Das Haus am See: The Lake House Cherik AU (Part 1/3)
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A Lake House Cherik AU: Charles and Erik both lived in the lake house, Charles in 2017, and Erik in 2019. By magic or fate, the two find out that the house’s letter box is able to send letters through time - and, in doing so, the two fall in love despite living in two different years. They vow to meet in the future, but fate is fickle, and time waits for no one.
Chapter 1
Erik grunted as he hauled the last of his boxes into the back of his car, cursing under his breath when the boot struggled to close. After some rearranging, Erik managed to fit all of his belongings into the back, grateful that he had never been the type to hoard.
Pulling out a pen and paper, Erik leaned on the boot of his car, quickly scrawling a concise note to the future tenant of the lakeside house overlooking Chautauqua Lake.
To the new tenant,
Welcome. As the previous tenant, I hope that you find everything to be in working order. I’ve filed my change of address with the post office, but their services are unreliable at best. If anything slips through, could you please forward my mail? My new address is below.
Thank you.
Also, the burn in the wall above the kitchen stove was there when I moved in, as was the box in the attic. You can do whatever you want with that.
E. Lehnsherr.
Erik quickly folded the paper and shoved it into an envelope, licking the seal and sliding it into the slightly rusted red letterbox at the front of the house, flicking down the red flag on the box.
Erik took a moment to appreciate the house he has lived in for the past year and a half, corner of his mouth lifting. Erik took in the rustic red brick house with its blue-tiled roof, the white trimmed windows and flourishing green front lawn.
Early in the afternoon, the house was cast in a warm golden glow, light reflecting off the lake water in the distance. The house looked warm and lived in, a far cry from how it had looked when Erik had first moved in; barren, with wilting plants in pots hanging on the porch, grass yellowing, dust collecting on every antique piece of furniture inside it.
When Erik had first moved in, the lake house had been cold and barren, much like Erik himself. Erik had moved into the house a year and a half ago after everything with Magda had crumbled to pieces, the multiple miscarriages taking their toll and culminating in a messy divorce. Erik had felt dead inside, moving out of the suffocating city and taking temporary leave from his job as an estate planning lawyer to take some time to gather himself in solitude.
Erik had not thought that he would become so attached to the lake house, which was almost 7 hours by road from the hustle and bustle of NYC. Living alone in tranquillity had made Erik remember his childhood in Germany with his parents, of happier and calmer times. The house had helped him heal, and even though memories of Magda still made his heart ache a little, Erik had learned to shoulder it.
Erik gazed at the house fondly for a moment longer, before turning around to his car packed full of his meagre things, ready to make the trip back to the city and the real world, leaving this little slice of serenity behind.
***
Charles pulled up to his holiday home on the Chautauqua lakefront in his car (or “Rust Bucket” as his dear sister, Raven, endearingly called it). It was beyond Raven’s comprehension as to why Charles, a successful novelist, didn’t go and by himself a new car when he could obviously afford it.
In the end, Charles was sentimental, and clung to things longer than he should. That probably stemmed from the fact that, as a child, he hadn’t had much to hold onto, very little to hold dear. His father had died when he was young, and his step-father was controlling and over-bearing, leaving Charles little in the way of worldly possessions.
But, Charles had been given the gift of heart and wit, and with that, he had built a career in prose. Inspired by his difficult childhood, Charles had created a book series about disenfranchised outcasts with special powers – outcasts that were as extraordinary as they were feared, beautiful but distrusted. Charles wrote about outcasts who could stand up for themselves, to cement their place in the world despite being beaten down at every corner, who would persevere even in the darkest of times.
The series spoke to anyone who had been alienated, who had been mocked for being different. It had become a platform on social commentary, on racism and homophobia, on class struggle and the inequalities that run rampant in the world.
The final book in the “X” tetralogy had been published only recently, and Charles’s fans were eager to find out if the New York Times best-selling author Francis Graymalkin was writing anything new.
Unfortunately, Charles had fallen into a writing slump – after concluding the X series, Charles found himself lost. The X series had consumed his life for the past decade, and now that it was finished, Charles did not know what to do. He had half-formed ideas rattling around in his head, but none that really inspired him.
