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Charles Xavier. The name paces around inside his head, as he gives the man sitting next to him a look. He had pulled Erik out of the water, gotten inside his head, and reassured he wasn’t alone.
The chilly air is almost comforting, even though Erik is freezing. Next to him, Charles is shivering, but he’s basically vibrating with excitement—like finding Erik was like finding a needle in a haystack, and it is baffling, the way that even without a telepathic link Erik can tell the man has so many questions.
And Erik has a few of his own as well.
“How did you find me?” is what he asks first, though. “Are you all after Schmidt?”
“We know him as Shaw,” Charles says, leaning in so Erik can hear him better. The CIA agents are fussing around, minding their own business, trying to figure out a way to get back safely and taking into account they had Erik too. “And although we are not after him for the same reasons you are, it is still in our best interests to take him down.”
That’s good enough for Erik. He’s not going to get involved with these people, let alone ask for help, but he’ll play along if he must—he’s curious about this other man, as well. A telepath, if he’s not mistaken. Erik wonders how many more like him there are; how many mutations, how many different abilities they must have. The world he saw as small has suddenly expanded.
Charles rests his hand on Erik’s arm. Erik tenses up, ready to pull away, but there is something about the man that makes Erik stay in place instead. He could use everything in this boat to chain his hands and ensure he never puts a hand on Erik again, but there’s a warmth that comes from his skin—and the oddest, soothing feeling from Charles.
Charles continues saying, “My friend, I believe it’s not a coincidence that we met. We can help you. We can take him down. We have the tools, Erik. Tomorrow, everything will be clearer.”
There’s a certainty to his voice that makes Erik realize he’s honestly believing everything he says. His eyes are determined as they lock onto Erik’s, his grip tightening ever so slightly before dropping his hand. It was a friendly gesture, a casual reassurance, an invitation to trust.
Erik doesn’t know how he feels about that.
He shakes his head instead. “We will see,” he says, pointedly not looking at his arm, wondering why there’s a deep longing for his hand to come back there again.
Charles is very generous with the way he touches Erik. It’s not enough to be suspicious, but there must be a reason for it—with everything he knows about Charles, everything he’s learned through traveling and motels and dinners shared together, is that he’s never had a reason to fear anything.
Erik would be lying if he said he wasn’t extremely jealous of it.
What would that have been like? Growing up without weaponizing your fear? Erik knows some things about Charles. Charles understands what it’s like, to fear that someone else finds out about what you are, the way he’s always feared someone would be onto Raven's shapeshifting gift. Charles has confessed to him, quietly like he’s never said it to anyone before, that he’s always been scared that one day someone would find out.
That someone would see Raven’s true form and decide to harm her.
“Were you scared for her?” Erik had asked that night, looking at Charles. His gaze is fixed on his cup of wine. “She seems like quite a strong girl.”
“She is,” Charles agreed with him, pride swelling his words. “No, my friend. I have always been scared of what I’d do to the person who tried to hurt her.”
It’s like that confession had been heavier than expected, and in turn, it gives Erik a new perspective on who Charles is. He’s interesting. And yet, even their fears differed ever so slightly: Erik’s always feared for his own life. Erik has learned to wield his fear and make sure no one would ever notice he was scared, until he grew up to become fearless. Nothing scares him these days, not anymore. But Charles has always feared for someone else. He’s never weaponized that. He’s never—
It’s like there’s a barrier between his experiences and Charles’ experiences. And maybe that’s a good thing.
Erik might not understand what a life like that is, but he doubts he’d be attracted to someone who had shared the same life as him—a mirror of himself. Charles seems to be his opposite, but for one thing he finds different about Charles, he finds three more things where they’re similar. Erik likes it, truly. Keeps this roadtrip entertained.
The point is that Charles is generous with the way he touches him. Like there’s nothing to fear. Erik has always kept to himself, fully aware of how it was every time he cared for someone—there’s always life waiting for him at the corner, ready to pounce at him, to remind him to not get too comfortable. Perhaps that’s fear. Perhaps that’s just Erik being careful.
