Work Text:
one
twenty-one guns
lay down your arms, give up the fight
one
twenty-one guns
throw up your arms, into the sky
you and I…
Some nights are cruel. Some nights reach into his bones with darkness and starlight and twist and pull, until Charles feels himself wanting to scream.
Some nights are kind. Sometimes they’re the same ones. Sometimes the screaming is necessary. Vital.
The problem is, the voices never really go away. He can hear everyone in the world, if he listens, or even if he doesn’t. Most times his shields’re firmly in place, and the soft susurrations, whispers around the edges, remain dull and unformed and insignificant; he’s used to the constant low-level pressure, so well-trained—self-trained—that the murmurs remain as indistinct and soothing as the rhythms of the sea. Almost restful, really; he can only dimly remember a time without that hum in his head, reminding him of the interconnectedness of the world, and if the waves ever stop for good he suspects he’ll go insane with loss.
The problem is, sharp emotions, powerful minds, leap up out of the waves and batter against his walls, and he can’t lose control, he can’t ever lose control, because bad things happen when he does.
Bad things happen when he makes mistakes. He’s known that from a very young age. His scars know that, too. They ache, under the starlight, those nights.
The strip-club recruitment mission’s been a success. Angel’d smiled at them, taken his card, promised to meet them back in New York, a week from now. She’d been so thrilled to learn that she wasn’t alone. That excitement had been difficult to keep out; in the end, flushed with champagne and giddiness and delight at this initial triumph, he hadn’t tried. The anticipation fizzes and crackles in his veins, and leaves him restless and unmoored.
He leans against the wall, near the door. Smiles at the older man, probably a patron, no one Charles knows and not a mutant at all but vibrating with need and lust and desire, grinning down at him in a way that suggests he knows precisely what Charles wants and will give it to him.
There are really only a few ways to survive the cruel nights, the moments when he’s too keyed up and on edge and needing to lose control and unable to let go, too aware, on his own.
Well. Three ways, to be precise. There’s alcohol, which often works but occasionally has unpredictable results, worse before it gets better; there’s sex, which works for that singular brief shining moment; and, to be blunt, and Charles does enjoy honesty, he’s always been remarkably self-aware, which is why he carefully hides all of those layers beneath the arrogance and the confidence and the parties, there’s rougher sex.
Intense sex. With someone who will push him until it hurts, until he can break and fall apart and surrender and not have to think.
He knows the terminology perfectly well. He’s a scientist; he’s done his research. Not about being attracted to men as well as women; he’d been startled the first time, but he’s been inside enough heads to know that those desires’re natural, if not socially acceptable just yet. No, he’s looked up other things.
And he knows what he wants, the words for everything he craves, being done for him and to him, taking him apart and out of his head.
But he shies away from applying those words to himself, to what he’s asking for, even as he asks, every single time he finds himself on his knees or tied to a headboard or begging for permission to find his own release. Because he can’t.
Honesty, he thinks, a bit bitterly. He knows why he can’t. He knows he’s scared. But whoever said that knowledge was power must’ve lied, because that knowledge hasn’t done a damn thing to change him.
The other man smiles at him, and runs a hand along his face, and Charles thinks, Erik, and that thought’s not unexpected, either, along with the flare of arousal.
Erik. Who should be back at the hotel by now, all finished here, done with their shared glances and champagne and easy laughter and long-fingered hands pouring out drinks with such ease, the same ease they’d use to snap a man’s neck or spin a car into the air or leave bruises on a partner’s wrists, hips, thighs.
He’d told Erik he needed to make a few phone calls, Raven, the CIA, travel arrangements. He could’ve more easily slipped into that temptingly unguarded mind, kept Erik from noticing his absence at all, but.
But Erik’d asked him not to. And Charles, who suspects that he’s a little in love with all that power, that complex mind that glows so brightly, a tangled skein of dark and light, sharp edges and soft candlelit memories, had helplessly answered yes.
He doesn’t have to keep that promise. But he wants to.
He’d caught the first cab and gone back to the strip club, nerve endings sizzling with phantom desires from the patrons around him, and waited, leaning on the wall and looking bored, until the right person—not the right person, not really, but he’ll do—had come along.
