Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It all started with his mother, Charles supposes.

He’d been seven years old when Sharon remarried, only a few months after they’d moved to the states, and in the time it took for his eighth birthday to pass she had become entirely frustrated with her new husband’s daughter, Raven. She was six years old, and already she was a fountain of questions and energy. She couldn’t sit still for long, and was always tracking mud and leaves and one time a frog in from outside, making Sharon livid.

Charles rather liked her, though. She was kinder than her brother Cain, a big, scary ten-year-old who had already punched Charles on a few separate occasions. Raven let Charles talk to her about the books he was reading, and in return she dragged him outside every day and played knights with him and watched TV with him and helped him make a fort in the attic to hide from the rest of their family. She was, by all accounts, his best friend.

So, the day Sharon put Raven in dance classes (Raven had seen some video about kpop bands who sang and danced at the same time and was completely enamored with the idea of becoming a superstar) Charles begged his mother to let him go too. He’d never begged her for anything, but he didn’t want to be away from Raven for so many hours a week. Sharon eventually caved, after Raven threatened not to take the lessons if Charles couldn’t come.

Maybe, in that light, it all started with Raven, actually.

There was one other boy in their classes, a shy kid named Hank, seven years of age and already taller than Charles. Raven befriended him quickly, and by extension he became friends with Charles. And even though he was a year younger, he was already reading a lot of the same books and taking harder math classes than Charles, making him an interesting conversationalist. Raven would always roll her eyes at them and call them geeks, but her fond smile was enough to give away how hilarious she found them.

The beginner ballet classes quickly turned to Charles, Hank, and Raven being put in a more advanced level. When they weren’t at the studio, they were practicing up in the attic, pirouetting and leaping across the creaking floorboards. Hank came over occasionally, too, though he was also in guitar lessons at the same time, something that made Raven endlessly envious.

Ballet turned to jazz turned to contemporary to hip hop. By the time he was eleven, Charles was at the studio constantly, taking all the most advanced classes that they offered and doing private lessons. Hank was just a few steps behind him, while also becoming quite good at every instrument under the sun.

When Hank started taking vocal lessons, Raven begged Sharon to have some too. Sharon, openly fond of the prospect of Raven and, by extension, her own son, spending even more time out of the house, signed her and Charles up with a private coach.

Raven’s voice was strong and clear right from the start. Beside her, Charles felt rather squeaky, and his range was practically nonexistent. But where Raven missed notes, Charles could hear the perfect succession in his head, knew exactly where each note should fall. With encouragement from both their coach and from Raven, he continued working towards reaching those notes, towards being able to sound exactly the way he wanted to.

By sixteen he was dancing in competitions and singing at as many local open mics he could find, picking up piano and guitar as easily as dance. Music was instinctual to him, and his coach said he had near-perfect pitch at the very least.

Hank played and sang with him on occasion, same with Raven, though she’d made a ton of new friends once she got to high school, and had a girlfriend, and spent a lot less time with Hank and Charles in general. Charles tried not to let it bother him, reminding himself that his sister was allowed to have her own life outside of being his friend. Hank had his own friends too, though, and Charles… Well, he consistently ate lunch in the library, catching up on his studies.

He focused on dance. And music. And his classes. What’s that they say? That out of a social life, a sleep schedule, and good grades someone can only have two? Well, Charles chose good grades, dance, and music, sleep schedule and social life be damned.

It was at the end of his senior year, a rare time when he, Raven, and Hank are all out together, when Raven spied a flyer taped to a telephone pole.

“Oh my god!” She squealed, “This is for the Hellfire Record Label! They’re holding auditions for… a boy band. Oh. My. God, you two have to audition.”

“You think so?” Hank asked, adjusting his glasses and taking a closer look at the flyer.

“Totally! And once you’re in the band, make friends with Sebastian Shaw and talk me up, okay?” She tore the piece of paper off the telephone pole and handed it to Charles.

“Well?” Hank looked at him. “I think I’ll only do it if you do, too.”

Charles stared at the paper in his hand. A band. A record label. It said that all auditionees must be proficient dancers.

At that moment, it was clear. This was what he had been working towards his entire life.

So, really, maybe it all started with that piece of paper.

Because now he’s sitting in a waiting room with Sharon, Hank, Hank’s mom, and at least twenty other boys and various parents, ready to meet Sebastian Shaw.

Chapter Text

It all started when Erik’s older sister passed away from cancer, to everyone’s shock. Ruth had been so healthy, so exuberant and full of life. She had lots of friends, she loved to dance and sing and steal their mom’s makeup and dress up her baby brother. Even during her treatment, she was so optimistic. Everyone thought she was going to make it. Why wouldn’t she?

Erik was five years old when it happened. It was the first time he ever saw his mom cry. And it was a particularly cruel twist of fate when his dad got sick three months later, and then sicker, and sicker, and one day he was just… gone.

His mom told him what happened when he was older. She let him read the letter he’d written to him, explaining that they were too deep in debt from Ruth’s treatment to pay to help him. And that he’d decided to end things to make it easier on Erik and Edie, and that he hoped Erik would understand.

Erik did, in a way. But the other part of him was angry, and that part stayed angry.

After Ruth died, he took up dancing, the thing she’d loved to do so much. They didn’t have the money to send him to lessons, so he used YouTube, logging into his sister’s account and finding all the videos she used to use to learn.

After Jakob died, Erik picked up his old guitar, which had been sitting dusty in a closet for months, and decided to learn to play. He and Ruth had grown up with their dad singing to them, fingers flying on the fretboard, Edie smiling happily as she harmonized. Again, there were no lessons, but the internet came quite in handy, and where that didn’t work his mother helped him out.

