Love Letters

2 months after Alex left

Dearest Erik,

I can’t. I can’t keep going like this, I’m sorry. The voices, oh the voices in my head they won’t stop without the serum. They’re too painful, they feel too much pain. I just want to shut them out, and the serum is my only option. I can’t. I can’t Erik, I can’t.

The serum is my only escape, I can get my legs back, I can live normally and it takes my powers, thank fuck. It’s better this way I swear. Then I can’t hear the voices that scream too loudly. I can’t wake Hank up with my projecting nightmares. Sometimes, it all gets too much and I have to take more serum than what Hank says. I must Erik. I can’t keep going without it, without you.

It’s been years, and everybody has left. Sean died, I felt it in my head. I accidentally zoned in on him and he was in so much pain. I can’t bear to enter his room after that. The trail of his joint wafting down the hallways when the wind blows right. I can’t even bury him, Erik. I can’t do anything. I’m a pathetic wreck drinking myself to death. And that’s what I want. I don’t want to live through this pain. I wish I’d gone to Sean's place, I wish it was me instead of him.

How’s the Pentagon huh? Was killing the president worth it? I would get you out, I would come save you - you know that, but the pain isn’t worth it. You can live in your self-pity that I know you’re feeling. Your intoxicating self-righteousness that I remember all too well. Your idiotic smile that I love too much, that I can’t stop thinking about. When the telepathy disappears and I’m left to my own thoughts.

I’ve never had just my own thoughts, somebody else was always there. The pain and joy of others. Except now, there’s just pain. I can’t feel anything else. The sadness that covers the nation scares me so much. I don’t want to feel their pain, I can’t feel their pain. Because, you. I have my own hurt. You. You fill my thoughts with nothing else but the cruel smile you gave me as you left. The bullet in my back that took my legs. I can’t think of anything else but you. I can’t. When it turns to nightfall, I don’t notice. When I haven’t eaten in days, I don’t notice.

So, I suppose this letter is a wake up call. Which I won’t act on. The pain is too great, I want to be able to walk. I want to have a life where I can exist without feeling the sadness of the death of thousands of people. Why did I have to be given the curse of telepathy? Why couldn’t it be someone stronger. Why couldn’t it be someone who could deal with their thoughts, put up the right barriers. People who weren’t destroyed by the loss of friendship, or something else that we had. I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what we were. Please tell me so I can cry myself to sleep once again from the depression of it all.

The skies have been too grey lately.

I hope the Pentagon is keeping you busy,
Charles

***

Charles looked over his letter, the tears dripping down his cheeks. His headache had returned, the voices. The goddamn voices that never seemed to go away. Fuck off, Charles thought. His legs felt weak, the nerve endings tingling. Groaning, Charles tried to stand but fell to the ground within mere moments. He hadn’t realised how long he’d been writing that letter. Now he can feel the stupid voices in his head. The pain returned, engrossing Charles. He reached for the nearest whiskey bottle, it was half empty lying on the floor - just like Charles.

Except Charles was almost empty, about to deplete. About to fall victim to the voices that sometimes he couldn’t control or when he didn’t take the serum. Charles didn’t want to annoy Hank out of his lab, so instead he laid on the ground and gave into the thoughts.

The whiskey tasted good in his throat, which gave him a slight buzz and muted the pain. The voices subsided just a little bit. Finally, Charles could think straight just for one moment to get himself onto the sofa near his desk. It took a while, with his frail arms and unusable legs but he managed it. The whiskey cabinet was just inside arms reach, and of course Charles reached for it as soon as he plopped himself down onto the musty cushions.

The sky outside was a gloomy blackness that usually suffocated him, but by the time Charles passed out with exhaustion the sky was turning a bright orange. A colour he hadn’t seen in a while, and Charles admired it for a moment before closing his eyes and falling asleep. The glass in his hand dropped and smashed on the floorboards, glass shards scattered everywhere, yet the noise didn’t stir Charles - instead the orangish colour reflected the sunrise that was just poking through the curtains.

***

Sand. Sand everywhere, in his clothes, on his hands, in his hair and eyes. His face was planted in the stuff, locking itself in his eyelashes making it hard to blink. Gunshots. The last sound he’d heard before a great pain in his lower back had erupted, causing him to fall to the ground.

Erik.

Eriks voice, Erik’s hands, turning him over. The baby blue sky above him came into view but he was distracted by the glow of Erik’s eyes. He was saying something, but what was he saying? He couldn’t make it out, the rush of the waves filling his ears. Or maybe it wasn’t the waves, maybe it was the adrenaline filling his veins. His focus turned back to Erik. Where had he gone? And Raven. They were both gone. Fuck.

Screaming in pain, the realisation hit him like a bus. Erik. Raven. Erik. They’d left. Where did they go? Why did they go? Maybe Erik didn’t care about him in the first place. If he had, he wouldn’t have left him in the sand bleeding out. Blood. Oh God the blood. The pain. Why couldn’t he feel his legs?

