Charles is cute. People tell him so often. All shiny brown hair, and big blue eyes. He smiles at them and tilts his head, letting his little legs dangle over the edge of too tall chairs. His father’s hand settles heavily on his head, and he revels in the warmth of the man’s proud smile.
Brian Xavier is a man of few words, but that doesn’t belittle his cunning, ingenuity or care. This doesn’t change the slight sting Charles feels by proxy when his father first sees the words curling around his upper arm. But he quickly smiles, smoothing out Charles's hair as he reassures him that is was only the surprise of sentence which struck him, ending in a hearty laugh as he explained that his soul mate must meet him under startling circumstances, and jokingly chides him for being a pain.
That night a 5 year old charles touches his arm and tilts his head in the mirror.
What the hell do you think you’re doing!
His soul mate seems rude, but he doesn’t mind.
…
Charles was different, had always been different. However, it wasn’t until after his father's death that the voices had started. The overwhelming noise would wake him at night, leaving him a shivering, sweaty, mess beneath his covers. He didn’t dare call out for, or seek out, his mother - that would not only be unwelcome, but it was out of line for a 9 year old to seek out their mother like that, he was told...
So, he turned to books.
When his father had first passed, he spent most days in the man’s study, all but devouring book after book on the old wooden shelves. It was there that he discovered that he must be schizophrenic. It was the only logical answer, after all. No one should hear omnipresent voices with no origin. But he never told anyone, despite the fact that all of the books said that the affected individual should seek help, he found that perhaps it would be safer to simply keep quiet.
It was only when his mother remarried all too soon, to a man more concerned with money than with relationships, that a different notion crossed his mind. And he knew he man did not care. He knew it because he heard Mr.Cain’s voice as clear as day in his head. The man went on and on, all selfish and absorbed thoughts, often ending with a scathing glare in his direction, followed by, “But that damn boy. That damn boy will get in my way.”
And then the words became physical.
Charles started with begging, and then crying, and then anger. But as purple-green bruises bloomed on his skin, as shards of broken bottles pierced his skin, he faded into silent resignation. Mr.Cai-Kurt’s voice began to take over his mind, his body becoming wracked with chills as the man drew near, the thoughts in his head wrapping around Charles in a vicious noose.
And Charles is 12 when he reads about telepathy, and 12 ½ when Kurt identifies him as a mutant. Charles vows that very day that he will always protect those like him. That he will fight for them, no matter what.
…
Kurt is not a man of science by any means, but he plays it well. The way he finds out about Charles's telepathy is an accident, a slip that the boy can't help but make as he unknowingly issues an order for the man to stop, freezing himself as the man’s body stills before falling motionless to the floor.
Kurt begins the tests then, starting with hesitant prodding before harshly burgeoning him to extend his powers in a way that Kurt can feel. This is when he begins using the chemicals. In a ploy to get Charles to speak in his mind's voice, by taking away his physical one, and Charles is 13 when he loses his choice- the year he makes it, as one of the youngest students, into Oxford University.
At first he hated Kurt, and perhaps that was too strong a sentiment, but in a world where the only thing that could tell you who your soul mate was were the first words that they said to you...perhaps it was at least somewhat reasonable to feel a bitterness for the man that took away his voice.
…
Charles is 16 when he gets his first PhD- thank the world of education for being run so heavily through text and writing, and to the marvelous few that bothered to learn ASL-, and those who know him are hardly surprised, the only thing keeping him in good graces was his good looks and propensity to parties. When the voices become too much, and he cannot tamp down on them enough, he drowns them out with alcohol.
Maybe it’s a mistake, but it feels too good for him to care.
He’s a TA, and nearly 17 years old, when the words on his arm begin to fade. His vision blurs with salty tears before he reminds himself that it’s for the best that his soul mate has moved on, he was broken anyway, no one deserved to be stuck with him. Every night the tears still come.
On the outside Charles is all charm and arrogance, on the inside he is insecure and intelligent. He is still all shiny brown hair and big blue eyes, but now it’s not cute, it’s sexy. He uses that to his advantage, but every person will only get as far as his front door before they fall into a dead sleep in his arms, dreaming of an encounter that has not happened as he gently fingers his sleeves and works on his dissertation.
…
Raven comes to his apartment on a Tuesday, and the next week is spent on an old couch, cuddled into each other while eating ice cream and watching movies like the children that they were never allowed to be.
He met Raven by sheer happenstance, adopting her into their family in a use of his telepathy that he vowed never to utilise again after his success, unless absolutely necessary. Suspicion leads to the nearly lethal dose of chemicals that forcibly tear away his voice. But, he looks over to his side and sees the beautiful blue girl curled into him, it was worth it, it was absolutely worth it.
