Charles Xavier comes into a world accompanied by a whole lot of chaos and sound - cries of pain, sighs of relief, and exclamations of joy. None, of which, he can hear - so once he's gotten over the strange, new, bright lights, and a world in which he's no longer floating and confined he has no problem at all closing his eyes and falling back asleep fairly quickly.

Years later, when Charles thinks about it when his mother tells the story of the worry she felt when he only cried for a brief moment, he figures it was easiest then to close his eyes and pretend he was somewhere else. Back then, at only a few minutes old, he guesses he was wishing he was back in that familiar nameless place that was his mother's womb. Now, well… now it's gotten a bit more complicated then all that.

8.8.8

"It will be fine, Charles," his mother assures him, choosing to use her voice as her hands busily fuss with his coat. It's wool, the dark blue one she loves on him, and it's much too itchy - he can do it himself, and he raises his hands to, again, tell her, but she easily brushes his arms aside while efficiently buttoning up the last two buttons he's left undone and straightening his collar. All without looking, making sure he can see her lips the whole time. "And why isn't your hearing aid on? You know I can always tell. "

He squints his eyes, steely and annoyed, and she squints back, hands still against his shoulders. After a few moments he lets out a sharp breath through his nose and presses the button on the back of the stupid thing. Noise floods back into his world and his mother smiles at him. "It won't be that bad, Charles."

I hate Dad's work things, he signs, sitting heavily in the couch, messily enough to ruin his mother's work on his coat and surely the shirt underneath. They give me those looks.

"No they don't." But she turns away as she fastens her earrings so he can't tell if she really means it. "The Salvadores will be there, so Angel will be too-"

"Stop trying to make us hang out, Mom."

"Nonesense, you two have been friends since you were both in the womb. She's practically family." She's right, they are like family. But Angel is that cousin that ruffles your hair too roughly and dresses you up like a girl when you're too young to know any better. "And so will Lana and Carl," she continues, and even though he doesn't let it show, Charles does feel cheered by the fact that Moira will be there – all of these things are so much easier to get through when she's there.

There's noise in the hall, a closet opening and closing, and his father pokes his head in.

"Everyone ready?" He's been told he's a spitting image of his father more times than he can count, but Charles never did see it. He's thicker than Charles, taller too, and has a certain impression of authoritativeness about him, whereas Charles is sure, by the way all the other boys are in that stage of 'shot up' rather than 'shooting up,' and he's resolutely stuck at 5'5, he's built more like his mum – short and skinny. "Lithe," his mother always admonishes him. "Lithe and graceful. Like a dancer." He always tells her that he'd rather not be built like a ballerina, but she just laughs at him, tinkling melodies that fill whatever space they're in.

"Yes," his mother finishes fastening her own coat and looks to where Charles is sitting on the couch. He rolls his eyes and gets up, following them to the front door. Although he's aiming for annoyed rather than anxious, the way his mother's hand rests soft and warm on his cheek for a moment proves that he may not be doing such a great job of it.

8.8.8

Why isn't Angel at this table? Moira shrugs and continues to fish through her purse, looking for her phone probably. It never seems to matter what size her bag is, it has the inside of a bottomless pit. He's seen her arm disappear down to the elbow in simple, slim clutches. He tries to focus on his father, he's up on stage now, giving his speech on breakthroughs in his own biological research. Or rather, he focuses on the very pretty woman in a long, plum dress, elegant slim fingers signing every word. He wonders if his father requests the translator or if she's always around for events like these.

…discrepancies in some cells, that is more than a little fascinating. Giving suggestion that if we were to let them be in the petri dishes they would evolve into a very unique DNA strand, the likes of which…

And Charles is good at science. Wonderful at it, he, and Moira, and Angel (even if she were to deny it) are, but it's still dreadfully boring sitting in the dimness with other family members, tenured teachers, scientists, deans of schools, and intellectuals abound that all nod their heads in apparent fascination. There is still one more speaker after is father, but thankfully enough she comes on after dinner has been served. Across the table, his mother is smiling slightly to herself as she listens to his father speak and when she catches his eye she signs Not that bad, right?

It is and it isn't, but he doesn't say that. He's caught a few glances his way, mild curiosity and mild surprise mingling when they hear he's Professor Xavier's son. They eye his hearing aid, but make no alluding to the irony of the pioneer of internal biological perfection having a clearly much less than perfect son. His mother is still gazing at him. He smiles back at her and studies her profile until he feels Moira's cool fingers press into the palm of his hand, along with the edges of crumpled paper. He looks down and sees a small sheet of lined journal paper. It's pink and lavender with little green leaves around the edges.

You, me, tonight? –R

It takes him a few moments before his brain gets into gear. Raven? he signs lowly, beneath the edge of the table, and looks up to see Moira smiling hard, but she's holding it in so her lips are pressed against her teeth. She finally asked you out? She nods.

She slipped it into my bag fourth period. Jesus I can't wait to finally get my hands on her.

