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They return to the manor as the sun begins to set. Erik always thought that the way that the sun dipped below the darkening treeline and dyed the sky red and gold looked like it was melting on the treeline. Melting like red-hot metal, smoothing out over the white sky, lava flowing down the side of a volcano.
The pines surrounding the Westchester Manor are so tall that Hank can land the plane in the middle of the yard and a driver on the road outside wouldn't even know it. It's a rocky landing, partly because Erik can only do so much to fix such complicated machinery after a crash landing, and partly because Hank, like the rest of them, had his adrenaline crash somewhere over the Atlantic. After hundreds of Russian and American missiles exploded above their heads like fireworks. Because, as it turns out, the only act of violence Erik can't commit is one against Charles Xavier.
All of them are exhausted, even Moira, who spent most of her time in the crashed jet on the beach. Even Charles and Raven exerted themselves through their mutations, but Moira looks completely haggard, drained, her brown hair laying limp around her face as she directs the children into the manor.
Erik sees Alex walking slowly, awkwardly down the gravel path and notices how gingerly he's standing on his right ankle. He wordlessly walks up beside him and offers his elbow for Alex to lean on. Their eyes meet and blue clashes against green for a few hesitant seconds, before Alex takes his elbow and lets Erik help him. This is something new, too, newer than letting go of his rage so he can stay with a group of children, a human, and the most infuriatingly naïve genetics professor he's ever been lucky enough to meet. Erik never used to help people, to lend his body, himself, a living weapon, as instead a supporting weight to lean on. But Alex would never ask for help, and it frightens Erik that he knows this about him. And that he cares enough to intervene.
Alex waves him off by the time they get inside, instead limping off to his room and insisting to Hank and Charles that any medical treatment can wait until tomorrow morning. Or afternoon. Whenever he wakes up.
"Afternoon, then," Erik says to Charles as Alex rounds the corner and leaves the two men alone in the foyer. Charles doesn't chuckle or lightly scold him like he normally would. Instead he meets his eyes and smiles softly, then winds his fingers through Erik’s and Erik can feel the warmth in those hands, and in those eyes. Any other dry comment he would've made at Alex’s expense dies in his throat and he thinks, I don’t know what I would do without this.
"With any luck, you'll never find out," Charles says out loud, and it sounds awfully like a proposal, although Erik’s never been on the receiving end of one before.
"It can be, if you like," Charles offers, and he's usually never this lax with his telepathy, but Erik finds he doesn't mind it so much anymore. Shaw feels like a distant memory, even if he'd left his corpse on a beach only a few hours ago. He’s not sure if it’s fixed him, but he does think the finality of his mission completed, the last door closed, is helping. There’s more missions, any number of causes to latch himself to, but he almost doesn't want to. Charles was right. Killing Shaw didn't bring him peace. But the people he met on the way certainly have.
"I think I’d like that," Erik answers finally, and lets Charles pull him by their intertwined hands up the stairs and into Charles' room. For all intents and purposes it's Erik's room, too, because he uses it much more than his own assigned one even if it's only a few doors down.
For the first time since arriving at the manor weeks and weeks ago, Erik is stunned by just how much of him is laid out bare in Charles' room for anyone to see. There’s a drawer in Charles' dresser for Erik’s clothes, his toothbrush and razor are laying on the sink in the connected bathroom, a pair of his shoes are laying just beside the door, one of his jackets is draped over the back of a chair, and his car keys and one of his many wallets with different identification in them is on the nightstand.
Charles squeezes his hand and a murmur of Are you alright, my friend? brushes against Erik’s mind.
"I’m fine," Erik tells him, even though his voice breaks a little. "Tired."
"I know," Charles says gently, stepping into his space and breathing his same air. The hand tangled in his relaxes and trails up his arm, smooth fingertips lighting his skin like paper under a flame even through the thick leather of the flight suit. Erik doesn't react immediately; there's a bone deep exhaustion in him and he feels like his life should be over now, now that Shaw’s is. But miraculously here he is, as if in a dream, standing in Charles Xavier’s bedroom being touched with the same featherlight tenderness he always was. He sent a coin through a Nazi’s head not three hours ago and save for him, dirty and bloodied and exhausted in a ridiculous yellow flight suit, and the man in front of him in a similar state, nothing around them has changed. The world has returned to its normal orbit. The sun sets in the sky, the wind whispers through the trees. Charles touches his skin with the awe one reserves for a piece of magnificent, fragile art.
