[fic] Saudade
Pairing - Charles/Erik
Summary - Erik is suspicious of his feelings for Charles, attributing them to telepathic manipulation. Written for this prompt on the kinkmeme.
"We both want the very same thing: We are praying I am the one to save you. But you don't even know your own violence."
-- Joanna Newsom, Go Long
The heat is magnificent. Erik's fingers are working shakily along his cock; gritting out expletives into the musty air, breathing too heavily, his other hand clutching the bedsheets, palm slipping with sweat against the cotton.
(This infatuation is an illness, a fever. Maybe he can sweat it out, he thinks, and jerks harder.)
Erik is trying to imagine what it would feel like for Charles to suck the tender curve of his neck, push hair back from his forehead. The steady thrusts of Charles' hips, the cool pads of his fingertips, terms of endearment. Instead, Erik gets suffocation, Charles' hands pressing down on his chest, windpipe, mouth. Charles, everywhere, enveloping Erik's entire body, taking him over. Smothering him, wrapping Erik up so tightly that Erik can't think or see or breathe. Heavier than wool, heavier than flesh, heavier than metal. Erik is helpless and raw and can't escape.
Without warning, his vision bursts with light, and he's coming all over himself and gasping and everything is Charles, Charles, Charles and Erik couldn't be more ashamed of himself.
Charles, in his own bed, steeples his fingers together and considers this.
Guilty though he feels for observing Erik's masturbatory fantasies, it's unintentional, accidental - Erik's thoughts are too loud, too vibrant and violent to ignore. Charles can't help it. He sees what he sees. Always, afterwards, Charles feels disgusting. And light-headed. And hard. He wants Erik, there's no question about it. But these things take time.
Only in intervals, increments, with patience and frustration and hours of Erik's gaze fixed on the crisp line of Charles' trousers, did lust blossom within Erik. Desire, painted rich and bright - feverish reds and wild oranges - takes time. Erik must overcome the terror of wanting, of recognizing need. Must surpass the pain of love and allow it to make way for something tender.
Their union is nonexistent. Laughable. Not until one of them verbalizes it - morphs fleeting desires into words, then actions, then (perhaps) touch and taste and sensation.
You first. No, you first.
Playing the game of their lust is entertaining. Pushing buttons and overstepping boundaries. Teasing, flirting. Straying a little too far for a little too long. Sick, sometimes. The ways they stretch and tug at desire are rough and untoward, nothing short of cruel. The consummation is so close, so close, their lust pulled taut, ready to snap.
Any day now.
When love is drawn out, with no release or relief, it burns and stings and leaves behind bruises. When love is drawn out, left untreated, yanked and yanked like reams of taffy - then it hurts.
Privately and regularly, they play chess. Hidden away in the study. Two creatures of habit, both attached to the routine.
For Charles, chess is cerebral, an intellectual discussion. Effortlessly, quiet fingers swipe rooks and bishops off the playing field. Between turns, he rests his knuckles against his lips. Still as marble and barely blinking. Erik finds this unnerving - for him, the game is physical, a simplified war. Erik grunts, clenches his fists, makes angry noises in the back of his throat. Seizes taken pieces so hard they leave imprints in his palm. Both men are equally relived to not have to speak, to not have to justify and cover up and explain. Not decorate needlessly with words. Generally, Charles wins, accepting his victories with detached grace and small smiles, as if he’d predicted the outcome all along. (Of course he did.)
But Erik likes the potential of besting Charles just as much as an actual victory.
One evening, while Erik is debating the benefits of castling, Charles observes him closely. He takes in Erik's held breath, seething with concentration, the gnawing raw of Erik's lower lip. Blunt canines digging at the redness, harsh enough to bruise.
“Erik,” Charles says softly, eyes now trained on him with feral precision. “Exhale.”
Instinctively, Erik does as he is told.
Across the board, with so little space between them, Charles can’t help but feel exposed. Vulnerable - as though Erik could look at him and instantly know everything about Charles. Every dirty secret, every skeleton and scar. Every lustful fantasy of Erik splayed out on his back, panting and whimpering as Charles works him open with his fingers. As if Erik could see through Charles the way Charles sees through him.
Come now - who’s the telepath, again? Charles blushes furiously. The trouble with telepathy is how easy it is to become dependent upon it. To assume that everyone just knows the way Charles knows, that information and emotion is free for everyone and fresh for the picking.
Here are just a few things that Charles knows.
