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Charles has an excellent memory, most of the time, but he is also prone to hangovers. Sometimes, when he's had too much to drink, the need to rein in his mind and prevent his hangover from making entire city blocks vomit supersedes his need to remember what he (who he) did last night.

This is one of those mornings. His head is a torment of rusty nails pointing inward, though the sheets are at least smooth (sheets, all right, he's in a bed, that's a good thing), and the pillow... no. Drool spot on the pillow. He grunts and flips the pillow over, then rests his head on it again. Mercifully cool. Good. Yes.

The pillow shifts beneath his head, slightly, and a warm body presses against his, chest against his back, hips against his ass, sensation blunting now but whispers of it remaining, enough to tell him there's a cock (hello) hard and rubbing gently against him. (Also huge, who is that? Is it– well. He could say 'surely not', but then again, he's nursing a hangover...)

He reaches out with his ability for a split-second, and– no. Not a good idea. Opening up is definitely going to make whoever's behind him throw up, and if the ache in Charles's ass (and back, and legs – so unfair – and neck, and... okay, he can definitely guess what he got up to last night, good, fine, it's been a while since he got laid this thoroughly) is any indication, he doesn't want to make his partner too cross with him. They were definitely nice to each other last night, if they spent the night together and his partner is trying to cuddle in his sleep.

He dozes a little, wishing for some aspirin, but eventually his partner stirs– abruptly stops stirring– and there's a slight twisting sensation around Charles's finger.

The base of his finger.

The base of the fourth finger on his left hand.

Now they're both awake.

"What did we do last night," his partner groans, and Charles would, of course, know that voice anywhere. The warmth of Erik's body draws away from him, and Erik lets out another groan, this time one that Charles identifies as his damn it, Charles was right again groan. (It does please Charles, even in the midst of this hangover, that he can identify that groan without telepathy.)

"What didn't we do last night?" Charles asks, closing his eyes and burrowing more deeply into his pillow.

"Well," Erik answers at length, wrapping an arm around Charles's chest and tucking in again, "I don't think we stayed broken up."

Charles reaches up to touch Erik's hand, finding the mate to his own ring on the fourth finger of Erik's left hand. "Seems not," he murmurs. "Imagine that."