Like My Mother Before Me

Reaching out, he could almost feel their skin underneath his smooth fingertips. Strands of hair, blowing gently in the wind, the very ends touching his hands, prickling like needles, drawing blood from the tips of his fingers. He reached out, his hand outstretched in the endless abyss, his mind scouring the earth for another to connect with. The abyss never reached back to him.

His heart, far too large for his own chest cavity, brimming with love, a bottomless teapot, willing to pour all its love into the cups of those around him, until they, too, overfill and spill over. They'd offer a few drops back, an entire sip, if they were feeling generous. He's take what little love they'd give and exaggerate it, pretend it was enough to keep his own heart hydrated. For a long time, it had been enough.

There were scarcely few people he cared about, which allowed him pour all he had into one or two cups. Lately, he finds himself filling five, ten, twenty cups, all to the brim, all equally warm and sweet. Soon, he finds that porcelain cups tend to shatter. If you pour too much liquid love into one cup, it tips over, falls off the table and crashes to the ground, taking all the tea along with it. Painfully, there was no glue that could put the broken pieces back together.

He found out, in the harshest way possible, that, if you break enough cups, the pot will shatter, as well.

The first cup to ever shatter was that of his father. His mother's delicate cup soon followed suit. That was enough to chip his pot, at the very top, small enough to pretend it wasn't there, even cover it up with his finger. The third cup, a sturdy metallic German-made cup, nearly shattered his pot in two. Hopelessly, he held the pieces together with his bear hands, feeling the shards cutting into his skin. With it, the metal cup took a beautiful deep blue cup, along with a physical reminder - his legs - which caused his entire teapot to crumble to the ground, broken pieces scattered in the sand, washed away by the ocean.

He attempted to glue his teapot back together, for he still had three small, fragile teacups desperately waiting to be filled. He made do, with holes in his pot, held up by nothing more than band-aids, his insides leaking out from the sides. Yet he still had enough to satisfy those around him.

When the war began and the house became a barren wasteland, his pot shattered, never to be repaired again.

With Charles being holed up in his room for days on end, Hank desperate scrambled for a cure. If he could give him something, just a fraction of the things that have been taken from him, maybe he would leave the room. Thus, Hank developed a treatment - for his spine, he said.

The two of them sat outside Charles' room, on the top of the stairs, Charles' wheelchair flipped harshly onto its side. With a bated breath and uncertainty in his heart, Hank presented him with a small blue casing.

Charles took it from him, feigning curiosity, "A new project?"

Hank nodded, his nervous fingers fidgeting, "It's the treatment I've been telling you about. I've finally perfected it. This could heal you, professor."

Charles winced, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head, "Not a professor anymore, Hank." he smiled sadly, offering Hank an apologetic look. He opened the case and stared at the syringes inside.

Reaching over, Hank took one of the syringes, "This treatment should give you back your legs. Here." he inched closer to the other, holding the syringe in one hand, "Let me help you."

At first, Charles was hesitant. He wanted his legs back, that was more than true. But Hank's experimental serums always seemed to have unexpected or undesirable side effects, and Charles wasn't sure if he was either ready or capable of handling himself in case of such a disaster.

What little mind and heart, even body, he had left had been hanging on by a thread for a long time, a thread that was ready to snap at any given moment. His whole soul had unravelled, spirals of threads undone falling to the ground like waterfalls, until the very essence of his being had become unrecognisable, unsalvageable. If another thing went wrong, his very atoms would unwind, until not even space dust was left roaming.

But Hank looked confident, sure that this would help, would fix him. And Charles desperately wanted Hank to fix him. Reluctantly, he agreed, allowing Hank to experiment on his broken body as much as he wanted.

Warm hands rolled his sleeve up over his elbow, soon replaced by cool metal pricking his skin. He closed his eyes and breathed evenly. A rush of yellow waves flooded his veins, crashing against his body and flooding his blood. The microscopic ocean stung like a wasp, setting his entire body on fire, his fingers tingling, electrified. It wasn't only his body that felt the shock, his mind felt like it was being sat on, compressed into a tiny space, squashed and locked up, sending him reeling.

His eardrums burst - did they, though? He could still hear his own erratic breathing, the beat of his own heart was almost suffocating. Everything felt so muffled, like his head was being held under water. That is, until Hank started yelling after him. He was gravely mistaken. Nothing was muffled, everything was loud, every sound pierced his ears, as clear as day, dominant in ways it had never been before. It almost made him want to cover his ears.

"Charles? Charles!" Hank shook his shoulders, clear panic in his voice, "Charles?! What is it? What's wrong?!"

Charles looked up at Hank, his eyebrows furrowing. Strange. Hank was clearly panicking. Why, then, were his thoughts so quiet? How was he able to keep a level head? Charles expected to hear more yelling, worried what ifs and guilty self-blame, but he heard nothing. Hank was thinking about absolutely nothing, and it boggled his mind.

"H-Hank?" he stuttered, his own voice growing in panic, "I... I can't..."

Hank looked like he was about to inquire further, but his eyes suddenly shot down, panic turning into awe, amazement flooding his features, contorting his face into a wide, even shocked, smile, "Charles, your legs!"

His left leg began twitching, his right trembled uncontrollably. A gasp escaped his lips. His legs, they were moving. Moving! Not only that, they were burning, like a grand numbness had begun to subside in them, awaking them from their long slumber. It hurt like hell, but Charles was simply glad it hurt, overjoyed he felt anything in them at all. His legs felt like heavy lumber, unbendable and impossible to lift. He could feel the sensation in them, but he could hardly move a toe.

He looked back at Hank, who was patting himself on the back for a job well done, a successful creation. Fear clouded his heart once more. Hank looked so pleased with himself, yet his thoughts were suffocating in their silence. He couldn't feel Hank's happiness, couldn't connect with his pride.

Charles looked upon Hank as he would a corpse, or a ghost. He could see him, clear as day, in his dorky shirt and glasses, but he couldn't feel him. There was nobody in front of him, nothing was there, something so unhuman sat across from him, like an inanimate object, dead, not breathing, not thinking, not existing. There was nothing but an emptiness, a great nothingness, in the spot "Hank" sat in. Charles was almost certain that, if he extended his hand out, he would pass through Hank like an illusion, like smoke.

No... It wasn't just Hank. The entire world felt like it had dropped dead the second he took that serum. Nothing around him was alive, no one existed anymore. Maybe, horrifyingly, he had it backwards. Maybe the one that stopped being alive was himself. Maybe he had taken the serum and it had killed him without him even noticing. Maybe the twitching of his legs was merely a corpse's post-mortem spasm, which would die down soon enough, and his legs would stiffen, never to be moved again.

Hank's strong grip shook his shoulders, trying desperately to call him back to reality. Charles could feel his friend's hands trembling, the growing nails digging into his arms, the panicked breath hitting his face. But he couldn't feel that which was truly, deeply and wholly Hank - he couldn't feel his fear, his panic, his worry, his uncertainty. He felt disconnected from Hank, as if he were a stranger, an entirely new being, some kind of unearthly creature.

Then, he suddenly understood, connected the dots, made sense of the nonsensical nature of his current predicament. He had felt this way before, had felt this way towards someone once. It was the same feeling, the disbelief and doubt of their very existence, their humanness.

It was the same exact feeling as when Erik put the helmet over his head.

With his newfound clarity, Charles surged forward, his fingers brushing Hank's hair back, tangling between locks, his fingertips desperately pressing against his temples. His friend, the only one that stayed, looked at him in shock, his hands wrapping around the telepath's wrists, but he did not move away. Charles searched his eyes, which held, what he believed to be, confusion, but he found no answers there. His own fingers began to shake, his eyes grew wet, his voice unsteady.

"H... Hank, I..." his breath shallow, all confidence leaving his body, as he continued to desperately rake his fingers across Hank's head and face, "I can't..! I can't feel you. I can't feel you!"

Hank attempted to remove Charles' hands from his person, but the professor continued to pull out of his grasp and shove his hands back, trying to reach his mind. He felt so alone, so isolated. Floating on a desert island, millions of miles away from any living being. He would surely die on that island, as all social creatures do. Oh, how he thrived in socialisation, in human connection. To be deprived of that is to be deprived of life. To be sentenced to death.

"Charles, calm down, please!" Hank urged him, "I think I know what went wrong! I miscalculated, I added too much of my own serum. I'm so sorry, I think I accidentally..." he swallowed, feeling guilty, "Took away your powers... But it's only temporary! You'll get them back, I swear, and they'll be just like before, I promise."

His mouth hung open, as he dropped his hands into his lap, which had stopped twitching somewhere in between all the commotion. So that was it, not the end of the world, not an apocalypse, no one was dying. Charles had simply temporarily lost his powers. His jaw quivered, words escaping him, leaving him speechless.

"We just have to wait it out, okay?" Hank cooed, patting his back, as if trying to calm a frightened kitten, "I'll make a new mixture, this one will definitely work properly, I promise."

"How..." Charles cleared his dry throat, "How long?"

Hank bit his bottom lip, "You'll be yourself in the morning." he stood up, taking Charles' hands with him, "In the meantime, how about we start physical therapy?"

Charles tried to follow him, but the moment he lifted his torso off the stairs, he shook like a frail leaf in a harsh wind. His feet couldn't hold him and Hank could thankfully see that, for he bent his knees and quickly supported Charles, one hand around his waist and another grasping his arm. Charles yelled suddenly, a flash of pain surging through his body, followed by a whiteness in his vision and a ringing in his ears. Hank had accidentally pressed a bit too harshly on the bullet wound. Normally, this wouldn't be an issue, as Charles had lost all feeling in that area, but now, it felt like a fresh, open wound, and Hank's hands were the salt.

