Fic: The Mismeasure of Man
X-Men: First Class
Title: The Mismeasure of Man
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Length: 3985 words.
Summary: 10 moments their lives fell together and came apart.
My fantastic beta: war_n_peace
A/N: These are snapshots, not a timeline.
If you make it past part III, you're in for the win.
I.
Erik is exasperated. They’ve fought over the same thing nearly every night and still-
“No, no, no. We can’t just abandon them, Erik, we have to protect them.”
“They would throw you to the wolves.”
“You can’t know that! We have it in us to be the better men, to lead by example.”
“And you would lead these children to death by your own folly.”
“You’re wrong,” Charles says firmly. “Times are changing, my friend. Look around you. There is a social revolution unfolding as we speak.”
“Your optimism borders on naivety,” Erik says through teeth clenched as hard as his fists.
Charles actually looks hurt and Erik is infuriated to find that it bothers him.
Charles glows amber in the firelight and Erik bites his tongue to keep from saying worse.
“Do you really think that?” Charles asks. His face is serious as ever and the yellow and orange light soaks into his hair like watercolours.
“No,” Erik says, honestly. He thinks a lot of things about Charles--friend, equal, partner. He has a rose tinted view of the world but he can’t blame him for it, the rich Oxford boy. He’s never known hurt, though he pretends he does, often, through the pain of others. It is not nearly the same thing. He is a telepath, yes, and empath, maybe. But vicarious does not come with lessons learned. “What you want is unlikely, but not stupid,” he forces himself to say.
Charles brightens a bit. He walks over to their chairs and abandoned chess game and slumps down into the cushions. He runs a hand through his hair and down his face. “I’m glad. I don’t think I could bear to know you thought I was a silly man with silly dreams.”
“You are a silly man.”
Charles gives him a withering look from under his palm. “I believe you’re the one in the turtleneck.”
“I could take it off.”
Charles quirks his eyebrow and a wicked smile spreads over his face.
II.
The sand is hot under them and the air is blue and burning. The heat of it sears Erik’s face. The sand is everywhere, between his fingers and his teeth. His mouth is caked and dry with it. The sun glints off the sand like glass and he uses this as an excuse to close his eyes--just for a moment-- as he holds Charles in his arms. He takes a shaking breath and it tastes like hot metal and spilt blood. When he opens them, Charles is looking at him with eyes bluer than the Caribbean sea and calmer than the Cuban sky. His brows are drawn and they tremble just enough, as if he might cry, but he doesn't.
I'm so sorry, Erik thinks, because he is speechless. His heart feels wrenched from his chest, bent and twisted along with the rest of the scrap metal and sheet steel strewn about the beach. His throat is tight and closing around the words. But Charles can’t hear him, not with his helmet on.
“Did it bring you peace, Erik?” There is no hint of malice. Honesty, only.
Erik feels revenge like a weight lifted off his chest. He hears the roar of the ocean but it is a quiet sound in his ears, he is hearing it through a sea shell. He is not angry any longer. For the first time in his life, he is not angry. “Yes,” Erik says and he is mortified that he does not regret it.
“Then it was worth it, my friend.” Charles offers a weak smile, though his lips are pressed too tight. He winces against the pain and
now the tears come.
III.
“Do you mind if I...?” Charles says curiously one day, when they are practicing. It is still early in the morning and the sky is drab and grey. There is no wind, but it is cold. The blackened trees are thin and bare and stretch their twisted limbs into the fog.
Erik’s sleeves are rolled up and the the front of his sweatshirt is dark and dampened with sweat from their jog. He wonders what Charles could possibly be looking for in his mind today, but he nods anyway, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. He rests his hands on his hips as he catches his breath with an open mouth.
He doesn’t expect Charles to move toward him and is startled when his face is suddenly very close to his own--he never quite got used to Charles’ lack of respect for personal space. Must be a telepath thing, he thinks.
Charles holds Erik’s left arm with one hand and touches the inside of Erik’s wrist gently, with the other. Erik stills, though he is still breathing heavily. Charles’ skin is warm on his.
His eyes are very wide and very blue. “Is this alright, Erik?”
Erik swallows and nods.
