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The Weight of Metal, The Pull of Touch | Erik Lehnsherr x Male! Reader

Summary: When a troubled young mutant refuses to open up, an unlikely mentor is called back into a world he thought he’d left behind. But helping the boy might mean facing more than just his pain — it might mean facing himself, and someone that he never expected to.

A/n: Here’s some X-Men love.

Mutation: it is the key to our evolution. It has enabled us to evolve from a single-celled organism into the dominant species on the planet. This process is slow, and normally taking thousands and thousands of years. But every few hundred millennia, evolution leaps forward.

"How's everyone been doing this week?"

Afternoon light streamed gently through the windows of Charles Xavier’s office, painting golden stripes across rows of books, a chessboard, and a half-drunk cup of tea. Y/n L/n, a dedicated teacher at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, sat in the leather armchair across from Charles, a clipboard balanced on his lap, ready to discuss the morning's training session with some telekinetic students.

Y/n glanced down at the papers clipped to the board titled "Student Evaluations." Each one detailed the progress and proficiency of how the students demonstrated their abilities.

"Most of them are coming along pretty well, man. Devon levitated a whole stack of textbooks now without accidentally dropping a single one," he flipped to the next sheet. "Josh is killing it, as always. Ashley finally managed to lift herself off the ground, and Keke figured out how to control her grip, which means no more shattered cups, thankfully." He smirked faintly. "Although I think she likes doing that, so she'll have to use paper cups."

Charles let out a soft, amused chuckle under his breath. "Excellent. And Jean?"

Y/n’s smile faded as his gaze lifted from the page and met Charles’s. "She's..." He paused momentarily, searching for the right words to describe Jean's progress. The silence was brief, but palpable, as Y/n's thoughts sifted through euphemisms before settling on honesty. "...struggling."

The truth was, "struggling" was a mild way to put it when it came to Jean Grey's progress in mastering her powers. Yet, it was the only word that truly fit her. As a telekinetic, she possessed an incredible amount of potential, far surpassing Y/n's own abilities, despite their similar power set. He had witnessed this firsthand, not only through his careful observations of her actions, but also from last year when Apocalypse nearly tore the world in two before Jean had destroyed him. Her raw power was undeniable. Terrifying, even.

Furthermore, the training sessions didn’t seem to be yielding the desired results she and Y/n hoped for. Today alone, the redhead's power had rattled the walls of the training room, and she’d accidentally launched a dumbbell across the room. Y/n had managed to redirect it through a window before it hit one of the students.

Needless to say, Y/n had a lot of work to do when it comes down to helping Jean.

"She's trying," Y/n's voice dropped to a softer, more contemplative tone as he continued to discuss Jean's struggles. "She listens and practices, putting in the effort to learn and improve, but she's scared of her strength, which makes her panic. That's exactly when things start to spiral out of control. Her powers are tied to her emotions, just like most mutants."

Charles’s eyes drifted toward the window, his expression unreadable as he watched the scene outside. On the lawn, students mingled, some practicing their gifts, others lounging in the shade, and a group of boys shooting hoops on the basketball court. Y/n could see that something was going through Charles’s mind, but he didn’t know what he was thinking now. "Have you spoken to her?"

"I have," Y/n replied. "She says she’s fine. That she needs more time. But there’s a look in her eyes. I’ve seen it before. It’s fear, not of others, but of herself. And that kind of fear doesn’t go away on its own. So, I’m going to start working with her one-on-one. Hopefully then, we can start to make some real progress here."

Charles considered that, nodding slowly. "That may be best. What about Milo?"

Y/n's fingers absently flipped to another page on his clipboard, but he didn't need to refer to his notes to recall the details of Milo's situation. The sixteen-year-old boy, new to the school with the ability to control metal, had been a huge topic of concern for Y/n. "Milo's not opening up. He doesn’t really talk during class either. He shows up. He listens and he watches, but when I ask him to try to demonstrate his powers, he just doesn't want to do it."

"Have you looked to see what’s keeping him guarded and extremely closed off?"

In addition to his telekinetic abilities, Y/n possessed another power: psychometry, which was invaluable for uncovering hidden truths. When it came to objects, he could access a wealth of information, including the identities of their creators, users, and those who had briefly come into contact with them. When it came to people, he knew everything about them, including their thoughts, experiences, emotions, desires, and potential futures.

While Y/n's psychometric abilities were incredibly powerful, they did come with a significant limitation. Unlike Charles's telepathic powers, which allowed him to access information from a distance, Y/n's required physical contact to access any of that. Without that, the truth stayed locked away, just like it did now. So, they weren’t of much use for this situation.

Y/n shook his head. "He doesn’t exactly stick around long enough for me to pat him on the back. Besides, I’m not going to dig without permission. Not the best way to earn trust." He exhaled, a note of heaviness in his voice. "But I don’t need to touch him to know he’s been through something bad. Trauma-related bad. And whatever it was… It’s tied to his powers."

Charles inclined his head slightly.

Y/n tapped the back of his pen against the clipboard, his thoughts drifting back to his earlier sessions with Milo, as well as the ones that had come before, and he replayed Milo's behavior in his mind. He recalled the way Milo's posture was always tense, his shoulders hunched and his body angled in a way that seemed so protective, almost defensive. Even when he was simply standing still, Milo's entire demeanor seemed to scream "guard up" as if he was perpetually bracing himself for an attack he thought was coming.

"I’m not sure I’m the right person for him right now," Y/n admitted at last. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help — he did. But there was a step that had to come first before Y/n could truly be of help. "I think he needs someone who knows what it's like to carry the kind of weight that he is carrying now. To feel like your mutation started off as a curse, rather than a gift."

A low, contemplative sound rumbled from Charles's lips. "You may be more right than you realize." His finger tapped against the desk, and it seemed like he had a certain trick up his sleeve for this. "I believe I know someone who can help."

Y/n’s brows furrowed, his head tilting in that adorably confused way that makes him seem like he’s missed a page of the script. "Who? Hank? Too science-y, and I don't think Milo’s into fur and equations."

The professor’s lips curved up faintly. "Not Hank. An old friend," he paused just long enough for the implication to settle before: "Or perhaps... an old adversary, depending on which day you ask him."

XXXXX XXXXX

The coffee was hot, just how he liked it.

Erik Lehnsherr sat in solitude at a small, chipped, wrought-iron table outside a quaint corner cafe in the heart of Paris, his cup resting within easy reach. Lifting it to his lips, he let the taste linger as his gaze drifted lazily across the street in a quiet detachment. Some tourists were clustered around a tiled fountain, snapping photos. A street musician sat on the edge of that fountain, his fingers moving deftly over his guitar strings as he coaxed out a mournful fado. Locals filled up the surrounding tables, chatting over clinking glasses and delicious food with their friends, while Erik… sat apart from it all. Alone. Just the way he liked it.

Or so he told himself.

It wouldn’t be that way for long, though.

Reaching into his jacket, Erik pulled out a map and unfolded it. A tiny, red pinpoint marked his next destination: Genosha. An untouched island that could serve as a sanctuary for other mutants. A place far from human persecution, where his people could live... without fear. For the past year, he had been drifting from one forgettable motel to the next, searching for something permanent. Now, perhaps, he had found somewhere to stop running.

He refolded the map and slid it back into his pocket, though his thoughts lingered on that empty patch of land, remote and untouched. Safe. That four-letter word echoed in his mind longer than he liked.

Safe... for them. Or for me?

Hmm. Erik took another sip of his coffee as his gaze began to drift upward. At first, it was just a casual glance, a lazy sweep of his eyes over the surrounding scenery. But as he looked up, he noticed something that made his heart skip a beat. The world, it seemed, had stopped.

The guitarist’s fingers were frozen mid-strum. A pigeon hung suspended in the air, wings outstretched. Tourists stood locked in half-smiles, their laughter cut off. Every movement and sound — gone.

Erik lowered the cup slowly. He knew who was behind this display. One man could bring an entire city to a standstill.

A soft whirring noise broke the silence. Erik turned his head to the right and, sure enough, there was Charles, rolling toward him on the cobblestone path, a travel chessboard balanced on his lap. The professor came to a smooth stop at the edge of the table, and time resumed.

"Hello, old friend," Charles greeted.

A faint, knowing smile touched Erik’s lips, recognizing the familiar greeting the two shared. "To what do I owe the intrusion?"

"Intrusion? Oh, c'mon, can’t a man enjoy a game of chess with an old adversary?"

"Adversary?" Erik gave a low, humorless chuckle. "That’s a generous word choice."

The telepath only smiled wider as he unfolded the chessboard and placed it between them on the table, the chess pieces placed in their designated areas. He then gestured with his hand towards the white side. "You have the first move."

Erik looked from Charles to the chessboard. Then, without a word, he reached out and moved a piece forward, making the first move like he always did when they played this together. Charles mirrored the move, plucking a piece and moving it across the board. And like that, the game between them began. The two always connected over a game of chess, no matter the state of the world or what they went through. It felt almost normal.

Almost.

But Erik knew Charles all too well, and he was aware that his friend's presence here was not merely a coincidence or for nostalgia. He hadn't traveled all the way from Westchester simply to indulge in a game of chess and reminisce about old times. There was something more at play, something that Charles most likely wanted or needed from Erik, and Erik's curiosity was piqued. What did he want?

"You did not come all the way here just to lose at chess," Erik murmured after a moment, not looking up from the board.

"Perhaps not," the blue-eyed male countered. "Though I might argue the outcome isn't quite as certain as that."

Another pawn slid forward, and another countermove answered it afterwards.

"I need your help, Erik," Charles was now getting to the point of explaining why he was really here. His voice softened, too, shifting into that gentle cadence he used when handling fragile matters. "There’s a student at the school. His name is Milo."

"And?"

"And his power is reminiscent of yours. He can control metal, just like you can."

That sure did catch Erik’s attention. He had encountered many mutants in his life, each with their unique abilities and strengths, but never had he met or even heard of someone who shared his own powers. His gaze lifted from the board to meet Charles’s, but he stayed silent, letting the telepath continue speaking.

"He’s extremely closed off and refuses to demonstrate his abilities when asked to do so. I think there’s trauma behind it, something tied directly to his ability. He needs someone who understands what it means to bear power born from pain."

And there it was. The real reason Charles had crossed an ocean to seek him out. "You want me to be a teacher to the boy."

"I want you to be a guide," he corrected. "For him. And perhaps, for yourself, too."

Erik didn’t know what Charles meant by the last remark. As for the first, he wasn’t sure about that. Initially, his instinct was to say no, to reject the idea of returning to the X-Mansion and getting involved in the training of a young mutant. He didn't have time for that, not now, not when he had his own plans and his own priorities to attend to. Genosha waited. His plans to rebuild the Brotherhood waited. Erik had no time to play the role of instructor.

But Charles was asking for his help. And after everything they’d endured, through alliance and opposition alike, there was a debt between them, one Erik had never fully repaid. There was also a boy who needed help. A mutant boy. Erik made a promise to himself that he would always be there when a mutant needed him. It was something he always stood by, but this felt different. More personal.

His fingers hovered over a knight, but he didn't make the move, instead letting his eyes drift upward. The sky was a brilliant blue, with a few clouds scattered across.

"What makes you think he’ll even listen to me?" Erik finally asked, voice low. "If he’s anything like I was at that age… he’ll resent me." The question was a valid one.

"That’s possible," Charles admitted. "But he’ll see you in a way he doesn’t see the others. Because you’ve walked the path he’s standing at the edge of right now."

Erik didn’t answer immediately. His eyes returned to the board, though the pieces blurred as old memories resurfaced — a boy in a concentration camp, screaming as iron gates twisted under his hands... the helplessness, the pain, the rage that had birthed his power. Powers not born from happiness, but from loss and fury.

Was Milo’s beginning anything like his own? He couldn't help but wonder that.

When Erik finally looked up, Charles was watching him with that same infuriating patience he always carried. It was a look that said: You already know your answer.

And Erik did.

"I’ll help the boy," he eventually conceded but not before adding quietly, "and that’s it. After that's finished, I'll go my own way."

Charles nodded in quiet acceptance, his head bowing slightly. "That is all I ask."

XXXXX XXXXX

The next day, the Blackbird hummed to a stop on the secluded tarmac underneath the school through the basketball courts. Erik followed Charles down the ramp at an unhurried pace, a single duffel slung over his shoulder. Erik hadn’t expected to set foot here again so soon — hadn’t really expected to at all, honestly — but here he was, back in the place Charles had once offered him shelter. A home.

Inside, the halls were quieter than usual. Classes were in session for some, while others were likely chilling away in their rooms or out on the lawn. Through the windows, Erik caught glimpses of small groups scattered in the grass, talking and laughing with the unguarded ease of people who believed themselves safe.

The mutants turned down a corner into the east wing of the mansion, where one of the training facilities happened to be stationed at. Charles was leading him to a guest room that would, for now, be his.

Charles was speaking mid-sentence, explaining that the room had its own bathroom, when movement in Erik's peripheral vision caught his attention. He slowed to a stop, his feet seeming to root themselves to the spot as his eyes were drawn inexorably through the glass wall of a training room they almost passed.

Someone was inside there, training. And that man was — well, very good looking.

Erik didn’t recognize him. The man’s gray t-shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, bearing arms marked with a faint scar and a light sheen of sweat. He stood in front of a black punching bag, no-gloved hands delivering quick blows to it. Though Erik noticed that these were not aggressive punches that one would expect from an intense training session. Instead, these were playful ones as if he was enjoying the physicality of the exercise and the feel of his fists connecting with the bag.

It was then that the magnetic mutant took note of the strange test layout: two paintball guns were stationed against the far wall. On the opposite side of the room, five watermelons rested on the weight racks like strange test dummies.

More punches were thrown. Then, one of the paintball guns suddenly fired. A burst of red paint shot toward the man’s head. Without so much as glancing at it, he lifted a hand, stopping the projectile mid-air, inches from his head, before he dropped it to the floor with a soft splat.

A second shot came, faster. The man waved his hand and sent it splattering perfectly against the wall, the crimson smear dripping down like modern art.

Erik's eyes widened as he stared ahead. Telekinesis, he thought to himself, this man's mutation had to be telekinesis. And not just that — remarkable reflexes. His reaction time was incredible, and he was quick on his feet. Now, what was he going to do with those watermelons?

Erik's question was answered in an unexpected and impressive way. One of the watermelons, which had been sitting innocently on the weight rack, suddenly floated straight up and veered straight to the guy. The man extended his hand. A knife — one Erik hadn't noticed before — rose from the floor, and the handle landed squarely in his hand. He turned around and sliced the melon in half, and the two pieces fell apart, perfectly even.

