His grin suggests he is barely holding back the not yet response to Erik's first comment, bringing his knees up to straddle him in a fluid kind of movement. Charles is clumsy in everything but this, and even then he's pushing it. Seated astride Erik, he peers down at him through the fringe that has fallen into his eyes, and his hands go to his shirt, briefly covering his friend's calloused fingers before he speaks, "Here, let me."

It's easy enough to pull the buttons open, Charles has very little care for them at this moment in time. In fact, he's fairly close to ruing the day shirts were ever invented. He just wants skin on skin and taking over is as close to caretaking as he can get. His thoughts are a bubble, a warm cascade that spills up against Erik's mind in helpless adoration. His mouth is red and his eyes bright and his accent takes on the slight thrum of education, Professor Xavier indeed. "I don't know about that, Byron said some pretty things when he wasn't tearing up the country or inspiring popular gothic novels. I rather like there is no instinct than that of the heart, though I can't promise you it's merely my heart being instinctual right now."

A smile that's crooked and mischievous as his shirt gets tossed aside and his hands settle low on Erik's stomach to push fabric up and splay his hands warm and heavy against scarred skin. "Thankfully I'm very clever, I can follow the varying motivations and find a balance."