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His name was Erik Lehnsherr.
Erik Magnus Lehnsherr, to be precise, with Erik pronounced a bit gutturally, in the back of the throat, courtesy of Erik’s German background.
Charles only knew this because Raven was forever plugged in to whatever was the current trend, whether it be music or fashion or hairstyle, and this month, the current trend was Erik Lehnsherr.
He was a classically trained singer who dabbled in all sorts of music because he had one of those voices that could be adapted to a dozen different styles, which was what made him so damnably popular and marketable to every woman aged newborn to death. Raven informed Charles of this in a rush of breath, as excited as she ever got over the latest hits, and Charles nodded and smiled and promptly forgot about it.
But it turned out Erik Lehnsherr wasn’t a trend at all—he was the real deal, his songs consistently hitting number 1 of the Billboard 200, his latest album “Fire and Shadows” having won him three Grammy Awards. He was something of a phenomenon, morphing rapidly into a cultural icon. He was in magazine ads, his picture was splashed across newspapers and billboards, and the news stations were scrambling every week for interviews. After a while, Charles figured that, considering the hype, he might as well check this guy out. It was impossible to avoid the man after all when his face was regularly blown up across the billboard of Times Square, captions screaming everything from “SEE ERIK LEHNSHERR IN CONCERT” to “AZURE SHADE – THE OFFICIAL ERIK LEHNSHERR COLOGNE.”
Checking him out had been a mistake. Three YouTube videos in, Charles was hooked, and it was the most awful thing that had ever happened to him in his life. He was sure that, before his discovery of Erik Lehnsherr, he had been a normal, productive human being. Now, he was little more than a horribly obsessed closet fan who sat at home and watched blurry, crowd-shot YouTube videos of the same concerts over and over in hopes of catching a different angle, a different glimpse of Erik. It was humiliating and dreadfully undignified, because he was the CEO of a respected biomedical research company, thank you very much, and he did not need something like Erik Lehnsherr in his life.
Raven told him solemnly that he was suffering a case of epic denial and assured him that all new-time fans felt this way one time or another, and that he’d adjust.
He told her stiffly that he was not a fan, really, that he was interested in seeing what the hype was all about, that was all, and could she stop laughing please because this really wasn’t anything.
He chose not to tell her about his folder labeled “E.L.” that was filled with mp3s of every single song Erik Lehnsherr had ever sung, in concert or not, or about the probably unhealthy number of times he’d replayed that one interview Erik have given on the red carpet of the American Music Awards, the one where Erik was dressed dazzlingly in a slick black tuxedo, the one where Erik looked right into the camera and blew a kiss at the reporter’s request (bless that dear reporter’s heart). Raven already had enough ammunition to use against him; no need to give her more.
He’d never really been so thoroughly sucked into a celebrity before. In his teen and college years, he’d been working his way through a degree in biochemistry, and then PhDs in genetics, biophysics, and psychology. That had, obviously, left him with no free time and no life outside frantic studying. But now, he was CEO, and that meant he could work if and when he pleased, which led to a copious number of hours spent shut up in his office, searching up the latest news on Erik Lehnsherr, on the latest gossip, and god, he’d always hated tabloids and the like, but sometimes they seemed like the only place to get any information at all, since Erik Lehnsherr was always so frustratingly private.
He bought every album in CD. There were five of them so far, and Charles handled them carefully, making sure not to scratch the surfaces when he listened to them, which was all the time. Raven teased him about his obsessive collection and mockingly gifted him with an Erik Lehnsherr poster for his birthday. Charles had rolled his eyes and stuck the poster under his bed as she watched. He didn’t tell her that he secretly pulled it out every now and then, admiring Erik’s lean physique silhouetted in stage lights, his face half-hidden in the shadows.
Erik Lehnsherr was an attractive man and a fantastically good singer and with an overall fascinating personality, and there really was no harm in acknowledging that. No harm at all.
* * *
Raven came bursting into his office one morning, her face red with exertion, her breath coming in pants. She looked half-demented, and Charles stared. “Did you run up here?”
“Yes,” she gasped, bending over to brace her hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath.
“That’s thirteen flights of stairs,” Charles said, raising his eyebrows. He put down his pen and shut the report he’d been working on. “What are you doing here?”
In response, she waved her fist at him. It took him a moment to realize that there was paper clenched between her fingers, two slips of paper, and he stared quizzically at her, uncomprehending, wondering why she was here when she was supposed to be in class right now.
