Charles's vomit was a sickly, syrup-yellow color. He purged it in spasms, careful to keep as quiet as possible despite the fact that he occupied the guest bathroom of the deserted east wing. When the lack of matter in his stomach was a biological certainty, he flushed and washed his mouth out, then caught his own reflected eye in the mirror.
It was not charitable. He had been up all night, and the combination of the naked bulb's glow and dawn's first hint out the window etched the worry lines in his forehead with perfect clarity. He was deathly pale and sweating, and the brilliant blue, expressive orbs in question were puffy and red, dogged with the effort of too much crying.
He didn't know what to do. He still couldn't believe he'd just…intruded, like that, in the first place. It had been wrong, on every level, and yet even as he thought about it, hours removed and in a state of near hysterical remorse, the images played back like a film…a film that excited him. He felt Erik's hands on him as they had been on Raven…dear God, Raven, as good as a sister…he felt his rough words against his ear, his neck, his…something else. But most of all, he felt Erik's joy, yes that's what it had been, however fleeting. He felt his beautiful friend's happiness, his smugness for being "right" about her, his passion for her body and her strength, all woven together in the echoes of their intimate moment, burned across his frontal lobe.
And it had been for her. All for her…he had been an unwanted spectator, and one who had been discovered…oh God, what was he going to say to him?

The young telepath ran his fingers through his hair automatically and left the bathroom, tiptoeing through his own house as if it too were another's. He entered the first room he saw, a parlor of sorts, and stripped down to his boxers. He balled his clothing up tightly in one hand and shoved them into an empty flower-pot before collapsing onto a nearby sofa, succumbing to his irrational urge to hide, to cover up…everything. Throughout this series of bizarre actions, Erik's quiet accusation and his own response sounded out again and again in his mind…
This is what you want.
I don't' know what I want.
You are lying, Charles.
…Yes.

Yes. The question that had bothered him at the beginning of the evening was no longer a question, for the truth had crashed around him with a merciless certainty when their thoughts met in the bedroom; he loved this angry metal manipulator, this victim who refused at every turn to be a victim. He loved him unambiguously...carnally, and it was a strong love. It made him tongue-tied and restless, unsure of himself in comparison to Erik's ever-sureness. It made him the best damned mutant he had ever been...
No. No.

This was NOT him. He was Charles Xavier, and he was the master of his own heart, his own mental domain. There were a dozen people sound asleep in this very house tonight, confident in the training that he had proscribed, looking to him for leadership. He could not let them down because of…this. Because of a...slip-up. An anomaly. That is all it had been, and like all anomalies…it would have to be ignored or its cause would have to be isolated, analyzed, and eradicated.
The former was impossible. But the latter….
The memory is controlled the same way as everything else in the brain; a cluster of cells, fueled by electricity that flows a certain way based on perception, outside stimuli. Manually alter the flow…and the perception, the memory, is lost. He would be him again…and Erik would just have to endure his confusion. It would be a fleeting awkwardness…and then his friend would bottle it up as he did everything, if indeed he gave it a second thought. Raven, after all.
Very slowly, Charles sat up on the sofa. He forced his breathing until it was even and steady, and then his right hand came up to rest against his temple. The telepath shut his eyes then, and dove deep into his own mind, determined not to emerge until it all felt like a vague, ineffable nightmare. He ransacked its corners recklessly, using too potent a portion of his power…immediately his head began to pound. No matter. Pain was a necessary unpleasantness…

And then his mind really fought back, and all was a crackling darkness, and lighting split his head, and the intent dissolved, and Charles's screams were long and keening as he writhed in agony on the hard wood floor.