a/n: based on theappleppielifestyle's tumblr post containing the prompt 'i found you sleeping on my balcony when i went out to water my plants why are you here and more importantly how did you get here we're eighteen floors up' au.
Charles yawns as he fills the little watering can up, his free hand coming up to rub at his eyes. He's still in his pyjamas – a plain white V-neck with flannel pants, his feet bare against the cool tile – but he'd made a promise to himself, and there was no way he was going to allow himself to cave and break it.
He'd keep the bloody pot plants alive.
Switching the water off, he takes a firm hold of the can and pads through the kitchen and the sitting room before reaching the curtained entry to his balcony. He's still half asleep when he pushes the deep blue fabric aside, hair sticking up with his eyes almost completely closed. It's probably why he doesn't see the body right away.
He steps onto the concrete of his balcony, unmoved by the beautiful city landscape his eighteenth floor apartment offers, and turns left, pouring some water into the pot of his first little plant. Once satisfied, he moves away, stopping abruptly when he feels soil mixed with something sticky under his foot. Sighing, he looks down, eyes widening to the size of saucers as he sees the broken shards of his remaining pot plants, soil and petals everywhere, covered in the unmistakable crimson of blood.
He follows the droplets of blood with his eyes, almost as if he was forced to move in slow motion, until finally stopping on the unconscious body lying in the right corner of his balcony; shirt torn with a dirty, but thankfully not bleeding, wound on his stomach.
He supposes his first thought should have been why or what the or possibly is he okay; not wow look at that bone structure.
He shakes his head, blinking in quick succession, as if trying to determine if the sight before him is real or not, but when the body doesn't disappear, he accepts it.
Carefully, he puts his small, green watering can down on the wooden bench that used to hold his pot plants and moves towards the body, sidestepping the broken shards of clay and small bundles of dirt. He crouches down next to the body, relieved when he sees the small rise and fall of the injured chest, the soft sound of snores. A random body on his balcony at six in a morning was bad enough; he didn't need it to be a dead body.
Frowning at the faint smell of cheap alcohol, Charles gently places a hand to the stranger's forehead, quickly pulling back when the man awakes; his silvery blue eyes wide and confused as he stares at Charles.
"Hello," Charles says, head tilting to the side. "Are you okay?"
He's met with a loud groan as the other man brings a hand to his temple, eyes squeezing shut as long fingers rub gently at pressure points. "Why am I here?"
Charles raises his eyebrows, because seriously, how the hell would he know.
"I have questions of a similar sort," he tells the man, watching as his eyes take in the unfamiliar surroundings.
"I drank too much last night," the mam mumbles, and Charles catches wind of an accent he can't quite place yet.
"Evidently."
"Did I do that?" he asks, voice quiet in the early morning bustle, finger pointing towards Charles' ruined, blood stained pot plants.
"I think so," he replies, sighing. "Look, we can talk about that later. I'm more worried about the dirty wound; come inside and I'll clean it up."
The man looks down at his torn t-shirt, as if noticing the wound for the first time, and groans again. "Head hurts. Don't think I can move."
Charles wonders briefly about what could happen if the man before him was anti-mutant, but dismisses it quickly as he sighs again, moving the catch the stranger's eye. "I can get rid of your headache," he says, fingers tapping his temple. "Drunkenness, too, if you wish. I'm a telepath."
The other man stares at him for a moment before nodding minutely, sighing in relief as his mind clears and the throbbing in his head disappears all together. "Thanks," he mumbles, sitting up.
"No problem," Charles responds, wondering why he's smiling at a stranger who more or less broke into his apartment and ruined his pot plants. "Come on, that doesn't look okay," he says, tilting his head to the wound. "I have a first aid kit in my kitchen."
The man stands up, looking at the view of the balcony for a moment, and Charles can feel the confusion radiating off his mind.
"What's your name?"
"Charles Xavier," he replies, pushing the curtains inside and waiting for the man to follow. "Yours?"
"Erik Lehnsherr," he murmurs, following Charles back into the kitchen and hopping up on the bench. "Sorry about the plants."
Charles leans down and rifles through one of the cupboard, smiling in victory when he finds the old first aid kid. "Don't worry about it," he says, opening the white box and placing it on the counter next to Erik. "They're not my main concern."
"Kitchen's a weird place to store a first aid kit," Erik tells him, removing his ruined shirt when Charles instructs him to do so.
The telepath's eyes widen slightly when he looks up and sees he's eyelevel with a toned, caramel coloured chest. He swallows audibly, blinks a few times, and looks the other man in the eye. "The balcony of an eighteenth floor apartment is a weird place to find a stranger, especially when there's no sign of entry from inside the apartment. Seriously, how the fuck did you get up there?"
