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Now, it wasn’t often that Charles Xavier found himself face down on the floor, particularly in his own mansion—or rather, what appeared to be an alternate version of his mansion. His cheek pressed against the crusted, worn floorboards, and Charles couldn’t help but notice the minute details that others would surely overlook. The floor was well-tread and loved—if wood could be loved. It bore its history in faded patches where countless footsteps had worn away the finish over the years. Some boards were paler where traffic had been heaviest, worn down by shoes, boots, and scuffling, impatient children. There were small nicks and grooves scattered here and there, scars of furniture dragged, chairs pulled out hastily, or perhaps the odd dropped object. The mansion had always been alive, not just with voices and minds but in the very fabric of its structure—floorboards that told stories, walls that held secrets.
The wood smelled as lived-in as it looked. There was an unmistakable musk to it, aged and earthy, mingling faintly with the scent of polish that had been used once but forgotten now. The smell made Charles think of old libraries, books with cracked spines and yellowed pages. Comforting, really—if one were not currently sprawled across it unceremoniously.
And then there was him.
Charles lifted his gaze, the ache in his body forgotten momentarily as his sharp blue eyes fell on the man standing over him. A man who could only be Erik Lehnsherr—but decidedly not his Erik. The sight before him was staggering in its absurdity. Charles blinked once, twice, as if to clear his vision, but there was no mistaking it. The stranger was real, and he was—well, magnificent, in a deeply disconcerting way.
This Erik towered above him, radiating power so tangible it seemed to thrum in the air. He stood perfectly still, a living statue of pure menace wrapped in black spandex. Spandex. Charles nearly snorted, though he wisely refrained. The material clung to the man’s body in a way that was practically indecent, a visual assault of muscle and form that left nothing to the imagination. Thick bands of magenta slashed across his chest and limbs, sharp and deliberate, drawing the eye as though demanding attention. It was theatrical, impractical, and utterly ridiculous, and yet the sheer confidence with which Erik wore it made it work. Somehow.
And then there was the hair—white as fresh snow. It wasn’t the stark white of age, either, but rather something otherworldly, unnervingly pristine. The soft, unruly waves fell just past his jawline, framing sharp cheekbones and an even sharper jaw. Charles’s Erik—his Erik—had let his hair grow longer in recent months, dark strands brushing against his collar, but nothing like this. Charles’s lips quirked involuntarily at the thought. Perhaps he’d suggest it—casually, of course. “What if you grew your hair out, Erik? Just to see how it suits you.” A subtle nudge, nothing overt. He was sure Erik would roll his eyes, accuse him of being absurd, but… well. Charles wouldn’t mind if his Erik turned out looking like this.
This Erik’s face, however, was more unsettling. It was familiar and foreign all at once. The piercing blue eyes—cold as glaciers—lacked the depth and quiet torment Charles associated with Erik. Where his Erik’s anger was a fire—consuming, unpredictable, sometimes even warm—this man’s gaze was pure ice. His expression was carved from stone, every line of his face set into something dangerously unreadable. There was no flicker of humor, no sarcasm, no trace of vulnerability. It was Erik’s face, yes, but devoid of the pieces that made Erik Erik.
Charles felt his lips purse slightly as he pushed himself up, bracing his forearms on the floor. His body protested, though his dignity was the thing most wounded at the moment. “You know,” he said lightly, though his voice carried the crisp tone of a man very much unimpressed, “most hosts provide chairs when receiving unexpected guests. Throwing them onto the floor is rather medieval.”
The other Erik—not his Erik—didn’t move. He simply looked at him, assessing, scrutinizing, and very clearly unimpressed with what he saw. “You are Charles Xavier?” His voice was low, resonant, and laced with disdain. Charles had heard that voice before, in the quiet moments when his Erik’s bitterness got the better of him. But this was something else—colder, sharper, stripped of even the most fleeting softness.
“In the flesh,” Charles replied, mustering a pleasant smile as he tucked his legs beneath him and eased himself into a seated position. “Though I must say, you’re rather different from what I’m used to.”
The man—this stranger wearing Erik’s face and bearing his name—tilted his head slightly, white hair shifting in the light. “You don’t belong here.”
Charles sighed, dusting himself off with deliberate care. “Believe me, I’m painfully aware of that fact.”
For a long moment, silence hung between them. Charles sat primly on the worn floorboards, every bit the picture of composed civility despite the strangeness of the situation. The other Erik loomed over him still, impossibly tall and still, his posture radiating power. It was unnerving, but Charles refused to give him the satisfaction of showing it.
“May I ask,” Charles began at last, his tone mild, “if you make a habit of dressing like… that? Surely it must be rather impractical.”
That earned him a slight narrowing of the man’s eyes, though his expression didn’t otherwise change. “Is this humor?” he asked flatly.
“Observation,” Charles replied with a faint smile. “Though I’ll admit, it’s laced with a fair bit of incredulity. Spandex? Magenta? Really, Erik, I had no idea you were capable of such… flamboyance.”
He swore he saw the faintest twitch of the man’s jaw, though it was gone in an instant. “Your glibness is ill-advised.”
“Perhaps,” Charles conceded, “but it’s better than the alternative. I don’t suppose you have a chair somewhere? Or a sofa? I’d hate to believe this universe’s Charles has neglected to furnish his own home properly.”
The other Erik did not reply, nor did he look particularly inclined to humor Charles’s attempt at small talk. Still, Charles remained unperturbed. He had faced worse—countless dignitaries, mutant supremacists, generals, and Erik himself at his most rage-fueled. This man, though formidable, was not the first to try and unnerve him. And he wouldn’t be the last.
But even as he sat there, his thoughts kept drifting. Back to his Erik. Back to how absurdly different this man was and yet… how much he was Erik. The irony didn’t escape Charles. That for all the noise and fury Erik possessed in this world, Charles found himself yearning for the version he knew—the one who had walked beside him, argued with him, chosen to stay with him. The man who would sooner sneer and call him naïve than let silence fester between them like this.
Charles almost—almost—started when the screech of a chair being dragged across the floor split through the heavy silence. The sound was as grating as nails on a chalkboard, and Charles winced visibly, his sharp eyes flickering toward the offender. No wonder these floorboards looked so abused, he thought irritably. They were as mistreated as the guests, apparently. His gaze briefly returned to the grooves in the wood, deep scars that told a story of repeated neglect, and now—very possibly—of an Erik Lehnsherr who had no qualms about treating furniture the way he treated enemies.
Still, the chair had been offered. Such as it was.
Charles pushed himself upright, dusting off the hem of his coat before settling himself gingerly onto the chair. It was hard, its legs uneven on the battered floor, creaking faintly beneath his weight as though protesting his presence. He resisted the urge to shift, to try to find a position more conducive to comfort, but his spine was too straight and his hands too carefully folded in his lap to suggest anything other than composure.
