Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

People didn’t realize how much the serum hurt. Hair being forced back into its follicles, muscles constricting and crowding in on themselves, his skin completely changing chemistry to fade from its natural cobalt blue to a pale pinkish that was more acceptable to the general public. As much as Hank savored the freedom that his concoction allowed him, he dreaded his twice-daily injections just as much as children dreaded getting their cavities filled.

He almost envied Charles once he quit taking the serum and settled into his wheelchair once and for all. The transition had been hard, of course, having all of those voices thrust upon him and having to learn once again how to ambulate without his legs, but at least Charles didn’t have to rely on drugs to be able to function in society.

Fortunately- or perhaps unfortunately- Hank wouldn’t have to dread those transformations for much longer. His serum was slowly and steadily becoming less and less effective. Each injection required more serum, and bought him less time.

He finally confronted Charles about it soon after Logan had disappeared. They were in the kitchen, each enjoying a cup of coffee before setting about the long process of getting the school started again, when Hank cleared his throat and stared into his rapidly emptying mug.

“Charles?”

“Yes, Hank?” Charles looked up from his newspaper expectantly.

“I- I can’t take the serum for much longer.” He tried to keep his voice even, but he knew that his shaking hands would give him away anyway. “I think somehow I’ve built up a tolerance to it. It’s not as effective as it used to be; I don’t think I have a lot of time before it’s functionally useless.”

Charles was silent for a moment, setting his mug down on a coaster (he was always so anal about marking the wooden table). He moved his chair closer to Hank and set a hand on his knee. “I’m sorry, Hank. I can’t imagine that’s easy for you to admit.”

Hank didn’t dare make eye contact with Charles, he knew that that would be what would finally push him to tears. Instead, he fixed his gaze sternly on his hands, wrapped around his coffee mug. Not at all small by human standards, but still much more narrow and nimble than his other- than his real hands. Pink and pale, with a few moles scattered here and there, perhaps a little dry. He felt the muscles at the front of his chin tighten and he squeezed his eyes shut, not unaware of the wetness he felt spill onto his cheeks.

Charles removed the mug from Hank’s hands and leaned over both of their legs somewhat awkwardly to pull Hank into a hug. Hank shook and heaved, then shook and heaved some more when his sobs sounded almost like whines and growls, animalistic and primitive.

They stayed like that for probably an hour, as far as Hank could tell, before he began to calm down. He removed his wet glasses to rub his eyes, and he pulled away from Charles in some sort of weak attempt to maintain even a bit of dignity after his breakdown.

He took a deep breath. “I’ll have to stop taking it entirely when I’m in the house. I need to save what I have for whenever I need to leave. Grocery runs and stuff.”

Charles wrung his hands and looked unbearably pitifully at Hank. “Of course, my friend. After- afterwards, I can accompany you out, if you’d like. Or get them myself, really.” Charles placed his hand over Hank’s and squeezed. “Please don’t hesitate to come to me.”

Hank took in a sharp breath and stood, clumsily wiping at his eyes as he walked back to his room. He had to appreciate it while it lasted, the feeling of his own skin, the blunt, curved nails at the end of each of his fingers where there would soon be claws. Once he had reached his bedroom, he nearly collapsed. He sat himself cross-legged in front of his mirror, for once grateful that it reached all the way to the floor. He took off his shoes, knowing he would grow out of them in just a few hours, and gazed at himself in the mirror. Under any other circumstances, Hank would have felt vain, staring at his reflection like this for as long as he did, but now he was merely desperate to commit this face to memory. He had photos of himself like this around the house of course, but he needed to remember how it felt to be in this face. He memorized every single auburn hair on his head, the exact shade of blue in his eyes, the shape of his teeth, his eyebrows, his chin. He took mental measurements of his shoulders, hips, and hands.

Before too long, though, he noticed the bits of blue start to peek through. Starting at his hairline, then spreading to his eyes, tinting them yellow, pulling up his cheekbones, dying his skin, pointing his teeth, and, of course, covering his entire body in an even coat of fur. Only after his body settled into shape did he let himself cry again. Wet, messy tears that left trails in the finer fur on his face. At least in the early days after his initial transformation he’d had hope. Hope for a treatment, a cure, anything. Now all he had was a mirror and a shirt whose seams were starting to burst.

He had Charles help him open up the old boxes of clothes that they’d bought before Hank made the serum, all two sizes bigger than what he wore when he looked human, and all packed neatly away when Hank made his first successful batch of that temporary remedy. They were all more comfortable when he was bigger, of course, and each was practically just a duplicate of clothes he already owned, just in a larger size, but Hank resented them all the same. Normal people don’t buy every shirt in two different sizes, he thought to himself. Normal people don’t need to replace clothes every month when they eventually rip them with their goddamn claws.

Charles being Charles, of course, helped Hank through every second of it. They’d put the school on hold for a bit (it probably wasn’t wise to have a teacher that despised himself try to teach children how to love themselves), and Charles devoted nearly all his time to taking care of Hank. At first, Hank let his pride get in the way. He pushed away the pats on the shoulder and the sympathetic glances and the cups of water when he’d cried out nearly every drop of moisture in his whole body. Eventually, though, he learned how to accept, even enjoy those small acts of kindness.

Every hand on his, every bump of shoulders on the couch, Hank grew to treasure. A more cynical man- Erik, perhaps even Alex- would have called this Charles getting a taste of his own medicine. Learning how exhausting it was to spend every waking moment trying to drag someone out of their own depression, but Hank was far too tired to be spiteful, and instead merely accepted Charles’s help (although he had to admit, Charles had a bit of an advantage this time around: Hank’s new body didn’t seem to get drunk. He’d tried to drown his sorrows and eventually gave up after three whole bottles of whiskey left him feeling barely tipsy).

Hank always hesitated to smile at Charles in gratitude, he had a feeling that his smile- if it could still be called that- looked much different than it had a month prior, but tried desperately to show his gratitude in other ways. Some days that meant drinking the whole glass of water Charles brought him, other days it meant pulling himself out of bed long enough to do the dishes. Most days, though, it just meant leaning into his touch and trying not to cry at the feeling of Charles’s fingers meeting fur instead of skin.

Eventually, Hank managed to pull it together enough to make dinner one night. He had never been much of a cook, even before his once-nimble hands became large and clumsy paws, but he’d known his mother’s baked potato recipe since he was ten, and they just so happened to have some fresh steaks in the refrigerator. He meticulously measured out the right ratios of rosemary, garlic, chives, thyme, and butter (wearing gloves, of course- blue fur and asparagus didn’t exactly pair well together) and somehow created a passable dinner.

