[fic] xm: fc - some sense of touch and a melody - r - charles/erik

[pocky_slash]

Title: some sense of touch and a melody
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Characters: Charles/Erik, Raven, Moira, + the kids
Rating: R
Length: ~8800
Summary: On a day when Charles, for once, finds himself saying the right thing to everyone he sees, he allows himself to be talked into a field trip to a local orchard.

(AKA: Mutants in a Field)

Notes: This is...a lot of plotless introspection. I apologize? Thanks to brilligspoons for encouraging along the way and looking it over, bessiemaemucho for the beta, and mcwonthelottery for the cheerful song and the cheerful mocking. Title from "Look Up" by Stars.

Your boy is like a memory,
some sense of touch and a melody.
Your girl, she's a renegade,
a hurricane that keeps you there, safe.
--"Look Up," Stars

The air is crisp and they're miles away from their nearest neighbor, but Charles swears he can smell leaves burning. He loves that smell; the memories he has associated with this place are far from ideal, but some of the best ones involve the golden sunlight of autumn dappling the grass the same colors as the changing leaves.

It's early morning and he's walking down the twisting footpaths around the grounds. Raven has her arm looped through his. The other children are asleep, and Erik was reading in the library when they slipped out the kitchen door, feeling as rebellious and giddy as they did when they were children, even though there's no one to chastise them anymore. The leaves crunch under their shoes, and for a moment, Charles can forget everything that's facing them and pretend it's just another autumn and they're on their way to buy fresh apples and pumpkins.

"You're happy this morning," Raven says. She's happy too, he can feel it radiating off of her. Even if he couldn't, the walk was her suggestion. She'd scurried into his room as the first rays of sunlight were illuminating the tops of the trees and said, "Let's take a constitutional" in the ludicrous British accent she uses when she's mocking him. He agreed readily, because he loves the fall and he loves the trees and he loves his sister and, lately, he feels like all of them are passing him by much too quickly.

"I am," he says, and knocks their shoulders together good-naturedly. She's wearing heels, which gives her a height advantage, but the morning is too pleasant for him to waste time with the usual bemoaning of his stature.

"I think love must suit you," she says with an impish grin.

If it was any other morning, he probably would have stopped her. He'd have denied it or changed the subject or bristled or objected. But the birds are singing and there's a gentle breeze ruffling the leaves and Raven is warm and radiant next to him and he can't bring himself to lie.

"I suppose it does," he says.

"I'm glad," she says. "If only because it means you'll stop using those awful lines on girls at bars."

Charles laughs and flushes. The companionship and the beauty of the day are making him feel stronger than usual, so he says, without even stuttering, "What about you? How are things with young Hank? Do I need to sit him down and have a stern, brotherly word?"

He doesn't like to think of Raven growing up, moving on, expanding her worldview out of the bubble the two of them had created for themselves years ago, but he supposes it's only fair. He has Erik now, unexpected and immense and wonderful, and it wouldn't be right to deny her the same privilege, even if it means no longer being the center of her world. It probably won't be an easy transition, but he's prepared to make it if it's in her best interests.

She looks less certain, however, a frown marring her features. She pushes an errant strand of red hair back behind her ear with the hand that's not tucked in his elbow and sighs.

"I don't know," she says. She cracks a smile and elbows him, adding, "We can't all have hot, mysterious, confident Nazi-killers."

Charles deflects the deflection easily. "I was joking before, but do I really need to have a word with Hank?" He's resigned to the fact that Raven will probably, one day, have her heart broken, but he'd hoped that Hank was better than that.

"No," Raven says quickly. "No, he hasn't--he hasn't done anything. I think he's--I think he's afraid. That since I know about his feet I won't...find him attractive or something. Even though I obviously do. He keeps pulling away. It's so frustrating, Charles. I mean, he's the first guy I've liked in so long and I think he likes me but every time I try to get close...."

She sighs. Charles sighs too and leans over to kiss her temple, never breaking his stride.

"I think," he says after careful consideration, "that Hank is still learning who he is. There has been a lot of change for Hank in the past few months, and while people like you and I dive into change with both feet and keep going, I have a feeling Hank's approach is more cautious. He's probably wary to pursue someone else until he's more sure of himself."

They're all struggling in their own ways. The ghost of Armando follows Alex around night and day. Sean is constantly feeling out the edges of the group, trying to figure where he fits in. Raven, Charles knows, is grappling with defining who she is. Erik is still bent on revenge and unsure that he deserves the respite that life with Charles and the children has given him. Charles himself finds himself easily wrapped up in the intricacies of new love, if only to distract himself from the panic that seizes him when he realizes he has no idea how to be a teacher.

They're all a bit rough around the edges, but at the end of the day, when they come together for dinner and to chat about their day, it becomes apparent that their rough edges seem to fit together in unexpected ways. It's closer to family than Charles and Raven have ever been with anyone but each other.

"So you're saying I should take it slow," Raven says flatly.

"Well, yes," Charles says. "However, knowing you, as I do, I have a feeling you're going to interpret that as 'take the wheel and put your foot on the gas until Hank gets the picture.'"

