Caged

It is predictable and foolish of Charles to return here. He had joined him, after all, and watched him train the children; spent hours playing chess in his extravagant home. They'd come here for the anonymity, so Shaw couldn't find them and lay waste as he had to their former headquarters. It was intended to be secret-so much so he had erased Moira's memory of the place; he knows this because of Frost, as she had attempted to glean the location. He is glad that she was unable to because she, unlike him, does not understand who they are truly fighting against. Charles wants this place to remain secret, yet he has not moved locations, nor even shown any sign of attempting to hide from him.

Then again, perhaps Charles did not think he would use his knowledge of their whereabouts against them. He would consider this foolish as well, but as it were, he couldn't see himself doing anything, either. It is not Charles he is warring with, nor the other mutants; they may oppose on their stances, but their enemy is common. Despite Frost's many thinly-veiled hints that they should attack Charles' base, it would serve no purpose. He never removes his helmet in Frost's presence; he can see the focus in her eyes; see that she is attempting to edge in the corners of his mind, and regardless of what she's looking for, it's not for her to see.

Still, one would think Charles would at least put up some sort of defence system, but there is nothing preventing him from setting foot on the property.

Since the darkness is drowning the grounds in black, it's only because his eyes have adjusted that he can make his way around. The trees surrounding the area loom like shadowed giants, swaying in the breeze; the leaves rustling like faraway whispers, and it unnerves him. The gentle wind catches on his cloak and he can hear it flap behind him. It's the loudest thing about him, but he doesn't care; he isn't attempting to sneak.

There is only one room with light emanating from the open window; it's Charles' room. He can't see Charles from where he is standing, but he assumes he's awake. He knows he can fly up there and see Charles; that is his intention, after all. He came to see him, but now he's not sure. They haven't spoken since the beach and it's not as though they parted on the best terms.

He stares at the window and tries to decide whether he should go to the bedroom or not. A part of him thinks that there's no other reason for Charles to leave the window open unless he wants a visitor; then again, perhaps he likes the breeze. He contemplates leaving, but he remains still, as if rooted to the spot. It seems both recent and forever ago that he was here, lazily playing chess in the mid-afternoon sun, accusing Charles of cheating despite knowing he wasn't. Never before in his life had he felt more welcome; now he's an intruder.

What is he doing? When has he ever not done what he wants to; what he intends? Charles is his friend; it's not as though he will cast him out, will he? Of course not.

It doesn't make it easier to finally lift his hand and levitate, the whipping of his cape louder now as the wind slightly picks up; instead of being a pleasant breeze as before, now it has an almost uncomfortable chill to it.

He floats outside the open window and sees Charles at the desk, leaning over a paper as he writes on it. He freezes there, refusing to enter the bedroom or announce his presence. Charles is sitting in a wheelchair; not the typical, bland sort that one sees in a hospital; a copy of a copy of a copy. No, this is stylish; unique. Silver and clean, with X's on the wheels. The sort of wheelchair one gets when he knows he'll be using it for quite a lot longer than temporary.

He discovers he's not surprised as he eyes Charles' profile. He'd taken a bullet to the spine; of course he's paralyzed. Perhaps he'd come, hoping that his worry would be proved wrong; perhaps he'd not thought about it before, but now that he sees it before him he knows it makes sense; knows that at some level, he had expected this outcome the moment he held Charles in his arms; the moment he angrily began to strangle Moira. He can't really decide which is more accurate at the moment because his focus is entirely on the way his gut is twisting, tugging at knots in his chest he forgets exist.

"I know you're there," Charles says calmly before turning his head away from whatever it is he's writing; smiling at him cordially, as if nothing has changed. "Do come in."

"I'd rather not."

He wheels away from the desk and starts over to the window. "Don't be shy, Erik. You've been in my room before."

