Fic: Let Freedom Ring 2/19

[apolesen]

Title Let Freedom Ring 2/19
Fandom X-Men: First Class
Pairings Erik/Charles, past Erik/Raven, mention of Hank/Raven, sort of brief Raven/Angel, references to future Scott/Jean
Beta cicero_drayon
Word count of chapters 6987
Word count of entire fic approx. 115 000
Ratings/warnings NC-17. Sexual situations, past physical and mental trauma, discussion of genocide, period transphobia, homophobia, ableism and racism, brief mentions of rape and suicide
Spoilers X-Men: First Class, X2 and (to a lesser extent) X-Men: The Last Stand. Some comic canon thrown in for good measure.
Disclaimer Marvel owns it, I don’t.
Summary Two arrivals to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters coincide - Jason Stryker, a child branded a freak because of his psychic powers, and Erik Lehnsherr, wanted terrorist and old friend of the professor. Jason is there as his father wants him cured - Erik claims that he has gone rogue from his own renegades. As tensions rise between mutants and humans, as well as between the suddenly reunited friends, who can truly be trusted?


Since this started, reality had stopped existing. She had started to realise that it was only made up by what people saw and heard and touched, or thought they did, not what was actually around them, and something had given her the power to change that. It had made the world a fragile place.

Her surroundings had grown a little more believable the last few days. There were still too many impressions, of sounds and smells and people’s fears, but the man who could not walk helped. She liked the mansion, and his study especially. The beauty of the house seemed contagious - people looked like they wanted to be alive here. She felt it too; she could not remember having felt so pretty, even if she hated her hair. The white-haired girl had leant her a flower made of fabric, mounted on a hair-clasp, which she wore. Her hair would grow, she knew, but she still looked like a boy playing dress-up. She avoided mirrors.

The morning-sun shone brilliantly through the French windows, casting the man who could not walk in shadows. She could still feel his gaze on her as he leaned forward a little and looked at her, where she sat opposite him.

‘So, how are you settling in?’ She shifted where she sat on the couch, feeling smaller than usual under his gaze. She could feel a tingle at the edge of her mind. Remembering his question, she nodded, then went back to thinking about that tingle. She knew what it meant by now - he was in her mind. Perhaps he was already reading it, without telling her. ‘Have you made any friends yet?’ If he were reading his mind, then there was no reason for him to speak to her... ‘Jason? I asked you a question.’

There had been a question - friends. She shook her head. The white-haired girl was not really a friend, even if she had leant her the flower. She did not like the blind boy who could see - he had told her her hair looked silly. The boy with the red eyes had said she was pretty, though. But no friends yet.

Suddenly the tingle in her head grew to a touch, and looking around, she was that the man who could not walk had put his fingers to his temple, like she had seen him do before. She did not know how to evict him, but instead, she made him see a set of bars between them. The tingle stopped and his hand fell.

‘I’m sorry. That was most impolite.’ She nodded and stared at him. The sun must be behind a cloud, because she could see him now, his eyes looking back at hers. Finally he sighed and pushed his hair out of the way. ‘Jason, I want to help you, but I can’t, if you don’t let me. Now, I should have asked your permission to read your thoughts first, but reading them makes me job easier, and if you don’t speak to me, you leave me little choice.’

‘Perhaps I don’t want it to be easy,’ she answered, surprised at her own audacity.

‘Don’t you want me to help you?’ he asked. ‘To control your powers, to teach you to filter your perceptions? It must be frustrating, not being certain what is real and what is not.’ She settled on glaring at him. ‘Has it always been like that?’ Silence, and then his presence in his mind. ‘It started when your powers manifested, didn’t it?’ She did not say anything, and instead of pressing on, he asked: ‘Do you mind that I call you Jason, or is there another name you prefer?’

Now, she forced herself to speak.

‘Why?’

‘Well, you think of yourself as “she”,’ he observed.

‘I don’t want you in my head,’ she said sharply.

‘Is there another name you’d prefer?’ he simply repeated. She pressed her lips together. There was a name, but she did not want to tell him. She had been good with names before she could make illusions, before she started sensing things. Now, people were just bundles of things they were - names did not mean anything. It was obvious that he did not understand, because now he said: ‘And when we’re on the subject of names, my name is Professor Xavier, not “the man who can’t walk”.’

‘It’s not your name,’ she said. ‘It’s what you are.’