Erik isn’t sure what he would’ve done in life if he hadn’t decided to carry on the legacy of his father and his sister – people said often that his penchant to argue would’ve made him a wonderful politician. He’ll never know.

Erik and his mother moved many times over the years. Erik usually didn’t bother making friends at school. He had his music and dance, and that was all he could stand. He was smart, too. He probably would have excelled in school if he gave a shit (he didn’t).

When he was in high school he argued his way into free lessons at a local dance studio, in exchange for working the front desk. Quickly, he caught the attention of the coaches there, transferring him from the beginner class they’d placed him into the advanced courses with the adults.

He trained harder than ever – regimented workouts, dieting, dancing, always dancing. Singing and playing guitar once it was the end of the day and he was too sore to move. He wrote late into the night, fingers bleeding on the pages of his journal, melodies recorded on his cracked, dying phone. Tears on his guitar, sometimes, not that he’d admit that to anyone (he didn’t have anyone to admit it to. It didn’t matter).

So Erik grew from a lanky, serious child into a strong, serious teenager, always edging closer to adulthood. Really, childhood seemed so far removed, so much so that Erik began to doubt that he was ever young (People would call him an “old soul” to his face. Usually, behind his back, it would be something like “psychopath” or “terrifying, soulless monster.” He didn’t care).

Run. Dance. Guitar. Sing. Sleep. Repeat, forever. Every day in the city seemed the same, cloudy and bustling, everyone growing and living except for Erik. He’d been grown the day his sister died.

“Erik. honey,” His mom knocked on his door late one night. Erik clapped his hand over the strings of his guitar, silencing it.

“Yeah?” His voice cracked. Overuse; he’d been singing for at least an hour straight, searching for a melody he couldn’t quite grasp.

“I found something that I thought you’d like to see,” His mom pushed the door open, handing him a brightly colored flyer. “It looks like the type of thing where you could use all your strengths. Wouldn’t that be an amazing opportunity?”

Erik stared at the flyer. Dancing. Singing. Instrumental ability encouraged but not required. “Yeah…” He begins, the strangest feeling coming over him. “Yeah, this looks… really great. Thank you, Mameleh.”

“Of course, mein Sohn.” Edie smiled at him, brushing his hair out of his eyes and placing a kiss on his forehead. “You should get some sleep.”

“I will.” Erik lied. He didn’t go to bed until far past midnight – the thought of the flyer and all the opportunities it held too loud in his head.

Maybe, in that way, it all started with Edie and that flyer.

Three days later, he finds himself and his mother sitting in a cramped waiting room. He’s trying not to stare down the competition, opting to peek at the other boys in the room from the corners of his eyes. There’s two who look like brothers, on the younger side. A guy with glasses. A redhead. A guy with a very stark widow’s peak and hair dyed black. Almost all of them look uncomfortable.

The boy sitting across from Erik, next to the glasses guy, is an exception. His gaze is blank, as he stares into space, but his mouth is resting in a smile. He looks like he was born to be here, auditioning for a boy band; he’s stylish sweatpants with a matching windbreaker, plain white tank top matching the pastel blues. His eyes are wide and, if Erik’s not wrong, lined, with his eyelashes curled. And, really, his lips must have some form of lipstick on them, because nobody’s lips are naturally that red.

Erik realizes, with a start, that he’s doing exactly what he didn’t want to; staring. And he’s spent years being told how frightening his intense gaze is. He knows better.

Just then, the boy glances over to him. Before Erik can look away, the boy grins at him, showing off straight, pearly-white teeth.

Erik doesn’t smile back (if his gaze is scary to people, his smile is downright terrifying) opting for a polite nod instead. The boy’s grin grows a fraction wider, then he turns his attention back to his phone, typing something on it. Erik can see a callous on the side of his index finger. From doing bar chords, presumably. He plays guitar.

Erik hates him already.

It’s possible, really, it all started right then, there in that waiting room.

Chapter Text

“Okay!” Sebastian Shaw grins at the group of boys, all of whom have been directed to sit down on the floor of dance studio five. It’s a giant room, with one wall that’s a mirror and one wall that has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, ballet bars built against it – but Charles hardly notices.

Here, in the same room as him, is Sebastian Shaw. For lack of anything better to say: the man. The myth. The legend. Raven’s going to be so jealous.

“We’ve called sixteen of you here to audition. All of you are really great candidates – We’ve looked at your accomplishments and the tapes you sent us. Unfortunately, six of you aren’t going to make it.” Shaw gives a sympathetically sweet smile, and Charles is focusing on that so much that he can hardly remember to feel nervous. Which may actually work in his favor.

“Today we’re having our dance auditions, which Emma Frost here, my right-hand woman, will be conducting,” The tall, blond, impeccably dressed woman at Shaw’s side gives them an icy nod. “And then if you pass, we’ll be having the singing auditions – privately – tomorrow.”

Everyone nods.

“Alright, Emma, you’re up!” Shaw flourishes his hands at the woman and goes to sit in a chair by the door, eyes wandering intently over the auditionees. Emma Frost crosses her arms across her chest, practically glaring at the boys.

“I am Ms. Frost,” She says, her tone as frigid and severe as her gaze. “Each of you will perform your solo choreography that you’ve brought with you, and then I will be splitting you first into partners, then into teams. You will learn two new routines.”

“Barton, Clint Barton, you’re up first!” Shaw says from his chair, reading off a clipboard.