Erik doesn’t want him. Wouldn’t want this. Wouldn’t want to know this about him. Erik thinks about Charles with bafflement and shy delight—optimism like sunlight, he’d heard once, and tea and kindness and need to protect always let him at least still believe in hopefulness—and Charles has stayed out of his head but sometimes Erik’s broadcasting very loudly, and Charles can’t shatter that image of himself, can’t let Erik down that way, can’t see those pale eyes glance at him with derision and disdain.
Maybe that’s selfish. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter, not now.
Erik, he thinks again, and nods when the other man wraps fingers around his arm and pulls him out of the club and into the nearest alleyway and pushes him to the ground, knees colliding hard with the concrete reality.
“So fucking beautiful,” the man says, “those lips, jesus,” and Charles says “Yes, everyone says that, can’t you come up with something original before you fuck me,” and the hand catches him across the face and leaves his ears ringing, but the pain offers focus, and the rest of the world starts to fade, quivering bowstrings a hairsbreadth less taut.
“You like that? You want this rough, don’t you, you have a mouth on you and you want me to fuck it, is that right?” And Charles looks down, for just a second, shaking. There’s a crack in the concrete, next to his knee. It scurries off to the side, and disappears into shadow.
He looks up again and says “Are you going to talk, or get on with things?” and this earns a laugh, and a hand jerking his head back, and there’s the white noise of it, blessed relief: not his choice, not him in control, not anymore.
The sound of the zipper echoes, in the alleyway hush.
And then there’s another sound, and it’s the sound of metal smacking into flesh, the closest rubbish-can lids and bottle caps spinning themselves into a deadly whirlwind, and then there’s flesh hitting flesh, and that’s Erik—
Erik fights with precision and cold fury. It doesn’t take long.
The grey-haired man’s lying unconscious and bleeding on the ground and Erik spins around like a knifeblade, all black and silver and eyes that change from vicious to terrified as they find Charles, still kneeling in place and wide-eyed and shaking with too many reactions.
“Charles,” Erik says, desperately, kneeling beside him, “are you—mein Gott, your face, that’s going to bruise, we need to get you home—can you talk, can you say something—”
“Erik…”
“You—I heard you say my name. Earlier. You were—you were in pain, I thought—” Erik stops. Really looks at him, for the first time. “…Charles.”
“Erik,” Charles says again, because he doesn’t know what else he can say, now.
Erik whispers something absolutely obscene in German. Then, “Charles, you—don’t talk. Don’t say anything. We’re going back to the hotel. You can put ice on that. And then…”
And then, Charles thinks, but doesn’t ask aloud. The question must show on his face regardless, because Erik shakes his head, eyes not leaving Charles’s own. “And then…I don’t know. We’ll figure it out. Come on.”
And Charles nods, and gets awkwardly to his feet—he nearly trips, and Erik’s hand goes around his arm, and he gasps, both from renewed bruises and from the gesture—and leaves the man on the ground with a lovely dream about oceans and sunshine, and stumbles into the cab when Erik hails it, and eventually they end up back at the hotel, up the elevator, into their shared room, two twin beds as always, Erik’s side pin-neat with no lingering evidence that might be used against its occupant, Charles’s a disaster of sheets and notes and dog-eared journal articles.
“Here,” Erik says, shortly, and pushes him down on the neater bed; vanishes, comes back with ice and a towel and wraps the one in the other and holds it to his cheek. “You might be lucky. It might not leave a bruise.”
Charles just sits there as ordered, because that’s all he can think to do. The white noise is still present, keeping the trembling at bay, only this time it’s born of confusion, not anything else.
“Why—” Erik stops himself. Shakes his head. “Never mind. Just—no, I can’t, I have to—Charles, why?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What?”
“I can’t.” He drops the ice. Presses the heels of both hands into his eyes. “You won’t—I don’t know how to explain. I don’t know if I understand. I can’t—”
“You don’t trust me?” Erik paces across the room, abrupt and angry. “I came for you because I heard you say my name. Because you sounded—no, you weren’t afraid, were you? I ran across half a city for you. And you won’t talk to me.”
“Erik—”
“Damn you, Charles,” Erik snaps out, brittle as the ice in the air, the chill from the open balcony door, and turns his back.
Charles sits very still for a second. He knows he should be afraid, as everything they’re tentatively working towards, any hint of partnership, any emotions Erik might’ve once felt for him, all teeters in the balance. All he can manage is despair.
