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At Oxford, it didn’t matter--plenty of people had money and no one ever talked about it. Charles wore frayed shirts and drank cheap booze, surreptitiously paid more than his share of bar tabs with a few of his friends, and always paid for his dates’ dinners and movies and cabs, of course.
It’s an entirely different affair, standing in the lobby of a cheap hotel with Erik, staring down at the government rate card. Their stipend will cover one room. Charles’ first instinct is to get two rooms and pay the difference, except that he has only the vaguest idea what Erik’s financial circumstances are, and he doesn’t want to be--presumptuous. Insulting. Despite his best efforts, he’s caught some fleeting surface thoughts about himself from Erik and they haven’t been especially flattering. Erik thinks he’s soft, that he’s never been hurt or hungry, that he’s probably never had to truly work a day in his life, and something about his hands--narrow, delicate, uncallused--that Charles cut himself off from the moment he realized he was listening in.
Charles has listened to too many people lie to themselves to tolerate it in himself; he doesn’t want to care that Erik thinks he’s spoiled and rich and useless, but he does.
“The stipend will cover one room,” Charles says. They drove the last leg in one seven hour stint, no stops, and Erik is staring somewhat blankly at a potted plant in the corner of the lobby, but his eyes snap up to Charles’ when he speaks. “We can share.”
Erik’s eyes change, very quickly, go a little dark. There’s nothing to read in his face. “Yes,” he says. “That will be fine.”
*
Erik offers him the first shower and Charles takes him up on it. It’s late. They ate dinner in the car, cold sandwiches and warm sodas. Charles showers quickly, changes into pajamas, and digs out the chapter he’s promised to review. Erik’s taken the bed nearest to the door. Charles watches him rummage silently through his suitcase for a change of clothes and his toothbrush and then turns his attention to his work.
Erik takes quite a long time in the shower. By the time the water goes off, Charles is more than halfway into the chapter, scratching his notes in the margins. Charles would have pegged Erik as the cold Navy shower type. He thinks: it’s nice to know that Erik--who barely seems to notice being tired or hungry, who has given him a narrow-eyed, incredulous look when Charles is sometimes unable to eat the unspeakably bad food they get at truck stops--has at least one way of indulging himself.
Erik comes out in a pair of loose drawstring pants, worn thin in one knee, cleanshaven, shirtless. He folds his clothes neatly into his bag and then turns.
“Nearly done?” he says.
“I--suppose, yes,” Charles says. He turns sideways, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and tossing the manuscript on top of his suitcase. “Are you sleepy?”
“No,” Erik says.
“Would you like--” to play a game of chess, Charles is going to say, but doesn’t, because Erik crosses the room swiftly and leans down to press a warm kiss to the side of his neck, and then, before Charles can organize his thoughts enough to say anything, Erik kneels, folding himself into the space between Charles’ knees. The metal snaps of Charles’ pajama top part swiftly, top to bottom, Erik’s fingers chasing down his chest to the waistband of his pants. Erik glances up at him,
“Like this?” he says.
“I--however, um, you prefer,” Charles says. He’s not inexperienced with this sort of thing, but he wouldn’t have ever thought of Erik as being the sort to--the sort to--but then Erik opens his pajamas and fits his mouth over the crown of Charles’ cock. Charles shudders at the sensation of it, the heat, Erik’s shoulders pressing his thighs wide, the anchoring hand he’s wrapped securely around Charles’ hip, his mouth, wet and soft.
Charles touches the nape of Erik’s neck and then curls a hand over the tense, ropey line of Erik’s shoulder. Erik presses up against him, shuffling closer. Charles has had no inkling of Erik’s interest in this, in him. Of course he’s been careful, more careful than usual, to avoid looking through Erik’s thoughts and Erik is, in any case, extraordinarily guarded. Even the stray thoughts Charles has caught by mistake have been spare, regimented. It’s possible, Charles thinks, that Erik hasn’t hasn’t allowed himself to think of this until now, until they’re safe in some in some anonymous hotel room in some anonymous city. Charles skims across the topmost layer of Erik’s mind--no thoughts, nothing private, reaching only for the rush of arousal, the urgency and want already mirrored in Erik’s clutching grip, the bent curve of his neck.
He finds--. Nothing.
