Two weeks have now passed since the day we last met and here I am to take you up on your offer. Such a generous one, and so unexpected that my heart leaped with joy at the thought when you first put it to me.
And in the space of that unguarded moment, I very nearly accepted.
Until reason stepped in.
Because to do so would be out of the question, considering the way things now stand, but after winning one game and conceding the next, I succumbed to your sly machinations and agreed to a rematch.
And to facilitate that it was agreed that I would pay you a visit.
“Just for old times’ sake, Charles,” you had said - not for the first time that day.
It was a masterstroke, old friend.
Because now I have arrived, and, oh,Erik, you are a sight for sore eyes.
Despite all we’ve endured you are leaner now, stronger, so much more yourself than I have seen you in years. And here, in this sanctuary of yours, you are less ill at ease than you have been in all the time I have known you.
This place has wrought something upon you.
A shift in perspective.
A paradigm change.
Here, you walk freely, amongst those for whom you care so very deeply. And they care for you too. I see the love and respect in their eyes.
And it is openly returned.
During that day we spent together in Paris, I rarely caught a glimpse of the man I’d first known, not the traumatized Erik of old, the embittered Magneto with nothing to lose. And while you still hold to those same core beliefs, you are no longer slave to the destructive obsession that once kept you in thrall.
I am fully convinced that those surviving beliefs are now your governing constants, that they’ll remain with you always. That they will continue to make themselves known with every new move, every action you take. I can’t help but watch on with renewed inspiration as you tread, with that smooth, catlike grace, through this new social order, this fragile new world.
You’re more willing to listen, more open to change
Just as I am no longer the self-righteous Xavier of old.
The old, in its inexorable way, has made way for the new.
Loukas very kindly brings in my other two bags and deposits them carefully in the doorway side by side. “Here they are, Professor Xavier,” he says, respectfully, his colorful crest changing hue as he dips his head in something charmingly reminiscent of an old-world bow.
It is the first of its kind I have seen.
There are a multitude of colors, ranging from the iridescent green that first drew my attention through a flowing cornucopia of spectacular blues, mauves, and yellows. It appears that each might denote an emotional state, but I could be in error. That is, after all, just an educated guess based on similar gifts that I’ve encountered over time.
But those colors…
Right now they have coalesced into a beautiful soft pastel glow.
Glorious. Just glorious
And, Loukas, is such a fitting name, too. Bringer of Light – from the Greek. Perhaps we can discuss it all later.
When I'm a little less tired. And, only, my friend, if you agree.
“Thank you, Loukas,” you and I say as one, each of us raising a brow at the other as we speak.
Our gazes connect, and we can’t help but share a moment’s amusement, and young Loukas, clearly sensing the connection between us, smiles a little self-consciously.
He ducks his head in a sudden bout of shyness and reluctant to intrude, makes to step back through the still-open doorway. But at the very last instant, he changes his mind and turns back. This time he smiles right into my eyes. It is clear that he has mustered his courage, his beautiful crest finally resolving itself into the delicate creams and exquisite pinks of an eighteenth-century rose.
His expression is soft, almost glowing. “I--- I just wanted to say that it's an honor, Professor. We are very lucky to have you staying with us.”
The creams shift in hue as he speaks. Segue into silver and aqua and blue.
Now there’s a lump in my throat.
“Thank you,” I somehow manage to say. “But I am the lucky one here.”
Oh, Erik, how carefully we must nurture this child, look what is blossoming here. This one will wear it all on his sleeve. His heart and his mind, his whole inner being.
He is just seventeen and has a great deal to learn. And if he is not very careful an even greater deal to lose.
For, as the two of us know more than most, the world outside can be brutal.
Ah, Erik...
My mind wanders back through the years…
“…fessor…?”
I look up into the boy's curious face and realize that I've been wool-gathering again.
How long have I...?
I conjure a smile. Once second nature, they don’t come easily to me now. In truth, and until very recently, I was halfway convinced that I might never smile again.
And yet today there have been two in one day.
“Not at all,” I try to catch up. “It is my pleasure to be here amongst you all. I'm sure that you have a great deal to teach me. I--”
And it is now that you decide to speak.
“True...” you interject smoothly. “...we have a great deal to show you,” you smile. “But rest must come first, Charles.” Your expression is stern now, a hair's breadth away from forbidding, and as such would fool most of our acquaintance, but there is a softness lurking deep in your eyes that seems reserved for me alone.
And I have to wonder again, given recent events, how that warmth has survived all this time.
I must have been musing once more, because when I next raise my head, young Loukas has melted away, perhaps in response to some suggestion from you.
And now we’re alone.
“It's no private mansion…” you say. “…but we have put in the work and have made it our home.” And you spread your arms wide, encompassing this room with its magnificent views, along with all its surrounds.
I draw a deep, cleansing breath. “This is a wonderful environment, Erik. So tranquil.”
And every word of it’s true.
