(X-Men, Charles/Erik) we have reasons, so we say
Title: we have reasons, so we say
Author: littledust
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1190
Summary: Each time is always the last time.
Author's Notes: The title comes from "Snow Melting" by Gjertrud Schnackenberg. Written for sasha_b in the secret_mutant exchange! Original post.
Each time is always the last time.
The statement is a paradox, but Charles is well-acquainted with the contradictions of the human mind. When Erik says goodbye, it's with crushing finality, a promise sealed in iron. He hates himself for his weakness in returning, Charles knows, almost as much as Erik hates himself for the distance that lies between them.
Just now, that distance is a scant few inches, but it could be a continent.
Erik sits in the window seat, long legs bent and braced against the wall, poised as if for flight. He's picked an absolutely ludicrous time of day to visit: just after one in the afternoon, on the day of a snowstorm that guarantees everyone is trapped inside. Granted, Xavier Academy is ostensibly on winter break, but few students know any home but this one.
"You could just weld the doors shut," Charles says lightly, handing him a tumbler of brandy. (No martinis for them, today; he neglected to replace his cocktail shaker after the incident on Erik's third visit.) "The children haven't managed to destroy anything in nearly two weeks now, so I doubt I'll be missed."
"This place has become quite the boarding school," Erik says, and turns his face to the window. Charles feels his smile grow strained, the words this place striking the placid surface of the conversation and sinking. Where is Erik calling home nowadays? Or Raven, for that matter?
The snow swirls outside, a gust of wind rattling the glass. "Raven is well," Erik says. "Working on her own projects, now. You know how independent she is, though I attribute her stubbornness to your influence."
"My stubbornness is genetic," Charles replies with a chuckle. Jokes, however wrought with tension, are an improvement on the shouting match of their last meeting. "It says so right on my DNA: telepath, devastatingly handsome, stubborn. A somewhat groovy mutation."
Erik snorts and then finishes his brandy, handing the tumbler over for Charles to set on the table. His fingers brush Charles's and Charles shuts his eyes against the longing that rises like bile in his throat. Erik's image lingers under his eyelids, the only one in the room deserving of the title "devastatingly handsome." Erik is beautiful like broken glass, like a razor's edge, and Charles wants nothing more than to reach out and--
There is a hand cupping his cheek. Charles opens his eyes as his heart stutters in his chest, everything Erik feels for him written in the way his palm lifts his chin, his thumb skates against his cheek.
"Erik," Charles says, and Erik goes still. "Do you remember what happened the last time?"
"Quite well," Erik says, and Charles shivers in spite of himself. "Do you mean to make a point?"
"This isn't," Charles starts, and the rest of the sentence (a good idea) dies on his lips at the look on Erik's face. Body language doesn't mean much to Charles, but he can sense the current of feelings underneath, all the love and the anger and the wondering, simple joy that Charles will still permit Erik to touch him after all the injuries he's suffered at his hand. "I will never stop," he says instead, which is exactly what he meant to say, the words on the other side of the coin.
"You're a fool," Erik says, but he rises from the window seat without breaking contact, graceful enough to make Charles's mouth go dry.
"Shut up and kiss me," Charles says, because it's a line he's always wanted to use, and because he's never meant it more.
Erik obliges, leaning down to brush his mouth against Charles's, deepening the kiss when Charles makes a sound of protest and wraps his hand around the back of Erik's neck to pull him closer. After a few moments, though, Charles identifies the source of the phantom crick in his neck and pulls back, amused. "It's hardly my fault you're so tall."
"Come here."
It speaks to the time they have both had to adjust that Erik can pick Charles up without handling him like delicate china, without an overwhelming rush of guilt at having shattered something whole. I am still myself, he told Erik on the night of their second meeting, the one where he could scarcely breathe for joy at the sight of Erik returned. It's not you that I destroyed, Erik said, and then covered Charles's mouth with his, and there was no talking after that.
Erik lays Charles on the bed and promptly climbs on next to Charles, the bed springs sighing under their combined weight, or perhaps that's the wind outside. Charles can't help a startled burst of laughter when all of his buttons fly open at once; his tailor thinks his proclivity for metal clothing fixtures odd, but Charles has always possessed a unique capacity for hope.
