Work Text:
Edwin keeps track of them.
It feels easier in a way; the methodicalness of it, the mental notes – because there is something far too sacred about this to be put on paper with ink – afterwards. He is the first to button up, will away the aftermath with a strained thought, and disappear out of the office until his hands stop shaking, his phantom heart stops racing, and his ears no longer ring with Charles’ moans.
He can never remember how it starts, only that one tick they are sitting, meandering along their routines, and the next there is a shift. A clearing of someone’s throat, a charged look, a deliberate unfastening of buttons. Edwin wants to lose himself in those moments and be swept away by the pleasure as he works himself to the edge with Charles’ encouragement. As he watches Charles’ body become sweat-slicked, curls damp across his forehead, long fingers deftly extracting each twitch and moan and desperate whine from both of them. He wants to whisper sweet nothings, and praise Charles with unrestrained vigour because there is no sight quite as beautiful as him falling apart with nothing but Edwin’s gaze, his voice, and his–
But he cannot.
Because if Edwin lets go – truly lets go – lets himself bask in the afterglow, then it will all fall apart.
The place where his heart ought to be splinters each time Charles asks to touch him. The distance is a reprieve, a way for Edwin to remain sane. Because once he starts, once he lets Charles get any closer, there is no turning back. There is no world where he can gather up his shattered pieces and assemble them back together without burning himself if Charles’ fingers have blessed them.
So he says no. The distance stays. The instances are more or less similar each time.
Until they’re not.
Edwin is on the couch, shivering as he removes each layer until he is down to his shirt. His pants are unbuttoned, the hardness evident, but he hesitates. Because Charles is standing across the room, by the closet, completely dressed and only watching, eyes dangerously dark.
Then Charles begins speaking.
And Charles is mouthy during these times, far more than Edwin could ever be, but this is different. The words burn Edwin’s ears, make him flush down his neck across his whole chest, make his hand move faster, make his body arch, his hips shudder, make him want to touch but–
When he finishes, the world goes blissfully silent.
He opens his eyes, having shut them at some point with a strangled cry – and those are getting louder and louder, his instinct to dampen them becoming smaller and smaller – and comes face to face with Charles looking at him like he’s- like-
Like Charles wants him.
(Like he’s someone who can be wanted.)
And Charles is close, lips parted, chest rising and falling as if he’s the one who just came to the filthy words of what Edwin would like to do to him, and suddenly everything in him aches to reach out. To give in, to let Charles touch him like he might be worth a damn.
It takes everything in Edwin to shift his expression into that neutrality he has come to wear like a second face. Charles’ eyes flutter, fingers spasming minutely, as if asking again and Edwin swallows back the permission. It goes down his throat like a handful of iron fillings.
Suffice it to say, he makes sure they are both participating the next time.
(Because there is always a next time.
As long as Edwin doesn’t break.)