Charles’ eyes drop to Erik’s forearms where the numbers brand his flesh. Erik tenses but stops himself from jerking away. Charles studies the ink for a while, his brows coming together in the same way they do when he is engrossed in a book or moving a chess piece. His touch is light as he follows the pattern with the curve of his palm. His breaths are small puffs, Erik can see them take shape in the chilly air. Charles’ mouth is swollen and red with the cold but his hands are warm.
The hand on his wrist lowers until their fingers are touching, and for a moment Erik can’t tell if Charles is trying to hold his hand. Erik closes his into a fist and looks away, into the squinting sun.
Charles covers the numbers, all of them, with his hand and looks up brightly. “Thank you,” he says.
IV.
"Hank is nearly finished with his cure. I'm quite certain that after rigorous testing, we can-"
"How can it be that you are ashamed of being a mutant?"
Charles is silent for a moment. "You misunderstand, my friend. It is merely a way for us to remain--"
"In hiding?"
"That is not what I meant at all," Charles looks mortified. "Humans are afraid of us, afraid of what looks different. If we don’t seem so different from them after all, it helps develop tolerance--"
"You can lie to yourself, Charles, but don't lie to me."
V.
Erik sits in the smoke-filled bar, elbow to elbow with greasy, tired men. It smells strongly of vomit and spilled ale and the floor sticks to the bottom of his shoes so he keeps them perched on the ledge. The bartender says something to him but Erik doesn’t listen, he is too busy watching Charles and the mutant girl talking near the wall.
Tonight’s good-cop bad-cop routine worked flawlessly and Charles talks to her with animated hands, probably about the Institute. He can practically feel Charles feeding her a line about groovy mutations and his jaw clenches when he sees her lean over and kiss him mid-sentence. Erik’s knuckles go milk-white around his glass and Charles immediately tears away to look at him.
The girl leaves with contact information and Charles slaps a hand to Erik’s back before joining him at the bar.
“Don’t you think she was a bit young for you, Charles?”
“She just got carried away,” Charles says lightly, holding a hand up to the bartender for a beer, “It’s terribly exciting to find out you’re not alone.”
Erik grits his teeth because he knows it is true and because he knows he’s angry over nothing. He finishes his beer and orders another.
“There are four more in this area, we can finish up in a few days easily,” Erik tells him.
“I can’t believe we’re nearly done with our search,” Charles sighs, though Erik thinks he should be happy they can focus on training the new students instead of traveling together from city to city like a pair of nomads. “This was a great adventure,” Charles says.
Erik thinks so too.
They click their glasses together in celebration and drink.
Charles' grin becomes messier and messier with each beer and Erik knows he has probably had too much, too. The blue of Charles’ eyes are unbearable and he just stares at Erik and Erik doesn’t know why. The room is too hot and he loosens his collar.
Erik puts his fingers to his temple. “Him,” he says and Charles follows his line of sight to a man in the corner who is rubbing his potbelly and looking wistfully out the window. Erik closes his eyes and frowns, pretending to read his mind. “He is thinking about how he is going to explain the baby to his wife.”
Charles laughs so hard he almost falls off his barstool. Erik laughs along with him, shaking his head into his glass.
“You do a horrible impression of me, Erik,” he protests. Erik thinks it was quite accurate, actually. Charles puts his fingers to his temple (this is how you do it) and gestures to a couple arguing outside. The woman is beating the man with her purse as he holds up his hands in defense. “She knows he ate the last bit of bacon this morning and left none for her. Hell hath no fury.”
Erik snorts, “Like a woman with no breakfast meat?”
Charles gives a sloppy shrug. “I’ve seen how you get about your sausage in the morning.”
Erik laughs and is surprised Charles noticed what he eats. It's not like he knows Charles takes two lumps of sugar with his Earl Grey or anything.
Erik puts his fingers to his temple again and nods towards two men at the next table over. “They’ve been friends for forever. But one of them is in love with the other and the other has no idea.”
The fingers slip off Charles’ face.
Erik’s smile slips off his face too as he realizes. His cheeks burn obscenely and he hopes its too dark to see. “What?” he snaps.
Charles is grinning softly. “Nothing, my friend.”
VI.
“You always look into other peoples’ minds. What goes on inside that head of yours?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.” Charles says absently.
“I find that hard to believe.” But Erik takes the hint and turns his attentions back to chess.
“Too much,” Charles corrects himself. Erik looks up.
“You can block them out, though. The others.”
