Love Letters

6 months after Alex left,

Dearest Erik,

I was thinking the other night about us. What we had. It was so long ago my love but still I can see it like it was yesterday. You and me, it was the best few months of my life. Now, I just wallow and think about it.

Can you remember that time you made me tea because I was being a snob about the hotel tea everyone was serving. You went and found all the ingredients for that tea and made it whilst I slept so I could wake up to the smell of fucking tea. So that it would still be steaming when I looked on my bedside table and just saw you lover right there in front of me manifesting itself as fucking tea. But you would never be there with your arms wrapped around me. You were an early riser, always the one to actually get things done and do whatever the hell you wanted. I would wake up maybe two, three hours earlier, wasting time on stupid things like sleeping. I never saw you in those mornings, with your shirt off and your drowsy eyes watching the sunrise come with a thin rope wrapped around your shoulders so you didn’t get cold. We led different lifestyles but still every night I wished the morning would be different, that you would stay in bed with me whilst I slept. And like the tea, you’ve left me with nothing more but a bullet in my back and memories that keep me up at night. You haunt me in every way possible and I don’t understand why you can’t just get out. Leave me be, I’m already in a fucking haunted mansion, with too many empty bedrooms and too few children running around happily.

You and me. Forever. Against the world. That’s what I always thought. That’s what I thought every day when I would look at you driving the car and flicking your wrist just so to make the car move in the right direction. Then would be the questioning of people. We always left that to me because I was more charismatic, better at getting people to join our cause. So I’d talk and you’d listen, you’d congratulate me on the way out when we had a new mutant - a new student. We’d… I’d fantasise about a school, and you’d just listen. You would make suggestions and ideas, but you were never in them. You left yourself out, because you knew right from the beginning that you would be leaving. We both knew, I knew as soon as I looked into that pretty little mind of yours. Shaw was always your top priority, and I could only hope to be second. Because if I wasn’t second, then I wasn’t anything to you. And if I wasn’t anything to you, then our little love charade was pointless and nonsensical. Destined to fail, well maybe that part is true. But if you didn’t love me, then all of this moping has been for nothing, because then I’ve been grieving the loss of nothing except for a friend, and I’ve dealt with that before.

So maybe I’m drinking for the loss of something special, the loss of a tragic love affair that ended too soon. Something like Romeo and Juliet, except neither of us died - instead we had to live with the pain and suffering. I wish it had ended like Romeo and Juliet. Then we’d still be lovers.

I hope the Pentagon is doing you well, and I hope you’ve failed to escape because then you have to sit and think. Think about me, like I think about you.

Your ever faithful lover,
Charles

***

Hank had decided to get a cat. A ginger one maybe - to match Sean’s hair. Maybe that would help with Charles’s depression. Or maybe it would make it worse. Hank didn’t know - but he did know he had to get Charles a cat. He also knew that Charles would be in his bed, so he could easily sneak out and pretend he was going grocery shopping (even though the last time he had gone was the day before, so really they didn’t need any more groceries), and head down to the pet shop. He knew Charles couldn’t track him, because he’s left enough serum to seduce Charles into using it for the voices in his head. So, it made it easy for Hank to step out of the entryway and head downtown to the busy street that held the pet shop.

The car skidded to a halt outside the large sign, advertising cats for cheap. It didn’t matter if they were cheap, it didn’t matter how many there were, but it did matter that they were friendly. Hank swung his scrawny legs onto the pavement and got out, locking the doors. He walked towards the shop and opened the creaky door, ringing the bell above it.

“Hey, my good sir, what brings you here today?” A cheery voice called over the counter . A woman with thick blonde curly hair stood at the counter, smiling widely at Hank.

“Well, I errr, I need a cat, a ginger one,” Hank was unsure what to say - he’d never bought a pet before let alone a cat. Everyone usually thought he was beast enough.

