On this particular morning, Erik wakes up before Charles does. This was never an unusual occurrence during any of their rendezvous over the years, nor is it unusual when they're on vacation these days, but it is most certainly unusual here at home. No matter that it's the middle of July, that there are no classes to teach, a mere handful of students in residence for the summer months: Charles still wakes up by five-thirty nearly every day.
It's always struck Erik as ironic that Charles is the one who somehow ended up the earlier riser. He supposes it makes sense, the lifelong schoolteacher keeping stricter hours than the (former) terrorist, but he's never quite reconciled early bird Charles with the Charles he knew so long ago, the one convinced that any hour before noon was a dubious prospect at best.
Charles is warm and Charles is breathing, his telepathy soft and unfocused against Erik's mind, the way it always is while he's sleeping. Erik doesn't usually linger around in bed in the mornings, but that's when he wakes up by himself, Charles' side of the bed already empty, Charles himself in the shower, at breakfast, or even at work in his study by then. Today, Erik's going to linger, perhaps convince Charles to linger with him when he does wake. It is July, after all, and a Sunday at that. It's not like either of them has anything pressing to accomplish today.
Erik wraps an arm around Charles' waist and moves in closer, his chest against Charles' back. He runs his hand up and down Charles' chest and stomach, then reaches for Charles' hand, teases Charles' wrist and knuckles and palm with his fingers.
Charles doesn't react, but Erik does. There's a questioning heat in his belly, liable to become actual arousal if he should continue to stoke it—which he does, pressing in even closer, kissing the nape of Charles' neck, exploring a little more boldly with his hand.
Not too boldly. There was a time when Erik would have felt free to do whatever he wanted to a sleeping Charles, who would have felt free to do the same (and still does, for his part). But that was many years ago, before the beach and the bullet, before the paralysis and the wheelchair and the neck and back spasms Charles gets when he sleeps wrong, sits wrong, moves wrong; that was before Erik could so easily hurt him even more than he already has.
So now, Erik suggests rather than demands, so far as the physical is concerned, at least. His demands he saves for some fifteen minutes later, when Charles has yet to show any sign of waking up to do his part. Erik's gotten very good at projecting his thoughts over the past fifty years—and particularly the last two—and he doesn't even need to say Charles' name out loud, not when broadcasting it in Charles' direction is more effective anyway.
Moments after he does, Charles sighs sharply, yawns, and leans back against him. "Erik, really," he says, his voice soft with sleep and something more, too. It's no more than a token complaint, not a note of real protest in it.
Charles takes Erik's hand and guides it to his nipple. Erik takes the hint, rolling it erect between his thumb and forefinger before giving it a little twist, just the way Charles likes. He lifts himself up on his elbow so he can pull Charles' earlobe into his mouth, scraping it between his teeth and sucking on it by turns as he continues to twist and tug on Charles' nipples, first the one and then the other, as Charles' breathing gets louder and louder and he murmurs encouragement: "Yes," and "Erik," and "Oh, God," and, finally, "—Okay."
Erik drops his hand from Charles' nipple, lets his earlobe go, kisses him on the hollow of his jaw, the place where his neck meets his shoulder.
Charles' breathing slows, and he reaches behind him, patting at Erik's hip and waist before he finds his cock and wraps his fingers around it. His hand is warm and dry, his grip lazy and loose for the first few minutes, faster and tighter after that, until Erik tenses and comes, pulsing hot and slow into Charles' hand and onto his back.
"I need to get up," Charles says a few minutes later, after pulling the alarm clock off the bedside table and squinting at the numbers.
He attempts to move Erik's arm, which is holding him in place. Erik has no intention of allowing that.
"You're needed here," Erik says.
"Oh, really. You think I should just loll around in bed all morning?" Charles asks, but he stops pulling at Erik's arm, and reaches for Erik's hand instead, entwining their fingers.
"Yes," Erik says. "It's your spousal obligation."
"That argument's not going to work forever," Charles says, as if he doesn't go on about spousal obligation two or three times a week, whenever there's something he thinks Erik should do for him because he himself doesn't feel like it. Yesterday, it was the stated reason why Erik should be the one to run back into town for a gallon of milk after Charles was the one who forgot they needed it the first time they went. "I have things to do, you know."
In response, Erik pulls Charles a little closer. "They can wait."
And they do.