"Sorry! Sorry." Hank murmured, pulling Charles closer, letting him lean his weight against him instead. Charles' hands grabbed Hank's shoulders, pulling at his shirt.

Baby steps. One foot in front of the other. The floor collided with his soles, putting pressure where there had previously been none. To feel the weight of gravity against his legs was breath-taking, the notion that, with each new step, he could go down the stairs on his own two feet. If one were to ignore Hank, who helped pull most of Charles' weight, that is... And so easily, too, like he were a doll, a marionette, and Hank was pulling his strings.

Getting down the stairs, Charles' legs were stiff. The one in front held straight as an arrow, and the one that was supposed to bend simply twisted, until it was pulled away and thrown in front of the other. Hank noticed that, he noticed everything. When they got to the bottom, he kicked off his own shoes and nudged Charles' feet on top of his own mutated ones. He took a step back, guiding Charles with him.

Progress was progress, no matter what shape it took. If Hank had to reteach Charles how to walk, in a way he would a child, that was fine. Hank lifted his foot, to see if Charles' knee would bend. As expected, his foot merely slid off once it was pushed over its rigid limit. He would help Charles walk again, then he would help him run, just like Charles had once taught Hank to run.

Once Charles' face began to pale, Hank decided it was enough, so he helped him over to the living room and onto a couch, where he could rest a bit. He left to grab some drinks.

Once one got used to it, not being able to read everyone's minds was both a blessing and a curse.

Being a telepath, Charles is able to understand people to their fullest, to see all the tiny bits and pieces of their soul, to know all their deepest parts they keep hidden, to understand their thoughts, desires, motivations, fears. Charles' mutation wasn't only reading minds, it was reading souls, reading hearts, understanding everything that makes someone the way they are. As a result, Charles often gave second chances, benefits of the doubt, to those that didn't truly deserve it.

Because of his telepathy manifesting at such a critical moment in his socialisation period, Charles never truly learnt how to understand humans. Small gestures, facial expressions, body language, sarcasm, half-truths and white lies were never things he needed to learn. If someone is sad, they will feel sad, and Charles could share in that sadness, there was no reason to learn what faces someone makes when they're sad and hiding it. He never felt that he was missing out on something by not knowing these things, but now he feels like he could no longer understand Hank properly, as if a language barrier had somehow come between them.

But, above all of that was a feeling of peace and tranquillity, one he hadn't felt since he was a baby, perhaps even never. To be able to sit in utter silence, to not hear the constant cries and screams of unfortunate souls he couldn't help, to no longer hear worried questions from those who were running late or taking an exam, to no longer have to share in sorrow of those who have lost, was the answer to his lifelong search for serenity.

His eyes dropped closed, as he revelled in the quiet. He no longer felt isolated, no, what he felt was harmony. With his newfound state of mind, he could hear the sound of things he never knew made one. He could hear the ticking of the clock, the chirping of birds, the buzz of electricity, his slow breathing, steady heartbeat, the blood rushing through his arteries. If he was being entirely honest with himself, he could continue living like this for the rest of his life.

The soft patter of bare feet against wooden floorboards. He opened his eyes, just in time to see Hank come back with two glasses of water, setting one right in front of Charles, and joining him on the couch. He kept a distance, an entire person's width between them. Charles found he could not tell what Hank was thinking nor feeling, and that didn't bother him anymore. In fact, he realised he didn't care to know, as long as Hank was looking calm. He was content, that's all Charles needed to know, and he was more than happy to leave it at that.

"It's not all that bad, being without powers." Hank tried to cheer him up, "You get a taste of what normal people are like."

Charles wanted to protest, there was nothing abnormal about them. It was a mutation, just like ginger hair, and no one would call someone with red hair abnormal. But, he didn't. He felt a lot less motivated to talk, and even more unwilling to make eye-contact with Hank. So, to seem polite, he changed the subject.

"Your mutation..." he brought his knees up to his chest, noting the burning he felt in his unused joints, "When did it manifest?"

Hank shrugged, glad to make small-talk, "I don't know, actually. I always had big feet. My parents thought I'd grow into them, eventually. But... they kinda grew with me. When they started to look all... weird and deformed, they took me to a doctor. We ran a lotta tests, but... Y'know, there was nothing really wrong with me. So he sent me home."

Charles nodded, finally latching onto an interesting genetic subject, "I've had a theory for a long time that, for those of us with physical mutations, unlike mine, which is hidden, are born with them. That does raise the question, then, are we all born with them? Maybe those like myself or Alex always had the ability, but never knew we could use it, so we simply... didn't." he sat up in his seat more, turning to Hank, but keeping his eyes on the bookshelves, "Maybe that's why it looks like our powers manifest in stressful situations, because we only have the need to use them in those kinds of moments. If someone were to live an entirely stress-free life, would their mutation ever manifest?" he glanced at Hank, who looked like he was getting bored, cleared his throat and sank back into his seat, "Apologies, I didn't mean to ramble."

"No, I was invested!" Hank smiled, "My field isn't genetics, so I'd never even consider those possibilities. It sounds interesting. Too bad we can't really run experiments on that, so all we can do is speculate."

Invested? Interesting? Charles felt confused. He found it alarming how he couldn't tell if Hank was truly bored and simply trying to be polite, or really was interested, which meant Charles read his expression horribly. He needed to learn how to navigate without his powers. Maybe this was a blessing, an opportunity for him to learn what he had neglected all this time, in favour of using his powers.

"What about strength? And speed?" he took a sip of his water, "Did they come naturally, as well?"

"Maybe." Hank pondered, "I mean, infants have this crazy strength about them, I'm not sure if I was anything special. I always liked jungle gyms, and I always hung upside down on those. I don't think I was all that strong until maybe ten, when I first noticed it. I was in the school's bathroom and someone was pulling a prank on me, wouldn't let me open the door and get out. I guess I overreacted, but I was really panicked in that moment, so I... shoved the door at him. I ended up kicking it off its hinges."

Charles chuckled, imagining a little Hank sticking it to a large primary school bully.

"What about you?" of course, Hank did the polite, civilised thing most people did, reciprocated the question. Charles merely wished he didn't, but he would be seen as rude if he said nothing or, worse, lied.

"At eight." he nodded, remembering, "Mum had just remarried, suddenly my family was two members larger. You could say that stressed me out."

Hank nodded and left it at that. Only, Charles knew that didn't even scratch the surface of why his powers had manifested. The family dynamic changed, entirely. It was no longer just his mother and him. His mother had changed entirely, his whole life had been thrown upside down the second his stepfather stepped through that door.

He had never told anyone this. Only Raven knew, for she had lived it, but she hardly understood the entire situation. Bits and pieces, maybe, larger chunks, but never the finer details. And he was determined to keep it that way, to have her as far away from those affairs as possible. He treated all the people in his life like that, protecting them from everything he could, even when he knew they were strong enough to protect themselves. He simply believed they shouldn't need to worry and stress about things that weren't important.

Opening up his heart to another would take courage. Courage he wasn't sure he had. A leap of faith, his faith in their loyalty and understanding. He never even trusted Erik enough with this, even though he so desperately wanted to. He knew all of them, all their trauma, all their grief, fears, baggage. The burden Erik carried was enough to break his back, Charles couldn't bear to unload his own onto such a broken man.

Charles knew Hank could take it. Hank had the capacity to take Charles' oversized baggage and shrink it just enough to be able to carry it in his breast pocket. Hank had the means to understand that this was then, and there was nothing left to do, no need for stressing over it, so he could bear the tsunami of Charles' heart as if it were morning rain. But Charles still refused to unload it onto him.

In truth, he hated opening up to others. And he loathed that he hated that. Why couldn't he be vulnerable with his friends? Why did he feel like such a burden, for simply sharing his grief with others? Isn't that what friends are for? Why did he constantly have the need to uphold a perfect image, someone who was always strong, a rock to those who are not. Someone who could bear the weight of the world without ever breaking. Truth is, he broke. No, he shattered.

He had learnt to be independent from an exceptionally young age. With no one around to take care of him, no one willing to nurture and raise him, he had been left to his own devices, forced to grow up too fast. He was taught, through family, to trust no one with his heart. Time and time again, he was taught the same exact thing. Erik made sure to remind him just how uncaring others were when it came to holding his fragile soul.

What he told Hank was partially true, the new family had brought him enough stress to manifest his telepathy. But the reason was far darker. He couldn't bear to hear his stepfather argue with his mother, and it broke his heart each time he'd strike her. It got so bad, he'd often lock himself up in his room and stay awake through the night, terrified he'd kill them both. His breaking point had been when his stepbrother had first struck him.

He started hearing voices. They weren't thoughts, no. Murmurs, incoherent noises, but undoubtedly human. Sounds, grunts, a letter or two, hissing, yelling. At first, he thought the other boy was playing tricks on him, trying to frighten him, so he paid them no mind. A year later, they developed into words. Incomplete sentences. He kept turning around, but no one was behind him. He'd ask people to repeat themselves, but they never even said anything. That's when he withdrew.

He believed he had gone mad, that the voices were in his head. Terrified that they would lock him away if they found out, he kept quiet, stopped socialising, began isolating himself. At one point, he even stopped talking entirely, unsure what was truly said and what parts were just in his head, scared of mixing them up and answering to a thought. He was afraid that, one day, he'd hurt himself, or worse - he'd hurt someone he loved.

