Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

to hate
is an easy lazy thing
but to love
takes strength
everyone has
but not all are
willing to practice

- rupi kaur

The champagne is quietly sizzling in Charles’s glass as he brings it to his lips. Technically, it isn’t after midnight yet, but he just cannot help but take a sip of the beverage which—as he now realises—so fittingly reflects his own agitation.

He feels positively light-headed, though he hasn’t consumed any alcohol until this very moment; it’s a truly peculiar sensation. Charles is certain he hasn’t felt like that since he was a child, if ever. Nevertheless, the utter joy that seems to wrap around his heart, penetrating it to its very core, couldn’t be more welcomed.

With bubbles popping happily against his upper lip, Charles is unable to keep himself from smiling. If somebody had told him a few weeks ago that he’d be standing here—in a place that he can call “home” without a second thought—surrounded by people he’s grown so close to in a matter of days, he would’ve thought of it as utterly ridiculous.

Now, however, standing in the doorway to a small, compared to the rooms of his family mansion, but exceptionally cosy living room, Charles cannot believe his luck. Not when he’s gazing at the man who’s sitting on a light brown sofa next to the beaming girl—his daughter—as they chatter joyously, laughing every now and again. Charles feels the corners of his lips rising in an even brighter smile at the sight, a warm feeling filling his chest.

It is love, he knows now. It’s taken him quite some time and an angry parting to realize that, but it’s all been worth it in the end. It’s what has brought him here, after all—into the life of the man who’s changed Charles’s whole world with one unexpected knock—or rather banging—at the door.

The man in question looks up at him, a hint of a smirk in the corners of his lips. Charles doesn’t miss a playful glint in the steel grey eyes—the one that he’s come to love so much. That one glance is enough to pull Charles into the room, leaving his still lingering disbelief behind.

A new year is coming, after all.

The new beginning of a truly beautiful adventure.

Chapter Text

Charles has no idea what exactly he was thinking when he decided to embark upon that pathetic little trip across the pond. Taking a break from all his work has been a reasonable enough decision, in and of itself, but this might not be

He’s been missing England, that’s true; nevertheless, he doubts that’s reason enough to rent a house from a complete stranger to spend the holidays in what should be a blissful solitude, yet feels like being trapped in a Christmas-themed snow globe. As picturesque as the place is, its remoteness only intensifies Charles’s sense of loneliness, as if he needed any further proof for how pathetically reclusive he is.

With a heavy sigh, Charles pulls a heap of sheets and blankets a bit higher, practically disappearing beneath it. A fire in the fireplace has probably went out by now, judging by the air around growing colder with every passing minute. That coolness doesn’t bother him as much, though; he’s too lost in his thoughts to care about a slight discomfort.

His gaze locked at the ceiling, he goes over the plan for the next day once again, reminding himself to call Raven as soon as he wakes up in the morning. If he even gets any actual sleep tonight, that is—even though it’s a very middle of the night here, a bloody jet lag makes him restless, his mind wandering of its own accord. And, in the unforgiving darkness of the night, it is hard to steer away from the very same darkness buried deep within his soul.

It isn’t the only thing that keeps him up, however, not with a dull ache spreading slowly down his back. Apparently, the flight across the Atlantic has been more straining than he previously thought, which only adds to Charles’s overall grimness. He’s thankful for Raven’s effort, he truly is, but ever since the accident… Things have changed.

Charles closes his eyes, and it feels as if he had sand under his eyelids. He’s tired, though his tiredness has little to do with physical exhaustion, he knows it. He’s tired of dealing with his inability to form close connections with other people; he’s tired of the mess that are his emotions; he’s tired of feeling like he is trapped in his own little prison.

He’s tired of being lonely in his own mind.

But he cannot really do much about it, can he?

He has no choice but continue existing, naively hoping against hope that maybe one day…

His wistful ruminations are momentarily disrupted when a loud banging resounds through the cottage. Charles nearly jumps out of the bed, almost tripping on a rug next to it. It doesn’t take him long to collect himself, though; he rushes towards the stairs, his mind a wild whirl of guesses as to who might be so demanding of being let into the cottage in the middle of the night.

* * *

Someone’s knocking at the door frame, Charles realizes probably a second too late. He doesn’t even manage to look up while his visitor is already barging into the study. It shouldn’t surprise him, really, considering that it quickly turns out the person who’s decided to interrupt him in his work is no one else than his dear sister, Raven.