“Most of the time, yes. It is blocking out my own thoughts that is most challenging. Especially when I am unguarded.” Charles brow is raised and he speaks as though he is divulging a terrible secret. “When I sleep, for example.”
“Oh yes, your darkest thoughts,” Erik muses, “Taking over the world and exacting revenge.”
Charles laughs. “No, that’s you, my friend.”
Erik thinks that’s a morbid way to put it but chuckles anyway. “So, what, then? Does the mere memory of someone’s perfume brings you to your knees? Is your insatiable craving for tea what wakes you in the morning?”
Charles laughs again. “Not quite. Something more like this--”
He puts his hand to his head and places his other on Erik’s. Erik flinches under the touch.
“May I?”
“Go right ahead.” The words barely leave Erik’s mouth before he is assaulted by the images.
There is a dinner party and the sounds of all the guests thinking and talking and eating and the clacking of utensils on the plates is filling his head. A small child, not dressed his age, drops his spoon into his lap and holds his hands over his ears. The noises drill through like screeching and the sound of metal grinding on metal.
“Mama! Mama!”
A beautiful woman is standing over the table mid-toast and ignores her child’s arms as they reach for her. “Charles, not now!” She says irritably, moving away from him so his hands won’t touch her dress.
Charles struggles to keep still and buries his head in his hands that are useless to block it out. The sounds rise like a tide in his ears and the voices ricochet off his skull, the words mixing into each other until they loose meaning and blur into a blinding pressure that bleeds out of his ears and his eyes.
A fat woman across from him thinks at his mother, “Bitch,” and the sound is like a scream. Charles cries out, knocking his soup bowl as the tears pry out of his eyes.
“Mama!”
His mother sighs and shouts, “Matilde? Matilde, he’s made a mess, come here.”
A maid rushes into the room and picks up a wailing Charles.
“I don’t understand the boy,” she apologizes to the guests, and Charles can feel her anger and embarrassment and knows he will not be able to join her again in decent company for many years. “The doctors says he has a fragile mind.”
Erik had stopped breathing at some point and as soon as the darkness of the library comes back into focus, he is gasping like a drowning man. The back of his sweater is damp with sweat and clinging to his skin. Charles’ touch on his temple is now a cool one.
Charles sits back in his seat and looks at Erik, his eyes changing softly in the firelight.
Erik has nothing to say.
VII.
Erik has to say something. He has had enough of this foreplay. He knows Charles knows and yet he hasn’t done a single thing about it. It drives him mad to pretend that nothing is going on. If he knows anything about Charles--and he thinks he does, like the back of his hand-- he knows he won’t back down.
“I could take it off,” he offers. He reaches for his turtleneck.
Charles quirks his eyebrow and a wicked smile spreads over his face. “Please do.”
Erik obliges and Charles bright eyes turn dark with lust.
Charles’ hands are heavy on his shoulders. For all his confidence, he kisses Erik tentatively, lips barely brushing his before drawing back. But both of Charles’ hands are already in Erik’s trousers and he remembers to tease him about this later. Erik pulls his wrists out and tugs Charles to him, kissing him again, deeply. Charles groans and Erik swallows it, sliding his tongue into his mouth, hot and soft under his. His nose crushes against Charles’ cheek and his hand is on the back of Charles’ head, pulling him nearer still. He’s never needed something as badly as he needs this.
Charles’ hands are brands on his skin and they burn him to the bone. They roam everywhere, over skin marred by scars and numbers and skin where the marks and meanings aren’t visible. Erik wonders if Charles knows they are there.
Erik cannot stop kissing Charles. He’d like Charles’ lips in other places too, but he cannot bring himself to release them from his own. Not yet, not when he makes noises that make him harder than any fantasy he’s ever had. Not when he can feel Charles hard against him, too, straining against his pants. He devours the man under him--only the carpet burn in his knees tells him they’ve tumbled to the floor.
His mouth moves ruthlessly and his hands are rough on Charles’ body as they run down his chest, up his thighs. Charles moves Erik’s hand to his cock and Erik strokes him, fast and sure. Charles’ breath slides down Erik’s neck like a hot fog, his open mouth catching on the stubble there when he moans.
Erik doesn’t realize he’s been thinking I want to fuck you I can’t wait to fuck you over and over until Charles laughs at him and tells him its alright. He can.