His cheek throbs. He gets up, the restlessness back and stabbing into his bones, and wanders through the room, following the lure of the open doorway and the night.
It’s not a large balcony. Not even any chairs. Enough room for two people to stand outside if they like each other quite a lot, and don’t mind becoming friends with the metal handrail.
He looks out, at the night. Up at the stars. Down at the colorful street below. They’re rather far up; the cars whizz by in gleaming blurs of light and sound. There’s fog rolling in, though, stealthy and grey as a shroud.
“As what!” Erik must’ve sprinted across the room. He’s right there when Charles turns around. The ice-storm eyes are still angry, but there’s another emotion in there as well.
“Charles,” that voice attempts, and then stops, and one hand makes an impatient gesture, through the space between their bodies.
And the metal from his cufflinks stretches and slides and twists around his wrists, where he’s standing, pinning his arms to the receptive rail. Erik watches him as this happens, expression unreadable.
“Please let me go,” Charles says, after a second, but he’s not struggling. He doesn’t wonder why not. He knows.
The fog trails inquisitive tendrils along his skin: bared forearms, throat, open shirt collar, that not-quite-bruise over his cheekbone. He’s very sure that he’s shaking, inside, but he keeps his head up and meets Erik’s gaze directly, not backing down.
“You talk about acceptance,” Erik says. “About being who and what we are. Freely. While you refuse to allow yourself the same freedom.” The restraints tighten, not enough to hurt but sudden and ungentle nonetheless. Charles breathes in. Inadvertently.
“Erik,” he tries, and is proud of himself for keeping his voice even, “I can’t. I can’t just—give in to—to anyone, not like this, not after—and you, you talk about acceptance as well and you ask me to stay out of your head, you don’t trust me—”
“I do trust you!” The shout echoes in the air. Charles stands there wide-eyed, hands trapped against the railing but that’s irrelevant, he’d not move now if he could, and Erik spins away, staring into the dimness of the hotel room as if that’s easier to face than Charles, at the moment.
“I do trust you.” That complicated voice, enticingly accented even under all the layers of defense and disguise, flares brightly with Erik’s emotion. “God help me, Charles, you make me want to trust you, you make me want to believe in you, to stand with you, to give you everything—I don’t know what I can give you. What I have left to give. You know everything I want—you know who and what I am. But this, you want this, you need this, and I could do this for you, at least this, and you won’t let me—” Erik stops, breathing hard, as if he’s just run a marathon or fought his way through enemy lines or fallen from some great height, landing hard on the unyielding ground.
“Erik—”
“You asked me to let you go. Do you still want that?”
“I—” Yes. No. Never. That hidden unfulfilled space inside him aches with emptiness. His bones echo with the need. But he can’t simply outright ask for this. He can’t, not after Kurt and Cain and all the patient rebuilding in the aftermath, the life that’s his, his own decisions and determinations about his future and his need to change the world.
“Yes,” he whispers, and his cheeks feel damp, and maybe that’s from the mist, and maybe it’s from something else altogether.
Erik nods, continuing to not look at him. Flicks fingertips through the air. The metal unwinds from his wrists and clatters to the ground. Useless, now, warped and pulled out of cufflink-shape, unrecapturable unless Erik chooses to reshape them one more time.
He can’t help the startled little inhale: Erik heard his answer. Has let him go, after all. Has listened.
Winter-mint eyes flick over to find his, at the sound. And Charles breathes in again, shocked, because he could’ve handled anger or disappointment or dismissive unconcern, but Erik—
Erik looks, in that brief glimpse, wounded.
And then turns, and takes quick steps toward the door. “I’ll find my own room—”
“No,” Charles says, and he’s already in motion, legs and heart making that decision by themselves, “don’t,” and Erik stops walking, and Charles manages one more step and then, in the center of the room, breathes in and out and drops to his knees.
It’s not graceful. It’s not any of the positions that come with training or guidance. It’s just him, on his knees, surrounded by the blank expanse of carpet and the golden glow of the lamps, turned on against the cold outside.
He doesn’t look up. Keeps his head bent. That much he knows. The last wisp of clinging mist blows in through the open balcony door, and ghosts across his exposed neck.
Because he’s looking down, he doesn’t see the movement when Erik turns, but he feels the change in the air, hears the near-soundless pad of footsteps.
Erik stops in front of him. Says, softly, “Charles…?”
