Superheroes (7/8)
Part 6
This taxi isn't moving nearly as fast as it should be.
Not at all, and it's driving Erik insane. His heart is racing, his mind is heaving, his hands are trembling, and everything should be moving just as quickly, just as frantic and jerky, as it all feels to him. Instead, everything is slowing down, crawling, and it's almost as if he's trying to slough through the atmosphere. The temptation to shove every car away with a flick of his hand laps at his mind; he couldn't care less if they crash into each other, shattering as the press away on each side - it'll leave the roads clear.
He contents himself with messing with the stop lights so that they all turn green.
"Please," he asks, "is there any way you could go faster?" And now his voice is shaking, more-so than his hands.
"Listen, guy, I'm goin' as fast as I can without getting us killed," the driver replies, turning his head slightly to talk over his shoulder. Brooklyn, Erik thinks faintly. His accent is thick, the kind of New York accent that people imitate for fun, and, once again, with a sickening lurch, Erik remembers he's back in the States - the drivers in Italy are so much more polite. "The damn roads are iced over," the driver (Vincent Rutgers the ID between the slots of bulletproof glass reads) continues. "All the damn rain." And yeah, Erik knows the roads are dangerous and slippery. It's the reason why he's back home.
He sighs, sits back from where he was leaning toward the partition and settles into the cracked leather seats. He tries to quiet his busy mind by staring out at the grey, December evening, but the sight of the dirty streets, graffiti walls, and bustling people tire him out almost immediately. A sharp feeling slices through his gut once again, and he leans forward, this time putting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands.
He can't breathe. It's so hard to even think-
He shouldn't have stayed away for so long. Erik knows that if he were here this wouldn't have happened. Somehow,he could have stopped this from happening… not that he's exactly sure what he would have done, but…
Breathing is becoming harder, each inhale becoming shorter, faster, and his head begins to swim. Faintly, as if listening through a thin wall, he can hear himself beginning to hyperventilate.
"Hey, buddy." And the driver's vaguely concerned voice breaks through the panic. "You okay back there? Do I need to pull over?"
"No! No." Erik pulls his hands away from his face, scrubbing roughly before letting them drop, and leans back again. "Please… don't stop. Just keep going."
o o o
It feels like more, but its only twenty excruciating minutes later when they arrive. Erik grabs the worn backpack he threw a few essentials into before leaving his rented apartment in Venice, and shoves what feels like way too much money at the cabbie. He doesn't wait for his change (he's not even sure if he handed the man American bills) - just slams out of the car and hurries toward the entrance of the building. He ignores the ambulances idling at the sides, and the nurses who know better, huddled in winter coats over scrubs by the automatic doors, indulging in a smoke break.
As soon as he crosses the threshold, the sharp scent of antiseptic hits his nose. Erik's always hated hospitals, and this very smell is no small reason. But that doesn't matter right now; what matters is-
Third floor, Mr. X said the third floor. There's an elevator right across from where he stands, but Erik wastes no time waiting for it to arrive, and instead locates the nearest stairwell. He takes each step three at a time, and by the time he reaches the third floor he's panting, chest hurting slightly not at all from the exertion. He hurries down another fluorescently lit hall. A quick survey of the lobby shows no sign of the Xaviers, but he didn't really expect them to be here; they're probably at home, trying to get a little rest before returning.
305… 307… 309… 311… 313-
313.
Room 313. This is the room; the brown plaque on the wall says so. This is where Mr. X told him Charles would be when he'd made that long distance call, but staring at the bruised, almost unrecognizable, body on the bed, Erik can't believe that this is his best friend. This fragile, broken thing, with tubes in his arms, and another down his throat, and the casts on both his legs making hills under the pristine sheets…
Bright blue eyes closed... still in the coma he's been in for two days.
This can't be his Charles. There is no way. Erik left Charles not even two years ago at the airport outdoor kiosk. He'd hugged him so hard the other boy's feet had left the ground, ignored the playful slaps on his back, and focused on the warm breath on his neck. Charles was smiling and laughing when Erik looked over his shoulder before disappearing through the airport doors. Charles was smiling and laughingfour days ago on a surprisingly clear webcam feed. So it doesn't make sense, what Erik is looking at, even though the conversation with Mr. Xavier explained everything: icy roads, dark streets, and a car that couldn't stop in time. How Charles had been almost home, less than five minutes away, having decided to walk instead of drive to the grocery store to pick up that hot chocolate with the cinnamon he loved to drink late on cold nights.
He'd tried not to imagine Charles, small and lithe, bleeding and motionless; pale skin glowing against a dark, wet road while a frantic driver dialed 911. But the image, each time worse than before, played over and over in his mind.
But seeing Charles now, he realizes that reality is a hundred times worse.