Erik spits in his hand, dragging his lips over Charles’ as he lowers it between his legs. Charles gasps and Erik groans at the sound; he tightens like a silk knot tied around his fingers- remember this. He waits for Charles chest to slow before replacing them with his cock. Charles begs Erik and God and Erik fucks him like he kisses him, rough and never enough. Charles covers a hand over his face and is moaning things into his palm that Erik can’t hear, but he can barely hear anything over the sounds of the blood rushing in his ears and his heart pounding in his chest. He’s never needed anyone like this before. He’s never needed anyone like he needs Charles.
VIII.
Erik can barely hear Charles over the roar of the jet engines. Thank God his thoughts today are louder than words. He knows what he has to do and he knows Charles will understand. He may die trying but he would rather die than give this up. He’s waited a lifetime for this.
I love you, Charles.
Charles’ mouth is still twisted open from shouting an order to Moira and he turns to face Erik. Charles’s eyes are narrowed against the alternating slats of light and shadow that hit the plane window as the propellers turn. The light that does spill over his shoulders is dusty air and he breathes it in through flared nostrils. Erik knows his mind is still on the mission, on the children, on the war, but even Charles can’t help the corners of his mouth as they quirk up and he bites them to keep from a full smile.
I love you, too.
IX.
He won’t ever take off his helmet. Not because he is afraid he will be hunted down. He is afraid Charles will find him and forgive him. He is afraid he will forgive Charles. His nightmares are haunted by it and they are worse than the nightmares of candles and concentration camps and Cuba.
He dreams of betrayal. Charles saw what those men were going to do, where they were targeting. He saw and he knew. He knew Erik was right and still he chose them.
Sometimes, rarer still, he does not dream of betrayal. He dreams that Charles’ eyes are filled with laughter and not grief. He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder and hears promises of love and friendship and a future and it is enough pain that Erik wakes up in a metal bed twisted against itself. His entire body aches so badly at the memory, the tears leak out by themselves like a--like a pathetic child and he feels wretched and weak and regrets the day he chose not to walk away. He hates Charles but he hates himself more and he is overcome with the urge to destroy something and usually does, it doesn’t matter what or who. Other days he thinks perhaps he does hate Charles more and that he would like to kill him. He prefers that feeling. It makes him stronger.
Erik was right all along, about the humans and about Charles, too. He is too afraid to leave the humans, he is too afraid to give up what he has known for all of his life and embrace something he would rather play off as a magic trick or scientific novelty. He would rather hide himself and the others. He pretends he has free reign, but only as much as is comfortable for the humans to tolerate a co-existence, and just barely at that. Erik’s blood boils with rage at the thought. He misses the calm before the storm, before sandy beaches and Charles turning his back, when he thought serenity was finally within grasp.
No more.
Times are changing, my friend.
Yes, Charles. Yes they are.
X.
Charles wheels himself to the library. He’s getting better at manoeuvring himself about and doesn’t need anyone to push him anymore. He rolls past the chess board and heads straight to the bookcase. He picks up an issue of Genetica, already two months old, and holds it in his hands. He needs to brush up on the latest publications, the field is booming so rapidly--but tonight is not that night. He replaces it on the shelf. The air is thick and still and the fire in the hearth is glowing embers now. The sharp smell of cedar burns the inside of his nostrils and his mouth remembers the taste of brandy and the ghost of a smile shared. There are two armchairs facing each other, tacky and too soft. They are always empty now.
He closes his eyes and presses two fingers to his temple, the faint flutter of anticipation awakening in his gut that never quite learned disappointment. It is quiet. The ticking of the clock on the mantle counts the time he has lost trying but he will never give up. He takes a deep breath and unleashes his mind. Slowly, the room bursts into life. A kaleidoscope of voices and thoughts and emotions rush into him and it is like Babel. The murmuring rises in his ears from a din to a cacophony until he shuts it off like a switch. He narrows his focus. He feels Hank rustling in the kitchen, fixing a midnight snack. He feels Alex heated and aroused in the second floor bathroom. He wades through the bits of familiar voices and familiar presences and searches for that one, aching thread he has been looking for every day since that day. But all there is is darkness. He concentrates, waiting for the smallest tug back on the line he has extended as far as his mind can reach.
Erik?
There is nothing. Charles sends his thoughts anyway, into the void, the words echoing each like ripples in the moonlight.
