skull_bearer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
skull_bearer) wrote2013-03-17 09:03 pm
skull_bearer) wrote2013-03-17 09:03 pm
Diaspora Chapter Five
Diaspora, Chapter Five
Title: Diaspora Chapter Five
Author: Skull_Bearer
Rating: G
Word Count: 4,620
Warnings: None
Summary: What if Erik's family got out of Europe while they still could?
The weather changes, and soon Erik is no longer huddling in his bed under a pile of blankets, and looks longingly at the skylight over his bed. It’s getting warm, and his little room is right under the roof.
Oh well, he can always close it again before his father comes up. Erik doesn’t want to sit here in the airless room sweating in his underclothes. It’s not as though he’s about to climb out. The latch is stiff and rusty, for a moment Erik thinks it’s locked, but no, there’s no keyhole, it’s just stuck. He pulls at it, but it doesn’t move. It’s far too small to try and move it with two hands.
Erik yanks at it, and the latch slips painfully out of his hand, Erik swears in Yiddish and shakes his hand, glaring at that farsholtn stuck latch-
It clicks open at once.
Erik freezes, still clutching his hand. The latch is hanging easily open; as though all Erik needed to do was ask. Almost without thinking about it, he takes a shuffling step back, then another, then the back of his knees hit the bed and Erik sits down hard.
The latch is still open, hanging free. Erik lets go of his wrist and lifts his hand to push his hair out of his face.
The latch twitches.
Erik freezes again, then moves his hand from side to side. Like a charmed snake, the latch follows the movement.
Erik pushes himself away until his back hits the wall and he can’t get any further away. He’s suddenly very cold, despite the heat, and the latch shivers. Erik looks down at his hands, they are shaking.
This cannot be happening.
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Dinner is surreal. He’d left the skylight unopened and had gone down only when he’d been called down. The usual babble of noise met him, along with the smell of vegetable soup. He slides into his usual seat, and draws in what feels like the first real breath he’s taken since the latch opened.
"It's not in the city, and the pay is nothing but-"
“I know Elias." Mother's voice is soft. A spoon lands in front of Erik, pewter, battered and bent in the handle. The clink it makes reverberates in Erik’s ears into a low buzzing.
"Just to be outside again, even if it isn't every day-" Or maybe the buzzing had always been there, and Erik had just never paid attention to it before. Thought it was normal.
“You work so hard, the gardeners will have you on full time soon enough,” Erik runs his hand under the table, remembering how his father had shown them how to pile iron filings on a plate and put a magnet under it, and when you moved it, the filings followed it.
"We'd be lucky, there are no jobs for men here, I hope Erik- Erik, what are you doing?"
Erik’s head jerks up and feels his face flush with instinctive guilt. The spoon scrapes as it follows his hand under the table. “Nothing.”
“What are you doing with that spoon?”
“Nothing.” Erik picks it up, and it thrums in his hand, as though happy to be held.
The moment is mercifully interrupted by their mother, who sets down a heavy pot, one of their relics from Poland, on the table. The black iron growls like a bear in Erik's head. There is quiet as everyone sits down and is given a bowl of soup along with a heavy spoon. Erik looks down at the spoon, wondering if it would mind being eaten with. There is no response.
“Are you going to eat that?” Mina’s hand sneaks in Erik’s line of sight. The spoon clearly has a mind of its own because before Erik can stop it, it raps across Mina’s knuckles.
“OW! Erik! Mother!”
“Mina, leave Erik’s soup alone. Erik, apologise to your sister and eat your soup.”
Erik considers blaming the spoon, but his mother would be unlikely to accept that.
“I’m sorry.” He grumbles.
“Thank you.”
Erik looks down at his bowl of soup. It’s thick with potatoes and carrots and cracked wheat. Deciding that if the spoon was okay with hitting his sister, it wouldn’t mind taking a bath in soup, Erik dips it and tucks in.
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It’s their last day at school, and Erik walks in as awkward as he had on his first day. Charles is waiting for him in their usual place and smiles when he sees Erik.
Erik considers telling him about the latch and the spoon, and how if he listens in the right way he can hear the buildings sing to each other. He hadn’t considered telling his family, even Elsa. He loved them, but it was too close, too raw. But with Charles, it felt safe.
"This... thing happened yesterday." Erik starts, once they're safe behind the school shed. Charles blinks and motions for him to sit down and continue: they still have time before schools starts.
Erik continues "I was trying to open the skylight in my room, and the latch was stuck." Erik raises his hands and God, even thinking about it, he can feel it again. The metal in the railings, the nails in the shed beside them, a lone paperclip lying on the ground. He draws in a breath and continues. "I opened it without touching it."
Charles, wonderful, wonderful Charles, doesn't say 'are you sure' or 'you were just imagining it', he just looks thoughtful and hugs his knees. "You wanted it to open, and it just opened?"
"Yes." No need to mention the wrestling match he'd had with it before.
"Do you think you could do it again?"
Erik looks at his hand, remembers the spoon last night and then, suddenly, the last time they were here, when the shed collapsed. He can feel the nails in the wood like he can feel the spaces between his teeth. "I think so." Charles cocks his head at Erik and he continues, "I could feel it, even though I wasn't touching it. I can still feel it."
"Just the latch?"
"No, everything. Metal things. I can hear them- feel-" Erik breaks off. He couldn't have explained this in Polish, in English the words are far beyond him.