But Charles—the way his eyes shone, the way he smiled, like tomorrow had nothing to ruin for him. Like life would never betray him the way it has betrayed Erik. He puts a hand on Erik’s waist, guiding him to the table they rented for tonight, all while explaining the plans for recruiting their next mutant.
“I’m seeing we are not very successful when we spend too much time explaining who we are and what we do,” Charles is saying as they squeeze past waiters, all the while holding onto Erik. It’s driving Erik insane. It’s also been forever since the last time Erik’s been held like this, let alone the last time Erik held anyone like that. That’s always been too personal. Yet here Charles is, doing it like it’s nothing. “I find that everyone reacts positively the second we start showing them our gifts—oh, here’s our table. After you, sir.”
He drops his hand from Erik’s waist, and it takes all his willpower to not let his eyes follow after it. Erik cracks a smile. “Pretending to be a gentleman, Charles?”
Charles lets out an offended noise as he takes his own seat across Erik. “My friend, I will let you know I am nothing but a gentleman always. I can assure you, everyone I have been with has remarked how charming I am.”
Erik tries to squash down the green jealousy brewing inside him. “Well, they must have been dating the wrong person.”
“Oh, never dating,” Charles laughs. “All right, I’ll rephrase. Everyone I have ever slept with has said I am quite charming and polite.”
Erik tries very hard to not picture Charles without any clothes, and especially with someone else. He tries very hard to not imagine what it would be like to feel his hands under his clothes, skin to skin.
He’s failing.
“I still believe they’re lying,” Erik says, and for a brief moment it almost looks like Charles will say Do you care to find out, my friend? so Erik continues talking. “What were you saying before you started your self-aggrandizing charade? About mutants?”
Charles mumbles something like it’s not a self-aggrandizing charade, but he straightens up, and leans closer to the table to keep talking. “Oh, yes. They tend to react more positively and find themselves comforted the second we show them our gifts, therefore enticing them to do the same. I believe the concept of coming to work with the CIA as an opening might scare even humans, so perhaps we should change our angle.”
“Sounds good. We haven’t been too successful thus far, have we?”
Charles shakes his head. “The amount of young people we meet—I know I have taken to calling Raven a kid, but she’s really only two years younger than me. By all means, she’s a legal adult. But these kids we meet could not be older than sixteen. We need adults, Erik.”
“Even if they are young adults,” Erik says, because he’s thirty and everyone under twenty-five was extremely young to him.
Charles hums. “I agree with you, my friend. When I hear that someone’s twenty-two, I ought to make a double-take—that is toddler age.”
Erik laughs slightly.
That’s weird, too. He laughs a lot with Charles.
“Indeed,” Erik says. “So—”
“Oh, our waiter’s coming,” Charles reaches out and squeezes his hand, effectively stopping everything Erik’s about to say.
It’s odd, the way his hand fits so well with Erik’s. He’s sure this has never happened before, then again, it’s not really something he does often to know. Perhaps Erik’s just—there is the possibility that this is so unfamiliar that his brain latches onto it at any chance he gets.
Perhaps if he got to do this more often, his brain would calm down. And his body would stop reacting like this is all that mattered—like this is exactly what he’s been looking for so long, because it isn’t.
Or rather, Erik would not let it be what he’s been looking for. He’s better than this. He’s got to be better than this.
They order the food, Charles’ hand comfortably settled on top of his, and it itches. Erik itches with the need of turning their hands around, of squeezing his hand back, of just—of just—
Erik inhales. Charles drops his hand as the waiter leaves, going back to ask Erik what he was saying, but Erik’s brain is still swimming a little. Erik manages to get back on track, but his hand itches to reach out again.
He stares at the way Charles fixes his hair, the way his fingers go through the menu, the way he picks up his glass of wine and swirls it, and wishes he could feel it again.
Instead of hailing a cab, they take the subway one time. It’s without a doubt the worst experience in Erik’s life. Not only is the place full of people, but there is not a single place to sit. This would not be an issue—really, Erik’s nearly not as privileged enough as to complain about not having a seat. It’s an issue because he’s standing with Charles, pressed up against him, and making Erik wonder when the last time he had a hug was.