‘An individual’s name always says much more about them than a brief description of them,’ he pressed on. ‘Do you know where yours comes from? It’s Greek - the name of the hero who lead the Argonauts in the quest of the Golden Fleece. It’s related to the verb iaomai - it means “I heal”. Isn’t that a name to live up to?’ She looked at him. Names were silly things, and they only trapped you. Besides, even if her first names meant that, her surname meant someone who harmed, so they did not say anything about her. ‘You can’t read minds, can you? Only manipulate them?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘I know what scares people,’ she said.

‘Why would you scare them?’ he asked. ‘You can use your powers to other things - good things. It doesn’t have to harm people.’ But when people deserve it... ‘No-one deserves to be hurt,’ he said sternly. It was not true, she knew, and just as she imagined the one who deserved it most of all, he read her mind. ‘Do you think your father deserves it? Because he hurt you?’ She flinched, as if he had struck her, like her father had, and forced the image of the no-man’s-land into his mind. ‘Jason, don’t.’ Something in his sharp tone disturbed her concentration, and the illusion dissolved. They looked at each other again, but finally his solemn mask slipped and he smiled.

‘Well, I’m glad we had this chat,’ he said. ‘We’ll continue with building shields as we planned earlier. Until I see you again, Jason - and indeed after that - keep this in mind. Try not to use your powers to get your view through. Every time you feel like making an illusion to tell someone something, count to ten and try to say it out loud.’ He smiled kindly, and she felt the impulse to smile back. ‘Just as you don’t like it when I read your mind, people tend not to like it when you change how they see the world around them.’ The urge to smile disappeared. ‘Go have breakfast - I won’t keep you longer.’ She got to her feet, and as he said goodbye, she tried to count to ten, but instead remained silent and left.

***

The headache which those who were not familiar with Charles’ mannerisms assumed he suffered from was rapidly becoming reality. The previous day had felt like an odd dream, even after the excitement of Erik’s arrival had settled. Erik and he had dinner alone together. There had been so much to say that Charles had not borne the thought of breaching any of the topics closer to heart, so they had spoken only of events of the past years far enough removed from themselves to be comfortable. They discussed the Kennedy assassination, British colonies breaking free, the Civil Rights Act which would end racial segregation, and the recent Philadelphia race riot, which bore the dark promise of a long road to walk. Even as they talked about these things which Charles burned for, his interest in the topics they discussed were eclipsed by feeling Erik’s eyes on his face and once brushing against his hand when they reached for the salt at the same time. One part of him claimed that this must be a dream, while another hoped it was, and yet another reeled at the fact that it was not. Regardless of all those dreams, this time it was true. It was Erik who shared the meal with him, who took his queen with a flourish before losing his own king to a pawn, who awkwardly clasped his hand by way of saying good-night.

The new day had woken him to the reality of the situation. First of all, his chat with Jason had not gone well, and had made him realise anew how much work his new student would be. Worse, he realised that the rest of the team had not been informed that they had a new colleague, so when Erik entered the dining room for breakfast, Hank, Alex and Sean all jumped to their feet at the sight of him.

‘Why are you still here?’ asked Alex, staring at him in disbelief.

‘I’m still here because Charles asked me to be,’ Erik answered coolly and crossed to the table, which was only laid for four.

‘Sean, would you please get another plate and cup and a set of cutlery from the kitchen?’ Charles asked kindly. Sean grunted and left. As he passed into the corridor with heavy footsteps, Charles shouted after him: ‘Without breaking anything!’ Sean did not, but when he returned he well night threw the china down on the table. Then he returned to his scrutiny of Erik, along with the other two younger mutants. His gaze was angry, Alex’s disgusted, Hank’s apprehensive. It seemed like the latter was all down to Hank’s good manners, because when he spoke, a hint of his beastlike temper could be heard.

‘You didn’t answer Alex’s question. What are you doing here?’

‘As I said, Charles...’

‘Professor Xavier,’ Hank said through gritted teeth.

‘Goodness, Hank, calm down,’ Charles said, looking from one to the other. ‘I haven’t asked any of you not to call me by my first name. Erik is my friend, as are all of you. You are all free to call me Charles, if you like. As for your question, Erik is here because he has chosen to be. He’s accepted to take the language classes.’ The others stared at him, then at Erik, and then back.

‘You can’t be serious,’ Sean said finally.

‘He’s going, now,’ Alex said lividly. ‘He’s spying.’