He almost corrects him; tells him that his name is Magneto now, but he doesn't. He just stares as he remains outside the window, levitating as Charles approaches. It's unfamiliar and strange to be this much taller than him; it upsets his sense of balance and the way Charles acts, as if nothing has changed between them, makes it all the less comfortable.

"I'm not here to play chess," he finally manages, after he's collected his thoughts. The thoughts he's sure Charles is trying to read; he can almost feel him prodding at the edges of his mind, although he's sure that's just his imagination. The helmet blocks off all attempts, so it's just an echo of something he's felt before. He doesn't know if he misses it.

"Of course not. Why are you here then?" He stops a few feet short from the window, hands slightly resting on the wheels with a welcoming smile on his face.

Erik doesn't want to say why he's come; he doesn't even want to admit that he knows the reason. Charles' smile borders on becoming a gentle smirk, but he's good at hiding how smug and arrogant he is; makes it almost seem humbly charming.

"That's a very good colour on you. Shaw's helmet is . . . much better suited to you, it appears."

He remains in midair, wind whipping his cape around him, and he swallows some emotion that swells up when Charles refuses to look away from his eyes. He's never been one to hide his emotions or thoughts and it seems especially pointless once meeting a telepath, and Charles never hid what he felt either, so he's not surprised to see that Charles' eyes are wet; he feels the sting in his own eyes when he looks over the chair he's confined to and his chest tightens. It's a permanent fixture in his life now.

He wonders if Charles feels imprisoned by it; caged away like yet another animal at a zoo, only this one, unlike the others, has memories of being free.

It's a thought so potent and heart wrenching that he worries Charles must have heard it, even through the helmet. He knows that's impossible though, and lets out a breath that shakes against his will. "It's foolish of you not to move your base of operations. I know exactly where you are."

"Oh Erik," he sighs, emotion breaking the tone and his smile twists into a frown; a painful grimace that tugs at his chest. "I don't want to hide from you."

He wants to correct him again, say that he's Magneto now, but he doesn't. The twisting in his gut has intensified; moved into his lungs and surrounds his heart. It occurs to him that his entire life, he's always been on the inside looking outward but now, for the first time he can recall, he's on the outside looking in. Neither feeling is pleasant, but this is much worse.

"I should leave."

"Of course."

He wants to say something else; some sort of goodbye or reassure him that they'll see each other later. He can't think of anything and his throat is constricted so he wouldn't be able to talk anyway.

He lowers himself back to the ground slowly, the chill biting at the parts of his face not obscured by his helmet. The ground is soft underneath his feet, padded by the luscious grass that he remembers being absurdly green in the daylight; now it just looks dark grey. He walks away, but gives one last look over his shoulder as he does so; Charles' bedroom light is switched off.

Charles knows Erik watches him. There are times he calls attention to it; times he invites him inside to play chess or have some tea. Other times, they do nothing but sit in silence; Charles goes over essays or reads at his desk while Erik lies on his bed, not quite napping but his eyes are always closed. When Erik obliges, it's always a short visit long after everyone else is asleep. He stays quiet, his voice never louder than a whisper, and he leaves as he came; like a leaf on the wind, drifting wherever with what seems like practiced ease and no concern of where he goes, but Charles knows that it's as much of a lie as their silent agreement to act as though Charles isn't confined to a wheelchair because of him.

However, despite the fact Erik does visit, he more often remains outside; either believing himself unseen, or knowing he isn't but pretending, as Charles is, that they're unaware of each other. Sometimes Charles is reading when he sees him waiting, and other times he is lying in bed, trying to sleep. There have been times he's been outside with one of his students and he sees a flash of red in the trees; catches Erik's eyes at a distance before he fades into the background.

Charles doesn't tell anyone about Erik's visits; not that he's ashamed because he most certainly is not, but because he knows Erik is a profoundly private person and chooses to visit when no one can see him for a reason. He doesn't know if he tells Raven, or anyone else, of their visits. He assumes not, however he cannot be sure; since he's donned the helmet Shaw had owned, he can't read his thoughts anymore.