People rushed around him. Alex. Sean. Moira. Hank. Moira was crying, streams of sadness like a waterfall glossing over her face. Hank’s brow was furrowed in concentration, watching him scream in pain, trying to decipher what was going on.

Hank.

Hank woke up in a shock of sweat. It was just a nightmare, Hank breathed to himself, calming down. But not his. Charles, Hank realised. The serum must’ve run out, Hank thought. He groaned, and lifted himself out of bed as he got up, he noticed little blue hairs poking out of his chin in the mirror opposite his bed. He needed his serum too. Reaching for a robe, Hank slinked down the hallway towards the lab. The dusty once-ramps sat at the bottom of the staircase, forgotten in Charles’s misery.

Sighing, Hank turned towards the lab door and opened it with a click. He quickly grabbed the first bottles of serum he could find in the dark room (without turning the lights on) and hurried towards Charles’ bedroom. He could feel Charles’ nightmare still in his mind, the pain and anger and depression. The longingness that Charles’ had hoped would subside with the overuse of alcohol. Hank could feel it all.

The door to Charles’ room squeaked open, and Hank looked towards his bed. There was nobody there. The cover wasn’t exactly made up but it certainly wasn’t slept in. Fuck, Hank thought. His mind drifted to where Charles could be, before landing on his study. Charles had never slept there before. Strange, Hank pondered but didn’t dwell on it. He rushed back down the stairs and into the kitchen before turning the used handle of Charles’ study/

Charles’ was tossing and turning, sweat streaming down his forehead, and Hank could hear him mumbling something like “Erik” and “No”. Hank paced towards the sofa that Charles’ was sprawled across, hand hanging off the side.

“C’mon Charles, wake up,” Hank murmured into his ear, he was met with quiet grumbles. Getting annoyed, Hank took hold of Charles’ sleeve and shook him until his head was rolling along the pillow. Charles slowly opened his bleary lost-all-of-their-light eyes and looked up at Hanl with a puzzled look on his face.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” Charles asked with a panicked mumble,

“You had nightmares, you, you were projecting.” Hank replied, his eyes looking down at the serum in his hands. Charles followed his line of direction, “I brought these, I thought it would help,”

“Ah, thank you,” Charles clipped. He reached forward and swifty grabbed the needle from Hank. The telepath pulled his sleeve up and injected the serum into his arm, wincing slightly at the pinch of pain. His brow relaxed as he got control over his mind and turned to look at Hank, “Sorry for projecting, I didn’t mean to,”

“I know, it’s ok, I’m glad you’re ok,” Hank replied, trying to sound empathetic, “Do you want to talk about it,”

Charles looked at him sternly before seizing the spilt whiskey bottle on the floor, sniffing it and taking a sip, “No thank you, I’m alright Hank - really,”

“Are you sure?” He didn’t look alright, his hair had grown past his ears and the grease could be used to cook but, Hank didn’t want to press it,

“Yes, I’m fine,” Charles

“Ok then, I’ll leave you to errr, get on with things,” Hank knew what those things were, but didn’t want to annoy Charles this early in the morning with his pandering. He stepped over the broken glass, making a note to clean it up later and slid through the door. From inside the study Hank could hear muffled crying but he didn’t want to go back to the dark place that Charles was. Instead, he headed towards the kitchen to cook some breakfast - if Charles would even eat it.

Once there, Hank set about frying some eggs, he cracked them into a pan and let them sizzle for a moment whilst he found the dustpan and brush. It was hidden inside a cupboard that probably hadn’t been opened since Alex left; he was usually the one that cleaned. Hank settled it on the counter whilst he toasted three slices of bread (two for him and one for Charles) and placed the eggs onto slightly cracked plates. Hank hoped that these wouldn’t get smashed with Charles’s anger. Maybe they should get plastic plates.

As he waited for the bread to toast, Hank barraged into the laboratory, where he kept his own serum. The hairs on his palms and arms were slowly longer, and in the light they looked blue, which Hank wanted to avoid. He struggled to find the serum among the darkness, but finally found it nestled in a drawer next to his lab coat that was quickly flung onto a chair. Hank reached for the serum, and with one swift motion injected it into his elbow.

Returning to the kitchen, Hank was annoyed to find the toast was a little burnt. It will do, he decided and placed it beside the eggs. The kitchen was scattered with mess, the countertops hadn’t been cleaned in weeks and dirty plates were piled up in the sink. Hank hated the mess, he hated how Charles was but still he stayed because he knew that was all he could do. He didn’t try to help Charles - Hank knew that Charles was drinking himself to death, he had been since Sean had died, but Hank didn’t know what to do about it. So, he gave Charles the serum that stopped the projecting so he could sleep, and tried to keep the house in the best shape he could. It wasn’t enough, he knew it wasn’t, but he couldn’t do anything else.

***

Charles stumbled down the stairs, drawn to the smell of eggs and toast. He hadn’t eaten in days - instead living off of the whiskey and vodka and serum that Hank kindly supplied. Charles was glad that that was all Hank did, that Hank didn’t try and stop him from ruining himself - because he was going to ruin himself whatever Hank tried to do.

