Chapter 1: Gravity

The new presence is like cold rain piercing through the window of the other telepath blocking him, and for a moment, Charles is awestruck by the breathtaking sight of the anchors soaring to rip through the yacht. For a moment, he imagines those chains winding around him, into him, but he shakes himself. He can sense it, that searing single-minded rage and determination, and he's not listening. He's not listening to me. He's going to die; oh my God, he'll drown; he's going to die! No, no, no, you can't, you can't, you can't, and he's diving into cool black water heedlessly. His name is... Erik these days, and his mind is like the night air —sometimes the cold of winter, sometimes the heat of summer— dark, sharp, tempestuous, the promise of forbidden secrets, and it's like breathing for the first time; he feels alive. The body he wraps his arms around is all corded muscle and latent strength, and he hopes the fluttering of his heart doesn't waft over when he tells him to let the submarine go.

You can't; you'll drown; you have to let go. I know what this means to you, but you're going to die. An entire lifetime flashes by behind his eyes; it's broken and tragic and painful, and he wants more than anything to keep Erik safe in his arms forever. Please don't die, Erik. Don't waste your life, all that potential. Oh God, I'll make you if I have to. In his panic, he's not entirely sure which of his thoughts he's projecting, but as long as it works, it doesn't matter. Please, Erik, calm your mind. To his relief, Erik does and without his manipulation; he can barely contain his excitement and elation as he drags him to the surface.

"Get off me!" The German struggles against him, now angry at him instead. "Get off!"

"Calm down!"

Maybe he does a little more than say it, but he can't be certain as he shouts to the ship to have them picked up.

"Who are you?"

"My name's Charles Xavier."

The other man doesn't introduce himself, but he already knows. Erik Lehnsherr, German Jew, Holocaust survivor, aspiring avenger of his mother's murder, a powerful mutant. "You were in my head. How did you do that?" Ah. Well, considering his recent experience with telepaths, he supposes Erik has every right to be distrustful.

"You have your tricks; I have mine. I'm like you. Just calm your mind."

"I thought I was alone."

"You're not alone." He's smiling giddily like a child who's just discovered Candyland, like the fireworks far away are all going off in his chest instead of the midnight sky, and he'd take Erik's hands if they weren't occupied with treading water off the coast of Miami. "Erik, you're not alone."


He's at breakfast with Raven and Moira at the hotel they stopped in for the night, picking up a mouthful of omelette with his fork, when Erik walks in. His hair is damp, fresh from the shower, and he moves with the graceful languor of someone who's just had a thorough workout. The black turtleneck and fitting khakis cling to his form, and Charles has to consciously avoid staring. There's something about the man that's aptly magnetic, he decides. It was quite difficult to keep his gaze from gravitating towards Erik that first night on the ship too. The wetsuit was most striking. Then there was sitting between him and Raven throughout the entirety of every car ride, feeling muscular arms and thighs pressed up against his own. Given a few more pounds, Erik would probably have the physique sculptors carved marble statues of.

"Fine as wine, isn't he? This new guy we've picked up," Raven murmurs appreciatively as Erik picks out his breakfast at the buffet table.

It takes him a moment of confusion to realise that she's talking to Moira. That's precisely the observation he doesn't need, though, because, yes, yes, Erik is very attractive, and Charles's thoughts are on the trajectory of a teenage boy's. It's just been a long time, he tells himself. He spent most of the months leading up to graduation working furiously on perfecting his doctoral thesis, so he really hadn't given much else any thought since January. And yet, it's not just the physical attraction. Everything about Erik intrigues him, from his gift of magnetic force to his history with Shaw at Auschwitz, and remembering the pain and rage he felt that night makes him want to protect the other man somehow. His psyche is covered in scars, just like his body beneath the turtlenecks he wears to conceal them, and maybe, Charles thinks, if they can get away from all this vengeance and suffering Erik has built his life around, the mental scars, at least, can heal.

"Oh, is that the type you're interested in?" Moira responds, amused, briskly slicing the sausage on her plate.

"Not really, but it's a nice view, regardless."

"Raven here could have any man she wants if only she'd spend more time on her own love life instead of trying to ruin mine," he remarks smoothly just as Erik turns, and their eyes meet across the dining area. He doesn't look away until he's certain the other is coming to join them.

Moira laughs. "Well, someone has to keep you in line," she ripostes, winking at Raven across the table. "But you're right, Raven, he is. Carries himself like a soldier, though. Not the kind of company I enjoy."

