Charles did not see Erik the morning after the incident with the fire, but he hadn't truly expected to. Things were left at a strange point last night, but not at an impasse. Charles had clearly pushed Erik back, and Charles would not put it past the other man to expand the chasm Charles had created between them.

Charles had not slept any more that night, and spent the rest of the morning curled up in his bed with the echo of the deranged laugh ringing in his mind. It was definitely a female voice, and Charles flicked through all of the possibilities.

There was no way it was Moira – Charles knew her voice and her laugh, and there was no way that kind woman could purposefully set someone's bed on fire with the obvious intent to harm, or even kill. Charles then thought about Angel, who often laughed wildly and without shame or restraint, but ruled her out as well. Angel's voice did not carry that same tone, one of despair mixed with ecstasy.

Charles then considered Lorna, Peter's maid. The girl was the same age as Charles, but was not the type to laugh in that manner, more restrained in temperament.

The only woman left to consider was Anna-Marie. It had to be her; Charles never really spoke with her, only saying brief and curt 'hellos' when they would occasionally pass each other in the kitchens. Anna-Marie kept to herself, and she seemed to have an unusual temperament – she was the only option.

Charles felt like he had to talk to Erik about this, even if it would only be extremely awkward, or even hurtful. Charles was ready to risk Erik's withering gaze, the one he lavished upon so many other people, but for some reason never used on Charles.

After pushing him away last night, Charles expected to join the throng of people that Erik glared at, and the thought hurt more than Charles wanted it to.

Charles and Moira sat in her tea room, Charles swirling his spoon around a hearty stew that sat in a dainty china bowl in front of him. He pushed the cubed mutton to one side, and the carrots to another. Onions sat in a sad, wilted pile by the southern portion of the bowl.

Moira seemed to notice what he was doing, casting him a concerned gaze.

"Are you alright, Charles? You've hardly eaten a thing," the woman said, stepping closer to press her hand to Charles's forehead. "You do not feel feverish. Maybe I should call for Dr McCoy to have a look, just in case."

"I'm alright, Moira," Charles said, taking the woman by the wrist, squeezing it before pulling it from his forehead. "Just a poor night's sleep, is all."

"Yes, well, you weren't the only one," Moira said, sighing heavily as she sunk into the chair beside Charles. Charles didn't even bother pretending to eat his meal, his appetite non-existent after the events of the previous night.

"What are you speaking of, Moira?"

"Well, the master's rooms caught on fire last night," Moira said, Charles's breath stopping.

"What... Did he, did he talk to you about it?" Charles asked, stammering a little as Moira nodded.

"Yes, he said that he had been reading in bed and had fallen asleep. His candle must have caught on his bedding, but thankfully he woke before the fire could spread too much. Burned up his curtains and the posters of his bed, but it was by God's good graces that no further damage was done."

Oh.

"That is very good fortune," Charles said quietly, Moira nodding in agreement. "Where is Mr Lehnsherr now? I'd like to talk to him... to ensure that he is... well."

"Oh, I wouldn't bother - you just missed him, Charles," Moira said, patting the tutor's arm.

"Missed him? Did he leave?" Charles asked a little too quickly. Moira didn't seem to notice anything amiss, not picking up on the slight rise in pitch of Charles's voice, or the way he seemed to be winded by the end of the two short questions.

"Yes, he left early this morning, just after dawn. To the Frost residence, a little ride from here. It was very short notice, but none of us were surprised. In fact, we expected him to have left sooner, he rarely stays for more than a few days to a week at a time, but he has been here for almost three weeks already," Moira said thoughtfully, Charles swallowing the thick globule of saliva that seemed to lodge itself in his throat.

"Did he say when he would return?" Charles asked, fingers gripping onto the hem of his waistcoat tightly. Moira shook her head, Charles's heart dropping to his stomach.

"He never really says. It could be a week, or a month, or even a year. Ironfield didn't see its master for almost six seasons at one time. That was almost two years ago, now," Moira said, Charles quickly standing up from the table, his chair skittering with a loud clatter behind him. "Charles?"