The man's face broke out into a wide, triumphant grin, clearly pleased with his handiwork. Erik felt an unexpected pull of something — intrigue, not just in the display of power, but in the man himself.

"…Who is that?" Erik asked, still watching the man with more curiosity and interest than he had intended to show. However, some of that curiosity bled into his voice.

Charles had stopped just ahead of Erik, watching him. He didn't seem surprised by Erik's question, and perhaps he had been expecting it, sensing the growing fascination that had been building inside Erik. "That," he folded his hands in his lap, "is Y/n. A teacher here. He's... how shall I put it? Our resident golden retriever, as some of the students affectionately call him. He's also the one who's been trying to train Milo. I think that you'll like him."

Erik’s brows lifted. Golden retriever? The term seemed at odds with what he’d just seen. The man in the training room had just sliced a watermelon clean in half mid-air with a level of discipline that spoke to skill honed over years, maybe decades. Yet the moment he succeeded, his expression shifted into something almost boyishly pleased, like someone who’d just knocked over the last bottle at a carnival booth and managed to win a prize. Maybe the nickname fits after all.

As if to prove the point, Y/n dropped the knife, telekinetically lowering it gently to the floor. He turned to the nearby mirror, staring at his reflection with a look of mock seriousness. His hair was slightly mussed, sweat clinging to his forehead, but he didn't seem to care. Y/n tossed himself a halfhearted thumbs up in the mirror, followed by an exaggerated bow as if acknowledging the applause of an invisible audience. He then immediately started laughing hard at his own antics.

Erik studied him. "He… seems powerful."

"Very powerful," Charles agreed. "But he doesn’t always act like it. That’s part of what makes people feel at ease around him." He turned his chair around. "Come on. I'll show you to your room, and then I'll introduce you two once you're settled."

Erik followed Charles, but he couldn't resist taking one last look back over his shoulder, just before they rounded the corner. It was just in time, too, because Y/n had chosen that exact moment to trip over a rolled-up gym mat and nearly face-plant himself into the floor before using his telekinesis to catch himself at the last moment with a sudden, startled hover that left him suspended in mid-air.

A quiet snort escaped Erik. Y/n seemed to carry a kind of deliberate clumsiness.

Charles led him to a room at the end of the hall. Sunlight poured through a wide window, illuminating a neatly made bed and a view of the backyard, where a few students lounged beneath the shade of a big tree. It was peaceful. Too peaceful. The kind of peace that made Erik uneasy.

The brown-haired male placed his duffel on the bed, slipped out of his jacket, and decided he truly didn’t feel like waiting. Charles had told him that he would give him time to settle in before introducing him to Y/n, but Erik really didn't feel like waiting. His curiosity, a feeling he didn't often indulge, was stirring, stronger than he'd like to admit. He wanted to meet Y/n, to see if the man was as intriguing in person as he was from afar. Therefore, they walked back to the training room.

By the time they arrived, the remains of the watermelon test were gone, and the punching bag had been moved into the corner. Y/n was crouched beside one of the paintball guns, inspecting something on the side of the gun with a faint frown.

"Y/n!"

The man in question's head snapped up, slightly startled. "Oh—! Wassup, Charles!" Y/n greeted cheerfully, rising to his feet. "Man, the paintball gun’s getting trigger-happy again. I nearly lost an eye, but—" he gestured to a crimson splatter on his shirt, "—I settled for ruining this instead."

"You’re developing quite the track record of near-death by equipment, you know?"

Y/n's face broke out into a sheepish grin. He brushed his hand over the splatter on his tee. "It's a talent, really. Not everyone can almost die doing something so, so harmless." His gaze shifted to Erik. "You must be the one who’s here to help Milo."

Now that the attention was solely on him, Erik stepped forward from behind Charles without hesitation, allowing the faintest curve of a smile to touch his lips. "Erik Lehnsherr. I don’t believe we’ve met."

Honestly, Erik wasn’t even sure why he bothered to introduce himself since his name and face were well-known in this world, given his reputation and notoriety. But it was the polite thing to do and an easy way to keep a conversation going.

"I’m Y/n L/n. History teacher, telekinetic mentor, and now, your co-conspirator in saving an emotionally closed-off metal-bender. We’ve actually met before, too."

Hearing that last part made him pause. Erik's brows furrowed in confusion as he tried to recall ever meeting Y/n before. He searched his memories, but his mind came up blank. He could not remember ever encountering this man, and he was certain that he would have remembered if they had met. Y/n's face, his smile, his eyes, none of it was familiar. "Have we?"

Y/n nodded his head in confirmation. "We have. Well...not formally. I was there during the fight against Apocalypse. You know, when you tried to end humanity."

A faint flush crept into Erik's cheeks, a subtle blend of embarrassment and self-consciousness. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of mortification at the fact that his first unofficial meeting with Y/n was that day. "Ah. That," he muttered, almost to himself. He squared his shoulders as he extended a hand out for a handshake. "Well. It’s nice to officially meet you, Y/n."

"You as well, Erik." Y/n took the offered hand. The moment their skin touched, Y/n's expression faltered a bit, his smile disappearing in an instant, replaced by a look of shock. He pulled his hand back so fast, it was as if he had been burned.

An eyebrow shot up from that reaction. That was new. "Something wrong?" Erik asked, placing his hand back at his side.

Y/n shook his head quickly, almost too quickly. "Nope! Nothing at all!" His voice was a little too loud, a little too forced. "I—uh— just remembered I had something to do. Very important and super secret. So I’ll just—" Y/n didn’t get far. As he moved toward the door, his foot caught on the mat. This time, he wasn’t able to save himself, and he landed squarely on his backside with an undignified thump. Y/n quickly scrambled to his feet and gave a small, awkward laugh, trying to play off the moment. "I'll see you later."

Just like that, Y/n had bolted.

Which caused Erik to stare at the other man in amusement. He found Y/n to be quite… what’s the right word? Cute? Yes, that was the right word to describe the h/c-haired male. Y/n's too cute, and Erik found himself looking forward to staying at the mansion and working with him.

What the fuck was that?

That was the only question running laps through Y/n’s mind as he stepped into the kitchen instead of retreating to his room because this was an emergency, and emergencies required snacks, of course. He made his way to the cabinet near the fridge, eyes scanning the space for the one thing that could bring him comfort and calm. His favorite snack, honeybuns. He was addicted to them, and he knew it. But he just couldn't help himself. There was something about the sweet, sticky taste that always seemed to soothe his nerves and calm his mind.

He spotted the delicious snack that was calling his name. But, to his frustration, it was perched on the top shelf, taunting him with its inaccessibility. Who put his stuff on the highest shelf? Y/n couldn’t reach that high. No one could get that without a stool. With a flick of his finger, the box zipped off the shelf and into his waiting hands. He plopped into a chair, tore open the package, and shoved a bite into his mouth. Sweet, soft, perfect.

Exactly what he needed.

Except not even sugar therapy could quiet the question echoing in his skull. What the fuck was that? He didn't know.

Okay, okay. Facts. Let’s go over the facts.

Fact one: He had shaken Erik Lehnsherr's hand for a mere ten seconds, and yet, in that brief moment, his psychometry had roared to life like a floodlight switching on. It was crazy, utterly insane. The man had touched countless people before, shaken hands, bumped shoulders, high-fived students, and even gotten tackled by Hank for trying to steal his Twinkies. Not in years, had his powers activated without him letting them until now.

Fact two: It hadn’t just activated. Oh no. He had absorbed Erik’s entire history in a snap. It was overwhelming, to say the least, and Y/n was still trying to process the sheer volume of data that had been dumped into his mind. But that was only the beginning. Y/n had seen a glimpse of the future, a future that included both him and Erik, apparently. One where they were cuddling. The two were wrapped in each other's arms, kissing and touching, and doing all sorts of inappropriate stuff for two people who had just met today.

Fact Three: Not only did he see it, but he felt it. The feel of Erik’s hands, the way they moved like they’d done it a hundred times and still couldn’t get enough. The quiet whisper of Erik's voice after their activities that went way beyond PG-13.

"You feel so good."

Then there was kissing. Oh, the kissing. Y/n had kissed people before; he wasn't new to that, but what he had felt in that vision was something entirely different. It wasn't just lust or heat. It wasn't just a physical response. It was intimacy and familiarity. The kind of connection that only came after time and trust, after the shared moments and laughter, after the tears and whispers in the dead of night.

What in the world? Y/n groaned, thunking his forehead against the table. Of all the psychic phenomena that could have spontaneously reactivated, it had to be the one that delivered life-altering romantic epiphanies via skin contact. It was like the universe had a real sense of humor, and it was playing a joke on him.

This was bad, and this was absolutely a two-honeybun emergency. Y/n's head jerked up, and he ripped open another packet. He chewed it aggressively as if that could erase the vision. Spoiler alert: It didn’t. The memory stayed within him, crisp and vivid, like someone had burned it into his consciousness with an iron.

This is insane. I’ve known this man for five minutes, and now I’ve got a psychic sex tape on repeat in my frontal lobe?

Wait. Panic spiraled fast. What if Erik had seen his face when it happened? What if Charles had? Or worse, what if Charles skimmed his thoughts at that moment—

"Oh my god," Y/n whispered, horrified.

He needed to lock himself in his room until Erik left the mansion for good. He needed to wear gloves and maybe even a hazmat suit anytime Erik was within a three-foot radius. That way, he can avoid any accidental skin contact and prevent any further visions from rising, but he'd look ridiculous. He did need someone to exorcise the make-out session from his memory before he lost what was left of his dignity and sanity in the process, too.

More than anything, Y/n knew that he had to keep this entire ordeal to himself.

He couldn't let anyone know about the vision, especially not Erik. He also knew that he needed to avoid touching Erik at all costs. Not only did he not want to pry into Erik's inner mind again, accidentally, but he also did not want to risk possibly experiencing anything like that again. Erik was here for Milo, not for...whatever that was. Besides, Y/n didn't think that they would be compatible, considering he and Erik were complete opposites, like oil and water. Erik can control metal and Y/n... well, he can control everything, but that's not the point. The point is that the vision had to be some sort of a mistake.

Yet, it hadn't felt like a mistake.

Footsteps could be heard coming from behind, and Y/n’s thoughts screeched to a halt like a car slamming on its brakes. Who could that be? Y/n's heart skipped a beat as he wondered if it might be Erik, come to confront him about the strange look on his face or to ask him what was wrong. Please don’t be Erik. Please don’t be Erik. Slowly, like he was a character in a horror movie, he turned around to see who had decided to enter the kitchen.

It wasn’t Erik, thank God.

It was Hank.

Boy, was Y/n happy to see him. Finally, someone was here to pull him out of his telepathic spiral, and that someone was a good friend of his. Y/n put on a wide, overly bright smile and lifted a hand in a frantic wave. "Hi!" he chirped, too loudly. "Science Guy! Lab Goblin! Twinkie Thief!"

Hank's eyebrows shot up in amusement at Y/n's enthusiastic greeting and that ridiculous string of nicknames, but he let out a soft laugh in return. "That's... quite the greeting," Hank made his way over to the cupboard. He reached up to pull out the sacred box of Twinkies that he kept hidden behind an old cereal box labeled "bran flakes" which no one ever touched. He unwrapped one, bit into it, and then turned, studying Y/n. His gaze lingered on the crimson splatter staining the tee. "What’s with the shirt?" He gestured with the snack. "Lose a fight with a paint can?"

Y/n glanced down at the stain, and he let out a sheepish laugh. "Not exactly. Just a... training mishap," a pause followed. Then, because apparently his brain had no filter, he blurted: "Also, uh, Magneto’s here. Charles brought him to help Milo."

That made Hank freeze mid-bite. His chewing slowed, expression flickering between curiosity and concern before he swallowed the last remnants of his snack. "Erik? Really?" Hank reached for another Twinkie, unwrapping it with far too much concentration. "Well, that’s… interesting. Raven will be glad he’s back."

Y/n seized the opportunity to shift the conversation away from Magneto, and he latched onto the mention of Raven. "Yeah, I bet." He didn't know Raven that well, but he had witnessed the way she cared about Erik, the way she had risked everything to help him, and he knew that they shared a deep connection. But Y/n also knew that the blue shapeshifter had another connection with somebody else, too. "Speaking of Raven…" a smirk came on Y/n's face, "when you gonna ask her out? I know that you want to. Very badly."

The poor man choked on his Twinkie as he adjusted his glasses nervously. "I—what?!" He pounded his chest with one hand. "Y/n! Did you look into my head?"

"I don’t have to," Y/n licked sugar from his fingers. "It’s written all over your face. You always look at her like she’s the only person in the room. Oh, and by the way..." his voice dropped with faux-seriousness. "I saw you two making out in the lab last Thursday. Right next to the microscope."

Hank's face turned an alarming shade of red, a deep crimson that nearly matched the color of the stain on Y/n's shirt, "That was not—we were—she kissed me first!"

"Oh no," Y/n gasped in mock horror, clutching his head. "Not a kiss from the woman you’re in love with! The horror!"

"That was for research purposes! We were… testing stress responses!" Hank sputtered. "And you—" he jabbed a finger at Y/n. "—shouldn’t be spying on people."

"I wasn’t spying," which was the truth. "I just walked by. You two weren’t exactly subtle." He stood, clapped a hand onto Hank’s shoulder, and patted it solemnly. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered."

The doctor let out a long, defeated sigh, his shoulders slumping, clearly realizing that arguing with Y/n was a lost cause, and decided to stop before it got worse. Shaking his head, he tossed the empty wrappers into the trash can and shoved the Twinkie box back in its hiding place. "You’re impossible. Go change your shirt before someone assumes you murdered someone. I’ve got to get back to the lab."

Y/n mock-saluted. "Aye, aye, Captain." Once Hank left, his heavy steps fading down the hall, Y/n collected the empty wrappers and tossed them out. He slid the honeybun box back into the cabinet. This time, on a shelf he could reach.

For a moment, Y/n felt grateful to be distracted by someone else's romantic problems instead of the psychometric chaos. But he had stuff to do right now.

He's going to change his shirt and get ready for his first class of the day with the telekinetic students. He was going to see Erik again and work with him, but he was going to make sure not to touch him and not to make a fool of himself in front of the, well...the handsome mutant.

With that thought in mind, Y/n headed to his room. Even as he walked away, a tiny, traitorous thought of his wondered what it would be like if that vision came true and whether Erik’s small, amused smile back in the training room meant he was wondering something similar too. Hmm.

XXXXX XXXXX

With a fresh T-shirt clinging comfortably to his frame — this one a soft navy blue that, by complete accident, hugged his shoulders and biceps just right. A wide, infectious smile curved Y/n's lips as he strode into the training room, ready to kick off the day’s lesson. A quick scan around the room showed that everyone was here, except for Milo, which wasn't too surprising. The kid was always a few minutes late, a habit that Y/n had grown accustomed to, and he let it slide with his usual easygoing patience. After all, Milo showed up, and that was a win in itself.

