X-Men First Class fic: Into White (Charles/Erik, 3,000 words)
Yet another 1stclass_kink prompt, this one my first foray into non-crack/fluff. And instead we have the most over-the-top emo angsty h/c... yay?
I really enjoyed writing this. Who knew? I still stay loyal to my crack, though.
Title is stolen from the Cat Stevens song. Original is here
Title: Into White
Fandom: X-Men First Class
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,000
Warnings: Ridiculous levels of angst and h/c. General (accidental) mental torture.
Summary: The worst thing someone can do to a telepath is to isolate them completely from the rest of humanity. It's roughly the equivalent of locking a claustrophobic person in a closet.
Erik was not aware of this.
(Just a note: This was supposed to be set in canon-verse but Charles can walk because I honestly forgot, when writing it, that he had been paralysed by this point. So we'll call it an AU.)
Quiet. That was the first thing Charles noticed. Quiet, peaceful, no chatter, no jabbering noise in his head. It was strange, like being out in a snowfield, all sparkling white, everything muffled and changed. It was cold, but it was beautiful, the nothingness. He didn’t mind.
There was only him.
Charles Xavier, he thought, hello. The thought echoed back to him from empty space. Hello, hello, hello. He laughed, and the laughter echoed too.
He floated for a while, trying to work it out. It was odd. He was dreaming, of course. He’d never had a dream like this before, of being alone in his own head. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
Maybe it would be better to wake up. Or at least to touch somebody else’s dream, something normal.
He reached out.
He tried to reach out.
The whiteness was thicker than he expected. He reached harder but it seemed to move with him. It was everywhere. It was thick and soft and cold, like snow, heavy and disorientating. It surrounded him and he didn't like it. He fumbled at it, but it only got thicker. It was in his mouth and his nose and his ears.
No, this wasn’t right. Soon it would start choking him and he wouldn’t be able to breathe.
He’d die here in his dream, and nobody would know.
Wake up, he told himself frantically. Wake up. Be normal. Find Hank or Alex. Get up and have a cup of tea.
Cup of tea, tea, tea, echoed ridiculously through the whiteness.
Hank wasn’t there. Nobody was there.
His sudden spark of panic was dazzling, reflected back on him a thousand times, growing and burning.
He had to wake up.
Wake up. Wake up!
His own scream woke him. He scrabbled at the floor, grateful for his fingers, for a body, for some semblance of reality. He drew a breath of relief, waiting for the dream to fade into wakefulness.
But it didn’t fade. It was still blank and choking. He reached for Hank, for Alex, for anyone, but he kept falling into nothingness. Oh god, what was happening? What was wrong with him?
Stop panicking, he told himself firmly. Calm down and take stock.
Take stock, take stock, said the echoes , calm down, calm, calm, calm! bouncing and distorting and growing louder, joyfully leaping from side to side. It was deafening. The white space amplified them into a vast, howling chorus.
Be quiet! he cried, and the thought grew and mingled with the rest until his arms were wrapped around his head and he was sobbing.
He didn’t know how long he stayed that way. He must have stopped thinking altogether. Eventually he managed to sit up again, balancing a few tiny thoughts on a knife-edge. They were weak and tentative and barely useful but at least they were quiet and they gave him enough awareness to move a little, and to make sense of what his eyes were seeing.
Except it didn’t make sense. He was in an endless bright space with infinite other Charles Xaviers, all of them staring at him in horror, as though he was some kind of nightmare.
No, he told himself. His perception shifted. Stupid. He wasn’t thinking. Of course they weren’t people, they were reflections. He was in a room walled with mirrors, that was all.
There was a touch on his temple and he realised it was his own fingers. They had crept up without him noticing. He let the hand drop. There was no point. He was all alone.
Alone…
He struggled with that thought for a moment, trying to stop it getting out of control. Small, quiet, calm thoughts, they were allowed. He tried to smile and relax. In a way it was a relief. At least there was an explanation, and at least it wasn’t that everyone in the world had suddenly died.
They were still out there somewhere. Alex, and Hank and Sean and the thousands of voices that gave shape to the world. They were out there, and instinctively he reached for them.
Nothing. Only whiteness, the whiteness that Erik became behind his helmet. Now it was everywhere.
