Charles likes it. He likes the sharky smile he has, he likes the sharp slide of a nose - it's Erik's face, it couldn't be anyone else's. There's both strength and compassion in it, and Charles rather likes that combination.
Usually these are thoughts that he wouldn't share with anyone. But now it seems like a waste not to.
Well, Charles does have a big nose and blue eyes and a red mouth and countless freckles that are getting more and more prominent as the weather gets warm, but Erik's never thought of his features in that way, just as features that go on his face. Anything else, and he just wouldn't be Charles. It's the floppy hair and the endless closet of sweaters; it just always makes him look so comfortable and inviting. Classically handsome, extremely approachable. Erik thinks that's why the kids warm up to him so quickly; he just exudes that kind of air. Erik, on the other hand, is quite the opposite: sharp, all edges, intense gaze.
Erik knows he's handsome, of course, he's looked in a mirror, he's seen the way people cast glances. Men and women alike feel threatened by his presence or want to capture his attention. But... he's always thought of Charles as someone who doesn't care about that, someone who would find appearance as a secondary importance if anything. He doesn't know why, but that makes him feel a little differently than when people appreciate him from the other end of a bar. Like somehow this is a much bigger compliment, and though it's invisible underneath the dim light his cheeks flush the barest pink.
He flashes Charles a smile at a red light, but lets the mental conversation dissolve into the ambience inside the car.
He doesn't get out of it immediately when they approach the hotel, as if opening the door will break their seal of cozy intimacy. But he eventually gets out into the now-cold night, and briskly breezes into the hotel to ask if they have a vacancy. This one's not bad; the decorations are outdated and the whole layout design is a bit shoddy, but it's clean and the upkeep seems good. He stifles another yawn; there won't be more hotel hunting tonight.
"I'm sorry sirs," the lady behind the desk starts. "We only have a room with a single bed, but we could bring up a cot for you."
"That's fine," Erik says. "I'll sleep on the cot, it's no problem."
Appearance is secondary to Charles, definitely, but he's not blind. He can see beauty and appreciate it. But more than anything it is what's inside that counts. More than anything it is the human factor that keeps his interest. And despite what others think, Erik has that in spades. It's right there, in that heat that gathers on his cheeks and in that smile that Charles hesitates to call shy but knows it is a little bit of that as well.
His eyes soften when Erik flashes him the smile, his smile curving deeper with fondness, a bang of something deceptively raw flashing through him. He lets Erik lay the topic to rest and just enjoys the quiet that's comfortable between them, still connected, still discussing but not with thoughts or words, just sharing the little bubble of intimacy that built up quite accidentally.
He folds Erik's jacket over his arm as they enter the lobby and find the reception. He gives the premises a little scan, just to see that they'll be safe and sound here. It seems doable, rather respectable all in all. There are always a few skeletons in every closet but they don't seem to be awfully glaring in this hotel, so he leaves them alone. If a cleaning lady didn't remember to sweep the floor in one of the rooms, it's hardly going to bite them in the ass in the middle of the night.
He doesn't interrupt the transaction between Erik and the lady but just smiles and nods his approval, however, he approaches the idea of Erik sleeping on a poor mattress more privately. You are sleeping on the bed, my friend, he murmurs into Erik's mind as the lady provides them with the paperwork and he approaches the desk to sign his name on the dotted line. "Thank you very much."
You've been driving the whole day and will do so tomorrow as well, I have no doubt about that. I want you to be able to sleep well.
Thank you, Charles, but let's let them set up the cot. After all, they can't stay here if the hotel decides to kick them out because they suspect something like they might be sleeping in the same bed. Erik's not sure what the law is in this state (and honestly, not sure why they have such a complicated set of laws per state), but he knows that there's only one or two where sodomy is legal, and even just on suspicion.
Well.
Erik's also technically an illegal alien. And there's only so many times they can just ask to get bailed out by the CIA.
He smiles at the woman and offhandedly wonders why they've gotten so many... questions about it recently. It used to be none at all, that people were just content in believing they were good friends. But then the ribbing started from some of the kids, and Erik knows the suits say things behind their backs. And, well. There was the waitress.
Erik takes their things upstairs, since there isn't a bellhop working this late, and helps go through the motions of setting up a bed neither of them plan on using. He wishes the receptionist a goodnight and closes the door behind her, glad that they're finally alone. He's the most comfortable when it's just him and Charles, a sort of symbiotic understanding. They're not the same, not even close, but they function so well together. He supposes they're like the right and left sides of a brain, and the way they talk and they way they think together is just a well-developed corpus callosum, always surprising Erik with the sheer power of their ability to trade thoughts.
He lies back on the bed and toes off his shoes and thinks he might fall asleep like this, over the covers and belt still on and everything. He has a half-awake sleepiness about him and thinks that even usually in this state, he never lets his guard down until now. He thinks, he feels safe with Charles. He thinks, Charles is the most beautiful mutant he's ever set his thoughts on. He thinks, Charles feels to him like rolling the windows down and feeling fresh sunny asphalt slide underneath his wheels, like freedom.
