Good Boys (15/15)
Title: Good Boys, Chapter 15 (final chapter!)
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Rating: NC-17
Genre: first time! road trip!
WC: 3000ish
Summary: Charles had always been a good boy.
A/N: Welp, here this is. Hope you enjoyed the ride. Exciting news: next week I have internet! Less exciting news: But for now, I'm still at Starbucks and I think that old gnome-looking guy who always sits in the corner is trying to read over my shoulder! ANYWAY YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL AND I HOPE YOU LIKED IT AND SORRY BOUT THE SAP AND INEVITABLE GRAMMAR ERRORS AND RUN-ON SENTENCES PLEASE COMMENT I REMAIN A COMMENT WHORE SEE I WASN'T JOKING ABOUT THE RUN-ONS.
Charles was going to be a good boy.
Charles is panting into the pillow, Erik’s hands pinioning his wrists to the bed, and he doesn’t think he has ever been so hard in his life. He can feel Erik’s control starting to slip behind him, Erik’s breaths are coming in ragged gasps against his neck, and their hips are thrusting in frantic unison, and Charles emits an incoherent stream of words that culminates in, “Fuck - Erik - this,” and Erik mutters, “You’re so fucking tight, Charles,” and finds that spot in him again, and Charles lets out a desperate moan, and gasps, “There, Erik - God, you’re huge, it’s insane, do you want to feel what you’re doing to me,” and Erik kisses the back of Charles’ neck, drenched with sweat, because they have been going at this almost without stopping for hours and Charles’ only regret is that they didn’t start earlier- and whispers, “Please.”
On the road back to the CIA facility he stared at Erik so intently that Erik shuddered a little and said, “Charles, if I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to memorize me,” and Charles muttered, “Pull over a second” and kissed him, hard and soundly and a bit violently, biting his lip and drawing blood, and then pulled back, gasping, and said, “All right, go.”
Erik’s face clouded. “You’re a fool, Charles,” he said. Who’s the more foolish? Charles heard. Goddammit, Erik, you should have known.
Erik shifted the car into park. “You’ll never succeed at that, Charles. And don’t make me tell you why because we both know why, and it’s not that I’m so spectacular in bed, or that two days from now you’ll come begging for it again, and of course I’ll give it to you, it’s miles worse than that, do I have to say it? Are you so determined to make yourself unhappy? It’s quite normal to be unhappy, and I hear you’re fond of being normal.”
Then Charles said, “Erik don’t” and Erik said, “Kiss me properly at least,” and caught Charles’ face in his hands and pressed their mouths together, and it was rough and gentle at the same time and Charles couldn’t escape the thought “perfect, you’re perfect” and wasn’t sure whose thought it was. For a moment he felt unaccountably like crying.
They got out of the car at the CIA facility and he nodded ambiguously at Erik and went and effusively greeted Moira.
She seemed delighted to see him - talking to her, it was easy to remember the sort of thing Charles Xavier would say and the way it would sound when he said it - and only once did he feel Erik’s eyes on him, and the look was scalding.
There was no good in pretending he had not realized how often they were doing it, how often their eyes locked casually in the midst of a room of people and it set a hot snake of anticipation coiling through his stomach, how often their fingers brushed, but he had thought it would be the sort of thing he could handle.
Well, not handle. Stand.
Charles’ hands are shackled to the bedpost and Erik is thrusting roughly into him from behind and Charles is whimpering, “Yes,” and then “God Erik why is this so - fucking -- good,” and Erik bites his earlobe and whispers, “Because you’re in love with me, Charles,” and Charles says, “I am, Erik - fucking God - Erik.”
The worst part was sleeping alone.
No. The worst part was the chilliness in Erik’s demeanor over breakfast. The worst part was watching Erik do the crossword puzzle by himself. The worst part was not being able to touch Erik casually. The worst part was everything.
The first slip-up was in Russia, in the back of the truck. He had glanced at Erik as they rode back, just the two of them again, the troops already waiting in the hangar, and Erik had at first not looked at him and then Charles had shoved his way into his mind and thought, “Do that to me,” and Erik had met his gaze and Charles had flushed. “What you did to her.”