Across from him, Erik—this Erik—watched. He was seated at what Charles could only assume to be a desk, or at least a desk. It certainly looked the part: dark mahogany, broad, carved with sharp, practical lines. It had an imposing presence, much like the man sitting behind it. Charles glanced at it for a brief moment—papers strewn in orderly chaos, an ominously familiar helmet perched on its corner—and wondered whether this was his desk, or rather, this universe’s version of his desk, presided over not by a kind hand but a tyrannical one.
Erik’s glare pulled his attention back swiftly. That stare was sharp, cutting through the room like a dagger. Charles would have liked to think that he was immune to such things; after all, he had spent years at the side of his Erik, a man who wielded intimidation as deftly as he did magnetism. But this Erik was different. His silence was heavier, his eyes colder. And Charles—well, he was only human. Who could blame him if he fidgeted, just slightly, in his seat?
He cleared his throat softly, trying to dispel the tension that had settled over the room like fog. “May I inquire,” Charles began, his voice even, though the words felt strange as they left his mouth, “as to where your Charles is?”
The question hung in the air for a moment longer than was comfortable. Charles could almost feel the weight of it settle into the room, could hear the subtle hitch in his own breath as Erik’s gaze burned into him. Then Erik spoke.
“He is dead.”
The words were clipped, direct, delivered with no more emotion than if Erik had been commenting on the weather. It was an answer, simple and cold, yet the force of it hit Charles like a physical blow. He blinked once, staring at the man across from him, his mind grappling with the sheer bluntness of it. Dead.
Charles wasn’t sure what to make of that. He didn’t know this Charles personally, of course. He was, after all, from an entirely different reality. But the thought lingered unpleasantly in his mind. That man—him, but not him—was dead. Gone. It was a strange sort of grief that bloomed quietly in Charles’s chest, like a seed planted in the dark. It wasn’t his grief to feel, not truly, but it gnawed at him all the same.
It was a peculiar thing to mourn oneself, or at least a version of oneself.
“My condolences,” Charles said softly, his voice carrying a weight of sincerity despite the oddity of the situation. His hands remained folded in his lap, though his knuckles whitened ever so slightly as his fingers gripped one another. He wasn’t entirely sure who he was offering condolences to—this Erik? Himself? The memory of this dead Charles? Lord, it was confusing.
Erik did not reply, but his stare hardened, as though scrutinizing Charles for any signs of false sentiment. It was as if Erik expected Charles to say something more, to justify himself further, to explain why he—this living, breathing Charles—had stumbled uninvited into a universe where another version of him had already ceased to exist. But what was there to say? Charles simply returned Erik’s gaze with calm resolution, though he felt the unease gnawing at the edge of his composure.
“How—” Charles hesitated, rephrasing his words carefully, “how did it happen?”
He didn’t know why he asked. Perhaps it was curiosity, a need to understand the circumstances that led to his counterpart’s end. Or perhaps it was his inability to resist trying to empathize, to step into the shoes of those around him, even when it was uncomfortable. The question earned him a long, withering look from Erik.
“You presume much,” Erik said finally, his voice a low rumble. It wasn’t anger—not quite. More like… disdain. As though the very act of asking the question had confirmed something Erik already believed about him. Charles straightened slightly, refusing to wilt under that gaze.
“I do apologize,” he replied, tone carefully polite, “but it is not every day one discovers their own demise.”
Erik’s lip curled faintly, a hint of something cruel flickering across his features. “You are not him,” he said pointedly, voice like frost on glass. “Do not confuse yourself.”
Charles’s mouth tightened faintly at that, though he inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I assure you, I am under no illusions.”
Another silence settled between them, but this time it was heavier, pressing into Charles’s chest like a weight. His eyes drifted around the room as though searching for something to ground him. It was his office, in layout if not in spirit. The bookshelves lined the walls, towering toward the ceiling and filled with books whose titles were too faded to read at this distance. In another life, in another world, this would have been his sanctuary—his seat of leadership, his quiet corner of contemplation. Here, though, it felt different. The walls seemed taller, darker, more suffocating.
His gaze flicked back to Erik. There was no mistaking who dominated this room. It was Erik’s space, through and through. That much was clear in the way he sat at the desk, an immovable force with his imposing posture and sharpened features. The helmet perched nearby—sleek, ominous—seemed more than a mere object. It was a symbol, a totem of Erik’s identity in this world.
“Forgive me for observing,” Charles said, his voice low but steady, “but I cannot help but notice that you sit where I might have, once.”
Erik’s gaze flickered, cold blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. He didn’t answer, but then, Charles hadn’t truly expected him to. It was a strange thing to face one’s own absence, to sit in the shadow of another’s authority and know that in some other timeline—some other world—things had turned out so differently.
Charles leaned back in the chair ever so slightly, feeling the creak of the wood beneath him. He exhaled softly, glancing briefly at the floorboards again—the same floorboards that told their silent, weary stories. He wondered if this Charles had once walked the same patterns, leaving the same scuffs and scars in the wood. He wondered if Erik had missed him when he was gone—if he’d mourned at all, or if his grief had turned to steel and fury, as Charles had seen so often in his Erik.
The thought lingered in Charles’s mind, like smoke in an enclosed room, until Erik’s voice broke through at last.
“Why are you here?” he asked, a faint growl underpinning the words, as though patience were running thin.
Charles met Erik’s gaze again, calm and unyielding, though he could feel the tension coiling in the room like a spring. He sighed softly.
“That,” he said, “is an excellent question.”
The silence after Charles’s words settled like dust in the room, heavy and stagnant. Erik did not move, his piercing gaze unwavering, sharp enough to cut glass. For a man who’d spoken so little, Erik managed to fill the space completely with his presence. It was suffocating in a way Charles had not experienced for a very long time—not even with his Erik, who, for all his power and rage, still carried something human.
This Erik, however, seemed carved from something colder—unyielding, unrelenting.
Charles shifted in the hard wooden chair, its discomfort becoming more apparent by the moment, but he resisted the urge to fidget again. He was being watched, studied like a particularly uninteresting specimen pinned beneath a magnifying glass. That quiet scrutiny was something Charles was all too familiar with. His own Erik would observe people in the same way when deciding how much they mattered—how much of a threat they posed.
Charles took a slow breath, leveling his voice to that carefully practiced tone of reason and grace. “I assure you, I do not wish to be here any more than you wish me to be.” He folded his hands atop one knee, exuding the calm demeanor of a man determined to keep the peace despite standing on uncertain ground. “I imagine my presence is as much of a nuisance to you as it is perplexing to me.”
The helmet on Erik’s desk caught the corner of Charles’s eye again, its surface gleaming faintly in the low light. It was identical to his Erik’s helmet—a design made to block out Charles’s telepathic abilities. A bitter little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Consistent, at least.