The cobalt intensity of Erik's eyes, the surprising lack of force in Erik's handshake, the empty look Erik gets when not directly engaged with another, the form and heat of Erik's cock, the effort Erik puts in to avoid mealtimes with the others, the pain of six numbers on his left forearm, the smell of death, and the shape and size of one repulsive, rusting, metal coin. Charles knows that Erik gets antsy in such a large building, that Erik paces up and down the corridors at night. Charles knows that Erik has violent flashbacks at inopportune moments - while showering, while pulling on his socks, while climbing up the stairs, while losing to Charles at chess. Charles knows that Erik has a violent streak himself, craves power, craves force, craves protection from vulnerability.
In insomnia’s aftermath one mid-morning, Erik trudges into the kitchen, having slept no more than a quarter-hour, expecting to find it deserted. Instead, Charles is there, making coffee. Without looking over his shoulder, he laughs kindly and says, “Ah, Erik. Rough night? I take it you’ll fancy one?” Glancing back, Charles pulls a sympathetic face. “Or - five, perhaps?”
“Just one for now. One cream, no sugar,” Erik sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. No sleep. Nightmares. Memories. Sex. Lust.
Sick, so sick.
Charles turns again towards the stove. “Oh, I know what you like,” he says, airily enough. But the words find purchase, they shoot right through Erik, straight to his core. Charles notices him shiver.
Here are (even fewer) things that Erik knows.
Accidental grazes of Charles' palm upon the small of his back. The fact that Erik does not mind losing at chess to Charles. Absurd desire to touch Charles' face, his lips, his cheek. The night Erik remembered too much and was struck with panic, and Charles hadn't asked questions, just soothed cool fingers through Erik's hair and told him that everything would be all right.
Charles' commands. Pointed, but tender. Relax. Try again. Exhale. Exhale.
Exhale. The word, so sweet in Charles' mouth, is an aphrodisiac.
Killing him will not bring you peace.
Erik scoffs, and Charles knows the words burn.
How can Charles be so naïve? How can Charles see what what Shaw is capable of and wish anything other than death upon him? If you can see into my mind, can read me so easily, why don’t you just understand? I need this victory. Let me have this victory. Let me have this, please, give me the satisfaction of killing the one thing I truly, truly hate -
"You don't understand," Erik hisses, sullen, and almost believes it. All right, Charles. Win another argument. Always right, are we? Always the winner. Perhaps Shaw isn't the only thing I - “Hate you,” Erik grits out, bitter and defeated.
Their once-sophisticated interactions are devolving quickly into fleeting glances and word games. Little facial tics and short, biting syllables. Phrases they don’t mean. Seeing who can cut the deepest, who can stay closest to the target (of both their desires) without stating the obvious, without blowing both of their covers.
(Erik doesn't hate Charles; far from it. But love, to the inexperienced heart, can be easily misinterpreted.)
Perhaps it would be easier if they did hate one another. If they could make a clean break in two. Woundless, bloodless. But they’re not like that; they are sailor’s rope, tough and tethered, hacked away at, leaving two frayed strands, each helpless, useless.
Separation looms. Charles is not naive, no. Their disagreements are more fundamental than simple quarrels. Their differences run as deep as their similarities.
The reality, Charles knows, will be far more complicated than simply dividing into two independent entities - nigh impossible, when so much exists within the grey area of human experiences, in the realm of CharlesandErik, two as one. What they have shared cannot be severed. They are already wound up in one another, knotted beyond repair.
Charles forgets, sometimes, that he knows things about Erik that Erik does not know about himself.
Soft spots and secret longings. Desires and needs that Charles should not force out into the open, that ought to blossom and evolve on their own. When Erik finally taps into these things, into the surplus of tenderness inside of himself, Charles knows everything about both of them will change, permanently. Charles should keep his distance, wait it out.
(But he doesn't.)
“You do not hate me,” Charles replies, without anger or remorse. “I know for a fact that you do not.”
Erik’s lower lip quivers, a fraction of a second, a brief shadow of a premature, unfounded grief -
Charles, how dare you know me better than I know myself -
How fucking dare you -
Charles' laugh is shaky and nervous. He’s moving closer, bridging the gap between them. Distantly, Erik feels his heartbeat quicken. These two things are, somehow, not yet connected. "You don’t have to be a telepath to see it, for God’s sake. I reciprocate." And then, without warning, the back of Charles’ knuckles are grazing Erik’s jaw, tender, jarring -
“You - “ Erik starts, not knowing what his next word is going to be. Rigid, alert, unable to tear his eyes away from Charles’ moving lips -
“It’s all right,” Charles is saying, distantly. “You don’t have to hide it for any longer- “ Don't make me wait, Erik, please, I need you now, I know you need me, and I don't know how much longer we'll have -
It's Erik who slams their mouths together, messy and hot. Front teeth bang and bite. Fingers grasp and flex. Charles' free hand catches in the wrinkles of Erik’s sleeve. They gasp for air in unison.