Then, abruptly, he recognized the signature on the end of what she was thrusting into his face, and he felt his heart skip one beat, or maybe two or three. “Are those—”
“Tickets!” she crowed triumphantly. “In Central Park, this Friday, seven o’clock. Tell me I’m the best sister!”
“You’re amazing,” Charles breathed, and before he could help it, he reached out and snatched one of the tickets from her hand. He held it up to his face, examined it twice to convince himself it was real. “How on earth did you manage to swing these? They’ve been sold out for weeks.”
“I have people who owe me favors,” Raven replied mysteriously. “Never mind that, aren’t you excited? You finally get to meet your crush face-to-face! It’s a thing of celebration! You should be breaking out the champagne—or the tea, or apple juice, whatever it is old people drink these days.”
Charles shot a half-hearted glare in her direction. “Thank you for that. And he’s not my crush.” He forced himself to hand the ticket back to her and said off-handedly, “I’ll have to check my schedule to see if I have Friday free.”
“Bullshit,” she said instantly. “Don’t act like you don’t feel like jumping up and down and squealing like a little girl.”
“I don’t,” he told her dryly, even though he was sure his stomach was doing somersaults and excitement was threatening to make his fingers shake.
Raven’s expression was pointedly unconvinced. “Please let me know when you’ve managed to climb out of the closet, because you are so closeted right now that it’s painful.”
“Raven—”
“Seriously, it hurts. I can see straight through you, Charles. What’re you even doing on your computer right now? You’ve got a tab pulled up of one of his songs, don’t you—”
She bent over to get a look at his computer screen, and he slammed his laptop shut. “That’s absolutely none of your business.”
“I was right.”
“You were not,” Charles denied vehemently, even though he’d had Erik’s 2010 hit single “Rafters” playing in the background before she’d barreled in.
Raven laughed. “Whatever. Then I guess you don’t want these tickets…?” She sprang up from his desk and flounced over to the door, pulling it open and then pausing. “Who else can I ask?” she mused, tapping her foot. “Azazel would probably go with me. Angel would kill for this ticket. And Hank would probably sell his kidney for even a glimpse of the concert stage…”
“Absolutely not,” Charles interrupted, partly because he didn’t want Azazel and Raven alone anywhere together, partly because Angel probably would actually commit homicide for a ticket, partly because Hank was supposed to be working in the lab all day Friday, and mostly because that ticket was his, damn it, and there was no way he was letting it go.
Raven’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Or I could sell it online, I guess. This thing would probably go for four hundred dollars—”
“Give me that,” he ordered, holding out his hand. He felt infinitely more at ease when she set the ticket into his open palm. “Fine, I’ll go with you.”
Raven rolled her eyes. “Yeah, this is such a sacrifice on your part, Charles. Really. I’m sorry you’ll have to suffer.”
“Friday?” he asked, even though he already knew because he’d been tracking Erik’s concert dates since March. He’d been agonizing for months because Erik’s concert in New York had fallen squarely on the one day Charles was required to be present for a quarterly board meeting. But then, at the last minute, the board meeting had been shifted to the next Monday because one of the bigger shareholders had caught pneumonia from god only knew where, and Charles had spent the next two days tearing his hair out in frustration because by then, all the tickets had been sold out, damn his luck.
But now he was holding one of them in his hand, one of these precious tickets, and even though Raven was arching a knowing eyebrow at him, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.
“Yeah,” she answered. “Friday. Don’t be late.” She smirked. “And try not to hyperventilate when we get there.”
Before he could even snap a retort, she was bounding out of his office again, and he couldn’t even find the will to chide her for skipping class because she’d just brought him the most amazing gift ever, even if he’d never admit to it.
He rescheduled all of his appointments on Friday and had to force himself to read over Hank’s proposal for genetic recombination, instead of staring at the concert ticket all day long.
* * *
Central Park was packed.
Raven had dragged Charles from his office a full three hours before the concert was to start, ensuring that they were on-site at precisely four-thirty. Even then, they’d had to shove their way through the crowd to make it to the front, and when Charles had protested (admittedly half-heartedly) that they shouldn’t just cut through the fans who had been camping there probably ever since the concert had been announced, Raven told him to shut up and consider it an evolutionary example of survival of the fittest. In truth, he was too excited at the prospect of being so close to Erik Lehnsherr (dear god, they were maybe ten feet from the stage, and Charles was fairly certain he could hurdle the metal barriers and be on the stage in about twenty seconds) to really scold her, and she had it right anyway; survival of the fittest was a scientifically proven concept, and Charles was willing to take full advantage of it, misinterpretations of scientific theory be damned.