Charles doesn't say anything. He doesn't even look at Erik. For a while they just sit there in silence, staring at the wall of the shed in front of them. Then, finally, Charles speaks. "I think I can hear what people are thinking."
Erik stares at him, and he continues, voice distant and a little lost, as though he doesn't quite believe what he's saying either. "Sometimes I can hear things that people haven't said. Like voices. Sometimes it's like I can talk back. I think-" He breaks off, looks at the ground. "I think that's why Alan and those boys left us alone that time. With the chess set. I told them to go away." Charles touches the side of his head. "In here. I told them there wasn't a chess set and to go away. And they went."
Erik... has no idea what to say to that. It sounds completely stupid. It sounds like something from the games he and his sister used to play in the forest, where they played at being wood spirits and calling up animals of the woods, and pretending it was all because of them that a squirrel happened to turn up or a bird landed on a branch. Charles plays these games too, like being spies...
Except Erik knows what it feels like to do something totally impossible. He knew it was real because he could feel it. Could still feel it.
"Can you read my mind?" Erik almost doesn't mean to speak, the words just come out.
Charles blinks slowly, long lashes drifting together to open again, showing bright blue eyes. Erik can't look away for a moment, and his mouth is suddenly dry. "I don't know." For the first time since Erik's known him, Charles looks uncertain. "I can try."
But before they can do anything, the bell rings and they have to go inside.
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With the hot frustration of being interrupted, it’s only halfway through their first class that Erik realised that they probably won't get another chance to talk about this, since Charles doesn’t live in the city and Erik probably won’t see him again until after the holidays. The thought drops an iron ball in his stomach.
He wants to ask Charles if he’ll come to the city during the summer, but the words stick in his throat. He doesn’t want to sound so desperate to see him, as though he didn’t have any other friends. Which he doesn’t.
And maybe Charles is right about being able to read minds because at that moment Charles looks up from where he’s been scribbling down about some old Greek they’re supposed to be learning, and smiles at Erik. It’s such a bright and dazzling smile that it steals any breath Erik could have said anything with.
He ducks his head closer to whisper, “Are you doing anything on Saturday? Because Cain always wants to come into town and I could come too, if you want to meet up.”
Charles says it so easily, as though he’s not at all bothered by what Erik might think. Erik feels a bit embarrassed really: after all, neither of them have any friends beside each other. Pretending otherwise is a bit of a waste of time.
He should say no, it’s shabbos and they’d be going to the new synagogue Erik’s uncle has found and where they now attend. Then there would be dinner at their uncle’s flat, and then home for Erik to sit and read like a good boy. Like every week. As though Erik wasn't capable of something impossible and this might be the last chance could have to share it with Charles before school starts again in September.
Surely God can spare Erik for a day?
“What do you want to do?” Erik murmurs back.
The thought of the quiet of the synagogue and the chatter of his family suddenly pales in the light of Charles’s smile.
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The thought of sneaking away on shabbos is nerve racking, and Erik really hopes Charles is alone with his ability to read minds because he's sure he's shouting his plans inside his head. Instead he tries to be as invisible as possible when he comes in.
Everyone's in, even his uncle and cousins, which is strange because it's not dinnertime yet. And Father's standing by a big box on the table. Erik walks over and looks at it. It's raw yellow pine, with "LEHNSHERR" stamped on it in big black letters. Erik's father lets him look it over with a broad smile. It was strange to see him smile. Strange but good. It's been so long. "What is it?"
"Some presents from Poland." He holds out a little bundle of letters. "These are for you."
Erik takes them, the top one is in Grandfather's stark black cursive. For a moment it's like Erik's been kicked in the stomach. The writing, the greetings, the beautifully written Polish. It's a hundred worlds away from the gloom and noise of gravelly English of New York. He wants to be there again. It would be summer and he and Elsa could go for walks in the wood, and camp outside when the weather got really hot. They could catch fish for dinner and after dinner Erik could go visit Grandfather and maybe he could show how well he played chess now.
To his horror, Erik realises he is about to cry.
He manages not to. He swallows a boulder that somehow got lodged in his throat and gives his father a croaky "Thanks."
Father steps forward to open the case, and Erik tries to wipe his eyes without anyone noticing. No luck.
"Er-ik's crying!" Mika crows, "Mama! Erik's crying!"
Erik spins around, suddenly furious. He wants to hit her, to make her shut up. He wants to take one of the hairclips she wears and stick her-
"OW! Maamaa!"
"Mika! Erik, what did you do?"
"He stuck me in the head!"
"I didn't!" Erik protests, but his mother must have the same sort of trick Charles has because she doesn't believe him at all.
"Erik, apologise to your sister. Mika, we all miss the family, and you cried as well when you got your letters-"
"Who's writing to you?" Erik snaps at his little sister.
"Erik! Enough. Apologise or you'll both go to your rooms."
They both mumble their 'sorry's' and go back to the dining table where father is wrestling the nails open. Erik could help, but he's still smarting from the telling off and just stands there, arms crossed and sullen.
The box open with a crack, nails pulling free from wood, and even Erik's wounded pride is not enough to stop him from clustering around with the rest of the family to see what riches have been sent from Poland.
The box is a treasure chest, an Aladdin's cave of lost wonders. There are great-grandmother's famous preserves, the ones she never sells but which are kept for Purim or Chanukah when everyone eats themselves silly on sweet summer plums and strawberries so soft they almost melt.
There are knitted sweaters for all of them, so thick Erik feels like he's sweating just looking at them. His is in a soft blue-grey.