It's brief.
Something sets Erik off. Something in the scent of Charles' throat, the sharp intake of breath when they break away. Something about the way Charles' eyes have gone dark. Everything changes, tilts, blurs out of focus.
Erik, what are you doing? he asks himself.
It’s not Charles, not anymore. Not sofa cushions, not cool hands, not common walls and ceilings. Not nimble fingers nor popping buttons. Certainly, certainly not desire. No, everything is metal, but too dense and massive for him to control, too heavy and vicious, and it’s crushing him, it’s crushing him, and laughing, and laughing -
And the suffocation, the overwhelming musk of too much Charles, too much wanting, (but none at all, none at all), fingers that can't grip tightly enough (but can't let go) -
Agony. Erik would scream if only his mouth would work properly -
Charles detects the blow a split-second before it happens; but cannot brace himself for Erik's fist colliding sideways with his mouth.
“What the fuck did you do to me?”
With one hand pressed to his lips, Charles' features go slack with shock. “Erik,” he says very carefully after a moment, wiping blood onto the back of his knuckles, “what exactly - ?”
"What did you do," Erik demands, hands shaking, pulling back as though to hit Charles again. Childish hostility flickers across his features. Erik could do anything, however cruel, and not understand the implications, the consequences. For the first time, Charles is almost afraid.
Erik is not used to wanting something so deeply, overwhelmingly. Feeling without hows and whys. Feeling capable of desire, lust, love. Not queer, not queer, he thinks to himself. “I would never - ” Erik stutters. “You made me want to - want to - with you - with your mind - “
Charles' throat closes up as realization hits him. "I did not force you to do anything. Erik. I thought - I know you wanted this.“
“You manipulated me into thinking I wanted this. To have - To - With - ” Erik's thoughts are too loud for Charles not to hear, clear and biting. Against my will. You kissed me, against my will. You touched me, against my will. You were going to fuck me, against my will. Worst of all, you made me believe I wanted this -
That it was somehow my fault -
The guilt, the denial - it blurs with something else, another pain, another grief, something from long ago, from his childhood, and makes it difficult to breathe, difficult to discern lust from hatred, guilt from affection. I couldn't give you what you wanted, I can't make the people I love happy, I can't keep them safe, I always hurt them -
"I- I think you need to go," Charles stutters.
There is a pregnant pause. And then -
"I hit you," Erik says dimly.
Charles closes his eyes. "Erik. You need to go."
"Oh God, I hit you. Fuck. Charles - " But Charles is not interested in exchanging words, in apologies of any variety. His departure is a fumbling, scampering haze; Erik nearly begging Charles to let him stay, before re-buttoning his shirt incorrectly, straightening up, turning away, and closing the door quietly behind him.
Charles lies on top of his rumpled sheets for a good half hour before his breathing evens out again.
Early in the morning, while the sky is still cloaked with nighttime, Charles feels a warm body slide into bed beside him. He does not roll over to meet Erik's eyes, only murmuring a small, halfhearted request that Erik leave. But Erik doesn't. One arm winds around Charles' waist, lips press chaste kisses to the back of Charles' neck. Erik's breath is surprisingly cool, coming in quick shudders.
So sorry so sorry so sorry Charles please Charles -
"What is it that you want?" Charles asks, hating his own coldness.
"I hurt you," Erik mumbles into the curve of Charles' shoulder. "I shouldn't have. But. I’m - I mean, it was - .” He shakes his head against the skin. “I’m not sure how to say it.” For a long time, there is silence, only breathing, only contemplation. Then - “I was scared. It frightens me how badly I want you,” Erik says in a shivery whisper of a breath.
The honesty makes Charles’ mouth go dry. Oh, Erik.
“Constant - need -” Erik can barely get the words out; his cheeks burn as he verbalizes his lust. “I want you to pin me down. I want you inside of me - I want you everywhere, my head, my body - Charles, I want you all around me, I want to be all wrapped up in you, trapped, engulfed - “ Charles is turning over, tangling his fingers into Erik's hair, dying to give Erik the release and relief he needs, deserves.
