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It’s hard for Erik to find words, sometimes. He never talked much, but in Newport, everything’s words--’like,’ ’chill,’ ‘drama.’
Not his thing.
But Charles--Charles never expects him to talk. In fact, Charles has gotten to the point where he knows what Erik’s thinking and has his half of the conversation for him.
It sounds stupid or something, but it’s not. It’s why they get along so well.
With Emma, it’s everything Erik doesn’t say, the spaces in between the scant few words he provides that either make them or break them, how Erik can’t say that he more than likes her but isn’t quite into her.
That’s the only problem with Charles. He wants to be able to form this feeling into words, wants to say something, but his lips open and not even air escapes.
Fists and kicks, that’s what he understands. His hands can form the short to jack a car out of any metal. But for his mouth to form the words “hey, I like you” to Charles....
It’s one of those impossible things. Like skipping a rock over the ocean waves more than 5 times. Just doesn’t happen. Not even when it’s supposed to. Not even when it should.
So as Erik sits in Charles’s bed under the blankets, reading a comic book by flashlight because they’re totally over the age of 15--Erik thinks he can settle for this.
After all, he finally has a place he can belong.
—
It’s between watching “Ghost Dog” and “Pan’s Labyrinth” in a weird movie marathon that Erik slides his foot a little closer to Charles’s. A risky move, if the other teen wasn’t asleep and even drooling a little on the pillow.
Erik might be okay with drool, he thinks. Yeah.
It’s then that Charles’s dad comes into the room with leaden eyes, looking at Erik in a way that makes Erik think that maybe--maybe Mr. Xavier knows.
“Erik. Could you come with me, please?”
It wasn’t too long after that that Erik was packing his bags.
Charles was awake not soon after that, all flailing arms and red-faced and arguing with his dad behind a heavy oak door.
Some things are too good to last. But Charles doesn’t know that. And Erik hopes he’ll never have to.
—
Charles hunts Erik down to a diner on the wrong side of the tracks one night as Erik’s serving up mashed potatoes and low-salary, sorry smiles in equal helpings.
“You’re doing well,” Charles starts, two steps short of accusatory and right up to betrayed.
“It’s a living.” Erik shrugs. “You want the salad, or the special?”
“You need to come back to Newport. Come back to school.”
Erik looks at him expectantly, pen to paper.
“Salad. And I know you probably think it’s hard, but it’s not. Just... just come back. Please?” Charles never begs, and Erik shakes his head as he slides him a hot coffee on the house.
“Mom’s got herself in trouble. I’m helping.”
It has an air of what-can-you-do, and it breaks Charles’s heart. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Why did you come here, Charles? This isn’t--you shouldn’t come here.”
“I was worried.”
Erik doesn’t know how to take that, and just turns around, sending Charles’s order to the cook.
He comes back in a minute, taking back Charles’s glass. “Don’t be. I’ll be alright, Charles. Just go home. You never wanted a salad.”
It’s the most Erik’s said to Charles in months, and he storms out the door after leaving a 20 on the table.
—
A few days later, Erik gets a text. He didn’t even know he had texts.
“sorry.”
it says.
Only two people in his life have ever been sorry.
“come back home.”
Only love makes Erik feel this guilty.
—
“Shaw’s coming back. Thought you should know.” His mom has dark, bruised circles under her eyes, doesn’t bother hiding the tracks up and down her arms. The only thing they lead to are conclusions Erik hates.
He never reacts to shit like this. So what comes next is new.
“Fuck you!” It’s loud, and it’s sudden, and Erik storms out of the room, locking his thin door and banging against it until his fist is red and raw.
How far will a 20 get him by bus, anyway?
—
It’s raining, hard, and Erik is soaked to the bone, water leaking all over through holes in fabric and rubber.
Charles’s car isn’t in the driveway--he’s probably not home. Why would he be home? That’s just how things happen.
A light flicks on, and brown hair covers blue eyes. “Come on,” Charles says, biting his lip and looking at Erik like he’s a ghost, like he’s come back from the dead or something. “I’ve got Bagel Bites in the microwave.”
“I fucking hate Bagel Bites.” Erik pauses, and he says “they get soggy that way” instead of what he’s supposed to.
“Then get in here,” Charles laughs, and it’s so relieved it’s manic.
Maybe this is what home feels like, after all.