There are a few books, mostly for Erik, but a few for Moshe as well. His six year old brother accepts them with great solemnity. There are two dolls for the twins, who sniff and say they're too old for dolls before eyeing each other's jealously.
There's a soft leather-bound journal for Elsa, who laughs and gives it to Moshe. There's wool and knitting needles for Mother, and a new leather coat for Father. There's so much Erik is amazed it could all fit in one case.
And there are four beautifully embroidered tallisim. One for Father, one for Uncle, one for a cousin, and one for Erik. Erik runs the fabric between his fingers. His old one was coarse and rough, but this one is smooth with age. Father looks up from examining his and looks at Erik's.
"That was your great-grandfather's. My grandfather's. He wanted my eldest son to have it. We'd have given it to you on your Bar Mitzvah, but-" He sighs, breaks off, and pulls it around Erik's shoulders. Smiling. "You're a man now, Erik."
Erik looks down at the shawl, so soft and heavy, then up at the smiling faces of everyone around him. And he thinks about how they'd look if they knew what he was planning to do tomorrow. He wishes the ground would open and swallow him.
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Erik is so jumpy that he barely sleeps, waking when the morning is still grey and everyone still asleep. He crept downstairs barefoot, shoes in hand to avoid waking anyone. He still hasn't learnt where all the squeaky boards are.
The pine box is still in a corner of the kitchen where they left it last night. It's empty, but it seems to reproach Erik all the same. Even nails are tinny traitorous whines of how bad he's being.
"Shut up." Erik mumbles and grabs a sheet of paper and a pencil. He scrawls gone out with a friend, back for dinner and weighs it to the table with a spoon. It'll make the twins extra-happy, thinking about how he's going to be punished when they get home. Oh well.
Erik closes the door with a click, puts his shoes on, and rattles down the stairs at a run. He's on the early morning tram before he considers that there is probably no way Charles will be there at this time of the morning. He'll be waiting outside the school for hours, and what is he going to do for breakfast- Erik checks his pockets, he's got enough for a sandwich, but he's already getting hungry and that probably won't be enough.
But Erik gets off the tram and Charles is there. In fact he looks like he's been there for a while already, sitting in a ray of newly-risen sunlight and napping. He opens his eyes when Erik gets off the tram and smiles. "You're early!"
"So are you." Erik smiles, he can't help it, there's something about that broad grin that's infectious.
Charles just shrugs and gets up, and Erik wonders if this is part of Charles' reading-minds thing. He probably knew Erik was going to come early before Erik did.
"Do you want to get breakfast?" Charles dusts himself off, "I know a really good place around the corner, and it's cheap."
"Yes please." Erik rubs the back of his neck, suddenly feeling awkward. "I don't have much money," Unlike Charles, who brings enough lunch for half the class.
Charles shrugs, "I don't have much either. I've usually spent my allowance by now. It should be enough for something nice though."
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'Something nice' ends up being two bagels each and a French roll they share between them, sweet and buttery and dunked in honey, in a small corner bakery Erik would have walked past without a second thought. Charles seems to be a regular because the owner just smiles a little sadly when he sees him and is already reaching to prepare the bagels. "Another late night Charles?"
Charles just nods. They sit on high stools looking out into the street and Erik is suddenly very conscious of Charles' knee pressing against his. In the middle of everything - these strange abilities they think they have, the sheer trouble Erik's going to be in when he gets home - this is what he can't stop thinking about. The soft pressure, the warmth of contact, the way it shifts when Charles moves to get more comfortable on the stool.
Charles breaks the silence first, looking up from his roll. "Do you want to show me?" A little hesitant.
Erik doesn't have to read minds to know what he means. He looks around to find something he can use, and picks up a fork. He puts it down between them and looks at it. It's light, much lighter than the knives and forks at home. Its trill is so high-pitched he has to strain to hear it and it has a buzzing sensation, like his teeth are vibrating.
He lifts a hand and holds it over the fork, concentrating. When he moves his hand, the fork follows, scraping against the Bakelite table top. He squints a bit and the fork lifts off the table, balancing on its prongs.
Charles gives a soft noise and Erik looks at him; he's all wide-eyed wonder and the sight makes something wonderful bloom in Erik's chest. He concentrates again, waggles his fingers and the fork lifts two of the prongs off the table, balancing on just one, a flick of his wrist and it changes, two prongs with one in the air. He switches, faster and faster until the fork looks like it's doing to can-can and Charles laughs in sheer delight.
"What are you doing?" The baker's voice cuts in and the fork falls to the table with a clatter. Erik runs a hand quickly over it, straightening the prongs.
"Nothing sir!" Charles calls back, but he's still smiling like the sun and it's entirely worth whatever punishment Erik's parents have waiting for him just to see Charles smile like that. "That's amazing." He whispers to Erik, eyes shining.
"I haven't tried to do much else." Erik whispers back. "This is the most I've done."
"It's still amazing." Charles touches Erik's hand, as though he can feel how Erik does it with his fingers. The contact shoots a bolt of electricity through Erik, as though Charles is charged with static. Charles doesn't seem to notice, "We need to go to Coney Island and try the slot machines."
Erik's only heard of Coney Island, and hasn't so much as seen a slot machine, but it sounds like fun. Still- "Now you."
Charles' smile falls and Erik wishes he hadn't said anything, just to keep Charles smiling like that-
"It's nothing like yours. I don't even know if mine's real or not." Charles rubs his knuckles on the table top, not meeting Erik's eyes. "I could just be hearing voices."
