Prompt Post: ROUND THREE
ROUND THREE IS CLOSED
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<< ROUND TWO | ALL ROUNDS | ROUND FOUR >>
Rules post.
Flat view.
Updates Post (WIPs only)
Fills Post (completed Fills only)
damalur's firstclasskink on Delicious.
Volunteers always welcome.
There may be some delay on posts appearing when there is a URL in the message body as they are automatically marked as suspicious and I ( Read more... )
Cue Erik, to his shock, receiving projected thoughts from Charles on a regular basis. Charles doesn't think they're getting through. He's not even trying anymore. It's a pallid sort of comfort, just being able to quietly "tell" Erik about something Alex has said, a thought he had about a television program. Those aren't the thoughts that get to Erik.
It's the ones like this: I miss you worst on nights like this.
I hope you're safe. Please be safe.
I love you like most people can't bear to love things.
I mean, feel free to use different thoughts or your own take on this. I just... want a little heart ache. Go wild!
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(lol! almost misspelled 'tears' as 'teats'. XD wth brain?)
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i.
The first time it happens, he's not even sure it's real.
The new metal framing his skull feels unfamiliar, an alien presence he has to get used to. It will bend to his will, eventually, will feel like an extension of his body in a matter of days, but for now he holds back a grimace as he listens impatiently to Raven and Angel's quiet chatter at the dinner table. Every now and then, Emma joins in with her sharp comments and Azazel merely chuckles in response to either woman.
It's early still, yet Erik stands, patience run out. “Good night,” he says and he leaves the room without another word, walking from corridor to corridor, up the stairs, and then another corridor until he finds his own bedroom. It's a disfigured copy of the one room he'd called his own for months (before everything fell apart and he lost more than just a bedroom, muchmuchmore).
Sometimes he finds himself just standing there in the doorway, looking at the cheap surrogate that's build on memories of contentment, and he notices how the wooden bed is a few shades off. The rug beneath it is a tad too long, circles instead of curved lines. The fabrics are either too thick or too thin, too ragged or too smooth.
It's all wrong.
Erik sits himself down in the leather chair in front of the window, feet propped up on the low table, and he stares at a highway that shouldn't be there, but is. It used to be quiet, back home, his window looking out over a neglected part of the vast garden. Only one person ever visited the fish in the pond, and he did so every evening at eight. Erik knows this, because he made sure he was there to watch.
He slowly relaxes, vice like grip loosening their hold. One hand comes up to support his head as the memories replay themselves in his mind. They are grainy, hard edged with what has happened, and some of the feeling has lost its intensity, yet it lulls him to sleep as easily as a mother's lullaby.
You would've been proud, I think.
Barely awake, the stray thought slips through his own unnoticed until it has settled deep into his stomach. It doesn't alarm him, and it won't for a long time. Erik just closes his eyes and pushes it away. It helps, for a while, until the next one comes along.
I wish you didn't walk away.
Exhaustion strips Erik of defences, and sudden regret washes over him, pressing hard until his shoulders hurt with the weight of it. Because he did. He walked away without ever looking back. “'I know,” he mumbles, mind numbing quickly now that sleep is coming next, “'m sorry.”
That night, Erik dreams of dead fish in a room that isn't his.
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ii.
Erik is a fighter, and he's not used to waiting. War is around the corner, but the fights won't be coming for a while. He knows this, and he knows war like he does the back of his hand. War isn't so much offense as it is a combination of preperation and defense, he thinks. He is busy fine-tuning his control, not arrogant enough to sit still and only watch the new recruits train for the inevitable.
Weeks go by, and for the first time in a long while, he feels properly prepared to take on anything that is thrown at him. He feels fully alive, and the metal framing his head pulses in time with his heart, humming pleasantly. Erik sleeps better, now that it is fully a part of him, and sometimes he isn't sure where the helmet ends and his skull starts. He doesn't mind. It's safer this way.
