Don't say we're healing when it's just not what we do
Summary: LiveJournal prompt: Charles isn't bald. He shaves it meticulously so that he doesn't have to miss how it felt to have Erik's long fingers running through the strands, stroking the top of his head till he fell asleep.
Pairing: Charles Xavier/Erik Lehnsherr
A/N: De-anon-ing (...that can't be a real word) from the "X-Men First Class" kink meme since I don't have a LiveJournal account. There are a few plot holes I was concerned about, but the poster who requested the story seemed very pleased, so I'll let them slide. Title shamelessly stolen from Head Automatica's "The Razor" – I'm so emo right now it's not even funny. Rated for slight sexing.
Charles starts with the electric razor, already knowing it won't be enough. At its shortest setting, it will give him a nice buzz cut, which Charles figures is a better starting point than his current long locks.
Before he can change his mind, Charles locks the bathroom door (hoping it still holds), wheels his chair back to the sink, and takes a moment to really look in the mirror. His expression is blank, and for a brief second Charles is convinced this reflection isn't him. Maybe he could pretend it wasn't him, that this Charles was the one needing solace and that he – the real Charles Xavier – had already moved on.
Wordlessly, Charles combs his hair back – away from his face, parted just so – one last time.
He flips the cordless, hand-held razor's switch, and it whirs to life in his palm, startling him. There's a peculiar glint to the metal Charles had never noticed before. It looks like Erik's reflection, cold and mocking. If Erik were here, he would unlock the door, pull the razor from Charles's unsteady hand, twist the mirror's metal backing until it broke.
If Erik were here, he would destroy everything Charles was holding onto for strength and comfort in that moment in time.
Charles struggles with shaving the back of his head. The scalp around his face and ears proved easy to navigate, but the back was bumpier than he had predicted. His mind wanders to the children and the thoughts he had overheard in the past few hours. The boys, he muses, must really be worried because it's not like Charles is trying to read their thoughts. They've just been projecting too loudly to be ignored.
Charles had heard Hank when the younger man starting unpacking the groceries and necessities Alex brought back to mansion, their week's-worth of supplies. Upon finding the package of disposable, replacement razor blades, Hank slunk off to his lab, assuming them to be some sort of jab from one of the other boys against his new furry form.
Alex and Sean, both knowing who the razors were really for, had been taking turns patrolling the hall outside the professor's quarters for the past eight hours. Charles often caught their emotions first – waves of worry and fear – and their mournful thoughts second – If you can hear me, don't do it.
The last thing he needs on his hands right now is a group of worked-up teenagers convinced their professor is seconds away from slitting his wrists. Instead he merely turns the razor off and sets it on the edge of the sink.
He wants to tell the boys there are better ways of dealing with loss, with anger, than suicide.
Is this one of those ways, though? the voice in his head he can't account for – the one that sounds suspiciously like Erik – asks. His scalp starts to tingle.
Charles takes a moment to look in the mirror again, admiring his simple buzz cut before lathering on a layer of shaving cream. He doesn't want to feel the bristle, doesn't want to feel anything at all. He needs to get closer to the skin, as close as humanly possible
He takes a deep breath to steady his nerves before picking up the plain razor.
The first stroke is a neat line, from forehead to crown.
Erik is tugging on Charles' hair, yanking at the roots, scratching at the skin with ragged fingernails and ragged breathing. Charles moans – he doesn't care about his hair because Erik is coming in his mouth, hard and fast and hot. He moves slightly forward, Erik's cock sliding even deeper into his throat, and the other man arches further backwards on the bed, Charles' name on his lips, his hands still threaded in his lover's hair.
Another stroke, moving to the right where his part should be.
Erik's hands are gentle, his slight fingers massaging Charles' aching head as it rests in his lap. Charles was used to getting migraines from seeing, hearing, feeling too much, but for once someone was there to comfort him. Leaning into his friend's soothing touch, the young professor sighs in contentment. "I love having you all to myself," Charles mumbles, and Erik chuckles warmly, the pads of his fingers tracing delicate patterns around his scalp.
A third strip of hair, gone.
Erik's tears soak the top of his lover's hair as he clings to Charles like a life preserver in unsettled seas. He's remembering what has brought him here, watching his mother die again and again through the night. Charles runs his hands up and down Erik's back, across broad muscles and scars, letting the taller man hold him as they lay together in bed. Erik's hands clench into fists as he remembers, as he fights against drifting away.
A fourth stroke, starting near his temple. Charles is surprised his eyes are still dry.
He might be dreaming, drifting on the edge of consciousness, but the fingers in his hair are almost certainly real. Charles watches Erik through heavy-lidded eyes. Watching me sleep again? Charles thinks, and Erik smiles sweetly down at him. He doesn't say or think a word; instead he continues to stroke the top of his head – fingers running through his hair – until Charles fades away into sleep, remembering nothing more than the bliss of falling asleep next to his closest friend.
Lost in thought, Charles nicks himself above his right ear, letting out an involuntary hiss.
Sean bursts through the bathroom door, and Charles makes a mental note to get the lock replaced.
"Are you – are you OK?" the younger man pants, his eyes wide and unblinking.
Charles turns to face him, adopting his most innocent expression. "Quite all right, Mr. Cassidy, although I might inquire as to why you were loitering outside my washroom door."
Sean blushes a deep pink. "Taking turns keeping an eye on you," he mumbles, as if he hopes Charles won't hear him.
Charles studies his student, attempting to make eye contact. "I'm flattered," he says politely, "but this is something I need to do alone."
With that, he turns his back on Banshee and resumes shaving with the disposable razor.
Sean remains in the doorway and watches, perplexed. A strange coping mechanism, Charles hears the other man think, but I've seen stranger.
Charles manages a bit of a smirk.
Sean sighs then taps on the doorframe twice. "Let Alex know when you need help sweeping up," he says before slouching back out into the hall.
Charles smiles a bit, waiting until Sean is gone before he dares to look down at the hair on the floor, all over the sink. He thinks of Erik running his hands through that hair, and a lump forms in his throat, his steely resolve weakening.
He takes a moment to ruminate, to think about how weird it is that his hair and his former friend are so irrevocably linked. Erik goes, Charles' hair goes. What sort of wires had gotten crossed in the young professor's brain to make that connection? The thought almost makes him laugh, almost makes him reconsider his actions, but his mind is made up. Instead, Charles starts shaving where he left off.
He'll be glad when his hair is gone, he tells himself, picking up the razor once more. Really. Charles will be glad he can pretend to move on.
A/N: So to summarize, this was my first ever slash story, my first story to feature sex, and my first story published to LiveJournal (in a kink meme, no less). God, this story took so much of my writing virginity.