Chapter 2
Erik had experienced this nightmare many times, the sick doctor winding his way around Erik’s entire being--his too-sharp mind that somehow remained unbroken, his shaking fingertips that rattle the metal bed he’s strapped to (though he’s much too afraid to do much more than that), the wide grey eyes that well up with unshed tears even as he gets old enough for crying to embarrass him.
You’re doing so well, my little protégé, Shaw said, voice full of malice dripping from his sick smile like candy. We will make you a master of your gift yet.
Erik shuddered every time in the dream--couldn’t help it, each time it was different and yet it chilled him--and cried. He always cried. Schmidt’s grin, sharklike and impossibly venomous, blurred in his globby vision.
Schmidt’s cold hands, always so cold, warmed around his neck, coiled there like a snake in waiting, pressing hard into his throat and cutting off his air supply. Schmidt squeezed until Erik could no longer breathe. Until he died. Usually. This time, though, he did not die. Schmidt’s suffocating presence pulled back, pulled far from him, and suddenly he was floating.
It was not so much lonely as peaceful. Erik felt the sun warm his cold skin for the first time in what felt like years, probably was years. It always seemed to be raining in his memories. Now, though, it was not, and he let himself sigh contentedly. Just as suddenly as he was floating, and he knew this was possible now because he was dreaming, Xavier Manor appeared in front of him, looming pleasantly, almost leaning into his presence. Hello, he thought to it. I hadn’t expected to see you here.
Once he entered the manor, which had opened to him expectantly, he explored it for a while. Instead of the rooms he was accustomed to, he seemed to be walking through his memories. Some of the doors were shut, locked tight, with icy gusts coming from the gap near his ankles and cold doorknobs. Easy enough to figure out what those were. He moved on, and rested for a while in his old hotel rooms, fingers ghosting over the familiar scratchy sheets he had shared with many before him.
And then he is among his room at Division X, modest and plain. He can see the room where Darwin had (apparently) perished, can see the ruined statue and the dark marks of blood that stained the grass there, can see the discarded tables and chairs.
He notices for the first time that he is alone. Not quite in a formal, horrified way, but he does feel quite sacred, as though his memories are something hallowed. Feeling quite desperate all of a sudden, and for what he is unsure, Erik began moving through the rooms faster. The room in which they had found Emma Frost in Russia was there, as well as the various lavish rooms Charles had chosen for them on their Cerebro-guided trips to find mutants, sometimes with two beds to share, sometimes with one, sometimes separate rooms entirely. He remembers one sort of fondly, the way he had sat up and stared at the ghostly reflection of himself, long past the pale terrified former prisoner of eugenics but still wild, as Charles snored softly beside him, nose a little pink from the shower he’d been in, hair drying in soft curls on his face. He had not found anyone yet.
And finally, the last room, seemed to be Charles’ study. Or, at least, it was the impression that Erik--the real Erik, not this dreamscape Erik--got from it. Charles disappeared into it often, books or papers or even Raven in tow, looking jovial each time. He reappeared some hours later, looking tired and yet still entirely youthful, and he often waved at Erik when he did.
Erik felt the doorknob of the study, hairs rising on the back of his neck as he notices how alive it felt. Clearly it was some other form of metal he could control painted with a shiny gold lacquer. He doesn’t know when he noted something like that last, feels somewhat ridiculous for doing so, but then he pushed it open, warm gust of sunlight once again settling over him.
He found Charles in his study, and Charles turned from where he stood at his bookshelf, a soft smile spreading across his face as he caught sight of Erik. Erik woke in a pool of his own sweat, confused and feeling vulnerable. He took his shower cold in an attempt to wake himself up, and downed his morning coffee while it was still steaming hot, rolling his burned tongue in his mouth in a feeble attempt to distract himself from whatever had just happened.
It was a long time before Charles and Erik properly spoke again, especially after Erik’s perplexing dream. Erik had retreated into his shell and actively tried to avoid Charles now, fully rather than previously just attempting to dodge physical contact, despite Charles’ constant and well-meant gestures to let Erik know that he still desired his companionship. It was excruciating for many reasons.
Firstly, Erik wanted badly to talk to Charles, to ask if he had been the perpetrator of his dream. Charles could probably do that, he reasoned, but would he? He had (feebly) attempted to reach out after the nightmare-turned-hellish-dreamscape, but had thought better of himself and had put up his mental shields again, effectively popping the bubble before it left his brain. Secondly, he knew Charles knew he was avoiding him, knew everyone in the wide halls of Xavier manor knew, judging by the cloud of angry resignation Charles had settled over himself with the loss of what he had apparently considered his close friend’s trust for a reason neither of them quite understood. It kept making everyone cross and fussy with one another.