Additionally, Erik wasn’t here either. Y/n wondered when he’d make his entrance.

Just like always, Y/n greeted his class and began to make his way around the room, giving each of his students a high five. He told them that, instead of having class inside today, class would be held outside. Archery awaits. Y/n wanted to see how well they can use their powers to guide arrows to the bullseye or to any of the points on the board. Whoever gets the most points wins the game. Simple.

Seconds later, the door to the training room creaked open, and Milo walked in, quiet as ever, with his hands shoved into his pockets. He went to stand a few feet away from everyone, like he always did.

"Morning, Milo!" Was loud and attention-grabbing. Y/n waved enthusiastically at the boy like he was greeting a movie star.

The boy gave a curt nod, acknowledging Y/n’s greeting without verbally speaking. That was as talkative as he got with Y/n. Y/n didn't take it personally, though. He never did. He knew that Milo's reserved nature was just a part of who he was, likely due to circumstances, so he didn't let that deter him from trying to connect with him. "Alright, everyone," he clapped once, ready to go, "let's move out to the lake. Milo, can you hang back for a sec?"

To his relief, Milo listened to him, his feet rooted to the spot he was currently at without needing to be told twice, and Y/n appreciated his willingness to follow instructions, even if it was just to avoid a confrontation. Once the rest of the class had filed out of the room, Y/n turned to face Milo more fully. "I know the whole group thing isn’t your favorite. So today, you’re gonna get some one-on-one time. There's a special guest here to help out."

That’s when the door opened.

And Erik stepped inside.

"Perfect timing," Y/n said, smiling a bit as he motioned toward the other mutant. "Milo, this is Erik Lehnsherr. He’s going to be working with us for a little while, and he’ll be focusing on training with you."

Milo's gaze shifted, his eyes flicking to Erik with cautious interest, as if sizing him up. It was clear that he recognized the name and the reputation that came with it. Hopefully, Erik would be able to bring him out of his shell and open up.

As Y/n turned to Erik to continue the introductions, he froze, his eyes locking onto Erik's gaze, which had swept down and then back up his body appreciatively. Y/n's heart skipped a beat as he realized that Erik's eyes paused, lingered, far too obviously, on the way the t-shirt clung to his arms. Oh my God, is he checking me out right now? Y/n's mind whispered. He is, indeed, checking me out. Y/n felt his heart quicken ever so slightly as a smirk twitched at the corner of Erik’s mouth.

"I see you changed your shirt," Erik said, feet moving closer until he was standing right beside Y/n, but had left some space.

"Y-Yeah. I did do that." Y/n cleared his throat, trying to compose himself, as he added, "Red wasn't exactly my color."

Erik hummed, tilting his head to the side. "I agree. This one suits you much better. Shows off those biceps." His tone was low, almost teasing, with just enough warmth to make Y/n’s pulse stutter. "Which, I must say, are impressive."

Y/n’s brain stalled like an old car stuck in a snowstorm. What the—? This man did not just compliment his biceps. He did not — oh God, he did. Erik was... flirting. Which, of course, made his mind wander back to that little vision. The one where they were cuddling, kissing, and rubbing each other's biceps. Nope. Stop thinking about that. He shoved it down, hard, and tried to focus on the task at hand. Stop flirting with me, Erik! He wanted to scream that at the mutant, but he didn't.

"I—uh—th-thanks? For the compliment. But I should, um—" he jerked his thumb towards the door, "—go teach my class. These hands are ready for some action."

Uh, oh. Why did I say that? Why did I—

…That was the wrong choice of words. Very wrong. As soon as he mentioned his hands being ready for action, Erik's gaze drifted from his eyes to his hands, and a sly smile spread across his face. "Oh, I'm sure of that. And I'm sure those hands of yours could be put to great use in a much different way," He punctuated the thought with a casual wink, clearly loving the effect he was having on Y/n.

Y/n froze.

Did Erik just—? Was he implying that—?

Y/n let out a laugh, but it was a nervous, high-pitched sound that was more akin to a squeak than a genuine expression of amusement. He didn't know what else to do or how else to respond to Erik's flirtatious comment, so he just laughed. Expectedly, Y/n laughed so hard that it turned into a cough. Erik’s hand moved as if to pat him on his back. Y/n, however, darted two steps sideways to avoid any contact. Abort mission. Avoid visions.

Words tumbled out in a flustered mess. "I—um—well, I do, uh, try to keep them busy. I mean—uh—productive," he was digging himself into a deeper hole. "In a platonic, not inappropriate sort of—oh my god—" Y/n's eyes widened in horror as he realized what he was saying, and he quickly cut himself off, dragging a hand down his face as if to physically stop himself from speaking before Erik weaponized another remark. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, but his mind was still racing fast with the embarrassment of the moment. "I'll leave you guys to it. I'll just be... outside, doing... teacher things. Good luck, guys!"

Y/n turned around so fast that he nearly tripped, but he managed to recover just in time and gave a two-fingered salute before vanishing through the doorway. Erik's low chuckle followed him out of the room, and Y/n could've sworn he felt those eyes on his back the entire time.

Erik was going to be the death of him.

Back in the training, Erik turned to Milo, who was staring at the door where Y/n had vanished, and then back up at Erik with a look that plainly said: Seriously?

Erik exhaled. "He’s… very enthusiastic."

Milo just crossed his arms and nodded.

Y/n was going to be the life of him. The younger man had fled like the room was on fire, and perhaps it had been, at least metaphorically. The heat hadn’t been in flames, but in his voice, and something else Erik couldn't quite name in his eyes, like he had touched a live wire and was trying not to show the shock. Interesting.

But those thoughts regarding Y/n were momentarily set aside as he turned his attention to the more pressing matter at hand: Milo, the priority. The metal man took a moment to study the teenage boy.

Milo stood there, his shoulders hunched in a slightly defensive posture, eyeing Erik with a guarded expression. The boy's gaze wasn't hostile, but it wasn't friendly either. It was careful, cautious. Erik recognized that look. He had seen it many times before in his own reflection during his younger years. It was the look of someone who had been hurt and had learned to protect themselves from the world by building walls too high to climb.

"Do you know who I am?" Erik asked, voice serious now. All traces of flirtation and charm vanished, replaced by a calm seriousness. He took a few steps closer, careful to keep the distance respectful. Not looming, not cornering. Just present.

A nod came from Milo. "You’re Magneto."

"Well, that saves us time," Erik muttered to himself, but it wasn’t quiet enough for Milo's ears not to pick it up. "Charles told me you can control metal. Just like me," Erik's tone was calm, not patronizing. "He also said you’ve been having trouble with your powers. That’s not surprising. It takes years to understand what we’re capable of… and it takes some longer to face the reasons why they're afraid of it."

Milo gave him a flat look. "I’m not afraid." The denial was sharp and immediate.

Erik tilted his head. "Aren’t you?"

"I'm not," he repeated, harsher this time, voice rising. Despite Milo's verbal denial, his body language told a different story. His hands tightened around his biceps, fingers gripping hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Jaw was clenched, too. It was a subconscious display of anger. Erik could see that Milo was lying and that he was trying to convince himself as much as Erik that he wasn't afraid.

Still, he didn’t call Milo out on it. "Alright," Erik said simply. "then, you’re just, what? Bored? Lazy? Playing shy for attention?"

That jab landed. Milo’s jaw twitched; he tore his gaze away, fixing on a crack in the wall like it was suddenly fascinating.

“Tell me something." Erik continued, "When did your powers first manifest?"

The boy’s eyes snapped back to him, sharp and wary. He didn’t answer right away, and Erik thought that he wouldn't answer at all. Eventually, however, Milo said, "They manifested two years ago."

"And something happened."

Milo stiffened. The silence that followed said more than words could. He realized that if he was going to help Milo, then he first had to know what the teenager had been through. He needed to understand the root of Milo's pain and help him deal with it, rather than continue fighting and suppressing it. The first step here is to:

"Care to show me what you can do?"

Immediately, not even a second later, the teenager shook his head, unwilling to demonstrate his powers. "I don’t feel like it." The words carried an edge, not of rebellion but of exhaustion, like he had this conversation too many times and was tired of being pushed and prodded.

Erik wasn’t backing down. If anything, his resolve grew stronger. "Why not?"

Milo narrowed his eyes. "Why not what?"

"Why not use your powers?" Erik clarified. "Controlling metal is pretty cool. I know a lot of mutants who would love to—"

"I don’t care."

"You don’t care about your power," Erik echoed, "or about learning to control it?"

"I don’t care about any of it," the teen snapped, suddenly, the words tumbling out like he's been holding them in behind for days, weeks, months, possibly years if Erik had to guess. Milo was clearly fed up with this entire conversation. "Not training. Not you. So don’t waste your time. We might have the same powers, but we don’t live the same life. You don’t know me. You don’t know what I did." His breathing was heavy now, and he sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face. "I’m not using them. So, leave me alone."

That wasn’t going to happen. After hearing these words, catching the faint tremors in Milo’s voice, recognizing the familiar fracture lines, and seeing all this anger and pain, Erik had to help him. He didn’t care if Milo hated him, screamed at him, or ignored every word he said.

Because, just like Erik’s, he could tell that Milo’s powers were born from pain, twisted into a curse by memory. For Erik, it was the Holocaust and the loss of his mother. For Milo, it was something else, something raw and recent, though the specifics of his trauma were still unclear. Same roots yet different circumstances.

Erik wasn’t leaving.

And so he stayed. Three weeks passed, and every morning, during class time, he came to the east training room without fail. Sometimes, Milo was already there, waiting by the window. Other times, Erik waited for him to come. The boy's arrival time was unpredictable, sometimes late, sometimes sulking, but never skipping.

The first week was a war of attrition; Milo didn't speak after his little outburst, even when Erik filled the silence verbally.

By the second week, Milo finally spoke to the older man, his silence giving way to a barrage of sarcasm and hostility. Erik welcomed it, refusing to leave like a mountain, unmoving and unbothered.

Every day, Erik asked the same question: Show me what you can do? Every day, Milo refused. Leave me alone. That was always where the conversation ended. Erik's annoyance was slight, but it was there, a gentle simmering of frustration that he had swallowed down. He knew that he had to be calm and patient in this situation, even if he wasn’t patient.

Despite all of the challenges of working with Milo, Erik found a silver lining in the situation. He was able to focus on the handsome, h/c haired mutant, who often came by to check on their progress. Erik made a point of flirting with him every opportunity he got, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of delight in the way Y/n responded. Every comment, every smirk tossed his way landed perfectly, drawing out nervous laughter, a stumble over his words, or a quick retreat. Erik couldn’t help himself; Y/n was charming in a way that tugged at him. He was... adorable.

Flirting with Y/n had become a regular occurrence, and Erik decided to take it to the next level by incorporating physical touch into their interactions, such as a brush of fingers against Y/n's knuckles when handing him something. One time, when Y/n tripped, Erik’s hand caught his waist before he could fall, steadying him far longer than was actually necessary.

However, every time Erik touched him, Y/n flinched and bolted. Which would have been the end of it, but he didn’t see flight as rejection. Erik saw it as a challenge.

By week three, Erik had decided to make it his personal mission to get Y/n to stop running away from him like he was on fire. Not because he liked watching him flounder (though, admittedly, it was very endearing). But because Erik wasn’t the type to back away from something that pulled him like a magnet, and Y/n pulled.

But he still had the boy to focus on first, and Erik knew just the thing to get Milo to show him something. When Milo was lifting some weights one afternoon, Erik made his move. Using only his mind, the barbell flew upward out of Milo's hands. Then, he let it drop, and Milo's hand shot up instinctively, holding the barbell mid-air before gently guiding it onto the rack.

"Nice reflexes," Erik commented from the doorway, stepping further into the room.

Milo’s head snapped to his, eyes locking onto Erik’s, and he looked pissed. Good. Erik can work with someone pissed. At least, he would finally talk to him, and it wouldn’t be something sarcastic. Milo stood up and walked over to him angrily. "What the hell is wrong with you, man?! I told you—" he pointed his index finger at Erik, "—I didn’t want to use my powers."

"Why not?" Erik pressed for more, using the exact two words that he used the first time he asked Milo to show him his powers. This was his moment to strike and push Milo's buttons and get him to open up finally. "Why don’t you want to use them? What’s so terrible about that? Tell me. Does using them remind you of pain and suffering? It does, doesn't it?"

"Yes!" Milo’s voice ripped through the room, his frustration boiling hotly. The metal equipment around them began to shake and rattle, and the overhead light above them burst with a sharp pop. "It does remind me of pain and suffering!"

Milo’s chest rose and fell in shallow, angry breaths. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, trembling, and the fury on his face wasn’t just anger. It was grief, raw, recent, and aching. Erik stood there, letting the storm rage, letting the boy feel the pain that he’s been holding inside him for so long. He recognized this moment: the breaking point where pain spilled over, where the truth could no longer be contained or locked away.

"You want to know why I don’t use them? Fine. I’ll tell you," Milo swallowed. He closed his eyes, as if collecting his thoughts, and then reopened them, his gaze locking onto Erik's. "I grew up in a small town in McKinley, Pennsylvania. Everyone there... they hated mutants. It didn’t matter if you never hurt anyone; if you were different, you were a threat. But I didn't worry about that because I thought I was normal... until I wasn't."

Erik listened, his expression unreadable, but his attention was solely on Milo.

"Two years ago, my father asked me to get him his cup. I didn’t even mean to do it, but I just thought about it, and the cup just floated across the room," his voice cracked into a bitter laugh. "My parents saw it. You know what they told me?"

"What did they say?" Erik asked softly.

"They said that, despite being a mutant, they loved me. Said I was special." Milo’s voice hitched on that word like it burned to speak it. "They didn’t care what I was, but they knew what the town would do if they found out about me, so they made me swear to keep it a secret. I could only use it inside the house. Never outside. Never around anyone besides them. I did what they asked. I stayed hidden."

He turned away from Erik now, hands digging into his hair, breathing ragged. "But I fucked up. I forgot to close the curtains, and I was messing with some nails, making them spin around, when a neighbor saw me and he told everyone."

Erik could see where this was going.

"People came that night." Milo’s voice dropped to a whisper, distant, like he was watching it play out again. In a way, he probably was, in his head, "with bats, crowbars, and two men who used to barbecue with us and have pool parties, even brought a gun. They said they were going to cleanse the evil from their town."

"My mom tried to talk them down, and my dad—he—he put himself in front of me. And then—” Milo’s voice broke into a sob, "they killed them for protecting me."

Tears slipped free, hot and unrestrained.