He remembers being able to have conversations with Erik without saying a word; meeting each other's eyes with thoughts and emotions flowing together; Erik putting up walls to see if Charles could break through them; Charles knowing when he'd probed uncomfortably far and moving away; the strange, yet pleasant, feeling of allowing someone into his mind as well; sharing thoughts and images of his own life and feeling Erik bumbling around in his thoughts, without realizing what he was doing. Of knowing someone so utterly completely and letting that person know him in return. To have that gone in one instant was devastating; like having half his body torn from him, the feeling of which Charles knows quite well.

While he lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling, he sees movement in the corner of his eyes. Erik is outside his window again, watching him, and Charles turns his head. He can't turn his entire body without calling attention to himself; it takes much more effort to do that now that he has to forcibly move his legs with his hands. Erik waits outside the window-it's always open-with his cape flapping.

Charles personally thinks the cape is silly and he told Erik so himself on his last visit, but truth is, he's glad Erik ignored his opinion. He likes hearing him coming. He smiles when Erik glides in, towards the wheelchair. Erik doesn't look at him; doesn't seem to know he's awake. The wheelchair is beside his bed, however, so all he has to do is look at Charles to see his eyes are open. He isn't looking, however, and Charles wonders how much of that is purposeful.

He touches the arm of the chair and drags his finger across it. Charles remembers what it's like to have Erik touch him instead; a pat on the shoulder, a brush on the knee; thoughts of going further always entering his mind, and he knows Erik had those thoughts too, but they never did anything about it; he isn't sure Erik even acknowledges he has those thoughts. Then again, Charles isn't nearly as brave as he puts on, either; things aren't always easy being a telepath, and it's much more difficult acting than it is to think.

Erik turns and meets his eyes; although it's dark, there is some light from the moon and his eyes have adjusted; he assumes Erik's have as well. He removes his finger from the arm of the wheelchair and steps away slightly.

"Charles," he greets.

"Erik."

"It's-" Charles frowns and habitually attempts to read what the rest of his sentence was, but obviously he fails. "I thought you were asleep."

"No. Not quite. You don't have to worry about coming in. You don't need to ask permission."

"I know."

He wonders why Erik is uncomfortable then; he knows he's allowed entrance whenever he wants. Perhaps it is the situation.

"Do you want to talk? I can get some tea, if you-"

"No, I don't need anything," he states firmly, almost angrily. In the darkness of the room, his outfit hardly seems red; almost black, and he can't see his face through the mask.

Since he's beside the bed, but on the opposite side from where Charles is, he stares down at the mattress; the helmet (which Charles honestly thinks looks clunky and overlarge) reflects some moonlight. His gloved hands trail over the mattress and he tilts his head a little to the left; a strip of silver light hits Charles' eyes.

"Did you want to lie down?" he asks, his throat dry and voice raspy. He imagines Erik lying beside him; imagines feeling his warmth. Imagines being unable to feel the pressure of his knees pressed against his thighs and he swallows a lump in his throat; beats back the tears that threaten to flow.

Erik meets his eyes, and Charles can't see their colour. "No," he finally answers, but his voice drifts. "It's getting late; I should go."

"If you must."

He doesn't leave. "I paralyzed you."

His throat constricts; his hand clenches the sheet. "Yes, you did."

"I shouldn't have deflected-"

"What? And allow the bullet to strike you? I'd rather you not be dead, Erik." Erik looks away again, so that he is somewhat facing the wheelchair. "You've no need to apologize."

He looks back at Charles, then shakes his head. "I should leave."

"I know, you said as much already."

Erik nods, then turns on his heel and goes to the window. Charles wishes he could walk beside him; put his hand on the small of his back and lead him. He can't, however. He's stuck on his bed. When Erik leaves, he looks at his legs. He realizes that the blanket isn't covering his feet.

He doesn't bother covering them.

