this is what i do instead of sleeping
Erik is covered in scars. He's an engineer--a scientist. And yes, he works mostly with computers now but that wasn't always the case and he likes to get his hands dirty. He has dozens of thin white lines on his fingers and knuckles, places where he's slipped with a soldering iron or a tool. He has a long one on his thigh--he'd slipped off the tabletop all together and nearly plunged an awl into his leg. Only by the grace of his power did he escape with just a jagged white scar. There are a handful of others from general childhood mischief; a crescent on his back marks where he fell out of a tree and the criss-crossing marks on his left shin were left behind when he lost his footing while hiking out in California.
Erik likes his scars. They tell stories. They remind him of odd events that would have been otherwise unremarkable.
Charles has scars too; Erik doesn't like those.
He hadn't noticed it the first time they'd had sex. Well, he had--he'd been waiting for two weeks to see Charles naked and he drank it all in as best he could as they clung to each other and tripped their way into the bedroom. He didn't think they were odd, though. Not at first. It took him a week to realize just how many there were and that they all seemed old. It took him a matter of minutes after coming to that realization to make some further assumptions that he kept to himself.
Erik's parents were good people; they never raised a hand to him. He's not stupid, though. Charles doesn't talk about his past at all, goes out of his way to steer the conversation away from any mention of his parents. He's smart, but only half as arrogant as he should be having grown up that smart with that much money. He doesn't keep any pictures of his family in his apartment.
"You can talk to me," Erik says one rainy Sunday afternoon. He can't quite meet Charles' eyes. He means it, yes, but he's not very good at this talking thing. He's not sure what to say. He desperately wants Charles to talk if that's what he needs, but he already knows whatever feeble reply he offers won't be enough. He's embarrassed already. "You can talk to me about anything." He runs his thumb gently back and forth over a sharp, straight scar on Charles' back, so old it's almost invisible. "I can't promise I'm the best at...you know, talking. But I'll try."
Charles rolls from his stomach to his side. Erik wonders if it's a conscious move to literally keep the past behind them. He closes his eyes and kisses Erik, sweet and sad.
"I know," he says. He touches Erik's cheek and opens his eyes. His gaze is unreadable, guarded and distant. He normally wears his emotions bright and obvious in his eyes. "I will, I promise. Not today but--I will."
That's good enough for Erik--Charles knows the offer is there. He'll talk if he needs to. In the mean time, Erik focuses on making new memories, hot and bright, but with precision and care. He spells his affection out with kisses and touches, he sucks it into Charles' skin leaving new marks that will fade long before the feelings that inspire them.
Erik likes his scars. They tell stories. They remind him of odd events that would have been otherwise unremarkable.
Charles has scars too; Erik doesn't like those.
He hadn't noticed it the first time they'd had sex. Well, he had--he'd been waiting for two weeks to see Charles naked and he drank it all in as best he could as they clung to each other and tripped their way into the bedroom. He didn't think they were odd, though. Not at first. It took him a week to realize just how many there were and that they all seemed old. It took him a matter of minutes after coming to that realization to make some further assumptions that he kept to himself.
Erik's parents were good people; they never raised a hand to him. He's not stupid, though. Charles doesn't talk about his past at all, goes out of his way to steer the conversation away from any mention of his parents. He's smart, but only half as arrogant as he should be having grown up that smart with that much money. He doesn't keep any pictures of his family in his apartment.
"You can talk to me," Erik says one rainy Sunday afternoon. He can't quite meet Charles' eyes. He means it, yes, but he's not very good at this talking thing. He's not sure what to say. He desperately wants Charles to talk if that's what he needs, but he already knows whatever feeble reply he offers won't be enough. He's embarrassed already. "You can talk to me about anything." He runs his thumb gently back and forth over a sharp, straight scar on Charles' back, so old it's almost invisible. "I can't promise I'm the best at...you know, talking. But I'll try."
Charles rolls from his stomach to his side. Erik wonders if it's a conscious move to literally keep the past behind them. He closes his eyes and kisses Erik, sweet and sad.
"I know," he says. He touches Erik's cheek and opens his eyes. His gaze is unreadable, guarded and distant. He normally wears his emotions bright and obvious in his eyes. "I will, I promise. Not today but--I will."
That's good enough for Erik--Charles knows the offer is there. He'll talk if he needs to. In the mean time, Erik focuses on making new memories, hot and bright, but with precision and care. He spells his affection out with kisses and touches, he sucks it into Charles' skin leaving new marks that will fade long before the feelings that inspire them.