If he's surprised by Erik's sudden transformation in front of him then he doesn't say anything. He lets hands tuck in fabric and tries not to focus on the wall of soundless presence that he is present in his mind. Charles doesn't pry, wouldn't want to anyway, knows that all of this is like watching death come creeping in and not having the voice to scream it down. He simply smiles a little softer than usual, blue eyes following the path of his fingers and lets his shoulders drop.

"Don't worry, my friend," his voice is like a murmur of sound in someone else's kitchen but at least it's a start, "I've never been very good at being bohemian, I won't."

There's a moment where he flounders, face carefully set but it's obvious that he has no idea what to do next. So he tips his head up, "We'll be fine."

More so a repeat for Erik's sake, proof that he is taking in the words, that he trusts. Charles wants to protect him but he assumes - perhaps rightly - that the only way he can help is by letting Erik control each moment in his steel grip.