Well, she is a dear as long as she doesn’t fuss over Charles and his well-being too much, which tends to happen increasingly more often these days. Unfortunately, judging by the determined look adorning her face at the moment, Charles has no doubts that the reason for her visit falls somewhere along those lines.

“Good morning, Raven.” His lips curl in a small smile, as he sets his pen aside, intent on devoting his full attention to his younger sister, at least for the time being.

The woman in question stops a few steps away from the desk, regarding him for a moment. She still has her deep blue coat on, with its front unbuttoned to reveal a purple scarf—this year’s birthday gift from Charles himself—and a simple black dress; nothing exceedingly fancy, just some everyday elegance that has always seemed to accompany his sister.

Despite Raven’s rather fashionable appearance, her subsequent snort is not at all elegant; something that neither she nor Charles actually mind, even though they used to be frequently scolded for such a behaviour in their youth.

“More like afternoon, actually,” she points out carefully, casting a quick glance at partially drawn curtains which let just enough sunlight for the study not to feel like a dark cave.

Her remark makes Charles look down at his watch, and it dawns on him just how late it already is. He must’ve got lost in his work yet again, even if today’s results are not quite satisfying so far. Truthfully, he can blame it on the fact that he’s had bit late start today.

“Oh. Time flies,” he says lightly, though his attempt at lifting the slightly tense atmosphere is rather unsuccessful. “I must’ve missed its passage,” he adds in a form of explanation, rising from his seat and walking around the desk.

“Clearly.” Dryness of Raven’s answer is an obvious indicator of her disapproval, but Charles does his best to dismiss it. “You’re working too much,” she continues eventually, when he reaches her side.

“I believe you’ve already mentioned it. Several times.” Charles’s remark is not in any way cutting, even if one might hear a slight strain of annoyance in his voice. “Now, do you fancy a cup of tea?,” he offers promptly, trying to redirect their conversation to a lot less divisive topic. “I was just about to fetch myself some.”

Raven eyes Charles for a long moment, and he can tell she’s torn between carrying on with their argument and accepting his offer. “I bet you were,” she breathes at last, knowing well that he can hear it. “But gladly.” She nods resignedly before they make their way out of the study and in the direction of the kitchen.

* * *

This time Charles takes notice of the traverse, so it doesn’t collide with his forehead on his way down the stairs, unlike a few hours ago when he was exploring the cottage for the first time. The loud banging doesn’t stop, and the person at the door seems to get increasingly more impatient. It is a bit worrying, especially considering that the house is rather isolated from other dwellings in the area.

“Who is that?,” Charles calls out as soon as he makes it to the bottom of the stairs.

“Hurry up! I’m freezing,” the stranger responds quickly, his voice raised and somewhat groggy.

Folding his arms across his chest, Charles frowns and takes a few careful steps, his fluffy socks sinking into the soft carpet covering the floor of the hall. The stranger’s voice sounds rather masculine, which does nothing to soothe Charles’s nerves. Moira informed him that she lives alone, and didn’t mention any relatives that might be inclined to pay a visit during her absence. Therefore, she either deliberately omitted a crucial piece of information, or the guest is not expected at all, both of which are equally troubling.

“Who are you?,” Charles tries again, hesitant to open the door just yet, certainly not with virtually no clue about the identity of that late night guest.

Charles’s continuous questioning appears to annoy the stranger, judging by the way he grunts, but at least finally stops pounding at the door.

“Moira, open the door, or I swear I’m gonna take a leak in one of your—”

The man stops short as soon as he’s confronted with Charles, who is standing just a feet away after frantically flinging the door open. The stranger’s steel grey eyes grow big at the sight, and for a moment he seems unable to find his voice. Charles can swear he notices something else glinting in those eyes, though he isn’t able to put his finger on what it is, especially not when he is distracted by the rest of his appearance.

The man is a few inches taller than Charles, towering slightly above him. He’s dressed rather casually, but certainly not scruffily—his clothes are quite fitting, wrapped around his lean body in a rather nice fashion. Charles cannot see any muscles beneath his black jacket, grey shirt or dark jeans, but by the way this man stands he can tell that he’s likely toned.

However, it is the stranger’s face that captures most of Charles’s attention. With short copper hair framing his sharp features, he looks positively handsome which unfailingly catches Charles off guard. His eyes flicker from the stranger’s eyes to his lips, then to his broad shoulders; Charles just hopes it goes unnoticed, and apparently it does.