‘Boys, please. You keep complaining about how overworked you are. Well, I’ve found us another teacher. Erik is not a spy - The Brotherhood has been disbanded. He is no longer affiliated with it. He’s here because he wants to help in our shared cause.‘

‘Did he tell you that?’ Hank asked, his usual growl turning high-pitched with agitation. ‘It’s probably a lie!’

‘Hank, I’m a telepath.’ Charles tapped his forehead in illustration. ‘People don’t lie to me without my knowing it.’

‘I have nothing further to do with the Brotherhood,’ Erik said, who had been standing and listening passively. Now he looked at each of them in turn, as if to prove it. ‘That is true.’

‘It’s too easy,’ Alex muttered. ‘Someone like you don’t just drop something like that.’

‘I think you’re all being very harsh,’ Charles said. Being the only one sitting down was making him a little nervous; there was no way for him to answer the aggression in the room. ‘You should welcome him back.’

‘He’s not the prodigal son,’ Hank said sharply. ‘We can’t simply forgive him.’

‘If you’re referring to what I think you are referring to, surely that should be up to me?’ Charles asked. A guilty silence fell as the boys looked away. Ignoring them, Charles turned to Erik and said, still to the others: ‘I am very pleased that he is back.’ A small, assured smile answered his.

‘No, wait,’ Hank said and took a few steps towards Charles. ‘Professor, isn’t this something we should... well, discuss?’

‘He’s not fit as a teacher,’ Alex snapped.

‘You’re not exactly a star candidate, Alex - you have a criminal record the length of my arm,’ Charles answered, and then reflected that to be fair, Erik did as well. ‘To answer your question, Hank, no, we’re not discussing this. I think you’re all being most unfair. I think he’ll be...’ He paused for a moment. ‘He’ll be wonderful. Now won’t you all sit down? It’d be a nice change to have breakfast in an atmosphere which resembles the Yalta Conference a little less, thank you. You too, Erik - sit down. Have some of the tea, if you like.’

‘How British,’ Erik commented and sat down opposite Charles. ‘Anything can be solved with tea.’

‘Why, naturally,’ Charles smiled, and continued with his breakfast, despite the now fully formed throb in his head.

***

The headache continued through the physics class until lunch, when Charles finally gave up and fell back on aspirin. By early afternoon, the pain was little but a mild inconvenience, which left him with no excuse not to tackle the task of remaking the schedule for the third time since the start of term. He was trying to avoid a clash between Hank’s maths class and his own biology class when there was a knock on the door.

‘Yes?’ he called, feeling Erik’s presence. Still the impact of seeing him was much greater. He was dressed similarly to yesterday, although his tie was red instead of purple. There was something a little lopsided about his appearance, which Charles first attributed to the way his lip was swollen on one side, but then he realised that it was because he had one shirt-sleeve folded up and the other down, securely fastened with a silver cufflink. His right arm was exposed, leaving the mark on his left hidden, so that the revealed skin did not speak of past pain, but of simply its own being. The tan on that arm and the hairs on it caught Charles’ attention, only released to look at his face.

‘Hello, Erik,’ Charles said finally, albeit too softly and too quietly not to sound awed. ‘You look very content. The others not giving you a too hard time?’

‘I think they’ve been keeping out of my way,’ Erik answered and approached him. ‘I don’t mind it.’ Then he looked at the chaotic desk between them and asked: ‘Would you rather I came back later?’

‘No, please,’ Charles said quickly. ‘I’m glad to be distracted. Do sit down.’ He did, as Charles explained: ‘I’m trying to redo the schedule. It shouldn’t be this hard, but there always ends up with a clash - for the students, for us...’

‘How have you been able to make a full schedule with four of you?’ Erik asked.

‘With difficulty,’ Charles admitted. ‘Only Hank and I really teach, too. We’ve split the subjects between us. Sean is in charge for study-hours in the afternoons, and Alex is in charge of sport, with Sean’s help, and combat training, for those who want or need it. As you see, we could use another hand.’ Erik nodded. ‘I was thinking that we might start off with French and German,’ Charles continued. ‘Every student would have to take one of them. Of course, if they are ambitious enough to take both, that’s only positive.’ Sick of the fruitless work with the schedule, he pushed it aside and clasped his hands together on the desk instead. ‘Is there anything you need for your lessons?’

‘I had a look at your library this morning,’ Erik said. ‘All I could find was this.’ He held up the book he had been carrying. It was a French grammar, badly battered and losing its spine.