He wrapped his arms around himself and and pressed his face into his knees. Hot tears bled through the fabric of his trousers and chilled against his skin.
Just a room full of mirrors, he told himself again. Rooms have doors.
It was a struggle, getting to his feet. His legs were shaking so hard that he had to press his palms to the glass, creating enough friction to haul himself up. The man on the other side was a thoughtless blank, white-faced and unreachable, though their hands were touching.
No, idiot. It’s a mirror.
Where was the door? He stumbled round, with the reflections following and turning and criss-crossing each other. The man’s hand was still touching his. That was good. That was company, of a sort.
He found a crack. Oh, thank god, he thought, then clamped down on it. Too late, it had already started to echo, and he was on his knees for a while, holding his head. When he got his mind back in balance he wasn’t sure he could stand up again, so he stayed on the floor and pounded on the door with his fists.
He had to get out. But he couldn’t manage the effort without thinking about what he wanted, and that started the clamour up again. Let me out, let me out, LET ME OUT! There was nothing in the world but the thought.
It was too much. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t try.
He crawled to a corner and pressed himself into it. He put his head back on his knees. Surely if he just waited, it would stop. There had to be some reason he was here. Somebody would come and let him out. They had to.
If he just waited and didn’t think and kept on breathing, it had to end sometime.
He heard himself making little keening noises, little hitching sobs, but he couldn’t think about that. He couldn’t think about anything.
It had to end sometime.
Soon. Please, god, soon.
***
Two doors, Emma had said when they were designing the thing. Like an airlock in a submarine. If you don’t have them then as soon as it’s open a crack he’ll get through.
Clever of her.
Erik opened door number one, and locked it behind him with a thought. Playing jailor was a new role for him. He’d held captives before but he’d never been the one to deliver their food. But even Emma couldn’t safely go in here, she wasn’t strong enough. And he was hardly going to give his helmet to anyone else.
The whole thing had been typically stupid of Charles. He just had to go stumbling in where he wasn’t wanted, getting in the way. It was lucky they’d prepared a place to keep him quiet.
Door number two. He flicked back the lock. At least he could do it with his hands full. He opened the door cautiously, standing well back, half expecting Charles to be waiting by it in a dramatic attempt at an ambush.
But he wasn’t there. The mirrors were disorientating, and for a moment he couldn’t work out where Charles actually was. His many reflections were small and huddled, curled tight in on themselves, motionless but tense.
After a blink he located the real, solid figure in the corner on the left of the door.
‘Charles,’ he said sharply.
He had played out this moment several times. He’d meant to make some kind of condescending promise that Charles would be let out as soon as they were done with the serious matters, because he really wasn’t terribly important. There was no harm in letting him go. Some intentionally infuriating bullshit like that.
Now, though, all he could say was, ‘Are you alright?’
The figure didn’t move.
Erik set the plates down carefully on the floor, with the uneasy feeling that something was very wrong. Charles was making small noises like the tiniest of moans with every breath. It was a horrible sound.
He hadn’t been hurt, surely. It was just a drugged quill from one of the mutants. He’d been unconscious but he hadn’t been hurt. Nobody would dare, he thought. But of course they would. Charles was the enemy.
Oh Jesus, if he’d left Charles dying in here…
‘Charles,’ he said again, crouching and reaching out a hand to touch him on the shoulder.
Charles flinched and curled up tighter. The noises increased from moans to rasping wails, regular and hopeless and monotonous.
Erik shook him again, and again. ‘Charles, look at me!’ he said hearing the fear in his own voice. This wasn’t Charles at all, it was some desperate, feral animal.
Finally the shaking seemed to get through. Charles raised his head. His eyes were dazed and bloodshot, his face wet with tears and - was that blood? God, he’d been chewing on his lip and it was bleeding.
‘Erik?’
There was barely recognition in his eyes, and the name was said with such uncertainty that Erik wasn’t sure Charles remembered what it meant or who he was.
‘Yes,’ he said stupidly, ‘I’m here.’
‘No, you’re… I can’t…’ He was looking through Erik, past him, as though he wasn’t really there.
Of course, Charles couldn’t feel him properly. He couldn’t feel anyone, in here, probably for the first time…
For the first time in his life.
Erik suddenly felt sick.