“Oh. You’re not Moira,” the stranger notes casually, his surprise not discernible anywhere other than in his still somewhat startled gaze. “Or if you are, I’m much drunker than I thought,” he adds instantly, in a more apologetic manner, leaning on the door frame. “Sorry for my language, I wasn’t expecting… you.”

The man’s eyes are roaming over Charles’s smaller frame, carefully taking in his a bit sloppy appearance. Under the intense scrutiny of this gaze, Charles momentarily feels very self-conscious, wrapping his arms around himself not merely because of a sudden cold gust of wind. He wasn’t expecting anybody showing up at his—Moira’s—doorstep when he dressed earlier that night, but he suddenly wishes he’d been more careful with picking his current unfortunate outfit.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you either,” Charles admits to fill the silence which grows slightly awkward, while also trying to conceal his embarrassment. “And I’m afraid Moira’s not here. As far as I know she’s in Scotland with her family.”

The stranger grunts again, rolling his eyes, though this time Charles is quite sure that the man’s irritation is not directed at him.

“Of course, she is,” the stranger mumbles sourly, his eyes fixed on something above Charles’s left shoulder. “Sorry, normally I’m not such a forgetful person,” he continues more remorsefully, scratching his neck.

Charles instantaneously rushes to reassure the stranger, letting a comforting smile to spread on his lips, “No need to apologise.” I’m the one who shouldn’t be here, he adds bitterly, but he doesn’t dare to say those words out loud.

The stranger gives him a stiff nod, his eyes a bit absent as he once again glances above Charles’s shoulder. Only now does Charles notices that the man is quite likely drunk, and hence his a bit erratic behaviour. What does surprises Charles, however, is how long it’s taken him to consciously reach that conclusion—he shouldn’t have let that man’s attractiveness distract him as much, and yet this is exactly what’s happened.

Apparently, the man doesn’t notice Charles’s thoughtful expression at all, peeking inside the house every now and again instead. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, not with how distant his gaze remains, and Charles finds himself shifting nervously.

Luckily, before Charles decides that he ought to ask what he could do for the unexpected guest, the man in question says, “I won’t bother you for too long, may I just—?” He motions towards the bathroom, and Charles is abruptly reminded of what the man was shouting minutes ago.

“Oh, of course! Sorry.” Feeling a bit embarrassed by his thoughtlessness, Charles steps back into the hall, leaving some space to let the man inside.

The stranger rushes past him, his steps long enough that it only takes a few of them for him to reach a bathroom beneath the stairs. However, before he goes on to open the door, the man turns back, as if he remembered something.

“I’m Erik, with a ‘k’, Moira’s friend,” he declares with a polite smile, extending his right hand towards Charles, which he warily accepts.

“Erik with a ‘k’?,” he echoes quizzically, a part of him wondering how close of a friend that man actually is to Moira.

“Yeah, I like to make it clear beforehand,” the man explains, with a little smirk playing in the corners of his lips.

“Of course. I’m Charles,” he motions to himself, trying not to be too affected by that smile, “I’m staying here.”

The stranger—Erik—tilts his head to the side, his expression unreadable once more. It bothers Charles, to be honest; why is this man so difficult to read? As a rule, Charles prides himself with being quite accurate when it comes to recognizing the emotions of others, with a very few people genuinely surprising him. Sometimes it happens with Raven, but overall he can tell what she is most probably thinking. Erik, however, is an enigma.

“Clearly,” the man says, deadpan, pulling Charles out of his thoughts. Erik’s glance shifts to the bathroom door. “Now, if you don’t mind…”

“Oh, not at all, please.” Charles looks away, feeling the heat rising to his cheeks.

Not only does he have trouble with interpreting Erik’s behaviour, but that frustratingly handsome man also doesn’t fail at getting under Charles’s skin—something that is neither desirable nor particularly helping. Regardless of the guest’s supposed affiliation with Moira, he doesn’t know much about the man, and—despite his rather flirtatious nature—Charles feels quite insecure, standing here in his pyjamas.

Erik vanishes in the bathroom, while Charles is left alone in the hall, cursing himself inwardly for how impossibly flustered he is in the presence of this unexpected—unexpectedly attractive—guest.

* * *

“What are your plans for Christmas?,” Raven asks from above her steaming mug, her eyes following closely Charles’s movements around the kitchen.

Having put tea away into one of the cabinets, Charles turns back to her, with his own cup in his hand. He gives her a quizzical look before sitting beside her at the counter. As a matter of fact, from all the questions that he’s been anticipating from the moment Raven entered his study today, it’s not one of them.