It annoys Charles that they have to go through these motions, but he doesn't complain. He smiles kindly while he moves their belongings out of the way as Erik helps with the cot. His lips twist into an amused smile at Erik's thoughts about brain halves, and he playfully asks him which side is he? Left or right?
But Erik's mind is close to shutting off and when they're alone he slumps onto the bed. Charles lifts up their bags from the floor, positioning them neatly on top of the table (to prevent any possible bedbugs from crawling in) and folds Erik's jacket on top of his. Then he moves to the bed, leaning over Erik to help him out of his clothes. Let's get you comfortable, he murmurs into his mind while listening to the idle prattle of Erik's thoughts about him. They make him smile happily while he divests Erik out of his clothes, careful not to stir him too much, gently suggesting at times to his beautiful mind which limb could be moving to help Charles on the task.
He thinks it's curious how similar and how different at the same time their thoughts are. He offers his own without even thinking about it. It's fair and it's rare that he can share. Because to him Erik is like learning to breathe again, like a child realising what his legs are made for and the joy of running until his legs are sore. Being accepted even outside his own mind is a gift that he doesn't know how to unravel without losing his mind in it. And there are days when he wants nothing else but to soar, to open more locks between those two halves of a brain and connect them in ways that none have been before. What would it be like if awareness and action could happen at the same time, his mind whispers. A temptation and sweet surrender to knowing it's safe, it's safe to explore. Erik is the air in his lungs after breathing under ground for so many years. And sometimes he wants to suck in more, and more, and more, until his head is dizzy with too much oxygen. He thinks he'll end up breathing into a paper bag with Erik eventually but still it will be worth it.
The covers go down around Erik and Charles tucks him in, safe and sound, discreetly he doesn't look even if Erik has a beautiful body, he just helps him undress and gathers the clothes away before pulling the sheets on him. And lastly a few fingers lingers on Erik's temple, sliding into his hair before slipping away.
Charles is the right side of course, with all its empathy and all its joy. And Erik is the machine that goes, that calculates, that tells the right it's too soft. But those come through as little amorphous thoughts, not really giving Charles a straight answer. Then again, Erik's brain has already begin to shut down for the night, start turning the lights off in the factories that churn out his thoughts.
He smiles, visibly, getting little bits of things that Charles thinks as a sort of soothing lullaby. Like the sound of seagulls or a tropical rain, it doesn't quite make him feel like he's sleeping in his own bed at home, but it does help move the sleep process along. His brain shoots back the thought that he doesn't mind if Charles takes a look, even as his filters try to awaken to move the thought directly into his mind's trash can.
Still, he trusts Charles. More than anything, he trusts Charles. It's hard not to, when the way they met was Charles saving Erik's life. It's hard not to, when Charles says he's seen all of Erik's past and his darkest thoughts and said, I accept you. And when Charles knows all of those thoughts are real, and what Erik might do with them, and Charles disregards him and tells him that yes, he's still here. They're still friends. And Charles respects and likes Erik just as much as he did before; it's hard to distrust someone like that.
The last thought he has before falling asleep is how Charles's fingers feel in his hair, and he wakes up in the middle of the night with a phantom feeling lingering at his temple.
Erik checks his watch to find that it's 4 AM, and he's overheated, sweaty, and suddenly very awake. He turns to look at Charles sleeping peacefully beside him, and his heart does a funny stir as he imagines reaching out to smooth out Charles's fingers from their curled position. He furrows his brows and peels himself out of bed to get some fresh air, go look at the still-asleep town around them.
Before going to bed, Charles hangs up Erik's clothes. He doesn't know if Erik will be changing or if he's going to use these the next day, so he doesn't want Erik to find them wrinkled. He lays out his own clothes for the next day and takes a brief shower and brushes his teeth before slipping into his pyjamas.
He doesn't fall asleep right away. But instead watches the peaceful way Erik's chest rises and falls. At the very edges of his consciousness, just before he falls asleep he feels like he comes to some kind of an understanding and somewhere inside him a bone deep longing drums to life. But he falls asleep and the thought is lost, erased by sleep and his brain trying to sort through what is important and what is not worth saving.
He sleeps soundly, turned towards Erik, curled around his core. He stirs when Erik springs up from the bed, the mattress shaking upon losing Erik's weight on it. Blue eyes crack open for a moment, checking on Erik, then fall close again. Charles dozes for a minute or two, then realises that he can't fall asleep again. Erik's thoughts buzz just at the edges of his understanding. He rolls up, sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment, disoriented, half lidded eyes glancing around in confusion.
Charles is absolutely not a morning person. He tends to be grumpy before he gets his cup of coffee, groggy and out of it. Waking up at 4 AM isn't any different, quite the contrary. His hair sticks up wildly from one side, oh the other it sticks to his face. He stumbles across the hotel room and rubs his face sleepily as he slips to the balcony with Erik.
"Is it time to wake up?" he asks, while leaning on the door frame, arms around his middle against the morning chill.