The voices were horrible, vile things were said, disgusting thoughts were shoved into his head. Such violent things, many different scenarios in which he would die, in which his mother would be murdered. The voices would tell him to hurt himself, to jump out the window or smash his head against the mirror. He almost listened to them.

The voices kept him up at night, many nights, to the point he could no longer sleep, unless passed out from exhaustion. He wondered if this would be his life from now on. Not only was there violence inside his house, but inside his head, as well. He was becoming more and more unstable as the days went on. For four entire years, he believed himself insane, but what frightened him more was the thought of someone finding out.

It wasn't until his stepbrother beat him, that he realised the thoughts did not belong to him. Each time he swung, and his hand connected with Charles' limbs, he would hear him say he deserved it. He was twelve when, for the first time in his life, he didn't feel crazy. He realised the voices were in everyone else's head.

Life had become much easier with this newfound knowledge. His biggest grief was the absence of his own mother's warmth. She began drinking to ease her own pain. She was never the same after that. Although she died many years later, Charles had felt that he had lost his mother the day she first poured herself a drink. She became neglectful, shooing her own son away, sending the maids to tend to him, instead. On bad days, he'd hardly see her. On good days, she'd be drinking on the very same couch the two of them were sitting on. He knew better than to disturb her.

At some point, Raven joined their dysfunctional family. That allowed Charles to learn a much stronger trick - manipulation and illusions. He learnt that, with a little push, he could easily manipulate people's perceptions and create believable illusions. Cain set his eyes on Raven and Charles was petrified. He wasn't strong enough to erase the pent up frustrations Cain had, but he was strong enough to redirect them to himself.

So he took the beatings for both Raven and his mother. He'd let his stepfamily vent their anger out on him. They'd beat him with hands, belts, throw shoes at his head, drag him across the floor, push him down the stairs. He had been locked up in the panic room a few times, praying that they didn't hurt Raven those days. If they had known about his powers, they most certainly would have done far worse things to him.

He inhaled sharply, trying to suppress the memories of his own sins, once the last drop had fallen into his overfilled glass. His relationship with his powers had become shaky, he trusted himself less and less, holding back more and more, to the point where he'd refuse to use his powers for anything other than mind reading. It took many years for him to overcome the fear of himself. Even to this day, he knew he was capable of far greater things than he'd allow himself to do. Erik would call it a wasted potential. Pathetic.

But was it not justified? The way those around him would look, with such fear, discomfort and often disgust in their eyes. The way both Raven and Erik would continuously tell him to stay out of their heads. The way everyone discouraged the use of his powers, unless they could reap some sort of personal benefit. Shutting down the mind of the enemy was fine by their books, but reading even the most surface of thoughts from their head was forbidden. To preach freedom for all, yet to willingly take the freedom of one...

Could that be precisely what attracted him to Erik? He liked arguing with him because that's the only type of relationship he knew. He's uncomfortable when things are calm, because that usually means a storm is coming. He loved him, even though he abandoned him, because it reminded him of his mother's neglectfulness, it felt familiar, and he clung to the familiarity. Perhaps he loved him still because he abandoned him, not despite. He liked him for his explosive, selfish, impulsive personality because that's the type of personality he grew to be comfortable around.

Is that why he'd often argue with Hank, even when he knew Hank was in the right? Just because he want to argue? Because it feels like bonding to him? He liked begging Erik to stay, because he had constantly been trying to prove to himself that, unlike his mother, someone would actually be willing to stay with him? Is that why he walked on eggshells around Hank? Because he feared that he would be just like her? Just like Erik?

"I'm going to go back to the lab and see if I can fix the serum." Hank's voice broke him out of his trance, "If you need anything, you know where to find me."

Charles forced a smile and nodded, watching Hank go. Being left alone with his thoughts was uncomfortable. Images of his past life, now that the memories had been dug up, overwhelmed him, pushing themselves to the forefront of his mind. It was easier to ignore his own thoughts when he was flooded with those of others.

Maybe it would have been better if he had truly gone mad. Maybe he was going mad. Or, maybe, he had gone mad, and this whole thing was a fantasy he carefully curated for himself, as he laughed and rolled around in his straightjacket, inside his padded room. Maybe Erik never existed, maybe Raven was just an imaginary friend that helped him bear the trauma of his childhood. The nurses must be enjoying the show, listening to his crazed rants of mutants and battles, wars and sides, Cuba.

Charles gripped his glass until it shattered in his hands. He looked down at the cuts, slowly pulling pieces out of his skin, relieved to feel the pain they bring. Unless he was biting down on his hands like a rabid dog, all of this was most likely not a dream. He hoped his legs were willing to follow his commands, for he could no longer take the thoughts and doubts circling in his head.

He got up on shaky feet and slowly dragged himself over to the kitchen, supporting his weight against the nearest wall. He knew this was a horrible idea, but he also knew his way around alcohol. Unlike his mother, he was capable of having a drink, getting drunk, enduring the hangover and facing the next day normally. Until the serum wore off, a bit of liquor should be enough to compensate for his loss of powers.

The alcohol helped, dulled his senses enough to suppress the raging tides that were his own thoughts and prevent himself from drowning in them. He sat at the table and stared ahead at the seat Raven had once sat in, so many years ago, complaining about her looks, about humanity, acceptance... No, she had not complained. She had begged him to accept her, the way she was, love her natural blue. He buried his face in his hands, trying to hide away from the outline of Raven's person that still lingered in the kitchen.

The truth was, he did accept her. He simply always had the worst ways of showing it. His biggest issue was never seeing the point, never understanding what was important, always focusing on the wrong things. He loved her blue, he loved seeing her prance around the house, all blue and scaly, unafraid and relaxed. But Charles was a prude, he had to admit. He'd always ask Raven to put some clothes on, to cover up. It only took him this long to realise how she had interpreted that.

Cover up. Hide away. Return to your human form. No one wants to see your beautiful blue. Mutant. Different. Freak.

Hastily, he poured himself another glass, chugging it quickly, as if alcohol could serve as a bandage, a dam to hold back the flood of his thoughts, memories, mistakes. He made the same mistake with Erik. Desperate, hurt, little Erik. Once he put the helmet on, it was as if Charles had forgotten who he was, the very cogs that made him tick. He said things that he deserved to be shot for. Things he wished now to shoot himself for. Erik was right. Cuba was his fault. It was a miracle anyone stayed with him after that.

With shaky hands, he drank another glass, his heart racing as if he might pass out. Miracle, yes. The way he had been treating his miracle was disgusting. Gentle, caring, loving Hank. Life was cruel to him, Charles was crueller. Erik and Raven had abandoned Charles, but Charles had abandoned Hank. Locking himself up and away from his friend, his only friend, neglecting him just as his mother had neglected him. A vicious cycle that he thought he could escape from, only to be shoved back in. A snake chasing its own tail.

"You're drinking again?" his mother's voice called out to him.

Charles snapped his head up, only to be greeted by Hank at the doorway. He breathed a sigh, wiping the sweat from his forehead, "Just... needed a drink. Would you like a glass?"

Hank sat across from him, in the same seat Raven sat, and took the glass from Charles' cold grasp, "Just one. You've had plenty."

Charles nodded, rubbing his face. He had never been a paranoid drinker, until today. Alcohol always had a buzzing effect on him, made him lightheaded and giggly. He had nothing to giggle about these days. Hank poured himself an acceptable amount of liquid at the bottom of the glass and took a small sip, as if afraid that the alcohol would have the same effect on him as it had on Charles.

"I'm sorry, I need another blood sample." Hank smiled nervously, "I'm trying to make the serum fit your specific genetic makeup, but I'm having a hard time."

"How so?" Charles croaked, staring at the sticker on the bottle.

"Everyone's genes are different, but humans have an easier time making cures that work for the entire species. But every mutant is different, and they react differently to everything. Something that works for me might kill you, and vice versa." Hank explained, as Charles nodded along, thinking about how he should know this already, "That's why Ra... her cure had such devastating effects on me. That's why mine works strange on you."

"Sorry." Charles slurred, "What was that about a blood sample?"

Hank sighed, "Now that you're on the serum, it ate away at your mutated X gene, I'd like to take a look at what your cells look like now."

Charles nodded, and, before his drunken mind could catch up, he was already sitting at Hank's little patient chair down in the lower levels, his sleeves rolled up and his arm tightened with an elastic band. One moment, he was staring at the ground, in the next, he was staring at Hank's moving mouth.

"Sorry, what?"

Hank carefully brought Charles' head up from where he caught it, "Are you feeling dizzy? I can't take samples if you're going to pass out."

"I'm sorry." he rubbed his face with his free hand, "I didn't realise I was passing out..."

Hank frowned, "You look pale, do you need to lie down?"

Charles shook his head, "It's fine, take the samples."

After probably the gentlest blood test Charles had ever been through, Hank finally unclasped the band and gave Charles some space to sober up. He called him over just a few minutes later, a second away from Charles falling asleep again. He walked on shaky legs over to Hank, pressing his hands heavily against the table and supporting most of his weight there.

"It's like I've taken samples from two different people." Hank marvelled, staring through his microscope, "I see the error now."

"That's great, Hank." Charles said absentmindedly, his face feeling too heavy, so he leaned it against Hank's shoulder, "Good job."

"You're falling asleep again." Hank frowned.

"Am not..." Charles muttered, his knees buckling.

He could only assume Hank caught him in time, for the next thing he remembered was waking up in his bed, Hank watching him with crossed arms. Charles smiled, despite knowing he was in trouble. Like a kitten growing into a large tiger, Hank had grown up so much, each day he acted more adult, more mature. Charles wondered if Hank hadn't changed at all, but instead he himself had grown a lot more immature, forcing Hank into a guardian role.