"I'm sorry," Charles said, voice pinched. "I may not be feeling well after all."

"Oh, dear," Moira said, getting up as well, frowning again. "I will get Alex to call upon Dr McCoy."

"No, no, there is no need," Charles said, giving his friend a strained smile. "It is just a lack of sleep. I will nap for a while before my afternoon lessons with Peter. Will you let him know that I've given him the morning off?"

"I'm sure he will love you for it," Moira said, patting Charles's arm again before leaving the room. Charles swayed on his feet a bit, steadying himself on the back of Moira's chair, pinching the bridge of his freckled nose tightly as he forced himself to just breathe.

'Calm your mind, Charles. Calm yourself. This was to be expected, Moira says that this is normal. You shouldn't expect any more than what has already been given.'

You pushed him away, after all.

***

It was almost two weeks later when Moira burst into the study where Charles was attempting to teach Peter geography, the two of them huddled in front of a large globe. Charles had just begun to go through how the Europeans journeyed across the sea and found Terra Australis, and the sudden crash of a door flying open made him jump.

"Moira? Is something wrong?" Charles asked, Moira's face puffing out as her words stumbled over one another, hands gesticulating wildly. One of them held an unsealed letter, which had been crumpled up by her tight grip. "Moira, breathe, please. Use your words."

"Mr Lehnsherr is returning," Moira said, waving the letter. The blood rushed to Charles's head, his ears ringing as Moira continued. "He is returning in three days' time, and it will not be alone. He wishes us to prepare for a party. A party, at Ironfield hall. It is unprecedented!"

"Party? Herr Charles, is part eine Feier?" Peter asked, Charles absently nodding as he processed Moira's words.

Erik will be back in three days.

Alex, who had been passing by the study at that exact moment, dropped the silverware he was holding and burst through the already open door with wide eyes.

"Did I hear you correctly, Moira?" Alex asked, frozen as Moira nodded. "The master, inviting guests? The apocalypse is upon us, isn't it?"

"It will be, if we don't start preparing!" Moira cried out, excitement and stress evident. "We must alert the cooks, and you and Scott must go to the markets at once, there is no way we have enough ingredients in stock for catering. Oh, and then pick up all that silverware, we need to polish everything before they arrive. We need to dust the curtains, change the furniture, and – oh Lord – the hedges haven't been pruned for months!"

"Herr Charles, Herr Charles, does this mean I will get to dress up?" Peter asked, tugging on the hem of Charles's coat, drawing Charles's attention away from a mildly panicked Moira and Alex, to the little boy who was bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet with pent up excitement.

Charles swallowed, bending down a little to pat Peter's head to calm him, nodding slightly.

"Yes, Peter. But we need to finish our lesson first. Then, we can figure out what you will wear when we have guests, alright?"

"Yes!" Peter said, clapping his hands together before spinning the globe, the ball whirling around and around, its speed dizzying.

The rest of the lesson was mostly unproductive, Peter too amped up with the prospect of a party full of unfamiliar faces, food and music, while Charles's mind spun like the globe Peter kept playing with, spinning around and around, completely lost. Charles tried to picture how he would act when he was in Erik's presence again, but all of the scenarios made him anxious.

Part of Charles wanted to just give in to the unnatural feelings he had and throw himself into Erik's embrace. The other, more rational part of him, imagined addressing Erik with a sort of cold indifference, calling him 'Mr Lehnsherr' instead of Erik, not even willing to call him the admittedly fond 'Herr Lehnsherr'.

Both of the scenarios, and all of those in between, left Charles feeling empty, like a machine without feelings.

To stave away his unsavoury thoughts, Charles applied himself to help Moira with party preparations, accompanying Alex and Scott to the market to buy things, scrubbing silverware and helping rearrange the furniture. Charles was glad for Moira, who seemed to never run out of things to occupy Charles's mind with, the woman almost in a frantic state of distress as 'Mr Lehnsherr should have given her more than three days notice to prepare for a party since they haven't had one since the previous Mr Lehnsherr passed!'