Raven laughs at that and kisses Charles' cheek. The rest of their walk is devoted to discussion of training regimens and house gossip, and, finally, a soft, comfortable silence interrupted only by the occasional chirping of birds and crunching of the gravel. Charles wants to stay out all morning, surrounded by the easy affection of Raven and the brilliant blue of the sky, but there's work to be done and he can't shirk his duties forever. Still, he makes sure they take the long way back to the kitchen, and, before they duck back inside, he turns back to the grounds to drink in the sight of the fiery leaves clinging in vain to the trees and piling haphazardly in the grass. This is home, now, more so than it's ever been in all the years Charles has lived here.

"Join me for breakfast?" Raven asks, holding the door.

"Of course," Charles says, "always," and he holds her hand all the way to the kitchen.

***

After breakfast, Charles spends an hour outside with Sean, helping him learn how to modulate the pitch of his voice in order to achieve more precision in the destruction wrought by his screams. He spends an hour with Alex, helping him refine his power, and an hour with Raven, showing her various photos and inspecting the detail of her transformations. He's exhausted by the time they break for lunch, begging off from a strategy session with Erik in favor of making himself a sandwich and a cup of tea. He takes it out onto the patio off of the kitchen, sitting in one chair and putting his feet up on another. He stares out at the grounds, sipping his tea, and it's there that Raven finds him.

She's changed from her work-out sweats into one of her ubiquitous black dresses and she's smiling in such a way that Charles immediately knows, even without telepathy, that she's about to ask a favor.

"So this is where you've gotten off to," Raven says.

"I must admit, our stroll this morning seems to have given me a taste for appreciating the out of doors today," he replies. He puts his feet back on the ground and straightens up, automatically assuming a more professor-ly posture even though Raven has seen him at his worst.

"Good!" she says brightly. "Then this should be right up your alley!"

Charles very carefully doesn't groan.

"Do you remember how we used to go to Tillman's orchard in the fall?" she asks. Charles nods slowly. "And we'd wander through the trees and pick as many apples as we could carry and gorge ourselves on what we couldn't and just spend a few hours not being here with...them?"

Mother and Kurt and Cain, she means, and back then they would cling to any feeble excuse. Despite the circumstances, though, he does have fond memories of the autumn afternoons in the orchard.

"You want to take a trip over there," he says.

"I think it would be nice," she says. "We've been training really hard and I called over there and they're still open to the public and everything. Mrs. Tillman even remembered me." Charles hesitates, though he already knows what his answer will be, and Raven grabs his arm, giving him her best doe eyes. "Please, Charles? One afternoon off won't kill us. Everyone deserves a break, even you. And Erik." She raises her eyebrows suggestively and Charles finds himself blushing.

"I was going to say yes even before you said that," Charles tells her, pointing at her warningly. She just laughs and hugs him impulsively, then zips back into the house, probably to find her co-conspirators and relay the good news. Charles watches her go, shaking his head. A day out will probably do them all some good, and as much as he and Erik may argue the point, they really are still kids and deserve a chance to spend an afternoon remembering that.

Charles collects his dishes and returns to the kitchen. He goes to put them in the sink and stops when he sees Erik leaning against the counter. He's still in his sweat suit and, if the look on his face is anything to go by, he overheard Charles' conversation with Raven.

"Apple picking?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

Charles shrugs. "Raven's right--they deserve a break. And we both have fond memories of that place." He doesn't add that they're some of his only fond memories of his time in this house--it's the truth, but Charles long-ago learned that he could have had a worse childhood. He had Raven, at least, and managed to escape to adulthood unscathed. Compared to Erik's, his childhood trauma is minute and he's just as happy to forget it and focus on filling the house with new, better memories. He hopes, of course, that those new memories will benefit Erik as well.

Erik still looks unconvinced, however, so Charles adds, "If nothing else, it will be a breath of fresh air and a quiet afternoon somewhere other than here." He desperately wants Erik to agree to come along, he finds. Not just because he wants to spend his afternoon with Erik--he does, of course, would spend all his time around Erik if he could, would eschew training and teaching and strategizing altogether like a teenage girl with her first crush in order to stay in orbit around Erik, learning him and seeing him and being with him--but because he wants to share this with Erik. It's small, really, this tiny piece of his childhood, of the boy he used to be, but Erik doesn't have the benefit of a telepathic cheatsheet to all that Charles is and Charles would like to share what he can, show Erik that there's more to what made him than his big empty house.

He doesn't know if it's his justification or the look on his face, but after a moment of staring at Charles critically, Erik shrugs.

"Fine," he says. "I'll change."

Charles feels the corner of his mouth tug upward and sees the expression mirrored on Erik's face as well. And then, because sometimes Charles is greedy, because sometimes Charles takes things just because he wants them and he knows he can, Charles leans up and kisses him. It's brief, as their kisses go, but it makes something loosen in his chest, especially when Erik's hand wraps around his hip and he keeps his head bowed low, eyelashes brushing Charles' face even after the kiss has ended.