"How many?" Hank raised an eyebrow.

Charles shook his head, "Don't know."

"You do realise alcohol poisoning is a thing, right?"

The telepath nodded, "I'm aware, believe me."

With a sigh, Hank stood up, patted Charles once on the shoulder and left. The former professor closed his eyes, promising to drink more water in the morning and get back to his former self from tomorrow on.

Unfortunately, like with all his other promises, this one had never been kept. The morning was cruel to him, the hangover disorienting him entirely. He wondered if his telepathy had a hand to play in his heavyweight drinking. He fell out of bed in a mess of sheets and sweat, coming face to face with Raven's picture once he looked back up. In his hazy confusion, he hoped Raven had returned to the mansion, perhaps to see him, perhaps to gloat, or to pity him.

The thoughts swirled in his mind - what would Raven do if she saw her brother like this? Acting like an antisocial drunk, like a pessimistic shut in who drowned his sorrows in alcohol, like his own mother?

He shook the thoughts away and went to stand up, only to realise that his legs had been rendered useless again. At least, that meant something else had returned.

"Hank?"

He could feel Hank's mind, it was wide awake, working, calculating. For a moment, he lost control, focused too hard on his friend, and saw the cereal box through his eyes. Breakfast it is, then.

"Charles? Was that thud you?"

Charles chuckled, "Yes. Shamefully, I have fallen out of bed. I'm fine, though, please finish your breakfast."

"Do you need my help?"

"Not right now. Thank you."

With only Raven's picture as witness to his humiliation, Charles crawled his way to his wheelchair, pushing himself up on his front and sliding his legs across the floor, until he could finally climb onto the chair. He patted his dusty knees and wheeled himself to the kitchen.

"Morning." Hank greeted with a mouthful, "I fixed the serum, it should work properly now."

Charles nodded and offered Hank a smile. The beast returned it happily, glad to have more interactions with his mentor. Charles poured himself a glass of water, deciding against breakfast, in fear he'd only throw it back up. He didn't remember drinking as much as his body pretended he did.

They gave the second serum a try, Charles' arm already bruising from all the needles he had been enduring recently. The greenish hue painted his skin, reminding him of all the things he was and will never be again. A professor, a philanthropist, an optimist, a pacifist, a mentor, a paragon of virtue, a brother, a lover, a friend.

Charles could feel his legs. They stung. They felt compressed. A if a giant weight was crushing them, preventing blood from flowing through to them. He looked up at Hank, whose mind he could still feel. His mind felt electric, a static clouding his thoughts, but, like a broken TV, unable to be shut off.

"Oh God, why is he looking at me like that? DidIMessUp? WhatIfIMadeItWorse? Charles? I'mSoSorry. Charles? Why--Isn't--He--Saying--Anything? Charles?! Oh G-- did I k-- him--?! Charles!"

"Yes?!" Charles startled, realising Hank had been calling him verbally, "I apologise, it seems the serum had the opposite effect this time."

Hank's brows furrowed, as he pressed his hand to Charles' throat, "How are you feeling?"

"Buzzing." Charles answered, unable to find a more suitable word.

It was true. His entire world buzzed, his body vibrated, his blood humming in his ears, his fingers shook and his legs twitched. With Hank's electrified mind, the house's wobbling furniture, Charles felt as if he were on a jet that was going through harsh turbulence. If it didn't stop soon, he might crash into the ground.

"Your heart's beating pretty fast." Hank commented, removing his hand, "Shit, did I accidentally dope him up?! Nononono ThisCan'tBeRight, DidIDoTheMathWrong? What about your legs?"

Charles looked down at his legs, massaging his knee, "I can feel them, I just... Can't seem to move them."

Hank sighed, hooking his arms under Charles' arms, "Let's try this again, then, hold on." He lifted him up, all the way off the ground, clumsily, as if it were a last second decision. "Oh, he can't stand at all. His legs are jello. IMadeThemJello. NeedToPutHimDown. AwkwardAwkwardawkwardawkward. Stupidstupidst--idst----s----"

Before he knew it, Charles was back in his chair, Hank's mind screaming apologies at him. He tried to comfort him, but found he didn't know how. Suddenly, he realised he couldn't project thoughts into Hank's mind at all. Just to test his newfound theory, he tried forcing Hank to lift his hand, but it remained planted on Charles' shoulder.

"What'sWithThatFace? WhatDidIDoNow? Everything alright?"

Charles shook his head, "I can't... use my powers."

"What?!" Hank knelt down, head tilted, "Again?"

Charles avoided his eyes, "No, not like yesterday. I... I can hear you." he tapped against his own temple, "But I can't... block you. I can't talk to you. I can't reach you at all."

"You can't control me?" Hank asked, but his tone sounded as if he was genuinely concerned, and not mocking Charles, which came as a relief, "Can you freeze me?"

Another shake of the head, "No. I can't do anything. I can't even stop myself from hearing your thoughts."

"OhGodohgodohgod Don't Think! Don'tThinkdontthinkdontthink. Don't think of anything. Blahblahblahblah."

Charles couldn't take it, and he knew Hank couldn't either. Covering his ears with his hands, as if that could help anything, he looked at Hank, "Do you still have yesterday's serum?"

"Yes! Yes. ShutUp. Want me to get it? Oh god, do I sound like an asshole?! shutupshutupshutup"

"Please." Charles begged, closing his eyes.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Silence is one man's best friend and another one's worst nightmare. Silence is soothing, but also deafening. Silence is a necessity, like air. But silence is also torture. To be engulfed in silence is to be isolated from the world. To be embraced by silence is to be at peace with your mind. For those who have found comfort in silence, her presence is a welcome tranquillity. For Charles, silence was louder than any thought he'd ever read.

Silence allowed for his own mind to speak. All Charles does is think. Sadly, his thoughts are far from sweet. His words were harsh, and they sounded like Erik Lehnsherr.

"The strongest telepath in mutant history, locked up in his big dollhouse, playing pretend with his best friend. Sickening."

Charles uncapped a bottle, drinking straight out of it, unable to tilt it far enough to have the stream pour in fast enough, "You were my best friend."

Erik sat in Charles' sofa, opening his arms and shrugging, "You were useful to me. You no longer are. Nothing personal."

Charles shook his head, avoiding looking at the illusion of Erik, "That's not what you thought of me. I should know. I knew everything about you."

"Then you should have known we would part."

In frustration, Charles threw the empty glass bottle at Erik, only for it to go through his head and smash into the wall behind him, "You abandoned me!"

Erik's image faded, leaving only the stained wall and sofa in its wake. Charles' eyes widened, a hand clasping over his mouth.

"Mother, why won't you read me a bedtime story?"

Sharon frowned, pushing her own son away with her foot, "Not now, Charlie, I'm busy."

"Busy?" Charles frowned, trying to reach his mother again, "You're just drinking."

The second time, she tried pushing him away with her hand to his chest, turning away from him, "Mummy said she was busy. Go to bed. Have the nanny read to you."

"But you promised to read to me tonight! You promised."

"I said go to bed!!" she turned around and threw her glass at him. He ducked just in time, as if used to it, watching the glass, along with all its liquid, crash onto the floor and spread out in a pool of alcohol and shards.

His eyes watered as he stepped back, "Mum..?"

Her eyes softened before looking away, "Just... Go to bed. Please."

Charles lowered his head into his hands, slowly sinking down to his knees. Hank came into his room not a moment later, panicked.

"Are you okay?!"

He saw the way Charles' shoulders shook and remained silent.

Charles could take a cloth and rub the alcohol off the wall. He could pick up the glass pieces and throw them in the bin. But the glass will never truly be gone. Unsuspectingly, one day, he will walk across the carpet and cut his foot on the one tiny bit of glass that he had failed to see and put away. He will clean up again, thinking he got everything this time, only to be cut once again many days later, on an even smaller shard he had been blind to.

No matter how many times he picked up the pieces of his soul, he would never be able to glue himself back together. A piece will always be missing, there will always be holes in his heart. He could buy a new rug, he could cover the holes with bandages, but that corner of his room and that corner of his heart will never be the same again.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

"So, what? You're just gonna drown your sad little feelings in alcohol now?" Raven's illusion had asked, crossing her blue arms over her chest, as she leaned on the table in the kitchen, watching Charles rummage through the fridge for more liquor.

"That is the plan, yes, good job." Charles bit back sarcastically.

He had gotten better at recognising hallucinations now. They appeared scarcely and he always knew when they would, for they had a pattern. In the short moments between doses, when Charles' powers were starting to creep back, but unable to be controlled, his mind, in an attempt to save itself perhaps, would conjure up these illusions, trying to guilt the host body into putting the serum and alcohol away. The second pattern was when Charles was drunk enough, to the point where anyone would start to see things. It seemed his mind was still very much alive, but trapped inside his skull, only able to manipulate itself and no one else.

"You used to cry when your mom did that to you, do you remember that? You'd beg her to stop drinking."

"I remember." he finally fished out the bottle he was looking for, pouring it into his glass, mixing it with the remaining drops of his previous drink of choice.

"You never forced her to stop drinking, though. Why?"

Charles sighed, sparing the annoying hallucination a glance, his chest buffing out before he exhaled, "She was my mother. A child doesn't often think about ruling over their parents. She tells me what to do, not I her."

Raven grinned, "Bet you're glad nobody tells you what to do anymore."

He sat down with a huff, his eyes reflecting like glass, as he stared at his drink, "Sometimes, I wish someone would." he took another drink, throwing his head back as he downed it. When he straightened out again, Alex took Raven's place.