Erik didn’t. Instead he hissed, “Make sure they don’t see us, Charles,” and took him, on the bed of the truck, hard, and Charles could feel Erik’s frustration and Erik was a little less careful to be gentle and the only thing between them was spit from when he’d shoved Erik’s fingers into his mouth, and of course it hurt but it was almost better like that, and he gasped, “Erik - I’m sorry - fuck - I couldn’t any longer - fuck I missed you I fucking missed this - God - I think I’m in love with you -” and then he’d come, hips shuddering, panting Erik’s name and they kissed roughly and hungrily, and Erik whispered, “I know, Charles, I’ve known all along,” and the next day he was sore all over and whenever he felt Erik’s eyes on him it was all he could do not to blush.
In Westchester he picked out separate beds for them in different rooms on different floors. Charles thought he had never exerted so much control in his life and with so little benefit to anyone. All he could think about was not looking at Erik, not touching him, not - not - not. It was like being told not to think about elephants. It was the only thing he could think of. It was giving him a headache.
Lying awake in bed the first night he had difficulty remembering why it was imperative for Charles Xavier to be like that. Even the house did not remind him. It felt oddly sterile and theoretical, and Erik was warm, flesh and blood and that lopsided grin and -- but that thought led places.
He tried to sleep. He couldn’t. The minute hand on the clock crawled in painful slow circles like a wingless dragonfly.
That first night at the mansion Erik found him outside smoking - Charles had never smoked particularly, but it seemed like the sort of thing to do, hard habit to break, he’d heard -- and shoved him up against a tree and their mouths came together with a gasp of relief and Charles practically tore down Erik’s pants and took him in his mouth with a rushed, “God I missed your cock,” and midway through Erik tugged him up by the shoulders, seeming to know what he wanted, and Charles shrugged off his trousers and they did it again, Erik’s fingers clamping on Charles’ hips and Charles panting his name, their bodies already sliding together as though it were natural to be like this. With chagrin he thought to himself, “Suppose you were to do this ever again, Charles, it wouldn’t be like this, no one else would ever fit you quite like this,” and the thought made him blush and thrust back against Erik as though he was trying to brand him on his body. “Erik, you’re perfect,” he gasped, the words pouring out in a helpless torrent, punctuated by Erik’s thrusts, “I wish I’d let you take me the first time I saw you -- and every time after that - God that’s good - I’m yours, I’m everything you-fucking - said, filthy abject little slut for you - God - and I fucking love it, and -- there, yes - Erik, God.”
Only you would say 'abject' at a time like this, Charles, he heard Erik think, and he was laughing and groaning at the same time, feeling his body clamp around Erik's cock, and then Erik gasped, "Charles" and came.
Afterwards they sat a few minutes tangled around each other, Charles feeling blessedly sore and painfully aware of their surroundings, and he found he was telling Erik that he blamed himself about Armando and Erik said, “There wasn’t anything you could have done, Charles, and we’re going to make Shaw pay.” Charles sagged against him, thinking, Why do you have to be so nice?
Then Erik turned and kissed him very carefully on the side of the neck exactly at the spot that always made Charles gasp and shudder. “Come to bed with me, Charles.”
Charles felt something hot surge in the pit of his stomach and nodded, mutely, and found himself following Erik down the hallway two doors too many.
They were both still half-dressed. He settled in Erik’s arms and kissed him and Erik whispered, “Charles, you’re an idiot,” and Charles was frankly disinclined to argue, ran a hand caressingly along Erik’s arm, kept kissing him, and Erik said, “Charles you belong here,” and Charles sighed and murmured, “ All right, Erik,” and then they were tugging off their remaining clothes and Erik said, “What?” and he was blurting out, “I missed seeing you naked,” because seeing Erik covered up in turtlenecks and jackets so all you could see of him was his wrists and his head was almost unfair when there was that whole secluded magnificent expanse of - everything else, and Charles stopped unbuttoning his own shirt and pulled Erik down onto the bed and tugged Erik’s boxers off and muttered, “Don’t yet, let me,” and then suddenly he was kissing him, everywhere, mouth tracing a line along Erik’s collarbone and planting kisses down the line of his chest and burying his face in the dark curls at the junction of Erik’s thighs and then kissing his way back up deliberately from Erik’s navel, and Erik stared at him, shuddering a little at the touch, and whispered, “Charles.”