I miss you.
Title: The Mismeasure of Man
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Length: 3985 words.
Summary: 10 moments their lives fell together and came apart.
My fantastic beta: war_n_peace
A/N: These are snapshots, not a timeline.
If you make it past part III, you're in for the win.
I.
Erik is exasperated. They’ve fought over the same thing nearly every night and still-
“No, no, no. We can’t just abandon them, Erik, we have to protect them.”
“They would throw you to the wolves.”
“You can’t know that! We have it in us to be the better men, to lead by example.”
“And you would lead these children to death by your own folly.”
“You’re wrong,” Charles says firmly. “Times are changing, my friend. Look around you. There is a social revolution unfolding as we speak.”
“Your optimism borders on naivety,” Erik says through teeth clenched as hard as his fists.
Charles actually looks hurt and Erik is infuriated to find that it bothers him.
Charles glows amber in the firelight and Erik bites his tongue to keep from saying worse.
“Do you really think that?” Charles asks. His face is serious as ever and the yellow and orange light soaks into his hair like watercolours.
“No,” Erik says, honestly. He thinks a lot of things about Charles--friend, equal, partner. He has a rose tinted view of the world but he can’t blame him for it, the rich Oxford boy. He’s never known hurt, though he pretends he does, often, through the pain of others. It is not nearly the same thing. He is a telepath, yes, and empath, maybe. But vicarious does not come with lessons learned. “What you want is unlikely, but not stupid,” he forces himself to say.
Charles brightens a bit. He walks over to their chairs and abandoned chess game and slumps down into the cushions. He runs a hand through his hair and down his face. “I’m glad. I don’t think I could bear to know you thought I was a silly man with silly dreams.”
“You are a silly man.”
Charles gives him a withering look from under his palm. “I believe you’re the one in the turtleneck.”
“I could take it off.”
Charles quirks his eyebrow and a wicked smile spreads over his face.
II.
The sand is hot under them and the air is blue and burning. The heat of it sears Erik’s face. The sand is everywhere, between his fingers and his teeth. His mouth is caked and dry with it. The sun glints off the sand like glass and he uses this as an excuse to close his eyes--just for a moment-- as he holds Charles in his arms. He takes a shaking breath and it tastes like hot metal and spilt blood. When he opens them, Charles is looking at him with eyes bluer than the Caribbean sea and calmer than the Cuban sky. His brows are drawn and they tremble just enough, as if he might cry, but he doesn't.
I'm so sorry, Erik thinks, because he is speechless. His heart feels wrenched from his chest, bent and twisted along with the rest of the scrap metal and sheet steel strewn about the beach. His throat is tight and closing around the words. But Charles can’t hear him, not with his helmet on.
“Did it bring you peace, Erik?” There is no hint of malice. Honesty, only.
Erik feels revenge like a weight lifted off his chest. He hears the roar of the ocean but it is a quiet sound in his ears, he is hearing it through a sea shell. He is not angry any longer. For the first time in his life, he is not angry. “Yes,” Erik says and he is mortified that he does not regret it.
“Then it was worth it, my friend.” Charles offers a weak smile, though his lips are pressed too tight. He winces against the pain and
now the tears come.
III.
“Do you mind if I...?” Charles says curiously one day, when they are practicing. It is still early in the morning and the sky is drab and grey. There is no wind, but it is cold. The blackened trees are thin and bare and stretch their twisted limbs into the fog.
Erik’s sleeves are rolled up and the the front of his sweatshirt is dark and dampened with sweat from their jog. He wonders what Charles could possibly be looking for in his mind today, but he nods anyway, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. He rests his hands on his hips as he catches his breath with an open mouth.
He doesn’t expect Charles to move toward him and is startled when his face is suddenly very close to his own--he never quite got used to Charles’ lack of respect for personal space. Must be a telepath thing, he thinks.
Charles holds Erik’s left arm with one hand and touches the inside of Erik’s wrist gently, with the other. Erik stills, though he is still breathing heavily. Charles’ skin is warm on his.
His eyes are very wide and very blue. “Is this alright, Erik?”
Erik swallows and nods.