He's working on multitasking today, sitting indian style on a wooden board that only has one thin strip of metal underneath it. He concentrates on hovering the wood about a foot above the concrete. In front of him, nails and screws are dancing feverishly, attacking unseen enemies in the air. Erik only notices they're swirling around in a set pattern when he lowers the tools so he can look down on them. He feels sick, all of a sudden, and wills them to do something else, maybe form a solid something, anything, because eight is just so -
They're alone in the dark, on a bed they didn't mean to end up on. It's just that Erik thought Charles was joking when he said he didn't like thunder, so he gave him a gentle push, shoved him with a chuckle on the bed. Soon realised that it was not, in fact, meant as a way to entertain. Charles actually shivered, and Erik couldn't stand the sight of that, so he crawled on the bed and cradled him close. No words are uttered, are needed, and they wait until the thunder quiets, and only the harsh rain is left. Erik waits for the awkwardness to settle in, knows it will come, if not now, then tomorrow. Wishes that this won't become just a memory that'll be cherished, yes, but never spoken about. In the background, he hears the clock in the study striking twelve. He feels a finger start tracing a pattern on his chest, and when he closes his eyes and concentrates on it, he finds himself smiling. Keeping track, are we? Because Erik is. And tonight marks his eighth month at the mansion.
- painful.
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It happens every now and then. Sometimes it's just snippets of a conversation, and sometimes he knows it's directed specifically at him. At first he thinks Charles knows his new helmet lets other people's thoughts in, and is taunting him with updates on the kids and how they are getting ready to stop him. Erik is considering replacing the helmet, until one afternoon, when he's sitting in his study, reading, and the thoughts he receives take on a different direction.
I waited for you, do you know that? I'd hoped for you to turn around, to come back, thought you just needed time and then we'd agree to disagree. It's a ridiculous thought, I know. You'd probably laugh at me if you knew. Or you'd roll your eyes. Or both.
Erik looks down at the book, then slowly closes it and puts it away. He stands, then sits again, then stands once more and starts pacing. He swallows, desperately wants to cover his ears, but he knows it's no use. This is impossible to block, but if there happened to be a way, he sure didn't know of it.
Or maybe I really didn't know you at all. A mind can still mask its true nature, you know. I feel I don't know anything anymore, Erik. Why I am still doing this, when I know for certain you'd never take that helmet off again if you could help it. Then again, I'm feeling a bit sentimental today.
Erik snatches the book from the table and sits down on the carpet. Opens it on a random page and starts reading. It's a page he's read only minutes ago, but he doesn't care. Erik needs a distraction, can't take this. Wants to rub at his ears to make it stop, it's too much, but the voice in his head is relentless, unforgiving, and perhaps, he thinks, he deserves this.
I miss you. It's been two years. I've pretty much given up on it, but I can't help but wish for the alternative. Sure could use your help here at the mansion.
He has never felt this hopeless. There is no way for him to make the other man shut up, no escape from this. He has no way to reply, no way to make it. Go. Away. The feelings that are interwoven with the words, seeping into his mind like poison, are all-consuming. There is so much sadness, and the betrayal he'd expected to be there. Anger, desperation, confusion. It brings his own guilt to the surface, along with all the feelings he mostly ignores. Charles' leaking emotions give them power, and suddenly it's all going downhill pretty fast.
Just come back, Erik. Yes, alright, you won't, I know. It's just a thought, I suppose.
He hurls the book at the nearest wall, and it bounces, spine cracking. It's old, and the cover falls off once it's landed on the floor. Useless. All so completely useless. Erik scratches at his eyes, knows he's crying tears that aren't entirely his, but it's blended together seamlessly and he doesn't know anything anymore beyond the pain and this is exactly why he hates emotions because it weakens because look at him now he's a wreck and falling apart and -
You need to come home and make it all better.
But Erik knows that nothing about this can be fixed.
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THANK YOU FOR YOUR COMMENTS I LOVE YOU BOTH -excited-
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break through the cracks and bring me home
Enjoy, dear anon!
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Get back your speech! I'm fairly sure that you'll be needing it at some point. Especially for all of the other glorious fills that are being posted everywhere! ♥
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