There is only so long he can spend drinking his sorrows away before his liver eventually calls it a day and fucks off to liver-heaven. Or something. He knows - he knows - that drowning himself in alcohol won't do jack-shit for the situation he's found himself in. But he has to do something, right?

It's not like he has a worse deal of it than most; he has a well-paid, stable career in engineering, a doctorate in civil engineering from MIT, and a great apartment that's too big for just two people… Not that two people live there anymore. Erik has a propensity of messing up relationships; the mere fact he hasn't spoken to his father in ten years is proof of that. But he swore to himself that he would not fuck up the amazing, marvellous, miraculous, wonderful, perfect relationship he had with Charles Xavier. That plan went about as well as Napoleon's idea to invade Russia.

It started well; Erik had met Charles at the opening of New York Public Library's new 'Central Library Plan' in the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building on 42nd street. Work on the building had gone well, and Erik had been pleased with the outcome; the designs Norman Foster had supplied him with had needed little tweaking in the long run. It had been a pretty good day for him already, only to be made better when a short man with sparkling blue eyes approached him with the question, "What's the difference between an architect and an engineer?" Those types of questions usually irritated him, but something about the way Charles ("Oh, do call me Charles, Mr. Xavier is far too formal don't you think?") had nodded along, his interest palpable. (He had only realized later that Charles was the famous geneticist, Doctor Charles Xavier who was frequently on the cover of the New York Times magazine for some new discovery or other.) His insightful and intelligent questions only endeared Erik to the man more, and it wasn't long before they were deep in conversation, oblivious to the rest of the party around them.

Erik had made sure to give Xavier his number that night; and he hadn't been disappointed. Their relationship grew out of their friendship, like it was the natural progression of things. "Evolution," Charles would say, did say, to anyone who asked.

It was almost expected, according to Charles' sister, who'd cackled when she'd heard they were finally dating, explaining, "You two have been dating since you laid eyes on each other - Except you weren't having sex."

The sex.

Oh, God, the sex was incredible. Charles just knew. The man seemed to have found all his undiscovered erogenous zones within the first five minutes; kissing, stroking and sucking in places that he would never have thought caused pleasure, mapping out his body like there was something he hadn't discovered the other times he'd done it. It wasn't as if he was any better - Charles was the epitome of beauty; all soft edges and pale skin that contrasted nicely with his dark brown hair and his too red lips. He had eyes that smiled – as blue as the sky – and just as cheerful as a summer's day. He was everything Erik was not – Charles was messy, unorganized whereas he was neat. He was compassionate and seemed to understand people on a fundamental level, which baffled Erik, who was stoic and often rude and 'emotionally constipated' – Thanks for that, Raven.

It was these faults which landed him here, in this pokey little pub on 12th Street, sharing the bar with all the other sad-sacks drinking themselves to death and nursing a pint of the piss-water they called beer. They'd been living together for three months before Charles had turned around and said, with a voice as sad as the point in Bambi that even the hardest motherfucker cries at, "Erik, I can't take this anymore. You're distant; you never talk to me, I don't know what you want from me. You're always working late, and I have no idea if you're at work or out sleeping with someone else because you turn your phone off,"

By this point, Charles was sobbing, and Erik was standing dumbstruck with the OJ carton halfway raised to his open mouth, "Do you even love me anymore?"

Like a stupid, dumb fuck, Erik hadn't answered; instead, had just stared at Charles as if he'd grown another head. It seemed that his boyfriend had taken that to be his answer, and without another word, he had left. Erik came home from work the next evening to find all Charles' stuff missing from their apartment.

A month later, Erik was still kicking himself. He loved Charles, he would happily be like one of those sappy princes from a Disney movie and tell him that he'd loved him from the moment he'd met him. Which wasn't true, because love at first sight was bullshit – but in this case, it had been pretty damn close.

Still, Erik had no idea where Charles had got the idea that he was sleeping with someone else from; frankly, it reminded him of one of those crappy romance movies where the woman got all jealous because her precious hubby borrowed a book from their next door neighbour's wife. All that cul-de-sac drama – He didn't know what to do with it!

