Longest A/N in history:

It's been nearly a year since I last attempted to write anything, and longer since I took the last vestiges of unfinished stories off of my page. However, I'm going to attempt a new story and see if I can finished it out no matter how badly it wants to crash and burn.

This story was initially an attempt to modernize Twelfth Night in a way that involved mutants and homoerotic love, but the more I wrote, the more the story diverged from that path until it seemed to be headed toward an end of goal of awkwardly comical romance rather than a Shakespearean knock-off.

I actually rather like this path a bit more, since I considered the story- even in the beginning- as a practice in storytelling whose main plot device is emotions, rather than one clearly definable end goal, such as 'Beat the shit out of bad guys" or "Solve some real life-changing problem."

Clearly, I have tweaked personalities and personal histories ever so slightly, so they fit just a bit better; I have, however, kept the idea of an altered universe, complete with mutant powers which really just serve to spur angst and confusion than lend to a super-massive paradigm-shifting plot device. I hope you enjoy it.

Title: Twelfth Night, What You Will, or The Story That Started Out As Twelfth Night, But Turned Into Something Else Entirely Story

Author: Premium Blend

Rating: M

Summary: A vague romance of sorts involving one homosexual man, one self-convinced straight man, a red-headed flame dame, the physics major next door, a cop that keeps locking her keys in various vehicles, a socially crippled mute, and an over-confident male model. *

*If this summary wasn't detailed enough then I do not know WHAT will please you people. S-s-s-sarcasm! And of course, I'm retaining the mutant abilities but to a much less central degree.

Update schedule: I intend to update about once a week, thought it might be even less than that. If you'll remind me, I promise to keep this up and running. Maybe. If you ask. Nicely.

1st Chapter A/N: I'm sorry if these first few parts seem a bit rushed, but the how's and why's aren't as important as the body of the story. So without further ado, I present to you this uninteresting story, freshly typed and un-beta'd.

" So, you understand the directions, correct? You know how to get here?" Hank's voice buzzed nervously on the other end of the phone.

Charles smiled fondly, placing another folded oxford shirt into his suitcase. "Yes, yes, Hank, I understood your almost twenty times over explanation. I am so sure that I can follow the directions to your house that I am prepared to take a quiz on it."

"Ah-haha-ha," Hank chuckled, the sound a mixture of nervousness and self-consciousness; Charles wished to delve into Hank's mind and have a less tedious conversation with his close friend, but the distance was to great to manage such a feat. "But you're sure?"

"Yes, Hank. I'm sure! Now hang up and pay attention to whatever it is you're doing, before you kill yourself."

Hank coughed. "How did you-?"

"Just go, Hank; I'll be there tomorrow, if I can remember the directions."

Charles hung up, chuckling at Hank's scrambling reaction. He continued packing in silence, wondering how his life had taken such a dramatic turn; he never would have thought that he would be so willing (or rather desperate) to live-in with Hank in that god-forsaken town in the mountains to help the physicist with whatever experiment he was currently engaged in.

It took six hours to drive to Hank's cabin in God Knows Whereville (or rather Orsino, as it appeared on the map), a town that looked like the set of a campsite horror than a populated and functional urban development. But the longer that Charles spent driving the long winding roads, the more that Charles decided he liked Orsino. The drive was simple enough that Charles could retreat into the recesses of his own mind, but human life was so sparse along the way that the landscape of Charles' usually hectic mind felt deserted.

Charles was humming to the radio and enjoying the greenery when his cellphone rang. He reached across the console to grab his cellphone from the passenger's seat, cursing as he tried to simultaneously keep his vehicle on the road. "What is it, Hank?" Charles sighed, after checking the caller screen. "I'm almost there," he added, preemptively answering Hank's inevitable question.

"How much longer?" Hank inquired, with a distracted undertone. He said something, presumably to another person in the room. There was a muffled reply, and Hank sighed.

Charles hummed contemplatively, wondering who Hank was talking to. "Hmm, maybe ten minutes? Your house is the brick one near the end of Illyria Circle, right?"

