[X-Men: First Class] Someone told me that the time going by is a bastard...
Title: Someone told me that the time going by is a bastard making topcoats from our grief
Characters/Pairing: Charles Xavier/Erik Lehnsherr, OMC
Rating: PG13
Warnings/Triggers: slash, angst, telepathy, comatose original character
Word Count: 3000 (fidipu)
Prompt: Tell me the truth @ 10_orders ( claim) (1/10)
A/Note: Ngh, hello.
- Title stolen by the ever-so-talented Carla Bruni, translated thanks to my almost non-existing French skillz. Also, I have probably watched Inception too many times.
Disclaimer: I’m lying, just for the sake of it.
~ Someone told me that the time going by
is a bastard making topcoats from our grief.
Charles is dreaming. He dreams of a boy, barely eighteen, so young, and yet so powerful. His name is Jorah, but in Charles’ dream, he calls himself Chrono. He says he is a bit of a telepath, and smiles the saddest, sweetest of smiles right there in Charles’ mind. His father was a telepath, too, much more skilled than him, honestly, but he never met him, not really, not until he had discovered his real power, his real gift.
It’s scary, it’s dangerous, it’s the greatest thing Charles has ever seen, even if it’s only just a dream. Chrono can feel other mutants and their powers, but more than that, he bends and manipulates time and space and matter as easily as other people breathe. He can change his shape, his voice, his everything, when he travels through time, and then some. He says that to him, reality is just a book and he just throws his own lines in it, he adds footnotes, fills in the blanks, creates. He is so very much like a God that Charles is endlessly grateful it’s only just a dream.
Maybe it’s a nightmare, though. Jorah, Chrono, he’s so powerful it makes Charles shiver with fear. He isn’t afraid of him, God, no, the boy is so genuinely good it’s almost hard to believe. Charles is terrified of what the Government would do to him, how the army would use him, exploit his powers. He doesn’t dare thinking about what would happen to the world, to the whole fucking universe if some ill-intentioned evil overlord were to put their hands on him.
Chrono laughs softly at that, he says there is no need to worry because even if they arrested him, even if they trapped him into a plastic cell like the one they gave Magneto (what cell?, Charles can't help but wonder, but Chrono keeps smiling and shakes his head and it's a secret, of course), he could break free in the blink of an eye. He can’t be stopped, he says. Everything in existence bends to his will, he says. He’s not in danger, nobody is. Charles looks at him, this kid who’s so young and powerful and so strong and brave, so much better than he is, and maybe he’s falling in love with him, but it’s only just a dream.
Chrono smiles again, his eyes are bright in Charles’ mind. In the dream, with his power, he touches a hand to Charles’ cheek and says, “It hurts, but this is who I am”. Charles swallows so hard he can hear the sound of it. He’s shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Chrono doesn’t really exist, he’s only real in his mind, in this dream, and yet Charles is so, so fucking sorry for him. He wonders if this is what writers feel, when they kill off their characters, or cripple them, or hurt them and scar them for life. He wants to throw himself out of the nearest window, maybe he will. It’s only just a dream, he’ll wake up if he falls. “I’m sorry, I wish... I wish you could be happy.”
“I am happy,” Chrono says, gently. His body, his real body lies unconscious in a bed, he’s never opened his real eyes, Charles knows that. He was born like this, in a neverending coma, because of his powers, because of the powers Charles’ mind gave him in this motherfucking dream which really makes no sense. It’s the saddest thing he’s ever dreamed about, and Charles’ nights are always full of very, very sad things, memories, broken wishes and burnt hopes. “I don’t mind this shape of mine. This is who I am, I’m not ashamed of it. Yes, it’s a bit uncomfortable and I need to shuffle things up a bit when I want to take a trip through space and time, but,” he smiles, broad and bright and he’s beautiful, dear God, he’s so beautiful and he looks everything like Erik and nothing like Charles. It hurts, a lot, and aren’t dreams supposed to be numb? “But I’m proud of it. I’m proud of me.”