He opened up his mind a little bit and called Charles into the dining room as casually as he could, nervously worrying the hem of his shirt while he waited to hear the sound of Charles’s wheelchair on the tile floor outside. Charles wheeled in a few moments later, gave that perfectly white smile of his, and Hank stopped. Something hurt him in his ribs. A quick hand to his chest reassured him that nothing was broken, but the feeling persisted on through dinner. Every time Charles lifted his eyes or put his hand over Hank’s, he felt that pain again, sometimes in his throat, sometimes deep in his belly.

I’m just jealous, he realized. Jealous that Charles’s smile is filled with normal teeth, and his eyes are a nice, human blue. A beautiful blue that normal people are supposed to have.

Now that he realized what that feeling was, he couldn’t help but notice it surge up almost constantly around Charles. Each glance, each touch, each reassuring word filled him with heat and made his stomach roil. It was unbearable. Soon he withdrew from Charles again, instead locking himself in his room and trying not to think about Charles’s hand on his shoulder, or his eyes meeting Hank’s.

He filled his days with sleep and books and booze that had no effect on him until eventually Charles intervened. Charles had somehow managed to pull Hank into the kitchen for breakfast before ten and was trying his damndest to hold a conversation with him. Hank picked at his food, the fruit underripe and the toast overdone, struggling to keep his focus away from the smooth tone of Charles’s voice.

“-aren’t you, Hank?” Charles eventually broke through, and Hank snapped up to notice that at some point Charles had moved to be right next to him at the kitchen table.

“What?”

“I said, you’re keeping something from me, aren’t you, Hank?” Charles’s voice softened and his eyebrows curled upward in a way that made Hank burn.

“I- no, why would you think I was?”

“I can tell these things, my friend. Your mind it’s… harder to reach than it used to be. That isn’t something that happens by accident. You’re entitled to your secrets, but the way you’ve been acting recently worries me. I only want to help, Hank.” Charles took Hank’s hand in his own, and that was the last straw.

Hank pulled his hand back with a growl and stood up. “Would you stop? Stop patronizing me and acting like you want to be around- be around this.” He gestured down to himself, sure that his teeth were bared and his yellow eyes were sharp and beady. “I don’t need you to keep rubbing in what I look like, okay? I see it! I see that your skin is white and your hair is brown and your eyes are…” Hank swallowed and deflated, “your eyes are blue. And mine aren’t. So I don’t need you to keep shoving in my face how normal you are with all the touching and the smiling and the looks.”

Charles was speechless for a moment, and Hank felt an itch at the back of his mind. No use keeping him out now that he knows everything, he thought, and let Charles into his mind with a sigh. Charles’s eyes widened and his lips parted, breathing deep and even. He knit his eyebrows together and Hank allowed himself to sink back into his chair, wincing as the wood creaked under the weight of his bulk.

Charles bit his lip and spoke slowly. “Hank, I… had a feeling you felt that way about me. Thank you for letting me in to see for sure.”

Hank scoffed. “Oh, come on, don’t act like you’ve never seen anyone be jealous before. What else would you expect?”

“Jealous?”

“Yeah, obviously.” Hank frowned dubiously, “I’m- I’m jealous that you look normal and I don’t. That’s what this whole thing has been about.”

Charles blinked a few times before carefully laying a hand on Hank’s shoulder. “Hank, you’re not jealous. You’re in love with me.”

Hank’s breath got caught in his lungs, that couldn’t possibly be true.

“No, that can’t possibly be true.” Hank said. “What are you talking about, ‘in love’?” He sputtered for a moment. “I- we- you’re a man!”

Charles gave a small chuckle. “Yes, astute observation, my friend. I’m a man, and so are you.”

Hank stood up again, sending the chair squeaking back on the tile a couple feet. “Exactly, so I can’t be in love with you. I can’t- I’m not like that, Charles. I’m not queer.” Hank spat out the word like an old piece of tobacco, vile and bitter, and a little bit sweet on his tongue.

Charles stilled, seemed to pale a little bit, and swallowed. “I’m sorry, my friend. I thought you knew.”

Hank huffed and shook his head, trying desperately to make sense of all the information Charles had just thrown at him. He ran out of the room and plowed through the house to his lab, apparently the only place in the whole damn mansion where things made sense.

He hadn’t been down there in months, not since he first had to stop taking the serum. It brought too much to the front of his mind, reminded him too much of that precious concoction that couldn’t help him anymore. For a moment, he let himself run wild, gave himself- gave the Beast- all the catharsis he needed. He roared and punched and wailed and cried and curled in on himself like a schoolboy with a scraped knee.

Charles was a man. Hank would know; all those months helping Charles bathe and dress and relieve himself made him sure of that. He felt the anger fizzle out inside of him, and be replaced by that familiar heat in his chest. Charles would never lie to him, not about this. Was that really what that feeling was? Love? Hank himself might have even used that word to describe his feelings toward Charles, albeit with a more fraternal, platonic connotation, but Charles seemed to think that it was a different kind of love. A queer kind of love.

Hank thought of Raven. Everything that led him to this point, that made him who he was now, had originally been for her. Had that been love? He remembered her leaning over him, her lips grazing his, her insistence that Hank and his mutation were amazing. Raven was perfect. She was smart and funny and beautiful. He placed himself firmly in the past, submitting to the memories as much as he could, and found that he couldn’t remember that feeling. Even as they nearly kissed, his heart remained steady and cool.

Hank thought of Charles. The feeling came out so often around him, almost constantly. It confused him to no end, how could Hank be in love with Charles and not Raven? He pictured each of those little things Charles did to feed that little fire within Hank. He remembered how, no matter how terrible of a day he was having, he always went out of his way to get Charles to give him that big smile of his. How, as strange and disorienting the feeling of Charles’s fingers in his fur was, he never quite wanted Charles to stop touching him.

Was that what love was?

Hank had had enough of remembering things, and tried instead to picture his future. He gave himself a scenario: if everything in the world worked out the way you wanted, and you could have whatever you want, what would make you the happiest? Just as soon as he imagined the prompt, he envisioned its answer: Hank stood in the mansion, blue and furry and finally content with himself. He was surrounded by children who respected and admired him, he was accepted in the world as who he was, and beside him, smiling and wise and ambitious, was Charles. Their hands would enterwine, maybe Charles would lean into Hank’s shoulder, and maybe Hank would let his eyes linger on Charles’s face, and they were happy together.

