Erik loved the way Charles’ fingers, so smooth and uncalloused, felt along the rough ridges of his own. The way their skin melted and Charles’ smaller fingers knitted perfectly in between Erik’s was one of those tiny treasures that Erik knew they both held on to. Holding hands was something extremely intimate, more so than sex even it seemed, so while he had the opportunity to, he would take Charles’ hand willingly.
Erik wasn’t one to show affections. Not in public. Being stoic had somewhat become a mantra for him, and he often stood to the back, a looming figure to be feared and respected. It suited him more to be the enforcer than the one with empathy, which so easily fit Charles, and he wasn’t going to complain about that development. But when the chance arose to be affectionate, especially after being particularly intimate and without the scattered teens surrounding them, he couldn’t help but take the opportunity.
With Charles just dressed enough to look decent - though obviously, thoroughly fucked - and the silence that followed their footfalls, Erik couldn’t help himself. While Charles was distracted with a cupboard, Erik leaned his chest against his lovers back, hands playing with the taut skin at his hips beneath his shirt. “I wonder,” he growled, smiling, lips pressed to the shell of Charles’ ear, “how incredibly attractive you are, Charles?”
Erik’s fingers fled over Charles’ abdomen, to his loosely kept belt-line, and then free from him all together. Purposefully, Erik strode to the cabinets beneath the stove, pulling free a frying pan. He turned on the heel of his foot, waving the pan for emphasis. “Pancakes?”