Summary: Charles and Erik go clothes shopping together. Set sometime during their stay at the mansion during "First Class." Rated PG-13.

The Emperor's New Clothes

They're clearing out closet space in the room that becomes Erik's at the mansion when the decree is made: "You dress like a geriatric man, Charles," Erik snorts, palming through a row of meticulously organized – via both color and texture – sweater vests. "Is professor-chic 'in' in Westchester this year?"

"I like my clothes," Charles laughs, picking up a stray garment that Erik has seen fit to toss on the floor. "They're comfortable."

"They make you look old," Erik retorts. He stops decimating the pile of vests – it's hilarious to him that this is actually the overflow from Charles' own room; Erik is kind of chuffed that Charles has given him his childhood bedroom to use, however – and favors Charles with a long, lingering glance. "You hide yourself away from the world in them, but you deserve to show off."

Charles flushes a bit and then clears his throat. "Well, then," he says eventually. "What do you suggest I do to remedy my dressing like an 'old fart,' as Raven puts it?"

"You are an old fart," Erik agrees, but he seriously considers Charles' request. Such is the way they find themselves in an upscale men's boutique an hour or so away from home. The racks display fine, cleanly cut articles in both traditional and flattering shades and designs, and Charles squeezes Erik's arm as they cross the threshold, the door swinging silently shut behind them. "Lead the way," Charles smiles, and Erik looks around.

"Maybe we should start with suits," Erik begins, and then he realizes that he's standing there alone. "Charles?" he blinks in confusion, and then the other man waves him over to a rack of thick winter wear excitedly. Charles pulls a woolen, gray cardigan from the pile and holds it up in front of Erik. "This isn't why we're here, Charles," Erik frowns.

Charles' eyes sparkle. "But this will compliment your eyes so well, Erik." He begins to sift through the rack some more. "Oh, and this one," he says, tugging a forest green sweater out next.

Bemused, Erik's eyes linger briefly on the price tag. He blanches. Though he's no stranger to high fashion, he has always justified the luxury of an occasional bespoke suit as being paid for with blood money. Also, considering what he's done while wearing said suits, the clothing could have almost been considered a work expense. These garments that Charles is piling into his arms now, however, have no equivocal use. They're frivolous, wasteful. He stands there awkwardly, staring at the ground, trying to decide how to bring this up tactfully.

Fortunately, Charles is both perceptive and, well, telepathic. "I know they're an investment," he says quietly to Erik, "but you're worth it."

Erik looks embarrassed. "It's too much. I can't accept it," he frowns, looking away. Then he looks back reluctantly as Charles gently palms his face.

"Just let me pamper you a little, Erik." Charles' voice is soft, his eyes large and vulnerable. "Please?" he asks, biting his lower lip, practically pouting – 'poor little rich boy,' Erik thinks ruefully – and finally, Erik sighs.

"Okay."

"Perfect." Charles then makes eyes at a young, pretty sales clerk, who totters over quickly, and who seems quite taken with Charles' calling her "love." He asks her to fetch them a dressing room reservation; before long, she joins in on suggesting garments that will look good on Erik, and Erik rolls his eyes a little and follows them obediently around the store.

Eventually, Erik is dragged to the dressing room, where the girl – Stacey, he hears her tell Charles bouncily – has meticulously arranged all of their finds. He tugs on a stiff pair of trousers and one of the sweaters, and then palms open the door. "Well?" he asks, and Charles looks up. Erik watches Charles drink him in appreciatively, though he's silent for several seconds, and Erik has to resist the urge to fidget.

Finally, Charles smiles at him. "You look amazing," he gushes honestly, and then makes a shooing motion. "Go on, try something else."

Once Erik has paraded back and forth in and out of the dressing room for his appreciative audience – mostly Charles, and occasionally Stacey – for nearly an hour, he returns to his own clothes with a short sigh of relief. When he exits the small room again, Charles is having Stacey bundle like garments together in neat-looking packages. "Are we getting all of it?" Erik asks, a bit dizzily in spite of himself.