It had been Raven’s idea to go and do some ‘soul-searching’, as she called it. Charles assumed she had gotten the idea from her current partner, a star-sign-abiding hippie who claimed that she could see the future. Apparently, Charles getting out of NYC would do him some good, and Charles had been inclined to agree – a change in scenery may be what he needed to find his writing inspiration again, and if not, he could at least get a holiday out of it.
It had been after Charles’s first ‘X’ novel had reached critical acclaim that he bought the lakeside house. He hadn’t really understood what had drawn him to it so much, but something in his mind screamed at him to buy it. It had been a charming house, two-storeys and made of red brick. It was a somewhat old house too, but looked well-loved and charmingly worn. Charles, who lived in well-loved and charmingly worn cardigans and enjoyed nothing more than curling up in a blanket with a cup of warm tea had been smitten by the quant property immediately.
Charles didn’t know how long he would live in this lakeside house for, since he didn’t know how long it would take him to complete a new novel. Getting out of his car, Charles didn’t begin unpacking just yet. It had been years since he’d been to the property and he had hired someone to maintain it, but he wanted to look at it for himself.
Charles unlocked the door and took a turn about the spacious house; warm wooden interior, large bay windows that overlooked the lake, antique furniture that looked both mismatched and fitting in the same breath. Charles smiled to himself, running his finger along a dark marble countertop in the kitchen, before opening the large doors to the back veranda by the lake.
“Home sweet home,” Charles murmured to nobody but himself and the lake, which rippled in response as a gust of wind brushed across it. Charles breathed in and out, before walking back to the front of the house.
It was then that he noticed the letterbox’s flag was tilted down, and Charles blinked curiously – no one had lived in the lake house ever since Charles bought it nine years ago, and he knew that the caretakers wouldn’t be sending mail out from his address.
Charles opened the letterbox then, and inside was a single letter in crisp white paper that looked too fresh to have been sitting there for a long time. Holding the letter in his hands, neat and heavy-handed lettering with ‘To the resident’ on the front, Charles glanced around.
He was alone, the secluded house still and quiet.
Charles walked plonked himself down some low stone walling lining the outside of the house, ripping open the letter with his finger.
“Previous tenant?” Charles read aloud, frowning. Unless this letter was from someone living there a decade ago, it had to be a prank, or a mistake. Charles read on, raising a brow about the kitchen burn marks and the box in the attic. When Charles had walked around the house moments earlier, he hadn’t noticed anything amiss in the kitchen, curiosity beginning to bubble in his stomach.
Jumping up with vigour, Charles clutched the letter tightly as he headed directly to the kitchen, inspecting the wall that was supposed to be singed. Charles inspected his kitchen carefully, but there were no burn marks to be seen anywhere.
“A prank?” Charles mused to himself, looking back at the letter. “Box in the attic?”
Charles checked there too, but all he found there were cobwebs and dust, making him sneeze. Climbing back down from the attic, Charles chuckled at his fanciful beliefs. This E. Lehnsherr was either a jokester, or awfully confused.
Charles quickly threw the letter onto the kitchen table, not thinking too much about it, too busy moving his things in and unpacking the rest when the movers came – he always had a lot of things, never being able to let the things he treasured go.
***
It was a two weeks later that it happened.
Charles had never had the most skill in the kitchen, a simple stir-fry the extent of his culinary expertise. Today, he had been particularly scatterbrained, frustrated by his lack of creativity and being stuck writing the same three paragraphs over and over, not feeling inspired in the slightest. To top it off, Charles hadn’t slept particularly well – the nightmares of his childhood had tempered with age, but every now and then, they would make his nights hell.
Half asleep and dazed, Charles had taken his eye off his saucepan, the flames catching on some of his food and bursting upwards in a roaring flame. Charles squeaked, quickly turning off the burner and tugging the saucepan off the heat, singing his finger in the process. Charles hissed, jamming his finger under cold water as the flames died down.
Looking glumly at his smoky-borderline-charcoal dinner, Charles suddenly realised that the wall was burned.
‘Also, the burn in the wall above the kitchen stove was there when I moved in, as was the box in the attic. You can do whatever you want with that.’