It's stupid. Dangerous. Anyone could come in and see them, but Charles is feeling reckless and giddy. He tilts his head again, his lips brushing up against Erik's gently. Their mouths move slowly and it's more like breathing softly up against each other than kissing, but Charles doesn't care. In the afternoon sunlight, with the gentle breeze ruffling the kitchen curtains and Erik holding him close, like he's something precious, Charles thinks he could be this happy forever.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs shatter the peace of the afternoon. "Don't you fucking touch my stuff, Cassidy!" rings out through the halls, and Charles laughs softly. He and Erik break apart slowly, Erik's expression one of mild annoyance.

"We should go get changed," Charles says. "And I should extend the offer to Moira, if Raven hasn't already." Erik's frown makes his opinion on that very clear, but, for once, he says nothing.

"I'll change and make sure they haven't destroyed anything," Erik says, and slowly drops his hand from Charles' hip, first backing away and then exiting the kitchen. Charles watches him go and tries to tamp down the affectionate smile he knows lingers on his face. It's still there, though, when he pushes himself off the counter and casts about the house with his mind to find where Moira's hiding.

Moira's in the west study, a pile of maps spread out on the table in front of her. She's not looking at them, however; she's reclining on the couch with a dog-eared paperback edition of The Picture of Dorian Gray. She glances up when he enters and then sits up properly on the couch, immediately changing from a girl who wouldn't seem out of place in the type of university bars Charles used to frequent and into a focused, competent CIA operative.

"Is it lunch time?" she asks.

"Yes and no," Charles says. "The children have bullied me into taking them to an apple orchard a few miles away. I was wondering if you'd like to join us."

"I take it Erik's going?" Moira asks. Charles nods. "Then no thank you. If my choices are chase after a bunch of teenagers or watch you and Lehnsherr make eyes at each other, I'd just as soon take advantage of the quiet and get some work done."

There’s a moment when Charles freezes, a hasty denial twisting on his tongue, but he catches himself and relaxes, offering Moira a sheepish smile. Charles is keenly aware of how many homosexuals are targeted as communists, how easy it is to say the wrong thing to the wrong person and end up in prison, but Moira had been quick to catch on to the dreamy looks he knew he started giving Erik nearly the moment they met and equally quick to assure him that it didn’t concern her. Her focus was finding Shaw and shutting down his operation, not who Charles chose to dally with behind closed doors..

"Sorry if that was a little pointed," she says ruefully, rubbing her eyes. "I'm tired. And I don't care how you and Erik look at each other or what you do or any of that. It's just awkward, sometimes, the way the two of you get with each other. I start to feel distinctly like a third wheel, even during strategy sessions."

"I'm sorry, Moira, truly," he says, and means it. He likes Moira, he does. In a different world, maybe, it would be Moira that his affections fell to. He certainly doesn’t mean to exclude her or push her away, but sometimes, around Erik, he can’t help his tunnel vision.

Now, Moira waves him off half-heartedly. "Honestly, it doesn't usually bother me," she says. With a sly smile, she adds, "Anything that gets you to stop using those terrible pick-up lines--"

Charles laughs, unexpectedly. "Why is everyone insulting my pick-up lines today?" he asks.

"Because they're awful," Moira informs him. "I can't believe they ever worked. And I can't imagine them working on Erik."

"Erik's...a bit more direct," Charles admits cagily. He feels his ears burn and Moira makes a face.

"More than I needed to know, Charles," she says.

Before he can dig himself in further, the phone in the corner rings shrilly and Moira's entire demeanor shifts. She eyes it warily and Charles decides that he can't help but want everyone to feel as good as he does, today. He takes her hands before she can move towards it and says, "Come with us. Take the call and see what they want, but I’m sure whatever it is will keep for a few hours. And the orchard is more fun than you'd think."

That might not entirely be true--their CIA contact might be calling to tell them there's been another attack or they have a secure location on Shaw--but Moira is clearly as eager to believe it as Charles is, because she turns her attention back to him and smiles again.

"I suppose there are worse things than an afternoon of fresh air," she says. It might be Charles' imagination, but it seems like some of the lines around her eyes have smoothed out. "Let me get rid of my boss and get my coat."

"Excellent," Charles says. He squeezes her hands one last time before letting her steel herself and then pick up the phone. He waits patiently and, after a moment, she rolls her eyes and gives him a thumbs-up.

It seems the world will be safe for another day. Charles is more than willing to take advantage of that.

***

Charles changes quickly, exchanging his customary, crisp slacks, shirt, and cardigan, for worn, more familiar counterparts. He finds a faded plaid shirt that's pilling and soft and a jumper that's half a size too big and needs to be rolled up at the sleeves. Worn cords will be better for scaling stubborn trees to retrieve hidden apples, though he ruefully realizes it's been years since he's had to be Raven's tree-scaling hero; she conquered the trees of the orchard with her own swift-footedness years ago.

Still, it feels like a transformation. He's hardly dressed differently than he does day-to-day, but everything feels loose and warm and comfortable, the way his skin has felt since he woke up this morning to Raven tentatively asking him to join her on her walk around the grounds.

