light up a new smoke, put on an old shirt
Eight minutes to spare! Amazingly, this shit isn't done yet, but I'm trying to keep it in evenly divided up pieces (approx 2k-ish). About to edit for warnings, etc, but, you know, must meet self inflicted deadline.
Shaving fic, part THREE of, oh god, four, please be four, but probably five. Stuff is starting to happen, I swear.
Title: These are my friends, see how they glisten
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Charles/Erik (pre-slash)
Rating: PG-13...ish?
Disclaimer: Absolutely none of the characters here are mine, and I didn't even come up with the premise. I didn't even come up with the phrase World Bromance Tour.
Word count: 2603/7636
Summary: On the road trip, Charles is whiskery, and also projecting. Telepathy is hard, misunderstandings abound, and Erik is one more sleepless night away from leaving.
"My friend, I would never--"
"Your what," Erik says, trying to sound mocking and merely sounding furious, "Say that again, would you?"
Over breakfast that morning, Charles idly considers growing out a beard. Now, he thinks, would be the ideal time for it. Then he wouldn't have to--
"Projecting," Erik says sharply, not looking up from his plate of scrambled eggs.
"Sorry," Charles says, as he decides that, no, he wouldn't look any good in a beard, really, and he's honestly not sure if he can grow one that isn't mostly patches of skin, anyway.
But he takes a moment to reorient himself, to feel the dozens of scattered epicenters around the room that send out pulses of thought. He doesn't think about walls (which can be scaled) or doors (which are meant to be opened), but of being sealed in plastic, wrapped in something that needs to be deliberately cut open. The metaphor is only a starting point, and soon Charles feels that he's shielded himself properly, tucked all of his thoughts in, and blocked out the thoughts of others, besides.
It does rather make him feel--well, like he's wrapped in plastic, sweating, unable to breathe.
But needs must, needs must.
"Better," Erik says, but it's grudging.
++
For the next three days, Erik avoids him. For three days, it is the same: between driving, they share a tense breakfast; a near silent lunch and then dine separately. Charles isn't sure where Erik goes off to in the evenings, and he tells himself it's none of his business. And really: it isn't. It isn't at all.
Really. It isn't.
So if Charles has to do something to keep himself occupied so he doesn't try to nervously, instinctively find Erik--well. It's understandable, isn't it Reasonable?
Or something. The line of skidding almost logic Charles guiltily throws together isn't terribly clear on that point, or any other, which is how he ends up on his knees in Erik's room, rooting through Erik's bag, while Erik himself is elsewhere. He's not spying, he's not, he's just looking for--
Ah.
Well, Erik had said he should learn how to use it.
With held breath and shaking fingers, Charles unzips (and how Erik must love zippers, and all their tiny metal teeth) the small, shallow pocket that holds Erik's razor. He runs one finger over the metal, feels it warm, quick and friendly, under his touch. For a moment, he fingers it, lightly, and thinks about leaving the room now that he knows where it is, now that he's...checked on it. He had wanted to test what he thought he knew, to find out if it was the razor, or the razor wielded in Erik's hand, that made him short of breath.
But Charles is short of breath right now, and he's incapable of thinking of the razor as anything but Erik's.
He shouldn't even be here--
What if Erik walked in, to find him--find him fondling this piece of metal like a lunatic? That won't do at all.
So Charles, ever the problem solver, takes a deep breath, slips the razor out of the bag and into his pocket, rearranges everything else back to how he found it, and slips out the door.
He can be quick.
++
It's useful sometimes, it really is, to be able to throw out a psychic net to make sure he's alone--or not around certain people, persons, which is alone enough.
++
Nervous, quick fingers drum against his knee; the movement is echoed in the tap of his foot. Charles is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, the door closed, even though he is in his own room. It's like he needs every barrier he can get, and he does--it's a long moment that he sits, head almost between his knees.
When he stands, it's sudden, and his right hand is unfolding. Light slides slow on the gleaming blade, and when the razor is finally open, Charles meets his eyes in the mirror, holds it to his throat.
