Ficlet: Support Group 'verse
So, instead of sleeping, or, God forbid, engaging in self-reflection, I wrote a coda to Tuesday Afternoons in the Churchyard. Read it there as the last chapter, or here under the cut.
Charles will never have his day in court. He will never stand before a jury and rattle of accusations, clinical descriptions of traumas that the mind shouldn't have to bear. Kurt Marko, in the eyes of the law, will remain an innocent, and anyway it doesn't matter anymore, now that he is dead and gone and the only things left behind are the bruised and steely memories of two men who had a sister once.
Instead, the letter will come in the mail, formal, from the solicitors. And when Charles opens it he will go pale, and still, and for a moment his muscles will forget his circumstance and he will go quietly and perfectly rigid, bracing himself against the flow of memories and hatreds and resentments that he thought he had buried long ago-
Kurt had been sick, he must have been, nobody does those things without a reason, addiction is a disease of the brain, and it wasn't mother's fault-
The apartment is hot, and Charles is sticky with sweat and an absurd fear, because the dead will lie quiet in their graves, and it didn't matter anymore.
Why would he leave him money?
Was it penance? Regret, after all those years of sound and fury and, later, indifferent coldness.
You're not my father
And thank Christ for that, you're a fucking brat just like your mother
just like your mother- just like your mother- just like your mother
(Parents, they say, don't tell their children fairy tales to scare them with monsters. They do it to teach them that monsters can be slain.)
He breathes deeply, remembering the exercises suggested by Dr. Adler. In, out, clinging desperately to each drift of scent, grounding himself in the present and away form that shabby house that had been beautiful, once.
And suddenly he is furious, inexplicably, all-consumingly furious, because how dare he? Did he think that, somehow, that made it okay? That it erased the years- Charles had lost far, far too goddamn much of his life to worrying over that man.
(He never blamed mother, even if she was just as cruel, in her own way, the highs and lows of hypomanic states and irrational anxieties blurred through pills and drugs and alcohol, her beautiful face pale and ashen in her bed, her nightgown worn and faded and slightly rancid. He loved her. That was crueler than hatred.)
He sets the letter on the side table, pulls his shirt over his head (he doesn't hide his scars, not from Erik, and anyway they are old and not half so dramatic as they seem like they should be- faded silvery lines and pebbled flesh and some melted puckers where young flesh had come into contact with hot iron. If you didn't know they were there, you'd never see them. Erik knew they were there.)
and balls it up beneath him to form a slightly damp pillow.
When Erik arrived, Kurt in tow, who was babbling happily with fragments of real words strung together with abstract conjugations and conjunctions- which was more than he had hoped, more than he had dared believe in, and the almost-normal childspeak cracked through the fog of apathetic anxiety and he made a noise.
It wasn't a whimper. Just a noise.
"Charles?" Erik asked, taking a cautious step towards him. "Charles, are you- all right?"
Charles shrugged, and did not open his eyes. Erik glanced at him with worry.
Kurt had no such compunctions, and flung his small, chubby (and wasn't that a relief? Charles was taking every goddamned pound that boy gained as a personal victory, thank you very much, children are remarkably resilient)
body alongside his, prodding at his side.
"Charles?" Kurt asked, "What wron', Charles? You cry?"
Charles smiled slightly, a cracked, tense smile. "No, Kurt. I'm not crying."
His lip twitched.
Erik leaned down and scooped Kurt up. "Alright, mouse, let's leave Charles alone for a while, ok? Why don't you go- look at your trainset, or something?"
The happy assent he received from Kurt was like music to Charles ear. Kurt was okay. They were okay.
(Those who do not learn from history, they say, are doomed to repeat it. They fail to mention that those lessons suck balls.)
Erik sits down beside him, and the ancient futon creaks ominously. He glances down at the small man.
"I'd invite you to come here," he says at length, "But you seem to be sweating like a wildebeast."
Charles cracks his eye open at last. "Yeah, you're really not good at this sympathy thing, are you?"
Erik raised an eyebrow. "You have to tell me what I'm being sympathetic about, then."