"I thought you could take a quiz on it," Hank teased, still a bit distracted; he murmured something else askance- it sounded a lot like "You owe me", and the answering voice was louder and angrier in reply. "Yes, that is the one," Hank said into the receiver. "See you when you get here." He hung up before Charles could ask what was going on.

Charles had been correct in his estimation of ten minutes. No fewer had passed when Charles pulled his clunker up in front a delightfully rustic stonework house. He had barely managed to sling a leg out of his car when someone burst from the front door. Charles' eyes snapped to attention in time to watch a rather angry man stride across Hank's lawn and into the neighboring house. Hank came out after him a few minutes later, and followed the man to his home.

"Lehnsherr, you know I'm right," Hank called after him, but the man kept walking. Hank paused in the middle of his yard and called over to Charles sheepishly. "I'm sorry," he both mumbled and shouted at the same time; Charles wasn't quite sure how he managed that. "I'll be right back."

"Oh, a-alright," Charles replied, even though Hank had already chased the man back into his house. "Right then! I'll just stay here," he told himself.

He sat on the hood of his car, his two suitcase propped against the grille, prepared to wait a while for Hank to emerge from his neighbor's house. However, when someone did emerge, it was the man that Hank had been following- Lehnsherr, as Hank had called him. He was every bit as angry as he had been when he entered the house. Charles was a little bit more than nervous as Lehnsherr approached him, and he tried to remember how to pronounce any form of a greeting when the man stopped in front of him.

"These are your bags, I take it." He didn't give Charles time for a reply, instead hefting both bags up and carrying them to his house. Hank, who had followed the thief from his home, stood next to Charles.

"I know this is weird," he began, clearing his throat nervously. "But you see, I don't have an extra bed in my house, and Erik owes me a favor. So he's going to house you while you're not working with me." Charles gazed at Hank, letting the new information sink in.

"And when where you planning on telling me this?" Charles asked, assuming that the fight between the two men had not been planned. "When did you tell... Erik this?"

"Well," Hank said slowly, twisting his hands together. "I had planned on telling you later tonight, but I didn't expect Erik to react so badly. I mean, it's not that big of a deal."

"Hank, I am a total stranger to Erik; it's a bit odd to ask a neighbor to give roof to a total stranger. I could be a serial rapist for all he knows."

"I hope you are not," drawled Erik, who had silently returned from storing away Charles bags. "It is already difficult enough to board you, but to add criminal activities to that is pushing an envelope that I care not to touch at all."

Charles flushed, and Hank cleared his throat nervously. "That was... you know, nevermind," Charles supplied to fill the silence. Erik however, deigned not to lend to the effort; instead, he chose to alternate staring curiously (though slightly contemptuously) at Charles, and trying to burn Hank alive with his mind.

Finally, after what seemed hours of Charles nervously clearing his throat, Hank tugging at his collar until it was lopsided, and Erik actively trying to Force-choke Hank, someone finally broke conversation. "Charles," Hank said brightly, seemingly out of nowhere so that Charles jumped skittishly. "I forgot to tell you that I'm taking you and Mr. Lehnsherr out to dinner tonight so that you can get to know each other better."

Charles stuttered a bit, still at a loss for words. "Well, Hank that's ver-"

"Hank, you cannot possibly imagine," Erik smoothly interrupted. "that dinner will appease my very righteous anger, now can you?"

Hank turned a blank, fairly flat gaze on Erik before Erik sighed and said, "Fine, you may expect me at 7:30." He turned and strode back toward his house before turning around.

"Oh, and... Charles, is it? Please, feel free to make yourself at home," he informed the situationally stunned man, not without sarcasm.

A few silent moments passed after Erik's departure, as Charles tried to digest what had just transpired. He was fairly tempted to push his way into Lehnsherr's mind to find the keys to an increasingly socially-stunted puzzle, but Charles had always been morally opposed to uninvited intrusions, and even in this instance, that bit of ethical rigidity still clung to him.

