Fic: Let Freedom Ring 4/19
Title Let Freedom Ring 4/19
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 chapter 5714
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?
If there was one thing Sean could not stand, it was early mornings. He had thought he would get used to it - up at seven, shower and dress, get breakfast for the kids ready, wake them up, have breakfast himself. It was still a routine he abhorred. The only days he felt properly awake before ten o’clock were the days when he had breakfast with the kids, partly because half of them were just as tired, and partly because the other half may get into their head to throw cereals or something, and Hank would shout at him if he let that happen. All other days, he had breakfast with the adults. It was a grueling experience, for the most part; Hank never had sense not to discuss philosophy or science or world news that early, and the professor, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as always, happily joined in. Alex was not particularly fond of mornings either and knew not to talk to Sean before around nine, and as for Erik, his behaviour at breakfast was among the few things about him which was tolerable. He was mostly content to sit opposite the professor and read some book as he poked his eggs and tomatoes, always letting Sean have his helping of bacon. Extra bacon was certainly not enough to make him stop disliking him intensely, simply as a matter of principle, but it was enough to placate him until he had any reason to be suspicious about his motives.
Today had seemed at first to be a relatively good morning. Alex was keeping the kids company, Hank was busy looking out of the window, lost in thought, and Erik was lost in his book. When the professor turned up, obviously mulling over some concern, which made his eyes light up as if with fever, Sean knew that there was a deep conversation approaching. As he poured his tea, Professor Xavier said:
‘Help me understand something. Why are people so fascinated by war?’
‘Like tin soldiers?’ Sean said, propping his head up with his hand. ‘It’s exciting, I guess. Tactics and stuff.’
‘I was rather thinking actual wars, not arbitrary representations of them on a table,’ the professor answered kindly.
‘A romanticised view on war is certainly not uncommon, historically speaking,’ Hank observed, growing animated. ‘In ancient times, it was a rite of passage. A man had not proved himself before he had been to war. War is said to bring out the best and the worst in people - bravery, strength, steadfastness, but also anger, destructiveness, cowardice...’
‘And we seldom speak of those worst traits,’ Charles finished, looking concerned. ‘A father who tells stories of war to his son will never speak of the horrors he had witnessed, only the comradeship and the excitement.’
‘Society does little to dissuade it,’ Hank replied. ‘There are still voices crying out for an attack of the Soviet Union, despite the fear of retaliation.’
‘People don’t think of nuclear war as war,’ Erik said, speaking up for the first time, but without looking up from his book. Sean felt like he had lost his only ally in his refusal to discuss serious matters during breakfast.
‘It’s so mechanised that it doesn’t count,’ Hank continued, ‘and that has removed the heroism of war...’
‘But it hasn’t been possible to be a hero since before the Great War,’ Charles interjected, something of that frenzied worry back in his eyes. ‘Then the world was presented with the reality of war. People realised that there was no heroism to be found in that.’ He paused, seeming to consider something. ‘But despite that, we still obsess about wars - past wars, ongoing wars, potential wars. There are pictures of children covered in napalm all over the front page of our papers, and we still do not condemn it, we still do not say it’s wrong...’ Sean stared at him, surprised at his sudden passion. Then he looked down at his plate of bacon. Appetite gone, he pushed it aside.
‘Mankind does not learn from her mistakes,’ Hank said diplomatically and passed the professor the plate with eggs, which was enough to make him drop the discussion.
***
When they broke up from breakfast, Erik lingered in the door, waiting for Charles.
‘Are you still coming to my German class?’ he asked, an expectant look in his eye.
‘Of course - if it’s alright with you,’ Charles answered. Well out in the corridor, Erik walked silently beside him, the book he had been reading securely clutched in his hand. Charles was just considering asking him to speak his mind, when he said:
‘People obsess about war because they feel they’ve missed out.’
‘Missed out?’ he repeated.
‘They wanted to have been there - to have fought for freedom or the country or whatever other bogus cause the politicians claimed the war was about,’ Erik answered, sounding suddenly disgusted. ‘They may have been too young, too old, or just unable to be there. They imagine that it was worth seeing. Even if they understand the true nature of war, they want to be able to be able to tell people about how it should have been.’ Charles considered this and asked:
‘Do you feel you missed out?’ Erik shook his head.
‘I got my fair share of action. You?’
