Angel lets her wings fall, allowing them to melt innocuously into her skin as she ties her top back on.
"I can't believe there are… more. Like me, people like me who can…" Her expression is a mixture of delight and surprise as she sits heavily on the side of the bed.
"There are many more like us," Erik tells her, sitting forward slightly on the plush red blanket. "My collogue and I," he gestures to Charles who tips his head, "are searching. We are the future, all of us…" A gentle hand on the small of his back causes him to stop speaking, reeling back in his excitement for finding another. He looks back at Charles, whose eyes seem say 'the time for that discussion is not now.' Erik nods slightly, and the hand on his back adds a little pressure, softly, before sliding away. "We will of course inform you of everything the moment you are ready."
Angel smiles. "Yeah, okay. Um," she shoots a look over her shoulder. "I've still got a few more hours on the clock. You could stick around? Or give me some contact information-"
"We'll stay," Erik says as his body relaxes and he leans back into the pillows, settling shoulder to shoulder with Charles. "This is something best discussed in person."
"Right, okay." Angel looks relieved as she jumps up from her perch on the bed. "I'll have Linda send some drinks over. I'll be finished by four o clock at the latest." And with a flash of dark hair she's gone, through the thick curtains and back into the club. They sit in a comfortable silence for a few moments, letting the slightly muffled music and chatter of patrons float around them. Erik tops off Charles' drink again when he sees the glass nearing empty.
"It just gets better every time we find another," Charles murmurs.
"It does." Erik says quietly. "Discovering you're not alone… it's heady." He turns his head to give his friend a small smile that is returned. "And it's because of you," he raises his hand to smooth his thumb gently over Charles' temple, right beside the corner of his eye. There is such warmth in his voice, in his eyes, and Charles has to swallow away the tight feeling in the back of his throat.
He wants to say what he always says; that it's not really all his doing, the CIA and Hank played major parts in this whole affair. But the sound of a curtain sliding open breaks the moment and Erik lets his hand drop as he turns to face the woman who has just come in. Charles spares her a glance – young, pretty, with blonde hair and bright red lipstick. Her walk in sinuous and her figure phenomenal.
He isn't interested, and instead focuses on draining the rest of his champagne in one go.
Linda, he assumes, carries a silver platter on which there are two glass tumblers and an expensive looking bottle of brandy. "On the house," she says, transatlantic accent lilting and sure as she places the platter carefully next to the champagne bucket and pours out two servings. "Anything else I can help you gentlemen with tonight?" Charles expects the words to come with a suggestive sway of hips, but instead, when he looks up from his glass she has an odd knowing expression on her face. He looks away as Erik answers. "No thank you," he says politely
Linda hums, gives another little smile, and saunters from the little room, making sure to draw the curtains tightly behind her. Charles briefly contemplates reaching into her mind, but he's trying to be better about that; all because he wants to know and has the ability doesn't mean he should take advantage. The sound of glass clinking against silver draws his attention away from the curtain and back to Erik. He watches his friend take a sip, savor, swallow, and sigh in appreciation. "Excellent," he says quietly, tilting his head back to rest against the wall. "I wouldn't have expected this establishment to have such high quality liquor."
"Hmm," Charles hums, but the truth is he isn't really concentrating as Erik extols about the virtues of aged drink. He's distracted again; this has been happening quite a lot lately – he and Erik will be speaking, (or not, it doesn't really matter, honestly) and Charles will find himself drifting off, entranced by an aspect of his best friend. Last Wednesday it was the way his long fingers caressed his knight before making his move on the chess board. The way his heavy silver watch on his slender wrist made his hand look even more strong and appealing. Monday, it was the sound of his laugh, deep and warm in the air outside in the gardens, as he smiled at Charles' surprisingly off colored joke. A week before that it was the straight line of his back, silhouetted by the light pouring in from the bay windows he stood in front of, deep in thought.
And a second ago it was his throat, flexing and relaxing smoothly as he swallowed down apparently excellent brandy, but now it is his eyes, deep, and green, and fixed on Charles.
"Charles? Are you alright?" He sounds as if he has been trying to get his attention longer than usual.
"Those are a quite rare on the global scale," he blurts out and Erik raises an eyebrow.
"What is?"
"Green eyes. They are, of course, found more in the European countries and European bloodlines, but over all, it is quite rare. It's… a recessive gene," Charles continues. "Most people think that eye color in offspring is based solely on the eye color of the parents, but there are so many contributing factors... Two brown eyed parents could easily produce a blue eyed child, although blue is recessive as well…" He tapers off, feeling unsure of himself despite knowing this information inside out. His tongue suddenly feels thick and dry in his mouth. He begins to take a sip of champagne before remembering he has finished it. Erik watches him fiddle with his glass for a moment before humming and looking away, lifting his own glass to his lips and swallowing a healthy measure of liquid. "I happen to find green eyes more aesthetically pleasing." Charles hears himself continuing, but for the life of him cannot figure out why. It is like he is on auto-pilot, the champagne making his head muzzy and the motivation for this impromptu lesson unclear. "Blue, they are alright, lovely in their own way I suppose, but green… They remind me of jewels, the way they catch the light…"
The quiet falls again, where it was a warm cocoon earlier it seems to be a stifling hot blanket now, and Charles fiddles with the stem of his flute. Erik is silent for so long, Charles is tempted to concentrate, to close his eyes and just take a peek into Erik's mind, but for the second time tonight he refrains. Instead, he takes his gaze away from his flute momentarily to look over at his friend.