Too much information, Charles fakes a grimace and Moira shoves gently at his knee. I am happy for you though. It's finally happening for you. He doesn't like the look she gives him, always too astute for her own good, and he raises his hands before she can raise her own. You think it's going to be serious?

She eyes him for a second longer, but lets it go for now. I don't know. Maybe. I'm just focused on getting my head between-

Ok, you really need to stop.

Moira lets out a gust of silent laughter and he hands her back the note. Even if it doesn't turn out to be anything spectacular, or heavy, Moira is the kind of girl who likes to keep little things like that. Keeps lockets, and notes, and old t shirts of the people she's been involved with even after they're over and done with.

He watches her fold it into a square neatly, smooth it out, and stick it back into the abyss of her little bag. He looks at her, at her profile, stunning and classic, her hair in soft waves. She's beautiful and the kind of girl everyone wants to either be or be with. She's lovely, and sometimes Charles doesn't know what she's doing with him, of all people, to keep close to her side.

8.8.8

The lights lift and Erik blinks as everyone around them applauds politely. The girl he's been sitting next to the whole time stretches her arms out, wide and uncaring about anyone who happens to look at her askance. He didn't expect her to care, not after ignoring the looks they both received when the lights had dimmed and she immediately leaned over to ask who he was here for.

"My dad's trying to impress some tramp he picked up at work," he'd told her, wincing a bit at how harsh it sounded. "He's a Biology buff, but usually comes by himself."

"That sounds dead awful," she'd held out her hand, and he shook it. "I'm Angel, nice to meet you. Are you single?"

"And gay."

"Aw well, figures. All the best looking ones are." She'd smiled though. "It's ok, I guess. Now I can just appreciate how handsome you are objectively."

"Oh, thank the Lord, we can finally move," he groans now. He's been to a couple of these over the years, ill-thought out bonding experiences his father would sometimes conjure up, and can never get over how long they seem to be. All around them people are starting to get up and shift, chatting among themselves and waiting for dinner to be served.

Angel laughs and gets up herself, smoothing the wrinkles out of her purple pencil skirt. She gestures for him to follow her and she turns away to walk across the room. "Yeah, we can. I know it feels like forever, but the food is always the best at these things. And," she leans in and lowers her voice, and he leans down to hear her better, "it's so easy to get some glasses of champagne. Especially since I got these." She uses her eyes to gesture down to her breasts, the silky white top with tiny black polka dots open enough to reveal a little of the somewhat impressive cleavage she has going. "It's ridiculously easy, I just do this little smile and wink move and bam. Free alcohol. I'll hook you up." She seems to notice Erik's puzzled look and she shrugs. "I was a late bloomer. I just got these after, like, four years of torturous gym locker room changings. I'm taking full advantage." She grins up at him again and Erik can't help but grin back. There's something endearing about this girl - usually this kind of forwardness would have him uncomfortable (his neck is a little red, already) but there's a twinkle in her eye, clever and sharp that has him gravitating towards her.

"No champagne for me this time, but thanks."

"No problem." Erik doesn't know where they're going, but Angel seems to have a good idea, so he doesn't ask. "So, are you going to St. Mary's?" Erik nods. "Almost half way through junior year, though? That's a little late."

"Yeah, well," it's his turn to shrug, and even though it must be obvious that there's something he isn't saying, she doesn't push.

"Well, don't even worry about it. I've already designated you my heart-breakingly, handsome, gay best friend." He feels her elbow push into his side, playfully, and he nudges back. They arrive at a table where there are some other kids their age, two middle aged couples, and another couple, a little younger, one half of which is the speaker who introduced the idea of significant mutations in stem cells. Angel greets the older couples in a manner that makes Erik like her even more, utterly polite and charming, as if butter wouldn't melt on her tongue. She greets the speaker and his wife more personally, still unfailing polite, but warmer, a way that shows extreme familiarity.

The politeness drops when she turns to the younger patrons of the table, but the familiarity stays the same. "Heard about you and Raaaaven." She draws the word out and the girl whips her head around quickly before getting up and tugging at Angel's hand, pulling her away from the chatting, laughing adults.

"Shut up," she hisses. "And who told you about that?"

"I've got ears everywhe- ow!" She rubs at her elbow where the girl pinched it. "It was Sean, ok."

"And who told Sean?"

"I don't know, I didn't ask. Bitch." Angel turns to Erik. "This is Erik, I met him at my table. He's coming to Mary's. Erik, this mess of a girl is my cousin."

The girl is small and thin like Angel, but where Angel is exotic and somewhat wild, Moira is pale and regal looking. She screams good upbringing in her simple navy dress and a string of pearls, but her smile in genuine and warm, sweet when she turns to notice him for the first time. "Oh. Uh, hello, nice to meet you. I'm Moira."

"He's gay, so simmer down," Angel gripes. Moira rolls her eyes and her pleasant expression doesn't change.