"You think life's easy when you're given orders? You think it's better when others tell you what to do? So, what, you don't have to think?" he shook his head, looking down at Charles with disgust, "Sean and I can only dream of autonomy. I wanna do things because I want to, not because someone told me to. You think I like shooting at people? Would you like to be told to kill an innocent man?"

Charles stared at him, using all his strength just to not crumble, "I did not wish to see you drafted. I offered a way out."

"You offered to make up a disability for us like you did for yourself. I don't wanna be like you."

Charles sat as straight as an arrow, eyes glistening, "My disability is not-"

"-very disabling." Alex finished, "You could come with us, right now. If you wanna take orders, take them from our captain. Heck, take them from me, I'll tell you who to shoot."

"-made up." Charles breathed, his voice shaking, "You wanted to fight for your country."

"You tell us to. Every day." Alex argued, "Isn't that part of being X-Men? Isn't that what we did in Cuba? Fought for our country?"

Charles lowered his head, "Yes."

"You're sending your children to die, old friend." Erik chimed in, sitting across from Charles. Although all the dining chairs were the same, Erik's felt like a throne, while Charles' was made of dirt.

"You're the one sending people to their death!" Charles raised his voice, "You think fighting against the humans will end in victory, no casualties? You're wrong. Your path leads to death and destruction."

Erik shrugged, "I can spare a few pawns. Your path leads to this exact moment. Look at yourself. You're drowning."

"I don't want to hear it from you." he took a larger gulp of his drink.

"Your path leads to fear, despair, cowering, depression, alcoholism, suicide."

Charles looked up with a gasp, a tear finally falling from his eye.

"You're only just now seeing it? My friend, you're going straight to your own death. You are actively committing suicide."

Charles watched as Erik's face faded away, leaving him all alone in the kitchen. Suddenly, everything felt too quiet. He knew the road he was going down, he saw what lay ahead. Erik was right, he was slowly committing suicide. His mother had lived and died in the same way Charles was living and was going to die. He would be buried right next to her, forced to spend eternity with a cold and uncaring presence.

She must be laughing up at him. Her darling boy, who had been so against her alcoholism, was suffocating in the same poison she was.

"Not so opposed to this lifestyle anymore, are you?" she smirked, sitting across from him in a perfect reflection of himself, with her own glass in hand, dirty and exhausted, "Son, I thought I taught you better."

He shook his head, tears falling down his cheeks, "You taught me nothing. Nothing! You taught me nothing!" Like a child throwing a temper tantrum, he screamed at her pushing the table towards her, as if he could crush her ribs, "You barely taught me to read!"

"I taught you where to shove your sadness!" she laughed, "I taught you what to do when you're feeling overwhelmed. You'd always have these tantrums, Charlie. Your socks were wrong, your food was yucky, the lights were too bright. We could never keep you happy. I told you, when you become a parent yourself, you'll know how hard it is. You'll understand my pain."

He covered his ears, trying to drown her out, "All children..." he breathed heavily, "are different. I always try to accommodate. Accommodations are the main points of my teachings... I'd never abandon a child for being different! I'd never neglect someone just because they need more attention!"

"Where's Henry?" his mother asked calmly, shrugging her shoulders and looking around, "Where's Henry?"

Charles looked at her in shock, "What..?"

"You say you don't neglect your children, but... I don't see anyone here. When's the last time you two spoke? Do you even know if he still lives here?"

Charles' whole body trembled as he fought back tears.

His mother shook her head, "Open your eyes, Charlie. You're no different from me."

When his mother faded away, Charles bolted from his seat, like a man on fire, sprinting to the nearest lake. He ran until his feet burned, all the way down to the lower levels. He found Hank, sketching some designs into his notebook. He startled when he noticed Charles, the two staring at each other for a moment.

Charles coughed awkwardly, "What... Um... What are you doing?"

"De...signing?" Hank stuttered, caught off guard, "Are you okay?"

Hank would often ask that question. It felt like the only question he would ever ask Charles these days. Charles approached him, frowning at the way Hank closed his notebook and put it away, as if afraid of Charles' reaction if he were to see it. He stood in front of the scientist, fiddling with his fingers.

"Care for..." he cleared his throat, "Care for some tea?"

Hank's worried expression softly melted into a smile, as he nodded, "Sure."

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Days have been blurring together for weeks now. Charles wasn't aware when the last time he saw anything other than his own four walls had been. Like a vampire, he hid from the sun, pulling curtains closed, unplugging lamps and blowing out candles. Like a hermit, he moved all that was dear to him to his room, so he'd never have to leave it. Like a heartbroken mother bird, he built a nest, one he could share with nobody, with no hungry mouths waiting to be fed. Someone had come and smashed his eggs with a rock, and he was left to mourn their loss alone.

"It's always hard, losing a son." his mother sighed, "Cain was such a sweet boy."

Charles laughed, "You're just here to torment me."

"Do you have any idea where your brother is?"

"I don't have a brother." he smiled sadly, "I had a sister."

His mother didn't look amused, "She was never your sister, Charlie. She was never family."

Charles snarled at his mother, "Raven was the only family I had. For years, she was my only family and my only friend."

"Then you met new friends, made a new family. I'm so proud of you, Charlie."

He shook his head, "I don't have a family anymore, mum." like a small child, he curled up against his mother's lap, "Why don't I have a family? That's all I ever wanted. Why can't I have it?"

His mother chuckled, petting his hair, "Because you're just like me. I wanted a family, too. But, when I got it, I didn't know how to care for it. I betrayed them and abandoned them."

"I didn't abandon my family!" he cried, "They abandoned me!"

She sighed, "Charlie. Your family are all together. You're the only one that's missing. You're the common denominator. You abandoned them all."

Charles shook his head, pulling away from the hallucination, "That's not true. I never left. I stayed. Everyone else left."

"Your birds are migrating, mother hen." Sharon teased, "They've moved onto warmer places. They can't keep living in the cold anymore. Your nest is too uncomfortable for them. Perhaps, if you build a better nest..."

With a knock at his door, his mother vanished. In came Hank, holding a tray of food. Of course, even Charles had to eat sometimes. He smiled weakly, placing the tray on the cluttered table, handing Charles some water.

"Hank, could I ask you something?"

"Of course." he answered, sitting down on the bed next to Charles.

"Do you... dislike this house?"

Hank looked away, staying silent for a moment. He sighed and nodded, "Sometimes. It's so big, but so empty. I guess I just miss when it was a school. When you weren't..."

Charles' throat went dry. He swallowed his water and nodded, averting his gaze, "I think it's time for another dose..."

Hank shook his head, "I don't have any."

"What?" Charles' head snapped back, eyes wide.

"I didn't make any. Sorry." he said plainly, almost uncaring.

"Mother, do you remember what today is?"

"A Saturday?" she answered with a roll of her eyes.

"It's my birthday."

"Well, good for you."

The lack of reaction made Charles want to return to his room and curl up on his bed. But he promised Raven there would be cake and a cool party.

"You promised to make me a small cake. Where is it?" he tried asking as politely as he could.

She shrugged, "I didn't make any. Sorry."

That day, Charles had to sneak out of the house and run to the city to buy himself the smallest cake he had ever seen. It would be enough for the two of them, he thought. By the time he returned home, night had already fallen, and Raven was waiting with a pout.

Charles smiled, presenting his cake, "Mother made this cake for us. Isn't it pretty?"

Raven returned the smile, "Finally! Cake!"

Charles blinked away the memory, his head lowering, "It's alright, I understand."

Hank had left, allowing Charles to eat in his own time. Charles did his best to stomach as much of the food as he could. Erik was right, he was drowning. But not in alcohol or drugs, Charles was drowning in his own guilt. In trying desperately to be different, he had inadvertently become just like his mother. He realised now that he hadn't been giving Raven the affection she deserved. He thought he had, but it was obviously not enough.

He had been pouring poison into each of their cups. That's why they broke. Not because they were overfilling with love, but because they were overfilling with resentment. They had all been drinking his poison for far too long, becoming immune to it, and ultimately dumping all of it out of their teacups. They could fill each other's cups with love, trying desperately to wash away the remnants of Charles' poison.

The reason Charles felt like his own teapot was never being filled was because it rejected love, yearned for toxicity. It only filled with more poison. The only time he felt anything was when he was hurting. The bullet hurt, but Erik's gentle embrace elicited nothing from his heart. Raven leaving hurt, but he barely felt it when she was there. Half of the school being drafted into war was heart-breaking, but he paid no mind to them when they were here.

No, he's feeding himself more lies.

It meant everything when Erik smiled at him, had made his heart grow twice the size and thrice warmer. It meant the world when Raven would snuggle up next to him and ask him to read her a story. He so deeply and honestly cared for all of his children and all of his staff, he always made sure they had everything they needed.

He was happy, so very happy, when his mother half-heartedly congratulated him on his good grades.

"That's the whole issue, though, isn't it?" Raven scoffed, "Your feelings are the only ones you care about."

"That's not true." Charles replied sadly, munching on his slice of bread like a dying squirrel.

"When did you ever put someone else's feelings and well-being before your own?" she continued, "Look what you did to me. You were so self-obsessed, I decided to look for a family elsewhere. You never cared about Erik's pain, you only used it to get what you want. Look what you're doing to Hank, he's walking on eggshells around you."

Charles let out a laugh, which sounded more like a strangled sob, "I raised you, gave you everything you wanted, a house, a family, food, a warm bed, birthday and Christmas presents. I protected you, from everything I could."

Raven shook her head, "I didn't want any of that. I just wanted my brother. I wanted your love."

