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Chapter Text

“Thirteenth floor,” announced a soft female voice, and the elevator doors slid open. Charles stepped out onto the apartment landing, fishing out his keys as he walked—one was old-fashioned, a simple cylinder lock key, still the best kind around, and the other was electronic. He turned down the hallway toward his unit, where his door stood beside two others just like it—beige with dark numbers.

Rounding the corner, he flinched. He was used to this place being completely deserted. But not today: sitting on the floor across from his apartment was a girl. All Charles managed to notice was her long hair with a bleached fringe, oversized headphones, and a school tablet bag covered in pins. Not even a teenager—twelve at most.

She jumped when she saw him, startled. Her headphones slipped off, and first came the jarring buzz of a disconnected device, then a young, upbeat voice echoed off the walls:

“...in fact, you can choose between only two tracks—a techie, who cranks out the neuronets for the rich to get richer for cheaper, or a fuzzy, who explains to the commoners why it’s fair…”

The girl fumbled with her phone, finally managing to pause it. Then she stared at Charles, wide-eyed.

“It’s not what you think,” she muttered, like whatever it was he might be thinking, it had already offended her deeply. “It’s… it’s for a school project. Don’t tell my mom…”

Beneath her defiant glare, there was fear. Embarrassment. And a flicker of anger—anger that Charles had the nerve to show up at exactly the wrong time.

“I won’t,” Charles said gently, offering a polite smile. “I don’t even know who your mom is.” And he really didn’t—not the mom, not the girl. In the year and a half he’d been renting this apartment, he’d only met a couple of neighbors—other perpetually busy, single men like himself—and even that was just from running into them in the elevator.

“So, what are you doing out here?”

“The stupid gate at school wiped my keys and cards,” the girl mumbled. She straightened up a bit, and Charles caught a glimpse of a hoodie with the Latin School emblem under her khaki jacket. She might actually go there—or she might just wear it to throw off a potential stalker. Charles had heard clients mention kids doing that.

He’d heard about the new scanners too. Supposedly they checked students for plastic weapons, but half the time they just ended up frying electronics. Sometimes only partially—like now. Her podcast had loaded, but her headphones had cut out at the first bump. That was worse, really—when you couldn’t tell when your tech would let you down.

Everyone these days was obsessed with safety.

“How long have you been sitting here?” Charles asked, a little worried. “When’s your mom coming back?”

He almost offered to make her some tea, but stumbled over the thought of how it would look—a single man luring a kid into his apartment.

“None of your business,” the girl muttered. “Who even are you?”

“I’m Charles Xavier, your neighbor from…” He gestured awkwardly at his door, then held up his keys to prove he really did live there. “If you want, I can let the concierge know you’re here. She can call your mom. Maybe even make you some hot chocolate, or—”

“No thanks, I got it.” She straightened again and hurried off toward the elevator without so much as a glance back.

Apparently, Charles had given her an idea she hadn’t thought of before.

If he’d been her age, stuck in a big city without keys or money, he probably would’ve done the same—just sat by the door until some adult showed up to help. Things had been simpler back when he was in school, but even then, basic stuff like reading clocks had always tripped him up. And he’d been the best in his class at math.

Charles rarely made it home before dinner, but today was a lucky one—the last client patched things up with his wife all on his own and, feeling generous, signed all the papers and even threw in a tip. Clients almost never tipped, but this one paid in cash, and Charles wasn’t about to turn it down. It was always good to have some money that wasn’t tracked in the system.

Shedding his suit, Charles changed into his sweats and settled in the kitchen with a cup of tea—brewed the old-fashioned way, by hand—and a sandwich.

“Long day?” came a voice. “Anything I can help with?”

“Thanks, Edith,” Charles said with a chuckle. He knew his Smart Home assistant didn’t actually live in that corner of the room where the speaker sat, but the habit of glancing that way stuck. “It was a good one, actually. Tell me the latest?”

“Gladly,” Edith replied. “Congress has approved the final version of the Proteus software. Lead developer Tony Stark believes the federal pilot launch could happen as early as next year. A tornado skirted around St. Louis but destroyed several homes in nearby towns. White House climate advisor Samuel LaRockett comments on that—”

By the third story, Charles had already started to zone out. He’d configured Edith to give him the news without sugarcoating, but sometimes listening too closely made him anxious. His therapist said that was normal—news was designed to stir emotion, to grab attention by triggering strong reactions. He recommended mixing in something lighter, like a nature channel. But Charles’s mind had come up with its own defense: over time, all the drama had started to bore him.

“And now the weather: Chicago’s April is shaping up to be the warmest on record!” Edith announced cheerfully. Charles listened to the quick forecast and clothing suggestions—which he knew were tailored specifically to him, based on over a year of data—then accepted her offer of relaxing music. Soft jazz began to play as he headed to his home office.

Charles was one of the lucky few who didn’t have to file his own taxes—the firm that handled his publicity did it for him. They also provided him with therapy and an unlimited gym membership. But their real value—or rather the reason he’d signed on in the first place—was the exposure. In his field, Charles was something of a rising star, and the agency made sure his name stayed on everyone’s radar. His supervisor used to jokingly call them a “label”, and Charles internally agreed. In their business, exposure was the single biggest expense—impossible to manage alone—and without clients, he wouldn't get paid.

Still, some things he had to manage himself: insurance payments, utility bills, line-by-line legal reviews of endless contract addendums to make sure nothing slipped past, pitching himself to leads already hooked by ads, and chasing down those who were late on their invoices. But Charles never complained—even without a label, nobody else was going to do that work for him.

He was just wrapping up when the doorbell rang.

A woman stood at the door, looking to be in her mid-forties. Charles recognized her instantly as someone from his world—her tailored suit and polished appearance carefully masking a bone-deep exhaustion. He pressed the button next to the video panel to unlock the door and turned the latch. In person, free of the screen’s dulling effect, she looked even more put-together. And even more tired.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Xavier,” she began right away, her tone brisk and businesslike. “My name is Priscilla Le Rouge. I’m your neighbor from across the hall.”

Years of experience reading people’s real motives filled in the backstory for Charles almost instantly. The building’s rental agreement only allowed disclosure of tenant names under reasonable suspicion. Her daughter had been picked up from the concierge, mentioned a conversation with a strange man—and voila, suspicion justified.

“I came to apologize for my daughter,” Priscilla continued, though everything in her voice made it clear she didn’t feel like the one who should be apologizing. “I’m sorry if she bothered you…”

“I’m afraid I’m the one who should apologize,” Charles replied quickly. “I must’ve startled her. But she didn’t cause any trouble—I just suggested she wait by the concierge desk, that’s all.”

“Yes, I heard that on the footage,” Priscilla said sharply, holding his gaze. But when Charles didn’t flinch, her eyes softened just a little. “Anna-Marie wouldn’t tell me what happened, but the look on her face said enough. So I thought…”

She trailed off, unsure how to politely express what she suspected. Charles saved her the trouble.

“You can ask me anything, Mrs. Le Rouge. I’ll answer.”

She agreed to a cup of tea—though not before dipping a drug-test strip into it. Then she set it aside on the saucer, not looking at Charles.

“How long have you lived here?” she asked.

“A year and a half. I used to be in Albany Park, but that place was tiny, and I—”

“No wife? Children?”

“No,” Charles said, then rushed to add, as if it explained something, “I’m only thirty-two. And… well, I’m about a Kinsey five.”

He instantly regretted using such a convoluted term—the deep furrow that formed on Priscilla’s forehead made it clear he’d given her more mental work than she was prepared to handle in a moment like this.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m more gay than anything else,” Charles sighed. “That’s not going to be a problem for you, is it?”

Priscilla lit up.

“No, not at all. Actually, that’s kind of a relief. But what do you mean by ‘more’? Are you saying you…”

“Well, I had relationships with women in college. But I’ve only dated men for the past seven years. Maybe it was just a phase.”

Charles wasn’t quite sure why he was answering such personal questions so freely to someone he barely knew. But the alternative was simple: he could shut down, tell Priscilla it wasn’t any of her business—and she’d glare at him forever. And if anything ever happened to her daughter, God forbid, she’d make sure Charles got grilled good and proper.

As a trained psychologist, he knew that self-disclosure could be an effective way to build trust—especially when the first encounter began with suspicion. And as a specialist in resolving non-legal conflicts, he also had a professional obligation to maintain a spotless reputation. He even kept his private life low-profile, just in case any clients turned out to be the kind who believed gay people were the downfall of civilization.

And, of course, he was stretching the truth.

In sessions with his therapist, he usually described himself as bisexual. But things with women never quite worked. Many women, assuming that getting a man comes with extra responsibilities, would start the relationship like a business negotiation—demanding he immediately prove he was emotionally available. And proving that to a stranger was hard—at least for Charles, who took that kind of thing seriously.

Things were simpler with men. It was easier to arrange something casual when he was desperate for a bit of human warmth. But those encounters never turned into anything meaningful.

Being a psychologist didn’t protect you from the problems everyone else had. If anything, it made them worse—because Charles could see exactly what was eating away at the people around him, but jumping into impromptu therapy would’ve been plain rude. That’s probably why their profession borrowed the two golden rules of both lawyers and therapists: don’t treat yourself, and don’t treat your loved ones.

“So you’re gay, but you tried… not to be?” Priscilla prompted eagerly, and Charles nodded. Unlike lawyers and psychologists, he wasn’t bound by any professional code against lying.

“And I work a lot,” he added with a sheepish smile. “So, yeah… not exactly a lifestyle suited for family.”

“I understand,” Priscilla nodded. “I had Anna-Marie young—because, well, people around me… insisted, let’s say. I don’t regret it, not at all—she’s the best thing in my life. But sometimes I wonder… how things might have turned out if she hadn’t come along. You know what I mean.”

“I can only imagine,” Charles said, taking a sip from his mug. “Motherhood sounds like a hard job.”

They ended up talking for another hour—Priscilla, it seemed, had found the perfect confidant in him, someone she could finally vent to; and Charles didn’t mind at all. It was always a relief to talk to someone who didn’t want anything from him. His sessions with his therapist were currently in that stage of endless assignments and stern accountability—he could already picture the next session, where this conversation with Priscilla would earn him homework on strengthening personal boundaries. Everyone else he talked to during the day was work-related one way or another. He hadn’t made any real friends, his parents were gone, and his only living relative—his sister, Raven—hadn’t spoken to him in two years.

When Priscilla finally left, there was still plenty of time left in the evening. Charles hit the gym, double-checked his schedule, went through all necessary emails and messages—he always had to stay connected—and finally allowed himself the rare luxury of curling up on the couch with a book.

But he barely got through a chapter when his phone rang.

“Mr. Xavier?” came an imposing male voice on the other end. The calmness sounded practiced, the kind that masked a constant, seething rage. “Good evening. Apologies for the late hour, but I urgently need to schedule a meeting with you—tomorrow, earliest possible. My name is Sebastian Shaw, and I have a conflict that needs immediate resolution.”

***

The new client introduced himself as a government official responsible for infrastructure, though he conveniently left out the exact title, claiming he was reaching out in a private capacity. Still, the fact that he was contacting Charles—a conflict specialist with a rather high price tag—meant his status was significant enough. One of the label’s key rules was that conflict mediators were not to poke their noses into the personal affairs of clients unless it directly pertained to the matter at hand. And Charles wasn’t supposed to wonder where a government employee got the funds for personal services—as long as the contract would be paid in full.

But curiosity had a mind of its own, and it stirred again when Charles arrived at the scene. North Lawndale, once a rundown and dangerous neighborhood, was now one of the most desirable areas in which to buy property without outright selling one’s soul. Just a decade ago, Charles wouldn’t have set foot there—not without a gun to his back, because back then, wandering into the area might well have meant being faced with one. Now, it was a different story entirely: sleek new apartment complexes, broad sidewalks, cleverly designed intersections, and lots of greenery. And it was here, in the twenty-seventh-floor penthouse of the district’s flagship tower, Caspartina, that Shaw lived.

In his choice of residence, Shaw had shown a hint of modesty: the panoramic windows of the penthouse didn’t look out over the city skyline, but rather over the suburbs—an endless grid of single-story homes and a dreary highway. Charles could only think of two reasons for this: either Shaw was sick to death of the city infrastructure he dealt with daily, or he simply couldn’t afford a better view.

“Take a look,” Shaw announced, leading Charles to the window. Charles stood still, surveying the view, unsure what reaction was expected of him.

“You’ve got a great location,” he offered cautiously. “The whole suburb is laid out in plain view. But I take it something’s bothering you?”

“Obviously,” Shaw snorted. “Look closer!”

He gestured sharply toward the window, clearly pointing at something that only he seemed to see. Charles was used to being handed puzzles—cases like thousand-piece jigsaws or those intricate “find the difference” images. Most people would present him with just the tip of the iceberg, expecting him to uncover the rest. Telepathic skills would’ve come in handy in this job—but unfortunately, Charles had none.

But he made it up for in observation. As he focused intently on the frozen image of the suburbs, he caught a few details. An indistinct flag—maybe American, maybe Puerto Rican—in the center of a roundabout: too small and subtle to cause offense. A large, ugly warehouse obviously used for storage: noticeable, but not exactly an eyesore. Charles was on the verge of giving up when he noticed something more unusual—something not often seen in suburban America.

On one of the streets, fairly close to the city’s edge, stood a flat-roofed building. And across the dark surface of that roof, painted in broad, slightly uneven white lines, was a Star of David.

“Jews?” Charles asked cautiously. “You’re bothered by the Jews?”

He immediately tensed, preparing to retreat behind a neutral front. He’d had more than a few clients with whom he fundamentally disagreed—homophobes, misogynists, or just plain villains who didn’t want to resolve a conflict, only to crush the other party into submission. A company policy instituted two years ago forbade conflict specialists from rejecting clients based on personal values—or, as the wording went, “due to prejudice.” So Charles often had to navigate those cases delicately, dodging and maneuvering to avoid becoming the devil’s advocate while still preserving his reputation as a top-tier professional.

Antisemitism was definitely not something he could stomach, so he was already mapping out an exit strategy.

“Jews? Good lord, no,” Shaw said, baring a perfect row of ceramic-white teeth. “I’ve got nothing against Jews. But that’s a religious symbol. And I’m an atheist.”

“And… how does that make you feel?” Charles asked, carefully. He could relate a bit more to this angle—he was an atheist himself. But religious symbols and institutions never particularly bothered him. He could only imagine how Shaw coped with the endless little churches still dotting Chicago, holdovers from a time when everyone was a believer.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Shaw continued. “I’m not some kind of fanatic—if an atheist can even be a fanatic, ha—and I’m perfectly tolerant of whatever strange ways people choose to make sense of the world. Voodoo, tarot, horoscopes… people can believe whatever nonsense they want. But when it comes to my home, I want peace. I don’t want the first thing I see every morning to be someone else’s superstition.”

Charles paused for a moment, weighing whether he could take on this case. On one hand, Shaw was asking for a lot—the Star of David was a permitted symbol, clearly located within private property boundaries, and he wasn’t a member of the neighborhood committee that might have any influence over the owner. On the other hand, from what Charles knew about Judaism, the religion didn’t require painting the star on one’s own roof, so whoever did it could easily be a fanatic or simply a provocateur. In that case, the client, even if somewhat overreacting to the slightly spoiled view from his window, might be someone Charles could sympathize with.

“How long has it been there?”

“A couple of days after I moved in. I’ve always dreamed of a nice home, saved up a lot, and you understand… my dream almost came true, and this person ruined it.”

“Have you tried talking to them?”

“I tried. But he slammed the door right in my face. I even tried going to the police, but they said they couldn’t do anything. Lawyers throw up their hands, and the neighborhood committee said that since it’s not visible from their street, it’s not their business. They’re not really bothered that such neighbors significantly reduce property values in the area.”

Charles asked Shaw for more details about the conversation, but it turned out there was nothing to discuss—Shaw came to the stranger’s door and immediately began demanding, as people spoiled by their official responsibilities tend to do. This was exactly the kind of case Charles was meant to handle—smoothing over meetings that started off on the wrong foot.

“So, the ideal outcome for you would be the removal of the symbol from the roof?”

“Yes. And a guarantee that it won’t come back in a week. A written commitment or something like that. I don’t want to call you every time that idiot decides to mess with me.”

They signed the contract, Shaw put his signature on the papers, and Charles entered the new client’s information into the app on his tablet, which instantly synced with the label’s central database. He knew that within half an hour, the marketing AI systems would connect to all of Shaw’s devices and social media accounts to monitor for even the slightest signs of dissatisfaction, so the label could react promptly if needed.

“Thank you, Mr. Xavier. I hope we’ll resolve this matter quickly.”

Chapter Text

Every time a new case came into Charles’s practice, he filled out a form in the system with thirty-two parameters, and based on those, plus thousands of lines of data from previous clients, the algorithm determined the complexity level of the contract. This time, the case was rated “easy,” with three days allotted for resolution. Charles guessed that the valuation of the conflicting parties’ assets played a big role in that—when a man of the upper middle class was disputing with someone living in a poor suburb, the conflict tended to resolve more easily and often in favor of the client.

The deadline calculation system was imperfect in that it didn’t account for the cooling-off period some participants needed. But that was one more thing that set conflict specialists apart from lawyers or psychologists—their payment wasn’t hourly, so the main measure was effectiveness. Back in the early days of the profession, when the first specialists had appeared in Japan, it had become clear that the issues they dealt with were too intangible to trust the specialists themselves with deadline estimates—at least, that’s what the firms, which quickly took control of the entire field, believed.

To speed up their work, there were many technical tools available, like closed-access internal databases. It was in one of these that Charles found everything he needed. The opposing party in the conflict was Erik Lehnsherr, a thirty-four-year-old white licensed electrician, single, laid off five years ago from the Chicago office of ClayCo due to downsizing. Skilled working class, income slightly below the Illinois average, but quite decent for the neighborhood where he lived. The detailed file also mentioned that he had an elderly mother living with him in the same house.

That kind of profile was worrying—middle-aged white men who had suffered career setbacks and were forced to live with their parents often triggered conflicts and were reluctant to cooperate. Most often, they blamed people who had been luckier in life, women, and the government, holding firmly to personal beliefs that weren’t always based on common sense.

Charles sighed, sizing up who he was about to deal with and figuring out how best to show up at the doorstep. An expensive suit could either intimidate or command respect. The ideal person for this job would be someone Mr. Lehnsherr would sense as strong—maybe taller and more athletic than Charles himself, since that kind of difference was hard to argue with. Running through the physical data from the file, Charles sighed again—Lehnsherr was half a head taller and, considering his profession, clearly stronger physically. The photo on his license showed a startled face with sunken eyes, tousled hair, and a square, angular jawline. Lehnsherr looked like he had been photographed for his license in the headlights of a van barreling straight at him.

Moving on to the criminal records, Charles found no surprise that this section of Lehnsherr’s file was not empty. He had been arrested for resisting police and vandalism, though the database lacked details. The statute of limitations—more than ten years ago—suggested these were probably just youthful escapades. Still, such records seriously complicated the problem—even if Lehnsherr had learned to avoid getting caught over time, that didn’t mean he trusted the authorities any more. And Shaw, after all, was a representative of the city government.

Whenever Charles struggled to make a decision, he turned to algorithms, which produced several optimal scenarios, leaving him to choose one and, like a good actor, perform it thoroughly. This time, the algorithm suggested only two options—the “external enemy” tactic, which involved portraying some hostile group that both he and the opponent had suffered from, and the “male bonding” tactic, which emphasized their similarities as a group, erasing all contradictions. After some thought, Charles decided the tactics could be combined—after all, Lehnsherr’s file fit almost perfectly into both.

Having rehearsed a couple of key lines in front of the mirror, Charles set off for the suburb.

Up close, the Lehnsherr house turned out to be much tidier than Charles had imagined, arguably more well-kept than most other houses nearby. The garden greenery looked lush, the paint on the walls and fence clearly fresh, and on the sturdy wooden door hung an elaborate decoration Charles first mistook for a dreamcatcher until he got closer and realized it was just handcrafted macramé—and that the hands that made it were clearly very skillful. Charles saw no home surveillance cameras—obviously an unpopular thing in the entire neighborhood, where they relied only on street cameras. But there was a motion sensor on the mailbox, which Charles noticed too late to avoid, and no sooner had he stepped onto the porch than the door swung open.

Standing in the doorway was Lehnsherr himself, no doubt about it, but he looked as if his evil twin had been the one photographed for the license: neatly combed hair parted to the side, a clean-shaven face, tidy clothes, and a calm, attentive expression. Not a trace of the wildness Charles had seen in the photo.

Maybe he had just come back from the bank or some similar place, Charles thought. Loans were more readily given to people who looked presentable.

“What can I do for you?” Lehnsherr asked, standing in the door. He had a soft, pleasant baritone, pronouncing his words like an educated man, without any accent or exaggerated drawl.

“Hi, I’m, uh, Charles Xavier,” Charles deliberately stretched out the sounds, playing the role of a decent guy who had risen from humble beginnings through hard work. Statistically, that was almost a half-mythical character, but culture still loved them. “Sorry for dropping by so unexpectedly, but I came to talk about, uh, your tentacle on the roof.”

He pointed upward with his finger, as if the roof could be anywhere and needed clarification.

“Tentacle?” Lehnsherr smirked. “I don’t have any tentacle on my roof.”

Charles had been counting on that reaction.

“Well, tentacle, six angles… pentacle is five points, so tentacle is six. To be honest, I don’t really get it,” Charles feigned confusion. “But I know it’s something religious, right? Sorry if I offended you.”

“It’s called a hexangle,” Lehnsherr explained with a slight smile. “Tentacle is… well, never mind. What did you want to say?”

“You see, my wife… we recently moved to North Lawndale, over there,” Charles turned and pointed toward the city, where the top of Caspartina was visible. “I blew through a fortune, worked seven years for this, but not only did I not manage to get a penthouse, but also… ah, never mind. My wife’s picky. She wanted a city view, and here we have a suburb, plus… your roof. When she saw this… hexangle, she went ballistic! Saying she’s an atheist, and I bought an apartment facing some church—she called it something else, of course—and that I don’t love her at all, and all that. I told her it’s just a house, but she wouldn’t hear it, crying, even threatening divorce. So I came to ask you, maybe—”

He paused, trying to look embarrassed and desperate, while staring straight at Lehnsherr. The latter smiled faintly and studied him with interest.

“Wife, huh,” he murmured. “Maybe you’d like to come inside? Not much of a place to talk out here.”

Inside, Charles quietly celebrated his first victory—Lehnsherr hadn’t told him to get lost, which meant they had a chance to reach an agreement.

Lehnsherr led him into the kitchen, bright and cozy, like the rest of the house. The furniture looked homemade but decent, clearly made with care. The kitchen smelled of spices for chicken soup and something warm, like cherry pie. If Charles hadn’t known that only Lehnsherr and his elderly mother lived here, he would have thought a real family straight out of a cereal commercial resided within.

“Would you like something to drink? I can also offer pie. Fresh—my mom just took it out of the oven.”

“Thank you. Water, if you don’t mind.”

Lehnsherr set a glass of water in front of Charles and settled down with a cup of coffee, apparently enjoying it until Charles abruptly barged into his life.

“So, your wife? Why does my Star of David bother her?”

“She… had religious upbringing as a child. Catholics, you know, they like… but after school with the nuns, she can’t stand any mention of religion. I’ll never understand it, but hell, you know how it goes—a woman puts something in her head, and there’s no talking her out of it. Easier just to do what she wants.”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Lehnsherr replied calmly. “I’ve never been married, so I only vaguely understand what you’re talking about.”

“Lucky you,” Charles chuckled, doing his best to sound envious. “But you know women… I’m desperate, really. Maybe we can come to an agreement, and you could, like… paint over that thing? Come on, understand me—man to man…”

Just as Charles felt Lehnsherr was ready to cooperate, a small fragile woman appeared in the kitchen doorway. She looked about sixty, with thin gray strands escaping from beneath a silk scarf tied in a French style. Her thin, wrinkled hands peeked out from wide sleeves of a dark house dress. She didn’t look like a laborer either—more like an elderly movie star from the last century who just stepped out of her boudoir to greet guests.

“Erik, my boy…” she began at the door, but seeing Charles, she got shy. “Sorry, I didn’t know we had company. Am I interrupting?”

“It’s fine, Mom,” Lehnsherr replied. “We’re just chatting. What’s up?”

“In fifteen minutes, there’s a new Saffron Rose film on the Multistream,” she said excitedly. “And I still can’t log in. Can you help me?”

Charles barely hid a sour grimace at the name. Saffron Rose was a notorious homophobe known all over America and a favorite among hard-right Republican housewives because he portrayed the kind of man they desperately wanted in their husbands—strong, willful, and decisive. Others knew him as a seven-times divorced wencher with twelve children from nine different women, and a popular blogger who relished sharing stories of intolerance from around the world on his channel.

If this household loved Saffron Rose, it was no wonder Charles found himself unexpectedly sympathetic to his client.

However, Lehnsherr grimaced and answered sharply:

“Mom, seriously? You’re going to watch that creep again?”

Charles thought a storm was about to break—many family feuds had started exactly like this. He and Raven had parted ways because he expressed dissatisfaction with the label’s corporate policy that forbade refusing clients whose views he disagreed with. Raven had said he was a real jerk for being ready to sacrifice hundreds of leftist liberals, gays, and trans people who would be denied help just because of who they were, just because he couldn’t stand a few homophobes who would get ahead on their own anyway. Then, she added, soon they’d refuse help because of appearance—hair color or a few extra pounds.

Charles stood for freedom of speech, Raven for equality; they called each other cannibals and entered a two-year radio silence. Everyone he knew had a story like that—people blew up over nonsense and quietly hated each other for the rest of their lives.

But Mrs. Lehnsherr just shrugged.

“You’re right, my boy, his last films are terribly stupid. But that’s part of my youth…”

“He makes a new video every week dreaming about killing me and people like me,” Lehnsherr said without accusing, more like reminding, even chuckling.

“Well, what can you do about the fact that he’s a blockhead!” the woman waved her hand. “We watched his movies back when I was dating your dad. I can’t just erase all those memories because that Rose decided to lose his mind in his old age!”

Lehnsherr snorted mockingly and stood up smiling. He approached his mother and wrapped his arms around her shoulders—little Mrs. Lehnsherr was almost completely hidden behind his tall, strong figure—and said:

“Alright, let’s go. I’ll help you watch your homophobe. But promise me, if you ever meet him in the supermarket, you’ll smash a can into his face.”

“You bet, dear!” the old lady laughed, and the two of them disappeared deeper into the house.

Charles was puzzled. He had never seen such a sweet and tender scene, but that wasn’t the point—Lehnsherr, it seemed, was an openly gay man, yet he never thought to be offended by his mother watching Rose. And he didn’t even glance at Charles when he said it, as if any stranger entering his home was expected to simply accept it as fact. If the person Charles was impersonating was in his place, he might have been outraged—but Lehnsherr seemed so confident in controlling the situation that he didn’t even turn around to see the guest’s reaction.

Still, there was something magnetic about that unwavering confidence. Charles was so used to his peers being jumpy, oversensitive, and acting like big kids waiting for trouble around every corner that being in the company of a mature, self-sufficient person was like visiting an exotic place untouched by civilization.

“So, where were we?” Lehnsherr asked, returning to the kitchen. “Ah, yes. You lied about your wife who can’t stand the sight of religion, although you don’t actually have a wife, you probably don’t live in North Lawndale, and you’re a professional conflict resolver who likely came here to convince me to paint over the sign on the roof on behalf of that jerk who bought the penthouse. Am I right?”

Charles froze, barely holding his mouth shut.

“How did you—”

“Well, my motion sensor has a mini-camera connected to the internet,” Lehnsherr chuckled and smiled broadly. It looked threatening. “And your face is everywhere there. Your client came to see me a couple days ago, threatened me with lawyers, had to kick him out. Horrible guy.”

He sat back down at the table and took a sip of his now lukewarm coffee. At least Lehnsherr wasn’t planning to throw him out by force, which meant there was still hope to settle the conflict peacefully.

“So, maybe you’ll still paint over that symbol?” Charles asked cautiously. “Mr. Shaw is a staunch atheist, and this matters to him… Imagine if someone painted a swastika on their house, and you had to see it from your window every morning. How would you feel?”

Lehnsherr laughed.

“What, your first day in America? Swastikas hang over Nazi club entrances in every major city.”

“Still, you can understand his feelings.”

“I can,” Erik replied sharply. “But I don’t want to. Do you have a more pleasant topic to discuss, or should I show you the way out?”

An unpleasant prickling sensation hit Charles—the kind he always felt when facing hard necks who spat on the rules of human decency. He wanted to scream or punch someone, or better yet, go back in time, start the conversation over, knowing exactly how it would go and having ironclad arguments ready. Lehnsherr had caught him off guard and made him look a fool—all because of some clever sensor that a guy like him shouldn’t even have.

It was a rookie mistake to underestimate his opponent. Stupidity statistically correlated with social failure but was not a necessary condition for it—and Lehnsherr turned out far smarter than a simple blue-collar guy.

Charles headed for the door, with Lehnsherr following as if to make sure he actually left. At the threshold, Charles turned around. His tongue burned with an unspoken question that demanded an answer.

“Why are you so calm about your mother watching Rose? If you despise him yourself, and all that—”

“What else can I do?” Erik shrugged. “He makes her happy and reminds her of my father. I’m not going to fray the nerves to my closest soul over some jerk I’ll never meet.”

“But she boosts his ratings, he gets richer, gains more audience. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Let him get richer. It’s unlikely a scandal in my family will bankrupt him or make him repent,” Erik smirked and deftly opened the door for Charles. “Family matters more than strangers, acquaintances matter more than those you don’t know. For some reason, you all forget that—and that’s human nature. Take care, Mr. Xavier, I hope I never see you again.”

***

Even the next day, Lehnsherr’s words wouldn’t leave Charles’s mind—not the part about not wanting to see him anymore (though that feeling was mutual), but the part about family being more important than strangers. At school, they were always taught that in business, you shouldn’t show favoritism to friends or relatives; at university, professor’s kids were looked down upon, suspected of having gotten in through connections; and no self-respecting political blogger ever missed a chance to take a jab at a disliked politician who had promoted a relative. Blindness to blood ties was considered the highest degree of professionalism; caring for family at the expense of humanity was seen as something primal, almost animalistic.

And yet Lehnsherr, for whom his mother mattered more than Rose’s homophobic crowd, seemed much happier than Charles, who had fallen out with Raven over freedom of speech. The society he so loved was not in a hurry to love him back or warm the kitchen with cherry pies.

Sitting alone in his empty kitchen and sipping cold tea with Edith nervously muttering in the background, Charles involuntarily imagined how breakfasts went in the Lehnsherr household. Surely Mrs. Lehnsherr cooked pancakes or oatmeal, chatted with her son about trivial things over a cup of coffee, and he, laughing, devoured it heartily and invariably kissed his mother on the forehead before heading out on a call.

Charles’s own mother rarely showed affection—she was so busy proving to everyone around that she was the perfect mother that she barely noticed her son. But when he had graduated the top of his class, she even gave an interview on how to raise geniuses, retelling all the child psychology books she’d read, for some podcast.

A sharp phone ring pulled him out of his thoughts—it was the label office calling. Charles reluctantly picked up.

“Mr. Xavier, you need to come in immediately. A complaint has been filed against you by a current client.”

Charles didn’t know what it was about, but the summons made him nervous. The previous evening he’d reported to Shaw that standard methods weren’t working and had proposed several strategies that might help in difficult cases, and Shaw seemed to agree with everything. But apparently, some misunderstanding had crept in somewhere.

“This morning, Mr. Shaw expressed serious dissatisfaction with the situation on his social media, Mr. Xavier,” Platt, his supervisor, reported in a polite but firm tone when they were alone in his office. Platt was a stocky, aging man with full lips, and after many years of working together, the sight of those lips always stirred an inexplicable sense of unease in Charles, because they never moved for anything good.

“He wrote, and I quote, that he experiences ‘unbearable moral suffering’ because the conflict specialist he hired ‘is not working effectively enough.’ He didn’t mention us or even your name in the post, but you understand that the algorithms will have no trouble figuring out exactly who he means.”

“Mr. Platt, I assure you that last night I spoke with Shaw, and he fully agreed with my approach.”

“It’s not for me to tell you, Mr. Xavier, how dangerous unspoken objections can be,” the supervisor said admonishingly. “Of course, we will contest this comment because it was written on the second day, while your contract allows three. The company’s name will not be harmed. But you understand that you have caused the client to worry, which brings us increased risk and unforeseen PR expenses. And therefore, in accordance with the contract, we will be forced to cut your fee for this case in half.”

“I understand,” Charles nodded, but inside he was torn by two conflicting feelings—shame that Platt was scolding him, and a thirst for justice, since he had just lost a significant amount of money over one comment on the internet. The label was slow to pay extra if someone wrote a glowing review or if word of mouth spread praise of how good a specialist he was, but it was always the first to impose sanctions if someone happened to be dissatisfied. And according to the universal law of life, there were always more dissatisfied people.

“Make sure this doesn’t happen again, Mr. Xavier,” Platt said. “And now be sure to contact Shaw so he knows the situation is under control.”

“Of course, I’m concerned,” Shaw spoke quickly when Charles asked about his worries. “We spent almost a whole day on this, and nothing changed. And today I woke up again and saw that horror outside my window. How do you think I’m supposed to feel?”

“That’s exactly why I’m calling—”

“And then,” Shaw didn’t wait to listen. “In my opinion, you have communication problems. I commented on your work two hours ago, and only now are you calling to check if I’m concerned. That’s just unprofessional, Mr. Xavier! What were you doing for those two hours?”

Charles felt a slight pang of guilt but immediately suppressed it with willpower. Shaw had clearly chosen him as the primary target for expressing the feelings Erik Lehnsherr stirred in him, and didn’t even try to imagine that he was not some computer program to be launched on command.

