Title: Dawn
Fandom: X-Men: First Class (2011)
Rating: PG
Length: ~470
Summary: if not breakfast, disaster (I might prefer disaster); angst
Author Notes: To my great surprise, this follows Love in Wartime.

Charles always rose before the sun. A servant’s habit, he had said when Erik once complained, the shrug and duck of his head telling Erik more plainly than words that there was no help for their differing circumstances and that he did not care. And Erik always muttered and groaned and clung, knowing without waking whether Charles was only shifting in sleep or preparing to leave the bed.

On the last morning, Charles’s first stirrings brought Erik’s arms around him, trapping him fast against Erik’s chest. Charles allowed it, warm and relaxed, until he felt Erik’s breath against his neck, not the soft, even breaths of sleep but the small, stifled gasps of almost-sobs. Charles twisted round at once to face, arms wrapped around Erik shoulders, their foreheads pressed together.

"None of that, love. None of that." He pulled back to kiss Erik lightly, cheek and brow, before resting his chin on Erik’s head as Erik burrowed closer. "We’ve had this as we never hoped for. I’ll not forget it."

From the depths came a muffled response and Erik’s arms tightened convulsively. Charles allowed himself to be held for precious minutes before he gently extricated himself from Erik’s embrace. Once standing, he crossed to the kit bag in the corner and pulled on the clothes he had left folded neatly there, not looking at Erik but acutely aware of burning eyes watching him across the small bedroom. He could almost feel the warring emotions in Erik’s mind, the desire for every moment possible with Charles overcoming by the slimmest of margins the terrible lure of despair’s isolation. He felt it all himself, if in different proportions, and the victory made his heart race. He hoped it was still too dark in the room for Erik to see how his fingers trembled on the buttons.

When Charles finished dressing he glanced up to see Erik sitting on the edge of the bed, sheet-wrapped and ghostly in the early light. Erik slowly stretched out his arms to Charles, and Charles’s hand lifted, too, in involuntary response. It was almost more than he could bear. He took a step, and another, before he could stop himself. He stood very still then, forcing his arms to his sides, wondering whether he could manage to speak. After a long moment Erik dropped his hands to clutch the bed and lowered his gaze, resigned. Charles shook his head as though released from a spell and somehow found his voice.

“Breakfast is what’s wanted. I’ll just go down and put the kettle on.”

He turned and walked through the door, along the hall and down the stairs. By the time he had reached the kitchen the world of familiar things had reformed around him. He filled the kettle and lit the stove, and his hands did not shake.

~*~