Charles felt startlingly unguarded like this, as though the touch couldn’t help being more honest than he’d meant to be; every time his lips pressed Erik’s skin it was like a confession; there was more than simple lust in the way his fingers traced along Erik’s collarbone, and when he glanced up at Erik and their eyes met it was terrifying and intoxicating at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” Charles said, finally. “I don’t know what to do about this, Erik.”
“You never have, Charles,” Erik muttered. “So stop trying to stop it. It’s absurd.” Then he’d pulled Charles up by his face and they were kissing hungrily, Charles’ mouth latching onto his with a little half-sigh. “If we’re both as deep in as we are, and we are.”
“What do you want?” Charles asked.
“Stop hiding,” Erik said.
Charles laughed ruefully. “I suppose you’ll want me strolling out of your room in a bathrobe next, and sending detailed four-point memoranda to the CIA informing them I’m taking it up the ass from a Mr. Erik Lehnsherr and directing them to telephone if they’ve any concerns.”
“Charles don’t be an idiot,” Erik said, and their mouths come crashing together again, and Charles heard, ‘My God I really never will get enough of you, stop letting them bend you like this, Charles, for God’s sake.’ “You wish you were just fucking me,” Erik continued. “Hide from them if you like. You’re too English to be indiscreet. Just stop hiding from yourself. They aren't stopping you, Charles. You are. They couldn't if they tried. Not while there’s the two of us. Together. Protecting each other. We’re forces of nature. It’d be like telling the wind or the tide not to-”
“I doubt the wind and the tide are sleeping together,” Charles said, his mouth quirking up into a smile in spite of himself, and Erik grinned.
“You don’t know that,” he said.
"But if we could control ourselves, avoid liabilities, think what we could achieve," Charles said. "Why force the issue?"
"Even you don't sound convinced," Erik said, and kissed him. "No point in being a martyr, Charles. Not when no one's even asking you to volunteer."
--
He awakened just before dawn, Erik nudging him, whispering, "Since you insist on leaving, Charles," and he leaned up and kissed him and thought, “I could live like this, I even like the way he tastes in the morning” and then No, Charles, that’s ridiculous, but the whole day the thought, “What’s so ridiculous about it?” hummed in the back of his mind and when Erik shoved the boy off the satellite and caught him without breaking a sweat he was amazed everyone couldn’t see the expression in his eyes.
As soon as Banshee stopped pirouetting across the sky he shot Erik one of the looks that only meant one thing and they wound up in a broom closet, Erik’s arms clamped familiarly around him, and he was fairly certain that Raven had heard the sound he made when he came, and wondered if she could tell it was Erik’s name.
There were bits of afternoons and mornings that Moira was missing now, when she’d thought the bathroom on the first floor was unoccupied, and Raven had lost an evening when she’d opened the door on them playing chess and caught sight of Erik’s fingers on his thigh, and this was not what Charles ought to be doing with his gift.
He told Erik this. Erik laughed. “Then stop making them forget.”
“I can’t,” Charles said, seeing his clearance revoked and them suddenly without the CIA and the humans and the machinery, persecuted and living out of hotel bedrooms and silencing the little voice that muttered, “and what’s the matter with that?” and the other voice too, “without him nothing else would ever be enough, Charles, you know that” and Erik frowned. “I survived, Charles,” he says. “You could.”
“Not like you,” Charles muttered.
“You’d have me,” Erik said.
“They need us here,” Charles said.
“You need me,” Erik said, and Charles could hear the converse humming in the back of Erik’s mind.