Charles was able to help Moira a lot, especially after he cut back Peter's lessons to mornings only. Charles knew that Peter would not be able to concentrate, so lessons finished at lunch time every day, leaving Peter to go off with Lorna to pick out party outfits, even though Moira said that the party was going to be for adults - not a suitable affair for Mr Lehnsherr's young ward.

By keeping himself busy, the three days passed swiftly, and on the day of the arrival of Mr Lehnsherr and his guests, Ironfield Hall was soon abuzz with excitement. Charles completely gave up on even attempting morning lessons, Peter's attentions long gone. The young boy was now on his knees and pressing his face against an upper storey window, trying to sneak a peek at the guests that were beginning to arrive.

Charles meandered his way to situate himself beside Peter, hand pressed against the cool glass. As he looked out, Charles noticed a row of lavish carriages much like the ones Kurt Marko had bought and left to sit unused in Westchester's garages, pull up to the front door of Ironfield Hall.

Men in expensive suits and women with beautifully curled hair and extravagant dresses stepped out from the carriages, and Peter tugged on Charles's sleeve, eyes not leaving the new arrivals. Peter's mouth was open in rapture as he eyed the clearly wealthy group.

"Herr Charles, Herr Charles! Frau MacTaggert told me that Fräulein Frost will be coming. Oh, Herr Charles. Fräulein Frost, Sie ist die schönste," Peter gushed, Charles looking to Moira for clarification.

"Miss Frost?" Charles asked, Moira letting out a soft 'ah' of understanding.

"Miss Emma Frost. It was her family's neighbouring estate that the master has been residing at for the past two week and change," Moira explained, Charles trying to control his expression.

"And Miss Frost. Is she... beautiful?" Charles asked, Moira giving him an odd look, making him clear his throat, clarifying further. "Peter said that 'Sie ist die schönste'. That she is the most beautiful."

"Oh, yes. She is the belle of the county. She is extremely beautiful, and she is very popular out in society. It is not only her beauty, but her family is terribly rich, so she has a sizeable dowry. It is nothing compared to Mr Lehnsherr's wealth, but for a woman, it makes her more desirable than she already is with her beauty alone."

"Oh," Charles said, turning his head back to the window, squinting. From the last carriage, there was a woman just stepping out now, swathed in all white. She was tall, with a slender and lean body draped in a beautiful stark white dress that almost shimmered like it was speckled with diamonds in the sunlight. Her neck was daintily arched, indents sloping into an ample swell of her pale and smooth breasts. Her blonde hair was tied in a bun, with carefully curled ringlets adorning the sides of her face, in the fashion of the day. A white dove's feather seemed to be nestled in her hair amongst a pearl hair piece.

It was not only her body and fashion sense that were impeccable, but her face was undeniably ethereal too. Her skin was like porcelain, and her features sharp, like they had been carved by Italian artisans in the smoothest marble. Charles imagined her standing beside Erik, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard.

She is someone that deserves to walk beside Erik.

"Is that her, Moira?" Charles asked, Moira stepping closer to the window to look. "The one wearing all white?"

"Yes, indeed," Moira said, sighing a little as she eyed Miss Frost's frock. "As beautiful as always."

"She must be quite popular," Charles said, Moira humming.

"Yes, that is a given. However, she is similar to the master in that way. She has yet to accept any man's proposal, though I dare say that by the end of this trip, we shan't be able to say that anymore."

"What do you mean?" Charles asked, turning to Moira with wide eyes, the older woman looking at him with amusement.

"Sometimes I forget that you are still young, Charles. You act so intelligent and mature for your age, but I suppose you are still too young to understand such matters," Moira laughed, squeezing his shoulder. "It is obvious that Erik invited her with the intent to propose by the end of the party. People have speculated about it for a while, since Miss Frost has shown interest in the master when they were out in society together. Mr Lehnsherr must have finally given in, though it did take him a long time. I wonder why he had a change of heart now."

