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His heart was pounding in his chest, sweat dripping down his limbs. His breath came harsh and fast, hot air crystallizing into little white clouds that streamed out of his mouth.

He smiled, as the adrenaline high caught up with him, and he found the white-hot space behind his eyes where nothing could touch him, and helived.

He has always loved to run. He tried not to read too much into that.

He sprinted the last quarter-mile to the library, smiling as he ran.

He didn't have to think, here.

Erik spends a lot of his life trying not to think.

He's made mistakes, he knows he has, everyone has- but that is not the reason.

The real reason, the reason that feels like a physical weight on his chest, that buzzes about his ears even now, as he sits in the echoing emptiness of the public library, staring at the GED prep book, is- well.

What if he never escapes?

What if this is it?

What if Shaw won? Succeeded, made him- not a monster, not quite, not like he was, but something else, made him weak, made him untouchable, made him into someone who-

someone who failed.

He doesn't think about it, because if he does, he's 12 again, standing in the line-up for the cafeteria, ignoring the look on the lunchlady's face, the snicker of Joseph Johanson behind him, as he scuffs his sneaker on the floor and mutters "I get free lunch."

He knew, growing up, that what other people think of you- it does matter. People who say it doesn't- much like the people who say that money isn't important- have always had it.

He had dreams. It sounds silly, in retrospect, but he had them. He was going to be an engineer, a mathematician, an architect, was going to grow tall and strong and smart, was going to build his mother a house, a house filled with laughter and books and warmth, and she would never have to work again.

At 12, he had two goals: not to be his father, and to protect his mother.

(thinking about this now, his thoughts drift to Magda, and the children who he has never seen, never known, and he wonders if maybe he didn't fail at both of them after all.)

When he was 14, skinny and silent and scared, he wanted to escape. Wanted to leave this man and never look back. He was going to make something of himself.

(he had repeated it to himself, late at night. notworthless notworthless notworthless I'llshowthemall)

When he was 16, broken down and rebuilt and broken again until there was nothing left but steel, steel covered in failing flesh and anger, he wanted nothing more than to leave. He could feel it, like a physical presence in the room- the walls closing in, trapping him, pressing him deep into this place of dust and soot and anger, promising him, you will never leave.
His days were filled with anger, with- not fear, not really, not anymore: it was only his body, after all- but with resentment, with knowing.
He didn't sleep at night. The nightmares didn't come, not like they had at first- but in their place was panic, terrible, gut-wrenching panic, like he could see his dreams going up in flames before him, the knowledge that he was doing this, he was giving in, he was never going to escape- just another asshole with a shitty childhood and no diploma working a shitty job for minimum wage, just another fucked up fairy-tale in this city of a million stories, just another goddamned all-American cliché.

At 16, he threw himself into the moment, doing anything to outrun the steady, inevitable march towards his destiny.

He cannot say with any sincerity that the decisions he made in those months were wise. They were terrible, the actions of a child for whom nothing was sacred if it meant a chance to escape the clutch of his skin- but the end result was- decent.
He was on his own. 16 and alone, in a shitty apartment that he shared with a half-dozen other shades and thieves and runaways, people who understood his need to escape by any means possible, who had crawled or ran or jumped a bus to leave their selves behind.

The next years- well. He's gotten here, hasn't he, and it burns just a little to wonder what twelve-year old Erik would have thought of a man who had failed in the one thing that had kept him company throughout his life- to escape.

He looked at the book with renewed focus. He would show them. He hadn't fucking broken, and he hadn't fucking conceded.

Buffy and Chie push a crate across a smooth horizontal floor. If Buffy pushes with a force of 50N west and Chie pushes with a force of 35 N southeast, determine the resultant force È exerted on the crate.

Erik sighed, and picked up his pencil.

È= [-50cos0, 50cos90°] + [35cos45°, -35cos45°]
È= [-25.25, -24.75]
|È|= √(-25.25^2) + (-24.75^2)
|È| = 35.4
Resultant force is 35.4 N.

Erik smiled, feeling accomplished. He glanced at his phone absently.

2:45.

That had taken him 15 minutes.

He glanced down at the sheet of problems in front of him. There had to be more than 30 questions there.
He swore quietly under his breath and continued to work.

-
"'Erik! Charrrles, Erik!"

At the sound of his name, Erik looked up from his work. He rolled his shoulders as he did so, their cracking and popping seemingly deafening in the otherwise silent library.

He glanced around, and was unable to prevent himself from smiling at the sight of familiar brown hair and faded woollen jacket.

"Shh," he heard Charles say, "Yes, I see him; hush, now, pointing's rude."

Kurt seemed to give the notion serious thought- for roughly ten second. Then he grinned, and took off towards Erik's desk.

"Errrik!" he squealed. "I see you!"

Erik blinked, slightly surprised at the level of coherency in the boy's voice. He glanced at Charles questioningly, who shook his head.

"Hello, then," he said.

Charles, who, being laden down with books, was several steps behind Kurt, smiled in return. "Hello."

Erik bit his lip, trying to hide the laughter fighting it's way out of his chest. "I'd say we can't keep meeting like this, but..."

"..But that would be horribly cliché, and also implies that I'm a woman, so, you're not going to?" Charles said hopefully.

Erik snorted. "Oh, I don't know, Charles, surely a man like yourself can appreciate the value of a good cliché."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, you know," Erik hid his smile. "The tragic, desperate single parent, trying to make ends meet and find their way in the world- it's straight out of a trashy novel."

Charles raised his eyebrows. "Mmm. And that would make you the dangerously attractive man with the mysterious past who shows up to throw the lead off kilter- hang on, fuck it, you don't get to be that guy, that guy's an asshole."

"Also you're not a woman."

"No, but neither are you."

There was a beat of silence.

"Shall we both pretend that we have no idea what fine works of literary fiction the other was just referencing?"

Erik nodded. "That seems for the best."

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

Erik pointed at the textbook, lifting his chin in a defiant gesture. Wanna fucking make something of it?

Charles nodded, and glanced at the work. "Oh, god, vectors. Those are such a bitch to learn."

Erik gave him an appraising look. "Are you any good at them?"

Charles snorted. "Well, not to be immodest, Erik, but I do teach the stuff."

There was a brief pause, and then Erik opened his mouth, just as Charles did the same, and simultaneously said "Not that that means anything."

Charles drew up a chair, first checking to see that Kurt was happily ensconced in the play area, and picked up a pen.

Erik pretended not to notice the arm that now lay, ever-so-casually, on top of his, or the way Charles would glance up at him from the page and smile a small, secret smile.

It's possible he was not altogether successful, because Charles smirked slightly the next time their eyes met.

An hour later, having been booted out of the closing library by a stern-faced middle-aged woman in lifts, Erik bent to kiss the other man's cheek.

"Thank you," he said. "Let me buy you dinner?"

Charles chewed his lip in indecision. "I don't..."

"Come on. I owe you."

Charles sighed. "Still not a girl."

"What does that have to do with anything? C'mon. What's your fancy?"

Charles studied him with assessing eyes, before smiling slightly. "Indian?"

"Sounds great," Erik said, and surprised himself by meaning it.