Her mutation is far more noticeable than his own, when she wants it to be. She voices her distaste for the disdain he shows when she appears in her natural form, but he doesn't do it to be contrary, he reacts in such a way because he is fearful for her. Seeing a blue girl caused most people concern, and she may be taken away, or hurt. He is henceforth dubbed an overprotective big brother, but he doesn't mind.
It’s during this certain visit that Raven catches a glimpse of his mark, and he can feel the pity of her surface thoughts striking him from across the room. She doesn’t know that she’s doing it of course, but the next question she presents doesn’t surprise him.
“What happened to your mark?”
He hesitated briefly, nearly speaking into her mind before remembering her aversion to the action and turning to sign out with his hands.
“Nothing, it just...faded.”
“Charles….”
“Raven, it’s fine. It happens all the time. What do you want for dinner?”
Bless her for dropping the conversation, lunging for the phone an ordering their go to comfort dinner- italian take out. Good thing he hadn’t been planning on doing anything that night, because he probably won't even be able to get off of the couch.
…
Charles is 17 1/2 when he jumps into the ocean, arms wrapping around a stranger that doesn’t want to be saved. He whispers gently into the other’s mind, inhales as deeply as possible as they breach the surface. But all the oxygen in the world cannot fix the way his heart stutters to a stop as the man- as Erik, confronts him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing!”
He pushes back his saturated hair as the men on the boat pull him away from the infuriated German. He sleeps the next day away, upper arm burning, shrinking back into a blanket and finding comfort in 15 year old scotch.
It’s the next day, when he meets Erik again with a shining smile, and an extended hand - Raven verbally extending his offer to join them - that he realizes that Erik has a soul mark on the arm opposite his tattoo. Then Erik is not his soul mate, and at that point in time, his reaction is a sigh of relief.
…
Erik’s room is right across from his, with a nice sitting room right by a bay window. So, they spend most of their time there, not that Charles's own room was not perfectly nice in its own right.
There’s a small sofa just below the window, the only real seating in the area. So, that is where they sit to play chess. Erik’s arm rests on the back of the couch, just behind Charles’s shoulders - for whatever reason the warmth just behind him it incredibly comforting, and Charles feels more at home right here than he ever has in his life.
They talk about nothing and everything, and they also argue about nothing and everything. But there’s something about them that makes the arguments easy to forgive, and often more fun than frustrating.
At meetings people know to leave a spot on either side of one of them for the other. When going to sit on a sofa they automatically sit nearly thigh to thigh. They are side by side at dinners, and Charles can feel Erik’s breath on the shell of his ear when they’re looking at a book, an experiment, a panel, anything like that.
He becomes hyper aware of Erik’s every movement, he doesn't even have to sense the others mind to know that he has entered a room, because now he can detect such a thing from only footfalls and scent.
At night Erik walks him to his room. In the morning they run. Erik makes breakfast, Charles makes lunch. They build a routine.
…
Charles is 18 years old when he nearly forgets to breathe after a long game of chess, sliding down the inside of his door with tears in his eyes.
This is because he has just realized something. Something heartbreaking and something taboo. He’s fallen in love, but with Erik. Erik who is not his soul mate. Erik who has a soul mark that his mate would not have, because he cannot talk . Erik who is 28 years old and sees him as a child, or at least seems to.
And the tears spill over in heavy rivers down his cheeks, and what he wouldn’t give to let out the words caged in his chest. Instead the room is filled with monstrous gravely noises, his version of sobs, and he hates himself all the more for it. And the thoughts that drown out any other, threaten to strangle him tighter than Kurt ever had.
You don’t deserve him. You never will. You’re a burden. You’re broken. You’re a nuisance. No one could ever want you. No one will ever have you. There is no soul mate for you. You CAN’T TALK GODDAMMNIT.
That night he drinks a whole bottle of cheap bourbon and wakes in the morning with nothing more than a slight headache - in true Charles fashion - and acts as though nothing at all has changed.
…
His mind melds easily with Erik’s. It’s comfortable, a warm feeling like home. The man is fascinated with him, and really, at this point Charles will take anything that he can get- though he knows that he shouldn’t allow himself any sort of indulgence…
It’s when Erik places the helmet on his head that Charles nearly falls to his knees from the shock of being forcefully ejected, still mentally yelling at the man to- please! Please! Don’t do THIS!
Tears roll down his face from unmoving eyes, stomach clenching, as he feels the coin pass through Shaw’s head, mouth opening in a silent scream. After that everything goes black, and he only wakes up, what Moria tells him is nearly half an hour later, when water is splattered on his face.
Then they’re running, feet sinking into too-hot sand. He wishes more than anything that he could yell. That there were some way that he would be able to make contact with Erik as the man’s rage blinded any judgement he may have formerly had. And that’s it for him. Really it is.
