They're a little bit drunk on the strip-club champagne, and Charles is still giggling at some private joke he had with the girl, Angel.
"Tell me," Erik says again, and pokes him in the ribs, making Charles yelp in protest.
Charles tackles him to the nearest of the twin beds in their shared motel room and pins him down, holding his wrists above his head and laughing at him.
"I got a Blue for this at Oxford," he says, beaming smugly.
Erik is not having that: he arches his back, squeezes Charles's ribs with his thighs and flips the two of them over, pressing Charles into the mattress.
"Stronger than you, Charles," he hisses. "Now tell."
Charles is wriggling underneath him, which is distracting. The way he's looking at Erik isn't helping either.
"I made her think you were wearing a dress," Charles says. He sounds rather breathless.
"Yes," Charles says. He's gone red in the face, possibly from embarrassment, though that pressure against Erik's thigh is ... suggestive.
"A dress," Erik says again, leaning closer to Charles's neck, so conveniently exposed as Charles struggles and tenses under him. He looks the type to bruise easily, and Erik has a powerful urge to bite him, leave his mark on the pale skin of Charles's throat -
Charles moans and pushes up against him, and this time the pressure of his erection against Erik's thigh is unmistakable.
"You put me in a dress," Erik says, rolling his hips.
Charles makes another incoherent noise and hooks his leg around the back of Erik's, squirming in a way that makes Erik dizzily aware how hard he is himself.
The next thing he knows, he's flat on his back again with Charles on top of him, kissing him so hard Erik can feel the blood singing in his ears, feel the answering song of the iron in Charles's blood as Erik kisses him back.
They're rocking against each other, too frantic now to stop for undressing - Erik's vision is blurring as the pleasure of that friction becomes unbearable and everything's too hot and too tight and too close, he can't hold out any longer, the sharp sweetness of it wrenching through his whole body as he comes and comes, groaning into Charles's mouth as Charles collapses on top of him.
"Turquoise," Charles says eventually, still gasping, "with black suede boots. You've never looked more beautiful, darling."
Erik's not sure if he's just quoting himself or if he's saying it all over again about the way Erik looks now. What's really surprising is how little it matters; but then, he thinks, looking at Charles, flushed and dishevelled and panting, Charles has never looked more beautiful himself.