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On the jet, Erik won’t leave his side.
Beyond his annoyance, Charles doesn’t give it much thought. It is a jet, for fuck's sake, it's only two hours before Charles gets exhausted with his escape routes of cockpit and bathroom. Erik’s in his space from takeoff to landing for any excuse, antagonizing or apologizing. He leans close over the chessboard. He crowds in to refill Charles’s drink, when it’s clear enough without powers he isn't keen on the amount Charles has already put back. Even when Charles is pushed against him, shouting--even then, Erik was all but bending to him, like he was warmed by the heat of Charles’s fury.
It’s been so long, Charles can't be sure this isn't how it always was with Erik. Spend enough years trying to forget and you’ll eventually succeed.
But he doesn’t think he remembers Erik touching so casually and so often in front of others. He's fairly certain Erik never spent so long with so much skin bared. Half an intercontinental flight of Erik’s forearms and neck, it's confusing.
Distracting.
Charles concentrates on the game, takes another sip. Matters are muddled enough as it is, without also worrying about Erik. Honestly, they've a fucking timetraveler onboard, should one ever be inclined to buy Logan’s rambling. Forget Erik, forget his hovering and his bloody sorrys and forget how hideously long he’d been locked up for apparently nothing at all; just forget the lot of it. If there’s one thing Charles has got a fair bit of practice in, it’s forgetting, particularly when it comes to this.
And it is easy, distracting himself with their mission, dismissing Erik’s proximity with such a confined space. Even once they land, riding in the back seat--Erik sprawled enough that he's pressed up against Charles, thigh to thigh--Charles can at least sort of excuse it. Erik’s lived in cement for a decade. Understandable, that he’d lack even more social graces than he had previously, and it’s not as if the sedan is spacious besides.
Once they’re at the hotel, that's when it stops being anything but bizarre.
Erik has his own room. They all do. There’s money enough, even with Paris booked full, and Charles settles in his for the night with a joint and a bit of Hank’s serum.
It's not half an hour before there’s a knock.
Irritated, Charles shoves the syringe back in his luggage as silently as possible and glares at the door. It’s old habit to think go away at full volume, though of course there’s no hope that whoever’s on the other side will listen, and when Erik just lets himself in Charles thinks, well. He never listened, anyway.
“Erik. It’s late,” he says. There’s no hiding the joint, and the expression on Erik’s face is somewhere between judgmental and curious. At least Charles thinks, anyway. He takes another hit, mainly for show.
He’d always been rubbish with expressions.
“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable,” Erik says, stepping in and waving the door shut.
Frowning, Charles exhales deeply.
“Yes. Because it’s my room… Did you really just invite yourself in for a row?”
Erik takes a few steps closer. The rooms he’d shelled out for, they weren’t much more than four walls and a bed. That was extravagant enough, tonight. There’s a poor excuse for an armchair in his, but it’s shoved up against the bed, the room’s so narrow.
Any much closer, and Erik will be laying on him.
Charles is suddenly flustered.
“We’ve shared rooms before,” is all Erik winds up saying. There are two completely different conversations going on here, and Charles isn’t sure he's following either.
“Well, uh,” he starts. Erik’s just sat in the chair. May as well just get under the covers, Charles thinks, and he wishes he’d forgot how nice that all was back then.
Yes, they had shared rooms before.
Often. Hotel after hotel they did so, crossing the whole of America, rarely apart. Most the time it was double beds in the rooms they found. But sometimes, there’d be nothing else, sometimes he’d make someone see Erik a woman and they’d be cooped up in a room this very size, talking late into the night as they laid side by side.
It had been intimate, obviously. Very much so. Charles had never felt so close to someone, and he saw that affection reflected, amplified in Erik’s mind. They didn’t get around to saying as much, a fact Charles was only ever glad for, but at that time… It couldn’t have been anything other than love.
But what it hadn’t been--for no lack of interest on Charles’s part--was sexual.