He is startled to find a smile there. It's small, hesitant, as it tugs against the rim of his glass, but after a few moments it turns into a full blown grin, teeth sharp and white. When he speaks, the words are tinged with laughter." Are you really giving me the usual routine?"
Charles blinks. "Come again."
Erik knocks back the rest of his brandy, sets the tumbler down onto the expensive wood table beside the bed, and turns his head to fully face Charles. When he speaks his tone is amused. "Raven told me all about how you pull at bars. Using your genetics lingo and charm to pick up beautiful women." His smile loses its sharp edge, and under contemplative eyes it is easy for Charles to let go of his annoyance for his little sister, focusing instead on the way the rhythmic beating of his heart stutters and excels. "So… we have the genetics lingo and charm components down, but seem to be missing the beautiful woman." The air shifts at his tone, words low, and smooth, honeyed in a way that causes them to cling and seep into Charles' Broca area, rendering him unable to respond. "Last time I checked, and believe me I checked quite recently, I was very much a man."
Charles' cheeks burn hot and he knows he is blushing. Blushing, an occurrence man has yet to discover a purpose for. It was once thought to be a sign of submission, but the idea has since been dismissed as false. Maybe he should turn his focus of study to that and not why some eyes are green and some blue, why some people can bend mold metal at their will and others can't. Those don't matter so much when your whole bloody face involuntarily gives away everything you are feeling despite your hardest attempts and no one can discover the purpose. Maybe blushing is a mutation- and yes, the champagne has gone straight to his head. Charles knows because besides his inane inner ramblings he has failed to notice until right this second how the loud music of the gentleman's club has faded, unimportant, into the background, and just how much closer Erik's face has gotten to his own.
Those green eyes pin him down and Erik's low voice twists and pulls at something low in Charles' stomach. "Although she did imply you are very smooth with your delivery." Charles is proud that he doesn't jump when he feels Erik's hand on his, palm simultaneously rough and smooth where they curl around the stem of his glass. He tugs gently. "I think you've had too much to drink."
Charles doesn't care about discretion or privacy, not with Erik's face so close to his, the tips of their noses brushing and feeling breath wash over his lips with every word. The dip into his friend's mind is brief, simply a skim on the surface.
"…mad… blue eyes are very appealing-"
And Charles agrees with Erik - he has had way too much champagne. As he leans in to close the gap between their mouths he thinks absently that this really is his own doing – beer he can handle, bottle after bottle of it, but champagne always made his mind a little funny… the bubbles, they go straight to his head. He has always wondered if there was something he could do about that, his mutation being what it is, but he's done thinking now because his lips are on Erik's and -oh, it feels… it feels wonderful.
He expects hesitation from his friend, for him to pull back and take the flute from between Charles' fingers as he tells him to relax and wait for the alcohol to pass, but he is proven positively, beautifully wrong. There is no hesitancy at all – he reacts suddenly and viscerally, the fingers curled around Charles' tightening briefly before he leans in heavily and licks Charles' mouth open. He is a strong kisser - aggressive and sure in his slow, powerful movements. Charles can hardly breathe, his heart is pounding so ferociously, but he doesn't stop. He can't pull away, not when Erik's tongue is sliding slick and hot against his own, wrapping deliciously around the tip before biting softly at it with his teeth. The hairs at the base of his neck are too short for Charles to hold onto, but the way they bristle against the tips of fingers causes his stomach to tremble. Cologne, something spicy, and sharp, and familiar by now, fills his senses and Charles presses his body closer closer closer closer. But Erik presses back and he's stronger, and the next thing Charles knows his back pressed into the pillows, chest against chest. Erik is still laying beside him for the most part, but it's not enough. Charles wants to tug at his shoulders, pull his best friend on top of him to rest between his legs so he can press their bodies even closer together, but the fact that they are in a club, surrounded by strangers tugs at the back of his mind. He contents himself with tugging at the hair between his fingers and enjoying the sound Erik makes in the back of his throat immensely. He tugs again and again, harder each time and thoughts of other patrons or waitresses discovering them is blown from his mind when Erik turns and fits a leg snugly between his.
White tinges the edge of his vision when Erik presses his hips down and rolls them slow and deliberate. It happens again, and again, and again, and Charles finally has to rip his mouth away from Erik's because he'll die from oxygen deprivation. He forces air into his lungs even as Erik sucks on that spot behind his ear. His hips are on autopilot now, matching the other man's rub for rub, and the very fact that Charles can feel Erik, hot, and hard, and ready against his leg nearly pushes him over the edge. He moves his head to meet Erik's lips again, and even though this kiss is just as aggressively slowly burning as the last it doesn't last nearly as long.
Erik is pulling away, hair mussed and a small, windblown smile on his lips.
Confusion laps at Charles simultaneously heightened and dulled senses, and he presses his hips up against Erik's again. He watches through half closed lids as the smile melts off of his friend's face to be replaced with a slightly slack expression and juddering intake of breath. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly, as if forcing himself to make a choice, and then he is moving away completely, tugging the forgotten glass out of Charles' hand gently.
He sets it on the table, next to the bucket and Charles watches, confused, aroused, hard and hot as Erik runs a large hand through his hair and settles onto his back. He takes more than a few deep breaths but when he speaks he still sounds breathless.
"Way to much to drink," he says. He presses a palm to the front of his trousers as if to tame himself before reaching over, grabbing the bottle of brandy, and taking a long draw straight from the neck.