Charles’ eyes drop to Erik’s forearms where the numbers brand his flesh. Erik tenses but stops himself from jerking away. Charles studies the ink for a while, his brows coming together in the same way they do when he is engrossed in a book or moving a chess piece. His touch is light as he follows the pattern with the curve of his palm. His breaths are small puffs, Erik can see them take shape in the chilly air. Charles’ mouth is swollen and red with the cold but his hands are warm.
The hand on his wrist lowers until their fingers are touching, and for a moment Erik can’t tell if Charles is trying to hold his hand. Erik closes his into a fist and looks away, into the squinting sun.
Charles covers the numbers, all of them, with his hand and looks up brightly. “Thank you,” he says.
IV.
"Hank is nearly finished with his cure. I'm quite certain that after rigorous testing, we can-"
"How can it be that you are ashamed of being a mutant?"
Charles is silent for a moment. "You misunderstand, my friend. It is merely a way for us to remain--"
"In hiding?"
"That is not what I meant at all," Charles looks mortified. "Humans are afraid of us, afraid of what looks different. If we don’t seem so different from them after all, it helps develop tolerance--"
"You can lie to yourself, Charles, but don't lie to me."
V.
Erik sits in the smoke-filled bar, elbow to elbow with greasy, tired men. It smells strongly of vomit and spilled ale and the floor sticks to the bottom of his shoes so he keeps them perched on the ledge. The bartender says something to him but Erik doesn’t listen, he is too busy watching Charles and the mutant girl talking near the wall.
Tonight’s good-cop bad-cop routine worked flawlessly and Charles talks to her with animated hands, probably about the Institute. He can practically feel Charles feeding her a line about groovy mutations and his jaw clenches when he sees her lean over and kiss him mid-sentence. Erik’s knuckles go milk-white around his glass and Charles immediately tears away to look at him.
The girl leaves with contact information and Charles slaps a hand to Erik’s back before joining him at the bar.
“Don’t you think she was a bit young for you, Charles?”
“She just got carried away,” Charles says lightly, holding a hand up to the bartender for a beer, “It’s terribly exciting to find out you’re not alone.”
Erik grits his teeth because he knows it is true and because he knows he’s angry over nothing. He finishes his beer and orders another.
“There are four more in this area, we can finish up in a few days easily,” Erik tells him.
“I can’t believe we’re nearly done with our search,” Charles sighs, though Erik thinks he should be happy they can focus on training the new students instead of traveling together from city to city like a pair of nomads. “This was a great adventure,” Charles says.
Erik thinks so too.
They click their glasses together in celebration and drink.
Charles' grin becomes messier and messier with each beer and Erik knows he has probably had too much, too. The blue of Charles’ eyes are unbearable and he just stares at Erik and Erik doesn’t know why. The room is too hot and he loosens his collar.
Erik puts his fingers to his temple. “Him,” he says and Charles follows his line of sight to a man in the corner who is rubbing his potbelly and looking wistfully out the window. Erik closes his eyes and frowns, pretending to read his mind. “He is thinking about how he is going to explain the baby to his wife.”
Charles laughs so hard he almost falls off his barstool. Erik laughs along with him, shaking his head into his glass.
“You do a horrible impression of me, Erik,” he protests. Erik thinks it was quite accurate, actually. Charles puts his fingers to his temple (this is how you do it) and gestures to a couple arguing outside. The woman is beating the man with her purse as he holds up his hands in defense. “She knows he ate the last bit of bacon this morning and left none for her. Hell hath no fury.”
Erik snorts, “Like a woman with no breakfast meat?”
Charles gives a sloppy shrug. “I’ve seen how you get about your sausage in the morning.”
Erik laughs and is surprised Charles noticed what he eats. It's not like he knows Charles takes two lumps of sugar with his Earl Grey or anything.
Erik puts his fingers to his temple again and nods towards two men at the next table over. “They’ve been friends for forever. But one of them is in love with the other and the other has no idea.”
The fingers slip off Charles’ face.
Erik’s smile slips off his face too as he realizes. His cheeks burn obscenely and he hopes its too dark to see. “What?” he snaps.
Charles is grinning softly. “Nothing, my friend.”
VI.
“You always look into other peoples’ minds. What goes on inside that head of yours?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.” Charles says absently.
“I find that hard to believe.” But Erik takes the hint and turns his attentions back to chess.
“Too much,” Charles corrects himself. Erik looks up.
“You can block them out, though. The others.”