But forgiveness is not so clean-cut. “Erik - what are you trying to say?"
Erik swallows. "I care about you." Gently, he presses his fingers to the bruised corner of Charles' mouth. "Deeply."
It's a start.
They don't make love that night. I want you, Erik tells him. But I need time. Of course. Charles suggests that Erik spend the night anyway, and Erik, after a moment's hesitant consideration, consents. Erik's arms wrap around Charles' frame. Gradually, he lets his muscles go loose, lets himself relax into Charles' form. Charles settles his fingers at the base of Erik's neck, and counts down the hours, not wanting the sun to come up.
Increments. Fumblings. The hold their breath and wait and wait and wait for something to slip into place. Their chess games continue. Their arguments escalate. Erik apologizes more often. Erik sits closer to Charles when they are together, lets their fingers brush, not by accident. Erik makes breakfasts, dinners. Buys expensive wine. Massages Charles' back in the evenings.
"I don't expect you to forgive me," Erik tells Charles one evening.
Charles doesn't have the heart to tell him he's already forgiven.
Increasingly, Charles dreams of Shaw, of nonsensical warnings and harsh prophesies. You don't know Erik like I do. No one knows Erik as well as I do. He doesn't want you. He's not capable of love. Charles doesn't want to think much of it, but the doubt is beginning to sear through him like acid.
But then, one lazy Saturday afternoon, when the others are outside, and the midday sunlight is pouring in through the windows of Charles' bedroom, Erik winds his fingers into Charles' own, and nods.
"I'm ready," Erik murmurs, and reaches for the uppermost button of Charles' shirt. "I'm sorry, and I'm ready."
Erik's mouth is so wet, so sweet, moving with nervous, natural strokes across Charles' chest. Exploring the skin, the muscle, the memory and humanity of Charles' anatomy. Somewhere deep in his belly, in the hidden places that twist and contort with desire, he knows this isn’t only about physical lust. It’s about trust; it’s about wanting, for the first time, to be worked open and wrapped up; to be taken and held and kept.
“Want you,” Erik says roughly, voice already raw. Need you.
“Lie back,” Charles says, so soft and sure that Erik can’t help but wonder how many times he’s orchestrated this scenario in his head. In lazy daydreams, deep slumbers. Over dinner tables, across studies, gaze fixed on Erik’s profile, watching, waiting, wanting -
Erik feels Charles inside his head. Pull your knees to your chest. I want to see you spread your thighs.
“Out loud,” Erik blurts, unable to stop himself. “Want - need you to say it out loud -”
And it’s a funny thing, need, the obscurity of where it begins and ends. How it can bloom out of nowhere, out of terse commands and grazing knuckles. How, suddenly, it has nothing to do with food, clothing, shelter, but everything to do with contact and friction and being whole.
Their bodies fit together like a handshake. A formal introduction. An immediate understanding. A brief flash of sublime cognizance.
Hello, hello, nice to meet you, nice to love you, nice to speak the language of your body.
Hello, hello, goodbye.
The first time feels like the last time.
(It is.)
Momentarily, for a small stretch of space and time hey exist as a unit, a singular entity, fitting together with exacting precision. Charles whispers the filthiest of comforts into Erik's ear, breath hot upon the skin. Erik's eyes are closed, his arms wound around Charles' back so tightly that he cannot find the place where their bodies separate. Charles takes him to magnificent heights, harnesses pleasure so bold, so sharp, so intense. Reigns it in, then lets it go, guiding Erik to a gentle landing, bringing him back down to earth, back down into the waking world.
In the morning, they will stumble out of bed and into scratchy yellow suits. Erik will deflect a certain bullet and don a certain helmet hold a certain someone in his arms. A new flower will blossom, a different desire, a grief, a longing for something that cannot be. For something woven between them that existed so briefly, so fleetingly, that when they blinked - it disappeared.
Years pass.
Sometimes, Erik dreams. Of big hands, cool hands, comforting against the blaze of his own skin. Of a faint voice, hot against the shell of his ear, telling him that things are all right, all right, all right. Of his own, sharp voice, asking, oh Charles, are you crying? and the salty sting of a lover's tears on his tongue.
Sometimes, Charles dreams. Of a different world, where Erik allows himself to love and be loved. Another lifetime, perhaps, another universe. Strangers meeting under different circumstances. Complete erasure. Complete rebirth. I could love you. And you could love me. And we could live off of it, make it our entire existence, our world, our home.
(Maybe still in this world, this lifetime. If love permits.)
