Work Text:
Krakoa both looks and feels alive on its own, Stephen thinks.
Navigating his way through the chattering mutants, clinking glasses, and the rustle of enormous, alien leaves, Stephen sways slightly as the pleasant hum of expensive whisky thrums beneath his skin. He feels lighter than he has ever before, and the confines of his formal attire finally concedes with how fit he’s been for the past few years.
Perhaps it is not just his imagination, Stephen thinks again. Because Illyana, brushing past the sorcerer with her hand tucked in Piotr’s elbow, gives a mischievous smile that crinkles the corner of her eyes.
“Looking quite formidable, Stephen,” Her voice carries easily over the din, “Perhaps you might not need your security blanket to carry you around this time.”
Piotr barks a loud chuckle as they move on. And Stephen, feeling a warmth spread through his cheeks that has nothing to do with the whisky, instinctively pats his sides, trying to feel a familiar distinction of weight.
A frown creases his brows the moment he couldn’t feel the cloak’s particular presence. His fingers met only the crisp fabric of his purple dress shirt.
His coat—the Cloak of Levitation—is missing.
Stephen quickly excuses himself from the throng, stepping into a quieter, lantern-lit corridor that snaked away from the celebration. He runs a hand through his silver hair as he looks around, muttering under his breath.
"Alright, you magnificent pest, where have you scurried off to now?"
He is so preoccupied to locate the errant cloak that once he turns on another corner, he nearly walks straight into a wall of solid, immovable muscle. Or rather, a person. Erik Lehnsherr, Magneto, has his back before Stephen in way that finally makes their collision unavoidable.
The impact knocks the air from Stephen’s lungs, his hands flying up to reach on something, or somewhere, eventually grabbing the front of Erik’s dress shirt, clutching on to it before he loses his balance.
“Oh, for heaven’s—My apologies, I was entirely—” Stephen stammered, his face flushing a deep, embarrassing crimson as he stumbles back a step only to feel Erik’s palm already against the back of his waist. Another hand comes up to grip Stephen’s biceps in a reflexive attempt to steady them both. And Erik’s usually sharp, calculating eyes turn wide with a slight surprise.
“Stephen?”
“Erik,” Stephen speaks a little too loudly, the whisky rendering his tongue looser than usual, "Fancy seeing you here. Looking for something?"
Erik's piercing blue eyes flick up to meet his, letting the sorcerer go once they have found their footing, "Stephen. And yes, as it happens. My jacket,” A muscle in his jaw tightens, “It seems to have developed a desire for independence this evening."
A bark of laughter escapes Stephen's throat, "You too? I was just about to mount a search party. I can't imagine where mine could have gotten to," He pauses with a fond, exasperated sigh escaping him, "Although, with mine, it's less of an imagining and more of a certainty. It has a mind of its own."
Erik’s eyebrow quirks, a flicker of genuine interest cutting through his stoic demeanour, "Your coat has a mind of its own? I was under the impression it was merely... fabric."
"Oh, it's fabric alright," Stephen concedes, stepping closer to speak in a more conspiratorial tone, "But it's the Cloak of Levitation in formal disguise. It gets bored. It's likely never seen an island as vibrantly and chaotically alive as Krakoa. It's probably off somersaulting through the bioluminescent jungles right now, causing a ruckus."
A slow smile touches Erik's lips, faint but sincere.
"A sentient cloak, of course. Why would I expect anything less from the Sorcerer Supreme?" He tilts his head slightly and falling into step beside Stephen, continuing as they walk down the corridor.
“I must admit,” He continues, “The concept is rather fascinating. A will of its own yet bound to you. It must’ve been an unpredictable companion.”
"It's a partner, in a way. It saves my life as often as it exasperates me," Stephen appraises after a moment, glancing over where the path finally leads them. Lush plants and tropical leaves leaning into the now open-air walkway, occasionally brushing their shoulders under the ambered lights, "But you're right," He feels himself unwinding just from the beautiful, multicoloured verdancy, "It does what it wants half the time."
"I understand," Erik's observation remains unhurried, and the soft cadence of his voice carries a certain depth that thrums faintly. Even through the physical stillness the looming vegetation recognises Erik's presence, the quiet reverberation of his power resonates within the stone beneath their feet.