Despite himself, Charles smiled. Then- "On the table. Look. I can't-"
Erik frowned and grabbed the letter. Reading it, he frowned.
"I didn't think the fucker had made another will."
"Nor did I," Charles said, sighing. "The cleaning service found it beneath some of his old papers. It's still valid- signed and dated, after the original statement to the lawyer declaring Cain his sole heir. It's not much, but I- I don't- I can't quite-" Charles stopped, sealing his lips against the tortured fragments.
Erik scratched his beard absently, and Charles felt the comforting scent of motor oil and cleaners and the outside and Ivory soap drift over him like a blanket.
"What are you going to do?"
Charles is silent.
"What do you need me to do?"
Charles glanced over at him. "Could you- put your arm around me? Just for a moment?"
He blushed and tried to feel less like a twelve year old girl. It wasn't working very well.
Normally, at this point he would laugh it off as a joke, brush by it with some charming self deprecation.
He doesn't.
Erik smiled at him, softly and without malice, and tugs the younger man over onto his lap, holding tightly as though they both might break.
Later, after Kurt has been fed and put to bed and Charles has cleared his head with several cigarettes smoked in succession, Erik will approach him from behind and Charles will not jump, and the harsh and rough skin-on-skin contact will break and remake him, and Charles will feel open and exposed and not at all frightened, because Erik is shattering next to him, and when the pieces get put back together some may end up switched, but its all the same, in the end.
Even later, Charles will call the solicitor and be every inch the professional, and he and Cain will get gloriously, extravagantly drunk, and in the morning he will sober up and walk to the bank and open two accounts, one for Kurt's care and one for himself, for school, and he will not feel guilty about it.
(Secretly, late at night, he will download the online application to graduate school at Columbia, and it will sit in his desk drawer amongst unmarked papers and confiscated rubber tchotchkes for several weeks before he dares to fill it out.)
He will meet Erik at the door of his therapist's office, and catch a glimpse of the fearsome woman in white, before taking Erik by the (rough, calloused) hand, and walking with him in the daylight to a pizza joint, and he will realise, somewhere, without thinking about it, that he has grown up.
Charles will never have his day in court. He will never stand before a jury and rattle of accusations, clinical descriptions of traumas that the mind shouldn't have to bear. Kurt Marko, in the eyes of the law, will remain an innocent, and anyway it doesn't matter anymore, now that he is dead and gone and the only things left behind are the bruised and steely memories of two men who had a sister once.
Instead, the letter will come in the mail, formal, from the solicitors. And when Charles opens it he will go pale, and still, and for a moment his muscles will forget his circumstance and he will go quietly and perfectly rigid, bracing himself against the flow of memories and hatreds and resentments that he thought he had buried long ago-
Kurt had been sick, he must have been, nobody does those things without a reason, addiction is a disease of the brain, and it wasn't mother's fault-
The apartment is hot, and Charles is sticky with sweat and an absurd fear, because the dead will lie quiet in their graves, and it didn't matter anymore.
Why would he leave him money?
Was it penance? Regret, after all those years of sound and fury and, later, indifferent coldness.
You're not my father
And thank Christ for that, you're a fucking brat just like your mother
just like your mother- just like your mother- just like your mother
(Parents, they say, don't tell their children fairy tales to scare them with monsters. They do it to teach them that monsters can be slain.)
He breathes deeply, remembering the exercises suggested by Dr. Adler. In, out, clinging desperately to each drift of scent, grounding himself in the present and away form that shabby house that had been beautiful, once.
And suddenly he is furious, inexplicably, all-consumingly furious, because how dare he? Did he think that, somehow, that made it okay? That it erased the years- Charles had lost far, far too goddamn much of his life to worrying over that man.
(He never blamed mother, even if she was just as cruel, in her own way, the highs and lows of hypomanic states and irrational anxieties blurred through pills and drugs and alcohol, her beautiful face pale and ashen in her bed, her nightgown worn and faded and slightly rancid. He loved her. That was crueler than hatred.)