After all, Charles thinks, these things take time.
Summary - Erik is suspicious of his feelings for Charles, attributing them to telepathic manipulation. Written for this prompt on the kinkmeme.
"We both want the very same thing: We are praying I am the one to save you. But you don't even know your own violence."
-- Joanna Newsom, Go Long
The heat is magnificent. Erik's fingers are working shakily along his cock; gritting out expletives into the musty air, breathing too heavily, his other hand clutching the bedsheets, palm slipping with sweat against the cotton.
(This infatuation is an illness, a fever. Maybe he can sweat it out, he thinks, and jerks harder.)
Erik is trying to imagine what it would feel like for Charles to suck the tender curve of his neck, push hair back from his forehead. The steady thrusts of Charles' hips, the cool pads of his fingertips, terms of endearment. Instead, Erik gets suffocation, Charles' hands pressing down on his chest, windpipe, mouth. Charles, everywhere, enveloping Erik's entire body, taking him over. Smothering him, wrapping Erik up so tightly that Erik can't think or see or breathe. Heavier than wool, heavier than flesh, heavier than metal. Erik is helpless and raw and can't escape.
Without warning, his vision bursts with light, and he's coming all over himself and gasping and everything is Charles, Charles, Charles and Erik couldn't be more ashamed of himself.
Charles, in his own bed, steeples his fingers together and considers this.
Guilty though he feels for observing Erik's masturbatory fantasies, it's unintentional, accidental - Erik's thoughts are too loud, too vibrant and violent to ignore. Charles can't help it. He sees what he sees. Always, afterwards, Charles feels disgusting. And light-headed. And hard. He wants Erik, there's no question about it. But these things take time.
Only in intervals, increments, with patience and frustration and hours of Erik's gaze fixed on the crisp line of Charles' trousers, did lust blossom within Erik. Desire, painted rich and bright - feverish reds and wild oranges - takes time. Erik must overcome the terror of wanting, of recognizing need. Must surpass the pain of love and allow it to make way for something tender.
Their union is nonexistent. Laughable. Not until one of them verbalizes it - morphs fleeting desires into words, then actions, then (perhaps) touch and taste and sensation.
You first. No, you first.
Playing the game of their lust is entertaining. Pushing buttons and overstepping boundaries. Teasing, flirting. Straying a little too far for a little too long. Sick, sometimes. The ways they stretch and tug at desire are rough and untoward, nothing short of cruel. The consummation is so close, so close, their lust pulled taut, ready to snap.
Any day now.
When love is drawn out, with no release or relief, it burns and stings and leaves behind bruises. When love is drawn out, left untreated, yanked and yanked like reams of taffy - then it hurts.
Privately and regularly, they play chess. Hidden away in the study. Two creatures of habit, both attached to the routine.
For Charles, chess is cerebral, an intellectual discussion. Effortlessly, quiet fingers swipe rooks and bishops off the playing field. Between turns, he rests his knuckles against his lips. Still as marble and barely blinking. Erik finds this unnerving - for him, the game is physical, a simplified war. Erik grunts, clenches his fists, makes angry noises in the back of his throat. Seizes taken pieces so hard they leave imprints in his palm. Both men are equally relived to not have to speak, to not have to justify and cover up and explain. Not decorate needlessly with words. Generally, Charles wins, accepting his victories with detached grace and small smiles, as if he’d predicted the outcome all along. (Of course he did.)
But Erik likes the potential of besting Charles just as much as an actual victory.
One evening, while Erik is debating the benefits of castling, Charles observes him closely. He takes in Erik's held breath, seething with concentration, the gnawing raw of Erik's lower lip. Blunt canines digging at the redness, harsh enough to bruise.
“Erik,” Charles says softly, eyes now trained on him with feral precision. “Exhale.”
Instinctively, Erik does as he is told.
Across the board, with so little space between them, Charles can’t help but feel exposed. Vulnerable - as though Erik could look at him and instantly know everything about Charles. Every dirty secret, every skeleton and scar. Every lustful fantasy of Erik splayed out on his back, panting and whimpering as Charles works him open with his fingers. As if Erik could see through Charles the way Charles sees through him.
Come now - who’s the telepath, again? Charles blushes furiously. The trouble with telepathy is how easy it is to become dependent upon it. To assume that everyone just knows the way Charles knows, that information and emotion is free for everyone and fresh for the picking.
Here are just a few things that Charles knows.