Charles swallowed, closing his eyes as his heart cracked in his chest, just a little bit.

You are lucky, Charles. You are young, and you have never felt love. But in turn, you have never been hurt by it.

Erik's words from all those days ago reverberated in Charles's mind.

"No, I understand, Moira," Charles churned out, squeezing a hand around his heart, suffocating it. "I understand completely."

***

Charles glared at the back of Erik's head, but the man did not turn to him. Charles was angry, livid even, and his temper was rarely thrown off course. Erik, however, seemed to be the exception to everything, stirring up Charles's heart and emotions with nothing more than a gaze, or lack thereof.

Charles was mad because Erik had forced him to join the party the grand hall. The room looked different than how it usually appeared; Charles had helped Alex drag in more tables and chairs, Moira filling usually-empty pots with vibrant flowers. Scott had wheeled in a piano forte into the corner, which was now being played by a young lady that was not Miss Frost – Miss Irene Adler, if Peter's excited whispers in his ear were to be trusted.

Charles knew the instant he walked in that he did not belong there, amongst this sort of people. Charles had been born into wealth and status, yes, but he had not been raised in it. Charles did not fit in with his threadbare coat and overly washed neck tie, his boots scuffed and beginning to split at the seams. Charles stuck out like a sore thumb, and he didn't know what Erik wanted to achieve by forcing Charles to be here, in a place where whatever self-worth he thought he had was thoroughly being trampled on.

Even though Erik had invited him in – ordered him, more like it – Charles stayed on the fringe of the party. When he had stepped into the room, Erik's lips curling upwards as he glanced at Charles for a brief moment before turning back to a conversation between Miss Frost and her mother, Lady Hazel Frost.

Lady Frost was a terrifying woman, with a near-constant predatory grin etched into her elegant but aged face, that bore a striking resemblance to her daughter's. She was decked out in jewels and silks, though she opted for a flowing gown of a rich violet in contrast to her daughter's white apparel.

Lady Hazel Frost had not hidden her sneer as she noticed Charles enter the room, blue eyes flicking him up and down, before moving on to Peter, who was standing at Charles's side.

"Who is that little creature?" the older Lady Frost jeered, eyeing Peter, who did not pick up on the cold social queue and perked up at being noticed, bouncing on his feet like he always did. Peter preened at the attention, stepping forward towards other party guests, bowing and introducing himself, calling people 'Frau Adler' and 'Herr Frost'. Hazel turned up her nose at Peter, ripping her eyes from him with thinly veiled disgust to address Erik again. "I did not know that you were fond of children, Mr Lehnsherr."

"I am not," Erik said, looking at Charles, smiling. "There were circumstances, and he was left in my hands. I'd rather not delve into it further."

"Understandable. It is unfortunate, though. Send the creature to a good English boarding school, I'd say. That would take him out of your hands, dear Lehnsherr," Lady Frost said. Emma laughed at her mother's words, a bell-like chime that was as cold as the ice-like diamonds dripping from her blemish-less skin.

"Mother, I see that Lehnsherr has hired a tutor of sorts," Emma said, glancing at Charles, ghost of a smirk on her face, eyes just as appraising as her mother's, the women seemingly cut from the same cloth.

"Yes, I noticed him," Hazel said, not bothering to look at Charles again. "Just look at him, so gloomy in those depressing rags. He is young, and his face is not completely torturous, at least. Nonetheless, tutors are no better than governesses, and you know my thoughts on governesses. They'll eat you out of house and home, and before you know it, they're making eyes at the butler – or, God forbid, the master of the house."

Emma giggled at her mother's words, leaning in closer to Erik, to whisper exactly what her mother thought about governesses and tutors into Erik's ear. Charles had to look away from Erik, jaw locked, not wanting to see Erik's expression as he leaned in towards his wife-to-be.

The large room suddenly began to feel extremely claustrophobic, and Charles had to get out, out, out.