“You are so brave,” Charles tells him, and feels ashamed of how much he hates his wheelchair, his useless legs, his broken spine. He might fool everybody else at the school but he won’t ever fool himself, and sure enough he won’t ever fool this beautiful young boy who looks at him like he really cares, like he understands.
“You’ll learn to be brave, too,” Chrono says, his voice soft and gentle and maybe Charles is about to cry because he really, really wants to be brave, he just can’t. He probably doesn’t have it in him, he’s so small and useless. “I can show you something. Come.”
Charles wheels to the bed, he’s confused and dizzy and his eyes feel puffy with uncried tears, but he holds out a hand when Chrono tells him to do so, and rests it upon his arm. The boy is so cold he could be dead, so thin he could be all bones, but power radiates from him in waves, it makes Charles’ head spin.
“Where are we going?” he asks, when the room in his dream begins to collapse on itself and then the folded walls crumble to nothing, devoured by blackness. “Chrono? Jorah? Where are we going?”
Charles feels empty and then stuffed and then empty again, but it’s all just for a moment, he sees blood on his hands and he hears the stars tinkle in his ears and then they’re drowning, but the heartbeat after that they’re safe and dry in a hotel hallway. Charles wants to throw up his soul, and when he turns around to look at Chrono he realizes he’s standing on his feet, he’s standing on his legs, he’s whole again, unbroken, just himself again. He can’t breathe, for a moment, and it’s the best feeling he’s ever had.
Chrono smiles at him, a bit sadly. He has fixed his body as well, his arm is solid and warm under Charles’ touch, but his smile looks a little less bright, his face is a little less perfect. Charles can see himself, his own face and his own guilt, hiding behind Chrono’s eyes.
“I’ll be around,” the boy says, and walks away. Charles wants to follow him, he really wants, but then he sees the door in front of him, and wonders. This is a dream, right? He knocks.
It’s odd, being tall again, moving around on his feet and not wheels. He hasn’t grown used to the chair yet, and a lifetime of working legs won’t wear off of him in just a couple of weeks, but it’s weird anyway. Maybe there’s nothing in the world that Charles can tell he’s used to anymore.
Except for Erik’s look, his face, the masculine, hard curve of his jaw. Charles looks at him and feels his heart swell in his chest. Of course it would be Erik’s hotel room, of course Chrono would take him here. It’s just a dream, after all, his own dream, and this is all Charles has been able to think about. Erik. Erik just being there and looking at him, slightly frowning, surprised to see him, but not that much really. Charles doesn’t even bother to take a peek into his head, it wouldn’t make any fucking sense, it’s a dream, it’s just a dream.
“Charles,” Erik says, his voice as rasp as ever, and shivers bloom all over Charles’ spine. “I thought Emma was hiding us well.”
“Not well enough,” he replies, slightly smiling, and Erik huffs, but he’s not annoyed, Charles can tell. He’s... he looks relieved, somehow. It’s weird, even weirder than walking again. “May I come in?”
Erik doesn’t hesitate, not even for a moment, he doesn’t even think. It’s a dream. He pushes out of the doorway and gestures for Charles to get in. He gladly obliges, unbuttons his jacket and tries his best not to brush his elbow against Erik’s when he walks past him. He fails.
The room is huge, looks expensive, and Charles compliments his own brain for its taste in furniture. Erik walks to an elegant cupboard in a corner and takes two glasses, a fat, squat bottle of whisky. He pours generously, and then walks back to Charles, pushes a glass into his hand. It’s a convincing projection, really. The liquor is thick and scented on his tongue, and Charles remembers many sleepless nights spent playing chess, with this same taste sweetening his mouth. It feels like a lifetime away, it was no more than two months ago.
“How did you find us?” Erik asks, after two long sips of his drink. He goes to sit in an armchair by the window, there’s another one right in front of him and Charles is sick of sitting, but follows anyway. He crosses and uncrosses and crosses his legs again, drinks some more.