“Where you wish to be,” Erik interrupted, his voice low, “is of no concern to me.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk, hands steepled in a way that reminded Charles, uncomfortably, of a king upon his throne. “What is of concern is how you got here—and what your presence means for this world.”
Charles inclined his head, allowing the edge of a small smile. “If I knew the answer, I would gladly provide it, Erik.”
The name tasted strange on his lips again. Erik. It didn’t feel like Erik—not his Erik, anyway. And yet there he was, glaring at him as though Charles himself had orchestrated this entire predicament. A shiver crept down Charles’s spine, though he hid it well, smoothing his hands absently along his trouser leg as though brushing off invisible dust.
Erik’s eyes narrowed, sensing—what, Charles wasn’t entirely sure. “I see the arrogance of Charles Xavier is universal,” he said dryly, though the words lacked the venom Charles might have expected.
Charles allowed himself a faint chuckle, though there was no real humor in it. “You’ll find I’m much more agreeable than most versions of me, I assure you.” He shifted his posture again, this time more deliberately, leaning forward in the chair. “But let us not make this any more adversarial than it already is. If I’m to understand what’s happened here—and I assure you, I have every intention of leaving your universe promptly—we’ll need to work together.”
Erik’s lips curled faintly into something that might have been amusement—might have been contempt. It was hard to tell. “Work together?” he repeated, his voice mocking. “You presume much, Charles.”
Charles sighed, tilting his head thoughtfully. “I suppose I do. Forgive me, but I find it difficult not to see potential in even the most…” His gaze flicked toward Erik’s helmet, then back again, “resistant of circumstances.”
The words were chosen carefully. They weren’t a challenge, though they may have sounded like one to ears as sharp as Erik’s. Charles had no desire to provoke him unnecessarily—provoking his Erik was difficult enough. But the reality was clear: this man, as cold and domineering as he seemed, was still Erik Lehnsherr. And where there was Erik, there was potential. For what, Charles couldn’t yet say.
For the first time, Erik looked slightly—fractionally—off balance. The briefest flicker of something Charles couldn’t identify passed across his face before it was gone, hidden again beneath that glacial mask.
“You speak as though you know me,” Erik said quietly, though his voice carried the weight of a threat.
Charles met his gaze evenly. “I know an Erik,” he replied, his tone soft but deliberate. “In my world, you are my oldest friend. My greatest rival. My most trusted—” He hesitated just a beat, the word catching in his throat. He could feel the other Erik watching him with unnerving intensity. “—ally,” he finished. “And though you and I may not have shared the same history, I know enough to recognize you.”
Erik’s hands clenched faintly where they rested atop the desk, his knuckles pale against his skin. The quiet creak of leather filled the silence between them. For a man who had held such unwavering control until now, this seemed to strike a nerve. “Do not presume to know me,” Erik said, his voice low and dangerous.
“Very well,” Charles replied softly. “But I hope you’ll forgive me if I can’t help but try.”
Erik stood abruptly, the sudden movement punctuated by the scrape of the chair legs against the floorboards—those poor, poor floorboards. Charles had to resist the urge to wince again. Erik moved around the desk with a deliberate sort of menace, the light catching on the sharp edges of his costume. Up close, the bold magenta accents seemed even more theatrical, though Charles wisely refrained from commenting. There were far more pressing concerns than Erik’s questionable taste in wardrobe.
He stopped directly in front of Charles, his imposing frame casting a shadow over him. Charles remained seated, forcing himself to keep his gaze steady, his expression calm. It wasn’t that he wasn’t intimidated—of course he was. This Erik carried himself like a warlord, and Charles had no illusions about the kind of power he possessed. But Charles had learned long ago that staring down Erik Lehnsherr—any Erik Lehnsherr—required an equal measure of resolve.
Erik’s pale blue eyes searched his face, as though peeling back layers to see what lay beneath. Charles held still, offering no resistance to the scrutiny. If Erik wanted to examine him, so be it. Charles had nothing to hide.
Finally, Erik spoke, his voice barely above a murmur. “If what you say is true, then you are not only an anomaly here… you are a threat.”
Charles’s mouth twitched faintly. “A threat to whom, exactly?”
Erik didn’t answer. Instead, he turned sharply on his heel and stalked back toward the desk, his cape flaring out behind him. Charles exhaled slowly, running his hand over the back of his neck as though to release the tension that had settled there. He watched Erik for a moment longer, then let his gaze drift once again to the helmet resting on the desk—a silent reminder of the line that divided them.
He is Erik, Charles thought. And yet he is not. And therein lay the problem.
The tension in the room became almost unbearable as Erik seated himself once more behind the imposing desk. His presence loomed, even in stillness, radiating power that hummed faintly in the air. Charles could feel it as though the very walls and floor responded to him, subtle but unmistakable. Magnetism, Charles thought, as natural to Erik as breathing—both the power and the presence.
And yet, as Charles regarded him, he couldn’t help but think how different this Erik was, how far removed from the man he shared a home with. His Erik—his Erik—could be sharp, yes, all fire and fury when provoked, but there was always something else beneath it. Warmth buried under layers of bitterness, a flicker of humor when he let his guard down, the stubborn glint of hope that Charles knew Erik resented but couldn’t quite extinguish. This Erik was colder, honed into something sharper and far less forgiving. Charles suspected it had been loss that shaped him, loss of a Charles Xavier who had died here in some unknown way.
And so, for a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the house breathing—floorboards groaning, faint echoes of wind pressing against the windows—while Erik sat motionless, hands folded together as though gathering his thoughts. Charles watched him carefully.
“You are a threat,” Erik repeated finally, his tone soft but unrelenting, like a knife being slowly pushed to its mark. “Not because you intend to be, but because you exist at all.”
Charles tilted his head, an eyebrow arching ever so slightly. “Existence as a crime? How very medieval of you, Erik. I suppose you’d like to banish me to the gallows.”
The faintest twitch—barely there—pulled at the corner of Erik’s mouth, though it disappeared almost as quickly as it came. Charles caught it, nonetheless. A tiny crack in the façade, though Erik clearly had no intention of letting it widen.
“It is not a jest,” Erik said, his voice grave. “Your presence disrupts the order of things.” He gestured vaguely with one hand, though the movement carried a strange weight. “Do you understand the consequences of your existence here?”
Charles allowed a brief sigh, leaning back in the chair just slightly. “If you’re referring to the metaphysical ramifications of a multiversal incursion, then yes, I have given it some thought,” he replied dryly. “I assure you, Erik, I have no intention of causing any disruptions. I would very much like to return to my own world.” He paused, his gaze softening just slightly as he continued. “And if I may speak plainly… I imagine that would also be in your best interest.”
Erik’s eyes narrowed. “You assume much.”
“I’ve been told that before,” Charles quipped lightly, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He studied Erik carefully, his mind turning over possibilities like chess moves. This Erik didn’t trust him, and he didn’t blame him. Why should he? Charles was an anomaly in a world that had already taken its own version of him away. To Erik, Charles was an open wound, a reminder of something lost—a version of him that couldn’t help but reopen old scars.