Charles did not look at any one as he stalked towards the door from whence he came, hand tugging at his high collar to try and make it easier for him to breathe.

"Charles."

Oh, God.

Charles turned at the voice as he reached the stairs, gripping onto the top most banister tightly. The tutor took great pains to keep his face neutral, breathing in and out evenly. Erik stared back at him, gauging Charles's reaction, pale eyes narrowed slightly.

"What is it?" Charles asked, voice blunt. Erik did not flinch, but his eyes did twitch slightly.

"You rushed out," Erik said simply, and Charles fought back the urge to scoff. "You look depressed, Charles."

"I am not depressed!" Charles denied, face scrunching up as his grip on the staircase tightened.

"You are crying, Charles. Obviously depressed. Tell me, why are you upset?"

"I am not crying-" Charles started immediately, Erik just look at him relentlessly. Charles felt his eyes become hot, vision blurring. Shit, shit, shit.

"I am not crying," Charles said again, as if repeating the words would manifest them into reality. It did not work, and Charles was forced to wipe away a stray tear that collected at the base of his eye, about to slip down his cheek. Charles sniffled, swallowing and blinking rapidly. "I am not crying. I am simply tired."

"Simply tired," Erik said, not believing Charles in the slightest, which made Charles's chest fill with anger once again, tears building for newfound reasons.

"Yes, Erik. I am tired. Moira has worked me to the bone in preparation for this gathering for days, so yes, I am tired," Charles snapped, letting out a shuddering breath. "I wish to retire, my friend."

Erik's face suddenly grew dark at Charles's use of the strangely distant 'my friend', his mouth turning down in a blatantly displeased frown.

"I cannot stop you, Charles," Erik eventually said, after a silent stand-off. "You may retire, but do know that I expect you to be in the drawing room every night after supper. Every night."

"As you wish, my friend," Charles responded petulantly, using the title for no other reason than to see the displeased expression on Erik's face grow. If Erik was going out of his way to torment Charles like this, there was no reason for him to refrain from doing the same.

"Good night, then, Charles," Erik said, voice thin.

"Good night," Charles responded, whirling on his heel and quickly walking down, taking two stairs at a time.

***

The next night, Charles did as Erik asked, though he planted himself stubbornly behind a screen in the room and buried his nose in one of the books from Erik's library. Charles ignored the raucous laughter emanating from the Frost family, Emma latching onto Erik's arm every time someone said something that was apparently hilarious.

Yes, Charles ignored the whole lot of them, but every now and then he may have caught the sight of Erik talking to Miss Frost, occasionally breaking his gaze with her to shoot Charles a heated look, which only made Charles flush and turn back to John Gould's 'The Birds of Australia'.

On the second day, a new guest had arrived at Ironfield Hall; a Mr Victor Creed, from somewhere in the Americas. The man was of a stocky build, far broader than Erik and just as tall. His face was covered by a coarse-looking beard, and his hair was shortly cropped, which only emphasised the heavy-set build of his face.

When Alex had told Erik about his new guest, Erik's face had immediately clammed up, brow crinkling tightly. Erik had muttered something to Alex, who nodded and the two left the party for a brief period of time, before re-entering with Creed in tow.

Creed meshed well with the other partygoers, regaling them of tales about the Americas. The Frosts and the Adlers hung around him, trying to mimic his accent, and him theirs, sending everyone into choirs of laughter.

Erik seemed to stay away from Creed, and hence away from the congregation around him. Instead, Erik hung by the fire with a glass of wine swirling in his hand, staring at Charles, as if his stare would make Charles look up at him. Charles adamantly tried not to, but gave in, if only a few times. Every time, Erik seemed to smile at him in that way that showed too many teeth – one of his real smiles, Charles had discovered.

Charles lasted the entire night in that room the second time, until the party dispersed back to their bed chambers for the night. Charles did not look up when Erik walked past with Emma hanging from his arm, ensuring to comment that he would escort lady to her chambers, Emma giggling and calling him a true gentleman. Charles swallowed back the bitterness, not enjoying the taste at all.