The pads of Charles' fingers stroke down Erik's jawbone as if he's trying to convince himself Erik’s still there. "I’m glad you stayed," Charles murmurs, breath caressing the bottom of Erik’s chin as he looks up at him.
Erik sighs and sags, boneless under the soothing touches, into Charles below him. Charles presses himself back up to meet him, forehead falling against Eriks shoulder. "Where else would I go?" he asks helplessly, because this house in a forest of northeastern America is the only real home he’s ever had.
Charles doesn't respond in words, but an arching, eighty-foot wave of affection washes over Erik, nearly crushing him in its intensity. He lifts his hand to rest on Charles' back and feels his breath hitch more than hears it.
Erik isn't very good with having Charles in his head, Having anything breach that privacy he could always count on. It was a constant, everywhere and everything that happened to him, he always had that quiet dignity of his own mind. Charles being able to access it scares him, but maybe he is just too exhausted to care today or maybe it's some paradigm shift after Shaw died. But instead of speaking, he tries to (clumsily) push the image of Charles' huge, soft king-sized bed into the forefront of his thoughts.
Charles chuckles against his shoulder, suspiciously wet, but then his hand drifts from Eriks jaw (net loss) to his temple. The image in Erik’s mind’s eye straightens out and grows clearer; it feels like warm phantom hands ghosting over his skull, guiding the pieces to slot into place. It isn't invasive, as simple and intimate as having Charles' real hands on him, if a little strange. Erik knows he could get used to it. He thinks he might be able to get used to anything if it was Charles doing it. Isn’t that terrifying? And so, so exhilarating.
Charles steps back from the half embrace-half lean and swipes at his eyes. He gives a weak little laugh as Erik watches him, and his blue eyes trace his face before settling on his hair. "Even though I’d like nothing more than to fall asleep in your arms, darling, there is no way in hell you're getting into my bed like that,"
Erik blinks, then frowns. He runs a still-gloved hand through his hair, stiff with sweat and sand and no small amount of blood. The sensation of similarly sweaty skin pressed against the tight, unyielding fabric of the suit makes itself known now and Erik shifts his weight, skin prickling uncomfortably now that he's been reminded.
Still, he stares flatly back at Charles. "I’m not going to take a shower after the day I’ve had. You’ll just have to survive it,"
Erik starts towards the bed, prepared to take off his clothes at the very most, but a hand on his elbow stops him, and Charles presses his chest against Erik’s back. He settles his chin on Erik’s shoulder even as Erik’s heart rate picks up. He doesn't look, but he can hear the coyness in Charles’ voice when he murmurs into his ear, "There’s a bath as well, you know,"
Erik works to steady his breathing. "As tempting as you are, Charles," he says, turning to face Charles and cup his hands on his elbows easily, as if he were born touching Charles. "I don’t think I’m going to be standing in another five minutes. I’m not in the mood for that,"
Charles doesn't look disappointed, just smiles at him. "I know, Erik. I’m not either. That’s not what I was proposing." An image of Erik naked, in the porcelain bathtub, as Charles worked shampoo into his hair shows up clear in Erik’s mind. Erik’s brow furrows and he blinks a few times to dispel the image and look, questioningly, at Charles.
Charles' smile softens. "Let me take care of you. please," he whispers, hand entangling with Erik’s once more and lightly pulling him towards the bathroom.
Erik really can't say no to him. He’d probably be frustrated if he wasn't being drowned in fondness for this silly, sweet little creature who wanted to take care of a monster.
Please don't think that about yourself, darling. comes Charles' voice in his head and he doesn't know when he started using that pet name, just that Erik likes the way he smiles when he says it too much to make him stop. This boy is turning him soft. He isn't so sure it's the worst thing anymore.
Erik lets Charles lead him into the spacious, white-tiled bathroom. His eyes catch on his toothbrush, his razor, his nondescript deodorant and German cologne on the sink besides Charles' much larger collection. Erik feels his lips quirk up, and he doesn't look away even as Charles starts pulling his gloves off. Charles presses a chaste kiss to Erik’s knuckles and winks with a little bow, and Erik can't believe he's in love with such a moron.
Erik stills. Love. Is that what this is? He feels like it must be, because Charles wants to take care of him and Erik wants him to, too. He yearns for him when he's away, savours every moment he's near, and what else could it be that untangles the ball of cord and wire and twine inside his stomach and lets him relax for the first time in... ever? Erik feels helpless and utterly lost because he doesn't know how to define what it is Charles means to him, to his entire world, other than what else could it be? This must be what they mean when they say love.
Funny. Erik thought the ability was burned out of him years ago. Trust Charles to upend his worldview without even trying.