“I won’t be good at this.” He offers the confession to the carpet, to the mist, to the lamplight. “I’m not—I’ll argue with you and I’ll be stubborn and I’ll forget to ask you for permission for—for anything, really—but you asked whether I wanted you to let me go and I said yes when I wanted to say no. If you ask me again I’ll say no. I mean. Erik. Don’t let me go.”
He waits. Hears the blood pounding in his own ears. Everything inside’s bewildered, shivering with want and hope and wild desperation, sudden powerful arousal and exquisite torment, at the thought that Erik might say no, might turn away, might speak only to order a denial.
Erik doesn’t speak, not right away. Puts out a hand, slowly, as if trying not to frighten off a wild animal. Lifts Charles’s chin, so their eyes catch. Charles finds himself fighting an absurd upswell of tears.
“You…you mean that. You want this.” Charles?
“I want you,” Charles says, blinking desperately. Erik? Are you—is this—
You’re right. Not about everything, but about this. Erik’s mental voice sounds a bit hesitant, stumbling into clearly focused thought, gaining surer footing as he realizes how simple it is for Charles to hear, when allowed. I’ve…not been fair to you, have I? I’m sorry, Charles. And he runs a thumbtip along the fringe of Charles’s eyelashes, as if surprised to find wetness there.
“I am sorry. It must be like—losing an arm, or a leg, or going blind—like asking me not to feel—” A wave, at the room, and by implication all the metal of the universe. Isn’t it?
“It’s—well, yes.” It’s not—not as bad as you think, I can still feel the—the other minds, out there, if I try—but you’re here, right here, and if I can’t touch you it’s like seeing a fire burning in the hearth but not feeling any of the warmth, or seeing the light, and I—but you asked me not to—
“Oh—” Erik sounds shocked, now. “You were—you did this to yourself because of me? Because you were—you wanted to—to listen to me? Charles—”
“I stayed out of your head because you asked and I respect that. I respect you.” He’s only really managing to talk because he’s so confused. Erik’s not said yes, not accepted him or their positions or anything except the words; but Erik hasn’t told him to stand, either, and that hand’s still resting on his face, keeping him in place, looking up. The only refuge he has left involves those words.
Very privately, knowing it’s probably too much but needing to say so regardless, he adds, before he can think better of it, and because I wanted—want—to listen to you. I do. And, hopelessly, paints those words with the shades of need, all gilded want and leather-dark desire, brightness and shadows all tangled up and throbbing together. And then he shuts his eyes.
Erik’s fingers abruptly tighten on his chin. “Charles. Look at me. Please.” Please.
Because Erik is asking, he does.
Erik stares at his face. Swears, abruptly, in German. Charles doesn’t speak German, but the general sense translates, in their heads.
“I’m sorry. Again. I’m hurting you.”
“No, you’re not, you—”
“Stop.”
They both end up rather shocked—the emotion echoes in shared thoughts—when Charles does.
Erik swallows. Hard. “You said—earlier. You said, about this—you said, I can’t. Not I won’t, or I don’t want to. What changed?” Don’t tell me if you don’t want to.
Charles almost smiles, at the silent contradiction. Doesn’t, because he’s still feeling shaky. I don’t know—I’ve never told anyone. I’d like to tell you, I think. Just—maybe not yet. “What changed…I don’t know that either. I just—I couldn’t let you leave. And you were right, as well. About me wanting this. Being afraid to accept what I want. I thought—I didn’t think, just now. For once. I only…let myself want you.”
“…and you do.”
“Want you? Yes.” Affirmation, wordless and truthful, as well.
Erik nods, very slowly. “All right.” You…Charles, you should know that I’ve never—this is new for me. I’m sorry.
“For what?” Ah…Erik? You have—I mean, you’re not—
“I am not a virgin, Charles!” Though… Erik’s mental voice sounds a bit wryly embarrassed, in and around the noticeable kindling of arousal, previously iron-controlled desires allowed at last to the fore. I admit I haven’t exactly…only a few times…and never like this.
“Like this?” I’m sorry. He can hear the self-conscious note in Erik’s thoughts: not good enough/no time/no one who ever/only when I could afford/nights of scattered pleasure/not scared now no only determined but what if, and he answers that, wordlessly, as best he can.