Charles retired to his own chambers a short while after everyone else, not wanting to catch any stragglers loitering in the halls. When Charles returned to his room, he splashed some cool water across his face, before flopping onto his bed face down.

Charles groaned and buried his head into his pillow, banging it against the soft bundle of feathers and fabric, as if it would shake out the images of Erik and Emma, the two of them looking like a picture, perfect in every way.

Charles lay there for a short while, until the constraints of his clothing became stifling. Charles had just pulled off his coat and unfastened his waistcoat when there was a loud, rattling scream, Charles startling mid-action. His initial thought was Anna-Marie, but after pushing away the initial shock, Charles realised that the scream was most definitely masculine.

Lighting a candle, Charles quickly stepped outside. Other people had heard the chilling sound as well, and had already begun gathering in the hallway. Everyone stood, confused and shocked in their nightwear; the women had small strips cloth tied in their hair to fix their curls, and men looked groggy, beards and hair in disarray.

Hazel Frost regarded Charles with disgust while pulling her elaborate sleep coat around her, and he pushed himself into the wall, as if to blend with it. Hazel only took her eyes off Charles when Erik entered from an archway, hand behind his back, out of view from everyone except for Charles, who was so tightly pressed against the far wall that he could see Erik's back.

Erik's hand was dripping with blood, and Charles's eyes widened. Blood dripped steadily from Erik's fisted hand and onto the wooden floor behind him, so Charles quickly untied his necktie and dropped it to the ground, pretending to pick it up while furiously wiping up the blood. Erik seemed to notice Charles's actions, turning his head back and leaning in carefully.

"Wait for me in your chambers after," Erik said, voice low. Charles nodded, picking up his bloodied neck tie from the ground, and stepping back again.

"Lehnsherr!" Emma called out when she spotted her soon-to-be-fiancé. "What was that ghastly noise?"

"It was nothing to be concerned about," Erik said slowly, Emma giving him an apprehensive look, staring at his forehead like she was trying to draw out the truth, not believing him completely. "This is an old house, and it is prone to making noises from time to time. Ironfield has many tales about ghosts that lurk its halls. Perhaps, after a good night's sleep, I could tell you all about them over breakfast."

"Ghosts, how exciting," Emma laughed, others joining in, curious. Erik just nodded, smiling that fake-smile he sometimes wore, before extending his uninjured arm out to Emma.

"Let me escort you back to your chambers, Miss Frost," Erik said, smiling a little. "I have been told that my face scares off many people, even ghosts."

"Oh, you need not protect me from the ghosts, Lehnsherr. I am stronger than I look," Emma said, though she looped her arm through Erik's anyway. "And, your face does not incite fear in all people."

Charles watched as people began wandering back into their rooms, returning to his after wiping up a few more drops of Erik's blood, heart hammering. He returned to his room and paced around, the candle dropping about a centimetre in height before there were two solid raps on his door.

Opening it, Charles looked up at Erik, who returned the look with a serious gaze.

"Take your candle and follow me," Erik said, Charles doing as he was asked and following closely at Erik's back; even though he knew that Erik's tale about the ghosts of Ironfield were a ploy, the idea still unnerved him, and he walked closer to Erik than he usually would.

It was when they drew closer to the deserted west wing that Erik reached behind him with his good hand to grasp Charles's. Charles twitched, but Erik's grip only tightened, not letting Charles go.

They were silent as they continued walking, only stopping briefly for Erik to unlock a door leading to a spiralling stone stairwell. They ascended, Erik walking at a brisk pace with his long legs, leaving Charles to stumble after him. Charles tripped a little, the action causing him to tug on Erik's arm. The older man turned back, face apologetic.

"Are you alright, Charles?" Erik whispered, Charles nodding, heart in his throat. "Do you faint at the sight of blood?"

