Title: Rituals
Fandom: X-Men
Rating: PG
Length: 460 words
Content notes: none
Author notes:
Summary: Jewish Christmas "traditions" on New Year's Eve, more or less



It’s become a tradition, the two of them eating a late dinner on the last night of the year, Charles barefoot and bareheaded in the most obnoxious jingly ugly Christmas sweater he can find (different every year), Erik in an equally garish Channukah sweater over his usual black turtleneck, stealing bites of Kung pao squid and Mongolian beef and chow mein off of each other's plates. A few years ago Erik had even invested in stainless steel chopsticks that he could wield with a careless thought, leaving his hands free for other purposes; Charles tended to retaliate with teasing telepathic comments even as both their mouths were otherwise occupied, first with food and then with slow languorous kisses.

The rest of the year they might find themselves at cross purposes with each other, but this was a holiday, a holy day of sorts, New Years Eve was in some sense an end to the secular winter holidays, but it was also a promise of new beginnings.

And, for two aging men, a reminder of times past.

At last all had been eaten save a few scattered morsels of rice or splotches of sauce with the red shriveled hot peppers that no one eats. Charles cracked one of the fortune cookies open and plucked out the paper inside. “You will meet a tall dark handsome stranger,” he intoned dramatically, “and have sex on every available-- hey!”

“Liar.” Erik, who had snatched the scrap from Charles’ fingers, snorted as he read its actual contents. “That's not even a *fortune*. Preposterous, really.”

“What's yours say, then? No, let me guess --”. Charles put one hand dramatically to his forehead. “ ‘an intelligent and devilishly handsome opponent will--”

“--stop making inane statements and kiss me,” Erik finished for him. “Honestly, Charles, your telepathy doesn't work on *fortune cookies*.”

“No but it ought to,” Charles said, but whatever he started to say next was obliterated by a huge yawn. “Bother,” he said, “it's not even midnight yet, I am getting old.”

“It's past midnight in London,” Erik said helpfully. “Come, let's get ourselves to bed.”

At one time those words would have been followed by several rounds of noisy and enthusiastic sex. This year, it was just the two of them sharing a bed for its intended purpose, Erik curled protectively around Charles as he drowsed, their fingers intertwined, each one a warm and solid presence to the other.

“I get lonely,” Charles murmured after a length of silence. “Without you. You could stay…”

It was an offer he made every year, and Erik kissed his temple and said nothing.

(When Charles awoke, Erik was gone, but next to him on the bed were the two fortunes folded together into an origami heart, and a scrawled note that said “Maybe next year”.)