A/N :)
Erik's not from here, he tells Charles, has only been in New York for a few years. He's been living out of a hotel for a little more than a month after quitting his last job. Charles doesn't ask why. He does offer Erik a place to stay since he won't be paid during the trial period. Erik accepts and looks about his room with an open mouth when Charles shows it to him. It's one of the fancier ones, with a chandelier and gilded wallpaper, but it also has the best lighting and a desk near the window. Charles hopes Erik appreciates that though on some level, he still thinks this whole thing is a fruitless idea. He invites Erik to join him in the library when he's all settled. Erik tells him he already is. He doesn't have any other suitcases.
They sit across from each other with a brandy each in hand. The fire laps at the hearth, a warm glow flickering bright against the metal and reflecting off the oak panels of the library walls. It is dim there and the shadows fill most of the room, the firelight reflecting off the grooves in their glass like winking stars. The patterned carpet beneath them is worn with good company and Charles hopes Erik is no exception.
"Have you done illustrations for books before?" Charles asks. He didn't request a resume and Erik didn't seem to have one anyway.
"I'm freelance, mostly, so I've done a little of everything." He hunches over, resting his elbows on his knees with his glass in between. The crisp line of his suit creases with the gesture. "I did a few projects with friends from school and those were along the same lines. They were comic strips."
Charles brightens at that. "Oh, fantastic! Where did you go to school?"
Erik raises his eyes over his glass. "Does it matter?"
Charles falters. "Well, no. I suppose it doesn't. I was just curious."
"It was uptown. I dropped out. Most of my work is pretty uninspired." He says it without a note of bitterness. Resignation, rather.
"Your work is fine to me," Charles points out, frowning slightly.
"It's dull."
"I wouldn't say that."
Erik looks at him quietly. He rests an arm over the back of his seat and the entirety of his chest and face are turned into the firelight, illuminated.
Charles clears his throat. "What did you do after?"
A wry smile creeps onto Erik's face. "I went into the entertainment industry."
"Film?"
"Adult magazines."
"Oh," Charles feels his cheeks grow warm. He couldn't imagine photographing people at their most vulnerable, laid out bare for anonymous masses to consume. Behind the lens, crafting the way these bodies are to be seen and processed as fantasy. Though he briefly wondered if being a writer was so much different, creating false lives for characters that live in his head, shaping ideas into fairytale.
Erik is still looking at him flatly.
"I didn't know you were a photographer, too," Charles says.
"I'm not."
Charles' flush spreads to the rest of his face as he realizes and just manages not to let his jaw drop. "Oh."
Erik doesn't waver. "And then I went back to art."
Charles opens his mouth and then closes it. Then opens it again.
"Why are you here, Erik?" he says finally.
Erik exhales loudly, as if he had been waiting this whole time for Charles to finally ask what he's been asking himself all night. He leans back in his seat to meet Charles' eyes. "I don't know. I have the equivalent of what you might call writer's block."
Charles shakes his head.
"I thought I could use a change of pace."
"These are children's books, I must remind you."
"I know. I'll tone it down." He grins and reaches over to click his glass against Charles'.
.
They spend the rest of the evening talking about about books from their childhood. Erik fervently defends the honour of The Velveteen Rabbit and Charles scoffs in favor of Le Petit Prince.
Erik gives Charles a look as if he's embarrassed to even be in his presence and Charles gets huffy in turn. "It's a classic, I will have you know."
Erik laughs, the ice in his drink bobbing fondly with the movement. "It's so pretentious, of course you would."
Charles would be offended if he hadn't said it with warmth. Erik leans forward, loosening his collar a bit, allowing the firelight to soak into his skin, painting it orange and darker still where the curve of his neck disappears into his shirt.
Charles follows suit. The heat from the fire is warm on his face and the drink warm in his stomach. His limbs are positively buzzing and he is concerned he's getting a little sloppy with his hand gestures that seem to amplify as the subject drifts to his own work.
"It started as a way for me to keep Raven entertained," Charles explains. "She has a wild imagination- you have no idea-" he laughs as he pushes his hair from his face, "Though I'm afraid I got a bit carried away with the stories, there were so many things I wanted to tell her, show her through the characters. Personal battles, not just action and adventure. I do think she liked the latter more, however." Charles shakes his head, grinning at the memory of Raven pretending to shoot laser beams at their bewildered cat.
"I'm sure," Erik says.
"I never meant for it to become the occupation it did." Charles hums, absently looking to the tall bookshelves behind Erik where the original volumes sit gathering dust. The first book is a wreck, bent and dog-eared on nearly every page from where Charles wrote in revisions for the final publication. A huge, encompassing water stain predates those by ten years, wrinkling the bottom half of the book from where Raven laughed so hard at Magneto's costume she knocked over her glass of water.
"Why did you stop?" Erik presses, a small frown touching his forehead.
Charles eyes drop back to him. "Sorry?"
"I asked you why you stopped."
"It's not that I stopped writing," Charles says hastily, suddenly self-conscious despite the pleasant buzz blurring in and out. He grips his glass too hard to compensate and it shakes in his hand until he has to put it down. He flusters, angry with himself in embarrassment. Erik doesn't seem to notice. "I've just taken a hiatus," Charles finishes.
Erik doesn't look convinced. "Right. A three year hiatus."
"I was churning out volume after volume!" Charles protests loudly.
Erik's eyebrows raise slightly at the small outburst.
Charles bites his lip and says a little softer, "I just needed a little reprieve. Really, that's all." He waves a hand trivially (and a little drunkenly) and Erik watches it move in front of his face in vague amusement. He grabs Charles' hand to stop it.
"Reprieve from the thing you love most?"
Charles doesn't answer right away. Erik's eyes don't move from his, studying him closely. Charles thinks he should smile so he does. "You make it sound worse than it is, Erik."
"Have you always worked alone? Just you, doing the writing and the art?" Erik asks. His fingers press into Charles' palm.
"Well," Charles starts, his eyes falling on their hands. Erik's skin is warm against his and Charles licks his lips nervously. "Well, yes. I like to be self-sufficient."
"Hm." Erik lets go and sinks back in his seat, unsatisfied but willing to take a hint.
And Charles laughs because Erik has been moving back and forth in his seat like a pendulum throughout the night as if he can't decide how long to stay in the same place. It's making him dizzy and he puts a hand to his face to center himself, covering part of his open smile with his palm.
"What?" Erik asks, a small smile creeping onto his face too, although he has no idea why Charles' is laughing.
"Nothing." Though he privately hopes Erik will stay here at least a little while.
.
The bottle of brandy is nearly empty by the time Erik says it.
"I've actually read a few of your books. They're quite good."
Charles smiles messily at him, though he's heard the same thing many times before. "Thank you, my friend."
Erik makes a thoughtful noise, running a hand along his chest as he considers the title. "My friend?"
"Well," Charles backtracks, about to babble something about picking it up from his great-grandfather Basil.
"I'd like that," Erik says.
.
Before Charles stumbles to bed that night, he digs in his medicine cabinet for aspirin, already regretting how much he drank.
As he empties the pills into his palm, he pauses. There are faint black smudges on his hand.
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