Charles looked at Erik's hand, remembering the bloodied neck tie he left in his room, and shook his head. Erik sighed, relieved, and squeezed Charles's hand.

"Are you afraid?" Erik asked, as they neared the top of the stairs. Erik tugged Charles towards him by their joined hands, Charles having to part his legs slightly to rest his feet besides Erik's on the same step with how close Erik held him.

The staircase was narrow, and Erik's large frame crowded Charles against a wall.

"Charles, are you afraid?" Erik asked again, face so close to Charles's. The younger man could see the red flicker of the candle in the reflection of Erik's eyes, which looked into his without wavering.

"No," Charles breathed out, Erik closing his eyes briefly, as if relishing their close proximity, before pushing back and unlocking the second door.

The two of them stepped through the door's threshold, and Charles audibly gasped when he saw Victor Creed lying on a tattered chaise lounge, shirt torn open and revealing a profusely bleeding red gash across his chest.

Erik pulled Charles closer, and the tutor's eyes widened to saucers when he saw the wound more clearly; there were two stippled arches, deep and red, and part of it seemed like the flesh had been gouged out. Or bitten out. It clearly looked like bite marks, and Charles turned to Erik, mouth open in a silent question.

Erik looked apologetic again, rubbing his thumb across the back of Charles's hand before letting go and bending to one knee beside Creed, leaning closer.

"Creed, I'm going to fetch a doctor and you will be alright. Do not speak about what happened here, under no circumstances," Erik said, Victor barely responding, his face ashen and sweat beading on his brow.

Getting back up, Erik grasped Charles's shoulders, before sliding his hands to his neck, then upwards to cup his cheek, the touch too intimate to be comfortable.

"Charles, look after him while I ride to fetch Dr McCoy. I won't be more than an hour, you know what to do, yes?"

"Y-Yes," Charles said, looking down at the man, who had begun breathing heavily, murmuring incoherently. "Go, Erik. Go quickly." And return to me.

Erik nodded, disappearing back down the stairs. Charles sucked in a tight breath, before grabbing some of the cloth laid out on a table beside the chaise, pressing it against Creed's wound. The man moaned in pain, teeth gnashing, and Charles shushed him with a soothing tone. Charles took another cloth dipped in cold water, dabbing at the man's sweat-laden brow. Creed writhed, grunting out phrases that made no sense to Charles – 'she attacked', 'I never thought', 'that bastard'.

"Calm yourself, my friend, you are alright now," Charles chanted, not sure if he was speaking to the injured American or to himself. "Calm yourself."

Time passed, and soon Creed settled down slightly from a combination of exhaustion and Charles's soothing. There were no clocks in the tower room, and from the window it still appeared dark outside, so Charles had no way to ascertain what time it was; so, he just kept focusing on breathing. In and out, in and out.

Wind swirled around the tower, almost making a whistling noise that Charles shivered at. His candle fluttered every now and then, until a particularly gusty wind rippled through the room, blowing out Charles's candle completely.

"Shit," Charles muttered, suddenly thrust into darkness, Victor groaning at the sound. "Sorry, sorry. Calm, you're alright."

As Charles spoke, there was a loud banging noise from behind a dangling tapestry in front of Charles, the young man squeaking, hand flying to his heart. Victor groaned, twitching from where he reclined in the chaise. There was another bang, followed by the rattle of metal, before things stilled again.

Charles's muscles were taut, and he wanted to inspect the disconcerting rattling – or run away from it. But Victor let out a long noise of pain again, Charles ignoring the ominous noises and focusing on the injured man in front of him, continuing to put pressure on the wound while dabbing at his forehead.

After what seemed like an eternity, Erik finally returned, followed by a meek and lanky-looking man with large glasses and dark hair carrying a stiff leather bag. The young man's eyes widened, much like how Charles imagined his had when he first laid eyes on Victor, before taking Charles's position on the floor beside the patient.

The doctor – Hank McCoy – peeled back the cloth Charles had pressed against the wound, sucking in a tight breath.