He checked his watch every two minutes, shivering a bit in the November cold, eager and a bit nervous and trying not to think that in—he checked his watch again—thirty-two minutes, he was going to be seeing Erik Lehnsherr, live in concert, almost literally in arms’ reach. He thought he might be sick, what with all the adrenaline pounding through his system. He was certainly far too pumped up to be anything other than utterly awake, even though he’d gotten only two hours of sleep the night before because he’d been lying in bed staring at the ceiling and imagining half a dozen scenarios about how the concert would play out.
He looked at his watch again. 6:58. Two minutes had never felt so long. He wondered if Erik was already here. He was probably in a dressing room somewhere, getting ready. But what if he was delayed? What if his bus had broken down? What if it was too serious to make it to Central Park—what if he canceled the concert—
No, he wouldn’t do that. Last year, he’d put on a concert even though he was two hours late due to an isolated snowstorm. The year before, he’d sung for a sold-out audience, charming them all, and it was only afterwards that they’d learned he’d been running a 101 degree fever the whole performance. He was committed to his concerts and his fans. There’d be no canceling tonight.
Reassured, Charles gripped the metal railing in front of him and glanced around. 7:01. Was he late? How long before—
The lights to the stage flared on with a whirring click, and the entire crowd erupted. Charles could feel the tense excitement rippling through the people pressed around him, or maybe that was his own excitement shuddering through his body. Beside him, Raven was saying something, but her voice was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Charles turned to her, trying to read her lips, but in the next instant, the crowd’s screams intensified, and Charles looked up again and his breath caught.
It was him. It was Erik Lehnsherr, sauntering out from the side of the stage with his guitar in hand, smiling that too-wide smile at them, waving a bit when their cheers rose to a crescendo as he came out. He was wearing a pair of beat-up jeans and a black button-up, and he was carrying that worn old guitar that, as he’d explained in one interview, his father had given him when he’d been sixteen. Charles was close enough to see the shine on the tips of Erik’s Converse sneakers, almost hidden by the ragged cuffs of his jeans. The man was the picture of a confident, charming star who had still retained some sense of humbleness through his meteoric rise to fame. He was perfectly perfect. The epitome of perfection.
At any other time, Charles might have been concerned about the state of his vocabulary, or his ability to string two thoughts together, but in the next instant, Erik spoke into the microphone, and any coherent thought fled from his mind.
“Hello, everyone,” he said, and that was all it took for the crowd to erupt again in cheers, and Charles would have been annoyed at the surge of fangirls around him, nearly crushing him against the metal barriers, except he was staring too hard at Erik to notice. Erik raised his hand, simultaneously a thanks and a gesture for quiet, and when the crowd’s noise finally reached a manageable level, Erik continued. “Hello, everyone, and thanks for coming out tonight. It’s nice to see a full crowd out there. How are you all doing?”
The crowd chorused an answer that was enthusiastic but unintelligible. Charles mouthed, “Good,” and Raven screamed, “Awesome, how are you?” Erik waited until the noise died down again before strumming an experimental chord on his guitar. At the sound, they all hushed quickly, and Charles’s fingers closed tight with anticipation around the metal railing, his breath caught in his throat as he watched Erik’s hand fiddle casually with the pegs of his guitar, tuning it with familiar ease.
“Let’s start simple,” Erik said into the microphone when he was done. He strummed the opening chords of “Garden of the Sky,” and when he started to sing, Charles fell headlong into his voice.
He’d never been to a live concert before, but he’d heard the horror stories about artists who couldn’t sing live to save their lives. He’d heard about illusions being shattered by these live concerts, about disappointment and disenchantment, and he wasn’t going to lie, those worries had kept him up half the night. But the first note Erik hit, Charles knew, without a doubt, that Erik was one of those singers who sounded even better in concert, one of those voices that resonated and rang live, unhampered by recording equipment, untainted by a producer’s subtle tweaks. He hit that first note, and Charles knew he was a goner.
