Shrill and demanding his alarm screeches at six-thirty a.m. and Erik jerks awake. He'd fallen asleep too late again, his mind unable to shut off, pulse just this side of too fast; he's sure he's been woken up in the middle of a REM cycle. He moans low in his chest and sits up in bed, rubbing at his eyes, cocoon of warm blankets slipping down to pool around his waist. He stares listlessly at the wall, riding out the screeching of the alarm and when it finally stops he swings his legs over the side of the bed, switches it off, and looks around his dim room.

It's different. So mightily different from the little house in mostly Hasidic Brooklyn he and his parents lived in before his mother was killed a block away from their front door. It hasn't even been three months, but his whole life has flipped upside down. Instead of the cramped inner city he grew up in, now all he sees when he looks out of the window is green. Pastures upon pastures, cut by swathes of pavement or cobblestone roads that lead to estates just as large or even larger than this one. Horses roam in some fields, cows in one, and Erik still can't believe he's still in New York. "Just upstate son," his father had said to him, almost absent-mindedly as they'd neared the house for the first time. Erik had eyed the large gates that opened up to the pathway that led to their home and didn't answer.

His mother wouldn't have liked it. It wasn't just the law firm his father owned that brought in money, but he was from old money, born to a man whose own father was a not-so-distant relative of royalty. Despite that fact, he'd always done as she'd requested – regular house, three bedrooms and a basement made up for guests, nice cars that weren't too flashy, an education that was a little expensive, but nothing outrageous. But now she was dead and gone. Instead of pressing a kiss to her cheek nearly every morning in the kitchen Erik is either greeted by nothing, or a 'secretary' from his father's practice rummaging around in the fridge, too skinny legs sticking out from the hem of the shirt his father wore the day before.

He doesn't know what's worse.

He stares the clock for two more minutes, watching the numbers flip over, and finally hefts himself out of bed and into the shower.

.8.8.8.

"This is like 90210," Erik tells Angel and she shakes her head, smiling. "Or the OC, or Tree on a Hill, or whatever show it is where the school is way too nice and the kids are way too rich." He's not used to this; his mother had insisted that he'd go to the little Jewish school that she'd gone to as a child. It was one of those deals where everyone spoke Hebrew in the halls, bragged about Bar Mitzvah venues, and carried Pre K to twelfth grade all in one building - each graduating class approximately fifty, if one were being generous.

Bais Yaakov Dgur took up the corner of a very busy intersection where Erik had almost been hit by a taxi twice. Here at St. Mary's College Prep, the pantheonesque building rests on more hills, little annexes and focus buildings nestled all around campus, soft paved roads leading to each one. It's surrounded by trees, not too dense, but enough to make it seem like they dropped the campus into the middle of an orchard field. It's not apparent after entering the gates, but there are stables in the back. Inside, the hallways are shiny and camel colored, a marble pattern Erik hoped was faux, just for the mere fact that the idea of just the floors in this place costing more than the entirety of his old school blew his mind. There were columns and archways, thick green carpets in the lounges, heavy wooden oak doors for both the classrooms and lockers, and the cafeteria carried hefty water bottles of expensive mineral water.

"What does your dad do again?" he waits for Angel to finish changing out books and close her locker, leaning against the wall and watching all the students drift by. A boy with messy blonde hair, uniform tie a bit too loose, tugs on her ponytail briefly, his stride never faltering. She doesn't even spare him too much of a glance. "Who was that?"

"Alex." She's turned away to walk down the hall and he falls into stride easily with her. "And my dad's a marine biologist. One of the best; he has a resume like Jacque Cousteau – they call him the next Jacque Cousteau." She rolls her eyes. "Anyway, he's always in Croatia, or Greece, or the Caribbean, diving for new species, capturing mermaids, always trying to find that Loch Ness monster or whatever the hell it is." There's slightly bitterness to her voice they both ignore. He hears it in his own voice when he talks about his own father these days. "And your dad is…?"

"A corporate lawyer. If you want the proceedings of a hostile takeover to go smoothly, you hire my dad." The bells rings and instead of the metal bangs he's used to, there are heavy dull thuds from the wooden locker doors all closing at the same time. Everyone in a school uniform rush to where they need to be, and he and Angel duck into the classroom on their left. Long tables fill the room, stools around each one. The lab, at least looks like any other school lab he's been in with posters of bodies broken down across from the Table of Elements and a skeleton in the corner. Students are still settling in or darting in behind him last minute before the teacher closes the door.