“You have your mutants, I have mine,” he says, cheerfully, and Erik smiles, almost sadly. It’s only just a dream.
“Why are you here, then? Do you want to take Raven back?”
“If anything, Erik, I’d be here to talk some sense into that stubborn head of yours,” Charles says, because it’s fine, it’s a dream. Erik narrows his eyes, not suspicious, more like uncertain, hesitant. Hurt, maybe, still hurt from that day on the beach. Charles wants to laugh at him, now, because he’s the one who’s been fucking crippled. “Anyway, no. That’s not why I’m here.”
Erik just keeps looking at him and waiting for him to say something. Charles shuffles for a moment in his armchair, then puts away his glass, gets up, goes to the window. He pushes his hands in his pockets, looks at the green hills and turquoise, far away mountains, and wonders where did his brain pick up this landscape. Was it a memory, maybe one of his earliest, or maybe a postcard he didn’t really pay attention to, some time in his life? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t really care.
Erik comes to stand beside him, so close their shoulders almost touch. Charles leans over a bit towards him, Erik doesn’t move away. Fuck, it’s really a nice dream.
“What are you going to do?” Charles asks, his voice barely a whisper. He knows it’s stupid, that this Erik isn’t real therefore he won’t be able to answer him, not really, but he can’t help it. He wonders, he wonders, he wonders all the time, and this dream feels so real anyway it might give him a little peace. “What do you want to do, Erik?”
“Everything,” he says, quietly. “We can do whatever we want, and we will. We are only free, as of now, Charles, and we deserve so much more than that.”
And Charles remembers, peace was never an option, but he never really forgot.
“You want the world for yourself.”
“I want it for us, Charles,” Erik almost growls, his voice is so low. He puts a hand on Charles’ shoulder, it’s heavy and warm and big and everything Charles has ever wanted, but then it’s gone, Erik jerks it away as if he burnt himself. “You don’t want to listen, you don’t want to understand. I want the world for us, so we can make it better. We’re the only ones who can, Charles. We’re the only ones.”
“Because you say so?” Charles turns to look at him, Erik is so close it hurts, he’s always been so close it hurt like a fucking bullet to his back never did. God. Yet, he’s not close enough, he will never be, Charles realizes. Not in this dream, not ever. “I understand, Erik. I know. I know what it feels like, not thinking you’re better than anyone else, but actually being better. I know.”
“And you’re so scared of it,” Erik whispers, barely a breath away from his lips. Charles closes his eyes, takes a step away and it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, but his damn legs react quick and well.
“Can you honestly blame me?” He asks, a bitterness in his voice so deep it makes him cringe. Erik frowns, too, at his tone. “Tell me the truth, Erik, for once. Do you really believe that we really are entitled to rule the world and reign over humans because of our mutation?”
Erik doesn’t answer, but his eyes speak for him. Of course he believes it. Of course he believes it with all he’s got, of course, of course, he’s Erik, dear Lord, and Charles has known it since he pulled him out of that freezing water. He’s always known.
“I’m sorry,” Erik says, and that’s - that’s new, that’s unexpected, that’s why it’s only just a fucking dream Charles is letting himself linger in too long already. Erik looks at Charles with what extraordinarily looks like guilt shadowing his already dark eyes, he raises a hand to cup Charles’ face and bows his head a little. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I... we were supposed to be together.”
“And how would’ve you done that, Erik?” Charles asks, and he can’t help but grin, half amused, half bitter as fuck. He licks his lips, when Erik looks up. “How exactly do you think you could’ve convinced me that being the better men means exterminating humankind?”
Erik leans in and kisses him. It’s dry, quick, embarrassed even, and nothing like Charles thought it would be like, but a million times better. Erik’s left hand is resting on his cheek and the other finds a nice, comfortable place against the small of Charles back. He leans forward himself, then, pushing into the kiss, brushing his lips to Erik’s and then pressing against him until he can lick his way into his mouth. Charles’ face is bright red, by the time they break it, his lips are swollen and they feel used. It’s so good it must be a fucking dream.
