Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/966249.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      X-Men:_First_Class_(2011)_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Erik_Lehnsherr/Charles_Xavier
  Character:
      Charles_Xavier, Erik_Lehnsherr, Sebastian_Shaw
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Regency, Prostitution, From_Sex_to_Love, Actually
      Love_at_First_Sight, mostly_-_Freeform, research_was_attempted, author_is
      not_sure_if_she_succeeded, Period_Typical_Attitudes, Period_Appropriate
      Homophobia, Angst_with_a_Happy_Ending, top!Charles, Switching
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-14 Updated: 2013-09-16 Chapters: 2/? Words: 13019
****** these stars were meant to burn ******
by ikeracity
Summary
     The streets were an escape for Charles, and selling his body is the
     price he pays now to survive. Soon, he's promised, he'll be taken
     away from all this, once Erik, his regular client and lover, comes
     into his inheritance.
     How unfortunate it is that even the best intentions leave such pain
     in their wake.
     (another regency AU)
Notes
     I promise I'm working on all my other WIPs, too. Promise. Plus I have
     most of this written so it won't be a WIP for long. Also promise.
***** Prologue *****
PROLOGUE
The man who stood in the center of Charles’ confined flat was, without
question, a nobleman. He was plainly dressed, but his garments were impeccably-
kept and fashionable, incorporating all the accents of current, high-society
vogue. His boots were polished, his cravat tied perfectly. He stood tall and
straight, with faultless posture that could only have been taught by private
tutors over a childhood filled with endless lessons on propriety. He surveyed
Charles’ domain with an imperiousness in his eye that could only belong to an
aristocrat who had known splendorous places and who, on even the very worst
days, would normally never deign to set foot within three leagues of such a
slum as this.
Charles did not receive many lords in his profession. He saw throngs of middle-
class gentlemen and occasionally a well-off workingman, but very seldom did
nobility stoop to his level. They had their own ways of relieving their urges,
and pride kept them from buying pleasure from any offering boy on the streets.
In his yearlong career thus far, Charles had seen only two lords of significant
stature, one of whom had fled in disgust before stepping into the flat. The
other had taken his fill of Charles and departed in a hurry without even
paying, clearly too nervous and too ashamed to linger.
He was understandably wary now. Workingmen and those from the middle-class were
simple; they understood what Charles offered, they understood what was required
of them, and they paid Charles what he was due. But noblemen—one never knew
what one could expect from them. They were snakes, slithering into the muddy
dirt where they did not belong to deal with mice who were expected to give them
what they wanted or risk being eaten. He would have to deal carefully with this
man; one wrong step could mean his livelihood and, if he were very unlucky and
the lord very persistent in destroying him, his life.
This lord was handsome, his features sharp, his eyes clear and intense. He was
well-groomed, with clean-shaven cheeks and neatly combed hair. He did not look
cruel, nor did he seem particularly kind. But Charles knew better than most
that character could not be judged based upon appearances, and so he resolved
to reserve his verdict until he had gathered adequate evidence. For now, he
would wait and observe.    
“I have never…” the man began, slowly. His voice was confident, but his eyes
were guarded as they flicked restlessly around the room, taking in Charles’
desk, empty of any decoration except for two thin novels, and the bed, which
Charles had made up carefully before his arrival. “I have never resorted to
this before. You must excuse me if I seem tense.”
Ah, this was familiar. Charles smiled reassuringly from where he stood by the
fireplace, close enough for the man to touch if he reached out, far enough away
so that the man would not feel crowded. “You would not be the first.”
The man’s lips quirked up humorlessly. “No, I would not, would I?” 
Charles paused, uncertain. Most men did not like to be reminded that they were
paying to use what had already been used before. Some men found comfort in the
fact that they were not alone in their penchants. He could not tell at a glance
to which of these groups this lord belonged. Eventually, he said, “My name is
Charles. You need not tell me yours.”
Almost all his clients remained anonymous, for fear of discovery. But this man,
after a brief moment of hesitation, sketched out a bow to him, as one might
greet a gentleman of similar stature, and said, “Mr. Erik Lehnsherr. It is a
pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Charles was so thoroughly shocked at the signal of respect that he forgot
himself, falling back into old, ingrained habits. He bowed, too, low but not
deferential, as if they were of the same rank. Then, realizing what he had
done, he flushed and backed away a step. “Forgive me. I should not have—”
Mr. Lehnsherr watched him closely, his brow furrowed. “Where did you learn to
execute so perfect a bow? Not on the streets, surely.”
Charles hesitated, his heart skittering in his chest. Even a year later, the
fear still lay fresh inside him: the bone-deep terror that word would get back
to Westchester about a familiar blue-eyed boy living in the streets and his
stepfather would come for him. It felt silly to still be afraid; he had escaped
Kurt Marko, and Marko would be glad for it, glad to have Charles out of the
way, glad to see his death speculated in the gossip mill of town. He had no
reason to come after Charles now, had no reason to want Charles discovered, and
yet Charles was still fearful and still wary. His memories of his stepfather
consisted of violence and scars.
“Everyone comes from somewhere,” he replied at last. “Even boys for sale in the
street.”
Mr. Lehnsherr did not look satisfied with his answer but did not press the
matter. He shifted restlessly on his feet, sliding a sidelong look at the door
as if he were wondering if he could make an escape without Charles noticing. He
said finally, “I come here on the recommendation of a friend. I have been told
that you will be discreet.”
“I have accepted you as a client on the basis of that same recommendation,”
Charles replied. “I do not normally offer my services to gentlemen of high
birth such as yourself, but if discretion is your priority, then I shall make
it mine.”
Mr. Lehnsherr stared at him cagily. “What do you know of me?”
“I know very little of you,” Charles answered honestly. “Before you told me, I
did not even know your name. If you are worried I will expose you, or perhaps
blackmail you into paying me an income in return for my silence, you need not
worry. Turning you in to the law would necessarily expose myself, which would
be senseless. And furthermore, your title and wealth lend you credibility I
could not afford; if I should try to fight against you, I would not win.”
“Is that meant to reassure me?”
“Does it?”
“It does, minutely.”
“Then yes.” Charles thought about moving to the bed but decided against it; he
did not want to appear as if he were pressuring Mr. Lehnsherr into anything.
Still, Mr. Lehnsherr looked ill at ease, as if he might shy away and call off
the venture entirely if Charles so much as looked wrongly in his direction.
“You may leave at any time you wish,” Charles said, gentling his tone. “I will
not keep you. I am here to serve you in any capacity you see fit, for as long
as you choose tonight. Please do not feel apprehensive.”
“How can I feel otherwise,” Mr. Lehnsherr replied impatiently, “when the
consequence of our actions is death?”
“Only if we are caught,” Charles murmured, “and I have never been caught.” He
took a cautious step forward and, when the young lord did not retreat, closed
the distance between them slowly. As he reached out, Mr. Lehnsherr did not
flinch, only watched him with narrowed eyes. Charles took his hand, the skin of
Mr. Lehnsherr’s palm warm against his, and raised it his lips. “As I said, you
may leave at any time, should you wish it. But if you stay, I will do my best
to make it worthwhile to you.”
Mr. Lehnsherr shuddered slightly as Charles’ mouth brushed his knuckles. He let
out a rapid exhalation and asked, “May I kiss you?”
Charles smiled. “You do not need to ask me. But yes.”
Mr. Lehnsherr placed his free hand on Charles’ neck, over his cravat, cradling
Charles’ head as he leaned forward and hesitantly touched his lips to Charles’.
His tentativeness made Charles smile. He freed his hands so he could grip the
lapels of the lord’s jacket and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. Mr.
Lehnsherr did not seem well-versed in such intimacy, uncertain as he was, but
there was something endearing in his shyness, something wonderful. He tasted
faintly of sweat and apples, an oddly sweet combination. Drinking him in,
Charles steered him to the bed, where he pushed him down gently onto the bed
and stepped back, breaking the kiss.
Mr. Lehnsherr was flushed, his eyes wide. He watched riveted as Charles
stripped off his jacket and pulled off his cravat. When he began to unbutton
his waistcoat, Mr. Lehnsherr reached up and stopped him with a hand on his
wrist.
