Coffee and Tea - chapter 2.
(First chapter here)
Needless to say, dinner was an excruciatingly awkward affair.
Charles happily offered to cook, much to both Erik and Wesley’s unified dismay, until they realised that ‘cook’ was merely a euphemism for ‘call the Chinese takeaway’.
It wasn’t that Charles was a particularly bad chef; quite the contrary, he was wonderful with pastries and bread, his cinnamon Churros enough to melt even Erik’s heart with one heavenly bite. The problem lay in the fact that he was incredibly accident prone. They’d had to call the fire brigade last week after a botched attempt at cooking a three course meal for Erik’s 30th birthday had turned into a scene from the Towering Inferno.
Setting out plates and grumpily unfolding a spare chair from the storage cupboard, Erik kept one close eye on Wesley as he filled a glass tumbler full of ice water. It was startling how similar the twins were in appearance, even with their vastly different hair and clothing styles. The same scattered freckles across their noses, 5 ‘o’ clock shadow of red scruff beneath their jaws. Both of them licked their lips far too often, which surely accounted for their constant cherry red stain. Even identical in the way their eyes scrunched up when dissolving into fits of laughter, giggling through cheeky and slightly lopsided smiles.
The only real difference was the look Wesley would shoot him whenever he met Erik’s eye, a cold stare that could curdle milk and turn a lesser man to stone. He’d never seen Charles make that face before. When Charles was angry, he puffed out like an irate pigeon, eyes cold as the chilled burn of ice and lips pursed in contempt. Nothing quite as crazed, quite as homicidal, as Wesley.
Wesley stuck annoyingly close to his twin, stealing the chair beside him at the dinner table and sitting practically shoulder to shoulder as Charles presented cartons of their delivered Chinese food. Erik sat heavily in the rickety spare chair and stabbed chopsticks into a glistening piece of Sweet and Sour Pork, eyes reduced to mere slits. Wesley returned the foul sentiment, gripping his own chopsticks like a dagger in one clenched fist.
“So what brings you to New York, Wes?” blissfully unaware of the silent fight raging between lover and brother, Charles expertly scooped up noodles, twirling them around his sticks.
Wesley shrugged a nonchalant shoulder, “Work.”
“Ah. Still in the bullet-bending assassination business?” Charles sucked a noodle past his smirking lips, sauce flicking a whiplash across his chin. Wesley snorted.
“Still in the stuffy old fart business?” he grinned when Charles nudged him in the arm with a gasp of mock indignation.
“I’m two minutes younger than you, my friend, don’t forget that.”
Wesley rolled his eyes playfully, “Like you would let me forget.”
“Well, one does tend to lose their memory with old age,”
“Hey, you’re not too young to go over my knee,”
“Not before your take your arthritis medication,”
“Right, that’s it.”
Erik watched in wide-eyed disbelief as the two twins launched into the most violent tickling match he’d ever witnessed, noodles and Kung Pao Chicken flying across the table. Charles was surprisingly savage, almost catching Wesley in the face with his chopsticks before the other twin knocked them out of his hand. The brothers laughed and bickered, Erik and the meal seemingly forgotten.
Erik rolled his eyes and continued picking at his food as another spring roll deftly flew past his ear. Suspicion burned a hole in his stomach, the food in his mouth bitter; Wesley seemed to know exactly where to touch his brother to leave Charles squirming and violently swatting at him. Even the spot just to the side of Charles’ lower back, the one Erik had found when running lips and tongue down the curve of his spine during the first exploring months of their relationship. Charles had arched up, gasped, turned to grab at Erik’s necktie and yank him back to the top of the bed — at least with Wesley, he was yelping and diving to take revenge on the man’s ribs instead of… well, the stuff he’d done to Erik.
Forcing himself to swallow the mouthful of thoroughly chewed Chinese food, Erik wearily dropped his chopsticks in the carton and stood up. Charles instantly turned to watch him, gripping Wesley’s wrists as they struggled toward his chest.
“Where’re you going?” blue eyes flicked over the half-eaten food, the sullen look on Erik’s face, brow creasing in concern, “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” Erik shrugged, tossed his food in the trash, “Just not hungry.”
Charles fought off Wesley’s inching hands and stood up, chair scraping on the kitchen tiles. Long since sundown, sleepy lamplight cast yellow-orange shadows over the telepath’s face as he followed Erik’s stubborn strides to the sink.
“What’s wrong?” A comforting hand on the small of Erik’s back, soothing circles through shirt fabric, “We were only messing around. Join in next time; it’d be nice to have someone to hold Wes’ arms down for me.”
“Yeah, Erik, join in.” Wesley’s eyes suddenly beside them, flashing dangerously as he dropped his empty glass into the sink. Oh sure, join in and give Wesley the perfect excuse to punch him in the face or stab him with a chopstick.
The second twin looked far too smug, almost feline as he slinked away with his hands in his pockets, flopping down onto the couch, “So where do I sleep?”
Erik couldn’t help his angry growl, his own glass falling with a tinkle of breaking glass.
Erik: 0. Wesley: 1.
(Find the rest here. Rated M, hence me not putting it up here…)