November. 1963.
Charles barely conceals a bitter laugh when they tell him the man in the room is dangerous. That it is best to proceed with caution.
“Don’t I know it,” he replies, a rueful grin spread across his face.
The guards send him a puzzled glance before quickly hiding behind polite smiles. He’s used to it. Perhaps it is the chair this time. Perhaps it is his mirthless eyes. Tragic. He always overhears and wishes he couldn’t. He doesn’t need a reminder.
“You’ll be alright in there?” a guard attending him asks as the other unlocks the door. “Waking him might not be the best idea.”
“I know what I’m doing,” replies Charles, unsure of his own words.
“Good luck,” says the other.
The lock clicks.
Guilt swirls within as Charles watches the concrete door slide open. As he enters a hollow prison, both modest and intimidating. He is well aware that what he is about to do is a terrible thing.
Before he can regret it, he looks back, and a request spills from his lips: “I’d prefer some privacy.”
He nudges for good measure.
“Right,” says a guard, turning about-face and exiting without another word.
“Yes sir,” says the other, following.
Their footsteps echo through the cavernous space until the door cuts them off with a final rumble.
In a way, they are innocent. Oblivious. They know nothing about the man in the room but what they were taught—that the cell houses a monster. Charles should pity them, rather than be jealous.
It would be so much easier to hate.
He inhales a shaky breath, finally looking forward. Towering walls and bleached floors encircle a man who looks almost peaceful as he sleeps. A man who almost looks small.
They are alone together for the first time in over a year.
“Hello, old friend,” says Charles,
Erik opens his eyes.
-
The glass partition separating the entrance from the other side of the cell finally opens, but the room still feels claustrophobic. Charles fights the impulse to leave. The desire to steal away whatever had made Erik so distant. To find the good he had seen in him.
“If you’re expecting an apology, don’t bother,” says Erik, staring at the wall.
The gray jumpsuit he is wearing only unifies him with the desolate surroundings. Like he belongs there. This is the first visit. The only time Erik radiates nothing but rage, and, if Charles didn’t know better, disgust.
“No,” says Charles, slowly, “but I want to know what could possibly justify shooting the president.”
He moves forward, trying to come closer only for Erik to shoot him a glare and turn away.
“You didn’t even show up to the trial,” Erik says. His tone is matter-of-fact, but Charles knows the anger he is restraining.
“I can’t compromise my school,” Charles protests.
“But you’d compromise your friend?”
There is a slight smile in Erik’s voice, politeness cut thin by the accusation. If there is one thing impossible between them, it is trying to compromise.
Charles begins to shake. “You know very well that we are…”
“That we are what, Charles?” Erik asks. “Enemies? Rivals?”
“We don’t want the same thing, anymore,” Charles whispers, retreating. “That does not mean we don’t like each other.”
Erik turns around, his steely gaze boring into Charles. “I’m not sure we ever did.”
A bell rings. Charles had only asked for a few minutes. Ripping himself away is just as painful as asking for more time.
“Should I come back?” he asks as the glass separates them once more.
“Don’t bother. I left for a reason,” Erik says twisting away.
Always away. Always out of reach.
Charles tastes sand and sea. Words catch at his throat until he’s drowning. He, the one who should be in control, flailing and sinking further. His reflection catches in the falling partition. The concrete door opens.
Looking back to Erik one last time, he raises a hand to his temple.
December. 1963.
Something about Erik is different. It’s present in the way he looks directly at Charles, not daring to search anywhere else. He is not in the mood to talk, but rather than rage, what radiates off of him is more akin to embarrassment.
This is the second time. For Erik, it’s the first. It should hopefully be the last, too.
“It’s good to see you,” says Charles, smiling.
“Is it permanent?” asks Erik, quietly. Rather than turning away, he is sitting on the floor, staring up.
Charles’ smile falls. “Yes.”
“You should have told me,” says Erik. “You should have told me how bad it was.”
“You’ve made it quite clear that you care more about your mission than the safety of an individual.” Even me, Charles doesn’t say.
“That isn’t true,” Erik protests, moving closer.
“Isn’t it? I froze Shaw for you. I felt him die.”
Erik stares at him, wide-eyed. Vulnerable, in a way. “You felt him die?”
“I was in his mind. I don’t know what you assumed would happen,” snaps Charles. “I could feel everything.”