Well, he's on his way here to join us, so we should probably switch topics, he tells her, looking pointedly over her shoulder at the approaching German. He swallows a piece of bacon and dabs at his mouth with a serviette before rising. "Good morning, Erik. How nice of you to join us." The corners of Erik's lips quirk slightly,but he doesn't quite smile. He doesn't trust us, Charles observes. Not yet. But he can change that. He will change that. Soon.

"Good morning," Erik returns the greeting, taking the one empty seat beside Moira. "How far away is this place?"

"About an hour's drive from here," Moira replies, apologetic. "I'm sorry we couldn't get a more convenient flight at such last minute notice."

"And Shaw?" There's a sort of single-mindedness to the way he methodically cuts everything into pieces of roughly the same size and eats an equal portion of each item in turn.

"We'll get an update as soon as we arrive. The CIA has been tracking him, albeit probably not for as long as you have. With your information, we can probably figure out his current location if we haven't already."

This seems to satisfy him, and he nods, resuming his work on his breakfast. They all exchange glances at the sudden awkward silence that descends over the table, and Charles tries to think of a good thing to talk about. Of all the things he saw in Erik's mind that night in the water, an indication that they might share a certain interest isn't one of them. He could just read the other man's mind, of course, but probing tends to be noticeable where simple checks are not. In order for him to be able to pick it up with a simple check, the target has to be actively thinking about something. The challenge then is getting Erik to actively think about it. Conveniently, the news on the dining room television switches to more discussion on a recent court case about sending risque photographs of men out through the mail in magazines. After a few moments, he slips Moira a subtle suggestion to air her opinion on the matter.

"I think they shouldn't be sending nude pictures of anyone out through the mail, regardless of whether the models are male or female," she remarks disapprovingly. "The mail is an awfully public avenue of distribution, after all. I've seen little children open their family's mailboxes and the mail inside, you know."

"Honestly, I think they're just making an extra huge deal of the whole affair because it's supposedly aimed at homosexual men," he says dismissively, eating another mouthful of his breakfast. "No one's taking Playboy magazine to court."

Raven rolls her eyes. "Men walk around semi-nude on the beach all the time. I don't see why those pictures of them are so shocking."

Erik doesn't contribute to the conversation, but when Charles checks on his thoughts, the general impression he gets is that Erik doesn't care who people want to fuck or see nude pictures of. And that the idea of men buggering each other doesn't bother him in the slightest. He smiles as he clears his plate. Nothing like a good start to get him motivated. They can't be caught, of course, but if people could master being discreet within the sleepless walls of Oxford, he doesn't think laying low out here will be a problem. Still, Erik isn't the type to stick around without a specific objective, so he needs a plan, a good one, before Erik goes and gets himself killed by Shaw. Unexpectedly, the thought makes his heart clench painfully in his chest, and the realization exasperates him. It's too soon, he tells himself, far too soon, but he can't help the strange sense of urgency.


Erik orders his fourth beer of the night, wondering why he's even here. Two hours ago, this telepath (Charles Xavier, he said was his name) came to find him, saying he wanted to talk, that they should go get drinks and that there was a place nearby that served fantastic brews. The part he hadn't lied about was the beer, which is excellent. The conversation, on the other hand... Well, the geneticist is certainly talking a lot where he's seated at a nearby table. He's surrounded by young ladies, all dressed rather provocatively, who are probably humouring his nonsense about mutations for the free drinks. Of course, it helps that the man is very attractive with his cheeky smile, startlingly blue eyes and the shapely curve of his arse accentuated by his custom-tailored slacks, but Erik has no intention of wasting his time here while his fellow mutant gets utterly blitzed and looks to score a skirt or several.

As the younger man heads back to his side at the bar to order the group another round of drinks, he taps him on the shoulder and tells him, "Since it doesn't look like we'll be talking tonight, I'm leaving."

The way the other's face falls is a little surprising. "No, no, Erik, wait." He runs a hand through his hair. "God, I am so sorry about this, my friend. I'll go with you."

He's about to tell him that that won't be necessary, but Xavier is already telling the bartender to get the group another round regardless and to close out his tab after that.

"I thought we'd have a blast, but I guess this isn't quite your scene." He finishes the rest of his scotch in one gulp. "Say, did I ever tell you that that turtleneck and leather jacket combination you wear are some of the grooviest threads I've ever seen on a man? It looks awfully sharp on you."

