Charles loses the first game. Their second game ends in a draw. They're just setting up the board for a third when he excuses himself to use the facilities.
He really does need to go, but more than that he needs to think for a minute. Clear his head, somewhere away from the awkward attempts at conversation of the last two games. Somewhere away from Erik, who's being nice, who's acting like he wants to be friends again for no apparent reason.
It's not as if they even have anything to talk about, really. How have you been? Oh, I sat around in my cell underneath the Pentagon, twiddling my thumbs and failing to think about what I've done to get there since I didn't really assassinate JFK. (Does that come as a surprise to you, Charles?) What about you? Well, I don't remember Monday or Tuesday, but I know I called you a monster twice at breakfast on Wednesday. Not to mention I also had at least four separate imaginary arguments with you throughout the rest of the week, and that was before a man from the future showed up at my doorstep. (You lost all of them, by the way. If you were wondering.)
Charles is just turning away from the sink after washing his hands when the bathroom door opens and Erik steps inside.
"What are you doing?" Charles asks, though he realizes immediately that it's a stupid question. There's only one reason Erik's ever followed him to the lavatory. "That wasn't the signal, you know."
"Are you sure?" Erik asks, which is equally as stupid a question considering the signal used to involve a telepathic nudge followed by a pat on the shoulder on Charles' way toward a public restroom, eleven years ago. He could not possibly have mistaken telepathic silence accompanied by zero touching as anything even remotely related to the signal. "You waited for Logan to fall asleep. It seemed a little too convenient."
He's standing very close. Not that that's surprising, given how little room there is to maneuver. If Charles were using his chair, there wouldn't have been space enough for Erik to make it in in the first place.
Erik's near enough that Charles can feel the heat radiating off him. He's so close that all it would take would be either of them moving forward an inch or so...
"I'm positive," Charles says, possibly somewhat belatedly. He's not going to bother addressing the Logan remark. He should tell Erik to get out, or else shoulder his way past him, but somehow he finds himself waiting, instead. Not eagerly, not quite, but waiting to see if Erik will come just that little bit closer, if he'll bridge the remaining distance.
If he does, Charles intends to punch him again. Harder, this time.
The moment drags out. Erik doesn't move, either to press Charles or to leave. It's like he's waiting, too.
Eleven years ago, several lifetimes ago, it was Erik who made the first move. Charles knew without a shadow of a doubt that Erik wanted him—if all the shared glances and little touches weren't enough, Erik had the tendency to relive them in the shower each night—but though Charles thought, though he was all but certain that Erik would welcome it, he couldn't bring himself to make a final, concrete overture. There was too much to lose if what Erik wanted and what Erik would allow were two separate things. So Charles waited. He dropped hints. A hand on the small of Erik's back one day, a lingering touch on his knee the next. A massage the day after that, innuendo all the time; he never did claim to be subtle.
It was a week into their recruitment trip that Erik kissed Charles for the first time. In retrospect, Erik practically went in blind, hoping he'd guessed right about what it all meant...as opposed to Charles, who knew, who had known without any doubt that Erik desired him since they stood dripping together on the deck of a ship.
Charles can't read Erik's mind now, and he's glad of it, still. That hasn't changed, but it also means he doesn't know what Erik wants. Erik followed him in here, he's standing so close, it's obvious what he wants, but Charles doesn't know, he can't.
Erik still hasn't moved. Maybe he's not going to. Where there was no chance Charles would have made the first move all those years ago, maybe it's Erik who won't this time. Maybe he'll stand here, expressionless, for an hour or more without moving; maybe he'll change his mind in a minute or two, remember all the contempt has for Charles and turn away again.
Charles is glad he can't see what's going on in Erik's head, but he can't stand not knowing what he'll do for one moment longer.
He reaches up and grabs Erik's chin, turning his face so he can inspect his cheek.
"You don't even have a mark," Charles says. If he squints, there does appear to be some discoloration, but it's slight enough that it could just as easily be a combination of wishful thinking and the lighting.
Before Erik says anything, if he even would have (not that Charles can picture him letting that one go without commentary), Charles does it. He makes the overture. He moves that inch forward, not knowing anything more than Erik knew the first time they ever kissed; perhaps knowing even less, but then there's so little left to lose. It's not exactly the risk it would have been, back then.