“You can be sure that during the agreed time, I am fully absorbed in your case,” Charles said. “Still, if you have doubts during the process, it would be far more effective if you expressed them to me as soon as they arise.”

“Yes, I do have doubts. How is it possible that you couldn’t explain to that fool from the suburbs that he’s plaguing my life out? It seems to me I didn’t make clear enough how fundamental this issue is for me, otherwise you would have put in more effort.”

“Mr. Shaw, there are reasonable deadlines—”

“Don’t talk to me about deadlines now! To you, I’m just a number in a report—I’ve figured that out—but for me, every day spent staring at that filth is pure torture! You wouldn’t talk about deadlines if this were your home and your view. I just want a little human consideration.”

Conversations like this were not unique in Charles’s experience, and not even the worst—conflict participants often behaved like children who had fallen into a puddle and refused to get up until they’d cried their eyes out—but on this day his patience was thin, thanks to the dressing-down from Platt. Clients did themselves a disservice when they threw tantrums instead of simply stating what they didn’t like, because then a chain of controllers and overseers grew between them and the person for whom the information was intended, slowing the process. It wasn’t far off, Charles thought, the time when a cohort of specially trained people would appear—professional clients—who would act as intermediaries between clients and companies, because many people he knew had nearly lost the ability to behave like adults without being paid.

And yet he had to go to the Lehnsherrs’ without a carefully thought-out plan—Shaw insisted the matter be resolved immediately, and Charles simply saw no other way. The algorithms in his tablet suggested all sorts of nonsense—appeal to Lehnsherr’s conscience, explain that his behavior looked uncivilized, and finally convince him that he was humiliating himself with such a disgraceful act. The database of hundreds of thousands of lines had no slightest idea who Erik Lehnsherr really was.

This time the owner was home alone. He was working in the garden on the front lawn, and the motion sensor didn’t even need to signal the presence of an unwanted guest.

“Ah, it’s you again,” Lehnsherr said, straightening up and wiping his brow. Despite the cool weather, he wore only a soiled tank top that revealed strong, sinewy shoulders and hugged a sturdy chest. If Charles weren’t so tense, he might have appreciated the sight, but right now Lehnsherr’s working appearance sparked nothing but irritation. “What brings you here? More advice on home design?”

“If you consider the star on the roof a design element, then I can’t understand why you’re so stubborn,” Charles snapped, but that was what the algorithm recommended. Those who refused to play nice often gave in when pressured.

“Because that asshead Shaw thinks that if he can hire a conflict specialist, everyone has to comply with his whims,” Lehnsherr replied, leaning on the handle of a shovel, which he had stuck into the ground. “I could also hire someone to tell him he pisses me off, but I don’t have that kind of spare cash.”

“That’s your decision. But how about stopping the fuss yourself? The star on the roof isn’t a religious requirement, it’s a whim. And if a whim drives another person to such despair that they pay big money to make their life easier, isn’t that a reason to wonder what kind of person you really are?”

Lehnsherr’s face went gray, as if before the conversation with Charles had interested him, but now it irritated him.

“It’s not a whim. Before Shaw took on the modernization of North Lawndale, the Jews of West Chicago and the surrounding areas almost got a building for a synagogue in this neighborhood. And what? When he came, he handed that building over to Amazon. My mother still has to drag herself to Lake Michigan to talk to the rabbi, and this asshole throws a tantrum because someone spoiled his view. I don’t have many legal means to tell him what a bastard he is. And I won’t back down just because he sent some slick kid in a suit to put me in my place.”

After this tirade, he grabbed the shovel and strode toward the house, but Charles hurried after him. For the first time in two days, he heard why Lehnsherr had even decided on this stunt, and now he blamed himself for not finding out earlier, for letting the stupid algorithms confuse him. Having gotten what he wanted, Lehnsherr might very well switch from anger to mercy and paint over that stupid star.

“Wait, Mr. Lehnsherr,” Charles called out. “Am I understanding you correctly—if you had a synagogue near your home, you would remove your symbol from the roof?”

“Don’t bother,” Erik threw over his shoulder. He stopped but didn’t turn around. “Shaw would never give permission. He’s imposed a five-year ban on religious buildings in the neighborhood.”

“Even so, maybe make your mother’s path easier? A taxi, a car? And after all, North Lawndale isn’t the only nearby neighborhood—”

“Don’t try to buy me,” Lehnsherr’s voice was firm, but even so, Charles sensed the smile behind it, sharp and poisonous like that of people who have endured so much in life that the next trouble only amuses them. “The chance to feel human these days comes at a high price. And I don’t think it’s something you can afford.”

Taking advantage of the paralysis these words caused in Charles, Lehnsherr disappeared inside. Charles realized he had lost again. Lehnsherr was not going to negotiate—he wasn’t going to adjust at all. In his worldview, Shaw was not a person but an annoying obstacle. The problem was that Shaw was also an obstacle for Charles. And according to the theory of a common enemy, initially proposed by the algorithm, Charles now felt far more solidarity with Lehnsherr than with his own client.

Charles understood what this meant for him. Shaw would complain, the label would defend its interests… He found himself caught between two fires. Between a man he sympathized with and the one he was contractually bound to. And each of them was certain that in this situation, he was the victim.

Realizing that the motion sensor would surely catch him, Charles still didn’t leave but sat down on the porch steps and covered his face with his hands. He knew that Lehnsherr would thaw sooner or later—he didn’t seem like someone hampered by bruised pride; he was trying for the sake of a loved one. But Charles had no “sooner” or “later.” He had one day left, and in one day, he wouldn’t even be able to convince Lehnsherr to talk to him again.

Charles’s career was at risk because he had made many mistakes—he hadn’t immediately recognized Shaw as a troublemaker, underestimated Erik, blindly relied on algorithms, but the most ironic thing was that he had been following the rules. The client is always right, the poor man is always foolish, the system knows best—all these immutable truths collided with one overly good son.

Charles’s bitter thoughts were interrupted by a surprised female voice.

“Young man, are you alright?”

Charles lifted his face and saw Mrs. Lehnsherr. She stood before him in a long street dress and hat, with a coat draped over one arm and a small shopping bag in the other.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “You came by yesterday, didn’t you? You don’t look well… Who upset you, young man?”

The answer slipped out before Charles could think.

“You could say your son. He’s wonderful, but our interests crossed in the wrong place.”

“Erik…” Mrs. Lehnsherr murmured, shaking her head as if it wasn’t the first time she’d heard that her son, though a fine man, had upset someone. “Come inside, there’s no need to sit out here. You need some tea, or better yet, hot chocolate. And Erik needs to stop hiding from you.”

There was some inexplicable strength in the small, fragile woman that Charles couldn’t resist. She gave him hope that all was not yet lost. He obediently entered the house, and Mrs. Lehnsherr, placing her bag on a small table by the door, called out sharply:

“Eeeerik!”

Erik immediately appeared on the upper landing of the stairs, clearly hurrying to help his mother, but upon seeing Charles, he hesitated.

“Mom, why did you bring him here?”

“You’ve worn the boy out, and you ask why I brought him here? To calm him down, of course!”

“Mom, he’s not my boyfriend,” Erik said dryly, descending the stairs. “He’s here on Shaw’s orders.”

“Shaw?” Mrs. Lehnsherr looked sharply at Charles. “And what do you need, then?”

“I wanted to ask Mr. Lehnsherr to paint over the Star of David on the roof,” Charles hastened to say. “Because Shaw hired me for that, and if it doesn’t happen, I’ll probably be out of work.”

Breaking with the label didn’t always mean the end of a career, but that was exactly how Charles’s future looked if Shaw didn’t get what he wanted—he would clearly try to cause such a scandal that even neighboring states would hear about it. No one would sign a contract with a conflict specialist who had provoked such a loud conflict.

“And if that doesn't happen, you’ll probably continue helping people like him?”

Mrs. Lehnsherr still looked at him with a squint but did not rush to cast accusations. Rather, she was genuinely interested in his answer.

“Usually, I try to work with people a bit nicer,” Charles said. “But this time… I didn’t think I’d end up in such a situation.”

“Erik, this boy seems like a decent person to me,” Mrs. Lehnsherr murmured thoughtfully. “You don’t want to cast a decent person out into the world, do you?”

“Mom, you know how it always works. All scoundrels hide behind decent people to get what they want.”

“So what? Times are such that all decent people have to work for scoundrels. Besides, why do you need that star on the roof? Just because it’s there doesn’t make our house a synagogue.”

“You want Shaw to get his way? After what he’s done?”

“I don’t care what that bastard gets as long as my boy doesn’t get a stain on his soul. Our religion is in our actions, Erik, and what kind of action is it to humiliate the oppressed?”

She fell silent, and Erik opened his mouth to object but for some reason changed his mind. Instead, he nodded shortly and said:

“Alright. You’re right.”

Under Charles’s stunned gaze and his mother’s testing look, Erik pushed open the door leading to the garage and came back a minute later with a bucket of dark paint. As soon as he stepped outside, Mrs. Lehnsherr immediately spoke:

“You see, my Erik is a good man. He’s hot-tempered and stubborn, but that’s part of his nature. When it comes to serious matters… well, I hope you have the sense not to brag about this as your victory.”

“To be honest, I feel like I almost drowned, and you pulled me out of the water,” Charles muttered. “And I feel a bit embarrassed because your son is right, Mrs. Lehnsherr. Shaw really will get his way now.”

“We all live under tyrants, but that shouldn’t divide decent people,” she declared briskly. “Call me Edie, my boy. I have no strength left to hear ‘Mrs.’ as if I’m some old crone.”

She gave him tea, and when Lehnsherr—or rather, just Erik now—returned from the roof, she persuaded him to sign a commitment never to paint anything there again. At the end, she winked at Charles, letting him know she hadn’t signed any commitment herself, though it wasn’t her style to do such things, and invited him to stay for dinner. But Charles politely declined, saying Shaw was waiting for him.

If anyone found out that he had befriended the opposing side of the conflict, the label would definitely kick him out.

Chapter Text

The evening before, Charles and Shaw had agreed to meet at ten in the morning to hand over and sign the documents, so the call caught him on the treadmill. It was Platt.

“To the office,” the supervisor ordered, his voice angry. “Immediately!”

When Charles rushed to the place, he immediately realized something was wrong because Shaw was sitting in Platt’s office. One of the label’s rules was that clients could have as many meeting rooms as they wanted, but they never entered the inner offices. And if Shaw was allowed to break this sacred boundary, things were bad.

Judging by Platt’s sour face, the man already understood what kind of person Shaw was. But he clearly blamed Charles for bringing Shaw into his life. And was ready for retribution.

“How is this supposed to be understood?” Shaw snapped as soon as Charles appeared at the door. “Why do I have to nag you every day during this short contract just to get you to work properly, Mr. Xavier?”

He radiated righteous indignation, and if Charles hadn’t checked the city cameras on the way, he might have thought the star had reappeared. But it hadn’t—Erik’s roof was painted over with dark paint and now blended in with the others.

“Mr. Shaw, what exactly is the problem?” Charles said calmly. The client’s presence was, of course, a bad sign, but Charles was confident he had fulfilled all his obligations.

“So now you don’t even see a problem?!” Shaw exclaimed, shifting in his chair. The worst thing was that Platt’s office had only one visitor seat, and Charles had to stand like a scolded boy.

“I admit there might be something you haven’t told me from the start,” he replied. “Because the star is gone, the papers are signed. If anything upsets you now, it won’t be Erik Lehnsherr.”

“Really? Then what the hell? Yesterday you told me everything was settled, I waited all evening, but that guy didn’t even bother to apologize!”

Charles felt the air leave his lungs. Two days ago, when they signed the contract, there was no talk of apologies. The request was simple—remove the star. The star was gone. But Shaw seemed only more irritated by this.

“We didn’t discuss such an option, Mr. Shaw.”

“Why discuss it? That’s the foundation of foundations! You were hired to resolve a conflict! Con-flict! Even a five-year-old would understand the conflict isn’t resolved until the offender apologizes! I’m amazed at your unprofessionalism. I never imagined I’d have to explain such elementary things—”

The worst thing about Shaw’s words was that they could be taken at face value. And Charles probably would have learned about the desire for satisfaction if he’d questioned the client a bit more thoroughly at first. But three days ago, when he mentioned additional options and started listing them, Shaw cut him off, saying he didn’t want to waste time and just wanted to get rid of the blemish on his beautiful panoramic view.

“And now you’re going to wave the contract in my face and say I didn’t additionally specify what goes without saying!” Shaw snorted. “You know, I can live without apologies. I’m actually a very patient and calm person. But my duty as a representative of the authorities and just as a citizen is to protect the world from specialists like you.”

“Mr. Shaw,” Platt interjected. “What outcome would you like? I understand the matter is serious, and perhaps you need time to think, but—”

“Why think here? I want to terminate the contract and receive moral compensation. And, besides that, I want this specialist of yours to be tested for professional skills. I have reasonable suspicions that he’s not the idiot he pretends to be, but just a fanatic who decided atheism isn’t worthy of respect.”

If they had been alone, Charles would definitely have argued back, but any word spoken in Platt’s presence would only make things worse. Platt, without losing his gloomy look, announced that they would immediately conduct an evaluation.

Charles had heard of this scheme—it was outright fraud. The client gets everything he wants but acts dissatisfied and threatens a scandal to get it all for free. He thought the label wouldn’t give in—but apparently, corporate policy required otherwise.

The evaluation by the algorithm took half an hour. During this time, everything Charles had done, heard, and said over the past three days was processed and analyzed for any bias.

The final result flashed yellow.

“Thirty-eight percent bias,” Platt summarized. “The system found no trace of religious prejudice, but your personal antipathy toward the client is obvious. That is truly unprofessional, Mr. Xavier. I’m afraid we have to take measures.”

“Measures?” Charles echoed. Measures meant fines. The corporate anti-bias policy stipulated a fine equal to half a year’s bonus if the analysis showed more than twenty-five percent.

“I’m sorry,” the supervisor said dryly. “But if you want to work on your level, we can offer therapy, and—”

“Thanks,” Charles cut him off coldly. “I’m already seeing the corporate therapist.”

“Then you can consult our pharmacist. Many of your colleagues use beta-blockers to reduce the sharpness of emotional reactions. Highly recommended.”

Charles left the curator’s office feeling wrung out like a dishcloth. The offer to see the pharmacist seemed almost tempting—not for beta-blockers themselves, but for some kind of magic pills that would dampen the activity of his amygdala, which was practically screaming about the injustice that had happened. Erik had been right about Shaw—the bastard got what he wanted. He bent two people to his will without paying a single cent.

The only plus was that Charles had the rest of the day free. But he was going to spend it trying to cut his annual budget in half—and that was no easy task.

Still, he first called Matt, his lawyer. They had an industrial symbiosis—sometimes Matt would invite Charles to help sort out his clients’ problems and would give him discounts on his fees. It wasn’t work, it was a mutually beneficial exchange, and Charles didn’t have to rely on algorithms, so everyone was usually satisfied.

Matt was a bit of a Luddite—blind since childhood, he refused to implant a chip to replace his vision and only used screen readers when working with documents. So he preferred phone calls to all the blessings of civilization.

“Six months?” Matt grunted unhappily. “Yeah, that’s serious. You coming by? This isn’t a phone conversation.”

Matt had a private office where no electronic devices were allowed—it was one of the requirements to maintain attorney-client privilege. That was convenient now because the label’s algorithms could easily access the microphone and find out that Charles was considering contesting the expert evaluation results.

“This case’s worth a million,” Matt said. “Or two. You need a human expert whose word carries more weight in court than a machine’s. And those experts charge exactly that much. You can bet on recovering your costs from the label, but even an independent expert evaluation doesn’t guarantee success, especially if the court itself is neural-network based. NeuroScalia, for example, will tear you to pieces. With NeuroGinsberg, your chances are better, but you know it’s a lottery.”

Charles nodded. Ever since civil decisions were made by courts that simulated rulings of real authorities, there was almost no way to disqualify a judge for bias or to sway them. Matt’s work was more like testing algorithms, having to sprinkle trigger keywords throughout his speech so the “judge” would even consider what he was saying.

“So, nothing can be done?”

“Well, what will you do if you win? Just keep working?”

Matt’s question was reasonable—technically, Charles would lose even if he won. Early contract termination incurred huge penalties, and staying and hoping things would go on as before… They could easily rig his advertising so it wouldn’t work, since their contract stipulated Promotion of the contractor’s services in scope and means not conflicting with company interests. And if the company lost interest, Charles couldn’t do anything because he’d already agreed.

The problem was always the contract. It seemed Charles had signed it voluntarily—but he had no choice.

***

Usually, Charles, like most people in his circle, lived on credit, and when the annual bonus came, he paid off all his debts at once. He had some savings, but they were kept for a rainy day, and he hoped that day would never come.

He needed to somehow cut his expenses, but Charles didn’t know where to start. Everything seemed essential. He couldn’t give up the apartment, taxes, getting around the city, food, or clothes. The thought of cleaning the apartment himself filled him with dread. Not because he feared dirty work, but because the concierge staff would definitely notice the cleaning service stopped coming twice a week; they wouldn’t ask questions, but they would know something was wrong.

The therapist tried to cheer Charles up by saying he now had a reason to work harder, and after visiting her, Charles spent the entire evening reflecting on whether he was pitying himself too much. He didn’t want to become a whiner who only complained about how others treated him, forgetting what he was capable of himself. He tossed and turned in bed for an hour, feeling a surge of determination to wake up in the morning and make his life even better than before. And in the morning, he threw himself twice as hard into a petty conflict between the coach of Chicago’s junior tennis team and the mother of one of the players.

Two weeks and three cases later, Charles realized that not only had his share of the overall pie changed—the pie itself had changed. Previously, mid-tier clients who could pay hefty fees had come to him, but now he was dealing with small-timers whose cases were worth only a couple thousand.

Charles truly tried to work harder, to be better. He compromised his principle of not answering calls after midnight and started taking orders from clients he would have tried to scare off before. He even had a moral justification—people worse than him would take those cases anyway, so why should he give them his money? He even had something to brag about to his therapist—he was handling cases faster and better. But there was also something to complain about—he wasn’t making more money.

“I think you’re underestimating your luck, Mr. Xavier,” said the therapist. “We’re both naturally suited to professions that will always be in demand, ones that algorithms won’t replace. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“I wouldn’t call it luck,” Charles replied thoughtfully. “What I want is justice.”

“Are you still tormenting yourself over that episode from a month ago?”

“My opinion hasn’t changed. I was treated unfairly, and I deserve better.”

“Many people mistake justice for always getting what they want,” the therapist said slowly and seriously. “But justice isn’t only about us; it’s also about others. What we deserve is determined by the value we bring to others.”

“Are you saying that because of that episode I now bring less value?”

“I see you just can’t let go of your failure. Let’s try to help you. Imagine you went to a restaurant and were served a dish that was terribly salty. Would you pay for something you can’t eat, or would you complain?”

Charles frowned, trying to take the therapist’s words seriously. He himself sometimes used restaurant metaphors—they were wonderfully irrefutable but often had little to do with reality.

“Okay, let’s say I’d complain. What’s next?”

“You probably didn’t specify when ordering the dish that it should be acceptably salted, did you?”

“Are you implying that I was supposed to guess that Shaw would demand an apology?” Charles snorted, looking coldly at the therapist. “I don’t have mind-reading skills.”

“Those things come with experience. And what you’re going through now is experience. Maybe it’s costing you now, but in the long run, it’s making you better.”

The therapist’s words sounded nice, almost uplifting, but Charles sensed a catch. He thought about it absentmindedly, staring at a neat row of canned vegetables on the supermarket shelf—no matter what the psychologist said about restaurants, those were now out of his price range.

“Charles!” he suddenly heard, and startled. Turning around, he immediately recognized the one who called him—a tiny elderly Jewish woman in a hat, Mrs. Lensherr. Or rather, Edie, as she preferred to be called. “Hello, my dear, what a surprise. You remember me, don’t you?”

She feigned a frown, but Charles didn’t even have to pretend he was glad to see her. Somehow, after the therapist, Edie’s appearance felt like a breath of fresh air.

“Of course, Mrs… Edie. I—”

“I’ll allow myself to be terribly tactless, but it doesn’t seem to me that something’s bothering you very much, does it?”

Right on target—maybe Charles’s face gave him away, or maybe women her age just saw through people. He smiled sheepishly.

“Nothing special,” he said, not intending to complain to Edie about Shaw having bent him over backwards. He certainly didn’t want to see gloating or pity in her eyes. “Just… had a tough conversation with the therapist.”

Edie pressed her lips into a line and shook her head.

“Therapists… I don’t like them. I remember when Erik was little, the school forced him to see one. After the first session, I had to drag an old mattress into the garage so Erik could kick it with his feet, because he came back terribly angry.”

“Is that so? What happened?” The tactless question slipped out on its own, not because Charles wanted to change the subject quickly—it was sudden genuine curiosity.

“Oh, just nonsense,” Edie waved her hand dismissively. “I still don’t understand why they made such a fuss. The kids were discussing future careers, and Erik said he didn’t want to bring any benefit to society, he just wanted to draw houses. And they decided he had developmental delays!” Edie grabbed a can of peas with indignation and tossed it into her cart. “He was eight years old. What eight-year-old thinks about benefiting society, tell me that?”

“You’re right,” Charles replied, though at that moment he was thinking about his own childhood. At eight years old, he knew exactly what to say and to whom in situations like that. His mother would have given him absolute hell if she’d found out someone suspected him of being “developmentally delayed.” “So, what happened in the end?”

“Nothing much,” Edie sighed. “After the third session, I got fed up with them sending my child back like that and gave them a good piece of my mind. Then, of course, we had social services dropping by for a couple of months, but back then Jacob was still alive, and he never gave them an inch—”

Her face took on a dreamy expression, as if she were remembering something pleasant. Jacob must be Erik’s father, Charles guessed.

They chatted a bit more, moving from one display to the next, and then Charles helped Edie carry her groceries to the car.

“Thank you so much,” she said, clearly delighted. “I usually come with my son, but he got called away on a last-minute job, and the fridge was completely empty. I thought I’d drop dead hauling all this. You’re such a sweet boy, Charles.”

No one had called him a boy in ages—let alone a sweet one—but there was something incredibly sincere in Edie’s compliment, and Charles found himself glowing without even realizing it.

“You know what? You should come over for dinner. Tomorrow, let’s say. I bet you haven’t had a proper home-cooked meal since starting college, am I right? I’ll roast a duck. The butcher by our synagogue gets the most divine little ducks!”

Charles could’ve said that even before college he rarely had home-cooked meals—his mother, despite maintaining the image of an ideal hostess, cooked terribly, and more often than not he just grabbed food from the fridge and made sandwiches for himself and Raven. But Edie clearly wasn’t looking for that kind of honesty. Her invitation was a gesture, not a literal offer of sustenance.

“Thank you, that’s very kind, but—”

“No buts!” Edie cut him off. “You’ll come to dinner, Charles, and you’ll try the duck. After all, you owe me, don’t you, boy? So be a gentleman and show up at seven sharp. Otherwise, we’ll start without you.”

When Edie drove off in her ancient clunker, Charles stood in the parking lot for a moment, watching her taillights disappear, deep in thought. Trekking out to the suburbs in the evening wasn’t ideal, and he had no idea how Erik would react to seeing him—after all, their last meeting hadn’t ended on the warmest note. And yet, there was something compelling about Edie’s heartfelt insistence; Charles found himself wanting to accept her invitation far more than reason could justify.

That evening, sitting in his kitchen and listening to Edith’s monotonous voice drone on from the corner speaker, Charles realized he absolutely had to go.

***

The Lehnsherrs’ house was, as before, impeccable. Some of the flowers had already begun to bloom, and Charles paused for a moment, taking them in—lush, vivid, beautiful. Like an image generated by artificial intelligence and, by some miracle, brought to life.

Even the house he’d grown up in had felt different. Their garden was tended by strangers working for other strangers. But here, Erik and his mother did it for themselves.

Erik met him on the porch, just like the first time. He looked stern and guarded, but was making an effort to smile.

“I honestly thought you wouldn’t come. Hello, Charles.”

They had never moved past formalities, but somehow the use of his first name felt entirely appropriate. As if he and Erik already knew far more about each other than people who called one another “mister.”

“Hello. I figured, why not. Especially since your mother made it very clear it wasn’t up for discussion.”

“Oh, that’s definitely her,” Erik stepped aside to let him in, then followed a little too quickly, closing the distance between them for a moment—closer than was comfortable. There was a tension about him, the kind that might be expected from someone about to have dinner with a stranger. But otherwise, he appeared composed. If he had any emotions about all this, he was keeping them tightly in check.

“Charles, sweetheart!” Edie came out of the kitchen just as he entered the house. She clapped her hands in delight and rushed toward him. “I’m so glad you came. Go on, chat with Erik a bit—duck’s just about ready.”

In Edie’s world, things were simple—any boy her son’s age, if she liked him, was practically family. But Erik wasn’t in a hurry to recognize Charles as a brother. In the living room, where they were told to wait until dinner, they sat in silence at first, not looking at each other, until Charles finally said:

“Are you upset your mother invited me?”

“Me? Not at all. Though I don’t really know why she did. The whole thing’s over, right? Shaw got what he wanted, and you got your commission.”

“Actually, I didn’t,” Charles said, a bit more quickly than he intended. “The next morning he came into the office and threw a fit because you didn’t apologize. I lost my bonus for the past six months.”

“Oh,” Erik finally looked at him, his gaze cautious. “You’re not here to beg me to apologize, are you? Because I won’t.”

“That was a month ago,” Charles bit his lip, uncertain if he should say what he was thinking—but he did anyway.

“To be honest, if it happened now, I’d climb up on that roof myself and paint the damn Star.”

“Easy there, man, you’re offending my religious sensibilities,” Erik said, then suddenly bared his teeth. Taken separately, the words and the expression could’ve been threatening—but Charles suddenly realized he was joking. “I’m sure you know I don’t mind a little vandalism, and I won’t stop you if you want to grab some paint from the garage,” he chuckled. “Although, if you do, a fresh batch of conflict mediators will show up at my door in the morning, and I honestly don’t think I’d survive if my mom started collecting you people.”

Charles gave a slightly bewildered smile. Talking to Erik was strange. He wasn’t the kind of person you could charm easily, but at the same time, Charles felt no effort was needed to be understood correctly.

“Do you play chess?” Erik asked suddenly.

Charles nodded.

“We probably won’t finish a full game before dinner, but we can pick it up again after.”

Charles hadn’t thought the evening involved anything past dinner, but he agreed. Chess was perfect that way—you could leave it for weeks or years and pick up right where you left off.

“Where’d you learn to play?” he asked, watching Erik set up the pieces with practiced efficiency. The board was simple and wooden, with metal clasps to keep it closed—worn in places by time and use. But the pieces looked practically new, lacquered, possibly even recently touched up by a careful hand. Clearly, Erik wasn’t the first in his family to play on this board.

“My father taught me. Other than that, I’m self-taught. Why, does it matter?”

“Well… I was in my school’s chess club. To get credit for intellectual enrichment hours. Might not be entirely fair if I—”

“Pick one,” Erik cut him off, holding out two closed fists. Charles chose one at random, and Erik handed him a black pawn.

At first, Charles considered going easy on him—but just a few moves in, he realized that would be a mistake. Erik might’ve been self-taught, but he played very, very well.

He might’ve completely embarrassed Charles in the first game, but they were saved by Edie calling them to the table.

The food was fantastic. The duck’s back had slightly burned, but the meat was tender and juicy. The salad was chopped haphazardly, but it made Charles want nothing more than to ask for seconds. Twice. Edie offered them wine, but Charles declined—he preferred not to drink in unfamiliar company, knowing how alcohol affected him. Erik, on the other hand, accepted the glass gratefully. The wine was dark and dense, and even from his seat, Charles could catch its deep, earthy aroma.

“How have you been, Charles?” Edie asked casually. “I hope my Erik was the toughest case you’ve had lately?”

She winked at her son, who chose to hide behind his wine glass.

“Well… to be honest—”

Charles hesitated. It had been easy enough to admit his failure to Erik, almost as if it were a joke. But in front of Edie, it felt different—more shameful. Maybe because Erik had seen through the whole mess from the start, while Edie had given that long, heartfelt speech asking her son to swallow his pride. And for what? In the end, all three of them had been dragged through the mud.

“Charles already told me,” Erik said. “And trust me, Mom—no one’s taken the title of the toughest from me yet.”

Charles stared at him in disbelief, trying to spot the catch—but it seemed Erik had just stepped in to help. No sarcasm, no edge. Just… help.

“That’s because you’re the most stubborn person alive, my boy. Stubborn like no one else,” Edie said fondly.

“Mooom!” Erik groaned, frowning in that unmistakably boyish way. The whole incident seemed long past, and all Charles could do was quietly marvel at the charming domestic scene.

If it had been Charles and his mother in the Lehnsherrs’ place, she’d have used the moment to lecture him—on how to speak properly so he wouldn’t be mistaken for underdeveloped, rude, autistic, or a communist. But Edie didn’t seem to care much how her son looked in other people’s eyes.

“Actually, Erik just has a will of iron,” Edie added suddenly. “Stubbornness is just a side effect. When he was eleven, he didn’t make the basketball team, so he spent the whole year doing special exercises… the next year, he was the fastest runner of them all!”

“But they still didn’t put me on the team, Mom,” Erik said with a chuckle. “Not until I turned thirteen and shot up a whole head taller.”

“But once you got picked, your team went straight to the state cup—”

“And we lost the next round.”

“But not because of you!” Edie looked at him triumphantly, as if that last remark had won her the argument. Charles’ mother had loved being right too—but her stance had always been the opposite: her son had never done enough, no matter what he achieved.

“Mom, I don’t think Charles wants to hear about my middle school basketball career.”

“Right, what am I doing,” Edie waved her hand dismissively and turned to Charles, fixing him with a sharp, penetrating gaze from her dark eyes. “Charles, why don’t you tell us about yourself? Do you have family? Someone special?”

“I…” Charles faltered, unsure what to say. “I have a sister. She lives… I think in Denver. We haven’t spoken in two years.”

“Oh really? Well, it’s never too late to call.”

“I’m afraid she doesn’t want to speak to me.”

“Why? Did you do something awful to her?”

“No, I—” The truth was, Charles didn’t know why they hadn’t spoken. Sitting in the Lehnsherrs’ home, their rift felt trivial—like a childish fight over a toy. But the last time he’d thought about it, he had still been angry. He couldn’t imagine talking to someone who believed it was acceptable to smile politely at clients who openly said they’d kill people like him.

“It was a stupid argument,” he said slowly. “But Raven said she didn’t want to see me again. We fought over—” Charles caught himself just in time, realizing he’d almost spilled a confidential detail—one he’d already once shared with Raven, against better judgment. “It had to do with my work. And I haven’t changed my mind since. I doubt she has either.”

“Well, your job does kind of suck,” Erik commented, only for his mother to immediately shush him. He put on the most innocent expression. “But I think what Mom is trying to say is—it’s never too late to make peace. Especially if Raven’s the only family you’ve got.”

“If only it were that easy…” Charles absentmindedly poked at the last bits of vegetables on his plate. Somehow, he’d polished off the whole serving in minutes. Normally, he’d eat slowly in front of others, but Edie’s cooking disappeared like magic.

“I’m sure you’ll manage—if you try,” Edie said, her voice warm with quiet encouragement. “You don’t seem like a bad person, sweetheart. But there’s a little coward in all of us when it comes to other people.”

Later, Charles would think that he wouldn’t have tolerated a lecture from a near-stranger—if it hadn’t been Erik’s mother. But maybe there was something in Edie’s voice, or the way she smiled, that made him believe she meant well. Just because he seemed like a good person to her.

The rest of the evening passed in light chatter, and after dinner, Erik dutifully headed off to do the dishes. Charles got ready to leave, but Edie flatly refused to let him go without taking a couple of containers of leftovers. Her cooking was top-tier, and it would save him lunch money tomorrow, so Charles agreed without much hesitation.

“Sorry we didn’t finish the game,” he said to Erik when he stepped into the kitchen to say goodbye.

“No big deal. We’ll finish it next time.”

“Next time?”

“What, you thought this was a one-time dinner? Mom’s not going to let you off the hook now. She likes guests—and you made a good impression.”

“And you?”

“What about me?” Erik shrugged. “I like playing chess. So come by whenever you want.”

When Charles came back a week later, there was a shepherd’s pie and lemon soufflé waiting on the table. Another week after that, it was lamb and berry tart. Charles felt awkward wanting to ask whether all this was really for him, or if the Lehnsherrs always ate like this—and if so, how they could afford it. Erik was a regular electrician, and Edie, as Charles had learned, made custom-knit hats and scarves. Even if business was booming, spreads like that had to make a serious dent in the budget. He forced himself to stop counting other people’s money—especially not the money of those who welcomed him so warmly.

On his third visit, he and Erik finally finished their first game—Erik won with an elegant and devious checkmate, and Charles burned with the desire for a rematch. After dinner, just as he was about to leave as usual, Erik suggested he stay—to help with the dishes and play another round.

Charles had never in his life washed dishes in someone else’s home, and he rarely did manual work of any kind. But for some reason, the offer made him genuinely happy. Together, they finished quickly, then settled in the living room. Erik pulled out some whiskey from the cabinet, poured a little into two glasses, and, handing one to Charles, took the armchair opposite him.

“You don’t drink?” he asked when he noticed Charles eyeing the glass uncertainly.

“I try not to.”

“Recovering alcoholic?” Erik asked with a gentle smile, as if the words held no judgment. Charles shook his head.

“Not exactly. It’s just—”

“Afraid I’ll beat you again?”

He winked, and Charles laughed in relief—and reached for the glass.

Chapter Text

The dinners at the Lehnsherrs’ did Charles as much good as eight hours of sleep, or deep meditation, or a vegetable-heavy diet—purely restorative. It had become easier to wake up in the morning and fall asleep at night—and it left absolutely nothing to discuss with his therapist. Or rather, there were still things to talk about—but before, Charles had answered with deadly seriousness, as if his life depended on it. And now he just tossed out meaningless replies, which drove his shrink crazy. But he couldn’t care less.