He looks absurd, he thinks--too serious by half and half again, arm and hand stiff, posture rigid.
So he tilts the blade, pushes it into his skin slightly. It's still the flat of the blade, mostly: he isn't trying to cut. He isn't trying to cut, and he isn't Erik--
And yet...
Shallow, uncertain little breaths.
Charles isn't used to wanting things that make him feel--like this, whatever this start-stop-yes-no-yes is. Sex hasn't been a matter of uncertainty since he was, say, twelve, and he'd seen and heard all about the strange and wild spectrum of what people liked to do in private (or pseudo private, or not private at all) from the idle thoughts of everyone around him. Never has he wanted and not been sure in his desire, confident that it meant nothing at all.
What he wants is to press the razor into his skin, to get a small trickle of blood, and to grin in relief as he thinks, oh, is that all, before he jerks off quickly and efficiently and then never thinks about it again.
What he does is watch himself flush in the mirror, until he has to avert his eyes, and then he snaps the razor shut and creeps back into Erik's room, to return the blade.
He wipes it down, first, as if Erik might be dusting for fingerprints later. It's irrational, but Charles has become aware that he is not all on board the SS Rationality at this particular moment, so he just wipes it down and puts it back and slinks back into his room.
++
Right, so. It would be a shame to go through all that sneaking around and not--it's just--well.
Charles decides a victory wank for not getting caught is in order, and he tries, he really tries, to not think about sharp edges or metal anything the whole time.
When he comes, it's with a delicate noise and parted red lips and the vague, rueful thought of well, I tried.
++
Charles sleeps uneasy, but he does, in fact, sleep.
In his dreams, he hears his pulse, ticking out time, keeping rhythm with no metronome. He sees knives shoot out from under his hand that is not his hand, and he sees his own blue eyes in the mirror.
For a long, slow moment, he feels like the only movement in the world is his blood through his veins.
++
In the morning, breakfast is as it usually is now: tense, with tepid tea and tasteless food.
Idly, Charles thinks there's something he should be smug about--something he was waiting for--something he wanted? He can't quite remember.
Silently, just across the table and farther away than a foreign continent, Erik takes a drink of his coffee. His eyes are flat grey-green as he stares over his cup, and there are dark circles under his eyes that weren't there before.
He raises a slow, irritable hand to push back a stray swath of his hair that's on his forehead, and Charles gazes at him, uncomprehending. something. What was it? Best to let it go, if he can't recall.
It's nice that Erik still orders tea for him, Charles thinks, but the oatmeal here is really rather terrible.
++
So it turns out that it's pretty difficult to recruit people to a cause when the representatives of the cause are clearly divided.
"Empty handed," Erik says, exasperated, after they lose another mutant, "We haven't convinced to join us anyone since Angel." He begins stalking back towards their car, and Charles has to jog a little to keep up with Erik's long, hungry legs and his furious, pavement eating strides. He tries to trot forward with as much dignity as possible.
"This is a new endeavor," Charles says, repeating himself, always repeating himself, injecting the necessary enthusiasm into his tone and waving his hands around, "Our group is to be the first of its kind. Naturally people are hesitant to commit to something so--"
"Spare me, Xavier," Erik says, "I've heard it. You've told me." He keys the car open, gets in, slams the door closed. As is now routine, Erik is in the driver's seat.
He waits until Charles gets in to say, more quietly,
"I don't know why we're still bothering,"
But he doesn't look at Charles, and Charles doesn't look at him, and they drive to the next hotel in silence.
++
Over dinner, Charles suddenly looks up, takes a breath, and says,
"Your hair."
"My what?" Erik asks, distracted and frustrated, and, yes, there, it's out of place again and he has to push it away. The effort it takes Charles to tear his eyes away from following Erik's hand is tremendous, and his gaze flickers from the hand to Erik's eyes too quickly.
"You look tired," Charles babbles on, eyes wide and earnest in his concern, and not until he hears the words fall from his lips does he still with the embarrassment of lacking, apparently, the right sort of filter.
