Erik’s coffee is as black as the circles under Charles’ eyes. Charles pours cream in his cup and adds three lumps of sugar, preferring his coffee sickeningly sweet.
Eight a.m. and the sun is brutal—their chess game lingered after midnight, the pair telepathically conversing till dawn about atom bombs, DNA, and Marilyn Monroe as Erik lay heavily between Charles’ thighs.
Even rimmed with shadow, Charles’ eyes are blue blazes of endless possibility. With him, Erik could become anything.
Erik feels Charles’ pulse through silver. For a moment, he wishes he could become the spoon stirring cream in Charles’ coffee.