The details are a bit fuzzy now, but it was somehow just never something that occurred in Erik’s mind. It’s a little unfair that he still knows what Erik’s packing, that his brain is apparently fixated on it to this day.
It’s been a lonely ten years. And, right now, Erik’s just watching him, waiting for him to finish whatever fool thing he was about to say.
Right.
“That is… We were on the company dime. It was different.”
Erik shrugs, a sinuous motion, and doesn’t reply. Charles just wonders if there’s actually any amount of sober that would make this all sensible. He takes another hit. Honestly, it’s likely not.
They sit in silence for an awkward, long moment. Almost a full day since they broke Erik out, and still, all Charles can do is stare.
“You’re not intending to sleep in that,” he does manage, eventually. It looks as if Erik has every intention. He keeps shifting about in this futile effort make himself comfortable in a naugahyde chair clearly built for a child, his knees crammed up against the side of the bed. “I spent good money on these rooms, least you could do is get some sleep.”
The smirk Erik gives him is tight, maybe even forced. He tilts his head, leaning it against the back of the chair in a manner that looks frankly incapacitating.
“I’d sleep just as well here,” he says, which likely means he’d not sleep at all in the other room.
Charles wants it to be flattering. He wonders if Erik missed those nights, if he thought about them at all, if he regretted anything about them.
Looking away from the curve of Erik’s neck, Charles starts mustering up the resolve to kick him out.
“I promise,” Erik continues, voice low, “to be on my best behavior.”
Oh, Christ. Sod resolve, it’s been a long ten years and his body’s warm and heavy, and if Erik’s willing now... Well, timing could be better, but why not?
Charles stubs out the remainder of the joint, most of it wasted letting it smolder in his distraction, and shifts over in bed.
“Don’t be absurd,” he says. Been ages since he last tried flirting, and he was never entirely effective where Erik was concerned. But it isn’t as if he has anything to lose, not anymore. That old hesitation, the fear of alienating Erik, of destroying the tenuous whatever-it-was they had--he’d let that all go. There’s nothing left to destroy. Erik can’t be any more remote.
He rolls to his side, smirking. “You’ve never been, before. Why start now?”
Erik raises his eyebrows, not saying anything. He just sits forward slightly. The chair creaks.
“You want to stay the night, fine,” Charles continues, “But you’ll be of no use to us tomorrow if you sleep like that.”
“I’ve done by worse.”
“I don’t doubt it. Look, room enough,” Charles says, patting the mattress. “You’ve slept with me before, right? No need to be shy.”
Charles is sure Erik will argue, if for no other reason than his bloody bull-headedness, but the expression he makes… God, even Charles can read that. It’s like he’d given Erik something wonderfully precious and not just a fumbled come-on.
He watches as Erik takes off his shoes, as he stands. It’s not until Erik’s under the covers that Charles realizes he’s holding his breath, and he laughs, feeling absurd. They’re both fully dressed, and Erik’s laying so still it’s obvious he’s trying to keep space between them. Erik was never so proper before. If they woke up touching it was a non-issue so far as Erik had been concerned, the very concept of sexuality never occurred to him.
But the way he’s acting, it’s got to occur to him here, tonight.
Maybe Erik’s an incredibly late bloomer. And maybe this is an incredibly bad idea, but all the same Charles rolls over onto Erik, pinning him, leaning in.
In retrospect, he only did it to force the issue, to see where he and Erik stood. If he’s honest with himself, maybe even to just drive Erik off. He grabs at Erik’s shoulders, harsh enough to bruise, and hauls him into an aggressive kiss, but the reaction he’s expecting--to be pushed aside, for Erik to run off--that isn’t what he gets.
He feels more than hears Erik’s gasp, pressed up against his mouth. It would be overly generous to say Erik kisses back; he’s completely docile and submissive, accepting the brutality. But he’s holding on so very tight, arms crushing around Charles. He must be enjoying himself, Charles thinks. So he doesn’t let up. And Erik doesn’t shirk, no matter how he bites at his lips, how he claws at his skin.
