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Their breath curls, suspended in the air as they traipse across the snow. It's not fresh--three days old already and crunching under their boots, a thin layer of ice covering the crumbling crystals underneath. It's still beautiful, though, even dotted with animal tracks and the footprints and chaos of Sunday's snowball fight.
The footprints disperse as they get further out, closer to the tree line. The ice is a bit thicker here and Erik can nearly walk on top of it without denting the snow.
"Practice," he says as Charles fights to catch up, each step a struggle. "Patience," he adds wryly, but it's missing the edge that the critique usually holds. There's a fondness there, instead, one that crinkles the corners of Erik's eyes and burns through Charles' jacket where Erik lays a hand at the small of his back.
The pond isn't far past the tree line. It's undisturbed and looks solid, but Charles is still leery, circling the edge and scrutinizing it as Erik sits on a lump of snow and pulls off his boots.
"How can we tell how solid it is?"
"It's solid enough," Erik says. He laces up his skates without looking up.
"How do you know?" Charles asks. "You haven't even looked."
"Put on your skates, Charles," Erik says, and Charles has no choice but to sit down and pull off his boots, eyeing the pond warily. "What happened to your love of skating and your eagerness to get onto the ice?"
"That was on a man-made ice rink while I was attempting to flirt with you," Charles says. "The game's changed a bit now." He struggles to shove his foot into a skate and Erik gets to his feet, shaking his head and crossing over to him. He kneels before Charles, batting his hands away and unlacing the skate further before easing Charles' foot inside. When he looks up, Charles' breath catches in his throat and he feels dizzy.
Maybe the game hasn't changed quite that much.
Charles allows Erik to help him up and urge him towards the pond, a steady hand on his waist. He still freezes at the edge, however, even as Erik steps onto the ice, abandoning him to glide smoothly to one side of the pond and then back. He holds out a hand expectantly and Charles inches forward, little by little, until he's standing on the surface of the pond. His legs wobble and he clutches Erik's hands.
"Maybe this isn't a good idea," Charles says. "We probably should have at least told the children or Moira where we were going. It's unsafe to be out here alone."
Erik murmurs something uncomplimentary in German and then yanks Charles' hands forward, skating backwards as he does so. It results in both of them sliding shakily across the ice. Charles can feel his heart in his throat.
"It's easy," Erik says, his voice gentler than Charles has ever heard it. "You're strong. You have decent coordination. You're agile. It's easy." He loosens his hand from Charles' death grip and moves it to Charles' waist, pulling them that much closer and giving Charles a slightly stronger foundation to cling to. Charles looks up, but his protest dies on his lips when he meets Erik's eyes. It's still startling, seeing him this close, knowing he can look his fill whenever he'd like. Startling and thrilling, and when Erik dips his head, just enough so their noses brush together, it's not just nerves making Charles' knees weak.
"Don't be frightened," Erik says. His breath is damp and warm and fleeting in the small space between them.
"I'm not," Charles lies. He rests his hand against Erik's chest. Erik's heart is beating just as fast as Charles'. Charles doesn't know how he can be so steady.
"Close your eyes," Erik says, and Charles doesn't have any choice but to obey. "Just--reach into my head and see how it feels. See what you're supposed to do."
Charles sucks in a breath, but does as Erik says, tentatively. It's not often he's allowed to do this. More so, now, as Erik begins to open up, as he takes heart in Charles' gentle reminders that Charles can't turn off his telepathy anymore than Erik can turn off his own power. It's still a relief every time, though, a bliss he can't quite describe, like the first burst of juice on his tongue when he bites into a slice of orange--sweet and sharp and perfect.
He resists the urge to float around, to open doors and rifle through boxes, and focuses on the skillset that Erik is focused on, the memories he's brought to the forefront. He slides into them, wind whipping through his hair as he chases a man with a red scarf--his father--across the ice, snow stinging his cheeks as he glides back and forth, faster and faster. He falls into the familiar motion, one foot than the other, the automatic distribution of weight, the way he tilts his body forward to go faster, the sharp turn as he nears the edge of the lake and swivels back in the other direction.
There's an elation blanketing all of it, a sheen of joy that leaves each memory almost too bright around the edges. The thrill of movement, the hum of the skates on his feet, a hum he can't quite identify yet. The hum he knows now, understands as he weaves through the skaters in the city, pushing the metal where he needs it, deftly avoiding those around him, watching his charges laughing like the children they really are, watching Charles, Charles, Charles, Charles--
Charles opens his eyes on a gasp, his heart constricting with the feeling there. It's painful, the things Erik feels about him, thinks about him. His heart throbs in his chest and tears sting his eyes. The fear and love and frustration and devotion commingle in Erik's mind, a jagged mass of emotion that he doesn't understand and has never experienced before. He hates Charles for inspiring it and loves him for nurturing it and doesn't know how to show him, how to tell him, how to touch him, how to--
Charles is skating.
He almost falls when he realizes it, almost stops. He's still clutching Erik's hand, but Erik is next to him, now, not in front of him, guiding more than supporting. He's grinning, too, like he knew this would happen, that smug bastard, but there's a tenderness there just below the surface that sings to the feelings blooming in Charles' chest and if Charles doesn't kiss him right now--
It occurs to him, as he swings around and crashes into Erik, that Charles pulled himself out of Erik's mind before he learned how to stop.
They're both laughing, sprawled on the ice, even as the cold seeps in through their clothes. Charles intersperses the laughter with kisses because he can't help himself, because they soothe the twisting in his chest, because they're falling together, both of them diving into this, and sometimes Charles has to remind himself that he's not alone, either.
"I don't know either," Charles admits quietly when the laughter has bled out, leaving them huddled together on their sides, the breath between them as warm and moist as the kisses they can't stop exchanging, a hot slide of lips against lips. He kisses Erik again and sighs when Erik bites his lower lip. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how I can hold you still when you need to stay in motion. I don't know how much pushing is too much. I don't know how much anything is too much."
"It's all too much," Erik says right against his ear. The warmth of his lips almost burns. "But I can take it. I know how to bend without breaking. I know how to get up again."
He gets up now, gracefully pulls himself back to his feet and offers Charles a hand. He doesn't let go once Charles is on his feet, wrapping Charles' gloved hand inside his larger one and urging him forward once again, racing him to the other end of the pond and turning, swiveling, stopping once he's there to catch Charles with open arms.