And yet, Charles wasn’t blind to the small fractures in Erik’s stoicism, the way his words betrayed something deeper. “Tell me,” Charles ventured, choosing his words carefully, “was it you who…?” He hesitated. The question was too intimate, too dangerous to ask outright.
Erik’s gaze sharpened instantly, like a predator catching the scent of prey. “Was it me who what?” he demanded, his voice taut.
Charles straightened, carefully keeping his tone measured. “Who was responsible. For… the other Charles.”
Erik’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. If Charles had hoped for some tell, some crack in the armor, he found none. Instead, Erik’s stillness deepened, and the weight of his stare became unbearable.
“Careful,” Erik murmured, the single word cutting through the air like ice.
Charles inclined his head slightly, though he didn’t look away. “Forgive me. I only ask because I know you. Or rather, I know him. And the Erik I know…” He paused, letting the words settle. “…lives under the weight of so much loss.”
For the first time, Erik looked away—just for a moment, but it was enough for Charles to notice. It was subtle, but in the small flicker of Erik’s focus, Charles saw it: grief. It was buried deep, hidden beneath years of steel and cold resolve, but it was there. That small, flickering thread of familiarity—of pain—reassured Charles in a strange way. This Erik was colder, yes. Harder. But he was still Erik, in some way that mattered.
When Erik’s gaze returned to him, it was sharper than ever. “You presume to know much about grief,” he said quietly, though the words carried an edge Charles hadn’t heard before. “You have no idea.”
Charles held the gaze without flinching. “I have an idea.”
Silence stretched again between them, but this time it wasn’t empty. Charles could feel the tension in the room shifting, as though the air itself had become a battleground. He knew he was pushing Erik—this Erik—further than was wise, but he couldn’t stop himself. It was instinct, perhaps, to peel back the layers of Erik Lehnsherr until he found what lay underneath. His Erik was a man of complexity, after all—a man whose rage was often a mask for something far more fragile.
This Erik might have been different, but Charles had to believe that some part of him remained the same.
“Tell me something,” Charles said, his voice softening, though he held Erik’s gaze. “Why does it matter to you? That I am here? Why does my presence unsettle you so?”
Erik’s jaw tightened, but he did not immediately respond. The silence that followed was heavier than before, as though the room itself were holding its breath.
Finally, Erik spoke, his voice low and measured. “Because you should not be here,” he said simply, as though the truth were as unremarkable as that. “You remind me of something that is gone. Something that cannot return.”
Charles felt those words settle deep within him, like stones sinking into water. He exhaled quietly, lowering his gaze for the first time. So that was it.
Grief.
Grief had shaped this man, as it had shaped his Erik in a different way. This Charles, whoever he had been, had mattered to Erik—perhaps more than Erik himself would admit.
And Charles, this living echo of the man he’d lost, was a wound reopened.
“I’m sorry,” Charles said softly, not bothering to mask the sincerity in his tone. “For whatever it is you lost.”
Erik’s expression remained impassive, but there was something in the way his shoulders stiffened—a silent confirmation that Charles’s words had struck home.
“You don’t belong here,” Erik said again, though this time it lacked its earlier venom.
“No,” Charles agreed quietly. “But I’m here nonetheless.”
“I suppose it would be selfish of me to offer myself as a temporary replacement.”
The words slipped out before Charles could stop them, his voice low and far too soft for the room they occupied. He didn’t know where they had come from, only that they emerged unbidden, carried on a breath that felt far too unsteady for his liking. Charles prided himself on his restraint, on his ability to hold himself together even in the most dire or absurd circumstances. And yet here he was, saying something so reckless—so intimate—to a version of Erik Lehnsherr who might very well toss him through the nearest wall.
He should have expected a sharp retort, anger, or perhaps some kind of cold dismissal, but instead… Erik was silent.
Charles risked a glance upward, trying not to look as uncertain as he felt. Erik was staring at him—not with the usual disdainful glare, not with suspicion, but with something else entirely. If Charles didn’t know better, he would think Erik was actually considering the suggestion. The quiet that followed was thick, charged in a way Charles couldn’t fully explain. His heart thudded against his ribs, and for a moment, it felt as though time had decided to stretch itself unnaturally thin.
Erik finally spoke, and when he did, his voice was low, almost husky.
“In what way would you offer your… replacement?”
The way Erik said the word “replacement” sent a shiver crawling up Charles’s spine, slow and deliberate. There was something in his tone that made the room feel several degrees warmer, something dark and testing, as though Erik were weighing possibilities Charles himself hadn’t yet dared to name.
Charles froze briefly, his thoughts stumbling over themselves like children caught misbehaving. What had he done? What was he implying? This was dangerous ground. So why did his pulse quicken? Erik’s words lingered in the air, curling around him like smoke. His blue eyes, usually cold as glaciers, had softened into something different—no less intense, but altogether unreadable.
Charles swallowed, feeling an unwelcome heat creep up the back of his neck. He should answer. He needed to answer. Erik was watching him like a hawk now, waiting—perhaps daring him—to clarify. But what could he possibly say? That the words had come out of nowhere? That he hadn’t meant them? Because if he were honest with himself, hadn’t there been a flicker of truth in what he’d suggested? A strange and entirely inappropriate willingness to… what, exactly? Step into the shoes of his deceased counterpart? Take up space in Erik’s grief? It was utterly absurd.
But Erik was still waiting.
Charles shook himself, sitting straighter in his chair as though that would somehow restore his dignity. He cleared his throat softly, forcing his voice to steady. “Perhaps… physically.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Charles regretted them. What was wrong with him? Where had all his legendary composure gone? He prided himself on his control, on the clarity of his thoughts, the way he could always parse through emotions with meticulous precision. But now? His mind felt clouded, his thoughts a muddled mess, tangling around Erik’s stare and his own ill-advised suggestion.
Erik’s lips parted slightly, as though caught off guard. Then they curved—slowly, dangerously—into something that could almost be called a smirk. The shift was subtle, but on Erik, it was devastating. It wasn’t a smile born of kindness or joy; it was predatory, sharp-edged, and filled with something darkly amused. Charles’s pulse jumped traitorously, and he had to resist the urge to tug at his collar.
“Physically?” Erik repeated, drawing out the word with deliberate slowness, his voice rough as it rumbled low in his throat. “How very selfless of you.”
The heat in the room seemed to press in on Charles now, thick and cloying. Erik hadn’t moved an inch from his seat behind the desk, but somehow, his presence felt closer, as though the air itself were bending to accommodate him. Charles wasn’t even sure he liked the feeling—he was just aware of it, keenly, irrevocably.