“Impossible,” Charles whispered to himself, hastily turning off the tap, charred dinner forgotten. Charles stumbled over to his kitchen table that had become covered with paper, books and empty tea-cups, rummaging around for the letter he had haphazardly thrown there weeks ago. Under a water bill and his worn copy of Jane Eyre, Charles found the letter from E. Lehnsherr.
Coincidence?
Or fate?
Raven’s hippie girlfriend would definitely say fate, that it was written in the stars or in her tea leaves.
Whether it was mere coincidence or true, divine fate, Charles deemed that he should at least respond to the letter, considering E. Lehnsherr had left his new address. Scrounging up a pen from a pocket in his cardigan and ripping out some paper from the leather-bound notebook he always carried around, Charles wrote back.
January 21st, 2017
Dear Mr/Ms Lehnsherr,
I received your letter, but I believe there has been some sort of misunderstanding. I purchased this lake house nine years ago and have never rented it out in that time, leaving it empty for all of these years. Perhaps your letter was meant for the Sandburg cottage down the shore, since that, to my knowledge, has been unoccupied for years.
More importantly, I am curious about the supposed burn marks in the kitchen, for when I moved in the wall was pristine. Just moments ago, however, I was attempting to make a chicken stir-fry and singed the wall above the stove, just as your letter had said. How could you know about that, when it only just happened?
Kindest regards,
C. F. Xavier
Charles smiled at the letter, before carefully folding it up and sliding it into an envelope, placing it back into the letterbox and flicking the flag down.
Suddenly, he felt the urge to write. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure what he would write about, but it would stem from a mysterious letter from a man that seemed to know about things before they happened.
***
“Getting back into the swing of things, Sugar?” Emma asked as she slid into the chair opposite Erik in the breakroom, nursing an expensive cappuccino from the luxurious company coffee machine. Erik fiddled with his own plain black coffee, snorting.
“Estate law isn’t rocket science, Emma,” Erik said offhandedly, Emma chuckling as she flicked her long blonde hair off her shoulder, smoothing her crisp white silk blouse.
“Yes, but you’ve been out of action for almost two years. It would be normal to be a little rusty,” Emma replied, Erik shrugging. “And with your own experience, sometimes estate planning law can be… emotional.”
Erik gave Emma a warning glance, his co-worker encroaching on dangerous territory. Emma just smiled at him coolly, unfazed by his cutting gaze. Even though Erik was notoriously private and solitary by nature, people knew about his troubled marriage and the reason for his brief leave from work. Though Erik was no divorce lawyer, managing wills and estates after someone’s death had hit a bit too close to home, and even now, people walked around him on eggshells.
“It’s fine, Emma,” Erik responded, the woman humming as she sipped on her cappuccino. “It’s just numbers and law, nothing more.”
“Hm, heartless as always, Sugar,” Emma chuckled, getting up and patting Erik’s shoulder. “Seems like you have gone back to your usual self after your little retreat. Congratulations.”
Erik rolled his eyes, not feeling like he should be congratulated at all. He had always been somewhat emotionally detached – not emotionless, because Erik felt. Has felt. He loved Magda, greatly, and he had hurt when he lost her. He had also known hurt after all of their miscarriages, after the deaths of his parents. Erik, at this point, was used to loss.
That’s why estate planning law was, at times, hard – dealing with the affairs of those recently deceased and looking into the eyes of their mourning relatives, Erik could relate. After losing Magda, Erik had needed a break, to rebuild the walls around his heart.
And he had rebuilt them, or so he thought.
When Erik returned to his office after his break, he found his boss, Sebastian Shaw, waiting for him.
“Ah, Lehnsherr, there you are,” Shaw said, thin lips pulling back in a grin. Erik was not overly fond of his boss, who was too cut-throat at times, but that made him damn good lawyer. It was from him that Erik learnt to push clients and their opposition to get the most that they could, but a part of Erik could never quite meet Shaw’s callousness.
“What is it?” Erik asked, voice clipped. Shaw just grinned at Erik’s brusque tone, eyeing his best lawyer carefully.
“I know it’s only been a short time since you’ve been back working with us, but you were always my best. Our services have been requested to manage to estate of a high-profile client,” Shaw said, Erik’s eyes narrowing.
“If you’re coming to me with this, it must be a big client,” Erik said carefully, Shaw chuckling.
“Quick, as always. Yes, it is a big client. Do you know the author, Francis Graymalkin?”