Erik grins at him, seemingly completely unbothered by the fact that he's sitting on a stranger's kitchen bench with nothing but black jeans and work boots on. "I must've crashed," he says, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"What do you mean, crashed?"
"Magnetokinetic flight," he explains, still grinning at Charles, his feet swinging back and forth slightly. "I can use the Earth's magnetic fields to fly."
Charles stares at him for a moment, surprised. "You're a mutant?"
"Yeah."
"Who can fly."
"Amongst other things," Erik murmurs. "You're a telepath, who can read and manipulate minds. Why do you sound so surprised that I can fly?"
"I've never met anyone who could fly," Charles responds, taking things from the first aid kit to clean and disinfect the wound. "What else can you do?"
Erik winches at the first touch to his the cuts littering his torso, "Manipulate metal, create force fields, that kind of stuff."
"You say that like it's no big deal," Charles points out, hands moving extra carefully over the wounds. He's glad to know it looks worse than it actually is.
Erik shrugs and Charles shoots him a glare for moving, "Not my main concern right now."
"Understandable," the smaller man mutters, watching as Erik winches at the sting of disinfectant. "Why were you flying around drunk last night?"
"I don't really know," Erik tells him. "I like it, clears my head."
"How'd you end up crashing on my balcony?"
"I was drunk."
"Not really an excuse, I don't end up breaking things on stranger's balconies when I'm drunk." Well, not really. There had been that one time at a party back in his Oxford days, but Erik didn't need to know that.
"My control isn't as good when my brain's fuzzy," Erik says, leaning back a bit, his hands placed firmly on the flat surface of the kitchen counter. "Flying drunk probably isn't as dangerous as letting strangers into your home to clean their wounds."
"I can control minds," Charles says simply. "And while I don't usually enjoy taking advantage of that, I would definitely use it to prevent someone harming me, or another person."
"Fair enough," Erik tells him, and then the conversation dies down.
Erik's eyes stay on Charles as he watches while the other man tries to clean and wrap the wounds as quick as he can. Despite himself, Charles keeps fumbling over his nerves. It's been far too long since he was this close to a shirtless man of Erik's standards, and it was starting to get to him.
"Are you okay?" Erik eventually asks when he chucks the dirty tissues in the direction of the bin, missing by a few good inches.
Charles sighs and picks them up, discarding of them properly before turning back to Erik, "Fine."
"Uh huh."
"What?"
"You're cute when you blush."
Charles feels the light flush on his cheeks deepen, "I'm not blushing."
"Sure."
"Your shirt is ruined."
"Guess I'll just have to walk around shirtless."
"You are not leaving my apartment shirtless," Charles tells him. "That's a whole new level to the walk of shame."
"There isn't any shame in the walk of shame," Erik says, rolling his eyes. "But I'll borrow something if it bothers you that much."
Charles smiles slightly at that, "What kind of shirt do you want?"
"Can I have a sweater? It's getting cold outside."
Charles cocks an eyebrow but nods, muttering a quick give me a minute before disappearing into his room. He returns a few minutes later, black knitted sweater in hand. "Here," he says, passing it to the other mutant. "Hopefully it fits."
Erik pulls it over his head and jumps down from the counter before moving to check himself in the reflection of the hallway mirror, "Not bad."
Charles trails his eyes over the lean torso, pleased, and a little envious, with the way the fabric hugs the other man's body, "It looks good."
"I assume I'll be seeing you again to give it back?" Erik asks, coming back to the kitchen and standing a little too close to Charles.
"That's how borrowing things tends to go," Charles answers, his heart fluttering at the chance of seeing this man again. There's something about him that he likes, despite the oddness of their encounter.
"Good," Erik mumbles, leaning behind Charles to grab the pen and pad of paper that rests near the fridge. "I have to get home and shower before work, so I'm going to give you my number. Is that okay?"
Charles nods, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip while he watches Erik, "Yes."
Erik smiles at him again, his left hand reaching for Charles' right before placing the small piece of paper in his palm, fingers running over the other man's wrist. "Call me, when you're free. I'll buy you some new pot plants."
Charles huffs a laugh, head tilted back to be able to look in Erik's eyes, "It's a date."
If possible, Erik's grin widens and he leans down to kiss Charles' forehead. "Thanks for the medical help," he says. "I look forward to our next meeting. I can't wait to see what you look like when you're not in pyjamas."
The embarrassed flush that colours Charles' cheeks doesn't disappear until Erik's already left the apartment building.