Shattered, Rebuilding

Aldalindil

Disclaimer: Characters herein belong to Marvel and Fox. No money is being made out of this story.

Rating: NC-17 for graphic consensual sex, mature themes, and more angst than you can shake a stick at.

Author's Note: Thanks very much to ||Scorpius|| for the beta.

I do not want to be here. I do not want my feet to take me up the walk, and yet they carry on, each step bringing me closer. I do not want to knock, but my hand lifts almost of its own accord to rap against the wood. And I especially do not want to turn the knob and enter without waiting for him to open the door. But I do, because I have spent the past four hours attempting to imagine what things will be like, now. And I am fairly certain that opening doors such as this one must be difficult for him. I do not know, however.

Never before have I known anyone crippled in such a way. Of course I have seen them: people in wheelchairs, others with missing arms or legs, blind people, deaf people... But other than an occasional stab of pity for those who have them, disabilities were never something I thought about. I had no reason to. Until today, four hours ago, when I happened to telephone him. I do so occasionally, despite everything. He is, after all, my dearest friend. My only friend. And then he told me what happened six months ago, and for some reason I found myself saying that I would be there as soon as possible. I hung up before he had a chance to answer.

I step inside and close the door as the familiar sights and scents of this place threaten to overwhelm me. The mansion has always smelled like wood polish, old books, and tea. It thrums deep with old, dignified metal. Iron and brass and lead; they murmur to my bones. It is a profoundly calming sensation, and perhaps I have missed it. When I left, two years ago, I expected never to return. But then, I did not expect...this...either.

"Charles?" I call, knowing it is foolish to do so. He is doubtless aware I have arrived, but I am certain he waits for me to announce my presence before contacting me. In any case, I didn't have to say it aloud, but it would have felt over-familiar simply to think of him.

"Hello, Erik," says his voice in my mind. "I'm in the office if you would like to join me."

I do not know if I would like to or not, but my traitorous feet travel the corridors anyway. This door is open, denying me time to prepare myself before I see him. But when I look from the doorway, I almost sigh with relief. He looks the same, seated at his desk reading, late afternoon sunlight slanting through the window to shine on his head. Perhaps he feels my gaze, for he looks up and gives me a warm, slow smile.

I realize belatedly that I should have known he wasn't angry from the fact that the front door had been unlocked.

"Erik," he says softly, marking his page before he closes the book. I feel a slight smile curving my lips as I nod and reply.

"Hello, Charles."

And then his arms move oddly--back, and then forward again as he turns his wheelchair and begins to roll it toward me--and I realize that I had forgotten, for an instant, why I came in the first place. My face freezes, though I attempt not to let him see my shock. Much good that does, with a telepath.

I knew, of course. He told me. But I cannot believe it. He looks the same. I half-expect him to rise at any moment and cannot yet understand what it means that he will never walk again.

I take a step forward and then find myself paralyzed as he slows to a stop in front of me. The irony of this does not escape me, but I do not find it amusing. He tilts his head back in order to meet my gaze. The movement bares his throat, and something dark with wings woven of burnt hair and ashes stirs deep in my mind. He was always so strong. Every beat of my heart is painful in my ears as I realize that I need him to be strong. Now uncertainty flickers in his eyes, when he was always sure.

"Erik?" He sounds concerned and, of all things, embarrassed. Charles Xavier, embarrassed. And concerned for me, when he is the one in that wretchedly awkward contraption of metal and rubber wheels. Forever. Because. He. Will. Not. Walk. Again.

"No," I whisper, clenching my trembling hands into fists at my sides. I want to shout a denial loud enough to shake the mansion. I want to drag him from the chair and command him to stop this charade and walk. He is the most powerful man I know. How is it that his own body refuses to obey him? It cannot be so. Surely he can rise if he wants to. He can't--

"I can't," he agrees in a hoarse whisper, looking up at my face again. I cannot bear it, so I go to my knees before the chair, and I look up at him.

"Charles, I..." The words strangle. There are so many things I want to say; they crowd upon my tongue, jumbled. There are no words for this in his language or in mine. Speech fails me. Instead, I bow my head and open my mind, inviting him to understand.

He does, of course. I feel him inside, warm and reassuring. And then he puts a hand on my head and draws it down to his lap, where he begins to stroke my hair. That was a joke between us, once. When his own hair began to thin startlingly early, he developed a fixation with mine that became stronger the balder he became. I never complained; I always loved the feeling of his fingers trailing along my scalp. Years ago, the day he began to shave his entire head to spare himself the indignity of losing all his hair, I said I would give him my hair if I could. Now he has lost his legs, and, despite everything, I would give him those, too, if only it were possible.

"It's all right," he says at last. Then he smiles wryly. "If anything, I thank you."