"And I—" his gaze dropped to his hands, staring at them, "I killed everyone in that room. I didn’t mean to, it just… happened. I can see my parents' blood on the floor. There was so much blood…" He choked on the words, wrapping his arms around himself as if to hold himself together. "I ran after that. I kept running until the Professor found me and took me here."

His gaze drifted upward, eyes red from crying. "That’s why I don’t use them. So, don’t talk to me about the training. Don’t talk to me about how cool it is to control metal. Every time I do, I remember that moment. I remember what I lost. My parents died because of me. If I hadn’t been a mutant, if I hadn’t been different, if I hadn't left the curtain open, they’d be here. These powers come from a place I can’t go back to without losing myself." His voice dropped to a broken whisper. "Mutation isn't a gift. No, it's a curse."

For a moment, Erik said nothing, letting himself absorb these words, and he felt a wave of sympathy and understanding wash over him. So much of this was like his story, too. A world that feared them. That took everything and punished them just for existing. Milo’s eyes were wet, but he swiped at them angrily, glaring at Erik as if daring him to judge. But Erik didn’t judge. He understood, more than Milo could know. Stepping closer, Erik kept his voice low, steady, but laced with a conviction that surprised even himself.

"It wasn’t your fault," He paused, letting the words hang. "What happened to your parents — that blood isn't on your hands."

Milo scoffed. "Tell that to their graves."

"No," Erik said, voice firmer now, cutting through the boy’s self-loathing. "Listen to me. What happened wasn’t your fault. You didn’t ask for that to happen. You didn’t provoke those people. You didn’t bring that hate into your home. They did."

Milo looked at him then, really looked at Erik, like he wanted to believe him; like he wanted to believe the words that were coming out of Erik’s mouth. But he shook his head as if he couldn’t just yet — or perhaps never, because the weight of guilt had dragged him down, leaving room for nothing else. "But my parents—"

"—died protecting you, cause they loved you, because you were worth protecting. Those sick people killed them, not your powers. And you… you were a child who defended himself the only way he could."

For the first time, Milo was being forced to consider a different perspective, one that challenged the narrative that he had been stuck with for so long in his head. This was the first undeniable crack in the self-condemnation the boy had clung to.

"This world," Erik continued softly, "has tried to convince us that we're monsters just for being different. It teaches others to hate us before they ever understand us because mankind has always feared what it doesn’t understand. And that fear turns into violence. It makes people like us believe we deserve the pain we’ve suffered. But don’t let that pain be what defines your power. Let it be the reason you master it, not the reason you bury it."

Milo’s shoulders eased, just slightly, fists unclenching, visible signs that he was beginning to relax, to let his guard down. His response was delayed, but when he spoke, his tone was a quiet plea. "What if mastering it only leads to more pain?"

Erik let that little question hang in the air. It wasn’t rhetorical — not for Milo. It was a confession. A fear. A deeply ingrained belief shaped by trauma, sitting heavy on his chest like a weight he couldn’t shake.

The question was a valid one. What if mastering his powers only led to more suffering, more persecution, and more pain? Erik answered the question with the only truth he knew at that moment.

"Then you keep going anyway."

Milo frowned, confused, but listening.

"You keep going," Erik repeated, "because it's the only way forward. Let me tell you this: the humans who fear us want us to hide and hate ourselves. To believe your gift is nothing but a curse. But if you take your pain and turn it into strength — not to destroy, but to reclaim who you are — then you win. And that is what your parents wanted. That’s what they died believing: that you're worth it."

Milo looked down at his hands again. He studied them with a curious intensity, as if seeing them for the very first time. His eyes roamed over the lines and contours of his palms, his fingers, and his wrists, taking in the details of his own anatomy. He studied them, tentatively, as if seeing them not as weapons but as potentials. "Why do you care so much?" Milo asked.

"My powers showed up in Auschwitz," Erik decided to tell his story rather than outright answering the question, "and my mother was killed right behind me. That grief, the rage, unlocked something in me, twisted it into something violent. I was not the monster in that room. And neither were you." He stepped closer, his voice softening, gentler than ever before. "I don’t want you to walk down the same road I did. Not when you have people here — me, Y/n, Charles — who can help you. Who wants to help you deal with the pain without breaking and to ensure that you have a future. But you have to let us."

Milo’s gaze lingered on his hands, the weight of Erik’s words settling into the quiet of the training room. His breathing had slowed, no longer the shallow, angry gasps of before, but now a deeper, more measured rhythm. The faintest flicker of something new crossed his face. Hope, maybe, or at least the possibility of it. He didn't respond immediately, and Erik didn't push him to give a response. For the first time in weeks, the wall between them felt thinner, not gone, but cracked, letting slivers of light through. Finally, in a whisper: "Okay. You guys can help me."

Erik nodded once. "We will," this was the second step in the right direction. Good.

Suddenly, Erik's gaze drifted over to the entrance, and he was surprised to see Y/n standing outside of it, watching them through the glass. Erik wasn't sure how much the man had seen or heard, but the softness in his expression gave it away. He had most likely heard everything that had been said, but Erik didn’t mind. Their eyes met, and Y/n shot Erik a shy smile and a nod. And Erik, allowing himself the faintest curl of his lips, reciprocated the gesture, throwing Y/n a smile and a nod.

XXXXX XXXXX

Night had always been Y/n’s favorite time of day, especially nights like this when the sky was a deep, rich black and the stars shone like diamonds. He sat on a wooden bench, angled just so to stare at the crafted garden, filled with beds of roses, tulips, and lilies blooming in every direction. Behind him, the stone fountain trickled softly, water spilling down into a round basin, and lantern lights casting warm halos across the outside area.

It was so peaceful out here. Quiet, too. However, the quietness didn’t last long.

"Look who’s sitting all by himself," came a voice that had become familiar to the telekinetic these days. One that he had somewhat dreaded, but also somewhat liked, if he was being completely honest with himself. When Y/n did glance over his shoulder, he found Erik standing by the fountain's edge, "and not stalking me like you were today. Though I can admit, I do rather enjoy it when you watch me."

From hearing that, Y/n couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling back. Erik was clearly referring to when Y/n was watching him talk to Milo outside the training room. "I was not stalking you. I was checking on you and Milo," he clarified his actions earlier. "If anything, you’re the stalker. How’d you even know I was out here?"

A soft laugh slipped from Erik. "Charles told me. Apparently, this is your spot," he said, settling the mystery with an almost casual shrug, and that was a... plausible explanation. Everyone knew that he liked hanging out in this spot, whether it was to read the newspaper, eat his lunch, or simply enjoy the peaceful atmosphere. Erik moved forward, his long legs eating up the distance, until he was sitting next to Y/n on the bench. His eyes wandered over the fountain, the flowers, the faint flicker of lanterns across stone. "I didn’t know there was a fountain back here."

"There wasn’t one until I put it here," as part of his summer project this year, Y/n had taken it upon himself to build it back here, with Charles' permission. "I planted those, too," he motioned his chin toward the flowerbeds. "It reminds me of home."

That earned a curious glance from the other man. "They remind you of home," Erik repeated. "Where's home for you?"

Y/n’s eyes flicked upward to the sky as though the stars might answer for him. "San Francisco. Born and raised there."

Erik nodded slowly. "I’ve been there once. A beautiful city, but a bit foggy and loud."

Y/n chuckled. “All true. But it’s got good food and a few spots by the water that make you feel calm. Just like out here."

Erik let the moment sit, allowing the peaceful atmosphere of the garden to wash over them, before asking his next question. "And what about your powers? When did they first reveal themselves?"

Y/n was a bit surprised by the shift. Erik was asking a lot of questions about him (well, he only asked two, which wasn't a lot), and he seemed interested in getting to know him more. In addition, Y/n found himself wanting to share more about his life with Erik and keep the conversation between them going a little bit longer. So, he didn’t shy away from the question.

"My powers? Oh, man, that’s a story," Y/n chuckled again, sheepishly this time, the kind that only comes from looking back on one's childhood antics with a sense of nostalgia from the embarrassment of childhood chaos. The good kind, though. The kind that left laughter, not scars. "I was eight when they came. I had a crazy sweet tooth — still do, honestly — and it was my birthday. My mom made me this chocolate fudge cake with strawberries on top. I wanted it more than anything."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. You weren’t allowed to have it yet." Erik said, making an educated guess about what had transpired on Y/n's birthday.

Y/n's grin was faint, but unmistakable, as he nodded in agreement with Erik's guess. "Exactly. She said I had to wait until after dinner and banned me from even setting foot in the kitchen. So I sat in the living room, staring at the dessert from across the house, torturing myself."

"And then?"

“I reached my hand out toward it, as if I wished hard enough, it would magically come to me. And, to my surprise, it… did. The cake wobbled a little bit. Initially, I thought it was my imagination, but as I kept my hand out, the cake floated off the counter and started flying across the kitchen, right toward me. As it’s mid-air, my mom turned around and yelled my full name in that ‘you are in so much trouble’ tone, and I panicked. The cake swerved and hit my dad square in the chest, just as he walked through the front door in a brand-new suit and tie. It was so crazy."

The metal man laughed, an actual, genuine laugh that lit up his whole face, clearly picturing the chaos in his mind. "That’s funny. What was their reaction?"

"My mom was furious about the mess and about losing the cake she worked hard on. She ended up ordering one. But my dad? He stood there, looked down at himself, and said, ‘At least let me get a fork before throwing a cake at me.' But they were supportive. About me being a mutant, I mean. I was lucky. Really lucky."

The words lingered, gentle and honest. Y/n knew that he had been incredibly fortunate, and he hit the jackpot when it came to having two human parents who were accepting of his differences. A lot of mutants didn't have the same luxury of growing up in a supportive and loving environment. Many of them had tragic backstories that were marked by fear and pain instead of chocolate cake and laughter. The ones who didn't have such traumatic experiences were pretty rare.

Erik, on the other hand, didn't have a good experience when his powers first manifested. When Y/n had accidentally been given a glimpse into Erik's life story through his psychometric abilities, what he saw was a stark contrast to his own upbringing. It was grief, loss, and anger.

Companionable silence settled in the air. The fountain burbled softly behind them, water spilling over stone into the round basin. Crickets chirped in the trees, and an owl called in the distance, its hoot echoing briefly before fading. Leaves whispered as the breeze moved through, brushing against them with cool fingers.

"You know," Y/n was the one who broke the quiet, "you really surprised me today."

"Oh yeah?" Erik murmured, scooting a little closer, one arm resting casually along the back of the bench. "How so?"

"I didn’t know the great Magneto had such a way with words," Y/n said softly.

One of Erik’s brows arched in disbelief. "I have been accused of many things in my life, but eloquence rarely makes the list."

"Well, you can add it now." Without realizing it, Y/n found himself scooting a little closer to Erik as well. "What you did for Milo today... that was incredible, Erik."

“Mm," a contemplative look appeared on Erik's features. The compliment seemed to settle awkwardly on his shoulders, as if he wasn't sure if it fit or if he was even worthy of such praise. "I didn’t do anything special. I just told him the truth.

"You did something I couldn’t," Y/n admitted. "I’ve been trying to reach that part of him — the part that hurts. But he shut me out every time. He never let me in." His tone was not bitter or resentful, but a simple statement of fact. He didn't take offense to the fact that Milo shut him out, but accepted it as a challenge that he had not been able to overcome, but Erik had been able to. "But you… you saw him. Really saw him. And you spoke to the pain in a language he understood."

"That’s because Milo didn’t need someone who talks around the pain. He needed someone who’s been through it."

Y/n nodded. "I know, just like I knew from the start that I couldn’t give him that. But watching you today…" A pause followed after his words before: "You’re a lot more than I expected," more than the helmet, the fear, and the legacy. He sees that now, and he knows that the teenager saw it, too. "Milo’s lucky to have you. It’s just a shame that you’ll be leaving soon."

"What makes you think that I’m leaving soon?" The brown-haired questioned.

"Well… Charles told me. He said you were only staying to help Milo. That it wasn’t permanent." Y/n kept his voice calm and controlled without letting any amount of dejection bleed into his voice. Honestly, Y/n did want Erik to stay, but he didn’t want to tell him that out loud.

"That was the plan, but," a ghostly smirk played on his lips, that damn smirk that Y/n thought made Erik's features look even more handsome, especially with the lighting of the garden. "I've found a few reasons to stick around," Erik said finally.

A few reasons? Curiously bled into Y/n’s expression and his voice as he asked, “And what reasons might those be?”

Erik leaned just slightly forward, his voice dropping into something deeper, rougher, edged with a dangerous charm. "You. You are at the top of that little list."

Y/n’s breathing hitched.

Erik gently bumped his knee against Y/n’s and kept it there, right next to Y/n’s. That was all it took. Y/n’s psychometric powers instantly came to life. Just for a second, the sound around them dimmed and Erik’s thoughts, clear, raw, vivid, flooded into his mind like radio static suddenly becoming a clear broadcast:

I want to kiss him so bad. Erik’s eyes dropped from Y/n’s eyes to his lips, and he licked his own. I’m going to kiss him.

Erik's head was closer to Y/n's face, and Y/n found himself leaning in too, almost unconsciously, as if drawn by an unseen force. The distance between them was shrinking, the space between their faces, their lips, their bodies, growing smaller and smaller. Oh my God! Y/n's thoughts exclaimed, a sudden, shocking realization that he was actually going to kiss Erik, that this was really happening. Their faces were only centimeters apart. Y/n's heart was pounding. He could feel the warmth of Erik's breath on his skin—

"Y/n!"

The sudden interruption was like a splash of cold water, shocking both Erik and Y/n out of their intimate moment. They jumped apart, their heads turning in unison to face the source of the voice. And that's when they saw him — Devon.

The teenage boy, tall and lanky, with his signature afro, jogged up to the garden path with a sense of urgency. He looked completely oblivious to the fact that he had just interrupted a romantic moment.

On the bench, Y/n and Erik sat too straight, too stiff, each pretending they hadn’t been leaning in, hadn’t been one breath away from colliding. Y/n’s pulse thundered in his chest, while beside him, Erik’s eyes narrowed in what might have been irritation or, more likely, frustration.

"There you are!" Devon skidded to a stop in front of them, panting lightly, clearly in some sort of need, if Y/n had to guess. "I need you to take me to the hair store."

Y/n blinked, his mind still reeling from the sudden interruption, the emotional whiplash of the moment leaving him feeling dazed. "...What?" The hair store?

"The hair store," Devon repeated, as if it was obvious, gesturing at his afro with both hands like it was a matter of life and death to emphasize the importance of his mission. "I ran out of moisturizer."

"Uh..." Y/n glanced at Erik, then back at Devon. "Um, can’t it wait until tomorrow?"