“You kept Shaw still, knowing you’d feel it,” mutters Erik. “Even when I put the helmet on.”
“I shouldn’t have. I should have stripped him of his powers and let the CIA capture him.”
“You could do that?”
“I could have, had you asked. But you wanted blood. You told me peace wasn’t an option, and you were dead set on it.”
Charles wants to project it. Wants Erik to feel every ounce of pain that he did, every ounce of betrayal and ultimate resignation in knowing that it was for the best. That Charles did it for Erik.
“I would have felt all those men on those ships die. Thousands of them, all at once,” Charles says, each word intending to sting. “I’m paralyzed from the waist down. I can’t feel my legs. I haven’t slept in days, and ever since Shaw’s death, I have not been able to shield my mind from every single thought that slips through around me.”
Erik has gone silent.
“I never wanted to hurt you. I won’t concede my beliefs, but if I had known. If I had known…” Erik trembles.
“Then perhaps you’ve learned your lesson,” Charles says.
“So that’s why you’re here? To punish me?” Erik shakes his head.“I don’t care about how much we disagree. Not when it comes to our lives.”
Charles watches a tear run down Erik’s cheek. Feels a tear run down his own.
“I should have expected this,” says Erik. “You taught me peace, but all I’ve ever known was destruction. And I have done something irreparable. The bullet may have been an accident, but I...I should have stayed.”
And suddenly it isn’t cathartic anymore. Suddenly it hurts just as much as Erik’s bitter reply from before. Suddenly they’re not two ideals, but two men, exhausted and desperate. Weak and flawed and miserable without each other.
The bell rings. “I have to go,” says Charles, quietly.
“Can’t you stay, a little longer?”
“My friend, I’m sorry,” Charles sighs. “But you chose this.”
Charles feels wholly too selfish when he takes the memory. But he can see the depth of sorrow in Erik’s mind. Regretting so much, thinking so much, feeling so much while isolated, would kill him.
Late December. 1963.
“I’m not going to move in with you,” Erik says, studying the board as Charles captures his knight.
“I wasn’t going to offer,” replies Charles.
“Yes, you were,” Erik insists, leaning back with a tilt at his lips that could be a smile. “You’re giving me that face you give all your recruits. A bit hopeful. A bit patronizing. It’s disconcerting.”
“I’m sorry to offend you with a facial expression,” mutters Charles. “Imagine having to hear everyone’s crude intentions and maybe you’ll see what real patience is.”
Erik suddenly barks out a laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“You think you know everything about everyone, Charles.” He slides his queen forward. “You think because you can feel something, you can understand it.”
“Well, I—”
There is something intense about the way Erik looks at him. “Check.”
Charles feels as though he’s missing something. He stares at the board. At the obvious move that he should have been able to predict.
“How did you do that?” asks Charles.
“You’re off your game,” says Erik, shrugging.
Charles begins to pack up the board, sending him a strained smile. “We took longer than I thought. At this point, the New Year will start in mere seconds.”
“Have somewhere you need to be?”
“Well, I was planning on celebrating.”
“With Moira MacTaggart, I presume.”
Charles doesn’t have the heart to tell him that Moira doesn’t even remember Cuba. Erik mistakes his hesitance for confirmation.
“How unfortunate,” says Erik, sardonically. “I’m sure you were looking forward to a New Year’s kiss….”
“I should be going,” says Charles, but Erik continues.
“...and I’m a terrible substitute, with all my teeth.”
Charles freezes. What?
Erik stares at him, smile dropping.“I’m joking, Charles. You look like a deer in headlights.”
“I…” Charles turns, signaling the guards to open the door. “I really should be leaving.”
Erik watches, confused, as Charles exits. Charles pulls the memory of the entire night away, amicable or not. What Erik doesn’t know is what images underlay the surface of his thoughts. The truth behind sarcasm.
Charles inhales sharply as the door shuts behind him.
This isn’t what he wanted.
January. 1964.
“The first time I see you in months and it’s on my birthday. How am I not surprised?”
“I think we left on the wrong note,” Charles explains.
“Trying to bribe me with gifts, now?”
No. Too close to the other time. Charles shakes his head.
“No objects, no money. Just my time,” offers Charles. “We can do anything you’d like.”
He catches a slew of projections Erik most definitely did not mean to send.
“Then let’s sit. Silent. No politics or arguing.”
Charles obliges, but he can still overhear everything. Erik, just wanting to bask in his presence. Desperate for company.