Erik tightens his hands over Charles’ thighs, eyes shut. His cheeks are flushed, his tongue is, is--and Charles sinks into him instinctively and finds, yes, a hot, narrow thread of interest. It’s nowhere near the surface. It’s twined around a desultory checklist: they need to do laundry, an idle thought about whether Charles even knows how to use a laundromat, which might be insulting if it weren’t tinged with quiet tolerance--curiosity, not contempt. Erik needs toothpaste, he needs to place a telephone call to someone named Mitch, and, at the top, occupying most of his thoughts, he’s wondering how they’ll avoid rush hour traffic around the downtown area tomorrow morning.
“Stop,” Charles says. “This isn’t--please stop,” and he’s gone too deep in, because he hears Erik think, in quick succession: -misjudged that, of course he’d rather fuck-, -he’s big, probably be sore tomorrow-, -doesn’t matter anyhow, it’s fine.-
“Would you rather--” Erik begins.
“What are you doing?” Charles says.
“I would think that’s obvious,” Erik says. His mouth twists, wry and wet, a little swollen already.
“You don’t want this,” Charles says, pulling his pajamas to rights with almost shaky fingers.
“Were you--you said you wouldn’t look,” Erik spits out, his eyes hardening, and Charles says,
“It’s not as simple as that.”
“Seems simple enough to me--”
“I don’t have to listen to your thoughts to know you’re not--turned on,” Charles says. Erik shrugs.
“I don’t mind,” he says.
“I mind,” Charles says. “Did you think of that?”
“You can afford your own room, but you wanted to share,” Erik says, shoving himself to his feet and wiping at his mouth roughly. “I thought you wanted me to start paying you back, or--”
“The stipend only covers one room,” Charles says. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable or indebted, there’s nothing to pay me back for.”
“It’s not about the money,” Erik says. “Although I imagine you’d be more careful with your receipts if you planned on ever actually submitting them for reimbursement.”
“I’m going to submit them,” Charles says, stung. He kept them all in the bottom of his bag; he’s planning to pull them out and organize them when they’re done with the trip.
“Of course,” Erik says. He sits down on the other bed. Charles catches himself looking at Erik’s chest, the divots of his clavicle, and looks away.
“Pay me back for what?” he says.
“I misread your intentions,” Erik says quickly. “I apologize. I never meant to--”
“For what?” Charles says again. Erik hesitates; a muscle in his jaw twitches.
“I know I’m not--the easiest travelling companion,” he says finally. “I have an agenda that you disagree with, I can be--. Well. I’m not accustomed to companionship but I have,” he’s speaking slowly, very quietly, “appreciated yours.”
“I don’t require payment for that,” Charles says. Erik smiles.
“You don’t get something for nothing,” he says, almost gently.
“You don’t have to buy me off with sex,” Charles says.
“I only thought you might be growing restless,” Erik says. “I had the impression you were accustomed to female companionship. I wouldn’t expect anything from you.”
“You--”
“Perhaps there’s something I wasn’t executing properly--” Erik says. His voice is brisk, but he’s looking at Charles’ shoulder, his own knees, anywhere but at Charles’ face. “If there’s something you prefer, you need only to say.”
“I can’t have sex with someone who doesn’t want me,” Charles says.
“I said I don’t mind,” Erik says, irritated.
“Think about what you’re asking me to do,” Charles says. Erik meets his eyes.
“You don’t have to look,” he begins, and Charles says,
“I can’t help it sometimes, if I’m--”
“fucking,” Erik says, very low. “I see. I didn’t think. My apologies.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” Charles says. Erik nods, looking away. There’s a long, awkward silence, and then he stands up and pulls on an undershirt, goes out the door, still barefoot. Charles lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Erik’s back inside five minutes, holding two bottles of Coke. His wallet is still resting on the bedside table, where he left it.
“Did you steal those?” Charles says, as the caps float off with little more than a sideways glance from Erik and drop into the trash can with two muffled clinks.
“It’s Saturday,” Erik says. “Gunsmoke will be on at 10:00.”
“Oh,” Charles says, accepting the bottle Erik hands him. He’s never seen it.
Erik looks sheepish, then defensive. “I spend a great deal of time in hotel rooms,” he says. “It’s not all classic Russian novels and code breaking.”