"You're not mad." Erik frowns, suddenly alarmed.
"I don't know. I could be." His eyes drop further, staring at the floor. "They all think I am." It's mumbled but Erik catches it.
"I don't think you are. You're not." Crazy people throw teapots at their family and refused to change their clothes for weeks like great-uncle Isaac. While Charles is still wearing the same clothes as yesterday he's yet to throw porcelain at anyone. "Show me?" He takes a bite of bagel.
Charles swallows, and nods. He leans forward and puts his fingers to the side of his head. "Think of something, and I'll try and guess what it is."
Erik blinks, mind suddenly going blank as he chews. He has no idea what to think about. There's a moment of uncertain failing before the knowledge of how much trouble he must be in comes back like one of those Australian things they'd learnt about in geography- boomerangs. They must be all on their way to synagogue by now, and they must all be so mad at him. Well, mother and father would be, Else is probably annoyed he didn't invite her, the twins would be over the moon with how much trouble he's in, Moshe would have that self-righteous superior look that was adorable at five and is getting really annoying at six. They're all going to have to explain to the Rabbi why Erik isn't there and they're all going to be so disappointed-
"Oh." Charles covers mouth with his hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't think. I'd forgotten that Saturday was your holy day. I hope you're not in too much trouble."
Erik stares at him, wondering if he's accidentally said it all out loud. But he couldn't have because his mouth is still full of half-mashed bagel. He swallows with difficulty. "You saw that?" His voice comes out as more of a croak.
"I saw that you were worried your family was going to angry because you missed- what was it? Your church?"
"Synagogue." Erik helps.
"Thanks, it's not just words, it's pictures and things." He looks at Erik with those impossibly blue eyes. "I was right?"
Erik nods. He frowns and thinks very hard of opening the latch in his room two days ago. "Try now."
Charles concentrates, then smiles. "Is that how-"
Erik nods, smiling back eagerly.
"I could feel it- like you can. You can almost hear it, I didn't realise." Charles is looking at lot happier. "There must be metal everywhere, in the city. Can you show me-?"
Erik closes his eyes and listens, feeling the dog-whistle vibrations of the aluminium cutlery, the slightly lower whisper of the chrome in the seats, the sweet trill of the radio's copper wires, broadcasting smooth jazz, and below that, the bedrock-deep roar of the buildings around them, steel as strong as mountains, holding the world together.
He opens his eyes, and Charles has his closed. He opens them slowly. "That's wonderful." He murmurs. "You're really lucky. It can get a bit - crowded - in here." He taps the side of his head.
"You can come to listen at any time." Erik offers, "I don't usually pay attention, but it's always there."
Charles nods. "I won't poke around or anything, you don't have to worry."
"Thank you."
They sit in silence, finishing their roll and bagels. Erik breaks it first, "I didn't always hear it."
When Charles looks at him, he continues, "I only really noticed when I first came here. On the boat and in the skyscrapers. I thought it was normal."
"Did you tell anyone?" Charles's voice is soft.
Erik frowns. No, he's never thought to. "No." he admits.
Charles looks down at the last scrap of roll he's spreading with honey. "I did at first. I thought it was something everyone did, and no one ever bothered to tell you when you were small, like believing in Santa Claus."
Who? Erik wonders, but brushes the thought aside.
"I told them, and they thought I was mad. They made me see a doctor and I had to pretend I was normal." He stops talking, stops moving, and for a moment looks so small Erik just wants to comes close to him and surround him and keep him safe. "I thought I was the only one."
"You're not." Erik's voice breaks halfway through, dropping to a low growl. "And if there's two of us and we meet just because we're at the same school, there must be others. It's just more likely."
"I don't think it's just luck." And Charles' hand is brushing his again, and it's like the world's suddenly decided to stop turning, and it's just them, for a long, endless moment, sitting in sunny diner in Manhattan, hands touching.
Then it breaks, and Charles stands up. "Come on, let's go to Coney Island. Maybe you can win us enough money to pay for picture tickets."
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They spend half an hour in Coney Island, enough time for Erik to figure out how to tell the coins in the machines to jump out and they go from one machine to another to make sure no one works out what they're doing. They take their bag of quarters to the nearest cinema and go in to see a film about gangsters.
Erik's a bit lost in the plot but Charles explains it to him in whispers and by the halfway mark he's up to date and enjoying himself thoroughly. They stay in and watch another film, something boring and dreary about some old teacher. The cinema is almost empty and they talk happily about films until that one ends and they can go and watch the gangster one again.
It's late when they leave, and they're both starving. They go back to Coney Island and buy hot dogs from a stand to eat on the beach. They're both sitting on the jetty and Erik is quite sure that no matter how much trouble he'll be in this evening, it will be all worth it. He's never had a day like today.
"Erik?" Charles' voice is cautious. Erik smiles, he doesn't think he could stop smiling if he tried. "Do you think we could play the slot machines again? I don't have enough money to get a cab home."
Erik blinks. "Isn't a car coming to pick you up?"
"That's only on school nights. On holidays I have to pay a cab."
Charles paid to get down here knowing he didn't have enough money to get home? Erik no longer feels bad about skipping synagogue; if Charles wanted to meet here so badly, it was worth it. And of course he was desperate to meet, Erik was the only person he could talk to about reading minds who wouldn't try and lock him up. No wonder he risked it.
Erik smiles, "Of course Charles."