Stephen glances back at him, looking up with a genuine, unpractised smile at his lips, "I suppose you would, at that. Your 'children' have a tendency to be... wilful."
“That is one word for it," Erik replies, and his gaze drifts down to the shade of Stephen's attire, entirely preoccupied from the movement of Stephen's chest, the soft contraction of his heartbeat and the pulse beneath his skin. "They are... a constant and glorious chaos. One learns to find a certain stillness within the disorder."
He falls silent after that.
Something unreadable flickering in the pale blue depths of his eyes as he studies Stephen for a quiet moment.
"Come, Doctor. This corridor is too public for a private conspiracy."
Erik’s hand comes to rest against the small of Stephen’s back, a simple gesture of guidance that nonetheless sends a shudder of awareness straight through the sorcerer. It feels strangely protective—perhaps due to their unfortunate collision—but Stephen finds himself moving without thought, falling into step beside the larger man as he is brought to a grand, carved archway that leads into a vast and open-plan dwelling.
Everywhere Stephen’s eyes reach is a contrast to the formality left behind. The spacious chamber feels comfortable and lived-in. Deep sofas overstuffed with colourful pillows and animal dolls (one of them a large, seemingly hand-made shape of an adorable shark) scattered across plush rugs that sank underfoot.
The far wall opens entirely to the right, revealing a broad deck that stretches toward a moonlit beach.
Beyond it, the sea glows faintly in the darkness.
Waves roll gently toward the shore, their foam catching threads of ethereal light that shimmer like scattered starlight along the water’s edge. And the air lingers in a different way, brimming with the briny scent of the ocean and the sweet fragrance of night-blooming floras.
“The young ones claim this is the best spot on the island,” Erik explains, gesturing a look around the ground seating, “They insist the view of the beach is magnificent from this distance.”
Stephen curiously moves toward the deck. The pull of the open sky draws him forward until he stands at the railing, looking out over the pale sands and dark water streaked with the tranquillity of moonlight. It is breathtakingly peaceful.
“They’re not wrong,” He murmurs at last. And he could see the appeal, a place such as this, to feel infinite right under an open sky. He turns back to Erik, who has been watching him with heedful intensity, “You really care for them, don’t you? I didn’t take you for an observer, if I’m honest.”
Erik’s gaze does not waver; if anything, his attention seems to soften, thawing into something unshielded and weary. He takes a slow, deep breath, following to stand by Stephen’s side and at the edge of the deck, looking out the same moonlit expanse.
“There was a time,” He begins, a gravelly rumble that nevertheless carries the weight of decades, “When all I saw were battles and conflicts. Everyone was a threat. Every promise that raised the prospect of peace felt like a potential trick. I was a soldier, then a general, then a revolutionary. My entire existence was defined by vengeance and my mission to protect mutantkind."
He pauses, turning his head slightly toward Stephen. The pale light carves sharp lines into his comely, aged face.
“I am tired, Stephen.”
Through the whisper of waves and the sentient hum of Krakoa’s ever-shifting serenity, Erik’s confession lands with a disarming honesty. And the silence that settles between them only broken by the slow breath of the ocean and the distant pulse of life across the island.
Erik exhales, leaning back against the baluster. His posture relaxes with quiet resignation, hands slipping into the familiar refuge of his slacks pockets. Yet even in repose the physical presence of him radiates a steady warmth that Stephen cannot quite ignore.
“After everything that happened," He continues, "I find that what I want now is so small in comparison.”
His gaze drifts toward the room behind them.
“I want to watch the younger ones argue over video games on those sofas. I want to see them come here and feel safe. I want them to know what a home feels like, not merely a headquarters or a sanctuary.”
A faint breath leaves him.
“A real home.”
He glances vaguely back toward the main celebration below, a flicker of something like fond frustration in his eyes.
“They deserve that. They deserve to have a place where the most pressing issue is whether someone drank the last of the orange juice or beat them to steal their favourite spots. Learning what makes them laugh and what they fear when they think no one is watching. It is a different kind of battle, a quieter one, I assure you,” The corner of his eye crinkled with a one-sided smile, “Nurturing them and ensuring… this. This fragile peace. Now I am just a man who wants his children to be happy.”