“Author of the X tetralogy?” Erik asked slowly, heart thundering. Shaw nodded, and Erik frowned, heart squeezing. “He died around two years ago, though.”
Erik was a huge fan of Francis Graymalkin’s work, having read the first novel in the famous X series, ‘First Class’, just after it had been released. At that point, the book hadn’t gained the traction and fame it was now renowned for, but it had spoken to Erik deeply. Francis Graymalkin’s words were full of soul, witty at times, startlingly emotional at others. Through Francis Graymalkin’s words, Erik could feel his character’s pain and their elation, and though the political and social commentary was oftentimes naïve and pacifistic, Francis Graymalkin always made sure to touch on all sides of an argument. While he clearly lauded the integrationist perspective in his novels, he did not discount the separatist standpoint that one of his characters, Magneto, championed.
Francis Graymalkin’s work helped Erik through the pain of his mother’s death, which occurred a few months before the release of the second novel, which saw the characters persevering through a dismal future even when all hope seemed lost. The fourth book was what helped Erik get through the mess with Magda – ‘Phoenix’ touched on the loss of a character that the protagonist considered a daughter and the ramifications of that. The book ended on a note of hope, which Erik clung to.
Francis Graymalkin was notoriously private, not showing his face once, though he had penned numerous interviews over the years. Erik read every one of them, finding the man intriguing, sometimes snorting at his political views that so often contradicted Erik’s own but were so thoughtfully explained that Erik couldn’t discredit them at all. Even though Erik had never met Francis Graymalkin, nor had he ever seen the man’s face, the author had done more for Erik than anyone else before.
Erik had heard that the author had begun writing a new novel, and that he had been in the final stages of completing it before he died. Erik had been eager to read it, even if Francis Graymalkin said that it was vastly different from his previous work – a romance novel, of sorts, apparently. Sadly, reading it was now a dream that would be left unfulfilled, because Francis Graymalkin was dead, his story left unfinished.
“Yes, from memory it was a car accident two years ago. I think this it’ll be two years to the day in a month,” Shaw said, sounding cold and detached. Erik swallowed thickly, angry that the life of someone so inspirational had been snuffed out just like that by a simple hunk of moving metal. “Some new things have come to light in the man’s will. To put it short, a family squabble has erupted, and the man’s sister has hired our services. Since this is a high-profile case involving millions, I need you to take over the cases I’m currently working. I’m going to need to pour all of my effort into the Graymalkin estate proceedings.”
Erik wasn’t surprised that Shaw was hogging the Graymalkin estate, because Erik would’ve done the same if he were in Shaw’s shoes, though for entirely different reasons. Shaw liked high-profile, lucrative work, but Erik just wanted to see the affairs of one of his favourite authors realised as he willed it.
But, Shaw was his boss, and he had no reason to contest the man’s plan, not when his argument solely hinged on being a fan of Francis Graymalkin’s novels.
“Fine,” was all Erik said, Shaw clapping his hands together once, satisfied.
“Excellent! I’ll send you the details of the estates I’m settling after my meeting with Francis Graymalkin’s sister,” Shaw said, leaving Erik’s office with little else.
Erik sighed, suddenly feeling a lot more drained, and counted down the hours until he could go home. Erik suddenly felt the urge to just curl up in bed and read one of Francis Graymalkin’s novels. Remember the man’s death struck something in the German man, and it was almost funny how Erik immediately sought comfort in the dead man’s own books.
***
When Erik went home, he realised that his copies of Francis Graymalkin’s books were nowhere to be found. They weren’t in any of the half-unpacked boxes he had pushed against the walls of his newly built apartment, they weren’t in his bookshelf stacked with law tomes and other novels, and they weren’t anywhere in his car.
“Shit,” Erik muttered, shower-damp hair dripping down the back of his bare neck as he padded around his apartment, the smell of fresh paint still making his head spin a little despite airing out the room the day he moved in.
If the books weren’t here in his new apartment, they had to be at the lake house. Considering Erik drove straight from there to his new abode in NYC, that was the only logical option.
So, it was on that weekend, that Erik made the seven-hour (or six, at the speed Erik drove), trip back to the Chautauqua lake house.