Together.

Hank was… overwhelmed, to say the least. He sat on the floor of his lab, thinking over countless moments throughout his life. In the third grade when Bobby Jamison always gave Hank his milk carton and Hank felt like he was on fire, his first year at Harvard when Rich Jackson’s leather jacket and slicked-back hair made Hank sweat, in his third year at the CIA when Agent Cunningham winked at him and he felt like throwing up. Maybe Charles was right after all. That word sat heavy on Hank’s tongue. Queer.

Adjective: strange or odd from a conventional viewpoint; unusually different.

Bobby’s milk carton. Rich’s jacket. Agent Cunningham’s wink.

Charles’s eyes. Charles’s hands. Charles’s smile.

Hank didn’t know when he fell asleep, but suddenly he jolted awake on the hard linoleum floor of his lab. He took his time getting up, taking stock of everything he’d broken in last night’s rampage, and kneeled in front of an upturned metal table to try to get his fur to lay in an acceptable direction. Somehow Charles had found out about Hank’s secret even before Hank had, and now he had no idea where they stood. Even if Hank had only just found out about his… preferences, he still knew the statistics. He knew that, no matter how much he apparently wanted Charles, Charles was unlikely to want him back.

He dragged his feet back up the stairs to the ground floor, noticing that it was dark out. Hopefully Charles would be asleep and Hank could shamefully slink back to his room in peace.

“Hank, is that you?”

Why did Hank even bother hoping for anything anymore?

Hank was stopped outside the door to the main library, only a few doors away from his own when Charles called for him. He took a deep breath and raised a paw to push open the door.

He clenched his jaw and gave a tight smile. “Hi.”

Charles gave a relieved sigh, “I heard all that commotion downstairs, I wondered when you’d come back up.” Charles hesitated. “Listen, Hank, I’d like to apologize. It wasn’t my business to go into your mind as far as I did, and I was wrong for revealing something to you that you apparently didn’t know yet yourself. I should have given you time to figure it out on your own. I hope you can forgive me.”

Hank slowly lowered himself into one of the plush leather armchairs near Charles and tried to make himself small (easier said than done when one looks like Hank). “Charles, I- I’m not upset with you. I thought what I was feeling was jealousy this whole time and I was just… surprised, that’s all. Sorry if I scared you.”

Charles moved his chair closer to Hank. “Oh, Hank, darling, don’t apologize. Are you alright now?”

“I… don’t know. I think I might be? For my whole life I’ve felt so strange about different men in my life, and this whole time I thought it was jealousy, or shame, or something like that, but now… I don’t know. And then I think back to some of the women and… and Raven, and I’ve realized that I never felt like that for them. For any of them. I think I was just doing what I thought I was supposed to do.” Charles took Hank’s hand, that same simple gesture that had caused Hank so much strife in the last few months, now just a detail in a whole world of things he’d missed. “I think that I am, um, queer.”

Charles sighed again. “Thank you for telling me, Hank, really.”

“And you were right.”

“Pardon?”

“You were right about the other part, too. About me and… you.” Charles was silent, and that was all the information Hank needed to affirm what he already knew was true. “I’m sorry, I- I know you don’t feel the same, so-”

“Hank, stop. Seeing as I’m the only mind reader in this house, I think I’m the only one who can make statements regarding other peoples’ feelings. What makes you think you know that I don’t reciprocate your feelings?”

Hank was confused. “What? I- I mean, statistically it’s improbable that there would be two h- homosexuals living in one house completely fortuitously, and I’ve seen you with women before, I mean, everyone here knew about you and Moira, not to mention that I’ve seen you at bars and you only ever-”

“Hank, slow down.” Hank shut his mouth and folded his hands cautiously. “Hank, one can be more than just homosexual or heterosexual. I happen to fancy men and women, myself.”

Hank blinked and tried to cobble together a coherent sentence. “I- you do?”

“Yes. Usually I tend to avoid being too overt with men lest we draw any unwanted attention, but I’d say I’ve probably been with just as many men as I have women. And in regards to your assertion regarding your own feelings: you’re wrong. It just so happens that your feelings are reciprocated, in fact.”

Hank was stunned. Even beyond the statistical improbability of two non-heterosexuals living under the same roof completely by chance, he was sure that it was impossible for Charles to want him while he was… like this. Charles was attracted to men, not blue furry things with claws and fangs. Surely whatever feelings Charles may have had for him once had dissolved after Hank went off the serum.

He took a deep breath and looked at his hands. “I’m… sorry, Charles. I know that this couldn’t work. I don’t even know how it would work if I was normal, but-”

“You think I don’t love you when you’re like this? You really think me so shallow?”

“Oh, come on, Charles, don’t kid yourself. I- this isn’t a body that’s supposed to be wanted by anyone.”

Charles moved slowly and carefully, his eyes painfully sympathetic. He gradually brought his hands up to cup Hank’s face, fingers sliding delicately into the place on his cheekbones where fur gave way to skin. His eyes bounced back and forth between Hank’s, and before he could say a word, Charles’s lips were on his. He was astoundingly gentle, and Hank slowly closed his eyes as he let his shoulders relax and his hands come up to rest on Charles’s waist. Soon enough, Charles parted his lips and licked gently at Hank’s mouth. Hank complied without complaint, opening his mouth and letting Charles breath him in.

Once he felt Charles’s tongue graze against one of his fangs, though, Hank pulled away. “Charles, I- if we’re going to go through with this, I need to know that you mean it. You know that I’ve never been with a man before. Hell, I’ve never really been with anyone before, and I need to be sure that you’re not just pitying me, or- or just trying to make me feel better, or something.

Charles ran his thumb across Hank’s cheek, just below his eye. “Hank, I’m doing this because I want to. Because you’re a good man, and because I like your company, and because I’m attracted to you. I’m attracted to you like this just as much as I was when you looked more human.”

Hank furrowed his brow and gnawed on the inside of his cheek. It had been a long day, and all of this was almost too much for him to process at once. He lay a hand on Charles’s neck. “Thank you. I- I want to make this- make us work. I just… don’t know how.”

Charles smiled at that, clearly relieved that Hank had finally gotten out of his own head. “I would be more than happy to teach you. Shall we start the lesson in your room? It’s so much closer than mine.”