Stephen feels his chest tighten, a strange and unfamiliar ache blooming beneath his ribs. He, a man who had danced and bargained with cosmic entities, who held the fractured timelines of the universe in his hands, has been utterly humbled by Erik’s simple, profound wish.
The mutant terrorist—humans ever so called him—the would-be world-conqueror, reduced to his most essential element; a father. And it was a side of him Stephen has never even considered, a depth of quiet tenacity that has nothing to do with revenge and mutant rights but with everything to do with building a world worth living in. The chaos of Stephen’s own life feels loud and selfish against the face of it, and in that moment, the magnetic pull he realises threatening to undo his ever-composed self becomes not just a turn of phrase; it becomes a fundamental law of their universe.
The steadfast gravity of Erik’s newfound peace offers an irresistible berth to Stephen’s endless, spell-storm flight and chaotic uniformity.
Somehow, in the reflection of the man himself; disciplined and powerful, deeply integral to his sorrowful strength, Stephen begins to find comfort in it.
“You are a good man, Erik,” The sorcerer says before he can stop himself.
But the words seem to surprise him the moment they leave his mouth. A fracture of his expression suddenly ushers an embarrassment which seems more put out than usual, settling over his expression with unusual clarity as a deep warmth swarms within his chest.
“Forgive me, I—do not be alarmed,” He adds hastily, “I simply find it… fitting, even for you. I have never seen a timeline as radiant as this.”
Erik’s eyes narrow imperceptibly at Stephen. A flicker of wry amusement slips through the fatigue lining his features as he let his gaze roam over in a deliberate double-take, taking in the abashed posture and the particular colour of mortification spreading more, if not, more evident across Stephen’s cheeks.
“A compliment, Doctor?”
The corner of Erik’s mouth twitches, the faintest suggestion of a smile playing on his lips.
“From you, of all people, that feels like a rather unlikely reality. I never imagined our paths would cross in a setting like this," His gaze lingers with a thoroughness that feels almost indulgent, settling first upon Stephen’s face before drifting lower to the loosened collar of his shirt, "And I certainly never took you for a man who would wear purple to our private gathering.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“It is a coincidence one might almost suspect intention.”
Stephen blinks, momentarily thrown, "What do you mean?"
Erik gestures vaguely between them, “You. Purple shirt. I. Purple slacks,” He let his eyes glint with a droll amusement, “Some of the younger mutants were whispering about it earlier to me, asking whether we had planned it.”
A hot flush creep its way up Stephen's neck, instantly burning the tips of his ears. He feels his heart give a foolish, stuttering beat against his ribs. He opens his mouth and takes off his hat, but no words came out, only a silent, embarrassed sputter.
“Well,” He manages, his voice a touch too high, clutching his headwear to his chest like a shield, desperately gathering himself back to his usual decorum, “Great minds, I suppose. Although, I must admit, the thought of our great minds aligning on fashion is… frankly, terrifying. I didn’t exactly choose it. Not consciously. Last minute, you see,” He couldn’t meet Erik’s eyes and instead focusing on a spot just over the man’s broad shoulders, “As you already know, I arrived late last night, and I was at loss for what to wear, something less… conspicuous than my usual gear. I just… conjured it. Felt it out, so to speak. The colour was just an instinct.”
A warm chuckle rolls out of Erik’s chest, a charmingly rare sound that seems to scatter every single rumination from Stephen's tremulous disposition. His voice lingers in a deep hum, genuinely amused at Stephen’s dishevelled candour. He reaches out slowly, brushing his fingers against the fabric of Stephen’s collar, straightening a crease that has managed to sneak its way between their conversation.
“Terrifying or inevitable?” Erik murmurs, his timbre drops into a softer, intimate depth that makes the hairs on Stephen’s nape stand on end. His perceptive gaze a heavy weight that deepens the flush on the man’s cheeks, “Perhaps Krakoa itself has a sense of humour. Or perhaps, it simply has a sense of destiny. What do you think, Stephen?”
“I think,” Stephen parts his lips, then tilts his head incrementally, the tremor in his hands come alight with a particular presence of something entirely familiar.