‘Is that really all?’ Charles asked, a little ashamed that the usually well-stocked library was proving a disappointment. ‘Well, we’ll need to do something about that. There’s a good bookshop in Salem Centre - we’ve managed to strike a deal with them. I’ll give them a call, and you can drive in and collect what you need.’

‘Good,’ Erik said and crossed his legs, as if more comfortable now when planning was out of the way. ‘This place, Charles... I’m impressed.’ Charles pretended to study a piece of scrap paper.

‘We’ve been busy,’ he finally settled on saying.

‘When did you open the school?’

‘We took in the first student in early ’63,’ he answered

‘It’s not been two years - and already sixteen students...’

‘Seventeen, actually,’ Charles said, stiffening at the implication of what he had said. ‘Considering that your information is just a few days old, I guess that you didn’t get it from the others.’

‘The Brotherhood has many flaws, but it’s good for gathering intelligence,’ Erik answered levelly, but there was something guarded about his smile. Charles looked at him, struck by his use of the present tense. Briefly, he considered reading his mind to find out whether it was simply a case of his not having processed the change or whether it was something more telling, but for all the leeway he gave himself with his ethics, he did not want to violate Erik’s trust. It meant too much.

‘How could you know?’ he asked instead.

‘Word gets around,’ Erik explained. ‘There’s an underground Mutant community in New York, the Morlocks, which is perfect to pick up rumours from.’ Noticing Charles’ reservation, he added: ‘We only knew the number of students, nothing more. It was never part of any plan.’

‘Then what was it?’ Charles asked, leaning back.

‘News from home,’ he answered candidly. Charles felt oddly touched by hearing him admit it.

‘How is Raven?’ He had thought about it previously, but he had been too overcome to ask. Neither Erik seemed particularly comfortable with the subject, because he shifted in his chair and stared at the carpet.

‘She’s known only as Mystique now,’ he said finally.

‘She’s my sister,’ Charles reminded him.

‘At least she was, once,’ Erik said, almost as if he were correcting him.

‘Is she well?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, eyes still on the floor. ‘Very well. Better than before...’ He trailed off, and Charles had to prompt him to continue. ‘...than before we left.’ Charles looked away, trying to recall more than disjointed moments of what had happened after he had been hit by the stray bullet. He knew that Raven had said goodbye to him, but he could not quite remember it. According to what the others had told him, however, she had been unharmed when she left.

‘Why are you talking about her as if there was something wrong with her before?’ he asked.

‘She was unhappy,’ Erik simply said.

‘And walking around without her clothes on makes her happier?’ Charles supplied sharply. He had heard the reports, and he had not been able to work through the outrage yet.

‘That is who she is,’ he answered with a shrug, and got up. As he crossed to the nearest bookshelf, Charles felt a year-old worry return. He remembered how, when they had just met him, Raven had looked at Erik and how she had thought about him. They had left together - had what she had hoped for become reality? Once again he stopped himself from plucking the answer directly out of Erik’s head; it was a harder impulse to fight than when the topic was possibly spying on the school. He considered asking instead, but he feared he would not like the answer. Annoyed at his bout of jealousy toward his lost sister, he simply stayed silent, watching how Erik drew a finger over the book spines as he studied their titles. After a long while, he stopped and pulled out a book.

‘Perhaps not the best book for beginners’ German,’ Charles commented.

‘Not quite,’ Erik answered as he leaved through Die Traumdeutung. ‘I always thought it all seemed very contrived.’

‘It’s good stuff,’ Charles answered. ‘Very much so. It seems to me that psychoanalysis is the theory which gets closest to capture the essence of a mind.’ Erik looked up, raising an eyebrow.

‘Sex?’

‘Instinctive urges,’ he said, feeling oddly embarrassed by Erik’s blunt mention. ‘Be it sex or destructiveness - primal religion, or dreams of the communal subconscious. It exposes the forces which pull us between extremes - love, hate, fear, desire...’ Erik nodded, glancing up at him. ‘You know, I took up German because I wanted to read Freud in the original. It was an awful idea. I never got particularly good at it.’ Now the other man laughed.

‘Is being a telepath an advantage in practicing?’ he asked.

‘Before, when I studied, it was a huge drawback,’ Charles admitted, sighing at the memories of his own enthusiastic studies which had come close to going wrong. ‘I’d pick things out of my patients’ minds which they hadn’t told me, things they weren’t ready to tell me... I felt that it was a dangerous situation - what if I’d got the information mixed up, or couldn’t remember which dream they had told me about and which one they hadn’t mentioned? How would they react? I was afraid that they might think that I had betrayed their trust, and that it would make their condition worse. It was one of the reasons why I decided to change directions to genetics after finishing my medical degree.’ While he listened, Erik put the book back and returned to his chair by the desk.