He forced himself to breathe, to center himself. “I misspoke,” Charles said quickly, though his voice betrayed him, sounding more breathless than he intended. “What I meant was—”
“Don’t backpedal now,” Erik interrupted, his tone silky, though there was a sharp edge beneath it. “I’m curious to hear what exactly you meant.”
The way Erik was watching him now was unbearable—so intense, so focused that Charles felt as though every ounce of him were being peeled apart and laid bare for examination. And Lord help him, part of him didn’t mind it. That was the most alarming part of all. Was it cheating, he wondered faintly, if it was Erik? Charles hadn’t thought about it before, though now the question hung ominously in his mind, unwelcome and ridiculous. He knew he shouldn’t be wondering things like that. And yet, wasn’t it just Erik in another form, wearing grief like a second skin? Was it madness to feel that flicker of attraction? To want to fill a space that didn’t belong to him?
He shouldn’t be entertaining such thoughts, but they crowded his mind like weeds growing through cracks in stone. What is wrong with me? Charles thought frantically. His head never felt this cluttered, this disorganized. He was supposed to be the voice of reason—the calm, rational one—and yet, here he was, faltering under Erik’s gaze like a schoolboy caught red-handed.
Erik leaned back in his chair at last, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful—though no less dangerous. “Interesting,” he murmured, tilting his head just so, his pale hair catching the dim light. His eyes never left Charles’s face, unrelenting and coldly appraising. “Tell me, Charles,” he continued, his voice deceptively casual, “is this your habit? Offering yourself to fill the voids others leave behind?”
Charles flinched inwardly, though he schooled his features into careful neutrality. “I wouldn’t call it a habit,” he replied softly, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness. “And I assure you, Erik, that was not my intention.”
“Wasn’t it?” Erik pressed, his tone laced with something unreadable. “Because from where I’m sitting, you look very much like a man offering himself up to take the place of someone else. Someone dead.”
Charles’s breath hitched slightly, though he managed to hold Erik’s gaze. The words stung, not because they were harsh but because they struck far closer to home than Charles cared to admit. He hadn’t thought of it like that—hadn’t dared examine his words too closely lest he uncover some uncomfortable truth about himself.
“I’m not him,” Charles said quietly, his voice steadier now, though it still carried an edge of emotion. “And I don’t pretend to be.”
“No,” Erik agreed, leaning forward slightly, elbows on the desk once more, his hands steepled beneath his chin. “You’re not.”
Charles could feel Erik’s gaze crawling over him again, measuring him, judging him. It made his skin prickle with awareness, though he kept his composure as best he could. This was dangerous ground, he knew that. But the moment had spun out of his control, and he was beginning to realize that Erik—this Erik—was far too skilled at keeping people off balance.
Erik smirked again, the expression faint but there. “And yet, you offered.”
Charles looked away briefly, jaw tightening as he forced down the flood of emotions stirring inside him. His fingers curled into the fabric of his trousers, grounding himself in the sensation. He exhaled slowly, forcing his thoughts to realign.
“I misspoke,” Charles repeated firmly, though it felt like a feeble defense. He looked back at Erik, determined now to reclaim his dignity. “It won’t happen again.”
Erik’s eyes gleamed faintly in the low light, and Charles thought he saw the ghost of a smile—a real one—linger for just a moment. “We’ll see,” Erik murmured, his voice soft but filled with quiet promise.
Charles wasn’t sure what Erik meant by that, and frankly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“On what?”
Charles inquired, his voice a touch sharper than he intended, though he managed to keep it laced with polite curiosity. He tilted his head just slightly, blue eyes narrowing faintly as he studied Erik’s expression.
And then it happened—that smirk.
It was small, subtle, but unmistakable, curling at the corners of Erik’s mouth like smoke winding its way through the cracks in a door. For all the cold authority Erik radiated, for all the ways he carried himself like an unshakable force of nature, that smirk was something else entirely—wicked, self-assured, and somehow far too intimate.
Charles knew that look. He had seen versions of it before on his Erik—usually when Erik was on the verge of saying something deliberately infuriating, or when he’d maneuvered Charles into a rhetorical corner for his own amusement. The memory of it struck Charles sharply, the resemblance so uncanny that, for a moment, it rattled him. This Erik was not his Erik, and yet the smirk was the same.
And Charles realized—too late—that he had walked straight into a trap.
“How well you behave,” Erik said, his voice low and deliberate, as though he were savoring each word as it passed his lips.
The room seemed to grow smaller in an instant, the space between them heavy with implication. Erik’s gaze pinned Charles to the chair, unrelenting and sharp, the smirk deepening ever so slightly as he watched the words sink in. The statement was not phrased like a joke; it was not said with mockery or teasing charm. No, Erik delivered it with calm authority, as though the outcome was already decided and Charles’s compliance was merely a formality.
Charles blinked once, lips parting briefly before pressing into a thin line as he tried to process the sheer audacity of Erik Lehnsherr—of this Erik Lehnsherr—daring to speak to him like that. “Excuse me?” he said, though he immediately cursed himself for how weak the words sounded, how much they betrayed his surprise.
“You heard me,” Erik replied smoothly, his smirk lingering, his tone maddeningly unbothered. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled once again, the very picture of relaxed power. The movement only served to emphasize the deliberate control he had over the room, over the conversation—over Charles in this moment.
And damn it all, Charles felt it.
Heat crept up the back of his neck, unwelcome and distracting, though he refused to let it show. Erik had already backed him into a verbal corner, and Charles knew he couldn’t afford to let the man see how deeply that comment had unsettled him. It wasn’t the words themselves that did it—it was the way Erik looked at him as he said them, as though he were testing boundaries, prodding at the edges of Charles’s carefully maintained composure just to see where it might give way.
Charles straightened his back a little more, attempting to regain his dignity as he replied with a calm he didn’t quite feel. “I wasn’t aware my behavior was under scrutiny,” he said carefully, his tone clipped and measured.
Erik’s smirk deepened just a fraction, his eyes glinting with something that might have been amusement. “Everything about you is under scrutiny, Charles,” he replied smoothly, his voice taking on an unnervingly soft edge. “You are, after all, an anomaly. And anomalies need to be observed carefully.”
Charles exhaled slowly, feeling the tight coil of irritation and something he refused to name twisting in his chest. “I assure you,” he said, voice dry, “I am perfectly capable of… behaving, as you put it. You needn’t concern yourself.”
“Oh, but I do concern myself,” Erik replied, his tone deceptively casual. “Your presence here is… disruptive. I’ve already said as much. And when something disrupts the balance, it must be monitored to ensure it doesn’t spiral out of control.”
Charles frowned, lips pursing as he absorbed Erik’s words. There was something deeper at play here—something Erik wasn’t saying outright. He was prodding Charles, testing him, but why? Charles had known Erik Lehnsherr long enough to recognize when the man was playing a game, when he was maneuvering his opponent onto a chessboard only he could see. The problem was, Charles had no idea what game this Erik was playing, nor what his end goal might be.