Just as desperate to heal the rift between them.
March. 1964.
“I’ve been thinking,” says Erik. “For the year I haven’t seen you. Thinking about what had happened.”
Charles knows. He has been thinking about it too.
“It’s just...after all this time. You’ve managed to come here. To approach me. That…” Erik frowns. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve obviously struggled to come here. You took months to decide whether or not to even go. I’m not stupid, Charles,” Erik mutters. “What happened between us has affected you more than I realized.”
“Do you regret it?”
“No,” says Erik.
Charles’ brow furrows. It isn’t the answer Erik had the other times he had seen him.
“I don’t regret saving countless mutants from experimentation and conscription.”
“That isn’t what I was asking,” says Charles.
“Let me finish,” Erik continues. “I don’t regret taking my own path, in order to help our kind. I know we do not want the same thing, but we do want to keep them safe.”
Charles nods. Erik moves closer. Far closer than he has ever been before.
“And I don’t regret knowing you. Meeting you. Joining your side, if even for a few months.”
And Charles knows. Knows from the way his breath catches in his throat. The way Erik’s eyes glisten.
Oh god, Charles thinks. Because he should have seen it coming, and he didn’t, and the fact that there are still things left to surprise him is almost exciting. Mostly, however, it’s terrifying.
“I cared more about my mission than your mission. That doesn’t mean I care more about my mission than you. I can hurt your moral sensibilities, but to...to see what I have done.” Erik sighs. “I don’t care for your niceties when there are things I can’t take back. But I am sorry.”
He loves you, says the small voice in Charles’ conscious. The one that, over the past year, had wisely kept silent.
Charles regrets what he did next. Regrets making Erik sleep before he can come any closer. Regrets leaving as quickly as possible, the memory of more than one apology now slipping into his mind, away from the source.
June. 1964.
Charles would never use Erik’s feelings against him. Guilt, perhaps, but to dangle their relationship in front of them was cruel. Charles convinces himself of this as the partition rises. He cannot keep redoing this meeting. At some point he has to settle for the outcome.
“Hello, old friend,” says Charles, making a point to smile.
Erik stares at him, disbelieving.
“How did you manage to get in here? They upped security.”
“They think I’m a psychiatrist. They also think the partition is down, and that we are talking amicably.”
“There are cameras.”
“It would be a shame if those records mysteriously vanished.” Charles shrugs.
Erik, rather than frowning, grins. There is no light in his eyes, still heavy with the complicated emotion of seeing Charles again.
“Amazing,” says Erik, meaning it. He sits, leaning against the wall, open and unafraid.
“What is it?”
“That you’d go through all this trouble, and that you are able to do so much with ease,” says Erik. “You’ve advanced considerably.”
The compliment is sincere.
October. 1964.
Erik kisses him like he’s starving. Charles can’t say he didn’t expect it.
January. 1965.
This is the last time, thinks Charles. This is the last time I am willing to do this.
“Do you know what the word sehnsucht means?” Erik asks, quietly.
“I could if I read it from you, but otherwise, no,” says Charles, but he picks up the strands of its presence like sparks across his skin. He feels a tug at his chest.
“It’s German. A deep sense of longing, or yearning, possibly for something known or missing,” says Erik.“I believe we have been here before. It feels like we have sat across from each other in this room for months and that there is a piece missing when you are not here. But this is the first time you’ve visited me.”
“Deja vu,” says Charles.
“Precisely,” replies Erik. Leaning close. “And I know when you’re lying to me.”
Charles freezes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do,” Erik rebuts. “You’re a telepath. You don’t have precognition, as far as I’m aware, yet you flinch as though you know exactly when you’ve made a wrong choice. Usually, you dig yourself into a hole long before you figure something like that out.”
“I—”
“You looked awfully guilty when I asked why you never visited until now. I’m starting to think you have. That the blank spots in my memory are there on purpose; rather than a result of the monotony of this cell.” Erik leans closer, his gaze piercing. “Tell me I’m wrong, Charles.”
Charles winces, knowing that Erik, damn him, is right. He should have known the man would figure it out eventually—it was that very intelligence that drew Charles to him in the first place.
“…I’m sorry,” says Charles after what feels like ages of silence. They are the only two souls this many miles underground, and still, it seems there is an ocean between them.