He think Charles must hate him, secretly. Why shouldn't he? After all, it's his fault he's paralyzed; had he not deflected the bullet, it wouldn't have injured his spinal cord. Charles does have a point, however-had he not deflected the bullet, then he would be dead. Still, he wonders if that might have been an improvement; he may not be dead, but Charles certainly isn't living, either. Frozen, watching the world move around him; a fate worse than death.

Yet Charles allows him entry whenever he desires; shows no sign of reluctance when he invites him in; there is no darkness in his eyes, no tell-tale sign of hatred. The idea of being slighted, of being hurt, and not seeking revenge is unfathomable to him. It's what he spent his life doing; every waking moment, filled with plans and calculating how and when to strike; how to make Shaw feel every last moment of pain that he forced on him; understand as much as he was capable just how much he had destroyed everything for him.

Before Charles, the only person he ever loved had been his mother. Shaw had taken one from him, and he'd ruined the other on his own. In a way, he supposes it has a sort of symmetry to it, or something symbolic, but he's never been the scholarly type. He would ask Charles were he not afraid of the answer. He doesn't know what it is, but he prefers not to think of what he's done if he can help it. Charles allows the silence, so he isn't going to break it.

Not much between them has changed, save for the cloud hanging overhead that looms. The pressing matter they both prefer to ignore; the wheelchair. Before they held no secrets from one another; were entirely open with what they thought and felt. They were in each other's minds, literally and figuratively, and now there is a wall between them; physically, mentally, metaphorically. Sometimes he misses the somehow aggravating and also comforting knowledge that, at any time, Charles could, in fact, be in his mind and understand his thoughts. He knows that there were many times Charles could have taken over his mind; controlled him (storming the Russian headquarters, for instance) and yet he did not. Despite the fact Charles has been in his mind, touched every corner of his life and every emotion he's ever had, there has always been a sort of privacy between them that he thinks Charles is reluctant to break. Or was. He knows that, had he a chance, Charles would have stopped him from killing Shaw.

He doesn't remove the helmet, ever. Even if sometimes he wants to and it's not only out of fear Charles will take advantage of that; they are beyond that. It's too late, anyhow. He can't do anything. But there is so much, too much, that can give everything away; he wants to let him know everything, which in turn makes him realize he can let him see nothing. Not anymore. Perhaps there was a time where things between them could have gone as he had hoped and still hopes and if Charles gives him an inch, he will take a mile. He doesn't deserve that; he deserves none of this.

The bedroom light is on, but Erik quickly learns that Charles is not in his room as he glides inside, his boots thumping dully on the floor. He doesn't need to wait for Charles to enter so he doesn't. There are times when he stays outside, looking inward, as he feels that's all he should be allowed, but not today. The feeling of him being nothing more than an intruder is waning overtime; maybe one day he'll feel as comfortable and at home as he did before.

He walks over to the desk where Charles does most of his reading and writing while Erik either sits in a chair a few feet from him as they talk, or lies in bed and says nothing except contemplating what it might be like to have Charles beside him, and if he's lost his chance. That is, if he's not remaining outside the window, watching Charles and half hoping he calls attention to him, half hoping he continues to ignore that he's there.

He glances over the paper Charles had been apparently scribbling on before leaving; it's nothing that holds his interest. The usual genetics and mathematics, trying to decide how best to further one of his students' abilities.

He hears the door creak and he looks in its direction. Charles wheels in and spots him. "Erik," he greets.

He still hasn't bothered to correct him. He no longer feels the urge to. Around him, he doesn't much feel like Magneto, anyhow. "Charles."

"I trust you've made yourself comfortable. I can get us some tea, if you like."

"Not today, no." He shakes his head and lifts his hand; shuts the door for Charles, as the knob is metal. Charles' smile is more gorgeous than it has any right to be considering he's a paraplegic and it brightens his already amazing blue eyes. How can he sit there and smile? How can he appear to be so at peace and happy with himself when he can't even walk? How much of it is real, he can't help but wonder.