He sets the letter on the side table, pulls his shirt over his head (he doesn't hide his scars, not from Erik, and anyway they are old and not half so dramatic as they seem like they should be- faded silvery lines and pebbled flesh and some melted puckers where young flesh had come into contact with hot iron. If you didn't know they were there, you'd never see them. Erik knew they were there.)
and balls it up beneath him to form a slightly damp pillow.
When Erik arrived, Kurt in tow, who was babbling happily with fragments of real words strung together with abstract conjugations and conjunctions- which was more than he had hoped, more than he had dared believe in, and the almost-normal childspeak cracked through the fog of apathetic anxiety and he made a noise.
It wasn't a whimper. Just a noise.
"Charles?" Erik asked, taking a cautious step towards him. "Charles, are you- all right?"
Charles shrugged, and did not open his eyes. Erik glanced at him with worry.
Kurt had no such compunctions, and flung his small, chubby (and wasn't that a relief? Charles was taking every goddamned pound that boy gained as a personal victory, thank you very much, children are remarkably resilient)
body alongside his, prodding at his side.
"Charles?" Kurt asked, "What wron', Charles? You cry?"
Charles smiled slightly, a cracked, tense smile. "No, Kurt. I'm not crying."
His lip twitched.
Erik leaned down and scooped Kurt up. "Alright, mouse, let's leave Charles alone for a while, ok? Why don't you go- look at your trainset, or something?"
The happy assent he received from Kurt was like music to Charles ear. Kurt was okay. They were okay.
(Those who do not learn from history, they say, are doomed to repeat it. They fail to mention that those lessons suck balls.)
Erik sits down beside him, and the ancient futon creaks ominously. He glances down at the small man.
"I'd invite you to come here," he says at length, "But you seem to be sweating like a wildebeast."
Charles cracks his eye open at last. "Yeah, you're really not good at this sympathy thing, are you?"
Erik raised an eyebrow. "You have to tell me what I'm being sympathetic about, then."
Despite himself, Charles smiled. Then- "On the table. Look. I can't-"
Erik frowned and grabbed the letter. Reading it, he frowned.
"I didn't think the fucker had made another will."
"Nor did I," Charles said, sighing. "The cleaning service found it beneath some of his old papers. It's still valid- signed and dated, after the original statement to the lawyer declaring Cain his sole heir. It's not much, but I- I don't- I can't quite-" Charles stopped, sealing his lips against the tortured fragments.
Erik scratched his beard absently, and Charles felt the comforting scent of motor oil and cleaners and the outside and Ivory soap drift over him like a blanket.
"What are you going to do?"
Charles is silent.
"What do you need me to do?"
Charles glanced over at him. "Could you- put your arm around me? Just for a moment?"
He blushed and tried to feel less like a twelve year old girl. It wasn't working very well.
Normally, at this point he would laugh it off as a joke, brush by it with some charming self deprecation.
He doesn't.
Erik smiled at him, softly and without malice, and tugs the younger man over onto his lap, holding tightly as though they both might break.
Later, after Kurt has been fed and put to bed and Charles has cleared his head with several cigarettes smoked in succession, Erik will approach him from behind and Charles will not jump, and the harsh and rough skin-on-skin contact will break and remake him, and Charles will feel open and exposed and not at all frightened, because Erik is shattering next to him, and when the pieces get put back together some may end up switched, but its all the same, in the end.
Even later, Charles will call the solicitor and be every inch the professional, and he and Cain will get gloriously, extravagantly drunk, and in the morning he will sober up and walk to the bank and open two accounts, one for Kurt's care and one for himself, for school, and he will not feel guilty about it.
(Secretly, late at night, he will download the online application to graduate school at Columbia, and it will sit in his desk drawer amongst unmarked papers and confiscated rubber tchotchkes for several weeks before he dares to fill it out.)
He will meet Erik at the door of his therapist's office, and catch a glimpse of the fearsome woman in white, before taking Erik by the (rough, calloused) hand, and walking with him in the daylight to a pizza joint, and he will realise, somewhere, without thinking about it, that he has grown up.