fic: The Fruits of Our Knowledge
BOYS WHO CANNOT FLIRT I DON'T EVEN. WHY IS EVERYONE STILL WEARING PANTS IN MY FICS?
Which is to say: Charles/Erik, pomegranate
Charles was aware that, to anyone outside their relationship, Erik seemed a man with a singular vision and no room for distractions. That he had tempered his vision on that beach in Cuba, had allowed Charles and the others to influence him did not change Erik's reserve or his wary nature. Still, watching him in the kitchen as he puttered about fixing a snack, Charles could not help but wonder how others did not see the complexity behind the self-protection.
"Are you marveling at my domesticity, Charles?" Erik turned from the counter, knife in hand. He's prepared meals for Charles before - he had once told Charles he liked the calmness of an ordered kitchen.
Caught, Charles left the doorway where he'd been skulking and wheeled himself to the kitchen table. There was no sneaking up on Erik, not when his chair was a symphony of moving metal parts. Erik had let him listen to it once, what Erik heard all around him every day. "Simply wondering if you could be convinced to share whatever you're preparing, my friend."
It struck Charles, as it did with more frequency these days, how very lucky they had all been.
Erik's feet were bare, fine strong bones half hidden by the too-long cuff of his jeans. He wore what Charles had privately dubbed an at-home turtleneck, as opposed to his casual turtlenecks and formal turtlenecks. Fabric content seemed to be the primary variable - they were all black, after all.
At least the jeans displayed certain other of Erik's... assets, Charles thought. He had chosen his vantage point well. He smirked - and stifled a chuckle at the rise in Erik's curiosity.
"Do you like pomegranates?" Erik held up a plump red fruit. "I was surprised to find it at the market." Erik turned back to the counter, scored the thick skin from stem to end with the knife in his hand.
Charles watched him work, watched the confidence in his fingers, the precise bend of his knuckles. They'd danced toward this before the beach - Erik had not flinched away from the brush of Charles's hand, the press of his thigh when they sat next to each other. It had taken time to find it again, to remind Erik that Charles was not fragile, was, in point of fact, still quite capable of desiring things that made Erik blush.
The knife took the top of the pomegranate off, spilled red juice onto the cutting board. "I'm quite fond, though they require rather a lot of effort, don't you think?"
Erik's grunted reply was noncommittal.
He pulled the fruit apart, and Charles swallowed. A few seeds fell, loosened from the pith; Erik picked them up and looked at Charles. "Open your mouth."
The instruction was barely necessary - Charles thought his jaw might have already been dropping before Erik approached to place each seed on Charles's pink tongue. There were only a few. Charles closed his mouth, bit down on the tart flesh. The fleshy arils burst between his teeth; the crunch was a satisfying finish.
It was tempting to lick the juice from Erik's fingers - but he was already moving back to the counter. Each section of fruit was torn into a smaller piece. Each membrane pulled back with attention to reveal more clusters of shining redness. Erik turned the seeds out into a white bowl; the aesthetics of the presentation were most likely deliberate. Erik appreciated that sort of contrast.
"Not so much effort when you consider the payoff." Erik eased into a chair, placed the bowl equidistant between them.
Too far. Charles rolled closer, until he could see the way Erik's knee dented the fabric of Charles's trousers. "Open your mouth."
Really rather worth all the effort indeed.
Which is to say: Charles/Erik, pomegranate
Charles was aware that, to anyone outside their relationship, Erik seemed a man with a singular vision and no room for distractions. That he had tempered his vision on that beach in Cuba, had allowed Charles and the others to influence him did not change Erik's reserve or his wary nature. Still, watching him in the kitchen as he puttered about fixing a snack, Charles could not help but wonder how others did not see the complexity behind the self-protection.
"Are you marveling at my domesticity, Charles?" Erik turned from the counter, knife in hand. He's prepared meals for Charles before - he had once told Charles he liked the calmness of an ordered kitchen.
Caught, Charles left the doorway where he'd been skulking and wheeled himself to the kitchen table. There was no sneaking up on Erik, not when his chair was a symphony of moving metal parts. Erik had let him listen to it once, what Erik heard all around him every day. "Simply wondering if you could be convinced to share whatever you're preparing, my friend."
It struck Charles, as it did with more frequency these days, how very lucky they had all been.
Erik's feet were bare, fine strong bones half hidden by the too-long cuff of his jeans. He wore what Charles had privately dubbed an at-home turtleneck, as opposed to his casual turtlenecks and formal turtlenecks. Fabric content seemed to be the primary variable - they were all black, after all.
At least the jeans displayed certain other of Erik's... assets, Charles thought. He had chosen his vantage point well. He smirked - and stifled a chuckle at the rise in Erik's curiosity.
"Do you like pomegranates?" Erik held up a plump red fruit. "I was surprised to find it at the market." Erik turned back to the counter, scored the thick skin from stem to end with the knife in his hand.
Charles watched him work, watched the confidence in his fingers, the precise bend of his knuckles. They'd danced toward this before the beach - Erik had not flinched away from the brush of Charles's hand, the press of his thigh when they sat next to each other. It had taken time to find it again, to remind Erik that Charles was not fragile, was, in point of fact, still quite capable of desiring things that made Erik blush.
The knife took the top of the pomegranate off, spilled red juice onto the cutting board. "I'm quite fond, though they require rather a lot of effort, don't you think?"
Erik's grunted reply was noncommittal.
He pulled the fruit apart, and Charles swallowed. A few seeds fell, loosened from the pith; Erik picked them up and looked at Charles. "Open your mouth."
The instruction was barely necessary - Charles thought his jaw might have already been dropping before Erik approached to place each seed on Charles's pink tongue. There were only a few. Charles closed his mouth, bit down on the tart flesh. The fleshy arils burst between his teeth; the crunch was a satisfying finish.
It was tempting to lick the juice from Erik's fingers - but he was already moving back to the counter. Each section of fruit was torn into a smaller piece. Each membrane pulled back with attention to reveal more clusters of shining redness. Erik turned the seeds out into a white bowl; the aesthetics of the presentation were most likely deliberate. Erik appreciated that sort of contrast.
"Not so much effort when you consider the payoff." Erik eased into a chair, placed the bowl equidistant between them.
Too far. Charles rolled closer, until he could see the way Erik's knee dented the fabric of Charles's trousers. "Open your mouth."
Really rather worth all the effort indeed.