(X-Men, Charles/Erik) the light is no mystery
Title: the light is no mystery
Author: littledust
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1154
Summary: The silence is what Erik enjoys most about the early morning, and this one proves no exception.
Author's Notes: For D, who had an awful day. I continue to nick titles from poetry. This particular poem is "Visible World" by Richard Siken. Read it if you haven't: it's short and gorgeous, much like James McAvoy.
Erik opens his eyes to white ceiling and an arm slung around his waist, fingers resting over his hip. The ceiling is familiar; the arm disturbingly so. Erik stretches out a hand and the lamp on the bedside table rattles just enough to reassure. Satisfied, Erik untangles himself from Charles and begins to dress, his clothes an indistinct puddle on the floor in the pre-dawn light.
"You keep the most terrible hours." Charles's voice is too familiar as well, even when blurred by sleep.
"It's a habit of mine." Charles looks so woebegone with his face half sunk into the pillow that Erik adds, "I apologize for waking you."
"Don't worry about it." Charles cracks an eye open. "You weren't noisy except up here." He makes a vague gesture with his hand that is probably meant to signify Erik's psyche but instead looks like nothing in particular. "You wake up so, mmm, decidedly, and the physical contact is enough that I can't help but get up as well."
The trouble of sleeping with a telepath, Erik supposes. One of them, at any rate. He sits back down on the bed, ostensibly to lace up his shoes, but places a hand on the dip between Charles's shoulder blades instead. "You could go back to sleep."
The smile that he receives in response is enough to make Erik press his fingers deeper, feeling the bone beneath Charles's skin. "Oh, that's nice. Yes, I could, but when I woke up, I'd be all alone."
Charles is far too charming for his own good. Erik is not about to lie back down, but he concedes the pretense of shoe-tying and reaches for Charles, spreading both hands across his back, digging into tense muscle. Erik knows better than to believe that Charles has no worries, but here is tangible proof, testimony writ in flesh and sinew. Erik's touch is methodical, grounded in his knowledge of human anatomy, but the contentment he feels has nothing to do with the satisfaction of seeing a task through to completion. No, it has everything to do with Charles Xavier, who is infuriating and delightful by turns, sometimes both at once.
When Erik is finished, dawn has broken, suffusing the room with gold. The silence is what Erik enjoys most about the early morning, and this one proves no exception. Charles is stretched supine against the sheets, the light lingering on his body. Erik moves his hand up, running a hand through his hair and back down again, feeling where it begins to curl against Charles's neck. It occurs to Erik that he is touching Charles for nothing more than the pleasure of doing so; that this is intimacy without sexual intent. He withdraws, but remains sitting on the bed, turning the thought over in his mind.
"Don't worry so much about it." Charles sounds soft, amused. He rolls over and half-sits up, taking one of Erik's hands between both of his own, fingers tracing over scars and lifelines. "Come here."
This, too, is strange, stranger still in the way that a kiss can feel like a room with open windows. Erik brushes his mouth against Charles's, leaving him to do something with the fleeting impression of four walls and fluttering curtains. Charles directs another one of his smiles at Erik, the one that lights him from within, the one that makes him so beautiful that Erik is uncertain which of them will break the other first.
"Let me make you coffee," Charles says, abrupt. Doubt must have flickered across Erik's mind, because he follows that with, "I can make some things, you know."
"I seem to recall a certain incident in Tulsa."
"That toaster was bloody possessed. I'm surprised you didn't sense it."
"Whatever allows you to sleep at night."
Erik ties his shoes at last as Charles yanks on a pair of striped pajamas that should look ridiculous. Somehow, they work on him, and once the robe goes on over the pajamas, Charles looks very lord of the manor. The metal fixtures in the room rattle with good humor. Charles, squinting in the light streaming through the window, only laughs and says, "I suspect you're mocking me."