"No," Erik answers, looking back at him. "Go back to sleep, Charles." His voice is low, racked with sleep, soft with the pre-dawn. His thoughts blanket affectionately in Charles's general direction, and he seems to try and withdraw it as soon as he's made conscious of it. It's a sharp intake, sort of like a cringe. A wince.
No, they don't need more complication. And Erik doesn't need to have to tell himself twice to get over himself, to let something be. His heart is usually so well-tamed, hiding in a cage plastered over with hatred, with disgust, with rejection. After the war, he'd still been Jewish. He'd been poor. And there was very little sympathy for him in the land of opportunity. So he was just like a house abandoned and overgrown with vines. But nothing tried to break through like Charles has. And nothing's been so hard to chase back out as Charles.
Charles is blue in the dim twilight, hair a mess from the pillow, sleep-worn and tired-looking. And a familiar feeling flits around in Erik's stomach and dries up his throat, until he commands it to stop. The cool air dares Erik to be brave, but he walks towards the hotel room. In case anyone is awake. In case anyone is awake right this second and looking out their window, right at them, making up some sort of narrative that is painfully untrue.
He pauses as he reaches out to take Charles by the arm, to usher him back inside. Erik's hands have cooled and Charles is warm to the touch; his hands turn as his fingertips against Charles's skin turn to his knuckles, such a subtle gesture that changes his meaning from 'move back' to 'stay.' It's an accident.
"Alright--" Charles starts to say, his lips curving into a smile as he leans his head against the door frame, just watching Erik with half lidded eyes. But then Erik withdraws sharply and Charles draws in a breath, rushed and sudden. Erik hasn't done that, not since the very beginning.
He blinks his eyes open, a frown appearing on his brows as he reaches up and rubs a hand over his face, trying to focus.
Something is... different.
He watches Erik walk back in, his awareness slowly returning to him. It's taking leaps and bounds, alarm obvious on his gaze, in the way his breath is short, unguarded. It's hard to adjust suddenly to the mixed messages Erik is giving him. The touch is reassuring for a brief second or two and Charles feels a relief flood him only to be yanked away as Erik pulls away.
Without thinking, Charles reaches for that hand, takes it in his own and pulls it close as he melts back against the door frame. "Erik," he whispers softly. "What's wrong?"
Why it feels like there's a giant hole in his stomach where cold wind is blowing in? He doesn't know.
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"I think some coffee and maybe cherry pie," he says as he slips out of the car, locking his own door before slamming it shut.
Erik's obvious disgust at the mere thought of apple pie and cheese makes Charles laugh as they walk in, high and delighted, catching the eye of a young brunette who walks over immediately to take their orders. "I don't think she was kidding at all."
He smiles at the waitress, blue eyes bright and charming. "Good evening, darling. We'd love some coffee and your recommendations for pie and the least awful motel of the area."
She laughs at him and pulls a few cups from the tray to pour them both a cup. "Of course," she says and gives Erik one very cute and red smile as well. "You look like the apple pie type."
"Does he?" Charles asks, amused and playful, his gaze twinkling at Erik.
What for you want her number, my friend? he teases.
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It's a complete accident.
But now he's gotta keep it up for the rest of the diner trip.
Thought she might be interested in following you to our motel room. Erik has unfortunately seen Charles flirt, and so he tries to help when he can. Because he likes Charles, thinks of him as a good friend, but sometimes he's a little hopeless with women. He supposes any man who could read minds would do so for these kinds of purposes, but he'd like to think that he didn't need it.
Either way, he's not interested in the waitress, though she does have a pretty ponytail that bounces with her walk.
She comes back with coffee and conversation, trying to ask them where they're from and if they're brothers and where they're headed. Erik has a lie for everything; they're just friends, they're driving cross-country to California to start up a business in sunny LA, and Erik's from Virginia. Sometimes he's from Delaware. But usually it's somewhere east, mid or north, just not New York.
Offhandedly, she remarks that they're famous for their milkshakes. Nice, thick and creamy. Erik says they'll think about it, and she hands them a menu of flavors and goes to check up on their pie. "Well?" Erik asks. "I've never had a milkshake before."
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He follows Erik's lead even though he wonders if there really is need for all the lies. He laughs lightly at the idea of Erik being his brother and doesn't think about why it feels just not right at all.
"Obviously we're going the milkshake way, then," he tells her with a playful smile and watches her walk away over the brim of his coffee cup. Strangely it feels as if he's flirting with both Erik and the waitress and it doesn't feel all that strange at all.
"You've never had a milkshake?" he asks curiously, then can't help but tease: "Do you want help picking the flavour?"
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Honestly, whenever Charles is even vaguely flirtatious, he just figures it's part of his character. He's just got resting bedroom eyes, and Erik's learned to deal with it. There was a flicker of interest, initially, but Erik has long since decided that Charles is extremely heterosexual, but just overly-friendly with other men. Erik's never been one to chase, so he's also let it go and forgotten that he ever gave it a thought in the first place.