Erik looks a little lost, for just a moment, then he gets it together and his eyes are the darkest, thickest, most beautiful thing in the world. Charles loves him.
“Well,” he says, softly, his hands on the back of Erik’s neck, drawing circles with his thumb and brushing lightly through his hair. “That wasn’t very persuasive, not exactly.”
Erik grins down at him. He’s just slightly flushed, while Charles is sure they can hear his heart storming around his chest even in China.
“I can do better,” Erik says, it sounds like a promise, and Charles doesn’t doubt it, dear Lord, he really doesn’t, but still. But, still. Erik feels it, too, the weight of a but as big as the sky, and so he sighs, kisses Charles again. “I know,” he whispers. He almost looks vulnerable, now, and it’s not something Charles is very fond of. “We’re supposed to be together, I want us to. But maybe we’re just not meant to.”
It’s the saddest thing Charles has ever heard, and he’s currently dreaming of an eighteen-year-old who can only live thanks to his powers, which by the way would have him hated and probably exploited and probably even tortured for the rest of his life by the entire humankind, if someone were ever to know about them.
He smiles, a little bit.
“We should probably try anyway,” he says, because Erik said he can do better than that and Charles can’t really see any reason why he shouldn’t let himself die in pleasure in his arms. Except the fact that this is only just a dream his cruel subconscious is pestering him with.
Erik almost grins back at him, then he remembers himself and kisses him, thoroughly this time, slow and considerate and unbelievably hot and open and good, and fuck, fuck, fuck, why can’t it be real? Charles wants to die then and there, happy and well-kissed and everything, with Erik’s hand too low on his back, right where the bullet hit him, as if he’s protecting him, or torturing himself, hurting himself some more.
A loud knock to the door breaks it, Erik pulls back slowly and glares at the poor thing like it’s its fault that somebody decided to interrupt. Charles smiles, brushes a thumb to his lips. Erik stares, then huffs, goes to the door, almost yanks it form its hinges. Chrono is standing in the hallway, smiling softly, and Charles knows he must go.
“What do you want?” Erik asks, frowning. Charles touches his back, kisses him once more.
“He’s my ride,” he says. Erik frowns some more, just because, and Charles smiles, he doesn’t want to go either, and say goodbye to this perfect, unreal reality where his body is whole and he is insanely happy, but he knows he has to. He really has to.
Chrono grabs Charles’ wrist, he winks at Erik’s jealous scowl, and again everything vanishes into flakes, fireworks of atoms spiralling around them and this time Charles feels sand under his fingers, and then marble, and then water as cold as the nothingness in between the planets. He’s walking on the Sun, and then he’s back to Chrono’s hospital room, crippled and alone, and he wants to throw up. He swallows it back, manages to put a smile on his face, lets go of the boy’s arm.
“It was an interesting dream,” he says. “I wonder what Freud would say about it.”
Something about your not even repressed homosexuality, rest assured, Chrono smirks in his head, and Charles smirks back. He leans back into his chair, closes his eyes. If he concentrates hard enough, he can still feel Erik’s lips on his own. It was a vivid dream, and oddly rational. God, if he concentrates hard enough he can even hear Erik’s thoughts, not even that far away from the hospital.
What was it all about? he hears, and sees himself through Erik’s eyes, God, that’s embarrassing. Charles, CharlesCharlesCharlesCharles, so good, soft lips and blue eyes, Charles, Charles, he hears, and smirks, and smiles. Can you hear me? Are you listening? I can feel you. Charles. Charles, who was that guy? Jealous. Rip his eyes off if he even thinks about touching Charles the wrong way. Charles. I’m sorry. Try anyway, Charles. Charles, CharlesCharlesCharlesloveyouCharlesCharlesCharles.
Charles snaps his eyes open.