Erik could have easily bought the series anew at a bookstore, but something about that idea irked him – his copies were well-read, dog-eared in spots, coffee stains dropped on some pages. The spines of the paperbacks were worn, and the covers faded, but they were familiar under the pads of Erik’s fingers, and reminded him of hours spent reading and coming alive through Francis Graymalkin’s words.
Erik wasn’t often sentimental, but Francis Graymalkin tended to stir up unfamiliar feelings in Erik’s soul.
Erik had contacted the real estate agency managing the property, who temporarily returned his keys to let him gather his final things – since Erik left a few weeks ago, only the young lady that apparently owned it had come here, but that things were in contention since there was some sort of dispute regarding the property’s true owner. Erik didn’t inquire too much about it, wanting to gather his books and make the drive home, not keen to spend more than a day on the road.
Erik found the box he had missed behind the couch, which had since been covered up with white cloth. The house seemed duller and emptier without inhabitants, and for some reason, it felt like the building was holding its breath. Waiting.
For what, Erik didn’t quite know.
Erik gave the house a silent farewell for a second time, loading the single box of books into his backseat. As he was getting into the car, Erik noticed the letter box’s flag was up, signifying that mail had been delivered. Considering Erik was the house’s last tenant, he cursed the post office’s shoddy work at listening to his change of address notice, getting back out of his car and trudging over to the metal contraption.
Opening it, Erik found a few bills that had slipped through his change of address notice, and some junk mail that he swiftly ignored. Erik was about to close the letterbox when he noticed a letter beneath a flyer for a local pizza shop – it was not the letter Erik had left there two weeks ago, and strangely, it was addressed to him.
‘To E. Lehnsherr,’ was printed on the front in elegant cursive, and Erik picked it up.
“What the hell?” Erik muttered, tucking his bills under his arm and ripping open the letter, grey eyes running from side to side as he read it, brow creasing. Then, Erik scoffed. Though its author was eloquent and polite, they seemed to be confused – an older individual, with dementia, perhaps. The letter was dated February 9th, 2017 – but, as Erik checked again, it was currently Saturday the 9th of February, 2019.
To be stuck two years in the past, this C. F. Xavier was either an idiot, or a poor, lost soul.
Even more ridiculous was the fact that this person (whom Erik assumed to be the lake house’s contentious female owner the real estate agent had mentioned visiting) thought that no one lived here, when Erik had literally moved out two weeks ago. C. F. Xavier must be confused, and Erik felt that he needed to correct the person, or at least give them a healthy dose of reality.
Erik walked back to his car, opening the box of books in his backseat to find some paper to write on. Erik found an old notebook, ripping out an empty back page before scribbling down a response to C. F. Xavier.
February 9th, 2019
Dear Ms Xavier,
I am familiar with the cottage that you mentioned, and I assure you that I did not mistake my own address. Unfortunately, you seem to be confused – I’ve lived at this lake house for almost two years, and have since moved to ---, NYC. It would be great if you could forward my mail to this address if you receive any.
And, by the way, it’s 2019. It has been all year – ask anyone.
Erik
Erik may have been a little aggressive by underlining 2019 so heavily, but he didn’t care too much, folding the letter inside the empty letterbox and flicking down the flag.
Walking back to his car, Erik suddenly heard the squeak of metal behind him, turning with a slightly startled jump.
The letter box’s flag was up.
Erik’s eyes darted around his surroundings, trying to look for the prankster, but it was quiet.
Then, the flag jerked itself down without a hand touching it.
Erik’s heart hammered, his long legs surging forward and his hands ripping open the letter box. The folded letter he had just placed in there had disappeared, and something else had replaced it. It was from the same paper C. F. Xavier’s initial note had been written on, and on it was the same refined cursive scrawl.
He had just received a reply from C. F. Xavier, a C. F. Xavier who was nowhere to be seen.
***
Charles almost screamed when he saw the flag move itself, blue eyes staring at the metal letterbox with a mixture of fear and rapture. Charles nibbled on the end of his pen, unblinking, waiting for the phantom to move the letterbox again.
“Come on, my friend…” Charles goaded the lake house phantom, gasping when, after a long, laborious length of time, the flag shoved itself down. “Good God.”