“Please,” he said. “May I?”
Charles let go of the button and smiled again, as much in reassurance as in
amusement. “As I said, you need not ask.”
He was used to men undressing him quickly and roughly. Some men, though, liked
to take their time, exploring with their eyes as they pulled apart Charles’
garments one by one to reveal the pale skin underneath. Mr. Lehnsherr fell into
the latter category, his eyes roaming across Charles’ body as he tugged away
his waistcoat and then his shirt underneath. Once Charles’ torso was bare, Mr.
Lehnsherr paused, touching the faint freckles across Charles’ belly with
questing fingers. Charles held perfectly still for him, holding his breath.
He did not know what he expected from Mr. Lehnsherr’s scrutiny, but it was not
what he said next, which was, “You are too thin.”
Charles started as Mr. Lehnsherr’s fingers ran across his ribs, which were a
little too sharp and jutted slightly from his skin. Chagrined, he said, “I am
sorry if I am not what you expected. I assure you I can still service you
adequately—”
“That is not my concern,” Mr. Lehnsherr interrupted, his brow furrowed. “You
must not eat nearly enough.”
Charles almost laughed. He managed to restrain the sound in a tight smile as he
replied, “In these parts of the city, we are not the most well-fed of beings.
You ought not to worry. Would you like to finish undressing me?” When Mr.
Lehnsherr did not move, Charles’ smile faltered. “If my thinness is displeasing
to you—”
“You are not displeasing,” Mr. Lehnsherr breathed. “You are—you—” He looked
down, seemingly embarrassed. “I am sorry. I have never done this before.”
“Engaged in intercourse?” Charles guessed. A man with a rank such as Mr.
Lehnsherr was no doubt carefully watched and esteemed and, as such, had fewer
opportunities to indulge in his sexual appetites than a workingman of whom
little was expected. But with the sort of wealth that Mr. Lehnsherr seemed to
carry, there were doubtlessly maids in abundance around the estate, and likely
quite a few stable boys as well. It all depended, Charles supposed, on how
discreet Mr. Lehnsherr had been with his affections.
“I have,” Mr. Lehnsherr answered, his cheeks reddening, “but never with a man.”
He took a breath and settled his hands at the waistband of Charles’ trousers.
“You will have to tell me what to do.”
“You may do whatever you would like,” Charles murmured, charmed by how the
young lord looked to him for instruction. “There is no wrong way to go about
this. What makes you feel good is appropriate.”
After a moment of hesitation, Mr. Lehnsherr pulled Charles’ trousers down,
sliding them slowly down his legs and allowing them to pool at Charles’ ankles.
Once, Charles had felt shy, standing naked and so exposed to be examined. Now,
he stood unabashedly, waiting for Mr. Lehnsherr to look his fill. A shadow of
apprehension passed across the young lord’s face before he set his hands on
Charles’ hips and pulled Charles closer, so that his legs were bracketed by Mr.
Lehnsherr’s knees.
“You are…” Mr. Lehnsherr leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Charles’ stomach,
just under his ribs. He trailed his lips down across Charles’ skin, languidly,
exploring the slopes of his torso with his mouth. Charles placed his hands on
Mr. Lehnsherr’s shoulders and breathed shallowly through his nose, shivering
almost imperceptibly at the warm breath ghosting across his body. He could feel
his cock beginning to harden at the touch. Strange. He was not normally aroused
so quickly with so little. Then again, his clients were not customarily
considerate lovers; they did not often care whether or not Charles took
pleasure from their activities, so long as they themselves received what they
expected. But Mr. Lehnsherr was not throwing him down onto the bed and sliding
crudely into him. He was kissing a line down Charles’ side, soft and sweet, and
Charles could do nothing else but stand there and let him, shivering though the
room was warm with firelight.
“What would you like to do?” he asked into Charles’ hip.
“I told you, anything you would like.”
“But I am asking you what you would like.” Mr. Lehnsherr looked up at him, eyes
intent. “I am not certain how to proceed. Direct me.”
Charles hesitated for a brief moment, considering. Then he nodded and said,
“Lie back.”
Mr. Lehnsherr obeyed without question, stretching out onto the bed with his
head on the pillow and his body spread out tensely for Charles to see and
touch. Charles climbed onto the bed beside him and bent down to kiss him on the
lips, soft and slow. As he did, he began to undo Mr. Lehnsherr’s cravat,
pulling it free of its knot before working at the buttons on his waistcoat. The
fabric of his clothing was soft and rich beneath Charles’ fingers, and Charles
laid the cravat neatly aside, gesturing for Mr. Lehnsherr to sit back up so
Charles could slide off his jacket and waistcoat. The young lord was strongly
built, trim and well-muscled. He had a beautiful body hidden beneath his
apparel, long and slender and firm, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist
that tapered away into powerful thighs and lean legs. Charles exposed every bit
of him slowly, peeling away one layer of clothing at a time until at last the
lord was as naked as he, and they sat together on the bed, bare and intimate.
“What do you want me to do?” Mr. Lehnsherr asked into the silence.
“I think, to start,” Charles said, “I would like to put my mouth on you, if you
are amenable.”
Mr. Lehnsherr seemed confused by what he was asking, so he knelt between the
lord’s legs and bent so that his lips brushed the tip of his cock. Mr.
Lehnsherr gasped aloud, startled, and jerked as if to move away. “What are
you—”
Charles paused. “If you would not like me to pleasure you this way, you need
only tell me to stop. But I think you will like it, if you would let me try.”
Mr. Lehnsherr swallowed, his eyes wide. Then he nodded, and Charles bent his
head again, this time taking Mr. Lehnsherr into his mouth, tasting the faint
bitterness of the leaking at his slit. Above him, Mr. Lehnsherr moaned, his
hands clenching hard into the blankets around him. “Oh God,” he panted, “I have
never—I did not think—”
Charles pulled off him with a slow, long lick. “Are you all right?”
“Do not stop,” Mr. Lehnsherr gasped, his eyes gone dark with arousal. “Please
do not stop.”
Obligingly, Charles took him into his mouth again and began to suck
unhurriedly. Mr. Lehnsherr was well-endowed, and Charles did not think he could
swallow down his entire girth without choking. He made do with one hand on the
base of Mr. Lehnsherr’s cock, pumping in time with the pulls of his mouth.
Within minutes, Mr. Lehnsherr was lying nearly incoherent on the bed, his every
muscle tightened, his eyes riveted on Charles’ face and his mouth hanging open
with pleasure. He was breathing loudly, almost in gasps, and Charles was
aroused to see him so discomposed, so different from the stern-faced gentleman
who had first knocked on his door. He could not stop himself from rubbing his
own erection against the bed, seeking relief for a sort of burning need that he
had not felt in a long while. He moaned softly as his cock pressed between his
belly and the sheets, and Mr. Lehnsherr let out a quiet whine, his eyes fixing
themselves to the grind of Charles’ hips. How long it had been, since he had
received pleasure even as he gave it. It was slight and could bear no
comparison to a hand touching him or a mouth on him, but it was enough. It was
something.
Mr. Lehnsherr moaned his name again and again, and the sound of it tearing from
the man’s throat like a plea made Charles shudder with want. He had had his
fair share of attractive men in his bed, but none of them had looked at him
like Mr. Lehnsherr was looking at him now, with wide, honest eyes that filled
with nothing but pleasure and the slightest awe. He looked at Charles not as if
he were something dirty, something to be ashamed of, but as if he were precious
to behold. It was as unexpected as it was heartening, and that made Charles
want more than ever to please him, to repay his strange kindness in the only
way he knew how. He gentled his movements, allowing them to slow further into a
greater intimacy than the efficient, practiced pace with which he had begun. As
his lips slid up to the head of Mr. Lehnsherr’s thickness, the lord reached
down to weave long fingers in through his hair, pulling him closer.