It seemed that right there, in that tidy little suburban house, Charles had found a place where, for the first time, no one expected anything from him. His only duty was to help with the dishes after dinner, and he never considered it a burden. On the contrary—he found a strange pleasure in standing with a dish towel and watching Erik swirl the suds away with a brush. His mind felt crystal clear, though if Erik didn’t amuse him with chatter, the daily worries would have crept into that holy emptiness. But Charles chased them away, knowing he’d have plenty of time to think about them later.

Surprisingly, the belt-tightening period of his life turned out to be better than a few of the well-fed years before it.

On Friday morning, Charles was on his way to a business meeting with a clear head, expecting just another easy case—some artist had gotten tired of his muse. The guy, not knowing how to explain it to her, had hired a conflict specialist for an awkward confession. Breakups were the bread and butter for Charles and his colleagues because they happened so often—and solving them was easy as pie. It was enough to take the side of the one who got dumped and listen for an hour or two while they unloaded all their grievances on a stranger.

But a call caught Charles midway. A call from the office.

“Get over here, hustle!” Platt yelled over the speaker. Charles had never heard him yell before.

“But I have a meeting with a client, and—”

“Doesn’t matter! Cancel it! You have to be here.”

A sinking feeling came over Charles. The label never interfered with business meetings—unless they were planning to cut a contractor loose for good.

Platt greeted him with a grim face and a cold stare, and Charles instantly knew trouble was coming. Without a word, Platt switched on the monitor’s back panel, bringing the image up for Charles to see. A video was playing. Dark and slightly grainy, clearly from a street camera—but even so, the figures were unmistakable.

The first was Charles, in a light summer blazer, leaning against the fence with one elbow and smiling. The other was Erik—comically half-hugging the mailbox, saying something back. In the last decade, street-camera technology had advanced so far that algorithms could now read not only faces but emotions, too. But on that video, no algorithms were needed—you could tell at a glance that Charles and Erik were having fun. Together.

“How do you explain this?” Platt asked in a voice like a commissioner's.

“Excuse me, what exactly? There’s nothing wrong with the video.”

“Really? You’re having a cozy chat with the opposing party from your recent case. And if you rewind a little, you’ll see yourself leaving his house.”

On the screen, Erik swayed and comically grabbed the mailbox. Charles knew what was coming next. It was the night they’d been drinking—one whiskey first, then more and more, until they were at that point where the word “castling” set off boyish giggles, but not so far gone they’d put the knight on the queen’s square and make cracks about the white king’s love life. Charles had called a cab, Erik saw him out, and hugged him goodbye. No subtext—just two tipsy men being friendly. But Platt saw something else in it.

“So—are you telling me you’ve become friends with him over the past two months? Just befriended a stranger you have nothing in common with, except for that case where you represented the opposing side?”

“What are you driving at?”

“This video was sent by Mr. Shaw,” Platt muttered. “He’s accusing us of assigning a conflict specialist who was in cahoots with the opposing side.”

Charles felt like his heart was pounding in his throat. This kind of accusation was worse than any algorithmic analysis—at least there the truth was clear.

“But that’s all it was. Lehnsherr’s mother invited me to dinner a month after the case was closed, and I had every right to accept.”

“Don’t think we’re just going to call you in for a face-to-face questioning.” Platt looked at him as if he were a complete fool. “Shaw doesn’t just think you were biased. He believes we concocted it on purpose—to make him come to us and pay up.”

“Is he… out of his mind?!”

“I don’t believe it falls within your capacity to hand down such verdicts.” Platt switched off the back panel of his monitor and sighed. “You’ve seriously damaged our reputation.”

“But it’s not true!”

“Mr. Xavier, who cares about what’s true? Don’t you think, in an election race, people listen to the excuses of a candidate caught in a brothel—even if he went there to preach sermons? Reputation is, above all, an impression. And this—” He pointed at the monitor with his stubby finger. “Leaves a horrendous impression. Even for me.”

“But we’re not in an election race. I fulfilled my obligations, and I believe it can be proven.”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to care about your proof,” Platt snorted, staring at the screen. He scanned the lines quickly, as if reading AI-generated tips. “I didn’t call to hear your excuses. I’m here to tell you that we are terminating our collaboration, per the contract, with no payment.”

Charles realized his hands were shaking. He could have used those beta-blockers Platt had recommended months ago. But he knew that, the moment the decision was announced, his access to bonuses evaporated—no pharmacist, no therapist, no gym. The algorithms might already be gnawing the last trace of him online.

“I—” he started, unsure how to continue. When it came to contract law, all disputes had to be settled in court. But Charles could already hear Matt’s voice in his head, counting every possible expense aloud. The label had too many shark lawyers, and the neurojudges—trained on hundreds of similar cases—would hardly rule in his favor.

“This conversation is over. Effective immediately, you are barred from the inner offices. Will you leave voluntarily, or should I call security?”

***

Charles chose to leave with dignity, on his own, not escorted by the grim security. But once he found himself on the street, he realized that, at bottom, he had nowhere to go. Chicago had thousands of places where a respectable contractor could pass the day—coworking spaces, coffee shops with accommodating staff, park areas for those who liked working outdoors—but all required money. And suddenly, Charles couldn’t afford even his own place.

His rent was paid a month in advance, but it offered weak solace. Within thirty minutes, his bank would know he was unemployed, and a statement demanding repayment of all outstanding credit would hit his inbox. Schools of hard knocks and popped bubbles had taught banks to pedantically track any change in their clients’ statuses—and when yesterday’s salariates lost their jobs, their first duty was to wipe out debts with whatever personal savings they had. Banks couldn’t wait for anyone to burn through their rainy day funds—not to sink into a heap of unsecured debts.

Yet Charles wasn’t ready to surrender. His label wasn’t the only one in the city—or the state—and his name, despite the vanished ads, was still in the public eye. But within three days, all former competitors had responded with refusals, sending politely composed, AI-generated final statements. The only upside was the speed of their replies, which spared Charles false hope. Still, after the reckoning with the bank, his savings had shrunk by thousands—and that really, really bothered him.

He even went to Matt’s office—without calling ahead, knowing Matt would always see him if he wasn’t tied up in court or with a client—and was ready to wait all day. Matt turned out to be available and only shook his head.

“I’m sorry, pal, but I can’t afford a conflict specialist on the payroll.” Matt was a competent lawyer, though not top-tier, and maintaining a large staff was truly beyond his means. Conflict specialists weren’t even listed among recognized legal professions, unlike, say, court data analysts.

Matt promised to put out a few feelers—but from the slight shake in his voice, Charles guessed he considered the case dead. When his contract had been terminated, Charles had lost access to all bases—but now, surely, every AI in Chicago knew what hiring Charles Xavier entailed.

By the end of the week, there wasn’t a single firm in the city with a conflict specialist position open that hadn’t yet received Charles’s application. The result was the same—rejected, rejected, rejected. A tiny ray of hope appeared when Charles got a call from Gabrielle Haller, his former coursemate. He had heard through the grapevine that Gabrielle was working for the licensing commission. Back in college, they had dated—until Gabrielle realized she was more interested in women—and parted on friendly terms. Now, they rarely met, only popping up in each other’s social feeds—but Gabrielle could still help him, for old times’ sake. And he didn’t mind the idea of entering government service at all.

It turned out Gabriell had called for another reason.

“I’ve noticed some… strange consistencies lately,” she said pensively, tracing her fingers over the saucer of her coffee cup, and Charles immediately understood why they were meeting. This conversation wasn’t meant for algorithms. He ostentatiously turned off his phone and placed it in a foil-lined case. Gabrielle had done the same a minute earlier. “There’s a rabid activity in the system around your license. At first, I thought it was a DDOS attack, but all the requests were real. Are you looking for a job?”

“There’s no word for it,” Charles exhaled. “Do you, by any chance, have something in mind?”

Gabrielle shook her head.

“Sad to say. And, honestly, judging by the latest logs, it’s better not to hire you at all. Prejudice, Charles, really? Conspiracy? I thought you were above it.”

“It was… a misunderstanding,” Charles mumbled, fully aware how absurd it sounded. After all, this was exactly what he was supposed to be paid for—to prevent misunderstandings.

“Maybe. I would go with an official request, but… some jack-in-office from the infrastructure department called us. No names, but he demanded your license be revoked.”

Charles froze. A foiled case might help, but it wasn’t a sure thing—and Gabrielle risked royally revealing the office’s secret. The reason was clear—she didn’t even mention the name, but her trembling fingers said it all. She got pissed by the caller. Charles didn’t need the name.

Shaw.

“And… what did you say?”

“That he could go to hell. In the most professional terms. He can be a mayor’s friend all he wants, but encroach upon institutionalism… in fact, that’s why I’m here. Nepotism is disgusting.”

Charles tried not to dig deeper, so Gabrielle wouldn’t realize she had just flushed a professional secret to her ex out of distaste for a colleague. Back in college, she had been a zealous liberal—one of those who considered American democracy the pinnacle of all systems, and contractualism the peak of moral philosophy. But, as often happened, in practice philosophical ideals gave way to personal needs.

All of them partial—and only Charles was unlucky enough to pay for it.

“Thank you… for telling me. I… what do you think—do I have a chance to find a job?”

Gabrielle gave a courteous shrug, and it conveyed the hardest “no” imaginable.

As a dedicated feminist, Gabrielle paid for their coffee (since she had invited Charles, not the other way around). It was a small comfort, though Charles couldn’t help mentally converting the price of a cappuccino into groceries he could buy with supermarket coupons. The frothy foam in its white rim was worth a whole pack of spaghetti, a can of beans, and a package of the cheapest tea.

***

After the conversation with Gabrielle, anxiety came over him. A voice in Charles’ head—no longer his therapist’s—said it was too early to give up: he’d only been searching for a week, hardly enough time to draw conclusions. Common sense told him to look in other cities, but his license was valid only in Illinois. His psychology degree, however, was recognized nationwide and opened more job options. Without the relevant experience, though, Charles could count only on entry-level positions.

By the end of the second week, things didn’t seem quite so bleak.

He even attended a couple of interviews: sales specialist, matchmaker’s assistant, junior project coordinator at a company that made a dating app—but everyone greeted him with the same question: how, being a top-tier specialist, had he decided to change professions? Whatever Charles replied, the result was always the same—they refused him.

He scratched his head, trying to figure out what he was doing wrong, until he stumbled across an online article about recruiting algorithms. It explained that, when there’s a shortage of suitable candidates, the algorithm should select applications with the highest education level and schedule interviews, so recruiters’ working hours aren’t wasted. It struck him as ridiculously dumb, though it made economic sense: a lack of candidates shouldn’t cause workload reduction or job cuts—otherwise, the labor market would consist entirely of unemployed recruiters. But now it became clear: he was just a filler for the algorithm, and the decision to refuse him had been made before he’d even been invited.

By the end of the second week, Charles was desperate. His CV carried a big, fat stain—lack of loyalty. No self-respecting company—and every single one of them considered themselves exactly that, even if their main business was paper-pushing—would tolerate someone like him.

Shaw had prevailed—not just gotten what he wanted, but ground Charles into the dirt. Yet one thought gave him a faint spark of comfort: Erik had never apologized. And no matter how Shaw thrashed in his little hysterics, Erik never would.

Because he wasn’t the one to blame.

Surprisingly, thinking of Erik made Charles forget entirely that he had promised Edie he’d come to dinner. He only remembered at half past seven, when he noticed two missed calls—one from each of the Lehnsherrs.

His first impulse was to call back—but Charles couldn’t bring himself to do it. He would have to apologize, to explain why he’d been late—or rather, why he hadn’t shown up at all. And to confess that he was a bloody loser… spare me. He wouldn’t survive their compassion.

The guilt was worse. Before those missed calls, it had just been gnawing at him, diffuse, not focused on anyone in particular, a simple stream of self-reproach. He could’ve noticed that the client was an asshole, could’ve asked around, could’ve defied his weakness and skipped the dinner, could’ve refused a drink… Now, faced with the possibility of hearing that rebuke from a familiar, human voice—he knew he wouldn’t bear it.

The phone rang two more times. Charles snapped, turned it off, flung it behind the couch pillow, and grabbed another pillow to cover his face. He wanted to hide from the whole world, which at that moment took the threatening shape of Erik and his mom.

A couple of minutes later, a knock came at the door. Charles, accustomed to the doorbell, didn’t immediately realize what it was. When he did, he rushed to the videophone—and there was grim Erik’s face on the screen.

Charles could only guess how Erik had gotten in, bypassing the entry phone and the concierge—but this was not the time for guessing. He was angry—deep down at himself, and on the surface at his pushy, sorry excuse for a friend, who apparently felt righteous enough to show up at the exact moment Charles longed for solitude.

He wasn’t in a hurry to open the door and stared at the screen, though he turned on the speaker anyway.

“What do you want?” He spat out. He was surprised to see relief flash across Erik’s face.

But it didn’t last. Erik’s expression quickly soured.

“So, you’re alive,” he grunted. “Splendid. Did something happen to you?”

“Nothing happened. Go away.”

“Exactly how a “nothing-happened” guy would sound.” Erik chuckled drearily. “Let me in. Whatever happened, I’ll help.”

Charles could only laugh—but it came out more like a sob. A blue-collar guy like Erik couldn’t understand what it was like to feel useless over some trifle. His job certainly didn’t hinge on a spotless reputation.

“Charles?” Erik quite sucked at being patient. “Let me in. Or I’ll stand here forever, pissing off your neighbors until you open the door.”

“I’ll call the police,” Charles blurted, not even aware of the drivel he was saying. He just needed Erik gone, by any means. “Please, leave. I’m not in the right state to have guests.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. If you can’t talk to me, you definitely can’t talk to the police. I won’t leave.”

Charles remembered Edie’s tirade about her son’s stubbornness. Erik wouldn’t hesitate to camp outside his door all night, and then it would be the neighbors calling the police. He’d have to blush in front of the concierge and explain what kind of brawler he’d let into his apartment.

Even angrier, Charles pressed the button and opened the door.

Erik stepped in immediately, not bothering with a hello, and slammed the door behind him. He pressed the block button on the videophone—too effortlessly for a man whose neighborhood didn’t even have surveillance.

“So, what’s up with you?” he snorted. “My mom and I were worried sick. Mom even took her drops.”

Wrath stirred in Charles’ chest. Sure—first Erik forced his way in, and now he was manipulating him with his mother’s health. How low.

“You’re pale as a ghost,” Erik said suddenly, grabbing Charles’ shoulders without ceremony. “Something’s wrong, right? Is it your sister?”

“Raven’s okay,” Charles murmured, floundering against Erik’s grab. “And me too. Just… why should I have to justify myself?”

Erik measured him with a strange, lingering gaze, as if evaluating his mental capacity, and finally said:

“Are you nuts? I’m asking what’s wrong with you, and you’re spouting batshit.”

At those words, Charles seethed:

“So that’s it? Why did you barge in? To lecture me on how insolent I am? Didn’t call, didn’t warn… what, is it boring without sweet Charles entertaining everyone? Congrats, you’re the only one. Not a bloody soul in this city wants me to work for them. And I, honestly, don’t care about you—”

He didn’t remember his last words, coming to his senses only under Erik’s firm grip. It was too much like a hug—soft, calming—and all Charles could do was bury his face in Erik’s shoulder. He had no strength left.

“So… you lost your job?” he heard a quiet voice. “That shitty job that made you work for fuckers like Shaw?”

“That job paid my bills,” Charles mumbled wearily. “Now I’m not wanted anywhere.”

“Really? It’s a big problem. But I’m sure it’s not that bad. Have you tried—”

“I tried. I applied for a fucking matchmaker’s assistant position. I’ve only got two weeks left in this fucking apartment I can’t afford anymore. And I can’t even move out because I can’t afford another place at all!”

Erik fell silent but didn’t step back. He patted Charles’ head pensively—like you’d pat a child.

“Sounds like you’re up the booay,” he muttered. “So, you have nowhere to live?”

Charles nodded, butting Erik’s jaw with his forehead.

“Well, no big deal. You can always stay with us. Mom will be thrilled.”

“Are… are you serious?” Charles pushed him aside to study his face—and, to his shame, saw no hint of mockery. He immediately tried to shove away the relief that had come from nowhere.

“I don’t need charity,” he muttered, stepping back.

“It’s not charity. You’ll make our lives easier if you move in.”

“Better even,” Charles said, blushing. “You want to hire me as help for food? Surprise—my household skills are pathetic.”

Erik frowned again.

“It’s not what I mean. Just… isn’t it normal—to crash on your friends’ couch in hard times? Isn’t that what friends are for?”

Charles looked at him as if Erik had suddenly started speaking Ancient Aramaic. He had always seen those visits as amicable gatherings, nothing more, and didn’t suspect anything bigger behind them. If Erik and his mother were in trouble, it wouldn’t even occur to him to invite them to his place.

It was shame, too. He felt shame for everything—but above all, that his beautiful life had turned into a pumpkin. Or rather, what he had considered a beautiful life, despite knowing how dependent he was on things beyond his control.

“You realize this is… embarrassing?” He muttered, not looking at Erik.

“Embarrassing? Living in a poor suburb?” Erik snorted. “Well, I see it slightly differently.”

“No. Huddling in… someone else’s place. On a couch… for free. I’m an adult. What would your neighbors think of me?”

They had definitely noticed Charles arriving there in his best suit. And if he moved in and switched to stretched pants and a tee, they’d feel a ghoulish joy—just another sleek boy learning his place.

“If you don’t badger them, they’ll think you’re a great guy,” Erik shrugged. “Seriously, what’s the big deal? It’s better than living on the streets.”
They stayed silent for almost a minute before Erik finally gave up.

“You decide. I offered, and my offer stands. If you need time to warm up to it—I’m not rushing things.”

Charles ruefully nodded and pressed the unblocking button. Erik looked him up and down one last time—as if contemplating dragging him to the suburb by force—and, nodding, cleared out.

***

Talking to the landlord came at a heavy cost for Charles. First, because the building wasn’t run by a person but a company, and he had to speak with a hired representative; second, because he was late with his notice. The rules required him to give one month’s notice, but the job-searching chaos had distracted Charles, and he hoped they could still reach an agreement.

The landlord’s representative, a solid young man, far too chatty and jaunty, clucked immediately:

“How can this be? Two weeks late with your notice… are you usually such an undisciplined man, Mr. Xavier? You know, I just took this fantastic time-management course not so long ago—”

Apparently, the course hadn’t helped much, because he talked three times as long as necessary. But he excelled at another thing—dumping all his irritation on Charles without a single bad word.

“It’s… circumstances,” Charles replied. He didn’t want to admit that the rent was now beyond his reach. He knew every reason for moving out would be recorded in the system, and any future landlord would see a contract with such a tenant as fraught with financial risk

“Everyone has circumstances, so it goes. What’s yours? Marriage? New job? Companies usually hate waiting. But I’m sure that if you’re really a valuable asset, they’d agree to repay the forfeit—”

“Which forfeit?”

“Late-notice forfeit,” the representative beamed. “Look, there’s a forfeit provision in the contract.”

“But it’s covered by the deposit.” Charles frowned. No matter how lousy he felt, he hadn’t turned into a complete fool—and he remembered his tenancy contract almost word-for-word.
“That’s right. But if the deposit is used to cover other needs—”

“Like what?”

“Damage compensation. You’ve been using it above the statutory ratio, haven’t you?”

Charles looked around. There was always natural wear, and his kitchen sink had once clogged—but all that was covered by his rent and mentioned in his contract.

“What do you mean?”

“The presence of other people in the apartment. There’s one extra person allowed in your contract, as per minimum.”

That was for the cleaning lady who came twice a week. No one else visited Charles, and he preferred hotels for occasional meetings.

“But last month, you had two visitors. The sensors recorded that.”

“Two?” Charles muttered, remembering Priscilla Le Beau. “But if I have a visitor who lives in this building, why should I pay for wear? At that moment, they’re already paying for their own apartment’s wear without being here.”

The representative gave him a weird look—as if Charles were a fish that had climbed onto the bank of Lake Michigan and played a violin concerto in C minor. He clearly hadn’t considered being challenged.

“But it’s nonsense!” the guy finally exclaimed. “Don’t you think we’re supposed to verify the identities of your guests? It contradicts the right to privacy. If you don’t agree, you can submit a request with proof. We examine our tenants’ requests within sixty business days.”

“Fine,” Charles sighed, figuring that as soon as he terminated the contract, his request would go straight to the trash. “But I have no visitors this month. Couldn’t that be counted as—”
“Wait a minute!” the representative cut in. “Everything is recorded. One visitor. A man.”

Charles all but slapped his forehead. He had forgotten about Erik.

“Five minutes?” He snorted sarcastically. The representative made him want to whack him on the head. “He didn’t even pass through the hall. Don’t you think he caused serious damage?”

“Only experts can evaluate that,” the representative said haughtily. “And you can submit a request—”

“Enough,” Charles cut him off. “What do you want from me?”

The representative squinted, as if mentally juggling numbers.

“One more month of rent, if you want to terminate your contract according to the rules. Or a forfeit of ninety percent for premature termination.”

Ten percent hardly mattered—especially considering that any of those sums would almost wipe out Charles’ savings. He had counted too much on his yearly bonus when he had taken on his credit obligations—and his bank had bled him dry.

Charles decided to buck the odds.

“And what if I tell you I don’t have that kind of money?”

“What do you mean—don’t? This is your obligation—”

“Literally. And no bank would lend me in my state.” Charles knew it was a desperate bluff, but the childish confusion on the representative’s face only fueled his resolve.

“So… you’ll be declared a bankrupt, and all your possessions—”

“You know that would take forever.” Charles smiled. This could be a game for two. “And even if your company sued me into the ground, this debt would hardly add to your bonus. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

Charles was no shrinking violet, either. He could manipulate people’s minds when needed.

“I can’t discuss the terms of my bonus with you,” the representative replied dryly. “But if you wanted to ask whether there are any options to part ways without extra payments, you could have just asked.”

“So, are there?” Charles looked at him expectantly, summoning the slyest of smiles.

“You know there’s a waiting list for apartments in this building… and a number of people are ready to move in as soon as someone leaves?” Charles nodded. “Some have deadlines this week. If you leave before that—”

“So, let me get this straight,” Charles began innocently. “If I move out immediately after declaring it, we can terminate the contract without a forfeit?” The representative nodded. “But if I move out two weeks after notifying you, I’d have to pay for leaving too early?”

The representative quacked, clearly not expecting such a simple conclusion—and then scolded Charles for pushing his philistine logic into the work of professionals. He finished his tirade with a statement: Charles had two options—leave before Sunday for free, or stay for two more weeks and pay the forfeit. And Charles had to decide immediately. Then again, if you didn’t have the money… you had no real choice.

Two days later, Charles stood on the Lehnsherrs’ porch—with a single suitcase containing everything he hadn’t managed to sell, and a box tucked under his arm, holding his only remaining family treasure—a tea set.

Erik opened the door, raised his brows, but immediately smiled.

“Would you let me in?” Charles muttered bashfully. Erik chuckled, took the box, and stepped aside.

Chapter Text

Life in the suburbs turned out not as bad as Charles had feared, and not nearly as fleeting as he had planned.

He was allotted a guestroom—small, modest, but surprisingly cozy. A three-quarter bed was covered with starched sheets and a counterpane, which Charles suspected was Edie’s work; a small wardrobe, knocked together from faux-beech plywood, easily held the few clothes Charles had kept; and a tiny, almost dormer-like window was clothed in a white tulle curtain, darkened with time. The setting was lovely and wonderfully tasteless—but Charles didn’t dare complain. He had no alternative to the Lehnsherrs’ house—or if he did, he couldn’t think of it without getting the creeps.

Every morning started with breakfast—pancakes, waffles, or eggs with vegan bacon, plenty of coffee and conversation. After that, Erik often went off on service calls, Edie settled down with her knitting, and Charles turned to his duties—washing dishes, mowing the lawn, dusting shelves, or simply sitting with Edie and keeping her company. On Saturdays, Erik diligently shaved and put on his best shirt to escort his mom to the synagogue. He himself, as Charles soon learned, wasn’t a believer—but that didn’t stop him from lazing around for the rest of the day, chalking it up to the Sabbath.

Charles hadn’t noticed when three weeks had passed. Every one of those days he promised himself he would spend searching for a job—but every time something invariably stopped him. It was Edie deciding she simply had to tell him about her and Erik’s father’s honeymoon in Portugal, or it was Erik himself suddenly needing a pair of spare hands in the garage. Two or three times Charles’ best intentions had been interrupted by chess—and it was totally unacceptable. Charles couldn’t remember the last time he had spent his days in such idleness. It seemed that ever since the first nanny with educational toys had appeared in the Xaviers’ house, his days had been scheduled to the minute. Now, left to himself, he had no idea what to do with this freedom.

His surprise grew even stronger when he found Erik reading some stupid radical book and realized he didn’t even want to argue about it. On the contrary—he lingered nearby, watching Erik’s long fingers spread over the flashy black-and-red cover, watching him bite his lip as he thought about something.

It was beautiful—but Charles tried to shoo the thought away. It was the last thing he should do in his sorry state—to drool over the kind host who’d taken him in.

In the second week at the Lehnsherrs’, Charles received a mug—slightly crooked, as if handmade, with a deliberately loose Star of David and unintelligible script in an unfamiliar language. It turned out that Erik had made it himself, dusting off the potter’s wheel in the basement, and painted it by hand. Charles sincerely thanked him for the gift, though he vaguely suspected some mockery in it—the Star of David clearly resembled the one on the roof that had brought him here in the first place. He didn’t dare ask, and he would have gone on thinking Erik just wanted to laugh at him, if Edie hadn’t asked him one day:

“Do you know what it says?”

Charles shook his head, and she chuckled. Taking the mug with her long, gnarly fingers, she held it up to the light and traced the inscription with her firm nail.

“Gam zu l’tovah,” Edie said. “This too is for the good.”

It turned out that Erik had taken Charles’ failure as just a signpost on the road that had ultimately led to something better. It meant that Erik was really glad to have him here. 

It came off as strange to Charles. No one he’d known previously would take a literal stranger into their house—a poor, hapless man, incapable of returning the favor. And if they did, they would remind him daily of his debt. But neither Edie nor Erik had ever tried to hint that Charles owed them something. 

In Charles’s head, a little metal hammer was nagging, hammering in the words his therapist would say: “You’re avoiding self-reliance, Charles. You offloaded self-care onto the shoulders of others.” The therapist had never called him by his name—but Charles knew that all those years of self-improvement, of working on his independence, had gone down the drain thanks to the Lehnsherrs’ grand gesture.

But surprisingly, he didn’t regret it a bit. 

Edie had knit socks for him. It was too warm for them, so Charles placed them on top of his other things in the drawer, where they reminded him daily that he was welcome. In a week or so, standing on the porch with a mug and absently watching Erik fiddle with the rose bush, Charles realized it was his first new thing in two long months. Before, he’d been spending money now and then, buying things that seemed absolutely necessary to him—still never straying from the budget calibrated by his financial consultant. 

Now, business meetings in restaurants had been replaced by Edie’s cooking, and trendy must-visit exhibitions by watching Erik work. Charles liked the latter spectacle way more than the endless cavalcades of paintings that tried to mock the very reason they’d been created—people’s conviction that the world was alive only while money changed hands as fast as possible.

Charles was surprised he hadn’t figured it out earlier—sometimes you just need to stop. A small pause in the middle of the stream of life gave him greater strength than an endless fight.

Early on Sunday morning, when Charles, by his new habit, slept peacefully, Erik gently knocked on his door.

“Did I wake you?” He chuckled, looking at tousled Charles and a pillow dent on his cheek with some strange satisfaction. “Never thought you were such a heavy sleeper, but anyway—I’m about to fix the roof.”

“The roof?” Charles wasn’t fully awake, but he took it as an instruction. “Wait thirty minutes, I’ll get up and help you.”

“No need,” Erik snorted, still watching with the same enigmatic squint as Charles tossed in bed. “I’ll handle it myself. I just wanted to warn you it’s going to be loud, so… take this.”

He tossed a pair of bulky headphones on the bed—an old model, but with decent noise suppression. Charles used to have the same model in college. He’d spent many hours cramming the components of the brain to Scarlatti’s warble, trying to drown out all background noise.

“I’m not sure it’s good for your sleep, but you definitely won’t hear the hammering.” Erik smiled. “And once you come to—go downstairs. Mom is baking a carrot cake.”

After Erik’s visit, Charles didn’t sleep a wink—but not because the noise was bothering him. It was his imagination.

Erik had come into his bedroom for the first time—apart from that first day, when he’d brought fresh towels at his mom’s urging. This time, everything looked different. Charles had just woken up and was lying in bed, and Erik towered over him and looked at him… Charles clearly wouldn’t have minded if Erik, instead of climbing onto the roof, had climbed under the blanket with him.

Sure, he didn’t plan on saying that—but he had plenty of time to think of it before going down for the carrot cake. And some time to convince himself that he was letting his imagination run wild for the first and the last time. Because only a complete asshole would seriously think about taking even more from the place where he was already getting too much.

Anyone else in Erik’s place would have gone to fix the roof without asking. It wasn’t the guest’s business to unsettle the house, especially when he lived there out of mercy. But Erik apparently considered him a full-fledged family member.

So did Edie—but in her case, it didn’t always come with cordiality. She could raise her voice or grumble, as though Charles were just another son of hers. But even with all this baggage, she treated him better than his own mom ever had. Sharon never raised her voice, but the things she said in her calm, sterile tone could be worse than any yelling.

***

On the next Sunday, Erik was called out for an emergency repair, and his usual weekly cleaning duty fell to Charles. Edie told him to vacuum all the carpets in the house. Charles had never touched a vacuum cleaner before—but he got his bearings quickly enough. The hardest part was threading his way around the house with the long sucking stick, which longed to come to rest against something with its other end the moment Charles got distracted.

Charles was peacefully vacuuming the frayed carpet in the study—a room that had once belonged to Erik’s father, judging by the books and commendations on the walls—when the vacuum handle grazed something again. It was a desk drawer that hadn’t been properly shut.

At first, Charles wanted just to slide it back into place so it wouldn’t get in the way. But his glance caught something in the chink between the board and the desktop—a piece of some document, covered with a semitransparent sleeve. It had Erik’s name on it, written in a surprisingly familiar, curvy script. Charles couldn’t remember when he’d seen it, and his curiosity overcame him.

He slid the drawer out and looked at the document—and he thought he dreamt it at first. “Massachusetts Institute of Technology,” the header read. “Erik Lehnsherr, Master of Engineering,” was written below. 

As if testing reality for the bad sense of humor, Charles pulled the diploma out of the cover-up and looked closer—it was real, no doubt. Issued twelve years ago, stamped with the red seal, signed by then-recent president and the secretary. Erik had graduated from one of the best tech schools of the country—no, of the worlds—and worked as a simple electrician. 

The moment of clarity flashed in Charles’ mind. He recalled the information from the personal file—about Erik working in the Chicago branch of a big company and the staff reduction. Apparently, Erik had decided to help him for a reason. He had once passed through the same thing and now helped out of… solidarity? It used to come off as a stupid world to Charles. Then, he had thought that it was needed only by losers who unite due to common problems. Now, this word whiffed with warmth—like from someone’s firm hand that holds you and doesn't let you slip off into the downfall.  

After the cleaning, when Charles and Edie sat together at the kitchen table for a cup of tea, he tried to ask her about it. She just waved him off.

“You can ask Erik once he’s back.” 

Erik came back only in the evening, tired and sullen. But after the shower and dinner, he went to the living room and fished out glasses and a bottle of bourbon from the cupboard. 

“Fancy a game?” He gestured at the board, where yesterday's game lay frozen midway. Charles nodded, taking a glass from his hands, and slowly lowered himself into the chair. 

“I have a question,” he said as Erik perched across from him. “Ignore it if you want.” 

“Well then.” Erik frowned and grinned at the same time, which made him look like a mysterious movie villain. “Should I be afraid?”

“I don’t know,” Charles said honestly. “It might just be… out of line.”

“Spill the beans,” Erik insisted, making the first move. Charles began to talk before even thinking about the pieces. 

“I found your diploma. Massachusetts, engineering. You might be—”

He faltered, not knowing how to go on. Very smart? He was, judging by their chess score. Missing the old times? Erik didn’t look like a man who regretted much. The words didn’t come easy, but Erik supplied them for him:

“What? Overeducated, for a blue collar?” 

It wasn’t the best phrasing, and Charles shrugged. He hadn’t meant that, but a start had been made. 

“How did it happen that, having such a diploma, you ended up a simple electrician?” 

“Discriminatory analysis,” Erik said with a grin. “But honestly, it’s a long story. You might know that I used to work for ClayCo?”

“I read about this in your file.” Charles finally ventured a move. 

“I was in charge of configuration security systems. You know—videophones, motion sensors, all this crap meant to keep those unpleasant people at bay.”

So that was the source of that magical contraption on the mailbox, Charles thought. And Erik had handled his videophone as if he used it every day. 

“When another crisis hit—five years ago—ClayCo bought an algorithm to calculate who’d be the fairest to make redundant. We were analyzed by a slew of parameters, from education level and project engagement to what they called “customer-oriented approach” and “variability.” 

Erik leaned forward to promote his rook. 

“I scored the lowest in those last two because customers complained.  I told them that their desired version wouldn’t work, but instead of listening to me they scribbled complaints to the managers, calling me bull-headed and contradictious.”

Charles stretched for his bishop, but Erik called him down:

“Where to? It’s check.” 

Surprisingly, even amid his fiery speech, Erik still played duly. 

“You mean to say that you were made redundant unfairly because you didn’t listen to the customers?” 

“Unfairly?” 

Erik savoured the last work as though puzzling out its meaning. Charles bluescreened for a moment, watching those thin lips move—reading them rather than hearing. 

