They're out to eat at Erik's favorite steakhouse, and Charles has been acting weird all night. He drove right past the entrance not once but twice, even though they've been coming here at least once a month for years and he really ought to know how to get here by now. He spent three or four minutes reading his menu upside-down, when he usually doesn't even bother with it at all since he has it basically memorized. He didn't even seem to have any thoughts on the movie — which he really should have, since Erik spent half the drive from the theater to the steakhouse expressing his opinion of Adam Sandler. (It's a long, involved, vitriolic opinion, so he's also spent most of the wait so far expounding on the points he made on the way here.)
When their food arrives, Charles picks up his knife and fork and starts cutting into his parmesan-crusted chicken. Then he stops and squints at his plate. "Did I order this?"
"Yeah, you did," Erik says. "I thought it was weird, too."
Charles normally orders steak. That's the point of going to a steakhouse. But tonight, instead of clearly stating that he wanted a ribeye, medium-well, he'd mumbled, gestured vaguely at the menu, and agreed with the waiter when the guy guessed what he meant. Erik could have stepped in, but he'd wanted to see this play out; besides, Charles always gets really mad about being told what to order. He'd have insisted on the chicken just to prove Erik wrong.
"Okay." Charles shrugs and digs in.
Erik gives him a minute. Then, when Charles doesn't come out with it, he asks, "So, what's on your mind? You seem distracted."
He can't remember the last time he saw Charles like this. He's starting to worry.
Charles doesn't seem depressed or anything like that; he was eager to go out tonight, he didn't have any apparent trouble leaving the house. Maybe he's going to tell him he's pregnant or something. He's not supposed to have that mutation, but you never know. Maybe he's a late bloomer. That would actually be a relief, in a way. Erik's tired; let Charles deal with it for once.
Or...maybe it's bad news. Maybe he's sick. Maybe there's something going on with Lorna or David that he hasn't told Erik about yet.
Charles looks up, startled. "No, no, it's nothing like that. It's...here." He reaches into his jacket and brings out an envelope.
Erik knows what it is before he even opens it. It's going to be plane tickets for...Paris or Rome or the Bahamas or something. It's been a while since they went on a vacation that didn't involve Disney World (actual Disney World, or griping: "But why can't we go to Disney World?"). He doesn't know why Charles would be this nervous about that, though; sure, Erik usually puts up a fight when Charles springs trips on him, but he always gives in in the end. Charles knows that.
He raises an eyebrow at Charles, then looks.
It's plane tickets, all right. To San Francisco.
It takes Erik a few seconds longer than it should. He watches the news. It's just that what's going on out there doesn't seem to have anything to do with them — not when some piece of paper from San Francisco would mean exactly squat here in New York. What's the point in that?
Erik feels like he should be...scoffing or laughing or something. Maybe even angry. But instead, he's staring at the tickets and his entire body has gone warm. The type's getting inexplicably blurry.
He doesn't know how long he just sits there before he says, in a voice that doesn't even sound like his, "Just two tickets? Shouldn't we bring the kids?"
He looks back at Charles to see him relax for the first time all night. He beams at Erik, the way he does sometimes, like Erik is wonderful and perfect, like Erik's the best thing he's ever seen. Erik's never felt like he deserves either the look or the sentiment; it's the other way around, really.
"Not to worry," Charles says, reaching back into his jacket for another, thicker envelope. He presents this to Erik with a flourish: more plane tickets, enough for the kids, Erik's mom, Charles' mom and sister, some of their friends too...
"You were pretty confident, huh," Erik says drily, because he's pretty sure it's either that or start crying in public. "You do realize I haven't actually said 'yes' yet, right?"
Charles grins for a second, so smug, the perfect opposite of the way he's been all night. Then he turns serious. "I suppose I'd have to ask the question, before you could. I'm afraid I can't get down on one knee. But here." He reaches into his jacket again, and brings out a small box.
Erik doesn't even sense the rings until the box opens, and then he gets the sight and the feel of them, all at once. Two plain bands, one for each of them: not gold or silver or platinum, but stainless steel. It's always been his favorite.
"They're probably too big. I didn't have them sized; I figured you could, you know," Charles says. Then he takes a deep breath and says, "I had a speech, but I seem to have forgotten it. But I do remember the most important part: Erik, will you marry me?"
"Yeah, sure," Erik says, so choked up that no one but Charles could possibly decipher his answer. "Okay."