Archive of Our Own

“Charles?”

“Yes?”

“What is that?”

“That is a picnic basket. And it’s not a that. It’s a…well, it’s a picnic basket.”

Erik studied the object in Charles’s hands with suspicion. It was, indeed, unmistakably a picnic basket. Oblong. Wicker. Red and white cloth peeking out at the top. What sort of a person actually owned a picture-perfect picnic basket?

The sort of person you happened to fall in love with. That was his own thought, no one else’s; Charles would have said it in a very different tone.

He eyed the basket, and Charles’s face, and made a decision: he might be doomed to a life of storybook outings at this point, but if birds and woodland creatures started singing along with Charles, he was leaving. There had to be a line somewhere.

Charles grinned at him, cheerful and unrepentant. “I’m always happy to know you love me. Now, come on.”

“Where are we going?”
           
“You’ll see.”
           
The late summer sun spilled over them with sleepy afternoon heat. It was just enough to counteract the edge of chill in the air; fall might be approaching rapidly, but this day, for now, remained luxuriously warm.
           
Erik trailed after Charles as they climbed the hill behind the mansion. He had, of course, made his way up there before; he’d memorized the grounds within two days of arrival, out of habit. As far as he could recall, he’d decided that this hilltop would be a perfect location for someone with a sniper rifle. He suspected that Charles had something else in mind, however. It probably didn’t involve heavy artillery.
           
Of course, one never knew. Either way, he was prepared.
           
That settled, he went back to watching Charles. It was a nice view.
           
“I can hear what you’re thinking, Erik.”
           
Erik just shrugged. As far as he was concerned, none of those thoughts required an apology.
           
Charles turned around, briefly, to smile at him, and then kept walking up the hill.
           
“Do you actually know where we’re going?”
           
“Yes. Don’t worry.”
           
“I worry when you say that.”
           
Charles led them over the crest of the hill, where tall grass brushed against Erik’s legs, and found a spot just on the other side where the downward slope flattened out into a natural shelf, just big enough for two people.
           
The sky stretched out above them, clear and cloudless and brilliant. It looked crystalline, as if, tapped with a fingernail, it would ring like a bell.
           
Charles stopped walking, and the tall yellow grass billowed up around them in the wind. Like ocean waves, if oceans came in wheaten gold.
           
“If that’s you in my head, that’s far too poetic, Charles.”
           
“Actually, I was thinking about you, so whatever you’ve been thinking, they are, in fact, your thoughts.” Charles settled down in the grass. Little bits of thistle clung to his sweater, and to his entirely impractical fingerless gloves. Mostly fingerless; they had thumbs. Erik was baffled by this, and, oddly, intrigued. They drew attention to the movements of Charles’s animated hands.
           
He sat down, too, and watched Charles take a multitude of things out of the picnic basket. “Do you want help?”
           
“No. Enjoy the view.”
           
“Oh, I am.”
           
“Not that view,” Charles said, and went back to hunting for whatever it was he was trying to find. “Just…look around.”
           
Erik tore his attention away from the distracting gloves for a minute, and tried to see the hillside the way that Charles might see it.

Charles had, probably, brought him up here in order to learn something, some obscure point about himself and his abilities for which their surroundings might serve as a metaphor; Charles often thought that way, in metaphor, through illustration, as if enough imagination could lead to a breakthrough leap of understanding. What would Charles want him to see?

The earth, beneath him, radiated warmth even through layers of clothing. Erik picked up a broken blade of grass and toyed with it, just to give his hands something to do. He had coins in his pocket, and they hummed little metal melodies at him, but he left them alone for the moment and wove the grass into a circle instead.

A paradox, perhaps. An oasis of calm, isolated from the world—he couldn’t see the mansion, or, in fact, any nearby buildings from their particular location—but also always in motion. The movement of the grass. The sounds of the wind. No, he was not being poetic. Damn Charles and his infectious way of seeing beauty in everything.
           
Beside him, Charles made a happy sound of success, unwrapped something that looked like candied pineapple, and put at least three pieces in his mouth in one bite.
           
“Aren’t those supposed to be some sort of dessert?”
           
“How terribly conventional.” Charles handed over a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. “Here, open this.”
           
“Ah. You’ve brought me out here to exploit my abilities for personal gain.” Pop! went the cork.
           
“Guilty as charged. I forgot to bring cups, I’m sorry. We’ll have to drink out of the bottle.”
           
“If you insist.” Erik knew next to nothing about wine, but this one tasted like summer, crisp and flowery and sweet. Also strong. “That’s…interesting.”
           
“Yes, you should probably eat something.” Charles fished around in the picnic basket. “Roasted chicken?”
           
“Did you actually make this?”
           
“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not useless in the kitchen. I—er—inadvertently picked up some things from our chef, over the years. He always thought very loudly about recipes, and I rather enjoyed hiding out in a place where my stepfather refused to set foot.” Charles gave a little shrug with his eyebrows, as if dismissing his last comment as unimportant, and ate another piece of pineapple. Erik watched his hands move. “I’m just usually perfectly content to be lazy. What about you? Any unsuspected culinary talents?”
           
Erik contemplated that for a few seconds. The answer was yes, technically, but he wasn’t sure that his skills with improvised tools and scavenged ingredients would translate well to someone who hadn’t spent years hopping from unsavory place to unsavory place. “No.”
           
“Oh…sorry.” Charles might have been reading his mind, or just his tone. Erik couldn’t tell.

He took another sip of the flowery wine, and studied Charles for a minute, under the sunlight. “Why did you decide to indulge your hidden talents today, then?”

Instead of answering right away, Charles plucked the wine bottle out of his hands, and took a rather large drink. Erik thought this over.