He's halfway across the room when he looks up and sees Angel is heading for one of the last tables in the back. Its other seats are already occupied by a few students he doesn't know. And then there's Moira. And Charles. Immediately he feels his heart rate pick up, but he still follows Angel when she walks to the back and sits heavily on the stool across from both of them.

.8.8.8.

Charles ignores the first kick he feels against his calf when he sees Angel making her way across the room with the same boy from the dinner Saturday night. Erik Lensherr. He rolls the name around on his tongue, the taste familiar by now. He's been mouthing it all weekend when he's alone, shaping his lips around the letters like the other boy had done. He can feel those deep green eyes on him, looking at him, and he doesn't know Erik Lensherr at all, but he's never been looked at like that before. He's not entirely sure how he feels about it but he has a pretty good idea.

Moira kicks him again, and annoyance flares in his gut at having been tugged from his thoughts. He kicks back, not too hard, but enough for Moira to make her scowl at him.

The class settles in, chatting amongst themselves as writes equations on the whiteboard. Charles looks down at his own notes; not that he needs to – he has it all memorized but Erik keeps looking at him. Glances from underneath his lashes or from the side, so subtle that if Charles wasn't used to reading body language he probably wouldn't have noticed.

"Alright!" Shaw claps his hands together. "Welcome back. It's been a long time since yesterday afternoon." There are little titters and smiles. Mr. Shaw's one of those men who ages incredibly well, a forty something that looks thirty-something. He wears wire rimmed glasses and button downs tucked in khakis that always end in the same worn in soft toe shoes. Charles has never really liked him; despite his apparent easy-going attitude there was always a slightly sinister air in the sharp way he graded papers or stirred his coffee in the corner of the cafeteria.

Now the man uses his thumb to push his wire frames further up his nose and crosses his arms across his chest. "I'm in a good mood guys – no traffic this morning, I haven't had to write one F so far on top of one of you geniuses' papers, and I get to give you all a pop quiz." The class groans and he rolls his eyes. "You have no idea how lucky you are – It's verbal." He leans back to perch on the edge of his desk. "Let's get started."

He looks to Thomas in the front and Charles settles in to guess the right answer, but his attention is stolen - a notepad is being pushed over to his binder. He looks up – Erik is looking engrossed in the lesson, but he's using the eraser of his pencil to push the little book towards him. His own eyes fly back to Shaw who isn't even facing their direction and he casually reaches to take the notepad into his hand.

Hi.

Charles stares down at the two letters, (and purposely not in Moira's direction) mind a little blank, and it feels as if he moves on auto pilot when he picks up his pen and prints out, Hello.

He doesn't miss the little, fleeting smile that passes over the other boy's face when he reads the word. We didn't get a chance to really speak the other night, (and that's being generous, he thinks, because he'd avoided interacting with Erik as much as possible that night. It was obvious that he didn't understand sign language and the thought of having Angel or Moira translate for him, for some reason, embarrassed him.) I'm Erik.

I'm Charles.

Your father was impressive.

Yes, he's clever. I'm waiting for the trait to show up in myself one of these days.

One day :p

Charles smiles down at the book. You wound me.

Hah. I'm kidding. I see your stack of A++'s from here. And Charles wonders how Erik knows he gets such good grades, but then he notices his pocket folder is stuffed with exam papers marked with 105's and 110's.

He shrugs. I've got to make the best marks, don't I? When my father is changing the evolution of mankind, one helix strand at a time. If I can't ace chemistry I am officially the black sheep aren't I? :)

Must be nice. I'm in AP but I barely got in. Most of this stuff's just jumbles and aggressive symbols to me.

He stares down at the words and gets the rush of the idea to offer to tutor him. Suggest it casually, and it would be casual. It definitely wouldn't be a big deal. Erik probably wouldn't take him up on it anyway… He knows he's been looking for a little too long and he scratches at his ear, fingers bumping against his hearing aid. It's not that bad, he writes finally.

He watches as Erik begins to write, a little hunched over, and when he shifts Erik gets as far as Maybe we coul- before he hears his name ring sharply through the classroom.

"Mr. Xavier?"