“Of course lovely, they’re right around the corner,” she cheerfully pointed to where cages were stacked up. The doctor stepped forward unsure of what he was doing. Once he’d reached the cages, he immediately spotted a small slightly scrawny orange cat, with a white front and white paws. He thought they were perfect. Hank could see other adorable cats, but the ginger one in front of him was perfect, completely what he wanted. So, excited to get out and show Charles what he had bought, Hank quickly motioned over to the lady at the counter and she packaged them up. “He's a boy, new in this week. I’m glad he’s found an owner,”

“I’m glad he was here,” Hank gruffed, “What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t really have one, but us here like to call him socks, cause of his white feet,”

They were one of the first things Hank saw, how could he not spot the cutest little white socks that adorned this Sock who was currently using them to scratch at the cage,

“What else do I need? I’ve never really had a cat… or any pet before,”

“Well, you’ll need a food and water bowl, and a litter tray… you do know how to litter train a cat right?”

“Yes, I um, I can research it,”

“I’m sure you’ll be great. You’ve got plenty of surfaces for him to sleep on, you’re sure you don’t need a cat bed?”

“Maybe I’ll get one thank you,”

“I’d suggest the blue one, it goes well with his fur,”

“Yes that one, that’s great, thank you,” Hank paid, and gawked when the bill came out to be over $100, but he supposed it didn’t matter considering it wasn’t his money and Charles certainly wasn’t lacking in it.

The mansion came into view as Socks was meowing in the back, wanting to get out and wreck everything. Hank drove up into the drive, swifty parking the car and taking the cage out of the backseat, and trod to the doorway, leaving the cage in the empty way, until he could get everything for the cat sorted. He hadn’t planned this out very well, Hank decided.

***

Charles heard an unusual noise at the door. Hank had gone out yesterday, he wouldn’t go grocery shopping again would he - would he? Surely he couldn’t be that lonely, Hank still had him of course. Charles sauntered down the grand staircase expecting there to be piles of groceries laying at the bottom and was instead met with bright green eyes. Cat eyes. What the fuck.

“Hank what the fuck did you buy,” Charles shouted through the house. It was met with silence. Weird. Charles decided to check the lab, and upon entering it was dark. Is this a farewell gift? Was Hank leaving him after all these years? No, Hank wouldn’t leave Charles, they’d been living the same life for too many years for Hank to up and leave. That would be wrong. Hank wouldn’t do that.

Returning to the hall where the cat had been, the door on the cage had been let open, and a curious little kitten was slowly making his way around the room, sniffing everything and anything he could find. Looking through into the kitchen, Charles could see Hank rustling around opening cupboards and reorganising like there was no tomorrow.

“Hank, what the fuck did you buy,” Charles’ voice quivered. He didn’t want to have responsibility over another organism, certainly not one as reliant on him as a fucking cat.

“A cat,” Hank slowly turned around, meeting Charles’ glare, “You like him?”

“No.” Charles turned around in a fluffy, and ran back up the stairs towards the stench of his bedroom. Hank wasn’t leaving, but this was worse. Why was there a cat in his entryway? And why did it remind him of Sean? Charles couldn’t take it anymore. Along the way to his bedroom, Charles reached into the make-shift alcohol cabinet (it was more like a pile of boxes), and took a slug from the now opened bottle of vodka. A cat. A fucking ginger cat.

The thought marinated in Charles’ head as he laid across his bedroom floor, unable to reach the bed because his serum had run out and he did not want to talk to Hank at this moment. It was stupid, why Hank thought it was a good idea getting a cat - a ginger one at that - was anyone’s guess. And whatever guess Charles could grasp at in his sluggish state seemed a bit strange, or downright annoying.

But, it wasn’t long before Charles heard a rustle behind his door, and he could feel that some serum had appeared. The ecstasy of no voices in his head pulled him to the door, and that feeling made him prod himself with a needle and took away the voices. A sense of calm took over Charles until he saw a ginger tail wrap itself around the corridor and Charles stumbled back into his dark bedroom; thinking of Sean.

It wasn’t for a couple of days until Charles emerged from his room, bleary eyed and hungry. So fucking hungry. The memories of a cat had since disappeared, long forgotten as a nightmare he’d had and couldn’t shake. The ginger tail is nothing more than a trick of his blurry eyes from the drunkenness. Nothing more. Hank wouldn’t be that stupid.