“…Charles, are we on a date?”

“Er, yes?”

Oh. Well. Damn.

Erik had never actually been on a date, but if Charles wanted to, he was willing to give it a try. But weren’t there rules for this sort of thing? Social conventions? He watched Charles licking sugar, remnants of the pineapple, off of his fingers. Probably it would be against the rules to tip Charles over into the warm grass and remove every stitch of clothing that separated their bodies.

Maybe Charles wouldn’t mind.

But Charles had actually put effort into this picnic. He’d made chicken. Erik sighed. He’d probably mind.

Charles glanced up, caught Erik’s gaze, and turned pink. Erik raised an eyebrow.

“I wasn’t peeking, I promise. It’s just…well, you’re looking at me in a way that isn’t exactly subtle, you know, Erik.”

Ah, so subtle was one of the rules. Fine. He could manage that.

He leaned over and stole a piece of pineapple out from under Charles’s fingertips. Charles regarded this theft with a mixture of amusement and dismay. “I was eating that.”

“I know. What am I supposed to look at, then? Trees? The clouds?”

“Hmm…I’ve always liked looking at the grass up here, actually. The way it moves in the wind. Resilient, always bending down and back up, without breaking. Like ballet dancers. Graceful.”

Erik looked at the grass, because really, after that, how could he not? He didn’t see ballet dancers, but there was something compelling in the breath of the wind, the smooth ripples that spread out across the hillside in shades of gold.

Charles leaned back on his elbows, tipping his face up into the sun. “I used to come up here, sometimes, when I was younger. When I needed an…escape from the noise. It’s quiet, up here.”

Erik could picture it: a skinny little boy with unruly hair, sitting hidden behind the tall hilltop, all alone under a wide sky the color of his eyes. A memory? Or just imagination? Either way, he was glad that Charles had shared it with him.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t realize we were on a date.”

“Entirely forgiven. Eat the chicken. I’ll have you know I burned my thumb in the process, too, so I expect you to appreciate the effort.”

“You did? Where?” Erik picked up the hand closest to his own. It looked perfect to him, but he couldn’t actually see the thumb in question.

“Other hand. Don’t worry, it’s fine.”

“Is that why the gloves?” The skin of Charles’s fingers, warmed by sunshine, felt dangerously inviting; Erik ran a fingertip over his palm, which was still covered in wool. “Can I take these off?”

“Yes, by all means…and, no, there’s not really a reason why; I just happen to like them. Don’t you?”

“I like the way they look. I don’t like not being able to touch you.”

“Ah.” Charles offered both hands, and let Erik peel off his gloves, slowly, finger by finger. Around them, the grass whispered softly to the wind. The sunlight turned little specks of airborne dust into flying pieces of gold.

Erik paused, spotting the small angry red mark near the base of one thumb. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Good.” Erik bent his head, brushed his lips across wounded skin. Charles shivered. Erik…

And subtle was suddenly very much not a consideration. Neither were the social conventions of being on a first date.

Charles tasted like candied pineapple and sweet wine and warm sunshine, and Erik licked sugar out of the curve of his lips and thought delicious and mine, and Charles tugged them both over into the grass and said yes, please. At some point Erik stopped to pull off both their sweaters, wanting more, needing to feel Charles’s skin beneath him, around him, everywhere.

You can have my pants, too.

Don’t be impatient, Charles, I’m working on it.

He hesitated for a second, once he had Charles completely naked, stretched out in the grass like a daydream of debauchery. Some part of Erik still couldn’t believe that he was real, that he—no, they, he and Charles were a they, and wasn’t that amazing—were allowed to have this. This moment. This perfection. What had he done, in his life, to deserve this?

Oh, Erik…sometimes you’re simply allowed to be happy.

You make me happy, Erik told him. It was true.

The simple fact of it warmed the air between them. It felt like kisses and sunbeams and the scent of the superheated summer grass.

You could make me very happy NOW, Charles said hopefully, and Erik laughed and started moving, tasting various areas of sun-heated skin until he reached the specific spot Charles had in mind.

Was that what you wanted?

Oh definitely yes. Charles reached out, wrapped his fingers around Erik in return. Erik thought about those fingers, about the little burn mark that was evidence of how much Charles cared about making a perfect day for them, and had to forcibly stop himself from finishing certain things far too early.

Don’t, Charles murmured, and arched up against him, and it hit them both at the exact same time, an explosion of ecstasy and heat and light. Happiness. Love.

Afterwards they lay stretched out together in the grass, exhausted, content. The breeze traced its way across warm skin, cooling, relaxing. Charles rested his head on Erik’s shoulder, and tangled their feet together.

“I think there might be grass in my hair.”

“There is.” Erik didn’t bother to help. He rather enjoyed seeing the results of his efforts.

“Hmm.” Oh, well. I like the grass.

I know you do. I think I do as well.

Charles laughed, the sound muffled by Erik’s shoulder. “I suppose we should get dressed…”

“And eat. As I recall, I was instructed to appreciate your cooking.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Charles sat up. “Though I think I’ve been sufficiently appreciated for now, thank you.”

“Have you?”

“Well…perhaps you can remind me later tonight.” Charles started looking for articles of clothing; after a minute, Erik got up and did likewise.

“Have you seen my gloves?”

“No.” They were safely ensconced in Erik’s pocket.

“They’re in your pocket.”

“How…surprising.”

Charles had found the pineapple again, but paused to grin at Erik. “Very well, you can keep them. I have more.”

The chicken was, in fact, delicious. Erik hadn’t realized how hungry he was. “Charles?”

“Yes?”

“There’s still grass in your hair.” Thank you.

“I know.” For what?

“I definitely like it.” For… a wonderful date.