Hank nodded, his mouth suddenly dry, and led Charles- somewhat awkwardly- back to his bedroom. He lifted him out of the Chair and onto the bed (for once he finally appreciated his muscle, the transfer would have been much more difficult without it) before they both set about removing their shirts. Hank crouched over Charles, knees straddling his hips, as Charles began to lick hungrily into his mouth.

Charles moved his hands gracefully across Hank’s body, sliding through the fur on his arms, his chest, his back while he kissed him with a passion he hadn’t shown in quite some time. Eventually, his hands came to rest on the waistband of Hank’s pants, though, and Hank’s heart began to pound. Everything was still so new to him. Barely twelve hours before, Hank had realized that he loved men, loved Charles, and now his hand was pulling at Hank’s zipper, and Hank’s thumb brushed across the stubble on Charles’s jaw. His head was spinning, but some voice inside of him told him to keep going. Charles wanted this, wanted him, and if this is what that meant, then he would just have to push through the panic and-

Charles pulled back suddenly, staring intently into Hank’s eyes and resting his hands on his shoulders. “Hank, please don’t make yourself do this.”

Hank suppressed a growl and shook his head. “No. No, I love you, and you want this, I-”

“Hank, I cannot force myself on you. We don’t need to have sex, darling. There’s more to a relationship than just that.” Charles pushed himself up on the pillow, now at eye level with Hank as Hank leaned back on his heels. Charles brought a hand up to Hank’s cheek and whispered, “We can take things slow, my love.”

Hank sighed and let the tension leave his body as he moved to sit beside Charles on the bed. “I’m sorry, I just- this is all so fast. Just this morning, I didn’t even know I liked men and now… This is all just so much.”

“Of course, love. Let’s just sleep tonight, you’ve had a long day.” Charles patted his thigh and started to shift on the bed. “Here, help me under the covers.”

Hank pulled back the sheets and laid back on the pillow once they were both comfortably under the blankets. At Charles’s insistence, he laid his head on Charles’s bare chest and let Charles card through his hair. It was almost embarrassing, laying practically naked in bed with his former mentor, having his hair played with as though he were a teenage girl trying to get over her first boyfriend. He was far too tired to care though, and fell asleep to the gentle motions of Charles massaging his hair, both too content to even turn off the lamp.

Hank slowly became more acclimated to what his relationship with Charles had become. It had been awkward at first, greeting each other with kisses instead of pats on the shoulder, calling each other by clichéd pet names, eventually even sharing a bed most nights, but soon it all felt more natural than breathing. To say that Hank’s mood improved, too, would be a wild understatement. Suddenly Hank had something to look forward to each morning. He knew who he was now- knew all of who he was. Perhaps some days he didn’t like certain parts of who he was (certain blue, furry parts), but he always knew that he at least had Charles.

Charles, too, did his part to take things slow for Hank. For the first few weeks, he always let Hank initiate any kisses or gentle touches. He even waited for Hank to be the first one to call them ‘lovers’ (and oh, how Hank grew to love that word).

Eventually, though, the time came for Charles to try to coax Hank out of his comfort zone. Hank had nearly collapsed when Charles suggested having guests over for dinner, so he decided to start off on a smaller scale.

“Hank, love, you still keep in contact with your parents, yes?”

Hank looked up from his book to meet Charles’s nervous gaze across the coffee table. “Not for a while, but we’re on good terms.”

“And when would you say the last time you spoke to them was?”

Hank furrowed his brow, trying to guess what Charles was getting at with these questions. “I don’t know, maybe ten, eleven months ago? Why do you want to know?”

Charles sighed and set down his teacup. “Hank, darling, you’re not going to like what I’m about to suggest, but I must implore you to keep an open mind about it. I think you should write your parents a letter.”

“Okay…?” Hank tilted his head inquisitively.

“And I think that you should include a photograph of yourself when you send it.”

If Hank had looked human, he would have paled three shades lighter at Charles’s proposition. “What?”

Charles wheeled himself next to Hank. “Love, hear me out. Please. It’s nearly February now, and in May it will have been a full year since the last time you spoke to anyone other than me. Now, don’t misunderstand me, I treasure your company and I’m glad that you’re here, but you can’t live the rest of your life as a recluse. I know that you miss going out into the world, and I know that you’re terrified of how people will react to you, but you’ll never overcome that fear if you don’t start somewhere.”

Hank sputtered for a moment, glancing between Charles’s eyes in astonishment. “So you want me to, what, write my parents a letter telling them that their son is completely unrecognizable?”

“He’ll only be unrecognizable if he never shows his parents who he is, darling.” Charles grasped Hank’s hand sympathetically. “I know that this will be difficult for you, but things will never improve if you don’t try.”

Hank tried desperately to find some sort of stubborn rebuttal to that, but he knew that Charles was right. Nearly a year since anyone other than Charles had seen him. His parents must’ve been worried sick, he was sure he would have accumulated dozens of letters from his mother by now if she knew where he lived. Hank opened his mouth to try and say something, anything, that would save him from having to do this, but all that came out was a strained sigh before Charles led him to his desk where a blank sheet of paper sat already waiting for him.

He stared at the page before him once Charles left the room, and one glance at the Estate of Charles Xavier letterhead told him that he would have to confess more than one secret to his parents in this letter.

January 28, 1974

Dear Mom and Dad,

Hello. Sorry it’s been so long since you’ve heard from me, it’s a bit of a long story, but I’ll try to explain it all here as best I can. I hope you’re both doing well. The last time we spoke, I heard all about the tomatoes Mom’s growing and the Chevy Dad’s fixing up, hope those both turned out how you wanted. I’ve been busy, to say the least. Some personal research has been occupying me lately for the most part, and I’ve gotten lots of opportunities to challenge myself.

I guess I’ll just cut to the chase now. I haven’t been honest with you two for a long time. A little over ten years, in fact. It feels wrong for me to be so scared of how you’ll react- I know that you both love me, and always will, but I can’t help being afraid that this will be too much for you.

I’ll start here: I’m a homosexual. I only realized this recently, but I have been my whole life. I think that, for a lot of my life, I forced myself to show interest in women without realizing that I was supposed to feel that interest just as much as I showed it. I went after plenty of girls, but I’ve realized that I was never really attracted to any of them, not in the way that I am to men.