“No. It was an act of idiocy. I saw the reports. All my projects were finished on time. Sixty percent of what they gave away to others had to be rolled back to the EO stage in final testing. Another twenty percent received complaints within the guarantee term.” 

Charles managed to slip out of check, but he felt it wouldn’t last. Erik’s long, beautiful fingers—too delicate for a workie—distracted him far more than the conversation.

“So, you were kicked out, too?” He asked, more out of mischief, hoping to distract Erik from his next attack. “Is that why you… helped me?”

“You can’t compare it.” Erik chuckled coolly. “I helped you because I liked you. And because… damn, what’s that?” 

“Checkmate.” Charles wore an innocent expression, as if some tooth fairy had planted this checkmate on his board. Erik inspected the board incredulously, making sure none of them was seeing things, and then spread his hands. 

“You got me.” 

It wasn’t the first time Charles had bested him—but the odds had favored Erik the entire game. If he hadn’t blundered on the last move… then again, that was Charles’ usual tactic—diverting attention. 

But their conversation wasn’t a smokescreen for his victory. Charles was genuinely curious. 

“So… you just moved back in with your parents? After a successful career? Haven’t you… tried to find another job?” 

“I have, of course. But everyone wanted that damn variability. They said tests would never let flaws split through, and if you argued with customers at the EO stage, they’d find another contractor. So I decided it’s easier to work alone.” 

“To be an electrician?”

“I had a license. I got it to nerd out with this tech by hand. So I didn’t stop working in my degree field—I just changed the audience. I could live alone, but my mom needed help. So I came back. And I stayed.” 

“Don’t you work like that—alone? No company covering your publicity?” 

“Word of mouth. Works great in the suburbs. Electricians from the companies are for those who are scared out of their wits of letting strangers in their houses. Companies charge through the nose to feed the whole pack of managers and admen, and do their best to be called again as soon as possible. So people prefer guys like me. Someone they know in person.”

They went silent for a while. Erik pushed his poor, now useless black king around the board, pensively looking past it—and Charles watched as though it were some necessary ritual. He might as well need nothing but to observe Erik’s wristbone twitch, his plain, short nails brushing against the lacquered black wood. 

Finally, he bent to say what he had been pining to say.

“If I had to come back to my mother, I’d—” he stopped short, unsure how to describe the horror his mom would unleash if she discovered he’d turned out to be a loser. She’d definitely kick him out, lecturing him about her “doing it for his own good.” Motivation—that’s what she’d call it. 

Sharon always believed that redundant tenderness made a child pliant and dumb. 

But Erik didn’t need an explanation. 

“I think our mothers are different,” he chuckled, reaching for the glass next to the board. “I like it at home. I was unbearable when I lived alone. Maybe, if I stayed there longer, I’d be throwing fits about spoiled views, too.” 

Charles smiled and took his glass. They didn’t continue playing that night, only chatted about everything. 

***

It was Sunday, and Charles was out gardening. He tended the roses, carefully trying to follow Erik’s instruction—and managed, surprisingly, fairly well. 

He heard a car stop by the house, which was remarkable in itself—both Lehnsherrs were home, the neighbors all had their car in place, and strangers almost never showed up in the suburbs. 

Charles stealthily peeked out from behind the rosebush. 

“Waiting time is ten minutes,” a cold mechanical voice of a self-driving taxi announced, as a painfully familiar figure hurried down the path to the porch. A tall, lean blonde in a crisp white dress. Her heels—so foreign for the suburbs—clattered against the alley. 

The door swept open at once, and Edie stepped outside. 

Charles, afraid to move, kept his eyes on the guest. He didn’t need to see her face to recognize her. It was Emma Frost, his colleague. Ex-colleague. 

Emma, like Charles, was a conflict specialist. Only, where he had once been a rising star, she was the reigning queen of the skyfall. Her clients were the richest, the most prominent—and all hell exacting, but ready to pay for her talent. When Charles had just started, Emma had been his mentor, showing him how the cookie crumbled. Now, the last thing he wanted was to face her—in a loose tee, muddied pants, and gardening gloves, homeless and unemployed. 

“How do you do, Ms. Frost,” Edie beamed with cordiality. “Would you come in for a cup of tea? I’ve baked a rhubarb pie.” 

“I’ve no time for that, thank you” Emma shook her head. “I’ll just take my order—the taxi’s waiting.”

“Of course, of course,” Edie handed her a paper bag. “You zephyr. Cotton with a silk thread, very light.”

Emma pulled the zephyr from the bag and inspected it carefully—she was, as Charles remembered, always thorough. But apparently, even she found nothing to carp at—so she grinned with satisfaction. 

“High-class work. You should run an online-shop. You’d get plenty of orders—”

“Why would I want that?” Edie waved off. “If I knit from dusk to dawn, we’ll be caked in mud. I’d better leave it as it is.” 

“Your choice,” Emma shrugged, fishing out her purse. Counting a few bills, she handed them to Edie. 

“I’ll recommend you to my friends. Your work is wonderful, Mrs. Lehnsherr.” 

“Thank you, Ms. Frost.”

Emma turned around and hurried back to her taxi—but just as Charles thought that the coast was clear, she suddenly cried out:

“Charles!”

He jerked, and a thorn caught in his glove, latching it tight. In those feeble seconds it took to break free, Emma had already come too close. 

“Charles, dear, I wasn’t expecting to find you here! What are you doing?”

He looked at her helplessly. Emma, in her Armani—or wherever label it was—towered over him like a princess over the pauper. 

“Well… gardening,” he grunted, climbing to his feet. “Not that I’m dazzling at it, but—”

“Oh my God, Charles—” A flash of deep sympathy crossed her face. “Don’t tell me… you haven’t found a better job?” 

She felt sincere, but it was even worse—she oozed the sort of pity the prosperous and fulfilled reserved to those marooned at the fringes of life. That pity always carried a streak of superiority or relief: well, at least, it isn’t me. 

“I—” Charles licked his lips, fidgeting with a garden pruner. He forced a stiff grin. “Don’t you think I’m working here?”

Now it was Emma’s turn to flush.

“Why else would you be tending someone else’s garden?” 

“It’s not—” Charles cut himself short, unsure what to say—how to avoid admitting that the Lehnsherrs had taken him in out of mercy. When he’d packed his lone suitcase, he’d done everything to keep from thinking about the acquaintances from his former life. Knocking on Erik’s door, Charles hadn’t died of shame only because he’d thought they would never know. 

But now, Emma knew. And soon, everyone else would. 

“Because otherwise, I’ll deny him dessert tonight,” came the voice behind them, making Charles shudder. Erik stood by the garage all his splendor— sweaty, tousled, a tank top stretched over bare muscles. This view made Charles drool—and judging by Emma’s glazed look, he wasn’t alone. 

Erik strolled closer, smiling.

“Sweetheart, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” 

Emma lit up at once, and Charles silently thanked Erik for the clever play—while doing his best not to blush. 

“My name’s Emma Frost. Charles and I used to work together.”

Apparently, Erik was fascinating—because Emma offered her delicate, manicured hand without the slightest fear of dirt. Erik only lifted his palms, smeared with engine grease.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Frost. Erik Lehnsherr. Charles and I live together.”

Emma didn’t catch the tease at first—but she had her excuses. Even Charles nearly choked on the breaking news. 

“Are you… his partner?” 

“Don’t you think I’m damn lucky, huh? Never thought I’d drag him out to the suburbs. But the roses worked, I guess. I can’t keep Charles away from them.” 

“Isn’t that because otherwise you’ll deny him dessert?” Emma shot back—ever quick to find a seam. But Erik just grinned.

“If only I could, Ms. Frost. But I’m just a red-blooded man.”

He came closer—close enough this time to do something reckless: to pull Charles by the waist and damn kiss him. Right on the mouth, teenage-like cocky kiss,the kind only a man who’d done it many times before could pull off. 

For a second, Charles’s mind drifted. His body answered too easily, instinctively hugging Erik back. It was exactly he’d been fantasizing about—furtively, blaming himself for indulging in more than was admittable for a freeloader. But his mind fought to the last, and Charles stepped back before, as he believed, Erik could suspect it wasn’t just a play. 

The first thing he saw was Emma’s piercing gaze—she was watching them with a cool smile. If Charles knew her a little less, he might have taken it for fake politeness—but he could tell she’d enjoyed what she saw. 

“So, you’re a family man now,” she chuckled, doing her best to emphasize that family values seemed laughable to her but, in this exact case, she’d make an exception. “I almost believed that you—”

“Fell in love,” Charles blurted out, grinning a little too widely. He didn’t have to try hard—this wasn’t that far from the truth. “And I’m afraid reason isn’t the main driver for my decisions now.”

“That’s true. You’re not a housewife, are you? What do you do for a living?”

“Ms. Frost, I’m afraid your rating’s about to drop.”

Erik pointed at the self-driving car, already blinking purple to warn of upcoming penalties for overstaying the wait time. 

“Oh, right,” Emma said. “It was nice talking, but I’m running late. “You should definitely text me! See you at lunch!” she called to Charles as she opened the car’s door. 

Charles stared absently after the taxi, then turned to Erik. The man looked in the same direction with a crooked grin and crossed arms. 

“What was that all about?” Charles asked with a chuckle. “Don’t get me wrong—the idea was brilliants, but—” 

Erik only shrugged—with those maddeningly strong shoulders. As Charles noticed, not without pleasure. 

“It seemed like you needed help,” he said, studying Charles closely. “Shouldn’t I?” 

“No, it’s not—” 

Lately, Charles had found himself speechless far too often—shameful for a person of his profession—but time the words simply wouldn’t come. All that pressed against the tip of his tongue was I wish it were true. But he couldn’t say that—because if Erik wasn’t interested, life in this house would grow much, much harder.

“Well, splendid,” Erik cinched, cutting off any “buts,” and vanished into the garage. A moment later he’d rolled under the car, rattling around with some piece of metal junk.

***

In the evening they, as usual, set up the chessboard and the drinks—two glasses of whiskey on rocks. But Charles couldn't shake the sense of being watched. For some reason, being in the same room with Erik suddenly felt like standing before some famous old painting—no matter where you moved, the gaze followed.

Finally, Charles snapped.

“Is something wrong?” he asked. He already had an answer prepared, but he wouldn’t dare speak it aloud—not even with a gun to his head.

Plenty of things rushed through his mind—for instance, the rebuke that Erik hadn’t played fair that morning, kissing him without consent. But all such objections splintered on the single fact that he had only tried to help. And Charles couldn’t voice the real problem without giving himself away entirely.

“No, everything’s fine,” Erik said, smiling—not his usual sneering, sharklike grin, but something softer, just with his lips. That smile was usually paired with unexpectedly gentle eyes, and Charles saw them now.

“Shall we play?”

“If you want. You’re first.” 

Charles came to—he really was playing white. But he couldn’t get the game into his head, because every inch of mental space reserved for calculation was plastered over with a giant banner, replaying the morning’s scene again and again.

Erik had pulled him closer, possessively. Erik had kissed him, without a thought for anything else—as if that kiss alone carried meaning. Maybe it was just his imagination again, but it seemed Erik had gotten more pleasure than profit out of the whole performance.

“I wanted to ask,” Charles bursted before he could order himself to stop. 

“Then ask.”

“This morning. What was it?”

Erik flinched, as though from a sudden, too-loud sound, but forced a cool reply:

“I tried to be convincing. I think Emma bought it.”

“She’s not easily fooled,” Charles muttered. A sudden urge to hit Erik surged through him—damn it, that had been far too much for just a convincing play.  “You were… very believable.”

Erik’s expression sharpened.

“You know, Charles, I don’t like hints. Just say it. Either I went too far and I’ll never touch you again, or it was too little—then I’m ready to give more.”  

The confession sent Charles hot and cold at once, as if he’d plunged into a bowl of soup just yanked from the microwave.

“You didn’t go too far,” he said quickly. “But—” 

“What, then? You didn’t like it? Not interested? Tell me, and I won’t make a scene or toss you out for saying something I don’t like.” 

“I—” Charles licked his lips, groping for the right words under that steady, burning gaze.

“When you do that, I want to kiss you again,” Erik said.  If they had been inside one of those fantasies that regularly romped through Charles’s mind, those words would have turned him on. But what he felt now was only relief.

“Then kiss me,” he shot back defiantly, rising to his feet. He rounded the table and stopped beside Erik’s chair. Erik looked up at him with a bewildered expression—as though reality were dawning slowly—but after a few seconds he finally smiled.

“Come here,” he said softly, pulling Charles by the hand.

Charles, after a moment’s hesitation, straddled his lap. They were adults, after all—grown men—and there was nothing in it to be ashamed of.

This time, kissing Erik was even better, because Charles knew he was entitled to it—fisting Erik’s hair, stroking his shoulders through the shirt, clutching him closer. Now it wasn’t some staging.

If Charles hadn’t been so busy with kisses, he might have bolted around the room with a triumphant shout, celebrating his luck—because it was true. Erik, hot and strong, was holding him, fondling him, and there were no doubts or unresolved questions. Except—

 “Erik, baby, I—” Charles reluctantly broke the kiss. Edie’s voice reached him as if from under water, and he didn’t at first realize how awkward this might be. He jerked back, but Erik kept him pinned.

“I see I interrupted you,” Edi chuckled, covering her eyes with her hand. “I’m leaving now. But, as they say — sof sof.” 

She vanished quickly, but Charles couldn’t clear his head. After all his private dramedy, he had almost forgotten Edie’s existence, and now the shame came flooding back.

“Relax,” Erik whispered, rubbing his palms down Charles’s back and lower, over his hip. “Her room and mine are on opposite sides of the house. She won’t hear a thing.”

Charles’s knees buckled at the very thought. Kissing was one thing, but sharing a bed with Erik… and yet, he understood nothing would stop him now.

He hadn’t set foot in Erik’s bedroom before—but when he did, he wasn’t surprised by its austere order and spare furnishing. There wasn’t much to it: a narrow wardrobe, a small table by the window, and the bed. It was a little wider than needed for one man, but barely enough for two.

“We’ll have to snuggle up for now,” Erik murmured as he kissed Charles. “But I promise I’ll fix it first thing tomorrow.”

He tugged up the hem of Charles’s T-shirt, and Charles let him pull it off. Then he turned back to Erik, grabbed at his shirt, and Erik obeyed without a word.

Charles froze for a moment, just taking in the view—broad shoulders, firm muscles, the small bones of his frame showing defenselessly through the skin. Erik was thin, very thin, but strong, and that strength showed in every move. His skin was pale, marked here and there with faint, barely visible scars, likely relics of a turbulent youth. Yet in spite of them—or perhaps because of them—Erik looked perfect. The sort of perfection shown in carefully staged ads, except Charles had never believed it possible in real life.

Real life, it turned out, was even better. Erik was hot, ardent, and tender. He stripped Charles’s pants off a little too quickly and pushed him down onto the bed, climbing over him.

“I’ve been dreaming of this since the first night you came for dinner,” he murmured, planting erratic kisses wherever his lips landed. “The day you moved in, I nearly blistered my palms thinking about you. I wanted to come to your room.”

“You could have,” Charles said. He thought only of the weight of that perfect body on him—not of how he would have reacted had Erik appeared in his room that first night. Back then, he would have assumed Erik was demanding payment for his kindness, and he would have bolted at once.

But it hadn’t happened. They’d had time to dream about each other—dreams they both believed unrequited—and now they had even more time to make those dreams real.

“What do you like?” Erik asked, his hand pressing over Charles’ cock through the boxers. “I like going all the way. But you can stop me whenever you want.”

“All the way?”

Erik himself was already hard—Charles realized it when he reached for him. Big, and definitely beautiful—but he could only imagine what he’d see once he got under his boxers. 

“What do you mean?”

Erik slid his hand under the waistband, fingertips brushing lower, deliberate and slow, tracing toward the cleft.

“This.”

Charles froze. It wasn’t the first time. No matter how much he loved men’s bodies, he never liked being fucked—and he had always warned his partners beforehand. Most men hadn’t bothered to share their plans on his ass, assuming it was on offer by default. Some had even taken his warning as a joke. One-night stands had their advantage, though—you could always stand up, get dressed, and leave.

He could do the same now—but then they’d still have to face each other in the morning.

Erik seemed to sense the tension. 

“You don’t like it?” 

“No, I don’t,” Charles muttered, sliding out from under the weight of him. He sat up, clutching a pillow to his hips. No matter how much he wanted him, the thought of things going wrong made him sober up. “I like touching, or sucking… But not that. It puts me off.”

He braced himself for a long, awkward conversation—when suddenly Erik’s concerned expression twisted into a sly grin.

“Your every whim,” he chuckled, rubbing Charles’ bare knee. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the rejection. “If I may, I’ll start.” 

Slowly, eyes locked on Charles, he lifted the pillow away and reached for his already half-hard cock. Then Erik leaned in close, his breath brushing Charles’ ear.

“Forget about what you don’t like. Tell me what you want.” 

More than anything, Charles wanted Erik—wanted him to stop speaking in that low, sinful voice and just take him in his mouth. But years of cautious one-night stands wouldn’t let him let go so easily.

“Condoms,” he muttered. “Do you have any?”

He heard a soft chuckle, and Erik drew back. Leaning over the bed’s edge, he tugged a shoebox from underneath. Charles couldn’t see what was inside, but from the effort it took, the thing was packed full.

Before Charles could satisfy his curiosity, Erik tossed an unopened box of a rapid test onto the bed.

“I have condoms,” he said. “But I suggest going straight to this.” 

Back when Charles still had his own place, a rapid STD test had always been a resident of his medicine cabinet. One drop of blood, a minute’s wait, and near-perfect accuracy. Condoms offered less certainty, though Charles usually relied on them as a precaution. Few men were willing to cut into an already short date with needles and test strips—when a rubber seemed like the faster option.

But Erik didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He opened the box carelessly, pulled out the first test, and tore off the release liner, taking out the strip and the tiny needle meant for pricking a finger. Taking Charles’ hand—carefully, as though he were about to propose—Erik nicked his ring finger and pressed the needle in. He squeezed out the required drop of blood and smeared it onto the test. Then, just as quickly and efficiently, he did the same to himself.

“Now, we wait,” he said, pulling Charles closer. “I don’t know about you, but I find the taste of latex disgusting.” 

“Do you always do this?” Charles snorted. He didn’t want to admit that, more than once, he’d preferred latex simply because it spared him the moral dilemma of whether to swallow.

“Do what?” 

“Testing. Before sex. To skip the rubbers?” 

“No,” Erik shrugged. “I bought this one a couple of weeks ago. Hoped I'll get lucky. I usually don’t bring anyone here.” 

Charles had a dozen questions on the tip of his tongue—but the next moment, both strips turned green, a sure sign that their blood was clean. Erik swept the scraps into the box, shoved it to the floor, and turned back to him.

“Now, you’re mine. And I’m gonna get to your dick. May I?” 

Almost naked and tousled, with a feral glint in his eyes, Erik was mesmerizing. And Charles couldn’t wait any longer—they had already wasted too much time in negotiations.

***

Erik sucked him off splendidly. He worked Charles’ cock with his tongue, taking it deep, then pulling back almost all the way, lips clamped tight. His hand stroked the spot beneath his balls, and it made Charles’ toes curl. After two minutes of that, Charles wanted nothing else—just for it to go on forever. But forever it wasn’t. He came shamefully fast—right as Erik swallowed him down to the root, his throat closing around the head, his fingers brushing dangerously close to the hole.

Charles didn’t even have time to warn him—but Erik hadn’t needed it. He drained him, swallowed the cum, then licked his lips and leaned in for a kiss.

Charles kissed back without thought. The world was hazed in sweet postcoital mist, and in that state, he could be made to do anything.

“Did I handle my assignment?” Erik murmured in his ear, warm breath making Charles shiver. His hard cock pressed insistently against Charles’ hip.

“Perfectly,” Charles exhaled, forcing himself to move. He couldn’t afford to be selfish—not now. And, damn it, he wanted to taste Erik. “You’ve earned your reward, Mr. Lehnsherr.”

He sat up with a jerk, shoving Erik by the shoulder and knocking him flat on the bed. Erik gave an odd chuckle—as if caught off guard—but stretched out, laced his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes.

“Don’t be shy,” he said. “I like everything except teeth.” 

Charles spent a whole minute just staring. Erik’s cock was perfect—smooth, long, thick, the blunt scar of circumcision visible, heavy and velvety to the touch. It practically begged for his tongue. And when he finally tasted it, it was better than he’d dared imagine. He hadn’t lied when he said he sometimes preferred latex—some cocks looked better than they tasted, and most never looked half this good. But Erik seemed built to be touched, to be taken in. His taste was clean musk with a sharp edge of sweat—fresh, salty, flawless.

Charles wanted to return the favor, to do to Erik exactly what Erik had done to him—take him deep, nose pressed to his groin, swallowing around the head. But not with that damn size. He barely managed two-thirds, and even that felt like testing the limits of human anatomy.

Erik didn’t seem to mind. He writhed, clutching the headboard, letting out the filthiest sounds—soft, but sharper than any command. Charles, uncertain of what Erik liked—and unable to ask with his mouth full—just did what he himself would have wanted. He rolled Erik’s balls in his palm, pressed the tender skin beneath, even mirrored Erik’s earlier move—slipping his fingers lower, stroking further back.

That made Erik jolt and seize his wrist. For a second Charles thought he’d crossed a line—but instead of pulling his hand away, Erik shoved it closer, toward his ass.

“I want your fingers there,” he gasped, voice breaking. It was the longest phrase he could muster now. “As you please.”

There wasn’t much choice without lube—so Charles hastily wet his fingers with spit and eased one in. Erik was tight, unaccustomed to such touch, but the moment Charles slid inside, he let out a guttural moan. The next second, cum struck the roof of Charles’ mouth.

He nearly choked and went still, swallowing what Erik gave him. Erik’s seed was sharp, viscous, but Charles took it down almost with pleasure. What pleased him more was the sight—Erik sprawled on the bed, spent, chest heaving.

“Come here,” Erik rasped, reaching out. Charles slid under his arm, resting his head against Erik’s chest. “No, not like that. Kiss me.” 

They kissed lazily, unhurried, even though Charles’ jaw still ached. At last, Erik drew him closer, shifting him so his back pressed to Erik’s chest, and buried his face against Charles’ neck.

“That’s what I like in blowjobs,” he murmured. “No cleanup” 

“You never told me you like fingers in your ass.”

“Forgot to mention it,” Erik snorted, his hot breath grazing the most sensitive spot on Charles’ neck. Charles flinched. “But you were the one who said you don’t like being fucked. Not me.”

“And you—”

“I like everything.” Erik’s voice was already weighted with sleep, his arm across Charles growing heavier. It was the last thing he said before drifting off. Within a minute, Charles followed him into slumber.

***

Charles woke early and knew at once he was alone in the bed. His mind instantly brimmed with anxious ideas—the most innocent being that it all had been a dream.

But Erik soon appeared in the doorway, balancing two mugs in one hand and a plate in the other. He wore his usual wifebeater with a coverall slung ridiculously loose at the waist.

“I thought about waking you,” he chuckled, settling beside the bed—his neat habits never allowed him to climb in with work clothes. “Here. Breakfast in bed. I’d bring something more decent, but Mom’s not up yet, and I’ve got an emergency call.”

On the plate lay a simple, slapdash sandwich—ham, a slice of tomato, some lettuce. In the Lehnsherr house, you never paired cheese with meat.

“Thank you,” Charles murmured, sitting up. He was still naked, and suddenly it felt indecorous. He pulled the blanket up to cover himself, and Erik didn’t miss it.

“I like watching you,” Erik said—and actually did, his gaze steady even while Charles tried to hide what he could. “Don’t be shy.”

“I’m not being shy,” Charles muttered, sipping from the mug of coffee—an excellent excuse not to meet Erik’s eyes. In the morning, everything seemed far more complicated than it had the night before. He needed some immediate reason for waking in the host’s bed—but the only one that wouldn’t shame him outright required revelations. And Charles had no idea what to say in such circumstances.

He hadn’t had a relationship in far too long—and those he’d had had grown organically. With people he could hide from behind the walls of his own apartment. 

From Erik, by any stretch, he couldn’t hide. 

Charles told himself he’d have time to sort out his thoughts while Erik was out on the call. But Erik started talking as if nothing at all had changed:

“I figured about the bed,” he said, barely wetting his lips with his coffee. “It’d be stupid to take both apart—and we still need a guestroom. So I’ll stop for timber on my way back, and fix it by evening. But we won’t be able to sleep on it for a couple of days till the varnish dries. Good thing we’ve got yours—it’s the same size.”

“Are you… serious?”

“You mind varnish?”

“No, I mean—” Charles faltered. “Well, is it official now? We’re together?”

Erik stared at him, genuinely surprised.

“Sure. Only if you—”

“No, I’m—” A whole carousel of smart terms for relationship-talk spun through Charles’ head, but none of them seemed to fit. Boyfriend. Partner. The best half. All of it sounded either sterile or cloyingly sentimental. And Erik, sitting on the floor in a wifebeater and coveralls, was at odds with every standard romantic script. “So, we’re… together?”

“Exactly.” 

Without waiting for more foolish questions, Erik stood, bent down, and brushed a quick kiss over Charles’ crown. “I’ve gotta run. Don’t know if it’s too much to ask you to make the bed. But I’d appreciate it if you did.”

Charles’ household skills might still leave much to be desired—but this time he tried as if he were competing in a bed-making championship.

Chapter Text

Charles had been mistaken in thinking that his life would change significantly after that night, because almost nothing looked different in the light of day. Edie still treated him like her own son, and both Lehnsherrs went about their business. The only real difference was that Erik could sidle up behind at any moment, slip his arm around his waist, or lean in for a kiss. And Charles no longer had to hide the fiery glances he cast at Erik, especially when the mad strutted around the garden in nothing but his wifebeater.

The nights had changed though. Erik turned out to be feisty, almost insatiable. Every evening he would tug Charles away, undress him and make him come, insisting on the same in return. In the morning, waking with a rigid hard-on, he would nuzzle Charles awake with kisses, or slip under the blanket to suck him off while he was still half-asleep.

They had sex more often than Charles had planned on—far more often than he’d ever had it before—but he didn’t seem to mind. It was impossible to refuse someone like Erik: he was too handsome, he smelled too good, and he knew exactly where and how to touch.

Charles chalked it up to the honeymoon period. The initial passion was supposed to be untamable, after all. All the more so because Erik took meticulous care with his boundaries, never once bringing up the idea of fucking him again after that first night. He offered himself a couple of times, though, but Charles refused each time. When it came to sex, he liked balance.

On top of that, he couldn't shake the thought that Erik might eventually ask him to reciprocate. Erik didn’t look the type to twist his arm—but Chales had seen enough men to know what they were capable of when wanting sex in a certain way. He was a man himself, after all.

But Erik, apparently, didn’t care how they fucked. He radiated kindness in the mornings even from a simple handjob, and Charles decided not to rush things. They had plenty of time.

Late July turned out hot, but full of cloudbursts and thunderstorms. One of those storms had knocked down an apple tree in their garden, and Erik had to saw it apart. Edie took it the hardest—it turned out the little tree had been fruiting, and its loss meant no apple pies for them that year.

Yet the nights were sweltering, even with the old bedroom A/C running full blast. Erik insisted on keeping the windows shut overnight so gnats wouldn’t get in and so a sudden night downpour wouldn’t soak their bed. But sharing a bed with Erik was a heatwave on its own. He ran hot in his sleep, and still never failed to cling to Charles.

One Saturday, Charles woke early, stirred by the sunlight lashing at his eyes. It turned out to be Erik pulling the drapes open to wake him.

He stood by the bed, clean-shaved and thoroughly put together, just as he always was before a visit to the synagogue.

“Rise and shine, my love,” he said, smirking. “Time to get ready.”

“Already?” On Saturdays, Charles usually slept in, knowing no one needed him until lunchtime. Something had clearly gone off-script this time.

“It’s time to go celebrate the Fifteenth of Av.”

Charles struggled to remember what day it was. He’d grown used to the fact that the months on the Lehnsherrs’ religious calendar didn’t line up with the regular ones. And though he’d heard over dinner what date they were getting ready to mark, almost every Sabbath came with a handful of commemorations and paroemiae. Charles had long since given up trying to distinguish the major ones from the merely festive.

He opened his eyes again and pushed himself upright.

They had explained it to him last night: the Jewish St. Valentine’s Day. Erik had warned him well in advance that they had to show up at the synagogue together.

“All the Jewish parents will bring their bachelor kids, and I can’t show up without you, or they’ll start to matchmaking again.”

“Really? They don’t know you’re gay?”

“Some don’t know, some don’t believe,” Erik said with an easy shrug. “Some want to steer me onto the right path. And some try to match me with men. Before you, Mom was one of the latter.”
Charles could scarcely believe that Edie hovered over her grown son like that. But he could vividly imagine her fretting at the thought of him ending up alone someday. Even his own mother wasn’t immune to that brand of worry—though she tended to assume that an adult without a partner simply had several of them.

“Won’t she just tell them you’re not alone anymore?”

It wasn’t that Charles didn’t want to come—on the contrary, he was curious to see the life of the Jewish community. But showing up there for the first time already in such an exalted status felt like an unknown actor appearing on the Red Carpet as an Oscar nominee. Grave responsibility. Inextinguishable attention.

“She will, right off the bat. And everyone will ask where this poor thing is. So I’ll need to show you, otherwise they’ll think I’m lying.”

And now, Charles found himself dwelling on the small touch-ups as Erik’s finished fixing his festive outfit—pinning on the studs. Charles was ready to follow this Erik, dressed for synagogue, to the end of the earth—let alone the other end of Chicago.

A habit of turning from a sleepy-eyed boy into a respectable gentleman persisted. Charles even pulled out the only suit he’d taken from his old apartment—the cheapest Hugo Boss. It had once seemed boring and old-fashioned, but now it uplifted him as if a fairy godmother had flown in to prepare him for the ball.

Saturday's edition of Erik looked hilarious behind the wheel of his old pickup—but he himself wasn’t embarrassed by the disharmony in the slightest. Edie settled into the back seat, letting Charles ride shotgun.

“What holiday is that?” Charles remembered asking the night before, when he’d learned he was invited as well.

“The day when the sin of the spies was forgiven,” Erik had said. “Those who had left Egypt sent spies ahead to see what Eretz Yisrael looked like, but the spies deframed it, saying it was hideous. After that, every year on the Ninth of Av, fifteen thousand would die. But once, on the Fifteenth of Av, they realized no one had died—because the sin was forgiven.”

“And what do lovers have to do with that?”

“Erik, why did you confuse him,” Edie had drawled, frowning. “Lovers—because the prohibition of taking wives from other tribes of Israel was lifted on that day. Over time, it became customary to begin matchmaking then.”

“Ah, now I see,” Charles had said, casting a sly glance at Erik. “So tomorrow starts the hunting season?”

“It would be more correct to say today, with the first star,” Edie had said. “Two years ago, we got together on Friday evening. But since all religious events have been moved to the morning—”

“Mom, say it straight—since this caboodle of Catholics revamped the schedule based on their stupid church—”

“Erik! Charles, dear, my son is trying to say that the city development algorithm recommended limiting religious organizations' activity on Friday nights to reduce the crime rate.”

“Such a graceful decision,” Erik had agreed with a sneer, “that only Catholics could come up with. Reduce the crime rate by removing all the potential victims from the streets.”

They had sparred for a long time, and Charles had studied his plate, listening pensively to their back-and-forth. Sometimes it seemed to him there wasn’t a single social issue on which Erik and Edie could agree. And yet, somehow, they always managed to find a common denominator, no matter how much Erik sneered or how loudly Edie scolded him.

That time, everything ended peacefully, because—as Charles had learned from their conversation—grieving was prohibited on the Fifteenth of Av.

They reached the synagogue quickly. There was at least one advantage to moving the gathering from a busy Friday night to a Saturday morning: the roads were almost empty. The parking lot was similarly deserted.

“I thought there would be more people,” Charles said, looking around. They were almost the only ones there, save for a couple of vans that clearly belonged to caterers. “Are we early?”
“We’re almost late,” Erik chuckled. “I’m just the only sinner willing to drive on a Saturday.”

“Erik!” Edie shushed again, but he only smiled and shrugged. Reaching into the glove box, he pulled out two kippahs. With the ease of someone who had done it all his life, he settled one on top of his head, checking the rear-view mirror. Then he beckoned Charles closer, and when Charles obediently bowed, he set the second kippah on his head.

Charles straightened up carefully, wary that the kippah might slide off and hit him on the nose.

“How is it holding up?”

He’d had religious Jewish clients—even those who wore a kippah daily—but he’d never had a chance to ask questions, and people online wrote every sort of nonsense. Erik looked him over with scrutiny, even turning his head by taking him lightly by the chin. Then he clicked his tongue and drew a hairgrip from his lapel pocket.

“A kippah of the right size and shape holds by itself,” he informed him. “But you need to pick it wisely. Yours… well, I didn’t expect it to fit.”

He deftly pinned the kippah into Charles’s hair.

“It suits you very much,” Edie exclaimed even before Charles could check his reflection. “It’s one of those Jakob wore. I knew it would suit you.”

Her words carried a dram of truth: seeing their reflections side by side—his and Erik’s—Charles noticed that he resembled the classic type far more closely. Dark-haired, long-nosed; if not for his strikingly blue eyes, he could easily be mistaken for someone who had worn a kippah all his life.

Still, his palms grew damp at the mention of Erik’s father—putting on something like this, verging on an heirloom, felt like a heavy responsibility. Erik had unlikely made the decision to attire Charles in his father’s kippah on a whim. But if it was his idea, it said a great deal.

“Thank you, Edie,” he muttered, trying not to move his head. Erik looked him over and snorted with a mock:
“Just don’t bow forward. And if you drop it—try not to let anyone step on it.”