He takes a careful sip of his tea prior to giving his answer, the hot liquid burning on his tongue. He should’ve been more careful, but his surprise renders him a bit mindless of his surroundings.

“Why, I’m staying at the man—at home, of course,” he says lightly, even though he can’t prevent a small wince from turning up on his face.

Referring to the mansion as home still feels rather strange. Although it technically belongs to him now, not only on paper, but also in the way he had quite a few rooms renovated to suit his and his sister’s needs, ghosts of the past he’d rather forget are haunting its walls nonetheless. At times like this, Charles can’t help but miss their Oxford apartment, which felt more like home than this huge residence ever could.

Charles is so lost in those thoughts that he almost misses the way Raven tenses up slightly, her fingers curling protectively around her cup.

Her gaze is fixed on her tea when she speaks up, “I can’t be here, with you, you know.” Her voice is low, as if she was admitting something that she’s actually ashamed of. Her refusal to meet his eyes only seems to reinforce that impression. “We promised Hank’s parents that we’ll spend Christmas at their house this year,” she continues warily, rocking her cup slowly. “I would gladly invite you to go with us. But I’m afraid all the two of you would talk about is your research.” Raven bits her lower lip, and finally, albeit reluctantly, looks up at Charles.

All he does in an answer to her admission is blink. Her words register much slower than he’d like, but when they do, he feels rather annoyed. Even though he’s not certain whether this annoyance is directed at Raven or himself; there’s also a possibility that his feeling has actually little to do with annoyance at all.

In the end, he chooses not to dwell on that, and says instead, “Do you despise me working so much?” His voice ends up being a bit drier than he aimed for, but Charles can’t help the annoyance slipping out.

Raven heaves a sigh, apparently unsurprised by such a reaction.

“It’s not about that, Charles, you know it,” she says firmly, looking away from him to gaze at the kitchen they are currently in. “You’re not supposed to work during holidays—it’s time for some relaxation and bonding with your family.”

Something twists in Charles’s heart at that and the awareness that Raven chooses not to be here with him only makes it worse. It’s ridiculous, really; he’s not a child anymore, he can take care of himself. Besides, it’s been quite a while since the Christmas time was in any way magical for him, so it’s not like those few days are in any way different than the rest of the year.

“And yet, you’d rather I didn’t spend it with you.” The only semblance of the family that I have, though he chooses not to say those words out loud.

His sister flinches at Charles’s words, raising her cup to her lips apparently in the hope of hiding her regret. Somehow, though, noticing how guilty she must feel soothes some of Charles’s anger, and he lets out a breath he’s had no idea that he has been holding.

“I’d much rather you actually rested for once,” Raven explains quietly, yet firmly. “You’re already practically a workaholic,” she says matter-of-factly, giving him a pointed look.

Charles can’t help a nervous chuckle escaping his throat. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he tries, though not at all convincingly.

“When was the last time you ate something?,” Raven asks simply, raising one of her eyebrows.

“Er…” He’s raking his mind desperately for a satisfying enough answer, even if he knows all too well that he’s basically found himself on the losing end of this argument.

“And no, tea doesn’t count,” Raven adds quickly, as if she sensed such an answer coming.

Arguing with her is senseless at this point, Charles is certain of it, so he just sighs, bringing his hand up to massage his temples.

“Raven, I can take care of myself,” he mutters begrudgingly. “And I have a project that could really use some of my attention.”

“You think I don’t know that…,” she murmurs under her breath, looking down at her mug. She pulls a lock of her blonde hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing softly against her skin as she brings her hand under her chin and leans on it. “Look, we have something for you, as a gift.” Her voice is stern again when her gaze lands back on Charles’s face. “From me, Hank, and a bunch of your graduate students—Alex, Sean, and Darwin, I think. Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s worried about you,” she adds matter-of-factly.

“A gift?,” Charles echoes a bit lamely, but he is admittedly taken aback by her sister’s words, for the second time today more less.

Raven takes a deep breath, clearly preparing herself for explaining whatever it is that they’ve prepared for him. Charles senses her anxiety, judging by the way she shifts on the stool, though she doesn’t break their eye contact.

“You clearly need some vacation,” she notes calmly, her voice not really betraying any of her emotions, “so I came up with something for you—a week-long stay at the English countryside.”

Charles just blinks at that. That’s an… unconventional gift if he’s to be honest. Certainly not something he was expecting.

“A what?,” is all he ends up saying.