The order, unfortunately, is alphabetical, making Charles the last to go – and giving him enough time for the nerves to start setting in. Everyone’s good. Sean Cassidy, a boy with floppy ginger hair and the second to go does an incredible breakdancing routine. Logan, a short, grumpy looking boy does a surprisingly graceful ballet/contemporary combo. And the Summers boys, who go one after the other, are truly phenomenal.

Well. No matter. He’s been training for this his entire life – he just needs to beat out six other boys.

“Mr. Lehnsher, Erik Lehnsherr,” Shaw says, and the Hot Guy who Charles was sitting across from in the waiting room stands up, shedding his coat in the process.

Hot Guy – Erik – is impeccable. He’s tall and lean, his shoulders that seem expertly carved by a generous sculptor now in full view, their wideness tapering down until his waist, which is thin and dainty and makes Charles want to grab him around the middle. His jawline is sharp, cheekbones chiseled, eyes a stormy gray that matches the seriousness of his face.

He’s damn hot.

Charles doesn’t think it can get any worse (correction: better. He will stare at this boy. He has no shame), but then the music starts and Erik Lehnsherr begins to dance and bloody. Fucking. Hell.

He’s not sure what style of dance he’s doing, his movements flowing with natural ease from rhythmic to graceful, the music shifting along with him. His muscles ripple under his shirt, each move filled with power and passion. His steps are sure. His eyes are blazing.

Charles’s jaw is dropped. His eyes are tearing up.

Erik Lehnsher is moving. Erik Lehnsherr is majestic. Erik Lehnsherr is the goddamn human incarnation of dance and rage and power.

Erik Lehnsherr is the best bloody dancer Charles has ever seen, and as the music stops and their eyes meet for one serendipitous moment, he feels true nerves for the first time today.

Erik Lehnsherr isn’t someone he can beat.

Chapter Text

Erik’s out of breath as the other auditionees start applauding – something that usually doesn’t happen to him after such a short routine. Maybe he is nervous.

Without sparing a glance at them, he walks to the back of the room to get some water as the next name is called. He watches the beginning of the routine being done by the glasses boy, (Hank Mccoy, apparently), sipping from his water bottle all the while.

Without really meaning to, his attention turns to Shaw – who’s already looking at him. When Shaw sees that Erik’s starring in his direction, he offers an appraising nod and a smile. Erik returns the nod, feeling a swell of pride in his chest.

Sebastian Shaw, instead of watching someone else’s choreography, chose to give him, Erik, a sign of approval. He finds himself sitting straighter when he rejoins the group.

The last boy to go is the one who smiled at him in the waiting room.

“Mr. Xavier, Charles Xavier, you’re up!” Shaw says jovially.

Xavier shrugs off his windbreaker and stands up, beaming all the while. Erik feels the pride in his chest boil away into something else, something sharp and hot that he’s never quite felt before. God, he must really hate Xavier; he’s slim and short, though his posture is impeccable. He faces the room with that stupid grin on his face, standing straight as a ramrod. Really, he looks like he’s about to launch into a ballet – so it surprises Erik when rap begins to blare through the speakers and the boy transforms from a preppy-looking twink to a hip-hop god. His movements are sharp and rhythmic, feet flying, hips swirling in a way that, if this were any other situation, Erik would probably find incredibly enticing. Not only that, he’s already acting the part – putting on his biggest show smile, reacting to the lyrics with a raised eyebrow or some other overexaggerated expression. Out of the corner of his eye, Erik can tell that Shaw loves it, the man grinning wide.

Xavier executes a flawless turn, then winks – and Erik could swear it’s directed right at him. Out of what’s surely just embarrassment, he feels his face heat.

After the allotted minute (a minute too long, for Erik’s taste) the final applause is given, and Shaw and Ms. Frost came to stand before the group again. He directs his attention there, electing to ignore Xavier as he comes to sit back down, the boy flushed and bright-eyed, arms still bare and, frankly, quite ripped.

“That was great! You’re all very talented.” Shaw says, smiling at all of them, “Now for partner work! This is random selection, just people I want to see matched up together based on what you just did… Hm… you and you,” He starts pointing at boys, the first pair being one of the brothers and the scruffy guy who did the ballet combo, “you and you, you two, you and you, you, you, you two, you and you, and you,” He points to Erik, “And you.”

Erik resists the urge to roll his eyes as Shaw assigns Xavier to be his partner. Because of course he did. That’s just his luck.

Xavier grins at him, and Erik feels a twist of anger in his stomach.

Just his luck.

Chapter Text

“I thought I’d find you here,” Erik leans against the wall in the hallway, smiling softly. “What’s it going to be today?”

Charles clicks a few buttons on the vending machine, “The same as two days ago. Really, you should know this by now, Erik.” He snorts lightly, but there’s no real malice in his voice. According to Shaw, there should be, but when they’re all alone together there’s really no point in keeping up the act. Even with the security cameras watching their every move. “Enemies” just isn’t super realistic to uphold all the time, no matter how much the label would like it.

He clicks another few buttons after the first item drops, and throws a bag of chips towards Erik, who pushes off the wall and catches it neatly (show-off). “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Charles smiles, his own snack – a poptart, per usual – clutched in his hand. He pictures crossing the space between them, pulling Erik into a quick hello kiss or even just taking his hand. “So?” he asks instead.

“I’ve got some free time. I was wondering if you’d be up for writing a bit?” Erik says.

Charles smirks, raising an eyebrow, “Writing or editing?”