"These are... bite marks?" Dr McCoy asked, looking up at Erik, who returned the look with a glare.

"I brought you here to fix him, not ask questions," Erik snapped, McCoy blanching and nodding.

"I can only do so much here, he will need stitches and medication. I'll stem the bleeding for now, but we need to get him to my clinic," McCoy said, Erik grunting but conceding. McCoy worked quickly, bandaging the wound before letting Erik hoist the man over his shoulders. The four of them hobbled down the stairs to where Scott was waiting with a carriage, the boy looking half asleep but startling to attention when he spotted Erik dragging a seemingly half-dead Creed by the arm.

McCoy climbed into the carriage first, helping Erik pull Creed onto one of the sets. On the walk down, Creed had regained some more of his consciousness with the help of McCoy's smelling salts, and after he was loaded up into the carriage, he leaned out the window to tightly grasp the front of Erik's crinkled shirt.

"Look after her," Creed gritted out, Erik's mouth pulling into a grimace, pushing the man's hand off him. "Lehnsherr! Remember your promise, you bastard! You made a promise!"

"Yes, how could I forget. It haunts me every waking moment of every fucking day," Erik hissed, pushing the injured man harshly further into the carriage, banging his fist on the carriage twice to signal Scott to go. Scott clicked his tongue, the dual dark-coat horses lurching forward.

Erik and Charles watched the carriage pull away, and Erik's shoulders immediately loosened once it was out of sight.

"Walk with me, Charles," Erik said, glancing at the young man standing just behind him, offering a hand. Charles did not take it, but took a step forward, Erik huffing.

The two men walked around the side of Ironfield's front patio, to the stairs of the garden, secluded from view. Day had broken the moment they hauled Creed down, and Charles was exhausted – Erik, too, looked worse for wear - and it was then that Charles remember that Erik's hand was also injured.

"Erik, your hand," Charles said, breaking the thick silence between them.

"It is nothing," Erik replied brusquely, Charles shaking his head, reaching for Erik's injured hand gently. Charles pulled it to him, palm up, eyeing the wound across it. It was truly not that large, blood no longer flowing but crusted over a coin-sized nick. Charles ran his fingers around the skin surrounding the wound, Erik's good hand moving to rest over Charles's, covering it completely.

"Such small hands, yet they did not tremble," Erik voiced, turning Charles's palm over, tracing his fingers across his love line.

"I only did as I must," Charles said, Erik chuckling.

"Yes. Only you would have a hand in saving two lives, and pass it off as nothing," Erik said, turning Charles's hand over in his again, as if marvelling at it.

Charles swallowed, not quite able to pull his hand away from Erik's, not when it held him like this.

"This spring, I came home. Heart sore, and soul withered," Erik said, bending Charles's wrist so he could lace his fingers through Charles's. "Then I met a gentle stranger, with whom, I feel like I could live again. But, there are obstacles that I must overleap to obtain them. Tell me, Charles. Am I naïve in thinking that the obstacles are not too high? That I could leap over them and make it to the other side?"

Charles immediately thought of Emma Frost, and that was what gave Charles the strength to tear his hand away from Erik's, stepping back. Charles cradled his hand against his chest, eyeing Erik wearily.

"There are no obstacles," Charles said bitterly, knowing that Emma was a perfect match for Erik. 'Unlike me, who is unnatural and unworthy.'

"Not in the conventional sense," Erik pushed, Charles laughing emptily.

"If you cherish an affection, my friend, then fortune alone cannot impede you," Charles replied, and it was Erik's turn to churn out a laugh, looking at Charles with a heated look.

"Another naïve sentiment, Charles," Erik said, slapping the stone of the stair's railing thoughtfully. "It appears that your naivety is rubbing off on me."

With that, Erik softly told Charles to get some rest, and that he did not expect Charles to join them today, since he needed to recuperate after the night's events. Charles returned to his rooms, tired to the bone, but unable to sleep, because even in his dreams, Erik did not leave him in peace.