“Very sorry again,” Charles murmurs, very close to him. Erik represses a whole shudder. “I had no idea it would be this full.”
“It’s public transportation, Charles. People use it quite often.”
“Well—”
Erik grins. “Not like you would know, always hailing cabs?”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” Charles says forlornly. “But yes, since you put it that way.”
“Welcome to the real world, my friend,” Erik tells him, and rather than throwing a oh-so-sad pity party about how rich he is, Charles laughs against him. He’s warm and solid. Erik’s holding onto everything but Charles, because—
If he burns that bridge, Erik’s not sure what he’s going to do.
A few times the bus stops abruptly, making Charles hold onto his arm or his waist briefly before letting go again, and it’s possibly the longest bus ride in the entire world. This close, Erik has to fight hard to not let the thoughts he harbors regarding Charles come afloat. It’s extremely annoying.
Eventually, they get off the bus, Charles animatedly talking about the next mutant they’re going to find—all the while, Erik looks at him, and wonders what it would be like if any of them initiated what’s obvious between them. A hug. A kiss. Any sort of physical touch.
It’s too unrealistic to think about.
Perhaps he’s just lonely.
Erik’s been alone most of his life. This isn’t an upsetting fact, nor something Erik spends his entire time moping about it. But looking at everything objectively, it would make sense that he’s had these… reactions, so to call them, to Charles, and especially with the way he acts with him. It would make sense.
The thing is, now that they are at the mansion, Erik’s noticing something he hadn’t before, back when his only reference with how Charles acted around people was simply Erik. Charles seems to naturally be a teacher; a clap on the back here, a light pat on the shoulder there, a handshake if someone did something correctly. But this discovery makes Erik frown.
It’s almost like he’s wanting the interactions to be fast, for the touches to not last. It doesn’t match up with what Erik knows about him—with the way he’s held onto Erik multiple times, the way he’s initiated most of the contact, the way he’s rested against Erik’s skin like this was the right thing to do.
Erik’s beginning to think he might have been an exception to Charles’ rules, rather than the opposite. But why?
Erik is familiar with that behavior. He likes the kids they recruited—again, anyone under twenty-five is a toddler to him—but Erik always walks around with his hands behind his back. On the odd occasion that one of them gives Erik a friendly pat, it’s gone as soon as it began. If he ever—if the mood ever strikes to congratulate a kid on what they’ve done, it’s the quickest pat Erik’s ever given to anyone.
But Erik knows why he does this. He knows his boundaries. He knows the beliefs that have shaped who he is, the rules he abides inside his head, the self-imposed limits he has regarding getting attached and touching people. So why does Charles do it?
And most importantly, why does he think of Erik differently?
There’s one idea he has, but he’s not sure how to carry it out.
The opportunity comes up with chess, as most things do when it comes to being friends with Charles. It’s something that if you asked Erik about it, he’d vehemently deny it, or simply pretend it never happened. But as he’s making his way to their nightly chess game, he finds Charles still talking to Hank in the hallway.
So he does the most logical thing in the world. Charles spots him, saying, “Oh, hi, Erik!” and as he says that, Erik stops behind him and lets his hand rest on Charles’ waist.
“Don’t be late,” he says, then nodding at Hank as he lets his hand drop from Charles’ waist.
It’s the split second that Erik takes to look at Charles’ reaction that says everything. The way he had tensed up ever so slightly, the way he had almost held his breath, the way he watched Erik go with round, wide eyes that only lasted a moment before the expression schooled itself back to normal—
Charles was just like him.
For some reason, that alone puts a smile on his face.
Charles arrives a bit later to his seat, while Erik had taken the time to set up the pieces, and he wonders when, exactly, had he gotten so good at reading Charles. Has he ever been that obvious, whenever Charles let his touches linger on him? Was it ever written on his face the way it’s written on Charles’ face now, the want, the bewilderment, the confusion? It was no wonder he did it to Erik all the time: the reaction is quite satisfying to witness.
“You’re late,” Erik says with no heat behind it, crossing his legs.