“Don’t apologize. I…don’t mind. Doing this, with you, for you…” Erik runs his free hand through his own hair, then blinks, looks down at Charles, still kneeling at his feet, and puts the hand on the other side of Charles’s face, so he’s cupping Charles’s head with both hands. “I…think I like seeing you like this. The way you’re looking at me…” I meant…I’ve never done this—had sex—with anyone I—anyone with whom I…felt any sort of connection. Someone I care about.
You—you care about—me? When he closes his eyes, the world goes dark, except for the heat of Erik’s hands on his face. His knees might hurt a bit later—they’ve been taking his weight a lot tonight—but for now the ache is negligible. Because that’s too sweetly painful to admit, he adds, aloud, “I am rather pleased you’re not a virgin, I won’t have to instruct you after all,” and Erik’s grip clenches sharply.
Yes—
No, wait. Erik lifts both hands away; Charles wants to cry with frustration. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Not with me.”
“What—”
“I do care about you. I’ll say so again if you need to hear it. I did run across half the city for you.” You don’t have to—to push. To say those things. To make me—if we’re doing this we’re doing this because we both want to. Just—tell me what you want me to do for you. Understand?
Charles stares at him, for a few eternal seconds, from the floor. That’s…new. New and frightening, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t know how to do this if it’s not about force and breaking points and bruises. If it’s instead about gentleness and exquisite surrender and care.
Erik, who never looks nervous, who’d remain unruffled and focused on his target in the face of an impending apocalypse, looks nervous now, confronted with Charles’s silence.
The lamps burn, beside the beds.
And Charles, feeling a bit as if he’s stepping off a cliff with no guarantee of a safe landing, says, “Yes.” I’ll try. Yes.
Oh thank god, Erik murmurs, and then, “Charles. Come here?”
His legs are wobbly, but they work well enough when he gathers them under him. Erik mutters something in German, sounding faintly awestruck; Charles has to smile, a little. “You may need to translate that one…”
“Astonishing. Marvelous. Charles, you…” Erik puts out a hand. Strokes playful hair back out of Charles’s face, then lets fingertips brush along a cheekbone. Charles lets himself shiver. Doesn’t try to hide it.
“You do want this.” You…do, correct?
“Yes.” Yes.
“Then…if I tell you to do something…”
“Yes?”
“All right, then…clothes off. Strip.”
He hesitates, not out of fear but only because the sudden tremulous lightness makes motion difficult. Erik misinterprets, though, and reaches out, catches his hands. “No, wait. Not unless you’re all right.”
I’m fine. Close enough, in any case. Charles squeezes those hands, in his; after a moment, Erik squeezes back. “I do need my fingers, though, if I’m going to listen to you…”
“I suppose you do.” Erik lets go, with tangible reluctance; Charles catches himself smiling again, as he divests himself of shirt and pants and socks and, with inexplicable blushing, underwear.
Feeling shy, are you? “You shouldn’t. You’re beautiful.”
I’m not—I don’t know! He kicks the clothing away, not caring where it lands; obeys the impulse that presents itself, and kneels again, at Erik’s feet. When Erik’s hand lands on his head, the weight feels like approval.
Approval, hmm? “Good,” Erik tests, out loud, watching his face; Charles shivers a little, and Erik smiles, white teeth on display. “Good to know. You like me telling you that you’re being good, for me…”
Oh god.
“I like you being good. For me. Listening. To me.” You want to listen, when I tell you what to do.
You’re incredibly good at this—
“Not talking out loud?” Does that get harder for you, when this gets more…intense? Erik touches his cheek, lightly, where the previous sting’s long since dissipated. Does this hurt?
Ah…yes, and no. In that order. Telepathy is easy. Not even second nature. First. Words, however, require shaping, and sounds.
“Understood. If you’re not using your mouth, however…” Is this all right? Erik traces the line of his lips with a thumb, tantalizing weight of it setting every nerve ending alight. Charles swallows, hard. Then opens his mouth, an invitation.
Erik raises both eyebrows. Pushes forward with that finger; and Charles welcomes the invasion, licks and sucks and tries to tug Erik’s thumb deeper, everything he’d do to Erik’s cock, if that were Erik’s cock, filling him up, plunging into him, making him whole.
“You like this,” Erik whispers, and curls the other hand into his hair, tugging his head back. “You like me, like this, making you take everything I want to give you…”
Charles moans, as best he can with his mouth occupied. Yes. Yes; and need blossoms like fireworks inside his bones, leaving him hollow and aching and oddly weightless, craving more.