The rage of abandonment hasn’t let up, not since that punch, not since that day in Cuba. That Erik wants him now is insult in and of itself. What is it that he sees, Charles wonders as he tugs off his own shirt, that he didn’t before? What’s going on in that head, that he wants Charles as he is now?
Any answers he can think of, they’re not pretty. He kisses Erik like an assault, letting the anger flow through him, encouraged by the way Erik only pulls him close. They strip under the blankets, pressed up against one another. Charles has his eyes closed, concentrating on the rhythm of Erik’s breathing, the rapid pounding of his pulse. It’s disorienting, fucking like this. Without his powers, it’s animalistic. Purely visceral.
He grinds up against Erik, lets Erik haul him in close. Skin to skin, he can feel Erik hardening against his thigh. There’s a part of him that’s still with it enough to think, thank God. Thank God this isn’t all him, and he groans softly against Erik’s open mouth.
“Shit,” he gasps, leveraging himself up to look down at Erik’s face. Flushed and panting hard, he’s clutching at Charles like he’s drowning. Charles grins, relieved. “I’ve wanted you for ages,” he admits.
He wishes he could take the words back, the minute he’s spoken--it’s too much, too revealing, particularly when he’s still not entirely sure of Erik--but before he can regret them too much, Erik’s rolling him over on his back, kissing him clumsily in return.
“Tell me,” Erik purrs, sounding far more suave than he’s acting, “tell me how you’ve wanted me.”
And shit. Reflexively, Charles had started to press it all toward Erik, to show him it all. But, of course, no powers.
What’s going through his head, that decade’s worth of guilty fantasies, it’s his alone. On the road, in the mansion, the year after Erik left, in the CIA complex… Charles had always been imagining how this would play out, more often than was healthy. There’s so much he’s wanted, so much he could say. Getting fucked by Erik, sucking him off, fucking his ass or thighs--he’s probably jerked off to all the feasible scenarios, and a few of the more improbable besides.
But with his hunger and the dull simmer of rage still heating his blood, with the remaining lassitude of the pot, there’s only one thing he can suggest.
He pulls at Erik’s hair, tugging him into another biting kiss, then pushes gently at his shoulder.
“Suck me off, yeah?” he asks, while he’s still got the courage. He isn’t sure what Erik will say to it, but all he does is nod, and brush his lips lightly against Charles’s once more.
Slowly, Erik shifts back in bed. The whole way down, he doesn’t stop touching Charles, stroking him everywhere, arms and hands and ribs and sternum. How he uses his mouth, kissing and licking a path over Charles’s chest, that’s a bit halting and uncertain. But the greedy urgency of his hands make up for it, and anyway, soon enough he’s got his head between Charles’s legs.
There’s a pause, like Erik’s not sure what to do with himself now that he’s got this far. Looking down at him, Charles brushes his hand over Erik’s cheek, back over his ear and through his hair to cup the back of his skull.
“Alright?” he asks, unsure. Far as he knows, Erik’s never done this. It’s sort of a hell of a situation for him to start now, and Charles almost calls it off.
“Of course,” Erik says. And he leans in and takes the head of Charles’s cock in his mouth.
He’s careful, slow with it. His mouth is hot and slick, and Charles curses quietly and just holds on as lightly as he can, not guiding or forcing anything because it’s immediately and painfully obvious.
This is the first blowjob Erik has ever given. His hands are awkward on Charles’s hips, hesitant and timid like he hasn’t a clue how to hold himself. He hesitates and sucks at just the head for a long moment, which feels okay, but then he starts forcing himself; gagging when he takes Charles in deep, swallowing against Charles in a desperate bid to keep on. It’s raw and uncomfortable, Erik keeps forgetting about his teeth and his technique is abysmal.
Charles can’t stop groaning.