The teen looked horrified at the thought of going tomorrow. Devon clutched his hair like Y/n had just suggested setting it on fire. "No! They’re closed tomorrow. It’s Sunday. They don’t open on Sundays. I can’t go a whole day with a dry afro, are you crazy? Do you know what happens to my curls when I skip a day?" Devon's voice rose to a near-panic. "It’s a crisis."

Y/n tried to maintain a straight face. He really did, but it was no use. The earnest panic on Devon's face, paired with the way he protectively patted his hair, was too much to handle. A snort of laughter escaped Y/n's lips. And honestly, the boy had a point — his afro was impressive. It deserved proper care. "Alright, alright," Y n relented, standing up and dusting at his pants, though nothing clung to them. "You win. We’ll head there now. Crisis averted." He turned to Erik, swallowing down the flustered disappointment still thrumming through him. "I should leave now. Duty calls. Have a good night, Erik."

Erik stood up from the bench as well, his expression unreadable, "Good night, Y/n."

As Y/n turned to leave, following Devon down the path toward the gate, he could feel Erik’s eyes lingering on his back. He couldn’t believe that they almost kissed. And even though the kiss between them hadn’t happened, something else had.

Y/n realized at this time that there was a pull now, undeniable, threading between him and Erik Lehnsherr. A pause in time that whispered: This isn’t over. And Y/n? He wasn’t sure if his heart was ready for what that meant. But it kinda wanted to.

Meanwhile, from inside the mansion, within the room that was designated as the unofficial break room for the X-Men, Scott Summers groaned in frustration. Through the glass, he had just watched the moment where Erik and Y/n almost shared a kiss, only for it to be cut short by Devon and his dedication to hair care.

"Dammit," Scott pushed away from the window, running a hand through his hair. Unbelievable. "They were this close. This freaking close to kissing, but Devon has the worst timing. We need to help them."

Scott spun toward the rest of the room, where Jean sat cross-legged on the love seat sofa with a half-eaten granola bar in her hand. Storm was perched up on the armrest across from her, and Peter was sitting cross-legged on the floor, demolishing a bag of chips. Raven set two mugs down on the table, one for her and one for Charles. Hank was sitting next to Raven, reading a science journal.

Storm, Jean, Scott, and Peter had been watching a VHS rental of the Karate Kid. The screen was on Daniel’s wax-on/wax-off training scene when Scott had gotten up to grab a snack, and as he passed by the window, his eyes just so happened to glance outside. That's when he saw Erik and Y/n, alone together in the garden.

He had Storm pause the tape, the screen freezing with a faint hum of static, much to Peter’s dismay. Leaving it paused for too long could wreck the tape. But Erik and Y/n were more important than the movie, so he let it slide, for now. But he would keep an eye on the VHS player.

Jean nodded immediately. "Agreed. Their pining is so loud it’s practically a radio frequency. I can hear Erik thinking about Y/n constantly. It’s embarrassing."

Peter looked up mid-crunch. "So what if I just — hear me out — zip them both into a closet, tie them up, then vanish? They'd have enough alone time to admit their feelings for each other. Instant romance."

"Sounds like kidnapping," Storm noted dryly, Kenyan accent thick and smooth.

“Sounds like a solution,” Peter countered.

"Not when Erik and Y/n can move things with their minds," the redhead pointed out. "They would break out in a second."

"That’s why we have to help them," Scott declared, dropping back onto the couch beside Jean, "because, so far, every time they are alone, something happens. Y/n flinches and runs like he’s being chased by ghosts, or the universe throws a wrench into the timeline. Erik clearly wants to ask Y/n out. We just need to stop them from being interrupted when they have a moment alone and stop Y/n from fleeing like a nervous deer long enough for Erik to make his move."

From the table, Raven looked up, hearing that last part. One eyebrow raised. "Are you four seriously plotting to manipulate two grown adults into confessing their feelings?" She asked, causing four faces to glance over at her. "That’s a new one."

"Do you disapprove?" Storm questioned.

Raven gave that question some thought, sipping her drink. "…Actually, no. I think it’s a nice idea." Her words surprised the group since they had expected her to be in disapproval of their little plan, instead of being on board with it. "Y/n would be good for him, and he sees Erik for who he really is. Not what the world says he is."

Hank's eyes finally lifted from the journal he had been reading. He had been trying to stay out of the conversation until now. "You're all assuming they want our help."

"They do," Scott said immediately.

"They just don’t know it yet," Jean added.

Hank adjusted his glasses. "I'm going to play devil’s advocate here, which is ironic since Erik’s already playing that part. But maybe you guys should not be meddling in the private lives of other people, huh?"

Everyone stared at him in silence.

Hank frowned. "I mean it, guys. I think — surprisingly — they’d be good together. But meddling in other people’s romantic lives usually backfires spectacularly."

Charles, who’d been quiet until now, set down his tea. "I’m inclined to agree with Hank. I think Erik and Y/n need to figure this out for themselves, without outside interference. We can't force them to act on their feelings, but we can be here for them, to support them when they need it."

Silence fell. A guilty kind of silence, as the four conspirators exchanged looks.

Then:

"…So, anyway," Scott clapped his hands, cutting clean across Charles’s wisdom. They completely ignored him. "We need ideas, guys. How do we get them alone long enough to finish what they started?"

The speedster grinned. "Already on it," Peter said, zipping off and returning with a handheld blackboard small enough to hold under one arm and some chalk. He started scribbling something. The words came out titled: Operation: Get Erik and Y/n Together Fast across the top part.

Charles could only sigh.

XXXXX XXXXX

Something was going on.

Y/n couldn’t put his finger on it yet, but the signs were there, subtle at first. He wasn’t usually the paranoid type. In fact, he was often the last one to notice when people were acting strange or pick up on the subtle cues and hints others noticed. But this time, even he couldn’t ignore the strange behavior. And the strangeness seemed to center around four people in particular: Jean, Scott, Storm, and Peter.

The first clue had been subtle, but it had caught Y/n's attention nonetheless. He walked into his history class and noticed Jean, Scott, and Storm were all huddled near a desk, whispering furiously about something. The second his foot crossed the threshold, Y/n was met with silence. Instant, suspicious silence. Jean cleared her throat and started fiddling with her ponytail. Scott coughed into his fist and suddenly found the Rubik’s Cube on his desk the most fascinating object in the universe, despite not actually turning it.

It was the kind of staged normalcy that only looked more suspicious the harder they tried. And it seemed like they were having a conversation they didn’t want him to hear. Okay, weird, Y/n thought.

It didn’t stop there, though.

The second clue came the following day, courtesy of Peter. Y/n had been walking down the stairs toward the entrance hall of the mansion when Peter, without any warning, zipped into view, making him jump. Y/n had told him a hundred times that sneaking up on him was going to cause a heart attack one day, but Peter, as usual, never listened to his warning.

"Hey, Y/n," Peter greeted, far too chipper, popsicle stick dangling from his fingers and a cassette Walkman hanging from his belt, the earphones dangling down his chest like a makeshift necklace. "Just wondering, hypothetically speaking, what's your ideal date?"

Y/n raised an eyebrow. That was such a random question to ask him. "...What?"

"Your ideal date," Peter repeated, as if it were the most normal question in the world. "Like, are you a picnic-in-the-park guy? Candlelit dinner overlooking a nice view? Movies?" He licked the last streak of cherry-red sugar from the tan stick.

"You're weird."

"And you’re avoiding the question," Peter shot back. "So I’ll just assume all of the above is your answer." The speedster left, leaving Y/n to stare at his blurry form in confusion. Everyone's becoming weirder.

The third clue had been Storm. One day, Y/n was at the gardens, watering some lilies while absentmindedly humming along to Michael Jackson's Thriller (a song that he had been obsessed with since it came out two years ago) when he saw Storm in the distance, holding… was that a walkie-talkie? He squinted. That was definitely a walkie-talkie. The fact that she had one wasn't the strange part, since kids and some teenagers had them these days. But Storm was acting like she was in some kind of spy movie.

At that point, Y/n had no doubts. Storm and the others were up to something, and Y/n wanted to know what that was.

He could’ve found out the truth instantly, of course. All it would take was brushing against one of them, letting his abilities uncover their whole plan in vivid detail. But Y/n respected people's privacy, and he wasn't about to invade their thoughts without their consent. If those four were planning something, Y/n figured it was probably harmless. Maybe some team-building prank or an elaborate birthday surprise party for him, even though his birthday was three months away. Maybe they were planning it early or something.

Probably just… X-Men shenanigans.

Despite his attempts to brush it off, Y/n still kept getting this weird itch at the back of his neck. Not danger — nothing alarming — just that buzzing sense that he was somehow at the center of a plan he didn’t yet know he had been a part of.

And Y/n wouldn’t need his powers to figure it out. The clues weren’t stopping. In fact, there were three more instances waiting for him, each one peeling back the curtain a little further until the whole ridiculous truth became evident to him.

It started innocently enough. Y/n walked into the kitchen after running into Hank in the hallway just before, with the intent of grabbing his usual pre-training snack: honeybuns. Located on the second shelf.

Only now they weren’t.

"Oh, come on," he groaned.

He stared up at the cupboard in confusion. His honeybuns were on the top shelf. The highest shelf. It was just like the other day. Seriously, who keeps doing this? He had told everyone, twice, that his snack box was to be kept on the second shelf at all times, no exceptions, so why were they being moved to the top shelf? It was as if they thought that since he had telekinesis, he could just bring the honeybuns to him, which made some sense, but still, it was frustrating.

Y/n's hand had been moving upward, intent on retrieving the honeybuns from the top shelf, but it was halted mid-air when his wrist was suddenly grabbed, and fingers wrapped around it. Y/n's eyes turned slightly to the side, and his gaze met Erik's, who was standing there, wearing a casual t-shirt and sweatpants.

He touched him. Erik was touching him and yet... he got no vision. No sudden rush of thoughts or memories. Just the simple weight of Erik’s hand on his wrist. Relief flickered in Y/n’s chest. Maybe his powers were finally acting right, or they decided to take the morning off. Good.

"You need some help with getting that?" Erik asked, nodding toward Y/n's snack.

"Oh, no," Y/n said quickly. "I’ve got it."

Erik ignored his refusal. He reached up, took the box off the shelf, and gave it to Y/n like he was presenting an offering.

"Thank you," Y/n took the box from him and immediately took one out, which, sadly, happened to be the last one.

"Happy to be of service," Erik smirked. "Especially if it means watching you eat those honeybuns. It is quite endearing."

Y/n cleared his throat, almost dropping the empty box on the floor. "Right," he ripped open the wrapper and bit into it faster than necessary, hoping chewing would disguise how fast his pulse was racing. The two hadn’t talked about that night in the garden — about what almost happened — but that hadn’t stopped Erik from flirting at every opportunity he got.

Y/n didn't know if he should bring it up or if he should just leave it be. Because, why he certainly felt something for Erik (and he knew that Erik felt something for him too), Y/n was terrified because—

"You mind if I try one of those?" Erik’s voice pulled him back into the present.

Y/n shot Erik an apologetic look. "Sorry, man. They’re all gone," he showed Erik the box before tossing it in the trash can.

"Not quite."

Hearing that caused Y/n to stare at him in confusion because, yes, they were all gone, despite Erik thinking otherwise. Y/n watched in shock and disbelief as Erik took the honeybun — the one that was in Y/n’s hand — from him and — oh my God.

Did Erik really just—? Did he actually—?

Erik took a bite out of Y/n's honey bun.

The brown-haired took a sizable bite out of Y/n's snack. Then, because apparently tormenting Y/n was a hobby, he let out a dramatic, satisfied moan, licking his lips to savor the taste. A strange sensation of weakness washed over Y/n's legs, and he felt himself swaying slightly, as if his body was reacting to the sight of Erik's enjoyment. His brain short-circuited. Erik looks so handsome, and Y/n wondered what else that tongue of his can do to—

Nope! Stop it. Bad thoughts.

"That was tasty. I can see why you enjoy them," Erik held out the honey bun to Y/n, and he took it. Their fingers brushed together in the process, and Y/n was suddenly struck by another vision.

One where Y/n was in a bed that was not his own. Erik was beside him, his arm thrown over Y/n’s waist. His hand slid down, brushing over his stomach, fingers splaying wide against the thin fabric of his shirt. The touch was warm, and Y/n could feel Erik’s fingers in real time. His mind watched as Erik planted a kiss on the back of his neck, and then he whispered into Y/n's ear, "I love you."

Y/n jumped back like he had touched an electric fence and shoved the remaining honeybun into his mouth before running out of there with a garbled "Igottagobye."

Why does this keep happening?!

What Y/n didn’t know was that Hank, who had absolutely no business being part of this matchmaking scheme, had quietly agreed to "help out" so long as "no one got hurt or emotionally scarred."

Which meant: he moved the honeybuns.

The second instance, Y/n had thought nothing of it... at first. He was sitting in his office, an office that he had begged Charles for since he was technically a professor himself, due to his powers. He was grading papers, his pen scratching out notes and comments, when a knock came from his open door. Glancing up, Scott was standing there in the doorway.

"What’s up, Scott?"

"Hey," Scott greeted too casually. "Some of us are hitting the movies tonight to see A Nightmare on Elm Street. You in?"

A Nightmare on Elm Street. Y/n's mind drifted to the newspaper article he had read just a few weeks ago, announcing the movie's premiere tonight. He had to admit, he was intrigued by the concept of horror movies, even if he didn't always enjoy the experience of watching them.

While he hated jump scares, he found the storylines and themes fascinating, often exploring the darker aspects of human nature. In addition, the poster for the movie and the ominous tagline had caught his attention. The one-liner from that newspaper, 'If Nancy doesn't wake up screaming, she won't wake up at all' had intrigued him. Y/n did want to see it.

He set his pen down. "Who's all going?"

"Me, Jean, Storm, Peter, Raven, Hank." Scott rattled off. "So? Are you coming?"

Y/n considered it for all of two seconds. "Sure, why not? I could use a film break."

And that's how Y/n found himself at the movie theaters, in the snack line, with a ticket in his hand, surrounded by most of the X-Men. Raven and Hank were the only ones not here yet, and Y/n couldn't help but wonder what was taking them so long to arrive. He glanced down at his watch, noting that the movie was going to start in fifteen minutes, and he wanted to ensure that they all could get some good seats in the middle together, especially since it was packed tonight.

"Y/n," Jean’s voice reached his ears. "Don’t you need to use the bathroom?"

An eyebrow ascended, "I do? Wait—" Y/n took a moment to think about it, and he realized: "I think I actually do. I'll be right back," he took out his wallet and handed Storm a five-dollar bill. "Can you get a small popcorn, a medium drink, and some gummy worms? Thank you."