"Thank you." He puts his hand to the wheel and starts to move towards him with an ease he must have learned the past few months. Every time they see each other, he looks more at home in his prison.

Instead of allowing Charles to wheel towards him, he twists his hand and moves the chair instead; the entire thing is metal. Charles had it custom-made, of course. He wants the metal there; maybe he wants to be moved.

Charles folds his hands in his lap and his smile fades, but the sparkle in his eyes does not. He stops a foot short of him, and remains looking in his eyes; never looks away, it seems. As if he can see through the mask; hear through the mask. He knows that's impossible, but Charles does know him quite well. Perhaps he doesn't need his mutation to know what he's thinking.

"Do you hate me?" It's been underneath the surface for so long that he couldn't hold it back any longer.

"I'm sorry?" Charles asks. His eyebrows are halfway up his forehead and his eyes are wide, as if the very idea he could ask such a thing was beyond logic. "Of course not. You are my dearest friend, Erik."

"It's Magneto."

"Oh." His voice is small; fragile. This is not the Charles he knows; for the first time, he seems broken, and the difference is startling. He looks downward and clears his throat; all he can see is the top of Charles' head. "My apologies."

Erik-because, despite the correction, he is Erik around Charles at least-sinks down to his knees so they can lock eyes once again. "I just thought you ought to know." Charles meets his eyes firmly at last, and nods slightly.

Erik puts his hand above Charles' knee and it's not planned; it's not exactly habitual either, but it is something that he did without thought. He remembers the first time he touched Charles on his knee; they were sitting beside each other watching the children train and he leaned in close to say something, he can't remember what, and he felt the heat underneath his palm suddenly; felt the spark hit his chest when he saw his palm on Charles' thigh, and the warmth that bloomed when they looked at each other was powerful enough he thought he might have forgotten how to breathe. He had tensed and thought about pulling away sharply; that Charles clearly couldn't be all right with this contact, but then Charles covered his hand with his own and asked him to continue with what he'd been saying.

This time, Charles doesn't even glance down. He's not ignoring his hand or being nonchalant; he doesn't know it's there.

"You can't feel that."

"Hmm?" His brows knit together and his head tilts slightly, then his eyes flicker down. His expression melts and his cheeks lose their natural colour. "I can't feel it, no," he replies, as if this is the first time he's realized he's paralyzed. His eyes flick up and meet his; Erik's heart breaks in his chest. "I can't feel anything. I can't feel my legs, Erik." His voice breaks and tears spring up; Erik can feel the burn in his own and tightens his jaw as if that could close off the emotion. It doesn't. "I am so sorry," he whispers.

"Don't apologize; I did this to you."

"It's not your fault."

"It is."

"You couldn't have foreseen-" He breaks off with a sniff and looks down; Erik hates how hot the tears that drip down his cheeks are. "I don't blame you," Charles finishes.

Erik can't understand how anyone could be this forgiving. He can't comprehend his nature; his ability to see the best in anyone, especially him. All he knows is pain and anger; Charles taught him everything in between, everything that is good and pleasant and he still causes nothing but destruction.

He can't feel his hand; he can't feel him. It's entirely one-sided; they can't connect if it's unrequited. Erik more than wants their connection; he needs it.

Charles is his only and best friend; he can let him in, at least for now.

He removes the helmet; Charles even moves as if to stop him, but he doesn't.

The helmet clunks to the floor and although he knows it's imagined, as telepathy is purely mental and emotional, he thinks he can feel Charles in his head as well. He can't quite explain it, as feeling someone else inside his head lacks the physicality one would expect, but there is something tangible just the same. One can only understand the completeness and warmth and rightness to it through experience.

