Part One
When it Rains
A/N I don't know what I'm writing. This has no plan, except for Cherik porn and some kind of AU storyline where Charles is a student at Oxford and Erik is a German professor. People who read my work (ILU guys!) know how much porn I put into things. So bumsex warnings etc. Haters gonna hate. Oh, and I'm from Northern Blighty, I have no idea what Oxford is like, let alone the Uni. So I made it up.
Zephyr.
Life at Oxford could be a dreary, dismal thing. Charles adored England, truly, he did – there was no place quite like it, certainly, it was nothing like New York, even his grand Westchester home with all its dust gathering antiques and chiming grandfather clocks could not compare to the old-world elegance and charms of England.
Oh, to be sure, it was a country like any other, with its slums and depravities, but his part of England was Oxford, and Oxford was beautiful.
But sometimes, just sometimes, even the English countryside, the stunning architecture, the British girls with their glorious accents and gentle ways, sometimes even these things were not enough to detract from his loneliness.
His sister, Raven, waitressed at a local restaurant, but her job kept her busy most evenings, and so they saw each other with decreasing frequency these days. While he completed his final year at university, she tended tables and gossiped with her girlfriends – or so he assumed. He really didn't know what Raven got up to these days, but then, he most likely did not want to know.
He had completed his work for the night but it was still frightfully early for a young man to find himself sat, alone, with nothing to do. He had a bottle of expensive scotch on the coffee table and a pile of books next to it, but try as he might, he could not find it in him to drink or read.
He stood up and paced to the window, staring out at the night. His rooms, which were the grandest in the university, looked out onto the courtyard below.
It was raining. Gosh, when didn't it rain in England, in truth? He didn't mind, though, if anything he liked it, liked the sensation of rain on his upturned face as he walked and it drenched through his shirt, liked how the world smelled after a heavy rain, how the heady scent of the roses was amplified. He should walk now. There was nothing else to do.
Down below, he saw a taxi pull up and the driver and passenger side doors open. Two men emerged, the driver hurrying against the rain, the passenger leisurely standing to straighten his coat before joining the driver at the boot. From there, they produced two suitcases, the man carrying one in his left hand whilst his right kept a firm hold of his briefcase, the driver taking the other suitcase, quite obviously impatient and wishing to return to the safe dry interior of his car.
The man was having none of it.
He took his time, seeming to say something that Charles could not hear, before they both took the luggage to the entrance, disappearing from Charles' view.
The cabbie emerged and all but ran to his car, tires kicking up gravel as he sped away, perhaps to a warm bed and warmer wife after a hot dinner and soothing drink.
Charles turned away, the thought of a drink suddenly appealing, and poured himself an inch of scotch into a fine crystal glass.
Who the man was, he did not know. It was not the season for a new student, but the man was clearly here to stay for at least some amount of time, that much was obvious from his luggage.
Shrugging to himself, he finally felt the lure of a book to accompany his drink, and opened to the first page of his secret, guilty pleasure – a Catherine Cookson novel. This one was The Tide of Life.
"Does it always rain in England?" He asked, but in good-humour, for a little rain never hurt anybody.
"Most days. If it didn't, we would have cause for concern." His companion laughed. He had found that he laughed a lot, his lips cracking into smiles beneath his grey walrus moustache with a charming ease. A man who laughed was a man who lived, they said.
At first he had seemed incredibly austere, quite the British professor, but he had broke out into raucous laughter at seeing the damp tendrils of hair stuck to Erik's face as he dripped rainwater onto the tiled floor of Oxford University's foyer.
"I did not expect to arrive quite so late. I'm afraid I was delayed by the…bad weather." Erik apologised.
"Bad weather? This is good old English summer, my German friend!" Laughter once more. Erik found himself smiling. It was infectious. "Don't you fret, we have time enough tomorrow to handle the tedious introductions and tours tomorrow, for now the only place you need to know how to find is your room."
"It's very kind of you to house me – "
"Nonsense! We can't have you staying in a hotel. You're our guest! You'll find our facilities quite comfortable, but then I hear you German's are hard men, so perhaps the suite's wasted on you!" He chuckled to show he was joking, and Erik started to wonder whether he was a laughing-gas addict.
"Suite?"