Charles grins. “My sincerest apologies. Hank was just telling me about the process he made with Alex’s suit, and how we could find a way to contain his blasts of energy. Truly fascinating stuff, granted, not an excuse to keep you waiting.”
Erik didn’t mind at all. He has a hunch that Charles knows this as he says, “Why, Charles, a month ago you were being a gentleman. Not worthy of your charms anymore?”
Charles laughs, low. “Oh, my friend. If only you knew.”
In the morning, Charles gets up looking like death, but they are always the first people to be up before anyone else. For Erik, this is a habit. He rises with the sun no matter what, he doesn’t let himself slack, and there is certainly no room for a ‘five more minutes’ mentality. Charles, however, seems the type to enjoy a ‘five more minutes’ nap. He only started doing this once he realized Erik was never around for breakfast, occupied with training and his own trips, and therefore, sought Erik’s presence in the morning before everyone else.
This is the fifth day in a row he’s getting up early, and Erik can tell Charles is never going to get used to it. It’s sweet, really, if only incredibly obvious and bold—he’s once again in awe of how Charles simply does things, never one to be fearful of the consequences of his actions or his words.
Still, Erik has made him tea first. Charles points this out as he struggles to open his eyes, and struggles to reach the table at all.
Erik gets up to meet him halfway, pressing the warm mug in his hands, and then securing it by pressing both of his hands over Charles’ own. Charles’ eyes open so fast it’s almost comical.
“You were about to drop it,” he says, holding back laughter. He squeezes his hands for good measure, relishing on the warmth from the mug and Charles’ skin. “You have to be more alert, Charles. It’s already six in the morning.”
He walks back to the table, feeling Charles’ deep stare follow him, and it’s still so—so exhilarating, in a way, that they’re the same.
That these touches are as insane to Erik as they are to Charles.
“My friend, no one’s this alert at six in the morning. You are the first person I have ever met to do this,” he says, stifling a yawn, and taking his seat next to Erik. “Thank you very much, Erik. This is good.”
“I needed you to be alert, and you’d take too long to make tea,” Erik gives as an explanation on why he’d ever make breakfast for him.
Charles smiles like he sees right through that lie. “Thank you very much,” he says again, and they have breakfast in comfortable silence.
One night after chess, it seems like Charles has gotten sick of this little game they play—of lingering touches and shared glances that only mean something to them.
“Have you ever danced before, Erik?” Charles asks, walking over his record player and putting it on. “Not much of a dancer?”
“Never had the time to learn, nor did I care about learning it,” answers Erik, already having a hunch as to where this is going. “I’m assuming you’ve received plenty of education regarding it.”
Charles laughs. “Oh, please. I can only be so stereotypically rich. Truth is, I did learn with Raven, but not because our parents made us. You know, dance clubs were a thing in school, if only for a year.”
“And what did you learn?”
“Certainly not to slow-dance,” Charles smiles. “I have heard I am pretty good at swing.”
“You have heard?” Erik stands up, and he’s mostly right about where this is going, if the way Charles is looking at him is indication of anything. “So you’re not confident in your skills, is what you’re saying.”
“It’s like you read my mind,” Charles says. They’re both standing in front of the other, the song playing softly in the background. “So you’re not a dancer. Shall we improvise this piece, then? With your sharp wits and my not-too-perfect knowledge, surely, we can figure something out.”
Erik wants to know what goes on inside his head so badly, but it would be cheating if they did that. And yet, he still knows—because there is only one way this can go. Erik extends his hand, getting ready for the contact. “I’m assuming you’ll be leading.”
“As the only one with experience between the two of us, I’m afraid I am the only qualified one to do so,” Charles smiles apologetically. He takes his hand, lacing his fingers with Erik’s the way Erik has been wanting to for so long. There’s a sharp inhale, but he can’t tell if that was him or Charles. “This hand stays here. And your other hand comes here,” he guides it to Charles’ waist, where Erik is free to hold as securely as he wishes to. “And my hand comes up to your shoulder. All good?”