‘But now?’ he asked.

‘Well, now -’ Charles threw his hands out ‘-everyone knows I’m a telepath.’

‘Does that mean you don’t get many patients?’ Erik asked, his smile bordering on the compassionate. But Charles shook his head, suddenly feeling rather proud of his achievement.

‘Not at all,’ he answered. ‘I’ve realised that it can be just as beneficial to have sessions which are completely telepathic.’

‘So you’ve taking the talking out of the talking cure,’ Erik surmised.

‘Well, not entirely,’ Charles said with a smile, ‘it’s all up to the patient, of course. But I find that the telepathy is particularly effective.’

‘Who do you analyse, then?’

‘Mostly students.’ Erik frowned.

‘Students?’ he repeated. ‘I would have expected that you didn’t take in just anyone.’

‘It’s not a place for training soldiers, Erik,’ Charles answered lightly. ‘My wish is that when these gifted young people leave the school, they can be a part of society if they so wish. Teaching them to control and use their mutant powers is just a part of that. Making them feel comfortable in their own skin is another part of it.’

You never let Mystique be comfortable in her skin.

The thought seemed to leap at Charles, strong enough to break through his shields. Pretending he had not heard it, he continued:

‘It’s not a sign of weakness, you know. By the yardstick of psychoanalysis, we’re all ill, and the cause of that is life. To be quite honest, I’d be worried for anyone who didn’t have any neuroses. It’s a way to keep us sane.’

‘Then the mind is a paradox,’ Erik observed and clasped his hands together. Something in the insight of this contradiction seemed to delight him in some dark way. ‘We drive ourselves mad in order to save ourselves from madness.’ Put that way, it sounded suddenly morbid. Charles tried to find somewhere to look, uncomfortable under his gaze. ‘But then,’ Erik continued, ‘you remove that second madness, thus canceling out the first.’

‘Essentially, yes,’ Charles admitted. He felt Erik’s gaze on him, and was surprised to realise that there was nothing mocking in his eyes.

‘Do you think it works?’ he asked, his tone frank. Charles hesitated, feeling how he reevaluated the discipline he had always had such faith in, and then said:

‘Yes. I think it does.’ Erik seemed to consider something, a thought floating on the outskirts of his mind, or perhaps, Charles thought, his stomach giving a surprised jolt, a request, but he did not say anything after all, instead unclasping his hands and shifting.

‘I should start planning my lessons,’ he said and rose.

‘Yes, of course,’ Charles said quickly, feeling that perhaps he had been keeping him from his work. ‘I’ll tell you when the schedule’s done. Let me know, well, how it goes.’ Erik nodded and took the grammar book under his arm again. When he left, he looked over his shoulder at Charles. There was a moment of seriousness in his eyes, then a brief smile before he left. Charles covered his mouth with his fingers and kept it there long after the door had closed, trying to hide the silly smile on his lips.

***

It took several days after the new schedule was finished until Charles was completely convinced that the timetable worked. When they had managed a week on it with only minor changes, they finalised it. He found an odd pleasure in watching the students’ awe at their new teacher, whom he had always found so handsome. His appearance became even more striking when he dressed in a tailored suit and combed his hair back. The younger students seemed intimidated, while the older stared at him in terrified admiration, and at least some of them had noticed his good looks. He noticed once when he and Erik had walked down the corridor, Susanna had tugged Becky’s sleeve and then suffered a particularly girlish giggling-fit. Charles did not find it particularly funny - in fact, it annoyed him that Erik had become the heartthrob of the school. After spending some time thinking through his own reactions, he settled on that it was a combination of jealousy (it implied that he himself was no longer attractive - the girls certainly never giggled when he passed) and possessiveness (he still wished the rapport Erik and he shared would become something beyond what it now was). But just as he, despite his annoyance, understood the girls who eyed him, he also understood the children who cowered at the sight of him, because the new task of teaching had not made Erik any less terrifying. Charles was fairly certain that he was completely reasonable in the classroom, but something in his countenance made his students work as if the Devil were after them. At break-time, the children would cluster together on the lawn, and a frenzied chant of der, den, dem, des, die, die, dem, der, das, das, dem, des could be heard, only interrupted by a rambling of French irregular verbs.