"Oh yes, we have a fine selection of suite's here. The more privileged of our students will have their rich parent's fork out extra for the privacy and luxury, and who are we to deny it? It's money in our pockets. Though lately, they seem to realise that it somewhat alienates them for their peers, and we have a few empty."
"I see. Once, young people fought tooth and nail to prove themselves the richer man and yet now they seek to appear like the average Joe, even if they come from high society."
"Quite so. I suppose wealth is just another fashion."
"So who occupies the suite's at the moment?"
"Only a few select students. Your rooms are the only others in this wing aside for one student. His name is Charles Xavier."
"Charles Xavier? He sounds quite…"
"Go on, say it. He sounds like a fancy twit." He roared with laughter. "Xavier is a good lad. He's from New York, so he's a foreigner here, like you. You'll meet him soon enough, I'm sure. In fact you should meet him now! I'll have him be your tour guide tomorrow!"
"Professor, I'd much rather get tidied up first – "
"Nonsense! You're fine as you are. Come, come, pop your bags down, I'm sure the lads in here, he spends so much time on his own, you see, I fear he can be quite the recluse."
With a heavy knock at a door displaying a brass nameplate bearing the name C F Xavier the professor shouted in his customarily jolly voice.
"Xavier? Boy, are you in there?"
Erik swore he heard a muffled curse on the other side before it swung open just enough to reveal a startled young man with a startling pair of blue eyes.
He looked somewhat flushed, a delightful rosy hue to his cheeks complimenting his fair skin. He looked at the professor, and then looked up at Erik. He was short, for a man, almost delicate looking. He estimated he could be no more than 5"7, and that was being generous. He stood barefoot too, wearing grey slacks and a slate grey shirt under a navy jumper, the top buttons undone casually to bare his slender throat and a hint of collarbone.
Erik caught himself staring at his throat, watching it contract as he swallowed.
"Ah, Charles, you are in. I thought as much. Here, say hello to Erik Lensherr, he's our guest professor. He's staying in the suite across from you, so I figured you could save me the ordeal of giving him to tour. I'll leave you two to get acquainted. Till tomorrow, mein deutsch freund!" He waved off, already leaving.
"Professor, wait – " Both men said, staring after the jolly mans retreating back before looking to each other with paralleled embarrassment.
Erik raked a gloved hand through his wet hair, pushing it off his face.
"My apologies for disturbing you, I had no idea he was going to do that." He smiled apologetically, finding himself magnetised by the boys azure eyes that stared at him with unnerving calm.
"Professor Fitzpatrick is unpredictable because he is a sloth of a man. A happy sloth, but a sloth no less." Charles finally said, remembering his manners and smiling.
He caught Erik off guard with his charming smile, the way his redder-than-sin lips curved almost playfully as he extended his hand in greeting.
Erik flapped around, wiping his wet leather gloves on his trousers before offering Charles his hand in return.
"As our lazy friend said, I am Charles Xavier."
"Erik Lensherr." Erik replied as they clasped hands. Charles peered over his shoulder.
"Do you need help with your bags?" He offered.
"Oh, them?" Erik looked back at the forgotten luggage. "I'm quite alright."
But Charles had already passed him and was waiting for Erik to open his door. Fumbling for the key the professor had given him, he unlocked the door to his home for the next six months, and the two men carried the luggage inside.
The door opened into the modest, cosy looking lounge area. A loveseat and arm chair upholstered in crushed velvet huddled about a coffee table that sat before a log-burning fire that Erik wanted to light to drive away the chill of a room that had obviously not been used in some time.
There was ample shelving for books and in the corner a small wooden table and accompanying chairs, for if he should choose to dine in his room alone or with a guest. The walls were hung with paintings of the Scottish highlands and a beach somewhere, the skies in every painting coloured grey-blue.
Charles followed him into the bedroom and dropped the case on the carpeted floor. The bed was a double one, thank goodness – Erik despised narrow beds. It was flanked by bedside tables complete with drawers. A Victorian era armour and drawers stood against one wall, and a door led into what he assumed was his bathroom.
"Your rooms are basically just like mine. They aren't bad at all, once you get used to them. The bathroom only has a bath, though, I'm afraid." Charles gave him a look that said 'I'm sorry' despite not holding any responsibility for denying Erik his shower. He tossed his head to the side casually, flicking his floppy brown hair from his eyes. He wore it like two short brown curtains, but it was becoming on him, soft looking, like the rest of him, like his sinfully red lips…
"I prefer showers, but I can cope, I'm sure." Erik forced himself to reply as he got distracted by the boys – mans, he must be in his twenties – finer features.