Every time he’s done this before, he’d had his powers, he could nudge someone into no, up a little or make them ease up when he saw they were pushing themselves too far. But now, he’s at the mercy of his senses, and it’s shocking how erotic that is. The damage to his spine didn’t sever all sensation, unfortunately. And the serum doesn’t return all of the remainder, it mainly restores motor control and blocks the pain. All the same, just the sight of Erik doing this, the sound of him breathing harsh through his nose--it’s enough to make up for what the bullet took from him. Holding Erik steady with one hand, with his other he traces over Erik’s jaw, rubs the stretched curve of his lower lip. It’s slick, coated with spit.
Charles manages not to thrust. Deep in him, there’s a dark urge to do so, to pin Erik and fuck his mouth. But while there’s a large part of him that can’t let go of all Erik’s taken from him, he fights to keep it contained. That’s not, he tells himself, what this is about.
He can’t examine what this is about too closely. He curses softly, watching Erik move on him, watching his neck and shoulders flush.
“You’re good,” he breathes, not sure if that blush is just from exertion, not wanting Erik to be humiliated by this. “God, you’re fantastic.”
It’s not entirely a lie. Enthusiasm always went a lot further than skill, far as Charles is concerned. Erik hums around him, and starts fucking his throat more viciously against Charles’s prick, and the shameless wild energy of it is overwhelming, it’s been so long since Charles got laid--
He tries to let up when he comes. But he can’t coordinate his hands fast enough to push at Erik, he can’t even scrape together a warning. He shoots hard, shoved right up against Erik’s tight throat, and when Erik gags around him it’s even better. Grinding his heels into the bedding, he winds up thrusting shallowly, and Erik makes a nasal whine and pulls back, coughing.
Panting, Charles tries to get together the higher brain function to apologize. Erik looks winded, beautifully debauched, his cheeks and the bridge of his nose flushed deeply and come staining his lips.
“Fuck, ‘m sorry, darling,” Charles slurs, reaching down to pet Erik clumsily, wherever he can reach. Must have lost a few brain cells with that, if he’s calling Erik ‘darling’ again.
But Erik doesn’t seem put out, not by the endearment or the rough treatment. He leans into Charles’s touch, he’s sweet and unashamed.
“That’s all right,” he sighs, voice hoarse. The way it comes out, though, it’s almost a question. Charles sits up a little, gets an arm around Erik to try and haul him back up.
“Course it was,” Charles says, tugging at Erik so he’s curled against his side. “Beautiful, there’s a love.”
He leans over, kissing Erik wetly, licking the come from his skin. Erik moans, a soft and needy sound, he curls desperately against Charles’s side like he’s starved for it.
Charles strokes firmly down the lines of his back, over the delicate span of his waist. He squeezes at his tight, muscular ass. Erik arches into every touch, a gorgeous sensual creature, and Charles finally reaches down to take that lovely cock into his hand.
Really, it’s just tempting to return the favor. He moans into Erik’s mouth, chasing the taste of come thick on Erik’s tongue. Erik’s got a wonderfully massive prick, thick and heavy in Charles’s palm; it’d only feel better shoved down his throat.
But as he pumps Erik’s cock, as he feels Erik grip desperately at his arms, he remembers.
Morning in Silver City, feeling Erik hard against his back, a wave of disinterest/inconvenience/disgust roiling in his mind--
The dark hours of night, somewhere in the redwoods, listening to the soft hiss of an outdoor shower, the sensation of Erik’s skin freezing in the night air and something not unlike relief--
Early one day, a hideously decorated sea cottage, the thrumming energy leaking from the bathroom, the guilt of listening in, but it was unavoidable with Erik so concentrated on the nearly robotic act of pumping his cock--
He remembers how little Erik found pleasure in this, and it’s chilling. He can’t know what Erik’s thinking. Erik’s nearly still, hips thrusting in tiny motions when Charles tightens his hand. The best he can do, Charles thinks, the least awkward thing would be to make this something like what Erik’s used to doing, himself. It’s not a technique that will particularly showcase his own skill as a lover, but--Charles grips Erik’s prick, harder than he’d usually dare. He pumps Erik, milking his cock in sharp, mechanical pulls. There’s other things he could try to speed it along--cup Erik’s balls, finger him a little--but he doesn’t dare. All he can do is this, work Erik in this strange unpleasant way. Charles isn’t sure which of them is more relieved when, eventually, soundlessly, Erik ejaculates.