Better than good. Even with the layers on, Erik’s relishing on this touch, the warmth and the strength in Charles’ grip, the solid weight of his body, the way it’s like they were sculpted perfectly to fit with the other.
Erik nods instead. “Now what?”
“Now we dance. All you have to do is follow me,” Charles says, then softly begins counting one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three…
It’s a little enchanting. Erik knew this moment would come, eventually: the moment where they would both stop tiptoeing around their ever-growing connection and tension, the moment where it would all come down to this. Erik ought to be terrified. To be scared like he’s never been before. If Charles wanted to, he could kill Erik.
He could reach inside his mind and with a simple snap erase his memories, turn him into a puppet. Had Charles been a violent person, his hand was in the perfect position to stab him and get rid of him immediately. He could make him stop breathing. He could do anything, and Erik would be none the wiser—Erik is allowing this connection, this touch, knowing that as much as it could make him happy it could destroy him in the blink of an eye.
He’s been so lonely. This—this conscious choice of letting himself be pulled by Charles, to let him in—it’s overwhelming, and it should be frightening, knowing everything he does; knowing how at risk he would be—
And yet he isn’t scared.
And yet the certainty that Charles wouldn’t do that is so strong within him, that feels more terrifying in itself. And yet it isn’t.
The song slowly comes to an end, and Erik tilts his chin up. He kisses Charles, relieved to finally be able to, overwhelmed with emotion over it. Both of his hands come up to hold his face as Charles kisses back, unhurried and deep, so much that Erik feels like he’s going to explode. He’s dizzy with it, with the way Charles’ lips chase after his own, the way his hands find their way under his clothes, fingertips exploring and spreading against his skin—
Erik breaks the kiss first. Charles must be really shaken up, as he’s picking up on some projection from his part—something that never usually happens. Charles looks up to him and Erik knows, then.
He’s been as lonely as Erik was. Not in the same way, but in the specific way—the way that came with being on the outside looking in. The way that came with holding back his telepathy, with trying so much to fit in when he knows—despite the relentless optimism, he knows he’s always going to be the odd one out. The loneliness that comes with always performing, not being able to stop, not being able to show someone all of him out of fear. The loneliness that came from self-imposed boundaries.
Erik kisses him again, again and again, bringing him closer than before. “You can let go,” Erik says against his lips, breaking apart again. “You don’t have to hide.”
Luckily, Charles doesn’t ask are you sure, Erik, are you absolutely certain—even though he’s very close to do it. It’s written on his face. He knows Erik better than that—as if Erik would ever say something like that if he didn’t mean it. So Charles brings two fingers to his temple and dives in, the sensation unlike anything else. Last time Charles was in his head, it was way more confusing. A lot more messy. But with Erik’s mind so grounded and calm now, he can hear Charles perfectly, his want and his love and dedication all curling with Erik’s own, like friends meeting each other after a lifetime being separated.
“You’re phenomenal,” Charles lets his head drop against Erik’s chest, as Erik wraps his arms around him. “My whole life, I’ve never…”
I’ve never had someone let me in like this.
It’s okay. Erik’s never had anyone like Charles before, period.
Oh, Erik.
It’s so fond. He almost wants to throw Charles out, to go back to practiced rules and boundaries, but he wants this so much more—he pushes the thoughts back and kisses him again.
Charles drags him back to one of their chairs, kissing him, and the touches are so intoxicating. It nags at him, again, how easy it would be for Charles to simply get rid of him. His hand goes under his shirt and then Erik helps him take it off altogether, swallowing. It’s been forever since this. And he’s sure no one’s ever looked at him like that—
—like they loved and wanted him so badly it hurt.
“And I’ll never stop looking at you like that,” Charles answers. He discards his own shirt next, kissing Erik again, quieting most of his brain with simple touches. “This is real, Erik. This is real.”
It sounds like he’s convincing himself more than Erik. Erik figures he should say something—but he’s never been good at words, not when feelings are involved, always used to acting with his hands and actions over dialogue.
There’s one thing that he can say, though. He squeezes Charles’ hips softly and thinks, You’re not alone.
It melts Charles again, and he kisses him until he loses track of time.