Charles' own gloves have been discarded somewhere, and his thin, talented fingers work on the buckles and straps and zippers of the suit before Erik realizes he should probably be helping and undoes all of them with a small wave of his hand. Charles looks like he always does when Erik uses his power, on something small like this or a radio dish or submarine: completely infatuated and effortlessly fond. That unfiltered look in his pretty blue eyes makes something clench painfully in Eriks chest, and he can't bring himself to move as Charles peels the top-half of the suit off him.
Charles backs him up onto the edge of the tub and kneels in front of him, such a suggestive position but somehow there's nothing sexual about how he bends down and settles one hand on the back of Erik’s boot, and one around the ankle. The expression on his face is one of concentration as he begins to pull the boot off and Erik can't help but place a hand on Charles' hair to keep his balance. The metal inlaid in all their suits slips away as Charles undresses him, but the loss is replaced with the gentlest brush of Charles mind against his own. Erik melts and runs his hand over Charles' hair in a touch so intimate and tender he surprises himself.
Charles pulls back the layers of Erik’s flight suit and leaves him naked. His sweat cools on contact with the air, dropping his body temperature enough for the minutest shiver to break through his exhausted composure. Still, it makes him feel better immediately, and now he can see the wisdom in washing himself.
Charles begins to stand, reaching for the metal knobs of the bathtub, but they twist into action before he can even get off his knees. Charles smiles at him and settles back between Erik’s legs and lays his head on his thigh, stiff and messy hair brushing against his sweaty skin. They’re both disgusting and dirty and exhausted but Erik doesn’t think he's ever been more at peace as he plays idly with the strands of this infuriating pacifist’s hair.
The water gurgles and rumbles as it spills out of the faucet and into the tub, filling it up slowly. The entire wait Charles smiles into Erik’s thigh like there’s not a single thing more blissful to him than the feel of Erik’s skin, and Erik just sifts through his hair and can't keep a single thought in his head.
Charles' hair is soft. Well taken care of. Erik’s isn't. Years and years of hardly washing it with water, let alone soap, and now his scalp is unable to recover from the mistreatment. When he finally got out of Germany, began his mission, Erik spent months and months trying to hone his body and organize his mind. He knew there was no reason not to be dressed as finely or as warmly as possible, to not be as clean and well-groomed as he could be. But there are some broken things that can not be fixed, no matter how much care you put into them.
Erik feels a profound sense of insecurity as he touches Charles' hair. Even caked in seaspray and sand, Erik cannot compete with how fine and taken care of it is. Charles had shown him an image of him washing Erik’s hair, but he will be just as disappointed by it as Erik himself is. Shaw is dead, Erik is still by Charles' side, and he is still the same as before.
"I can hear you thinking those things about yourself, Erik," Charles murmurs, voice muffled by Erik’s own skin. Charles' eyes are closed, there's a little wrinkle in his brow from vague concentration or discomfort. "Why must you hate yourself so much? I don't understand how you can possibly see yourself that way,"
Erik makes a derisive sound in the back of his throat and hangs his head back to stare at the white ceiling. The water behind him makes a pathetic noise and keeps chugging along. "You can't understand, Charles. It’s just not who you are."
"I’m someone who cares about you, very much," Charles protests. Erik feels his head turn against his leg and when he looks down, Charles is gazing up at him with those tropical ocean eyes, determined and not the least bit deterred. "You are not damaged, Erik."
Erik just looks down at him, if he weren't so tired this would be the part where he starts yelling. But he just brushes his thumb over Charles' cheek and sighs. "I am, Charles. You know that as well as I do."
Charles is silent for a moment, then settles back to resting against him. "I do, Erik. That’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know that. And it’s not an excuse to be so hard on yourself."
"Being hard on myself is what's kept me alive," Erik points out, and his voice turns hard. Charles is so pretty and so gentle but so naïve. Erik has genuinely no idea how he's still alive.
Charles frowns like he wants to lecture him, but then decides against it and lays a warm hand on Erik’s bare knee. "What’s going to hurt you here? Be kind to yourself, even if it’s just in our bedroom,"
Our. Our bedroom. Erik thinks, mind suddenly going very blank. The words echo around in his empty skull, repeating and repeating and losing no meaning. He stills under Charles and he's sure whatever he's thinking he's shouting at the man beneath him but he can't rein himself in. Our bedroom, Our life. Us.
Charles' lips quirk against Erik’s skin and his suspicions are confirmed. Still, Charles doesn't rub it in, just says, "The bath’s full, darling, could you get in the water?"