"I taught Erik how to use his powers." Charles continued, desperately, "I gave him a family, a home, companionship. I held the bastard down and let Erik shove a coin through my damn head!"

"I also never asked for any of that." Erik grumbled beside him, "I wanted to avenge my family. My real family. Now I want to prevent our kind from ever having to go through what I went through. You just want us to be back in the camps."

"That's not true!" Charles covered his ears, "I don't want anyone to get hurt! Mutant or human. I want everyone to have the same rights, same opportunities. I don't want either side cowering in fear."

"You're too human." Raven sighed, "You want to fit in with them, not with us. We're too weird for you. Weird and different, which makes us alien. You don't want the humans to see you as different. Why?"

"Because you crave their attention like you craved your mother's?" asked Erik.

"You're only doing this because the serum's effects are running out." he banged his fists against his head, "You're only torturing me because I don't want to hear you anymore!"

"I'm not torturing you, Charles."

He looked up, only to be greeted by his own reflection. Only, this version of him was clean, shaven, his hair styled back, wearing a sweater and a suit jacket. He was standing, hands behind his back, blue eyes clear of any fog, warm smile on his face.

"Hello." he greeted, "Thank you for letting me in."

"Are you here to tell me I've finally gone off my rockers?" Charles sighed, his shoulders slumping.

The other Charles, the better Charles, chuckled and shook his head, "Of course not, silly. I just wish to talk. Why do you reject me?"

Charles closed his eyes, "I can't stand the pain. You hurt too much."

The other being, presumably his own telepathy incarnate, sighed, looking sad, "We're the same, you and I. With the same mistakes. All I've ever wanted was to protect you. That's the whole point of my being. Yet, regrettably, all I've ever done is hurt you."

"Soon, the serum will wear off and you'll get the reigns again. Can't you just kill me?"

Telepathy smiled, "You crave an ego death? I'm sorry, but you and I are not two consciousnesses, your entire being would cease to exist if your mind were to die. I am simply an extension of you. We were one, as most mutants are. But you've been rejecting me for too long. Your gift allowed me to gain a temporary sentience."

"So, what are you?"

"I'm you. The parts of you that you keep locked away. The parts of you that you hate."

Charles shook his head, "You don't sound like those parts."

"Charles, the thing you hate most is vulnerability. That is what I am. I am your telepathy, your empathy. I am the child that wishes to be cradled by his mother. I am the boy that wishes to play tag with his sister. I am the man that wishes to embrace his old lover. I am the parts of you that you keep hidden away. Too afraid you'll be punished for wanting a human connection."

"Won't I? Every time I've gone to my mother to ask for affection, I am rewarded with hostility. When I try instigating a conversation with Raven, she tells me to stay out of her business. When I try being intimate with Erik, he curves a bullet into my spine!"

"Charles, for God's sake, what about poor Hank?" the other one cried out, "He stayed and this is how you're treating him! Can't you see what I've been trying to tell you this whole time? You love wrong. You don't approach your friends with tenderness, you approach them with necessity. Only when you want something. Hank can't give you hugs, kisses, nor sex, so you ignore him. He's too old to give you a sense of paternity. He's too young to treat you like a ward. You want a mother, sister, lover or child, you've never once wanted a friend." he inhaled slowly, cutting himself off, then continued in a calmer tone, "No, false, you've always wanted a friend. But, Charles, did you ever wonder why Raven was your only friend?"

"Because I don't know how to approach people as friends. I lack the middle line of intimacy. I am either as distant as one would be with a co-worker, or as clingy as a lover."

Telepathy actually looked surprised at his answer, "So you know already? Then why..."

"Because I don't want to deal with that can of worms yet." Charles sighed, "I've been ignoring your hallucinations because I don't have the strength to work on it right now."

"...You will follow your mother's footsteps otherwise. You will continue to neglect those around you, until they grow resentment. Charles, they will bury you the same way you buried your own mother. With indifference."

"Then let me be buried." Charles pulled his legs close to his chest, resting his chin atop his knees, "What's it to you?"

His consciousness disappeared, but it didn't leave empty-handed. It left a gift for him. Suddenly, all at once, as if hit by a hurricane, Charles' mind was flooded by loud, desperate thoughts. He could hear the entirety of New York, hollering grievances, crying in pain, despair. Not a single happy thought crossed his head.

MySonWhatDidYouDoToMySon! MotherPleaseHelpTheDogIsAttacking! I'mGoingToDie. SomebodyPleaseHelpMe! ICan'tKeepGoingOnLikeThis, GoodByeWorld. IMissMyDaddy. ICan'tBelieveYou'dCheatOnMe! IHaveToRedoThisEquation.

Wait.

What was that last one?

Charles latched onto it. In the harshly flowing river of thoughts, this peculiar one was his only branch, with which he could hope to prevent himself from drowning. He reached out to that mind.

"Hank! Help me! Please!"

Charles? OhMyGodAshley! CallAnAmbulance! Charles, what is it?! WatchWhereYou'reDrivingBub! I'mGonnaKillYouBitch! I'm on my way, Charles, hold on! SaveMePlease.

Hank burst into the room, his hair blue, his skin already sprouting small blue hairs, his clothes growing uncomfortably tight. He relaxed once he saw Charles wasn't in any danger, and ran to him in his human form, grabbing him by the shoulders as the other's head hung back, his eyes rolled back, his entire body going stiff.

"Charles?! Charles!" Hank shook him, but got no response. Charles had let go of the branch. "Hold on!"

He reached into his pant pocket and pulled out a syringe, injecting it into Charles' bloodstream with the caution of a clown, unintentionally spilling blood. Once Charles had finally stopped convulsing, Hank brought him back into a sitting position, keeping a close eye on him.

"What the hell happened?"

Charles shook his head, his voice growing an octave higher, "I don't know... The voices, they... Too much. I couldn't save myself. It's so cold..."

Hank quickly grabbed Charles' blanket and threw it over his shoulders, rubbing his arms to heat him up, "Are you alright now? I'm sorry, I had to give you my own serum. It's a bit different, I just hope it helps."

Charles nodded, holding onto the blanket and avoiding Hank's gaze, "May I ask you something?"

"I don't hate the house." Hank answered immediately.

Charles chuckled, startled, "No, not that. Do you... consider me a friend?"

Hank's eyes widened, as he stared at Charles, "What? Of course. You're my best friend."

Charles tried to contain his next laugh. It sounded stupid, as if little pre-schoolers were arguing about who gets to claim whom as their best friend. Like tiny children comforting each other, you're my bestest friend in the entire world! But he needed to hear it, to know if he had done something right in his life. Needed to prove himself wrong. He could make friends, friends that mattered, friends that lasted. They didn't need to be family.

"When did you start... considering me your friend?"

"I don't know..." Hank sat down, pondering, "I saw you as a mentor before. We all did. I guess, when I started working as a teacher? We wouldn't talk about my training anymore, and we started talking about things like groceries or we'd flip through catalogues to decorate the student's rooms. Yeah, I remember. We were grading papers. You told me half of your students got As, and I told you only one of mine did."

Charles smiled, feeling a lot less cold now.

"Yeah, you smiled at me, just like that." Hank continued, returning the smile, "You told me, in your exact words, Perhaps a bit too strict, my friend? I guess, since then."

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Charles thought he was doing better. He knew he had been doing better. But better has not been done for long. He tried getting off the serum, along with Hank's help, but it was useless. He had taken so much of that poison, it was like his very arteries were filled with it, running on it. He couldn't sleep without it, he couldn't breathe without it. Without it, he felt more isolated than he did when he first took the serum.

So many thoughts, none of them his. He lost all sense of self once his powers returned, as if he couldn't feel his own sentience, his own heart, his own mind. It was as if he ceased to exist the moment the others returned.

He was doing better by Hank. Or, at least, he thought he was. It was so hard to tell without his powers. Mutants, just like humans, are able to put on the sweetest of smiles for their worst of enemies. Say things they didn't mean, do things they'd rather not. He chose to trust Hank, chose to believe he would let Charles know if he ever made a mistake.

But the voices were becoming too much, his own thoughts were becoming unbearable, so he continued to drown his sorrows in alcohol. His mother taught him well, he always knew what to do when the emotions and thoughts were too overwhelming. The older he got, the more he realised - his mother was right.

Charles found himself in the kitchen, as he often does. Sometimes, he wondered why Hank never chose to simply not buy him any more alcohol, but he chalked it up to Hank simply not wanting to deal with a depressed Charles that locked himself up in his room and talked to hallucinations. Charles knew they weren't real, but their words stung all the same. Besides, he enjoyed having someplace to vent his anger out.

He quickly pulled out a bottle from the fridge, his sad eyes moving from the glass to the pictures hanging on the wall above the fridge. A picture of his mother and him, back when they still pretended to be a happy family. The traditional wife, with her traditional son, neither of them having anything strange about them. No alcoholics and no mutants in sight.

He sighed, looking down at the bottle again. Sometimes, he wished he could sit in it, curl up at the bottom and allow himself to finally be drowned in the waters. He imagined his mother, picking up the very same bottle, her giant blue eye peering down through the finish at him, swishing the glass a bit, watching his limp body swim with the current. Maybe she'd drink him whole, utterly consume him, as she had already done with his life.

So much of a person depended on their parents. Charles always thought back to Erik, and all the horrors he went through. Things that no person should ever have to go through. Things that hardened his heart, made him indifferent to those around him, alert to danger that was no longer there. Charles wondered if Erik slept more or less soundly than himself, if Erik would toss and turn in his own bed, consumed by the nightmarish memories, until he'd wake up in cold sweat, wishing he was somewhere nicer.

