He'd been walking for at least an hour in his daydreams, and daylight was approaching, with the realisation of where he was. He found himself on 42nd street, outside the library where he met Charles. A thick wave of nostalgia hit him, causing him to stagger, and slump onto the marble steps. He crawled up to a pillar (an insistence of his own – Foster didn't understand that the overhanging second story actually had to be supported by something. Imbecile.) and leant against it, closing his eyes against the onslaught of exhausted tears threatening to escape.

He was dozing lightly for half an hour – ignoring his complaining back – when the perfect idea hit him. Charles was a nostalgic, romantic guy; there was a chance – small, but then again, this was a pretty public spot – that Charles would come back here to remember their meeting, or get a book, or whatever. So… if he did… he would be here. Waiting.

He grinned and jumped to his feet, sprinting down 42nd street to find somewhere which sold some sort of supplies. What would he need? Sleeping bag? Food?

Eventually he arrived at what looked like a good store and bought the first few things he laid his hands on, eager to get back to his library. Not that it was his library, per say… though he felt he should have some sort of ownership of the building, considering he made sure it would actually stand up and everything. But rules would be rules. He'd been gone from his spot for twenty minutes when he finally got back, and it pleased him to see that nothing much had changed. Settling down, he unrolled his sleeping bag and pulled out the piece of cardboard he'd picked up from a dumpster.

He carried a drywipe marker everywhere with him for when inspiration struck him. It was a habit he picked up from Charles, who carried a surplus amount of pens, notebooks and scraps of paper in every one of his tweed jacket pockets; many having half written equations, notes or doodles (of sharks mainly – he'd always insisted that they reminded him of Erik, though Erik never really understood why) scrawled all over them.

The little quirk had quickly bled through to Erik, and it wasn't long before he had just as many pens or scrap designs for buildings balled up in his suits. It came in handy in situations like these (not that this happened to him often), and he tore off the lid of the marker with his teeth before scribbling in big block capitals on the cardboard 'IF YOU SEE THIS MAN, CAN YOU TELL HIM WHERE I AM?'

He gave himself a congratulatory little smile, commending his genius – By his calculation, the sign increased the probability of Charles finding out that Erik was waiting for him by 16.3%. Give or take .45.

Satisfied, he settled against his pillar – that was definitely his pillar; it wouldn't be there if he hadn't insisted, and if he hadn't insisted, there would be no library. Foster might as well have tried to build the thing roof first. Fucking, architects – and contented to wait until Charles inevitably showed up.

5 hours later; 1:34pm
"How do we know the man you're after, if you don't show a picture?" Aw, shit. 3:02pm Pigeons were beginning to gather, and they were eyeing him hungrily. Erik thought that he should perhaps sit on his shopping bag of food. 3:39pm One bird seemed to be braver than the others, and hopped right up to him, eyeballing his food with feral eyes. "Piss off; don't you have Mary Poppins to feed you?" It didn't answer.

5:16pm
It started to rain.

Fuck.

7:32pm
His luck could not get any worse. It could not. Period. The rain had gotten worse. He was so. Cold. And despite being sheltered under the awning next to his pillar, he couldn't save the bottom of his sleeping bag. So his feet were fucking freezing, his cardboard sign was soggy, and there had been no sign of Charles.

But he wasn't going to move. He had to stay here and wait for his fiancé-to-be – he would beg for his forgiveness if he had to.

8:17pm
A kid walking past had chucked a couple of dollars next to his sleeping bag; thinking he was homeless. Erik called the guy back and stuffed the money back in his pocket, explaining that he didn't need his money, he's waiting for his future-husband, but thanks anyway.

The boy had looked at him as if he'd just sprouted a second head.

The idiot. He didn't understand. Of course he wasn't broke – he was just broken-hearted.

8:31pm
If it was even possible, the rain got harder, and Erik could feel the beginnings of a cold or fever in his throat. He swallowed defiantly against it, succumbing to sleep in his soaking wet sleeping bag despite the early time.

Sometime in the early morning, it's too dark - and Erik is too fucking cold and sick to see his watch face.
He was prodded awake by a thick, strong finger. It was a prod he knew well, and he was almost relieved to see his self-proclaimed, semi-arch-nemesis (but only on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Long story.) Leaning his bearded face over him. "the fuck you doin' down there, bub?" Logan asked, and because it was technically a Tuesday, he smiled weakly.