The cobalt intensity of Erik's eyes, the surprising lack of force in Erik's handshake, the empty look Erik gets when not directly engaged with another, the form and heat of Erik's cock, the effort Erik puts in to avoid mealtimes with the others, the pain of six numbers on his left forearm, the smell of death, and the shape and size of one repulsive, rusting, metal coin. Charles knows that Erik gets antsy in such a large building, that Erik paces up and down the corridors at night. Charles knows that Erik has violent flashbacks at inopportune moments - while showering, while pulling on his socks, while climbing up the stairs, while losing to Charles at chess. Charles knows that Erik has a violent streak himself, craves power, craves force, craves protection from vulnerability.
In insomnia’s aftermath one mid-morning, Erik trudges into the kitchen, having slept no more than a quarter-hour, expecting to find it deserted. Instead, Charles is there, making coffee. Without looking over his shoulder, he laughs kindly and says, “Ah, Erik. Rough night? I take it you’ll fancy one?” Glancing back, Charles pulls a sympathetic face. “Or - five, perhaps?”
“Just one for now. One cream, no sugar,” Erik sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. No sleep. Nightmares. Memories. Sex. Lust.
Sick, so sick.
Charles turns again towards the stove. “Oh, I know what you like,” he says, airily enough. But the words find purchase, they shoot right through Erik, straight to his core. Charles notices him shiver.
Here are (even fewer) things that Erik knows.
Accidental grazes of Charles' palm upon the small of his back. The fact that Erik does not mind losing at chess to Charles. Absurd desire to touch Charles' face, his lips, his cheek. The night Erik remembered too much and was struck with panic, and Charles hadn't asked questions, just soothed cool fingers through Erik's hair and told him that everything would be all right.
Charles' commands. Pointed, but tender. Relax. Try again. Exhale. Exhale.
Exhale. The word, so sweet in Charles' mouth, is an aphrodisiac.
Killing him will not bring you peace.
Erik scoffs, and Charles knows the words burn.
How can Charles be so naïve? How can Charles see what what Shaw is capable of and wish anything other than death upon him? If you can see into my mind, can read me so easily, why don’t you just understand? I need this victory. Let me have this victory. Let me have this, please, give me the satisfaction of killing the one thing I truly, truly hate -
"You don't understand," Erik hisses, sullen, and almost believes it. All right, Charles. Win another argument. Always right, are we? Always the winner. Perhaps Shaw isn't the only thing I - “Hate you,” Erik grits out, bitter and defeated.
Their once-sophisticated interactions are devolving quickly into fleeting glances and word games. Little facial tics and short, biting syllables. Phrases they don’t mean. Seeing who can cut the deepest, who can stay closest to the target (of both their desires) without stating the obvious, without blowing both of their covers.
(Erik doesn't hate Charles; far from it. But love, to the inexperienced heart, can be easily misinterpreted.)
Perhaps it would be easier if they did hate one another. If they could make a clean break in two. Woundless, bloodless. But they’re not like that; they are sailor’s rope, tough and tethered, hacked away at, leaving two frayed strands, each helpless, useless.
Separation looms. Charles is not naive, no. Their disagreements are more fundamental than simple quarrels. Their differences run as deep as their similarities.
The reality, Charles knows, will be far more complicated than simply dividing into two independent entities - nigh impossible, when so much exists within the grey area of human experiences, in the realm of CharlesandErik, two as one. What they have shared cannot be severed. They are already wound up in one another, knotted beyond repair.
Charles forgets, sometimes, that he knows things about Erik that Erik does not know about himself.
Soft spots and secret longings. Desires and needs that Charles should not force out into the open, that ought to blossom and evolve on their own. When Erik finally taps into these things, into the surplus of tenderness inside of himself, Charles knows everything about both of them will change, permanently. Charles should keep his distance, wait it out.
(But he doesn't.)
“You do not hate me,” Charles replies, without anger or remorse. “I know for a fact that you do not.”
Erik’s lower lip quivers, a fraction of a second, a brief shadow of a premature, unfounded grief -
Charles, how dare you know me better than I know myself -
How fucking dare you -
Charles' laugh is shaky and nervous. He’s moving closer, bridging the gap between them. Distantly, Erik feels his heartbeat quicken. These two things are, somehow, not yet connected. "You don’t have to be a telepath to see it, for God’s sake. I reciprocate." And then, without warning, the back of Charles’ knuckles are grazing Erik’s jaw, tender, jarring -
“You - “ Erik starts, not knowing what his next word is going to be. Rigid, alert, unable to tear his eyes away from Charles’ moving lips -
“It’s all right,” Charles is saying, distantly. “You don’t have to hide it for any longer- “ Don't make me wait, Erik, please, I need you now, I know you need me, and I don't know how much longer we'll have -
It's Erik who slams their mouths together, messy and hot. Front teeth bang and bite. Fingers grasp and flex. Charles' free hand catches in the wrinkles of Erik’s sleeve. They gasp for air in unison.