He takes the gloves off of his dresser as he leaves the room and bumps into Erik in the hall, just as he's pulling a thick jumper over his head. Charles helpfully tugs on the tails of his shirt until Erik's head pops through the neck, his hair slightly mussed. Charles reaches up to comb his fingers through it, straightening it into its usual style. The gesture feels oddly intimate, as does the fathomless look that Erik gives him as he does so.

"There," he says, throat dry, as he pulls back his hand. "Much better."

Erik's face is still unreadable and Charles wonders if this is a step too far, if the slow slide from easy familiarity into a kind of backwards domesticity is suddenly too much. Maybe he should have kept his hands to himself. Maybe he needs to take a step back out of Erik's personal space. Maybe--

He doesn't mean to project, or maybe it's just the look on his face, but Erik shakes his head, though his expression doesn't change. Charles stops thinking--a feat he previously thought impossible--and Erik leans over and kisses him again. It's brief and familiar, but his hand lingers on Charles' cheek for a moment before he says, "I'll meet you downstairs," and walks away before Charles can reply.

The whole day is blanketed in a surreality that Charles can't quite comprehend, so he follows Erik downstairs in a daze, pulling his gloves on automatically as he follows the sound of the children's voices so they can begin their journey.

***

The orchard is much how Charles remembers it and oddly quiet for a fall day as bright and beautiful as this one. The air is crisp, but not yet cool, and he's more interested in the memories than the apples, but otherwise it could be a perfect snapshot from his childhood. Raven's hand is secure in his as they lead the way through the rows of trees, even as Sean and Alex shout and laugh and make their own path, ducking and weaving across the trails and throwing rotten apples at each other. Hank is behind them, talking about apple varieties with Moira in an animated tone that Moira is, surprisingly, matching. Erik, Charles knows through their strange rapport as much as his telepathy, is lagging furthest behind, most likely scanning the horizon for possible threats.

This was a good idea, he thinks gently in Raven's direction, a long-perfected tap of thought that let her know he's listening without delving in, as per the long ago blood-promise of their youth.

Of course it was, Raven replies promptly, leaning her head against his shoulder. All my ideas are good.

Charles snorts, but kisses her hair anyway.

I've missed you, he admits, because he suddenly feels it sharp and true in his gut. For years and years it's been just the two of them in this complicated bubble of reality and he's never spent as long apart from her as he has this summer, driving and riding and flying all over the country to collect mutants with Erik at his side. While he doesn't regret that, wouldn't trade those long months spent falling hopelessly in love with Erik for anything, he missed Raven's pragmatism and laughter and the way she could gently (and not-so-gently) remind him of his place when he put his foot in his mouth or his ideas got too lofty. She was a different person when he came back--not in a bad way, of course, in the way that it's only natural for a young girl to grow when finally allowed out of her overprotective brother's shadow. It's so rewarding to see her blossoming, so wonderful to see her coming into her own, but he can't say he doesn't miss the constant feel of her being at his side.

I've missed you too, she admits with a complicated wave of emotion. I've missed Raven and Charles against the world.

It seems our world has expanded exponentially in the past few months, Charles thinks.

I know, Raven replies. But I wish...I wish things didn't have to change. There's a regret tinging her words that he can't quite understand. He wants to dig deeper, to understand the soft shades of remorse, but he holds to his promise and settles for squeezing her hand.

I wish I could keep you forever, Charles tells her honestly. But doing so would be a great injustice to the woman you're bound to become.

Raven stops walking and stares at him, biting her lip. Charles can't possibly interpret the expression on her face, so he simply stares back, guileless and open, until she kisses his cheek and hugs him tightly. His arms surround her immediately, automatically, holding her close and remembering countless other hugs scattered throughout their tumultuous years together. She pulls back just far enough to press her forehead to his.

"Thanks, Charles," she says. He has no idea what she's thanking him for. "I'm going to go show the guys those twisted trees up on the hill. Maybe you should show Erik the field above the barn. I remember how much you liked it. I particularly remember how much you liked it with Susie Bellman."

Charles blushes.

"I don't know that I much like your frank discussion of my love life," he murmurs.

"Oh, loosen up, Charles," Raven laughs. "If it makes it any better, I'm planning on showing the field above the barn to Hank a little later today." She smirks and raises her eyebrows and Charles shoves her away good-naturedly.

"And I certainly don't need to know about your--" He makes a complicated gesture with his hands because even admitting that Raven has a love life makes him want to blush even harder.

"Have fun," she says with a wink, walking backwards a few paces before turning around and jogging to catch up with Moira and Hank, who have now passed them. "Hank! Wait up!" she calls, and Charles watches her go, shaking his head, until he feels a hand land heavy on his shoulder.

"Susie Bellman?" Erik asks, eyebrows raised.

"You weren't supposed to hear that," Charles says, covering his face with his hand.

"Mm, and yet," Erik says, but he's smiling. "I find myself curious about this seemingly magical field. And if it's higher up, it probably provides a tactical advantage that we would be remiss in failing to investigate."

