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Erik's always been an early riser--out of habit or just a want to beat the sun, he's not sure anymore, but by five-thirty he's up and on a jog around the mansion before the birds.
Charles, as he's recently discovered, is not as inclined. The telepath will often not wake before noon--or, to Erik's horror, even later--unless he has to, leaving Erik the only one awake until said sun rises over the Xavier estate.
Something about that time to himself is calming--therapeutic, even. Just the extra hour in the warmth of the small staff kitchen is enough to catch his mind up to what's happening, and what's happened; it's not like anything like this has happened to Erik in such quick succession before, and it often leaves him with a headache trying to figure out how he got to a place where he can sleep for eight hours and eat breakfast in the same place the following mornings.
The most mind-boggling part about it, though, has to be Charles. For someone to care so much about him--for various reasons, many of which Erik can't dwell on for too long without feeling guilty--is a novel feeling, it's a humbling feeling (even when their relationship consists of Charles whispering endearments into his ear for hours).
Waking up next to Charles is a feeling like no other, an experience in and of itself: the man's face is no longer scrunched up in thought as it is during the day, his mouth relaxed and his brow unfurrowed, leaving Erik to watch it for small eternities, as if his features were painting themselves over and over again with each inhale; soft breaths leave his parted lips in tandem with Erik's own heartbeat--in, thump, out, thump--making Erik feel as if he's connected to Charles in more ways than just their minds.
Of course, there are other, more human ways they have connected, more than once and Erik prays more than the amount of times it's already happened.
Because if waking up next to the telepath is incredible, sex with him is even better, incomparable to anything he's ever experienced. Every single feeling he's been starved of for so long is shared and amplified tenfold between them, vibrating and taut, limits ready to be tested. One kiss to the observer is a million to them, a second's touch lasts an eternity. Pure bliss flows between them in a cycle at never ends, that neither of them want to sever.
But as time is forever flowing, they have to--though Erik isn't disappointed for long, for he's able to awake to the visage of a sleeping Charles, and his day starts all over again.
This routine they've established makes Erik feel that he's a part of something, that he belongs to another schedule, another person. Not just how he used to be owned--he is not owned by Charles, he is Charles'. On paper, the meanings are the same, but in Erik's head they're different, different in vast ways that Erik can only describe through experience alone.
Being Charles' is intoxicating. It's a heady feeling, to be able to know where one belongs. To whom one belongs. Between the linen sheets of Charles' four-poster monstrosity of a bed is where Erik is supposed to be, right in Charles' arms.
It's such a new feeling that Erik's not sure what to do with it.
So this morning, when Erik thinks he's been staring at Charles' slumbering form long enough for the sun to start peeking over the horizon, he slips out from between the warm sheets, wincing with each step as he stumbles to the bathroom and flips on the light, flooding his vision with white.
Blinking away the sleep and his eyes' inability to process the sudden change, Erik hobbles to the sink and splashes some water on his face.
Last night had been intense: a fight brewing over their chess game that had started out as mutant politics to biting words about lack of allegiance, of all things. Questioning where Charles' loyalties lay was a moronic idea in retrospect, and Erik is feeling that in the physical now as his whole body stings with every small movement.
Nothing too harsh, of course, never hurting Erik to the point where the pain is overwhelming, where it blocks out the pleasure and the ever-present knowledge that Charles loves him--Charles has always been a caring lover. Gentle, not very often, but always caring.
Arm muscles straining to pick his head up, Erik pulls away from the sink and peers into the mirror.
His hair has fallen out of place and is sticking up in all angles, his eyes red-rimmed from sleep and maybe even from crying, and his throat has a hickey forming just under his jaw.
Erik blinks.
Hickeys dot the skin of his neck, the usually unmarred and ivory expanse of flesh now mottled with the purplish ghosts of Charles' sucking kisses, blooming like obscene flowers just below the surface.
All the air has flown out of Erik, the surprise of seeing the marks leaving him breathless. Charles has never marked him. It's just not something that's ever happened in their time together, despite all the other things Charles has done to him. Despite Erik knowing that if Charles had asked he would've said yes, he's still shocked.
Because this means Erik is Charles', and there's no room for any doubt.
With the pad of his index finger, Erik presses into the one just under his jaw, one that his turtlenecks won't be able to reach. It stings under his touch, and Erik swallows, letting his next exhale pass through parted lips.
He's here. He's here, and this is happening, and he's Charles'.
"Fuck," he whispers, eye twitching as he presses down again.
Just in case they disappear if Erik looks away, Erik keeps his finger where it is and turns off the light. Instead of changing into sweats for his jog, Erik climbs right back into bed, careful not to wake Charles as he brings the sheet over him again.
Apparently, he didn't need to be so careful.
"What're you doing?" Charles' speech is slurred, so tired his accent sounds southern. Erik almost snorts. Charles' head shifts on the pillow to look at him from a better angle. "Though' you were gonna go--" he yawns "--run."
"No," Erik says, tone hushed.
"No?"
Erik shakes his head, drawing Charles' eyes to the finger still digging into the mark. Charles visibly swallows.
"Sorry--"
Erik shakes his head, silencing him as he draws closer to Charles' body, the heat emanating from him cozier than any other source Erik can think of. He nuzzles into the crook of Charles' neck, where he can imagine marking as well.
"It's okay," he says. A smile tugs at his lips as Charles wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him in.
Where he belongs, this is where he belongs. Marked by him, held by him, taken by him. There's no place else Erik feels like this. Erik revels in the thought that he knows Charles picked up on the thought.
"Why aren't you going downstairs?" Charles asks into Erik's hair.
Erik shivers. "Why would I need to? I don't need anything."
And Erik realizes that that might just be the answer to both of their questions.