Charles is straddling Erik’s hips and thrusting enthusiastically down onto his cock, and he can feel Erik’s eyes staring amazedly and greedily at the point where their bodies are meshing, and he slides carefully all the way onto Erik’s cock and they both moan simultaneously. “Charles,” Erik hisses, “this is my favorite yet,” and Charles nods and then his hips are pumping desperately again and he whimpers, “Erik.”
“God you look so fucking beautiful like that,” Erik mutters.
Charles can’t quite pull a sentence together, too close to the edge, and gasps, “This, Erik,” and comes, coating Erik’s chest.
The next time was in Charles’ bed.
Erik had been lying there when he came in and he’d said, “Erik what?” and half-chuckled, because the sight of Erik lying smugly back on his bed thumbing through one of his old books on Charles Darwin was - wrong, but perfect. He thought ruefully that that was a good phrase for this thing between them, wrong but perfect. Erik threw off the scale of everything else in the room somehow. Seeing all the things that for so many years Charles Xavier had thought comprised a life - the books and pictures and textbooks and trinkets and notes and the furniture with its familiar nicks, and Erik in the middle of it, made him think, Well I certainly know what I’d grab if the house were on fire.
Everything around Erik seemed quaint and insignificant and silly, somehow, and Charles began laughing. It was as though he were seeing the room for the first time. “I am an idiot,” he said, and then he’d climbed into bed and Erik’s warm arms, thinking, Fuck Charles Xavier, and then, yes, Charles, he’s about to, and then he was laughing again.
“You seem happy to see me,” Erik said.
And sod the CIA as well, Charles thought, although I hope it never comes to that, but I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it, I feel unaccountably like burning bridges, and he leaned over and kissed him.
--
The next evening Erik comes in and finds Charles shackled to his bed and Charles says, “I couldn’t sleep,” and their eyes meet and Erik knows that Charles has given up trying to stop.
“Took you long enough,” Erik murmurs.
“Hmph," Charles says. "Erik fuck me for Christ’s sake and I’m going to spend the night here.”
Then Erik's eyes narrow. “Why now, Charles?”
“Because,” Charles says, swallowing, thinking, because this morning I leafed through everyone’s minds, just to be sure, and no one seemed even to notice, because the great secret of telepathy is that no one is ever really paying attention, but beyond that it’s because the thought of waking up without you terrifies me, because no one has ever looked at me like you do, because you pulled me into the water, because you know me, because you’re like me, because you’re marvelous, even leaving aside the indecorous and large reason between your legs, because you allow me to be like this, because every way I try to say it sounds silly and overwrought, but I need you, I think, because this is a fire that warms as it consumes, “because I l-“ Charles began, and Erik’s eyes caught his and Erik pressed a finger to his lips.
“You don’t have to say it, Charles,” he says. “I didn’t say it either.”
“I promise, Erik,” Charles says.
--
Charles is spread out on the bed, metal frame locking his hands and feet in position, and Erik is thrusting into him, hard, making the bed jounce beneath them, and Charles is choking out, “Harder, harder, yes, God, Erik,” and comes, and the sheets may no longer be salvageable at this point. Charles’ body clamps around Erik’s cock and Erik whimpers, “I’m going to,” and Charles hisses, “Please.” Then Erik’s hips jerk against him and he feels the hot flood of Erik’s seed.
Erik looks appreciatively at him. Then the metal unwinds from Charles’ wrists and Charles rolls over and looks up at him and the look is lust and wonder and delight and - that other thing that they hadn’t bothered to name for such a long time, and Charles whispers, “I love you, Erik,” and Erik leans down and kisses him.
--
Some nights after they do it Erik looks at him and Charles gets a flash of them in a different bed but for some reason he’s wearing reading glasses and sensible pajamas and his hair’s thinning at the temples and Erik’s hair is grey and he wants to be irate about the hair but something about the vision makes him too happy.
“Yes,” he says.
“Good,” Erik says.
--
There were things that Charles Xavier did and things that Charles Xavier did not do. But then there was Erik. Charles couldn't remember why the other things had mattered.