Charles had never been in a synagogue, and he’d expected it to be more… majestic. Instead, he found a simple two-storey building that looked more like a social service office—or a children’s development center—than a house of worship. What little Charles knew of the Jewish God was limited to his bloodthirsty strictness, slightly reminiscent of the Catholic God, who required mesmerizing exteriors to instill even deeper fear. Jews, it seemed, needed none of that—they made do with colored glass and an unremarkable six-pointed star over the entrance.

No one was seated yeat—people strolled, chatted, laughed; there were many young faces. Edie instantly blended into the crowd of older women like herself, and they began talking. Despite seeing each other every week, they always had news.

Erik, meanwhile, had to greet people of all ages—from seniors to almost children—and almost everyone but one jokingly asked whether he planned, at long last, to lay an eye on someone this year. To this, Erik answered with a content, almost menacing smile, pulling Charles closer and boastfully introducing him as his boyfriend.

The reactions varied—from polite bemusement to genuine gladness—but no one seemed openly vexed that such a precious specimen had self-selected out of the matrimonial horizon. However, when they learned that Charles wasn’t Jewish, they clicked their tongues and shook their heads in discontent. But everyone relaxed after discovering that, at the very least, he wasn’t Catholic.

“Here, young man, we can turn a blind eye to many things,” laughed an old man in a funny striped kippah that clung to his bald head in a miraculous way. “But if you walked into Anshe Emet on North Broadway, they’d pelt you with stones.”

Charles shot a questioning look at Erik. It wasn’t that he truly believed anyone would be stoned in Chicago—but in recent years,it was unwise to be certain of anything.

“Dr. Bass is joking,” Erik said in a tone that demanded eye-roll.

“Well, put it that way, young man,” the old man chuckled. “The probability is extremely small—but with conservatives, it’s never exactly zero.”

“Are there many synagogues in Chicago?" Charles asked. He was, by force of habit, anxious about stumbling into a hot-button topic. The question seemed harmless—almost something a tourist might ask.

“Now there's only two left,” the old man replied with unexpected gloom. “Used to be more, but after that hellstew ten years ago everyone left for NYC or Miami. Only the most hardshell ones stayed—or those who’d rather gather on Saturday morning rather than on Friday night.”

He chuckled, giving Charles an avuncular pat on the shoulder. Then he drifted off, spotting an old acquaintance in the crowd, leaving Charles to puzzle out what any of that actually meant.

“What happened ten years ago?” he asked Erik quietly, taking advantage of a brief break in the pilgrimage of the people Erik knew.

“The same as always,” Erik answered grimly. “Someone didn’t like Jews as their neighbours.”

“What does it mean?”

“You might have seen my police records,” Erik said, wincing, as if the whole topic scraped him raw. “Well, they appeared for a reason. But if you let me—the Fifteenth of Av isn’t the best time to talk about it.”

Charles nodded obediently. He didn’t want the details either. He could grasp the gist—the word “pogrom” surfaced enough during history to serve as a barometer for all social woes.

Edie rescued them from the awkward lull, appearing with a flock of her senior girlfriends.

“This, girls, is my boy’s beau—the one I told you about,” she announced, making Charles all but blush on the spot. “He’s a good young man, educated and polite—and look how well he fits in!”

Charles froze, afraid that even a single misplaced movement might fracture Edie’s picturesque introduction.

“Nice to meet you, Charles,” said the most ancient-looking lady. “I’m Norah. And what do you do for a living?”

It was a hit below the belt—after Edie’s accolades, Charles didn’t have the heart to confess he was a sponger. He froze with a radiant smile, shaking her hand, trying to buy a moment to think how gently to make her aware that he was unemployed. But Erik answered for him.

“He’s a licensed conflict specialist,” he said curtly, and the old lady’s face shifted at once into reverence.

“Look at that!” she exclaimed with an approving nod. “Edie didn’t tell us that you snatched quite a catch!”

“Let’s be honest, Mrs. Weissberg—I’m quite a catch myself.”

He winked, and the old lady burst out laughing.

“This son of yours, Edie,” she muttered through her giggles once she’d calmed. “Quite wide-awake!”

The further bonding with the community was cut short by everyone moving into the adjacent hall that led to a small round chapel. It looked more like a place for religious gathering—it even had some benches and vitraux—but the ceiling was lower than in the cathedral Charles’s mother used to take him to, and the rabbi bore no resemblance whatsoever to a Catholic pastor.

The rabbi retold the story of the Fifteenth of Av, the one Charles already knew, only in fuller detail. In his recital it sounded a bit like a fairy-tale—if you could call a story about pestilence claiming fifteen thousand lives of poor wanderers every year a fairy-tale.

After the service—Charles wasn’t sure the word even applied to Jews, but lacked a better one—everyone gathered for a festive lunch. They were seated at wedding-like round tables arranged in a circle. Charles and the Lehnsherrs found themselves alongside Norah and several of Edie's girlfriends.

That was a trap—Norah began grilling him about his work right away.

“Most things in this profession are confidential, ma’am,” Charles replied with his best professional smiles. “I can hardly tell you more than you’ve already heard from others.”

“Of course,” the old lady chuckled, giving him a conspiratorial look. “More secrets than the President has. And yet—what do you deal with mostly? Family squabbles, or have you taken a higher level?”

“Norah, stop it,” Edie said, trying to brush her off—she (as well as Erik) wasn’t particularly pleased by this interrogation. “Even if Charles isn’t Jewish, asking him about work on Saturday is not quite in the local spirit.”

“Edie, dear, I trust your hunches,” Norah conceded. “But, you see, sometimes it’s better to have a second opinion. Who knows—maybe this sweet young man takes some caynards as his clients.”

“Oh, that’s for sure,” Erik snorted. Norah perked up.

“What do you mean?”

“He was working for some caynard when we met,” Erik went on serenely. “Showed up at my door, put on an act. Amused me a lot.”

Charles hunched in his chair, waiting for a gale, but Norah only cast a strange glance at Erik and turned to her other tablemate to talk about something entirely different.

“Mrs. Weissberg was shocked by your revelation,” Charles chuckled when they declined the youth games and started heading home. It wasn’t a compliment—just an excuse to pick up the thread of what had so abruptly been dropped.

Erik reluctantly took the hook, as though he knew Charles wanted to get him talking and agreed out of plain courtesy. But courtesy wasn’t quite the word—Erik, as Charles had long since grasped, didn’t give a damn about etiquette, and his willingness to make concessions meant only that he cared for Charles.

“Norah is a curious old woman. And she knows perfectly well that I don’t like it when someone pokes their nose in my affairs.”

“But you told her the truth anyway.”

“Truth?” Erik chuckled. “She doesn’t know why you came, let alone how it ended.”

At this moment, Edie rushed up to them—animated like a little girl—and seized Erik’s sleeve, jabbering something. From her jumbled speech, Charles gathered that she’d been invited to stay for the games, and she—like she was fifteen, not sixty-three—was wholly up for it.

“We will take a taxi back, Norah and I. Don’t you mind, dear?”

“As you wish.” Erik smiled tartly, as though the very concept of taxi faintly repelled him. “We can wait if you want—”

“Oh no, you go,” Edie said, tapping his shoulder lightly. “You can use the time alone, can’t you?”

There was some truth in her words—except that they stayed quiet almost the entire way back. Only Erik occasionally cursed at yet another self-driving car that slid into the left lane and trundled along like a tired cow lazily making its way to Sunday Mass.

Charles spent that time thinking—mostly about what to do with his life from here on out. Living with the Lehnsherrs was marvelous, and moving out now, when he and Erik shared a bedroom, would be plain foolish. But he couldn’t sponge off them forever. He was in his early thirties, after all; there were still plenty of things he could do. There was no point in ditching himself in household routine so soon.

“Do you want to discuss anything?” he asked Erik when they were home. Something was eating him—that much Charles could tell by the frown—and besides, Charles rather needed the opening himself. When thoughts like his current ones gnawed from the inside, the best remedy was to speak them out.

Before, he’d had a therapist for that. Now, it seemed, the job fell to Erik.

“What exactly?” Erik asked warily as he pulled off his tie.

“Norah’s questions… or something else.”

In his sentence, Erik caught the brightest but entirely wrong note.

“Are you afraid Norah didn’t like you? Drop it. She’d like anyone my mom praised. And Edie definitely praised you.”

“No,” Charles countered. Some issues had to be handled without hesitating—like diving headfirst into the icy spring. “It’s about the fact that I’m unemployed. A freeloader. I eat your bread. And I know it bothers you.”

Erik, puttering around the cupboard in suspicious proximity to the whiskey cabinet, suddenly turned and gave Charles a strange look—as though Charles’s very presence in the living room surprised him.

“You want to talk about money?” he said after a long pause.Parrying questions wasn’t his habit, but, truth be told, Charles hadn’t technically asked any.

“Don’t you?” Parrying questions was indeed not nice —Charles knew it only irritated the other party. But the conversation he’d started was like black ice, where even the best couldn’t maneuver. “I know I’m a freeloader. And that it’s time to look for a job. But… I’m not sure I can find one. So I’m scared to even begin.”

Instead of answering, Erik only snorted, pursing his lips as he returned to his interrupted task. He really was pouring whiskey—and before he reached their usual spot by the table, holding two glasses, Charles gave in to his feelings:

“You don’t want to talk about it, do you? Please don’t tell me you’ve already made a decision. Whatever it is, I have a right to vote, too. Because, shit… maybe I don’t have that right in this house, but I have it, because we are—”

The words, once so quick to find, uddenly failed him—replaced by fears and doubts. What Charles feared most was that Erik, like many people who keep a tight rein on their lives, had already planned everything on his behalf. And given that a simple electrician from the suburbs hardly had a roster of useful acquaintances who could place a hapless conflict specialist, there could be only one way out—to get rid of him.

“Charles,” Erik said calmly, handing him a glass. “Drink. Relax. Do you honestly think I’m about to kick you out?”

Once Charles grabbed the glass, he realized how badly his hands were shaking. It was exactly what he thought—but it was hard to confirm or even say aloud.

“I just paraded you around my synagogue like a trophy,” Erik went on with a chuckle, taking the first sip. “And you’re chewing over whether I’m about to break up with you. Very logical, Charles. Very logical.”

Charles blinked a few times, trying to determine whether Erik was joking. Then he understood—his conclusion truly did look more like the panic of a boat tossed by a wave than an actual storm. Erik had introduced him to everyone as his partner. No one does that if they’re planning a breakup.

“But you… lied to Norah. About my job.”

“Of course I lied. Did you see your face at that moment? You looked like you’d sink straight into the floor if she ffound out you’re unemployed.”

A certain truth, again.

“So… you did this for me?”

“Yes. Family is more important than strangers, remember? You are family. And I’ve known Norah my whole life, but she’s just my mother’s amie.”

They fell silent for a while. Erik nursed his glass, and Charles frantically tried to contrive what to say next. In his situation, it would be logical to promise that he’d find a job—but it was a promise he couldn’t be sure about. His recent job-search experience had scaled his confidence down royally. Broadly to zero.

“You know what?” Erik suddenly said. “I don’t feel like drinking. And if Mom isn’t home—”

He smiled and waggled his eyebrows. Charles didn’t catch the hint right away, but once he did, he pursed his lips.

“If you prefer to smooth quarrels down with sex, forgive me, but I don’t. It doesn’t serve to strengthen the bond.”

“Are we having a quarrel?” Now it was Erik who looked confused. “If yes, tell me what we’re fighting about. I’m poor in solacing, but if you tell me what’s wrong—”

“I don’t know what to do with my life,” Charles blurted. “I’m not sure I can find a job, and if I do—it might not be good; and it seems like I’ll never get my old life back.”

“Oh, I see,” Erik said, raising his brows. His voice sounded cooler than before. “Do you miss your old life? Did you like running errands for men like Shaw, living alone, pleasing people?”

It seemed to be a tricky question, because in Erik’s recital Charles’s entire old life sounded like a punishment. But it had its advantages—he’d lived in a wonderful apartment, every whim solved by pressing a single button, and he’d never had to wonder how to wiggle out in case of an abrupt toothache.

“I liked it when my life belonged to me,” he said slowly. “When I didn’t depend on the kindness of others. Now, I don’t know what I’d do if I suddenly needed money.”

Erik rose from his seat and stepped closer.

“Do you feel unfree?” He asked, something flickering in his voice— something heavy and dark, impossible for Charles to name, resembling regret. “Do you feel obliged?”

He knelt beside the chair, settling on the floor, resting one hand on the armrest.

“You know, Charles, you do have obligations. To accept the rules of this house, not to be a stranger. Not do us harm. And as for me, I expect you to be faithful and honest with me. The rest is up to you. There’s no contract for you here, and no fines for breaching it.”

“There’s always a contract,” Charles answered quietly. At that moment he wanted to look anywhere else, but his gaze stayed fixed on Erik—sullen and grave,stripped of every trace of the teasing or playfulness he’d had a minute ago. “And there’s always an exchange. You know, there’s an anthropological theory of the gift—”

“Theory is just a way of explaining things you can’t just ask about,” Erik cut him off. “I don’t want you to explain this with some theory. You can just ask, and you’ll hear what I want.”

“And what do you want?”

“Right now—that you stop envisioning the end of the world. You’ll find a job, and it’ll be a hundred times better than what you did. But it may be none of what you’re imagining.”

“And what could it be?” Charles couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Mowing lawns? Moulding ceramic figurines? Believe it or not, I don’t know how to do any of that. All I know is reading people and solving conflicts. But, as you see, I can’t even solve my own.”

Erik stood up and stepped aside, scooping the forgotten whiskey glass from the floor.

“You know, I’m poor at talking. But I see only one problem—you still think you came from another world, and you want to go back. But there is no other world. All your previous life was built on the backs of people who were less lucky. Now you’re the one less lucky, and you can’t climb back unless you step on someone’s head. So answer yourself—do you want to climb over people’s heads again?”

His tirade was so unexpected it took Charles some time to find words. Ann even when a proper, whippy, sharp answer came to him, he didn’t dare say it out loud.

“I’ll be in the garage if you’ll need me,” Erik said. “Maybe we both need to think.”

Charles knew that no matter how sick he was of thinking about Erik’s words, he wouldn’t escape it tonight.

***

One of the flaws of living together with a partner was that every stretch of solitude felt like a punishment—and it was hard to decide whether you were the punisher or the punished.

Charles found his solitude in the guest room he had once occupied himself. At first, he tried to lose himself in some ancient classics, but eventually set the book aside and began scrolling through a feed full of kittens, unsolicited advice, and the sour faces of strangers.

He heard Erik returning to the house and clattering with something in the kitchen. Then the door slammed—Edi came home. At first she spoke loudly, retelling some anecdotes from the synagogue; then the conversation grew quieter. Judging by the sounds, the Lehnsherres had dinner for two.

No one called Charles to the table. Apparently, Erik had found a decent excuse for his mother.

When the house fell quiet for the night, Charles heard a soft knock on the door. He didn’t need to ask to know it was Erik—but he still needed a full minute to convince himself to open it.

“I hoped you weren’t sleeping,” Erik said, sinking inside. He held a plate covered with a napkin. “No matter what you’ve set your mind to, I won’t let you starve to death.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Charles could play offended masterfully, but in truth he felt relieved. He’d been running from the thought of Erik kicking him out all day, and the plate he’d brought looked like a peace pipe. “I just—”

Erik sat down on the bed and set the plate on the nightstand. Under the napkin were two meatballs with baked potatoes, still warm—or rather reheated just for him. Charles’s stomach twisted, and he dove into the food—right with his hands, since Erik hadn’t brought a fork.

“It’s delicious,” he muttered when he finished and set the plate aside. “Your mom is a magician.”

“I cooked it,” Erik chuckled. “I needed to keep myself busy.”

“Really? I snatched a treasure then,” Charles said, immediately ashamed of his words. He hadn’t lifted a finger for this relationship. On the contrary, he’d only doubted, refused, and complained. “I’m sorry. I’m—”

“It’s all right.” Erik smiled as if Charles’s reaction amused him. “I like to think that I belong to you, in some way. It turns me on.”

“Oh, that’s it? Erik Lehnsherr is the property of Charles Xavier?”

“Absolutely. Ready to fulfill your every whim.”

It was obvious flirtation, and joyful sparks danced in Erik’s eyes. Apparently, he had worried, too—but for him, “sorry” looked like a plate of meatballs and guileless pick-up lines.

“Careful what you wish for, Mr. Lehnsherr. One can be enslaved that way.”

“I’m already enslaved.” Erik took his hand and pressed it to his chest. His heart was beating slightly faster than the heart of a healthy man in his early thirties should beat. “And I’m glad to have such a master. How can I serve you now, sir?”

For a moment, Charles faltered, struggling through his thoughts—Erik had steered everything back to sex again, though ideally they should’ve talked about what had happened between them. But he himself didn’t want to talk—not when such a beauty was sitting beside him, offering to fulfill his every wish.

“Well, make me stop wanting to think then.”

Erik smiled slyly and, bowing down slowly, touched his solar plexus with his lips. Charles flinched—it felt too hot even through the T-shirt. But Erik didn’t stop there; he kept kissing lower until his lips reached Charles’s groin.

It wouldn’t be Erik if he launched a primitive offensive after that. Instead, he pushed himself up, tugging at the hem of Charles’s T-shirt, inviting him to undress. When the T-shirt flew over the bed’s edge, he repeated his maneuer—but this time his lips touched bare skin.

On the second time, though, he reached the waistband—only to tease and run his palms over Charles’s hips. Charles bit his lip, jerking up; it was impossible not to understand such a hint, and he liked what Erik was implying. But Erik was in no hurry—he liked to savour the process, knowing well that a little torment before the long-awaited reward only made the pleasure sharper.

So when he finally tugged Charles’s pants down, Charles could only bite his lips and thrust forward. But Erik lifted his head, furrowing his brow in feigned innocence.

“What? Is there something I’m supposed to do?”

“Stop taunting me,” Charles hissed. He was at the edge. “You know.”

“Maybe I don’t,” Erik snorted. “You have such a thick-headed slave. Tell me. Say it, and I obey.”

Everything Erik did came with an uncanny sense of harmony—precise movements, calibrated gestures, and, unexpectedly for a man like him, a gift for words. Erik loved dirty talk. He could go on about what he wanted to do to Charles for hours, turning himself on almost as much as by the act itself.

But he knew that Charles took it differently. In his life, he’d more often met people completely devoid of any sense of beauty—people whose bed talk evoked the same feelings as a wad of scab dredged out of a clogged drain. That was why he preferred more conventional expressions in bed—and though he didn’t mind Erik talking in the slightest, he didn’t dare talk himself, suspecting he’d sound like all those failed rhetoricians he knew.

But Erik’s stubbornness wasn’t always a hammer striking an anvil—sometimes it was water, grinding the sharpest stones smooth over centuries. He knew how to get his way. And Charles knew he had no choice.

“Suck me,” he muttered through clenched teeth, certain he sounded like a character from cheap porn. “You lips. I want your lips.”

“What do you think about when you see me talking?” Erik asked softly. “Is it that, outside the bedroom, you watch my lips move and think about me taking you in my mouth? Think that you wouldn’t mind me doing it right now? How often does it happen, Charles?”

It was a dirty trick, because it hit the mark. It happened more often than Charles wanted to admit. He chastised himself for it—reducing Erik to a sexual object whenever he slipped into some entirely different social role… but now it wasn’t important. Now, there were no other roles.

“Sometimes… I see you talking and remember you sucking me off,” Charles muttered, spellbound. “The way you do it… I see you now, and I just want you to do it. Please.”

“A slave shouldn’t be talking, right?” Erik snorted, and lowered himself down, to his goal. He kissed the head, took it lightly into his mouth, then kissed along the shaft, all the way down to the balls. Charles closed his eyes and surrendered to the feeling. He truly didn’t need to think right now—in moments like this, he usually relaxed and let Erik do whatever he wanted.

Usually, he didn’t have to wait long—neither of them had the patience to stretch the prelude forever. But this time, Erik was teasing him on purpose, taking only the head between his lips, not moving lower, not giving him the long-awaited heat around his cock.

Maybe it was Charles—he was too impatient, and the seconds raced like mad. He tried to cool down, but he couldn't. He thrust his hips a few times, letting Erik know what he needed, but each time Erik pretended not to understand.

Words, Charles thought. He needed words.

“Please, do it already,” he moaned, reaching out blindly, trying to find Erik’s head—anything to spur him on, whether with a plea than or a touch.

“Do what?”

“Suck me off. Take me in your mouth. Erik, fuck, please—”

“What does my master want? For me to stop teasing him? I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

“What does that mean—not simple?” Charles сracked an eye open and saw that Erik was already shirtless. “What should I do?”

“Nothing,” Erik said curtly as he rose on his knees and unzipped his jeans. “It’s a slave uprising. If you want to come in one of my orifices, I’m offering you the one that wants it most.”

That was enough for Charles to jolt upright in the bed.

“What do you mean?”

“Fuck me,” Erik said almost soundlessly, shoving his jeans aside. “If I belong to you, then I want to belong fully. For you to know what you can use and how. I don’t need rewards— I just want you. And no matter how much I love your taste, I want to feel you inside.”

Charles froze, trying to absorb the weight of that offer. Erik had brought up bottoming before, but never like this—never so keyed-up, never with Charles already half-undone. On any other night he might’ve resisted, rambling uselessly about balance and reciprocity. But now Erik wasn’t just offering his body. He offered Charles the control he needed so much.

“Fine,” he said. His brain was so drained of blood he couldn’t even pretend to reach for elegance or tact. “Take your boxers off.”

Words couldn’t do justice to Erik’s gaze—despite all his confidence, he clearly hadn’t expected Charles to agree so easily. His eyes now radiated pure happiness—or at least the dazed joy of a man who’d just hit a multimillion lottery. He obeyed at once, stripping off his underwear while Charles watched in muddled awe, drinking him in yet again—then dropped onto the bed, spreading his legs.

“How long has it been since you slept with anyone?” Charles asked. His clarity had returned while Erik was busy losing his clothes—thankfully, not enough to make him retreat.

Erik’s eyelids lowered. He drew in a deep breath, his hand drifting thoughtlessly down his stomach.

“I’d say eight months… maybe nine. I remember it being winter.”

“Then you’d better turn around.”

Charles wasn’t an expert, either—whatever he knew about anal sex he’d picked up back in college, and unlike knowledge he’d gained in lectures, that particular curriculum had never become fully systematic. But one thing he did know: after a long break, it was easier on your knees and elbows.

Erik opened his eyes, shot him a brief, surprised glance, but complied—he’d promised Charles full submission, after all.

Recalling the right sequence of actions felt like trying to play an instrument he hadn’t touched in years. Charles slid his hands slowly along Erik’s hips, working through his own hesitation, then reached for the lube. He warmed it in his palms before pressing his fingertip to the hole, coaxing it to relax.

“Don’t baby it,” Erik muttered. He could be obedient, but patience had never been his strongest trait.

“You said yourself—”

“You were asking about people. There are also things.”

Charles understood immediately what Erik meant—he’d seen the contents of the box under the bed. He could easily imagine Erik lying here alone, working himself open with a silicone toy and imagining being fucked for real; the image was indecently vivid, and Charles felt his cock hardening again. Part of him wanted to skip past preparation and get straight to the key action.

But he didn’t rush. His usual caution—and a petty desire to pay Erik back for his teasing—made him take his time. Charles worked him open slowly, savoring each sound Erik made, every restless shift of his hips, every futile attempt to coax him into going faster. He already knew what made Erik’s ass clench around his fingers—and he knew how to hold Erik on the edge as long as he needed.

Still, he wasn’t made of iron himself. He knew when it was time to move on. Reluctantly withdrawing, Charles ducked down to reach under the bed, toward the precious box.

“What are you doing?” Erik asked.

“Getting a condom.”

“Why?”

Charles blinked at him in surprise.

“Don’t you want me to come inside for real?”

Erik chuckled. “Actually, I do.”

Charles opened his mouth to protest—something earnest, important, and absolutely ill-timed—but Erik caught him by the shoulder and pulled him into a feverous kiss.

“Don’t you dare argue,” he murmured against Charles’s lips, breath hot and irregular. He was completely out of his teasing role now. “The lube—it’s antiseptic. I’ll probably be washing it off for three days. But please, Charles—just this once, stop thinking and do it.”

Again, Erik’s stubbornness won—but Charles couldn’t say that he lost. When he finally pushed into the tight, surprisingly pliant hole, Erik let out a low, muted moan, and Charles realized this was what he’d wanted the entire day. A sense of total control over the moment, and at the same time a certainty that he was doing it right. It was hard to tell which sensation was better—what his cock felt, or what he felt about himself. Probably both, multiplied into an incredibly many-valued number—otherwise his orgasm wouldn’t have been so rich and sweet.

“Thank you,” Erik mumbled, half-asleep, when Charles handed him a towel warmed with water. He rubbed himself lazily between his legs and let the towel fall to the floor before sinking back onto the bed. “Come here,” he murmured. “Come, before I fall asleep.”

Charles climbed in and curled up beside him, burying his face into Erik’s shoulder. In that position, it almost felt as though Erik had been the one taking him, not the other way around. A pleasant, nearly forgotten exhaustion spread through his limbs—the kind that came after sharp, purposeful thrusts into another body.

“Was it good?” he asked hoarsely. The haze was already fading, and the habit of evaluating his every step returned. Erik licked his lips and let out a slow breath.

“It was wonderful. But I want to see you next time.”

“Next time?” Charles echoed, not entirely sure he’d heard correctly.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t like it,” Erik chuckled, tuning his face toward him without opening his eyes. “I’ll contest it. I have evidence.”

“I liked it,” Charles said—though the word sounded pale compared to its meaning. “But is it… really that good?”

“Promoted content: it’s one of the best feelings ever,” Erik snorted. “I like feeling you inside me. The stimulation from the front and from behind. But it would be even better if you blindfolded me. Or tied me up.”

Charles stayed silent, not knowing how to respond. He could’ve promised he’d do it next time, except he wasn’t sure there would be a next time. He liked the idea of light BDSM—but in theory. In practice, it demanded trust. If Erik wanted that from him, it meant he trusted him completely. And that was the hardest part—because along with trust and the authority that came with taking the lead, came the responsibility for his partner’s pleasure. And to shoulder that properly, Charles needed to doubt himself a little less.

“You don’t like it?” Erik asked, pulling him out of his thoughts. “I’m not insisting. But—”

“Oh, no, it’s cool,” Charles hurried to say—though it sounded flat, closer to “it’ll do” than “cool.” “I was just thinking—”

Erik suddenly shifted, covering him with his body, and pressed his hot lips to Charles’s temple.

“Sleep,” he ordered. “You’ve been thinking too much today.”

It was probably Charles’s chronic diffidence to blame—it had gnawed at him all day—but he could swear there was a trace of irritation in Erik’s voice, thin and carefully masked.

Chapter Text

The progress not honed to automaticity could be lost easier than virginity at the student party—Charles had once caught that pointed phrase in some occupational podcast. Back then, it had amused him, but now he understood all its bitterness. He still effused professional smiles, caught hints, and read people’s desires—it was second nature to him. But dealing with initial prejudice was a skill he’d used once or twice at most—and now it gave him a rough ride.

Before, his track record had worked in his favor—a good school, brilliant grades, references from his teachers, and a successful internship with a mentor no one could idly approach. Anyone familiar with his resume had tended to lean toward him before even meeting him in person. Now, it was different. People hadn’t changed—if anything, their prejudice habit was stronger than ever. Except now it worked against Charles.

He had been biased, too—like when he assumed Erik couldn’t pull any strings to find someone willing to read his CV. Most of Erik’s clients really were locals who didn’t decide much at work—but a couple of them turned out to be high-flyers. Charles could only guess what magical answer Erik gave to the question “why does your partner look for a job in the first place,” but it was definitely a good one, because two of Erik’s clients had agreed to meet with Charles.

For the first “interview,” Charles headed as far as the Gold Coast. His potential employer occupied a full luxurious townhouse within a stone’s throw of the lake. Charles had to change into his sole suit and take a self-driving taxi so as not to look like a ragamuffin—though that was exactly how he felt when he entered the classy living room. It was furnished as though it had descended from the cover of a recent Luxe Interiors and Design. A picture on the wall caught his eye; Charles recognized it as Klimt. His sense of art was moderate, and he couldn’t tell an original from a copy—but everything suggested it might be the former. The woman he was supposed to speak to didn’t look like someone who would tolerate a replica in her house.

Vanessa Marianna—so was her name—was a woman who could afford the luxury of not hurrying. That was why she first offered Charles a cup of coffee and asked a few polite, nauseatingly perfunctory questions before getting down to business.

“Mr. Xavier, as you already know, my auction house is looking for a specialist in conflicts with heirs. I know you have never worked in this environment. But do you understand what kind of conflicts I mean?”

Of course, Charles understood. In the last one hundred and fifty years, valuables had changed hands often—because the previous hands had been chewed over by history’s jaws. Emerging again, those things would go up in price. But sometimes the children and grandchildren would turn up, disputing their ownership. Courts usually made no bones of them, so the number of such cases had eventually reduced. But every hassle about the lost masterpiece added a good fifteen percent to its value—if the heir wanted only to litigate—or even thirty, if they launched a whole public campaign. So a conflict specialist hired by an auction house did not have to solve conflicts, but to foment them.

He nodded slowly, trying to keep eye contact.

“Sure, Ms. Marianna. I’ve been hired to plan such a conflict once—when the heir wanted to get his without resorting to litigation. It can be ascribed to unsuccessful cases—but as you understand, such situations are no-win.”

It was a bold lie—Charles had simply borrowed Emma’s experience in a case he knew well. In the days of her fledgling career, a grandson of some actress had indeed hired her to wrestle an original Rembrandt away from an auction house. Emma described her decision to take on that case as her biggest failure to every newbie she mentored. Vannesa couldn’t verify it anyway, because all such cases were confidential.

In hindsight, Charles realized she could’ve known about it—it wasn’t a completely routine event in her professional sphere, after all. But even if Vanessa had suspected anything, she didn’t show it.

“Perfect. So, we can avoid redundant details.”

The next twenty minutes passed splendidly. First, Vanessa described the type of person they wanted to see in the provocateur’s position; then, Charles spoke about his experience. A glimpse of hope glimmered inside him—Vanessa clearly liked him. But his insides ran cold when she asked with the same coolness:

“Why did your previous employer decide to terminate the contract with you?”

Charles had a polished version of that story ready, but he felt a lump growing in his throat anyway. He wanted to inhale deeply, but that was the last thing he should do.

“I allowed my curator to check my prejudice level in the middle of an open conflict with a client,” he replied. “As a result, it surpassed the top admissible threshold. From where I stand now, I would never make such a mistake—but at the time, I gave in to emotions.”

“So, that it is,” Vanessa said with a subtle smile. “You lost your contact because of disloyalty?”

She clearly wasn’t as relaxed as she wanted to appear. Charles felt a sharp urge to exonerate himself, but he knew he shouldn’t.

“The wording was like that, Ms. Marianna. That’s why I’m ready to prove my loyalty now—working twice as hard.”

She smiled, putting her finger to her chin as though contemplating something—but then she quickly changed the topic, asking about something entirely different. Charles thought the danger had passed, but when they were bidding the farewell, Vanessa said:

“Mr. Xavier, it was nice to meet you. I hope our paths will cross one day.”

No “I’ll let you know about the decision,” no “expect a call”—none of the standardized formulas employers usually deployed to stall him. Vanessa didn’t even bother to give him false hope—she was certain enough that she didn’t need a person like Charles.

The second interview turned out to be a veneer altogether. Erik’s client—a doughy, middle-aged man, owner of a small hauler that allegedly needed a scriptwriter for poor souls on the hotline—rambled for good half an hour about how horrid his vacancy was, before finally letting out the truth:

“Mr. Xavier, let me speak frankly—you don’t suit us. I agreed to meet you only because Mr. Lehnsherr asked me—because a good electrician is as rare as hens’ teeth these days. But you… I’ll tell you the truth—our recruiting algorithm isn’t fancy, but even it returns a ban when we upload your CV. Your presence would pull points from our reputation in the system. And we, honestly, are already far below the top hundred.”

After the last interview, Charles came home tired like a sucked orange. He didn’t know what was worse—Vanessa’s calm disdain, or the hauler guy’s hectic frankness—but he was closer than ever to thinking of the end of the world. Though it was exactly what he'd promised Erik not to do.

“How was it?” Erik asked when he was back after his last call. He was still in that susurrant coverall and smelled of sweat—but Charles even liked that smell; it was oddly homely.

“Awful. That guy didn’t even plan on considering me. He was just doing you a favor.”

“He’d better tip me,” Erik snorted sourly, dropping into the seat across from Charles. “But relax. One of Mom’s clients mentioned that her son’s school is looking for a conflict specialist.”

“Let them look,” Charles answered grimly. “They won’t even let me come near with my CV.”

“Nope,” Erik said with a smirk. “It’s a private school, and the guardian council makes all the decisions. The main point is to push your application through the first filter. But consider it done—Mom’s client’s father is exactly the member of the council.”

Charles mused. Schools, unlike for-profit firms, didn’t lose reputation points in the system over disloyal employees. And while state schools weren’t going to bother with selective recruiting, dumping everything onto the algorithms, here he might have a chance. If only it didn’t the way it had with Vanessa. But looking Erik in the eye, Charles couldn’t refuse, no matter how afraid he was of getting yet another flick on the nose. Erik and Edie, whose income depended directly on how much their clients liked them, were taking a risk trying to find him a place—and Charles would be the last scumbag if he didn’t grab every opportunity they found.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll try. But you know, it seems—”

“I know,” Erik cut him off. “And I can only guess how hard it is. But you have a roof over your head, and you have me and Mom, so all is not lost. Some doors should be smashed at a run.”

Reason told Charles that Erik was trying to comfort him—but it still sounded like a reproach. Don’t dare complain, because you don’t have it the worst. As though the status of an adoptee was something to be envied.