“I thought you, of all people, would respect my autonomy,” Erik replies, almost gently despite the obvious venom hiding in each biting word.
“I shouldn’t have come here.”
“How many times have you told yourself that?” Erik scoffs. He rolls his shoulders back as if he wants to lash out, but he otherwise does not move.
“I’m sorry,” says Charles again.
“I want my memories,” says Erik, “and I want you to leave.”
“Okay,” says Charles. “Okay.”
March. 1965.
Charles spends his nights staring into the emptiness that fills his mausoleum of a house. His mind has been split open, allowing the ambient static of the world outside to worm its way in. Find me. Subconsciously the signal radiates out, pleading for something or someone to drag him away from the quiet. He knows he should let sleeping dogs lie, but he has never been very good at letting things go.
After months of calling, Erik finally comes to him on that precipice of dreaming and wakefulness.
“Desperate for company?” asks Erik’s apparition as he solidifies in Charles’ bedroom and begins to pace.
“No,” Charles lies, pulling the covers up as though he could hide any part of himself from Erik.“I shouldn’t have opened the connection.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” says Erik. He stops brooding to look Charles in the eye. “You breached my trust multiple times. Clearly, you feel unfathomable guilt even wanting to associate with the likes of me, yet you can’t bear to let me go. Why is that?”
Charles can’t help but give him a rueful smile. “You know why.”
“Ah. You do love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Erik scoffs, averting his gaze with familiar exasperation. “I’m not going to forgive you just because you’re sorry.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Charles sighs. “I know you don’t want anything to do with me, after what I’ve done.”
“Don’t tell me how I should feel,” Erik cuts in. He pauses, frowning in thought. “Give it a year. Then we’ll see if anything about this is salvageable.”
“A year,” says Charles, throat dry.
“You’re lucky I’m giving you that.”
Charles nods, swallowing. He is.
March. 1966.
They tell Charles that the man in the concrete tomb is dangerous, but what do they know of danger? What do they know of the frantic push and pull that drags Charles back to the precipice?
“You kept your word,” Erik remarks. He’s beautiful. He always is.
“So I did.”
The heaviness digging into their souls from the moment they first clung to each other remains as ever. An anchor and a beacon and a stake through the heart. Something about Erik’s tangibility leaves Charles restless. His fluid movements are made not by a mental projection, but by something physical and warm and close.
“I’m sorry,” says Charles for what feels like the hundredth time. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“There’s no point wallowing in self pity,” says Erik. “What’s done is done. We have both inflicted a good bit of harm against each other.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” It’s an echo of the very words Erik had shouted at the beach.
Erik sits up straighter on his bedroll. “What makes you think I wanted to hurt you?”
Charles sighs, fully aware of their defensive streak that had built over the last two years. The way their biting words were only a tool to feel something besides devastation at the loss of what was once their biggest strength.
No, he’s been alone for far too long and all he wants is someone, anyone, to wander the empty halls of the school with him. To hold him through shaking nightmares that threaten to drown him in the darkness he wakes to. To fight for what little is left of his people, because no one else can.
“You know, I’ve never strayed too far into your head. Not nearly as far as you think I have,” says Charles. “I’ve never quite known what you were thinking. How you feel. I don’t…”
“…know if I need you, the way you need me?” Erik huffs, almost amused. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Charles. You of all people don’t need to read my mind to know exactly how I feel about the matter.”
“No one has ever felt that way about me before,” Charles mutters.
“If this is your way of saying you love me, it is a very roundabout one,” Erik says. “I won’t break.”
“I might.”
At these trembling words, Charles barely notices Erik standing and crossing the room.
And then Erik is at his side, holding a hand out. An offering. Charles reaches towards Erik’s outstretched hand, hesitantly twining their fingers for the first time.
For almost all of his life, Charles has put on a brave face alone. Finding Erik feels like coming home. It felt this way when the man stayed at Langley. When he could be spotted on the bed across from Charles, rolling a coin between his fingers. When would pluck up Charles’ King with a smug laugh. They are two for two. A stalemate.
“How about you help me get out of here,” Erik stipulates, blasé as always. “Perhaps then we can make up for lost time. Put all of these failed interactions behind us and do something new for a change.”
“I would like that,” Charles admits.
He squeezes Erik’s hand. Erik squeezes back. At the same time, hundreds of personnel abandon their posts, later recalling nothing of the day the most wanted man in America vanished without a trace.