Charles opened the letterbox, and found that the paper he had placed face down only about five minutes ago was now face up, with E. Lehnsherr’s – Erik’s – distinct scrawl beneath Charles’s own lettering. Charles couldn’t help but laugh, breathless and giddy, reading the mysterious letter with excitement.
February 4th, 2017
Dear Erik,
My friend, I’m not sure about you, but it is the year 2017 where I am. You told me to ask anyone, and I did – I texted my sister and my friends, and they all assure me that it is indeed 2017.
While our incongruous dates are confounding, I am more intrigued as to how you are responding to me. I am not well-versed in practical jokes or magic, so may I ask, how are you doing this?
Yours,
Charles
P.S. I’m not sure what lead you to believe that I am Ms. Xavier, but I am usually addressed as Mr. Xavier. However, please just address me as Charles.
Charles,
I am as confused as you are – if anyone is the magician, it’s you. I’ve been watching this letterbox, and no one has touched it.
Erik
P.S. The real estate agent said that this property was owned by a woman. I didn’t mean to offend you, nor assume your gender.
Charles blinked, swallowing deeply. This was…
Amazing.
Charles sucked in a breath, planting himself on the grass in front of the letterbox, ripping a new piece of paper from his notebook and writing with fervour.
Erik,
Don’t worry, you did not offend me in the slightest, and even if you did, I’m rather pre-occupied worrying about the fact that we can even have this conversation.
My mind is fanciful by nature, and I can think of a few different scenarios that read like fiction – but, with what is happening, fiction seems to be our new reality. Since you are adamant that you are living in 2019, and I am even more sure that it is currently 2017, I’d wager that this letterbox is some sort of time-travelling device.
Either that, or I am going insane. Please tell me that I am not alone in my insanity, my friend.
Charles
Charles placed the letter in the letterbox, flicked the flag, and waited.
He did not have to wait long for a response.
***
Charles,
It seems that you aren’t alone in your insanity. But, I think I am more insane for thinking that your illogical logic is… logical. In case you are still in disbelief, I have a coin minted in 2018 – not 2019, but futuristic enough.
Erik
Erik grinned down at his response, pulling out a 2018 dime from his pocket and placing it atop the letter. Erik willed in his heart for the coin to be sent through smoothly, not sure about the limitations of this time-travelling device in the shape of a letter box. Erik waited for Charles’s response eagerly.
He, too, did not wait long.
***
Erik,
A dime from the future – how much do you think it would go for on the market? Some coin collectors can be positively rabid.
I joke, though. Erik, this is amazing. Whatever physics are at work here, I can’t even begin to explain it – I may have a degree in biophysics, amongst other things, but my knowledge on time travel tells me that the very concept is a myth. Science fiction. I’m not sure what I could send you to prove that I am indeed from the past, but it seems like you believe me thus far.
Here is a biscuit that’s expiring soon – in March 2017, to be precise. So, about a month from now (my time).
Charles
Before sending the letter, Charles had pat himself down, trying to think of something to give Erik but coming up empty – everything Charles had could be easily procured in the future. Still, Charles felt like he should send Erik something – in the end, he placed a plastic-wrapped biscuit alongside his letter, flicking down the flag as he held Erik’s 2018-minted dime in his palm, the metal warm.
***
Charles,
I’m sure you would be called a fraud if you tried to sell a dime from the future. Frankly, I think I would be the only person who would believe you.
And Charles, in your opinion, would the biscuit be safe to consume? Technically, two years haven’t passed in the biscuit’s lifetime.
Erik
***
Erik,
If I met you now, you wouldn’t believe me any way – because, for you, this conversation hasn’t even happened yet.
And that is marvellous to think about, isn’t it? Positively groovy. Also, please try the biscuit – if you become ill, let me know.
Charles
Erik let out a choked laugh, eyeing the biscuit he had left sitting atop the letter box. The thought that Charles had procured it and thoughtfully given it to Erik made something churn in the German’s belly. Whether that was a side effect of the strange warmth spreading in his chest or because his stomach pre-empted the food poisoning the expired-but-unexpired biscuit would give him, Erik couldn’t tell.
Still, Erik opened the plastic packaging, swallowing down the biscuit in two bites.
It was sweet.
***
Groovy? Really, Charles? How old are you?