He wouldn’t be stupid enough to send Charles into a panic attack that left him exhausted for days. To make his alcoholism somehow worse because he couldn’t look around the corner and not think of Sean. No, Hank wouldn’t be that stupid.

Charles stumbled into the daylight of the kitchen, eyes squinting at the sudden brightness. A cat bowl. Stupid, stupid, stupid Hank. Turning around, Charles reached for an egg to actually make food. He hadn’t cooked in year, so long that he’d almost forgotten how to. Hank bustled in, eyes all worry and no anger.

“You’re cooking,” A hint of relief tinging his voice,

“Perceptive,” Charles turned back to cooking, cracking an egg into a pan. Now he remembered why he didn’t cook. Tears blurred Charles’ eyesight, making him lose track of where the pan was. It fell out of his grasp and fell to the floor with a loud bang. Instead of crouching down to get it, Charles just crumpled. Erik had cooked. That’s why he didn’t. No. Couldn’t. That’s why Charles couldn’t. An orange tail appeared in Charles’ peripheral vision. So the cat wasn’t a nightmare. He was actually real. Fuck.

Charles stumbled onto his feet, not giving the cat any chance to actually touch him. No, that would not happen.

“Give him a chance Charles,” He’d forgotten Hank was in the room, watching his emotional turmoil unfold and not giving a fuck that he did not want this fucking cat around.

“No, I don’t want a fucking cat Hank, I don’t need a fucking cat!” Charles stormed out of the room, pushing Hank out of the way,

“The cat has a name!” Charles slowed slightly at this,

“I don’t care!” He did. Kind of. Just simple curiosity. Nothing more. The whiskey bottle on his bedroom floor felt inviting and all original hunger was forgotten, lost in alcohol and cats. He didn’t care about it. Not really, not even slightly. He’d be better off without a cat.

Later that night, Charles was safe under his covers, reading a book, he flipped the page back to the cover, he couldn’t read, the scribble was illegible. Actually, Charles wasn’t reading, he just wanted to hold a book. Something that he knew he once loved, probably, and something that wouldn’t meow. Also probably, Charles wasn’t sure if the book would meow at him in this state, but he was too drunk to actually care about what the book was or wasn’t doing. He just wanted to hold a book. An actual physical book. Something rectangular, and not round. Although the something round was sitting on his bedside table half empty and staring at him.

Giving in, Charles groaned and shifted his body so he could reach the whiskey bottle. It slipped down his cheek, and a little bit fell onto the book. It trailed down the page before stopping and glistening in the little light there was in the room. Angrily, Charles threw the bottle across the room, where it smashed on his abandoned desk. Glass shards splattered everywhere, a death trap for everyone who wasn’t Charles. But then again, Charles didn’t really care about what happened to him at this point.

He looked back at the page with the whiskey stain and tried to rub it off, but failed and instead managed to uncover the name of who this book belonged to. Erik fucking Lensherr. Of course. Who else could it possibly belong to? A fucking diary too, Charles realised. He wouldn’t dare look at what Erik thought back when he slept in this room, not that Charles didn’t know, he just didn’t want to be reminded of the pain.

A thump. That wasn’t a Charles falling out of bed. More of a softly jumping and then gracefully landing kind of thump. Ghosts, Charles thought. He’d seen them plenty of times at this time these past few years. He lived surrounded by ghosts of the past, and he wasn’t sure what else the suspiciously quiet thump could be.

“Come out, I’m not scared of you anymore!” Charles called out, he’d gone through this routine too many times. A dead student would reveal themselves and list out all the ways Charles failed them, before he’d finally fall asleep drenched in sweat and tears.

But, Charles didn’t get a dead student, didn’t get their traumatic death spelt out to him. Not the way they were painfully tortured by hooded figures and left to die, bleeding to death on unsterilised beds. No, that didn’t happen. Instead, Charles heard scratching of little paws on the door.

Was Sean here to haunt him instead? He hadn’t had that one yet, well he had, but he couldn’t remember anything. He’d bathed himself in whiskey and vodka that night.