He drops his bag on the floor, not caring if it bangs loudly - he's half hoping for Charles to stir. To scrunch his nose the way he does when he's just waking up, vaguely grumpy, slightly rumpled, and entirely beautiful, but he doesn't move. Nothing moves except for the steady spikes on the heart monitor and the gradual rise and fall of a slender chest, covered in a hospital gown.
Despite his limbs feeling like gelatin, Erik manages to drag one of the heavy oak chairs over to Charles' bedside and drops down into it. Immediately, he reaches for Charles' hand, heart lurching when he finds it slightly cold to the touch, and moves his other hand to cradle the fingers. He rubs gently, transferring his body heat as best he can, ignoring the way his vision has become increasingly blurry. When the tears start to slip down his face, he doesn't let go to wipe them away.
"Hey, Mr. Genius." He says this quietly, but he can still hear the crack in his own voice, struggling to make noise around the lump lodged in his throat. After two years of being so far away, it's automatic for Erik to speak aloud instead of directing his thoughts directly into Charles' mind. The urge to do so again is nearly overwhelming, though. The thing is- Erik is barely hanging in there as of this moment. If he were to project his thoughts in Charles' mind and not get an answer… He knows he'd lose it completely.
"I-" What can he say? What can he doto make this better? "I'm - God. I'm so sorry, Charlsie," he tries, voice catching on the old nickname. Charles always says he hates it, but Erik knows better - he sees the way Charles' cheeks always flush this pretty pink color when Erik would mumble it against his hair, laughing it into the skin of his neck before being pushed away...
The sound that rips up from his own throat is quiet, but it hurts.It hurts so fucking bad, and Erik can't stand it. "I'm so sorry. I should- I should have been here. I should have flown straight back instead of going back to Venice. I..." It's becoming too difficult to breathe again. He swallows hard, and moves a little closer to the edge of the seat, closer to the bed. "They said- your dad said that the doctor told your family… that you might not be able to-" He squeezes his eyes tightly together for a moment and is suddenly ambushed with an image, a hazy memory sharpened, of Charles, six years old and sweet, running away to hide behind a massive evergreen. The sun shines into Erik's eyes as he peaks through his fingers, cheating as he counts. He opens his eyes again, and the image fades away. Unwilling to let go of his best friend's hand just yet, he turns his face to wipe his wet cheeks on his sweater covered shoulders. When he's able to speak again his voice is rough but a little more controlled. "But fuck that, Charles. You'll be fine."
Squeezing Charles hand, now warm in his grip, he leans forward to press his lips against the soft skin. "We'll be fine," he whispers against blue veins.
We'll get through this.
This taxi isn't moving nearly as fast as it should be.
Not at all, and it's driving Erik insane. His heart is racing, his mind is heaving, his hands are trembling, and everything should be moving just as quickly, just as frantic and jerky, as it all feels to him. Instead, everything is slowing down, crawling, and it's almost as if he's trying to slough through the atmosphere. The temptation to shove every car away with a flick of his hand laps at his mind; he couldn't care less if they crash into each other, shattering as the press away on each side - it'll leave the roads clear.
He contents himself with messing with the stop lights so that they all turn green.
"Please," he asks, "is there any way you could go faster?" And now his voice is shaking, more-so than his hands.
"Listen, guy, I'm goin' as fast as I can without getting us killed," the driver replies, turning his head slightly to talk over his shoulder. Brooklyn, Erik thinks faintly. His accent is thick, the kind of New York accent that people imitate for fun, and, once again, with a sickening lurch, Erik remembers he's back in the States - the drivers in Italy are so much more polite. "The damn roads are iced over," the driver (Vincent Rutgers the ID between the slots of bulletproof glass reads) continues. "All the damn rain." And yeah, Erik knows the roads are dangerous and slippery. It's the reason why he's back home.
He sighs, sits back from where he was leaning toward the partition and settles into the cracked leather seats. He tries to quiet his busy mind by staring out at the grey, December evening, but the sight of the dirty streets, graffiti walls, and bustling people tire him out almost immediately. A sharp feeling slices through his gut once again, and he leans forward, this time putting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands.
He can't breathe. It's so hard to even think-
He shouldn't have stayed away for so long. Erik knows that if he were here this wouldn't have happened. Somehow,he could have stopped this from happening… not that he's exactly sure what he would have done, but…
Breathing is becoming harder, each inhale becoming shorter, faster, and his head begins to swim. Faintly, as if listening through a thin wall, he can hear himself beginning to hyperventilate.
"Hey, buddy." And the driver's vaguely concerned voice breaks through the panic. "You okay back there? Do I need to pull over?"
"No! No." Erik pulls his hands away from his face, scrubbing roughly before letting them drop, and leans back again. "Please… don't stop. Just keep going."
o o o
It feels like more, but its only twenty excruciating minutes later when they arrive. Erik grabs the worn backpack he threw a few essentials into before leaving his rented apartment in Venice, and shoves what feels like way too much money at the cabbie. He doesn't wait for his change (he's not even sure if he handed the man American bills) - just slams out of the car and hurries toward the entrance of the building. He ignores the ambulances idling at the sides, and the nurses who know better, huddled in winter coats over scrubs by the automatic doors, indulging in a smoke break.