Charles chuckles. "You're terrible," he informs Erik gravely, and, sparing one last glance at where the children and Moira are hiking up the opposite hill, turns and leads Erik towards the barn, tentatively taking his hand as they duck under the trees.

The uphill climb is not as easy as it was when Charles was a child, but, thanks to training, easier than it would have been a month ago. Erik's longer legs and more developed muscles don't seem to be under the same strain, and he stops occasionally to snatch apples from low hanging branches as Charles struggles, slightly, to keep up. The burn in his muscles feels good, though, and when he finally collapses in the grass at the top of the hill, he's smiling even as he pants for air.

Erik remains standing, staring out at the orchard, taking in the view of the barn and the trees and the creek in the distance. He can probably see the children from this high, scampering around, laughing and letting off steam. The landscape, Charles knows from experience, is beautiful.

Still, his eyes don't stray from Erik's profile, stark over the backdrop of bright blue skies and rolling white clouds.

Erik turns back towards Charles and tosses him an apple before sitting down across from him, leaning on one raised knee. He shines the apple on his corduroys before taking a bite and looking at Charles with mild interest.

"So," he says. "This was your childhood." If he has further comment, he holds it back, and even those words are devoid of accusation. Charles wonders if he's learned bits and pieces from Raven or merely come to his own conclusions based on the dreary interiors of the mausoleum where Charles and Raven grew up.

"Some of it," Charles allows. "The better parts. Autumn was our favorite season and the Tillmans were very kind about letting us spend as much time here as we liked. The house was big enough for the two of us to hide when we wanted to, but there's something to be said about being outside, especially when the weather is so extraordinary."

Erik nods with no judgement and no requests for Charles to elaborate. Charles appreciates that, setting his apple to the side and turning to stare at the changing leaves on the neat rows of trees crisscrossing the orchard. He hears Erik continue to eat his apple in measured, methodical bites, but keeps himself from turning around and staring at those straight, white teeth, at the long fingers that are sure to be curled around the apple. Charles loves Erik's hands and mouth and perhaps spends too much time staring at them as it is. For the moment, he's content to daydream and stare off at the horizon, the gentle buzz of Erik's mind as comforting as the warmth of his presence, a mere six inches away.

"Can I ask you a question?" Erik asks finally. Charles turns around just in time to see him pitch the apple core off into the orchard. He's intrigued. Erik doesn't ask questions often, content to listen and digest and glean information in other ways. He wonders--no, he hopes this signals that Erik is becoming more comfortable around him, is starting to believe that Charles won't disappear the moment Erik decides to relax.

"Of course," Charles says. "You can ask me anything." He hopes he doesn't sound too eager, but Erik is still peering at him curiously.

"Your mutation, growing up with Raven, knowing you weren't alone--is that the reason you went into genetics? Like Hank, spending his whole life trying to find a cure?"

If Charles had tried to guess Erik's question, that one would not have been anywhere close. Charles has chattered on about Oxford and genetics and his plans for the world, but mostly as background noise to fill the silences as they drove across the country and flew from city to city. He hadn't realized that Erik had taken an interest, hadn't thought that he could actually be curious about what shaped Charles into who he is now. He supposes it's only fair, given his own fascination with everything that adds up to the whole of Erik Lehnsherr.

"Partially," Charles says. "I wasn't looking for a cure--I didn't want one. Raven didn't either, not back then. But my father was a scientist and I was bright, even before the telepathy. I enjoyed listening to him speak on the subject and after he died, I found solace in his books. I think I would have always studied biology, but I can't deny that our own mutations sharpened my focus, especially once Raven appeared." He runs his tongue over his teeth, pausing as he contemplates how to phrase the next part so as to do justice to the importance of Raven in his life. "Growing up in that house alone...gaining a sister is the single most important moment of my life. Even if Raven hadn't been a mutant, I had been alone in more than one way before she found me. But the fact that she was made a thousand ideas that had been rattling around in my brain suddenly seem far more plausible and idea of meeting more mutants far more possible."

He glances up at Erik, who is absently twisting a blade of grass between his fingers as he stares at Charles, enthralled.

"You understand," he says. "You felt it too, the night I pulled you out of the sea. I know you felt it because I felt you feel it." He chuckles. "If that makes any sense. But that moment of knowing you're not crazy, there's someone else, there's a possibility of many more someone elses...as a child, it turned my world on edge. It was...." He gestures vaguely, not sure how to express the enormity of it. "If there was a way to find others, I wanted to pursue it. And if it just so happened to fall into my previous interests, all the better, I suppose. I threw myself into the subject. I read everything I could get my hands on before I was even out of high school. I graduated Harvard early and I would have gone to Oxford sooner but...there were...complications, when my mother died. There was Raven to think of. But it just gave me more time to learn everything I could before jumping into my studies with both feet."

He looks up, cracking the smallest of smiles, embarrassed by how he's gone on, but Erik is still staring at him. It's almost unnerving, would be unnerving if there wasn't a kindness there, a wonder. That he, Charles Xavier, can inspire a look of wonder in Erik Lehnsherr, who is far and away the most wonderful person of anyone Charles has ever met, makes his heart stutter in his chest.