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Rating: NC-17
Genre: first time! road trip!
WC: 3000ish
Summary: Charles had always been a good boy.
A/N: Welp, here this is. Hope you enjoyed the ride. Exciting news: next week I have internet! Less exciting news: But for now, I'm still at Starbucks and I think that old gnome-looking guy who always sits in the corner is trying to read over my shoulder! ANYWAY YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL AND I HOPE YOU LIKED IT AND SORRY BOUT THE SAP AND INEVITABLE GRAMMAR ERRORS AND RUN-ON SENTENCES PLEASE COMMENT I REMAIN A COMMENT WHORE SEE I WASN'T JOKING ABOUT THE RUN-ONS.
Charles was going to be a good boy.
Charles is panting into the pillow, Erik’s hands pinioning his wrists to the bed, and he doesn’t think he has ever been so hard in his life. He can feel Erik’s control starting to slip behind him, Erik’s breaths are coming in ragged gasps against his neck, and their hips are thrusting in frantic unison, and Charles emits an incoherent stream of words that culminates in, “Fuck - Erik - this,” and Erik mutters, “You’re so fucking tight, Charles,” and finds that spot in him again, and Charles lets out a desperate moan, and gasps, “There, Erik - God, you’re huge, it’s insane, do you want to feel what you’re doing to me,” and Erik kisses the back of Charles’ neck, drenched with sweat, because they have been going at this almost without stopping for hours and Charles’ only regret is that they didn’t start earlier- and whispers, “Please.”
On the road back to the CIA facility he stared at Erik so intently that Erik shuddered a little and said, “Charles, if I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to memorize me,” and Charles muttered, “Pull over a second” and kissed him, hard and soundly and a bit violently, biting his lip and drawing blood, and then pulled back, gasping, and said, “All right, go.”
Erik’s face clouded. “You’re a fool, Charles,” he said. Who’s the more foolish? Charles heard. Goddammit, Erik, you should have known.
Erik shifted the car into park. “You’ll never succeed at that, Charles. And don’t make me tell you why because we both know why, and it’s not that I’m so spectacular in bed, or that two days from now you’ll come begging for it again, and of course I’ll give it to you, it’s miles worse than that, do I have to say it? Are you so determined to make yourself unhappy? It’s quite normal to be unhappy, and I hear you’re fond of being normal.”
Then Charles said, “Erik don’t” and Erik said, “Kiss me properly at least,” and caught Charles’ face in his hands and pressed their mouths together, and it was rough and gentle at the same time and Charles couldn’t escape the thought “perfect, you’re perfect” and wasn’t sure whose thought it was. For a moment he felt unaccountably like crying.
They got out of the car at the CIA facility and he nodded ambiguously at Erik and went and effusively greeted Moira.
She seemed delighted to see him - talking to her, it was easy to remember the sort of thing Charles Xavier would say and the way it would sound when he said it - and only once did he feel Erik’s eyes on him, and the look was scalding.
There was no good in pretending he had not realized how often they were doing it, how often their eyes locked casually in the midst of a room of people and it set a hot snake of anticipation coiling through his stomach, how often their fingers brushed, but he had thought it would be the sort of thing he could handle.
Well, not handle. Stand.
Charles’ hands are shackled to the bedpost and Erik is thrusting roughly into him from behind and Charles is whimpering, “Yes,” and then “God Erik why is this so - fucking -- good,” and Erik bites his earlobe and whispers, “Because you’re in love with me, Charles,” and Charles says, “I am, Erik - fucking God - Erik.”
The worst part was sleeping alone.
No. The worst part was the chilliness in Erik’s demeanor over breakfast. The worst part was watching Erik do the crossword puzzle by himself. The worst part was not being able to touch Erik casually. The worst part was everything.
The first slip-up was in Russia, in the back of the truck. He had glanced at Erik as they rode back, just the two of them again, the troops already waiting in the hangar, and Erik had at first not looked at him and then Charles had shoved his way into his mind and thought, “Do that to me,” and Erik had met his gaze and Charles had flushed. “What you did to her.”