When the waitress comes back to take their order, Erik confidently picks a mint chocolate milkshake, and orders an omelet and a bowl of matzoh soup (mostly because he's just curious what their matzoh soup tastes like; he's never seen it at a restaurant.) Apparently the omelet comes with home fries, and he has to ask Charles why they're different from normal fries. "Don't you think it's weird that they serve breakfast food all day?" he asks.
Or that they can get breakfast food, milkshakes, and both get pie? She must think they're starving...
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"I suppose breakfast food is popular," he says with a mild shrug. "It's easy. Everything needs to be easy these days, Erik."
They both grew up in a different era. And while Erik had it completely different in a traditional Jewish home and later in a concentration camp and then on the road, Charles grew up with a strict ideas about food and about society, about his role in the society as a man and as a man of statue. He has made great efforts to unlearn some of that, but it does show up at times.
Especially when it comes to flirting and sexuality. And friendship for that matter. He is friendly because he can be. Because it keeps questions at bay. Because it's what is respected and desired. What Charles Xavier really is like, that's a question not many can answer. Raven has an inkling, but she's also blindsided by the fact that she's family and he has been playing the big brother role for decades now.
The people who know about what he is aren't comfortable with his powers. They don't want it used around them. It might seem like such a convenient thing to them but when it comes to reading their mind, it's not a convenience anymore, it's breaching their privacy. Charles got used to this when he was very young, everyone feeling on the edge around him, eventually disliking him for his powers. Even Raven asked him not to read her mind and he's been shielding her for a long, long while.
Erik is the first person who actively engages him in silent conversations, who seems to accept the skill that Charles has grown used to hiding.
It's made him consider the man with completely new pair of eyes. It wasn't a conscious decision to flirt. Certainly not, Charles is a man and men aren't attracted to other men, isn't that right? But there it is, and he's self-aware enough to notice it. He's just counting it as building stones of an actual friendship. A friendship like he's never had before.
"The proportions are ridiculous, though. You are quite right about that," he says after the waitress has gone away again. He only asked for some fries. Because pie and smoothie would have been quite enough, but perhaps it would be nice to eat something and it would hold his hunger until next morning.
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During this time, another couple come into the diner, though they appear to be a little bit drunk and definitely coming home after a night out. The girl puts coins in a jukebox and takes a long time selecting a song. So long in fact, that her boyfriend comes up behind her to hold her in his arms and help. Erik fights rolling his eyes; they are definitely in that first phase of dating where they think the other holds up the sun and chariots it through the sky.
He can't imagine what that's like; he's never felt that way about anyone.
That last thought might be a rather intrudingly loud one.
When the waitress comes back with their milkshake and appetizers (fries, soup), the couple have finally chosen a song. It's one of those doo-wop classics that Erik first heard when he washed up on American shores, trying to chase an American dream. Yeah, he remembers Earth Angel in 19...54 was it? When he was barely in his twenties and had big dreams and empty pockets.
The waitress says Erik's entree will be out in a minute and she's just going to rush back to get Charles some ketchup for those fries. Erik gives her a thank you and a smile to which she looks down and blushes. That's not at all his intent, and he focuses his attention back on Charles, stealing a fry.
"They're good," he remarks, pushing forward his soup to offer Charles the first sip.
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He usually doesn't focus on anyone that much, but Erik has a habit of stealing his attention. it happens with that loud thought again and Charles finds himself studying him curiously. Never? he asks after a while, because it's a curious topic.
Not that Charles has anything to bring to the table. He hasn't even dated anyone - something he pushes across the mental link as a mere idea, not words.
The waitress is cute and Charles can't help but laugh softly at her obvious infatuation with Erik. Charles understands. Between the two of them, Erik is definitely the handsome one.
He pushes the chips a bit closer to Erik, inviting him to help himself as much as he wants. "They sometimes put vinegar in chips in London," he says and then reaches for the spoon that sits beside the soup and sinks it in carefully. He licks his lips curiously after the first taste, not quite sure what to think of it.
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But he is a little surprised at the idea that Charles has never dated. Ever. Ever? Erik knows he's no virgin, for certain, but he would've assumed one of those girls held his attention long enough to stay in his bed more than a handful of times and maybe could've cajoled him out for dinner beforehand or breakfast after.
Erik was obsessed with the romanticism of freedom when he first arrived. He got emotional, looking at the statue of liberty. And he met a string of women and finally one who captured his attention for a few months. But as he continued seeing how America wasn't so friendly to the poor and the hungry and downtrod as Lady Liberty claimed, as he started to notice little things that marred the whole of society that everyone else was content to sweep under a rug, his relationship with America soured. So then, did his relationships in general.
Never, he responds, and are you surprised? I find that sort of public display... excessive. No one's ever quite captured his heart, but his heart is not meant to be tied down in someone's hands. No, he's still constantly moving, constantly searching. For peace, for vengeance, for a place to lie his head and feel like home, feel like something good. Some world that Charles sees in his mind's eye, the perfect little enclave in his neighborhood (of which he owns entirely), with his books and his bars and his command of whatever room he walks into.