One of Charles’s hands lifted, trying to touch the helmet but shaking almost too much to manage it. ‘Take it off,’ he begged. His fingers dug into Erik’s arm and his voice would have been a scream if it had any strength at all. ‘Are you Erik? Are you?’
‘Yes. Yes, Charles, it’s me.’
‘Don’t make me stay here alone!’
For the first time in his life he’d been left all alone.
Charles’s eyes went wide and he shuddered all over, hands pressed to his head, babbling something and making desperate shushing noises. Erik grabbed for him, steadying him with one hand.
It was utterly unreasoned, he realised later. It was something he’d promised himself he would never do. But in that moment, without hesitating, without thinking at all, he pulled the helmet off.
***
Erik.
He’d been lost. It was like falling, or drowning, like dying. Like being dead. He’d tried to go away somewhere in his head and pretend it wasn’t happening, but his head was the nightmare. There was nowhere to run.
And then, astonishingly, there was Erik
He was tiny and distant, barely visible through the white haze, but he was there. Charles set out towards him, a little at a time. He felt aching and bruised and barely a person at all, but he had somewhere to go, now. He had a direction, a compass point.
If it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t even have tried. It hurt too much. But this was Erik. Charles hadn’t ever thought to see him again, not really see him. He’d do anything for that chance. He’d crawl through a thousand miles of snow.
Even further away, almost beyond his awareness, he thought he felt a sense of warmth and human arms, human skin, but he couldn’t pay attention to that. All he could do was to inch his way forward. When he got tired he stopped to rest, digging himself in and trying not to slide back into the mist.
When he was closer he began to feel something else, gentleness, and words, something repetitive that he didn’t understand. There were images of sleep and a loving face. It took him a while to realise that he was hearing the sounds with his ears too.
He was nearly there. He was so tired.
Erik, he called out, trying to muster enough strength to cross the last distance, and by some strange miracle Erik reached out and, at the very fullest extent, they managed to touch.
It was the most wonderful thing he’d ever felt. It was so dizzying he almost slipped away again but Erik caught him, held him, cradled him.
Charles.
The arms were real. So was the warmth and so were the words. Something in German, a song from Erik’s childhood. A song his mother used to sing.
Erik was singing to him.
He began to be aware of his own body. It hurt horribly. It felt like every muscle was tensed. His hands were clenched. He tried to release them, a finger at a time, and felt Erik move to help, gently easing one hand open and taking it in his, rubbing circles on the palm to ease the tension. Charles tried to make a noise of thanks with his mind or his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded. Perhaps it didn’t matter.
The singing had stopped, and he missed it, but it was soon replaced by other words. English this time.
Gently.
You’re alright.
I’ve got you.
I’m sorry.
Charles.
I’m so sorry.
‘Erik,’ he said muzzily, and this time the word came out properly. It was real, the whiteness was fading. Erik was there, and there was a whole world round the edges of him.
It was such a relief. The sobs that started shaking him were a relief too. Every one helped his muscles to ease. With every sob, too, the sense of warmth and fierce protection grew stronger. Nothing bad could happen now. He was pressed against Erik’s chest. He could hear his heartbeat.
Erik's mind was still indistinct, but getting clearer. Not clear enough. He was holding himself slightly apart. He felt Charles's touch and pulled away, and Charles felt utterly bereft and abandoned until he felt the wave of guilt flooding out. For some reason guilt was holding him back. No, Charles didn’t care about Erik’s guilt. Staying apart wasn't allowed. He needed this and he clung and pleaded.
'Charles, I'm here,' Erik said. There was a distinct, perfect moment as he gave in and let them become wrapped up in each other.
Charles found he could move now. He could open his eyes and take a breath that wasn't a sob. Little victories.
What happened? he asked. Then, because for once it was easier to talk, he said, 'It hurt.' The memory sent another shudder through him, and Erik's arms tightened.
'I know,' Erik said, rough, agonised, as though it had been his own pain. 'We shut you away. It was just a place to keep you quiet. This wasn't meant to happen, Charles, I would never... I couldn't ever... I'm so sorry.'
There was a moment of confusion. Erik had done this to him? His Erik?
But Erik wasn't his. He'd forgotten, for a moment.
'You didn't mean it,' he said, as much to himself as anyone. 'You didn't know.' It had to be that. He couldn't bear to think even for a second that Erik would hurt him like this on purpose.