I’m in a relationship now, too. I believe I’ve told you about Charles Xavier, the psychic that I started the school with. I can’t put into words how happy I’ve become with him. He has managed to bring me out of a depression so deep I thought I would never escape it, and now I wake up next to him everyday. In fact, it was Charles who convinced me to write this letter to you. I’m sorry that I’ll never get married or give you grandchildren, but I’m happy now. It’s been hard to come to terms with, yes, but I am gay and in love with a man and happy.

Somehow I think that this next part will be even harder for you to hear.

In 1962, I was a part of a team involved in the Cuban Missile Crisis. You both know that, and that I met a lot of people there that I considered to be very dear friends (including my Charles). One of those was a young woman named Raven, who could change her shape at will. She was remarkably talented, but I decided to take advantage of that talent. Using a blood sample she gave me, I developed what I thought was a definitive cure for my mutation. Perhaps ‘cure’ isn’t the right word; I made it to change the appearance of my feet, without limiting my intellect or other abilities. You both know how self-conscious I’ve always been, and I thought I saw an instant remedy for that in Raven.

Despite my best efforts, however, I made some sort of terrible mistake in my development of the serum. Somehow, instead of merely altering or deleting the gene that made my mutation manifest physically, the serum duplicated and intensified that gene, and with it, my mutation. I underwent a transformation that I am still coping with today.

As you can see in the photograph I’ve attached, I no longer resemble the son you knew. If you recall the Paris Peace Accords, then you might recognize the man in the photo as the same man who tried to stop Erik Lehnsherr in that fountain. That was the only time the world has ever seen who I am.

Shortly after my initial transformation, I created an improved version of my original serum that did make me appear human, but over the years its efficacy slowly decreased, and I have now built up a tolerance so high that a normal dose will barely buy me two hours as an ordinary man. Because of this, I have been forced to stop taking the serum entirely.

I stopped taking it last May (which I’m sure you’ll notice is very shortly after the last time you heard from me), and since then you will be the first people I have spoken to other than Charles. He’s having me write this letter as a first step towards healing and accepting myself. I, no doubt, have a long way to go before I finally achieve that, but he’s right: you should be the first people to know.

Mom, Dad: I am still myself. That’s difficult for me to admit now that I look the way I do, but I am. I still have my collection of Asimov novels, I still prefer my eggs over-easy, and I still love you both very much. And I am also a blue, furry homosexual who is in love with a mind-reader.

Please call me. I miss you both dearly.

845-205-5768

Sincerely,

Henry

Hank set down his pen, surprised at how easily the words flowed out of him once he started. He ran a hand over his face to wipe at the tears that had made their way through his fur as he wrote, and stood up to retrieve Charles.

He found him in Hank’s bedroom (or perhaps it was their bedroom now?) folding laundry, and a relieved smile spread across his face as Hank entered.

“How did it go?” Charles set down the shirt he was folding and wheeled himself towards Hank.

“Um, fine, I think. It was… easier than I thought it would be,” Hank said with a small, sad chuckle. “I- I wrote about us, too. I thought I might as well get it all out at once. Rip the bandaid off quick, you know?”

“Of course.”

“And I thought, since I’m gonna send them a picture of myself, anyway, I want to take one with you in it. I want them to see how happy I am with you.”

Charles made a face that Hank couldn’t quite categorize, somewhere between sadness and bliss, and pulled him in for a gentle kiss before sending him off to grab the camera.

Hank set it up in the library, making sure that their background would look sophisticated and austere and not at all like what most people in his parents’ generation would imagine the home of two male lovers would like. He set the timer for five seconds and rushed back to the armchair that Charles sat next to, sitting down and taking his hand tenderly. Hank smiled at the camera- his first genuine smile in what felt like years- and, just as the shutter clicked, Charles moved to press a kiss to the corner of Hank’s mouth.

About a week later, as Hank and Charles sat on the sofa to watch the latest M*A*S*H episode, the phone rang. The phone never rang. What would the world want with two mutant hermits living quietly in upstate New York? They shared a look, and Charles moved to pick up the receiver as Hank tried to steady his breathing.

“Hello, you’ve reached the Xavier estate, who is speaking?” A pause, then, “This is he. Ah, of course. Yes, he’s been waiting for your call. Just a moment, thank you.”

“Is it- is it them?” Hank stood up as Charles rested the receiver against his shoulder to muffle their talking.

“Yes, it’s a very lovely-sounding woman who calls herself Edna McCoy. Here, take this,” he handed Hank the receiver, “and I’ll make us some dinner. You can do this. I love you.” He pulled Hank down into a brief kiss, and left Hank alone with nothing but a still-warm television and his mother on the other end of the line.

After a deep breath, he brought the phone up to his ear. “Hello? Mom?”

He heard a choked sigh before his mother’s voice broke through the phone, “Oh, Hank, my Hank!”

“H-Hi, Mom. It’s good to hear from you.” Hank had no idea how to start this conversation so he decided to take the coward’s route and wait for his mother to initiate.

“Hank, baby, your father and I got your letter.”

“Ah, yeah. That.”

“Honey, I don’t know where to start. There’s so much we need to talk about. How are you, really?”

Hank swallowed. “I’m good, actually. Better than I thought I’d be. I- I have Charles, you know, and he… he makes everything better.” He gave a forced chuckle to try to make himself seem nonchalant, but even he knew that he sounded panicked and afraid.

“Of course, Charles. He… I don’t really know what to say, here, honey. I always knew that you were strange around girls and whatnot, but I never for a moment thought you might be… And then I look at that picture you sent, and he’s kissing you, and the first thing I can think is that you look happier than you have in a long time.”

Hank, the sap, felt his eyes water a little at that. “Is that… all you see when you look at that picture?”

His mother gave a short, sympathetic sob. “Oh, my baby, we love you so much. I wish I could just hold you now and tell you it’s all gonna be alright. But I’m not sure that I could say that without it being a lie. People are afraid of what they don’t understand, you know that. I remember talking about that broadcast of the Accords in Paris with some of the ladies in the neighborhood, and all they could talk about was the great big blue thing they saw in that fountain, how scared they were. But, baby, I’m telling you now that I am not afraid of the man I see in that photo. That man looks like he’s very smart, and kind, and a wonderful son.”

Hank didn’t even bother pretending he wasn’t crying. He sank down to the floor and let his mother hear his sniffs and whimpers as she spoke. There was silence on the line for a few moments as he let himself cry, but he knew that his mother was right there on the other end of the line, rocking in her chair and missing him.

When he finally dried up a little bit, he spoke again. “Where- where’s Dad?”

