Yay for unapologetic schmoop! I decided I'd start cross posting from my writing blog on Tumblr so that y'all can enjoy the random bits of fic I post there. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own the X-men franchise. That would be Marvel, dear.
It all starts over a game of chess.
Lamplight flickers over Charles' hair, golden waves undulating across the expanse of chestnut brown as he leans forward and moves a pawn. His teeth lightly clamp down on his bottom lip, worrying the skin as he contemplates the board and attempts to guess Erik's counter move.
"No cheating," Erik mutters absently, staring more at Charles' mouth than the game they are currently participating in.
Charles looks affronted. "Cheating," he sniffs in mock disdain, "Is completely beneath a gentleman like me." The tone is teasing- a joke. Erik can't help the slight half-smile that curls the right side of his lips up in appropriate amusement.
"And yet you cheat nonetheless."
"I do not!" Abandoning all pretenses of gentlemanliness, his friend opts for denying Erik's accusation like a five year old. Erik huffs a laugh.
"Then how do you explain this wide of a winning streak? You've won fourteen matches in a row- if that's not cheating," and here he pauses for dramatic affect, "then I don't know what is."
He's rewarded for his efforts by Charles' widened eyes, his expression shifting from petulant to shocked. "My friend, do you truly doubt me so much?" His eyes are twin sapphires, sparkling with innocence and barely concealed mischief.
Erik feels like he could drown in those ocean-colored eyes. He wouldn't mind it if he wasn't saved this time around.
Charles blinks then, confusion furrowed in his brow as he cocks his head to the side (a bit like a confused kitten) and stares.
Erik feels his mouth suddenly go dry. How many of his thoughts had he been broadcasting to Charles? Embarrassment creeps up his spine. "Charles, I—"
"Are you all right, Erik? You look a bit flushed."
Brilliant. Now he's blushing like a teenager.
As if to add insult to metaphorical injury, Charles leans over the board, and presses a hand against Erik's forehead. "You aren't ill, are you Erik? Do I need to get Hank—"
"NO. No. I'm fine Charles," he snaps at the other male. "I just—" his throat closes around the words, and it's probably for the best, because he has no clue what he'd been about to say. Something along the lines, he's sure, of how positively stunning Charles looks with his hair reflecting the artificial lights overhead; or how endearing that freckle near his lips makes him appear; or how said lips are utterly distracting in how much he wants to scoot forward and press his own to them and really, lips should not be that enticing and it should be a sin for them to be that red and soft looking.
And now, he realizes belatedly, Charles' eyes have widened to the point where Erik wouldn't be particularly surprised if they popped right out of his head.
"Oh," Charles says softly, a look of wonder crossing his face. "Oh."
Erik opens his mouth to say something, anything, to save him from this pit of mortification he has fallen into, but he has no words left; all that comes out of his mouth is a stuttering of breath, and then Charles is lunging forward and locking whisper-soft lips to his own, and nothing in the world matters anymore except for them and the fact that he is kissing Charles.
They are a mess of teeth and tongues, sloppy and uncoordinated with need and a pressing want that transcends all of those wasted moments- to think, they could have been doing this all along…
Charles tilts his head and swirls his own tongue around Erik's, and he loses track of time for a blissful while.
When they finally separate for want of air, Charles pulls back a bit, only to press a light kiss against the shell of Erik's ear.
"You were projecting," he whispers, grinning against his temple. "Do you— you really think my lips are sinful?"
Erik lets out a startled bark of laughter, and turns his head to kiss Charles again. "Yes," he replies, because what in the good green earth are you supposed to say to that, and Charles already knows anyway, right?
"Oh, I don't," his friend hastens to assure him. "I've behaved myself and stayed out of your head like you've asked. I honestly didn't mean to hear your thoughts, but you were projecting- like I said earlier- and I couldn't help but hear some of it. I truly am sorry, Erik. I promise I wasn't eavesdropping."
Erik is promptly appalled by Charles' strange compulsion to apologize for nothing, and thinks as loudly and precisely as he can: Save your apologies for something I'm actually angry about, Charles.
Charles smiles then (a sign that he's heard Erik's thought), pulling back all the way, and Erik is abruptly aware of how uncomfortable it is to be clutching at each other over a table with the chess board in between them- pieces strewn across the floor, the black and white integrated completely.
Charles trails a finger over his arm. "Bed?" He asks hopefully.
Erik pulls him up from his seat, twining their hands together and feeling a smile of elation stretch across his face. "You don't have to ask," he says, and pulls Charles in for another soul-crushing kiss.