After that, Y/n headed to the bathroom, taking a moment to attend to his needs. It didn't take him long to use it — he only had to pee — and he hoped that when he left the restroom, Raven and Hank would have finally arrived. And indeed, when he got back, he was relieved to see that not only had Hank and Raven finally arrived, but also that everyone had their snacks.

However, that wasn’t the only thing that Y/n noticed. Because, standing next to Raven, with a cup of soda in his hand was—

"Erik?" Y/n sounded surprised because, yes, he was pleasantly surprised at the unexpected sight of Erik standing in the theater lobby, looking unfairly good, to be honest — in a gray t-shirt and jeans. "I didn’t know you were coming with us."

"He decided to tag along," Hank supplied helpfully, as he passed Raven her ticket.

"Yeah, because Raven—"

"—thought it’d be good for Erik to have a night out," Raven finished, cutting in with the kind of smile that was just a bit too satisfied to be innocent, especially from the sideways look that Erik gave Raven.

Y/n nod was slow and his eyes bounced from Raven… to Erik... to Hank... then to the others. Very interesting how all of a sudden they're fascinated with literally anything that wasn’t him. Jean coughed and looked away. Peter started whistling a jaunty tune, the sound grating on Y/n's nerves as he tried to make sense of the awkward atmosphere. Storm gave him a smile. Scott, meanwhile, had become fascinated with the theater floor.

"...Right," the word left Y/n’s mouth in a drawn out manner as he looked between them all. "Well, we should probably head inside now. The movie is about to start."

After the usher took their tickets, tore them in half, and handed half the stubs back to them, the group shuffled toward the auditorium doors. Somehow, Y/n ended up walking at the front with Erik while the rest of the team trailed behind.

Inside, Y/n was immediately struck by the sheer number of people already seated and waiting for the movie to start. The room was packed. It seemed like everyone and their mama had come out to see the new horror film. E/c eyes scanned the room, and Y/n saw a single row in the middle of the auditorium, with just enough empty seats for all of them.

And yet, when Y/n turned back to inform the group about the available seats, they had their own seating arrangements, it seemed. Scott and Jean took the far left seats. Peter and Storm quickly darted to the back row, mumbling something about a "better view" and Raven dragged Hank to sit in the front. To make matters worse, the seats that Y/n had previously scouted out had been taken by a family.

Y/n turned back to the last person with him, only to see that Erik had found a spot halfway down the aisle, one open seat waiting next to him. "Come sit next to me," Erik pointed to it with his thumb.

Y/n hesitated without even realizing it. There were other empty seats scattered around the theater where he could sit. But he didn't want to sit by himself. And besides, he didn't want to be rude to Erik, who was kindly offering him a seat next to him. Y/n could handle sitting next to Erik for hours without physical contact.

"Okay."

The telekinetic mutant lowered himself into the seat. Just as he settled, Storm reappeared at his side with his snacks. "I almost forgot, here’s your stuff, Y/n."

Her hands moved, handing him a soda, a pack of gummy worms, and a bucket of popcorn. Y/n frowned— "Uh… I thought I asked for a small?" This wasn't a small. The popcorn that Storm had handed him was a large, and Y/n knew he would not be able to finish it. That was why he had specifically asked for a small popcorn in the first place; didn't want to waste food.

A casual shrug came from Storm, her shoulders rising and falling. "I know, but I figured you and Erik could share a large one since he didn’t have any for himself."

That... that didn't make a huge amount of sense. How would Storm have known that Erik wouldn't get any popcorn at all, considering she had ordered his snacks before Erik even arrived? Furthermore, if Erik had indeed tagged along, like Hank had said, then Storm would have had no way of knowing that he was going to be there in the first place. So, what was—?

Unfortunately, Y/n didn't have time to formulate the question because Storm vanished back up the aisle, leaving him with a bucket too big for one person and a nagging suspicion curling in his chest.

"You don’t mind sharing, do you?" Erik suddenly asked, glancing at the popcorn.

Y/n shook his head quickly. "No, no. Not at all." He even managed to shoot Erik a forced, reassuring smile. As the theater lights dimmed and the opening credits flickered onto the screen, Y/n had one, well, three, simple rules to follow: keep his eyes forward, keep his focus on the movie, and under no circumstances let their hands brush in the popcorn bucket.

Simple enough.

Twenty-three minutes in, and Y/n had to admit, it was a really good movie so far. The setup was indeed fresh, different. The director had cooked up a whole new kind of nightmare villain, something that rewrote the very rules of slasher cinema, turning the safest place, the sanctuary of sleep, into a hunting ground. There was a killer who didn’t need to chase you down in an alleyway, who didn’t need a knife to your throat; he just needed you to close your eyes and dream, since if you died in your dreams, you'd die in real life. This movie delivered a clever, terrifying, and strangely emotional start. Good stuff.

But how the hell were these characters supposed to fight something like this? They were just ordinary kids. The thing that killed Tina wasn’t just some guy in a red and green sweater. It was a demon, or some type of supernatural entity. And what about Rod, who had been wrongly accused of killing Tina and was now in jail for a crime he didn't commit. Would anyone figure out that Rod was innocent and release him before someone else died? Y/n was so caught up in the story, he barely remembered to eat his snacks.

"Nancy…"

Onscreen, Nancy suddenly sat up with a start, her gaze snapping toward the open classroom doorway. And there she was.

Tina. The girl who was slaughtered not even half an hour into the movie. Except now she stood upright in a clear, rubbery body bag, her face pressed against the bloody plastic. Oh no, Y/n's heart sank. If Nancy's seeing her dead friend, then she must’ve dozed off. He has her now.

Nancy looked around quickly, searching for some sign that someone else had noticed. But they all were completely oblivious to the terrifying sight standing in the doorway. Every student sat facing forward, unmoving and silent. The only exception was the student standing at the front of the class, reciting a passage in a monotone voice: "O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams..." Y/n had shuddered.

The line by itself was unsettling enough, but paired with the low, crawling creep of the score sliding under the dialogue and that blood staining the floor... yeah, he was officially creeped the fuck out.

Nancy got up from her seat and disappeared through the doorway. She looked to the right before looking to the left, and again, her eyes seemed to lock onto something — or someone. "Tina?"

The camera panned down the hallway. Tina's body bag came into view, still and unmoving on the floor, surrounded by a long, trailing streak of blood. So much. Her hand thrust out of the bag, and then, as if pulled by some invisible force, the bag vanished out of sight and into an intersecting corridor. What the fuck?

Nancy walked toward it.

Y/n’s entire body tensed. No. Don’t go after it. His inner voice was practically screaming, Stop! It’s not her; it’s a trap set by the guy. But of course, it was a movie, and she couldn’t hear his warning.

Nancy's pace quickened as she called out, "Tina!" The walk turned into a light jog, and then, as the creepy score picked up, that jog turned into a full-blown run.

Nancy rounded the corner and let out a sharp cry. Y/n jumped slightly, his eyes darting away from the screen. His hands flew up to instinctively cover part of his face. He couldn't help himself; the scene was just too creepy. A hand was placed on his upper back, and he jumped again, only to look up and see that it was Erik’s hand touching him. Y/n was leaning into him as if his mind and body wanted to seek Erik’s for support and comfort.

"Are you alright?" Erik asked, his voice a mix of amusement and genuine concern.

Y/n nodded, forcing a laugh and trying to play it cool. "I'm fine. I was just a bit creeped out," it suddenly dawned on him that Erik was still touching him. His hand had never moved away from Y/n's back, which means he made physical contact.

Contact.

That was all it took.

The word rang in his skull, and suddenly the silence in his head wasn’t so silent at all. Thoughts spilled into Y/n’s mind, not his own but Erik’s, clear as if spoken aloud: Man, he is so adorable when he’s scared… and his hair smells incredible.

Y/n's body froze. And then, he heard the unmistakable sound of Erik sniffing near his hair. His mouth and throat went dry. Y/n sat up straight in his chair, trying to compose himself, and took a long sip of his drink before nervously biting his lip.

Onscreen, Nancy stumbled into another room, but Y/n couldn’t focus on her anymore because Erik’s arm had settled across the back of his chair. His thumb brushed lightly against Y/n’s upper arm, tracing an absent pattern there. It wasn't uncomfortable, though. On the contrary, it was quite comfortable, and Y/n found himself enjoying his touch. He should've stopped it, he thought, especially since he could hear more of Erik's thoughts.

Look at him. He’s doing that thing again, biting the corner of his lip to stay calm. He has no idea what that does to me.

Y/n definitely stopped breathing for a second. He knew Erik was into him, but hearing it laid bare in his mind, hearing the softness in it? The want behind it? That was a completely different story.

I should take my hand off him. I should. But if I do, he might pull away again. And I… don’t want that. I like this. I like being close enough to feel him relax when I touch him, even if he doesn’t know it.

Erik’s thumb moved slightly, intentionally brushing in a soothing arc between Y/n’s shoulder blades. Y/n’s fingers tightened around the popcorn bucket inadvertently.

He probably thinks I’m too much. Too intense. Too broken. Too... everything. But he always speaks to me. Still smiles at me like I’m not a monster. Still laughs nervously when I brush his wrist like I’ve set him on fire, and he goes to put it out. Does he even realize he’s doing that?

Y/n sure did realize. Every single time.

I want to take him on a real date. Sit with him at a quiet place. Perhaps a café or a garden. Somewhere peaceful. I want to kiss this man so bad. I want to hold his hand without him pulling away. I want to be someone he doesn’t run away from.

Y/n sucked in a sharp breath, like surfacing after being held under too long. His eyes fixed desperately on the movie screen, on Nancy running through the boiler room. However, Erik’s thoughts clung tighter than the movie’s shadows.

I want to kiss those damn fingers. I bet they taste like popcorn. I also bet they’d feel even better tangled in my own. Or…elsewhere. No, stop. Focus, Erik, you’re in a theater, not a bedroom. But dammit, he makes it hard to behave sometimes.

Y/n shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth before he could make a noise.

XXXXX XXXXX

The third instance occurred a few days later, when Y/n returned to the mansion, exhausted and sweat-drenched from a run. His shirt clung to his back, and his forehead was beaded with perspiration. He was heading to the shower to wash off the sweat and grime when Raven intercepted him, asking if he wanted to grab dinner that night. Y/n immediately agreed since he and Raven didn't often get to spend time together one on one. Plus, Y/n would never turn down food.

He loved food.

Therefore, at seven o'clock, Y/n stood in the garden, where Raven had told him to meet her. However, the shapeshifter was nowhere to be found. Instead, Y/n's eyes landed on a small, intimate table setting, nestled under a canopy of twinkling fairy lights. The table was draped with a crisp white tablecloth, adorned with candles in glass jars, and two plates already set with steaming food. The whole scene looked like it had been plucked from the pages of a romance novel or love movie.

Very charming, Y/n thought to himself, as his hand reached out to brush it lightly across the linen. There was even a beautiful bouquet of flowers that added a pop of color to the arrangement.

This was definitely a bit fancier than he had expected for a casual dinner with a friend, but he appreciated the effort that Raven had put into creating this special setting today. That was so sweet of her. He thought they were grabbing a bite to eat at a diner or fast food place, but this was much better than that. Where is she?

Footsteps crunched on the gravel path behind him. "Wow... you outdid yourself with—" Y/n turned around, but the words died on his tongue. Raven wasn't here. It was Erik walking towards him. What—?

Erik stopped mid-step when he saw him, with the same startled recognition. His brow furrowed slightly in surprise. "Y/n?"

Y/n blinked. "What are you doing here?"

"Raven wanted me to meet her here for dinner," Erik’s gaze slid past him, landing on the romantic candlelit spread. "This is… quite the spread for a friendly dinner."

Y/n's brows furrowed in confusion as he tried to process the information. Raven had told Erik to meet her here for dinner when she had already made plans to eat dinner with him. Why would she do that?

It didn’t make any sense for Raven to—

Oh.

The pieces suddenly clicked together like a puzzle he should have solved days ago. The weird behavior and the random questions and actions that had seemed out of place at the time. Y/n's honeybun being moved (though he wasn’t so sure about that one). Peter's question about his ideal date, Storm's walkie-talkie, the oversized popcorn at the movies, Scott inviting him to a horror movie when Scott hated horror movies. Erik just happening to tag along. And now, this — a candlelit dinner for two that screamed "date" more than a friendly dinner with Raven, who was nowhere to be seen. The realization hit him like a freight train. They set us up.

"Oh my goodness," Y/n murmured under his breath. They have been setting us up this whole time. Before Y/n could speak again, a sharp click sounded nearby, and Y/n's head swiveled toward the sound.

Sitting right on top of a hedge — how had he not noticed that before? — was a boombox radio cassette player. It looked like Scott's boombox. The little red light blinked, and then music started to play.

Earth Angel, Earth Angel, will you be mine? My darling dear, love you all the time...

I'm just a fool, a fool in love... with you...

Earth Angel, Earth Angel, the one I adore Love you forever and ever more…

Earth Angel by the Penguins.

Erik's brows shot up in surprise, and he let out a low, amused chuckle. His gaze flicked to the boombox, where the music was playing, and then back to Y/n, who was standing there, looking like a deer in headlights. "This is... interesting. Raven's got a flair for the dramatic, doesn't she?"

Y/n let out a nervous laugh: high, shaky, and just a little hysterical. "Yeah. Uh, I’m about ninety-seven percent sure Raven’s not coming. I think this—" he gestured to the table with his right hand. "—is for us."

"For us," Erik repeated. "So you’re saying this was a setup to get us alone...?" Y/n gave the smallest, most reluctant nod. A soft hum slipped past Erik’s lips, almost to himself. “Not the worst plan I’ve ever heard." He stepped forward, the glow of the candles throwing sharp gold across his cheekbones. “I’ll admit, I’m flattered by the amount of effort put into this."

Y/n opened his mouth to argue, to protest the setup and the manipulation, but then he closed it again. Because, honestly, what was the point? The fairy lights were beautiful, twinkling like stars in the evening air, and the food smelled amazing. Furthermore, the way Erik was looking at him now, like he was the most beautiful thing in the garden, wasn't part of the scheme. That expression was real.

But—

He exhaled slowly, staring up at the sky like he was praying for lightning to smite him on the spot, to rescue him from this awkward and confusing situation. "Do we... leave? Pretend this didn't happen?"

Erik's head tilted slightly to one side, as if he was considering Y/n's question. "We could," he said, and Y/n figured that was an answer in itself, thinking Erik was willing to forget about this whole thing and leave like nothing happened. Then, Erik's lips continued to move, and more words tumbled out, revealing a different intention altogether. "But I don't see why we should let perfectly good food go to waste, especially since we're hungry."