‘Well...’ Charles thought it through, and realised that when he was younger, he had felt jealous at the older boys who had been drafted. He remembered how his stepbrother Cain had showed off his army uniform before he had gone overseas. The events on the Cuban beach had put the topic of war into a harsh context. ‘I did once,’ he admitted. ‘Now, I feel rather glad to be out of it all.’ Erik pressed his lips together, as if in a smile, but Charles sensed the spike of guilt within him. ‘Freedom isn’t a bogus cause, though, Erik,’ he observed.
‘It has been for a long time,’ Erik sighed and opening the classroom door for him. ‘Why this sudden contemplation on war?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ he told him sotto voce and entered the classroom. He nodded to the students who were already present and settled at the very back of the class, where he would not disturb the students. Still, Erik’s trepidation at his presence was noticeable. Even if he thought it would be unlike him to give into nerves, Charles reached out and touched his mind momentarily to calm him. Erik must have realised that the sudden peace was his doing, because he looked his way and smiled crookedly. Then, tearing his gaze off him, he cleared his throat, and the students, who had been chattering away happily a moment before, fell completely silent.
‘I hope you all remembered to bring your books,’ he said, sounding stern. ‘Turn to page 92.’ There was a rustle of paper as the class obeyed. As it died down, Erik started walking back and forth, each footstep measured, as he spoke. ‘I see no reason to start you off with anything less than the best piece of German poetry which has ever been penned,’ he explained. ‘The poem you see here, by Goethe, is often referred to as Wanderers Nachtlied, but its true title is Ein Gleiches.’ He looked over the class. Understanding the implicit question, a few uncertain hands were raised.
‘Yes - Ororo?’
‘Does it mean “A similar one”?’
‘Quite right,’ Erik said, nodding. ‘And the other title. Remy?’
‘Eum... “Wanderer’s...’
‘That’s the easy bit,’ the teacher said and looked at him piercingly. ‘Nacht?’
‘“Night”.. something.’
‘Lied,’ Erik said sharply. ‘It’s a difficult word. In fact, it was on your vocab list last week.’ When no-one answered, he slapped his hand in the book to indicate the piece they were about to read. ‘What is this, Remy?’
‘A poem.’
‘Or...?’
‘A, eum, song?’
‘Yes. A song - Lied means “song”.’ Leaning against the desk, he continued voice suddenly milder: ‘I will read it to you - make sure to follow in the text. After that you will have time to translate it, and then we will discuss it.’ He looked over the class, as if challenging anyone to interrupt his reading. Next moment, the sternness was completely gone, and he started reading in a calm, musical baritone.
‘Über allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruh,
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.’
The poem sounded like breathing; the longer verses a greedy inhalation, the shorter verses a calm exhalation. His reading of it was slow, and in Erik’s mind, Charles could feel the echo of those words. They meant something to him beyond the words itself. As he read the poem out loud, it was as if it were his own breath - it became a part of his essence. When he finished, the silence remained unbroken, until he closed the book and said, his voice still subdued:
‘Read through it again and make a translation, without talking amongst yourselves.’ The children obeyed slowly, but their reluctance did not seem to be because of having to do the work, but because they felt that there was something in the air which should not be disturbed by taking apart and translating that which what had sounded nigh magical. Charles watched their progress from the back of the classroom, and how Erik walked between the desks, inspecting their work and telling them words they did not know. Finally he returned to head of the classroom.
‘Let’s translate one line each, and the ones who don’t get a line to translate will start the discussion. Betty - you start.’
‘ “Over all the house tops...”’
‘... “There is peace”...’
‘ “Over all the tree tops...”’
‘ “...you notice...”’
‘“... barely a breeze.”
‘“The little birds are quiet in the forest.”’
‘“Just wait, soon”...’
‘“You too will rest.”’
Another silence fell, as the children felt the words of the poem settle. Then Ororo put her hand up.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s about dying,’ she said. Now Erik did smile.
‘Tell me why,’ he said and leaned against the desk.
Charles watched what followed with almost morbid fascination. Never had he seen children as young as these discuss death, or listen so readily to ideas of the awaited, welcome death, of how death was merely resting. Erik spoke of Sturm und Drang and Romanticism; one of the older students asked if the poet had been unhappy for real, or if it was just for show. They talked about how Hauch can mean “breeze”, but also “breath”, and the meaning of the titles. The discussion was still going on when the clock struck and Erik called off the lesson, obviously with some regret.