But he wanted to fix it – he did! He'd tried everything; there were probably more calls left on Charles' voicemail than he'd ever received in his life, never mind the fuck-ton of emails Erik had sent this afternoon begging Charles to call him, write, reply, send him frikin' smoke signals, anything.

Charles never did though; it was like he had vanished from the face of the planet the moment he had walked out the door. Which made the fact that Erik had only been working late to save up for the best, handmade engagement ring money could buy sting just that little bit more.

Erik supped his 'beer' and sighed, for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. It was unfortunate that he could hold his liquor, because all he really, really wanted to do right now was drink until he was unable to see straight. Despite the large amount of alcohol he'd consumed thus far, he was still, painfully, devastatingly sober. Or maybe it was just his mood ruining his buzz before it even got a chance to set in. That would be so 'Erik'; the awkward fucker that he is. He didn't know what else he could do.

The only option left to him was to make some sort of public demonstration. Yeah. Unfortunately, no one would come to protest in New York Times Square in the pouring down rain, just to get Erik's boyfriend back. So… that was out. Something romantic? He knew where Charles worked after all, despite the fact that Charles seemed to have informed his colleagues to not let him in forever and ever amen.

He sighed again. Flowers? Not good enough. Buy a cheaper, manufactured engagement ring and force his way through to propose to him? He shuddered into his beer; No, the ring had to be perfect. He designed it to be perfect, and he still hadn't saved up enough to get the guy in Argentina to even consider making it yet.

God, he was so bad at romance.

And there was the problem of getting in to him anyway; the plan would most likely fail, he was an engineer, not a fucking strategist. There were too many extraneous variables to consider. No… It had to be something romantic, but understated… and heartbreaking enough to get him on national television so Raven would see it and inform her darling brother about it.

Or even better, on radio, because Charles actually listens to the radio. The bar was far too loud, he couldn't think; and no matter how many times he demanded the other drinkers to be quiet, goddammit, he needed to get his future husband back, they never listened. Or got even louder.

Spiteful pricks.

Growling, he set down his piss-water and stumbled out of the bar. Huh. Maybe he was drunker than he thought. Rubbing his forehead absently, he staggered down the road, trying to force his legs to cooperate with his brain and walk in a straight-fucking-line. But to no avail.

He just wandered; staring at the picture he had of Charles, still in his wallet - the only proof that he was real, and not some figment of his imagination. He'd dreamed of their wedding since the day Charles had moved in and settled into his life like he was always meant to be there.

It was to be a winter wedding and it would be snowing, purely because Charles loved the snow, just as much as he loved his Earl Grey tea with three sugars and a dash of milk, with a packet of bourbons and a Mills & Boon movie playing on the TV. Which was a lot. And though Erik thought the snow was nothing more than an irritating weather pattern, designed to make driving harder and your socks wet, Erik loved Charles who loved the snow. So a snowy wedding it would be.

They would have black silk trimmed with white draped across the tables and pure white silk for the chairs with thick red ribbons tied around the backs, there would be a simple centrepiece on each table; fresh red rose petals with six small tea-lights in crystal holders, and on some of the bigger tables, a crystal vase overflowing with white lilies – Charles' favourite flower. Charles would wear a white tux, and himself a traditional black and he would wear a kippah, just for his Mama, "to uphold at least some of the traditions of his people" as she says, ignoring the fact that he hasn't been a practising Jew for years.

They would stand under the white, silk chuppah, which would be trimmed with fresh, red roses, and exchange the wedding rings Erik designed, to match Charles' engagement ring. After that, they would kiss, sweet and perfect, like Charles himself. Erik would have them bound together by the wrist with red silk, just so he can stay close to Charles for the whole event (and he knows that would be impractical when it came to dancing with others and using the bathroom, so they'd probably take it off after the actual ceremony, but a man can dream), then they would finally be married when Erik breaks the glass, like in a traditional Jewish wedding, and Charles would be his. Forever, until death do they part.

But he would never have that with Charles now. And if he couldn't have it with Charles, he wouldn't have it with anyone.