He takes enough money that the owner thinks they're cheating and chases them off, but Charles has enough dimes and quarters to get home, and come back on Monday. Hopefully the owner won't be there, and they can get enough to go on a rollercoaster.
Title: Diaspora Chapter Five
Author: Skull_Bearer
Rating: G
Word Count: 4,620
Warnings: None
Summary: What if Erik's family got out of Europe while they still could?
The weather changes, and soon Erik is no longer huddling in his bed under a pile of blankets, and looks longingly at the skylight over his bed. It’s getting warm, and his little room is right under the roof.
Oh well, he can always close it again before his father comes up. Erik doesn’t want to sit here in the airless room sweating in his underclothes. It’s not as though he’s about to climb out. The latch is stiff and rusty, for a moment Erik thinks it’s locked, but no, there’s no keyhole, it’s just stuck. He pulls at it, but it doesn’t move. It’s far too small to try and move it with two hands.
Erik yanks at it, and the latch slips painfully out of his hand, Erik swears in Yiddish and shakes his hand, glaring at that farsholtn stuck latch-
It clicks open at once.
Erik freezes, still clutching his hand. The latch is hanging easily open; as though all Erik needed to do was ask. Almost without thinking about it, he takes a shuffling step back, then another, then the back of his knees hit the bed and Erik sits down hard.
The latch is still open, hanging free. Erik lets go of his wrist and lifts his hand to push his hair out of his face.
The latch twitches.
Erik freezes again, then moves his hand from side to side. Like a charmed snake, the latch follows the movement.
Erik pushes himself away until his back hits the wall and he can’t get any further away. He’s suddenly very cold, despite the heat, and the latch shivers. Erik looks down at his hands, they are shaking.
This cannot be happening.
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Dinner is surreal. He’d left the skylight unopened and had gone down only when he’d been called down. The usual babble of noise met him, along with the smell of vegetable soup. He slides into his usual seat, and draws in what feels like the first real breath he’s taken since the latch opened.
"It's not in the city, and the pay is nothing but-"
“I know Elias." Mother's voice is soft. A spoon lands in front of Erik, pewter, battered and bent in the handle. The clink it makes reverberates in Erik’s ears into a low buzzing.
"Just to be outside again, even if it isn't every day-" Or maybe the buzzing had always been there, and Erik had just never paid attention to it before. Thought it was normal.
“You work so hard, the gardeners will have you on full time soon enough,” Erik runs his hand under the table, remembering how his father had shown them how to pile iron filings on a plate and put a magnet under it, and when you moved it, the filings followed it.
"We'd be lucky, there are no jobs for men here, I hope Erik- Erik, what are you doing?"
Erik’s head jerks up and feels his face flush with instinctive guilt. The spoon scrapes as it follows his hand under the table. “Nothing.”
“What are you doing with that spoon?”
“Nothing.” Erik picks it up, and it thrums in his hand, as though happy to be held.
The moment is mercifully interrupted by their mother, who sets down a heavy pot, one of their relics from Poland, on the table. The black iron growls like a bear in Erik's head. There is quiet as everyone sits down and is given a bowl of soup along with a heavy spoon. Erik looks down at the spoon, wondering if it would mind being eaten with. There is no response.
“Are you going to eat that?” Mina’s hand sneaks in Erik’s line of sight. The spoon clearly has a mind of its own because before Erik can stop it, it raps across Mina’s knuckles.
“OW! Erik! Mother!”
“Mina, leave Erik’s soup alone. Erik, apologise to your sister and eat your soup.”
Erik considers blaming the spoon, but his mother would be unlikely to accept that.
“I’m sorry.” He grumbles.
“Thank you.”
Erik looks down at his bowl of soup. It’s thick with potatoes and carrots and cracked wheat. Deciding that if the spoon was okay with hitting his sister, it wouldn’t mind taking a bath in soup, Erik dips it and tucks in.
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It’s their last day at school, and Erik walks in as awkward as he had on his first day. Charles is waiting for him in their usual place and smiles when he sees Erik.
Erik considers telling him about the latch and the spoon, and how if he listens in the right way he can hear the buildings sing to each other. He hadn’t considered telling his family, even Elsa. He loved them, but it was too close, too raw. But with Charles, it felt safe.
"This... thing happened yesterday." Erik starts, once they're safe behind the school shed. Charles blinks and motions for him to sit down and continue: they still have time before schools starts.
Erik continues "I was trying to open the skylight in my room, and the latch was stuck." Erik raises his hands and God, even thinking about it, he can feel it again. The metal in the railings, the nails in the shed beside them, a lone paperclip lying on the ground. He draws in a breath and continues. "I opened it without touching it."
Charles, wonderful, wonderful Charles, doesn't say 'are you sure' or 'you were just imagining it', he just looks thoughtful and hugs his knees. "You wanted it to open, and it just opened?"
"Yes." No need to mention the wrestling match he'd had with it before.
"Do you think you could do it again?"
Erik looks at his hand, remembers the spoon last night and then, suddenly, the last time they were here, when the shed collapsed. He can feel the nails in the wood like he can feel the spaces between his teeth. "I think so." Charles cocks his head at Erik and he continues, "I could feel it, even though I wasn't touching it. I can still feel it."
"Just the latch?"
"No, everything. Metal things. I can hear them- feel-" Erik breaks off. He couldn't have explained this in Polish, in English the words are far beyond him.
Charles doesn't say anything. He doesn't even look at Erik. For a while they just sit there in silence, staring at the wall of the shed in front of them. Then, finally, Charles speaks. "I think I can hear what people are thinking."