I raise my head and am startled to feel an answering smile tugging at my lips. "For wanting to do something that would doubtless harm you and humiliate me?"

"That, too," he chuckles. He sobers quickly, however, and adds with a sigh, "I've missed you, Erik."

I nod my acknowledgement of this and know he will understand. "Shall we call a truce, then? For a time?"

His eyes harden almost imperceptibly. "Have you come because you pity me?"

"You know me better than that, Charles, but read my mind if you doubt." I do pity him, but that is not why I came. I still am uncertain of my exact reasons for doing so, but I know pity was not among them.

A slight shake of his head. "I don't need to. But I suppose I would like to be just Charles and Erik again, without the conflicting ideologies. For a time." He smiles, and the steel fades from his gaze. "Absolutely no arguing? How long do you think we can last?"

I shrug, unwilling to commit. "The evening, at least. Perhaps a few days, if we're lucky." He flushes slightly--I am not even certain if I truly see it or just sense the blood flowing to his face--and looks away. Though I am no telepath, I can guess the direction of his thoughts and hasten to add, "That is, if I may stay."

"Of course."

Silence falls, and again I am at a loss. Charles Xavier is my only friend; the only person I have ever truly--well. The only person I trust. But how does one proceed when the world has shattered in a mess of bone and nerves? I have never been good at asking questions to which I do not want the answers. I have never excelled at asking, period. And my head is in his lap again.

"Would you like some tea?" he asks.

At the same instant, I begin to blurt out, "Are you able to--" but then, thankfully, I catch myself. "Please," I reply, pulling away from him in order to rise. He waits for me to do so before rolling his chair towards the door. I follow him to the kitchen, marveling a bit at his grace. He sits so erect, his hands moving purposefully upon the wheels. I was wrong, earlier, when I thought this had diminished him. If anything, he is an even more impressive figure than before.

The kitchen has changed. I notice immediately because the sink is incongruous with the rest of the room. It is stainless steel, a high and jarring note; it used to be porcelain and lead. It is set lower to the floor, in a countertop that is likewise shorter than it once was. The stove is the same, but I see that the back burners are covered. Their metal coils haven't known heat in some time. Various lower cupboard doors have been removed, as well.

Charles has turned to me, and I realize that I am staring. "Some modifications were required," he says quietly, taking the teakettle from the countertop and filling it with water. "I have more planned, but those will have to wait until spring."

"Ah." I feel my brows lifting as he reaches up to put the kettle on. "You cook for yourself, then?"

"A bit," he replies, wheeling himself to the table. One of the two chairs has been removed. "Now that I no longer require a live-in nurse, I have hired someone to clean once a week. She prepares some meals ahead." He gives me a rueful, lopsided smile. "I've also been eating a lot of sandwiches."

I can't return his smile as I sit opposite him. Instead, I feel angry that he is reduced to this. He once was a wonderful cook. And so I nod, making a mental note to purchase some groceries tomorrow so that I can prepare something he enjoys.

We sit in silence again. He studies his hands as though the answers to all the mysteries of the universe are writ clear in the lines of his skin. I study him, tracing the planes of his face with my gaze, reveling in the familiar curve of his skull, the set of his eyes, the creases in his forehead. I know him, so much so that the back of the wheelchair behind him almost becomes unimportant. It is not a part of Charles, not yet, but perhaps I can accept it.

The kettle whistles, and, without thought, I rise to tend to it as I have done hundreds of times in the past. This time, however, Charles gives me a sharp look. "I can do it."

"I want to."

I bring his tea a moment later--with milk, no sugar--and set it on the table before resuming my seat. "Thank you," he says stiffly.

"Bitte."

Silence descends yet again. But then, strangely, he shakes his head and chuckles into his cup. "We're behaving foolishly, Erik."

I arch an eyebrow. "How so?"

"You are sitting there brooding over hundreds of things you're afraid to say and dozens of questions you're afraid to ask. And I'm expending a considerable amount of energy not to hear you--you're projecting quite loudly--wanting to answer your questions, whatever they may be, and imagining things that are likely far worse than the things you do want to say." He smiles. "It would be easier, I think, to simply clear the air."

I can't keep a small laugh from escaping. "Very well," I say. "Where do we begin?"

"What do you want to know?"

My throat tightens, and I take a deep drink of my tea. The liquid unfortunately does not provide eloquence, and I still cannot answer, so I open my mind to him in invitation. "I have not the words, Charles."

He enters, lightly, waiting for me to make the next move.

This is easier. I need not speak of these things. I need not name them. Aloud, I ask, "Do you still..." before finishing the question with images, thoughts, fragments: a kaleidoscope of memories to convey my meaning.