“Charles,” he panted, his voice strained. “Please.” His words dissolved into a
wordless noise when Charles took him deep into his mouth again, allowing his
length to push in until it hit the back of his throat. He held the position for
a moment, his hand languidly pumping at the base of Mr. Lehnsherr’s cock. Those
dark eyes did not waver from his face for a second, so intent were they on the
sight of Charles’ lips pulled tight. Then Charles sucked, forceful and long,
and Mr. Lehnsherr came with a cry, his hips jerking helplessly as he spilled
his seed into Charles’ mouth, his pupils blown wide and his hand fisting almost
painfully in Charles’ hair. His entire body stiffened under Charles’ hands,
thighs drawn whipcord tight, muscles clenching in one arch of pleasure. Charles
rode out his orgasm patiently, coaxing him slowly back down from his high. He
sucked languidly until he was sure he had wrung every last drop of pleasure the
lord had it in him to give, and then he allowed Mr. Lehnsherr’s softening cock
to slip from his mouth.
For a long moment, he lay between Mr. Lehnsherr’s thighs, swallowing back the
taste of the man. Both of them panted into the silence of the night, Mr.
Lehnsherr more harshly than he. Without quite meaning to, he looked up and
placed one hand along Mr. Lehnsherr’s heaving ribs, feeling out the rise and
fall of his hot skin, covered over with a thin layer of sweat. Mr. Lehnsherr
released his grip on Charles’ hair and placed his newly-freed hand over
Charles’, pressing him in closer, so that Charles thought he could feel a
heartbeat, beating strongly against his palm.
“Thank you,” Mr. Lehnsherr said eventually, when he had recovered sufficiently
to speak. “That was…”
“You have no need to thank me,” Charles replied, his nose nudging the sharp
line of Mr. Lehnsherr’s hip. “I have only given you what you were due.”
Mr. Lehnsherr flushed, a rise of color that was noticeable even with his face
reddened from their exertions. Sitting up, he fumbled for his jacket, from
which he withdrew several monetary notes. “I am sorry,” he said, offering them
to Charles. “I did not inquire closely enough about your…about your fee. Have I
given you adequate payment or do I owe you still?”
Charles stared down at the notes in his hand. Five pounds. “You have given me
too much,” he protested, attempting to hand the money back. “I am worth only
twenty shillings.”
Mr. Lehnsherr’s eyes widened. “No. No, you are worth much more than that,
surely.” He pushed the notes into Charles’ hand. After a moment of hesitation,
he said quickly, almost as if in embarrassment, “I cannot give you pounds
enough to equal your worth. Five is a meager offering.”
For a moment, Charles’ breath stuck in his throat. He felt suddenly,
perilously, close to tears. “Why are you—why are you behaving so kindly toward
me?”
Mr. Lehnsherr appeared to think for a minute. Then he reached forward and
closed Charles’ fingers around the notes. “Because you are the first one to…to
make me feel that what I like is all right. I have hidden my preferences for
longer than I can remember. I have thought of myself as unnatural for so long,
but tonight, with you, it was not so.”
Charles smiled tentatively at him, and then, when the lord did not protest,
laid his hand over his. “You are not alone, Mr. Lehnsherr. You need not hide
with me.”
The man hesitated for a second, a deep gratitude in his eyes. Then he said,
“Erik.”
“Pardon?”
“Erik. That is my name.” Mr. Lehnsherr turned his hand so that he could slide
his fingers through Charles’. “Let us not hide behind titles either, if we are
to strip away all the masks.”
“Erik.” Charles’ heart pounded thrillingly against his chest. He had not felt
this warm in years. “Will you…will you come again?”
At that, Erik laughed, soft and amused. “You could not keep me away. Not after
what you have shown me tonight.” Then his smile faded somewhat as he glanced
over to the dusty clock that sat on the mantel. “But I must be off soon. I am
expected home.”
“Of course.” Disappointment sank into him, but he rose dutifully and helped
Erik back into his clothes and then attended to his own. He saw the lord to the
door, where Erik turned and hesitated on the threshold.
“May I see you next Tuesday?” he asked, almost shyly. “Will this same time be
convenient for you?”
“That will be perfect.”
“Good. Then I shall…I shall be off.” He lingered for a moment, his eyes drawing
up across Charles’ face as if memorizing him for further contemplation later.
Then he turned on his heel and started down the darkened hall, his tall,
elegant figure fading first into the shadows of the building and then into the
shadows of the night. Charles watched him go and then shut the door when he had
disappeared. Turning back to his flat, he felt a sudden, aching pang of
loneliness.
Next time he would be bolder, he thought as he banked the fire and climbed into
the bed, which was still warm with the imprint of Erik’s body and still filled
with Erik’s scent. Next time he would ask him to stay.  
***** Chapter 2 *****
ONE YEAR LATER
Mr. Lehnsherr, as always, arrived precisely on time. The clock over the mantel
had just struck ten o'clock when the knock came at the door, loud and ringing
in the silence that had pervaded the afternoon. Mr. Lehnsherr never liked for
Charles to take on clients within a few hours of their appointment; it was as
if he wanted to pretend that Charles was his and his alone, and Charles was
all-too-willing to indulge in that fantasy. It was not the idea that Mr.
Lehnsherr owned him that made Charles almost ache sometimes with longing. It
was the idea that they owned each other.
He set down his book and rose from the small, cramped desk that sat in the
darkest corner of the room. He would have liked it in the more brightly-lit
section near the window, but that was where the bed stood. Some of his clients
liked the way the sunlight fell over his shoulders, liked enough light to look
him in the face as they thrust into him. Their preferences were what kept him
in business and what kept his university fund growing, so he allowed them their
proclivities and pushed his desk to the unused corner where it would not
disturb them.
Mr. Lehnsherr had told him once he would ruin his eyesight sitting in the dark.
It was the first time since he had moved into this tiny flat that anyone had
cared enough to say anything.
The knock came again, and his stomach tightened with anticipation. He
straightened his waistcoat, tightened his cravat, and tried not to smile too
broadly as he opened the door.
"Good evening, Mr. Xavier," Mr. Lehnsherr said politely, sketching out a quick
bow.
Charles could not hold back his smile. "Mr. Lehnsherr," he returned, equally
polite as he bowed in return. At that, Mr. Lehnsherr smiled, too, eager and
amused, and Charles stepped back to allow him entry.
Charles' flat was merely one room with an adjacent washroom. From the doorway,
it was only a handful of paces to the bed, which many clients were glad for, so
impatient were they to bed Charles and have their money's worth. But Mr.
Lehnsherr never went for the bed first; no, he lingered here and there, as if
seeing the room anew each time, studying the faded pictures on the mantelpiece
and bending over to peer at the titles of the books stacked neatly on the
darkened corner desk.
He was impossibly handsome, Charles thought as he watched the young lord
inspect the book he had set down on the desk earlier. And Charles was
impossibly fond of him.
"Fontenelle?" he said, holding up the volume in question.
"Fascinating book," Charles replied, grinning. "Plurality of worlds—it sounds
almost like a fairytale, does it not? Life on the moon. Planets like ours. I
find it enthralling."
He would never have elaborated with other clients, fearing he would speak out
of turn, but Mr. Lehnsherr seemed to take special pleasure in hearing Charles'
voice. He smiled now and said, "I find you enthralling."
Charles glanced away, embarrassed and flattered. "You give me so many kind
words, sir. You need not; your money buys my cooperation for as long as you
will it."
Mr. Lehnsherr laid the book back down and stepped closer, bringing his hand up
to cup Charles' jaw. "Could I not buy your cooperation with kind words
instead?"
He shivered at the touch and closed his eyes. "My cooperation requires no
price," he said honestly. "For you, I will go willingly."
"Then come," Mr. Lehnsherr whispered. He tugged Charles closer by the ends of
his cravat and kissed him.
Mr. Lehnsherr had a peculiar way of kissing. Some men did not like to kiss at
all. Most, ashamed of what they were doing and with whom, preferred to use him
as quickly as possible, throw money at him as they pulled their clothes back
on, and rush out the door with their faces averted, as if they were afraid
Charles would recognize them. Some enjoyed dominating him, kissing him with
bruising force and throwing him down onto the bed as if every movement was a
battle and every mark they left on his skin a victory. But Mr. Lehnsherr kissed
gently, slowly, as if they had all the time in the world and as if this one
kiss was the memory he would take from each night—not the penetration, not the
searing orgasms, not the breathless, boneless moments in between, but this
kiss: lips sealed together, breaths shared in the dim, hot space of the flat, a
fully-dressed intimacy that Charles had never known with anyone else.