The universe is, for once, mercifully quiet around him. Nothing left in his head except Erik. And the need.
“Stand up.”
As he does, Erik’s hand slides away from his face, thumb leaving his lips, wetly; the emptiness starts to register, but then that hand lands on his throat, not hard, no pressure, only heat and weight over vulnerability, and Charles finds himself gasping for air anyway. His cock aches, thick and heavy between his legs.
Erik hesitates, at the small sound of his inhale. “Charles?” Are you…all right? Did I—
“I’m…here. Sorry. I’m all right.” Because Erik doesn’t move the hand, he’s acutely aware of his own voice, as it emerges. It doesn’t sound like his. Too languorous. Seductive, or seduced, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. I am all right. I just—you, touching me like this, I can’t—
Too much?
I don’t think so but—this almost hurts, not you, I mean, I just need—
You need what?
I don’t know!
Erik laughs, a little; slips his hand to the back of Charles’s neck, pulls him closer, then kisses him, unexpectedly soft. Do we need to slow down? For a moment?
I…don’t know. Maybe. But this…When he moves, pressing his naked skin against Erik’s fully-clothed frame, the contrast is shocking. Deliciously so. This feels good. You feel good.
“Hmm…” Erik walks him over to the closest bed, carefully, hand remaining solid and possessive at the nape of his neck. Then stands there simply looking at him, for a pair of heartbeats. Charles flushes, under the scrutiny. His cock, however, takes the embarrassment, the yearning, and turns it into arousal, swelling, a drop of wetness beading up at the tip.
Erik’s eyes don’t miss that, either. “Knees. Again. Hands behind your back. Don’t move them. Don’t touch yourself, anywhere, unless I say.”
He drops to the floor. Moves the hands. Ah…ever?
Oh— The mental impression is genuinely startled, then. And somehow that brief honesty is grounding, and real, and makes Charles want to smile in the midst of the wildfire.
Are you—were you—are you asking me for that? Even after—not only tonight?—and deeper, hidden flickers of other emotions: astonishment/want/incredulousness/disbelief/joy, Erik being overwhelmed by the idea that Charles trusts him with this, wants to trust him with this, considers him trustworthy and capable of bringing pleasure and not only harm.
If he’d had any doubts about which way he’d meant the question, he doesn’t now. Yes. Please.
“I—you—” Erik stops. Blinks. Rapidly. You do trust me.
I just said, didn’t I?
Yes—you did—you—Charles. “All right. All right, then…you seemed to be enjoying…using your mouth, earlier. You enjoy me using your mouth. Do you want me to use your mouth, Charles? To keep you on your knees, and give you something else to do with that tongue, this time?”
Oh god, Charles says, weakly, inadvertently. Erik, your VOICE—
You like that, too? Me telling you what I want from you? You…do, right?
You can’t tell?! “Yes. Please.”
Erik grins, probably more at the mental answer than the verbal one, or maybe both; pulls off his shirt, leaving his short hair ruffled, and his belt flicks itself open and then he stops, looking down at Charles, who’s unashamedly admiring the view.
“I think…I ought to have you do this. Not with your hands.”
Charles stares, wide-eyed, for a second; then says, very carefully, “Yes, sir,” and Erik’s hand leaps out to catch his chin again before he can move to obey. “Charles. Wait. What?”
“I…honestly, I don’t know. It just felt right.” It does. Do you mind?
“Do I…no, I don’t…think so…but, mein Gott, Charles, some warning, next time, please.” There’s a miniscule spark of discomfort—memories of guards, camps, regiments, commands—but that’s not this, not the same as their private oasis of hotel-room lamplight and soft carpet and beckoning sheets. Not the same, Erik thinks and Charles hears, as the endless blue eyes gazing up at him, clearly consenting, asking, wanting to be his.
“Yours,” Charles says, equally clearly, because they both need to hear it, then. And then, because he’s unable to resist, Next time?
Next time—if you want, only if you want—
Well, this time seems to be going well. He’s still—not afraid, no, not with Erik in his head and so plainly being careful too—unused to this role, and he admits that, too, after a second’s internal debate. It helps that Erik stops to ask the questions. Helps that Charles himself is allowed to talk, and give direction, and ask for more when he wants to.