There was a familiar gasp of breath. It was the noise Erik made when he wasn't crying. He wasn't very good at crying.
Charles needed to see his face. He struggled to push himself up, then paused, looking around the room. It was dark and spare and simple, just a bed and a few pieces of furniture and a chess set.
'Where are the mirrors?' he asked.
'Nowhere,' Erik said. 'They're broken.'
That wasn't what he'd meant, he'd been trying to ask where he was. But it was a good answer.
He managed to sit up, nestled against Erik’s shoulder. A hand stroked his hair and lifted his chin. Their foreheads pressed together for a brief moment. Erik's face hung dizzily over him.
'You're alright,' Erik said, half reassurance, half question.
'Yes, I'm alright.' The memory of unutterable, echoing loneliness was still there, but he could think of other things. Thirsty. He was thirsty and his mouth tasted vile. He must have projected the thought because there was a shift as Erik reached for a cup of water. Charles tried to grasp it, but he wasn't allowed to do more than control the tilt, and even that was hard. He could feel his fingers shaking against a solid grip, and he knew the water would be all down his chest if he were on his own.
It tasted so good.
'Thank you, my friend,' he managed.
Erik gasped again. 'Oh god, Charles, don't thank me. What have I done to you?' His lips pressed against Charles's temple, then brushed across his cheek.
He loved that sensation. He’d always loved it. Memories came flooding in of sunny days at the mansion, sprawling on the grass after a run, lingering over chess games. He’d been so happy then.
Their thoughts meshed, twisted apart, meshed again.
Charles turned towards the kiss, reaching for it. He felt a jumble of emotions, some his, some Erik’s, guilt and loneliness and desperation, I can't, and, please, I need you. Erik's lips were soft. His own felt ragged and sore, but the contact was so gentle that it didn't matter.
He'd kissed Erik before, but never like this. They were both raw and defenceless, no walls between them.
I know you, Charles thought, with that same shock of recognition he'd felt that very first time. And then, I love you.
He couldn't help it. He couldn't hide it. There was no way he could stop Erik from seeing. I love you, echoed back at him, and he felt a flash of panic, that perhaps he was alone again in the white space, but only for a moment.
I love you.
It wasn't his own thought.
It wasn't an echo.
I really enjoyed writing this. Who knew? I still stay loyal to my crack, though.
Title is stolen from the Cat Stevens song. Original is here
Title: Into White
Fandom: X-Men First Class
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,000
Warnings: Ridiculous levels of angst and h/c. General (accidental) mental torture.
Summary: The worst thing someone can do to a telepath is to isolate them completely from the rest of humanity. It's roughly the equivalent of locking a claustrophobic person in a closet.
Erik was not aware of this.
(Just a note: This was supposed to be set in canon-verse but Charles can walk because I honestly forgot, when writing it, that he had been paralysed by this point. So we'll call it an AU.)
Quiet. That was the first thing Charles noticed. Quiet, peaceful, no chatter, no jabbering noise in his head. It was strange, like being out in a snowfield, all sparkling white, everything muffled and changed. It was cold, but it was beautiful, the nothingness. He didn’t mind.
There was only him.
Charles Xavier, he thought, hello. The thought echoed back to him from empty space. Hello, hello, hello. He laughed, and the laughter echoed too.
He floated for a while, trying to work it out. It was odd. He was dreaming, of course. He’d never had a dream like this before, of being alone in his own head. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
Maybe it would be better to wake up. Or at least to touch somebody else’s dream, something normal.
He reached out.
He tried to reach out.
The whiteness was thicker than he expected. He reached harder but it seemed to move with him. It was everywhere. It was thick and soft and cold, like snow, heavy and disorientating. It surrounded him and he didn't like it. He fumbled at it, but it only got thicker. It was in his mouth and his nose and his ears.
No, this wasn’t right. Soon it would start choking him and he wouldn’t be able to breathe.
He’d die here in his dream, and nobody would know.
Wake up, he told himself frantically. Wake up. Be normal. Find Hank or Alex. Get up and have a cup of tea.
Cup of tea, tea, tea, echoed ridiculously through the whiteness.
Hank wasn’t there. Nobody was there.
His sudden spark of panic was dazzling, reflected back on him a thousand times, growing and burning.