Edie’s client had wished to meet him personally. “To make sure you’re a good person,” she’d said over the phone, and Charles had immediately understood what that meant. A woman had to gauge the man she’d let anywhere near her children.

They met over coffee, and it turned out to be one of the best meetings Charles had had during his whole era of knocking on employers' doors. The woman was sweet, if relentless with her questions. In the end, she promised to recommend Charles to her father. Normally, he would’ve chalked that up as nothing but polite noise—except someone contacted him two days later, inviting him to apply.

Charles agreed, and a contest package arrived in his inbox half an hour later. Aside from the school's three-hundred-pages constitution, a bone-rattling Regulation on the Contest, and an equally Herculean nondisclosure agreement, there was an evaluation guidebook listing the parameters the guardian council would grade. Length and relevance of experience, psychological correspondence, moral eminence, and a slew of other qualities in which no one could ever predict an individual council member’s judgment. But loyalty and prejudice were nowhere among them.

It instilled hope in Charles again. He couldn’t explain how he managed to lift his spirits after yet another failure. Apparently it was like the instinctive gasp of a drowning man—even knowing that the next breath could kill you, you still tried to breathe.

The first stage was to compose a proper application, which required filling out a special form on the website. Fifteen pages—ten clauses each—and Charles was at it for nearly three hours. The entire time, Erik sat on the couch a little ways off, occasionally lifting his gaze from his book to sigh, but saying nothing. When Charles finally checked his answers, clicked Send, and let out a long breath of relief, Erik smirked.

“I admire you. I’ve never had enough patience for all those forms.”

Charles frowned, trying to determine whether there was a veiled mockery in this comment. It wasn’t that he suspected Erik of mocking him—but Erik often took pot shots at the things he considered phenomenally stupid, like the surveys from the alumni organization, or the AI home assistant Charles still missed.

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly that. You have the talent I lack,” Erik replied. “You’re forgiving to any kind of people’s stupidity.”

“I wouldn’t call it stupidity. It’s precaution.”

Erik smiled crookedly, as though wanting to argue and choosing not to. Instead, he said:

“It doesn’t matter what you call it. I admire you—that’s important.”

In the months they’d lived together, Charles had begun to get used to the way Erik expressed thoughts and feelings. Coffee in bed, a generous remainder of hot water after his morning shower, an iced tea waiting for Charles when he came in from the heat—this was Erik. Insignificant details revealing he wasn’t thinking only of himself. Putting feelings to words, though, was a much harder task.

Charles lifted from his seat and collapsed onto the couch, pulling up his legs and leaning against Erik’s shoulder. Erik slipped an arm around him and drew him closer, nuzzling the crown of his head.

“Tired?” he asked. Erik’s breath tickled Charles’s head.

“A little bit.”

“Do you want tea? A massage? Or we can play chess—”

Charles froze, listening inward. There was a soundless tolling in his head, as if his skull were a steel saucepan and someone had struck it with an inox ladle.

“I’m not sure I can think now,” he said. “But I could use this massage.”

In Erik’s vocabulary, massage had no subtext. It meant only that Charles would lie down on the coach, take off his shirt, and Erik would slowly and thoroughly knead his back and shoulders, never once drifting below the waist. The light, almost gossamer-like kiss he placed on Charles’s back at the end was a tribute to habit, not a hint. Erik could speak plainly about what he wanted—just not about what he felt.

After the massage, Charles felt light as always—as though tiny bits of information lodging his labors had slipped out of his body along with the fatigue. He knew that mind and body were entwined, but it still felt like cheating, as if pressing the right points could make you invincible. Some people really believed that. Emma, he knew, even had her own chiropractor, whom she called anytime something went astray in her plans.

Erik was far beneath a reputable osteopath, but his hand still did magic.

“Thank you,” Charles muttered. He had nothing to return such a favor with—except for sex, but that was better postponed until evening. And they certainly shouldn’t do it in the study, where Edie could walk in at any moment. Still, knowing Erik’s closed nature, Charles could at least use empathy—because if Erik never spoke about what sat in his heart, that didn’t mean he’d never wanted to. “You never talk about what you feel… well, about all this. Do you want to share something?”

Charles caught himself sounding like his former therapist—but she’d used such phrases because they worked. Not demanding, not prying. Just offering, and the other person had the right to decide what to do with the offer.

Erik didn’t look particularly thrilled.

“To share?” he echoed, distracted. “I’m not anxious, if that’s what you mean. I think you’ll succeed.”

“It’s not what I’m talking about,” Charles replied carefully. “I mean, what do you think about all this? Maybe I’m too absorbed in it. Or—”

He cut himself off, remembering he shouldn’t steer him. A person had to work out what gnawed at them in their own way.
“Actually, I’m satisfied with everything," Erik said with a shrug. “I love what I do, you’re here, Mom is around. Generally, what else would I wish for? Perhaps fewer morons in this world, but I guess I’m wanting too much.”

His reply—calm, almost serene— threw Charles off stride. He knew Erik took many things simply, and those he didn’t like earned either a sneer or straightforward aggression. But most people would find something to complain about when asked that question—and find some relief in doing so. Erik surely had those things, too, but he kept them buried too deep.

“Maybe, there’s something else?” Charles ventured. “I understand that it’s not that easy with me.”

“I don’t know what you're talking about,” Erik said, his voice a degree colder. “Do you suspect again that I want to get rid of you?”

“No,” Charles blurted—faster than he meant to.

“Or that I’m not supporting you enough? Then tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.”

“Oh no, God—” Charles already regretted raising this topic. “I just wanted to make sure there’s nothing you’d like to talk about but couldn’t find the right moment.”

“I tell you everything. Always,” Erik said grimly. “If I want to talk about something, I’ll tell you right away. But please—stop trying to catch me off guard, okay?”

This time, they avoided both a fight and a lengthy sulk all the way to the evening. After dinner, once they went up to their bedroom, Erik lay down with his head on Charles’s lap and, out of nowhere, wandered into his childhood. He talked about how his father had taught him to ride a bicycle, a little about school, even about his first love—and Charles listened, absentmindedly stroking his hair. His attempt to nudge Erik into talking had paid off after all, thought not in the way he’d intended. But it was better than silence.

Apparently, there was the key point of the Lehnsherr’s household magic—everything straightened out sooner or later. But Charles knew that nothing truly happened by itself.

***

Having received the test results, Charles couldn’t believe his eyes. He made it to the next stage.

The second task was a personal interview with one of the guardians. Despite his expectations, Charles’s interviewer turned out to be a certain Dr. Richards. He had read her page on the school’s website and couldn’t help searching her online, awed—Dr. Richards was an astrophysicist, and a notably distinguished one. Fields like hers had always seemed unbelievable and unapproachable to Charles, inspiring unconditional respect. At the same time, he knew that the people from such spheres were often inattentive—if not deliberately blind—to everything human.

However, none of this described Dr. Richards. She was active in the council she had joined after her eldest child entered the school. And she was genuinely good-looking—born a naturally slim blonde with even features, she had made the very best use of her money as she edged toward forty.

Talking to her was far easier than Charles had expected. She spoke politely but curtly and to the point, with almost no interest in his previous job, lingering only on questions a mother would want answered.

“Imagine, Mr. Xavier, that a student ends up in a conflict with a parent of another student,” she said at one point, leaning back and narrowing her eyes. Charles recognized at once that this was one of the key questions of the interview. “Let’s say the child was insolent. What would you do?”

Conflicts involving children had their own specifics—but Charles had spent a great deal of time preparing, trying to catch up on the knowledge he’d missed working with adults.

“First, I would hear both parties out,” he said evenly. “And at the same time, I would listen to the child as their protector, even if they were the instigator. Because the power imbalance is obvious. A child in a conflict with an adult must first be shown that they are safe before discussing their guilt.”

“That’s it,” Dr. Richards murmured, tilting her head. Her expression made it impossible to tell whether she approved. “But how can you be sure the child isn’t manipulating? Kids today know enough—including the fact that a conflict specialist is likely to take their side.”
“Maniputalion is a weapon of the weak, Dr. Richards,” Charles said. “If a child resorts to manipulation, they’re still afraid. It takes time to uncover that fear—time an adult usually lacks. So I’ll have to work with the adult first, to keep them from rushing things.”

The school had its metrics, too, including those regulating the speed of conflict-solving. But they were far softer than the ones Charles had worked under before, and he suspected he could handle them.

“What if you don't meet the deadline?” Dr. Richards asked. “If the time is running out and you still don’t know what makes the child tick? What would you do then?”

Charles knew what she was getting at. She wanted to know whether he would resort to manipulation himself once he was the one in a weak position. It would be noble to say he wouldn’t—but Charles knew his job, and knew life, and he understood that at some point it would be inevitable. Manipulating a child was low; but the world’s resources were limited, and time was the most precious of them, and you had to own up to that.

“I would try to be honest with the child. I’ll tell them how the adult sees the situation and what’s expected of them—by me and by society. I’d admit that everything has its timeframes, and probably ask some leading questions that would help them arrive at the right conclusion. I wouldn’t intimidate them or promise anything in exchange for an apology, because that only encourages more lies and manipulation.”

Dr. Richards sighed—but then she gave a tired smile and leaned forwards, resting her elbows on the table.

“You’re a good specialist, Mr. Xavier,” she said. “Probably a little too confident for such an institution, but… I’d like to have more people like you here. I will definitely recommend you for the third stage.”

Charles couldn’t believe his ears. Or rather—there was nothing extraordinary in that: he’d been given a chance, and he’d managed to demonstrate his skills. But after dozens of rejections where he couldn’t even open his mouth, it felt like a real shift.

He told the Lehnsherrs first, and they decided to arrange a small feast because of it. Edie baked a lamb rack, and Erik brought up a bottle of wine from the basement. They laid out a whole spread, taking out the fine crockery. Charles kept trying to beg off until the end, insisting it was too early to celebrate—but Edie waved him away, saying he’d be the rudest man alive if he dared question their reason for joy.

It was all Edie—once she got the idea of having a merriment into her head, nothing on earth could keep her from it.

The wine turned out to be very heady—Edie, after only half a glass, declared she’d had enough and let Erik finish it. Erik grew cheerful, his eyes gleaming—but it took far more than his mother and Charles combined to get him drunk.

But wine excited ardor in him. After dinner, he all but shoved a glass of whiskey into the hand of an equally cheerful Charles and took a seat across from him with his own. He smirked, looking at the pieces in front of him, and asked:

“Fancy a game?”

“Not really,” Charles said, smiling. He couldn’t think straight as it was, and the very idea of strategic thinking almost disgusted him. “Any other suggestions?”

“I suggest climbing onto the roof,” Erik said suddenly. “The August sky is one of the greatest spectacles on Earth. Especially here in the suburbs. Shall we go?”

Charles was surprised by how quickly he’d agreed—and by how he’d managed to climb the ladder without breaking anything. The roof was steep along the edges, but flat in the middle. It was the place where the ill-fated six-pointed star once had sported.

Erik helped Charles settle and sat down, resting on one hand and looking at the starscape.

“It’s… very beautiful,” Charles said, eyeing the constellations. “Do you know anything about the stars?”

“A little bit,” Erik said. “ Lyra should be above us at this time of the year.” He tilted his head, searching the sky, and finally pointed his finger upward. “Up there, look. Do you see? That’s Vega, its brightest star. One of the largest observable stars in the sky.”

Charles followed Erik’s direction but had to stare for a long while before he found the right spot. Most of the stars looked no bigger than a scatter of white specks on the darkness, like dust on black velvet—but some blazed more brightly.

“There should be Cygnus next to Lyra,” Erik went on. “But I can’t see it. Well, wait… do you see? The stars near it make the cross. The brightest one on the top, the rest paler.”

“I guess so,” Charles mumbled, unsure whether he really saw what Erik meant or just imagined it, not wanting to disappoint him. To him, the stars still looked chaotic, and he would give a lot to see some logic in this scattering.

“I used to spend whole evenings here when I was fourteen,” Erik admitted. “Like three months in a row, until it got really cold. I even spent a night on the roof a few times. Mom was going crazy, afraid I’d fall. But who cares about that at fourteen?”

“But you never fell,” Charles said.

“Or course I fell,” Erik said with a smirk. “But not when I slept up here. When I was fifteen, I got drunk and didn’t want to come home, so I decided it was better to sleep on the roof. Silly idea… Mom was surprised I didn’t break anything.”

“Did you fight with your parents as a teen?” Charles asked. To him, the idea of Erik not wanting to come home seemed unthinkable. Sure, he and Edie bickered constantly even now—but it was so innocent you hardly call it fighting.

“Everyone fights with their parents at this age,” Erik said. “Everything hurts at fifteen, because every blow is new. Your skin is too soft to just brush off and go on. And you want someone to answer for it. So you lash out at the only people who care.”

Charles had had it different. He hadn’t been able to lash out at his mother because she’d never allowed him to raise his voice, simply walking away every time he’d tried to act up. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to. Sometimes he’d thought he would give a lot for her to yell back—maybe then he would’ve known that she cared.

That had been why Charles had waited for her to return and tell him again that he’d done everything wrong. That was why he expected it from Erik, assuming that if Erik didn’t reprimand him every day for insufficient diligence, it meant he’d realized that there was no point in trying.

“Kiss me,” he said quietly. Erik looked at him in surprise, but then apparently understood the meaning of this plea. He leaned in at once to Charles and pressed a kiss to his lips.

“I dreamed about something like this when I was fourteen,” he said, smiling. “Sitting on the roof with a cool guy, stargazing.”

“Do you think I’m cool?” Charles said with a smirk.

“Of course,” Erik snorted, brushing his thumb over Charles’s temple. “You know, sometimes I think that, even many years from now, when we’re long married, you won’t stop asking every time whether I really like you and whether I want to fix something in you.”

Charles could only sigh, because Erik was right. But then, he mused. He’d never thought about this relationship in a long-term perspective—not because he hadn’t wanted to, but because the job search had obscured everything ahead. They’d been dating for only a few months, and it was too early to talk about marriage. Spoken by anyone else, Charles would’ve taken it like an inapt joke—but from Erik, it sounded like a real proposal. One Charles wasn’t ready for yet.

He would think about it later, he thought. It seemed Erik had managed to convince him, after all, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

***

The third stage of the interview was set for two weeks before the new school year. Charles had to show up in the hall where the council usually gathered at ten AM to appear before the committee and answer whatever questions remained indistinct in his case.

The hall itself resembled a courtroom. It was large, with a centered desk at the far wall, covered by a modestly sized American flag, and, beneath it,the school’s enormous emblem. A heraldic eagle on a light-blue background, in a golden obley—very life-asserting, very high-status.

There were also podiums on both sides of the hall, where the council members were supposed to sit. On the left, Charles spotted Dr. Richards—she was checking something on her tablet, using a free minute between candidates. Such podiums were usually seated by jurors, and Charles really felt as though he were standing before a jury. There was nowhere for an ordinary visitor to sit, which only heightened the sense of being here at the mercy of the judges.

Charles inhaled deeply, trying to placate his anxiety. He’d passed two stages so far; the scariest part was behind him. All the flaws they could find in his case had already been studied—and he could answer any remaining questions in person.

The three seats in the center were occupied by the main guardians—a thin old woman with long gray hair tied in an elegant bun; a dark-haired, young-looking man in rectangular, thick-rimmed glasses; and a man in his fifties with a head full of wavy, slightly frosted hair. When Charles arrived, the older man was showing his tablet to the younger one, chuckling as though he’d found something funny in his documents. The younger one only shrugged in reply and said something quietly, staring at his own tablet.

Then the older man turned toward Charles, giving him a dazzling smile—as if Charles was exactly the person he’d hoped to since waking up this morning.

“Good morning, Mr. Xavier,” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “Thank you for finding the time to visit us today. Nice to meet you, I’m Dr. Osborne, the chairman of guardians’ council in this school. There are Dr. Van Dyne and Dr. Stone,” he turned respectively to the woman and then to the younger man. “But I think you already know who we are.”

Of course, Charles knew. He had learned the school's website by heart before coming here. Dr. Osborne was a remarkable man who had time for everything in the world—running a huge chemical concern, guest-starring on talk shows and podcasts, writing books, giving lectures, and apparently chairmanning the school council of guardians. All the guardians seemed superhumans to Charles, though. Apart from their main work, they all engaged in some public activity or charity. And only three out of twelve didn’t have a doctoral degree.

“It’s an honor to finally meet you in person, esteemed guardians,” Charles said. “I’ve read a lot about each of you.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Osborne said. “You won’t believe it, but we’ve read a lot about you as well.”

A small laugh ran through the hall, as if half the guardians found this joke extremely funny. Stone grimaced, and Van Dyne sighed and looked away.

“So, if we are all acquainted here, I suggest we get straight to business. You’re ready, Mr. Xavier, aren’t you?”

Charles was ready, and the first word went to Dr. Van Dyne. She glanced through her tablet, then at Charles, and then she asked:

“Mr. Xavier, you might know that sixty percent of our academic staff possess doctorates. Your hypothetical hiring would worsen those statistics, even if only slightly. How would you comment on that?”

Charles paused for a moment. He knew the third stage would be harsh, meant to test not only his professional qualities but also the stress tolerance required for this job. According to all the rules, the first question should be trifling—and Charles really had no trouble with it, because he’d discussed this with Dr. Richards beforehand.

“Certainly, the reminder of it makes me regret that I missed an important part of life by failing to strive for academic recognition of my competence,” he said. “With that in mind, I intend to invest everything into the sphere where I have succeeded—a practical approach to conflict-solving with an individual method for each case. As for the statistics, I dare hope I’’ll be able to compensate for the lost points with the breadth of my practical experience.”

The answer should be short and contained, so Charles was satisfied with his—in three sentences, he’d worked in apologies and acknowledgement of their status, without self-disparagement, while emphasizing his strenghts. Dr. Van Dyne, judging by her subtle smile, appreciated it as well.

“Well, I tend to agree with you on the last point. Frankly, those who teach usually have less practical experience, but it’s important for the parents. What do you say about not having worked with children before? Don’t you think children’s and adult conflicts are the same things?”

“Sure I don’t,” Charles said, nodding. “Children’s conflicts are a far less predictable sphere, and far more complicated to manage. With this in mind,” he deliberately avoided saying but, knowing that there was no logical difference between but and his choice, but a whole emotional abyss. “With this in mind, I analyzed all my prior experience before applying and evaluated my capability for working with children. I have to admit I’m not the most experienced candidate—but I do have successful cases with teenagers in my practice. This, plus the intensive self-education and receptivity to new experience—I believe these can help me provide not only competent conflict management, but also an unbiased attitude.”

Again, Dr. Van Dyne seemed pleased. Charles saw her gaze grow warmer. She scrolled through a couple of screens on her tablet, then changed her mind and nodded to Osborne. The chairman, still wearing his unfailingly dazzling smile, turned the floor over to Stone.

Dr. Stone looked bored, as though a whole cavalcade of such charleses had already passed before him—and it probably had. He picked up his tablet idly, scrolling through something at a measured pace, and then asked, without lifting his head:

“Mr. Xavier, as far as I know, you come from a high-income family?”

Charles was slightly surprised by the question. It was meant to probe his weak spots—but his family background had never been his weak spot.

“I think so,” he said. “I ‘d place my family in the upper third of the middle class.”

“However, your own status, according to the data of the last financial year, is lower than that.”

Charles thanked God the committee could access only the last year's financial reports, when he could still afford his own apartment and had a decent bank account. Had Stone evaluated him now, he would’ve kick him out like a beggar.

“It’s correct,” he said. “My parents donated a lot to charity. My mother always adhered to the principle that children should build their lives irrespective of their parents’ savings.”

“I suppose that’s not the philosophy we adhere to here,” Stone drawled. “Do you understand that this approach is economically irrational within the frames of the middle class? With each generation, it becomes harder to earn wealth from scratch.”

“Of course, Dr. Stone. I personally adhere to views similar to yours. Especially after going through this myself.”

“What feelings do you have about this?” Stone asked suddenly. Charles was definitely not prepared for a question like that. “Do you feel… jealous? Perhaps, you think you were treated unfairly?”

Charles paused, recalling how he’d once discussed this with his therapist. He bit his lip but reined himself in immediately—the committee should not see him flustered.

“At my age, it’s already pointless to blame my parents for what seemed like gaps in my upbringing,” he uttered, almost word-by-word with what his therapist had once told him. “And a grown-up person has no reason to envy children. If I could choose now, I wouldn’t choose a different past. It led me to who I am, and I’m content with who I am and how I think.”

The answer seemed sentimental enough to impress and be taken as honest at the same time. But Stone—Charles could only imagine it, for he wasn’t sure because of Stone’s massive glasses—rolled his eyes.

“Well,” he said. “Your fatalism is impressive. But I still have questions about your economic views.”

“I’m ready to answer them.”

“Your file contains a mention of prejudice,” Stone said, and Charles’s heart faltered—he’d thought he’d left this all behind. But Stone continued:

“What itself means that you’re only human. Each of us has our own perceptions, rooted in life experience. Even AI thinks in stereotypical models, depending on what it was trained on. But the circumstances under which your prejudice surfaced… let’s say, they perplex me.”

“Are you talking about Mr. Shaw’s case?” Charles was that anxious he even forgot he shouldn’t hand his prosecutor any clues. “Do you think my prejudice has economic grounds?”

“It seems like an economic subtext to me,” Stone concluded. “But perhaps you have another explanation why, between a person who has multiplied his family’s money and a person who has unsuccessfully started from scratch, you were inclined toward the latter.”

This question caught Charles off guard. He wanted to justify himself right away—the economic factor had nothing to do with it. Shaw had simply turned out to be a loathsome person, and Erik had turned out to be the opposite. But then he remembered what they’d taught him in college. “Nice” isn’t a quality. “Nice” is an impression, built from thousands of factors, the main among them being similarity—or dissimilarity—between two people.

“I am afraid I’ve only learned about Mr. Shaw’s economic background now, from you,” Charles began slowly. “And what I didn’t know couldn’t have affected my judgement. As for the explanation—I can’t be certain, but I believe that the source of my prejudice was the mutual prejudice Shaw had toward me. He was not inclined to talk on equal footing, unlike Mr. Lehnsherr.”

Stone furrowed his brows in surprise and exchanged a look with Osborne. The other man smiled bitterly, and from those signals Charles understood that they hadn’t liked his answer at all.

“You talk about equality, Mr. Xavier,” Stone said. “Do you think we should make efforts to remind people that they were created equal?”

It was a tricky question, and Charles knew it. But he also knew where he was—a private school was the last place that would welcome equality.

“I don’t think we have to propagate equality where healthy competition is required,” he replied. “And in spheres that benefit from cooperation, it’s necessary to remind ourselves that we’re all human.”

“I don’t have any more questions,” Stone said at once, slipping back into the same bored look as he leaned into his chair. Osborne took the floor, still smiling, as though he were giving an interview.

“Thank you to my colleague for this philosophic detour,” he said with a sneer. “It was even captivating. But I’d like to descend to more down-to-earth questions. Mr. Xavier, tell me—do you have children?”

“I don’t have children,” Charles said, feeling slightly relieved. This question he’d expected, and it was almost harmless. “With this in mind, I hope I will be able to put all my energy into my work.”

“It’s an applaudable enthusiasm,” Osborne said. Apparently, he had a habit of speaking to everyone in a condescending tone. “But perhaps you plan on having them? Your file says you live with your partner.”

“We haven’t discussed this seriously yet,” Charles said honestly. “Our relationship… we’re not at the stage when you plan to have kids.”

“I like that you take this seriously,” Osborne said eagerly. “So, your family can’t be considered deeply-rooted? Don’t misunderstand, but I care about the psychological climate in this school. And, ceteris paribus, I’d prefer someone who has everything stable in their life.”

Osborne voiced openly what other employers preferred to leave unsaid—no one liked singles and their love dramas. Charles’s relationship with Erik was only a few months old, which could look flippant in his CV—so Charles had deliberately written that they lived together to seem more grounded. It was true, after all.

“I believe things are stable enough,” he replied calmly. “And children are a major change in life. One should plan to have them in earnest only when both partners are one hundred percent ready for that step. I’m personally more focused on work at the moment.”

“And your partner?”

“He currently gives priority to his career as well.”

“He?” Osborne’s smile abruptly slipped, as if someone splashed a bucket of water over fresh paint. “Your partner is a man?”

Dr. Van Dyne lifted her eyes from her tablet, looking at him attentively—as if she were seeing him for the first time. Dr. Stone remained poker-faced, reclined in his chair—but again, it seemed, he’d rolled his eyes.

“He’s a man, Dr. Osborne,” Charles confirmed carefully. “Does it change anything? I’m not the only one here in a homosexual partnership.”

Charles could name at least two—from the open sources on the internet. One was Counselor Hogart, seated to his right. The other was Mr. Bloodstone, next to Dr. Richards. That was why Charles had declared his status openly, knowing the higher jury had no issue with this.

Apparently, not all of them.

“I beg your pardon for my surprise, Mr. Xavier, but I’m slightly puzzled,” Osborne went on, trying to resurrect his smile and failing miserably. “I have a report on a conversation with some Gabrielle Haller, who said you and she used to date in college. As you can see, this does not correspond to what I’m hearing now.”

“I’m five on the Kinsey scale, Dr. Osborne,” Charles said, fighting down the righteous indignation. “It means I don’t exclude heterosexual contacts, though they’re special occasions. But let me clarify my question—does this have any relevance to my work?”

A relationship from almost fifteen years ago was the last thing Charles had recalled while preparing for the third stage, and Osborne’s kicking about it made no sense. He couldn’t be accused of infidelity—it had been Gabrielle who ended it—or of promiscuity. Still, Charles sensed that, for Osborne, this was a stumbling rock.

“Any question we arise here relates to your work,” Osborne said curtly. “In any case, thank you for the time you’ve devoted to us today. The interview is over. I’ll ask you to leave now, so the council can vote.”

Full of the darkest forebodings, Charles left the hall. Like all the other candidates, he was escorted to a small classroom and told to wait. It wasn’t long—in fifteen minutes, the assistant came in and said that Charles could go.”

“Shouldn’t they announce the decision?” Charles asked, rising from his place.

“No need,” a man in a sweater vest said curtly. He looked like someone who would’ve worn glasses back in the old days, but now had surely opted for a simple, cheap vision chip implanted in his head. “You weren’t chosen. You can go.”

Charles left the room, feeling everything collapse inside him. Or course, he wasn’t the only one, and there might well have been stronger candidates among the applicants. But something told him that he hadn’t been rejected because of his professional competence.

He walked slowly toward the exit, casting a cursory glance at the small cafe by the entrance and tallying his finances—whether he could afford himself a consolatory coffee or whether that would be the trifle that would make him closer to asking Erik for money. Feeling he wouldn’t get through the day without this tiny comfort, Charles ordered a small cinnamon cappuccino. The barista was excruciatingly slow—but as Charles waited for his loser’s trophy, he heard someone call out behind him. It was Dr. Richards.

“Mr. Xavier,” she said in a tired voice, as though she’d been forced to tote around concrete blocks for the last few minutes. “I… I’m truly sorry. Really. I voted for you. I would like someone like you to protect my children.”

Charles smiled sadly. He knew people like Dr. Richards—too used to living in a world where everything was decided by others to go against the grain, but still holding on to some creeds. They usually had it hard. In the moment he felt sentimental, he’d counted himself among them.

“It has nothing to do with you, Dr. Richards,” he said. “I believe you had applicants who were better and more experienced than me.”

“Probably,” Dr. Richards faltered, as though she knew there wasn’t a single shred of truth in Charles’s words. “Anyway… I should’ve foreseen that Osborne would ask those questions. We could’ve discussed—”

“Please don’t.” Charles suddenly felt pity for her. Being so successful and still feeling ashamed every time she had to fall in line with someone’s unpleasant opinion must have been exhausting. “I understand. Thank you anyway.”

“Thank you,” she blurted. “I really couldn't wish for better for my kids. But if it turns out so… let me wish you luck.”

“Thank you,” Charles replied softly. “I think I can use some now.”

***

“You rejected you because of such nonsense?!”

Erik was on the rampage. He paced across the room, his face scary enough that Charles would’ve preferred not to meet him in a dark alley. Thank God, Edie was out shopping, and he was the only witness to this dread.

“I can’t be sure, Erik. I have little experience with kids, after all. And my CV—”

“Well, fuck it,” Erik cut in, dropping onto the chair. “It’s senseless! They’re okay with homosexuality, but not okay with you having a thing with a woman once. It’s bullshit!”

“Bisexuality raises more suspicions than strict commitment to one gender,” Charles muttered. He didn’t know why he was fencing out his offenders. But he wouldn’t wish his worst enemy to become an enemy of Erik.

“Morons,” Erik spat, waving his hand. “They’re complete morons. Nipping at something that happened in college… if that, then I’m as rotten as I come. College is the time for every folly—”

“We don’t know for sure that they rejected me over that. Stone… he asked questions, too.”

“It’s idiocy,” Erik exclaimed stubbornly. “Anyone would figure you’d pamper those kids like your own, and fuck all the episodes from your past. You’re human, unlike the majority of those who call themselves that. You’d have to be a complete jerk to choose someone over you.”

“I know,” Charles said softly. “But the choice is made.”

“And what’s next? They made their choice, and what about you?”

“I will look for another place. Perhaps, I’ll be lucky.”

“Lucky,” Erik snorted. “Fuck. I know it’s not your fault, but it looks like they do it on purpose.”

“No one rejects me on purpose. They care for themselves and their kids.”

“Morons,” Erik concluded.

“Wasn’t it you who told me that family is more important than strangers?” Charles suddenly felt the urge to taunt him. “It’s the same here. Only it’s me who’s the stranger.”

“So what?” Erik strode to the middle of the room and tilted his head, as if about to appeal to the heavenly forces over Charles not getting his meaning at once. “It doesn’t change the fact that, for me, you’re family, and they’re morons. Okay, what now? Do you want… a drink? Or—”

“No, thank you.” Charles knew how drinking affected him when he was low. The temptation was great, but he suppressed it. “Maybe I need some alone time. To think—”

“Fuck this, Charles,” Erik blurted, returning to his chair. He rubbed his face with his hand and said tiredly, “I would want to smash everything there if I were you. Do you really—”

“Really. Please don’t smash anything, okay?”

“I wasn’t going to. But if you need—”

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s not a joke.”

They fell silent. Charles carefully avoided thinking that Erik really could—just imagine his criminal records.

But Charles couldn’t. His best way to react still was to pity himself until he was ashamed of his pity.

The silence was broken by a slap of the entrance door—it was Edie. She shouted for the entire house to hear, asking if she could congratulate Charles on his new job—but fell silent at once, seeing their sour faces.

“What scums!” she exclaimed, irate, tossing her keys angrily into the bowl by the entrance. “Charles, dear, come here, let me hug you—”

She embraced him with her long, thin arms, fogging him in the scent of her old-fashioned but pleasant perfume. He felt like a small kid for a moment.

“If I only run into this council,” Edie went on when they sat down to dinner. “I will tell them everything!”

She behaved almost like Erik, but Charles didn’t dare rebuff her—Edie would never resort to vandalism anyway. In the end, she hugged Charles again, whispering some consolation into his ear, and retreated to her room, leaving the boys to deal with the dishes.

“Do you still want you alone time?” Erik asked as he took the brush. “If yes, go. I’ll handle this myself.”

Charles smiled gratefully and went upstairs, to the bedroom.

His wish to be alone turned out to be more of a bad habit than a natural need. As soon as he closed the door behind him, the thoughts washed over him.

They all needed someone else. He would never be good enough for them. Wherever he went, his past would always haunt him. His every action was just another blemish on an initially pristine canvas. He couldn’t do the right thing, so he shouldn’t even try—but he couldn’t stop trying, because his life depended on it.

Maybe he should stop and just do what would be best for everyone. Maybe no one needed him alive.

The last thought scared Charles, pulling him out of the whirlpool of regrets. No, it was nonsense. It couldn’t be true. Erik needed him, Edie needed him… and maybe plenty of other people needed him; he just hadn’t found them yet. It was logically impossible—a lot of people thought their lives mattered, and some of them were totally appalling. Maybe he was wrong. Or maybe—

He couldn’t finish his thought, because at that very moment Erik came in. He looked grim, his disheveled hair sticking out every which way. Looking at him, Charles thought again that Erik wouldn’t have any problems now if Charles wasn’t here.

He was a fly in the ointment, poisoning the life of this house. If not for him, the Lehnsherrs would be happy.

“Are we going to sleep right now?” Erik asked casually, pulling off his shirt and hanging it on the back of the chair. “Or do you want to talk?”

At any other moment, Charles would definitely cling to that chance—Erik didn’t like talking, and he missed this. But now, he felt like a burden—a person who lived for spilling his woes onto others. Erik was clearly sick of it.

“No,” he said. “We’ll have sex.”

Erik froze, and then looked back at Charles. His hands stayed where they were—on the zipper of his fly.

“Do you really want it?” He smiled, still undressing. “You know, I’m always up for it. But if you’re not in the mood—”

Charles opted to leave this unanswered. His mood didn’t matter now. Instead, he got rid of his clothes quickly and lay down, watching Erik take off his own.

Finally, Erik turned to him in all his glory—thin, muscular, not a single fragment Charles wouldn’t call perfect. He came closer, resting his knee on the bed, hovering over Charles.

“What do you want?” he asked softly, touching Charles’s neck with his lips. “Tell me. Anything. I’ll do it.”

Charles inhaled deeply before answering. It took—no, not bravery—but enough desperation. Finally, he made up his mind.

“Fuck me.”

Chapter Text

Erik’s lips twitched, as if he was about to laugh—the way kids laugh when someone jumps out at them in a scary mask. As soon as he figured it wasn’t a joke, he frowned.  

“Are you sure? If you say it to—”

“I’m sure.” Nothing was worse than being asked twice when you were ready to fall into an abyss. “Let’s do it. Should I turn over?” 

