"Bohemian," Erik repeats, making it this time to almost a real grin, one toothy and sharp, "No, I can't picture you in a garret."

Which is sort of a lie; he's visual enough to imagine it instantly, and for the moment it lasts it's sort of marvelous, Charles barefoot and inkstained, with candles for light and filmy curtains, scratching through dreadful rhyming poetry with the same concentration he allots to his genetics research. Erik's lashes come down and he steps away, brushing off Charles' shoulders as if to dust away the weight of what was just expressed between them. "We need to eat."

So that's that, Erik sitting at the corner table and working methodically through his own plate without a wince. He's learned to appreciate the texture and taste of good food, the way it suffuses the body with a comfort far more complex than merely the replacement of calories, but he also remembers what it was like to starve, so he's more than capable of powering through much nastier fare than this.