Charles is always forgiving where Erik is not, and that can sometimes lead to difficulties between them, such as when Charles forgives the people who trespass against them. And yet, he allows himself to take such advantage, because he still believes, even if Charles doesn't think it's his fault, that it was.
Well, okay, he still places most of the blame on Moira, who shot at him despite knowing his powers.
But now's not the time to have such discussions. Not when Charles is calling him darling and alluding to his skills in areas that are decidedly not the kitchen. Really, Charles. He wonders if he thinks that there's some other telepath nearby that might be scandalized, either by the idea that they have sex or that they enjoy it.
He reaches over to gently squeeze Charles' hand, since no one is around to see it, but he thinks he could use the support. It was a near thing, his leaving: he had made a choice on that beach, but he had almost made the other one. It would've caused him regrets, yes, but at the time he'd felt so monstrous, so dejected, that it almost felt like the only choice to make.
He's glad Charles can't pull that thought out of his mind.
"I do want you by my side, Charles. No one is like you are to me." Not just as a lover, but as a friend. If Erik believed in such things, he would say Charles is his soulmate, cut from the opposite side of the cloth from which he himself was made. He looks at their hands - Charles', the hands of a scholar, are soft, and Erik's are rough and worn with work. So he lifts his hand instead, and presses kisses to his knuckles, gently.
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Well, okay, he still places most of the blame on Moira, who shot at him despite knowing his powers.
But now's not the time to have such discussions. Not when Charles is calling him darling and alluding to his skills in areas that are decidedly not the kitchen. Really, Charles. He wonders if he thinks that there's some other telepath nearby that might be scandalized, either by the idea that they have sex or that they enjoy it.
He reaches over to gently squeeze Charles' hand, since no one is around to see it, but he thinks he could use the support. It was a near thing, his leaving: he had made a choice on that beach, but he had almost made the other one. It would've caused him regrets, yes, but at the time he'd felt so monstrous, so dejected, that it almost felt like the only choice to make.
He's glad Charles can't pull that thought out of his mind.
"I do want you by my side, Charles. No one is like you are to me." Not just as a lover, but as a friend. If Erik believed in such things, he would say Charles is his soulmate, cut from the opposite side of the cloth from which he himself was made. He looks at their hands - Charles', the hands of a scholar, are soft, and Erik's are rough and worn with work. So he lifts his hand instead, and presses kisses to his knuckles, gently.