“Well, I thought you might like to get away from the mansion, and you obviously miss our old Oxford days, so…,” she stops for a moment, nervously biting her lip. Her fingers are fidgeting, drawing indeterminable patterns on her mug. “I thought you might like it. I found a woman who’s renting her house for the holidays, since she spends it with her family in Scotland. It seems like a nice place,” she says simply, her voice lacking some of its former firmness.

“Renting your home for Christmas? That’s an interesting way of making money,” Charles comments noncommittally, which earns him Raven’s disapproving look.

“Just… Consider this at least, please?” Her resolve is back, and so is her demanding tone of voice. “Everything is booked, so all you have to do is just agree.”

It is clear in Raven’s eyes that declining her offer will only lead to an argument, therefore Charles just concedes resignedly.

* * *

As soon as the door to the bathroom closes, Charles can’t stop himself from turning towards a small mirror that is hanging on the wall behind him. His hair is slightly dishevelled from all the tossing and turning, and he runs his fingers hurriedly through it, trying to elevate his hardly appealing look. It’s silly, yet he feels a very strong need to make a good impression on Erik.

“So, why are you here?,” Erik asks from inside the bathroom, distracting Charles in his quite futile attempt to make himself more presentable.

Having finished adjusting his socks, Charles looks up just in time to see Erik stepping back into the hall, nearly knocking over a nearby lamp in the process. The sight is pretty amusing, and if Charles didn’t know any better, he might think that the man is just as flustered. Most probably, though, his behaviour can be explained simply by his drunkenness.

Charles puts on a broad smile when he meets Erik’s eyes. “I’m renting the house,” he explains lightly. “Well, it’s actually rented for me, as a gift—”

Erik stops a few steps before him, a small frown appearing on his face, and repeats doubtfully, “Rented?”

“Moira hasn’t told you about renting the house for the holidays?,” Charles asks evenly in return, though he cannot stop wariness from resurfacing in his mind.

His companion looks past him thoughtfully, probably trying to recall the information in question. “She might’ve mentioned it,” he says eventually. “I didn’t know she went through with it,” he continues, seemingly more to himself this time. “But apparently she did.”

Charles nods lightly, tightening his arms around his chest, and admits, “Yes, well, I’m supposed to stay here for a week.”

“And where are you from, exactly?,” Erik asks in what would certainly be nothing more than just an awkward small talk kind of question if it wasn’t for genuine curiosity glinting in those captivating eyes.

“I live in the U.S.,” Charles smiles good-naturedly, “Westchester, to be precise.” After Erik gives him a questioning look, he continues, “It’s in the New York metropolitan area.”

The recognition flashes through Erik’s face, but it’s soon replaced by another frown. “Your accent isn’t American,” he observes after a moment of consideration, a single brow rising slightly.

Charles is a bit taken aback by this remark, but manages not to lose his nerve, which in the light of how distractingly attractive Erik is turns out to be quite an accomplishment. “You don’t sound quite British yourself,” he retorts swiftly.

He doesn’t merely mean to bite back, because what he said is true. Erik’s accent certainly isn’t local, and could hardly be called British at all. Charles can’t place, however, where this mysterious man might come from.

Erik simply considers him for a moment, some kind of emotion, perhaps fascination, filling his eyes.

“Fair point,” he admits readily, with a small nod, which isn’t exactly what Charles was expecting from him. Then, suddenly, Erik sways sharply, winces and quickly proceeds to say, “Would you mind if I sat? I feel like I might bump into you.”

“Not at all. Sit.” Charles steps away, motioning to a small sofa placed underneath a window in the living room.

He feels silly, honestly, trying to be a host in the house which his guest most likely knows better than him. Not that he minds entertaining others—in truth, he enjoys being the centre of attention every now and again—but he can’t shake off the feeling that he is an intruder here, disrupting perfectly laid out lives of people he doesn’t even know.

Erik seems completely oblivious of Charles’s contemplation as he walks over to the sofa, his steps careful, albeit a bit wobbly. It takes him a moment, but he finally plops down on the cushions somewhat clumsily, leaning heavily to the side, but he props himself on one arm just a moment before he has a chance to actually lay down.

Hearing him groan softly, Charles frowns, with worry for that unexpected visitor quickly filling his heart, and his question comes out almost automatically, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Erik flashes him a smile that is practically all teeth, and Charles shouldn't find it so charming, yet he does. “Look, I’m sorry about the intrusion,” he says earnestly, looking away from Charles for a moment, though his gaze quickly returns to Charles’s face as if it was pulled by some sort of an unseen force.