Charles is used to being smart and quick and suave, is used to getting his way and getting attention and charming friends and strangers alike into his bed. Raven has never understood it--she says it has to be some mix of confusion and incredulity and pity, because Charles is ridiculous, especially when he's pouring on the charm--but there's been very little in Charles' life since the death of Kurt Marko that has intimidated him.

Erik intimidates him. Not because he thinks Erik will hurt him--he knows that Erik would never harm him, not purposely--and not because of the sheer amount of power that Erik has at his fingertips. Erik intimidates him because Erik is so easily all of the things that Charles has always tried to be. Erik is sharp and alluring and mysterious. He doesn't waste time with niceties, he takes what he wants and what he needs and doesn't apologize. And, god, he's attractive. He's handsome enough to leave Charles weak at the knees, and half the time he doesn't even seem to realize it, eyes widening in confusion when Charles has to press him up against the bathroom door to kiss and touch, like he doesn't even understand what wandering around shirtless does to Charles and probably Raven and Moira and any of the boys whose proclivities skew the same direction as his own.

More than any of that, though, it's Erik's determination that leaves Charles reeling. Erik's been through the absolute worst the world could possibly throw at a man and he's still standing, still proud, still whole, as much as he may argue otherwise. He's still, innately, a good person. Charles doesn't know that he could have taken half of what Erik has, and the strength of character that entails is dizzying. To have that strength, that focus directed at him, as it is now, never fails to make Charles feel inadequate and lightheaded.

Charles is starting to fidget. He's going to ask Erik if there's something on his face, but then Erik reaches over and takes one of his hands, clasping it in his own, and rocks forward until he's on his knees. He towers over Charles for one long, breathless moment before he leans down and kisses him.

Erik's other hand slides into Charles' hair, and Charles has to gasp into the kiss, sucking in a breath through his nose as he bends to Erik's will like tempered steel. He wraps his arms around Erik's neck, holding himself steady more than anything else, keeping himself from tumbling backwards into the grass.

"What?" he asks breathlessly when Erik pulls away, just enough to nuzzle his jaw. "What did I--"

"Nothing," Erik says. "You're just--" He brushes the back of Charles' hand with his thumb and Charles gives in, nudging gently against Erik's thoughts, suddenly awash in waves of affection and fascination.

never met anyone like his eyes are unreal don't understand what's the sun in his hair shouldn't be out here don't want to leave ever don't want to leave the house let it all be waiting for me when i'm done the way he chews his lip when he's thinking i need to touch i need to have this is what it feels like to want put my hands all over him crawl inside of him his mouth his chest just touch just let me touch for a moment fuck it's a good day

Charles gasps again, eyes fluttering shut. He and Erik have spent most nights together since their trip across the county, but the wanting is always sharp and new and surprising. He's been with people who have wanted him before, but never the way Erik does, never with the depth and breadth of affection and trust and need that rolls off of Erik, invisible beneath his seamless, steely veneer. It's only fair--Charles has never wanted anyone the way he wants Erik either. He doesn't know if it's because Erik is the first adult mutant he's ever met or because of some connection forged when he talked Erik out of drowning, but from the moment he felt the first stab of rage, of terror, of pain as Erik was thrown into the water in Miami, Charles has wanted nothing more than to lose himself in Erik's mind, to help him however he can.

Erik swears in German softly, reverently, as a hand slides up the back of Charles' jumper, molding to his back, fingers brushing over each ridge of his spine.

"Charles," he murmurs, "You don't even know, do you?"

Charles doesn't know and doesn't reply, can't say anything, can't do anything but tilt his head upwards and steal another kiss, greedy for it, his chest seizing with want.

Yes, yes, Erik thinks, the voice in Charles' mind wrapping around his consciousness, smooth and hot. Right here. God, I want to peel back those layers, I want to see what's underneath.

Charles wants it too, he wants to fuck Erik, or to climb on top of him and ride him until they're both wrung out and useless, but they're out in the open, out in public, and it's dangerous. The whole thing is dangerous, burning through his veins and fueling his arousal. It's dangerous like Erik's teeth at his throat, like Erik's huge, gorgeous hands pressing his hips down, pressing him into the soft, damp earth. It makes Charles gasp, makes him thrust helplessly even as he murmurs, "We can't, we can't, Erik, god, fuck," into the skin under Erik's ear. They need to stop, but Charles is so sick of being responsible and would much rather be wanton and ruined and undone under Erik's hands, sighing as they dig under his jumper again and skate up his ribs.

"I would," Erik says. "Right now, right here, I'd have you right here. I will have you." Erik speaks with conviction, with authority, and Charles actually shudders and moans, shameless and needy. He's not sure when the switch flipped from a serene day in an orchard to this blistering need to fuck, but he wants it too much to fight it, spending only a half-second to cast his mind out and find the others, clustered on a distant hilltop, oblivious to their missing guardians.