Charles was watching the groups of article-repeating students from the window in his study when there was a knock on the door and he felt Erik enter.

‘Not hard at work, Charles?’ he said as he crossed the spacious room to his side.

‘I’ve just spent an hour trying to teach Jason to build mental shields,’ Charles answered and rubbed his eyes. ‘Absolutely exhausting.’

‘He’s very studious,’ Erik observed. Charles sighed.

‘Yes, but he’s stubborn. And he’s not particularly happy with talking to me, which doesn’t help. Mind your foot, Erik.’ Erik drew it back, saving it from being squashed under the wheel of the chair when Charles backed away from the window and turned.

‘Perhaps he’s not comfortable with it,’ Erik observed as Charles started stuffing his pipe. The routine always calmed him; it brought back the tranquility of doing it for his father. ‘If you treat him like he’s a problem which needs to be righted...’

‘That’s not how I treat him, Erik,’ Charles said sharply and immediately regretted it. ‘I just want him to function around other people, which frankly he doesn’t now. Has he ever answered a question in your class?’

‘No,’ Erik answered after a moment’s thought.

‘That’s because he barely talks,’ he explained, lit the pipe and sucked at it before continuing. ‘Instead, he makes illusions, but that brings it down to an emotional plain, which makes communication incredibly difficult. I think that the emergence of his powers has disturbed his perception, so he can’t sort out what to concentrate on, and making illusions therefore becomes easier.’ Erik seemed to consider this, but it was obvious that he was not convinced. ‘What would you have me do? He’s twelve years old, and he’s obviously regressed - besides, it disturbs people to have their perception changed like that...’

‘How do you know that he is not interpreting it as if you are inhibiting his powers? Telling him that they are wrong?’ Erik asked, an edge to his voice. ‘A twelve-year old will believe what you do, not what you say, and even if you say that you are there to help him, if you treat him as a problem...’ Charles shook his head, raising a hand to silence him.

‘I’m not going to argue with you,’ he explained. ‘I’m not in the mood to discuss it.’ Erik sighed.

‘Very well.’ He took two steps toward him and then stopped. ‘Just don’t clip his wings.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Charles said, and it sounded like a promise. They looked at each other now, and despite Erik’s folded arms, it was obvious that the argument was over.

‘He’s powerful, though,’ Erik observed. ‘That much is obvious.’ Refraining to say that was what he was worried for, Charles simply nodded. ‘What would you use him for?’

‘Me? Use him for?’ Charles repeated and puffed his pipe. ‘Well, if you’re thinking of combat situations, of course he’d be useful, but... I think he’d do more good with trying to make positive illusions.’

‘How?’ Erik asked. ‘You just said that people didn’t like to have their perception changed.’

‘But some people might need it,’ Charles supplied. ‘And of course it wouldn’t be without their consent. It could for example be used in medical care - to take away pain, help patients through situations they find disturbing...’

‘You want to make everyone into a do-gooder,’ Erik observed.

‘Oh, don’t mock me,’ Charles said, but nevertheless noticed him smiling. Suddenly, Erik seemed to drop the subject and instead say:

‘How about a walk?’ When Charles looked at him oddly, he shrugged and explained: ‘The weather’s nice, and you could do with some air.’ The overworked headmaster gave in and put his pipe aside.

‘Yes, you’re right. Good idea.’

As soon as Erik had fetched his own coat and hat, and Charles’ coat and blanket, they left the mansion. After not long, Erik fell back behind him and, gesturing to him to let go of the wheels, pushed him instead. Charles, who was usually so reluctant to relinquish control over his chair, nevertheless let him, content with being in his care. He reflected that if he wanted to, Erik could continue walking by his side and control the metal in the chair, but he was glad that he had taken the pains of holding the handles. Despite his willingness to let him push the chair, having his hands empty felt odd. For want of anything better to do with them, he put them in his lap, balling them up around the blanket, which served no purpose, it seemed, than to hide his unmoving legs from the sight of others.

They walked in silence a good while, watching the birds cleaving the sky and filling the air with their song. They had walked for the best part of half an hour when they reached an old wooden building, where they stopped, and Erik sat down on the steps. Charles moved so that they were side by side.

‘This used to be the stables,’ he said after a while. ‘And this field here-’ he pointed out in front of them ‘-was the paddock.’

‘You had horses?’