Erik stares at him, and he continues, voice distant and a little lost, as though he doesn't quite believe what he's saying either. "Sometimes I can hear things that people haven't said. Like voices. Sometimes it's like I can talk back. I think-" He breaks off, looks at the ground. "I think that's why Alan and those boys left us alone that time. With the chess set. I told them to go away." Charles touches the side of his head. "In here. I told them there wasn't a chess set and to go away. And they went."
Erik... has no idea what to say to that. It sounds completely stupid. It sounds like something from the games he and his sister used to play in the forest, where they played at being wood spirits and calling up animals of the woods, and pretending it was all because of them that a squirrel happened to turn up or a bird landed on a branch. Charles plays these games too, like being spies...
Except Erik knows what it feels like to do something totally impossible. He knew it was real because he could feel it. Could still feel it.
"Can you read my mind?" Erik almost doesn't mean to speak, the words just come out.
Charles blinks slowly, long lashes drifting together to open again, showing bright blue eyes. Erik can't look away for a moment, and his mouth is suddenly dry. "I don't know." For the first time since Erik's known him, Charles looks uncertain. "I can try."
But before they can do anything, the bell rings and they have to go inside.
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With the hot frustration of being interrupted, it’s only halfway through their first class that Erik realised that they probably won't get another chance to talk about this, since Charles doesn’t live in the city and Erik probably won’t see him again until after the holidays. The thought drops an iron ball in his stomach.
He wants to ask Charles if he’ll come to the city during the summer, but the words stick in his throat. He doesn’t want to sound so desperate to see him, as though he didn’t have any other friends. Which he doesn’t.
And maybe Charles is right about being able to read minds because at that moment Charles looks up from where he’s been scribbling down about some old Greek they’re supposed to be learning, and smiles at Erik. It’s such a bright and dazzling smile that it steals any breath Erik could have said anything with.
He ducks his head closer to whisper, “Are you doing anything on Saturday? Because Cain always wants to come into town and I could come too, if you want to meet up.”
Charles says it so easily, as though he’s not at all bothered by what Erik might think. Erik feels a bit embarrassed really: after all, neither of them have any friends beside each other. Pretending otherwise is a bit of a waste of time.
He should say no, it’s shabbos and they’d be going to the new synagogue Erik’s uncle has found and where they now attend. Then there would be dinner at their uncle’s flat, and then home for Erik to sit and read like a good boy. Like every week. As though Erik wasn't capable of something impossible and this might be the last chance could have to share it with Charles before school starts again in September.
Surely God can spare Erik for a day?
“What do you want to do?” Erik murmurs back.
The thought of the quiet of the synagogue and the chatter of his family suddenly pales in the light of Charles’s smile.
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The thought of sneaking away on shabbos is nerve racking, and Erik really hopes Charles is alone with his ability to read minds because he's sure he's shouting his plans inside his head. Instead he tries to be as invisible as possible when he comes in.
Everyone's in, even his uncle and cousins, which is strange because it's not dinnertime yet. And Father's standing by a big box on the table. Erik walks over and looks at it. It's raw yellow pine, with "LEHNSHERR" stamped on it in big black letters. Erik's father lets him look it over with a broad smile. It was strange to see him smile. Strange but good. It's been so long. "What is it?"
"Some presents from Poland." He holds out a little bundle of letters. "These are for you."
Erik takes them, the top one is in Grandfather's stark black cursive. For a moment it's like Erik's been kicked in the stomach. The writing, the greetings, the beautifully written Polish. It's a hundred worlds away from the gloom and noise of gravelly English of New York. He wants to be there again. It would be summer and he and Elsa could go for walks in the wood, and camp outside when the weather got really hot. They could catch fish for dinner and after dinner Erik could go visit Grandfather and maybe he could show how well he played chess now.
To his horror, Erik realises he is about to cry.
He manages not to. He swallows a boulder that somehow got lodged in his throat and gives his father a croaky "Thanks."
Father steps forward to open the case, and Erik tries to wipe his eyes without anyone noticing. No luck.
"Er-ik's crying!" Mika crows, "Mama! Erik's crying!"
Erik spins around, suddenly furious. He wants to hit her, to make her shut up. He wants to take one of the hairclips she wears and stick her-
"OW! Maamaa!"
"Mika! Erik, what did you do?"
"He stuck me in the head!"
"I didn't!" Erik protests, but his mother must have the same sort of trick Charles has because she doesn't believe him at all.
"Erik, apologise to your sister. Mika, we all miss the family, and you cried as well when you got your letters-"
"Who's writing to you?" Erik snaps at his little sister.
"Erik! Enough. Apologise or you'll both go to your rooms."
They both mumble their 'sorry's' and go back to the dining table where father is wrestling the nails open. Erik could help, but he's still smarting from the telling off and just stands there, arms crossed and sullen.
The box open with a crack, nails pulling free from wood, and even Erik's wounded pride is not enough to stop him from clustering around with the rest of the family to see what riches have been sent from Poland.
The box is a treasure chest, an Aladdin's cave of lost wonders. There are great-grandmother's famous preserves, the ones she never sells but which are kept for Purim or Chanukah when everyone eats themselves silly on sweet summer plums and strawberries so soft they almost melt.
There are knitted sweaters for all of them, so thick Erik feels like he's sweating just looking at them. His is in a soft blue-grey.
There are a few books, mostly for Erik, but a few for Moshe as well. His six year old brother accepts them with great solemnity. There are two dolls for the twins, who sniff and say they're too old for dolls before eyeing each other's jealously.