Charles had never been so thoroughly mesmerized in his entire life. There was something about Erik’s voice that caught him, pulled at him, and he was scarcely aware of Raven hugging his arm as she watched, of the press of bodies trying to get as close as possible to the stage. All Charles could see was the steady strum of Erik’s long fingers over the guitar strings, the stretch of his throat as he sang, the way he shut his eyes ever-so-briefly when he held a note. He was beautiful. He was absolutely breathtaking. He was—he was—
He was staring straight at Charles, his blue eyes pinning him to the spot. For a second, Charles could only gape back, sure he was dreaming. In no real universe would a famous singer single him out, of all the people in the crowd; in no real world would Erik Lehnsherr look twice in Charles’s direction. But he was here, he was awake, he could feel Raven’s grip closing almost painfully around his arm, which meant this was all real, and Erik Lehnsherr was staring straight at him. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t an attempt by Erik to connect with the audience, to make random eye contact, to draw his listeners in. He was gazing at Charles as he sang, his eyes never wavering, his expression appraising, intrigued, interested, and Charles thought his heart was going to hammer its way out of his chest, rib cage or not.
The song came to an end, and the entire crowd burst into wild cheers, but Charles could only stare, wondering if Erik had really meant to look at him, wondering if it were possible to have a heart attack at age twenty-nine on the basis of excitement and nervousness and incredulity all wrapped in one. Erik hadn’t been looking at him in interest, had he? No, “Garden of the Sky” wasn’t a romantic song, wasn’t remotely romantic. Erik had likely needed someone to focus on. Yes, that was it. He’d needed a focus, a point of concentration, and Charles had been it, probably because he was standing there silently instead of being wildly distracting like everyone else in the crowd.
Except Erik looked at him again during “Rage” and he kept looking for all of the next hour and a half. It was possibly—most definitely—the most surreal hour and a half of Charles’s life. He was too shocked to do more than gawk back for most of the next two songs, but by the third, he’d managed to shut his mouth and look less like a slack-jawed idiot. He was sure his face was on fire—he was probably blushing up a storm, and he was lucky Central Park was dark and he could always blame the flush on his cheeks to excitement and the heat of the crowd. Raven, thankfully, was too riveted on Erik to notice anything. Erik would tear his gaze away from time to time to sweep it across the crowd, but it would always come back to settle on Charles, and Erik’s lips would tip up in the slightest of smiles, and Charles almost put his hand to his heart because it was palpitating violently and possibly alerting him to some underlying medical condition he’d need to get checked out later. But that would be giving away how intensely Erik was affecting him, and Charles managed to somehow retain enough dignity to keep his hand away from his heart, to keep himself from looking like a love-struck fool.
Erik finished off “Rafters,” personally one of Charles’s favorites, and Charles let out a little breath, unable to keep from smiling, partly because he loved that song and partly because he was a bit giddy about Erik’s attention. Erik smiled, too, and before Charles could process the thought that Erik Lehnsherr had smiled back at him, Erik pulled his guitar over his head and set it aside in its stand. He took the microphone from its stand and freed up the wire so he’d have more room to move. Then, pacing closer to the edge of the stage, he said, “I’m going to go off script here for a little bit. I’m feeling an impromptu cover. Have you heard ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love?’ Elvis Presley sang it. I think Ingrid Michaelson did a good version, too.”
By the shouts of approval from the crowd, they’d heard of the song. Charles, however, hadn’t. He’d never been much of a music guru to start with, so he could only watch bemusedly. Beside him, though, Raven screamed, “I love this song!” and bounced up and down by the barrier, nearly shoving Charles back into the throng of people behind him.
“All right, all right,” Erik said, and the crowd quieted obediently, the hushed silence eager and energized. He waited until they were almost dead silent before he began to sing, and within the first few notes, Charles thought he had never heard anything so beautiful in his entire life.
“Wise men say only fools rush in,” he sang, and it was almost a breath, just a quiet sigh of words, so soft they almost had to lean in to hear. He paused, searching the crowd, and his eyes landed straight on Charles as he let out, “But I can’t help falling in love with you.”
Charles felt his heart stutter. Raven was screaming something like, “Oh my god, he’s looking at me!” but he could barely hear her. He felt almost numb. His ears were ringing. There wasn’t an articulate thought in his head as Erik sang, “Would it be a sin if I can’t help falling in love with you,” swaying slowly to the music, his eyes locked on Charles’s. The next words passed in a blur, unable to penetrate the fog in Charles’s head, and suddenly, Erik was walking, he was moving, he was heading for the edge of the stage, and when the crowd realized he intended to come down, they screamed and shoved up against the barriers, thousands strong and determined. The security officers posted at the cordon were managing, barely, to hold the crowd back as Erik hopped off the stage and walked—dear god, he was walking straight for Charles, still singing, still looking, and Charles could feel his mouth go dry, could feel a shiver of delight and shock and disbelief coursing down his spine as Erik sang, “Take my hand,” the words hanging in the bare space between them as he reached over the barrier, reached for Charles. He was close enough to touch, close enough to even taste, and the girls around them were shrieking, screaming, grabbing for Erik’s hand, but before they could, Charles put his hand in Erik’s palm without thinking, and Erik smiled brilliantly.