Even with all of that, Erik was such an incredibly gentle person, at his core. He loved and was loved. Those that he saw as family, he loved with all of his heart, showered them with affection and protection. Charles always thought, if anyone would be a good father, it would be Erik, not himself. Erik, with all of his baggage, would be the best father. Because he had the best mother. A mother who cared, a mother who loved him, a mother he loved dearly. It was such a tragedy, for him to have lost her so early in life.

Charles was like his own mother. He had come to terms with that. He was an unlovable asshole, a neglectful drunk, a bitter hermit. He wanted, so desperately he craved, a family, children to call his own, children he could raise and shower with love. He always thought he would be a good father, but now he wasn't so sure anymore. He saw the way he treated Hank, not quite the same way Sharon had treated Kurt, but the tension was there, the avoidance was familiar. He was terrified to be like that with children, as well.

If only he'd had a lavish life, like the one he liked to pretend he had. He wished he had been a spoiled rich kid, who got everything he wanted and more. Maybe, Raven would have been the same, then. Just as spoiled, just as rotten. Instead, she was spared. She took after her own parents, which she barely knew, still much better than the path Charles was taking, becoming his mother.

He could easily find himself a child, pluck a mutant out of the masses with Cerebro and raise it as his own. He could build a family in a matter of seconds. But he was too afraid to. He took a sip of his drink, one of the reasons he was so afraid of bringing a child into this house. For he had now realised, he never stopped being a child. He never healed his inner child, therefore, he would always act spoiled, throw tantrums and demand things go his way. He needed to be better, he needed...

"Mum, mum!" a child's voice yelled from the hallways, startling him. When he turned to look, he saw a small child, holding a toy plane in his hands, "Play with me, oh please, won't you play with me?"

He gaped, staring at the child, his hands trembling. Despite not saying a word, he could still hear the sentences leaving his lips, "Not now, dear. Mother's busy."

"Busy with what? Oh please, come and play!"

A tear rolled down his cheek, "I... can't."

"Why not?" the child pouted, tugging at his cardigan, "Please, come play. You've been in this room for days!"

He remembered, begging his mother in the same manner, and he remembered how he was awarded nothing for his efforts. He ended up playing alone, like a sick child nobody wanted to be around, in fear of catching whatever he was contagious with. Perhaps, they were afraid they would catch the mutated X gene if they spent too long playing with a mutant freak.

His eyes widened, glass slipping from his hand, shattering on the ground.

How could he possibly bring a child into this house? And have them suffer, the way he had suffered? Have them begging Charles for just a tiny fraction of affection? No, he couldn't do that to another soul. No children should have to bear witness to the monster he was becoming.

He glanced down, picking up the broken shards and throwing them away. The self-hatred was all consuming, it felt especially heavy today, but he couldn't figure out why. He was bitter, at the world, at himself, at Erik. If Erik had never left, Charles never would have become this. He could live without his legs, they could have figured that part out together. But he simply couldn't live in this deafening silence anymore.

"Charles?" Hank called from the other room, "Can you come here for a sec?"

He looked up, confused, "What is it?"

"Just come here, please?"

Charles stood up, slowly walking over to the other room, wondering why Hank would bother asking him for any help. If anything, he was better off doing everything on his own, Charles would just fuck everything up. However, when he reached the room, Hank jumped out with a giant cake in his hands.

"Someone's getting older!" he smiled, "Happy birthday!"

Charles stood frozen, staring at the cake in shock.

"Ready to blow out your candles?" Charles smiled at Raven.

"Yes, obviously!" she grinned, "I wanna make a wish!"

"Alright, but don't tell me what it is!"

She rolled her eyes, "You're just gonna read my mind anyways. Might as well tell you." she clasped her hands and closed her eyes, "For my birthday, I wish... for a happy family! Oops, looks like I already got that!"

Charles grinned, patting Raven on the head, "Liar. That's not your wish. You already made one earlier."

Raven nodded, leaning against Charles' side, "Yeah, I wish my brother would stop using his telepathy on me."

He frowned, "I didn't, I just know you wished for something else. I promise I didn't hear what it is."

Raven shook her head, "Not that. I wish you'd stop making me think your face looks normal."

Charles' eyes grew wide, the telepathic hold he had on Raven waned, exposing his bruised face, "How did you...?"

"I'm a shapeshifter, duh! I know the difference between a good and bad disguise. I could tell it was a fake face the second you walked into the room with that cake." she frowned, looking at him, "Cain?"

Charles shook his head, "Mother. I disturbed her, asked too many questions about cake making. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too. You got hurt because of my cake."

"I would do anything to see that smile of yours, dear sister. This is nothing compared to that." he gave her the warmest smile he could muster.

He smiled, taking the cake from Hank and setting it down on the table, "Thank you, Hank, I had forgotten about that."

"I got you this, too." Hank added, handing Charles a small package, "It was made in the thirties."

Charles opened up the small box, revealing a golden pocket watch, "Oh, it's beautiful, Hank, thank you."

He earned himself a smile from the beast.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

A small boy, cowering in the corner of his room - that was what he was and will always be. He feared the voices, for he did not understand them. He feared the thoughts, for he thought they were his own, and he was terrified of acting on them.

The amount of times he'd been pushed down the stairs, only for the voices to laugh at him once he had stumbled to the bottom, lying there, too afraid to get back up. The amount of shoes flung his way, but he always knew they were coming, they would always announce their intentions before being thrown. The amount of hatred he felt for himself, about himself was enough to make anyone insecure.

From a very small age, he knew love came with a price. If you wanted affection, you had to earn it, and one wrong move could land you without it. Charles liked hugs, Raven would often give them, and she liked kissed, he would often give them. They could cuddle as they watched TV, but the moment Charles said something that even slightly disagreed with what Raven wanted to hear, she would take her affection away, only giving it back once he had earned it back.

Affection came to be seen as a privilege, a punishment. No one grants affection just for the sake of affection. Charles did. Charles offered affection to all that sought it. Very few wanted it from him, and even fewer wished to return said affection.

Erik did. Not physically, he had always hated touch, but loved closeness. He'd stand shoulder to shoulder with Charles; walk slower, following Charles' pace, even positioning himself to always be next to Charles, even if he had to have a passive-aggressive pushing match with Raven.

Charles marvelled in it, all the affection. Erik would never speak his thoughts, but Charles was always allowed to hear them. Hear the way Erik loved him, so tenderly and carefully, as if afraid that too much love would get him killed. It might, one day. He'd listen to promises of love that both of them knew could never be.

Charles hated Erik for abandoning him, abandoning that love.

It almost felt comically ironic, the way Charles was pushed through the trenches day in and day out, reaching out but never grasping the one thing he truly wanted. As if all of this was one big imaginary time-loop his mind had come up with to torture him.

Mutant? Humans with extraordinary powers? It all sounded crazy. The voices never stopped. He desperately wanted to make sense of them, that was all it was. A crazed man's attempt at trying to pass as normal. He knew the truth, knew he was far from a professor. He never wore a yellow X-Man suit, he had always been wearing the same white straightjacket that bound his arms. His legs only stopped working because he could no longer bear to walk in circles.

He banged his head against the padded walls, hoping he could hit it hard enough to crack. All this talk about a family, a blue sister and a metal-bending lover. Ridiculous, disgusting, pathetic. You're no psychic, you're just delusional.

"Charles." a male nurse called out to him.

He hesitated, but turned around anyways, watching the young nurse walk in, pushing his glasses up his nose, "Medicine." He took out a syringe, walking towards him.

Charles shook his head, stepping back. The nurse paused. Charles hid in the corner, "I don't want to be sedated, I'm doing just fine. Please, just let me pace around."

"You won't be doing much pacing if you don't take your meds." the nurse sighed, coming closer.

He felt the nurse pull at his restraints, forcing Charles to offer his arm. The other struggled, trashing hard, trying to pull away, "I don't want to be sedated!" he screamed, scaring the nurse, "The voices have stopped! Please, I don't hear anything anymore! Please. I want my mum! I want my mummy!"

"Charles?!"

Suddenly, Charles recognised the nurse's voice. He connected a name to the voice, a face soon followed. The nurse wasn't a nurse at all, it was Hank! Or maybe Charles had it backwards. Maybe he was having another episode, imagining the nurse to be a dear friend, just to survive the abuse.

"Hank..."

"Are you alright?" his friend asked, looking worried, "You started pulling away from me. Do you not want this anymore?"

"I do! I'm sorry." he replied hastily, "Did I... say anything weird?"

Hank shook his head, gently giving Charles his daily dose, "You were whispering something, but I couldn't hear it. Are you sure you're alright?"

I'm afraid I'm losing you, were the unspoken words dangling from Hank's lips. Charles shook, he was afraid he was losing himself, too.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

It was getting worse. He didn't know where he stopped and Sharon began anymore. The decade had changed, and, along with it, the music and the fashion. Although the calendars said March third nineteen seventy, Charles was still stuck in nineteen sixty-two.

He felt better, knowing Erik was being equally as unproductive as he was, rotting away in his prison cell the same was Charles was rotting in his bed. At least they could share in agony.

The days were getting blurry, the hallucinations stopped making sense, as if he had killed his own ego with all the alcohol he was having. He would still get flashes, Raven's disappointed looks, Erik's harsh words, the sad faces of his students. But they rarely talked to him, more at him, as if he had no way of communicating with them, like they were simply recordings being played back to him over and over again.