Two youths in a small room. Hot outside. Their lips touch for the first time; their tongues meet and dance, and then all is sweat and skin and salt and rough sheets against his back...

Shower. Wet. Bodies. Familiar.

"Yes," says Charles, sounding surprised. "Of course." Then he pulls away from my mind and rolls his chair around the table. Our knees almost touch. His eyes find mine and hold them even as his hand reaches for my own. His grip is stronger than it used to be.

"I don't know what to do." I think this loudly, on purpose.

"Just kiss me, please, if you're so inclined." Damn him. He sounds amused. But I am afraid the wheelchair will roll backwards if I press against him. So, after pausing a moment to think, I hold it in place with my power, brace one hand against the back of his chair, and half-rise in order to lean forward and place my lips against his. They are smooth and firm; I trace the contours with my tongue before they part, and then I kiss him deeply. He tastes faintly of tea, and, after a moment, he moans against my mouth.

"This is...awkward," he murmurs, somewhat breathlessly, when we part. I agree, though I do not say so. My calves are threatening to cramp. He grasps my waist and tugs, urging me onto his lap. "Perhaps this would be better?"

"I am too heavy," I protest. But I do as he requests, settling myself across his legs at an odd angle. And then I remember. He wanted me to ask. "Can you feel me?"

"No."

"What is it like?" It is strange, but this conversation seems simpler now. He shrugs self-consciously, his shoulder brushing against mine.

"They...aren't there anymore," he replies at last, aloud. A note of disbelief has entered his voice. "There is nothing. I see them; I can touch them; I see you, but I cannot feel the fabric against my thighs where you sit. I can't feel your weight pressing them down into the chair."

"Charles..." But there is nothing to say, so I simply turn my head and kiss him again. I have missed this. It has been too long. My skin suddenly feels flushed and sensitive, though all its blood is seemingly relocating to between my legs.

Awareness of that growing firmness brings me abruptly back to myself, and I hasten to break the kiss and remove myself from his lap. Charles looks up at me, obviously alarmed.

"Erik? What is it?"

"I want--" I bite the words off viciously and turn away from him in shame. How could I have been so thoughtless?

His hand grasps mine again, and he squeezes it gently. "Erik?"

I clear my throat and force a smile. "I want to take you to dinner, Charles." Nothing could be further from my mind than food at the moment, but I know he does not read my thoughts unless invited, or unless I project them when he is unprepared. He looks as though he might refuse, so I hasten to add, "The Italian restaurant you like. We'll celebrate our truce."

Charles raises an eyebrow. "You hate that restaurant."

"Indeed. But you don't."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Very well. But I'm paying."

I make a noncommittal noise and nod for him to precede me out the door.

I curse myself the moment we enter the mansion's garage as I realize, belatedly, that one cannot ride in a vehicle while sitting in a wheelchair. Of course I cannot cancel the outing now, however. To do so would doubtless imply to him that I don't want to go, and that is not the case. And so I open the passenger door, steady the wheelchair with my power, and watch in humiliated, strangely fascinated silence as Charles awkwardly transfers himself from chair to car. I stow the wheelchair in the trunk and drive to the restaurant, where we repeat the process, reversed, in the parking lot.

And then I curse myself again when we arrive at the door. Or, more precisely, at the stairs leading to the restaurant's door. Three of them: a long step for me, insurmountable for him. Before now, I had only hated the establishment for its food. I look down at him, at a loss, pressing my lips together in an effort to keep my anger in check.

"It's a common problem," Charles says quietly, turning to go back to the parking lot. He shrugs as I fall into step beside him. "I forgot about the stairs, too."

I nod, opening the door for him again. "Is there anywhere else you'd like to go?"

He waits in the car at the next three restaurants as I walk to the door and inquire about their facilities. The door of the first is too narrow; they plan to remodel in six months. The second has live music this evening and, while otherwise suitable, is too crowded inside for him to have room to move. The third is a diner with only booths and barstools.

I return to the car after the last and can't help shutting the door with rather more force than necessary. Charles sits silent as I turn the key and attempt to strangle the steering wheel.

"If you're that hungry, I'll fix you a sandwich," he says at last, obviously attempting to lighten my mood.

"That's not the point," I reply, glaring at the dashboard. "I am going to take you to dinner if I have to drive to every restaurant in this city."

"Erik..."

"Charles." I try desperately to recall if I have seen anyplace at all that would be accessible to him. After a moment, I have it, and I can't suppress a small snort of laughter.

"What?"

"I hope you won't mind if the location is somewhat inelegant," I say, pulling out of the parking lot.

He laughs, too, when we arrive at our destination. "McDonald's."

I shrug, pointing at the small indentation where the curb has been smoothed into a ramp to accommodate wheelchairs. "We can order at the drive-through window or eat inside. Your choice."

