Charles is good at Chess. He is damn good at Chess. He is captain of the chess team in high school, studied Chess strategy in his spare time, champion of the varsity match against Cambridge good at Chess.
"Check," Erik says, knocking Charles’ bishop over with an elegant flick of his wrist. Charles stares at the board and his rapidly diminishing pieces trying to map out where he went wrong.
"That’s trousers, Xavier." When Charles glances up at him Erik is smiling smugly over the rim of his glass of whiskey, taking a slow sip as his eyes trace a line down Charles’ chest to his waistband.
Charles’ huffs and gets to his feet and strips unceremoniously out of his trousers. He bends over to pick them up and takes vicious satisfaction in the way Erik chokes slightly on his drink, folds them savagely before settling back down, leaning forward to examine the board.
What had started off as a tease, and then a slow game of seduction has quickly turned into a bitter contest of honour, at least for Charles. He has given up on getting Erik down to his skin, blames the flash of his stupid attractive bare feet as the rational behind why he’s playing so poorly.
He makes his play and then gestures at Erik to go. When Erik doesn’t move he looks up and frowns at the way Erik’s eyes are burning a path across his thighs where his shorts are clinging to muscle and the shadow of his cock beneath the thin material.
"Erik," he says, "your move."
"Hmmm?" Erik murmurs, eyes slowly returning to Charles’ face, "Sorry, what?"
Charles’ eyes narrow.
"You’re not even taking this seriously!" Erik laughs, and Charles feels his face burn in indignation, temper flaring.
"You—christ—you’re trouncing me and you’re not even trying??"
Erik sobers suddenly and sets down his drink, his eyes focusing on Charles in a way that makes him shift, aware for the first time of the vulnerability of his bare skin.
"Charles," he says, smiling slowly and leaning forward, "if you think you could offer me a chance to get you out of your clothes, and I wouldn’t play the best game of my life," his hand reaches out and runs a gentle caress over his Queen. Charles swallows, mouth suddenly dry, "you are very much mistaken."
His eyes lower to the board and his smile widens, stretches across his face until all his teeth are on display. He moves his Queen.
Written for garnetquyen's birthday and for this prompt. I love you, son! Happy Birthday! :D :D :D If you haven’t already done so, twosteps-here and ikeracity have written ficlets for said prompt also c:
As Mr. Lehnsherr’s new boy, or really the Boss’s as he was now to call him, Charles was required to do several things: he was to attend all of his classes (which he does dutifully), he was to go home as soon as he’d finished studying at the library (which he also already does), and he was to wait there for when the Boss visited (which he does regardless, although the Boss has yet to actually visit).
Azazel, his newly appointed shadow, was nonchalant and blasé about the ordeal. He was directly in charge of taking care of Charles when the Boss couldn’t do it himself. And in a conversation held via signing much to Charles’ delight, Azazel was one of the best weapons in the Boss’s arsenal and Charles shouldn’t worry too much about the Boss. The Boss is, after all, a busy man and prone to disappearing for weeks on end without notice.
Busy with what Azazel wouldn’t, or possibly couldn’t, say.