Erik would like to know what that's like.
Instead, he tries the milkshake, and wrinkles his nose. "It's too sweet," he remarks. The matzoh ball soup, on the other hand, with its little stray noodles and its one giant ball in the middle of the cup, gets a bit higher praise. It's not like the kind mama used to make, but it's still pretty good. Not bad. A passable facsimile.
He steals more fries as the couple dance in the background and laugh loudly and with mirth.
He supposes they might be the kind of people to like maraschino cherries. He offers theirs to Charles; he finds them juvenile, and hates the way they stain everything they touch.
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Charles doesn't hold any animosity towards his country. Or the food, even if he doesn't indulge in something like ketchup and milkshakes. He was brought up to be an old man from birth. Used to measured proportions and steady rhythm of the dinner bell. He knows how to cook, simple things, easy things. He likes pure flavours but sometimes gets curious simply because he knows the pleasure in the minds that beat through his when eating something with strong, unfamiliar flavour. Periodically he thinks he can handle spicy food and goes for it with gusto. Then regrets his life when it turns out he actually can't.
It is similar to his dating life. Or the lack of there of. He shared these thoughts with Erik without bothering to formulate them around words - he finds that he edits himself often through speech and sometimes it's just easier to share without checking himself first. There have been times when he's thought he could date, times when he's shared his bed in the drunken state sharing a mind has felt good, how she was more than grateful when he could read her mind, but how he also realised in the morning after listening to her reverberating thoughts about throwing up how she would never feel comfortable with him inside her head. Sometimes he has made effort not to pry and suddenly he's the most boring man alive. Sometimes he has taken a girl out several times without any flirting involved. These people have become friends who can't think of him below the waist. And he knows it. It's a halted existence, knowing what people want and how they know just as well as he does that he's not letting them close enough to see who he really is. They are happy to cross paths with him but nothing more. All this is just a cut through of the latter years. There is his youth and his bright eyed chase of knowledge, of the secreted truths of the universe. There were those would kept up with him, but they were vessels for truth and higher purpose, not for each other.
Charles' thoughts are full of mirth and self-depreciation. He isn't afraid to admit that he's been young and foolish, definitely not ashamed of his growth either. He isn't sorry or disappointed for the lack of connection in his life. But perhaps a little bit of longing might seep through, and is eagerly ignored.
He asks for another cup of coffee when the waitress arrives with their pies and slices a piece of the treat with his fork, offering it to Erik, handle first. It's cherry and almond, perfect with coffee. She returns with the pot and her thoughts spiral out of order when she fills his cup, suddenly looking at them with surprised understanding - or what she perceives to be understanding, a misconception. It doesn't help that she seems to have a quite vivid imagination and Charles finds himself pushing back to sit straighter, clearing his throat.
"Could I have some more milk for my coffee?" he asks, a bit sharply, and she blushes all the way to the roots of her hair before escaping to the kitchen in search for unnecessary dairy products.
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It was a log road to recovery. Erik's still on it.
He doesn't catch the waitress's thoughts, naturally, so he arches a bit of a brow when Charles speaks to her so sharply and when she blushes as if understanding what he means and moves away. What was that about? he asks, prodding in such a way mentally that he's hoping it's conveyed that he wants an answer and won't settle for a sanitized version of events.
Erik meanwhile, enjoys the rest of his soup as she brings out the entree. Because she's embarrassed, she doesn't say a word, but Erik doesn't even notice that because there's a mountain of food in front of him. This must've been five eggs, and there's at least two whole potatoes. Plus she's already buttered his toast and left him some jam, which is, again... Why does he have two slices of bread? Even if this was presented to him alone without the other food, he wouldn't be able to finish it.
Now would be a good time for an, I told you so, from Charles. Erik is balking, and shovels about half an omelet onto a shared plate between the two of them. "You need protein," is all Erik says. He doesn't know why he bothers to pretend; he's friends with a telepath.
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Charles can't help but laugh at Erik's desperation about the size of the proportions. He doesn't go for the low blow but it is quite well suggested in his high tone of voice: "I certainly do. Thank you."
He will nibble. Not bother with eating himself to a coma but he smears the food on the shared plate enough that it seems like he's made effort. The eggs are too salty and he has a feeling he's going to regret even this little but happily their waitress is more than happy to come with a pitcher of water as he smiles at the girl calmly, offering an olive branch even if she doesn't know what the problem was in the first place.
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The milkshake, meanwhile, melts in the cup, and Erik is definitely going into both food and sweets overload after having consumed a few bites of pie. Apple, cinnamon, buttery flaky crust. Usually, he'd enjoy it a lot. And honestly he thinks most of this food is a bit greasy tasting. He finally discovered what he disliked about the coffee; it was a bit... greasy, almost.
He's not sure he's sold on diners, and he drinks more of the coffee as all the buttery food starts threatening to put him to sleep.