I hear him exhale before he replies. "Inside, I think."

"All right."

I'd envisioned us conversing over pasta and a bottle of wine, but instead we have hamburgers, French fries, and Coca-Cola. We talk of safe things during dinner: books, music, the cinema, and then, just before the restaurant closes, we get cheap institutional coffee in Styrofoam cups to drink on the ride back. We listen to the radio, awkwardness forgotten, and amuse ourselves bemoaning the musical tastes of today's youth. By the time we arrive back at the mansion, it feels almost as though I never left. That is, until he escorts me to a guest room on the first floor. I am unsure whether to feel disappointed or relieved at that, so I simply nod and bid him good night.

I am habitually an early riser, but when I wake the next morning and go to the kitchen, I find Charles at the table with coffee in hand and a mug waiting for me. "Thank you," I murmur, stirring sugar in without lifting a finger.

He smiles at me and passes the milk. "It's nice to resume the habit."

"Ah." I take a drink, closing my eyes briefly as the caffeine jolts through my body. "Speaking of old habits, I am going to purchase some groceries this morning. Would you like to come?"

"No, thank you. But we need bread, and lettuce would be nice."

So simply are the patterns of one's life resumed. There are awkward moments over the next days, of course. And differences. We used to sit on the sofa to read or watch television, for example. Now he remains in the wheelchair, and I find myself taking an armchair because his empty place on the sofa reproaches me. I notice other alterations around the house, other details. Metal bars on the bathroom walls. The top bookshelves in the library have been emptied. On the second morning the telephone rings quite early, and I imagine he dresses more quickly than usual in order to beat me to the kitchen. I notice later that his shoes are on the wrong feet, but of course I say nothing.

On the third day, it rains. I'd been thinking vaguely of doing some maintenance on the cars, but the damp and chill in the garage would make the chore uncomfortable. Charles hadn't had anything planned, and so I build a fire, he makes tea, and we settle ourselves for the first of probably several games of chess.

For a few moments we play without speaking, the silence broken only by the crackle of the fire, the steady drumming of rain against the windows, and the soft clicks of pieces against the squares. I move a pawn and take a sip of my tea, watching him as he studies the board. And then I ask something I've been wondering for some time. "What are your plans, Charles?"

He glances up at me, hand poised over a knight. "Hmm?" he murmurs, half-smiling, his mind obviously on the game. "If I am not allowed to read your intentions, Erik, I'm hardly going to tell you mine."

I chuckle into my cup. "No, I mean...do you still intend to build the school?" Years ago, at twenty-three, he informed me one evening that someday he would build a safe haven for people like us. A school where mutant children would learn not only reading, writing, and arithmetic, but also how to develop and control their powers. Our own schooling had to be completed before we could ever realize his dream, but somehow, even then, we'd never begun.

"Oh." His fingers deftly exchange his knight for my bishop on a square, and then he sets the captured piece aside before continuing. "I do intend to go ahead with the school, and soon, but my plans have changed."

"How so?"

Charles frowns slightly, giving me a look that says it should be obvious. "I'd planned to run the school alone. At first, at least, as I don't expect to have many students. But that is no longer an option."

I glare down at the board, angry with myself for not having realized. "Ah." I take one of his pawns without really thinking, simply to avoid looking at him. I roll the piece between my palms and draw a deep breath. "Charles...precisely what sort of assistance will you require?"

His cup clinks quietly against the table as he picks it up to take a drink, and again a moment later when he replaces it. "I'll need someone to drive," he says at last, the words brittle and carefully measured. "Until I get a modified car and learn to use it. Since...it happened, I've been relying on others for transportation. I'll need someone to help cook and clean and reach things I can't. Physical education is a required part of elementary and high school curriculum. Obviously I will not be able to teach that class."

I squeeze the pawn in my fist, feeling the edges of the wood cutting into my palm. "Charles..." I finish with a thought, unable to speak further. "You needn't go on. I should not have asked."

"I want you to know." I dare to look up and find him watching me steadily across the table. I have a feeling he looks for a reaction, so I attempt to keep my face impassive though guilt and sorrow curdle in my stomach. He continues quietly, never taking his eyes from my face. "If a child were hurt, I would be unable to pick him up to help. If there was an emergency, I might not get there in time." He shakes his head and laughs softly, though he sounds anything but amused. "Erik, you saw how much trouble going to dinner was, last night. Imagine me trying, alone, to take five children on a field trip. I need another adult. And not only for the students' sake. If I ever require assistance, I won't be able to ask a child. It would be inappropriate in some situations, and it would undermine my position as an authority figure."

I cannot think of a suitable reply--if indeed one even exists--so I nod, swallowing hard. I shouldn't have asked. "Are you certain this is what you want, Charles?"