Erik nods, silently and just the tiniest bit stunned still. Charles lifts his head from Erik’s leg and moves to kneel beside the front of the tub. Erik waves his hand and the metal knobs twist to their resting position, the rush of water halting. The tub is filled up eighty-percent of the way, and radiating warm heat.
Erik lowers himself into the bath and instantly feels like stiff pasta dumped into boiling water. The heat massages his tight muscles into relaxing, and a layer of grime and sand floats to the surface of the water in seconds. Erik sighs and lets his head fall back against the rim of the bathtub.
He can hear the smile in Charles' voice as he chuckles fondly. Erik just keeps his eyes closed and doesn't stop his own lips from twisting up.
There’s the sound of movement beyond Erik’s eyelids, Charles puttering around the bathroom. Erik takes a deep breath and lowers his head under the water for a few moments of blissful pressure and heat.
When Erik breaks the surface again, he hears Charles settle himself back behind Erik’s head a few moments later. There is the pop of a cap and as Charles works shampoo into a lather. Erik is struck by how vulnerable he is now, how he didn’t realize it until just now. He’s lethargic and half asleep already and there's a man sitting behind him he can't see and Erik - doesn't care.
Because this is their bedroom. Their bathroom. There is no danger here, there is no war, there is no vigilance. There’s peace, tranquility like he's never felt it before. Maybe it was an option, all along, Erik just needed to choose it.
Charles’ fingers alight on Erik’s hair. Soft and featherlight at first, like how he always is with Erik. Then harder, firmer, as he works the shampoo into Erik's scalp, threading through his short strands as thoroughly as possible. There’s not much Charles can do for the permeating deadness and the split ends. It’s a lost cause but he keeps at it, doesn't pull away his steady and solid hands.
The ebb and flow of Charles' massaging fingertips lulls Erik to a doze behind closed eyelids. He’s only aware of the pressures around him, the hot water cooling to a lukewarm, Charles tilting his head, covering his face with a light hand and pouring a waterfall of water over his hair with the other.
Charles scrubs out the shampoo, brushes out his locks with fingertips coated in conditioner. It’s Charles' brand, not Erik’s, which drags a wry, fond smile past his half-asleep state. Charles hates Erik’s conditioner, his bar soap, his German efficiency and his barely-scented cologne. He tries to trick him into using his coconut-sandalwood-hazelnut luxury soaps and has talked at length about taking him to some Parisian outlet in Manhattan and finding him a scent that fits him properly.
"Who knew I just needed to wait until the verge of a nuclear war," Charles says wryly behind him.
Erik opens his eyes for the express purpose of rolling them. "Savour this, Charles. It’ll be the last time."
"What if I say please?" Charles murmurs, pressing his smile into the crook of Erik’s neck. Erik presses his eyes back shut and prays for strength.
"You might get somewhere," Erik admits reluctantly. Charles' smile widens and he presses a kiss to Erik’s collarbone.
At some point after that Erik comes back to himself a little, scrubs his skin clean under the water with Charles' soap because he refuses to hand Erik his own.
The bathwater is dirty but Charles still manages to clean himself decently as Erik gets half out to make room for him. Erik gets the chance to wash Charles' hair and takes it; he frowns in concentration the entire time. Maybe he's a bit rough with how he moves Charles' head for access, maybe he doesn't need to be so thorough or so efficient. But even in their bathroom that's who Erik is, and Charles shows no signs of disapproval. He knows who Erik is and lets him touch him anyways. That understanding is what drew Erik to him in the first place: first understanding what it's like to be a Mutant, then knowing and feeling his agony and his rage and accepting it and never trying to change it or take it away, just make it easier for him to bear. Erik really doesn't know how he got so lucky. He’s damn well not going to waste it, though, now that he's got it and has the opportunity to keep it.
Charles and Erik dry themselves off, it takes much too long because neither of them can seem to pull away and stop touching the other. It’s like a magnetic pull, dragging their eyes and hands back to each other like a compass to a pole. Charles is Erik’s North Star, his guiding light, and he knows he is Charles' Orion’s Belt, where he looks to first to find the sky.
Clean and dry and tired and warm, they two stumble back to Charles' bed, finally. The covers are heavy and the pressure from all sides makes Erik’s head go quiet again. Charles tucked under his chin he watches the darkness outside the window, the trees swaying in the wind.
Beyond this bed, there is cold. Outside this room, there is darkness. Beyond these walls of this house there is a society, and there are people who fear and hate them. Outside there is a war, outside there is endless trouble, but here, there is Erik, and where there is Erik, there is Charles.