He wasn't sure if Hank was still in the mansion. He'd see him from time to time, sometimes human, sometimes beast, but he could never tell if it was really him or a hallucination. He stopped being able to tell a long time ago. For all he knew, Erik had escaped prison and returned to the school, nursing Charles back to health, and Charles would be none the wiser.

He had no idea what was real anymore and it affected the way he drank. He'd think he had only had one drink, but later it would turn out he had five. At this point, it was a race, what would kill him first. Alcohol poisoning, drug overdose, heart failure, seizure. Hell, a dash of wind could kill him at this point.

He knew where he was in the timeline. He was walking on a tightrope called time, and any minute now, he would slip and fall to his death. He recognised the signs, the same ones his mother exhibited before her death. He looked just like she did, when she lay in her casket, decorated and dead. His eyes were sunken, dark circles under them from lack of sleep, his body was dirty, his hair was a mess, he hadn't changed out of his clothes in days. He walked weaker, despite Hank's serum. Soon enough, he would lose all feeling in his legs forever.

He remembered the day his mother had fallen. She stood exactly where he did now, head hung low, just as his was, glass in hand. She looked dead way before she dropped. Sparing one final look at Charles, she crashed to the ground.

The same way Charles was crashing now.

He hit the floor hard, his mind flung back to the Cuban beaches for a moment. He stayed down, his cheek pressed against the wooden floorboards, legs twisted, as he stared at the hallway, the same one his mother had stared at.

He saw himself, and he saw himself again, from both perspectives. He was the dying drunk on the floor, but also the scared teenager in the hallway. For the duration of an entire heartbeat, they stared at each other, the same scene from all those years ago.

Charles ran to his mother, calling out to her in panicked screeches. His knees slid against the flood as he fell to her side, turning her over onto her back, shaking her shoulders harshly. She never responded. He could see himself placing his mother onto the ground, clasping his hands and pressing them over her chest.

With each chest compression teenage Charles did, present Charles' chest heaved, as if a weight was pressing into him, as well. Desperately, Charles repeated the process, performing CPR to the best of his abilities. His hands shook and his breathing was cut short with sobs, but he pushed on, putting all of his weight onto his mother's chest, trying desperately to restart her heart.

Charles was becoming lightheaded. The CPR didn't work on his mother and it wouldn't work on him, no matter how hard his younger self tried to make it work. He was right, he would die here, in the same manner as his mother, and he would be buried just like her. Would anyone spare a tear, no matter how forced or fake? Would anyone at least pretend to miss him? Would Raven and Erik come to his funeral, if there was to be one?

He could no longer bear to stare at his own crying face. He closed his eyes, feeling the pressure in his body begin to release. He was floating, finally rid of all the pain, all the thoughts, regrets and memories. Rid of all the loathing and shame.

When he opened his eyes, he was nowhere, but everywhere all at once. He met himself, again.

"Is this what you wanted?" the better him sighed, his image faded, glitching away like an old TV screen, "I warned you. You ended up just like her."

"Maybe it is fate, for me to die from my biggest fear." Charles answered, moving forward in the misty grey space.

"Your time cannot be over yet, professor." he frowned, looking back at him, but not following, "You still have so much to do."

"There are better men for the job." Charles muttered, "I am no longer capable of bearing the burden. I can't carry the pain."

"If you die now, you are damning your people to death. They cannot survive without you."

Charles chuckled, looking up at the cloudy sky, "One would call that egotistical. What makes me any better than, let's say, Erik? He could lead our people to salvation."

His better self shook his head, "If you want paradise, it takes the both of you to build that. Not just you, not just Erik. But Erik is still fighting, and you have given up."

"There will always be new telepaths. Let Erik find them."

"Never one like you. It is not your power that defines you, but the way you use it, your ideals and your dreams."

"Dreams?" Charles turned around, his eyes beginning to water, "No more dreaming. I have died, just as my mother before me. So take me to her, where we may suffer in each other's company."

"There's so much more to you than you think." he smiled, his own eyes teary, "Not just pain and anger. There's good, too. You know it."

Charles shook his head, "I cannot help anyone!" a tear fell down his cheek, "I open my mind and it overwhelms me. I'm a lousy excuse for a telepath."

"You see your powers as a chore. They are not." the better him reached out his hand, "Please, Charles, let me help you. Let me give you hope."

"I'd rather stay here, in the astral plane." Charles answered, stepping away from the offered hand, "No one depends on me here. I can't hurt anyone here."

The other sighed, "You cannot stay here for long. Your physical body is dying, and, with it, your mind. Once you start decomposing, Charles, you will stop existing here, as well."

"That's fine."

He smiled, "No, it's not. And you know it. You know the pain of having someone die in your arms. Don't inflict it onto others."

"I am less alone here..."

"You are not alone." he shook his head, "You are blinded by guilt and rage. Those that love you don't need to cling to your side in order to do so. Raven, Erik, Alex... They are all out there, protecting you in their own ways, loving you. You will never be alone, as long as they breathe."

Charles trembled, taking a hesitant step forward. Let me show you hope. He reached out, placing his hand over the other's. His eyes glowed blue, his head thrown back, as he was shown the truth, the reality of everything.

He saw Alex, sitting on his bed in their base, talking to the other mutants there. He was smiling, mentioning Charles' school, and how, if they made it out alive, they should all go live there, it was a safe place, a happy place. Alex spoke highly of Charles, clear adoration in his tone.

He saw Raven, carrying mutant children out of a laboratory, rescuing them from harm. She told the children about a place of refuge, unaware that the school had closed down many years ago. She promised them bedtime stories and warm dinners, soft beds. Despite her disagreements with Charles, she still mentioned him with a loving heart, proudly proclaiming him to be her brother.

He saw Erik, lying down in his prison cell, bored out of his mind. Almost seven years spent in such a tiny box, he had learned to pass the time by meditating. A guard brought him food, arousing him from his slumber. Erik sat up, calling out to the guard, needing him to not walk away so quickly.

"Any news?" he asked, almost desperately.

The other ignored him, turning to leave. Erik stood up, walking to the edge of his cell, as if he could reach the man, "Any news?!"

"Even if there were, why should I tell a mutie like you?" the guard barked back, rolling his eyes.

Erik grinded his teeth, his hands balling into fists, but he knew he had to stay calm if he wanted to get anything, "I've been here for almost seven years. If someone wanted to break me out, they would have already done so! It's obvious I'm not going anywhere, so would it kill you to tell me if any new mutant activity is happening?"

"You ask that every day." the other argued, "Whose name are you wanting to hear?"

A sad look crossed Erik's eyes, Charles could almost feel the bittersweet feelings tugging at his own heartstrings, "An old friend of mine. It's unlike him to be so... inactive. I worry."

The guard scoffed, turning away, "You freaks worry?"

As the guard left, Erik sank back down into his bed, brushing his hair back with his hand and exhaling a deep sigh. With his short newfound power, Charles could hear Erik's thoughts, "Charles, wo bist du? Warum bist du still geworden? IchVermisseDichIchVermisseDichichvermissedichichvermissedich--"

"Erik..." Charles muttered, overwhelmed by what he was hearing. All these years, Charles thought Erik and him were over, forever, that nothing could be salvaged from the broken pieces of their old bond. He thought he was the only one mourning a relationship that they could never have, but it turned out, so was Erik. They were both equally desperate, yet equally stubborn to do something about it. Charles had given up, in fact, on them, on Erik. It seems he buried alive something that never died.

"I don't mean to alarm you, but your time's running out, Charles." his better self said, "Have you made up your mind? Will you let me in? Will you allow yourself to be vulnerable? To lean on your friends for support?"

Charles wiped his eyes, "Even if I let you in now, I'm already dead. You couldn't possibly bring me back."

"Oh, Charlie." he smiled, as if he had heard the most moronic sentence ever, "I told you, there is so much more to you than you know. The extent of your abilities are yet to make themselves known to you. You are capable of so much more than simply reading minds."

Charles reached out, his fingers only atoms away from the other's hand, "What will happen to me?"

"You will forget this conversation." he frowned, "I'm sorry, but you'll have this revelation again in the future, I promise. You will forget in your mind, but the knowledge of their love with forever follow you in your heart. It is the hope I wished to return to you. A hope that will be your only saving grace in the near future."

His better half looked like he was going to pass out. No wonder, he had been exerting his powers beyond their limits for a while now. It was ironic, really, preaching about letting others help him, begging Charles to not fight alone, but here he was, fighting for himself, with no back-up, all alone, saving himself, just like he would when he was a child. He nodded and reached out, clasping his hand.

His vision was soon flooded with white.

A heavy pain in his chest suddenly stopped, and his head was lifted as his ears began ringing. He opened his eyes, finding himself face to face with a tear-stained face, only this time, it didn't belong to him. Hank was calling out to him, tears running freely down his face.

"Charles! Charles?"

"Hank..." he called out quietly.

In a moment of relief, Hank pulled Charles close against his chest, hugging him so tight, he thought his ribs would crack. His semi-blue hand held Charles' head to his shoulder, erratic breaths flowing through Charles' hair.

"I thought I lost you." Hank sobbed, "You scared me. I was so scared."

Charles closed his eyes. He remembered the drinking, he remembered falling to the floor, he remembered dying the same way his mother had. Why was he back here again? He opened his eyes, only to see a picture of his mother on the opposite wall, smiling that fake smile of hers, taunting him, berating him. How dare he survive what she couldn't?

It didn't matter. Charles was a drunk, a junkie, a negligent friend.

His hand fell to the ground beside them, his head stuffed against Hank's shoulder. He had become the one thing he hated the most. But, something in his heart told him he would change, become a better man, become someone his mother never was.

Something in his heart told him he wasn't so alone as he thought.