The scratching continued. “Sean, are you there?”

Nothing. Silence, the scratching stopped. Then, only because Charles was craning to hear something, he heard a little murmur. A meow, then purring. The soft thumb again. Well fuck. Charles hadn’t expected that. This was almost worse than the nights where Sean or Erik, or Alex or Angel or anybody visits. The bloody cat that wouldn’t go away and was not quite a ghost. Colour to a haunted house that definitely didn’t deserve it.

Charles picked up the book that was or wasn’t Erik’s diary, and chucked it at the door. It hit it dead on on the door handle, sending a loud clang that ricocheted down Charles’ skeleton. That would put the cat off. But, the purring hadn’t disappeared.

“Fuck off!” Charles shouted. The cat didn’t understand English. And he certainly didn’t understand Charles’ boundaries.

Charles marched across his bedroom, cutting his bare feet on the broken glass shards.

“You don’t want to come in here,” Charles said sternly, “Bad things happen in here, I don’t want bad things to happen to you,” The cat didn’t get the memo, instead rubbing its head against Charles’ legs.

“Go away,” Charles continued, anger started to edge into his voice, “I don’t need you, I’m fine!” The cat just looked up at Charles with its big green eyes, silently asking for cuddles.

“We don’t always get what we want,” With that, Charles slammed the door on the cat and trudged back to his bed, feet now a bleeding mess. He covered his head with a pillow, trying to block out the purring and meowing coming from the hallway and fell asleep in a daze of cats and fur and socks.

Serum. That’s what Charles told himself he wanted when he went downstairs. Not to catch a glimpse of the seemingly friendly cat that now inhabited the corridors, and probably Hank’s room. Probably. He hadn’t seen Hank in days. He definitely didn’t follow the trail of slightly muddy paw prints that stained the rugs. Charles’ didn’t care for them anyway.

He accidentally stumbled into the room that he usually hated. Drapes covered the windows, toys littered the floors, dust collected on every surface. A tear slipped from Charles’ eyes, and he nearly turned away, but not before spotting the orange fur ball perched upon one of the unused couches. Charles noticed he was happily sleeping, purring loudly, noise filling the normally silent room. But not today.

Charles crossed the room, wincing slightly at the cuts on his feet. He should’ve put slippers on. It was cold in here. But, Charles didn’t mind. He wanted serum, a different kind of orange to the one lying in front of him. A sharper orange, more memorable. Less cute. Less like a baby he needed to protect. God, he thought he was done loving.

Reaching out a shaking hand, he slowly grazed the top of the cat's warm, fluffy head. It was so damn fluffy. And it didn’t help that the cat's purrs actually got louder when Charles started to stroke it. Maybe he wasn’t done loving. Maybe he had a little more left in him.

But that wasn’t what Charles had come for, he told himself. No. He wanted a different kind of orange. Even though this cat just looked so damn cute laying across his arm, purring loudly. Charles’ heart melted, the whiskey flipping from his mind. Replaced by the warm kitten making biscuits into his dirty bathrobe. Maybe Charles should actually change his bathrobe, he’d been rotting in sweat for the past few weeks.

“You two seem to be getting on well,” Hank smiled from across the room, his arms crossed against his chest and slightly leaning on the cracked door frame,

Startled, Charles quickly pulled his hand away from the cat who was now affectionately licking it, causing the cat to stare at Charles with a stern look, “Wha- fuck Hank, how long have you been there,”

“Some time,”

“Yeah, but how long,”

“Enough to see you petting Socks like you’d never seen a cat in your life,”

“Well, maybe I haven’t”

“Uh-huh, sure Charles,” Hank grinned at Charles, which sent Charles into a rage. Happiness? How could he be happy whilst Charles was trying his hardest to be depressed no matter what kind of obstacles (cats) were thrown at him.

“I’m leaving,” Charles muttered, snatching the whiskey and serum out of a nearby cupboard on the way out - Charles had made sure to have at least one bottle of something in every room. Just in case.