“I would think,” Charles began slowly, choosing his words carefully, “that a man as intelligent as yourself would recognize that I pose no threat to you.” He gestured faintly toward himself, offering a small, practiced smile. “I’m hardly the picture of rebellion, Erik.”
“You’re exactly the picture of it,” Erik replied flatly, though his tone was softer now—quieter. “You sit there, playing the part of the diplomat, all calm words and polite smiles. But I know better. That’s exactly how he looked before he betrayed me.”
The pronoun landed heavily between them, like a stone dropped into still water. He.
Charles understood instantly. He didn’t need to ask to know Erik was referring to the Charles who had existed here before—his Charles, the one who was gone now. Erik’s voice, though measured, carried the weight of old wounds, wounds that had clearly never been allowed to heal.
Charles’s expression softened, though he made no move to break the tension. “I am not him,” he said softly, carefully. “I can’t replace him, nor do I intend to try. I am only here by circumstance, Erik, nothing more.”
Erik tilted his head slightly, that smirk fading into something colder—something dangerous. “And yet,” he murmured, “you still offered yourself. Physically, if I recall correctly.”
Charles froze for just a moment, the blood rushing to his ears at the reminder of his earlier misstep. Damn Erik, damn his sharp memory and his sharper tongue. Charles’s hands curled faintly against his thighs, his frustration mounting despite his efforts to rein it in.
“That was a poor choice of words,” Charles replied quickly, though the faint tremor in his voice betrayed him.
Erik hummed softly, though it was impossible to tell whether it was a sound of agreement or mockery. “Poor choice, or perhaps a revealing one?”
Charles gritted his teeth, torn between indignation and something far more complicated. “You are insufferable,” he muttered before he could stop himself, though he cursed inwardly the moment the words escaped.
The faintest flicker of amusement returned to Erik’s face, and Charles hated—hated—how satisfied the man looked. “Careful, Charles,” Erik said smoothly, his voice low and full of warning. “I’m still deciding how well you’ll behave.”
Charles scowled faintly, sitting ramrod straight in his chair, though he could feel the warmth in his face betraying him. Where had all his composure gone? Lord, Erik Lehnsherr—any version of Erik—had a way of reducing him to a flustered mess in ways no one else could manage.
“You may find,” Charles replied stiffly, “that I’m far less agreeable when treated like a schoolboy.”
Erik’s lips twitched faintly, though he said nothing, merely watching Charles with that same sharp, knowing gaze.
The silence returned, though this time it buzzed with something alive and dangerous, like an electric current between them. Charles remained seated, stiff and proper, determined not to let Erik see how deeply he’d gotten under his skin. And Erik, of course, looked entirely unbothered, his sharp features set into that maddening expression of smug control.
This Erik is going to be the death of me, Charles thought grimly. And I’m beginning to suspect he knows it.
Charles sat back in the chair, his spine as straight as a ruler, his expression set into a mask of calm, though inside, his mind churned with far less dignified thoughts. Erik had always been adept at needling him—his Erik, the one he shared a mansion, a life, and countless arguments with. But this Erik? This version possessed the same skill, sharpened into something crueler, colder. And worse still, Charles wasn’t sure whether it was his pride or something else that flared in response to it.
It was dangerous, this game they were playing, though Charles couldn’t say who had begun it. Erik leaned back in his chair, his fingers still steepled beneath his chin, his pale hair glowing faintly in the dim light like a halo—albeit one entirely at odds with the devilish smirk that still lingered on his face. Charles resented how well Erik wore that expression, how natural it looked, like he had been born to sit there, to loom with that maddening confidence.
“Is that how it is, then?” Charles finally asked, his tone dry but steady. “You’ve taken it upon yourself to decide how well I’ll behave?”
“Someone must,” Erik replied, his voice smooth, languid, and laced with something that made Charles feel inexplicably warm despite himself. “You’ve already proven yourself prone to poor judgment. Offering yourself as a replacement?” He tutted softly, a sound that was far too condescending for Charles’s liking. “How irresponsible.”
Charles’s jaw tightened, though he forced his lips into a polite, measured smile. “I don’t recall giving you permission to judge me, Erik. I misspoke earlier, as I’ve already said. I would think a man of your supposed intelligence would be able to let such things go.”
That earned a flicker of something in Erik’s gaze, though whether it was irritation or amusement, Charles couldn’t quite tell. “And yet,” Erik said, tilting his head slightly, “you cannot seem to let it go yourself. What does that say about you, Charles?”
Charles resisted the urge to bristle, though it was a near thing. It says nothing, he thought stubbornly, though Erik’s words had already planted themselves in his mind like thorns. This version of Erik was relentless, and for all his efforts to maintain control of the conversation, Charles could feel it slipping further from his grasp.
He needed to regain his footing. He needed to put Erik back on the defensive. “It says,” Charles replied carefully, “that I am polite enough to acknowledge when I’ve made a mistake, unlike some.”
Erik’s smirk twitched into something sharper. “Polite,” he echoed, the word sliding from his lips with quiet disdain. “How noble of you. Tell me, Charles—was it politeness that led you to offer yourself so freely, or is there another reason you’re so eager to fill his place?”
The insinuation landed like a hammer blow, far heavier than any of the teasing remarks that had come before it. Charles stiffened instinctively, his breath catching for just a moment before he forced himself to exhale slowly. He could feel the way Erik watched him, carefully, searching for cracks, for any sign of weakness.
“I told you already,” Charles said, his voice clipped but controlled, “I have no intention of replacing anyone. Least of all a man I’ve never met.”
“And yet here you sit.” Erik’s voice was quiet now, but no less intense. He gestured faintly with one hand, his fingers curling elegantly before resting once more on the desk. “You, who look like him. Sound like him. Are him, in so many ways. Your very existence is an affront to the truth that he is gone. So tell me, Charles—if you are not here to replace him, then what are you here for?”
The question struck Charles harder than he cared to admit, because the truth was… he didn’t know. He had no answers—not for Erik, and certainly not for himself. He had stumbled into this place, into this world, with no explanation, no understanding of how or why. He didn’t belong here. And yet here he was, sitting across from a man who carried the face of his closest companion and yet seemed so alien, so distant. Charles swallowed, forcing his expression into calm neutrality.
“I didn’t ask to be here,” he replied finally, his voice quiet but firm. “Whatever has brought me into your world, I assure you, I would undo it if I could. I have no desire to upend your life, Erik.”
The use of Erik’s name—spoken so gently, almost like a balm—seemed to have an unexpected effect. The sharp glint in Erik’s eyes dulled, if only for a fraction of a second, his smirk fading into something more unreadable. For a fleeting moment, Charles wondered if he had glimpsed the man beneath the armor—the grief, the pain that had shaped him into something so unyielding. But the moment passed as quickly as it had come, and Erik’s face settled back into its cold, impassive mask.
