mutantism:
ERIK WATCHES THE QUESTION DIE WITH ROAMING EYES. THERE’S A WARINESS there, but his frown twitches. im very glad to have met you. who else can say that about him? his chest is tight and heavy, a familiar sensation around charles –– like it’s charles’ fist that tightens it, like it’s charles’ breath that pushes painfully against the backs of his ribs. erik blinks and, in the soft, close second following charles’ statement, balances on the precipice of telling charles the secret tucked under his tongue. he doesn’t. he can’t speak. instead, his grip tightens on his belt loop.
eventually, voice rough, he prompts into the dark, “ask what you were going to ask.”
there’s barely anything left of his bottle, which means he’s left staring at erik’s fingers, the way they curve and bend around the slip of material, wedged between his belt. he stares for so long, his eyelids heavy and warm, watching the way his fingertips pale and flush accordingly as erik’s grip tightens and loosens in turns. erik’s voice is almost a surprise when it comes, though charles should’ve known better than to think erik would ever be able to just leave a loose thread hanging. “ i already did, ” because he has. “ i’m glad to have met you, and sometimes, i wish we had met sooner. ” he doesn’t know what to do, how to make his words lighter, less of a weight, less of a burden on erik. anyone else -- anyone else -- would be able to see it for what it is and there’s a sense of panic that sparks in his chest for a second, makes him fumble to raise a hand to erik’s hair, intent on ruffling it in some show of brotherly camaraderie. but he falls short, his fingertips smoothing down some upturned tips by erik’s ear, tracing the hot skin. the top curve, dipping behind to the shell of his ear and then his fingers slipping lower, until one earlobe is nestled between his index and his middle finger. “ i’m a bit maudlin sometimes, i’m sorry. ”