“Most of the time, yes. It is blocking out my own thoughts that is most challenging. Especially when I am unguarded.” Charles brow is raised and he speaks as though he is divulging a terrible secret. “When I sleep, for example.”
“Oh yes, your darkest thoughts,” Erik muses, “Taking over the world and exacting revenge.”
Charles laughs. “No, that’s you, my friend.”
Erik thinks that’s a morbid way to put it but chuckles anyway. “So, what, then? Does the mere memory of someone’s perfume brings you to your knees? Is your insatiable craving for tea what wakes you in the morning?”
Charles laughs again. “Not quite. Something more like this--”
He puts his hand to his head and places his other on Erik’s. Erik flinches under the touch.
“May I?”
“Go right ahead.” The words barely leave Erik’s mouth before he is assaulted by the images.
There is a dinner party and the sounds of all the guests thinking and talking and eating and the clacking of utensils on the plates is filling his head. A small child, not dressed his age, drops his spoon into his lap and holds his hands over his ears. The noises drill through like screeching and the sound of metal grinding on metal.
“Mama! Mama!”
A beautiful woman is standing over the table mid-toast and ignores her child’s arms as they reach for her. “Charles, not now!” She says irritably, moving away from him so his hands won’t touch her dress.
Charles struggles to keep still and buries his head in his hands that are useless to block it out. The sounds rise like a tide in his ears and the voices ricochet off his skull, the words mixing into each other until they loose meaning and blur into a blinding pressure that bleeds out of his ears and his eyes.
A fat woman across from him thinks at his mother, “Bitch,” and the sound is like a scream. Charles cries out, knocking his soup bowl as the tears pry out of his eyes.
“Mama!”
His mother sighs and shouts, “Matilde? Matilde, he’s made a mess, come here.”
A maid rushes into the room and picks up a wailing Charles.
“I don’t understand the boy,” she apologizes to the guests, and Charles can feel her anger and embarrassment and knows he will not be able to join her again in decent company for many years. “The doctors says he has a fragile mind.”
Erik had stopped breathing at some point and as soon as the darkness of the library comes back into focus, he is gasping like a drowning man. The back of his sweater is damp with sweat and clinging to his skin. Charles’ touch on his temple is now a cool one.
Charles sits back in his seat and looks at Erik, his eyes changing softly in the firelight.
Erik has nothing to say.
VII.
Erik has to say something. He has had enough of this foreplay. He knows Charles knows and yet he hasn’t done a single thing about it. It drives him mad to pretend that nothing is going on. If he knows anything about Charles--and he thinks he does, like the back of his hand-- he knows he won’t back down.
“I could take it off,” he offers. He reaches for his turtleneck.
Charles quirks his eyebrow and a wicked smile spreads over his face. “Please do.”
Erik obliges and Charles bright eyes turn dark with lust.
Charles’ hands are heavy on his shoulders. For all his confidence, he kisses Erik tentatively, lips barely brushing his before drawing back. But both of Charles’ hands are already in Erik’s trousers and he remembers to tease him about this later. Erik pulls his wrists out and tugs Charles to him, kissing him again, deeply. Charles groans and Erik swallows it, sliding his tongue into his mouth, hot and soft under his. His nose crushes against Charles’ cheek and his hand is on the back of Charles’ head, pulling him nearer still. He’s never needed something as badly as he needs this.
Charles’ hands are brands on his skin and they burn him to the bone. They roam everywhere, over skin marred by scars and numbers and skin where the marks and meanings aren’t visible. Erik wonders if Charles knows they are there.
Erik cannot stop kissing Charles. He’d like Charles’ lips in other places too, but he cannot bring himself to release them from his own. Not yet, not when he makes noises that make him harder than any fantasy he’s ever had. Not when he can feel Charles hard against him, too, straining against his pants. He devours the man under him--only the carpet burn in his knees tells him they’ve tumbled to the floor.
His mouth moves ruthlessly and his hands are rough on Charles’ body as they run down his chest, up his thighs. Charles moves Erik’s hand to his cock and Erik strokes him, fast and sure. Charles’ breath slides down Erik’s neck like a hot fog, his open mouth catching on the stubble there when he moans.
Erik doesn’t realize he’s been thinking I want to fuck you I can’t wait to fuck you over and over until Charles laughs at him and tells him its alright. He can.