“I feel…”
He turns his head toward another far end of the spacious seating room, then lifts an index finger apologetically as he steps back inside to look at the wide, twin pathways diverging from a slow-sprinkling fountain.
He looks back at Erik again, then alternatively to where a beautifully carved wooden door stood slightly ajar.
It is then when Stephen stills.
A familiar, fizzling energy tickling his senses, a magical signature he recognises more readily than his own reflection.
“Excuse me,” Stephen’s very finger seems to falter at his own and decides to form a loose fist, finally managing to cock his head at a very specific direction.
His focus sharpens initially. The flustered, dizzy awkwardness temporarily gone, replaced by a vigilant intensity of a sorcerer’s instinct. He treads quickly toward the source of his menace, not realising that Erik too, has followed him from behind.
Stephen pushes the door open without a second thought.
There, draped in a state of pure, lazy decadence across an expansive, neatly made bed, is the Cloak of Levitation. It lay sprawled around the pillows, its wide lapels propping against them as if it is watching the door. It billows with a soft, rhythmic motion, the deep purple of its inner linings against the muted tones of the room. It has been looking for all the world like a pampered pet that has found the perfect sunbeam and claimed it for its own.
Stephen stares dumbfounded, his mind catching up with the scene. Heat floods his face for an entirely new reason. He turns around, meaning to walk back to explain everything, however, he is greeted with a nearly unavoidable collision—again—with Erik’s absolutely, immovable torso.
“Erik, I—oh, lord,” His one free hand holds up in a gesture of placating apology, his words tumbling out in a rush as he looks up, “I am so terribly sorry. It’s just… It has been so long since I've been able to let it fly around so freely without a dire emergency at hand. It must have flown further than I realised, and it sensed... well, I don't know what it sensed in here, but clearly it has mistakenly decided that this particular chamber is an ideal place to rest."
Erik lets the frantic elucidation carry on, looking down at the sorcerer with a genuine regard that has somehow softens the often-harsh lines of his face. It is evidently a compelling, besetting thing to witness how completely undone Stephen could possibly be just because of a piece of sentient fabric.
And the whisky, Erik suspects, might as well be a significant accomplice.
“Stephen,” Erik speaks calmly through the distraught apologies, "It is nothing to worry about," He takes another step closer to rest his palm against Stephen’s back, “The island is full of wonders tonight. A sentient cloak seeking a comfortable resting place is hardly the most peculiar event to occur."
But Stephen is not so easily placated. His eyes dart from the cloak to Erik, then back again, a wound-up energy buzzing around him.
“But this room… it is so grand. It must’ve intruded on someone’s private chamber. Is this Ororo’s? Or-or, good lord, is it Emma’s? My apologies, I can portal us out before anyone realises we’re here—”
Stephen already sways his hand in a silent incantation, his other hand putting back the hat on his head as he follows up with a mutter of decorous exasperation.
But Erik's smile only widens, a touch of something like fondness entering his blue eyes, "It is not Emma's," He speaks softly as he reaches Stephen’s hand to stop the portal from materialising, and his voice prevails with an amusement that seems utterly gentle, "And it is not Ororo's." He pauses, letting the silence hang for a moment, finally drawing Stephen's full, undivided attention right to him.
"It is mine, Stephen."
The effect it brings is as instantaneous and comical. Stephen’s jaw goes slack. A fresh, rubicund wave of abashment washes over his face, travelling down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
“Yours?” He squeaks, the sound entirely undignified, “Your—your bedroom? Good lord,” He scrambles forward and seizes the Cloak of Levitation at once, clutching the fabric to his chest as if it were a stolen treasure. The plush garment, still maintaining its illusion as a sophisticated frock coat, takes that exact moment to stage a rebellion. One of its finely-stitched lapels raises, giving a slow, languid wave in Erik’s direction. A movement so distinctively flirty it is almost insulting.
“The absolute cheek,” Stephen hisses under his breath, wrestling the rebellious fabric into submission. He keeps it folded tightly, tucking the now-protesting edges under his arms and holding it like a disobedient child, "I am so, so sorry, Erik. It has no sense of propriety. None whatsoever."