It's brief.
Something sets Erik off. Something in the scent of Charles' throat, the sharp intake of breath when they break away. Something about the way Charles' eyes have gone dark. Everything changes, tilts, blurs out of focus.
Erik, what are you doing? he asks himself.
It’s not Charles, not anymore. Not sofa cushions, not cool hands, not common walls and ceilings. Not nimble fingers nor popping buttons. Certainly, certainly not desire. No, everything is metal, but too dense and massive for him to control, too heavy and vicious, and it’s crushing him, it’s crushing him, and laughing, and laughing -
And the suffocation, the overwhelming musk of too much Charles, too much wanting, (but none at all, none at all), fingers that can't grip tightly enough (but can't let go) -
Agony. Erik would scream if only his mouth would work properly -
Charles detects the blow a split-second before it happens; but cannot brace himself for Erik's fist colliding sideways with his mouth.
“What the fuck did you do to me?”
With one hand pressed to his lips, Charles' features go slack with shock. “Erik,” he says very carefully after a moment, wiping blood onto the back of his knuckles, “what exactly - ?”
"What did you do," Erik demands, hands shaking, pulling back as though to hit Charles again. Childish hostility flickers across his features. Erik could do anything, however cruel, and not understand the implications, the consequences. For the first time, Charles is almost afraid.
Erik is not used to wanting something so deeply, overwhelmingly. Feeling without hows and whys. Feeling capable of desire, lust, love. Not queer, not queer, he thinks to himself. “I would never - ” Erik stutters. “You made me want to - want to - with you - with your mind - “
Charles' throat closes up as realization hits him. "I did not force you to do anything. Erik. I thought - I know you wanted this.“
“You manipulated me into thinking I wanted this. To have - To - With - ” Erik's thoughts are too loud for Charles not to hear, clear and biting. Against my will. You kissed me, against my will. You touched me, against my will. You were going to fuck me, against my will. Worst of all, you made me believe I wanted this -
That it was somehow my fault -
The guilt, the denial - it blurs with something else, another pain, another grief, something from long ago, from his childhood, and makes it difficult to breathe, difficult to discern lust from hatred, guilt from affection. I couldn't give you what you wanted, I can't make the people I love happy, I can't keep them safe, I always hurt them -
"I- I think you need to go," Charles stutters.
There is a pregnant pause. And then -
"I hit you," Erik says dimly.
Charles closes his eyes. "Erik. You need to go."
"Oh God, I hit you. Fuck. Charles - " But Charles is not interested in exchanging words, in apologies of any variety. His departure is a fumbling, scampering haze; Erik nearly begging Charles to let him stay, before re-buttoning his shirt incorrectly, straightening up, turning away, and closing the door quietly behind him.
Charles lies on top of his rumpled sheets for a good half hour before his breathing evens out again.
Early in the morning, while the sky is still cloaked with nighttime, Charles feels a warm body slide into bed beside him. He does not roll over to meet Erik's eyes, only murmuring a small, halfhearted request that Erik leave. But Erik doesn't. One arm winds around Charles' waist, lips press chaste kisses to the back of Charles' neck. Erik's breath is surprisingly cool, coming in quick shudders.
So sorry so sorry so sorry Charles please Charles -
"What is it that you want?" Charles asks, hating his own coldness.
"I hurt you," Erik mumbles into the curve of Charles' shoulder. "I shouldn't have. But. I’m - I mean, it was - .” He shakes his head against the skin. “I’m not sure how to say it.” For a long time, there is silence, only breathing, only contemplation. Then - “I was scared. It frightens me how badly I want you,” Erik says in a shivery whisper of a breath.
The honesty makes Charles’ mouth go dry. Oh, Erik.
“Constant - need -” Erik can barely get the words out; his cheeks burn as he verbalizes his lust. “I want you to pin me down. I want you inside of me - I want you everywhere, my head, my body - Charles, I want you all around me, I want to be all wrapped up in you, trapped, engulfed - “ Charles is turning over, tangling his fingers into Erik's hair, dying to give Erik the release and relief he needs, deserves.
But forgiveness is not so clean-cut. “Erik - what are you trying to say?"