“…take my whole life, too,” he continued, pulling Charles toward the stage. Raven had let go of his arm, staring wide-eyed at both of them, and Charles dazedly vaulted the metal barrier, half-expecting a security officer to tackle him. But Erik climbed back onto the stage and offered Charles his hand again, and no one tried to haul him back as he took it, noting how warm Erik’s fingers were, how long and how firm.
“Like a river flows surely to the sea,” he sang, and this close, Charles could see that his eyes were fletched with gray. Those eyes had been looking his way all night, and they were riveted on Charles’s face now, inscrutable, intense, eager. They were standing so close now. All he would have to do was take a step in, tilt his head up, and—
Erik sang, “Darling so it goes…” and let the note fade into silence. He closed the gap between them with a step, bent his head, slowly so that Charles had all the time in the world to recoil, to draw away if he wanted. But Charles reached up, almost involuntarily, pulling Erik down by a fistful of his shirt, and their lips brushed.
The crowd’s reaction was deafening. The kiss lasted half a second, if that, but the crowd had seen enough to go wild. They were screaming and leaping, and out of the corner of his eye, Charles saw one girl attempting to hurdle a security guard on her way to the stage. But he couldn’t concentrate on them, he could barely breathe, because Erik had started to sing again. “Some things are meant to be…” And in that pause, he kissed Charles again, this kiss slower, longer, and Central Park must have been exploding with ear-shattering screams, but Charles heard nothing but the rapid pounding of his own pulse between his ears. When Erik pulled away this time, both of their eyes were bright, their cheeks flushed. Erik was panting slightly, and when he sang “Take my hand” again, the notes sounded slightly strained. He let that fade too and took the opportunity to dip his head again. This time, Charles came up to meet him, eager and willing and flushed with desire and arousal and fierce, pounding adrenaline. This kiss was even longer than the last, deep and sensual and tongue—oh god, tongue. Charles was half a second away from throwing Erik over his shoulder, height difference be damned, and carrying him off to have his way with him. But Erik broke away again, and Charles could barely hear him over the roar of the crowd as he finished the song, holding Charles’s hand the entire time, fingers intertwined tightly, eyes locked on Charles’s as Charles stared at him, chest heaving, unsure of what was really happening.
Erik smiled at him, all white teeth and happy amusement, and Charles realized that the song was over, Erik had finished. He was still holding Charles’s hand, though, and they were still standing so close, mere inches away from one another. The crowd was hollering itself hoarse, and Erik said, “Hi, I’m Erik,” as if Charles didn’t already know that, as if they hadn’t kissed thirty seconds ago.
He smiled too, his voice almost breathless as he offered, “Charles Xavier.”
“Nice to meet you,” Erik said, and Charles nodded. The crowd’s noise level was rising again, their screams startled and confused and incredulous, all emotions Charles could feel flashing through his mind in quick succession.
“Are you a coffee person?” Erik asked, and Charles had to lean in to hear him because the crowd was going crazy.
“Tea, actually,” he answered. “I'm more of a tea person.”
Erik grimaced. “Well, are you a dinner person?”
Charles laughed. He was still breathless. “Yes. Yes, I’m very much a dinner person.”
“Then tonight. My treat, after the concert.”
Charles nodded, not trusting his voice because this was Erik Lehnsherr and had Erik Lehnsherr just asked him out on a date, or had he been imagining this whole thing? This was surreal. This was incredible. This did not happen to floppy-haired, messily-dressed men in a crowd of probably ten thousand viable women. But Erik Lehnsherr was holding his hand, was leaning down for another kiss, and Charles thought he might summarily explode from excitement and awe and whatever the hell else was tightening in his chest.
“Yes,” he managed finally, ignoring the fact that he’d already eaten. “Dinner sounds good.”
Erik grinned and it was filled with a warmth and promise that made Charles shiver in anticipation. “Excellent.”