He knows Charles is rooting through his mind; perhaps pulling up a memory, trying to find something to bring Erik peace but there's nothing he can do; he can only feel guilt for this. It's personal and private, and he shows Charles anyway. It's only fair; he's taken everything else from him, hasn't he? He can allow Charles this, at the very least. He loves Charles. He knows that Charles knows this; has always known this. How could he not? Before he met him there was nothing in his life but hatred and violence; Charles was everything else; the softness of his mother's blanket; the dull golden glow of the flames glinting off their menorah. And all Erik could be was the fire, raging and burning and destroying.

"Oh Erik," he whispers, holding the side of his face; brushing his fingers through his sweat-dampened and tousled hair. His eyes search his face; ticking from chin to forehead to eyes and mouth without pattern. His hand slips through his hair, and Erik remembers the stained glass panting in the cathedrals he's been in, never for faith or God, but to seek the falsely pious who speak with God after killing his people; he recalls images of forgiveness, of benediction, of hands on heads. "Shhh," he breathes, tracing his temple and shaking his head.

Erik knows he's crying. It's not the first time he has in front of Charles, and it most likely won't be the last. He doesn't care. There have only been two people he's loved his entire life and he's lucky enough to be able to show this side of himself to anyone. He certainly doesn't show it to Mystique, although he knows she wishes that he would; he's a private and selfish person; he doesn't want this to be for anyone but Charles. Perhaps this is why he's never told Mystique that he visits-he wants him to himself.

Charles ducks his head slightly and he worries that he's less than happy about his keeping it from his sister. Charles manages a weak smile and shakes his head, then strokes Erik's ear. "Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?"

He leans up and takes Charles' mouth with his own instead of answering. There is not hesitation or awkwardness; not that he expected there to be, as Charles must have anticipated the move. His hands slide into his hair, across his face, and Erik keeps his hands splayed on Charles' cheeks; reels him in, presses their mouths together repeatedly, softly; lips are gentle and smooth and moistened, and though he's not inexperienced, Erik never set aside much room in his life for romance. Clearly, however, judging by the way Charles can make his chest ache and stomach twist in an oddly pleasant way just with a tiny, gentle flick of his tongue, he is practiced.

They tilt their heads and the kiss deepens, yet slows. The feel of his tongue stroking his; tasting him shouldn't have felt so new and invigorating, yet it did. He gasps when Charles nips gently at his bottom lip; presses closer.

He wants to be against him, pressing chest to chest but he can't; their positions make it impossible. He's still on his knees and Charles is forever seated. As soon as he wants it, Charles shifts; pushes forward and holds Erik; pulls him closer, and Charles loses his balance for a moment, but catches it by leaning back an inch.

Erik stands, leans over Charles who tilts his head upward to keep their lips attached. With a twirl of his fingers, the chair rises; allows Erik to stand upright with Charles in front of him, hands sliding down his neck and then into his hair, across his cheeks and sliding over his jaw. It's still not enough; he needs Charles against him; in his arms.

Before he can ask, Charles pulls away to nod and he shifts forward so that he slips out of the floating chair; Erik holds him in his arms, legs draped over his right forearm while Erik provides support for his back with his left. It reminds Erik of a groom carrying his bride into the threshold of their new home and it brings a smile to his lips; in sickness and in health, indeed.

"You're awfully romantic," Charles teases before Erik shuts him up with a slow, exploratory examination of his tongue; teeth; mouth. He strides towards bed because honestly, holding Charles in his arms forever would be quite tiresome and he likes the idea of pressing down into him; caressing him and loving him the way he deserves. Charles' chuckles against his lips are reminiscent of a hum and he remembers the first time he heard Charles humming; he does it when he writes sometimes, but Erik doesn't think he realizes what he's doing. Although now he surely does.

He pulls away to ask if Charles is okay with moving towards the bed; before he can detach his mouth, he hears Charles in his head; yes, he is okay with it. Emphatically, it seems. Erik almost snorts and catches himself wondering what it is about Charles' fascination with the word 'groovy.'

The mewling noise he makes when Erik licks his top lip pushes that thought from his head quickly.