"Erik," he breathed when they parted, just an inch of space between their
faces. He was always "Erik" when they touched, never Mr. Lehnsherr. It was an
added layer of informality and something close to friendship that Charles did
not dare examine too closely, lest he find disappointment within. Most men
never called him by name. The most vicious snarled "whore" and "slut" in his
ear as they pushed into him, angry with him as if he had seduced them into his
flat, when in truth they had come to him. He addressed them all by "sir" one by
one, sometimes "master" when they required it. But Mr. Lehnsherr he called
"Erik" and he was returned his name in kind.
"Charles," Erik breathed back, his eyes bright and his smile reckless. "Come,
come, to bed."
He went gladly, spread out on his back for Erik to cover, except Erik sat by
his side instead and tugged at his hip. Confused and intrigued, Charles sat up.
"I want to try something different tonight," Erik said, caressing his knee as
he spoke.
Charles loosened his cravat, deft fingers untying the knot with the speed of
practice. "Anything."
Erik pulled his own cravat free of his neck and laid it on the bedside table
next to the unlit candle. He stripped off his jacket next and began to unbutton
his waistcoat. He always undressed himself with simple efficiency, considering
it an avenue between dressed and nude, nothing more. But Charles—oh, when he
undressed Charles, he did so slowly, like he was exploring uncharted territory
that he wanted to commit to memory forever. His fingers traced the lines of
Charles' freckles and followed them with kisses, each warm press of lips a
searing brand against his skin. He imagined that were it possible to read words
on bodies like books, his would read Erik at every curve.
Erik reached for him tonight but did not push him down. He was already naked
himself when he began to undo the buttons of Charles' waistcoat, which was
frayed at the hems and not nearly as marvelously embroidered as Erik's own.
Erik, as well as other men, had offered to buy him new clothes before, but he
was not a charity case. He would wear his own clothes with as much dignity as
he had left. It was not as if many of them noticed anyway, so eager were they
to strip his garments from him. But after his first refusal, Erik had not
offered to buy him gifts again. Erik understood the value of pride. He ran his
hands now over Charles' old, mended trousers and his faded jacket, his
expression neither condescending nor pitying, merely fond. Charles smiled at
him and held still as Erik pulled his clothes apart, one item at a time:
cravat, then jacket, then waistcoat, then shirt, then trousers. When they were
both bare, they climbed onto the bed together, pushing back the covers. Charles
sat by the headboard, awaiting Erik's word.
"I would like," Erik said, kissing Charles' shoulder as he did, "for you to
take your pleasure from me tonight."
"I always take pleasure from you," Charles sighed, pressing his lips to the
crown of Erik's head.
"I mean that I would like you to fuck me tonight," Erik clarified. "Forgive my
language."
Charles went very still. For almost two years now he had been selling his body,
and he had never once been asked this. He had rarely been asked anything, only
ordered.
He took a breath. “I am not certain I could do it,” he said quietly.
“I will guide you through it,” Erik replied, pulling on his arm as he lay back
so that Charles hovered over him. “Please. I would like to do this for you.”
“This is not about me,” Charles told him, brow furrowing.
Erik laughed. He so rarely laughed that each instance was a sight to behold,
and this time, it momentarily stole Charles’ breath away. “Do you not
understand, Charles?” he asked, amused. “It is always about you.” His eyes were
soft and warm as they traced the lines of Charles’ face. “Do this for me, if
not for yourself.”
Charles hesitated a moment longer before acquiescing. There was not truly much
of a choice; for Erik, there was very little he would not do. “Tell me what to
do.”
At Erik’s behest, he took the tin from the drawer in the bedside table and
slicked his fingers with it. He had watched his clients do this many times
over, but he had seldom done it himself, and never to another person. Erik let
his legs fall open and directed Charles to settle between them. Hesitantly,
Charles ran his fingers down the crease of Erik’s arse, pleased when he
elicited a sharp gasp. Carefully, he slipped in one finger, watching Erik’s
face for signs of distress. Erik clenched his jaw and winced but did not signal
for him to stop. So he worked his finger in deeper, fighting the tight press of
Erik’s body, stretching him open as he himself had been stretched open so many
times before, and with far less care. He knew the initial pain of being
penetrated, by fingers or by cock, so he tried to lessen the pressure as much
as he could, working in another finger and scissoring slowly so that Erik might
accustom himself to the burn.
“Tell me if I am hurting you,” he murmured.
“It will take more than your fingers to hurt me,” Erik replied, his lips tilted
up in a smirk.
“You are an arrogant devil,” Charles muttered, spreading Erik wide on his
fingers. His cock hung heavy and hard between his legs, aroused by the thought
of pushing into the same heat his fingers now occupied. Erik’s cock, normally
stiff with barely a touch, was flagging now, no doubt due to the discomfort.
Charles wondered if he should stop, if Erik would back away before they went
any further.  He would not mind; this night was not his, it was Erik’s, bought
and paid for. But Erik did nothing, except to spread his legs a little wider to
ease the pressure and take hold of Charles’ free hand, bringing it up to his
mouth for a soft, burning kiss.
“I think,” Charles said at last, as amazed at Erik’s patience as much as at his
own; he was hard and leaking, eager to be touched. Erik had evidently found
some pleasure in his fingers, for his erection had returned full-force,
 curving up toward his belly. “I think you are ready. How do you feel?”
“As ready as I ever shall be,” Erik answered, shifting slightly and then
stifling a groan as the motion pushed Charles’ fingers deeper into him. Charles
waited a moment before pulling his fingers free from Erik’s body, watching
Erik’s face spasm as his body clenched around emptiness.
“Are you sure you want this?” Charles persisted, taking his cock in hand and
leaning forward between Erik’s legs. It would be difficult for him to stop, so
close to taking Erik as he was, so powerful was the arousal pumping through his
very blood, but he would stop if Erik asked. 
“I am sure,” Erik replied hazily, “that in this moment, I want nothing else.”
In response, Charles laid the head of his cock against Erik’s slick hole and
pushed forward. The resistance of Erik’s body, even with the fingering, was
almost too tight, but he continued to press steadily in until the tip of his
cock breached Erik’s entrance, drawing groans from them both. Charles sank
deeper into Erik, deeper and deeper until he could sink no more, and then he
stopped, panting with the pleasure of being buried so fully in another person,
of being engulfed in Erik as Erik had so often been engulfed in him.
“Are you—” he asked, his legs trembling with the effort to hold still.
“I am all right,” Erik answered before he could finish, though his voice
sounded strained. “Go on, I am fine.”
“Erik…” He saw sweat beading on Erik’s brow, saw the pinched set of his mouth.
“Please do not lie to me.”
Erik’s chest rose unsteadily as he took a breath. “I am not lying. I will be
fine.”
Charles huffed out a breath. “Then I will wait until you are.”  
A look of exasperation crossed Erik’s face. “You are irritatingly stubborn.”
Now Charles laughed, breathlessly. “So you have told me often.” His arms were
beginning to burn from holding his weight off Erik. He leaned back slightly to
shift the strain to his legs and in doing so pulled an inch out of Erik. He
could not muffle the soft moan that escaped his throat at the delicious
friction, though he tried.
“Stop that,” Erik said.
Charles froze. “Stop what?”
“Stop censoring yourself. I like your voice too much to hear it stifled.”
“You are far too fond of my voice,” Charles panted with a smile.