"Please," Charles says, his voice wrecked even to his own ears. His fingertips are pressing helplessly into Erik's back, burrowed under his shirt, reaching for his shoulders, for something to anchor him. One of Erik's hands slides to his thigh, heavy and hot even through the thick corduroy, and Charles presses into the touch, whimpers and wiggles and tries to shift Erik's hand that much closer to where he wants it. "Erik," he hisses, and Erik kisses him again, even as the zip on Charles' trousers drags down down down, the metal moving with the barest twitch from the hand cradling Charles' head against the grass. The button pops open, too, and then it's almost worse because nothing replaces the pressure of his fly; Erik's hand remains steadfastly on Charles' thigh as they kiss deep and sharp, sloppy and gasping for it as the wind picks up, leaves clattering around them. Erik leans closer, as if shielding Charles' body from the chill and finally, finally moves his hand.

It's all Charles has ever wanted, and even if that's a lie, it feels so utterly true in that moment that it might as well be the word of god. He can't speak, can't even move, just lets out a long, hoarse breath against Erik's neck, fingers still wrapped around Erik's shoulders like he'll drown, otherwise, like he'll float away from all of this if he doesn't ground himself with the muscle and sinew flexing under his palms. He clings to Erik and tips his head back, baring his neck to Erik's questing teeth and lips, sighing on every tight, perfect stroke, back bowing at every murmur from Erik's mind, Beautiful, perfect, fuck, Charles, just like that, when you get like this, Charles, yes, your face, your mouth, no one else, my own, fuck, yes....

He's almost entirely clothed in the middle of a bloody apple orchard, on the receiving end of a handjob from a Nazi hunter who he's fallen completely, desperately in love with. Surreal is no longer an adequate description of his day, but he's too bloody ecstatic to think about it too hard--it's impossible to think with Erik's hand curled around his cock, Erik's lips dragging across his neck, Erik's thoughts twisting through his own, hot and impatient and and awed.

"Charles," Erik whispers against his ear, deep voice reverberating through Charles' skin, making his shudder even harder. "Charles, come on, for me, Charles, let go, do it, come on." The encouragement, the way Erik's knees are pressing against Charles' still-clothed thighs, the sunlight, the look in Erik's fathomless eyes, he can't help but obey, babbling and gasping and coming into Erik's hand, shaking apart. He's sure his nails are leaving crescent moons across Erik's shoulders, even as his palms sweat under the scratchy material of his gloves.

Charles opens his eyes, squeezed shut when the external stimuli became too overwhelming, and sees a smirk twitching at Erik's mouth for the length of a second before that mouth is pressed again his own once more. Erik wipes his hand discreetly on a handkerchief and then sinks to the ground, his long legs tangled up in Charles'. Charles can feel his cock, still hard and hot and pressing against his trousers, though he makes no move to alleviate the strain, running his fingers, instead, through Charles' hair.

"Let me," Charles murmurs, voice hoarse, fingers clumsy and thick as he tries to undo Erik's fly.

"Well," Erik says with a laugh that's rich and dark, "I had rather been counting on it."

Charles manages a snort and paws past Erik's zipper, past the tails of his shirt and into his shorts and--finally, finally--slides his hand down Erik's cock. Erik makes a sound low in his throat, but it's not enough. The bloody gloves are in the way, but instead of pulling them off, Charles slides down against the grass until his head is resting on Erik's thigh and he's staring greedily at Erik's dick.

"I can't argue with that," Erik says with far too much composure. Charles takes it upon himself to destroy that composure and starts by sliding his mouth down on Erik's cock with barely a pause for breath.

Charles likes sucking Erik's cock because he doesn't have to be careful. Erik doesn't mind mental bleedover, Erik isn't embarrassed by how much Charles enjoys it, Erik doesn't treat him like he's delicate. Erik's hands move easily into his hair, not pulling or shoving but holding him steady, urging him on. Charles doesn't need the encouragement, but he appreciates it, the way he appreciates the sounds coming out of Erik's mouth, short and harsh and almost painful in their pleasure. He can feel Erik's pleasure throbbing in his head like a heartbeat, warm and steady, and Charles lets it wash over him as he runs his tongue down Erik's cock, hollows his cheeks out as he sucks, slides his hand around the base. Erik hisses at the contact with Charles' cold fingertips, but the hiss twists into a strangled moan when sucks again, twisting his hand.

He could dive into Erik's mind to see what he wants, could peel apart his desires and figure out how to hold and lick and squeeze, but it's more fun this way, more exciting to follow the cues given by Erik's body. It doesn't stop him from using his mind in other ways, however, from dipping his toe into the torrent of Erik's frenzied thoughts and then plunging right in with, You're incredible, you're the most incredible thing I've ever seen, it's never been this good with anyone else, I've never wanted anyone this way, I never want anyone else again, I never want anyone else to touch me, just you, only you, and no one will ever get to touch you, either, you're mine, no one else will see you like this, I won't allow it. He lets the words die, but leaves a steady stream of lust and love and devotion, channels what he's feeling directly into Erik's brain, the way his cock feels sliding past Charles' lips, the way his scent is making Charles dizzy with want, how much Charles wants to taste him, how badly Charles wants to see his face as he comes, see the lines and pain fade away, if only for one moment, like Charles can pull the pain and rage and bubbling anger out of him with his mouth and his hands.