Of course! Charles, this is for you—I mean, it’s for me as well, I’m enjoying this, you know I—but you can always ask, and I want you to talk to me, whatever makes you comfortable— And then, abruptly, a simmering surge of anger, not directed at Charles himself: Did anyone else—other people—did they tell you you couldn’t talk? Did they—hurt you?
Charles bites his lip. The pain helps. A physical connection to the here and now.
Answer me! Erik’s frightened, now, behind the fury: who do I have to kill? and oh god please let him be all right and what if this will never be all right, what can I do, I must be able to do SOMETHING! skitter across their shared thoughts like lightning through purple-black clouds.
I’m all right, Charles offers, hastily, hoping to defuse the storm. I’m all right, and I’m with you, and—and this was good, we’re good, that’s all I was trying to say—
Please tell me. Erik gentles his tone somewhat, very obviously realizing that intimidating outrage is not the most comforting posture to adopt. It’s rather like watching a wild panther desperately pretend to be a housecat.
I—oh, god, now I’ve just derailed everything, haven’t I—I did tell you I’m not good at this, at being—submissive—I’m sorry, Erik, I—Even his mental voice cracks, with the knowledge of his own inadequacy.
Erik, after a second, reaches out, and puts both hands on his shoulders, and coaxes him up off the floor and onto the bed. Puts both arms around him; doesn’t ask, before doing so, and Charles doesn’t argue, only settles into the embrace and lets himself be held.
The single twin mattress isn’t really big enough for them both. But it tries to be.
And despite all the tension that’s still sparking inside, he feels calmer. The world stays quiet, and that’s somehow resolution enough. For now, in this gold-hued and fragile moment, Erik holding him is exactly what he’s never known he needs.
The arms tighten just a bit more, possessive and fierce. Erik’s probably heard that thought.
I think I can tell you, Charles offers, secure in the refuge. If you want—if you meant that.
“I want you to tell me.” Think of it as an order, if that helps. And you’re not inadequate. Stop thinking that. That one’s an order, too.
Charles nods. It does help, and he doesn’t think too much about why, only accepts that it does. Erik, nonverbally, sends back a murmur of approval/support/listening; that helps even more.
What you saw, earlier, tonight—sometimes I need to, I just need to stop thinking, for a while, to let go of everything, being in control—but I can’t, I can’t simply—so I push back. And then… And then it helps. The intensity gets him out of his head, into his own body. And he can take it and surrender because it’s not really surrender, not while he’s the one provoking the retaliation, and if it’s not real then it’s easier to accept.
Why—Charles, why do you need it to be— Erik, for once, is at a loss for words, nothing amused or authoritative or sardonic now, only shock and anguish struggling for expression.
I can’t…I can’t just ask for…I spent too many years being…He takes a deep breath, secure against the bulwark of Erik’s body. Being abused. He can say it, now, these days; he was.
It’d taken years for that to fully sink in: not his fault, nothing he’d ever done to deserve the casual cruelties, the beatings when he tripped or was clumsy or wasn’t where his stepfather thought he should be found, the slamming of heavy books across his hands or into his back when Kurt decided he was becoming too soft and intellectual, and, later, the fear and suspicion of his untrained childhood abilities. Locked doors and denial of human contact, as if that’d keep him out of heads as well. The silence of his mother retreating into private rooms and alcohol. Sometimes they’d forgotten to feed him.
Erik’s shoulders shake. Charles, glancing up, realizes that those pale eyes are wet with tears. “Erik? Come on, it’s over, it’s all right, I promise…” I’m sorry, I forget how intensely I tend to project some of those memories, I’m fine, don’t cry—
“I’m not crying,” Erik says, in blatant contradiction of all the evidence, “I’m fucking furious, Charles, how many of them do you want me to kill?”
Charles actually laughs, at that. It’s such a normal reaction, perhaps not for anyone else, but this is Erik who’s here with him. “None. My stepfather…Kurt…died several years ago. A fire, in his laboratory. Cain, my stepbrother…well, he’s alive—”
“How long would you like him to remain that way?”
“Stop that. He left home on a football scholarship—American football, naturally—and the last I heard he was having a quite successful career. And none of it was his fault. Kurt would threaten to hit him, as well, you see, if he showed any kindness to me.” I’m not angry with him. We were children.