His mother gave a heavy sigh. “Hank, your father is a stubborn man. He likes things how they are and he isn’t very fond of change. He’s… he’s been doing a lot of thinking, and a lot of praying, I’m sure, but I know that he has so much love for you in his heart, and he just wants you to be safe and taken care of. Even if the one who’s takin’ care of you is… Charles.”

Hank looked down at his hands, big and furry and trembling. “Yeah, that- that sounds about right.”

“Hank, would you do something to put an old lady’s mind at ease?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, what do you need?”

“Would you tell me a bit more about that Charles? Would you tell me that you’re sure this is right for you?”

He smiled somewhat sadly. “Yeah, I think it is. Charles is… well, Charles is kind of hard to describe, actually. He’s very smart, a professor of genetics, actually. He’s incredibly patient, you have to be when you’re trying to teach a class full of superpowered preteens. He… he loves me very much. He makes me laugh, even on bad days, and he knows how I take my coffee, and he practically forces me to go to sleep if I’ve been up too long working on some theorem or something. He’s a good man, really. A great man. You’d like him, I know you would.”

There was silence on the line for a moment before his mother sniffed and almost whispered, “Thank you, baby. Thank you so much.”

“Mom?”

“Yes, Hank?”

“I love you.”

“Oh, baby, I love you, too. I love you so much.”

Hank had become much more daring in the weeks after that phone call. He went on a lot of walks around the grounds, even making it to the mailbox a few times. He spoke on the phone with old CIA colleagues (mostly small talk, and never revealing anything too incriminating) and the few friends that he had had growing up.

He started to put real care into his appearance as much as he could, too. He’d have Charles help him trim up the hair on his head to look a bit more presentable, and he tried wearing clothes that actually formed some sort of outfit instead of just throwing on whatever was nearest. On good days, he managed to even believe Charles when he said that he looked good.

Charles was out on a grocery run while Hank worked on their bills (which were minimal for a mansion of that size considering it was just the two of them) with the TV providing some background noise. Hank, unlike Charles, actually enjoyed watching the news. It gave him some semblance of connection to a world that he hadn’t been a part of for more than a year.

Today the anchors were talking about some Congress bill or other, Hank wasn’t paying too much attention. Until, that is, he heard the word “mutant” spill from Chet Huntley’s mouth.

Hank snapped up, bills forgotten, and gave the TV his full attention.

“Today the Senate will be hearing testimonies from attendees of last year’s Paris Peace Accords in the ongoing debate over the rights of so-called ‘mutants’ in America, and whether the government should or should not keep tabs on them. We bring you now to the Senate floor, where French national Marie Allaire is giving her account of the events that transpired that day.”

The screen switched to a wide shot of the Senate, where a short young woman stepped up to a podium and began to read to the congressmen from a paper she clutched tightly in her hands.

“Bonjour. My name is Marie Camille Allaire, and I would like to share with you my experience at les Accords du Pièce à Paris.” She spoke with a thick French accent which Hank could barely hear over the pounding of his ears. “I was in the crowd outside l’Hôtel Majestic on January 27 of last year, and what I saw that day has stayed with me for over a year now. I saw someone change her face to that of a woman who was standing only a few feet from me, I saw a man curve a bullet in midair, and I saw a blue creature try to drown that very same man in a fountain. I will never forget the screams that I heard, or the fear that I felt as I watched these people- these things- try to kill each other right in front of me. In France we have a saying: “avoir la trouille”. It can mean to be scared to death, as you say in English, but it translates more accurately to “to have a blue fear”. If that doesn’t describe what I, and everyone else present, felt that day, I don’t know what does.

“I am not American. This is my first time in your country, and I do not know very much about how you live here, but I know what I saw outside the hotel. These things are not human. They are violent and strange, and I fear them. Please, if you value the lives of your citizens, you must know who in this country you can trust. Senator Pearson’s plan for mutant registration is the only way to keep your families, your children out of harm’s way. Merci.”

Hank didn’t know when he started shaking, but suddenly the pen in his hand dropped to the floor and he realized he was trembling too much to pick it up. He needed to move, to do something with his body before he started breaking things. He stood up and moved across the sitting room to the door, only to see his own reflection in a mirror on the wall. “A blue creature”, she had called him. He felt the growl bubble out of his chest, and didn’t bother trying to stop it.

He didn’t even know where his feet were taking him as he ran until somehow he ended up in his lab, in front of a safe he hadn’t touched in a year. With trembling hands, he entered the combination on the dial, grabbed one of the syringes inside, and stabbed it through his trousers into his leg. He winced as he felt the pain of transformation that he had almost forgotten, and then, in the blink of an eye, he was thin and hairless and human again. He scrubbed a hand over his face, the feeling of bare skin on his cheek so unfamiliar yet so dearly missed.

He was completely engulfed in the wave of emotions washing over him when he heard Charles call his name as the lab door swung open.

Charles was stunned clearly, hovering in the doorway with his jaw on the floor. “Hank, I… what happened?”

“The fucking- the news, Charles. They’re trying to register mutants, keep tabs on us, they want to know who we are, protect people from us, and I-”

“Hank, slow down.” Charles moved his chair to where Hank had slumped onto the ground, grasping a pale hand in his own. “Why did you do this?”

Hank sniffed and wiped at his eyes (blue eyes, blue eyes with brown hair and round ears and blunt teeth and bare skin and barely any muscle to speak of), “There was a woman talking to the Senate. She was there, at the accords, and she was so afraid. Of us. Of me. I can’t take it, Charles, I can’t. People are- they’re so afraid of me.”

Charles blinked slowly. “I’m… so sorry, Hank. I truly don’t know what to tell you that you haven’t already heard. Humans are… fickle, sometimes. They only fear us because they don’t know us, don’t know who we are. Who you are.”

“Well, that’s exactly what they’re trying to do now, right? Know who we are, and where we live and work and go to school and everything about us so they can get rid of us if they need to. I mean, if we really want them to know us so bad, why don’t we just let that shithead Kansas senator pass that mutant registration bill and then they’ll know everything about us?”

“Hank, you know that’s not what I meant-”

“No, I don’t know what you meant!” Hank pushed himself to his feet, a bit unbalanced without all of his added muscle. “You’re the one with the mind tricks, Charles! You’re not the one who people are so afraid of, because you look like them! You always tell me all that shit about learning to live with myself and letting people see me, but you’re not the one who’ll have to live with the consequences of that! Because at the end of the day, you could hide, if you needed to. Well I don’t have that luxury anymore.”