Erik raises an eyebrow. This is the man who will help him find Schmidt?

"And, oh, your eyes," he continues as he pays the bartender absently. "They're such a lovely aquamarine. That colour is a mutation, you know. A v—"

"You're right, Dr. Xavier, you're coming with me. I think you've had far more than enough to drink," he interrupts firmly, wrapping an arm around slighter shoulders to briskly escort his companion to the exit.

"Charles," he corrects without complaint at being herded out of the establishment. "Please call me Charles, Erik."

"Right. Charles," Erik agrees as they begin the short walk back to the facility they're staying in, letting go once they're some yards away.

As they turn onto an empty street, though, Charles wraps an arm around his waist and tilts his head to rest it on his shoulder. "Mm, is that aftershave? You smell good," he murmurs, nuzzling at his neck, and Erik is mortified to remember that they share a room, which means he will have to endure the man's drunken flirtations all night. Strictly speaking, he doesn't mind Charles's advances, but as a drunken phase, this is simply awkward.

"Get a grip on yourself," he mutters, extricating himself from the other's hold as they walk onto the premises of Division X.

Fortunately, Charles seems content to just trail after him as they walk through the doors and down the few short corridors to the room they are sharing temporarily. He removes his jacket as he walks in, leaving Charles to shut the door behind them, and sets it beside him on the bed as he sits down to take his shoes off. Charles locks the door and makes his way over to the beds as well, but instead of stopping at his own, he comes to sit beside him.

"Is s—"

Erik doesn't get to finish because Charles is suddenly kissing him, straddling his lap as he does so, and this isn't anything like the teasing flirtation from earlier. This is deliberate, and something tells him Charles isn't nearly as intoxicated as he's been led to believe. He pulls away to get a better look at the other's face, and he's right.

"What is this about?"

"You were looking at me earlier, not the girls. It didn't bother you that I was flirting with you either. And you don't mind, do you? That I'm really quite sober, and I've been wanting to french you all night?" Charles answers honestly, and he has to give the man credit for being unexpectedly more devious than he seems. It's an attribute he can appreciate in someone who's helping him track down a certain doctor.

"So this entire night was a set up to see if I'd be opposed to being seduced?" he asks with a slight grin, letting a hand rest on Charles's hip and slipping a finger beneath his waistband. "Is this how you do everything, Charles? Forge ahead, and then see if it works?"

"Well, I'd say it's pretty successful right now," the other replies, closing the distance between them once more.

The kiss is slower this time, deeper, and Charles has his arms around him and his fingers in his hair. When Erik parts his lips to slide his tongue along the other's, Charles shivers against him with a soft moan and presses him backwards into the bed, gentle but sure. A hand is fumbling with his belt buckle when the knock comes.

"Fuck," Charles mutters with vehemence, pulling away hurriedly. "It's Moira."

Erik frowns. "You can make her leave," he points out quietly.

There's a hint of regret in the look Charles gives him. "No," he murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to his temple. "No, my friend. It's important, I'm afraid."

Erik sits up at that. Important can only mean one thing. "Shaw?"

Charles nods, getting to his feet and rearranging his clothing. "No exact location yet, but it seems there are some new leads, and she's wondering if you can help," he says, walking over to open the door. "Good evening, Moira. Of course, we'll be right there."

There is a pause before she replies with a laugh, "Oh, of course. I keep forgetting you can do that, Charles."

He gives her a sheepish smile. "I don't usually, but I had to check if it was worth staying up for."

"Oh, were you about to sleep? I'm sorry."

"No, no. You were right to come find us. It's important. Isn't it, Erik?" he asks as Erik joins them at the door.

"Very," he answers curtly. "Let's go."

Erik? It's Charles's voice in his head again as they walk briskly down the corridors. It's a strange sensation, but not unpleasant. I... That wasn't on the spur of the moment.

He glances sideways at the telepath, who doesn't turn. You know I am only here for one reason, he reminds him.

I do indeed. The sense of dejection that accompanies that thought startles him because it hasn't even been three days since they first met. Charles turns to him and smiles wanly. It doesn't matter, though. Just forget it, all right?

Erik doesn't know what to say to that, but fortunately, they've arrived at their destination, and Moira is already talking about the new information they have, so he devotes his attention to locating Shaw instead. It's easy enough to concentrate on. After all, he's only been at it for years.