“You are too late for that,” Erik murmured, though there was a hollowness in his tone that sent an unfamiliar ache into Charles’s chest.
Charles let the silence linger this time, unsure of what to say—what could be said—to a man who had lost everything, including the version of Charles Xavier he had known. Was it pity Charles felt for him? No, not pity. It was empathy, raw and unguarded, the kind of understanding that didn’t need words. For all Erik’s coldness, for all his hostility, Charles could see him. Beneath the sharp edges, beneath the cruelty, Erik was a man who had been left behind. And Charles… Charles could not fault him for that.
When he finally spoke again, Charles’s voice was soft, steady. “I don’t expect you to trust me, Erik. Nor do I expect you to believe me when I say that I mean you no harm. But perhaps… you might believe that I understand.”
Erik’s gaze snapped back to him, sharper now, though there was something more fragile lurking beneath it. “You understand?” he echoed, his voice tinged with incredulity.
Charles nodded faintly, his expression earnest. “I know what it is to lose people, Erik. To lose someone who matters so deeply that it feels as though part of yourself has been torn away.” He paused, his hands resting gently atop his lap as he held Erik’s gaze. “If nothing else, I can understand that.”
The silence that followed was no longer sharp and confrontational. It was quieter now, heavier in a different way—weighted with things neither of them had the words to say. Erik’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment, unreadable but somehow softer than it had been before. For once, Charles didn’t feel like he was being scrutinized or judged. He felt… seen.
And for a man like Erik Lehnsherr, Charles thought, that might be the closest thing to peace he had left.
“You presume much, Charles,” Erik said finally, though his voice lacked the cold edge it had held before.
Charles allowed himself a small, tired smile. “It seems I make a habit of it,” he replied gently.
Erik didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. The silence between them was answer enough.
“But, let’s say I grace you with accepting your… oncomings.”
The way Erik said it—low, deliberate, each word rolling off his tongue with the weight of a promise—sent an undeniable shiver crawling up Charles’s spine. Erik leaned forward as he continued, his voice deepening into something husky and predatory, like velvet dragged across steel.
“How would you offer yourself, Charles?”
Charles froze, his breath hitching faintly in his chest. His pulse thudded, loud and insistent, in his neck, as though it were trying to escape the very pressure that Erik’s words had conjured. The world seemed to shrink around him, the edges of his vision blurring as all of his focus narrowed onto the man standing over him—onto Erik Lehnsherr in all his dark, looming intensity.
Erik didn’t stop there.
“Would you bend over my desk like a schoolboy,” Erik drawled, the corners of his mouth curling into a smirk that was equal parts wicked and smug, “or would you slide to your knees?”
The words were spoken slowly, each syllable deliberate, taunting, testing.
Charles’s body tensed, as though the words themselves had crawled over his skin and set his nerves alight. Erik’s voice lingered in the air, thick and heavy, curling around him like smoke and refusing to dissipate. Charles’s mind stumbled over itself, his thoughts splintering and twisting under the weight of what Erik had just said.
Erik leaned closer then, close enough that Charles could feel the faint heat radiating from his body. The proximity was maddening, every movement deliberate as Erik’s gloved hand rose and settled under Charles’s chin. The touch was light—just the pad of Erik’s pointer finger pressing against the underside of his jaw—but it was enough to tip Charles’s head upward, to make him meet Erik’s gaze fully.
And what a gaze it was.
Erik’s pale blue eyes were sharper than ever, piercing into him with an intensity that sent Charles’s pulse thudding wildly beneath his skin. Charles knew Erik could see it—the traitorous beat of his heart visible in his throat, the way it fluttered as though trying to give him away. It was humiliating, the lack of control over such a simple thing, but Charles couldn’t seem to stop it. Erik’s eyes held him there, pinned like a butterfly to a board, and Charles had never felt so seen.
Charles swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing against Erik’s finger, but Erik didn’t move. He stayed there, close, leaning over Charles like a predator with its prey cornered, savoring the tension that had locked the room into a dangerous kind of stillness. The space between them had evaporated completely, and Charles was acutely aware of every detail—the faint scent of leather clinging to Erik’s gloves, the almost imperceptible scratch of fabric as Erik’s costume shifted, the warmth of Erik’s breath ghosting just above his skin.
His mouth felt dry. His words, when they came, were softer than he intended, betraying his carefully constructed veneer of composure.
“That’s—” Charles began, only to stop, clear his throat faintly, and begin again. “That’s hardly appropriate, Erik.”
It was a weak protest. Charles knew it. Erik knew it. The smirk on Erik’s lips deepened, and his gaze flickered ever so slightly, as though savoring the cracks forming in Charles’s composure.
“Appropriate?” Erik repeated, the word curling in his mouth like something delicious. “Don’t pretend to be shocked, Charles. You offered yourself, did you not?”
Charles’s pulse kicked harder, and for a moment, his mind was utterly blank, leaving him with no recourse but to stare helplessly into Erik’s eyes. Damn him. Damn Erik Lehnsherr for his ability to unmake Charles Xavier so thoroughly, to strip away his carefully maintained restraint with nothing but words and a look.
“I—” Charles began, though his voice faltered as Erik’s finger pressed just slightly firmer under his chin, tilting his head back that much more. He felt… exposed. Vulnerable. And yet his body betrayed him, his breath unsteady, his chest rising and falling faster than he would have liked. He tried to rally, tried to pull his mind back into some semblance of control. “I wasn’t serious,” he managed finally, though the words sounded unconvincing even to his own ears.
Erik hummed softly, a deep, low sound that vibrated in the space between them, unsettling and almost pleased. “Oh, I think you were,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he leaned in just a hair closer. Charles could feel it then—the faint brush of Erik’s breath against his skin, the way it sent goosebumps racing along the back of his neck.
Charles’s fingers curled faintly into the fabric of his trousers, his knuckles white where they gripped, as though anchoring himself to something—anything. The heat in the room was oppressive now, pressing down on him from every angle, and Erik was relentless in his stillness.
“You’re shaking,” Erik noted softly, his tone maddeningly calm, almost amused.
Charles’s jaw tightened instinctively, and he swallowed again, though he couldn’t deny the truth of Erik’s observation. Of course he was shaking. His body, traitorous as it was, had decided to react against his will, his breath shallow, his pulse thundering. Charles did his best to pull himself together, his voice sharper as he responded.
“I am not shaking.”
Erik’s smirk widened just slightly, and his finger lingered under Charles’s chin for one more agonizing moment before finally retreating. The absence of the touch was almost worse, the sudden coolness against his skin a sharp contrast to the warmth that Erik’s proximity had left behind.
Erik straightened then, taking a single step back, though he still loomed—still dominated the space between them with that insufferable air of confidence. His gaze lingered on Charles, unrelenting and sharp, as though he were cataloging every reaction, every hint of the vulnerability Charles had so clearly tried—and failed—to hide.