There's a soft leather-bound journal for Elsa, who laughs and gives it to Moshe. There's wool and knitting needles for Mother, and a new leather coat for Father. There's so much Erik is amazed it could all fit in one case.
And there are four beautifully embroidered tallisim. One for Father, one for Uncle, one for a cousin, and one for Erik. Erik runs the fabric between his fingers. His old one was coarse and rough, but this one is smooth with age. Father looks up from examining his and looks at Erik's.
"That was your great-grandfather's. My grandfather's. He wanted my eldest son to have it. We'd have given it to you on your Bar Mitzvah, but-" He sighs, breaks off, and pulls it around Erik's shoulders. Smiling. "You're a man now, Erik."
Erik looks down at the shawl, so soft and heavy, then up at the smiling faces of everyone around him. And he thinks about how they'd look if they knew what he was planning to do tomorrow. He wishes the ground would open and swallow him.
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Erik is so jumpy that he barely sleeps, waking when the morning is still grey and everyone still asleep. He crept downstairs barefoot, shoes in hand to avoid waking anyone. He still hasn't learnt where all the squeaky boards are.
The pine box is still in a corner of the kitchen where they left it last night. It's empty, but it seems to reproach Erik all the same. Even nails are tinny traitorous whines of how bad he's being.
"Shut up." Erik mumbles and grabs a sheet of paper and a pencil. He scrawls gone out with a friend, back for dinner and weighs it to the table with a spoon. It'll make the twins extra-happy, thinking about how he's going to be punished when they get home. Oh well.
Erik closes the door with a click, puts his shoes on, and rattles down the stairs at a run. He's on the early morning tram before he considers that there is probably no way Charles will be there at this time of the morning. He'll be waiting outside the school for hours, and what is he going to do for breakfast- Erik checks his pockets, he's got enough for a sandwich, but he's already getting hungry and that probably won't be enough.
But Erik gets off the tram and Charles is there. In fact he looks like he's been there for a while already, sitting in a ray of newly-risen sunlight and napping. He opens his eyes when Erik gets off the tram and smiles. "You're early!"
"So are you." Erik smiles, he can't help it, there's something about that broad grin that's infectious.
Charles just shrugs and gets up, and Erik wonders if this is part of Charles' reading-minds thing. He probably knew Erik was going to come early before Erik did.
"Do you want to get breakfast?" Charles dusts himself off, "I know a really good place around the corner, and it's cheap."
"Yes please." Erik rubs the back of his neck, suddenly feeling awkward. "I don't have much money," Unlike Charles, who brings enough lunch for half the class.
Charles shrugs, "I don't have much either. I've usually spent my allowance by now. It should be enough for something nice though."
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'Something nice' ends up being two bagels each and a French roll they share between them, sweet and buttery and dunked in honey, in a small corner bakery Erik would have walked past without a second thought. Charles seems to be a regular because the owner just smiles a little sadly when he sees him and is already reaching to prepare the bagels. "Another late night Charles?"
Charles just nods. They sit on high stools looking out into the street and Erik is suddenly very conscious of Charles' knee pressing against his. In the middle of everything - these strange abilities they think they have, the sheer trouble Erik's going to be in when he gets home - this is what he can't stop thinking about. The soft pressure, the warmth of contact, the way it shifts when Charles moves to get more comfortable on the stool.
Charles breaks the silence first, looking up from his roll. "Do you want to show me?" A little hesitant.
Erik doesn't have to read minds to know what he means. He looks around to find something he can use, and picks up a fork. He puts it down between them and looks at it. It's light, much lighter than the knives and forks at home. Its trill is so high-pitched he has to strain to hear it and it has a buzzing sensation, like his teeth are vibrating.
He lifts a hand and holds it over the fork, concentrating. When he moves his hand, the fork follows, scraping against the Bakelite table top. He squints a bit and the fork lifts off the table, balancing on its prongs.
Charles gives a soft noise and Erik looks at him; he's all wide-eyed wonder and the sight makes something wonderful bloom in Erik's chest. He concentrates again, waggles his fingers and the fork lifts two of the prongs off the table, balancing on just one, a flick of his wrist and it changes, two prongs with one in the air. He switches, faster and faster until the fork looks like it's doing to can-can and Charles laughs in sheer delight.
"What are you doing?" The baker's voice cuts in and the fork falls to the table with a clatter. Erik runs a hand quickly over it, straightening the prongs.
"Nothing sir!" Charles calls back, but he's still smiling like the sun and it's entirely worth whatever punishment Erik's parents have waiting for him just to see Charles smile like that. "That's amazing." He whispers to Erik, eyes shining.
"I haven't tried to do much else." Erik whispers back. "This is the most I've done."
"It's still amazing." Charles touches Erik's hand, as though he can feel how Erik does it with his fingers. The contact shoots a bolt of electricity through Erik, as though Charles is charged with static. Charles doesn't seem to notice, "We need to go to Coney Island and try the slot machines."
Erik's only heard of Coney Island, and hasn't so much as seen a slot machine, but it sounds like fun. Still- "Now you."
Charles' smile falls and Erik wishes he hadn't said anything, just to keep Charles smiling like that-
"It's nothing like yours. I don't even know if mine's real or not." Charles rubs his knuckles on the table top, not meeting Erik's eyes. "I could just be hearing voices."
"You're not mad." Erik frowns, suddenly alarmed.