Charles just waves at him dismissively, ready to assure that there’s really nothing to apologise for, but the man hardly acknowledges it and continues nonetheless, “Though I may not appear it, I am in fact a semi-respectable Moira’s childhood friend. But on the rare, or lately not-so-rare occasion that I frequent the local pub and get inordinately pissed, my best friend puts me up, so I don’t get behind the wheel. Pathetic explanation, but unfortunately it’s become a bit of a routine…”

Erik’s voice trails off as he looks down at the carpeted floor. It doesn’t take him long to recover, though, and he promptly gives Charles an inquisitive look. “So how’s it going so far?,” he asks curiously. “I mean, up until I showed up and ruined your night.”

Charles licks his lips nervously, trying to escape Erik’s intense gaze. “Well, it’s not going that great, I’m afraid,” he admits, and it’s both uncomfortable and reliving. “I’m leaving tomorrow on a noon plane,” he adds quickly, pointing somewhere in the proximity of the door. Even though Erik doesn’t need that particular information, Charles decides that stating it out loud makes his plans feel more attainable.

Erik’s expression shifts slightly as he thinks through Charles’s words, and the man asks, “When did you get here?”

“About six hours ago,” Charles says after taking a quick look at his watch.

Erik just stares at him for a moment, a flicker of disbelief in his eyes, and then he proceeds to chuckle lightly. “We made a great impression on you, don’t we?”

“No, it’s not that—,” Charles quickly contradicts, though he cannot refrain from smiling himself. “I used to live here for a while, in fact, but this whole thing… It wasn’t exactly my idea in the first place and… and I think it was a mistake. I’ve never thought about anything less. It’s quite unlike me.” The words are spilling out of his mouth at rather impressive speed, and he instantly realizes that he’s rambling at this point. Luckily, he has something in mind that may spare him a further humiliation. “Would you like something to drink?,” he asks, instead of continuing his previous thought. “A glass of water? Tea? Wine, perhaps?”

Erik leans to the side and squints a little, clearly looking for something. Then he points one of the cupboards with his finger.

“I think there’s a bottle of brandy,” he says with a hint of a smile, looking back at Charles. “Fancy a glass?”

“Why not.”

* * *

A cursor is hovering over the send button, as Charles regards the computer screen studiously. Raven has just sent him the details of his presumed trip, and he would lie if he said it hasn’t piqued his interest. It doesn’t mean, however, that he’s willing to admit that Raven is right, not in the slightest.

As a result, he is about to send a short message to the owner of this lovely cottage that he’s supposed to spend the holidays in—Moira—in an attempt to apologize for his sister’s overeagerness. Surprisingly enough, though, he hesitates.

A more reasonable part of him knows all too well that he could use a break. Going somewhere far away would help him not only to relax, but maybe to get some distance as well, look at things from a different perspective. That’d be more than appreciated, especially since he hasn’t had a chance to travel anywhere in quite some time, mostly in the wake of his rehabilitation which ended just this September.

Charles grits his teeth, steering his thoughts back to the matter at hand. His carefully composed message stares back at him almost accusingly, as if it didn’t approve of the dismissal of his gift. At that thought, he snorts rather inelegantly—an email as an insensate chain of words is not capable of such a judgment, even if it would have a point.

With a soft sigh, Charles looks away from the screen, his gaze wandering around the study. His desk is covered with scattered papers and notes, and there is a cup of unfinished tea which must be cold by now. He recalls how Raven called the study a hermit den just a few weeks ago when she came to pick Hank up for their dinner date. Looking at the place now, Charles has to admit that there might be some truth to her remark, even if he’d never say so out loud.

Charles switches to a site which Raven’s sent him a link to, taking one more look at the tiny cottage and its surroundings that look like a view out of a Christmas postcard. It’s appealing and a stark contrast to the enormous size of the mansion—something that Charles doesn’t doubt he’d love.

Perhaps, he should at least give this a try. After all, he won’t be forced to spend the whole holidays there—he might always return earlier if it turned out to be a mistake. Furthermore, he’ll make Raven happy if he agrees, and this might just be reason enough to go through with it.

A sound of typing fills the air as Charles modifies his message. One last look over the text, and he sends it at last.

* * *

“So— I’m sorry, I’ve totally blanked and forgotten your name,” Erik’s voice resounds sharply from the living room.