The mansion is still unfamiliar enough territory that Erik cannot quite remember his way to the kitchen. Its array of utensils chime in his mind, telling him where to turn without the need to follow Charles, and Erik charts the route in his mind. Charles glances at him as they walk and a map of the estate unfurls in his mind, unbidden. I hope you need never use these escape routes you're designing, my friend, but you may have them anyway.
"That's enough, Charles." The gentle pressure withdraws, but the blueprints remain, sunk into Erik's memory. The violation is not quite enough to draw his ire; dismissing such information lacks strategy. Still, the golden morning has proved too pliant, warped into a shape that no longer quite pleases the eye.
They have reached the kitchen. Charles spoons coffee grounds into the coffee maker and Erik peels an orange; the sharp scents mingle, not unpleasantly. "I can't always be apologizing to you for reading your mind," Charles says at last, when the coffee has begun to drip into the pot and Erik has licked the last of the juice from his fingers.
"No, most of the time you're not sorry at all," Erik agrees, but with enough of a smile to soften his words. If he could choose anyone to know him this well, it would be Charles, who is at least forthright in his manipulation, if careless in his execution.
Charles retrieves two coffee mugs from a cabinet, setting them on the counter with a ceramic clink. He pours the coffee, wordlessly handing over a mug without asking if Erik wants cream or sugar, then stirs sugar into his own coffee, fingers tight over the mug. "You could leave at any moment," Charles says, after a pregnant pause. "Can you blame me for--" he gives a slight, self-deprecating laugh-- "for wanting to have as much of you as I can?"
Erik thinks of the knives in the drawers, fills his thoughts with their keen points. If he slices both of them open, what will come spilling out? "There are parts of me that, for all your power, you will never touch." This is a fact unknowable to Charles Xavier, but Erik makes the attempt regardless. Then he crosses the kitchen tile, cups Charles's face in hands that smell of orange still, and says, "But you are welcome to the rest."
This kiss is bitter in their mouths, but there is enough sweetness there that they linger against each other. Erik pulls back and Charles touches his lips, fingertips light and expression unreadable. The quiet is come again, the quiet and the sunlight both. Charles and Erik sit at the kitchen table and finish their coffee.
Author: littledust
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1154
Summary: The silence is what Erik enjoys most about the early morning, and this one proves no exception.
Author's Notes: For D, who had an awful day. I continue to nick titles from poetry. This particular poem is "Visible World" by Richard Siken. Read it if you haven't: it's short and gorgeous, much like James McAvoy.
Erik opens his eyes to white ceiling and an arm slung around his waist, fingers resting over his hip. The ceiling is familiar; the arm disturbingly so. Erik stretches out a hand and the lamp on the bedside table rattles just enough to reassure. Satisfied, Erik untangles himself from Charles and begins to dress, his clothes an indistinct puddle on the floor in the pre-dawn light.
"You keep the most terrible hours." Charles's voice is too familiar as well, even when blurred by sleep.
"It's a habit of mine." Charles looks so woebegone with his face half sunk into the pillow that Erik adds, "I apologize for waking you."
"Don't worry about it." Charles cracks an eye open. "You weren't noisy except up here." He makes a vague gesture with his hand that is probably meant to signify Erik's psyche but instead looks like nothing in particular. "You wake up so, mmm, decidedly, and the physical contact is enough that I can't help but get up as well."
The trouble of sleeping with a telepath, Erik supposes. One of them, at any rate. He sits back down on the bed, ostensibly to lace up his shoes, but places a hand on the dip between Charles's shoulder blades instead. "You could go back to sleep."
The smile that he receives in response is enough to make Erik press his fingers deeper, feeling the bone beneath Charles's skin. "Oh, that's nice. Yes, I could, but when I woke up, I'd be all alone."
Charles is far too charming for his own good. Erik is not about to lie back down, but he concedes the pretense of shoe-tying and reaches for Charles, spreading both hands across his back, digging into tense muscle. Erik knows better than to believe that Charles has no worries, but here is tangible proof, testimony writ in flesh and sinew. Erik's touch is methodical, grounded in his knowledge of human anatomy, but the contentment he feels has nothing to do with the satisfaction of seeing a task through to completion. No, it has everything to do with Charles Xavier, who is infuriating and delightful by turns, sometimes both at once.