"On the contrary," Erik murmurs, his gaze fixed on Stephen's flustered, endearing expression, “I think it has an excellent taste,” He closes the distance until their boots almost touch, right before Stephen who stands still in a state of magnificent disarray, cheeks flushed to a vivid shade that rivals the sentient fabric itself. His breath has grown uneven with a fraying self-consciousness, the careful dignity he normally wears now unravelled by circumstance and liquor indulgences alike.
Then there's the faint, subtle cadence of Stephen's heart.
It reaches Erik in a delicate rhythm within the field of sensations he has long since learned to interpret without doubt. A pulse that is quickening so lively and unguarded, beating with a nervous insistence beneath the cage of Stephen's ribs.
And the man has not the slightest idea how loudly his heart is speaking.
"You are so easily flustered, Doctor," Erik allows the silence to linger just long enough to savour it, "It is a side of you I do not believe I have ever witnessed."
"I—well, I'm not usually," Stephen stammers, refusing to meet Erik's eyes and lowering his gaze somewhere around the powerful man's collar, "It's just... a lot. The party and the drinks, and then my cloak is... apparently trying to seduce you in your own bed."
An almost open chuckle vibrated Erik’s chest, “And how much have you indulged this evening? Do not try to spare my feelings. I am well aware of the persuasive tactics of our younger residents."
Stephen finally looks up, a sheepish and honest bearing on his face, "It has been a bit of everything," He confesses, the words tumbling out in a mumbled rush, "A little of the wine they grow here, some of that stout Kurt brews... and then Peter Quill decided he was a bartender for an hour. I couldn't very well refuse a 'Star-Lord Special', could I? It seemed rude."
Erik's smile softens into something warmer, reaching out to gently rest his hand against Stephen’s crossed forearms, a light, reassuring touch, “No,” He agrees in a whisper, "One should never be rude to the host. Especially when the host is so determined to be hospitable."
Stephen’s brows furrow in a befuddled contortion, a mix of confusion, surprise, and a dawning, thrilling comprehension that makes his face look utterly caressible.
“Your—your hospitality is noted,” He manages after a hard swallow, trying to marshal his scattered wits, “And appreciated. I feel quite at home. More than I expected to, even in place as vibrant as this,” He gives a weak little shrug, still clutching the cloak and afraid to let it go, “Knowing my cloak had so rudely barge—er, found its way into your private chamber, it’s the least I can do to… accommodate.”
Erik, however, is thoroughly enjoying this new side of the sorcerer—this talkative, unarmed version that is usually buried beneath layers of mystic gravitas. The late hour, the wine in his own system too, makes Erik feel indulgent, pliant to the moment's whims.
"It is I who am being accommodated," Erik offers, “Your company is a far more interesting discovery than a missing jacket.”
At the mention of the jacket, a spark of logic fights its way through the fog in Stephen's mind, "The jacket!" He exclaims, a sudden, sharp focus returning to his eyes, "Erik, we completely forgot. We have to find your jacket. I can't believe I let us get distracted."
But Erik simply shakes his head. A glint of something sharp and of playful maturity enters his eyes, “Forget the jacket,” He says piquantly between the significant closeness, "There is a far more pressing matter to attend to now."
Stephen blinks, utterly oblivious, "A matter? What is it? Is something wrong? Did you sense a disturbance?"
A more confident yet still close-knitted smile spread across Erik’s face. He invades Stephen’s personal space completely with how forward he leans into him, brushing his hand to the immaculate, solid line of Stephen’s flank.
“No disturbance, sorcerer. Only a mere observation,” He tilts his head down so slightly, his lowered gaze remains around Stephen’s smaller waistline, “You should wear fine things more often, instead of hiding away in those heavy robes.”
The compliment is so direct, so unvarnished, that it mirrors the same gravitational force of a masterful incantation.
"You..." Stephen starts, but the words die in his throat. Erik is so close. Very close that when the man leans down, the scent of wine and his after-shave, his well-trimmed beard that is apparently thicker and fuller than his own, grazes Stephen’s jaw as if they’re still trying to get infinitesimally closer. Erik’s gaze lowers from the dazed glimmer of Stephen’s eyes to the small part of his lips, then back again.
"It is a simple observation, Stephen," Erik continues, murmuring lowly that his voice seem to embrace only for the sorcerer supreme, “One I felt needed to be made.”