Hank, on the other hand, didn't seem to be quite as effected by Erik's rudeness; Charles suspected it was because Hank more than likely had to deal with it more often than not. But, unwilling to let his mood become palpable, Charles perked up.

"So, righto," Charles chirped, shifting himself off the hood of his car. "Where are we going to eat tonight, Hank?" Charles paused and offered a slight smile, before realizing something. "Oh! And you must show me about your home! I would dearly love to see it, and perhaps even take a look at your latest science project!"

Hank rolled his eyes, pointedly aware of the fact that he had, on multiple occasions, asked Charles not to call his studies science projects. But it was a moot point, since Charles had always been the kind to forget trivial facts such as nomenclature, unless it directly involved him or was a testy subject to the other. And in this case, it wasn't a truly big deal for Hank, only a small annoyance.

"Right," Hank said, clearing his throat. "Come on in."

Hank had been a capable tour guide, showing Charles the few research endeavors he had situated in his home. Charles had been appropriately stunned, and intellectually lost; then again, Hank had not asked him to stay in Orsino to conduct science experiments with him. He was there on behest of Malvolio Industries to potentially head the genetic bioindustries department, which was completely separate from Hank McCoy's department.

Initially, Charles had planned on a short stay with Hank so as to get his feet under him while simultaneously looking for independent lodgings; now that the plan had been shifted, Charles was now operating on a fast-tracked time line of which the steps were 1. Get the hell out of Mr. Lehnsherr's house and into one of my own, even if I can only find one in the next town over, and 2. Refer back to step one until complete.

But as the eve wore on with Charles and Hank participating in a horrid game that involved who could get the least scathing and lip-curling response from Erik over dinner, Charles began to plan a new time line that involved leaving Erik's house even if squatting in a cardboard box for months on end was part of that option.

He was willing to risk social deprivation and poor hygiene, because he was beginning to feel that stay with Erik was already very similar to that except it involved a little bit of unintentional emotional abuse with showers, and an accessible way to brush one's teeth.

Eventually, Hank excused himself to go to the bathroom, which left Charles sitting at the table alone with Erik. It took a few minutes, but finally Charles was able to brave an attempt at vocalizing the English language.

"Erm, I'm sorry about this whole living arrangements ordeal; as soon as we get back, I can assure you that I will be booking a hotel rooms."

Erik, looking up from his plate, smirked; Charles couldn't help but admire the fact that even a condescending facial expression as a smirk could make Erik Lehnsherr look nothing short of a Calvin Klein model.

"Your assurances are well-meant, Mr...? How amusing, I don't even know your last name."

Charles coughed into his sleeve, grimacing into the cardigan. "Ah, Xavier."

"Right, Mr. Xavier. While your intentions warm my heart, it might help to know that the nearest hotel is fifty miles away."

"Oh," Charles replied weakly. He shifted in his seat, trying to keep his eyes focused on his conversation partner, even while they begged to wander anywhere else.

Erik, however, blessed Charles by letting his own gaze drop to his plate, effectively ending the exchange. When Hank returned to the table, Charles mentally begged that the evening be ending. Please, Hank, Charles mentally communicated to his friend. End this torture; I am all for good manners, but let's end this and never bring it up again.

Hank, to his credit, didn't flinch at the mental intrusion, however unusual it was to have Charles in his head. They were both mutants known to each other, but that did not mean that they went about waving their powers to each other like flag code every chance they got. So such a mental display was enough to let Hank know that Charles was indeed suffering from a lack of polite conversation that didn't feel like getting one's toenail plied off.

Hank motioned to the waiter and ask for the bill, which he refused to split in two; Erik didn't offer to pay for his meal. As they left the restaurant, Erik strode over to his car and turned to face the other two men. "Hank, thank you for the meal; it was a wonderful time. Charles," he nodded at the smaller man. "I suppose I'll be seeing you later tonight."

Charles couldn't explain the slight jump in his stomach, because it didn't feel completely like apprehension. Hank was oblivious however, and simply smiled at Erik and assured him he would return to Erik's abode at a reasonable hour.

"Hank, tomorrow is Saturday, correct?"