“I truly am sorry if-”

“God would you stop telling me that? Stop telling me how sorry you are for me, for poor Hank who can’t leave the house, who hasn’t seen a single person in the last year who wasn’t some alcoholic, patronizing psychic that always thinks he knows better than me.” Hank regretted the words the second he said them, feeling himself pale for the first time in a year.

Charles took a deep breath. “I’m going to leave now. Find me when you’re ready to have a conversation like a civilized adult.” He left the lab solemnly, leaving Hank standing alone with nothing but a heaving chest and a serum that would wear off in an hour and a half.

He wanted to run upstairs immediately. Apologize and grovel and beg for forgiveness as soon as he could, but something in him knew that that wasn’t wise. Somewhere inside, Hank was still angry, and he knew that Charles probably was, too. They both needed time to gather their thoughts.

He busied himself for probably an hour, cleaning things that were already spotless and trying not to think too hard about the feeling of his clothes rubbing up against skin instead of fur. Soon, though, there was nothing else to be done, and Hank forced himself upstairs to find Charles.

He was in the sitting room, finishing the bills that had been abandoned two hours earlier as Hank walked in, half-transformed as the serum wore off. Charles barely acknowledged him, merely took a deep breath and continued filling out the paperwork.

Hank cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Charles. I wasn’t thinking.”

Charles sighed and set down his pen, finally meeting Hank’s eyes. “I know that, Hank. I’m not angry, I just- I’m trying, love. I’m always trying.” His voice shook a little, letting vulnerability peek through the strong facade that Hank knew had always been for his sake.

“I know. I- my emotions are so much harder to control now. I feel everything so much more than I did before, and I was so scared and angry at other people that I took it out on you. I want to get better, I’m trying to get better, with your help, but I keep getting in my own way.”

“I see that, love. I see you trying.”

Hank knelt beside Charles’s wheelchair, placing a hand on his knee. “Can you forgive me?”

“Darling, you were forgiven the moment I left the room.” He sighed, “Will you make me a promise, Hank?”

“Yes, anything.”

“Will you tell me these things? Will you tell me when things get too much? Preferably before we start getting cross with one another?”

“Of course I will.” He brought a hand up to cup Charles’s face. “I love you. So much.”

“Oh, darling.” Hank brought their faces together, kissing Charles tenderly as the last bits of pink faded from his furred face.

The day had finally come. They’d been putting this off for far too long, Hank knew that, but he still groaned and shuttered when his alarm buzzed to wake him up. Hank had spent the past two months exchanging letters and phone calls with his parents (he used the word ‘parents’ liberally, it was really just his mother) trying to put off a potential visit, but he had finally run out of excuses. Today Charles would be picking them up from La Guardia and Hank would see them. They would see him. They’d see their son, completely different from the last time they met, and finally have to face each other.

He and Charles had spent the last few days cleaning furiously. Many of the rooms had fallen victim to hordes of dust bunnies with only the two of them living in the whole mansion and no housekeeper, so they were frantic to tidy the place up for the McCoys’ three-day visit. All of Hank’s shirts were clean, pressed, and thoroughly inspected for any stray strands of coarse blue fur, and all there was left to do was wait for the doorbell to ring and try to stop his heart from palpitating.

He hadn’t had a drop of coffee (the last thing his nerves needed today was caffeine) and Charles had even gone so far as to change the combination on the safe holding Hank’s remaining serum. This seemed to be the home stretch for Hank. They’d agreed that, if Hank could make it through the next three days without a major breakdown, they’d pick up where they left off in their mission to reopen the school. If Hank could face Norton McCoy, surely he could face a mob of teenage mutants.

Apparently, the upstairs library where Hank sat rereading the same page of a book over and over again wasn’t far enough away from the main foyer for Hank to escape the sound of the knocker hitting the front door. He heard Charles wheel himself from the study to the door (damn his enhanced senses), and he almost had to physically stop his heart from jumping out of his chest.

Hank rounded the corner at the top of the stairs and there they were, introducing themselves to Charles. They looked exactly the same as the last time he’d seen them, Edna in her blouse and loafers, grey hair done up in a loose bun, and Norton in his freshly-pressed shirt and pleated trousers, taking in the sights of the ornate mansion.

He managed to get halfway down the stairs before they noticed him. His mother gasped, and it was like all the air had left the room. His parents stood perfectly still while Hank crossed the foyer to take Charles’s hand, not making eye contact with either of them.

Finally his mother spoke, reaching a hand up to stroke his cheek. “Oh, my Hank…” She studied him for a moment, taking in all the blue and the yellow and the fur, and ultimately pulled him all the way down into a hug. He was careful not to hold her as tightly as he wanted to. He’d probably kill her if he did. She ran her hands through his hair before pulling away, leaving him to finally face his father.

Norton stared at him determinedly, mouth tight and eyebrows drawn together as he studied Hank’s face.

“Hi, Dad.” Hank only spoke to keep the silence from driving him crazy. “It’s good to see you.”

Norton cleared his throat. “Been a while, son.”

Hank reached an arm out to hug him, shake his hand, do something, but before he could reach him, Norton took a sharp step back, eyes wide.

“I- yeah, got it.” Hank sighed and looked back at Charles, whose eyes were big and sympathetic and painful.

Edna stepped up to him again, placing an arm on his shoulder. “Hank, it’s so… it’s so good to see you again. After all this time.”

“Yeah, I’ve- I’ve missed you a lot, Mom. I’m glad you guys could make it out here.”

“Oh, Hank, when we got your letter saying we could come see you, why, I nearly dropped dead on the floor that instant! Isn’t that right, Norton, honey?”

His father merely grunted, not moving his eyes from Hank’s face.

Edna smiled awkwardly. “Oh, and it’s so nice to finally meet Charles, too! We’ve heard so much about you, Hank just goes on-”

“That’s enough, Edna.” Norton was gruff and clearly ready to get on the next plane back to Illinois.

Charles piped up behind Hank, “Mrs. McCoy, how about I show you around the house a bit? I’m sure you’d love to see the library.”

Edna picked up on his hint, following Charles out of the room slowly. “Of course, that sounds lovely.”

The foyer was painfully empty, all marble floors and oil paintings and a son and father who would probably rather be just about anywhere else.

“Dad, I don’t know what you want me to say here.”

Norton remained silent and solemn.