“No need.” Erik kissed his neck again. He spoke softly, as though thinking one of them might be asleep, afraid to disturb him. “No need for now. How long have you—” 

“Two years. Maybe three,” Charles admitted reluctantly. “I don’t remember.” 

He’d hoped Erik would be more desperate. It was Charles, after all, who couldn’t take a step without thinking twice about the other’s feelings. Erik should’ve had it easier. He saw a green light—so why not floor it? 

Charles wanted it the way he remembered it—fast, face-first into the pillow, slightly painful, maddeningly boring, ending that repulsive sense of defeat. It would offset his moral debt to Erik. But Erik was pushing him into an even bigger debt, acting like it should be pleasant for them both. 

“If that’s the way you want to punish yourself—” Erik began, but Charles snapped: 

“Stop philosophizing. Just fuck me. Is it so hard?” 

Tenderness drained from Erik’s face, making it look like a marble mask. 

“Not at all. But on my terms.” 

Inwardly, Charles was caught by a surge of masochistic elation—he shouldn’t even have to persuade Erik into losing control. But he realized how premature his joy was when his knees were pushed apart by a confident hand and Erik palmed Charles’s cheeks, pressing his face to Charles’s hole. 

A wave of warm breath caressed the skin behind Charles’s scrotum, making him shiver.  

“What are you doing?” 

“I do what I like,”  Erik said, sticking out his tongue shamelessly to lick the sensitive spot. 

“You don’t—”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Erik snarled, half-joking, half-serious. “I like it. So take it.” 

He wasn’t the only one who liked it, for every move of his tongue made Charles’s toes curl. It took a lot for Charles not to fist Erik’s hair, gripping the sheet instead. 

Erik quickly moved lower, catching the rim of Charles’s hole with his tongue, and finally pressed his mouth to it, kissing—almost in the way he’d kiss lips, but wanton and dirty. His tongue pushed forward, caressing the rim at first but going deeper with each thrust, finding its way inside. Charles had never had a clue how sensitive those spots could be—and pliant, too. No one had ever done this to him. 

Because he’d never let them. 

He tried to stay composed, but couldn’t hold back a strangled moan—and Erik raised his head, giving him a predatory smile with his darkened, saliva-slick lips. 

“I like to kiss what I fuck. Before… and after.” 

Charles buried his burning face in his palms. When he’d agreed to this, the last thing he’d imagined was to go mad at the very start. 

It wasn’t enough for Erik—he continued the execution, greedily shoving his tongue even further. After a caustic chuckle, which Charles rather sensed than heard, Erik added his thumb to it. Only the tip at first—but after pushing it inside a couple of times, he worked it in to the knuckle. 

“I want you,” he wheezed, raising his head, his thumb still sliding back and forth. “I’m holding back, Charles, but… look what you did to me.” 

Charles shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut, because he knew what he’d see. Disheveled Erik with flushed lips and blown pupils. A man who wanted it and meant to get it. A man who wouldn’t accept a no. 

The tube cap clicked, and the lube dribbled over Charles’s hole, right over the thumb buried in him. The lube was cold, but the contrast felt exciting. Erik worked the squirt in and changed the finger—now it was the middle one, narrower but longer. 

“I told you to look at me,” he rasped out. His hand slid out, and the fingertip ran over the rim, teasing. Charles opened his eyes. Erik was before him, kneeling, his dark fringe hanging loose over his forehead. He stroked his rock-hard dick, and Charles couldn’t see his other hand, but he knew exactly where it was right now. 

“Look at me,” Erik ordered. “Don’t you dare close your eyes.” 

His finger slid inside again, now almost fully. Charles knew what would follow and braced himself for it—but he couldn’t suppress an anguished groan when Erik pressed against his prostate. 

It had never been so good—not when Gabrielle had first urged him to try it, not when he’d found a lover who’d been into foreplay, not when he’d tried to explore it himself. Erik seemed to be the only one who knew how—as if he possessed some guide for using Charles’s body. 

“I like how you react,” he chuckled. “What about this?”

Now he touched it lightly, barely-there, then pressed harder—and Charles let out a sob, screwing his eyes shut. It was almost too much. 

“I told you not to close your eyes. Look at me.” 

And Charles obeyed. He caught Erik’s predatory gaze while Erik played with him—unbearably slowly, never pressing hard enough for Charles to lose his sense of reality. Still, Charles missed the moment Erik had added a second finger—because it seemed that Erik could easily shove all four of them in, and Charles still wouldn’t care. Anything for Erik to keep going. 

“You’re mine, Charles,” Erik growled, showing his teeth at the last vibratory sound. “I’m ready for you. Are you ready for me?” 

Charles didn’t know if he was—at least his mind certainly wasn’t. If he were to make a sound decision, he’d recall every past time he’d tried it and ask Erik to never touch him again. 

But with Erik, it was something else. Charles was painfully hard without even touching himself, as if he didn’t need to. Not while Erik was doing those things to him and looking at him like that. 

He nodded, as though he couldn’t command his voice.

“I don’t hear you,” Erik replied. “Say it out loud.” 

“I’m ready,” came out in a raspy falter.

“Ready for what?”

“For you to fuck me. Please. I want you… inside.” 

Taction was Charles’s only ally now. His eyes tempted him, his ears lied to him, his nose and tongue were full of Erik’s scent—it was all over him. The truth was what Charles felt, and what he wanted to feel. He wanted Erik inside him. 

Erik leaned forward, withdrawing his fingers, and pressed his lips to Charles’s ear. 

“You’d better turn around,” he said softly. “For a while.” 

Charles was ready to do anything this moment—and he knelt obediently, burying his face into the pillow. The cold sobered him a little, and he grasped at the thought of whether everything was going to be the same way it had been before—the heavy weight over him, ragged breathing behind his back, twitchy movements inside, and him captive to it, like a vintage radio with a frozen dial. But when Erik hovered over him, all thoughts vanished. 

With him, it couldn’t be the same. And it wasn’t some sentimental drool whipped up by a silly crush—it was experience. Charles gathered no small experience of Erik, for fuck’s sake. 

Erik pressed the head to the entrance and asked again:

“Are you—?” 

“Yes.” Charles’s own voice broke in a strangled wheeze. “Erik, please.” 

Erik pushed in slowly, stretching and overfilling him—but it wasn’t painful, and didn’t bring back that old sense of being exiled from his own body. Every part of Charles—from his scalp to the nerves in the muscles gripping Erik’s dick—felt whole. 

Erik froze, letting Charles adjust, his warm breath tickling Charles’s nape. But Charles jerked, urging him forward, and muttered:

“Come on.” 

“Sure?”

“You’re inside already,” Charles blurted. He thought he’d be the one begging for a break, but now it felt more like stalling. He wanted it now—everything Erik could give him. “I’m yours already. Just take it. Please.” 

Erik didn’t have to be asked twice, so he began to move. It was slow and smooth at first, but it soon changed into a fast, sharp pace, a hoarse moan following every thrust. Charles’s moans echoed his—soft at first,  accidentally slipping through his tightly clenched teeth. But when Erik hit full tempo, Charles simply couldn’t stop himself from moaning out loud.  

Charles had never been particularly vocal, let alone moan like a slut. He’d kept quiet while being fucked, because it had been easier for him to quote Shakespeare by heart than to fake something like that. But now, he didn’t have to fake anything, and Charles barely thought about what he was doing. It happened by itself. Erik used his body, and Charles got high—not from Erik’s pleasure, but from his own body’s response.

Erik kept him at the edge, and eventually the urge to come became so strong that Charles reached for his own dick. But Erik slapped his hand away.

“Hands off,” he commanded, struggling through his gasps. “I’ll take care of you.” 

With these words, Erik pulled out completely and turned Charles around like he weighed nothing. Then, Erik jerked Charles’s legs up, resting them on his shoulders, and pushed inside again. He ducked down and pressed his lips to Charles’s in a dirty, wet kiss, sliding his hand between their bodies to finally touch Charles’s neglected but painfully hard dick. 

“Now I can see you,” Erik whispered, picking up the pace, pressing his sweaty forehead to Charles’s. “You look fucking obscene.” 

Charles didn’t know how long it took—like twenty seconds at most—for him to come, clenching around Erik’s dick. He felt Erik come right after, slamming into him in two last, extra-strong thrusts. 

Coming right inside him, but Charles couldn’t care less. He didn’t even think about dealing with it later, because later didn’t exist right now. 

His mind was fogged with pink and his body ached, as though he’d just run a marathon and then sunk into a hot bath. Charles relished that feeling and Erik’s weight on him until the languor ebbed, leaving room to a single thought. 

He’d just come with his ass full, and Erik had come inside him. It was the dirtiest thing ever done to him, and not only did he not freak out—he liked it. And he wouldn’t mind doing it again.

The most logical thing in such a situation was to be embarrassed—but to Charles it seemed that the old, faulty version of him had finally been reclaimed by the plant and replaced with a properly calibrated unit.  

He could’ve enjoyed this for years, had he been able. Had the others been able… Maybe it was only ever possible with Erik.

Charles even forgot why he’d dared to do this in the first place. But now he completely understood why Erik bottomed for him so eagerly. 

“How do you feel?” he heard, and turned over lazily, catching Erik’s glance. Erik was flushed, his hair stuck to his face, his gaze foggy. But it was still Erik—he couldn’t even drift off into the post-orgasmic haze without checking on him. 

“I don’t know,” Charles admitted. He waited for the hangover that always followed anything that felt that good—but none came. Even when the drop of come slipping down his thigh became painfully obvious, Charles only registered, with displeasure, that he was too lazy to get up and wash off. 

The bed shook under Erik’s weight, and soon he came back with a towel. He wiped Charles down and asked:

“Is it better?”

“It is. Come here.”

Erik climbed back without delay, stretching out beside Charles and covering him with an arm. He looked as though he were waiting for something. But for the first time in his life, Charles didn’t want to talk—he just wanted to close his eyes and lie like that for eternity. 

“Talk to me,” Erik said suddenly. Their roles had changed, and now Charles played the part of a mysterious box. “Are you okay?”

Unable to say anything else, Charles just reported his current state. 

“More than okay.” 

“Is it?” Erik’s voice loosened as he ran his hand over Charles’s hip. “You’re unusually quiet.” 

“I’m just—” Charles broke off, feeling the tender intrusion of Erik’s finger. “What are you—”

“I promised to kiss you there,” Erik said innocently. “But it’s hard to move right now. Shouldn’t I?” 

“You can,” Charles said, focusing on his senses. His hole was sensitive now, after Erik wrecked it with his fucking monster dick, but he found a strange pleasure in knowing that two fingers slid in effortlessly. “Does it feel good?”

“You’re all wet and loose,” Erik said dreamily. “I’d love to fall asleep like that, feeling you’re mine.” 

“Do it, then,” Charles said. Falling asleep with Erik’s fingers inside suddenly sounded hot instead of gross, even if it might get messy in the morning. 

And they were the last words Charles could say before dozing off himself—for the first time in a while, without any bad thoughts haunting him. 

***

Morning brought a couple of stray thoughts, though. Getting out of bed, Charles studied his reflection in the mirror first, and then spent an eternity in the shower, washing off the traces of Erik’s cum. Last night Erik hadn't asked him if he’d agreed to it, and Charles hadn’t been lucid enough to think about it himself. 

Ideally, they should’ve discussed it in advance, but Charles had been too low at first, and then he’d felt too good. It was tempting to lay the blame on Erik, but something told Charles it wouldn’t be fair. First, Erik didn’t mind barebacking when he was the one bottoming. And second, Charles wasn’t sure Erik hadn’t asked—and he hadn’t ignored the question—simply because he’d wanted everything and wanted it now. 

Anyway, there was no one to press charges against—Erik had left in the morning, woken up by a call about some urgent repair. Charles and Edie stayed alone—and he couldn’t discuss it with her. In the end, all the household fuss quickly distracted him from his barely formed offense. 

Deep inside, Charles was more surprised it hadn’t changed him—neither inside nor out. He was a grown man, knowing such things shouldn’t really change anything. There was no connection between what you liked in bed and what kind of person you were, within sensible limits. But the idea that something might’ve changed still lurked underneath. Maybe his fatalism had finally reached the stage where anything out of the ordinary felt like a sign of an upcoming shift. 

This fatalism fed on life being generally a wildcard, where expectations of change sometimes aligned with the actual one. This time, before Charles could dive back into the fruitless job search, his phone rang.

It was Dr. Richards, speaking quickly and haltingly against a backdrop of car noise and a bike bell. She’d clearly caught a moment during her lunch break to call Charles. 

“Mr. Xavier, I hate to disturb you, but… I have an option for you. Forgive me if it doesn’t suit you, but I’ve gotten the impression that—“

Charles saw no reason for Richards to ask for his forgiveness. But he didn’t want to sound desperate either, so he simply asked:

“What option are you talking about?”

“One of my friends from the charity fund is a principal at a school in the suburbs. She’s looking for a resident psychologist, and I figured that’s your specialization.”

She sounded too confused for such a distinguished person, and Charles realized there had to be a catch. A state school didn’t sound promising. He’d written those options off from the start, knowing that the algorithms would blacklist him at the first stage. 

“Dr. Richards, I’m flattered. But you know what situation I’m in. I won’t get past the filters.”

“Honestly, I’ve sent your CV to her directly, so don’t bother about the filters. But whether you accept this position is another matter. It’s part-time, out of the city, and—“ Richards faltered, as if realizing she was giving it bad publicity. “In short, if you’re interested, I’ll give you the contact. If not, I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“Let’s give this idea a chance,” Charles replied, still carefully choosing his words. Even after all those rejections, it sounded like a possibility—and he couldn’t care less if the school was on the other side of the city. Richards’s voice grew cheerful, and she wished him luck, sending the contact as soon as she hung up.  

Unable to think about anything else, Charles looked up the school online  and didn’t believe his eyes. The school in question was within walking distance of their house. It was quite large—because their district turned out to be very big—but at least he wouldn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn and trek out to God-knows-where.

If only they would hire him.

Charles expected every trick possible—a false hope, if interviewing him was just a favor again, or yet another rejection over an insignificant detail from his past. He even thought that Richards’s friend would turn out to be a vixen he would hate on sight—but his call was answered by a nice, young voice, with a genuine cheer in it as soon as Charles explained why he was calling.

“Yes, Mr. Xavier,” said the woman Richards had referred to as Principal McTaggert. “It’s correct. Right now, I have to run, but if you want to discuss it—come see me, say—shit,” she cursed in a totally non-principal way as something tumbled in the background. “God, I’m sorry.” Something dropped again, and her next words sounded as though she was speaking from under her desk. “I’d have you come in today, in two hours or so, but I’m not sure that works for you—“

“It’s all right, Principal McTaggert,” Charles answered quickly. “I live nearby, and two hours perfectly works for me.”

“Thank God!” she blurted again. Then, as though remembering who she was talking to, she shifted back into a serious voice. “Please bring your diploma with you. I’ll be waiting for you in my office.”

Hanging up, Charles chuckled. On the one hand, the mysterious principal seemed nice, maybe because she hadn’t put on the unapproachable-boss act. On the other hand, now Charles expected a catch at every turn. 

Also, he felt like he was sneaking past a long line, because the game had been played dirty again. Someone had called, someone had asked… Charles was advised of the benefits of networking, but it was a far cry from fair competition he’d been taught in college. Dodging the filters with a simple call was nowhere near fair. 

It’s a compensation for being treated unfairly, the inner voice suggested. The second voice—suspiciously resembling Dr. Stone and Charles’s therapist—snorted that “unfairly” was just a private category, that rules defined everything, and they simply worked against us sometimes. Charles decided to silence both and just go to the meeting, without nurturing his false hopes and fears.

In two hours, Charles walked into reception, which looked more like a nomadic camp. Boxes were everywhere, stacked into piles so tall they could’ve hidden a small squad. Failing to locate a living secretary in the terrain—neither in front of the boxes nor behind them—Charles decided to knock straight on the principal’s door. 

The door was pretty regular, with a PVC frame, matte glass and a “principal” sign on it. The last one looked new, matching the smell of fresh paint throughout the building—apparently, fresh reconstructed. It looked like the school had secured funding this year—and probably that was why they were expanding the staff. Charles didn’t mind such changes, but he would love for his position to be more or less permanent.

“Come in,” a familiar voice called out, and Charles stepped inside. 

The office wasn’t quite what he’d imagined. The only furniture was a couch, littered with all sorts of junk, and an equally cluttered principal’s desk. 

It was occupied by a woman. She didn’t look much older than Charles—and not at all like someone who ruled an entire school.

“Hello,” she said, lifting her gaze as she shut the laptop and set it aside. The disturbed pile of junk she’d placed it on immediately began to topple.She snatched the laptop back, irritated, and hugged it to her chest. “Are you Mr. Xavier? I’m Moira McTaggert, the principal.”

She rose from her seat to shake Charles’s hand. McTaggert was dark-haired, dark-eyed and had the posture of a girl—nothing like what he’d expected from a principal. 

“Nice to meet you,” he said, sneaking glances around. The office didn’t even have a visitor’s chair, and Charles wasn’t sure if he was supposed to sit.

“Sorry for the mess,” Moira muttered with a grimace. “I moved in the day before yesterday, and I haven’t even had time to put the books away… shit.” She stared at the empty spot near Charles—where, in her plan, a chair should have been. “I forgot about the furniture. Do you mind if we talk in the coffee room?”

Charles didn’t mind—he’d seen his fair share of strange places. Moira grabbed her laptop and led him down the corridor, to its farthest end. The room was small, crammed with couches and coffee tables, and even had a counter, where a coffee maker and a kettle were sat side by side. 

“Please take a seat,” Moira said, gesturing toward the couch. “Do you want some coffee? Or tea?”

“Tea, please.”

She rushed to the counter and let out an irritated sigh. 

“No water. Wait, I’m—“

“Don’t worry about it,” Charles said quickly. “I’m good.”

Moira gave him a grateful look and sat down across from him, opening her laptop literally on her lap.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, searching for something on her computer. “With this reconstruction everything’ss askew. Don’t worry, it’s gonna be fancy in two weeks. So—here, I found your CV. You’re a former conflict specialist, right? Have you ever worked with children?”

“I’ve had some experience,” Charles said, slipping into professional mode. If Moira’s goal was to catch him off guard with her fuss, she’d done it with flying colors. “Mostly during my main job—some cases involved children. And I’ve been reading up while looking for a job.”

“Susan told me you impressed her,” Moira said calmly. “You don’t have kids of your own, do you? Maybe someone else’s? Niblings?”

Charles wasn’t certain about the answer. The only kid he’d ever interacted with was his former neighbor Anna-Marie—and a two-minute talk could hardly be considered an interaction. 

“I don’t have any. So with this in mind—“

“It doesn’t really matter,” Moira cut in. “I don’t have any either. The kids you teach become your own at some point. And that’s the trouble, because nine hundred of them can't all be perfect kids every day.”

Charles was stupefied by the number she’d voiced. Nine hundred! The private school he’d applied to had a tenth as many, and even then he hadn’t been sure he’d have enough time for everyone. Here, it was almost a thousand. He doubted the mandated time limits would let him help even a few of them.

“Mostly, the conditions are good. We cover lunches and provide parking, the insurance includes dental. You’ll have your own office—I’d show you, but there are still some work going on—“

“Wait a minute,” Charles cut her off. “It sounds like you’re hiring me.”

Moira finally lifted her tired face to Charles, looking like she’d repeated the same old song a thousand times and gotten deadly tired from her own blabbing.

“Let me be honest,” she began. “Dr. Richards told me everything I needed to hear. The school doesn’t care why you lost your job—we don’t have trade secrets to protect. We work within the unified model published on our website. As for your prejudice—honestly, it’s an advantage. We don’t have students of Shaw’s level. Rather the opposite—and be sure most of them would happily share your prejudice. It’s only two weeks before the school year starts, and I’ve interviewed plenty of candidates, and nothing has worked out—and you fit perfectly.  But I want to wrap it up quickly, because something tells me that you’re going to turn me down.” 

Charles swallowed her tirade in silence, not even trying to object. The only thing he’d gathered was that Moira’s desperation could match his own, and that she didn’t harbor any illusions either.

“Why?” He asked cautiously.

“Because it’s a silly, ungrateful part-time job that wouldn’t even pay your rent.” She blurted. “Seventy candidates applied; fifty didn’t pass the filter, and the rest were fools who thought they’d just read the algorithm’s recommendations aloud. Or worse—“

“And how much can you pay me?”

The amount Moira voiced was five times smaller than what Charles used to earn. He would have only three days in the office, but plenty after-hours work. And still, he said:

“Well, I’ll be honest, too. You’re the only person since April who’s offered me a place. I’m tainted, Principal McTaggert—but thankfully, I don’t have to pay rent. So, I’m ready to work for that money.”

“Really?” Moira’s face brightened. “I’m sorry, this is terrible… I mean, that someone as qualified as you is forced… However, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Charles couldn’t believe his ears. It was finally happening.

“Will it be a problem that I live with a man?” He asked just in case.

Moira furrowed her brow:

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-four.”

She laughed with relief.

“Oh no, of course it won’t be. We don’t have many queer staff here, so it could be good for the kids. I mean, for those figuring themselves out—you know what I mean.”

“Of course,” Charles agreed. No matter how he tried to stay serious, he couldn’t help but smile. “So, are you saying that now I have a job?”

“Looks like it. And I finally have a school psychologist.”

Moira stood up and offered her hand to seal their agreement, and Charles was at his feet at once to take it. Now, it seemed to be the best day of his life.

***

Once she heard the news, Edie bolted to the kitchen to start a celebratory meal. Erik didn’t pick up—probably elbow-deep in some panel box—and Charles barely resisted calling a third time, eager to tell him.

He’d never thought he’d be happy about such crap one day. About a job he was overqualified for and at the same time had no idea how to do—and that hat paid barely more per month than his suit had cost.

But after all that roving, he was glad. He could now contribute to the household and stop feeling like he lived at the Lehnsherrs’ mercy.

Erik called back only when the scent of cherry pie already filled the house, and he sounded anxious, as if the call had caught him off guard.

“Did something happen?” He asked. “Is everything okay?”

“Perfectly okay,” Charles said cheerfully. “I got a job!”

“Really?” Erik sounded surprised. Hell yeah, there had been no sign of a job in the morning, and now it was in Charles’s pocket. “That’s great! What kind of job?”

“A psychologist at the local school. Dr. Richards called, and… never mind. I’ll tell you everything when you’re back.”

Erik only made it home by dinner, and Charles filled him in. He’d feared Erik wouldn’t be so happy about the salary, but Erik didn’t seem to care.

“It’s wonderful,” Erik said. “And deserves a toast.”

A bottle of wine appeared on the table. This time, it was milder than the one they’d had when they celebrated what later proved complete failure. Edie grew chatty, and Erik turned cheerful—and Charles felt like a kid having the best birthday party ever. Even the birthdays of his childhood had never given him that feeling.

“Moira, Moira…” Edie savored her name, as though trying to summon the face behind it. “Erik, do we know her? Have you ever worked at her place?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “But I can look through the notes.”

Despite the near-extinction of writing by hand, Erik still kept a notepad where he listed everyone who’d ever hired him. 

“But going by what Charles said, she’s nice. I just hope the rest are like that too.”

It was the first time Erik said something nice about a stranger, but Charles was too happy to waste attention on such a trifle. All of them were in a good mood, anyway—and, like Moira had said today, you don’t look a gifted horse in the mouth. And if this job didn’t turn out great, he’d better hold on to it in the end. 

Later, he and Erik talked in bed, with Charles wondering what awaited him in the new place. He knew it would be hard and that he’d often come home exhausted—but all of that seemed trivial compared to the feeling of a stone finally sliding off his shoulders.

“What?” He asked when he noticed Erik watching his elation with a sly look.

“Nothing,” Erik said innocently. “Just trying not to say “I told you.”

“Told me what?”

“That everything would settle down, but nothing like you expect. Turned out even better, right? You won’t be getting up too early, and you definitely won’t have to deal with scumbags like Shaw there.”

“So let me tell you that you were right. And I’m sorry for everything you had to go through, through all of this.”

“You don’t need to be,” Erik said. “You did your best. And you know, I can be a lot of things. I wouldn’t want you seeing me desperate, either.”

That should’ve tipped Charles off, but all the worries had magically left his body. He didn’t even stop to think that he’d never seen this side of Erik—though it could hardly be more unbearable than the rest. And if it did happen, Charles would just have to be charitable about it—because it was his duty as a partner, and because he wasn’t a jerk.

“So, let’s not be desperate anymore,” he said, running his hand over Erik’s cheek. “Let us just live. Okay?”

“Deal.” Erik smirked at him in return. “I’ll hold you to that.”

***

Even though the start of a school year was still two weeks away, Charles had found a way to keep himself busy. Those days, he came to school every afternoon to help Moira handle small tasks—putting away the books, sorting papers, and keeping track of loose ends. Usually, she had a secretary for those, but he was laid up at home with a broken leg, and Charles was sick of housekeeping anyway. And he was dying to know what he was in for.

Moira provided him with a load of guides he had to read before starting work, and he spent every spare hour studying them. The school possessed only a basic child-management algorithm—the kind that spat out trite advice already three years past its best-before date, with no dialogue scripts existing purely for show—so Charles had room for creativity. He doubted he’d manage to find an individual approach for each student, but he’d promised himself to try—knowing that good intentions, even when carried out poorly, were still better than the urge to work by the book.

Two days before the big day, when the first teachers had begun to arrive, there was still a lot to do—even after the secretary came back from his sick leave. He was a tall, lanky guy named Hank, suspiciously young and sharp for such a position. He wore big, old-fashioned glasses, smiled sheepishly while he talked, and left an impression of someone too smart for this job.

“I’m glad to have you here,” he said as he greeted Charles. “We don’t get many young faces around here. What wind blew you this way?”

Charles filled him in, hoping it wouldn’t sound too dramatic, but Hank only smiled.

“Things happen. I used to study at Harvard.”

“So what brought you here?”

“I was kicked out,” Hank said with a shrug. “I was writing a thesis on the environmental-protection algorithms when I accidentally reached a perfectly sound conclusion: the rise in the economical coefficient over the last three years correlates significantly with the increase in tornadoes in the Midwest.”

Charles didn’t catch much of it—aside from Hank having spotted an algorithmic failure—but the guy went on:

“The point is, once economic factors started mattering more, living in the Midwest got more dangerous. Put like that it sounds like a conspiracy theory, but I doubt you’re dying to see the numbers,” he added self-consciously. “Long story short, I was expelled for plagiarism. I moved back to Chicago, to my parents, and I couldn’t get hired for a long time without a diploma. Moira took me in, and I don’t think I could've found a better place.”

Charles warmed to Moira again. She clearly lived to give people chances even when the system had spelled their doom. In his past life, he would’ve called it unprofessional. But now, when that very unprofessionalism had literally hauled him up from the bottom, he thought of it far more kindly.

The next-to-last day before school turned out to be pretty busy. While Moira went around inspecting all the premises to finally sign off on the work, Charles and Hank sorted the teaching equipment in the biology classroom.

“I thought they had long since switched to holograms,” Charles muttered, spreading out a frayed, battered human skeleton out on the stand. “I mean, so the kids don't break anything.”

“A hologram’s even easier to break,” Hank snorted. “Any kid with a phone can hack it. Moira said someone hijacked the projector last year and added a penis to the skeleton.”

Charles burst out laughing as he pictured poor Bones flashing his junk in front of the kids.

“So she told me to get this guy out of the basement, because you’d need an imagination to pull off that trick with him,” Hank added. “Exactly what the kids lack these days.”

“Oh yeah,” Charles agreed. “All those games and other distractions—“

“Why games?” Hank winced. “It’s the overload of ready-made schemes and instructions. If you try to absorb them all, you’ve got no time left for imagination.”

Charles could neither object nor agree, but hanging Bones on the hook seemed funnier than anything a hologram could muster.

Moira, completely worn out, found them around nine.

“Guys, it’s… well, I hate to ask, but the repairmen forgot a trash bag in the classroom. Could you take it out to the backyard so the service can pick it up tomorrow?”

Charles agreed to help, telling Hank and his still-healing leg to stay put, and followed Moira down the hall toward the music classroom.

“Out there.” She pointed to the corner where a moderately-sized garbage bag sat. It was stuffed with some junk but suprisingly light, and Charles was already heading outside when he heard something like a moan behind his back.

He turned around to see Moira slump onto the desk in total exhaustion.

“What a nightmare,” she grunted, covering her face with both hands. “A real nightmare. I can’t take any more of this.”

“What happened?” Charles asked, setting his load aside.

Instead of an answer, Moira just pointed toward the corner. When Charles came closer, he saw the problem—the bag the repairmen had left was actually covering a bare socket, snarling at him from the wall.

“Oh God, those are bunglers,” Charles groused. “Call them immediately—they have to come back and finish it.”

“They won’t,” Moira replied tiredly. “I’ve signed all the documents.”

“Well, we can call someone tomorrow,” Charles suggested. “It can’t be more than thirty minutes of work. We’ll get it done in time.”

“We can’t,” Moira murmured. “We can’t pay. The reconstruction budget was planned and approved two months ago, and I busted my ass before I found a contractor willing to do all the work for the allotted money. I’d pay myself, but the payment will show up in the tax system and get flagged as an unauthorized modification of state property. They will summon me to a hearing… well, I don’t know what to do.”

Her tiredness had washed the whole scene in hopeless tones, though she wasn’t far from truth. Any call to an electrician had to be backed by their tax paperwork. At the close of the financial year, a specialized algorithm processed all transactions to flag anomalies or suspicious payments. It existed for safety’s sake—partly to ensure someone like Moira couldn’t install anything that might pose a risk to students—but the process produced so much bureaucracy that you would cry merely thinking about it.

Suddenly, an idea sparked in Charles’s mind.

“Theoretically, what if one of us fixes it? No payments and all.”

Moira lifted a surprised look at him.

“You know how to fix sockets?”

“I don’t. But if I call someone who’ll help for free, would it show up anywhere?”

“No,” Moira said. “But where on earth are you going to find that person at this time? Nobody works for free.”

“Let me cover it,” Charles said with a smile, pulling out his phone.

Some things weren’t paid for in money at all.

***

“Erik Lehnsherr,” Erik introduced himself dryly, shaking Moira’s hand. He wasn’t in his usual coverall, just simple jeans. His tool case was tucked inside a huge tote bag— if any surveillance cameras caught him, it shouldn’t look like a job. “Please show me what happened.”

Erik had been slightly surprised by Charles's request, but hadn’t  protested and showed up in fifteen minutes. He did, however, indulge himself in calling those excuse-for-workers idiots and griping once again that big companies had gotten totally brazen. 

He fixed the socket in a wink, and Moira thanked him as if he’d stopped a meteorite from hitting the school. She offered tea and coffee, and Erik, to Charles’s surprise, chose the latter.

“I guess I’ll wait here until you give me my partner back,” he said, half joking, meaning that Charles had to head home too. Moira laughed and reminded him that Charles was there of his own free will.

“I know,” Erik chuckled. “He’s a workaholic. So pardon me for phrasing it poorly—I’ll stay here until you make him go home.”

Over the next thirty minutes, they drank coffee and laughed. Erik, never the life of the party, was unfailingly polite and even dropped a couple of jokes that made Moira giggle. Someone brought up why Hank had ended up at the school, and he and Erik suddenly found common ground—Erik, being an engineer, understood Hank’s lingo far better. Charles himself got pulled into a professional chat with Moira to ask about a few things he hadn’t time to before. She readily answered, because none of them was prepared to hear about the economic coefficients and vortical anomalies at ten at night.

After their improvised party, Charles had to head home under Erik’s watchful eye, with Moira assuring him they’d handle the rest. He got into the old pickup and leaned back in his seat, letting his eyes drift shut.

“Tired?” Erik asked as he started the engine.

“A bit. Thank you for coming.”

“It’s nothing,” Erik said, waiving him off. “But if I ever get a distressed kid on my hands, I’ll call you.”

It didn’t sound like a joke, but Charles smiled anyway.

“Deal. What do you think about Moira?”

“She’s sweet,” Erik replied absently. “An eager beaver like you. Isn’t this her first year?”

“It is. She was appointed this summer. I mean, she was the second-best candidate, but something happened to the first one, so she had to take the reins.”

“I hope she’ll manage. Hank’s alright, too. Did he tell you about his thesis?”

“Briefly. I’m not you, I’m not that good with your rocket science.”

“I don’t want to bore you, just to say that Hank’s a smart guy. Too smart for a secretary, but I’m glad his brain isn’t working for something like Proteus.”

“Proteus?” Charles echoed. “That thing from Stark Industries?”

Proteus had been widely discussed over the past year and a half—and for two years before that as a nameless project touted as something as vivificial as the smallpox vaccine. It was a complex protection system against basically everything; in other words, it pulled data from every available source for its algorithms to analyze any issue in terms of how it might affect every other sphere of life. Put crudely, even when planning something as minor as a crop schedule for a field in Kansas, Proteus had to account for everything it might influence—from local job numbers to the tax revenue you could expect from a fertilizer plant in Idaho.

Proteus was praised as an unbelievable technological marvel that helped make life predictable and controlled, maximizing difficulties for cheaters and minimizing the human factor. In such conditions, its supporters said, it would be easier to achieve progress—because you wouldn’t be taming chaos by hand, and the chance of ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time would be reduced to almost zero.

On the whole, it sounded optimistic, though Charles questioned its psychological side of it—human behavior was far less predictable than the weather or wheat-price spikes. But he and Erik had never discussed Proteus before, and Charles was surprised Erik was so hostile to it.

“Imagine your whole life mapped out to the minute,” Erik explained. “And mapped out wrong. It’s not even about who sets the priorities—it’s a matter for debates, not technology. But think about it: one tiny error, the domino effect kicks in, and everything goes to hell.”

“A crushed butterfly in the past ends up with the wrong president getting elected?” Charles said, recalling an old story.

“Something like that. But the butterfly will be smashed in the present. You can’t do something like this right. And the more people with fat degrees work on it, the stronger their faith that mistakes are impossible. But there are. Always.”