"I've got a chance with Raven. THE Raven. No offense," she looks to Erik and takes a sip of her water, "but I'm not even thinking of you right now. She's gorgeous. I mean, amazing. Tall, and blonde, and legs up to here. She runs track-"

"Where's Charles?" Angel interrupts, obviously used to this. She looks slightly indignant, but Moira turns slightly, and reaches a hand behind her, and suddenly she's pulling a short, young man forward, the one from the table, to stand beside her. "Here." She turns to Erik, poised and still managing to be elegant even after getting so nearly salacious about this majestic creature, Raven. "Charles, this is Erik…"

"Lensherr."

"Ohhh, Jewish. Very nice."

Moira ignores Angel. "Lensherr. And Erik, this is my brother, Charles." He's short, a lot shorter than Erik (who is now 5'11 and not at all finished growing) and slight. He's pale like Moira, and they even have the same brown hair, although Charles' seems a bit lighter, golden hues instead of oak like his sister's. But what grabs Erik's attention immediately are his eyes – they're ridiculously large and round, a spectrum of light and deep blues framed by absurdly long, full lashes. Those eyes are staring at him stare at them and he shakes his head to clear his mind, to find something to say, but it's not working.

He stares at Charles, whose cheeks are slowly flushing a creamy, delicate pink that's so utterly lovely it makes his heart beat stutter a little out of time. He hears Angel giggling softly beside him and can see the coy twist of Moira's mouth, but he can't push out anything more than a "Hi, nice to meet you," and even those words he feels stumbled past his lips.

Charles nods and gives a crooked little smile in his direction and Erik's heart does the tiny stutter again. Small. Minute. Barely even noticeable.

Dinner is being served and everyone is milling about to get back to their seats. "Is there room for two more at your table?" Angel asks and it breaks the slightly awkward tension. Moira nods. They make their way back to where everyone is back in their seats and Erik and Angel settle in.

The dinner is a seared polenta with a perfectly cooked, round, thick steak on top, drizzled with a sweat pear reduction and froi groi. The dinner here is pretty swanky, and he tells Angel as much, to which she nods enthusiastically and steals his whole pear slice from his plate. It doesn't matter, not really because Erik is too busy watching Charles.

He's pretty. Jesus, he's pretty for a boy. The longer Erik looks at him, the more he notices – the blue of his sweater is perfect, bringing out every one of his assets, hugging his torso perfectly while managing to bring out the blue in his eyes and the pink of his cheeks. His ears are a little too large, along with his nose. But they both work on him, adding to his disarming look. His lips are soft and pink, and when he smiles he's got a dimple on his left cheek. He's got a hearing aid in his right ear, and his fingers are long and tapered in a way that makes Erik think of pianos.

He tries to catch the boy's eye, but he doesn't look at him. Not directly. His glances are fleeting and quick, and the moment Erik tries to smile, or talk, or do something Charles looks away. It would frustrate Erik till no end, and it does to an extent, but then Charles will smile at something Moira or Angel says or signs, and the frustration seems absurd.

Moira's fingers move in another series of motions Erik doesn't understand, ASL, one of the few languages he has yet to master. He drinks it in, the fluidity, the purpose behind each finger and both hands. Charles scoffs at whatever she's said and he signs rapidly back. And then she laughs, loud and bright, hands flying rapidly, fingers poking him lightly on the arms, fluttering at his sides and he brushes her hands away even though he's smiling too, already signing back. Erik knows he's staring, but he can't look away, not when there's a shock of hair hanging into Charles' bright blue eyes. And there's that bloody dimple, right there...

8.8.8

He learns that they aren't really related, not by blood. But Angel has known Charles since before they were born, their parents best friends. "There are probably baby photos of us bathing together floating around somewhere," Angel had said a little too loudly. She'd disappeared for twenty minutes earlier and came back with a slight sway in her step, cheeks flushed from flutes no doubt, and grinning like mad. And they met Moira and her parents when they all lived Africa while their parents did research to help the AIDS epidemic.

"And our parents travel and work together more often," Moira gestures between herself and Charles who briefly meets Erik's eyes-

Small. Minute. Barely even noticeable-

"While, this one is always near the ocean, on the beaches, while Charles and I are stuck here. Or in Europe freezing our nuts off."

"In the same of science," Angel giggles and rolls her eyes. "They make it seem like they're in parkas and shivering on the tundra," she says to Erik. "Dad allows us all to come along sometimes. Sends word to the housekeeper, yada, yada. Remember spring break, last year. That was nice. We found those jellyfish on the shore and dissected them, remember." They all nod in unison.

He's slightly envious of them; not because of all of the travel. He's done his fair share, but even when it was all three of them, him, his mother and father, it always felt a little lonely. This close knit friendship these three have from years together, growing up playing in the brushes of Africa, or being bored to hell while their parents hunched over microscopes, is apparent. It's something tangible, and real, and lasting.

Something he has yet to find.