He lays him on the bed and then stands beside it; Charles stares up at him, his legs askew awkwardly; bent in a way that would surely put his legs to sleep if he could feel them and he frowns; his chest and throat tightens and the blood that was rushing south at a rapid pace stops somewhere in his stomach instead. He bends over, rearranges his legs; lays them straight, runs his hands down the sides of his legs.

"It's all right, Erik."

He can't tell if Charles spoke in his head or out loud, but it doesn't matter.

He looks up at Charles' beautiful face; his bright eyes and he sighs. He runs his hand through his hair; pushes it back so it's not stuck to his forehead, and knows somehow that Charles finds that endearing; sometimes, Charles lets him in his head, too. He does it again and Charles smirks, and he's gorgeous when he smiles.

"Charles, you're . . ." He can't say it out loud, but he is beautiful.

"Oh do stop. You'll make me blush."

He unties Charles' shoes and slips them off his feet; removes his socks. He slides his hands up the sides of his pants, biting down on his lip because he's uncertain of where to go next. He's not naïve and understands how these things work-he's not inexperienced-but he's never been with someone he loves before. It's never been anything more than a physical need. Charles is clearly more experienced than he is and knows that he's been with more than enough women, at least. He suspects men as well, but that means nothing to him. So has he. But this is more than that; Charles is the first one that's going to truly matter, and Charles is far more sociable and likeable than he is; this may be be the only person Erik's ever loved, but Charles could very well be-

"No," Charles answers without Erik asking, and this time he knows he said it aloud.

Although it's pathetic, he's glad. He's selfish and doesn't want to share this with anyone. He unzips Charles' pants and slides them down his leg before dropping them to the floor. He stares at Charles' underwear. He's semi-hard himself, but he's not even certain whether or not Charles can become hard, because of what he did to-

"Erik," Charles interrupts his thoughts before they can derail into less pleasant territory. "I'm perfectly capable of making love."

He grins.

"Although I do think this would go much better if you removed some of your clothes."

"You're the genius," Erik concedes, and does so. Admittedly, with a bit of a flourish, as he does enjoy being flashy.

With his clothes piled beside Charles' pants, he finally does remove his underwear and although he supposes it doesn't really matter as he can't feel his legs, he removes them gently anyhow. He tosses them aside, so that Charles is only wearing a shirt while he, on the other hand, is naked.

They're both semi-erect, which works well for what he has in mind, and he slinks onto the bed. He presses the flat of his tongue on the underside of Charles' shaft and licks upward; Charles smiles at him; a sort of faraway smile, and asks for a kiss instead; his mouth remains closed so the words echo in Erik's head, as clear as if they had been spoken.

He kisses a flash of bared skin, then nuzzles the shirt upward with his nose. He spreads Charles' knees enough for him to fit in between as he tastes his skin; mouths beside his navel and pushes the shirt up some more. He nips and then soothes its with a kiss; licks and then peppers it softly with his lips. He feels fingers threading through his hair, plucking lightly at the strands at the base of his neck.

They both remove Charles' shirt and settle their groins together. Erik sets the rhythm, slides against Charles and feels his length pressed against his own; swallows a lump in his throat and presses his hips down again. Charles keeps playing with his hair and looks into his face, smile lazy and eyes unfocused; as if awaking from a pleasant dream.

He bends down and kisses him, slow but deep; open mouthed and wet and he pushes down again; sets a slightly quicker pace when Charles bites down on his lip, but not enough for it to hurt.

They breathe only a step out of unison; the bed barely squeaks beneath them, but it sets a quiet, gentle beat to go along with their breathing. He kisses him on the mouth; cheek; eyes and whimpers when he feels dull nails leave trails down his back.

The sweat and pre-ejaculate makes for a smoother glide; he chokes back a gasp when Charles arches his back slightly; opens his mouth and tilts his head back, exposing the column of his throat with a quiet moan.