They’ve learned to speak in code over the past twenty or so months. Writing entails poring over their journals together and Erik’s fingers flying across the fretboard and the keyboard while Charles watches (well, he does it too, he supposes, but Erik’s the important part). Editing pertains to… other things.

A grin curves across Erik’s face. “I was thinking a bit of both.”

“Well, it just so happens that I’m free as well. Your place or mine?”

Erik rolls his eyes. “What do you think?”

“Right. Mine.”

The apartment rooms that they stay in are on the third floor of the building, all in the same wing. The hall is a sterile white, with gray tile on the floor and bright fluorescent lights more reminiscent of a hospital than anything else. Even after two years, Charles still sees Erik’s shoulders tense when they walk through.

Thanks to the ever-present security cameras in plain sight in every corner, he’ll never be able to hold his hand to comfort him.

As soon as they’re in his room, though, Erik’s shoulders relax again, and Charles holds out a hand – though not for Erik to take. Erik places his phone in his palm as Charles takes out his own. Then he grabs the spare blanket lying on the end of his bed and wraps both phones in it, finally depositing the bundle inside his hamper in his closet, shutting the door.

Charles grins, feeling a weight release from his own shoulders. Erik reaches out for him, pulling him into a hug. They’ve long since found that Charles fits perfectly against him, his head tucked under Erik’s chin.

“I wish I didn’t have to leave.” He whispers. Erik nods, stroking his fingers through his hair.

“It’s not fair,” He agrees, frown obvious in his voice, arms tightening around Charles as though he’s leaving right this second. “I can’t believe it’s going to be seven months…”

Charles groans, “Don’t even say it.”

“Okay,” Erik whispers, and tightens his hold around him even more. Charles does the same.

They stay like that, for a few minutes, holding each other. Then Charles angles his head upward for a kiss, and Erik obliges. Their mouths fall open together, a familiar routine, a comforting one. Only when Charles starts nudging Erik backwards towards the bed does Erik pull away.

“I really do have a song to show you,” He breathes.

“Well. Alright.” Charles says, trying not to sound reluctant. He loves playing and singing with Erik, really, he does – but if this is the last time he’s going to see his boyfriend for seven months he feels he deserves a pretty good makeout session at the very least.

Erik smiles at him, pressing a quick, chaste kiss against his lips and then letting his arms fall away, going to grab one of the guitars off the wall. He always uses the same one, the one with the large body made of honey-colored wood. It has beautiful resonance – and sounds great with his voice.

Together, they curl up on opposite ends of the couch, leaning back against the armrests. Erik sits cross-legged, but Charles pushes his legs out, pressing them next to the other boy’s legs. He smiles softly at Charles’s touch, sunlight from the windows behind him filtering through his auburn hair and crowning him with a halo.

Seven months on tour, away from this beautiful boy. His best friend. Charles isn’t sure how he’ll stand it.

“So. Is today the day I get to hear your mystery song?” Charles jokes. There’s been one song, for months, that Erik hasn’t been playing for him, insisting “it’s not ready yet.” He’s gotten into the habit of asking.

“It is,” Erik murmurs, instead of his usual scoff and eye roll combination. Charles practically gapes.

“Really?”

“Yes, Charles.” Ah, there’s the eye roll.

“Well… What’s it called?”

“It’s called… My English Lover…” Erik doesn’t blush, but he casts his eyes away, embarrassed.

“Ah, so it’s a song about me!” Charles says, delighted.

“Yes.”

“My favorite kind. Do play it.”

Erik takes a deep breath, positioning his fingers over the right chords, and begins to sing.

“It started at the end of the day… I was looking for attention, needed intervention.”

His singing is slow, soft, voice lazy and sweet, in a higher register than his usual. The guitar is much of the same, with arpeggiated strums creating the strangest mood; not quite melancholy, exactly, but bittersweet enough that Charles wants to tear up (he probably will, before this is all over).

“Felt somebody looking at me… With a powder white complexion, feeling the connection.

The way he looked was so ridiculous,

Every single step had me waiting for the next.

Before I knew it, it was serious,

He caught me with his stare and really made me care.

When the lights go out, he's all I ever think about,

The picture I keep in my brain, kissing in the rain,

Oh, I won't forget my English lover!

We’ll be seven thousand miles away,

The movie playing in my head of his smile so red means I can't forget,

My English lover…”

Sure enough, by the time the song is over, Charles is in tears. “Oh, Erik, darling,” he leans over the guitar, wrapping his arms around the other boy. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Erik chuckles softly. “You think so?”

“I do. Truly. It’s one of your best yet, if I do say so myself.”

Erik presses a kiss against his neck, (gently) pushing the guitar out from between them and onto the ground, pulling Charles against him again. Charles sighs, carding his fingers through Erik’s hair.

“Shaw wants me to go blonde again,” Erik blurts out, lips lifting from his skin. “For the tour.”

“Oh, and you just got your lovely auburn back!” Charles pouts. “I mean- do you want to?”

“Not really. No,” Erik sighs, letting his head rest on Charles’s shoulder. “But what choice do I have?”

“Mm.” Charles intones. Really, there’s not much to say on the matter.

There is no choice. What Shaw says, goes.

At least, most of the time.

Chapter Text

Erik gasps as Charles’s mouth makes its way down his side. “Charles…” he shudders, somewhere between dreaming and completely, rivetingly alert.

Charles hums happily into his skin, which is already beginning to bruise. “Something to remember me by.”