Are you going to tell me what she was thinking? he asks mentally, because he knows Charles and knows he doesn't often get offended at other people's thoughts. After all, he's privy to all of them. He knows everyone's deepest, darkest secrets. It must be really very bad and very sudden for him to have reacted in such a way. Erik just wants to know if they need to get out of here quickly without making too much fuss. She could be anti-mutant.
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Eventually he waves the waitress over and asks for a check. Because he can't just watch Erik destroy everything and then roll out of the diner. When she goes to add everything together, Charles turns to Erik, pulling some plates away from him and piles them on the side.
"I think we've had enough. You're not going to sleep tonight if you finish all this."
She had a wayward thought, nothing else. It had nothing to do with mutants, you do not need to worry. Just you and me. And her scandalised curiosity was rude. The mental image had startled Charles, but he wasn't upset about it. Just a little surprised.
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The waitress lets them know where the nearest motels are, but seems to not really want to interact with them anymore. Even when Erik smiles at her and offers his goodbyes, she seems curt and disinterested. Total 180. He's left there with his hand outstretched, jaw slack in the middle of a word; she'd just taken the check and left when Erik said they didn't need change.
He gets into the car and he's still disturbed by the transpiration of events, looking over at Charles disapprovingly and then back towards the road. This can wait until they're settled in. And maybe until tomorrow. "Should we try the nicer hotel?" he asks. The first motel that she'd described seemed no better than the one they'd left, and the nicer one didn't seem that much more expensive. Truth be told, it didn't seem that much nicer either, just... livable.
"Yeah," Erik says, when they approach the first recommendation. The sign is half-broken so that it lights up "M TE : v c y" and it looks a bit run-down. "We're going to the hotel."
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She thinks we're together, he tells Erik quietly. And doesn't seem very pleased about it. His answer is very curt and irritated. Not because of what she assumes but how she behaves about it. Sometimes Charles finds himself with similar thoughts because it is how he was brought up, but the matter is so very similar to the mutant issue that he would be such a hypocrite if he hadn't already talked himself out of that pot hole several years ago. Gay, hetero, it shouldn't matter.
He usually is one of those customers who will pile up plates and make the table clean before leaving but this time he leaves it, doesn't touch a damn thing. He wants to get out of there as quickly as possible. Even the pleasant buzz and loving thoughts of the couple have just melted into the background.
He nods to Erik's suggestion about the nicer hotel. "I'd like that, please." He doesn't need to have a perfect place to sleep in but if he keeps expecting cockroaches to climb into his bed, he probably isn't going to get a wink of sleep.
"How are you not fast asleep after all that food?" Charles asks and yawns, because he feels heavy and Erik consumed so much more than he did.
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His expression sours, but he gets in the car anyway, and it's kind of a quieter drive until they reach the motel. "I don't think you'd want me to be fast asleep; I still have to drive." He shrugs his jacket off again. "Take it," he says. "I'll wake you when we get to the hotel." He has a stray thought that he'd rather Charles stay awake or he really will fall asleep and instead of getting a room, they'll have to spend the night in whatever parking lot Erik's pulled off into... But he tries to squash that thought before it fully forms.
There's something about how Charles looks when he's illuminated only by street lamps, dark cut out of him appearing as they pass by a theater, a late-night café, another gas station. He just seems so innocent like this, which is much, much better than when he's in the driver's seat. In the driver's seat, it's hard to sympathize with Charles because he's a goddamn menace. But just like this, Erik feels little pangs of satisfaction settling in like dust. He doesn't know why. He doesn't question it.
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The last thought he sends Erik's way is just a whisper of an idea. He doesn't like anyone else but him and Erik defining what they are to each other. He wonders what makes him so possessive of a simple thought process. But that's a question he keeps firmly to himself.
"I am very thankful of your willpower," he admits with a small chuckle and doesn't offend Erik by refusing the jacket. But instead drapes it over himself with a pleasant sigh. He doesn't go to sleep, though. Because unfortunately for Erik, he is aware even those thoughts that are just forming. "I think I'm too full to sleep, actually."
He's never had this kind of layered conversation with anyone. Mostly people want him to stop reading their minds when their thoughts hit a more personal dive, when they think of something that isn't exactly flattering or there's something embarrassing or too intimate. Charles is used to bypassing thoughts about himself. It took him years to master that. People are so very, very honest inside their heads and it's hardly ever flattering for very long. Either he has a big nose or oh, his eyes are so blue, look at that red mouth or man, those freckles. There are also comments about his height, the way he walks or runs, the way he speaks, everything and anything. Irritations, annoyances, random passing notes about every little thing. Erik's observation about him looking innocent isn't the first who comments about his naivete but he is the first one ever to feel so satisfied about it.
He's also the first one that Charles is comfortable responding to, not just by smiling and ghosting over it, but actually giving him a thought or two. They come in a form of sleepy thoughts, nothing filled into words or even syllables, just ideas. He likes how Erik's profile is cast in the same flickering lights. There's intimacy in it, something that is unique to sharing the space within a car late at night. There's darkness that holds them so tightly but every now and then a flash of a streetlamp illuminates the car and paints them both with yellow, soft light. Erik has bold features, clean cut and handsome. But it's not because his face is nice to look at why Charles likes it. He likes the sharky smile he has, he likes the sharp slide of a nose - it's Erik's face, it couldn't be anyone else's. There's both strength and compassion in it, and Charles rather likes that combination.