Erik swallows. "I care about you." Gently, he presses his fingers to the bruised corner of Charles' mouth. "Deeply."
It's a start.
They don't make love that night. I want you, Erik tells him. But I need time. Of course. Charles suggests that Erik spend the night anyway, and Erik, after a moment's hesitant consideration, consents. Erik's arms wrap around Charles' frame. Gradually, he lets his muscles go loose, lets himself relax into Charles' form. Charles settles his fingers at the base of Erik's neck, and counts down the hours, not wanting the sun to come up.
Increments. Fumblings. The hold their breath and wait and wait and wait for something to slip into place. Their chess games continue. Their arguments escalate. Erik apologizes more often. Erik sits closer to Charles when they are together, lets their fingers brush, not by accident. Erik makes breakfasts, dinners. Buys expensive wine. Massages Charles' back in the evenings.
"I don't expect you to forgive me," Erik tells Charles one evening.
Charles doesn't have the heart to tell him he's already forgiven.
Increasingly, Charles dreams of Shaw, of nonsensical warnings and harsh prophesies. You don't know Erik like I do. No one knows Erik as well as I do. He doesn't want you. He's not capable of love. Charles doesn't want to think much of it, but the doubt is beginning to sear through him like acid.
But then, one lazy Saturday afternoon, when the others are outside, and the midday sunlight is pouring in through the windows of Charles' bedroom, Erik winds his fingers into Charles' own, and nods.
"I'm ready," Erik murmurs, and reaches for the uppermost button of Charles' shirt. "I'm sorry, and I'm ready."
Erik's mouth is so wet, so sweet, moving with nervous, natural strokes across Charles' chest. Exploring the skin, the muscle, the memory and humanity of Charles' anatomy. Somewhere deep in his belly, in the hidden places that twist and contort with desire, he knows this isn’t only about physical lust. It’s about trust; it’s about wanting, for the first time, to be worked open and wrapped up; to be taken and held and kept.
“Want you,” Erik says roughly, voice already raw. Need you.
“Lie back,” Charles says, so soft and sure that Erik can’t help but wonder how many times he’s orchestrated this scenario in his head. In lazy daydreams, deep slumbers. Over dinner tables, across studies, gaze fixed on Erik’s profile, watching, waiting, wanting -
Erik feels Charles inside his head. Pull your knees to your chest. I want to see you spread your thighs.
“Out loud,” Erik blurts, unable to stop himself. “Want - need you to say it out loud -”
And it’s a funny thing, need, the obscurity of where it begins and ends. How it can bloom out of nowhere, out of terse commands and grazing knuckles. How, suddenly, it has nothing to do with food, clothing, shelter, but everything to do with contact and friction and being whole.
Their bodies fit together like a handshake. A formal introduction. An immediate understanding. A brief flash of sublime cognizance.
Hello, hello, nice to meet you, nice to love you, nice to speak the language of your body.
Hello, hello, goodbye.
The first time feels like the last time.
(It is.)
Momentarily, for a small stretch of space and time hey exist as a unit, a singular entity, fitting together with exacting precision. Charles whispers the filthiest of comforts into Erik's ear, breath hot upon the skin. Erik's eyes are closed, his arms wound around Charles' back so tightly that he cannot find the place where their bodies separate. Charles takes him to magnificent heights, harnesses pleasure so bold, so sharp, so intense. Reigns it in, then lets it go, guiding Erik to a gentle landing, bringing him back down to earth, back down into the waking world.
In the morning, they will stumble out of bed and into scratchy yellow suits. Erik will deflect a certain bullet and don a certain helmet hold a certain someone in his arms. A new flower will blossom, a different desire, a grief, a longing for something that cannot be. For something woven between them that existed so briefly, so fleetingly, that when they blinked - it disappeared.
Years pass.
Sometimes, Erik dreams. Of big hands, cool hands, comforting against the blaze of his own skin. Of a faint voice, hot against the shell of his ear, telling him that things are all right, all right, all right. Of his own, sharp voice, asking, oh Charles, are you crying? and the salty sting of a lover's tears on his tongue.
Sometimes, Charles dreams. Of a different world, where Erik allows himself to love and be loved. Another lifetime, perhaps, another universe. Strangers meeting under different circumstances. Complete erasure. Complete rebirth. I could love you. And you could love me. And we could live off of it, make it our entire existence, our world, our home.
(Maybe still in this world, this lifetime. If love permits.)
After all, Charles thinks, these things take time.