I had pegged you for a senile old man at first, since you seemed to be stuck two years in the past – I think you just confirmed my suspicions.
(And the biscuit was delicious.)
***
Charles snorted at Erik’s response, not feeling offended but elated instead – Charles’s heart was thumping wildly, lurching ever time the letter box would rattle. Charles couldn’t stop the smile spreading across his face as he hastily penned a reply to his new friend.
A senile old man? You wound me, Erik!
And I’m 31. So, in your time, I would be 33. But, since you’ve made fun of me for my age, how old are you then? Twelve?
***
Almost. Triple it.
***
You’re 36 in 2019, then? So, you’d be a youthful 34-year-old right now.
***
Congratulations, Charles. You can do math.
Erik chuckled to himself, licking his lips as he sent the snarky and teasing response.
How long had it been, since Erik could speak with someone so easily? So naturally?
It had been a long time – maybe ever since Magda?
Or maybe even before that?
***
This infantile mocking is why I thought you were 12, Erik. But I do apologise – I shouldn’t make fun of my elders.
Charles wasn’t sure if he was teasing or flirting now – maybe a mixture of both. But, God, talking to Erik lit something inside Charles that had been dormant for a long time.
***
Who’s the child now? Are you sure you’re not in elementary school still, Charles?
***
I graduated from high-school when I was 16, actually. So, no, I am far from being in elementary school, my friend. Unfortunate, because I think we could have become great friends in the playground, considering we are both apparently 12-years-old.
***
I have no doubt about that, Charles.
But, you mentioned that you have a degree in biophysics?
***
Well, a PhD in biophysics, to be precise.
Erik’s eyebrows went up when he read Charles’s response. The man had sounded educated in his responses, but this was impressive. Charles was an intellectual, and that was something Erik appreciated. Still, he felt the need to tease the (slightly) younger man.
***
Are you bragging?
***
No, my friend. If I were bragging, I’d tell you about my other PhDs in genetics, anthropology and psychology. Oh, and my meagre Bachelor’s degree in English.
Erik choked when he read Charles’s reply, grey eyes bulging. Gott, Charles was a genius. Was he even real?
Time travelling was one thing, but someone like Charles Xavier – funny, intelligent, cheeky Charles Xavier – existing?
Erik could hardly believe it.
***
So, you’re a 12-year-old child genius then?
***
You’re the one who said it, my friend. Not me.
What about you? What did 12-year-old you grow up to become?
Charles wanted to know more about this man who lived in the future – sure, Charles was curious about other things about the future unknown to him, like world events, new technologies, political intrigue – but more than that, he wanted to know about the man who lived in it.
A man that, in what was a handful of minutes that spanned two years, Charles felt bound to.
Raven’s girlfriend was, maybe, right about something.
***
A lawyer, specialising in estate planning law. No PhDs here, so I have nothing to brag about.
***
You’re selling yourself short, Erik. I’d wager that it isn’t easy becoming a lawyer, having to pass the bar amongst other things. Not to mention the fact that your job involves professional arguing – I enjoy a good debate myself, but I could never become a lawyer.
Erik smiled at that. He could feel that Charles’s words were genuine and spoken from the heart. There was something about the way he wrote that made it seem like he bore his heart on the page, something that Erik had always struggled with.
But, talking to Charles like this, Erik felt lighter.
***
And I could never complete 4 PhDs. Oh, and a bachelors in writing – how could I forget?
***
Why do I feel like you’re mocking me again, my friend?
***
Because I am.
***
Hmph – that’s the noise I made just then. It’s a shame that you can’t hear it in person.
And God, Charles wanted to hear Erik’s voice. To speak with him – but sadly, he was two years too early.
***
What if I could?
Erik’s heart hammered – Gott, he wanted to hear Charles’s voice. He wondered if Charles’s voice would match his gentle, elegant cursive. If it did, he imagined Charles to be soft-spoken, maybe with a posh accent. For some reason that seemed to match Charles’s written voice well. But, from what Erik could tell, Charles had a mischievous streak – the man was surprising, in every way.
***
What do you mean?
***
What if I called you, in my time?
Charles almost dropped his pen when he read Erik’s words, eyes widening to blue saucers.
***
You mean, in the future?
***
That’s another way of saying it.