Hank looked up from the chess board that Charles had broken out almost immediately after arriving back at the McCoy abode.

"I think so," Hank murmured, returning his concentration to his plastic army. "Yes, today was Friday, so logically..."

"Is the lab open on Saturday?"

"No..." Hank mumbled, hesitantly reaching out to a bishop before rethinking the move. "It's not; Saturdays and Sundays the lab gets locked unless you get special permission to work through the weekend, and that is usually reserved for big project close to completion. Why do you ask?" Hank finally settled on moving his knight.

Charles regarded the move with half of his attention, moving a pawn to over take Hank's piece. Hank tsked. "Oh, because that means I'll be stuck looking for something to do, since you'll be locked in one of your many bedrooms-turned-laboratories."

Hank sighed, moving the previously considered bishop. Charles couldn't help but think how elementary it was to beat Hank in chess; Hank was too much a linear thinker to see a whole game play out in his mind.

"You can't hang at Erik's house?"

Charles sighed. "No, Hank, that would be both rude and uncomfortable. I'm an unwanted guest, so it would probably be better to stay out of the house as much as I can."

"Oh," Hank replied, finally looking up from the chess board. "I guess that makes sense. Maybe you can go into town and have a look around?"

Charles pursed his lips, considering the idea. "I suppose that could work. Yes, I think I will do that."

Hank nodded, and continued concentrating on the game. It was all for not, because ten minutes later, Charles had him soundly beat. Hank stood up, reaching up to stretch his back. He yawned loudly while stretching, both his jaw and his back popping. Charles smiled at Hank's obvious nonchalance over the sound beating, and began packing up the set.

"That was fun, Hank, but I suppose it's time for me to head on over to Erik's place," Charles concluded, checking his watch. It read eleven, even. It made Charles antsy; perhaps Erik was already asleep and would be angry about the intrusion so late.

Though it wasn't as if Charles had another alternative, since all of his things were over at Erik's. Unless he wanted to borrow Hank's things, which would be too large on him, and still wouldn't help him be able to brush his teeth before bed. The thought spurred him into motion, and picking up the box of chess, Charles said goodbye to Hank, who sleepily nodded in acknowledgment.

Charles made it out the front door, and padded across Erik and Hank's conjoined lawn. The front door to Erik's home loomed in front of Charles, and he swallowed noisily, seeing all the lights were off. He tried the handle and audibly sighed in relief that it was open.

Holy hell, I have no idea where my things are, or what room I'm in, Charles realized as soon as he entered the pitch-black house. He put his hand out and felt along the wall, whispering out curses every time he tripped.

"Fucking shit," he mumbled, running face first into something solid. He fell backwards, landing on his ass. "The bloody hell was that?" Charles whispered angrily, putting his hands on the ground to push himself up.

He was stopped by two warm hands on he forearms, and Charles let out a strangled, surprised gasp.

"Mr. Xavier," Erik intoned dryly, lifting Charles to his feet. "That's quite the mouth you've got on you."

"I thought you were asleep," Charles said sheepishly, preemptively explaining his night-time wandering.

"I was," Erik replied, letting go of Charles. Charles took a half-step backward upon realizing how close they were standing. Erik, whose eyes were already adjusted to the darkness, smirked. Charles, whose eyes were not, didn't notice it. "But you whisper loud enough to wake the dead."

He turned and walked down the hall, pausing momentarily for Charles to catch up with him. They stopped in front of a closed door, which Erik pushed open and flipped the light switch. Charles put his hands to his face to block the sudden flood of blinding light.

"This is your room, Charles; now I'm going back to bed. Goodnight." With that, Erik was gone, striding down the hall on long legs. Charles strode into the room, wondering how big the house was, since he could still- though barely- hear Erik's footsteps.

Charles threw himself into the bed after hastily brushing his teeth and washing his face; the clock on the nightstand read "12:45." Charles sighed contentedly, his face pressed into the soft pillow on the bed, and soon fell asleep, thinking about his unusually grumpy host and his own very strange situation.