Usually these are thoughts that he wouldn't share with anyone. But now it seems like a waste not to.
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Erik knows he's handsome, of course, he's looked in a mirror, he's seen the way people cast glances. Men and women alike feel threatened by his presence or want to capture his attention. But... he's always thought of Charles as someone who doesn't care about that, someone who would find appearance as a secondary importance if anything. He doesn't know why, but that makes him feel a little differently than when people appreciate him from the other end of a bar. Like somehow this is a much bigger compliment, and though it's invisible underneath the dim light his cheeks flush the barest pink.
He flashes Charles a smile at a red light, but lets the mental conversation dissolve into the ambience inside the car.
He doesn't get out of it immediately when they approach the hotel, as if opening the door will break their seal of cozy intimacy. But he eventually gets out into the now-cold night, and briskly breezes into the hotel to ask if they have a vacancy. This one's not bad; the decorations are outdated and the whole layout design is a bit shoddy, but it's clean and the upkeep seems good. He stifles another yawn; there won't be more hotel hunting tonight.
"I'm sorry sirs," the lady behind the desk starts. "We only have a room with a single bed, but we could bring up a cot for you."
"That's fine," Erik says. "I'll sleep on the cot, it's no problem."
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His eyes soften when Erik flashes him the smile, his smile curving deeper with fondness, a bang of something deceptively raw flashing through him. He lets Erik lay the topic to rest and just enjoys the quiet that's comfortable between them, still connected, still discussing but not with thoughts or words, just sharing the little bubble of intimacy that built up quite accidentally.
He folds Erik's jacket over his arm as they enter the lobby and find the reception. He gives the premises a little scan, just to see that they'll be safe and sound here. It seems doable, rather respectable all in all. There are always a few skeletons in every closet but they don't seem to be awfully glaring in this hotel, so he leaves them alone. If a cleaning lady didn't remember to sweep the floor in one of the rooms, it's hardly going to bite them in the ass in the middle of the night.
He doesn't interrupt the transaction between Erik and the lady but just smiles and nods his approval, however, he approaches the idea of Erik sleeping on a poor mattress more privately. You are sleeping on the bed, my friend, he murmurs into Erik's mind as the lady provides them with the paperwork and he approaches the desk to sign his name on the dotted line. "Thank you very much."
You've been driving the whole day and will do so tomorrow as well, I have no doubt about that. I want you to be able to sleep well.
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Well.
Erik's also technically an illegal alien. And there's only so many times they can just ask to get bailed out by the CIA.
He smiles at the woman and offhandedly wonders why they've gotten so many... questions about it recently. It used to be none at all, that people were just content in believing they were good friends. But then the ribbing started from some of the kids, and Erik knows the suits say things behind their backs. And, well. There was the waitress.
Erik takes their things upstairs, since there isn't a bellhop working this late, and helps go through the motions of setting up a bed neither of them plan on using. He wishes the receptionist a goodnight and closes the door behind her, glad that they're finally alone. He's the most comfortable when it's just him and Charles, a sort of symbiotic understanding. They're not the same, not even close, but they function so well together. He supposes they're like the right and left sides of a brain, and the way they talk and they way they think together is just a well-developed corpus callosum, always surprising Erik with the sheer power of their ability to trade thoughts.
He lies back on the bed and toes off his shoes and thinks he might fall asleep like this, over the covers and belt still on and everything. He has a half-awake sleepiness about him and thinks that even usually in this state, he never lets his guard down until now. He thinks, he feels safe with Charles. He thinks, Charles is the most beautiful mutant he's ever set his thoughts on. He thinks, Charles feels to him like rolling the windows down and feeling fresh sunny asphalt slide underneath his wheels, like freedom.
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But Erik's mind is close to shutting off and when they're alone he slumps onto the bed. Charles lifts up their bags from the floor, positioning them neatly on top of the table (to prevent any possible bedbugs from crawling in) and folds Erik's jacket on top of his. Then he moves to the bed, leaning over Erik to help him out of his clothes. Let's get you comfortable, he murmurs into his mind while listening to the idle prattle of Erik's thoughts about him. They make him smile happily while he divests Erik out of his clothes, careful not to stir him too much, gently suggesting at times to his beautiful mind which limb could be moving to help Charles on the task.
He thinks it's curious how similar and how different at the same time their thoughts are. He offers his own without even thinking about it. It's fair and it's rare that he can share. Because to him Erik is like learning to breathe again, like a child realising what his legs are made for and the joy of running until his legs are sore. Being accepted even outside his own mind is a gift that he doesn't know how to unravel without losing his mind in it. And there are days when he wants nothing else but to soar, to open more locks between those two halves of a brain and connect them in ways that none have been before. What would it be like if awareness and action could happen at the same time, his mind whispers. A temptation and sweet surrender to knowing it's safe, it's safe to explore. Erik is the air in his lungs after breathing under ground for so many years. And sometimes he wants to suck in more, and more, and more, until his head is dizzy with too much oxygen. He thinks he'll end up breathing into a paper bag with Erik eventually but still it will be worth it.