After his harangue, Erik fell silent, keeping his eyes on the road. Charles followed his gaze, but his mind was still on what he’d just heard.

“Why do you think they won’t make it work? There are a lot of them. Everyone’s competent in their field. There must be people smarter than you.”

Erik just snorted.

“That’s the point—there are plenty of them. When I work alone, I can be sure everything is done right. With a thousand people, there’s always a risk that someone missed something, and an elephant gets crushed instead of a butterfly. But you know, I think they’re aware of it. They just need a tool that’s always right, even when it’s talking bullshit. Not a human being, because a human being can always be challenged—but a great, omniscient algorithm that processes in seconds what a human couldn’t shovel through in a lifetime.” 

Charles suddenly thought of an apt metaphor.

“Something like God?” 

“Something like that,” Erik said with a smile at last. “Well, to hell with it. If everyone around me goes insane, I’m not obliged to talk solely about them. How was your day?”

Charles went on talking about the little things that had happened to him today, and within two minutes he’d already forgotten that they’d been discussing such far-reaching questions. That was Erik’s magic—he could conjure up images of earth-shattering tragedies, but unlike Charles, he always knew where to stop. And his very presence convinced Charles that nothing truly bad could happen to them.

Chapter Text

After his first school week, Charles realized that he lacked the essential competence: having once been a child himself. The diminished adult his mom had tried to mold him into proved entirely non-representative when it came to understanding kids’ woes. 

On the second day, a sulky redhead showed up on his porch. He tossed his backpack under the chair and slumped into it, arms crossed over his chest. He stared at Charles, frowning, and said nothing. 

“What led you here today?” Charles asked cautiously, noticing how high-flown it sounded—like he was some kind of Delphian oracle. He added, correcting himself, “What happened?”

“You tell me,” the redhead grumbled, not changing his pose. 

“Me? Well, something must be bothering you—otherwise you wouldn’t be here.” 

“Absolutely nothing is bothering me,” the kid snorted. “But I, as I’ve been told, bother everyone.” 

Charles looked him over with surprise, trying to decipher the allegory. His mother used to refer to a fabled “everyone” he’d troubled whenever he’d failed to behave the way she liked. So he ventured a careful guess:

“Everyone? Is there a specific person you bother in particular?” 

“Of course,” the redhead uttered heatedly. Charles had clearly hit the mark. “Our new principal. She said I bother everyone and that I have to go to psychologist. So here I am.” 

He was talking about Moira—but Charles could hardly imagine her in his mother’s place. Moira must have had her reasons—most likely the kid had, in fact, been troubling everyone. Not literally everyone—it was impossible—but maybe a whole class, or the cafeteria line. 

"Could you tell me what you were doing when Mo—Principal McTaggert— sent you to see me?” 

“Nothing,” the guy grunted, clearly offended. “I grabbed my bag to get my tablet, and she started yelling, like I’d killed someone.” 

Charles realized he’d never learned the student’s name, so he quickly redeemed himself:  

“Sorry—I started in the wrong place. I’m Charles—Charles Xavier. What should I call you?”

“Sean,” the kid spat, aggrieved. “And honestly, doc, I’m not big on talking. Just tell that hag you’ve talked to me, so she leaves me alone.” 

“Sean, I’m not a doctor.” Charles smiled, trying to signal how minuscule he found the mislabeling. “I’m not here to lecture you. Perhaps you’ll tell me what’s wrong with Principal McTaggert?”

He tried to frame his questions as innocently as possible, so Sean would feel right and be able to state his grudge. But instead of laying out everything he disliked about the principal, Sean grimaced, grabbed his backpack and stormed out of the office. 

Charles stared at the door that had just slammed shut behind the boy, confused. He hadn’t expected that reaction. He had to check the manual on what if a student ran off mid-conversation—but there was no explicit instruction to chase them, so Charles decided Sean would simply have to digest what had just occurred. 

Erik just chuckled when Charles told him about it in the evening.

“Of course he ran. Would you bury yourself like that?

“Bury myself?” Charles was so surprised that he grabbed a white piece instead of a black one. “What do you mean?”

“Well, look,” Erik said with a grin, sipping his whiskey, “A hag sends you to a psychologist. The psychologist asks what you think about her, expecting you to lay all your cards on the table. Would you talk then?” 

“Of course,” Charles said. “If he’s in a conflict with an adult, he can bring it to another adult, so—”

“Oh no,” Erik snorted, squinting—as though Charles’s guess was so absurd it amused him. “No, and no. Imagine yourself— well, I don’t know—in enemy captivity. You’re hauled in front of a major and told to say exactly what you think of their general. Would you talk, or would you hold your tongue?” 

“What bullshit,” Charles said, wincing. “He’s not in captivity, and I’m not his enemy. I want to help him.” 

“You know this,” Erik retorted. “But he doesn’t. All the adults are on one side, all the kids on the other. Adults will always exculpate each other. Kids have nothing left to do but go full partisan.” 

“Let’s say I didn't bother building rapport with him. But what you’re describing doesn’t really ring true. I don’t remember feeling something like that as a child.”

“Really? So what, you trusted all the adults?” 

Charles lapsed into thought, helplessly studying the board. He’d never brought that up with his therapist. His mother had told him that she was the only one who’d cared about his well-being—and that he shouldn't confide his thoughts and feelings to anyone else if he didn’t want them used against him. But when a teacher had reprimanded eight-year-old Charles for the first time—for putting his hand up before she’d finished the question because he’d known the answer—and he had come to his mother to grumble about the injustice, she had only frowned and said that his teacher had been right, and that Charles shouldn't have acted as if he were smarter than grown people. 

Then Charles had come to a simple conclusion: his own feelings did not qualify as real problems. So whenever someone happened to upset him, he first sifted his chagrin through the sieve of his mother’s advice.

But he could have drawn a different conclusion—the one Erik had been talking about. He only failed to figure out how Erik—whose mom had protected him like a lioness—had arrived at it himself. 

“My mom wasn’t always thrilled by what I did,” Erik said when Charles asked him about it. ‘When I was eleven, I keyed a teacher’s car. Of course Mom gave me a lecture, and I figured she was siding with her.” 

“Oh my God,” Charles gasped. “Why?”

Erik turned his eyes upward, as if addressing God with a vow to finish Him off for not preventing Charles from asking this question. 

“I had a best friend. And her father—a married man—fucked this teacher. So I took revenge.” There was no sign of repentance in Erik’s face—only chagrin that he’d been too young then for real vengeance. “Well, I probably should’ve keyed her dad’s car, but what do you want from a kid?” 

“Sometimes you scare me,” Charles uttered, unsure what percentage of a joke his words contained. Slightly less than half, it seemed. “What did you mom do?”

“She apologized and covered her repairs. I took it as a betrayal and decided I’d never trust adults anymore.”

Charles caught sarcasm he’d grown used to over the months of living together. Erik spoke about serious things in a deadpan tone, so it sounded like a joke—but it wasn’t one at all. But prying the truth was useless because it ran too deep.

“Okay, let’s put it that way,” Charles said pensively. “But you were eleven. And Sean—” he faltered, realizing that he didn’t know Sean’s age. The kid looked about sixteen, at least. “Well, he’s almost an adult. Isn’t it time for a more reasonable approach?”

“He’s not an adult as long as other adults get to decide how he’s supposed to approach things,” Erik said offhandedly, reaching for his next move. 

***

Two wolves clashed inside Charles: his professional pride and a habit, nailed down tight, of always listening to critics. The first one whispered that Erik had no expertise in child psychology and wasn’t worth listening to. The other insisted that Erik wouldn’t idly blab about things like that, and that his upbringing had been slightly… healthier than Charles’s.

But Charles loved compromises, so he opted to observe. After all, Sean’s life didn’t hinge on his decision. 

Charles began to spot the boy among the other kids at school. He didn’t stand out, except for his curly red hair and his excessively loud voice—he dressed like everyone else, talked to his classmates and ate what the cafeteria provided. He didn’t seem poorer or richer than his peers, didn’t bully anyone, joked a lot—or at least tried—and otherwise came across as a perfectly functional teenager. If there was a reason for Moira’s discontent, it wasn’t anywhere near obvious. 

After two weeks of observation, Charles had almost come to the conclusion that the coast was clear. Moira could’ve overestimated the risks of bad behavior because she’d felt uncomfortable in the principal’s shoes during her first days. However, on Wednesday afternoon, when Charles stopped by Hank’s desk to pick up some papers, he saw Moira rush past him and storm into her office, slamming the door shut behind her. 

“What happened?” Charles asked tactfully, glancing sideways at the ill-fated door.

“Fourth time this year already,” Hank sighed. “Something always happens. I’m afraid to ask.”

Four times in two weeks hardly qualified as normal in Charles’s book, so someone had to do something about it. He decided to take the brunt of it and knocked on the door gently. 

“Come in,” he heard a hoarse voice and slipped inside. 

Moira was sitting at her desk, her head bowed over her folded arms. All Charles could see was her disheveled hair, and for a second he thought she was crying—until she lifted her dry, but dreadfully tired face.

“What do you want?” she blurted, forcing a smile. “Charles, if it’s not an emergency, could we talk Friday morning? I’m a bit… busy right now.”

“Well, I actually came because of how… busy you are,” he started softly. “I know I’m supposed to focus mostly on the kids, but it came off to me that you’re… out of sorts today. Forgive me if I’m mistaken or if this is none of my business, but I felt I should ask.”

Moira’s face lost its color, as if she’d been trying to shine on purpose until Charles struck too close. She winced and said:

“There is something you can do, Charles. Remember Sean Cassidy? The kid I sent you on the second day?”

“Sure. But we never—“

“He hates me, Charles,” Moira blurted, looking like someone who was about to cry. “I didn’t know what I did to him, but he seemed to be doing it on purpose—he acts just to make me feel bad.”

At these words, a memory washed over Charles: himself, a vicennial cub, sitting among the crowd of students at a conflict-resolution seminar, and a crying woman—a mom of a teenager—saying the same exact words. Their professor had broken the conflict down in detail, probing for the reasons behind that reaction. It was a textbook case, and Charles knew what to do. 

But knowing cases wasn’t the same as handling them for real, and Charles wasn’t a doctor who could spot a heart attack instantly and save a life without saying a word. When psychology stepped in, no one wished to hear that their problem was typical. No one wanted to be a textbook case. 

“Moira,” he began slowly, taking a seat next to her. “Could you tell me what exactly happened?” 

“It’s… silly,” she blurted, faltering. “It’s just… Sean keeps picking on me.”

It didn’t make anything clearer, but it always was like this—people were upset by the overall feeling and at loss when it came to specific facts. If Moira reeled off a whole list of Sean’s misdeeds, Charles would be alarmed—because only psychopaths kept careful track of other’s faults. 

“Moira, I want to help you,” he said, looking straight at her, though she didn’t lift her gaze. “And I’m trying—please tell me more.” 

Another reason restrained her openness—she was a boss, and an inexperienced one, which made showing her weakness twice as hard. So Charles added:

“I can’t imagine how it feels to be in your shoes. You’re giving this school so much, but the kids… You’ve told yourself they can’t be perfect every day. Still, you have huge experience with kids, and you hardly need my advice. What you might need is an outside perspective.”

Those words caused a magical effect. Moira lifted her face, finally looking at Charles.

“You’re mistaken,” she said ruefully. “It’s not about the kids, it’s that—” she bit her lip and looked away, as though whether to go on. “Sean knows something about me that he isn’t supposed to know. And he reminds me of it every day.”  

Charles tried not to show his surprise. Everyone had secrets, after all—and if an adult didn’t want a kid in their care to know one of them, it didn’t necessarily mean anything shameful. 

But Erik’s story about his teacher kept coming to his mind. Moira, sweet as she was, could have made mistakes, too. 

His previous job had taught him to withhold judgment. He’d go insane if he took other people’s marital infidelity to heart. 

“Can you tell me about it?”

“I think—” Moira looked around, as if calculating where she might be overheard, then nodded toward the door. “Are you busy today? If not, I could invite you for tea.” 

Charles knew what it meant. Moira didn’t want to talk under surveillance—the school was literally crammed with cameras. There were two in the principal’s office—one above the entrance, monitoring Moira at her desk, and another on the opposite wall, covering the visitors. He had the same setup in his own office. 

“Why not?” he said nonchalantly. He had plenty of time. Erik wouldn’t be home before dinner anyway.

Moira beamed at him and gathered her papers, eager to leave as soon as possible. 

She resided in a tiny studio in a two-story house split into several apartments. Those houses had once belonged to big families—but the era of many generations under one roof had long since passed, and the heirs were squeezing as much profit out of them as they could. Moira’s landlord clearly thought himself cleverer than the rest: he’d carved the house into six units, each barely fit for a single loner. 

Moira’s apartment was cozy, if far from perfectly tidy. Dirty mugs crowded the sink, mismatched chargers lay everywhere, and two blouses were draped over the back of a kitchen chair—the aftermath of her morning attempts to pick an outfit. Knowing how much time Moira spent at work, Charles had expected it to be worse. A man he’d been before would drown in clutter if he hadn’t been able to afford a cleaner.  

He took off his shoes, following Moira’s example—it felt awkward, and the realization made him chuckle. He was about to pry into her soul, and his embarrassment over shoes was ridiculous. Moira didn’t seem to notice his hesitation—she was too wrapped up in her own awkwardness. Unable to find a clean mug in the cupboard, she hurried to wash the ones in the sink.

“Please take any seat you like,” she muttered over her shoulder, over the running water. It wasn’t that Charles had many options—just two chairs and an armchair in the corner. He took the one that was free from blouses. 

Moira quickly made tea—the simplest kind, with a teabag—and, tossing the blouses onto the bed in irritation, sat back down. 

“I’d offer you something else, but I guess I don’t really have anything,” she said apologetically. “I try to cut back on sugar, and—”

“It’s okay,” Charles said, absently fiddling with the teabag string. He wasn’t just an idle guest—he had a special mission. But sitting at Moira’s table still felt awkward. “So, I’m all ears.” 

Moira made an odd, wordless gesture, strode to the windowsill, and pulled two foil-lined phone cases out of a box. Only after their phones were packed and properly isolated did she speak. 

“I guess I told you that I wasn’t supposed to become a principal, didn’t I?” She said, thoughtful, her gaze fixed on the mug she kept turning in her hands. “Davis was supposed to become one. He’s older, he’s more experienced and had the city council backing… but he has a heart condition. He wore a chip, but the heat always made it worse. That summer, just days before taking the office, he ended up in a hospital. Don’t get me wrong,” she said quickly, catching the silent question on Charles’s face. “He’s okay now. His chip was updated, and he recovered. But the municipality set precise terms: if he didn’t assume the office by the deadline, his position would be reassigned.” 

Moira fell silent. Charles didn’t dare to speak, afraid of interrupting her, but when the silence dragged on, he finally asked:

“What did you do, Moira?”

“His wife has always been anti-tech progress. She doesn’t even use a phone—can you imagine? The day before he was discharged—the day before the deadline—she came and asked me what time he was supposed to be there. She said he would come. But I—”

Charles had already figured out how her story would end. Taking advantage of the fact that the information hadn’t been recorded in a phone call or an email, Moira had lied to the municipality. Of course her words were on camera—but accessing them required a permit. And a teacher’s wife hardly had one. 

“So I decided to take my chance,” Moira blurted. “I didn’t have a single decent position in my resume at thirty-five. I wanted to become a principal, but I had no recommendations, because I had no friends in the city council… I thought it was fair. Davis is sixty-three, and—” 

She never finished, but Charles didn’t need her to. Moira had seen an opening, seized it and won. Yes, it wasn’t exactly nice, but she hadn’t broken the law. Still, it was a grave fault, one that could saddle her with the same mark Charles carried: disloyal. Because she hadn’t just lied to some random person—she’d lied to her superiors while doing her job. And if anyone ever decided to test her, the algorithms would surface it.

“I guess I’m an awful person,” Moira said, not waiting for him to respond. Those few seconds of Charles’s silence felt endless to her. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this—”

“Moira, come on,” he said. “You took your shot. It was dangerous, but you did what you could. If Davis really wanted the position and was well enough to take it, he could’ve called or written himself. Did he or his wife file a complaint?” 

“Mrs. Davis tried,” Moira said. “But it was her word against mine. Everyone thinks she’s… odd. Even Mr. Davis didn’t believe she’d told me everything. He thought she’d mixed it all up.” 

“You see, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” Charles said. “If they aren’t going to test you—”

“No such luck,” Moira cut in. “I’ve told you—Sean knows. He heard me talking to Mrs. Davis. I think he’s going to blackmail me.”

“Is he?” Charles asked. Sean didn’t strike him as particularly scheming, but people were often not what they seemed. “Why do you think so?”

“He hung around the school over the summer, catching up on math. I saw him that day. And this year, the moment I walked into the school, he saw me and asked first thing how Mrs. Davis was doing. You should’ve seen his smile, Charles!”

Moira’s voice wavered again, and Charles recognized the feeling. A flimsy accusation from a woman whose own husband didn’t believe her words was one thing. But having a witness was something else entirely. Sean could file a complaint over the dishonest appointment of the principal. He hardly cared about who would replace Moira and he had no interest in getting rid of her—but he was clearly interested in the leverage he had over her. 

Charles knew such people—they didn’t care about getting anywhere, only about having someone beholden to them. No matter how small the playoff was—the point was that it came out of someone else.

Shaw was that kind of person. He’d likely started small as well.

Catching himself starting to despise a student, Charles tried to calm down—he couldn’t allow this. But he could help Moira, who was all worked up about that asshole. 

“Moira, dear… I can talk to Sean, if you want. Just to understand what he needs, and whether you have anything to worry about.” 

“I don’t think it will help,” she muttered. “Still, maybe it’s worth a try. If it were that simple for him, he would’ve done it long ago.”

Moira was right—and, however hard it was for Charles to admit it, she understood the kids better than he did. Sean clearly needed something, and Charles was capable of figuring out exactly what. 

After Moira had hauled him from rock bottom, Charles simply couldn’t let her go through the same shit he had. 

Moira winced as she sipped her lukewarm tea.

“Don’t tell anyone, okay?” she said “Even Erik. He’s a nice guy, but… If anyone else knows, I’ll lose my mind.” 

Erik would hardly judge Moira—if only because Davis was a stranger to him, and Moira was someone he knew—but Charles nodded anyway. He wasn’t going to keep secrets from Erik—but it wasn’t his secret to tell, and he couldn’t picture himself ever bringing it up. Like “Look, Erik, how I framed your queen—just like Moira framed the municipality and the Davises!” It was ridiculous. 

Charles smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.” 

***

Charles came home well before six, but Erik was waiting for him by the door.

“Oh, you’re home,” Charles remarked en passant, tossing his keys into the bowl by the door. “Not so many calls today?” 

“Wanted to come home early to help Mom with the holiday dinner,” Erik replied. He stood in the living room doorway, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. His expression hardly differed from his usual one—but Charles sensed a faint note of displeasure in the air. 

Then the penny dropped—it wasn’t just another Wednesday. It was Wednesday, the first of Tishrei—Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year Edie had told him about many times. Charles had accompanied her to the store for apples that weekend—they’d had to buy them for the first time after the storm destroyed their apple tree. But his school worries had pushed the thought of what day it was out of his mind.

“I’m sorry, I… got held up,” Charles muttered. Of course he was ashamed, but that feeling receded once he realized he hadn’t missed anything—there was still almost an hour before the first star, and he could help Edie set the table.

“I was in your school,” Erik said coolly, letting his arms fall and stepping closer. “Hank told me you left after lunch.” 

His tone and gaze made Charles want to plead guilty and to snap back at the same time, even though neither of them had done anything wrong.

He could’ve called, Charles thought—then realized that Erik probably had, but his phone was sealed in a foil case at the time, out of reach.

“I was at Moira’s,” he said quietly. “She needed help.” 

“Oh really?” Erik stepped in close, almost brushing Charles’s chest. At that distance, their height difference suddenly felt obvious. Usually, Charles never gave it a thought, and now Erik towered over him, threatening. “What happened to her?” 

“She has problems with a student,” Charles said. Shivers ran down his spine from Erik standing so close—like they always did when he was near, this time spiced up with the sense that something might short out. As though Erik was about to make a scene, call his bluff—though Charles hadn’t lied in the slightest. 

“Aren’t you supposed to deal with problems at work?” Erik asked, dragging Charles up to him with a firm grip. “Why do you need to go to pretty Moira’s place for that?” 

Charles chuckled nervously. “Erik, are you jealous?” 

“Maybe.” Erik lowered his head, touching Charles’s neck with his lips. “Do you know what Rosh Hashanah is?”

“The first day of a new year,” Charles muttered, feeling a rush of heat rise inside him. His chest was still tight with cold, with the knowledge that Erik was angry at him. 

“Incorrect,” Erik said softly. “The year begins in Aviv. And Rosh Hashanah is the first day of aseret yemei teshuvah, the Days of Repentance. Do you have something to repent of?” 

“Erik, stop it,” Charles tried to push Erik away, but Erik’s grip was too tight. “You know all my sins. I’m sorry I’m late, but I didn’t do anything I can’t tell you about.” 

“Good,” Erik suddenly pecked his cheek and stepped aside. “Go change. Mom is waiting for us—dinner’s in thirty minutes.” 

The dinner passed undisturbed. Erik said the blessings before the meal—none of which Charles could grasp a single word of. Edie was at her best, having cooked rosemary salmon, a beetroot salad, and tzimmes. After all the courses, she set a big round challah on the table, to be dipped into honey and blessed for a good year. 

She broke off a piece of bread, dipped it into a small bowl of honey, lifted it before her. 

“I want to thank this year for all the good it brought us,” she said cheerfully. “Including you, Charles, and your presence in our lives. I’m so glad Erik isn’t alone anymore.” 

Charles turned a wary look on Erik—but he only smiled sheepishly, covering his mouth with one hand. 

“Jewish tradition teaches that everything happens for the good,” Edie went on. “Everything is part of the Most High’s design. Even something that seems bad to us can still bring good. Everything that happens in the new year will be for our good.” 

She bit off a piece of challah, then quickly took a slice of apple, dipped it in honey, and put it into her mouth. “May it be Your will, Most High, that the coming year be good and sweet!”

After that, Charles awkwardly repeated the ritual but avoided saying his wishes out loud—his would have sounded far less optimistic than Edie’s. Apparently, Erik shared his thoughts; he only echoed the last phrase, finishing his apple slice. When he was done, he leaned in and kissed Charles—right on the mouth, right there at the table. 

“Erik!” Edie laughed. “Stop it! You’ll have plenty of time to enjoy your happiness in the new year.” 

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Erik snorted, without a shadow of embarrassment. “You and Dad always did. Now it’s my turn.”

Edie laughed again, and even Charles smiled this time. Erik didn’t seem mad at him at all—otherwise he wouldn’t have kissed him like that in front of his mother on Rosh Hashanah. 

“You’re unbearable,” Edie said, grinning without a trace of displeasure. “But what can I do? I raised you that way. So you’re right. I couldn’t wish for anything better for my boy in the new year.” 

After Edie went to bed, Erik declared that Charles was fully responsible for the dishes, since he hadn’t helped with the cooking. Charles sighed, looking at the pile of dishes towering in the sink. It wasn’t just a regular dinner, so there were three times as many dishes as usual. 

“A dishwasher would accomplish it way faster,” he muttered, picking up the brush. “You know.”

“Maybe,” Erik said pensively. “But there isn’t one.” 

“I guess,” Charles began, realizing how reckless it was of him when he’d barely started earning his own money. “Maybe now that I have a job, we could afford one?” 

“It consumes too much water,” Erik replied, still calm and thoughtful. “I did some math. Having a dishwasher is more expensive than owning a purebred dog.” 

Charles didn’t argue, but he wondered how often Erik ran numbers like that—and whether he’d done the same before taking him in. He’d probably cost Erik far more than a purebred dog or even a dishwasher. 

As soon as Charles wiped the last plate and set it in the rack, he felt Erik’s hand slide around his waist. Erik’s warm breath brushed his nape. 

“Looks like you learned your lesson.” Erik murmured, his words lost in Charles's hair. 

“What lesson?” Charles asked, smiling.

“That you shouldn’t be late to Rosh Hashanah. I don’t think I will tolerate your tardiness next year.”

“Erik, I said I’m sorry,” Charles exhaled helplessly. “And it’s not like I was late. I just wasn’t early.” 

“This is what I call late.” Erik chuckled, and his breath swept against Charles's neck. “And yes, you were right. I am a bit jealous. I know you wouldn’t cheat on me—but I’m pissed off that someone else got your attention.” 

“So what is it, then—I’m not allowed to have friends?” Charles said, half-jokingly. Moira was the closest thing to a friend he’d had in ages, and it had honestly never occurred to him that it might be an issue. Then again, he hadn’t had any friends since they’d been together, and maybe Erik really was the kind of guy who wanted his partner all to himself.

“I’m not your owner,” Erik said. “I don’t get to allow or disallow you things. But on days like this, when I expect you to be around, I feel piqued when someone else gets your time.” 

Charles exhaled in relief. Well, Erik was right. It wasn’t about him being jealous of everyone Charles grew close to—it was Charles forgetting about the big day under the pressure of an unexpected complication. So it was only fair. 

“I know, and I’m sorry for that,” Charles covered Erik’s hand at his waist with his own. “I won’t do that again, I promise. And by the way, you’re wrong.” 

“Am I?” Erik said, aiming at nonchalance, though his voice came out tenser than usual. “About what? About trusting you not to cheat?” 

‘No,” Charles said with a laugh. “About not being my owner. As per recent updates, I think you pretty much own me.” 

Charles couldn’t believe his own words—now he was the one trying to smooth things over with innuendos. But it worked: Erik’s grip on his waist tightened, and Charles could have sworn Erik’s dick twitched in his pants. 

“Are you saying you expect to get all your sins forgiven if you let me fuck you again?” Erik asked teasingly, his voice hoarse. It wasn’t exactly what Charles meant, but he didn’t mind it at all. They’d never repeated their performance, though Charles found himself looking forward to it. 

“This—and a breakfast in bed,” Charles said, closing his eyes. A wave of heat rose through him, driving every stray thought out of his head.

Then, he heard Erik whisper:

“Deal.” 

***

Thursdays were non-working days for him, so Charles returned to work only on Friday. Of course, Moira hadn’t mentioned Sean in the brief chat on his day off, and Charles hadn’t had a chance to check on her before lunchtime—but he figured that if anything serious had happened, she would’ve found a way to let him know. 

Still, Charles decided to stick to his original plan and talk to Sean. A single conversation wouldn’t solve anything, but Charles could at least try to find out how much he knew and what he was after. 

He found Sean by the lockers, talking to a blonde bulky guy, a fellow student—Charles recalled his name was Alex. He was a football player—it was obvious, if not from his build, then from the varsity jacket he wore. 

“Do you mind if I steal Sean for a minute?” Charles asked Alex, who  furrowed his brow in suspicion. Then, apparently realizing he was dealing with a member of the school staff, Alex nodded and retreated, muttering something about being late to class.

“What do you want?” Sean grunted, trying to avoid looking at Charles. “If McTaggert at it again, it wasn’t me.” 

“She's Principal McTaggert to you,” Charles corrected, knowing he probably shouldn’t—but unable to resist taking him down a bit. “And there is no complaint. I just wanted to ask you about the nature of your… conflict.” 

“We don’t have a conflict,” Sean snapped, yanking his locker open as if he needed something inside asap. “It’s just her whining about me being a pain in her ass. Always has been.” 

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Charles said, crossing his arms and leaning against the array of lockers. He knew it looked defensive, but it also looked patronising, and he meant to assert his status. Sean clearly wasn’t one to fold in the face of authority. “But I think you shouldn’t talk about an adult in such a manner.”

Then, realizing his approach would get him nowhere, Charles added:

“But I guess if you talk like that, there’s probably a reason. So maybe Principal McTaggert did something. You know—treated you unfairly, or—” 

“That’s what school shrinks are for, right?” Sean snorted, still not looking Charles’s way. “To sneak around, digging for gossip? Man, you literally look like a dealer offering weed in a dark corner. Leave me alone.” 

Sean slammed the locker door shut and tried to slip past Charles, eyes fixed on his phone—but Charles stepped in, blocking his way.

“So there is something, right?” he asked, trying to catch the kid’s eye. Sean finally lifted his head, revealing his deadly tired expression. “If there is something, you can tell me. I’ll try to help.”

“Leave me alone before I file a stalking complaint,” Sean hissed through his clenched teeth as he walked away. It was like the thousandth time Charles had heard a threat like that, but for once he felt defenseless in front of a kid—because, unlike all his previous threateners, Sean really could do it, legally. And it was the last thing Charles wanted—he couldn’t put Moira in the line of fire after she’d been so kind to him. 

But at least now he knew Sean was that type—one who knew his way around the rules and his rights. So he hadn’t kept Moira’s secret because he was too stupid to set the wheels in motion.

Other than that, the attempt to reach Sean had failed. Erik had been right: kids didn’t trust adults—but he hadn’t said what to do about it. 

Charles was about to walk away when he heard a voice behind his back:

“Can you really do something to make the principal leave him alone?”

Charles turned around and saw a football player in a varsity jacket—apparently, Alex hadn’t gone far. The kid looked at him warily, but unlike Sean, he didn’t avert his eyes—and he’d spoken first. It was a good sign. 

School guidelines forbade involving a third party in a conflict—under them, Charles wasn’t supposed to inform anyone that there was one between Moira and Sean. This rule was generally foolish, as conflicts never go unnoticed. But now Charles feared that if he pushed this too hard, Sean would spill it to someone else. If he hadn’t already. 

So he hesitated. But if Alex wanted to say something, Charles figured he might as well listen.

“If Sean isn’t doing anything wrong—and isn’t going to—I can talk to the principal,” Charles said cautiously. “If it’s just a misunderstanding, we can clear it up quickly.” 

“I don’t know if it’s a misunderstanding, but I think she’s way too wound about this crap,” Alex snorted. He spoke quietly, clearly not wanting to draw attention, but Charles grew wary of his wording. It wasn’t just Sean—apparently, the whole school didn’t seem to bother respecting authority. 

“Crap?” Charles echoed. He decided to save the language lectures for later. “What exactly do you mean by “crap?”

“Well, it’s not total crap,” Alex muttered, as if Charles’s comment had made him think twice about his words. “But McTaggert works here for ages, and it’s hardly her first time. I don’t know why she reacted that way.” 

Now it was Charles’s turn to frown. If Sean had told Moira’s secret to Alex—and the kid called it “crap” —Charles had a lot of questions about the younger generation’s moral compass, or about how they pictured the one grown people had.

Charles insisted. “What exactly are you talking about?” 

“Hasn’t McTaggert told you?” Alex asked with genuine surprise. “I thought you came because of this. Well, you know, not the healthiest teenage situation, blah blah.” The kid rolled his eyes, making air quotes. “I told him she’s too old for him. And Sean knows it’s going nowhere. He just needs time… to come to his senses.” 

Alex was far from perfect at putting thought into words, but Charles was starting to get it. What Alex was describing barely resembled blackmailing a seedy principal. It sounded more like a teenage crush. 

“Are you saying that Sean… is in love with principal McTaggert?” 

“Yup,” Alex grunted. “He's been crazy about her since eighth grade. As long as I can remember. But she hadn’t known before, and now she’d found out and gone bananas. I guess she’s afraid of being called a predator or something like that. But it’s stupid—Sean’s folks don’t give a shit, and he’d never blab about it.” 

Charles was ready to laugh with relief. At the same time, he felt ashamed for his imagination, which had cast Sean as budding Hannibal Lecter. 

“Why do you think she knows?” he asked. 

“Well… she wouldn’t freak out for no reason, right?” Alex shrugged. “Actually, Sean’s kind of a moron himself. He worked part-time for the Davises over the summer and, for some reason, spilled everything to Mrs. Davis. He’d been a mess for the rest of the summer, convinced Mrs. Davis would tell the principal. Once the school started, he decided to check whether they've seen each other since then. And… it looks like Mrs. Davis told her. An old trout,” he swore. “When you need her to remember, she remembers nothing, and when you need her to forget, she suddenly remembers everything.” 

Charles barely suppressed a smile. He knew laughing wouldn’t look good, but inside he was doing exactly that. What had seemed like a Greek tragedy turned out to be a silly sitcom—and all it took was an accidental chat. 

Had he worked strictly by the book, it would have dragged on for the entire year until Sean graduated. Even then, maybe, Moira might not have shaken the apprehension of a sword hanging over her head, ready to fall at any moment. 

“I’ll talk to principal McTaggert,” Charles said. “I think she misunderstood Sean and will apologize for how she reacted. He isn’t expecting anything serious, right?” 

“God forbid,” Alex blurted, clearly grossed out by the idea of Sean and Moira together. “She’s a teacher. And she’s too old for him, anyway. So she’s dead in the water. And, uh—maybe you could ask her out or something? You know. So Sean sees she’s taken.”

Charles couldn’t help grinning. 

“I would gladly help you, but I guess my boyfriend will mind it,” he said calmly, watching Alex’s reaction. It wasn’t that Charles was afraid—he just didn’t know what most students thought about gay people, and varsity-jacket football player was a good litmus test. 

“Oh,” Alex said curtly, staring at him. “I didn’t know you were gay.” 

“Five on the Kinsey scale,” Charles corrected automatically, instantly regretting the smart-talk—an image of a nerdy shrink speaking in lingo was hardly going to win him any sway with teens.  

Alex winced, as if his brain were working overtime.

“So you’re basically gay, but sometimes you sleep with women?”

It was rude and completely inappropriate, but precisely correct. Charles decided not to nip at it again.

“Exactly. But Principal McTaggert is not the case. So I’ll try to sort things out with her, and I’d appreciate it if you talked to Sean.” 

“Sure thing,” Alex snorted. “Whatever it takes, doc, as long as this shit’s over.”