"Of course." He sounds surprised, but then he smiles and changes the subject. "And you? What do you want, Erik?"

I want to turn back time and prevent the accident that caused his life to change so drastically. I want to smooth away the stairs and curbs in the world to make things easier for him. I want not to hear the self-consciousness that creeps into his voice when he isn't careful to mask it. I want not to see the embarrassed flush that colors his cheeks when he asks me to reach something for him or when he returns after taking ten minutes in the bathroom. I desperately want not to wonder, in some corner of my mind, how he takes a shower or puts on his pants, or if he is still able to...well. Perhaps the last, at least, would not be so terrible a thing to ask.

I clear my throat. "I'd like to kiss you, if I may."

He chuckles softly. "Need you ask?"

I shrug, not wanting to reply, before I rise and go to him. He tilts his head up, and I bend to place my lips to his. I'd intended the kiss to be brief, but he reaches up to place his hand behind my head and pulls me close, slipping his tongue into my mouth to brush against mine. I scrape my teeth over his bottom lip, and then, for a moment, I'm only conscious of sensation as our tongues and lips map once-familiar territory, soft and warm and dark.

He begins to rub the back of my neck with his fingertips, but I pull away and straighten as soon as I start to feel aroused. Charles looks up, concerned, but I turn to the table and take more time than necessary having a drink of my lukewarm tea, willing my heartbeat to slow. His touch on my elbow makes me start, causing the liquid to slosh perilously against the sides of the cup.

"Erik?" he asks quietly. "What is it?"

I take another sip of tea, stalling. "Nothing," I mumble into my cup. "I wanted a drink."

"Really." His mind brushes against mine, seeking permission.

"Don't," I snap quickly, returning the cup to the table.

Charles sighs. "Then tell me what is the matter. And I refuse to believe you want to take me to lunch, so don't even try," he adds, raising an eyebrow.

I look down at him uncomfortably, wishing it were possible to lie to Charles. But even without the use of his powers, he always knows. "Very well. I am...unsure...where the boundaries of our relationship currently lie."

His brows draw down, and he shakes his head slightly. "Erik, if I want you to stop, I'll tell you. But I don't really see a need for set boundaries." A small smile. "After all, it isn't as though we haven't done this before."

I swallow hard, making a small gesture with my hand, taking in the wheelchair, both of us, the entire situation. "We haven't done this before," I say tightly.

"Oh." He looks down at his hands, clasped and resting on his thighs. "I thought you meant..."

"I know what you thought I meant, Charles, and I see no need to define boundaries of that sort, either." I sigh through my nose and study the chessboard. He is going to win. "I need to know what you are and are not able to do."

He is silent for a long moment, and I'm afraid that I've overstepped my bounds, regardless of whether or not they exist. "Erik?" he says at last. I look at him, and he shrugs, shaking his head. "I don't know."

"I see." I close my eyes, wanting neither to shame him nor further embarrass myself. And yet I need to know. "Well, can you still...?" I let the question dangle, thinking of vague images I hope will convey my meaning.

"Yes."

"Ah. Good." The awkwardness threatens to overwhelm me, but I remind myself that all of this is ridiculous, given our history together. And I still want him. "Charles?"

"Yes?"

I fight back a smile. "Would it be possible for us to continue this conversation in bed?"

He looks at me, obviously shocked, but then his lips twitch as he replies. "I believe that could be arranged. My bed is larger, by the way."

"Excellent. Where do you sleep now?"

An odd look crosses his features. "In ou--in my bedroom."

"But it's...upstairs," I reply, frowning. Of course I heard his slip, but I am not ready to deal with the implications of that just yet.

He turns his chair with a smooth motion and heads for the hallway, leaving me little choice but to follow. "I'm aware of that."

"But how...?"

We have reached the staircase by now, and he gives me a puzzled look as he leads me past it. "I had an elevator installed before I came home. It's just down the hall; I'm surprised you didn't notice."

I am surprised as well, until I realize he must only use it to get to and from his bedroom. And as I've been exerting considerable effort not to think of him at night, it seems understandable that I have not thought about where he sleeps or how he gets there.

Besides, I see when we arrive before the elevator that its metal doors have been covered with wood paneling to blend in with the walls. Easy enough to miss at a glance. Charles pushes a button on the wall, and the doors slide open to reveal a very small elevator. I frown, uncertain.

"Is there room enough for both of us, or should I take the stairs?"

He chuckles as he enters the elevator. "Of course there's room. You think I'd make you take the stairs at your age?"

"I'm not that much older than you, Charles," I reply, joining him.

He gives my greying hair a very pointed look, and I can't help smiling. "Stop lusting after my hair."