Charles looks away from where he’s retrieving two glasses for brandy, the bottle of which he’s already holding in his hand. He’s only partially surprised by Erik’s statement—given the man’s inebriated state, it’s astonishing enough that he’s able to engage in a fairly normal conversation.

“Charles,” he supplies helpfully, smiling more to himself since Erik can’t really see his face from the living room.

“So, Charles…,” Erik continues, slowly and carefully enunciating the name, and Charles can barely suppress a shiver at how it rolls of Erik’s tongue in that oddly alluring accent of his, “You’re not married, are you?”

At that question, Charles abruptly stops, about to step back into the hall, the glasses ringing quietly in his hand. He has no idea how many times he’s already been surprised tonight; it seems, though, that a streak of surprises is far from over. He clears his throat, and then takes a deep breath. Luckily, his effort to regain some of his composure turns out to be successful.

“What? Do I look not married?,” he asks playfully as he moves back to the living room, trying to somewhat conceal his bashfulness.

Erik chuckles in a rather nervous manner, his gaze falling to the floor as if he was trying to avoid looking at Charles’s face.

“No, it was just a—a backwards way of asking if you were married,” he explains, almost timidly.

“No, not at all,” Charles answers, and then frowns, unable to comprehend his own words. Splendid, it seems he’s not only strangely agitated in Erik’s presence, but he’s losing his eloquence as well. “I have no idea what that means,” he mutters embarrassedly, but quickly continues, “I mean, no, I’m not married.”

Erik’s laughter echoes through the living room, and Charles quickly decides that it’s an unfairly mesmerizing sound, and yet one of the most delightful he’s ever heard.

“Me neither,” Erik says gleefully as soon as his laughter finally drops.

A small smile creeps on Charles’s lips as he pours a glass for his companion. He doesn’t know why—well, he suspects there might be quite obvious explanation—but his chest fills with warmth at this declaration.

“Here you go.” He hands Erik the glass, which the man gladly accepts.

Their glasses cling as they make a toast, their eyes meeting above the rims. There is something weirdly electric hanging in the air, and Charles must admit that he’s grateful for a sip of brandy that he promptly takes. It’s hardly enough alcohol for him to unwind, yet a burning sensation on his tongue at least partially distracts him from studying how the warm light of the living room reflects in Erik’s eyes and how it gloriously washes his skin in gold.

“Would it be horrible if I stay?” Erik’s question sharply brings him back to reality. “I’ll be gone before you even wake up. I promise, you will never lay eyes on me again.”

Those assurances are utterly unnecessary, Charles finds himself unable to say no to Erik anyway. “Oh, no, of co—that’s fine. Sure,” he rushes to say.

“Thank you.” Erik’s expression softens, and Charles hardly supresses a flush rising to his cheeks.

“Let me just give you a blanket,” he offers hastily, turning away from that unbearably attractive man.

Erik motions next to him. “In the cupboard. Under the chess set.”

* * *

The flight from New York to London may not be exceedingly long, but it is still rather tiring—it isn’t too good for Charles’s back to spend seven hours mostly in a sitting position, but he manages to survive the journey without too much pain. Luckily, he gets to travel in the first class, with the expenses covered by Raven; although he tried to convince her he could pay at least for flights by himself, she insisted on taking care of everything.

Apparently, by everything, she really meant everything. Both she and Hank drove with him to the airport, and Charles has been thoroughly instructed about the course of his journey. Raven also provided him with an emergency contact to one of her friends in London in case anything unexpected happens. It was weird to watch her getting so overprotective when it’s theoretically his job as an older brother. He didn’t really have much time to comment on it, though, not with his flight departing shortly, so he was soon left with a peck on the cheek from Raven and wishes of a good journey.

Now that Charles stands in front of a lovely cottage, which looks even smaller than on the photo he’s seen, a thought that it might actually be quite a nice week crosses his mind. He squeezes keys in his trembling hand—he’s left his gloves inside one of his suitcases, not expecting a nearly mile long walk from the cab—but, despite the cold, he smiles at Moira who’s still standing before him.

“I hope you’ll enjoy the stay,” she says pleasantly, her own smile warm and quite lovely.

Charles has to say that he’s surprised by how friendly Moira turns out to be; perhaps, after this whole holiday week is over, he should keep in touch with her, especially since their previous conversations via email have been rather engaging. There is a chance he might earn an actual new friend, which is a possibility he’d always be excited about; so, if his stay turns out to not be fulfilling after all, he might at least have a new and hopefully fruitful . acquaintanceship.