“I am far too fond of your everything,” Erik returned, rolling his hips
experimentally. The movement pushed Charles all the way back in, and this time
Charles let his groan out, loud and wanton. He rocked his hips into Erik
slowly, feeling pleasure beginning to pool at the base of his spine. The wet
heat of Erik’s body was glorious. He had fucked girls before, but those had
been serving girls, wenches as young and inexperienced as he. Erik was
different; Erik was strong and insistent underneath him, wrapping his legs
around Charles’ waist and drawing him deeper and deeper, wanting everything
Charles could give and more. Charles’ cautiousness disappeared upon seeing
Erik’s eagerness, and he plunged into Erik again and again, moaning through
gritted teeth as Erik’s tight hole took him, with difficulty at first but then
with greater ease with every thrust. The friction was perfect, the pleasure
blinding. He whimpered as his hips snapped forward, and Erik began to let out
low, pleasured sounds, his mouth going slack, his hands gripped white-knuckled
in the bed-sheets. Then Charles arched upwards, driving deep as he could, and
Erik cried out hoarsely. Charles had never heard him scream before and nearly
stopped in astonishment, but Erik gasped out, “There, again,” and Charles
repeated the motion until Erik moaned, his eyes rolling back, his head thrown
into the pillow, exposing the long, sweaty column of his neck. Charles could
not help himself; he leaned down and licked at the sweat collecting at the base
of Erik’s throat, slowing his thrusts to an excruciating grind. Erik released
his hold on the bed-sheets to pull him down closer so that he could suck a kiss
onto Charles’ neck, just underneath his jaw where the cravat would hide it.
Charles never allowed any of his clients to mark him—it made for bad business,
as no man ever wanted to deal with used product—but he did not stop Erik now.
He was placing his mark on Charles’ neck as surely as he had placed one on
Charles’ heart, long before either of them had ever realized it.
It was a quick finish after that, Charles unable to maintain the slow rhythm.
He slammed into Erik’s body rapidly, punching wet gasps from Erik’s mouth, and
then, when Erik deliberately clenched tight around him, he came with a loud
cry, spilling himself hard into Erik. Almost too boneless to move and dizzy
with pleasure, he retained enough presence of mind to wrap his hand around
Erik’s cock and jerk him to his climax. Erik thrust mindlessly into the circle
of his fingers until he stiffened and came, mouth open in a quiet, gasping moan
as his seed spurted over Charles’ fingers and onto his belly.
They remained there for a moment: Charles half-collapsed over Erik, both of
them panting harshly in the otherwise-silent night. The flat was sweltering,
caught as it was in the summer’s heat, but there could be nothing better than
being pressed close like this, skin to skin in a forbidden pleasure that they
hid from the world. 
“How—” Erik said at last, when he had caught his breath. “How was it?”
Charles looked down at him, at the loose sprawl of his body with Charles still
buried inside him, at the white come painting his lean stomach, at the sweaty,
satisfied smile that showed too many teeth.
“Perfection,” he breathed. There was no other word for it. “You are
perfection.”
Erik arched up to kiss him, palms curving warmly around his flushed face, lips
gentle against his. With some difficulty, Charles pulled free of him, both of
them sighing as they separated, wet seed running from Erik’s arse down the
crease of his thigh. Charles meant to get up to fetch a cloth from the washroom
to clean themselves off, but Erik took his hand and would not let him go.
“We will soil the sheets,” Charles murmured, sitting back down next to Erik,
who lay languidly on his back.
Erik’s eyes flashed, his muscles tensing. “And we cannot have that, can we?” he
said, his voice suddenly harsh. “You must be clean and virginal every time, for
every man who parades through this bed, for every man for whom you will lie
back and spread your legs.”
Charles drew back, stung. Flushed now with anger and with mute shame, he slid
off the bed and walked to the washroom. He had several cloths tucked into the
cupboard, ones he washed meticulously after every use. He took one of these now
and paused for a moment to examine his reflection in the cracked, dusty mirror.
His hair was ruffled, his skin slick with sweat. When he tilted his jaw up, he
could see the beginnings of a dark bruise on his neck where Erik had set his
lips and sucked. What sweet words men could say in the throes of passion. But
it was the mean-spirited judgment that came after that Charles always
remembered best.
When he returned, Erik was sitting up by the headboard, his expression
contrite. “I am sorry.”
“For a man so kind to me, you can be exceptionally cruel,” Charles remarked
quietly, passing him the cloth. He waited by the bed until Erik was finished
wiping himself clean and then took the cloth back to the washroom, where he
left it in the bucket of well-drawn water that sat by the door.
“I am sorry,” Erik said again, his voice softened at the edges. “I am not sure
what came over me.” He shook his head. “No, I am sure. It was a bout of
jealousy, nothing more.”
Charles sighed heavily. “A man in your position cannot afford to be jealous
over a whore.”
“Do not say that,” Erik said, his brows drawing together in consternation. “You
hate the word.”
“It is what I am.”
Erik stood and came to him, naked still, long and lithe. He gripped Charles by
his upper arms, bending slightly to look him in the eye. “You are…breathtaking.
You are kind, you are intelligent, and you are brave. No man could call you a
whore on the worst of days, no matter how you must earn your keep. And I am
your friend. Any fool who cares to speak ill of you must see his way through me
first.”
Charles’ chest felt impossibly tight. He had to swallow past a lump in his
throat before he could speak. “You are too kind,” he said, shaking his head.
“With words like that, you could win any lady you fancied. Do not waste your
affections on me.”
“I could not waste anything on you,” Erik replied. “Waste is unappreciated, but
you receive my words so gladly.”
“Because I am a fool.”
“Then we are both fools.”
Charles laughed once, helplessly. “What can I say, when you have a riposte in
mind for every occasion?”
“You need not say anything,” Erik answered, leading him back to bed. “You need
only stay here with me.”
Sweet words, and Charles followed them like a child after the Pied Piper. Few
men stayed after they had taken their fill of Charles, and those who did were
never quite comfortable. They were afraid of being caught, though Charles was
near certain that he was discreet enough to avoid detection. Most of his
clients were middle-class citizens, those who desired a step above a molly
house and enjoyed the illusion of a lover reserved solely for them. They always
looked out-of-place in Charles’ flat, too tense to ever fit. But Erik—wealthy
lordling as he was, Erik folded himself into Charles’ shadowy, moldy flat as if
he could belong nowhere else, relaxed as if he were lounging in his own home. 
Charles settled into Erik’s arms and drew the covers up around them. There was
only one pillow but they shared it comfortably, faces set close enough for
their noses to touch. As the night drew in around them, he breathed in Erik’s
scent and sighed, sated and content.
“Tell me more about Fontenelle,”  Erik said, his lips brushing Charles’ cheek.
“Mm,” Charles hummed. “He was a fascinating man. Quite the rebel of his time
and cunning enough not to be caught. He posited about the vastness of the
universe, about possibilities in the stars.”
“Possibilities in the stars,” Erik murmured. “I like the sound of that.”
“As do I.”
“Then tell me more.”
So Charles did.
 
                                       *
                                        
One night, after they had made love slowly in the dark, after they had lit a
candle and sat naked on Charles’ bed so they could pass back and forth a bottle
of wine that Erik had brought, Erik said to Charles, “I will take you away from
this.”
Slightly intoxicated, Charles leaned his head against his shoulder and asked,
“What?”
“From this,” Erik repeated, waving his hand vaguely in a motion that Charles
thought was meant to encompass Charles’ flat, the street, this life. “I will
take you to Spain. To France. To Italy, if you would like. When I have my
inheritance, I will take you anywhere you would like.”
“I would like to go to Oxford,” Charles told him.
“I will pay for your education,” Erik promised solemnly. His eyes were vague;
he had drunk more than Charles. “Wherever you wish to go, I will fund you.”
“You are inebriated,” Charles said gently, taking the bottle from him. “You do
not know what you are saying.”
“I know exactly what I am saying,” Erik retorted, forever stubborn.
“You do not know how many men have promised me similar things.”
Erik stiffened, as Charles knew he would. Even now, Charles was astonished at
the depth of Erik’s affection for him, that he would feel jealous at losing
Charles to another party, no matter how inevitable it was, given Charles’
profession. And Charles loved him for it, loved that he loved Charles enough to
want to stake a claim, to promise to take Charles away from this place and mean
it.
“And how many,” Erik said after a moment, clearly struggling to control himself
and his words, “of those men would you have gone with, had they intended to
follow through?”
“None,” Charles answered honestly. He had learned what disappointment meant in
his early days in this flat, when he had still been naïve enough to trust
senseless words. Now he knew better. “They gave me empty words, hollow
assurances. They could no more take me from here than they could turn back
time.”
“But I will,” Erik said softly, kissing Charles’ jaw, then his neck. His words,
uttered so confidently, slurred at the corners, and his breath smelled sweet
and lovely. “I love you.”