The covers go down around Erik and Charles tucks him in, safe and sound, discreetly he doesn't look even if Erik has a beautiful body, he just helps him undress and gathers the clothes away before pulling the sheets on him. And lastly a few fingers lingers on Erik's temple, sliding into his hair before slipping away.
Good night, Erik.
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He smiles, visibly, getting little bits of things that Charles thinks as a sort of soothing lullaby. Like the sound of seagulls or a tropical rain, it doesn't quite make him feel like he's sleeping in his own bed at home, but it does help move the sleep process along. His brain shoots back the thought that he doesn't mind if Charles takes a look, even as his filters try to awaken to move the thought directly into his mind's trash can.
Still, he trusts Charles. More than anything, he trusts Charles. It's hard not to, when the way they met was Charles saving Erik's life. It's hard not to, when Charles says he's seen all of Erik's past and his darkest thoughts and said, I accept you. And when Charles knows all of those thoughts are real, and what Erik might do with them, and Charles disregards him and tells him that yes, he's still here. They're still friends. And Charles respects and likes Erik just as much as he did before; it's hard to distrust someone like that.
The last thought he has before falling asleep is how Charles's fingers feel in his hair, and he wakes up in the middle of the night with a phantom feeling lingering at his temple.
Erik checks his watch to find that it's 4 AM, and he's overheated, sweaty, and suddenly very awake. He turns to look at Charles sleeping peacefully beside him, and his heart does a funny stir as he imagines reaching out to smooth out Charles's fingers from their curled position. He furrows his brows and peels himself out of bed to get some fresh air, go look at the still-asleep town around them.
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He doesn't fall asleep right away. But instead watches the peaceful way Erik's chest rises and falls. At the very edges of his consciousness, just before he falls asleep he feels like he comes to some kind of an understanding and somewhere inside him a bone deep longing drums to life. But he falls asleep and the thought is lost, erased by sleep and his brain trying to sort through what is important and what is not worth saving.
He sleeps soundly, turned towards Erik, curled around his core. He stirs when Erik springs up from the bed, the mattress shaking upon losing Erik's weight on it. Blue eyes crack open for a moment, checking on Erik, then fall close again. Charles dozes for a minute or two, then realises that he can't fall asleep again. Erik's thoughts buzz just at the edges of his understanding. He rolls up, sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment, disoriented, half lidded eyes glancing around in confusion.
Charles is absolutely not a morning person. He tends to be grumpy before he gets his cup of coffee, groggy and out of it. Waking up at 4 AM isn't any different, quite the contrary. His hair sticks up wildly from one side, oh the other it sticks to his face. He stumbles across the hotel room and rubs his face sleepily as he slips to the balcony with Erik.
"Is it time to wake up?" he asks, while leaning on the door frame, arms around his middle against the morning chill.
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No, they don't need more complication. And Erik doesn't need to have to tell himself twice to get over himself, to let something be. His heart is usually so well-tamed, hiding in a cage plastered over with hatred, with disgust, with rejection. After the war, he'd still been Jewish. He'd been poor. And there was very little sympathy for him in the land of opportunity. So he was just like a house abandoned and overgrown with vines. But nothing tried to break through like Charles has. And nothing's been so hard to chase back out as Charles.
Charles is blue in the dim twilight, hair a mess from the pillow, sleep-worn and tired-looking. And a familiar feeling flits around in Erik's stomach and dries up his throat, until he commands it to stop. The cool air dares Erik to be brave, but he walks towards the hotel room. In case anyone is awake. In case anyone is awake right this second and looking out their window, right at them, making up some sort of narrative that is painfully untrue.
He pauses as he reaches out to take Charles by the arm, to usher him back inside. Erik's hands have cooled and Charles is warm to the touch; his hands turn as his fingertips against Charles's skin turn to his knuckles, such a subtle gesture that changes his meaning from 'move back' to 'stay.' It's an accident.
Erik pulls his hand away.
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He blinks his eyes open, a frown appearing on his brows as he reaches up and rubs a hand over his face, trying to focus.
Something is... different.
He watches Erik walk back in, his awareness slowly returning to him. It's taking leaps and bounds, alarm obvious on his gaze, in the way his breath is short, unguarded. It's hard to adjust suddenly to the mixed messages Erik is giving him. The touch is reassuring for a brief second or two and Charles feels a relief flood him only to be yanked away as Erik pulls away.
Without thinking, Charles reaches for that hand, takes it in his own and pulls it close as he melts back against the door frame. "Erik," he whispers softly. "What's wrong?"
Why it feels like there's a giant hole in his stomach where cold wind is blowing in? He doesn't know.
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god I need to take these icons to photoshop.....
new icons new icons!
maybe something that isn't this clunky. Seriously, I just need to find the time and inclination
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