“You can’t just stand there and not say anything to me, Dad. I didn’t invite you all the way out here just for you to stare at me like some sideshow freak.”

His father sighed, “That’s out of line, son.”

“Is it? I’m just asking you to say something to me, for Pete’s sake! Obviously you’re having a lot of thoughts about this whole situation so why not just tell me?” Hank really hadn’t meant to show his parents this side of him, not when he was like this. He’d always been prone to anger, but he knew that he was far more intimidating now than he was the last time they’d seen him.

Norton broke eye contact, and Hank could’ve sworn he saw a shimmer of moisture in his eye. “Son, I- what happened to you?”

Hank blinked. “What?”

“The last time we saw you, things were going great for you. You worked for the goddamn CIA! And now here you are, living with this man doing God knows what, and looking like…”

Hank closed his eyes and breathed, trying not to let his emotions get the best of him. “Dad, I know that this isn’t easy, but you don’t have to bring Charles into it.”

“Don’t have to-! Hank, your mother and I did everything for you. We gave every spare second and dollar we had to make sure you were safe. You and your feet. And now you tell us that you’re sleeping with a man, and you expect us to just go along with that, too? It’s just one more thing to cover up, Hank! Do you even know the excuses we’ve come up with when the neighbors ask about you? They want us to show them pictures of you, they want to know if you’ve found a wife, and we have to lie to them every single time! They don’t know a damn thing about you! No one does, except the four of us in this goddamn house!”

“You think I don’t know that, Dad?” Hank let the smallest of snarls sneak past his lips. “I’m the one who has to stay in this ‘goddamn house’ every second of the day! And I asked you to come here so I could fix that! So Charles and I could open up the school again and actually help people!”

Norton stared at him for a moment, before pinching the bridge of his nose and breaking away with a sigh. “Goddamnit, Hank. I knew it was a mistake coming here.”

Hank took a deep breath and stepped toward his father, careful to come off as humble and calm as possible. “Dad, I’m just trying to do the best I can with what I have. I know that this isn’t the future you wanted for me, this isn’t even the future I wanted for me, but I’m still here anyway. I want you to be a part of my life, you and Mom, but if you don’t work with me here then that’s never going to happen.”

“We want the best for you, son.” Norton relaxed his shoulders and spoke softly, clearly weighing his words carefully. “That’s all we’ve ever wanted. And I- I don’t know if I’m sure this is it.”

“What? Me being with a man, or me not being something you can hide with a pair of shoes anymore?”

“Both. Either. I mean, how can you even make a life for yourself now?”

“I already have, Dad. My life is being with Charles and helping people. People who are like me, and who need someone who looks the way I do to show them that you can be different and still survive. And how can I do that when you haven’t seen me for however many years and you still won’t touch me?”

Norton paled, finally caught. Hank took him in again. He was much shorter than Hank than he had been the last time they saw each other, Hank’s new body made sure of that. His hairline had made its way all the way to the top of his head, and his face had developed some new wrinkles. He looked tired. So much more tired than Hank had ever seen him.

“Dad, I don’t need you to love this. There are so many parts of my life that I don’t even love, but I do need you to be here for it. For me. That’s all I’m asking. For you to be here, and let it happen, and let me be your son again.”

“Now, who the hell said you weren’t my son anymore?”

“Well you sure aren’t acting like a father right now!”

“Oh, and how else would a father act in all this? What do you want me to do, make pretty blue braids up and down your arms and tell you how overjoyed I am that my son, who used to be so handsome and so intelligent and so accomplished is now some hairy, gay hermit? I mean, for Christ’s sake, Hank, what other reaction to this is there?”

Hank stilled, searching his father’s face for any remorse or shame or anything that would suggest he didn’t mean what he just said. He took a deep breath and stepped further into his father’s space, “You want to know what other reaction there is? Mom’s. Take one look at her and how she’s reacted to me, and then maybe you’ll have an idea of how to start treating me like a person. I already know that people are afraid of me, Dad. I’ve seen it on the news and in the papers and in Paris. So is it really so much to ask that my own goddamn father not fear me like every other ignorant, close-minded bigot out there? At least Mom had the decency to at least try to treat me like a human being.”

Something in Norton’s eyes changed, perhaps a trick of the light, perhaps the beginnings of a tear.

“Dad, I’ve met so many other mutants whose parents abandoned them. They tossed them out on the streets, or tried to fix them, or hide them away from the world. I don’t want that to be us. I want us to keep playing tennis together and making fun of Mom’s doily collection, but I can’t do any of that if you shut me out like this. I’m still intelligent, and I’m still accomplished, and Mom and Charles sure go out of their way to tell me that I’m still handsome, regardless of how much I believe it. All I’m asking is that you stay here. That you don’t forget about me like all those other parents, that at the very least you accept that this is how things are now.”

Norton’s brow furrowed and he frowned, finally grabbing Hank by the shoulders and pulling him in. Hank took a moment to get over his shock before wrapping his arms around his father and holding on for dear life.

“Just tell me,” Norton whispered, “tell me that you’ll be okay. That you’ll be safe here with… with Charles.”

“I don’t think I could be any safer than I am here. With him.”

Edna and Norton’s visit passed by far quicker than anyone was expecting. Charles and Hank showed them around the grounds, telling stories about Sean and Alex and Raven and all the students that had once roamed around in the gardens. Charles took them out to see museums and parks and Hank listened intently every time they came back and told him about it. Charles and Hank would kiss each other on the cheek, and Norton did an alright job hiding his discomfort, which was really all Hank was asking for.

When they finally left, Hank found himself feeling almost content.

It’s 1992, and Charles and Hank are sitting on the patio of some cafe in New York City. Charles sips his latte, and Hank his tea, and they people-watch contentedly for the better part of the morning. Each wears a simple gold band around the third finger of their left hand (purely for the sentiment of it, the world hadn’t come that far quite yet) and they joke with each other across the table about some of the older students’ antics.

Charles stares at Hank and remembers those early days of their relationship, when Hank had been so uncertain about who he was. Now Hank smiles at the waitress, his yellow eyes squinting at the sun and his fur waving ever so slightly in the breeze. Every so often, someone will stop at their table, shake their hands, thank them for their work, and Hank looks surprised every time.

He sips his latte again and takes Hank’s hand, squeezing gently as he feels the metal of Hank’s ring. Hank smiles. God, there was so much more to him than Charles could ever know. He can’t wait to find it all out.