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Historians will call them anything but.
Charles fell quiet, the young and naïve appearance of his face creasing with maturity and tiredness, biting his lip as he felt the tense presence. His mind weighed heavily, a tight twisting of emotions salty in the air, and he resisted the every urge to respond with a quick swipe over Erik’s mind, ignoring the tugging feeling that led him to there. Erik was equally as silent, yet he continued to stare at Charles despite his outburst of suggestive thoughts, leading to the chess match losing its friendly attachment.
“Charles,” he said, with a baritone voice that displayed his thought, and the telepath lifted his gaze to watch him, a slight hum of acknowledgement, and Erik pushed a chess piece forward, “Sorry for that.” Charles gaped his mouth slightly, his tongue poking at his bottom lip, and he folded his hands over in his lap as he stared down. “I am also sorry.”
Erik still was staring at him, his gaze filled with an intense emotion – Charles could sense it, the pain and conflict and the taste of something he was not used to sensing – before he licked his lips and looked away, he too copying the posture, shoulders slouching. “You are by far the most important person in my life, and I would be sorry for myself to lose you for a political squabble,” he whispered, a soft echo that Charles looked up to understand, his mind replaying those words as he processed. His heart banged loudly against the ribcage holding it captive. He smiled at Erik, a gentle and wavering smile, whispering back at equal volume, “You are.”
The strong and conflicting pull of feelings swirled in its volume, and filled Charles head once more, twirling and spinning like a hurricane – a whirlpool of senses and flavours that overcame the telepath’s empathy. “Erik.”
“Charles,” replied back the German, almost as if he expected it, and his head had snapped back to look at Charles directly in his eyes. The younger captivated his gaze, staring with his eyes flickering between each form of lens to the world, and noticing no backing away, he surged forward, fingers clasping to the sides of the table as he pressed his lips against Erik’s.
Almost as if the same, Erik stood a little, catching Charles approach, his right hand reaching to grab at Charles’ hair, fingers intertwining. They pulled apart, eyes searching for the other’s, the connection of their hearts beating pulsing through the telepath’s mind, surging of the way his blood pumped burning engraved to the German’s magnetic pull, and the two grinned as they physically connected again.
You are beautiful, darling.
You are too, Liebling.
But history hates lovers.