This man. This man that deserved so much more than he got. This man that he did not pity, but hurt for. This man that was so hurt that such a feeling could take over his brilliant mind. This man with fantastic power that has been abused. This man that he has fallen in love with, with no hope of redemption as the words burned strong on his arm.
Charles ran harder than he ever had, mind narrowing as he plowed straight into Erik’s middle. They rolled, pulling at one another, throwing punches, scratches, anything to put the other at a disadvantage.
That’s when Moria pulls out the gun. It’s an unnecessary reaction. It’s a human reaction. And it’s a reaction which will have no use against a metalbender . But apparently….it worked all too well on him.
It’s one of the slowest moments in his life. Erik’s hand splays out, not unusual. He tries to call out to Moria to stop, to step down, not unusual. Erik is angry and at an advantage, not unusual. The pain at the base of his back, unusual, extremely so.
His mouth opens and nothing comes out, but nothing needs to. He falls with no way to catch himself, face screwed up in pain - and the first thought that comes to his mind is, well I’ll have died twice today.
That’s when Erik is by his side, gently cradling him, eyes locked through tears, and hurt, and God….no….he can’t.
Everything in him screams to do something when Erik rises, but he cannot feel, cannot move his legs, and pain is keeping his upper body still.
Blue eyes flicker, and just before the man disappears-
It’s rough, like swallowing a mouthful of nails, and it probably sounds at least ten times worse. Breathy and grotesque, in the mere moments between the last time their eyes met and the red mutant’s reaching hand-
“I’m sah-oor-ey. Goo-nd-bye, Er-uck.”
He catches Erik- no, Magneto, freeze before he is gone. Charles lets everything fade to black.
…
It is dark and cold in the mansion. It is empty, hollow. There is no life...aside from Hank’s.
He wakes up at noon by Hank’s insistent hand. He eats maybe once a day, and takes a syringe full of Hank’s serum three times a day- Hank has told him to only take one, but three is better.
Some days he gathers enough energy to viciously kick the dusty wheel of the devil before falling to a dirty couch, covering himself in a warm blanket, and tucking into scotch, bourbon, whisky, wine, vodka, whatever’s on hand.
He cannot hear the voices anymore, he cannot extend his voice anymore. He does not miss the extended torture.
Hank tries to get him to speak, to sign, to communicate. He just stares.
Slowly the efforts wean, and the boy resorts to simply caring for him. Charles ignores the sad look in those eyes. The pity, the hurt, the anger, the sadness.
It’s too late.
…
Charles is 26 when he punches that damn Erik Lehnsherr in the face.
He is 26 when Erik comes back to the mansion, yells at him for abandoning all of them. Bringing up any faults he can think of, any wrong doings. Charles feels sick and storms off, the door to his room locked, then secured with plastics.
He injects himself with 6 doses that day, and sleeps all the way through the next two in a comatose state. When he wakes up he cannot feel his legs, the voices are too loud, and he breaks into a panic.
It’s only seconds later when Hank quite literally bursts through the door, pinning him forcefully to the bed as he thrashes, tears rolling down his face as his nails sink into pale arms, clawing hard enough to draw blood.
The needle slides in easily, making another small red mark to match the other 15 that have not faded, the purple pool of blood beneath his skin growing.
…
Erik stares at him in horror as he watches Charles inject the serum. The metal end twists just before it touches his skin, and the floodgates break ope. Half in unbridled fear and panic, and half in anger and hurt, he throws feelings and voices at Erik in waves, signing violently as his legs become useless, dropping him less than gracefully to the floor as he leans too far forward.
The waves break off has his forehead strikes the hardwood, and he sobs into the floor. It’s an awful sound. It’s the sound of the Goddamn monster that he’s made of himself. He expects Erik to leave like before, and startles when strong arms wrap around him. He is unceremoniously hauled up, chin propped on the German’s shoulder, and his neck becomes wet.
Erik is crying, he is crying. He fists his hands into that stupid costume and presses his mouth into the soft cloth.
“Ich- I-Ich-...”
At some point Erik begins to idly rock them both, and Charles slowly pulls back, pushes at Erik’s shoulders, he has to-
He has to get away. He needs- needs….
Erik’s hands frame his face. Big, warm, stupid hands. Rough fingers trail his cheeks, running gently off of his skin, and the metalbender pulls up his sleeve to show that-that life ruinin-
I’m sorry. Goodbye, Erik.
Charles lets out a heart wracking sob, and his hand catches Erik's face in a more than audible slap that makes the man’s head snap to the side before falling forward, bracing himself on the other’s shoulders briefly as steely eyes locked on his own, and he signed-
I knew it, you prick.
Erik’s laugh is like the warmest of hugs, and the tears falling down their faces are more full of emotion than he could have ever imagined.
“Ich liebe dich.”
...