So simple a phrase, so powerful an impact. Charles felt shaken to his soul, as
he did every time Erik stated his feelings so boldly, without shame or deceit
or hesitation. He took Erik’s face between his hands and kissed his lips,
tasting the wine that had loosened his tongue enough that he would give Charles
these wonderful, heart-racing, endless dreams.
No, Erik had not been the first to make Charles promises. But he was the first
that Charles believed.  
 
                                       *
                                        
Tonight, Erik was late. Charles sat straight-backed on the edge of the bed,
waiting. He had a book open on his lap, but he was not reading it; rather, his
eyes were watching the hands on the clock, observing them as they signaled 10:
05, then 10:15.
At last, at half past ten, a sharp knock echoed through the flat. Charles
sprang up, his heart pounding, and set his book down on the bed before
straightening his cravat and hurrying to the door.
Erik stood on the other side, drenched and shivering.
“My God,” Charles said, stepping aside. “Come in before you drown.”
Erik stalked in, his stride angry. He stood only on the threshold, keeping his
arms trapped tightly to his side as if to avoid wetting Charles’ flat any more
than necessary. Charles fetched linens from the cupboard in the washroom and
handed them over to Erik, who took them gratefully and began to dry himself
off.
“I thought you might have gotten waylaid in the storm,” Charles said, sitting
on the edge of his desk as Erik wiped at his face. “I was worried.”
“I took the horse,” Erik said shortly. “The coach could not weather the storm.”
Charles frowned. “You needn’t have come. It is dangerous to ride in a torrent
such as this.”
“I wanted to come,” Erik replied. His tone was still curt, jagged at the edges
with ire. Charles studied him warily, wondering if any of that anger was meant
for him and wondering what he might have done to provoke such antagonism. At
his cautious glance, Erik let out a sigh, and the tension in his shoulders
eased slightly, though his scowl remained fixed in place. “I do not mean to
frighten you. My mood is not of import.”
“You are upset.”
“I am.”
“Is it any fault of mine?”
Surprise broke through the glower. Erik looked directly at him for the first
time since he had entered the flat, his eyes wide. “Fault of yours? No, of
course not. I am not cross with you. I am cross with my uncle.”
“Your uncle.” Charles recalled vague memories of one of their early
rendezvouses, when Erik had told him that his uncle, serving as his guardian,
had held onto his inheritance after his parents had passed and was entrusted
with it until Erik turned twenty-one. “Mr. Shaw?”
Erik nodded, his usual grace turned jerky with agitation. “He is being
difficult.”
Reassured that he was not the cause of Erik’s distress, Charles moved closer,
taking the cloth from Erik’s hand and wiping the water from his neck as it ran
down his chin to his cravat, which was now soaked and dirty with rainwater.
“You should not have come,” he chided. “You are going to fall ill.”
“I could not stay there,” Erik bit out. “Not with him. And I could not think of
anywhere else to go.”
Charles scoffed. “You have friends.”
Erik met his eyes, and the heat in his gaze cooled. “They do not understand me
as you do.”
“I know very little about you,” Charles replied, brows furrowing.
Erik shrugged. “Knowing is one thing. Understanding is quite another.” 
At that, Charles laughed. “Have you become a philosopher while I was not
looking?”
“No more than usual,” Erik said, a tiny quirk to his lips. Charles set the
cloth aside and reached for Erik’s cravat, tugging the sodden fabric aside and
letting it fall from his fingers. Then he worked on Erik’s jacket, then his
waistcoat. He could feel Erik’s eyes on him as he moved, stripping him quickly
from his wet clothes. There was nothing seductive in the action, only function;
he could see Erik trembling from the cold. It would be best to get him into dry
conditions as soon as possible.
“Sit,” he instructed once he had rid Erik of his clothes. Erik gave him an
amused look before obeying, perching on the end of the bed before Charles
shooed him under the covers. As Erik settled, Charles knelt by the fireplace
and roused the fire from smoldering coals to full-flame. The darkness in the
room receded, inch by inch. When the fire was hot against his face, he stood
and began to undress himself methodically.
“You need not,” Erik said from the bed. His hair was still wet, his teeth
clenched against the cold.
“I need not…?” Charles echoed as he peeled off his breeches.
“The only pleasure I seek tonight is your company.”
Charles paused in confusion. “You are paying for this night, as you do every
Tuesday.”
Erik nodded. “I am. But tonight, I want to be with you. Simply be.”
He was still perplexed. Wearing only his shirt now, he stood at the foot of the
bed and said slowly, “Tell me what to do.”
“Come here,” Erik said, nodding to the empty side of the bed. “Come sit with
me.”
Charles climbed onto the bed and slipped under the covers by his side. After a
moment of hesitation, he leaned up and kissed the corner of Erik’s lips, very
lightly. Normally, he was never the active partner in any relation; he was paid
to lie back and endure, not to initiate. But Erik never treated him as the
lesser party in their arrangement, and because of that, Charles was not afraid
of stealing a kiss, of touching Erik unbidden.
With a sigh, Erik turned his head toward him so that their lips brushed. “My
uncle wishes me to marry,” Erik murmured against his mouth.
Charles drew back with a sharp breath. “What?”
“I am of prime age to marry,” Erik said, bitterness twisting the familiar lines
of his face. “My uncle has been taking me around the circles to introduce me to
viable candidates. He arranged for me to meet with one for dinner tomorrow, and
I refused to attend. He is furious with me, and I with him. He simply wants her
dowry, I know it. He has already squandered much of my parents’ wealth; his
greed is insatiable. He cares not that I do not wish to be married. His only
concern is that I find a noble wife before I am too old to tempt any girl.”
Charles remained silent for a long moment. Then he said through the solid lump
lodged in his throat, “You should meet with her.”
Erik stared at him, shocked. “Why?”
“Who knows? You may like her—”
“Never,” Erik said vehemently. “I love you, Charles. They may call it
unnatural, they may call it illegal and perverse, but I know I love you and I
cannot change it.”
“I do not doubt it. I love you also.” Then he added, with difficulty, “But we
both know this cannot last.”
“Do not say that,” Erik said, shaking his head. “Do not say that. This will
last. The road may be arduous, but it can be travelled.”
“Erik, Erik,” Charles said, his throat tight. “Oh, how you dream of the most
brilliant, impossible things. You make me almost believe them myself. But you
should think of the future. I should not be a part of yours.”
“Why not?” Erik asked, his expression obstinate.
“Well—it is—it is unrealistic,” Charles stammered, his brow crinkling. “You ask
such inane questions. You know two men cannot—that even if I were not a—a boy
who offers his body for money, even if I were a lord such as yourself, we would
never be able to…” He shook his head helplessly. He felt dangerously on the
edge of something dark and painful. “Do not speak of impossible dreams,” he
begged. “You will make a believer of me.”
“That is all I want,” Erik whispered, sliding his hand around to Charles’ nape
to cradle his head as he kissed him, slow and sweet. And Charles could not
resist, he could not pull away, Erik called and he came, Erik spoke and he
believed. It was reckless, it was foolish, but it felt, in that moment, as if
there was truly a way to go, as if so long as they were willing to brave the
darkness together, they would find light.
 
                                       *
                                        
The next time they met, every touch felt wondrous and new. Erik laid Charles
out on the bed and kissed him soundly, breathed him in as he spread his legs
and pushed into him. They made love slowly, just the slightest rocking of their
hips, and the pleasure between them built gradually to a crest, stuck to them
like the sweat on their skin as they breathed raggedly into each other and
strove toward an endless dawn.
Later, as they lay drowsy and entangled, Charles closed his eyes and said, “In
France, I should like to see the Louvre. I have read that it is magnificent.”
He felt Erik’s smile more than saw it. “When we go to France, our itinerary
shall be your choice.”
“I have been thinking, too,” Charles continued, “about what I want to study at
Oxford.”
“Philosophy?”
“Natural philosophy. Some call it science.” Charles shrugged. “I find it all
fascinating. Empirical studies, what we might discover with the power of
observation rather than speculation, the sorts of things nature is capable
of…How bizarre they might seem to the unread, and how extraordinary.”