Erik stares at him.
"Yes," he says finally, in a low, fierce whisper, leaning forward slightly, dropping his cutlery, "Why, yes, Charles, I'm tired. I'm tired from having your blasted dreams leak into my head at night."
There's a tight set to his jaw and an a vicious set to his eyes, as he leans back and crosses his arms over his chest and his hair, oh, god, his hair is falling forward again, and Charles can only stare at him.
Then he drops his eyes, fiddles with his napkin in his lap for a long time, and eventually meekly says,
"Oh."
Charles remembers his dreams lately as a throbbing something deep within his body, crawling under his skin and breathing hot and heavy air into his lungs
"That's it," Erik says, pushing his chair away savagely, "Get up, Xavier." He throws down some bills, more than enough to cover the meal, "To our rooms. Now."
Charles coughs delicately. What had Erik--what was Erik--how much had he seen, exactly, and what, and when? There are so many thoughts Charles has been careful to not have too loudly, about Erik's thin, hard mouth and his rare and glorious smile and his hands, his hands holding--
"We need to talk," Erik seethes, and Charles thinks, oh again, and gets up.
Erik stalks out of the diner without looking back.
++
When they get to Charles's room, as soon as the door is locked behind them, he tries to smooth things over,
"I'm sorry, Erik, I had no idea, they haven't done that in a long time. My friend, I would never--"
"Your what," Erik says, trying to sound mocking and merely sounding furious, "Say that again, would you?"
"I would never mean to disturb you," Charles says instead, after a beat of hesitation.
Erik ignores him.
"'Friend.' You throw that around so casually, Xavier. I was almost starting to think that you meant it."
"Erik, I--"
"You nothing. I've been such a fool."
"I had no idea I was causing you so much--"
"You don't trust me," Erik says suddenly.
"Erik!" Charles cries out, blind sided by this, "What? I--of course I trust you, why would I not?"
"Stop pretending!" Erik shouts, "What's the use? I hear you every night."
Charles stops, stills, and then sits down, heavily, on the bed.
"Look," he says wearily, "Erik. I'm stupid with the effort of trying to hold everything in already, carefully away from you. I don't know what else I can do." He takes a deep breath. "I don't know what it is I've already done, what would make you think I don't trust you. What's this even about? What makes you think that I--"
"What makes me," Erik spits out, "Nothing makes me. You're not making me. You might make me stop thinking it. You could."
"I would never," Charles says quickly, "I would never, not to you, not to anyone but especially not to you, not like that."
"But you could," Erik repeats, "And yet you have the gall to think I'm the dangerous one."
There's a moment of silence in the room, then, and only then does Charles notice how very far away Erik is. It isn't a metaphor: Erik is standing further away than he usually would, than would be normal for an argument.
"I've never actually said," Charles says quietly, "That I wasn't dangerous. Or could be. But what's that have to do with anything?"
"You don't even want to be in the same room as me if there's a razor," Erik says, voice flat and cold, like the razor he's evoking, "As if that matters. As if I couldn't--as if a butter knife, a set of keys, wasn't enough for me to--"
He stops, presses his lips into a thin, pale line.
"All you can think about now is that day that I shaved you, and I didn't even nick you. I didn't threaten you. I didn't--" Erik breaks off, and looks away, and Charles watches his chest rise and fall too much, too quickly.
"Erik..." he tries, softly.
"I feel it," Erik says, turning back towards Charles, eyes blazing, "I feel it, at night. I hear you dreaming about a knife at your throat."
"It's not," Charles starts, but he really hasn't gotten much further in his mental script, because he has no idea how to explain, "It isn't what it seems. I don't--"
"Everything, you said, Charles, everything. If that's what you knew, then--why?" Erik takes a step forward, then makes an exasperated noise and takes a step back.
He is trying, Charles realizes suddenly, to seem less intimidating. The thought floods him with wonder.