Charles blinks and looks at Mr. Shaw. He's staring at him, impatience in every line of his face. Everyone is looking at him, heads swiveled around to face towards the back. "Uh," and he feels his face flush, doesn't meet Erik's eyes when he says, "What?" the word too angular and clumsy sounding. God, he hates verbal quizzes. Verbal anything, really.

Shaw stares at him for a few more moments and repeats his question. "PES?"

"Photoelectron spectroscopy, which provides a means in which to engage students in the use of quantum mechanics to interpret spectroscopic data and extract information on atomic structure from such data." He rambles it off, speaking as clearly and quickly as he can and is just glad that he got thrown a soft ball.

"Good." Shaw turns away and focuses his attention on Emma Frost at the very front of the room. "The current, most accepted model of an atomic structure?"

Everyone who's still facing his way turns around in their seats and he can feel the heat in his cheeks. He feels Moira's foot against his leg again, but this time it's to hook around his ankle. He doesn't' look at Erik for the rest of the thirty minutes left and when the bell rings he's not the first one out, but sure as hell isn't the last one either. Not that it really mattered anyway – it's not like Erik seemed intent on continuing their conversation. The little notepad had disappeared.

.8.8.8.

"So, what's up with Charles?"

It's chilly out, colder than it has been the last couple of days. But it's no surprise; it's already the middle of October. For the most part the branches are still full of dark oranges and reds but there are quite a few of the leaves on the pavement. The sun drips brightly through the branches as they walk and he lends Angel his sunglasses.

"I was wondering when you were going to ask about him." She slips the shades on and sways into him, bumping her shoulder against his arm. "Ummm, welllll. What do you wanna know?"

"Is he gay?"

She shrugs. "I don't know." Erik gives her a look. "I'm serious! I'm not keeping his secret or anything. Even though I would if he ever asked me to. But he hasn't. Not yet anyway. I mean, I'm pretty sure he is. I know I've seen him checking guys out before, and I think he and Moira had a crush on the same guy last year. Even though I'm sure she didn't know."

"So he dates girls?"

Angel shakes her head. "Charles doesn't date anyone. I've never seen him actually go on a date, anyway. Moira might know better than I would, though."

Erik sighs. He thought asking Angel about Charles would be the fastest and safest route but it isn't working out that way. The only other person he could ask would be Moira, but he's almost certain she'd tell Charles. He feels a vague wave of anxiety in his stomach at the thought.

"Look," Angel says, spinning around to walk backwards in front of him. "I know, I'm failing as gorgeous new best friend by not giving you the goods. But I know so many other things about him! He's a sophomore for one. Technically. He skipped a grade. I'm sure he could have graduated college by now, but he's sticking this whole freak show out. He's funny. He has a soft spot for Curious George. He only comes along on those trips with us to the ocean because he'd be so bored back here alone – he gets the worst sunburn. I almost rather him stay home. Or at least in the house. What else? Oh, he loves Gelato. He won't touch ice cream and thinks that frozen yogurt shouldn't be allowed. And don't get him started on snow cones…"

Erik feels his mouth curling up into a smile.

They walk in silence for a few moments. "I think you should go for it," she says quietly.

"And why's that?"

She shrugs. "A feeling."

.8.8.8.

The next morning he gets to the school early on purpose and makes his way to the large annex. The secretary's hair is obviously too dark to be natural and her makeup, though heavy, is expertly applied. She stops typing, short pumpkin orange nails glinting in the florescent lights, and looks up at him when he walks up to her desk. His palms are slightly sweaty when he rests them lightly atop the visiting center. "I'm Erik Lensherr. I know I have advanced German as my seventh period elective, but is it possible to change that?"

"Sure," and she sounds as if she's come straight from New Jersey. "To what, hun?"

"American Sign Language?"

The secretary raises her eyebrows slightly, but still asks how she spells his name. "A new, beginner class instead of an advanced placement? It won't look as good on your applications. And it's not the easiest to get down."

Erik shrugs and tucks his new itinerary into his back pocket. It's still warm from the printer. "I can always take it next year." The secretary, Cynthia McGarity the plaque on her desk reads, nods her head as if to say 'That's true.'

"Alright then, Mr. Lensherr. Good luck."

"Thanks," Erik ducks out of the office and makes his way towards his locker.