Erik traced a finger down Charles’ cheek to the line of his jaw. “That sounds
excellent. Are you to be the next Fontenelle of the world?”
“Oh, I could only aspire to be,” Charles laughed. “No, I do not wish to be
revolutionary. I only wish to be learned.”
“Then learned you shall be,” Erik vowed. He kissed Charles’ bare shoulder, one
hand trailing down to brush his thumb over Charles’ left nipple. Charles
shivered at the contact and ran his own hand down to grip the lean curve of
Erik’s arse. Erik’s erection nudged against his hip, and he could feel his own
stirring, newly-interested. They rolled so that Charles straddled Erik’s narrow
waist, Erik stretched out gloriously beneath him. He ground back and listened
to Erik groan as his cock rode the crack of Charles’ arse.
“How do you fancy a ride, Mr. Lehnsherr?” Charles asked archly, smiling.
Erik’s broad hands gripped his hips tightly. “How are you at riding, Mr.
Xavier?”
“Oh, the best.”
Erik grinned, too, toothy and sharp. “Allow me to assess the validity of that
statement.”
Charles laughed and nodded, and Erik laughed, too, and Charles thought in that
moment that his heart had never been lighter, that he had never felt freer, and
that for the first time in his life, he might finally have found something that
would last.
 
                                       *
                                        
Erik came in a dark humor the following week.
“It is my uncle,” he said without preamble as he took off his jacket and laid
it over the small chair beside the desk. “He has made it his priority to marry
me off. I have seen six ladies in the last three days. It is intolerable. He
does not understand.”
“He could not understand,” Charles said reasonably. “It would be dangerous if
he knew.”
“It would,” Erik agreed, pulling restlessly at his waistcoat. “I have no other
recourse than to be as irritatingly obstinate as possible until he capitulates.
He is persistent but I can be more so.”
He sank down on the bed and waited, but Charles hesitated by the fireplace.
When Erik lifted an eyebrow inquiringly, Charles forced a smile and said, “Let
us try tonight with my clothes on. Come, it will be an adventure.”
But Erik frowned. “You do not look well, and you have not come near me since I
came in. Are you ill?”
Charles was glad for the natural darkness of the flat, glad for the way it hid
his face. Erik could read him too well in the light. “I am fine. I would merely
like to try something new.”
“All right,” Erik said slowly. “Come here.”
Charles went to him, allowing Erik to press him back into the thin mattress and
kiss his mouth. His eyes fell closed, and he breathed shallowly, intent on
preserving moments like these so that the gentleness with which Erik handled
him would remain imprinted on his mind forever. He had never truly appreciated
this enough, he thought as Erik pressed slick fingers into him. Erik was so
very kind, so very tender. Tonight, Charles was more aware of it than usual,
was firmly conscious of how carefully Erik prepared him before easing into him,
how thoughtfully Erik took Charles’ cock in hand and stroked in time with his
thrusts, so that Charles took pleasure from him, too. When he came, it was with
a breathless cry, spilling himself over Erik’s palm, and Erik groaned and fell
with him, burying himself deep into Charles’ heat.
Erik pulled out slowly, and when his eyes met Charles’, they were concerned.
“You are not sick, are you?”
Charles shook his head.
“Something is wrong.” Erik laid the back of his wrist against Charles’
forehead, though that was a useless gesture, as they were both sweating from
their exertions. “You are normally far from quiet in bed, but you did not make
a sound tonight. Tell me, what is it?”
Charles swallowed. “It is nothing.”
“Charles—”
“It is nothing.”
He made to sit up, but the motion made him wince and Erik saw it immediately.
“I did not hurt you, did I?” he demanded, clearly distressed. “Let me see—”
As he reached out, Charles yanked himself away, but when he did so, his cravat,
which had come loose of its knot when Erik had caught his fingers in it as he
pushed steadily into Charles, slipped free of his neck. Erik sucked in a sharp,
furious breath, his eyes pinned on the exposed skin.
“No,” he said, nearly inaudibly, “it was not I who hurt you, was it.”
It was not a question. Charles bent to pick up his cravat and turned away.
“Please—”
“I will not pretend I did not see that,” Erik said, angry. He stood as Charles
did and followed him to the dark corner of the room, by the desk. He was naked
and still he seemed more authoritative than Charles did, fully-clothed. He
jerked the cravat from Charles’ hand and tossed it next to the stack of books.
Then he reached out and touched Charles’ jaw. “Look at me.”
“Do not,” Charles said tiredly. “There is nothing to be done now.”
“Look at me. Please.”
Erik, when he set his mind to something, was impossible to dissuade. So Charles
steeled himself and turned so that the firelight fell across his front, trying
not to grimace as Erik inhaled rapidly, his face going pale. Shock and then
horror and then rage cycled through his expression in quick succession, and
Charles fought the urge to shy away from the scrutiny. He knew what Erik saw:
five dark bruises ringing his neck, corresponding to five fat fingers, dark
shadows against the paleness of his skin. 
“Please do not be upset,” Charles said when Erik did not speak. “Not every man
is as considerate as you, and this is not the first time you have seen evidence
of the fact. I am fine.”
“Come here,” Erik said, his voice tight. “Let me see you.”
Reluctantly, Charles allowed himself to be drawn nearer to the fire and pushed
down onto the bed. Erik pulled the wooden, stiff-backed chair from behind the
desk and sat across from him, tilting his jaw up with a careful touch.
“Who did this to you?” he asked, anger threaded through his voice.
“You know I will not tell you,” Charles murmured. “I do not want you involved.”
“I am already involved. I am your—your—” He took a short breath. “I love you,
and it hurts me to see you hurt.”
Charles’ heart clenched. It was both strange and wonderful to be worth
someone’s concern. The weight of Erik’s regard for Charles, and of Charles’ for
Erik, staggered him constantly. “It is the nature of what I do,” he said
quietly. “I cannot change that.”
Helpless anger flashed across Erik’s face. “If I had my inheritance already, I
would take you away from this in a heartbeat. I would tear apart any man who
would dare to lay a hand on you.”
“My dear,” Charles whispered, taking Erik’s hands in his, “I am sure you
would.”
Erik glowered for a moment more, nearly vibrating with rage. Then, as he
sighed, the fury leached from his body, and he sagged forward, laying his head
against Charles’ shoulder. “One year more,” he said into Charles’ jacket. “Wait
one year more, and we shall be free from this.”
“One year,” Charles agreed, unwilling to believe but doing so anyway. What a
terrible, wonderful thing hope was. It was difficult to imagine leaving this
place and escaping the life he had been leading for the last two years. Before
he had met Erik, he had thought more than once that he would not survive to see
his seventeenth birthday. But he had, and now, here, it was not difficult to
imagine this: Erik’s warmth by his side for all the foreseeable future, an
ever-present lifeline keeping him afloat in the sweeping tides of change. It
was only one more year before Erik would turn twenty-one, of age to claim his
inheritance from his uncle, and when he did, they would be able to close the
door on this chapter of their lives and start anew. Charles had survived a year
in this flat without Erik and another with him. Now, buoyed by the strength of
their bond, they could weather one last year.
Eventually, they migrated back to the bed, slipping under the covers together,
where Erik pressed soft kisses to the bruises along his neck, as if he could
erase them with his lips and retake what his nameless enemy had claimed. But he
need not have worried, for his every touch, from his kisses to the barest brush
of his fingers, left far deeper marks on Charles than any bruise could, and it
would not matter how many men painted evidence of their passing across Charles’
skin; he was only ever, now and for always, Erik’s.
 
                                       *
                                        
It was four weeks later that Erik missed their Tuesday appointment. Charles sat
at his desk until eleven o’clock, at which time he got up and paced the short
distance from his door to his bed, anxious and wondering if he should go out
and look for Erik. This was not the most dangerous of neighborhoods, but it was
not particularly safe either, not at night and not for a well-dressed gentleman
travelling alone. He went to the door, agonized for a long few minutes, and
then decided to stay. Perhaps Erik was merely late, and Charles did not want
him to arrive at an empty flat when he came.