“Well,” Erik said finally, his voice still low and soft, “that is disappointing.”
Charles’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “Disappointing?”
Erik’s smirk returned, smug and infuriating as ever. “You speak as though you could make an offer, Charles. But here you are, flustered like a schoolboy. I expected better.”
Charles opened his mouth, his retort ready on the tip of his tongue, but Erik was already turning away, as though dismissing him entirely. He walked back toward the desk, his movements smooth and unhurried, every step punctuated by the faint creak of the floorboards under his boots.
Charles remained frozen for a long moment, still seated stiffly in the chair, his mind struggling to catch up with what had just transpired. His pulse was still pounding in his throat, and he loathed how transparent his reaction had been, how easily Erik had unraveled him with little more than words and a touch.
Erik settled himself behind the desk again, his posture relaxed as he regarded Charles with that same infuriating expression—a look that seemed to say I win.
“Perhaps,” Erik said idly, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair and propping his chin against his fist, “you should think more carefully about what you offer in the future.”
Charles clenched his jaw, his cheeks flushing faintly as he finally pushed himself to stand, his movements brisk and precise. “And perhaps,” he replied sharply, though his voice still carried a slight tremor, “you should reconsider how you interpret such things.”
Erik’s smile was slow, deliberate. “Perhaps.”
Charles turned sharply, his heels clicking faintly against the abused floorboards as he stalked toward the door. He didn’t bother to look back, though he could feel Erik watching him, his gaze burning into his back like a brand.
Damn him.
And who was it to anyone if Charles did do the proverbial walk of shame back to that damned office? If he did lower himself onto his knees before Erik Lehnsherr with every ounce of his composure left in ruins? If he did—against all reason—let his pride and his self-control splinter as he bent willingly over that massive, imposing desk, the wood cool beneath his palms and his cheeks burning with something that had no business existing in such a situation? And who, pray tell, would it hurt if he let Erik’s cold, blue-eyed gaze linger just a moment longer before some divine or cosmic force—presumably one that had been laughing at him all day—snatched him unceremoniously back to his proper universe?
It wasn’t anyone’s business. Certainly not his Erik’s.
But, oh, it was his business when he returned—disheveled, still pink in the cheeks, and muttering things under his breath that even the ever-patient Hank might have side-eyed. That damned, oppressive office and its far-too-muscular Erik haunted Charles like a fever dream long after he returned to the familiar hallways of his own mansion. It wasn’t that he remembered every detail—he tried not to—but rather that the feeling of it lingered.
The whole affair had rattled him. Erik—his Erik, the one who could still be exasperating but was at least reasonable—noticed, of course.
“Something on your mind, Charles?” Erik had asked as they walked together toward the study, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, a half-smirk playing at the corner of his lips as though he already suspected the answer.
“Nothing worth discussing,” Charles had replied curtly, his voice perhaps a little too tight to be convincing.
And yet, as they sat down later in the library, their routine restored—Charles with a cup of tea, Erik with his boots kicked up on the edge of a table that Charles had told him repeatedly not to scuff—Charles’s gaze wandered absently to Erik’s hair. It was dark still, though flecks of silver had begun to glint in the strands that curled stubbornly at his temples.
“You know,” Charles began, his voice light but carefully casual, “I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s dangerous,” Erik replied without missing a beat, though there was no heat in the remark. He was reading some tattered book Charles was certain had been pilfered from the far corner of the shelves—an old habit of Erik’s, rooting out the most forgotten texts and adopting them as his own.
Charles ignored the jab, taking a small sip of his tea before continuing. “You should grow out your hair.”
That earned him Erik’s attention. The other man looked up over the rim of his glasses—an affectation Charles thought made Erik look even more smug than usual—and arched a brow. “Grow out my hair?”
“Yes,” Charles said smoothly, meeting Erik’s skeptical gaze with his best approximation of nonchalance. “It would suit you, I think.”
Erik’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, though his eyes still held that keen glimmer of suspicion, as though he knew Charles well enough to recognize when there was something more lurking beneath the surface of his words. “And what brought this on, exactly?”
Charles hesitated, his fingers curling lightly around his teacup as he carefully avoided Erik’s gaze. He could hardly say ‘Oh, no reason at all, just that in another universe, you looked like a Norse god with flowing white hair and questionable moral fortitude, and it’s been haunting me ever since.’ No, that wouldn’t do.
“I’m merely suggesting a change,” Charles said finally, tilting his head with what he hoped passed for innocent curiosity. “You’ve had it this length for years, Erik. A bit of length might make you look…” He paused, searching for the right word before landing on, “distinguished.”
Erik chuckled then, low and soft, as though Charles had just suggested something delightfully absurd. “Distinguished, is it?” he repeated, shaking his head faintly. “And you’re certain you’re not just looking for an excuse to have me look like a shaggy professor alongside you?”
Charles snorted, though his expression remained composed. “Not at all. Though I’d argue you could do with a bit more of the academic look. Perhaps it’ll make you seem less menacing to the students.”
Erik rolled his eyes, though there was something softer behind the gesture—familiar fondness, the kind that had been forged over years of banter and friendship. He set the book down, letting it rest on the arm of the chair as he stretched lazily.
“I’ll consider it,” Erik said finally, though his tone was indulgent more than anything.
“That’s all I ask,” Charles replied smoothly, though there was a faint flicker of satisfaction in his expression.
And yet, later—much later—as Charles lay in bed with his mind refusing to settle, the conversation came back to him. He had seen Erik with long hair, with waves of silver-white that framed his face like a portrait of unrelenting power. It wasn’t fair, really. That other Erik—so smug, so confident—had somehow wormed his way into Charles’s subconscious, and no amount of distractions would rid him of it.
Charles exhaled heavily, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose as though that might push the thought away. It didn’t help. He could still see it—the way that Erik had looked at him, the way his words had dripped with dark amusement as though testing how far Charles might fall. And perhaps it was Charles’s own fault for playing into it. Lord, if he ever saw that man again—or worse, if Erik ever found out—
Charles shook his head sharply, rolling onto his side as though that might physically shake the memory loose.
He would bring up the hair suggestion again—if and when Erik’s hair turned white. He would wait patiently, like a man waiting for a strategic move to unfold. Perhaps by then, Charles’s mind would be free of these troublesome memories.
And perhaps pigs would fly.
In the study the next morning, Erik presented himself with a cup of coffee and an arched brow. “I’ve thought about your suggestion,” he announced, his voice clipped and smug, as though he were delivering some grand pronouncement.
Charles lowered his newspaper, quirking an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I think I’ll pass,” Erik replied, smirking faintly. “But don’t worry—I’ll leave the long hair to the alternate universe versions of me you dream about.”
Charles choked on his tea.
Erik’s laughter echoed through the room, low and rich, as Charles spluttered, desperately searching for a retort that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
Damn him.