‘Yes,’ Charles said, smiling at the memory. ‘I loved them as a child. I miss riding.’ He had not planned to reveal that last fact, but it had slipped out, and somehow he did not mind it. Usually, he made a rule of not speaking of the things he missed, sometimes not even to himself - strolling, running, dancing, swimming, riding, fucking. Articulating any of it had not happened before. He had assumed that he had the upper hand, being the telepath, but it seemed like the ease with which he confided in Erik had not changed during their separation. Pushing these considerations to one side, he asked: ‘Do you ride?’ Erik shook his head.

‘No. I’m too much of a city boy.’ Charles smiled.

‘Yes. When I moved from this place, I never really had time for it.’ He thought about the beautiful chestnut mare he had used to ride, and felt quite melancholic all of a sudden. ‘We had to sell the horses when my mother died,’ he explained. ‘We basically boarded up the house, and it seemed silly to keep the staff when the place stood empty, so...’ Erik nodded, staring out on the empty field, lost in thought.

‘Were you there?’ he asked finally.

‘When we sold the horses?’ Charles asked, confused.

‘When your mother died,’ Erik clarified.

‘Oh.’ He realised that he should have known that that was what he had meant. Feeling self-conscious about having misunderstood him, he answered: ‘No, I was in England. She’d been ill for a long time, but, well, I kept putting off going home to see her. She didn’t really let anyone know how ill she was.’ Suddenly not daring to look at Erik, he sensed his surface thoughts instead. How wasteful - even love is not worth his full attention. ‘My mother was a complicated woman,’ Charles added. He swallowed and admitted: ‘She didn’t really love me. Not really.’ Erik looked at him. A beat, then:

‘It must have been... difficult.’ His struggle with trying to conceive of such a thing was visible in his eyes. Charles remembered the memory he had seen years ago, and for a brief moment he felt the reckless love Erik still felt for his mother.

‘Knowing it was worst,’ he said with a joyless smile. ‘Being a telepath isn’t always that convenient.’ Then he shrugged and looked at him. ‘But it meant that we weren’t particularly close. Raven and I had each other instead.’

‘Still,’ Erik said, and Charles felt an wave of feeling from him. It took him a moment to realise that it was pity. It seemed to him that the last person to pity anyone should be Erik. Then again, perhaps that was a patronising thing to think. Just because he had been through unspeakable things did not mean that there were parts of his life which he treasured. His mother’s love for him was one such thing. Charles thought it was a petty thing in comparison, but to Erik, it was not. However small that moment of his mother’s smile had been, it was more important to him than any equally short moment in Charles’ life.

Feeling a sudden need to know that Erik was not angry with him, he turned to him and looked him in the eye. Erik returned the glance steadily, and after a moment’s hesitation, put his hand on his arm. Charles looked away momentarily, embarrassed but flattered. When he looked at him again, he was struck by how little he still understood of this man.

‘Why did you come back, Erik?’ he asked, leaning back in his chair but without shaking off his hand. It was a genuine question, not a reproach. ‘For this?’ he gestured out over the field. ‘Walks and empty horse paddocks?’ It seemed unreal that someone would choose this, a dull and toilsome life, over the free existence of the Brotherhood. ‘Two years ago, you were slitting the throats of war-criminals for a living. Only a few weeks back, you were planning sabotage for mutants’ rights. Quite unlike being a teacher.’

‘Yes,’ Erik admitted, looking out over the field. Then he turned and looked him in the eye again. ‘But I was not alive.’ Charles swallowed, self-conscious under his gaze. ‘You gave me purpose, Charles,’ he said, emotion in his voice. ‘That is why I came back.’ Charles smiled and looked away, realising that he was blushing.

‘Your accent’s got stronger since you came back,’ he observed instead. Erik shrugged.

‘This place... it stirs things.’

‘Perhaps there’s more to Erik Lehnsherr than Erik Lehnsherr,’ Charles suggested. ‘And I don’t mean the part that is Magneto.’ Erik looked at him and said:

‘Perhaps. Somewhere. But I don’t remember much.’

‘Don’t you want that part of you back?’ Charles asked.

‘What part?’

‘Your childhood,’ Erik pulled back his hand suddenly and crossed his arms, as if against the cold. The place where it had rested on Charles’ arm felt oddly vulnerable.

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted finally. ‘Perhaps it is someone else’s life.’ Charles waited, and when he said nothing else, he asked:

‘Can I ask something?’ Erik looked at him briefly before turning away again, but nodded. ‘What is the first thing you do remember properly?’