"I'm not! That color would look ridiculous on me."

"And you're in a position to be particular?"

"Bastard," he says affectionately.

"Indeed."

The elevator stops, and Charles gives me a warm smile, looking truly like the man I remember for the first time since I arrived. I step back against the wall to give him room to pass, and we proceed to the bedroom in comfortable silence.

It looks the same as it always did, and for a moment I can almost believe that my clothes are hanging in the wardrobe, my razor and toothbrush are in the adjoining bathroom, my belongings are neatly tucked away in drawers. I have never been one for leaving things lying around.

Charles goes further into the bedroom, leaving me standing just inside the door, here and several years ago. But then he clears his throat from beside the bed and speaks hesitantly, bringing me abruptly back to the present. "Erik? Would you mind turning away for a moment?"

I frown, confused, and take a step closer to him. "Why? I've seen you get into the car."

"Despite the fact that I've had more practice at it, getting into bed is a bit more awkward." He sighs and hunches a shoulder in a shrug. "Nothing to hold on to."

"Ah." It hurts me that something so mundane as climbing into bed is difficult for him. "Charles, I don't mind." It is the wrong thing to say, of course. I do mind, but for his sake, not because it would somehow disturb me to see. I want to see, if only to show him that I accept his life the way it must be. But, naturally, I cannot manage to articulate this.

He stiffens and looks up at me, jaw tense. His voice is equally strained as he replies. "You may not mind, but I do." It is rare for Charles to lose his tight hold on his mental shields, but I am certain he does not intend for me to hear him add, "I can't bear for you to watch."

The pain that knifes through my chest at that confession must be a scratch compared to the wound to his pride. There is nothing I could say. Instead of using words, then, I go to him and bend down, curving one arm between his back and the chair, sliding the other beneath his knees. But I do not lift. "Then may I? Please?" I whisper. My voice sounds hoarse even to my own ears, and such a request is unfamiliar to my tongue, but I desperately need his permission.

Charles puts his arms around me; the only answer I require. And so I lift him as gently as I possibly can and set him in the center of the bed. He pushes himself back so that he's propped against the pillows, and then I belatedly avert my gaze when he uses his hands to position his legs in front of him. That he would need--or want--to do so hadn't occurred to me, or I would have attempted to set him down in a more natural position.

"Thank you," he says at last, as I seat myself on the edge of the mattress. I shrug his thanks aside, and then I look at my lap, steepling my fingertips. Again, as usual, I do not know what to do.

He laughs quietly, picking up on my thought. "What do you want to do, Erik?"

Startled, I do not have time to check the images before they crowd my mind.

Tongue against skin.

His cock in my mouth.

Buried in him, above him, watching his muscles bunch as he writhes beneath me.

Touching. Thrusting. Fucking.

"I..." I falter. His hand comes to rest on my shoulder.

"I want you, Erik. I've missed you." How is it that he can always say the things I cannot?

I turn and look at him. It is so easy to pretend, now, that nothing has changed. And so I move forward and kiss him fiercely, not caring if I shove him up against the headboard or grasp his shoulders too hard. One of his arms wraps around me, sliding up my back and neck. His hand clutches my hair, pulling me closer.

I draw back eventually, panting, afraid of smothering him. Or afraid of something else altogether. It feels as though my skin is burning when our lips meet. His fingertips against my scalp send shivers down my spine. His eyes threaten to pull me in; I would drown. I am left shaking in the aftermath. Nothing has changed.

And then his hand trails down from my hair, along the side of my neck, coming to rest on the collar of my shirt. He's lying back against the pillows, watching me, a half-smile playing about his lips. "I'd forgotten that," he murmurs, raising his other hand to unfasten the top button.

"Forgotten what?"

He moves to the second button and undoes it and then the third with expert twists. "That noise you make."

I feel my eyebrows climbing. "And what, pray tell, do I sound like?"

A few more buttons as he contemplates this. And then, "A kitten."

I snort; an entirely unfeline sound of disbelief.

"You do." Charles laughs as he frees the last button. "You make a small mewling sound whenever you pull away from me."

"I do not!" But all my protests are stilled when he slides his hands under the fabric of my shirt and parts it, his palms stroking my chest. His skin is soft--wealthy hands, scholar's hands, best suited to turning the pages of a book. But there is a new ridge of calluses, hard and thin across his palms, likely from pushing the wheels of his chair. They scrape across my flesh, causing my breath to catch. He only smiles and slides the sleeves of my shirt from my arms before tossing the garment neatly over a nearby chair. And then he resumes stroking me. His thumb flicks over a nipple, and I shiver.

My cock is stiff again, and when he slips his fingers into the waistband of my pants to undo the button, something claws in my belly and makes my balls tighten. I gasp. It really has been too long. I stand and quickly divest myself of shoes, socks, pants, and underwear before rejoining him on the bed.