That's the thought that sends Erik over the precipice, crying out, harsh and almost painful as his hands fist in Charles' hair and he comes without warning, filling Charles' mouth and nearly catching him off-guard. He stops himself from choking, pulling off far enough to stroke Erik through the end of his orgasm and swallowing gently around him. He tucks Erik back into his trousers when he's finished, stroking his thigh gently as it twitches in the aftermath. Erik's hands finally grasp the collar of his jumper and awkwardly pull him back up until his head is resting on Erik's shoulder.

Erik turns his head until they're nose to nose. His eyes are hooded and dark, but still warm.

"Possessive," he finally says, and closes the fractional gap between them for a kiss.

"When it's warranted," Charles allows. The way his voice scrapes against his throat, raw from his own cries and Erik's cock, makes him shudder. "And you should talk. I've seen your mind, you know. I know what you think of me. I know how you feel when you lay hands on me."

"You do," Erik says. "And don't forget it."

He doesn't know how to tell Erik how impossible it is to forget, how he can't imagine even looking at anyone else now, how Erik will never have to worry because Charles was dead honest when he said he'd never want anyone else, because how could anyone, anything measure up to what he feels just from standing in the same room as Erik? How could anyone be anywhere near as extraordinary?

Luckily, he's evolved beyond the need for words. He rests his forehead against Erik's jaw and gently rolls the thought right into the center of Erik's mind, sighing contentedly at the pulse of overpowering affection that he gets in return.

He keeps his eyes closed, listening to Erik's heartbeat and the wind in the trees as Erik murmurs back, "You're rather extraordinary yourself."

***

Charles loses track of time, seconds ticking on endlessly as Erik's fingers drift through his hair and he watches the clouds inch across the sky. Erik eventually begins to hum softly, snatches of a melody matching up with bits of lyrics that drift through Erik's mind, all of it foreign enough not to be distracting. It adds to the otherworldliness that's been following him all day, the feeling that life has been put on hold so that he can have this day, so that they all can. If he wasn't so content, if his mood were darker, he'd think of it as a reprieve before the war to come, but he can't bring himself to be quite so pessimistic. Instead, he thinks of it as a reward for their work so far, a thank you from the universe at large for their efforts to make the world a better place.

"You're thinking again," Erik says against his temple. "Must I provide another distraction?"

"No," Charles laughs. "As much as it pains me to say so, I believe one foray into public indecency is enough for an afternoon."

"Shame," Erik says, fingers tapping gently against Charles' rib cage through his jumper. "I suppose I can contain myself until we return somewhere with locking doors."

"Mm, much appreciated, my friend," Charles says.

There's a tickle at the periphery of his mind, the familiar warmth of Raven's presence, and Charles casts his mind out further. He relaxes; Raven's alone and the boys are down by the gates of the orchard, talking with Mr. Tillman while Moira purchases a jug of cider. He lets his mind scale the hill with Raven, murmuring, "It's fine, it's just Raven," when Erik hears her approach and tenses beside him.

Erik's opinion of what's fine clearly differs from Charles' own, however, and he pushes himself up just as Raven crests the hill. Charles doesn't bother, merely tucking one arm underneath his head and offering his sister a smile.

"Hello, darling," he says. Raven rolls her eyes, but she's smiling.

"We're ready to go as soon as you two are done canoodling," she says.

"'Canoodling?'" Erik says, eyebrows raised.

"Are you going to tell me that you were picking apples all this time?" Raven asks, hands on her hips. "And then you fell in the dirt?"

Charles glances down at their trousers, covered in patches of dirt and bits of grass, at the leaves still clinging to their jumpers.

"That's exactly what happened," he tells Raven solemnly and she snorts, but there's still a fondness there and Charles reluctantly forces himself to his feet. Today has been a reprieve and a wonderful one--beautiful weather, perfect company. Today has been a day when he's said the right thing to the right person consistently, when he's pleased the people closest to him and been overwhelmingly pleased by them as well. He wants to extend it, wants to live in it forever, but he knows the longer it goes on, the greater the chance that something will ruin it. He'd rather end it here, on this note, warm and happy with the memory of Erik's skin under his fingers and the sky above him, with Raven smiling at him kindly and Erik gazing at him with no small amount of affection.

"Let's go home, shall we?" he asks. Home, where there will be cider and most likely pie, a dinner scraped together from whatever is in the cabinets, hodgepodge, but likely delicious. They'll bicker and laugh around the table and the children will retire to watch television, Moira will sneak away to read a book, and Erik will follow him into the study for a drink and a game of chess and a long, slow burning night in bed.

As the three of them head back down the hill, he thinks the memory of today will propel him through anything Shaw or the world at large can cast their way. There's a war coming, maybe, and a fight coming definitely, but days like this remind Charles why he's willing to fight.