“No, of course not,” Charles agrees. “Gunsmoke is--”
“It’s just a Western,” Erik says, dismissive, but he settles himself back on his bed and lifts his hand towards the television, adjusting the antenna minutely until the picture is very sharp. Once the credits thunder across the screen, he watches with quiet attention, silent.
*
At the next hotel, Charles takes his own room. Erik stares, expressionless, at the two keys the receptionist slides across the counter.
“I thought you wanted to stick to the stipend,” he says, in the rickety elevator.
“I thought you’d prefer your own room,” Charles says. Erik’s knuckles go white around the handle of his suitcase.
“Of course,” he says. They ride the rest of the way in stifling silence. Erik walks quickly out of the elevator, ignoring Charles, who trails after him down the hallway.
“Would you like to get some dinner?” Charles ventures.
“You don’t need to exert yourself, Charles, it’s fine,” Erik says. He’s actually bothering to use the key to open his door, inserting it carefully into the lock.
“Oh. Right,” Charles says.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Erik says, nodding at him before closing the door.
*
Charles knocks once and Erik answers immediately, face grim. His shoulders loosen a little as he takes in Charles, wearing a jacket, holding a couple grease-spotted takeout bags from the diner across the street.
“I got you a burger,” Charles says, lifting one of the bags.
“Ah. Thank you,” Erik says. After a moment, he takes the bag. His hand tightens on the door, hesitating.
“I hope you won’t--the thing is,” Charles says quickly. “It’s just that now you’re a member of a very distinguished but unfortunately not especially exclusive club--”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m afraid there’s a regrettably large population of people who would really rather not sleep with me,” Charles says, “so you really shouldn’t feel--well. At least you weren’t thinking ‘gosh, he shelled out for dinner, I guess I’d better--’”
Erik shifts on his feet. “Really,” he says.
“You’d think being a telepath is all ‘who’s that handsome devil’ and ‘I certainly hope he’ll tell me all about his fascinating research’ but there’s a surprising amount of ‘oh god, here’s that crashing bore with the creepy eyes.’ and--”
“You’re not a bore,” Erik says sharply.
“Thank you.”
The wax paper of the bag crinkles in Erik’s hand. “Well,” he begins. Charles can hear the soft blare and murmur of the television behind him.
“What’s on tonight?” he says.
“I Love Lucy,” Erik says, after a moment. “And The Untouchables.”
“I see,” Charles says.
“Would you--you can come in if you want,” Erik says.
“If you’d like,” Charles says carefully. Erik takes a step back, swinging the door wider.
“I suppose you did shell out for dinner,” he says.
“Ah,” Charles says. “That’s very funny.” He knows better than to allow himself to take notice, but he can’t help looking at Erik’s mouth, just curling into a soft, tentative smirk.
There’s just the one bed, and no chairs. One bedside table already holds a glass of water, Erik’s watch and wallet, a handful of change. Charles sits on the other side of the bed and unwraps his burger. After a moment, Erik sits on his side and does the same. He stops for a moment when he pulls the wax paper back--
“Mushrooms and onion,” Charles says. “That’s--if you don’t like it, we can switch.”
“No,” Erik says. He folds the wax paper back carefully. “Did you--look, to see what I wanted?” he asks, in a low voice.
“No, I--” Charles bites his lip. “That’s what you order,” he says. “No cheese, extra mushrooms.”
“Oh,” Erik says. Charles takes a too large bite of his burger and Erik lifts his forefinger and the volume ticks up on the television. The picture is beautifully clear; better than Charles has ever encountered in a roadside hotel before--perhaps better than any television he’s ever seen. It’s wonderful.
Erik eats carefully, watching Lucille Ball splash into a river in hip waders. When he finishes, he waits for the next commercial break before going into the bathroom and washing his hands.
“Your eyes aren’t creepy,” he says, when he comes back.
Charles shrugs; he’s overheard enough about his physical appearance that it no longer bothers him too terribly much.
“They’re unusual,” Erik says. He frowns, staring at Charles, and then adds, “Arresting.”
“Oh,” Charles says. That wasn’t what he was expecting. “You think so?”
Erik cuts his eyes away, looking abashed. “Yes,” he says, firmly.