Charles means the kiss to be angry, rough. He means for Erik to push back, but Erik doesn't. Erik takes it, absorbs it; he barely even responds at first, and when he does he takes the kiss and softens it. It's slow, when Charles meant it to be quick; cautious, when he meant it to be bold. It's as if they really are kissing for the first time, more an exploration of possibilities than a race to the finish line.
Charles can't imagine what Erik's trying to accomplish with this. He doesn't understand what Erik's doing, why he's reacting this way. It's making it that much more difficult for Charles to remember why he hates him; it's making it that much more difficult for him to remember that everything about Erik is a bad idea.
A few slow, cautious kisses later, and Charles is half hard. Erik, when their bodies finally fit together from thigh to chest, is fully so, the bulge at the front of his trousers just as impressive as Charles remembers. He wants to touch it, take it in his hand, but doesn't, instead opening the front of his own trousers as he continues kissing Erik.
Before his injury, Charles would have been fully erect by now as well. Before the serum, he might not have even begun to grow hard yet, if he were to manage it at all. Now, he pulls his cock out and begins jerking himself, and though his response is slower than it would once have been it's still a response, his cock growing larger and stiffening in his hand.
Once Charles is fully hard, he reaches for Erik's zipper. Erik seems to be distracted by Charles' neck, which he's presently nuzzling, preoccupied as well by running his hands up and down Charles' arms; at any rate, his zipper doesn't go flying down on its own, and when Charles pulls Erik's cock out, Erik groans as if the contact comes as a surprise to him.
"Shhhhh." Charles draws his hand away. "You need to be quiet."
Erik used to be good at being quiet. Too good, actually; Charles spent weeks, once, coaxing him into making any noise at all. But this isn't a stall in any of the bars or diners they fucked in more than a decade ago; Charles can't make the others not hear if Erik gets loud. (Not that Hank, at least, won't know exactly what happened by the smell of sex alone. But there's after the fact and then there's during, and Charles has never been an exhibitionist.)
"I'll try," Erik says, and when Charles reaches for him again, Erik muffles his next groan against Charles' shoulder. "It's been a while," Erik adds wryly, as if what happened to him isn't completely horrifying; as if not having had anyone else get him off in the last ten years isn't the least of it.
(And Charles isn't going to think about that. Not now. That's for later. That's for if he can't numb himself sufficiently by the time everything slows down to keep from having to acknowledge that Erik did not, in fact, deserve it, the way Charles has always told himself he did.)
Erik would be quiet enough if he were on his knees, but Charles would rather keep him here. He shifts so that their cocks brush against each other, then wraps his hand around them both. Erik reaches down to help; Charles has to bite his lip to keep from becoming a hypocrite upon the surge of arousal that results.
It's hardly any time at all before they're both breathing heavily. It seems so loud in the small space. Kissing would probably help with that, but when Charles looks at Erik, Erik's still looking down at their hands, moving up and down on their cocks more or less in tandem.
What is he thinking, what is he thinking? What exactly is this to Erik, what they're doing now? Charles has never before been ignorant of what Erik was thinking or feeling when they fucked. It's not a loss, he knows that; none of this would be happening if he had his telepathy. Charles could swallow Erik's pain when he thought Erik loved him, he never minded then, but in hindsight he resents every glimpse, every hint, every moment he ever took on any of it, all for nothing. He's never going there again. He's learned his lesson about trying to fix Erik.
Still, though, he'd like to have an idea of Erik's motivations.
As Charles studies Erik's face, wondering if he's always been this opaque, Erik grimaces and comes with a surprisingly restrained grunt, his seed pulsing over both their hands in several long spurts. A minute later, Charles follows, sooner than he thought he would but not quite soon enough—he's already wondering how soon he's going to regret this, and how much.
They wash up and go back to their game, leaving the bathroom reeking of sex. Through their next few games—Charles wins the third and the fourth, Erik the fifth, and after that he loses count—Charles tries to tell himself that maybe he won't regret anything. Maybe things will be different. Maybe this really is their second chance. Erik said as much himself. Maybe it'll all work out this time, and they'll save each other, and Raven, and mutantkind.
He wants so badly to believe it that he's just about managed to convince himself by the time it all goes wrong the next day.