He had to wake up.
Wake up. Wake up!
His own scream woke him. He scrabbled at the floor, grateful for his fingers, for a body, for some semblance of reality. He drew a breath of relief, waiting for the dream to fade into wakefulness.
But it didn’t fade. It was still blank and choking. He reached for Hank, for Alex, for anyone, but he kept falling into nothingness. Oh god, what was happening? What was wrong with him?
Stop panicking, he told himself firmly. Calm down and take stock.
Take stock, take stock, said the echoes , calm down, calm, calm, calm! bouncing and distorting and growing louder, joyfully leaping from side to side. It was deafening. The white space amplified them into a vast, howling chorus.
Be quiet! he cried, and the thought grew and mingled with the rest until his arms were wrapped around his head and he was sobbing.
He didn’t know how long he stayed that way. He must have stopped thinking altogether. Eventually he managed to sit up again, balancing a few tiny thoughts on a knife-edge. They were weak and tentative and barely useful but at least they were quiet and they gave him enough awareness to move a little, and to make sense of what his eyes were seeing.
Except it didn’t make sense. He was in an endless bright space with infinite other Charles Xaviers, all of them staring at him in horror, as though he was some kind of nightmare.
No, he told himself. His perception shifted. Stupid. He wasn’t thinking. Of course they weren’t people, they were reflections. He was in a room walled with mirrors, that was all.
There was a touch on his temple and he realised it was his own fingers. They had crept up without him noticing. He let the hand drop. There was no point. He was all alone.
Alone…
He struggled with that thought for a moment, trying to stop it getting out of control. Small, quiet, calm thoughts, they were allowed. He tried to smile and relax. In a way it was a relief. At least there was an explanation, and at least it wasn’t that everyone in the world had suddenly died.
They were still out there somewhere. Alex, and Hank and Sean and the thousands of voices that gave shape to the world. They were out there, and instinctively he reached for them.
Nothing. Only whiteness, the whiteness that Erik became behind his helmet. Now it was everywhere.
He wrapped his arms around himself and and pressed his face into his knees. Hot tears bled through the fabric of his trousers and chilled against his skin.
Just a room full of mirrors, he told himself again. Rooms have doors.
It was a struggle, getting to his feet. His legs were shaking so hard that he had to press his palms to the glass, creating enough friction to haul himself up. The man on the other side was a thoughtless blank, white-faced and unreachable, though their hands were touching.
No, idiot. It’s a mirror.
Where was the door? He stumbled round, with the reflections following and turning and criss-crossing each other. The man’s hand was still touching his. That was good. That was company, of a sort.
He found a crack. Oh, thank god, he thought, then clamped down on it. Too late, it had already started to echo, and he was on his knees for a while, holding his head. When he got his mind back in balance he wasn’t sure he could stand up again, so he stayed on the floor and pounded on the door with his fists.
He had to get out. But he couldn’t manage the effort without thinking about what he wanted, and that started the clamour up again. Let me out, let me out, LET ME OUT! There was nothing in the world but the thought.
It was too much. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t try.
He crawled to a corner and pressed himself into it. He put his head back on his knees. Surely if he just waited, it would stop. There had to be some reason he was here. Somebody would come and let him out. They had to.
If he just waited and didn’t think and kept on breathing, it had to end sometime.
He heard himself making little keening noises, little hitching sobs, but he couldn’t think about that. He couldn’t think about anything.
It had to end sometime.
Soon. Please, god, soon.
***
Two doors, Emma had said when they were designing the thing. Like an airlock in a submarine. If you don’t have them then as soon as it’s open a crack he’ll get through.
Clever of her.
Erik opened door number one, and locked it behind him with a thought. Playing jailor was a new role for him. He’d held captives before but he’d never been the one to deliver their food. But even Emma couldn’t safely go in here, she wasn’t strong enough. And he was hardly going to give his helmet to anyone else.
The whole thing had been typically stupid of Charles. He just had to go stumbling in where he wasn’t wanted, getting in the way. It was lucky they’d prepared a place to keep him quiet.
Door number two. He flicked back the lock. At least he could do it with his hands full. He opened the door cautiously, standing well back, half expecting Charles to be waiting by it in a dramatic attempt at an ambush.