Erik spits in his hand, dragging his lips over Charles’ as he lowers it between his legs. Charles gasps and Erik groans at the sound; he tightens like a silk knot tied around his fingers- remember this. He waits for Charles chest to slow before replacing them with his cock. Charles begs Erik and God and Erik fucks him like he kisses him, rough and never enough. Charles covers a hand over his face and is moaning things into his palm that Erik can’t hear, but he can barely hear anything over the sounds of the blood rushing in his ears and his heart pounding in his chest. He’s never needed anyone like this before. He’s never needed anyone like he needs Charles.
VIII.
Erik can barely hear Charles over the roar of the jet engines. Thank God his thoughts today are louder than words. He knows what he has to do and he knows Charles will understand. He may die trying but he would rather die than give this up. He’s waited a lifetime for this.
I love you, Charles.
Charles’ mouth is still twisted open from shouting an order to Moira and he turns to face Erik. Charles’s eyes are narrowed against the alternating slats of light and shadow that hit the plane window as the propellers turn. The light that does spill over his shoulders is dusty air and he breathes it in through flared nostrils. Erik knows his mind is still on the mission, on the children, on the war, but even Charles can’t help the corners of his mouth as they quirk up and he bites them to keep from a full smile.
I love you, too.
IX.
He won’t ever take off his helmet. Not because he is afraid he will be hunted down. He is afraid Charles will find him and forgive him. He is afraid he will forgive Charles. His nightmares are haunted by it and they are worse than the nightmares of candles and concentration camps and Cuba.
He dreams of betrayal. Charles saw what those men were going to do, where they were targeting. He saw and he knew. He knew Erik was right and still he chose them.
Sometimes, rarer still, he does not dream of betrayal. He dreams that Charles’ eyes are filled with laughter and not grief. He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder and hears promises of love and friendship and a future and it is enough pain that Erik wakes up in a metal bed twisted against itself. His entire body aches so badly at the memory, the tears leak out by themselves like a--like a pathetic child and he feels wretched and weak and regrets the day he chose not to walk away. He hates Charles but he hates himself more and he is overcome with the urge to destroy something and usually does, it doesn’t matter what or who. Other days he thinks perhaps he does hate Charles more and that he would like to kill him. He prefers that feeling. It makes him stronger.
Erik was right all along, about the humans and about Charles, too. He is too afraid to leave the humans, he is too afraid to give up what he has known for all of his life and embrace something he would rather play off as a magic trick or scientific novelty. He would rather hide himself and the others. He pretends he has free reign, but only as much as is comfortable for the humans to tolerate a co-existence, and just barely at that. Erik’s blood boils with rage at the thought. He misses the calm before the storm, before sandy beaches and Charles turning his back, when he thought serenity was finally within grasp.
No more.
Times are changing, my friend.
Yes, Charles. Yes they are.
X.
Charles wheels himself to the library. He’s getting better at manoeuvring himself about and doesn’t need anyone to push him anymore. He rolls past the chess board and heads straight to the bookcase. He picks up an issue of Genetica, already two months old, and holds it in his hands. He needs to brush up on the latest publications, the field is booming so rapidly--but tonight is not that night. He replaces it on the shelf. The air is thick and still and the fire in the hearth is glowing embers now. The sharp smell of cedar burns the inside of his nostrils and his mouth remembers the taste of brandy and the ghost of a smile shared. There are two armchairs facing each other, tacky and too soft. They are always empty now.
He closes his eyes and presses two fingers to his temple, the faint flutter of anticipation awakening in his gut that never quite learned disappointment. It is quiet. The ticking of the clock on the mantle counts the time he has lost trying but he will never give up. He takes a deep breath and unleashes his mind. Slowly, the room bursts into life. A kaleidoscope of voices and thoughts and emotions rush into him and it is like Babel. The murmuring rises in his ears from a din to a cacophony until he shuts it off like a switch. He narrows his focus. He feels Hank rustling in the kitchen, fixing a midnight snack. He feels Alex heated and aroused in the second floor bathroom. He wades through the bits of familiar voices and familiar presences and searches for that one, aching thread he has been looking for every day since that day. But all there is is darkness. He concentrates, waiting for the smallest tug back on the line he has extended as far as his mind can reach.
Erik?
There is nothing. Charles sends his thoughts anyway, into the void, the words echoing each like ripples in the moonlight.
I miss you.