“Charles, for the love of god, stop fidgeting. This event was your idea in the first place.”
“Yes, the event was. I did not, however, expect to be dressed as some poofy ecdysiast.”
Charles could feel Erik rolling his eyes as he tugged at the hem of his jacket. “Only you would equate a tuxedo with exotic dancing.”
“Isn’t that the sole point of it? If one desires to be noticed favorably, one wears a fancy suit. All the men I’ve known who dress like this act like charletans, anyway.”
Erik looked up from where he was straightening Charles’s bowtie, raising an eyebrow. “For your information, I enjoy tuxedos. Am I a charletan as well?”
“Only the best kind.”
Erik smirked in the way Charles loved, quirking one side of his face as the other remained static, only his eyes lighting up in tandem. Charles couldn’t help swaying a bit forward as the crows-feet crinkled.
Ignoring his distraction, Erik swung around behind him and rested a chin on his shoulder. It still made Charles tingle to see how easily they fit like this, and he didn’t even bother to suppress his shudder as Erik breathed across his ear. It earned him another smirk, but also a squeezing of hands across his waist - a shivering promise of what would come from good behavior.
“Look at yourself, Charles, and tell me how cheap you look.”
Charles scrutinized himself in the full length mirror, grimacing skeptically. He would never refute that Erik had good style, and he certainly had more intimate knowledge of his body than a tailor ever could. He was impressed by the neat tapering at the waist, the lack of puckering that usually would pop up across his shoulders. The shirt was white and pressed, the bow-tie neat, and if he ignored Erik’s looming stature, the stretch of black made him seem a few inches taller. He brought a hand to sweep away his gelled back hair, and Erik nosed at his temple; he could feel the shiny edges of his grin against his jaw.
Surely it was a fine suit. But Charles had never enjoyed looking fine; he preferred knowing he was respected and desired for his natural gifts, both mental and physical. He would rather be comfortable than portray someone he was not.
As if sensing his discomfort, Erik squeezed him closer, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You will be the belle of the ball, my dear.”
Charles snorted. “The beast, more like, once I rip this damned suit off.”
There were suddenly teeth in Erik’s kiss, and Charles inhaled sharply as a hand drifted across his stomach. “If anyone’s doing any ripping tonight, it will be me.”
Charles was wondering whether to be aroused or irate when Erik turned him around with soft hands, took his face between his palms. If Charles weren’t so mortified, he would drown in the tenderness he saw there.
“You need only make an appearance, Charles. Then you will be back up here in your slacks and sweaters and I will do whatever I can to make clothing irrelevant. So buck up, liebling.” Erik kissed his forehead, his lips; Charles barely restrained himself from fisting his hands in Erik’s own immaculate suit.
“Well,” Charles said breathily, ignoring the way Erik smirked at his mouth, “if you can hunt Nazis in Armani, I’m sure I can toast bureaucrats in this.”
Erik chuckled, and kissed him again.
“That’s the spirit, meine schöne. Now let’s drop them dead.”