Erik, it seems, has a unique capacity for stripping his conquests.
"You're looking well," Erik murmurs, as though this is a polite meeting over tea and chess. He traces Charles's collarbone with his finger, then trails a long line down Charles's chest, brow creased in concentration. This is the part of their encounters that Charles loves most: the moment when the past falls away like a discarded shirt, when Erik's mind sharpens to the here and now, a single wave of desire and a love so all-encompassing Charles could drown in it.
Erik continues his careful exploration past Charles's navel, halting when Charles's breathing hitches. "There," Charles says over the sound of falling snow, clasping Erik's hand in his and pressing it against his skin, the exact point where sensation ends. Obedient, Erik fans his fingers wide, overlapping the border on each side. Charles makes an obscene noise of contentment and Erik stills.
Now it's Charles's turn to say, "Come here," and Erik does, a rush of skin against skin and pulsing warmth. Their hands remain locked throughout, tight enough to leave half-moon fingernail impressions, in a gesture that is either a coincidence of passion or the tired remnants of romanticism. Tired, for it is not long after that Erik's mind begins to recede, slipping away long before their fingers untangle.
"You'll catch cold," Charles says, taking refuge in absurdity when it becomes clear Erik has no intention of saying anything at all; that he would, in fact, get dressed and leave without so much as a word.
"I'll do no such thing," Erik says, kissing Charles on the forehead. His mind is already at work memorizing the way Charles's hair lies rumpled against the pillow, the way the brightness of his eyes eclipse the dark smudges underneath them. It would be flattering were it not an act of farewell.
"At least unlock the doors before you go. The last time was rather difficult to explain."
Erik waves a hand, the locks ticking like the final strike of a clock. Charles pulls himself into a sitting position, arguments leaping to his tongue, but they are late, always too late, as Erik shrugs on his jacket and tucks the helmet under one arm.
"I," Charles begins, but then Erik puts on the helmet, so Charles shuts his eyes instead. He cannot help but reach for Erik's mind, but there is only silence, drifts of white like snow.
Author: littledust
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1190
Summary: Each time is always the last time.
Author's Notes: The title comes from "Snow Melting" by Gjertrud Schnackenberg. Written for sasha_b in the secret_mutant exchange! Original post.
Each time is always the last time.
The statement is a paradox, but Charles is well-acquainted with the contradictions of the human mind. When Erik says goodbye, it's with crushing finality, a promise sealed in iron. He hates himself for his weakness in returning, Charles knows, almost as much as Erik hates himself for the distance that lies between them.
Just now, that distance is a scant few inches, but it could be a continent.
Erik sits in the window seat, long legs bent and braced against the wall, poised as if for flight. He's picked an absolutely ludicrous time of day to visit: just after one in the afternoon, on the day of a snowstorm that guarantees everyone is trapped inside. Granted, Xavier Academy is ostensibly on winter break, but few students know any home but this one.
"You could just weld the doors shut," Charles says lightly, handing him a tumbler of brandy. (No martinis for them, today; he neglected to replace his cocktail shaker after the incident on Erik's third visit.) "The children haven't managed to destroy anything in nearly two weeks now, so I doubt I'll be missed."
"This place has become quite the boarding school," Erik says, and turns his face to the window. Charles feels his smile grow strained, the words this place striking the placid surface of the conversation and sinking. Where is Erik calling home nowadays? Or Raven, for that matter?
The snow swirls outside, a gust of wind rattling the glass. "Raven is well," Erik says. "Working on her own projects, now. You know how independent she is, though I attribute her stubbornness to your influence."
"My stubbornness is genetic," Charles replies with a chuckle. Jokes, however wrought with tension, are an improvement on the shouting match of their last meeting. "It says so right on my DNA: telepath, devastatingly handsome, stubborn. A somewhat groovy mutation."