Charles puts his hand on my bare thigh, sending a jolt of heat ripping through me. The situation is getting rapidly out of hand, so I place my hand on his arm, stilling him.

"One of us is overdressed, Charles."

I allow him to remove his own shirt, not wanting to offend his pride by undressing him entirely. When he has done so, I move down the bed and hold his feet in my lap as I untie his shoes and remove them, followed by his socks. His feet are long and pale, marbled with the faint blue of veins, softer than I remember. I am suddenly struck with a strange desire to massage them, to knead his arches with my thumbs, to stroke my fingertips up his ankles. I wish, now, that I'd done so years ago. But instead I set them aside and move back up in order to unbutton and unzip his pants.

"Are you able to lift your hips?"

"A bit." And he does so, a trembling, weak attempt. I support him awkwardly with one hand and pull his pants off with the other. It is terribly unromantic, but at last he lies naked before me. Until now, I had not thought it possible to be aroused and saddened at the same time. But it is. He is handsome as he reclines there, his body so pale and smooth. I notice immediately that his torso and arms are far more muscular than they used to be. I am staring again, but I do not care.

"You look wonderful," I find myself saying. I set my hand on his chest and run my palm over the new hardness of muscle. Gooseflesh prickles immediately, and he gasps.

"God! Erik, that feels--" he gasps again when I roll one of his nipples between my thumb and forefinger. It appears his upper body is more sensitive than before, or perhaps it has simply been a long time since he has been touched, as well. I think I will enjoy this, I muse as I trail my hand down his side.

"Tell me where, Charles," I say quietly as I continue to slide my hand over his skin. I keep my eyes on his face, however, watching him closely. He gives a curt nod and then looks away, or inwards.

His jaw tenses after a moment. "There."

My fingers are almost level with the base of his organ, and I frown, puzzled. "There? But I thought you said you could...?"

He shakes his head, still not meeting my gaze. "It can function. But I have very limited feeling in that area, and nothing at all in my legs."

I ponder the implications of this as I continue to stroke him, moving my hand further down, feeling the rough hair on the top of his thigh prickling my palm. I'd half-expected his flesh here to be cold and dead, but his limb is surprisingly--reassuringly--warm beneath my touch. It seems unbelievable to me that he cannot feel my hand upon his skin. But it is so, and because of that I shift my attention from his legs to areas where he can feel me.

I begin by leaning down and kissing him. His hands immediately reach behind my head to grasp my hair, and I chuckle softly against his mouth. Predictable, is Charles. I then place my lips briefly against his jaw, and then to the side of his neck. He shivers at that, so I kiss his neck again and then nip a bit of skin between my front teeth, eliciting a more violent shiver and a hiss. His fingers are still weaving my hair, and their nails dig almost painfully into my scalp.

"Erik!" his voice sounds tight.

In apology, I run my tongue over the spot I bit before moving to kiss his collarbone. The shape of it is interesting, so I trace the lines lightly with lips and tongue and then move down again. I pull back and run my hand over his chest, teasing his nipples with a fingertip until they draw up. They are rose-colored. This amuses me. I bend and place my tongue over one of them; Charles groans. I give it an experimental flick with the tip of my tongue, and he clutches my shoulder. And then I begin to suck on it in earnest, circling it with my tongue and scraping it between my teeth, and his breathing becomes ragged and shallow. His fingertips bruise my flesh.

"Erik, please..."

I look down and see that he is hard, and it occurs to me to wonder if he's been imagining I've been tending to his cock rather than his nipple. I do not know if he will feel it, and I do not want to ask, so I move without a word and position myself between his legs. I lower my head and gently take his cock in my mouth, feeling the smooth, full heat between my lips and on my tongue. It has been far, far too long.

His flesh is soft, silken, and he tastes faintly like soap. I stroke my tongue along the underside of his erection, and his hands tremble as they tighten once more in my hair. I look up, expecting to see his head tilted back, his eyes half-closed with pleasure. Instead, I find him watching me, his face set, with tears threatening to fall. Concerned, I pull away immediately.

"You can't feel it, can you." It was supposed to be a question, but dread colored it differently.

Charles shakes his head, and I can hear him swallow. "Not much, no."

"Ah." I feel myself frowning. "Would it help if I--"

"Damn it, Erik, I don't know!" He leaned forward to speak, now he sinks back against the pillows again. He sighs. "I haven't done this before. I just...don't know."

"Then please, allow me to draw upon my vast experience." It is difficult to snap at someone properly when your head is between his legs, but I do my best.