I’M angry. “Your mother—”
“My mother hung on for longer than any of us thought she would, but she’s gone, as well. Last year.” I was at Oxford. I didn’t even know she was ill—more ill than usual. She rewrote her will, before she died. Left me everything.
Charles, I’m so sorry. Erik strokes a hand through his hair, touches his face. I think I understand. Perhaps. A little. Or—maybe not. I can see why you’d not want to—to let anyone touch you like this. I don’t see why you would.
“Oh…” He puts up a hand, too. Captures Erik’s questioning fingers in his own. “Honestly? Because when I told you I wanted this, with you, I was telling you the truth. This felt—feels—good. Like…a reprieve. The eye of the storm, or something else metaphorical.” To be even more honest…yes, I’m scared. I’ve spent too many years being self-sufficient, capable, taking care of Raven and myself and our education and my students up at Oxford and—and everything—I don’t know how to…turn that off. Not easily.
The golden lamplight drifts along tear-tracks and long eyelashes; Erik nods, but doesn’t speak, absorbing the confession, and Charles takes a breath and says one more thing. I want to try. Even though I am scared, even if I’m going to be difficult and get it wrong and probably make you angry with me—if you want, if you want me, with all of this, I’d like to try.
“Charles,” Erik says. Yes. And thinks, half-formed impressions chasing each other around like unraveling silver thread, so beautiful/so fucking BRAVE/how can I deserve/oh god what if I get this wrong/if I’M the one who gets it wrong, I’ve never/maybe we can get this wrong and be difficult together?
“Yes,” Charles says, smiling, through the return of those treacherous tears. Yes. Please. He moves a hand, tentatively exploring. Runs fingers along Erik’s flat stomach, learning the way those muscles tense and jump at his curious caresses. Ventures lower; Erik’s still wearing pants, because they’d not finished, earlier, an unresolved command. He touches that tell-tale hardness, through slacks, discovering something quite impressive that stirs to even greater wakefulness under his hand.
Erik laughs, and, somewhat surprisingly, blushes, in their heads. And then reaches over, as Charles starts to unfasten his pants, and covers that discovering hand with his. “Not now.”
“Oh…”
“No, listen.” Erik smooths his hair back again, even though it doesn’t need the reminder at the moment. “I meant what I said. Exactly. Not now. Later. Clear?”
Maybe?
Erik sighs. Slides his hand down along the closest arm, curls long fingers around, not the expectant hand, but Charles’s wrist. Charles blinks. Attempts, and fails, to interpret this gesture.
“Yes to this. To you. Later. Just…I need a day or so to…get used to all this, all right? And we have an early flight, in the morning…you should rest.” And, beneath that, inside the words, entwined with them: please understand/please be all right/you were crying, earlier/I made you cry and I can’t/your memories hurt so much I’m so sorry I’m here now and I’ll always be, not leaving you now/must be exhausted, those emotions/please rest and later we can/please rest and let me/hold you.
“…yes.”
“…yes?”
“Um. Yes. To all of that. Everything.” Yes. He lets Erik’s relief warm him from the inside for a few seconds, then asks, “Ah…did you want me to get dressed, then? Or—”
“I want you to sleep naked,” Erik says, instantly, and then seems startled at his own conviction. “I mean…I want that, I like seeing you naked, Charles, but…” Only if you won’t be cold. If you’re not—uncomfortable. If—
Charles smiles, a little, and the expression feels right, natural, for maybe the first time. Tonight. Or in years. Yes, sir.
“Wait,” Erik says, and the grip on his wrist gets firmer, probably unthinkingly, not enough to hurt. Charles, you know you don’t have to—
“I know.” I’m not uncomfortable. I’ll tell you if I am, but I’m not, right now. And you can keep me warm.
“Oh, I can? You’re giving me permission to cuddle you, Charles?” I will. I promise.
I know. “I did tell you I’d not be good at this. Oh—I mean, sorry. Sir.”
Now you’re doing that on purpose. “Do you want me to move? To let go?” Erik taps the fingers around his wrist, for clarification.
Maybe I am, a little. You seem not to mind. “And…no, I think you can leave your hand there. I rather like it. I believe I could…sleep like this. With you.”
“Good,” Erik murmurs, once more, and kisses his hair, and tugs him a bit closer, sheltered and intimate and surrounded by lean muscle and warmth and happy pillows, in the nest of hotel bedding and honeyed lampglow. I believe I can, as well.