A/N: Yet another Tumblr drabble, this one prompted by theonionistheonewhocries, this one being: "Even with all of that he still loved that goddamn sweater, since it was in fact Charles'."
It was a hideous thing.
Cheesy, knitted Christmas sweaters that were like the Holidays throwing up on a piece of fabric were more attractive than this particular sweater.
This sweater was old, worn-out, a faded, odd color, and it had holes and a stretched collar that wasn't technically a turtleneck anymore, and it had a striped, tightly knitted pattern, and it wasn't the softest thing in the world.
The hue was not caught between being olive green, gunmetal grey, and earthy brown, but a mottled mix of the three. In the wash, it always stretched out and Erik had to hang it up to dry, because otherwise it would become too tight and coarse to the touch.
The thing was ghastly, and so old at this point that he wondered why he kept it at all. It was irksome and a cold reminder of so many things that Erik's head swam with the memories to the point where he had to sit down, for fear of growing dizzy with them.
But even with all of that, he still loved that goddamn sweater, because it wasn't his. In fact, that sweater was never his, but he had it because, one night, when he slipped into the Xavier mansion to grab the things he left there before the incident on the beach, the sweater was in his room. And, in the dark, and at the time when it wasn't quite as old or quite as holey or quite as stiff or stretched or polluted-river-colored, he mistook it for one of his own and stuffed it into his single suitcase.
And he found it a week after that, buried at the bottom, and he had to stop and stare at it, had to shrug off his cape and red clothing and even his helmet, and he needed to try it on.
It still smelled like Charles then. It smelled like him, overwhelmingly so, and Erik had wound up sleeping in the damn thing that night, because, well, he couldn't bring himself to take it off.
And now, over a decade later, he couldn't bring himself to throw it out. Mystique didn't know about it; and if she did, she didn't let on that she did. And that suited Erik just fine, because he didn't want to show his weakness. He didn't want to be made anything but fierce in everyone's minds, and if they knew this secret treasure that he kept… well, their views of him might change, and he must have control, and that new view wouldn't permit it.
So he constantly washed it in secret, hid it in his drawers, and occasionally wore it to bed, after he locked the door for the night as he usually did.
Because despite what trouble it was to keep the damn thing, and despite how ragged it became, that fucking sweater was the sole thing left of Charles that Erik was in contact with anymore.