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Charles owned an annual pass to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, not because he was an art connoisseur by any means, but because there were certain things that one with his name were expected to have when one's sister was an art student; the 20k Charles dropped for the membership felt justifiable when he heard Raven's squeal of joy.
As a professor at Columbia, genetics department, free time was difficult to come by, and even if Charles did by happenstance stumble upon some, it was spent catching up on the latest issue of Nature or Genetics, and answering any outstanding emails from his student mentees.
It was a rather pleasant change of scenery when he found himself, on a sunny Saturday morning, waiting upon the steps of the Met for Raven. He had promised to have lunch and a coffee with Raven for weeks now, but had kept pushing it back until Raven declared Saturday a 'no-work-day-or-so-help-me-Charles' day. And Charles could never say no to Raven in the history of ever.
"Charles! Over here!" Charles looked up from where he had been futzing about on his phone and a warm smile spread over his lips when he caught a glimpse of Raven. She looked ever so stylish in her embroidered skirt, strawberry print blouse and a giant floppy sun hat.
"Hello, darling sister of mine," he greeted warmly, kissing her cheek, and then linking arms with her as they walked in through the door. "I stick out like a sore thumb here." To which Raven merely laughed in agreement as she pulled him towards the Ken Price Sculpture exhibition.
She eventually got fed up with him taking so long with each art piece -- Charles couldn't help it, he liked analysing every angle and it was difficult not to read every word on the little plaques when the artist has clearly put so much thought into their work -- and bussed a quick kiss to his cheek before disappearing into the crowds, leaving Charles to wander at his own pace.
Charles managed to get lost inside the giant labyrinth, attempting to locate the Greek Art section - a detour that he had meant to take, Charles vehemently convinced himself - and found himself at the Cantor Roof Garden.
Ahh yes. The stainless steel balloon dog in a yellow glossy lacquer was exactly what he had been looking for.
There Charles went on the hunt for the nearest plaque when he accidentally bumped into someone. Ah! He must have accidentally mowed over one of the old curators that were known to still possess extremely good eyesight and supersonic hearing, and wouldn't hesitate to use their ninjutsu stalking abilities to prevent small children from knocking over, or touching, or spitting, or other children-ly things to priceless pieces of art. Or so Charles had been told.
"I do beg your pardon--" The rest of his sentence got clogged up in his throat, for he hadn't run over one of the shorter curators like he had initially expected, but bumped into a taller someone wearing khaki-coloured chinos, a magenta turtleneck, and one of those trendy brown leather jackets that made men who could pull it off look stunning.
Charles was most certainly stunned. "Oh!"
'Yes. Well done, Charles', he thought, 'losing possession of eloquence in the face of someone that looked like he had been carved from marble with a jaw that Michelangelo himself surely chiselled, couldn't possibly be considered a smooth move.'
Turtlenecked guy looked amused, a handsome smirk playing on the corner of those lips. Well. Better amused than angry as the saying went, or didn't.
"Can I help you?"
Oh, fiddlesticks! What was that low gravelly purr that he was hearing? It was like liquid chocolate and velvet, wrapped up in a blanket of exotic animal furs in this decidedly not American accent. (Where was Charles going with that analogy? He had absolutely no idea, but he was attracted.)
And because Charles had always been unerringly polite, his manners kicked in. Because introductions. Introductions were necessary. "Hello, I'm Charles." Please be single. Please be interested in men. Please say you are Charles-sexual.
"Erik." A hand, the right hand, was pulled out of turtlenecked guy's jacket pockets and hovered in the space in between them. Those were a very lovely set of hands and there was no ring present. Good. Very good even. And look at the length of those fingers. Why they would be very nice stuck--
Charles dragged his tongue over his lips. Jumping the gun there a little aren't we, Xavier?
"I dare say, I would shake your hand, but I read on the way into the Met that touching masterpieces was strictly forbidden."
Erik blinked at him, his mouth falling a little way open as he stared. Oh. EYCL1 on chromosome 19 for Green/blue eyes. Could this man get any more attractive?
'Probably', his mind hissed. 'You haven't checked out what's lurking in his pants yet.'
'Yes. Thank you very much for your input', Charles mentally replied, getting a little flustered. He had snuck a peek there - hanging left, commando, sweet deities above - he was most definitely not been disappointed on that front. 'No one asked you. Oh god, am I going to get punched in the face? Please not of the fist kind. I wouldn't mind if he punched me in the face with his face though. Repeatedly even. With tongue.'
And then, after a good long minute: "Does that actually work, Charles?" Erik asked, which was good because it was decidedly not a 'I'm-not-gay'.
"How about I tell you in the morning." Charles threw in a cute cheeky grin, heart pounding loudly in his chest underneath his oxford shirt and best (read: frumpiest) cardigan.
‘You might scare Erik away!’ his mind hissed. ‘And god, this isn't just a one-night stand. Or at least we hope not.’
‘Quickly, amend! Amend!’
"And the morning after that, and the one after next."
"So confident that I'd stick around after we're done?" Oh. Erik's dropped an octave lower, and since when was he standing so close that he could feel the heat emanating off him? They were almost toe-to-toe and Erik's proffered hand had landed lightly on Charles' wrist.
"I've been told I make fantastic pancakes. Legendary pancakes in fact. With strawberries and cream if you aren't deathly allergic to either."
"Mm," Erik hummed, looking extremely contemplative. "I do like pancakes and cream. But only if I get to eat them served on nice boys like you." This close, Charles could see that Erik's pupils were dilated. Oh. That's definitely a good sign that Erik was Charles-sexual.
"Oh. Well-- I'm flexible," Charles paused. "Both figuratively and physically. I'm sure that can be arranged."
Erik chuckled, low and full of promise. "You make sure to let the chef know."
"I'd be delighted to," Charles murmured as he leant up on his tippy toes and kissed the handsome stranger.
* * *
Meanwhile, Raven was fuming at the downstairs coffeeshop and would later tell all of their mutual friends who would listen about the time she got stood up by her own brother because he was far too busy playing tonsil hockey with a complete stranger who looked like a serial killer, and really no one could blame her when presented with photographic evidence of Erik’s winning - ‘winning’ - smile, and ready to devour Charles whole.
Charles wouldn’t even have the audacity to correct her. He would still be far too busy playing tonsil hockey with Erik, only this time they would be on the couch.