Erik's doing a terrible job of it, though. It's his height, it's the barely hidden viciousness in his strictly controlled movements, it's the the venomous hiss of his voice, it's the fierce look in his eyes.
And Charles, apparently, is thinking loudly again.
With a ragged sigh, Erik pulls up a chair, and sits down.
"Better?" he asks, murderously.
"Sort of," Charles says, "I didn't actually mind, you know. Before."
The bed shifts slightly, and Charles realizes that Erik has been pulling at the springs, needing something to focus on, fidget with, that was out of sight. He pretends to not notice, and Erik goes on.
"You've seen what I've done and you acted like it didn't bother you before," Erik says slowly, "So why now? Did it take metal at your throat to make you realize?"
"Erik, I trust you. I trust you more than you can possibly imagine," Charles says wearily
Despite the walls he has up--and Charles has gotten so very good at blocking people out; much better, even, than he's usually been at keeping himself in--a feeling whiplashes through him then, almost hard enough to make him gasp: it's a sharp sting of betrayal, yes, but Erik's feeling it like he feels anger, huge and roiling and white-hot.
And he growls.
"Don't lie."
Charles shuts his eyes.
"If I show you what I mean," he says, "Will you promise to not--" he stops, and feels like a child--
(A memory, with Raven, so long ago, when they were young and new to each other and curious:
"If I show you what it's like, promise you won't be scared?"
But she had been, she had been, and she never stopped.)
--or a needy teenager.
"I don't think there's anything you can show me that will stop me from leaving tonight," Erik says bluntly, "And I don't trust you to not stop me by force."
But there's an edge of doubt under his words, and Charles looks so sad and small, shoulders hunched, curling into himself.
It makes Erik pause, and Charles, who is letting the tendrils of his awareness unfurl slightly, who is letting himself take the first big breath he has in days, can feel the conflict Erik flashes through in a second.
"Then there's nothing I can do," Charles says softly, eyes downcast, "To explain."
He feels, rather than sees, Erik bite into his lip.
"I respected you enough to come talk instead of just vanishing," Erik says. He takes a breath. "I might as well let you explain yourself."
Charles doesn't look up, and Erik doesn't look away as he slowly brings two fingers up to his temple.
Shaving fic, part THREE of, oh god, four, please be four, but probably five. Stuff is starting to happen, I swear.
Title: These are my friends, see how they glisten
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Charles/Erik (pre-slash)
Rating: PG-13...ish?
Disclaimer: Absolutely none of the characters here are mine, and I didn't even come up with the premise. I didn't even come up with the phrase World Bromance Tour.
Word count: 2603/7636
Summary: On the road trip, Charles is whiskery, and also projecting. Telepathy is hard, misunderstandings abound, and Erik is one more sleepless night away from leaving.
"My friend, I would never--"
"Your what," Erik says, trying to sound mocking and merely sounding furious, "Say that again, would you?"
Over breakfast that morning, Charles idly considers growing out a beard. Now, he thinks, would be the ideal time for it. Then he wouldn't have to--
"Projecting," Erik says sharply, not looking up from his plate of scrambled eggs.
"Sorry," Charles says, as he decides that, no, he wouldn't look any good in a beard, really, and he's honestly not sure if he can grow one that isn't mostly patches of skin, anyway.
But he takes a moment to reorient himself, to feel the dozens of scattered epicenters around the room that send out pulses of thought. He doesn't think about walls (which can be scaled) or doors (which are meant to be opened), but of being sealed in plastic, wrapped in something that needs to be deliberately cut open. The metaphor is only a starting point, and soon Charles feels that he's shielded himself properly, tucked all of his thoughts in, and blocked out the thoughts of others, besides.
It does rather make him feel--well, like he's wrapped in plastic, sweating, unable to breathe.
But needs must, needs must.
"Better," Erik says, but it's grudging.
++
For the next three days, Erik avoids him. For three days, it is the same: between driving, they share a tense breakfast; a near silent lunch and then dine separately. Charles isn't sure where Erik goes off to in the evenings, and he tells himself it's none of his business. And really: it isn't. It isn't at all.