‘I have earlier memories, but they don’t feel particularly reliable. The first thing that feels real...’ He fixed his eyes on a point close to his foot and spoke. ‘I found a hole in the ghetto wall. It was soon after we had been moved from Düsseldorf to Minsk. I had stolen a pen-knife from my father. It was the first thing I ever stole - I remember feeling sick with guilt about it. But I needed it.’

‘What did you do?’ Charles asked, hushed.

‘I crawled out through the hole. There was an officer...’ He closed his eyes hard, as if trying to make sense of the jumbled memories. ‘I wanted to kill him,’ he explained. His voice had suddenly gone thin. ‘I had the knife in my hand and thought that I could do it...’ He broke off and opened his eyes again, the remembered tenseness gone. ‘My uncle stopped me,’ he said, calmer now. ‘It turned out that he’d known about the hole - he’d been sneaking out of the ghetto and smuggling food back in for weeks.’ He shrugged. ‘He was very angry with me for almost having gotten myself killed, but after that, he brought me with him. I could climb in through the small kitchen windows. Everyone else was starving too, but in the ghetto... There was no food at all.’

Charles looked at his friend, in whose eyes the memory of that desperate hunger flickered and then receded. Both ashamed and grateful that he had never gone hungry or felt such despair, he tore his gaze away from him.

‘How old were you?’ he asked when the silence became too oppressive.

‘Eleven.’ He tried to imagine how it must impact a person to want to kill someone at such a young age, or to have to steal from others for one’s own survival.

‘I shouldn’t have brought it up,’ Charles concluded. ‘I’m sorry.’ In the corner of his eye, he noticed Erik looking at him.

‘No,’ he said, still somber but calmer too. ‘Don’t be.’ He forced out a breath which came out half as a laugh. ‘I’ve never had anyone to tell before.’ Charles looked at him now, taking in the mixture of sadness and relief. ‘I’m glad for it,’ he added.

‘Then... I am too,’ Charles added. ‘I’m happy to listen. Always.’ Erik straightened up from his hunched position, and his smile gained a teasing edge.

‘Trying to analyse me, professor?’ But before Charles had time to answer, that smile disappeared, and Erik said, humour gone: ‘Perhaps it’d be a good idea.’ Charles stared at him, fighting down his exhilaration at the veiled request. Then his professionalism kicked in, and he shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, Erik, I can’t,’ he said earnestly. ‘It’d be... inappropriate.’

‘Inappropriate?’ Erik repeated, frowning. Charles sighed and shook the hair out of his forehead, trying to hide his regret.

‘An analyst needs to be impartial,’ he explained. ‘I... I don’t think I am that with you.’ Erik seemed about to argue, but he continued: ‘You’re my best friend, Erik. Even after these years. I couldn’t take on such a thing - it’d clash. I might end up doing more harm than good.’ He refrained from spelling out other reasons why he would be ill-suited as his therapist, deciding to ignore that unspoken undercurrent in their relationship, which had always been there.

‘You’re the only person I have ever talked to about any of this,’ Erik said, looking perplexed, as if he thought what Charles was saying was absolutely absurd. ‘You have been inside my mind - what could possibly...?’ Charles shook his head.

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘But I need to have standards. If not - if I let my professional and personal lives converge more than they already do... No. I need to keep things separate. For both our sakes. If you’d like me to, I’d be happy to refer you...’

‘You just said you were willing to listen,’ Erik reminded him. He did not sound angry, but very disappointed.

‘Of course I’d be, but... It’s not the same thing.’ Then again, the line was thin. Picking apart what people told him of themselves had become second nature to him, even when the stories were told informally. Had he not immediately began to reevaluate what he already knew of Erik in the light of the memory he had recounted? ‘Let’s not make it anything too formal, shall we?’ he said finally and forced a smile. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help...’ He fell quiet, suddenly struck by an idea. ‘Would you let me do something?’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ Erik said, put on guard.

‘I couldn’t tell you,’ Charles admitted. ‘But it’d involve my entering your mind briefly.’

‘Now?’

‘No, later,’ he said. ‘It won’t work if I tell you when, or what. But I think it’d be useful.’ Erik considered it, and then nodded.

‘I trust you.’ Charles smiled and felt the sudden impulse to reach out and take his hand. Instead, he clasped his hands tightly in his lap.

‘Thank you,’ he said, meaning it. Erik nodded appreciatively and stood.

‘Let’s get back.’ They went back towards the mansion in companionable silence. The only contact between them was when Erik’s fingers on the wheelchair handles brushed against Charles’ shoulder.

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