And that’s definitely the word for it. Erik tenses, his cock twitches and empties across his stomach. It’s disturbingly--automatic, Charles thinks. Like it’s just a bodily function, one that Erik finds necessary but distasteful. Unsettled, Charles sits up to grab his discarded shirt. Carefully, he wipes up Erik’s abdomen, gingerly cleans his softening prick.
Luckily, seems that’s the right thing to do. Erik relaxes, reaching down to still Charles’s hand when he’s to the point of fussing. Shakily, Charles laughs.
“Sorry,” he says. “That didn’t seem--”
“It was fine,” Erik interrupts. It sounds like he probably means it. Charles holds still, letting Erik arrange himself against his side.
He doesn’t get much sleep. Erik’s head is heavy on his shoulder. His breath is rhythmic, slow, the nearly-forgotten rhythm of Erik at rest. Charles stares into the darkness a long time, cold with uncertainty. Hours later, he feels Erik stir; he tightens his hand on Erik’s waist.
“Charles?” Erik asks, moving somehow even closer; pressed tight up against him.
“Yeah,” Charles says, quiet. It’s petrifying, not knowing. Do people change that much? He can’t be sure any longer, but it seems like--like that would be a switch that couldn’t be turned, an immutable thing in someone’s brain. “Yeah. Erik, you never wanted this. You can’t possibly, now.”
Erik pulls away slightly, enough to lean up on one elbow. He’s still got a leg draped over Charles’s. The faint city light from beyond the drapes casts his face in odd shadows.
“No,” Erik says. The word’s like a dagger. “I didn’t. For myself, I never will. But it’s not entirely unpleasant,” he says, petting over Charles’s arm. “I’ve done wrong by you so many times, Charles. At the least, I can give you this.”
The unease growing in him finally breaks over. Charles is cold with loathing of himself, of Erik.
“That’s what this is to you? A token to--to just be passed out, whenever you find it convenient to feel a little guilt?”
Erik sits up fully, his face carefully blank. Charles wishes he hadn’t packed so much of Hank’s serum.
“Is that what you think?” Erik asks, like he doesn’t remember how irritating answering a question with a question is.
“That’s certainly what it looks like. You didn’t want this,” Charles repeats. He doesn’t know why Erik seems to think this is normal, he doesn’t know how to convince him otherwise.
Everything that comes out of his mouth seems to driving Erik a little further away, and right now he’s standing, pushing the covers aside.
“If that’s what you want to believe,” Erik says, reaching for his pants. He pulls them on, unselfconscious about his nudity. Despite himself, Charles watches.
“But remember, you’re not in my head. You’ll never be there again. But even should you be--you can’t keep making decisions for me, based off whatever it is you think you see.”
“It’s not about belief. I know what I saw,” he argues, remembering all of it. The void where he’d always hoped Erik’s desire would be, a sort of absence he’d seen in other minds before but never been affected by, himself.
Erik’s buttoning up his shirt. He isn’t looking at Charles.
“It’s still my mind,” he says. My decisions to make, he probably means. It never mattered to Erik, how patently awful every last one of his decisions has always been.
Even--no, especially--this one.
“Erik,” Charles starts. But he doesn’t know how to continue, and it doesn’t matter, anyway. Erik’s already opening the door, an abrupt wave of his hand.
“Good night, Charles,” he says.
He locks the door behind him.
Alone in the darkness, Charles rolls over to watch the clock tick slowly towards morning. It’s a petty comfort, knowing Erik will sleep just as poorly.
It’s gone three in the morning, and he’d kill for a drink.