Erik snorts and then finishes his brandy, handing the tumbler over for Charles to set on the table. His fingers brush Charles's and Charles shuts his eyes against the longing that rises like bile in his throat. Erik's image lingers under his eyelids, the only one in the room deserving of the title "devastatingly handsome." Erik is beautiful like broken glass, like a razor's edge, and Charles wants nothing more than to reach out and--
There is a hand cupping his cheek. Charles opens his eyes as his heart stutters in his chest, everything Erik feels for him written in the way his palm lifts his chin, his thumb skates against his cheek.
"Erik," Charles says, and Erik goes still. "Do you remember what happened the last time?"
"Quite well," Erik says, and Charles shivers in spite of himself. "Do you mean to make a point?"
"This isn't," Charles starts, and the rest of the sentence (a good idea) dies on his lips at the look on Erik's face. Body language doesn't mean much to Charles, but he can sense the current of feelings underneath, all the love and the anger and the wondering, simple joy that Charles will still permit Erik to touch him after all the injuries he's suffered at his hand. "I will never stop," he says instead, which is exactly what he meant to say, the words on the other side of the coin.
"You're a fool," Erik says, but he rises from the window seat without breaking contact, graceful enough to make Charles's mouth go dry.
"Shut up and kiss me," Charles says, because it's a line he's always wanted to use, and because he's never meant it more.
Erik obliges, leaning down to brush his mouth against Charles's, deepening the kiss when Charles makes a sound of protest and wraps his hand around the back of Erik's neck to pull him closer. After a few moments, though, Charles identifies the source of the phantom crick in his neck and pulls back, amused. "It's hardly my fault you're so tall."
"Come here."
It speaks to the time they have both had to adjust that Erik can pick Charles up without handling him like delicate china, without an overwhelming rush of guilt at having shattered something whole. I am still myself, he told Erik on the night of their second meeting, the one where he could scarcely breathe for joy at the sight of Erik returned. It's not you that I destroyed, Erik said, and then covered Charles's mouth with his, and there was no talking after that.
Erik lays Charles on the bed and promptly climbs on next to Charles, the bed springs sighing under their combined weight, or perhaps that's the wind outside. Charles can't help a startled burst of laughter when all of his buttons fly open at once; his tailor thinks his proclivity for metal clothing fixtures odd, but Charles has always possessed a unique capacity for hope.
Erik, it seems, has a unique capacity for stripping his conquests.
"You're looking well," Erik murmurs, as though this is a polite meeting over tea and chess. He traces Charles's collarbone with his finger, then trails a long line down Charles's chest, brow creased in concentration. This is the part of their encounters that Charles loves most: the moment when the past falls away like a discarded shirt, when Erik's mind sharpens to the here and now, a single wave of desire and a love so all-encompassing Charles could drown in it.
Erik continues his careful exploration past Charles's navel, halting when Charles's breathing hitches. "There," Charles says over the sound of falling snow, clasping Erik's hand in his and pressing it against his skin, the exact point where sensation ends. Obedient, Erik fans his fingers wide, overlapping the border on each side. Charles makes an obscene noise of contentment and Erik stills.
Now it's Charles's turn to say, "Come here," and Erik does, a rush of skin against skin and pulsing warmth. Their hands remain locked throughout, tight enough to leave half-moon fingernail impressions, in a gesture that is either a coincidence of passion or the tired remnants of romanticism. Tired, for it is not long after that Erik's mind begins to recede, slipping away long before their fingers untangle.
"You'll catch cold," Charles says, taking refuge in absurdity when it becomes clear Erik has no intention of saying anything at all; that he would, in fact, get dressed and leave without so much as a word.
"I'll do no such thing," Erik says, kissing Charles on the forehead. His mind is already at work memorizing the way Charles's hair lies rumpled against the pillow, the way the brightness of his eyes eclipse the dark smudges underneath them. It would be flattering were it not an act of farewell.
"At least unlock the doors before you go. The last time was rather difficult to explain."
Erik waves a hand, the locks ticking like the final strike of a clock. Charles pulls himself into a sitting position, arguments leaping to his tongue, but they are late, always too late, as Erik shrugs on his jacket and tucks the helmet under one arm.
"I," Charles begins, but then Erik puts on the helmet, so Charles shuts his eyes instead. He cannot help but reach for Erik's mind, but there is only silence, drifts of white like snow.