“I’m not dreaming,” he says, he realizes.
Chrono is smiling, inside his mind.
Characters/Pairing: Charles Xavier/Erik Lehnsherr, OMC
Rating: PG13
Warnings/Triggers: slash, angst, telepathy, comatose original character
Word Count: 3000 (fidipu)
Prompt: Tell me the truth @ 10_orders ( claim) (1/10)
A/Note: Ngh, hello.
- Title stolen by the ever-so-talented Carla Bruni, translated thanks to my almost non-existing French skillz. Also, I have probably watched Inception too many times.
Disclaimer: I’m lying, just for the sake of it.
~ Someone told me that the time going by
is a bastard making topcoats from our grief.
Charles is dreaming. He dreams of a boy, barely eighteen, so young, and yet so powerful. His name is Jorah, but in Charles’ dream, he calls himself Chrono. He says he is a bit of a telepath, and smiles the saddest, sweetest of smiles right there in Charles’ mind. His father was a telepath, too, much more skilled than him, honestly, but he never met him, not really, not until he had discovered his real power, his real gift.
It’s scary, it’s dangerous, it’s the greatest thing Charles has ever seen, even if it’s only just a dream. Chrono can feel other mutants and their powers, but more than that, he bends and manipulates time and space and matter as easily as other people breathe. He can change his shape, his voice, his everything, when he travels through time, and then some. He says that to him, reality is just a book and he just throws his own lines in it, he adds footnotes, fills in the blanks, creates. He is so very much like a God that Charles is endlessly grateful it’s only just a dream.
Maybe it’s a nightmare, though. Jorah, Chrono, he’s so powerful it makes Charles shiver with fear. He isn’t afraid of him, God, no, the boy is so genuinely good it’s almost hard to believe. Charles is terrified of what the Government would do to him, how the army would use him, exploit his powers. He doesn’t dare thinking about what would happen to the world, to the whole fucking universe if some ill-intentioned evil overlord were to put their hands on him.
Chrono laughs softly at that, he says there is no need to worry because even if they arrested him, even if they trapped him into a plastic cell like the one they gave Magneto (what cell?, Charles can't help but wonder, but Chrono keeps smiling and shakes his head and it's a secret, of course), he could break free in the blink of an eye. He can’t be stopped, he says. Everything in existence bends to his will, he says. He’s not in danger, nobody is. Charles looks at him, this kid who’s so young and powerful and so strong and brave, so much better than he is, and maybe he’s falling in love with him, but it’s only just a dream.
Chrono smiles again, his eyes are bright in Charles’ mind. In the dream, with his power, he touches a hand to Charles’ cheek and says, “It hurts, but this is who I am”. Charles swallows so hard he can hear the sound of it. He’s shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Chrono doesn’t really exist, he’s only real in his mind, in this dream, and yet Charles is so, so fucking sorry for him. He wonders if this is what writers feel, when they kill off their characters, or cripple them, or hurt them and scar them for life. He wants to throw himself out of the nearest window, maybe he will. It’s only just a dream, he’ll wake up if he falls. “I’m sorry, I wish... I wish you could be happy.”
“I am happy,” Chrono says, gently. His body, his real body lies unconscious in a bed, he’s never opened his real eyes, Charles knows that. He was born like this, in a neverending coma, because of his powers, because of the powers Charles’ mind gave him in this motherfucking dream which really makes no sense. It’s the saddest thing he’s ever dreamed about, and Charles’ nights are always full of very, very sad things, memories, broken wishes and burnt hopes. “I don’t mind this shape of mine. This is who I am, I’m not ashamed of it. Yes, it’s a bit uncomfortable and I need to shuffle things up a bit when I want to take a trip through space and time, but,” he smiles, broad and bright and he’s beautiful, dear God, he’s so beautiful and he looks everything like Erik and nothing like Charles. It hurts, a lot, and aren’t dreams supposed to be numb? “But I’m proud of it. I’m proud of me.”