When Erik is finished, dawn has broken, suffusing the room with gold. The silence is what Erik enjoys most about the early morning, and this one proves no exception. Charles is stretched supine against the sheets, the light lingering on his body. Erik moves his hand up, running a hand through his hair and back down again, feeling where it begins to curl against Charles's neck. It occurs to Erik that he is touching Charles for nothing more than the pleasure of doing so; that this is intimacy without sexual intent. He withdraws, but remains sitting on the bed, turning the thought over in his mind.
"Don't worry so much about it." Charles sounds soft, amused. He rolls over and half-sits up, taking one of Erik's hands between both of his own, fingers tracing over scars and lifelines. "Come here."
This, too, is strange, stranger still in the way that a kiss can feel like a room with open windows. Erik brushes his mouth against Charles's, leaving him to do something with the fleeting impression of four walls and fluttering curtains. Charles directs another one of his smiles at Erik, the one that lights him from within, the one that makes him so beautiful that Erik is uncertain which of them will break the other first.
"Let me make you coffee," Charles says, abrupt. Doubt must have flickered across Erik's mind, because he follows that with, "I can make some things, you know."
"I seem to recall a certain incident in Tulsa."
"That toaster was bloody possessed. I'm surprised you didn't sense it."
"Whatever allows you to sleep at night."
Erik ties his shoes at last as Charles yanks on a pair of striped pajamas that should look ridiculous. Somehow, they work on him, and once the robe goes on over the pajamas, Charles looks very lord of the manor. The metal fixtures in the room rattle with good humor. Charles, squinting in the light streaming through the window, only laughs and says, "I suspect you're mocking me."
The mansion is still unfamiliar enough territory that Erik cannot quite remember his way to the kitchen. Its array of utensils chime in his mind, telling him where to turn without the need to follow Charles, and Erik charts the route in his mind. Charles glances at him as they walk and a map of the estate unfurls in his mind, unbidden. I hope you need never use these escape routes you're designing, my friend, but you may have them anyway.
"That's enough, Charles." The gentle pressure withdraws, but the blueprints remain, sunk into Erik's memory. The violation is not quite enough to draw his ire; dismissing such information lacks strategy. Still, the golden morning has proved too pliant, warped into a shape that no longer quite pleases the eye.
They have reached the kitchen. Charles spoons coffee grounds into the coffee maker and Erik peels an orange; the sharp scents mingle, not unpleasantly. "I can't always be apologizing to you for reading your mind," Charles says at last, when the coffee has begun to drip into the pot and Erik has licked the last of the juice from his fingers.
"No, most of the time you're not sorry at all," Erik agrees, but with enough of a smile to soften his words. If he could choose anyone to know him this well, it would be Charles, who is at least forthright in his manipulation, if careless in his execution.
Charles retrieves two coffee mugs from a cabinet, setting them on the counter with a ceramic clink. He pours the coffee, wordlessly handing over a mug without asking if Erik wants cream or sugar, then stirs sugar into his own coffee, fingers tight over the mug. "You could leave at any moment," Charles says, after a pregnant pause. "Can you blame me for--" he gives a slight, self-deprecating laugh-- "for wanting to have as much of you as I can?"
Erik thinks of the knives in the drawers, fills his thoughts with their keen points. If he slices both of them open, what will come spilling out? "There are parts of me that, for all your power, you will never touch." This is a fact unknowable to Charles Xavier, but Erik makes the attempt regardless. Then he crosses the kitchen tile, cups Charles's face in hands that smell of orange still, and says, "But you are welcome to the rest."
This kiss is bitter in their mouths, but there is enough sweetness there that they linger against each other. Erik pulls back and Charles touches his lips, fingertips light and expression unreadable. The quiet is come again, the quiet and the sunlight both. Charles and Erik sit at the kitchen table and finish their coffee.