Erik didn’t. Instead he hissed, “Make sure they don’t see us, Charles,” and took him, on the bed of the truck, hard, and Charles could feel Erik’s frustration and Erik was a little less careful to be gentle and the only thing between them was spit from when he’d shoved Erik’s fingers into his mouth, and of course it hurt but it was almost better like that, and he gasped, “Erik - I’m sorry - fuck - I couldn’t any longer - fuck I missed you I fucking missed this - God - I think I’m in love with you -” and then he’d come, hips shuddering, panting Erik’s name and they kissed roughly and hungrily, and Erik whispered, “I know, Charles, I’ve known all along,” and the next day he was sore all over and whenever he felt Erik’s eyes on him it was all he could do not to blush.
In Westchester he picked out separate beds for them in different rooms on different floors. Charles thought he had never exerted so much control in his life and with so little benefit to anyone. All he could think about was not looking at Erik, not touching him, not - not - not. It was like being told not to think about elephants. It was the only thing he could think of. It was giving him a headache.
Lying awake in bed the first night he had difficulty remembering why it was imperative for Charles Xavier to be like that. Even the house did not remind him. It felt oddly sterile and theoretical, and Erik was warm, flesh and blood and that lopsided grin and -- but that thought led places.
He tried to sleep. He couldn’t. The minute hand on the clock crawled in painful slow circles like a wingless dragonfly.
That first night at the mansion Erik found him outside smoking - Charles had never smoked particularly, but it seemed like the sort of thing to do, hard habit to break, he’d heard -- and shoved him up against a tree and their mouths came together with a gasp of relief and Charles practically tore down Erik’s pants and took him in his mouth with a rushed, “God I missed your cock,” and midway through Erik tugged him up by the shoulders, seeming to know what he wanted, and Charles shrugged off his trousers and they did it again, Erik’s fingers clamping on Charles’ hips and Charles panting his name, their bodies already sliding together as though it were natural to be like this. With chagrin he thought to himself, “Suppose you were to do this ever again, Charles, it wouldn’t be like this, no one else would ever fit you quite like this,” and the thought made him blush and thrust back against Erik as though he was trying to brand him on his body. “Erik, you’re perfect,” he gasped, the words pouring out in a helpless torrent, punctuated by Erik’s thrusts, “I wish I’d let you take me the first time I saw you -- and every time after that - God that’s good - I’m yours, I’m everything you-fucking - said, filthy abject little slut for you - God - and I fucking love it, and -- there, yes - Erik, God.”
Only you would say 'abject' at a time like this, Charles, he heard Erik think, and he was laughing and groaning at the same time, feeling his body clamp around Erik's cock, and then Erik gasped, "Charles" and came.
Afterwards they sat a few minutes tangled around each other, Charles feeling blessedly sore and painfully aware of their surroundings, and he found he was telling Erik that he blamed himself about Armando and Erik said, “There wasn’t anything you could have done, Charles, and we’re going to make Shaw pay.” Charles sagged against him, thinking, Why do you have to be so nice?
Then Erik turned and kissed him very carefully on the side of the neck exactly at the spot that always made Charles gasp and shudder. “Come to bed with me, Charles.”
Charles felt something hot surge in the pit of his stomach and nodded, mutely, and found himself following Erik down the hallway two doors too many.
They were both still half-dressed. He settled in Erik’s arms and kissed him and Erik whispered, “Charles, you’re an idiot,” and Charles was frankly disinclined to argue, ran a hand caressingly along Erik’s arm, kept kissing him, and Erik said, “Charles you belong here,” and Charles sighed and murmured, “ All right, Erik,” and then they were tugging off their remaining clothes and Erik said, “What?” and he was blurting out, “I missed seeing you naked,” because seeing Erik covered up in turtlenecks and jackets so all you could see of him was his wrists and his head was almost unfair when there was that whole secluded magnificent expanse of - everything else, and Charles stopped unbuttoning his own shirt and pulled Erik down onto the bed and tugged Erik’s boxers off and muttered, “Don’t yet, let me,” and then suddenly he was kissing him, everywhere, mouth tracing a line along Erik’s collarbone and planting kisses down the line of his chest and burying his face in the dark curls at the junction of Erik’s thighs and then kissing his way back up deliberately from Erik’s navel, and Erik stared at him, shuddering a little at the touch, and whispered, “Charles.”