"I didn't say I was—" Y/n started, but was cut off by a loud, growling noise coming directly from his stomach. Uh, he looked down at his abdomen, feeling a sense of embarrassment and betrayal. Traitor. He looked at Erik, who was watching him with an amused expression. "Never mind. I guess I am. But this is—"

"Dinner," Erik interrupted, pulling out a chair for himself and sitting down, "with someone who, unless I’m completely mistaken, you don’t hate." With his hand, he gestured to the seat across the table. "Sit. Unless you’re going to bolt again."

Y/n hesitated, his mind torn between the instinct to flee and the desire to stay. He was tempted to bolt, to laugh this off, to shove the whole thing back into the box it had been pried open from. And yet — beneath that panic was the gnawing pull he couldn’t deny, the one that had been there since the day Erik walked into his life. Something in the back of his mind whispered: Sit your ass down and stop running. Just this once. Therefore, he was going to listen to that voice and see where the night took him. But first—

"…Okay," Y/n said finally, "Just, uh, let me go get some salt from the kitchen first." He announced, backing toward the exit.

"Don't take too long!"

I’m just a fool… A fool in love… with you.

XXXXX XXXXX

Y/n’s sneakers squeaked against the floors as he hurried down the hall, pulse racing like he’d just sprinted a marathon. He was on a date. With Erik. A real date. His nerves were tangled in a thousand knots, and the more he thought about it, the less he could see any way out of this.

He walked into the kitchen, expecting it to be empty, but that wasn’t it. Hank was sitting at the table, a half-eaten Twinkie in one hand and another unwrapped on the table. Y/n’s e/c eyes narrowed. "You."

Hank looked up, startled, and he looked like a kid who had been caught red-handed sneaking cookies. "Y/n. Uh, what—what are you doing here?" he stuttered, his voice pitched too high, and his words spilling out nervously. He quickly shoved the Twinkie into his mouth, chewing with exaggerated nonchalance, as if trying to seem innocent. But Y/n wasn't buying it.

"I know what you and the rest of the X-Men have been doing," Y/n accused, stabbing a finger in Hank’s direction as he marched forward. He dropped into the chair opposite him like a prosecutor slamming down his case. "You’ve been playing Cupid by setting me and Erik up."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Hank wiped the crumbs from his face.

"Oh, really? You’re sticking to that story?"

"I am."

"Then you won’t mind if I look into that furry head of yours." Y/n’s hand reached across the table, hovering by Hank’s arm.

The scientist dodged Y/n’s touch and threw his hands up in defeat. "Okay, fine. Yes, we've been trying to set you two up, but, for the record, it wasn’t my idea. The others did this because you wouldn’t let Erik ask you out without bolting, and you wouldn’t ask him out, so everyone’s been stuck watching the world’s slowest, most agonizing romantic tension unfold like a soap opera with a horrible signal."

Y/n’s mouth fell open. "...That’s not fair."

"It’s a little fair," Hank replied. "You flinch like this spooked animal every time Erik touches you. You like him, and he clearly likes you. Why don’t you ask him out?"

"That's because — because I can’t!" Y/n groaned, "Look, I’ve never asked anyone out before, okay? Not once. I freeze up. I overthink. Oh, it's just like Emily Gomez."

Hank frowned. "Emily who?"

"Emily Gomez," Y/n repeated, burying his face in his hands as his mind drifted. “Roosevelt Middle School. I liked her for six months and remembered she liked cherry soda, pineapple lifesavers, cats, and, surprisingly, Twilight Zone. I tried to ask her out, but I chickened out because I was too nervous, even when I brought the Lifesavers. I just… watched her date Brett McAllister a month later and then they danced at the eighth-grade formal while I stood next to the snack table pretending not to be heartbroken."

"That… is both tragic and on-brand."

Y/n peeked from between his fingers to stare at the genius. "You’re not helping."

"I’m just saying," Hank shrugged, "you’ve always been... emotionally constipated."

Y/n dropped his head back with another groan. “You are the worst therapist ever."

Hank ignored the playful insult. "So why don’t you let Erik ask you out instead?”

Y/n didn't answer that at first. He wasn't avoiding the question, but rather, he was choosing his words carefully, "Because..." He paused briefly before continuing. "Erik... he's... I know he's going through something. Something that I don't think he's really dealt with. I don't want to be another distraction for him until he has the chance to heal," he finished, without revealing too much about Erik's personal struggles he'd been given a glimpse into.

Hank's head tilted to one side. "What if you're not a distraction? What if you're a part of the reason he starts healing?"

The question was like a key turning in a lock. Y/n had been so focused on not wanting to be a burden to Erik and not wanting to distract him from his healing that he hadn't considered the opposite possibility. What if, instead of being a distraction, Y/n was actually a source of comfort and support for Erik? What if he was the person who could help Erik heal, who could help him find his way again? The wheels in Y/n's head started turning.

Hank continued, "Go back outside. Eat with him. You’re already halfway through the one scene from Lady and the Tramp. You might as well lean in and finish it."

Y/n huffed out a laugh. "Alright. I will go out there and see where this night takes me, but," he pointed a finger into Hank’s chest, "only if you finally ask Raven out."

This time, it was Hank's turn to let out a loud groan. "We’re back on this again?"

"Oh, Hankie, we never left." Y/n looked far too pleased with himself now as he offered a proposition. "I tell you what—" his grin widened, "—you promise to take her on a date, I’ll sit my ass back under those fairy lights like it’s prom night and Erik Lehnsherr’s got the last slow dance."

Hank gave a head shake. "I’m not sure she's looking for a relationship right now."

Y/n's gaze drifted to his right, his eyes looking through the closed windows. "She is," a simple, yet direct statement.

Hank's eyes narrowed in suspicion and curiosity. "Did you… look into her head?"

Y/n's shoulders rose and fell in a casual, nonchalant manner, neither confirming nor denying Hank's accusation. "Here's a fun fact: Raven's a romantic at heart," he got up from his chair and headed over to the cabinet, rummaging through rows of spices. "Also, pro tip: her favorite flowers are orchids. She likes chocolate-covered pretzels, too. Keep all that in mind when you finally grow a spine and ask her out."

Behind him, Hank murmured under his breath, "Orchids and chocolate-covered pretzels… got it. But I’m still not sure—"

"Don’t worry," Y/n pulled out the salt shaker and turned around to face Hank. "You've got this. Make a move on Raven, and I’ll see what's up with me and Erik."

Hank sighed, shaking his head in more reluctant acceptance than protest. "Fine. But if I crash and burn, I’m blaming you."

"Deal," Y/n grinned, turning to head out, but his eyes caught on something in the trash can nearby that made him freeze. It was his honeybun box, the one he had recently restocked. He only ate three, so there should have been three left. Yet, it was gone. "Uh, who ate my honeybuns?" A choking sound came from behind him, quickly masked as a cough. Y/n turned around fast. "Hank, did you eat them?"

Hank shook his head too quickly. "No," the word flew out of his mouth way too fast as well. Y/n’s feet moved forward, hand lifting threateningly toward Hank’s arm, and Hank spoke up again. "Alright, Sorry. I might have accidentally eaten it earlier. It was there. I was hungry. It was before dinner, and I—look, don’t be mad."

Y/n’s features smoothed into something terrifyingly calm. "It’s okay. I’m not mad." He dropped the salt shaker on the table.

"...Really?"

"Really. I'm not," which was exactly when the unopened Twinkie sitting in front of Hank on the table flew off the table and landed into Y/n’s awaiting palm. "But I’m taking this as emotional compensation."

"You little gremlin!" Hank’s transformation into his beast form was instant. His eyes turned yellow, his skin turned blue, his fangs flashed, and his muscles bulged as he lunged across the table, tackling Y/n to the floor. Y/n was surprised by how fast Hank was; he had never seen him move that quickly before.

They crashed to the linoleum, wrestling like overgrown twelve-year-olds fighting over the last slice of pizza. Y/n cackled, twisting away, holding the Twinkie aloft while Hank tried to pry it free from him.

"GIVE IT BACK!"

"IT’S MINE NOW!"

Y/n held the Twinkie above his head with one hand while shielding himself with the other, giggling uncontrollably as Hank flailed. Eventually, Hank snatched the Twinkie back, holding it triumphantly.

"That’s more like it," Hank declared, sitting back on his bottom and taking an exaggerated bite as Y/n lay sprawled on the floor, utterly breathless with laughter.

"You… are ridiculous," Y/n said between chuckles. He stood up, brushing himself off and smoothing down his shirt, which had gotten rumpled during the scuffle. Y/n leveled Hank with a look that was equal parts exasperated and amused. "But fine, you win. I’m letting you keep that one because, unlike some people, I’ve got a very nice dinner to get back to."

"Enjoy the dinner!" Hank called after him.

"Enjoy wooing the shapeshifter!"

Y/n grabbed the salt shaker and jogged towards the garden, where Erik was still waiting. And this time, he wasn’t running. Outside, the music was still playing, the flowers were still blooming, and the food was still steaming, yet the one person Y/n wanted to see wasn't here. Erik's gone.

Y/n frowned at the empty chair. Slowly, he sat down, placing the salt shaker on the table. His eyes scanned the garden, but there was no sight of Erik anywhere.

Where did he go?

Inside the mansion, Erik stood rigid over his bed, shoving another rolled shirt into the half-packed duffel. He wasn’t folding them. His hands only moved quickly as if the faster he packed, the less he'd feel.

Because he was leaving.

His jaw clenched tight as he yanked open a drawer, scooped up a handful of socks and boxers, and dumped them in without care. The bag grew heavier with each addition of clothing, but not nearly as heavy as the weight inside his chest.

It had been a mistake coming here.

Well, coming here wasn't the mistake. He had come to the mansion to help Milo, and he was glad that he had been able to assist him. No, the mistake was staying here longer than he promised he would. Staying here long enough to fall for someone he had no right to fall for.

That beautiful bimbo who dropped things constantly, who couldn’t sit still, who smiled like the world wasn’t broken. That man had crept through every crack in Erik’s heart without trying to. And Erik, the idiot he apparently was, had let him.

He had thought that Y/n liked him back. Sure, he flinched every time Erik touched him, he'd go stiff or stammer, or bolt like a rabbit hearing a twig snap. Still, Erik had never taken it personally or thought that Y/n's reactions were a reflection of his own feelings regarding Erik himself. Instead, he had just figured that Y/n was shy, skittish even, and that his reactions were a result of his own nervousness. And honestly, Erik had found it adorable.

That shyness made Erik smile. It made him wait. He flirted, sure, teased and prodded, but he never pushed because he was certain, deep down, that Y/n was warming up to him. Slowly, maybe, but it was there — in the way he looked at Erik when he thought Erik wasn’t watching, in the way Y/n always smiled at Erik, and in the almost-kiss in the garden that night.

And Erik had been happy.

Emphasis on "had."

Because tonight? That happiness turned into something else. Something darker. Something that burned in his throat and made him want to punch a wall in anger.

He had been so damn hopeful. He hadn't planned any of that romantic setup. He had simply been told he was meeting Raven for dinner. But when he saw the table, the lights, and Y/n standing there under the canopy, he had felt a spark of excitement and possibility. For the first time in a long time, Erik had felt lucky.

And when Y/n stayed? When he actually chose to stay and eat with Erik? Well, he had thought he might've been the luckiest man alive. Someone had finally chosen to stay with him, to be with him, and Erik had seen it as his chance to tell Y/n how he felt. He had been confident that Y/n felt the same way about him in return.

But then time passed.

And passed. And passed.

Erik sat at the table, waiting for Y/n to return with the salt, watching the flames of the candles dance in the breeze. Y/n was taking way too long to grab some salt. It wasn't like it was a complicated task. So, Erik went to go see what was taking him so long to find the seasoning.

That’s when he saw Y/n in the kitchen… with Hank, the two of them laughing and tangled together like a pair of teenagers. What really caught his attention, though, was that Hank's hands were on Y/n's wrist, his arms, his waist, and Y/n was letting him touch him without flinching. In fact, Y/n was clearly enjoying himself.

Y/n was really... comfortable with Hank.

That was the part that stung the most. Hank could touch him freely, and Y/n laughed through it. But with every brush of Erik’s fingers, Y/n flinched every time.

A quiet, irrational bitterness twisted in Erik's gut, like a snake coiling around his insides. He felt the jealousy crawl up his throat like bile, hot and acidic, burning his esophagus and leaving a sour taste in his mouth. He was too old for this kind of fire in his chest, this schoolboy bitterness, and yet, there it was, choking him nonetheless, tightening in his chest.

The two said something, but Erik hadn't stuck around to hear what they said. He didn't want to. He simply turned and left, slipping away before they could see him.

What more was there to hear, anyway? Erik already saw what he needed to see. Y/n let Hank touch him, laugh with him, get close to him. He didn't run from him, didn't flinch or pull away, and that could only mean one thing: Y/n liked him. The picture was clear and spoke for itself.

And Hank, despite his awkward, nerdy exterior, was a smart and kind person, someone who was probably exactly Y/n's type. He was a good man, everything Erik wasn’t. Of course, Y/n would choose him. Of course, Erik was wrong all along.

Erik inhaled sharply, the sound of his own breathing the only thing that broke the silence. He yanked the zipper across the duffel bag. This was pretty pathetic. He knew it. He didn’t get jealous like this, certainly not like some boy watching his crush dance with someone else at prom.

And yet, he couldn't help it. He had been the one watching Y/n every day, working with him, teasing him, and wanting him. Trying to be with him. Erik had endured the world's slowest emotional courtship and said nothing. Guess it didn’t matter.

I should have left sooner than now. Erik thought bitterly, swinging the duffel over his shoulder. Before I let myself feel anything. Before I let him crawl into my head like a song I couldn’t stop hearing.

Erik would not make the same mistake again. He would not let himself fall for someone who didn't feel the same way. Now that Milo was taken care of, Erik would leave and start fresh in Genosha.

With that thought in mind, Erik twisted the doorknob and pulled the door open, ready to step out and not look back. But he stopped short. Charles was there. He looked like he had been waiting there for a while, anticipating Erik's departure.

"Leaving without saying goodbye."

"I didn’t think a formal goodbye was necessary," he said tersely, shifting the strap of the duffel bag on his shoulder. "We’ve already done this enough times."

Charles’s mouth curved into something between a smile and a sigh. “Perhaps. However, I suspect this time is different."

"I doubt it." Erik sidestepped the narrow gap between the chair and the doorway, trying to make a quick escape. He made it only a few steps away when Charles's voice cut through again, stopping him.

"You saw him in the kitchen. Y/n, I mean."

The brown-haired male kept his back facing Charles. He wasn't surprised that Charles knew what had happened in the kitchen, or that Charles had known that he had been watching Y/n and Hank. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do." Charles wheeled forward to be closer. "I know why you’re leaving."