“You are so brave,” Charles tells him, and feels ashamed of how much he hates his wheelchair, his useless legs, his broken spine. He might fool everybody else at the school but he won’t ever fool himself, and sure enough he won’t ever fool this beautiful young boy who looks at him like he really cares, like he understands.
“You’ll learn to be brave, too,” Chrono says, his voice soft and gentle and maybe Charles is about to cry because he really, really wants to be brave, he just can’t. He probably doesn’t have it in him, he’s so small and useless. “I can show you something. Come.”
Charles wheels to the bed, he’s confused and dizzy and his eyes feel puffy with uncried tears, but he holds out a hand when Chrono tells him to do so, and rests it upon his arm. The boy is so cold he could be dead, so thin he could be all bones, but power radiates from him in waves, it makes Charles’ head spin.
“Where are we going?” he asks, when the room in his dream begins to collapse on itself and then the folded walls crumble to nothing, devoured by blackness. “Chrono? Jorah? Where are we going?”
Charles feels empty and then stuffed and then empty again, but it’s all just for a moment, he sees blood on his hands and he hears the stars tinkle in his ears and then they’re drowning, but the heartbeat after that they’re safe and dry in a hotel hallway. Charles wants to throw up his soul, and when he turns around to look at Chrono he realizes he’s standing on his feet, he’s standing on his legs, he’s whole again, unbroken, just himself again. He can’t breathe, for a moment, and it’s the best feeling he’s ever had.
Chrono smiles at him, a bit sadly. He has fixed his body as well, his arm is solid and warm under Charles’ touch, but his smile looks a little less bright, his face is a little less perfect. Charles can see himself, his own face and his own guilt, hiding behind Chrono’s eyes.
“I’ll be around,” the boy says, and walks away. Charles wants to follow him, he really wants, but then he sees the door in front of him, and wonders. This is a dream, right? He knocks.
It’s odd, being tall again, moving around on his feet and not wheels. He hasn’t grown used to the chair yet, and a lifetime of working legs won’t wear off of him in just a couple of weeks, but it’s weird anyway. Maybe there’s nothing in the world that Charles can tell he’s used to anymore.
Except for Erik’s look, his face, the masculine, hard curve of his jaw. Charles looks at him and feels his heart swell in his chest. Of course it would be Erik’s hotel room, of course Chrono would take him here. It’s just a dream, after all, his own dream, and this is all Charles has been able to think about. Erik. Erik just being there and looking at him, slightly frowning, surprised to see him, but not that much really. Charles doesn’t even bother to take a peek into his head, it wouldn’t make any fucking sense, it’s a dream, it’s just a dream.
“Charles,” Erik says, his voice as rasp as ever, and shivers bloom all over Charles’ spine. “I thought Emma was hiding us well.”
“Not well enough,” he replies, slightly smiling, and Erik huffs, but he’s not annoyed, Charles can tell. He’s... he looks relieved, somehow. It’s weird, even weirder than walking again. “May I come in?”
Erik doesn’t hesitate, not even for a moment, he doesn’t even think. It’s a dream. He pushes out of the doorway and gestures for Charles to get in. He gladly obliges, unbuttons his jacket and tries his best not to brush his elbow against Erik’s when he walks past him. He fails.
The room is huge, looks expensive, and Charles compliments his own brain for its taste in furniture. Erik walks to an elegant cupboard in a corner and takes two glasses, a fat, squat bottle of whisky. He pours generously, and then walks back to Charles, pushes a glass into his hand. It’s a convincing projection, really. The liquor is thick and scented on his tongue, and Charles remembers many sleepless nights spent playing chess, with this same taste sweetening his mouth. It feels like a lifetime away, it was no more than two months ago.
“How did you find us?” Erik asks, after two long sips of his drink. He goes to sit in an armchair by the window, there’s another one right in front of him and Charles is sick of sitting, but follows anyway. He crosses and uncrosses and crosses his legs again, drinks some more.