"Your accent, and what Fitzpatrick said– you're from Germany, right?" Charles asked casually, as if an impromptu conversation with a new and damp professor in his bedroom was entirely natural.
"Yes, Düsseldorf, to be precise." Erik replied, anxiously fingering the zip on his jacket. Charles noticed.
"I'm so very sorry, you must be dying to get dry. These fires are quite the pain to get going at first, I'll light one for you while you change." He decided with a brilliant smile, leaving Erik to stand in the bedroom alone and baffled.
Good lord. Were all the students like this?
Somehow he doubted that notion. When he accepted the offer to lecture at the university as a guest professor, he did not imagine this would be his greeting. A cruelly attractive young man with quite a fine ass, he could see, as Charles knelt on his hands and knees, prodding the kindling with an iron poker.
Shutting the door quickly, Erik lent back against it, closing his eyes. Behind his lids he could still see the shape of Charles' behind under the taut material of his trousers as he, in what seemed to be entirely genuine kindness, started a fire for a German stranger.
Stripping off his leather jacket and tossing it on the bed, he kicked off his shoes, unbuckled his leather belt and snapped it off, his damp trousers following suit. Rifling through his suitcase, he found a pair of dark jeans and pulled them on.
Finding a towel in the bathroom – once he'd found the damn light switch – he ruffled his hair to get rid of the worst of the rain, staring at himself in the cabinet mirror above the sink.
He was thirty now, and it showed in the fine lines etched on his still-attractive face. He wasn't a vain man, and frankly didn't care a fig for his appearance, but he could see the signs of age and it served as a reminder that he should not be staring at the asses of twenty year olds who were only trying to do him a kindness.
Emerging from the bedroom after telling himself off, he found Charles still on his knees but thank goodness, he was not in such a lewd position and he was not presented with his ass. Lewd position? The boy – man, god damn it – was simply going about a task, it was only lewd to him because he had a lewd mind.
But, it really was a fine –
"Bloody things give you quite the bother, I tell you." Charles said with a wide smile.
"Professor Fitzpatrick said you were from AmErika, but you sound very British to me." Erik said abruptly.
Charles laughed musically, carelessly. "I know, I get that all the time. My mother insisted on proper enunciation and had an English lady tutor me from childhood."
"I see. How old are you now, anyway?" Erik casually asked.
"Twenty-two." Charles grinned. "And you don't have to say it – I know I look about fifteen half the time!" He laughed, and Erik smiled while thinking if you do then what does that say about me?
"So this is your…"
"Final year." Charles nodded, sitting back on his heels, still kneeling by the fire while Erik stood staring down at him. "Look at me, down here. Honestly, I'm short enough as it is." He stood up, brushing his hands over his trousers at the thighs and, good lord, ass.
"Do you like it here?" Erik asked, deciding to sit on the arm chair. Charles fell into the loveseat casually, tossing his head again as his hair flopped into his eyes. The action was fascinating to Erik, who felt himself drowning.
Why was he still talking to him? He should say that he was tired, wanted to go to sleep, get the boy a safe distance away from his bed.
"It's none too bad." Said Charles, fingering his shirt collar absently. Once again, Erik's eyes were drawn to his throat. "So what are you a teaching?"
"Huh?" Erik looked up from his throat quickly. Charles' expression had changed, become somewhat suspicious. "I'm a physicist. Physics. I teach physics."
The expression left, and Charles leaned forward, interested. "I study science myself. Genealogy, mind you, but science. Anyway, I'm sure you want to get settled and don't need me prattling on any more – "
"No. You're not 'prattling', it's good of you to go out of your way. I'm grateful. You probably have plans – "
"Plans?" Charles laughed. "A book and another glass of scotch. In fact, do you like scotch? Of course you do! What man doesn't? Come, share a glass with me."
"Are you sure? You don't have to."
With a charming, warm smile, Charles waved his hand in dismissal. "You're in a strange building in a strange country, you could do with a drink, I'm sure."
A/N Holy crap, I wrote a story, not just porn! If you like, please review for the next chapter! Ah, I understand the shock of leaving Germany for England, I did, years ago. I miss ol' Deutschland…
Zephyr.