"I don't know. I could be." His eyes drop further, staring at the floor. "They all think I am." It's mumbled but Erik catches it.
"I don't think you are. You're not." Crazy people throw teapots at their family and refused to change their clothes for weeks like great-uncle Isaac. While Charles is still wearing the same clothes as yesterday he's yet to throw porcelain at anyone. "Show me?" He takes a bite of bagel.
Charles swallows, and nods. He leans forward and puts his fingers to the side of his head. "Think of something, and I'll try and guess what it is."
Erik blinks, mind suddenly going blank as he chews. He has no idea what to think about. There's a moment of uncertain failing before the knowledge of how much trouble he must be in comes back like one of those Australian things they'd learnt about in geography- boomerangs. They must be all on their way to synagogue by now, and they must all be so mad at him. Well, mother and father would be, Else is probably annoyed he didn't invite her, the twins would be over the moon with how much trouble he's in, Moshe would have that self-righteous superior look that was adorable at five and is getting really annoying at six. They're all going to have to explain to the Rabbi why Erik isn't there and they're all going to be so disappointed-
"Oh." Charles covers mouth with his hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't think. I'd forgotten that Saturday was your holy day. I hope you're not in too much trouble."
Erik stares at him, wondering if he's accidentally said it all out loud. But he couldn't have because his mouth is still full of half-mashed bagel. He swallows with difficulty. "You saw that?" His voice comes out as more of a croak.
"I saw that you were worried your family was going to angry because you missed- what was it? Your church?"
"Synagogue." Erik helps.
"Thanks, it's not just words, it's pictures and things." He looks at Erik with those impossibly blue eyes. "I was right?"
Erik nods. He frowns and thinks very hard of opening the latch in his room two days ago. "Try now."
Charles concentrates, then smiles. "Is that how-"
Erik nods, smiling back eagerly.
"I could feel it- like you can. You can almost hear it, I didn't realise." Charles is looking at lot happier. "There must be metal everywhere, in the city. Can you show me-?"
Erik closes his eyes and listens, feeling the dog-whistle vibrations of the aluminium cutlery, the slightly lower whisper of the chrome in the seats, the sweet trill of the radio's copper wires, broadcasting smooth jazz, and below that, the bedrock-deep roar of the buildings around them, steel as strong as mountains, holding the world together.
He opens his eyes, and Charles has his closed. He opens them slowly. "That's wonderful." He murmurs. "You're really lucky. It can get a bit - crowded - in here." He taps the side of his head.
"You can come to listen at any time." Erik offers, "I don't usually pay attention, but it's always there."
Charles nods. "I won't poke around or anything, you don't have to worry."
"Thank you."
They sit in silence, finishing their roll and bagels. Erik breaks it first, "I didn't always hear it."
When Charles looks at him, he continues, "I only really noticed when I first came here. On the boat and in the skyscrapers. I thought it was normal."
"Did you tell anyone?" Charles's voice is soft.
Erik frowns. No, he's never thought to. "No." he admits.
Charles looks down at the last scrap of roll he's spreading with honey. "I did at first. I thought it was something everyone did, and no one ever bothered to tell you when you were small, like believing in Santa Claus."
Who? Erik wonders, but brushes the thought aside.
"I told them, and they thought I was mad. They made me see a doctor and I had to pretend I was normal." He stops talking, stops moving, and for a moment looks so small Erik just wants to comes close to him and surround him and keep him safe. "I thought I was the only one."
"You're not." Erik's voice breaks halfway through, dropping to a low growl. "And if there's two of us and we meet just because we're at the same school, there must be others. It's just more likely."
"I don't think it's just luck." And Charles' hand is brushing his again, and it's like the world's suddenly decided to stop turning, and it's just them, for a long, endless moment, sitting in sunny diner in Manhattan, hands touching.
Then it breaks, and Charles stands up. "Come on, let's go to Coney Island. Maybe you can win us enough money to pay for picture tickets."
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They spend half an hour in Coney Island, enough time for Erik to figure out how to tell the coins in the machines to jump out and they go from one machine to another to make sure no one works out what they're doing. They take their bag of quarters to the nearest cinema and go in to see a film about gangsters.
Erik's a bit lost in the plot but Charles explains it to him in whispers and by the halfway mark he's up to date and enjoying himself thoroughly. They stay in and watch another film, something boring and dreary about some old teacher. The cinema is almost empty and they talk happily about films until that one ends and they can go and watch the gangster one again.
It's late when they leave, and they're both starving. They go back to Coney Island and buy hot dogs from a stand to eat on the beach. They're both sitting on the jetty and Erik is quite sure that no matter how much trouble he'll be in this evening, it will be all worth it. He's never had a day like today.
"Erik?" Charles' voice is cautious. Erik smiles, he doesn't think he could stop smiling if he tried. "Do you think we could play the slot machines again? I don't have enough money to get a cab home."
Erik blinks. "Isn't a car coming to pick you up?"
"That's only on school nights. On holidays I have to pay a cab."
Charles paid to get down here knowing he didn't have enough money to get home? Erik no longer feels bad about skipping synagogue; if Charles wanted to meet here so badly, it was worth it. And of course he was desperate to meet, Erik was the only person he could talk to about reading minds who wouldn't try and lock him up. No wonder he risked it.
Erik smiles, "Of course Charles."
He takes enough money that the owner thinks they're cheating and chases them off, but Charles has enough dimes and quarters to get home, and come back on Monday. Hopefully the owner won't be there, and they can get enough to go on a rollercoaster.