It should fade in the month before Erik leaves on his own tour. It’ll be covered by his practice clothes, sweatsuits and t-shirts. Charles’s own skin has stayed tauntingly pristine, due to the usually minimal amount of clothes he’s given to perform in.

Erik frowns, “I wish you could stay. God, Charles…”

“I wish I could too,” Charles murmurs, lips leaving his skin in favor of wrapping his arms around Erik again, burying his face in Erik’s stomach. “Though… I think I may have figured something out.”

“What?”

Charles tilts his head up, big, clear-sky colored eyes coming into view, “Well, how do you feel about letters?”

Erik moves his head to stare quizzically at Charles. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I worked out a bit of a deal with Fury…” Charles’s fingers trace circles against Erik’s skin as he speaks, the movement lazy. “He said that, for the month you’re still here, I can send letters to the café, and you can read them there. Then, while you and the lads are out touring, you can send letters back to me and I’ll read them.”

Erik just stares at him for a second, feeling his heart sink. “That sucks, Charles.”

“I know,” Charles sighs, “So, you’re on board?”

“Of course. Of course I am.”

“I’m going to miss you,” Charles whispers, face buried in Erik’s chest, arms wrapped around him.

Erik swallows, his throat feeling thick. There’s no getting around it now. He’s got practice in three minutes. Charles has to finish packing, and then he’s going to board a plane and leave for Europe. This is the last time they’re going to see each other, really, actually see each other, for seven months.

“I’m going to miss you too. So much.” His breath catches and his voice skips like a record.

Charles, ever the brave one, is the one to push away, giving a last tearful smile before taking a deep breath and going to the closet to retrieve their phones.

“I love you.” Erik blurts out, before Charles can make it. It’s rushed, and it’s the wrong time, but he just had to say it. He couldn’t wait seven months to deliberate whether or not he should.

Charles looks at him, eyes wide. Then his face falls, crumpling, and it just about breaks Erik’s heart to see him like that. The corners of his lips turn up into a bittersweet smile as he whispers “I love you too.”

For a moment, it’s just them; opposite sides of a room, staring at each other, tears in their eyes. All Erik can feel is the absence of Charles in his arms. All he wants is to hold him close again. For a moment, it’s just them, and it feels like he might just be able to have that.

Then Charles sighs like the world is coming to an end, turns away, and retrieves their phones. Erik walks out the door knowing he’s going to be late for practice. He’ll pay for that – Frost won’t be pleased. But dammit, he’s not going to practice looking like he’s about to cry.

It doesn’t matter that he is.

God, he wishes he could just call his mom and talk to her about all this.

Chapter Text

They stand in a huddle backstage, shoulders bumping, nerves rushing, faces flushing, crew and managers and god knows who else scurrying about behind them.

“This is it,” Charles says, nerves tinged with excitement as he addresses the band. His band. His friends. “Our first concert.”

“First of many!” Scott, the youngest of them, exclaims. Charles grins at him and tries not to feel guilty. Scott and Sean, aged sixteen and seventeen, respectively, haven’t exactly grasped the whole “life-binding soul-sucking contract with the biggest douchebag of the millennium” concept. To their understanding, they’re living in a moderately fancy apartment complex, paid to dance and sing, do private tutoring instead of proper high school, and get to be effortlessly famous on top of all that, thanks to the Hellfire Record Label’s marketing team.

They don’t know how little they’re gaining from this, financially. They don’t know that the diet Shaw has them on is cutting important calories they need. They don’t know how incredibly stifling the rules and regulations that they are subject to really are; they’re kids, they’ve never had proper freedom before, so they can’t see what it looks like when it’s been taken away. And their parents are none the wiser, so far removed from their own children, thanks to Shaw.

Charles takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head. Right now, none of that matters. He may hate Sebastian Shaw with a passion, but tonight isn’t about him, it’s not about Charles, it’s not even about the X-Men; it’s about the fans. The 50,000 people gathered in the crowd who’ve been listening to their music for two years, waiting for this moment. It’s Charles’s duty to make sure that his team, his X-Men, are prepared to give them the night of their life.

“Remember, we’ve drilled this a thousand times,” Charles begins, “We know what we’re doing, and we’re damn good at it.”

“Fuck yeah we are!” Alex exclaims, in a very similar tone to his younger brother before him.

Charles manages a half-hearted smile for him. Alex knows the shithole he’s in. He just likes to hype things up, especially if Hank looks miserable about it.

“We better be,” Hank mutters in response, rolling his eyes and, yep, looking miserable. Charles reaches over and claps him on the back in what’s hopefully a reassuring gesture.

“We’ve so got this!” Sean practically bellows, and the other four boys all start clamoring and talking over each other and the din of the crowd and the crew.

Charles stands off to the side a little bit, glad that his X-Men (he’s not sure when he started thinking of them as his, like Shaw instructed him to) seem to be ready for this.

He takes a deep, slightly shaky breath. He’s not sure if he is.

Rationally, he knows he’s ready. In his heart and his head and his gut he knows that he’d be more ready if Erik was here by his side. He should be here; after all, that’s what they signed up for.

“Hey, it’s showtime!” Their stage manager, Moira Mactaggert, calls over to them, herding them towards the stage door. “You guys got this! Go wow them!”

Just like that, the crowd is roaring, and there’s some sort of smoke machine going, obscuring them from view as they take their places upstage. Charles takes a deep breath, and then the music begins.

He’s the frontman of their group, which means he’s at the front of their formation. They walk forward as one, emerging from the smoke, lights glimmering and flickering as the intro to Three Thirty plays.

