It was dark when Erik woke up, and it took him a few minutes to realize that was because his eyes were still closed. That was probably for the best, though: it felt like his brain might try to make an escape through his eye sockets. Best to take it slow, he thought, and cracked open one eye.
“Guh!” he groaned, and shut it again. Bright. Too bright. Best to keep them shut. No, there was no way he was opening his eyes or moving his head or getting up any time soon. Definitely not. He was going to stay right here.
Where was he?
“The Mirage,” said a voice.
Erik turned and peeked again and found a body in bed next to him. He yelped and, in trying to roll away from the man's bare back, got himself tangled in the blankets and ended up crashing head first onto the floor.
“What? You're a mirage?” he groaned, and in disentagling himself from the hotel sheets, found that he was naked.
“No, I'm a telepath. We're at The Mirage in Las Vegas,” said the voice from the bed, “And please stop shouting. I think my brain might begin to froth.”
Had he been shouting? Erik couldn't remember speaking at all. He wasn't sure if he remembered how to at this point.
“In your mind. You're shouting in your mind.”
Shouting in his mind? What did that even mean? Was that English? His mother always said that if he drank too much he'd lose brain cells, but –
“Please stop thinking. Just stop thinking full stop.”
Erik stood slowly and wrapped the white bed sheet around himself like a toga. Whoever this man was, this telepath, he was laying face down on top of the bed as still as a plank. Erik tried to take a peek to see who it was – maybe someone from the conference, or heaven forbid one of his colleagues – but the side of his face that wasn't smashed into the pillow was obscured by thick chestnut hair. The only identifying feature Erik could get a decent view of was the man's bare ass, exposed after Erik pulled the blankets off with his fall. As far as identifying features went, this was a pretty great one. Erik would remember an ass like that.
Erik was remembering an ass like that.
He looked around the room, and condoms. Oh, there were condoms. Erik counted five – no, six – strewn around the hotel suite. A couple of them looked like they'd been tossed away unused. They were probably too drunk to get them on properly.
The telepath started to stir: groaned and stretched, but still kept his face in the pillow. He would be up soon. Erik realized he should probably make himself decent.
He went to the mirror and started at what he saw: red marks all over his neck and shoulders, hair pointing every which way, dark circles under his eyes, and a cut above his eyebrow. The hair, at least, he could do something about, so he raised his hands to comb it with his fingers. Odd: he was wearing a ring. He didn't wear rings, or any jewelry, really. He wondered if he stole it. Or made it.
Oh. It was coming back.
“I can't believe we did that. Oh, this is embarrassing,” said the man in the bed. Erik turned around and found him sitting up against the purple headboard, face now in his hands, rubbing at his eyes. The front was nearly as good as the back.
“Did we... did we get married?” Erik asked.
The man dropped his hands and Erik finally got a look at his face. Beautiful. Oh, God, he was beautiful. Full soft lips and big blue eyes. An elegant face, absolutely perfect. It should be put on a coin. Erik knew that, in theory, he should be freaking out about everything that was happening, but he had to take a minute to appreciate his dumb fucking luck of waking up in this guy's bed.
The telepath smiled and rubbed at his temples. “Just because it's complimentary doesn't mean you're not still shouting.”
“Right. Sorry. Did we...? Really?”
He held up his hand and showed off a ring similar to Erik's. “I'm afraid so.” He wrapped a blanket around his waist and stood from the bed. Erik noticed that he was a fair bit shorter than him. No surprise there: Erik always had a thing for short men.
The telepath shot him a look. He must have overheard that. Erik blushed.
“And my name is Charles,” he said, “Please stop referring to me as 'the telepath.' I feel like I'm in a nature documentary and you're observing my habitat.”
Erik smiled. “Is this your habitat?”
“Condom-strewn Vegas hotel rooms with handsome mutant lovers? Unfortunately, no. I'm quite far from my natural habitat.”
Erik finally peeled his eyes off of Charles and looked back down at the ring on his hand. He remembered making it at the chapel last night out of Azazel's Zippo. When the justice of the peace (and oh, his mother would be upset that it wasn't a rabbi) had asked him for the rings, he improvised. He remembered the way Charles looked at him when he'd done it, peering up at him with pride and drunken wonder and slurring, “You brilliant man! You amazing, beautiful, brilliant man!” And Erik had taken Charles' face in his hands and kissed him ferociously, only pausing to say “I do.”
“Look,” Charles said, “It's not as if we got tattoos or anything. We haven't done anything that can't be undone.”
“Are you sure we didn't get tattoos?”
Charles' smile turned cheeky. “I cant tell with that sheet draped over you.” He shook his head. “I'm sorry. That was inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate?” Erik chuckled, “I think we passed inappropriate a long time ago.” Still, he shifted a bit uncomfortably in his toga, feeling more than a bit exposed in front of a stranger. “I'm pretty sure it would hurt if I'd gotten a tattoo, and nothing hurts, so I think we're okay. Well, a few bruises from where I fell out of bed, but that's it.”
Charles blushed and looked away, looked anywhere but at Erik. His blushing bride. Blushing husband. Oh, god, it was starting to sink in. He'd gotten married. To a stranger. This guy was his husband.
“What do we do now?” Erik asked.
“Let's just take this one step at a time. I'm not quite ready to think too deeply about much of anything just yet, so would you mind if we held off on making any other major life decisions until after we've had a shower and some breakfast?” Charles caught himself and added, “Two showers. One for each of us. You are certainly not required to shower with me. I mean, unless you want to.”
Erik didn't think showering with Charles sounded all that terrible, but despite having just married the man and apparently fucked him six ways to Sunday the night before, at the moment jumping in the shower with him seemed awfully forward. Instead, he just offered to let Charles have the first shower and attempted to locate his underwear.
He found his clothes piled up in the corner, his phone still in his pants pocket. The first thing he noticed upon turning it on was that he'd apparently changed the background to a picture of him and Charles. Further investigation found that he'd taken no less than nine pictures of a penis – not his own – one of which he'd sent to Emma with the caption “LOOK AT MY HUSBAND'S DICK IT'S PERFECT I LOVE HIM.”
Clearly, pretending this wedding didn't happen was not going to be an option.
Charles stepped out of the shower a few minutes later with a fluffy white towel wrapped around his waist. His face was flushed. His hair curled in wet tendrils at the nape of his neck, water still dripping from the ends and down over his sculpted white shoulders.
“All yours,” Charles said, and for a quick moment, Erik fantasized that he wasn't referring to the bathroom.
He wondered if Charles would know that he was beating off to him under the shower spray. He wondered if Charles had done the same.