“You have your mutants, I have mine,” he says, cheerfully, and Erik smiles, almost sadly. It’s only just a dream.
“Why are you here, then? Do you want to take Raven back?”
“If anything, Erik, I’d be here to talk some sense into that stubborn head of yours,” Charles says, because it’s fine, it’s a dream. Erik narrows his eyes, not suspicious, more like uncertain, hesitant. Hurt, maybe, still hurt from that day on the beach. Charles wants to laugh at him, now, because he’s the one who’s been fucking crippled. “Anyway, no. That’s not why I’m here.”
Erik just keeps looking at him and waiting for him to say something. Charles shuffles for a moment in his armchair, then puts away his glass, gets up, goes to the window. He pushes his hands in his pockets, looks at the green hills and turquoise, far away mountains, and wonders where did his brain pick up this landscape. Was it a memory, maybe one of his earliest, or maybe a postcard he didn’t really pay attention to, some time in his life? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t really care.
Erik comes to stand beside him, so close their shoulders almost touch. Charles leans over a bit towards him, Erik doesn’t move away. Fuck, it’s really a nice dream.
“What are you going to do?” Charles asks, his voice barely a whisper. He knows it’s stupid, that this Erik isn’t real therefore he won’t be able to answer him, not really, but he can’t help it. He wonders, he wonders, he wonders all the time, and this dream feels so real anyway it might give him a little peace. “What do you want to do, Erik?”
“Everything,” he says, quietly. “We can do whatever we want, and we will. We are only free, as of now, Charles, and we deserve so much more than that.”
And Charles remembers, peace was never an option, but he never really forgot.
“You want the world for yourself.”
“I want it for us, Charles,” Erik almost growls, his voice is so low. He puts a hand on Charles’ shoulder, it’s heavy and warm and big and everything Charles has ever wanted, but then it’s gone, Erik jerks it away as if he burnt himself. “You don’t want to listen, you don’t want to understand. I want the world for us, so we can make it better. We’re the only ones who can, Charles. We’re the only ones.”
“Because you say so?” Charles turns to look at him, Erik is so close it hurts, he’s always been so close it hurt like a fucking bullet to his back never did. God. Yet, he’s not close enough, he will never be, Charles realizes. Not in this dream, not ever. “I understand, Erik. I know. I know what it feels like, not thinking you’re better than anyone else, but actually being better. I know.”
“And you’re so scared of it,” Erik whispers, barely a breath away from his lips. Charles closes his eyes, takes a step away and it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, but his damn legs react quick and well.
“Can you honestly blame me?” He asks, a bitterness in his voice so deep it makes him cringe. Erik frowns, too, at his tone. “Tell me the truth, Erik, for once. Do you really believe that we really are entitled to rule the world and reign over humans because of our mutation?”
Erik doesn’t answer, but his eyes speak for him. Of course he believes it. Of course he believes it with all he’s got, of course, of course, he’s Erik, dear Lord, and Charles has known it since he pulled him out of that freezing water. He’s always known.
“I’m sorry,” Erik says, and that’s - that’s new, that’s unexpected, that’s why it’s only just a fucking dream Charles is letting himself linger in too long already. Erik looks at Charles with what extraordinarily looks like guilt shadowing his already dark eyes, he raises a hand to cup Charles’ face and bows his head a little. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I... we were supposed to be together.”
“And how would’ve you done that, Erik?” Charles asks, and he can’t help but grin, half amused, half bitter as fuck. He licks his lips, when Erik looks up. “How exactly do you think you could’ve convinced me that being the better men means exterminating humankind?”
Erik leans in and kisses him. It’s dry, quick, embarrassed even, and nothing like Charles thought it would be like, but a million times better. Erik’s left hand is resting on his cheek and the other finds a nice, comfortable place against the small of Charles back. He leans forward himself, then, pushing into the kiss, brushing his lips to Erik’s and then pressing against him until he can lick his way into his mouth. Charles’ face is bright red, by the time they break it, his lips are swollen and they feel used. It’s so good it must be a fucking dream.