The ambiance is so soothing and the air is so clean. And from a stygian recess somewhere in the back of my mind, a whisper soughs: yes, and inspirational, too.
That is, given time.
I crush the thought.
“Let's get you settled in,” you say quietly.
“I really should call Hank,” I begin, worrying aloud. And I immediately regret it. It’s ridiculous, really, considering how capable he is.
Did I talk to him about little Emil? About what his Father describes as his “ailments?” Perhaps I should telephone him now. Discuss it further. Suggest that maybe he should...
So many little things left undone. Things that need to be...
“Charles.”
A hand closes gently on my shoulder.
Its touch is feather-light.
Grounding.
“The school is in good hands, Charles.” you chide softly and squeeze. “Emil will be fine...”
We’re not mentally connected, have not been for a long time, and yet somehow you’re reading my thoughts.
My heart starts to race. Have I unknowingly let my guard down? Am I now so transparent, so easily read?
All too often of late, I’m at war with myself. Find myself, overwrought, second-guessing.
But this is you, I remind myself. You.
I glance down at your hand where it rests on my shoulder. At the known and the loved, the familiar.
And all my misgivings subside.
“Hank knows what he’s doing,” you continue, in quiet measured tones. “...and you know it, too.” Those long fingers squeeze one more time before they’re finally withdrawn, but I can still feel their warmth on my skin, distracting and comforting at the same time.
Disconcertingly so.
I can’t yet meet your eyes, because, to my consternation, that old yearning of mine has returned. It’s lurking just beneath the surface, where it has dwelled, unexpressed, for so long.
And now it’s lying in wait.
Oh, I knew it was there, of course, I knew it was there, but I’d believed it contained and I’d had the gall to consider it mastered.
How could I ever have thought such a thing? Because when it comes to you, Erik, that will never be true.
“You're right, of course, Erik,” I manage, finding my tongue. I lift my gaze from the floor and turn the chair toward the comfortable-looking recliner which someone has thoughtfully set by the bed.
You turn with me. Step forward beside me. And just as before, you are far, far too close.
My gut says retreat but my traitorous soul breathes you in.
Until as late as this morning, I’d been feeling displaced. I’d begun to feel lost, insubstantial. Because waking or sleeping, I could only see Raven and Jean.
But they are gone from this world, from our lives, and the memories flood in. Oh God, so many memories. The joys and the heartaches, the good and the bad.
The pain and the guilt.
The whole of it must be remembered, it must all be preserved.
It would have been easier in so many ways if I had been left to work through this alone. Sometimes it’s still too much to bear and I squeeze my eyes shut, lest the tears start again and betray me anew.
As a means of distraction, I turn my head to one side and peer out through the mullioned windows. It is dark out there now and a very cold night, but the moonlight makes it easy to see. The garden has now been transformed. It is a wonderland now, every bush, every tree, every cabin, enshrouded in white, as if by magical means.
The first fall of snow for the year.
It is a breathtaking sight.
As is the resolve that I catch in your eyes when I turn my head back.
My heart skips a beat.
“May I?” you ask softly, looking down at me, asking permission. “You must be tired, Charles.” Your brow furrows slightly as you read my exhaustion, and somehow you tap my despair. “It will only take a moment or two.”
And there it is, that unique and remarkable smile. “Unless you've grown so heavy these days that I can no longer lift you.”
I should not let you assist me. Even in this.
Our gazes touch and they hold, and I search those unwavering depths. You stand there, unmoving, quiescent, and, not for the first time, I cannot help wondering just how it would feel to have those long, slender fingers exploring my skin.
How it would feel if I were to be gifted the taste of your mouth.
There are so many logical reasons why I should not let you touch me. Rational reasons. And all of them sound.
But even my voice is pre-empting me now.
“Thank you, Erik,” I hear myself saying, as though there’s nothing amiss. As though I’m not in two minds. But my voice sounds a little unsteady and you instantly drop to one knee, right beside me. Your face moving in close to mine.
I throw you a questioning glance but before I can blink you have put out a hand. I feel your fingertips touching my cheek and they ghost their way down the whole length of my jaw.
Those fingers are warm. How I long to lean into that hand.
“I'm only two doors down, Charles,” you say softly and you pull back your hand with a trace of a smile. Then, getting up to your feet, you reach across to the bedclothes, plump up the two pillows, and turn back the duvet.
“Unless…” you murmur, arching a brow. “...you’d like to risk it and bunk down with me.”
Your eyes are still thoughtful. Considerate. Kind.
But behind them, behind them…
And I find myself daring to hope.
Perhaps something good can be salvaged from what we’ve endured, after all. Maybe this is not too much to ask.
You say nothing else and not one muscle has moved on your face. But I can sense how much you want this, my friend.
As do I. As do I.
I put the chair in reverse and look up. “Why don't you lead the way, Erik?”
Ah, Schatz, your eyes say and you smile. And you don't have to speak, not one word.
No more hiding my friend.
No more secrets between us.
The running, the hiding, ends here.
END