***
Very well, I’ll bite. Here’s my number: XX XXXX XXXX
Call me.
Erik found himself breathless all of a sudden, staring at the string of numbers.
Charles’s number.
Erik hadn’t felt like this since he was actually 12-years-old.
***
Is this how you give people your number in bars, Charles?
“Are you flirting with me, Erik?” Charles asked himself incredulously, though his cheeks coloured.
‘God, I hope you’re flirting with me, my friend.’
***
No, usually I just skip that step and take them home.
But enough stalling, Erik – have you called future me yet?
Erik couldn’t help the surprised laugh that erupted from his throat. Charles, Charles, Charles.
***
Not yet – Charles, I will call you at precisely 3:05pm on Monday, the 9th of February 2019. Which, for me, is a minute from now.
“I’ll be waiting,” Charles vowed to no one but himself, wondering where he would be in two years, waiting for Erik to call. Would he be back home in NYC, tucked away in his office? Or would he be at his publisher’s, excusing himself from a meeting with his editor, Moira MacTaggert, to answer Erik’s impending call in private?
Or, maybe, Charles would have tried to surprise Erik. Charles could surprise him by showing up at the lake house, since he knew that Erik was there, right now.
Why hadn’t Charles done that already?
***
Alright. I’ll be waiting for your call, Erik.
Erik’s hands were shaking as he dialled Charles’s number, double and triple checking to make sure the digits were correct.
He pressed call.
The phone rang for a few beats, and then a few more, and then for many, many more. Eventually, the robotic female voice told Erik that Charles did not pick up, and Erik’s heart fell, disappointment flooding him over a man two years away.
Erik didn’t know what to do, and ten minutes passed – there hadn’t been this much of a lag between their sent letters, and Erik was surprised when the letter box flag jerked up and then down.
Erik hastily checked it, pocketing his phone once again.
Have you called future me yet, my friend?
***
I did – you didn’t pick up, you asshole.
Charles frowned. He hadn’t picked up? Why hadn’t he picked up?
Future Charles, you idiot.
***
Well. I’m disappointed in future me. Something must have held me up. I do apologise, my friend. Please believe me when I say that I want nothing more than to answer your call.
Gosh, I’m making excuses for a me that doesn’t exist yet.
But, please, Erik – trust me when I say that I am very sorry.
***
Erik sighed, reading Charles’s message over and over. He did seem awfully apologetic, and maybe he was right – even though this was now for Erik, for Charles it was two years in the future. Many things could’ve changed for the man in that time. He could have simply forgotten, he may have moved countries and changed time zones, or maybe, knowing Charles, he overworked himself getting a 5th PhD and was passed out over his desk.
Erik noticed that the sky was beginning to glow orange, sunset approaching, cursing under his breath. If he didn’t start driving home now, it would be well past midnight by the time he got back to his apartment.
No apologies needed, Charles. Two years is a long time, and I’m sure you were just busy – working on your 5th PhD, perhaps?
And, sadly, I have to leave now – I was only here to pick up some books that I had left behind. I’ve got to drive back to NYC now.
***
Charles read Erik’s letter, frowning. Was this it, then?
Charles didn’t want this to be it.
Oh, that’s sad news, my friend – this conversation with you, no matter how brief, has meant more to me than you know. I’m not sure what magic is at work here, but I will be here in a week’s time. I would very much like to speak to you again, Erik, if you wanted.
Charles waited with bated breath, hands pressed together tightly as he eyed the letter box flag.
Up.
Down.
Charles opened the letter box, surprised to find Erik’s letter wedged between the pages of a worn book – The Once and Future King.
I’d also like to speak with you again – this… means a lot to me, too. I hate to leave so soon, but I’ll give you this to help pass the time before I can return. It’s my favourite novel – considering you have a bachelors in English, you may have already read it, but still.
Until next week, Charles.
Charles laughed, fingering the pages of the book before dropping his forehead to its cover, breathing in the smell of old pages and something like cologne.
Erik’s cologne.
“I’ll be waiting, my friend,” Charles whispered, getting up and walking back into the lake house, not waiting a moment before going into the study and booting up his laptop, which was open to the novel he had begun working on when he had first received a reply from Erik.
“Days of Future Past – by Francis Graymalkin”.
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