Shaw had been on the fence about putting the song first in the set; Charles had written it, for one, which meant it was a little bit funkier than the pure, sterile, reminiscent-of-the-early-2000’s sound Shaw preferred. But that’s what makes it a good song. It’s funky, sure, but relatable and profound; slightly melancholy, but fast and fun enough to set the stage for the rest of the night.

So it's first, and that means Charles is singing the first lines of the show.

“Never spoken with my mouth full, and I’m doubtful that I can get these lyrics out, oh, because I think fast but I sing slow! If I ever started rapping, they’d be laughing, they won’t believe me! But I’ve got so much I want to say, so I’m thinking rappers,” Charles takes the opportunity to gesture playfully at Sean, the loosely designated rapper of their band. The other boy grins and hams it up just like he’d hoped. “They’ve got it easy!” The crowd roars.

“Someone told me to be selfless, but we are helpless without attention, so if no one’s paying attention, does my voice get into your headphones?”

The music picks up pace, the drums coming in fast and a pre-recorded track putting in the sounds of a clock. The other boys execute flawless footwork behind him as Charles continues to walk to the front of the stage, making gestures, acting the lyrics (that’s his specialty, really, and the only reason he’s the frontman).

He’s alone for the first half of this song, really; they're little more than his backup dancers for the first verse. “You start thinking about the clock ticks, you get nervous, you start stressing!”

He wonders, fleetingly, somewhere in the rush of adrenaline and the glare of the lights and the roar of the crowd, what it would’ve been like to lead the band with Erik. Together. Not alone. “So how am I supposed to fit this in three minutes and thirty seconds?”

The crowd quiets as the music slows, and Charles feels a sudden flood of relief as the rest of the band raises their voices to meet his, carrying the chorus together, strong in their harmonies, forming a line at the front of the stage, five strong. “Listen to my aching heart, quick, before you skip the song. We are human after all, and we don’t stay for long.”

Charles recedes into the background as the other boys switch off, taking pieces of the second verse as their own. They stay steadfast in their choreography, the rhythms and flourishes ingrained in their bodies from hours upon hours of practice.

“Hello London!” Charles yells after the second chorus. “How are you all tonight?!” He’s met with uproarious thunder, the raising of thousands of voices and the clapping of thousands of hands. It’s deafening and intoxicating; he can’t tell if his legs are going to collapse beneath him or if he’s ascended to godhood, bathed in lights and praised by all.

By the closing encore, he’s very nearly sure it’s the second.

Chapter Text

The cover of the video is a still frame of Charles, presumably from last night. His hair is artfully mussed, mouth hanging slightly ajar, his tongue peeking out from between his obnoxiously red lips. He’s wearing a golden letterman jacket with The X-Men’s signature “X” insignia and nothing else underneath. His eyes are lined with striking black liner, a tasteful smear of blended-out gold eyeshadow gracing his eyelids.

Objectively, it’s hot. To Erik? Fucking hell, he’s about ready to die from my-boyfriend-is-sexy-as-fuck overload. He sighs, the breath rattling heavy in his chest, and clicks the video. It’s not like he’s actually going to be able to hold off for long, so he may as well just watch it now.

The song starts with their backs to the front of the stage, where the camera is. Even though he can’t see their faces, Erik can tell it’s Charles when a long note is held, Sean and Alex layering similarly melodic “oh’s” and “ooh baby’s” over it.

“Come and dance with me…” Charles whispers into his mike, a beat passing… Then he turns around with a bounce, the crowd going wild. “What’s up darling?” His eyes are bright, eyeshadow shimmering in the stage lights – staring straight into the camera as he smirks. Erik can feel himself blushing, feeling the full effect of his starpower. Darling. When they’re alone, that’s what Charles calls him. Did he write on this song? Not that “darling” isn’t a fairly common endearment, but still…

The beat hits on the word “darling” and the rest of the band turns, starting in on the choreo. They make their way down the stage, stepping on the beat in such perfect synchronization that it would probably scare Erik a little – if he didn’t know how many hours they put into making their dances flawless. Charles walks naturally around the space, improvising. He’s making cutesy little hand gestures as he sings and smiles cheekily at the audience, to the utter delight of the fans.

“I been keeping my eye on your movements
I can't see no room for improvement
Why you all over there on your Jack Jones?
You need to let me get behind your backbone
'Cause I'm the man for the job, let me work it
I won't waste no time, I'll make it worth it
One hundred percent, I'll make it perfect
You got a body to die for, let me merk it”

They reach the front of the stage and another layer of the background music begins. Charles starts in on the choreography, centered at the front of the boys. The movements are choppy and rhythmic, Charles performing them a few beats ahead of Hank and Sean, Hank and Sean performing them a few beats ahead of Alex and Scott. It creates a mesmerizing effect, like dominoes falling perfectly into place… and yet Erik finds himself fixated on Charles’s movements, all sharp angles and honed precision, abs flexing under his open jacket.

“I’ll never know if I just walk past, I really wanna dance, so I guess I’ll just ask-”

The whole group starts singing now, movements becoming more fluid and back in synchronization. “She ain’t no oh!”

Erik stifles a laugh as they all clap their hands over their mouths, Charles’s eyebrows raised so high they’re likely to fly off his head. Like he’s thinking something positively scandalous.

His songs, even when they play the sexy angle like this one, never have swears in them. It’s always something like this – an “oh” or the chorus coming in and cutting him off or a stutter on an “fuh” syllable.

Meanwhile Shaw lets Erik cuss away – much to the mortification of his mother.