Really. It isn't.
So if Charles has to do something to keep himself occupied so he doesn't try to nervously, instinctively find Erik--well. It's understandable, isn't it Reasonable?
Or something. The line of skidding almost logic Charles guiltily throws together isn't terribly clear on that point, or any other, which is how he ends up on his knees in Erik's room, rooting through Erik's bag, while Erik himself is elsewhere. He's not spying, he's not, he's just looking for--
Ah.
Well, Erik had said he should learn how to use it.
With held breath and shaking fingers, Charles unzips (and how Erik must love zippers, and all their tiny metal teeth) the small, shallow pocket that holds Erik's razor. He runs one finger over the metal, feels it warm, quick and friendly, under his touch. For a moment, he fingers it, lightly, and thinks about leaving the room now that he knows where it is, now that he's...checked on it. He had wanted to test what he thought he knew, to find out if it was the razor, or the razor wielded in Erik's hand, that made him short of breath.
But Charles is short of breath right now, and he's incapable of thinking of the razor as anything but Erik's.
He shouldn't even be here--
What if Erik walked in, to find him--find him fondling this piece of metal like a lunatic? That won't do at all.
So Charles, ever the problem solver, takes a deep breath, slips the razor out of the bag and into his pocket, rearranges everything else back to how he found it, and slips out the door.
He can be quick.
++
It's useful sometimes, it really is, to be able to throw out a psychic net to make sure he's alone--or not around certain people, persons, which is alone enough.
++
Nervous, quick fingers drum against his knee; the movement is echoed in the tap of his foot. Charles is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, the door closed, even though he is in his own room. It's like he needs every barrier he can get, and he does--it's a long moment that he sits, head almost between his knees.
When he stands, it's sudden, and his right hand is unfolding. Light slides slow on the gleaming blade, and when the razor is finally open, Charles meets his eyes in the mirror, holds it to his throat.
He looks absurd, he thinks--too serious by half and half again, arm and hand stiff, posture rigid.
So he tilts the blade, pushes it into his skin slightly. It's still the flat of the blade, mostly: he isn't trying to cut. He isn't trying to cut, and he isn't Erik--
And yet...
Shallow, uncertain little breaths.
Charles isn't used to wanting things that make him feel--like this, whatever this start-stop-yes-no-yes is. Sex hasn't been a matter of uncertainty since he was, say, twelve, and he'd seen and heard all about the strange and wild spectrum of what people liked to do in private (or pseudo private, or not private at all) from the idle thoughts of everyone around him. Never has he wanted and not been sure in his desire, confident that it meant nothing at all.
What he wants is to press the razor into his skin, to get a small trickle of blood, and to grin in relief as he thinks, oh, is that all, before he jerks off quickly and efficiently and then never thinks about it again.
What he does is watch himself flush in the mirror, until he has to avert his eyes, and then he snaps the razor shut and creeps back into Erik's room, to return the blade.
He wipes it down, first, as if Erik might be dusting for fingerprints later. It's irrational, but Charles has become aware that he is not all on board the SS Rationality at this particular moment, so he just wipes it down and puts it back and slinks back into his room.
++
Right, so. It would be a shame to go through all that sneaking around and not--it's just--well.
Charles decides a victory wank for not getting caught is in order, and he tries, he really tries, to not think about sharp edges or metal anything the whole time.
When he comes, it's with a delicate noise and parted red lips and the vague, rueful thought of well, I tried.
++
Charles sleeps uneasy, but he does, in fact, sleep.
In his dreams, he hears his pulse, ticking out time, keeping rhythm with no metronome. He sees knives shoot out from under his hand that is not his hand, and he sees his own blue eyes in the mirror.
For a long, slow moment, he feels like the only movement in the world is his blood through his veins.
++
In the morning, breakfast is as it usually is now: tense, with tepid tea and tasteless food.
Idly, Charles thinks there's something he should be smug about--something he was waiting for--something he wanted? He can't quite remember.