Erik looks a little lost, for just a moment, then he gets it together and his eyes are the darkest, thickest, most beautiful thing in the world. Charles loves him.
“Well,” he says, softly, his hands on the back of Erik’s neck, drawing circles with his thumb and brushing lightly through his hair. “That wasn’t very persuasive, not exactly.”
Erik grins down at him. He’s just slightly flushed, while Charles is sure they can hear his heart storming around his chest even in China.
“I can do better,” Erik says, it sounds like a promise, and Charles doesn’t doubt it, dear Lord, he really doesn’t, but still. But, still. Erik feels it, too, the weight of a but as big as the sky, and so he sighs, kisses Charles again. “I know,” he whispers. He almost looks vulnerable, now, and it’s not something Charles is very fond of. “We’re supposed to be together, I want us to. But maybe we’re just not meant to.”
It’s the saddest thing Charles has ever heard, and he’s currently dreaming of an eighteen-year-old who can only live thanks to his powers, which by the way would have him hated and probably exploited and probably even tortured for the rest of his life by the entire humankind, if someone were ever to know about them.
He smiles, a little bit.
“We should probably try anyway,” he says, because Erik said he can do better than that and Charles can’t really see any reason why he shouldn’t let himself die in pleasure in his arms. Except the fact that this is only just a dream his cruel subconscious is pestering him with.
Erik almost grins back at him, then he remembers himself and kisses him, thoroughly this time, slow and considerate and unbelievably hot and open and good, and fuck, fuck, fuck, why can’t it be real? Charles wants to die then and there, happy and well-kissed and everything, with Erik’s hand too low on his back, right where the bullet hit him, as if he’s protecting him, or torturing himself, hurting himself some more.
A loud knock to the door breaks it, Erik pulls back slowly and glares at the poor thing like it’s its fault that somebody decided to interrupt. Charles smiles, brushes a thumb to his lips. Erik stares, then huffs, goes to the door, almost yanks it form its hinges. Chrono is standing in the hallway, smiling softly, and Charles knows he must go.
“What do you want?” Erik asks, frowning. Charles touches his back, kisses him once more.
“He’s my ride,” he says. Erik frowns some more, just because, and Charles smiles, he doesn’t want to go either, and say goodbye to this perfect, unreal reality where his body is whole and he is insanely happy, but he knows he has to. He really has to.
Chrono grabs Charles’ wrist, he winks at Erik’s jealous scowl, and again everything vanishes into flakes, fireworks of atoms spiralling around them and this time Charles feels sand under his fingers, and then marble, and then water as cold as the nothingness in between the planets. He’s walking on the Sun, and then he’s back to Chrono’s hospital room, crippled and alone, and he wants to throw up. He swallows it back, manages to put a smile on his face, lets go of the boy’s arm.
“It was an interesting dream,” he says. “I wonder what Freud would say about it.”
Something about your not even repressed homosexuality, rest assured, Chrono smirks in his head, and Charles smirks back. He leans back into his chair, closes his eyes. If he concentrates hard enough, he can still feel Erik’s lips on his own. It was a vivid dream, and oddly rational. God, if he concentrates hard enough he can even hear Erik’s thoughts, not even that far away from the hospital.
What was it all about? he hears, and sees himself through Erik’s eyes, God, that’s embarrassing. Charles, CharlesCharlesCharlesCharles, so good, soft lips and blue eyes, Charles, Charles, he hears, and smirks, and smiles. Can you hear me? Are you listening? I can feel you. Charles. Charles, who was that guy? Jealous. Rip his eyes off if he even thinks about touching Charles the wrong way. Charles. I’m sorry. Try anyway, Charles. Charles, CharlesCharlesCharlesloveyouCharlesCharlesCharles.
Charles snaps his eyes open.
“I’m not dreaming,” he says, he realizes.
Chrono is smiling, inside his mind.