Of course, Darwin’s death and Angel’s betrayal had not made that any easier on them. Erik’s mind wandered one night where he sat, pressed into the nook of a reading space in his claimed bedroom. (The smallest, he thinks. Multiple points of access to the outside, while still above the ground floor so that he cannot be surprise attacked by anyone who will not have to break a window or pass through the whole house. Still, he sleeps with the lights on.) It wandered to Darwin, to the Hellfire Club, to the relaying of the story from a sobbing shaking mess of a girl Raven had been that night. Sean had sat with Hank, the pair of them covered in shock blankets and shivering with lingering fear. Darwin’s sandwich and pinball game both went untouched.
Alex had been especially distant since, had said nothing to Erik aside from unspoken words through glances that bored holes through him.
He could almost feel the weight of them on his back, even though he knew it may have been in his head, that Alex blamed, blames, will blame Erik. Erik blamed himself, because it was his fault.
Shaw--and he struggles to call him that even still--would have never known the other mutants existed had Erik chosen not to let go. They never would have found Darwin, never would have set eyes on the traitorous Angel, never would have put children in danger.
(Erik tried not to blame her; she had no idea what Schmidt had done to him, how he had assumed the position he needed in order to torture Erik and disappeared once it was punishable by death, how he had killed the only person Erik had ever loved in his life, how he had called him pet names like spatzi and mäuschen while forcing him to pull the fillings of some poor innocent that stared back at him with the same regret and acceptance. She couldn’t have. He still curses her name to himself, and feels awful for it.)
And he never would have met Charles, because Charles had a will to live that Erik did not share and Charles would have let go to breathe precious oxygen rather than sea, because while Erik had lived following the slimy trail of Klaus Schmidt and wanted nothing more than to see him hurt as Erik had hurt, Charles had made his own shadow and enjoyed the sun with his sister and kissed people he thought were attractive in his spare time. He was not consumed by the pursuit of death. He was instead full of things Erik did not remember feeling in his life, like the pursuit of knowledge for the sake of it rather than for a purpose.
It is with that sentiment that his door burst open, and Erik was on high alert and on his feet instantaneously, every piece of sharp metal vibrating anxiously as who else but Charles rounded the doorframe, looking up almost in surprise to find fountain pens and stray screws alike pointed directly at a platter of tea and biscuits.
“Oh,” Charles said, sounding ethereally amazed as he noted the metal’s fixed placement in the air around his head. He looked magnificent, Erik noted with a hint of jealousy, his frumpy little cardigan discarded and folded over an arm, his shirt sleeves rolled up with the efforts of the day. More importantly, he didn't blame Erik for his defensive actions, merely smiled sheepishly at him from the center of the room. Erik thought Charles looked rather vulnerable, the first crack in the second skin the telepath carried with him always. “I’ve brought provisions, fresh from the oven, if you'd like!” Erik had missed dinner, of course, through his own inability to face Alex after giving the events of Darwin's death some consideration and finding that if he went back far enough, he was the one to blame. Charles was so unsettlingly considerate.
Of course, then he caught himself in Charles and his doe-eyed gaze and fidgeted nervously at his own uncertainty, lowering the metal and sending everything to its proper place. Apologetically, he took the platter in Charles’ hands, relieving him and gesturing for him to sit wherever he'd like.
“Thank you. They smell, ah, lovely.” Charles beamed at Erik’s hamfisted attempt at conversation, already brightening the room with his idiot’s smile that made Erik shake a little. He took a seat on the bed, the bed he owned and had lent to Erik, and the platter came after, at his side.
“Raven’s made them, naturally,” Charles began, accent crisp and posh in Erik’s ears. Never would he admit it, but Charles’ constant moping had brought a sense of… grateful fondness to the sound of him genuinely enjoying himself again. “Make no mistake, I’d have burned the mansion down if she let me near anything more than mixing bowls to lick clean.”
There was something boyishly cute about the idea Charles sneaking bits of chocolate chip flavoured batter from Raven’s mixing bowls, impatiently and behind her back, and maybe Erik was projecting this to Charles purposefully because he wanted to hear Charles laugh, but fuck it, right? Erik threw caution to the wind as soon as let the submarine go with Schmidt in it, and he'd not bothered taking the initiative to catch it again. Charles did laugh, eventually, and it spread a frightening bit of warmth along Erik’s face and up into his scalp. Erik distracted himself with taking a bite of biscuit.
He felt weird finding Charles cute after dreaming about him, wasn’t quite sure what that even meant with regards to their rather awkward relationship.