And kisses him.
Multiple realities that thrum within Stephen’s mind, an endless library of incantations and cosmic truths, for once, cease to exist. None has prepared him for this. For the simple, earth-shattering sensation of another man’s kiss.
The gentle pressure of Erik’s lips against his own claims with a grounding intent. And it feels utterly alien. The faint, scratchy prickles of Erik’s trimmed facial hair feels like tiny jolt of electrical shocks against his skin. He could taste the ghost of a rich and heady wine and something else, something uniquely Erik, dark and clean and imposingly magnetic.
Erik seems to sense the seismic shift, the frantic stutter of Stephen’s heart hammering rabidly against his ribs. He does not pull back, but let his hand slides upward with a possessive slowness until it splays warm and wide against the back of Stephen’s waist, pressing him closer and eliminating any sliver of space between them. His other hand comes up to cup Stephen’s jaw, his thumb caressing the sharp line of the sorcerer’s cheekbone, an inviting gesture so tender it feels more disarming than the kiss itself.
And just like that, the tension within Stephen’s body breaks. His eyes close on its own, a wave of capitulation that has washed his confusion away leaves something trembling and eager in its wake. His lips, which remain slightly parted in surprise, finally let out a soft, shaky gasp. He still clutches the Cloak of Levitation to his chest, but his other hand has sought up instinctively, fingers gripping the front of Erik’s shirt, knotting and wrinkling the previously pressed fabric.
Stephen begins to kiss back.
It is clumsy at first, an uncoordinated and flustered movement. He follows Erik’s lead, his head tilting to accommodate the angle as his lips learn the rhythm, the pressure. He has never done this for so long, let alone knowing the scrape of another man’s chin, the solid weight of a body so similar and yet so profoundly different from his own. It feels intoxicating, a heady rush that makes whatever drinks he has had feels like tap water, reeling out a low and involuntary sound that finally escapes his throat in a breathy moan.
Erik answers it with a low hum of his own, the heaviness of his timbre vibrating from his chest into Stephen’s. He deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing the inner side of Stephen’s lips, a quiet, confident permission. And Stephen’s response is an immediate, shuddering affirmation.
He opens for Erik, a dizzying wave of heat washing over him as Erik’s tongue slide against his. A slow and thorough exploration, an invitation laid with such unhurried precision, mapping him with a commanding, sensual expertise that leaves Stephen feeling weak-kneed and utterly undone.
They break apart with a soft, wet sound, both heaving breathily in the sudden stillness of the room. Stephen’s forehead drops to rest against Erik’s shoulder, and his hat has fallen to the floor as his entire body shudders, fingers trembling where they remain clutched. He feels completely dazed, his lips tingling and mildly swollen, and his mind a complete, blissful wreck. He could feel the steady and solid beat of Erik’s heart against his cheek and it somehow feels more than enough—more than anything.
“There,” Erik mutters softly, his hand languidly stroking through Stephen’s silver strands. He presses a chaste kiss to the man’s temple, a gesture so achingly gentle that it makes Stephen’s chest ache, “That was not so terrifying, was it?”
Stephen let out a shaky laugh, still refusing to lift his head, “I… have no frame of reference,” He admits breathlessly, his voice muffled against Erik’s shoulder, “But I think… I think terrifying might be an understatement.”
“Is it?” Erik’s thumb begins to brush in a small pattern, “Perhaps I am simply enjoying the company of a brilliant man who wears purple as well as I do.”
The honesty is overthrowing him and could even be his undoing—as Stephen ruminates further. He feels a knot of tension he has not been aware of loosens in his chest. Here, with Magneto, with Erik, as unbelievable as it may seem, coincidentally finding a moment of unexpected connection in the most unlikely of places.
“Erik, I…,” Stephen breathes out, trying, “I enjoy your company too,” The words feels so foreign and yet profoundly true on his tongue, “Even if your hospitality is alarmingly forward.”
Erik laughed then, a genuine, open sound that made his eyes fully crinkle, “I will endeavour to be less alarming. I promise.”
Through the sparkle of his gaze and Stephen’s apparently still rabbiting heart, they both reckon that Erik would do no such thing.