“He’s called Socks by the way,” Hank watched Socks follow Charles, and wrap his tail around the drunk’s leg. Charles made no attempt to separate themselves, instead deciding to lead them both to Charles’ bedroom.

“I don’t care!” Charles swished into the corridor, Socks still running between his feet,

“Looks like you do!” Hank was ignored, as per usual but it brought a smile to his face knowing that despite what Charles said, he did actually like Socks.

***

It was later when Hank was cleaning up that he noticed Charles’ door was slightly ajar, which was weird because that door was either bolted and locked or open wide to let the stench of vomit out - it was never slightly ajar. Hank peered around the doorway and tried to look into the dimly lit room, a lamp the only source of light.

He opened the door which creaked to a halt, making Hank still in case he woke Charles who he assumed was sleeping. Once the door was wide enough, Hank stepped in stumbling over the glass shards. That was why Charles had little cuts over his feet. Hank returned to the hallway to grab the dustbin and brush he had stored beside Charles' door as this had happened many, many times before.

The most recent one was the week before when Charles found an old letter from Raven and threw a fit. Lots of glass had been broken, tears had been shed and Hank had to spend two days fixing the toilet.

Once Hank had brushed away the glass and was able to walk over the matted rug without destroying the soles of his feet, he spotted Charles sleeping soundly in bed, tangled up in the duvet covers with only the top of his greasy hair showing. On top of him, laid a clearly well-stroked ginger cat purring loudly and needing the pillows next to Charles’ stomach. As Charles snored, Hank smiled to himself, happy that Charles was finally getting some sleep.

He looked peaceful for the first time in a few years, the ever present wrinkle in his forehead melting away as the minutes ticked by. It was nice, Charles had some company, something to actually hold onto and love.

Hank had realised Charles didn’t care for him in his current state - he had once, but that’d all been forgotten when Charles lost everything dear to him. So, Hank just became the serum and vodka supplier, sometimes there to cook him some food that would be vomited up later.

It was nice seeing him restful.

***

“C’mon Summers wake up you’re not injured that badly,”

Alex groaned and opened his arms to the harsh light of a hospital ward. Nurses were bustling up and down tending to too many patients. Alex look up “Sean?”

“No, Georgie. Alex… you got hurt,”

Alex was still a bit confused, hazy memories floating in and out of his mind. An airplane, the sound of guns.

“You got hit,”

Yes, he could remember that now. Looking directly at someone as they pulled the trigger, and Alex couldn’t even use his powers to stop it. Cause, cause. Otherwise he’d be like Sean. End up like Sean. And Alex wouldn’t wish that on anybody.

Alex’s arm was in a sling. His chest had bandages wrapping around it, and he could feel a slight dull pain in his ankle.

“What happened?” Alex said blearily, still unsure of his surroundings,

“There were some soldiers that we didn’t know about. You- you were one of the lucky few,”

The bandage on his ribcage didn’t exactly feel lucky.

“Robbie, he’s,” Georgie struggled to find his words, “He’s dead,”

Another mutant. Alex’s only truly good friend since Sean. This was definitely a targeted attack. Alex couldn’t stop the tears from running down his cheeks as Georgie patted his arm awkwardly.

“Not that arm,” Alex groaned,

“Sorry,” Georgie moved to the other side and watched Alex carefully, “They’re sending you home,”

Hope bloomed in Alex’s chest. Finally he could leave this hell hole. Alex didn’t know what he’d return to when he went back to the mansion, but he knew he’d have to be responsible once again. But, he’d be able to see Charles. He’d be able to be safe. He wouldn’t fear death every time he woke up surrounded by unknown guns and bombs and mutant haters.

Anything was better than this. Except maybe what happened to Sean.

The next few weeks happened in a blur, aeroplanes and anaesthesia. A run-in with Raven. No mystique now. The dirty tarmac and dusty roads of Korea finally disappeared into the glorious emptiness that was air, and Alex could breathe a sigh of relief.

Finally, after saying goodbye to the men he’d served with, and flinging his rucksack over his good shoulder, Alex returned to the place where he once called home.