But he wasn’t there. The mirrors were disorientating, and for a moment he couldn’t work out where Charles actually was. His many reflections were small and huddled, curled tight in on themselves, motionless but tense.
After a blink he located the real, solid figure in the corner on the left of the door.
‘Charles,’ he said sharply.
He had played out this moment several times. He’d meant to make some kind of condescending promise that Charles would be let out as soon as they were done with the serious matters, because he really wasn’t terribly important. There was no harm in letting him go. Some intentionally infuriating bullshit like that.
Now, though, all he could say was, ‘Are you alright?’
The figure didn’t move.
Erik set the plates down carefully on the floor, with the uneasy feeling that something was very wrong. Charles was making small noises like the tiniest of moans with every breath. It was a horrible sound.
He hadn’t been hurt, surely. It was just a drugged quill from one of the mutants. He’d been unconscious but he hadn’t been hurt. Nobody would dare, he thought. But of course they would. Charles was the enemy.
Oh Jesus, if he’d left Charles dying in here…
‘Charles,’ he said again, crouching and reaching out a hand to touch him on the shoulder.
Charles flinched and curled up tighter. The noises increased from moans to rasping wails, regular and hopeless and monotonous.
Erik shook him again, and again. ‘Charles, look at me!’ he said hearing the fear in his own voice. This wasn’t Charles at all, it was some desperate, feral animal.
Finally the shaking seemed to get through. Charles raised his head. His eyes were dazed and bloodshot, his face wet with tears and - was that blood? God, he’d been chewing on his lip and it was bleeding.
‘Erik?’
There was barely recognition in his eyes, and the name was said with such uncertainty that Erik wasn’t sure Charles remembered what it meant or who he was.
‘Yes,’ he said stupidly, ‘I’m here.’
‘No, you’re… I can’t…’ He was looking through Erik, past him, as though he wasn’t really there.
Of course, Charles couldn’t feel him properly. He couldn’t feel anyone, in here, probably for the first time…
For the first time in his life.
Erik suddenly felt sick.
One of Charles’s hands lifted, trying to touch the helmet but shaking almost too much to manage it. ‘Take it off,’ he begged. His fingers dug into Erik’s arm and his voice would have been a scream if it had any strength at all. ‘Are you Erik? Are you?’
‘Yes. Yes, Charles, it’s me.’
‘Don’t make me stay here alone!’
For the first time in his life he’d been left all alone.
Charles’s eyes went wide and he shuddered all over, hands pressed to his head, babbling something and making desperate shushing noises. Erik grabbed for him, steadying him with one hand.
It was utterly unreasoned, he realised later. It was something he’d promised himself he would never do. But in that moment, without hesitating, without thinking at all, he pulled the helmet off.
***
Erik.
He’d been lost. It was like falling, or drowning, like dying. Like being dead. He’d tried to go away somewhere in his head and pretend it wasn’t happening, but his head was the nightmare. There was nowhere to run.
And then, astonishingly, there was Erik
He was tiny and distant, barely visible through the white haze, but he was there. Charles set out towards him, a little at a time. He felt aching and bruised and barely a person at all, but he had somewhere to go, now. He had a direction, a compass point.
If it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t even have tried. It hurt too much. But this was Erik. Charles hadn’t ever thought to see him again, not really see him. He’d do anything for that chance. He’d crawl through a thousand miles of snow.
Even further away, almost beyond his awareness, he thought he felt a sense of warmth and human arms, human skin, but he couldn’t pay attention to that. All he could do was to inch his way forward. When he got tired he stopped to rest, digging himself in and trying not to slide back into the mist.
When he was closer he began to feel something else, gentleness, and words, something repetitive that he didn’t understand. There were images of sleep and a loving face. It took him a while to realise that he was hearing the sounds with his ears too.
He was nearly there. He was so tired.
Erik, he called out, trying to muster enough strength to cross the last distance, and by some strange miracle Erik reached out and, at the very fullest extent, they managed to touch.
It was the most wonderful thing he’d ever felt. It was so dizzying he almost slipped away again but Erik caught him, held him, cradled him.
Charles.
The arms were real. So was the warmth and so were the words. Something in German, a song from Erik’s childhood. A song his mother used to sing.
Erik was singing to him.
