Oh for fuck's sake, he needs to get a handle on his hormones.
Erik glances down at his empty coffee and Charles' empty...whatever the hell crap he was choking down.
"Do you need a refill?" he asks, and nods towards the counter, which is just outside of Mary's line of sight.
Charles grins.
"I could do with one," Charles says, and he gets to his feet and leads the way to the counter.
Erik puts the drink on his bank card, the one with his fake name. It even looks fake--apparently the newest security feature is to flatten the front completely so the debit card resembles something that comes with a toy cash register.
Fake name, fake debit card, fake life. It's a wonder he's clinging to the first thing that's felt real in seven months.
They sip their drinks standing by the bar, Charles still talking and waving the hand that's not clutching his coffee. They're standing close, close enough that Erik could count Charles' eyelashes if he wanted.
Oh god, he's screwed. He's totally screwed. He wants to lay Charles out against the bar and devour him. He wants to wreck him. He wants Charles to wreck him. But that would be fine, that would be normal, Charles is hot. He's adorable, actually, but the kind of the adorable that would easily transfer into the bedroom, the kind of adorable that gets wicked around the edges with just a lifted eyebrow or a flash of tongue. The kind of adorable that's just covering up a depraved core. Wanting to fuck Charles isn't a surprise, it's the rest of it. He wants to wake up next to Charles. He wants to take him out to dinner and play footsie with him under the table. He wants to count the freckles that disappear beneath the open neck of his shirt. He wants to touch Charles all over, but not to wring an orgasm out of him, just for the sheer joy of touching.
He's known this kid an hour. He's so fucked it's not even funny.
"You should join our club," Charles says. "It's silly, I know, but it's not like high school, when you're more worried about your reputation than the game. It's adults and it's competitive, but not cutthroat. The conversation is good, the people are funny--it's a bit of a nerd farm still, yes, but we're good people." The corner of his mouth turns up in a grin. There's the barest smudge of chocolate there. "It's how I met Marshall and, consequently, how I met you, after all."
Marshall's a bit much for Erik--Erik can't quite uncover his angle. He's too nice. But, still, Erik's grateful, if nothing else, for the fact that he's secure enough in his oddness to join a chess club and forgetful enough to leave his books where Charles can find them.
"I'll think about it," Erik says. "I'm not much for social gatherings."
"Mm, neither are the rest of us, honestly," Charles admits. He looks down and then back up at Erik with a tiny smile, a smile that does something to Erik's chest. "We could always work our way up to it. Play a few more games by ourselves." They're really standing far closer than socially acceptable. The fingers of Charles' free hand curl against the fingers of Erik's free hand.
Erik glances down at his empty coffee and Charles' empty...whatever the hell crap he was choking down.
"Do you need a refill?" he asks, and nods towards the counter, which is just outside of Mary's line of sight.
Charles grins.
"I could do with one," Charles says, and he gets to his feet and leads the way to the counter.
Erik puts the drink on his bank card, the one with his fake name. It even looks fake--apparently the newest security feature is to flatten the front completely so the debit card resembles something that comes with a toy cash register.
Fake name, fake debit card, fake life. It's a wonder he's clinging to the first thing that's felt real in seven months.
They sip their drinks standing by the bar, Charles still talking and waving the hand that's not clutching his coffee. They're standing close, close enough that Erik could count Charles' eyelashes if he wanted.
Oh god, he's screwed. He's totally screwed. He wants to lay Charles out against the bar and devour him. He wants to wreck him. He wants Charles to wreck him. But that would be fine, that would be normal, Charles is hot. He's adorable, actually, but the kind of the adorable that would easily transfer into the bedroom, the kind of adorable that gets wicked around the edges with just a lifted eyebrow or a flash of tongue. The kind of adorable that's just covering up a depraved core. Wanting to fuck Charles isn't a surprise, it's the rest of it. He wants to wake up next to Charles. He wants to take him out to dinner and play footsie with him under the table. He wants to count the freckles that disappear beneath the open neck of his shirt. He wants to touch Charles all over, but not to wring an orgasm out of him, just for the sheer joy of touching.
He's known this kid an hour. He's so fucked it's not even funny.
"You should join our club," Charles says. "It's silly, I know, but it's not like high school, when you're more worried about your reputation than the game. It's adults and it's competitive, but not cutthroat. The conversation is good, the people are funny--it's a bit of a nerd farm still, yes, but we're good people." The corner of his mouth turns up in a grin. There's the barest smudge of chocolate there. "It's how I met Marshall and, consequently, how I met you, after all."
Marshall's a bit much for Erik--Erik can't quite uncover his angle. He's too nice. But, still, Erik's grateful, if nothing else, for the fact that he's secure enough in his oddness to join a chess club and forgetful enough to leave his books where Charles can find them.
"I'll think about it," Erik says. "I'm not much for social gatherings."
"Mm, neither are the rest of us, honestly," Charles admits. He looks down and then back up at Erik with a tiny smile, a smile that does something to Erik's chest. "We could always work our way up to it. Play a few more games by ourselves." They're really standing far closer than socially acceptable. The fingers of Charles' free hand curl against the fingers of Erik's free hand.
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