But he did not come. The clock showed midnight, then one, then two. Charles
fell asleep in his chair at the desk and woke up with an aching back and stiff
muscles six hours later, when dawn began to streak through the cracked shades
on the windows. There was no sign of Erik, only Charles and the musty light of
morning illuminating the bed that he had carefully made up in preparation for
their night together.
He had no time to even worry; his first client of the morning arrived at half
past eight, and there was nothing to be done but go about his day as if nothing
was wrong.
It was in that time that he realized how very little he actually knew about
Erik. He knew Erik’s name, his uncle’s name, and the fact that Erik was to
inherit a handsome sum within the next year, but he did not know where Erik
lived or any of his friends or how he might be contacted. Charles could not
contact him anyway, for fear of their affair being discovered, but it
frightened him to think that Erik could one day disappear entirely from his
life and he would have no way of knowing what had happened.
Erik would not have left him. They had made promises to each other, the sorts
that could not be broken. There had been dreams, so many of them, and Erik
would not have thrown them away with so little warning, would not have thrown
them away at all because he loved Charles and Charles loved him, and there was
only one year left before Charles would be free of this place, free to be
Erik’s entirely.
He was being dramatic. His clients missed appointments all the time; sometimes
they forgot or they took ill or they could not sneak past their wives. Erik
could be sick, for all Charles knew, laid up in bed with a fever. It was not a
happy thought, but it was happier than abandonment, and Charles hoped Erik was
all right and in good health, and that next Tuesday would see him to Charles’
door again.
But a letter came instead, that night, by a young, dirty-faced boy who had
likely been plucked off the side of the street and given a coin to deliver an
envelope discreetly. At his knock, Charles opened the door and took the letter
from him, confused. Before he could ask any questions, the boy had scampered
back off, disappearing around the corner and down the stairs.
He looked down at the envelope to see his name written in an unfamiliar hand.
Frowning, he shut the door and walked to his desk, pulling the letter from the
envelope as he did. The paper was crisp and thick under his fingers, indicative
of a wealthy sender. But it bore no discernible seal on the outside, just a
dribbling of wax with no inlaid pattern that could offer any hints regarding
from whom the letter came. Charles pulled the chair from the desk nearer to the
low fire, stirred the coals to lighten the room a bit, and began to read.
C—
I cannot express to you how sorry I am in the few words I am allotted for this
letter. It would take a far more eloquent man than I to fit so large a
sentiment in so small a page. I am writing to inform you that our association
must be terminated immediately. We must not see each other any longer, by
necessity of reasons that I cannot and shall not endeavor to explain. Please do
not look for me. I am sorry.
—E
He read the letter again, something cold and hard sinking down through his
chest and settling at the bottom of his stomach, where it seemed to turn his
insides to ice. The second review offered no clarification, no hidden meaning.
He stood up, shaking, and put the letter on the mantelpiece. Then he walked to
the washroom, took a glass of water, and drank. It was warm, gritty water to
calm the twisting of his stomach, but when he returned to the fireplace, he
felt sicker than he had before. He swayed there a minute, trying to work up the
courage to pick up the paper again. Do not be a fool,he thought finally. A
minute or an hour, you cannot change what is written there on that page.
He took the letter into his hands again and ran his eyes over it slowly, taking
in each word. Surely there was something he was missing. A clue, a symbol, a
jest that was escaping him. This could not be a letter of dismissal. This could
not be goodbye.
Charles read it a dozen times over, but there was nothing there to discover,
nothing to explain what seemed to him to be inexplicable. This letter made no
sense because Erik would not leave him. Erik had promised, and he had meant it;
Charles had seen in his eyes his resolution, the authenticity of his words. The
idea that Erik was reneging on that now was unbelievable. Impossible.
But Charles was holding a letter in his hand with a paragraph of words that
said otherwise, and he could feel his shock fracturing into fear and horror and
confusion and a terrible, desperate hope that he clung to like a man to a raft
in a turbulent sea. Erik had told him he loved him so many times that the words
were engraved in Charles’ mind and body and soul, and they could not be erased
with a letter, even one so cruel as this. This could not be real. There had to
be an alternate explanation.
The envelope lay on the table where he had placed it. Unsteadily, he stood and
retrieved it, hoping for some clue without or within that might point him to
the truth. He felt something thick inside—more papers perhaps, with better
elucidation than the first had provided. Heart quickening, he drew them out and
stepped toward the light.
Notes. Three ten pound notes. Charles’ stomach flipped and his hand trembled.
Thirty pounds. A veritable fortune, nearly twice what a common farmer might
make in a single year. With this, he could frugally live twelve months without
work. He could shut his door, turn away unnamed clients who came to him in
anonymity and in shadow, live as a man might, not a dog. He could survive.
Standing there as he was, money in hand, he was caught between glowing,
breathless hope and a crushing grief and anger. He had not beheld such a sum in
one place since he had absconded from Westchester, his stepfather’s specter
snapping at his heels. It was a blessing, a miracle, and he was tempted to
treasure it, to look on the gift with all the gratitude in the world. But the
money had not come alone, it had accompanied the letter, and the words inked on
the page gave the notes new meaning, colored his joy a sickening gray. This was
Erik’s money. Erik had written to discontinue their relationship, and he had
sent money with his message, as if, with these thirty pounds, he could buy
Charles’ silence, or his forgiveness.
Fury lit through him, made him nearly tear the three ten pound notes in halves
and hurl them to the floor. How dare he. How dare he treat Charles like any
other common whore, to be used and then tossed aside, to be bought so cheaply.
They had made promises, not contracts; friendships, not business relations.
What they had had had been impossible to quantify in numbers, and Charles was
incensed that Erik had tried, that he had thought thirty pounds might serve as
proper recompense for the terrible hurt he had inflicted with his letter, a
hurt he could not begin to understand. There was not a sum in the world that
could repay Charles the sleepless nights he had spent imagining Paris and
Oxford and a thousand other fantastic adventures; there was no fortune in
existence that could now heal what Erik had broken. 
He stood immobile before the fire for an eternity, a chaotic flood of emotion
roaring through him. He could not keep this money, for its very presence cut
his pride to the quick, lanced him straight through like a sword might, deep
and fatal; but he could not be a fool enough to throw it away, not when it
might save his life from one year to the next. Oh, Erik. Even now, he knew how
to twist Charles’ sensibilities. How cruel was his final parting blow: to give
Charles a gift he did not want but could not discard, to pay for Charles’ life
and force his gratitude, when all he wanted to do was hate.
Slowly, he put the money back in the envelope and set the letter on his desk.
Fontenelle’s Conversations on the Plurality of Worlds sat beside it, the faded
silver lettering of the cover gleaming dully in the firelight. In a sudden fit
of rage, Charles picked it up and tore out the first few pages, crossing the
room to hurl them into the fire. The paper curled immediately at the edges,
going black and crumbling, words warping on the page until holes tore through
the thinned paper and swallowed the sentences away. He waited until they were
nothing but ash and then tore out the next chapter, flinging it in the same
way. The fire flickered and swarmed up greedily, engulfing whatever he fed it,
and when the pages were gone, he tossed the cover in, too, watching it burn
more slowly but no less steadily than the rest. Vicious satisfaction filled
him. You are not the only one who can destroy dreams,he thought savagely. You
are not the only one who can take what I love and tear it apart.
As the last of the book disappeared in the orange-yellow light, he felt
suddenly exhausted. The anger slipped from him as easily as a fish down a
stream, and the full horror of what he had done struck him nearly dizzy. Oh,
what a fool. He was an utter, impulsive fool, to be so bitter and petty as to
destroy one of his few prized possessions in a moment of scorching hatred and
resentment. Weakly, he dropped to his knees, poker in hand, but there was
nothing left to fish out, nothing left to save. There were only ashes.
He sat heavily on the floor and closed his eyes, trying desperately not to give
Erik the satisfaction of drawing a single tear from him. But the tears came
anyway, tears of anger and hurt and anguish. He cried for Paris, for Oxford,
for every dream Erik had ever planted in his head and now taken away with so
little explication, with so little care. And when his throat was raw and his
eyes felt swollen, when the tears had dried away, he put his head down and
wished, fervently and horribly, that he could burn, too, burn away until he was
gone.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!