Silently, just across the table and farther away than a foreign continent, Erik takes a drink of his coffee. His eyes are flat grey-green as he stares over his cup, and there are dark circles under his eyes that weren't there before.
He raises a slow, irritable hand to push back a stray swath of his hair that's on his forehead, and Charles gazes at him, uncomprehending. something. What was it? Best to let it go, if he can't recall.
It's nice that Erik still orders tea for him, Charles thinks, but the oatmeal here is really rather terrible.
++
So it turns out that it's pretty difficult to recruit people to a cause when the representatives of the cause are clearly divided.
"Empty handed," Erik says, exasperated, after they lose another mutant, "We haven't convinced to join us anyone since Angel." He begins stalking back towards their car, and Charles has to jog a little to keep up with Erik's long, hungry legs and his furious, pavement eating strides. He tries to trot forward with as much dignity as possible.
"This is a new endeavor," Charles says, repeating himself, always repeating himself, injecting the necessary enthusiasm into his tone and waving his hands around, "Our group is to be the first of its kind. Naturally people are hesitant to commit to something so--"
"Spare me, Xavier," Erik says, "I've heard it. You've told me." He keys the car open, gets in, slams the door closed. As is now routine, Erik is in the driver's seat.
He waits until Charles gets in to say, more quietly,
"I don't know why we're still bothering,"
But he doesn't look at Charles, and Charles doesn't look at him, and they drive to the next hotel in silence.
++
Over dinner, Charles suddenly looks up, takes a breath, and says,
"Your hair."
"My what?" Erik asks, distracted and frustrated, and, yes, there, it's out of place again and he has to push it away. The effort it takes Charles to tear his eyes away from following Erik's hand is tremendous, and his gaze flickers from the hand to Erik's eyes too quickly.
"You look tired," Charles babbles on, eyes wide and earnest in his concern, and not until he hears the words fall from his lips does he still with the embarrassment of lacking, apparently, the right sort of filter.
Erik stares at him.
"Yes," he says finally, in a low, fierce whisper, leaning forward slightly, dropping his cutlery, "Why, yes, Charles, I'm tired. I'm tired from having your blasted dreams leak into my head at night."
There's a tight set to his jaw and an a vicious set to his eyes, as he leans back and crosses his arms over his chest and his hair, oh, god, his hair is falling forward again, and Charles can only stare at him.
Then he drops his eyes, fiddles with his napkin in his lap for a long time, and eventually meekly says,
"Oh."
Charles remembers his dreams lately as a throbbing something deep within his body, crawling under his skin and breathing hot and heavy air into his lungs
"That's it," Erik says, pushing his chair away savagely, "Get up, Xavier." He throws down some bills, more than enough to cover the meal, "To our rooms. Now."
Charles coughs delicately. What had Erik--what was Erik--how much had he seen, exactly, and what, and when? There are so many thoughts Charles has been careful to not have too loudly, about Erik's thin, hard mouth and his rare and glorious smile and his hands, his hands holding--
"We need to talk," Erik seethes, and Charles thinks, oh again, and gets up.
Erik stalks out of the diner without looking back.
++
When they get to Charles's room, as soon as the door is locked behind them, he tries to smooth things over,
"I'm sorry, Erik, I had no idea, they haven't done that in a long time. My friend, I would never--"
"Your what," Erik says, trying to sound mocking and merely sounding furious, "Say that again, would you?"
"I would never mean to disturb you," Charles says instead, after a beat of hesitation.
Erik ignores him.
"'Friend.' You throw that around so casually, Xavier. I was almost starting to think that you meant it."
"Erik, I--"
"You nothing. I've been such a fool."
"I had no idea I was causing you so much--"
"You don't trust me," Erik says suddenly.
"Erik!" Charles cries out, blind sided by this, "What? I--of course I trust you, why would I not?"
"Stop pretending!" Erik shouts, "What's the use? I hear you every night."
Charles stops, stills, and then sits down, heavily, on the bed.