"It all looks wonderful on you," Charles says by way of reply, and he's already handing money to Stacey, as though he's afraid Erik will change his mind if he doesn't hurry. When everything has been packed up and placed carefully in the trunk of Charles' car, Charles grins at Erik tentatively. "So you were saying you would help me not to look so decrepit?" he ventures, and Erik smiles back.

As it turns out, Charles is much more favorable towards shopping when it's for somebody other than him. Unfortunately, Erik is merciless and quite determined not to let Charles leave the store that day without solving the problem of him dressing like an eighty-year-old. "Let's try this," Erik suggests, tugging a shirt from the rack and handing it to Stacey, who is all too thrilled at the prospect of assisting them twice.

Charles looks apprehensive. "Oh, but … it's red," he critiques. "I'm not sure it's me."

"It is. You look good in dark colors," Erik tells him. He favors Stacey with a rare bit of attention: "Won't he look good in that?" he prompts her.

"Yes, he'll look fantastic," Stacey exclaims. Erik smirks triumphantly, and Charles sighs, defeated.

"Fine." As before, he's docilely led around to various racks while Erik chooses things that he assures Charles will be flattering. Occasionally, Charles still puts up a good fight: "Erik, I just don't think I need a leather jacket," he frowns at one point, moving subtly away when the other man holds it up to his chest. "It's just … I'll look silly. This is more your avenue."

Erik steps close, enough so that Charles can feel the breath on his cheek. "Charles, you asked me here for a reason," he intones quietly. "Maybe you don't know what will make you look good. Maybe you have to put your faith in someone else once in a while. Do you trust me, Charles?"

"Of course," Charles says quickly. "With my life; and, I suppose, with my clothing choices." He smiles, and Erik rubs his fingers over the buttery soft leather. "Thank you," Charles says a moment later. "For doing this."

Erik smirks and steps away, still holding the jacket. "Don't thank me yet," he admonishes. "You're going to be stuck in that dressing room for the rest of your natural life."

By the end of a long afternoon, Erik and Charles return to the mansion, and set about putting their myriad purchases away. Charles, for his part, seems much more pleased to sit and admire each new garment in the comfort of home, and when he disappears into the bathroom with a couple of hangered items, Erik doesn't think anything of it.

"So I really do like the leather jacket, I've decided," Charles announces some minutes later, and Erik looks up. The smaller man is bedecked in one of his new outfits, topped with the jacket in question, the tags removed. Erik's gaze roves appreciatively over Charles' slender frame, the way the clothes fit and tug in all the right ways, and his mouth waters.

Soon enough, he has Charles pressed flush against the door, one hand smoothing up Charles' new shirt ("red is your color," Erik tells him), touching warm flesh, the other rubbing over the bulge in Charles' pants. 'So fucking hot like this,' Erik thinks at him, and Charles groans because Erik is stroking at his erection. "No, Erik, not in the new pants. Please," he breathes, and Erik sighs and steps away.

"Okay," he agrees. "Take them off. But leave the jacket on," he says decidedly a moment later. "I like it."

Months later, after Cuba and the beach and everything horrible, a large box arrives at the Brotherhood's headquarters, addressed to "Max Eisenhardt," an old pseudonym that Erik once told Charles he used. It doesn't have a return address, merely a small, dignified "X" scrawled in the left-hand corner, and Erik wonders how Charles found them so quickly.

Inside the box are clothes. The touch and vague scent of the mansion from whence they came stir unbidden memories in Erik's mind, and he sighs and picks through the neatly folded sweaters and pants and accessories – Charles had insisted on buying him a hideously overpriced belt that day, too – and his heart beats dully in his chest.

At the very bottom of the box, there is a handwritten note, folded in half and adorned with Charles' tell-tale "From the desk of Charles Francis Xavier" letterhead. The note itself is not terribly formal, however: "I kept your old turtlenecks," it reads in Charles' neat scrawl. "I'm sure they are hideously out of season, anyways."

Erik tucks the garments away in the small closet he shares with two other people at the base, and if anybody notices that they're new, they seem to know not to bring it up.