Once at the bottom, Charles found Hank glancing over newspaper articles. No. Advertisements. Charles wondered what about, what could they need? “What are you looking at” Charles slurred,

“Oh.. I,” Hank replied startled, he hadn’t expected Charles to appear so quickly, “Nothing much, just, I thought you could do with a companion,”

“My only companion was Erik, and look where he is,” Charles replied bitterly, he didn’t like that Hank was trying to auction him off, to what? Some kind of advertising for boyfriends?

“No, no, not that kind of companion,” Hank chuckled, which angered Charles even more. Hank could see the pout on the telepath’s face, which triggered him to finish his sentence quickly, “A cat Charles, a cat,”

Disbelief spread across Charles' face, “Why?” were the only words he could muster,

“Because you’re lonely, and a cat might help,” Hank replied, confident that he was doing the right thing.

“You’re fucking mad,” Charles’ voice started to shake, “Why, why would you bring a cat into this environment, nothing good is going to come of it. They’re just going to suffer, I can’t look after anything,” Charles was shouting by now, his hand twirling around his head,

“You’re the one going mad, you can’t keep living like this,” Hank quirked an eyebrow, slightly amused by Charles’ reaction and the stupidity of it all,

“I can live however the fuck I want to,” Charles turned around, and rushed back up the stairs. A cat, a cute fluffy cat that I can stroke. He was at Sean’s door now. The smell, oh fuck the smell was overcoming him. He couldn’t. He couldn’t look after himself, let alone a cat. Charles had started daydreaming outside Sean’s door. A ginger cat maybe, like Sean, Charles thought. But, he crushed that thought quickly. He wasn’t going to let anything else suffer, let alone a cute cat who didn’t have a choice on what was happening.

“Hank, I don’t want a fucking cat,” Charles shouted down into the hallway, and even though Charles knew Hank had heard him, there was no reply. Fuck

He only just managed to get to his bedroom before he collapsed onto his bed. The emptiness surrounded him. The loneliness. Sean. All he could think about were those days with Sean.

There had been one night, a few months before he left, when Charles had stumbled into the garden, it had become overgrown, and he accidentally wandered into a bush, although he soon realised it wasn’t a bush. He'd found Sean lying on the ground looking up at the stars.

“What’re you doing,” Sean chuckled dazed, he didn’t turn his head, preferring to keep looking at the galaxy above,

“I could ask you the same,” Charles pondered, instead of reprimanding him, Charles decided to sit in the grass next to him. This time, Sean turned his curly red head and looked directly at Charles.

“What’re you doing here?” He asked perplexed, “You’re usually in your room by now - asleep,”

“Tonight I couldn’t. I didn’t want to give people nightmares,” Charles replied, slurring slightly, “Now, what’re you doing here my dear?”

“It’s my escape from it all… but, Prof, are you drunk?” Sean seemed suddenly comforted, “Cause, well, you can have a bit of my joint if you want,” Charles slowly nodded his head and took the cigarette slowly. Sean’s eyes grew wide as he deeply inhaled the smoke and ash. “You’ve done this before,” Sean murmured,

“That’s what uni is for, my boy, fun!” Charles exclaimed, flailing his arms around. The corners of Sean’s mouth curled upwards before he burst into deep laughter. He sat there for a while, chest heaving, before he noticed that Charles had drifted asleep beside him.

Sean cocooned around him, taking comfort in the warmth that Charles exerted, and took comfort in the fact that they had very similar habits. The soft smell of Charles’s sweater blew into Sean’s nose as his eyes became heavy, and he too fell into the warm embrace of sleep.

As Charles returned to reality, he felt a tear run down his face. Quickly wiping it away, Charles hurried towards the alcohol cabinet in his room. He took a quick swig from a vodka bottle, trying to drown the never ending thought that he always had. Why couldn't his mind just shut the fuck up. Lost in thought, his legs buckled and he collapsed onto the hard planks underneath him. Charles couldn't drown out what was really keeping him awake, Erik. His love, his life, the man who'd paralysed him and left him to die. God he was going to fucking punch him the first chance he got. But for now, Charles drank himself to the point of vomiting, and then drank a little bit more.

***

Erik woke up to the familiar sight of grey and white. Everything was grey and white and he could hardly remember a time when there was colour. The only good memories he had, had been of his mother and Charles. The long endless days of the Pentagon always drove his thoughts to Charles, and it half drove him mad. Erik couldn’t imagine a life outside of the Pentagon without Charles. And he had to get out of the Pentagon, he couldn’t feel Charles in his mind, ever. Sometimes, when he was in the brotherhood, he could feel a passing glance, but for three years Erik hadn’t felt anything - and he knew something was wrong.

Sighing, Erik tried to devise a plan. There was no metal, but he was strong, he could beat a few guards before they shot their stupid plastic guns. Yes. Anything it took to get out of the Pentagon. Anything it took to get to Charles.