As soon as he crosses the threshold, the sharp scent of antiseptic hits his nose. Erik's always hated hospitals, and this very smell is no small reason. But that doesn't matter right now; what matters is-
Third floor, Mr. X said the third floor. There's an elevator right across from where he stands, but Erik wastes no time waiting for it to arrive, and instead locates the nearest stairwell. He takes each step three at a time, and by the time he reaches the third floor he's panting, chest hurting slightly not at all from the exertion. He hurries down another fluorescently lit hall. A quick survey of the lobby shows no sign of the Xaviers, but he didn't really expect them to be here; they're probably at home, trying to get a little rest before returning.
305… 307… 309… 311… 313-
313.
Room 313. This is the room; the brown plaque on the wall says so. This is where Mr. X told him Charles would be when he'd made that long distance call, but staring at the bruised, almost unrecognizable, body on the bed, Erik can't believe that this is his best friend. This fragile, broken thing, with tubes in his arms, and another down his throat, and the casts on both his legs making hills under the pristine sheets…
Bright blue eyes closed... still in the coma he's been in for two days.
This can't be his Charles. There is no way. Erik left Charles not even two years ago at the airport outdoor kiosk. He'd hugged him so hard the other boy's feet had left the ground, ignored the playful slaps on his back, and focused on the warm breath on his neck. Charles was smiling and laughing when Erik looked over his shoulder before disappearing through the airport doors. Charles was smiling and laughingfour days ago on a surprisingly clear webcam feed. So it doesn't make sense, what Erik is looking at, even though the conversation with Mr. Xavier explained everything: icy roads, dark streets, and a car that couldn't stop in time. How Charles had been almost home, less than five minutes away, having decided to walk instead of drive to the grocery store to pick up that hot chocolate with the cinnamon he loved to drink late on cold nights.
He'd tried not to imagine Charles, small and lithe, bleeding and motionless; pale skin glowing against a dark, wet road while a frantic driver dialed 911. But the image, each time worse than before, played over and over in his mind.
But seeing Charles now, he realizes that reality is a hundred times worse.
He drops his bag on the floor, not caring if it bangs loudly - he's half hoping for Charles to stir. To scrunch his nose the way he does when he's just waking up, vaguely grumpy, slightly rumpled, and entirely beautiful, but he doesn't move. Nothing moves except for the steady spikes on the heart monitor and the gradual rise and fall of a slender chest, covered in a hospital gown.
Despite his limbs feeling like gelatin, Erik manages to drag one of the heavy oak chairs over to Charles' bedside and drops down into it. Immediately, he reaches for Charles' hand, heart lurching when he finds it slightly cold to the touch, and moves his other hand to cradle the fingers. He rubs gently, transferring his body heat as best he can, ignoring the way his vision has become increasingly blurry. When the tears start to slip down his face, he doesn't let go to wipe them away.
"Hey, Mr. Genius." He says this quietly, but he can still hear the crack in his own voice, struggling to make noise around the lump lodged in his throat. After two years of being so far away, it's automatic for Erik to speak aloud instead of directing his thoughts directly into Charles' mind. The urge to do so again is nearly overwhelming, though. The thing is- Erik is barely hanging in there as of this moment. If he were to project his thoughts in Charles' mind and not get an answer… He knows he'd lose it completely.
"I-" What can he say? What can he doto make this better? "I'm - God. I'm so sorry, Charlsie," he tries, voice catching on the old nickname. Charles always says he hates it, but Erik knows better - he sees the way Charles' cheeks always flush this pretty pink color when Erik would mumble it against his hair, laughing it into the skin of his neck before being pushed away...
The sound that rips up from his own throat is quiet, but it hurts.It hurts so fucking bad, and Erik can't stand it. "I'm so sorry. I should- I should have been here. I should have flown straight back instead of going back to Venice. I..." It's becoming too difficult to breathe again. He swallows hard, and moves a little closer to the edge of the seat, closer to the bed. "They said- your dad said that the doctor told your family… that you might not be able to-" He squeezes his eyes tightly together for a moment and is suddenly ambushed with an image, a hazy memory sharpened, of Charles, six years old and sweet, running away to hide behind a massive evergreen. The sun shines into Erik's eyes as he peaks through his fingers, cheating as he counts. He opens his eyes again, and the image fades away. Unwilling to let go of his best friend's hand just yet, he turns his face to wipe his wet cheeks on his sweater covered shoulders. When he's able to speak again his voice is rough but a little more controlled. "But fuck that, Charles. You'll be fine."
Squeezing Charles hand, now warm in his grip, he leans forward to press his lips against the soft skin. "We'll be fine," he whispers against blue veins.
We'll get through this.