He began to be aware of his own body. It hurt horribly. It felt like every muscle was tensed. His hands were clenched. He tried to release them, a finger at a time, and felt Erik move to help, gently easing one hand open and taking it in his, rubbing circles on the palm to ease the tension. Charles tried to make a noise of thanks with his mind or his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded. Perhaps it didn’t matter.
The singing had stopped, and he missed it, but it was soon replaced by other words. English this time.
Gently.
You’re alright.
I’ve got you.
I’m sorry.
Charles.
I’m so sorry.
‘Erik,’ he said muzzily, and this time the word came out properly. It was real, the whiteness was fading. Erik was there, and there was a whole world round the edges of him.
It was such a relief. The sobs that started shaking him were a relief too. Every one helped his muscles to ease. With every sob, too, the sense of warmth and fierce protection grew stronger. Nothing bad could happen now. He was pressed against Erik’s chest. He could hear his heartbeat.
Erik's mind was still indistinct, but getting clearer. Not clear enough. He was holding himself slightly apart. He felt Charles's touch and pulled away, and Charles felt utterly bereft and abandoned until he felt the wave of guilt flooding out. For some reason guilt was holding him back. No, Charles didn’t care about Erik’s guilt. Staying apart wasn't allowed. He needed this and he clung and pleaded.
'Charles, I'm here,' Erik said. There was a distinct, perfect moment as he gave in and let them become wrapped up in each other.
Charles found he could move now. He could open his eyes and take a breath that wasn't a sob. Little victories.
What happened? he asked. Then, because for once it was easier to talk, he said, 'It hurt.' The memory sent another shudder through him, and Erik's arms tightened.
'I know,' Erik said, rough, agonised, as though it had been his own pain. 'We shut you away. It was just a place to keep you quiet. This wasn't meant to happen, Charles, I would never... I couldn't ever... I'm so sorry.'
There was a moment of confusion. Erik had done this to him? His Erik?
But Erik wasn't his. He'd forgotten, for a moment.
'You didn't mean it,' he said, as much to himself as anyone. 'You didn't know.' It had to be that. He couldn't bear to think even for a second that Erik would hurt him like this on purpose.
There was a familiar gasp of breath. It was the noise Erik made when he wasn't crying. He wasn't very good at crying.
Charles needed to see his face. He struggled to push himself up, then paused, looking around the room. It was dark and spare and simple, just a bed and a few pieces of furniture and a chess set.
'Where are the mirrors?' he asked.
'Nowhere,' Erik said. 'They're broken.'
That wasn't what he'd meant, he'd been trying to ask where he was. But it was a good answer.
He managed to sit up, nestled against Erik’s shoulder. A hand stroked his hair and lifted his chin. Their foreheads pressed together for a brief moment. Erik's face hung dizzily over him.
'You're alright,' Erik said, half reassurance, half question.
'Yes, I'm alright.' The memory of unutterable, echoing loneliness was still there, but he could think of other things. Thirsty. He was thirsty and his mouth tasted vile. He must have projected the thought because there was a shift as Erik reached for a cup of water. Charles tried to grasp it, but he wasn't allowed to do more than control the tilt, and even that was hard. He could feel his fingers shaking against a solid grip, and he knew the water would be all down his chest if he were on his own.
It tasted so good.
'Thank you, my friend,' he managed.
Erik gasped again. 'Oh god, Charles, don't thank me. What have I done to you?' His lips pressed against Charles's temple, then brushed across his cheek.
He loved that sensation. He’d always loved it. Memories came flooding in of sunny days at the mansion, sprawling on the grass after a run, lingering over chess games. He’d been so happy then.
Their thoughts meshed, twisted apart, meshed again.
Charles turned towards the kiss, reaching for it. He felt a jumble of emotions, some his, some Erik’s, guilt and loneliness and desperation, I can't, and, please, I need you. Erik's lips were soft. His own felt ragged and sore, but the contact was so gentle that it didn't matter.
He'd kissed Erik before, but never like this. They were both raw and defenceless, no walls between them.
I know you, Charles thought, with that same shock of recognition he'd felt that very first time. And then, I love you.
He couldn't help it. He couldn't hide it. There was no way he could stop Erik from seeing. I love you, echoed back at him, and he felt a flash of panic, that perhaps he was alone again in the white space, but only for a moment.
I love you.
It wasn't his own thought.
It wasn't an echo.