The cookies were delightfully soft, still warm and oozing molten chocolate onto his fingertips, and Erik surprised himself, devouring the whole thing. Typically, he would check them for poison, or for tampering, but he… god, he could hardly even bring himself to think it. He trusted Raven, somehow. “My compliments to the chef,” Erik beamed, just a little, muffled voice shielded behind his hand. Charles beamed again too, impossibly brighter. Erik is getting just a little upset about it.
Gradually, Erik sat, no longer hovering awkwardly, and Charles smiled up at him. ( Up , Erik thought, ears tinting pink. Charles has to look up. How cute. How had he not noticed?)
Charles laughed at him, with him? , and Erik flushed. Telepathic, right.
I’m flattered, my friend, Charles said, except he didn’t say it, Erik just knew it, and it’s so odd that he could hear him without using his ears or seeing Charles’ lips move that he sat fixated on them, embarrassingly so. They were nicely shaped, plump and a sweet pink, with a mole or a beauty mark on his chin, right below the curve of his lower lip on the left side, eye catching and attractive. He noted that he and Raven match in that respect. She had one on her right side, probably put it there, and that thought is sweet. You have a way of observing that is simply remarkable, did you know?
Erik cleared his throat, looking away, down at his lap, the spindles of his fingers curling around each other like a cat’s cradle mess of yarn. “I hadn’t realised you were listening.”
“I’m terribly sorry.” Charles apologised, and he seemed rather open about his honest resentment in that moment. “You just have an interesting mind, and last night, you were dreaming rather loudly. It’s hard for me not to just…” He trailed off, extending his hand a little in front of his face, wiggling his fingers as though trying to communicate some alien form of sign language. “Peek in.” He seemed to find the right word, and let his hand drop. “Your distress was palpable. I hope it’s alright I meddled a little.”
Charles could do that? Erik was impressed.
“I don’t mind, now that I know,” Erik found himself saying, assuring Charles with a tentative hand against his elbow that retreated as quickly as it ventured out. “It was just odd. I’ve never met a telepath before.” (Partially untrue, but he had only met the elusive Miss Frost for a few fleeting moments of time, and not long enough to be able to trust her in his mind at all.) "Is it different to talk
I think it’s far easier to express things when I don’t have to say anything at all, Charles projected. His voice, though not a voice at all, was warm. Being in your own mind creates a lack of censorship and apprehension. People don't often censor their own thoughts. Charles raised his eyebrow, looking right at Erik. It allows for rather enlightening subconscious thought.
Charles had smiled at him in his dream. "You knew what I was thinking?" Erik asked, voice more accusatory than he intended. "You were watching the dream? You were in it?" He remembered the way Charles' study had felt alive, and the way everything in the room seemed to be as specific as if Erik were standing right in it, rather than the other rooms, which had been a few key pieces of the furniture surrounded by a blurry overall atmosphere. Charles had put it there.
"Well, yes." Charles was, thankfully, not speaking subconsciously, and Erik could hear the apprehension in his voice. "But I only inserted myself when your mind called for my presence and couldn't find it, really. You were sort of inching closer to it if I'm honest, what with the hotel rooms and all that from Russia, but I never intend to pick minds apart like a meal and add things as I see fit, and I didn't interfere until you all but asked me to. I'm not very good with dream manipulation, so I just took Shaw away from your thoughts for a while and let you keep dreaming."
Shit. Charles knew exactly what had happened in Erik's dream, the exact kind of emotions he had felt while searching frantically for Charles in his own home and in his memories. Erik realised it just then, sitting awkwardly on a borrowed bed with the one person he had been trying to avoid for as long as he could. Erik had been frightened, seeking comfort and compassion and something that felt safe while both recovering and alone, and he had found Charles. And now that Charles had said it...
It was all subconscious, like Doctor Frankenstein's monster had been, a metaphor for something bigger that Erik could not understand. Erik relied on Charles for a lot more than a place to stay. There was a reason he hadn't left Division X, after all.
Erik flushed, cleared his throat. "I was calling out for you, then." It wasn't a question, but it hung heavy in the air between them. Charles and Erik looked each other over, and Erik took the time to carefully decipher every aspect of him: his cheeks tinted with splotchy blush, his eyes searching his with eyebrows upturned in worry, the sweep of messy brown on both his forehead and wispy around his face. Erik's mouth felt dry, and he bit the inside of his cheek to try and focus on normal bodily functions like breathing and swallowing. Something more than the question sat in the air, something intimate and full of emotion and well-intended glances at one another. Now, though, neither of them wanted to look the other in the eye.
Charles took his hand. "Yes, you were. Is it alright? That I came for you when you did?" Really, Erik didn't have to say anything, so he didn't, and Charles' hand stayed on his, running warm lines down the tendons of his fingers.