It's not working.
It's not that Erik doesn't want this, because he does. There's nowhere he'd rather be than here, underneath the covers with Charles. There's nothing he'd rather be doing than kissing Charles, touching him and being touched in turn. He wants Charles' hand to wrap around him; he wants to fuck Charles' fist, he wants to press his forehead against Charles' shoulder as he shudders apart.
It's been so long. Too long. This shouldn't be difficult.
But his body, which has always been a weapon, a tool, his, refuses to do as he bids. No matter how much he tries to concentrate, to will this to happen, his cock remains soft. There's a lump in his throat that won't go away no matter how much he swallows.
He tries to forget it, to focus on Charles instead. Charles is just as vocal as he's ever been in bed, just as responsive — more responsive, in some places. Things that used to gain Erik an approving hum — a wet kiss to the hollow of his jaw, a thumb rubbing back and forth over his nipple, teeth scraping his earlobe, fingertips brushing his inner wrists — now get him gasps and groans of pleasure.
He reaches for Charles' fly only once. Charles says, "Not there," guides Erik's hand back above his waist. When Charles' hands dart out, clutching at Erik and dragging him close, and he cries out the way he always used to, all Erik is doing is sucking that spot on his neck, one of those places that had always been guaranteed to get Charles going (though not to get him off, not before).
A minute later, when Charles has recovered, he does exactly what Erik's been dreading. "Let's do you now," he murmurs, his voice soft with sex and affection. His hand slides down and down.
"I can't," Erik admits, because the alternative is to let Charles discover it for himself. "I'm not — I can't."
"You can't." Charles' voice is degrees colder now.
It's not what Erik expected. He'd thought he'd get...understanding, at best. Pity or sympathy, at worst.
He hadn't expected for Charles to get angry — and there's no denying that Charles is angry, not when he keeps going, in that clipped voice he does when he's truly furious but still too much Charles to start yelling: "You might have mentioned that before hopping into bed with me. If you were going to be too disgusted to get it up."
"— What? Charles, no."
"Then what? You never had any trouble in that department before. You were always horny as a teenager, if I recall correctly — and I do, let me assure you."
"It's not that. It's not. It's not anything like that."
"Then what?"
Part of Erik wants to toggle on the light, see Charles' face. Get some idea what he's thinking. But he can't bear the thought of Charles seeing whatever's on his own face, so the darkness stays, and he says, "It's not that. I think you're — beautiful. Perfect." It's the kind of thing he'd rather have died than say before, the way it tips his hand, the power it gives Charles over him. As if saying it aloud makes it true in a way it's not even if Charles has been in his head enough to know it.
"Then what."
"I —"
"Then what."
"I don't think I have the right!" Erik shouts, without knowing what he's going to say before he's said it. He'd known there was something, that there had to be, but he hadn't even put words to it for himself before naming it for both of them.
It hangs there for a few moments, ringing through the silence. Then Charles sighs. "Oh. Oh, Erik." It doesn't sound like understanding, pity, or sympathy, especially when he adds, "You are an idiot."
He doesn't say anything else — doesn't say it was an accident, doesn't tell Erik not to worry about it, doesn't utter one word about forgiveness — but only sighs for a second time, then tugs Erik toward him.
As Charles rubs his back, Erik presses his forehead to Charles' shoulder and wonders how much Charles resents him — for this, and for all the rest.
Charles sighs a third time, and says, "Quite a lot, if you must know. I suppose I'll live."