"Waiting for Charles."

"What?"

"If he changes his mind, he'll come here."

Logan grunted, "What gave you that idea?" Erik paused for a second, contemplating, then shrugged. It didn't really matter anyway, the plan was great.

"Right," he sighed, like a put-upon mama-bear "c'mon you can't stay here," he said, grasping at Erik's upper arm.

"No!" Nausea was creeping up on him, and he was beginning to think he was going to die before Charles had even got to hear him out.

Logan growled a rumbling sigh, "How long are you gonna wait until he comes here?"

Erik squared his shoulders in his soaked sleeping bag, feeling a little like a drowned rat. "A day. A month. A year. Whichever." The other man pinched the bridge of his nose.

After a moment, he sighed and said, "fine. See ya' around, bub."

"Bye." Erik watched him walk away, trying to discern some of his angry mumbling before snuggling into his sleeping bag again, waiting for sleep to return.

6:04am
He did sleep eventually; fitfully and uncomfortably. His eyes watered with a mixture of tiredness, frustration and sickness, his throat was raw and his nose was running almost constantly. He felt rather pathetic if he was going to be honest; why would Charles want someone who can't even stand a night in the cold on his own.

Rubbing his fingers together, he imagined how it would go; how long he'd have to wait until Charles came, how he would find out… Maybe he'd be famous; sitting and waiting for his one true love. Like something out of a movie. Maybe there would be a film made about him or something. It would be called 'The Man Who Can't Be Moved'. Maybe he'd be on the news, and by freak accident, Charles would see him, and know that he was doing it just for him. And he'd come and throw himself into Erik's arms, his ear resting above his heart, which beat just for him. And Erik would sooth Charles' apologetic tears, and cradle him lovingly; assuring him that he was all he ever wanted, and that he would never cheat on him. Ever. Erik would whisper I love you, Ich liebe dich, I love you into his ear over and over until he believed him, and never left him alone again.

Just for him.

Frustration and a heavy ache began to build in his chest, growing to a suffocating pressure pricking at the back of his eyes, causing a single tear to roll down his cheek.

"So he was telling the truth."Erik blinked balefully up at a bundle of amused, but concerned blonde.

"Raven." He greeted.

"You look…" Homeless? "…Different."

"Thanks." He jeered, as sarcastically as he could manage with a blocked nose, runny-eyes and having hot and cold flushes.

"You're welcome. And just how long have you been there exactly?" Erik pouted at her I-think-you're-a-fucking-idiot tone.

"Since early yesterday morning. But I was walking around and stuff since the afternoon before that." Charles' sister gave him a look he couldn't begin to decipher; it was a kind of squinty look, but, sad?

"Why are you here, Erik?" Her voice had gone soft, and he detected traces of pity.

This is what he'd been waiting for, he would tell her everything – how much he loved her brother, how he would do anything for him, and she would pass the message on to the man himself, and all would be right again. He opened his mouth to begin, but instead of words, came a hacking cough which shuddered his whole body. Eurgh. He felt like he was vomiting up his lungs.

"Jesus Christ, Erik! You've made yourself sick. I'm taking you home."

"NO!" He shouted, ignoring the startled looks of the other pedestrians,

"I can't go! I have to wait for Charles! I have to tell him how much I love him, and how special he was! He needs to know about The Ring, and the snow, and the chuppah, and-and-"

"Woah, woah! Back up. The Ring?"

"Yes! I was working late because I was saving up to buy him the ring I designed." He was clinging desperately to his pillar now, wincing as Raven cut the circulation in his arm with her iron grip. She was lucky he needed her to get to Charles, cause if he didn't; he would be sucking the brain out of her nostrils with a fucking straw.

"Ring for what, Erik?" Her voice was practically murderous by this point, and she wasn't the only one getting angry.

"I wanted to marry him!" He shouted in her face, getting a fierce satisfaction at her stunned expression.

"You… what?"

Wait.

That wasn't Raven.

He turned slowly, like a deer caught in the headlights, to stare at a pair of cerulean eyes and a too-red mouth gaping right back at him.

Charles.