"Look," he says wearily, "Erik. I'm stupid with the effort of trying to hold everything in already, carefully away from you. I don't know what else I can do." He takes a deep breath. "I don't know what it is I've already done, what would make you think I don't trust you. What's this even about? What makes you think that I--"
"What makes me," Erik spits out, "Nothing makes me. You're not making me. You might make me stop thinking it. You could."
"I would never," Charles says quickly, "I would never, not to you, not to anyone but especially not to you, not like that."
"But you could," Erik repeats, "And yet you have the gall to think I'm the dangerous one."
There's a moment of silence in the room, then, and only then does Charles notice how very far away Erik is. It isn't a metaphor: Erik is standing further away than he usually would, than would be normal for an argument.
"I've never actually said," Charles says quietly, "That I wasn't dangerous. Or could be. But what's that have to do with anything?"
"You don't even want to be in the same room as me if there's a razor," Erik says, voice flat and cold, like the razor he's evoking, "As if that matters. As if I couldn't--as if a butter knife, a set of keys, wasn't enough for me to--"
He stops, presses his lips into a thin, pale line.
"All you can think about now is that day that I shaved you, and I didn't even nick you. I didn't threaten you. I didn't--" Erik breaks off, and looks away, and Charles watches his chest rise and fall too much, too quickly.
"Erik..." he tries, softly.
"I feel it," Erik says, turning back towards Charles, eyes blazing, "I feel it, at night. I hear you dreaming about a knife at your throat."
"It's not," Charles starts, but he really hasn't gotten much further in his mental script, because he has no idea how to explain, "It isn't what it seems. I don't--"
"Everything, you said, Charles, everything. If that's what you knew, then--why?" Erik takes a step forward, then makes an exasperated noise and takes a step back.
He is trying, Charles realizes suddenly, to seem less intimidating. The thought floods him with wonder.
Erik's doing a terrible job of it, though. It's his height, it's the barely hidden viciousness in his strictly controlled movements, it's the the venomous hiss of his voice, it's the fierce look in his eyes.
And Charles, apparently, is thinking loudly again.
With a ragged sigh, Erik pulls up a chair, and sits down.
"Better?" he asks, murderously.
"Sort of," Charles says, "I didn't actually mind, you know. Before."
The bed shifts slightly, and Charles realizes that Erik has been pulling at the springs, needing something to focus on, fidget with, that was out of sight. He pretends to not notice, and Erik goes on.
"You've seen what I've done and you acted like it didn't bother you before," Erik says slowly, "So why now? Did it take metal at your throat to make you realize?"
"Erik, I trust you. I trust you more than you can possibly imagine," Charles says wearily
Despite the walls he has up--and Charles has gotten so very good at blocking people out; much better, even, than he's usually been at keeping himself in--a feeling whiplashes through him then, almost hard enough to make him gasp: it's a sharp sting of betrayal, yes, but Erik's feeling it like he feels anger, huge and roiling and white-hot.
And he growls.
"Don't lie."
Charles shuts his eyes.
"If I show you what I mean," he says, "Will you promise to not--" he stops, and feels like a child--
(A memory, with Raven, so long ago, when they were young and new to each other and curious:
"If I show you what it's like, promise you won't be scared?"
But she had been, she had been, and she never stopped.)
--or a needy teenager.
"I don't think there's anything you can show me that will stop me from leaving tonight," Erik says bluntly, "And I don't trust you to not stop me by force."
But there's an edge of doubt under his words, and Charles looks so sad and small, shoulders hunched, curling into himself.
It makes Erik pause, and Charles, who is letting the tendrils of his awareness unfurl slightly, who is letting himself take the first big breath he has in days, can feel the conflict Erik flashes through in a second.
"Then there's nothing I can do," Charles says softly, eyes downcast, "To explain."
He feels, rather than sees, Erik bite into his lip.
"I respected you enough to come talk instead of just vanishing," Erik says. He takes a breath. "I might as well let you explain yourself."
Charles doesn't look up, and Erik doesn't look away as he slowly brings two fingers up to his temple.