“You’re growing older,“ Charles whispers, examining the few strands of silver hair between his fingers. It’s not meant to be an insult. Simply a fact. Their bodies—the way they’ve touched each other over the years is their only reality now.
The man —no, mutant resting beside Charles snorts and bats his fingers away. “And you aren’t?”
A large hand trails up the back of his neck, cradling his head. That hand can easily crush his skull or worse, rip the remaining strands of hair he has left. Charles winces.
Erik smiles with all teeth. “At least I’m not going bald.”