His brows draw down, but then he smiles a little and shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

I should respond in kind, I know, but instead I say, "Just tell me when--if--you do feel something," and take him in my mouth again. Charles nods and closes his eyes--the better to concentrate, I imagine.

He is still hard; his cock fills my mouth with heat. I slide my mouth slowly up and down its length, as I have done countless times before. He used to respond. Now, there is nothing. He simply holds carefully still, as one does at the doctor's office, waiting for unpleasantness. I stroke my tongue over the head, feeling the skin, smooth as glass, slipperier than the rest of him. Still nothing.

My own excitement is fading fast; this feels too clinical. Stimulus A, then Stimulus B... I close my eyes and reach up to run one hand over his chest, travelling the map of his flesh with my fingertips.

Beneath my touch, bereft of sight, his skin is tanned, almost burnt, where the neck of his shirt was open to the desert sun. The sheets we lie upon are not fine, but grimy and second-hand. My eyes are shut, but I know he looks at me from beneath half-closed lids, his hands threading through my hair, gripping my shoulders...

I suck harder, feeling my heartbeat quicken, and am rewarded with a soft moan. His hands find my shoulders. "Erik--yes."

He writhes beneath me on the small bed, utterly at my mercy. It is hot; it's almost always hot in the desert, but that only adds to the sense of earthiness about what we are doing. This is not making love. This is sweat and sand and skin and the smoothness of pre-come on my tongue...

I'm rubbing his skin more frantically, everywhere I can reach. My cock is stiff; I can't help grinding my hips against the bedclothes. I use my teeth on him now, a temptation that's always been there but was always too rough in practice. Now his breathing becomes ragged, and his hands are on my shoulders, kneading the muscle, bruising the skin. I am long unused to such activities, especially like this, and my jaw aches. But I continue to suck him as hard as I can, pulling him deep into my mouth. It takes longer than it once did, but at last he stiffens, back arching off the mattress, gasps raggedly, and comes. I withdraw and swallow hard, tasting salt.

I take a deep, shuddering breath, sit up, and look up at him. His face--indeed, his entire body--is flushed, and he, too, breathes hard. He looks strangely vulnerable, naked against the linens, and suddenly I am reminded of how very rough I was. "Did I hurt you?"

His eyes widen. "No! Not at--Erik, I--" he breaks off and laughs softly. "Erik, I felt it. It was...different than it used to be, but...thank you."

"It wasn't a favor, Charles," I reply as I move up to lie beside him. Once upon a time I would have pressed myself against his thigh to convey my meaning, but now instead I take his hand and place it on my erection.

An odd look crosses his face again--disappointment, perhaps? He strokes a finger down the length of my shaft but then withdraws his hand and shakes his head. "You can do that yourself," he says quietly. And then he smiles. "I can do better. Will you let me?" His mind brushes against mine, uncertain.

I open my mouth to tell him that I hadn't intended for him to masturbate me; I'd only wanted him to be able to feel that I was still aroused. But then it occurs to me that perhaps he is unable or unwilling to do anything else, so I say nothing and open my mind to him.

He enters carefully, gently, completely, filling me with his presence. A burst of joy shoots through me, and I am unsure if it is his emotion or my own. Perhaps both. I have not his gifts, but I know he cares for me as much as I care for him. And it has been much too long for both of us.

"Close your eyes," Charles says, after we've basked in one another for a moment.

I do, and I'm in Israel again.

I close my eyes and thrust as gently as I can. Charles gasps, and I stop at once, though only the tip is inside him. "Did I hurt you?" I ask, looking down at him in concern.

He moans and pulls me down on top of him, and I can tell from the wet spot between us that he came, too. I rest my cheek against his shoulder, shaking, trying to catch my breath, and we come back to ourselves together.

I open my eyes, and the world spins again as I realize that Charles is not beneath me. We are not in Israel, and we are not eighteen and twenty. We have not even been touching. At some point he must have rolled onto his side, however, for he lies now propped up on one elbow, watching me. He smiles, though the expression is shaded with regret.

"Did you like it?" he asks, an echo of his younger self.

When he asked the first time, I believe my face went red, and I muttered something sarcastic. But now I do what I probably should have done then. Reaching up, I curve my hand along his skull and stroke the side of his cheek with my thumb. "Of course," I say simply. "It was you."

His face softens. "Erik--"

"But Charles?" I cut him off before he has a chance to get overly sentimental. "For the record, I like you better bald."

He laughs. "Perhaps...next time?"

"Perhaps." Clearing my throat, I withdraw my hand and look away. "After all, we've all the time in the world."

His breath catches, the slightest hesitation before he speaks. "I thought you doubted our truce could last the week?"

I shrug, attempting to seem nonchalant. "Call it peace, then, for now. I'm going to help you build your school. That's why I came."

I simply didn't know it until now.

The End