Charles felt startlingly unguarded like this, as though the touch couldn’t help being more honest than he’d meant to be; every time his lips pressed Erik’s skin it was like a confession; there was more than simple lust in the way his fingers traced along Erik’s collarbone, and when he glanced up at Erik and their eyes met it was terrifying and intoxicating at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” Charles said, finally. “I don’t know what to do about this, Erik.”
“You never have, Charles,” Erik muttered. “So stop trying to stop it. It’s absurd.” Then he’d pulled Charles up by his face and they were kissing hungrily, Charles’ mouth latching onto his with a little half-sigh. “If we’re both as deep in as we are, and we are.”
“What do you want?” Charles asked.
“Stop hiding,” Erik said.
Charles laughed ruefully. “I suppose you’ll want me strolling out of your room in a bathrobe next, and sending detailed four-point memoranda to the CIA informing them I’m taking it up the ass from a Mr. Erik Lehnsherr and directing them to telephone if they’ve any concerns.”
“Charles don’t be an idiot,” Erik said, and their mouths come crashing together again, and Charles heard, ‘My God I really never will get enough of you, stop letting them bend you like this, Charles, for God’s sake.’ “You wish you were just fucking me,” Erik continued. “Hide from them if you like. You’re too English to be indiscreet. Just stop hiding from yourself. They aren't stopping you, Charles. You are. They couldn't if they tried. Not while there’s the two of us. Together. Protecting each other. We’re forces of nature. It’d be like telling the wind or the tide not to-”
“I doubt the wind and the tide are sleeping together,” Charles said, his mouth quirking up into a smile in spite of himself, and Erik grinned.
“You don’t know that,” he said.
"But if we could control ourselves, avoid liabilities, think what we could achieve," Charles said. "Why force the issue?"
"Even you don't sound convinced," Erik said, and kissed him. "No point in being a martyr, Charles. Not when no one's even asking you to volunteer."
--
He awakened just before dawn, Erik nudging him, whispering, "Since you insist on leaving, Charles," and he leaned up and kissed him and thought, “I could live like this, I even like the way he tastes in the morning” and then No, Charles, that’s ridiculous, but the whole day the thought, “What’s so ridiculous about it?” hummed in the back of his mind and when Erik shoved the boy off the satellite and caught him without breaking a sweat he was amazed everyone couldn’t see the expression in his eyes.
As soon as Banshee stopped pirouetting across the sky he shot Erik one of the looks that only meant one thing and they wound up in a broom closet, Erik’s arms clamped familiarly around him, and he was fairly certain that Raven had heard the sound he made when he came, and wondered if she could tell it was Erik’s name.
There were bits of afternoons and mornings that Moira was missing now, when she’d thought the bathroom on the first floor was unoccupied, and Raven had lost an evening when she’d opened the door on them playing chess and caught sight of Erik’s fingers on his thigh, and this was not what Charles ought to be doing with his gift.
He told Erik this. Erik laughed. “Then stop making them forget.”
“I can’t,” Charles said, seeing his clearance revoked and them suddenly without the CIA and the humans and the machinery, persecuted and living out of hotel bedrooms and silencing the little voice that muttered, “and what’s the matter with that?” and the other voice too, “without him nothing else would ever be enough, Charles, you know that” and Erik frowned. “I survived, Charles,” he says. “You could.”
“Not like you,” Charles muttered.
“You’d have me,” Erik said.
“They need us here,” Charles said.
“You need me,” Erik said, and Charles could hear the converse humming in the back of Erik’s mind.
