Erik can cope with Charles' flights of whimsy better than he can talking over what's just happened right now--he doesn't know the violence Charles has thought of, can't imagine it from the man who sees the good in everyone.

But then maybe he'd understand, after all: Charles's unshakeable faith comes from the fact that he can put a face to every mind that he hears. Their captors are shapeless, voiceless; they could be anyone, or no one. He's still thinking about what he'll do when he has the means for retribution, of course, down underneath in the molten core where his anger smolders every second he's alive, but this, this he can let flood the forefront of his mind, the way Charles needs to touch like green plants need warmth.

Not that he's without his own desires; as remote as he can seem it doesn't take telepathy to know how present he is in the moment, a hiss breaking the air between his teeth as he grips Charles by the hips to hold him in place, arches upward like a wave; like everything else, he'll try to control this even through the vaguely feverish feeling that leeches the color from most of his skin but sets it high in others. "Do that again," he instructs, helpfully, of Charles' dragging nails; as light as they are he can feel them, cool white lines like ice on bruises. "I can't imagine. The hours we could have wiled away reading Victorian poetry."