“Ring me if you need anything,” Moira adds, shaking his hand.

“Of course.” Charles nods with a smile and watches as Moira steps away, quickly reaching her car. “Have a pleasant journey!,” he adds before she can close the door behind her.

She answers him with a smile, and soon the engine of her car starts up. After giving him one last wave, Moira drives down the dirt road. It doesn’t take long for her car to disappear behind the hill, and Charles finds himself alone, surrounded by rolling hills, chilly wind, and fluffy snow—what many would see as an ideal setting for the perfect winter holidays.

* * *

The chess set rests on top of the cupboard when Charles pulls out some sheets, and he quickly decides to just leave it there for the time being. Perhaps, once Erik is a bit more sober, Charles can ask him if he’d like to play sometime—it’s been quite long since he got a chance to have a match with somebody, and he finds himself hoping that his guest might be up for a round or two, especially since he’s now the only person here that Charles is somewhat familiar with.

“So, why is it you’re not quite yourself at the moment?,” Erik asks from behind him; judging by a soft noise the man has just made, he’s likely back on his feet.

“Well, the idea to come here was quite—impulsive,” Charles explains rather bashfully before turning around to face his guest again. “I mean, I thought it through—more less—but I haven’t really considered the consequences. Or rather the fact that no matter where I go, how far from home, I’ll always feel just as trapped and alone. What a bloody revelation.” He’s rambling again, he knows. What’s worse, he’s said more than he actually intended to at first, but somehow he cannot stop himself, not with the genuine interest with which Erik regards him right now.

Charles winces a little, not really feeling worthy of this attention—what he’s just admitted to is hardly appealing; nobody wants to put up with somebody else’s issues, after all. Well, Charles would do that, but at the same time he prefers not to burden others with what he should be able to solve on his own.

“I bet you’re glad you knocked at this door,” he says sourly, looking away to the window.

The world outside is dark, covered with a thick layer of snow, creating a picture-perfect scene of the winter night bliss. Charles wishes for a moment that he could just run somewhere even farther—somewhere where his demons wouldn’t find him for once.

“I am, actually.” A sheer sincerity in Erik’s voice brings Charles’s attention back to the man before him, to his unwavering, magnetic gaze.

He can swear that Erik’s eyes flicker up and down his face in which might only be described as pure fascination. Charles’s heart skips a beat, though he does his best not to get his hopes up—he cannot be sure whether Erik is even atracted to men, and Charles tries not to be the one to assume anything about others without a factual confirmation of his suspicions.

Charles hands Erik his linens, glad that he can put some space between them with this gesture. The air is crackling with something that Charles refuses to put a name to, afraid of what it might entail. His hands are trembling a bit, so he once again crosses his arms on his chest, looking down.

“Yes, well,” he says to fill a growingly awkward silence. “Sorry, and, er—” He clears his throat nervously. “Goodnight.” Charles’s smile, though a bit tense, is warm nonetheless, or so he hopes.

The corners of Erik’s mouth rise in an answer, and his voice is soft when he says, “Sweet dreams.”

With the way that Erik has glanced down at his lips, Charles should expect what’s about to happen, and yet a kiss catches him by surprise. It’s by no means lustful, really—just a chaste, gentle caress, and so quick to finish that Charles doesn’t even get a chance to properly react. All he can do is stare at the man before him with wide eyes, a ghost of Erik’s touch still lingering on his lips. Despite his best efforts to suppress his growing arousal, Charles’s thoughts become more and more tangled, as if a hot haze filled his mind and shrouded any semblance of reason.

Erik leans back, clearly equally bewildered by his actions. Charles is certain that the man’s startled expression mirrors his own face, and for a moment neither of them moves or says anything, the tension practically physically palpable between them.

Before Charles can stop the words from leaving his all of a sudden dry mouth, he finds himself saying, “Do you think you could…” A nervous chuckle escapes his throat when he looks down, his eyes glancing everywhere but at Erik.

It’s been quite some time since Charles felt so ridiculous, like a smitten teenager about to ask his long-term crush out. It’s truly peculiar how this man whom Charles has known for—a dozen of minutes or so, really—can with one look, a small gesture, or a few words turn him into a flustered rambling mess of a person. What’s more, Charles’s suspicions apparently were fully justified—with the kiss being initiated by Erik, it’s clear that the man is just as interested.

In the light of that, Charles cannot refrain from asking, “Would you mind”—his breath hitches slightly, but he continues, looking up into those steel grey eyes—“trying that again, perhaps?”