“Sayin’ no lies, it’s in her eyes, she’s good to go!” They continue on, Charles breaking from the group with his own little dance combo on a few lines, leading them right into the chorus. “If I'm out on my own, then I can look at you looking at me. If I'm out on a date, then I just shut my eyes, then I can't see.” They wave their hands over their eyes, and it’s slight, but Erik can see that Scott, in the back, very nearly knocks his sunglasses off. Poor kid. Someone is already talking about that on Twitter or whatever the fuck it’s called now (X? What, are they copying Charles?) for sure. “Get away from the bar, tell your boyfriend hold your jar,” – British slang, Erik notes. What’s the saying? “You can take the man out of the city, not the city out of the man?” Or is that just a song lyric? In any case, Charles definitely had a hand in writing this – “And dance wiv me-”

Charles cuts them off again with his little dance combo, and Erik feels himself flushing as he watches the fluid motion of Charles’s hips as he rolls them, the crowd screaming over his lyrics. “I see you glance at me, that's why I'm asking B! So let's party, B! Come and dance wiv me!”

The formation shifts again, Sean coming to the front and the other boys all rotating their positions in a seamless transition. “Yo, it goes on and on! I see you get excited, like this is my song!” Sean sounds good, and the melodic rap style of the verses fits his voice, but Erik’s attention stays firmly on Charles, dancing in the back, still smiling wide.

Then he turns his back to the camera, still swinging his hips, and… well… It’s safe to say whoever did the wardrobe knew what they were doing, putting him in those jeans.

The rest of the song follows a similar structure, Hank taking the second part of the second verse, Charles and the band as a group manning the chorus, him alone on the bridge, and the Summers on the dance break before the outro. It’s a good act, really. The song is catchy, with a good beat. Erik could see himself dancing to it (with Charles. In those jeans. Oh god), and the vocals are great as always.

He copies the link to the video and opens his texts back up, clicking on “the x” instead of “the lads.” Charles.

You look great.

Anything they say to each other over text means the opposite, a rule they worked out within the first month or so of their relationship. Shaw monitors everything on their devices incredibly closely – and occasionally leaks correspondences. It pays to be careful, even though Erik wishes he could call Charles up and tell him how fucking beautiful he is.

Thank you.

Erik eyes the bag of pretzels next to him accusingly.

Sorry darling, but I’ve got to go.

But it’s never really enough; Erik wishes he could ask if he’s the darling in the song, if the Jack Jones Charles was singing about are the jeans he’s got in his closet. He wishes he could tell Charles, blatantly, that he’s proud of him, that he did amazing, that he looked really hot up there and his dancing was perfection. That he loves him.

He’ll tell him. He’ll tell him in a letter and he’ll tell him when he sees him in a few months (Texting may be off limits, but whispering? Perfect for flirting. And, really, it’s even better when Charles has him pinned against the wall).

Erik gets out of bed, retrieving a spare journal and a pen and scratching “dear Charles” into the top of the page. He won’t be able to send it, not until Charles has made it back here and he’s off in New York or London or fuck knows where, but he can write it. At the very least he can pretend he’s talking to Charles.

Just seven months to go.

Chapter Text

Erik Lehnsherr regards him with a cool, steel-blue stare, and Charles tries his best not to squirm under the scrutinizing glance.

They’ve been sent to the other studios lining the hall to work on their dance combos – which means it’s just him, a speaker, and Erik Lehnsherr together in a room together.

“Where do you want to begin?” Charles asks, breaking the silence.

Erik huffs a sigh, frown unrelenting. “I guess we should listen to it.”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

Charles actually knows this song – he follows a Canadian dancer on TikTok, Wade Wilson, who’s recently brought the original choreography into the light again. It’s a fun number, and fitting for an audition for a potential boy band.

Erik’s still standing stalk still once the song ends. He looks like there’s not a thought in his head, an impenetrable facade stuck on his face.

He stays that way even as they work through a routine, as they head back to the main studio, only breaking out into any form of expression when they’re actually presenting it to Shaw. Shaw, thankfully, doesn’t seem to mind that Erik Lehnsherr is apparently a robot when he’s not performing, and claps fervently. Charles feels a swell of pride.

“Excellent, boys, absolutely excellent! Okay, now Miss Frost is going to start teaching you all the group number, so everyone put your belongings along the side of the room…”

“Hey!” Raven flings her arms around Charles as soon as he gets home. “Was it awesome?”

“Yeah… It was awesome.” Charles admits, smiling and hugging his sister back.

“Oh, I’m so jealous of you.” Raven says, but her tone is light. She breaks from the embrace, flopping back down on the living room couch, where the TV is paused in the middle of a Friends episode. “Tell me everything.”

“Okay, so, I got there…”

Chapter Text

“Oh, I’m going to miss you.” Edie says tearfully, hugging her son. “My rockstar.”

“I’ll visit. And call.” Erik promises, keeping his voice low. He’s painfully aware of the other nine boys staring at him, shocked that yes, even Erik, the scary guy, has someone who loves him (Not that he can judge. He’s a little surprised too).

This is probably how it would feel if he’d left for college. It’s not any different, except this is something he can do. That’s what he tells himself as his mother lets go, wiping away her tears and leaving with one last smile.

“We want you all to get to know each other,” Shaw says, smiling at the boys. They’re gathered in one of the two common rooms on their floor of the Hellfire Record Label building. It has a big window looking out on the city, and some moderately comfortable couches, beanbags, and some very stiff chairs. “Since you’re going to be working together. We hope you choose to spend at least some of your recreational time in this common room, though you’ll also be going to training together. Emma, my dear, do you mind telling them a little bit about their schedule?”