Charles is straddling Erik’s hips and thrusting enthusiastically down onto his cock, and he can feel Erik’s eyes staring amazedly and greedily at the point where their bodies are meshing, and he slides carefully all the way onto Erik’s cock and they both moan simultaneously. “Charles,” Erik hisses, “this is my favorite yet,” and Charles nods and then his hips are pumping desperately again and he whimpers, “Erik.”
“God you look so fucking beautiful like that,” Erik mutters.
Charles can’t quite pull a sentence together, too close to the edge, and gasps, “This, Erik,” and comes, coating Erik’s chest.
The next time was in Charles’ bed.
Erik had been lying there when he came in and he’d said, “Erik what?” and half-chuckled, because the sight of Erik lying smugly back on his bed thumbing through one of his old books on Charles Darwin was - wrong, but perfect. He thought ruefully that that was a good phrase for this thing between them, wrong but perfect. Erik threw off the scale of everything else in the room somehow. Seeing all the things that for so many years Charles Xavier had thought comprised a life - the books and pictures and textbooks and trinkets and notes and the furniture with its familiar nicks, and Erik in the middle of it, made him think, Well I certainly know what I’d grab if the house were on fire.
Everything around Erik seemed quaint and insignificant and silly, somehow, and Charles began laughing. It was as though he were seeing the room for the first time. “I am an idiot,” he said, and then he’d climbed into bed and Erik’s warm arms, thinking, Fuck Charles Xavier, and then, yes, Charles, he’s about to, and then he was laughing again.
“You seem happy to see me,” Erik said.
And sod the CIA as well, Charles thought, although I hope it never comes to that, but I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it, I feel unaccountably like burning bridges, and he leaned over and kissed him.
--
The next evening Erik comes in and finds Charles shackled to his bed and Charles says, “I couldn’t sleep,” and their eyes meet and Erik knows that Charles has given up trying to stop.
“Took you long enough,” Erik murmurs.
“Hmph," Charles says. "Erik fuck me for Christ’s sake and I’m going to spend the night here.”
Then Erik's eyes narrow. “Why now, Charles?”
“Because,” Charles says, swallowing, thinking, because this morning I leafed through everyone’s minds, just to be sure, and no one seemed even to notice, because the great secret of telepathy is that no one is ever really paying attention, but beyond that it’s because the thought of waking up without you terrifies me, because no one has ever looked at me like you do, because you pulled me into the water, because you know me, because you’re like me, because you’re marvelous, even leaving aside the indecorous and large reason between your legs, because you allow me to be like this, because every way I try to say it sounds silly and overwrought, but I need you, I think, because this is a fire that warms as it consumes, “because I l-“ Charles began, and Erik’s eyes caught his and Erik pressed a finger to his lips.
“You don’t have to say it, Charles,” he says. “I didn’t say it either.”
“I promise, Erik,” Charles says.
--
Charles is spread out on the bed, metal frame locking his hands and feet in position, and Erik is thrusting into him, hard, making the bed jounce beneath them, and Charles is choking out, “Harder, harder, yes, God, Erik,” and comes, and the sheets may no longer be salvageable at this point. Charles’ body clamps around Erik’s cock and Erik whimpers, “I’m going to,” and Charles hisses, “Please.” Then Erik’s hips jerk against him and he feels the hot flood of Erik’s seed.
Erik looks appreciatively at him. Then the metal unwinds from Charles’ wrists and Charles rolls over and looks up at him and the look is lust and wonder and delight and - that other thing that they hadn’t bothered to name for such a long time, and Charles whispers, “I love you, Erik,” and Erik leans down and kisses him.
--
Some nights after they do it Erik looks at him and Charles gets a flash of them in a different bed but for some reason he’s wearing reading glasses and sensible pajamas and his hair’s thinning at the temples and Erik’s hair is grey and he wants to be irate about the hair but something about the vision makes him too happy.
“Yes,” he says.
“Good,” Erik says.
--
There were things that Charles Xavier did and things that Charles Xavier did not do. But then there was Erik. Charles couldn't remember why the other things had mattered.