"Charles—"

"You like him. A lot."

Erik turned to face Charles, and he made the decision to tell him the truth. There was no point in lying to him anyway, and Erik didn't know why he had tried to deny his feelings in the first place. "I do, and I thought he liked me too," his voice was low and bitter. "But clearly, I was wrong."

"Because of what you saw?"

Erik let out a breath that was almost a laugh, though it lacked any humor. "That was definitely the icing on the cake, and it further proved that Y/n... doesn’t like me. Why else would he recoil every time I touch him and run away? He doesn’t do that to Hank or to anyone else. Just me."

Charles’s gaze softened with something like pity. "Not for the reasons you think."

Erik's expression was one of disbelief. "Then why don’t you enlighten me, huh?"

"Y/n’s ability," the telepath spoke, "works through touch. It can be overwhelming for him, Erik. More than you may realize."

Erik’s brow furrowed, confusion cutting through his frustration like a knife. "What does his telekinesis have to do with this? He moves things with his mind, Charles. How is that too overwhelming? You’re making excuses. I’m not in the mood—"

"Y/n has another ability."

Erik stilled. Another ability? Y/n never mentioned he had another one. "…Go on."

"His second mutation is psychometry. When Y/n touches someone or objects tied to strong emotions, he's able to see memories, thoughts, feelings. The past. Even glimpses of potential futures. It all comes flooding in at once. He can know everything about anybody. Or anything."

The silence afterward was suffocating. Erik let the explanation settle over him like a bucket of ice water, shocking him into a state of numbness. Then, seconds later, realization bled across his features. Wait a minute... "Are you saying that...?"

"Yes," was the confirmation. "He’s been hearing your thoughts every single time you touched him. Probably feeling it too."

Erik's face flushed, a red color rising to his cheeks as his stomach sank. He felt like he had been punched in the gut, his breath knocked out of him. His mind flashed back to every touch, every time Y/n had jolted away, every time he'd left flustered, breathless, and embarrassed. The memories came flooding back, and Erik's eyes widened in horror at the truth. Every whispered desire and private thought he had kept only in the privacy of his mind had landed directly in Y/n's.

Oh, God.

Erik exhaled, the sound rough, almost horrified. "So every time I touched him—"

"He heard it," Charles confirmed.

"And when I wanted to kiss him—"

"He heard that, too."

Erik swallowed. "When I—"

"Yeah," Charles interrupted. "Even that one time when you mentally described, in very graphic detail, what you wanted to do with your hands and tongue and—"

"Alright!" Erik cut Charles off with a wave of his hand. He heard enough. "I got you. Message received." A strangled noise slipped out of him, something between a groan and a curse. He wished that he could sink into the floor. The bitterness that had driven him to pack his bag was unraveling, thread by thread, replaced by a cautious sense of hope he didn’t trust yet. Erik needed one thing clarified first before he let it take root. "That doesn’t change anything. If he’s bolting because of what he hears, it’s because he doesn’t like it. He and Hank looked comfortable."

Charles shook his head in slight exasperation, but was as patient as ever. “Erik, Y/n isn’t running away because he doesn’t like what he hears. He’s running because he does like it — and it terrifies him. Not everyone makes him feel the way you do." His tone softened slightly.

"He trusts you. He likes you. Enough to sit under lights and candles tonight and hope." Then, with a slight tilt of his head, Charles added, "And as for Hank, you've got it wrong. Hank and Y/n are friends. Nothing more. Y/n’s been teasing Hank endlessly about his feelings for Raven. What you saw was them wrestling over a Twinkie, not a declaration of their love."

Relief washed through Erik so sharply it almost hurt. Hank still had his hopeless crush on Raven. And Y/n hadn't recoiled out of disgust, but because he had heard everything, and he liked it. He just didn't know how to handle wanting them, wanting him. And now, he felt like an idiot. He wanted Y/n to stop running away from him. However, this time, he was the one who had almost run away from something that mattered to him based on an inaccurate assumption.

He had to find Y/n. He had to talk to him now. But where was he now? He could—

"He’s still in the garden," Charles softly supplied as if reading his mind. Which, of course, the telepath did. "And Y/n's hoping he gets to see you again tonight."

The duffel slid from Erik’s shoulder and thudded to the floor, forgotten. Without another word, he rushed past Charles, footsteps fast and unsteady, like a man chasing a train he had nearly missed.

Charles watched him vanish down the corridor. With a small smile curling the corners of his mouth, he picked up the abandoned bag, murmuring to the now-empty hall, "Godspeed, my old friend."

When Erik made it outside, he was greeted by the sight of the candles being blown out and the food being cleared off the table. The garden was quiet and still, except for the sound of crickets chirping in the distance. Y/n was sitting on the bench, leaning back and staring up at the stars in the night sky, his face tilted upwards in a pose of quiet contemplation. Erik straightened up, his heart pounding in his chest, and remembered what Charles had told him.

Y/n does like him.

He’s terrified because he likes him. That thought alone steadied Erik enough to take another step forward. And another.

"Y/n!" Erik called out.

Y/n’s head snapped to the left, his eyes landing on his face. "Erik! Hi!" He stood up, and, of course, he greeted the man politely, despite the fact that Erik didn’t return to their dinner when he should've. "I didn’t think you were coming back."

"I wasn’t." Erik’s honesty cut through the night. "But I had to. I know you’ve been hearing my thoughts. You’re a psychic."

The words made the telekinetic mutant freeze, his mouth opening, closing, then opening again without sound. "I — well, technically, yes. How did you find out?"

"Charles told me," Erik said gently, "and I wish I’d known about that. If I knew how much you were hearing, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time with the constant flirting. I would have just told you this."

The brown-haired mutant stepped closer.

"I want you, Y/n. Not just physically. I mean, yes, of course, I want that too," he added with a self-conscious smile since Y/n pretty much already knew the things Erik had wanted to do to him. "But I also mean you. All of you. I want to know the things you hide behind that smile. I want to hold your hand without having you run away from me. I want to wake up in the morning with you in my arms. I like you. More than I should. More than I deserve."

Y/n stood there, stunned, eyes wide as if Erik had punched the air from his lungs. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

"Say something, Y/n," Erik urged quietly, uncharacteristically vulnerable. "Please."

Y/n’s voice finally managed to surface. "That's really sweet of you to say," he said, his words gentle and kind, but also laced with a hint of caution and reserve. Erik's heart sank, his stomach dropping with disappointment, as he realized that Y/n's response was not what he hoped for. Those words were the kind of words that someone would use to let someone down gently in order to soften the blow of rejection. They were not the words of someone who was interested, who was excited, who was eager to explore the possibilities of a relationship. "I want you to know I feel the same way, but…"

"...But what?"

Y/n’s gaze fell. His fingers twitched at his side, as though fighting the words. Finally, he breathed, "…But I know about what happened with Magda in Poland."

It was Erik’s turn to freeze.

"I didn’t mean to see it," Y/n continued, "and I wasn’t trying to dig. I have control over my abilities, but for some reason, when you touch me, they go haywire. It’s like my mutation stops listening to me."

"It's okay. I'm not upset." Erik waved off the explanation, his hand dismissive. Y/n didn't need to explain since he knows how his powers work now. But still, that moment, that woman? He didn't want to be reminded about any of it. Erik walked to the bench and sat down, memories of that time resurfacing inside his head.

Y/n hesitated, unsure of what to do, before finally joining Erik on the bench. He kept a respectful distance, leaving a few inches of space between them, as if sensing the need for quiet contemplation.

"I loved her," Erik finally voiced after a long moment. "Or I thought I did. She was a kind woman. The kind of person who could make you feel like maybe the world wasn’t very cruel. For a moment, I believed that. I believed she could be the exception." His lips twitched downward. "But when I told her what I was — when I showed her — she didn’t take it well and said I was a monster. She left before I could say goodbye because she didn’t want anything to do with my kind."

The wind rustled softly through the trees.

"I’m over her now," Erik continued. "That love ended when I knew she could never love the man underneath." He shook his head faintly. "And I don’t blame her, not entirely. I'm a monster who hurts people. I killed people. I nearly ended the world with Apocalypse last year. I've done bad things," he glanced sideways at Y/n now, voice low and raw with honesty. "I want you, more than I should. But... maybe… maybe I don’t deserve someone like you. Maybe I don’t deserve happiness... at all."

Y/n stared at him, momentarily stunned into silence. The honesty in Erik’s words cut deep, raw and unflinching, and Erik's words about not deserving happiness were wrong. So wrong it almost hurts to hear. Y/n immediately shook his head.

"You know," his body moved, shifting closer to Erik along the bench until their shoulders nearly touched, "just because someone stumbles and loses their way, it doesn’t mean they’re lost forever."

Erik swallowed.

"I know you, Erik," Y/n went on, "Not just your thoughts or your memories. You. I’ve seen the fire in you, yes, but also the heart. You’ve made mistakes — big ones — but I’ve also seen how you carry those regrets, how badly you want to do better. That matters a lot. That’s what makes you more than the monster you think you are. You’re a man who’s been hurt and kept surviving. That doesn’t make you unworthy. That makes you strong."

Erik’s lips parted, but nothing came out.

"You helped Milo," Y/n pressed gently. "You stayed when you could’ve walked away. You gave him a piece of yourself so he wouldn’t drown in his grief. That’s not the act of a monster. And you want to sit here and tell me you don’t deserve happiness? Erik… after everything you’ve been through in your life, you deserve happiness more than anyone I know."

Tentatively, Y/n reached out — this time on his own terms. His hand slipped into Erik’s, fingers weaving through his. This time, there was no flinching, no running. Erik’s fingers tightened around his, and a flicker of thought bled through the touch:

This man is unreal. He is everything that is good in this world. I want to kiss him.

A small chuckle tumbled from Y/n’s lips. "Then kiss me. You have my consent."

Erik didn’t need to be told a second time. From the moment the telekinetic gave him permission, it was like a dam broke inside him. All the restraint, the longing, the slow-burning desire that had been simmering for a long time now, snapped free. Erik leaned forward and kissed him.

The kiss wasn’t a polite brush of lips. It wasn’t tentative or cautious. It was fast, deliberate, hungry — the kind of kiss that spoke fluently in the language of desire; want. Erik kissed like a man starved, like he’d been waiting years for this moment and refused to waste another second of it. A hand came up to cradle the back of Y/n's neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. Erik's other hand settled firmly on Y/n's waist, grounding them both, as if anchoring them to the present moment.

Why didn’t I do this sooner? Y/n thought.

This was better than anything his mind had tried to prepare him for with those visions, better than the quiet fantasies that had slipped into his head uninvited once or twice — alright, fine, a lot more than once or twice. Erik knew how to kiss, and it was like nothing Y/n had ever experienced before. He didn't just press lips together; he devoured, he caressed. He claimed. But Erik also listened. He moved with Y/n’s breath, slowed when he felt him tremble, deepened when he heard the smallest, neediest noise in Y/n’s throat as if Y/n’s responses were his only compass. Oh... the Heavens above.

Erik pulled him closer, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, and Y/n melted under it. He clutched tighter at Erik’s shirt, fingers curling like he needed something to hold on to or he might literally float away now.

When they finally pulled apart, it was only because air was a necessity, and they both needed to breathe. Their lips were swollen and tender from the kiss.

Y/n's eyes fluttered open, catching his breath, and he was met with the sight of Erik's face, his pupils dark and dilated. Erik lifted his hand, thumb brushing slowly over Y/n's bottom lip, slow and intimate, unwilling to release the moment just yet.

"Do you want to go out with me?" Erik asked, his voice rough, thumb still brushing against that kiss-bruised mouth.

And that’s when another vision hit. Not the past but the future. One not written in stone, but was a possible outcome.

Y/n saw himself standing on a beach, the sun shining down on him and the waves crashing against the shore. He was standing in front of Erik, who was wearing a gray suit that was tailored to perfection. Y/n, on the other hand, was wearing a dark blue suit. As he stared at his future self, the telekinetic could feel the nervousness emanating from him. Despite that, when the moment came, his voice was certain as he whispered:

"I do."

Back in the present, Y/n's breath caught in his throat as the vision faded. He took a second to try to process what he had just seen. Wow... He could still feel the phantom weight of a ring on his finger. Was this really his future? Was he really going to end up with Erik, standing on a beach, exchanging vows and promising to love and cherish each other for the rest of their lives? It could be, and the thought of it happening made him smile.

He looked at Erik, who was still waiting for an answer. Y/n's voice tumbled out above a whisper, without any hesitation:

"I do."

XXXXX XXXXX

From the mansion's break room window, a dozen eyes watched the kiss unfold like a scene out of a black-and-white romance film. The X-Men had gathered there, waiting with bated breath for the outcome of Erik and Y/n's conversation, and now they were all witnessing the pinnacle of their matchmaking efforts.

"OH, YEAH!" came Peter’s not-so-subtle shout from behind the glass. "Operation Get Y/n and Erik Together... completed!"

Jean and Storm slapped a triumphant high-five behind him while Scott folded his arms, wearing the smug grin of a guy who had won a lot of money at a casino.

In the corner, Raven took a sip from her drink, smirking faintly. "Wow, about time."

Hank, who had been trying (and failing) to maintain a neutral expression, finally let his guard down and allowed a warm smile to spread across his face. "Well... I guess it all worked out. Good for them."

"Good work. All of you." Charles praised. Despite the fact that it was his talk with Erik that had helped get him and Y/n together, Charles decided not to say anything, letting the others bask in the victory and enjoy the moment. He knew that they had all played a part in bringing the two together, and he was happy to see them happy. His expression quickly turned serious, and he added a word of caution. "But I suggest we not make a habit of playing Cupid without consent."

"Of course, Professor," Scott responded, voice dripping with complete innocence.

"Absolutely," Jean added.

"Never again," Storm kept a straight face.

Peter blurred over to the snack table, cracking open a celebratory soda and snagging a glazed donut in the process. "No more matchmaking. Scout’s honor."

The moment Charles turned his chair to leave, however, the illusion of innocence vanished. The second Charles left, Scott, Jean, Storm, and Peter all exchanged a very not-subtle glance. Slowly, almost in unison, their gazes slid across the room to Raven and Hank, who sat side by side, chuckling quietly over some private joke.

Peter leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Sooo… Operation Get Raven and Hank Together, you guys?"

Storm smirked. "Already in motion."

Jean nodded. "Let’s go two for two."

Phase one is tomorrow." Scott declared.

Out In the hallway, Charles paused in his slow glide forward. His telepathy picked up on their scheming voices. He closed his eyes, exhaled a long-suffering sigh, and murmured under his breath, "Here we go again. Lord, give me strength." The madness, it seemed, was just beginning.

XXXXX XXXXX

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