Miss Frost steps forward with a clipboard in hand, “Training starts, for those of you who are getting tutoring in the morning, at nine o’clock. The rest of you will be expected to start at 6:30 sharp. That’s in Studio 9B. Promotional events may be scheduled in the afternoon, as well as recording time and public outings, so check your schedules and emails every day. You’ve been given a company login, as well as a phone – please, only use the technology we give you, as we’d prefer to be able to protect you from hackers. After that, there is recreational time and dinner, then evening vocal training at seven and optional dance training after ten o’clock.

“Keep your keycards on you at all times, they will allow you to move between floors and get into your room. If you lose it, which you shouldn’t, come find me. Any questions?”

Most of the boys shake their heads. Erik stays unmoving. It seems like a pretty grueling schedule, especially for the younger kids.

This is what you wanted, He reminds himself. And what they wanted. Everyone here signed up for this.

“We’ll leave you to it.” Shaw says, with a smile. “See you all tomorrow morning, bright and early!”

Everyone in the room regards each other, silent. One of the younger boys (who’s wearing sunglasses indoors) begins to fidget nervously.

“I suppose we should do names?” Xavier – of course it’s Xavier – suggests, smiling hopefully. Everyone murmurs their agreement.

“That sounds good,” The blonde boy sitting next to the boy in sunglasses says.

“Okay, well, I’m Charles, Charles Xavier.” Charles smiles. “I’ve been dancing since I was eight. I really like hip hop, and I play guitar and piano.”

He looks expectantly at the bespectacled boy next to him, who looks nervous.

“I, uh, I’m Hank. Mccoy.” He starts. “I’ve been dancing since I was seven, um, I like, all dance? I guess? And I play guitar, piano, violin, saxophone, bass, and… um, a few others.”

“I’m Armando, but I go by Darwin.” The next boy begins. Erik does his best to listen to all of them, since this is his band, after all. Every time he glances at Xavier, though, the guy looks like he’s paying even better attention than Erik, which makes him… really frustrated. For some reason.

“I’m Erik Lehnsherr. I’m self taught, I like contemporary. I play guitar.” Erik keeps his answer terse and to the point, the last of them to go.

“Self taught?” Xavier says, looking at him with raised eyebrows.

“Yes, Xavier, self taught. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, no – I’m impressed. That’s incredible.” There isn’t a hint of sarcasm in his voice, and somehow that pisses Erik off even more. He’s so fake. So fake. He has to be baiting him somehow.

Yet, there’s no evidence. So, Erik, with a strange feeling in his gut, grumbles out a “thank you.” Xavier beams, and the feeling only gets worse.

Erik excuses himself from the room as soon as he can. They’ve got a busy day tomorrow, anyways, they need their rest. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t turn in early.

Over the next few weeks, things fall into a routine. There’s lots of training and Erik, a little alarmingly, loses seven pounds. He’s always been a little undernourished looking (much to his mother’s horror), but now he’s truly bony, face looking sharp and angular and very little extraneous fat to speak of. When he tries to ask Miss Frost about the diet he’s on, she says that if he works a little harder he’ll fill out with muscle and then it won’t be such a problem. He starts frequenting the vending machines down the hallway.

The younger boys start to form their own little cliques, Logan, Sean, and Scott always together, and Janos and Azazel becoming inseparable.

Hank and Xavier were already friends, apparently, but soon Darwin and Alex, the older Summers boy, are folded into their friendship easily. Erik keeps to the outskirts of the older group of boys. Darwin seems nice and level-headed, probably the easiest to get along with, but Hank can’t hold a conversation with Erik without looking like he’s afraid he’s going to bite his head off or something, and Alex is a bit of a hothead.

And then there’s Xavier. Fucking Xavier.

He’s always sultry sweet to Erik, talking to him, smiling at him, bringing him chips from the vending machine when he notices he likes those. They even start playing chess in the common room, and they’re fairly evenly matched.

Erik can’t escape that feeling in his gut, though, every time he’s around the other boy, every time he even thinks about him, and it makes him uneasy. Something’s wrong, no matter how nice he appears to be.

Xavier likes celebratory hugs and pats on the back, and Erik could swear that every time he touches him, he sears an impression into his skin, one that won’t leave for hours after. It’s awful, feeling so on edge, feeling so aware of himself and everything he does around him, and Erik’s not sure how much longer he can stand it.

One night, at some late hour after Erik’s already showered and in bed, there’s a knock on his door. With a sigh, he opens it to the glaring fluorescent light of the hallway and Xavier’s smiling face.

“We’re sneaking out,” The boy whispers, and Erik realizes that all their bandmates are behind him in the hallway. “Get dressed, grab a jacket and some cash!”

Erik, for some reason, does just that. Together, they take the elevator down to the first floor, the container buzzing with nerves and barely contained excitement.

“How are we getting out?” He whispers. The doors all lock after ten – they won’t be able to use their keycards to any avail.

“I found this weird room that has a window that opens,” Sean whispers back. “We can climb out.”

The weird room ends up being more of a closet, with a small but fairly low window that they can probably wiggle through, putting them outside in the alleyway. Sean dives through first, tumbling to the ground with a bit of an oof. Wisely, everyone else goes a little slower.

Xavier offers Erik a hand up once he’s through. Erik, grudgingly, takes it, feeling his palm tingle as their skin touches. Xavier doesn’t seem to notice this annoying effect of his, just smiles.

“You ready?”