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When Erik wakes he is alone.
He rolls over, squinting through the sunlight splashing across the bed, throwing his hand out to blindly pat at the other side. The sheets next to him still hold a faint warmth, so Charles can’t have left long ago. He lets his metal-sense ripple outwards, objects pinging through his awareness until he reaches the edges of the house; the heavy weight of Charles’ wheelchair is resonating within the kitchen.
He takes a moment to bask in the warm silence, before hauling himself out of bed for breakfast.
As he descends the great staircase, Erik picks up on the low murmur of voices.
“Good morning.” He muffles a yawn as he rounds the corner.
“Morning!” Comes the chorus of voices. Charles is at the head of the table, and he gives Erik a bright smile in greeting.
Erik moves to take a seat, idly scanning in the faces arrayed before him.
Hank, expression confused, wiping crumbs and smears of butter out of his fur with a damp cloth.
Alex and Scott, trying to muffle their snickers behind their hands as they flick bits of toast at him.
Behind him, the metal-heavy presence he knows is Logan lurks close to the wall. He still doesn’t quite trust their sincerity, but Erik’s sure Charles will fully get through to him soon. No one can resist his boundless energy for long.
Jean, watching over the chaos with a faintly amused smile, book floating next to her at eye level.
Unfamiliar face, knife and half a hand deep in the jam jar.
Kurt, eating diligently as his tail twists and reaches behind him to grab at—
Wait a minute.
Erik narrows his eyes suspiciously as he turns back towards the figure he didn’t recognise, pausing halfway through the act of sitting down. The very last seat at the end of the table is occupied by a small child, perhaps 10, 11-ish, and entirely unfamiliar.
He wonders for a moment if he somehow forgotten the number of kids, counting up the familiar faces. 1, 7, 13—he was right, that kid was not here yesterday. There could be only one culprit.
“Charles,” he starts, voice dripping with exasperation.
“Yes, dear?” Charles takes a sip from his tea, face carefully neutral as his eyes flick towards him.
“Charles, you can’t keep collecting children. Where did you even find this one?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Charles says, the picture of innocence. “I haven’t taken in any new students recently.”
Wordlessly, Erik gives a gesture towards the end of the table, and the wide guileless eyes blinking back at him.
“Andrew?” Charles tips his head. “Erik, Andy has been here for at least a year, are you feeling okay?” His face knits in concern.
“I can’t believe you would forget one of your own kids,” Hank says, voice laced with disbelief. Scott is shaking his head slowly, somehow conveying the sense of a disappointed scowl even through the glasses.
When the rest of the table reacts the same, he turns—a little desperate—to Logan. The man gives an impassive shrug. “Don’t know what to tell ya, Lehnsherr."
Erik looks back at the child—Andy?—and thinks. He doesn’t think he could forget any of their kids, their family.
He wouldn’t, right?
Erik was sure he didn’t recognise Andy, but he was looking at him with such hurt and pitiful eyes, like he really had somehow forgotten one of his own.
Fuck. Charles did take in so very many children. Maybe he did look a little familiar…?
He’s on the verge of wrangling together an apology when he catches the smirk ghosting over Charles’ face, some faint presence brushing the outskirts of his mind.
That cheeky little—!
“Charles!” he squawks, whipping around to fix his husband with a betrayed glare. The entire table bursts into raucous laughter.
“Can’t believe we almost had you!” Alex has his hands behind his head as he hoots, leaning back on his chair in a way that will almost certainly end up with him on the floor.
Erik turns to shoot daggers at everyone else. “And you lot, can’t believe I’ve been betrayed by my own kids.”
“Most of us are adults, y’know, you can’t call us kids forever.” Jean points out, smiling wider now.
“Ah, you’ll always be our kids.” Charles answers for him, and Erik just has to lean in to kiss the grin from his lips, before he abruptly remembers why they were talking about this in the first place.
“Did you really just try to gaslight me into believing I’d forgotten a whole child?” He says in disbelief, and Charles is already halfway to the door.
“You—get back here—” The little corner of his mind that idly bears the weight of Charles’ wheelchair flares to life and he tugs on the humming metal, yanking a laughing Charles back into his arms.
Their eyes meet, and the world goes a little hazy. Erik wrenches his gaze away, a faint blush staining his cheeks.
Not now, Charles, he chastises in his head, feeling the mental equivalent of a hand running down his spine and dipping below his waistband.
Truly, he’d like nothing more than to sink into that dreamlike plane, where it’s just him and Charles and the noises they can pull out of each other. But it is already rather late in the morning, and his stomach is getting rather insistent with its complaints.
Later, he promises, letting his intentions seep into his thoughts until he sees heat rise in Charles’ face too.
He gives Charles a light push to his own place, rolling his eyes at the whispered “they’re doing that staring thing again” and finally takes his seat.
Erik sits down with his family—one person bigger—and serves himself breakfast.