Erik mouths his adam's apple and kisses up to his chin, before Charles brings in his bottom lips and sucks; the pace speeds up and he can't catch his breath; it comes out in staccato gasps against Charles' mouth and he pulls away; presses their foreheads together and tastes tears on Charles' cheek.

Charles' hands drift, lightly dancing along his skin; pressing just where Erik wants him to and touching him anywhere when he silently begs for it. He knows he can't last much longer; Charles is a telepath and he knows how to use it to his advantage, apparently; slides his hand between them at the right time; Erik lifts to give him space to align their shafts; gives room for Charles to squeeze them both and tug.

He stares at Charles' face, even if that might unnerve him. He's quietly assured that he is not bothered by the staring, and so Erik watches; waits. He feels the pressure building as he is pumped; as he thrusts into his palm.

Just as he worries he's going to miss Charles' face, he lets out a breathy vowel; an almost-cry and he tilts his head back, and that's when Erik feels the perfect bliss of nothing envelop him; feels the wet warmth spill out over Charles' chest.

He rests there for a second, breathing into Charles' collarbone, and wraps his arms around his chest, holding him there although he knows he can't leave. Just as he can feel his own elation swelling and filling him, he can feel the edges of Charles in his mind, too; something that feels suspiciously like hope and serenity.

He knows that if Charles were once naïve that is no longer the case; they haven't come to an agreement on the issue of their enemies, and he's going to return to his own base of operations in the morning. But that doesn't mean they can't have this, as well. Erik's all right with that; Charles lets him know that he's all right with that, too.

There are several fundamentally groovy things about Charles' particular mutation.

First and foremost, the ability to read minds at will. It would have been most aggravating had he been unable to shut it off; some people had rather unpleasant and loud thoughts, and it could be dreadfully complicated to concentrate if people were blasting their thoughts into his head at all times. Though it was nice to know what others were thinking when it wouldn't bother him, as well; he enjoyed Erik's musings as he went into Charles' personal lavatory to grab something to clean themselves; tried to memorize a lullaby Erik's mother had sang to him when he was little, and was stuck in his head as he washed their chests.

Second is his ability to control other people. He tries not to use it often, but he does. He tries to only use it when he absolutely must, but he does use it for convenience at times; in either case, he never does it for too long, although it's become quite tempting to be able to be someone else just for ability to walk within them for awhile. He can feel everything they feel, of course; it's what made controlling Shaw so painful, although he knew he could not have stopped as Shaw would have killed Erik, and that was entirely out of the question.

As Erik rests beside him-not sleeping, as it were-he sighs, contemplating the third. He can, of course, make people see what he wants them to see-or rather, not see, which is rather convenient when sneaking about, as invisibility does help covert operations. He remembers Emma Frost and her ability to make others think they were engaging in rather fascinating activities with her, and thinking it was neat. He supposes it's rather fortunate that he has that ability and worries about what might happen if someone less kind than he were to use that to make others see truly terrifying things; it's not entirely out of the question.

This leads him to a rather disturbing talent he has that has nothing to do with his mutation.

Lying.

Charles cannot achieve orgasm, or even become erect. He's tried, of course; there have been some nights he spends hours trying to get something to happen. He pulls and tugs, not out of arousal but out of sheer desperation. He feels nothing.

What Erik doesn't know won't hurt him.

That isn't to say he didn't enjoy himself; of course he did. But he just can't enjoy it in the way Erik wanted him to, and there's no point in making this more difficult than it already is. Letting Erik see what he wants to see, letting him believe that he can orgasm, hurts nobody and he has no intention of ever letting his lie slip.

Erik turns so that his forehead is pressed against his shoulder. He thinks Charles is sleeping so he begins drawing a heart on his upper thigh, where he won't be able to feel it and accuse him of being sappy when it wakes him.

Charles just smiles and closes his eyes. Even if they are at war, they can at least have this. And even if he can't have everything wants, he's happy with what he has.

A/N-Much thanks to theletterv for catching my typos, and I hope you enjoyed the fic.