Stamping out the remainder of his cigarette on the sidewalk, Erik turned his eyes to the overcast sky above him and let out an audible hiss. He had never wanted to be a teacher. He had never wanted this- to be entangled and forced to interact with hundreds of snot-nosed minors daily, grading papers and attempting to instill in their underdeveloped brains some kind of knowledge.
No, he had never wanted this- but here he was, standing in front of Thomas Fredrickson Academy, one of the most prestigious (not to mention ridiculously expensive)boarding schools in the United States.He shivered at the thought, the building's shadow looming over him like the reaper. He was going to be teaching the wealthiest little shits in the country. Awkwardly, and with just a visible blemish of frustration, he straightened his tie and took up the trek to the front doors.
"Mr. Lensherr, at last! So glad to meet you," It was the school's principal that greeted him. He had been waiting just in the main foyer and met Erik with a firm handshake as he entered. "Was your flight enjoyable?"
"Survivable. And the pleasure's all mine." The two walked up a flight of stairs to the principal's office, Erik listening silently as he was told- again- about the position he was filling.
"We are so relieved you could join us, Mr. Lensherr. We have numerous students interested in taking both French and German- we worried we would not find a teacher with such linguistic caliber as yours. Luckily, the school year is just beginning, really. You should have plenty of time to meet the students, and, of course, you'll only have classes of twelve students each, so there should be no difficulty remembering names."
"I'm terrible at pairing names to faces," the new teacher admitted, "But, I'll learn."
"Yes, well, I believe you'll find all of our students most unique. Your first class will be nine a.m. tomorrow. Until then, please make yourself at home. Your belongings were brought to the open dormitory in the attic of the main building. I'm afraid it is rather small, but I figured you would prefer it to the student halls." It had been arranged that Erik would stay on the grounds until he could acquire residence close by- which was gracious, and though Erik was not looking forward to teaching the pests, he found solace in knowing the school's administration was acceptable.
"I certainly would, but would you mind if I visit my classroom? I would prefer to set up this afternoon."
"Of course, Erik." The principal glanced around before beckoning over a young man in a cardigan and dark wash jeans. "Charles! I have meeting to attend to and our newest teacher, Mr. Lensherr, needs a quick tour and a guide to his classroom. Would you mind showing him the way?"
"Oh, not at all." The student approached, a relaxed smile on his face. It was his first encounter with a full-fledged Frederickson occupant and Erik couldn't help but take him in. "Hello, Sir. I'm Charles Xavier." He extended his hand to shake, which surprised Erik. He took it and exchanged pleasantries. "Fantastic, Mr. Lensherr. Now, if you'd kindly follow me."
Charles gave him an extensive tour, pointing to things and explaining in detail. Erik wasn't much listening. He was too fascinated with this boy; though it felt wrong to see him as a child. He spoke with a gentle eloquence which was highlighted by the soft English accent that caressed his words. He stood up straight, walked with patience, and grinned easily. He had the bluest eyes Erik had ever seen, contrasted against dark brown tresses that were just a bit unruly. It took ten minutes before Erik had realized Charles had asked him a question.
"I'm sorry- I missed that. I admit I have awful jetlag." He apologized with a self-deprecating twitch of his lips. Charles just chuckled openly.
"No need to apologize. I was just wondering what you will teach? French, I hope. I'm studying that this year."
Erik tried to ignore a strange tingle of excitement that this mature being was in his class. At least there might be one student I will be able to put up with. He thought to himself. "Yes, French and German. What level are you?"
"I'm in my fourth year of French, though I've never breached German. Honestly, languages have never been my strong suit, but I still try. I spent a year in France when I was younger, which is probably why I'm even semi-proficient."
"Ah. Où avez-vous resteri?"
Charles did not as much as pause. "A Paris, près de l'université. Mon père a enseigné pendant un anii."
Erik was impressed, he nodded. "Vous êtes très compétent, Charles. Pas besoin d'être modesteiii."
"Merci." Charles beamed again before returning to English. "Where are you from, Sir? If I may, your accent is unrecognizable to me."
"Germany, originally. But I have spent the past three years in Dusseldorf."
"A beautiful place, so I've heard. But, here we are- this is your classroom, 303. May I help you with anything else?"
Erik had almost asked him to stay- some unidentifiable wish that he could not allow himself. So, instead, he just waved him off. "No, thank you. I have just dull preparation left to do. Go enjoy your afternoon."
"Thank you, Sir." Erik watched Charles leave, thinking to himself that, perhaps, Thomas Frederickson would not be as bad as he had originally thought.
Charles was sprawled out across the lawn in front of the Abbot Hall dormitory, his legs outstretched. Moira McTaggert, another Exeter upperclassman, rested her head against his shoulder. Charles thought nothing of it as he grazed her knuckles with his thumb- they had been the best of friends since their first year and never cared for such things like personal space. "I met the new French teacher this afternoon," he commented lazily, his eyes on the book held in his free hand.
"What's he like?"
"Nice, I gathered." Charles said nothing more about him- though, if he was being earnest, he'd admit that he was thinking about Mr. Lensherr. More exactly, he was thinking about how attractive the older man was.
Charles had always known that he had the worst taste in men. Not that he'd actually been with one of those objects of his affection, as he never even came out. But he could look at a man- usually older, always rough and mysterious- feel his heart flutter and know. Just as he had when he looked at Mr. Lensherr, not that it mattered.
Back in reality, Moira groaned. "Ugh. Charles, are you listening?"
"Yes, of course I am." But he wasn't and Moira knew it. This was typical Charles behavior.
"Then, what did I just say?"
"You asked me if I was listening."
"Before that, you idiot."
"That you are endlessly and unforgivably in love with me."
"Not hardly," She smirked, "Though, you can dream, if you so desire. Actually, I was saying that I hope Mr. Lensherr is better than Madame Reid. That lady was the devil."
"I think he will be. He was really-" Charles stopped himself from going any further, though his friend egged him on. Finally, he said, "He's really young. For a teacher, anyway."
"Who is?" A third voice bubbled up into the conversation. Charles and Moira glanced up simultaneously to see a younger blonde approach them.
"No one, Raven, dear." Charles refrained to his sister just as Moira shouted out, "The new French teacher!"
"Oh, is he cute?" She plopped in front of her brother.
Charles moaned, "You both know that I am not the person to ask in that regard." Though he definitely had an opinion on the matter, he was not at liberty to divulge.
i Where did you stay?
ii In Paris, near the university. My father taught there for a year.
iii You are very competent, Charles. No need to be modest.