The oddly elated feeling the poetry had left Charles with still lingered after lunch, when, with a knock, Erik entered his study.
‘Is this a bad time?’ he asked, but Charles shook his head.
‘None better - do come in,’ he said. As Erik took his seat opposite him, he asked:
‘How did you enjoy the lesson?’
‘It was... different,’ Charles said slowly. Erik raised an eyebrow.
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘Good, I should think,’ he admitted. ‘You’re rather harsh on them sometimes, you know. They’ll do as you say without your being so...’
‘German?’ Erik suggested, and Charles laughed. ‘You’re right,’ he conceded. ‘And otherwise...?’ Charles joined his hands together and looked out of the window before meeting his eye again.
‘You’re very passionate about what you teach them,’ he observed. ‘That makes a true difference.’
‘And you and Hank aren’t passionate?’
‘Well...’ Charles tried to choose his words right. ‘It seems to me that your passion for the subject overrides everything else. You did give a poem about death to a group of children to analyse.’
‘Did you think that is inappropriate?’ Erik asked. Charles hesitated, not certain.
‘No, not really,’ he settled for. ‘I think that it’ll do them good to discuss difficult things too. As long as it’s done sensitively, and I think you did that very well.’ Erik smiled at him.
‘You don’t expect me to be sensitive?’
‘You’re full of surprises, my friend,’ he said, answering his smile. They looked at each other for a moment, until Erik looked away.
‘You were going to explain your questions at breakfast,’ he reminded him.
‘Yes,’ Charles said, sighing. He had almost managed to forget that, and did not feel keen to discuss it. ‘It’s Jason. I found him in the library last night, reading up on various wars. I understand part of his motivation, and I had hoped that some other part might throw better light on it.’
‘What part do you understand?’ Erik wondered.
‘He wants to find ways of scaring people with illusions,’ Charles explained, not trying to hide his worry. ‘So he reads about war. He claimed that he does it because he knows people are scared of war, but he claims he isn’t. And there’s something else too.’ Erik frowned. ‘I think I was wrong, when I said that he wasn’t a telepath. I think that he must have some degree of latent mind-reading skills.’
‘How come?’ Charles swallowed to compose himself. He had not thought about that he had to explain what he had seen until now.
‘He made me see a gas attack, from the Great War,’ he explained. ‘My father was blinded by mustard gas at Ypres. It feels like too much of a coincidence. Jason can’t have known that.’
‘He devised an illusion specifically to scare you, you mean?’ Erik asked.
‘Yes, that is precisely what he does,’ Charles said. ‘It may be that he’s not aware of doing it. Quite possibly, it rather manifests itself as a kind of empathy. Perhaps even specifically, so that he will know what will alarm someone particularly.’ Erik stroked his chin, thinking.
‘You’re saying he is dangerous?’
‘I hesitate to call a student dangerous,’ Charles answered. ‘But... he has no scruples about trying to scare me. He is... unreliable.’ He hesitated, realising suddenly that if Jason had the power to draw people’s fears out of their heads, Erik was in a very vulnerable position indeed. ‘Has he ever made you see anything?’
‘No - not that I’m aware of, at least, and by what you’ve said, it sounds like I would have,’ Erik said. ‘If he can do what you say he can, then he must be able to convince his victim that the illusion is true.’
‘In theory, yes,’ Charles said. ‘I think that with training he could do much more in terms of influencing people’s perceptions of themselves.’ He consciously did not mention that he had been able to walk in the illusion - he found that almost as unsettling as the gas attack, but in an altogether different way. ‘His powers aren’t particularly honed yet. He wouldn’t be able to keep an illusion together for longer than a few minutes, I think, so there’s no risk that he would “trap” anyone.’ Sighing, he admitted: ‘I’ve neglected him. I should have addressed many of these issues weeks ago. Perhaps I’ve been too lax.’
‘Are you planning to make him start dress as a boy, then?’ Erik asked, and Charles found his gaze oddly sharp. Suddenly realising it, he said:
‘All the others mentioned that as soon as they saw him, but not you. Doesn’t it bother you?’
‘Should it?’ Erik asked, the tone of his voice challenging him. Charles opened his mouth, trying to think of an answer.
‘It’s a medical condition,’ he finally said.
‘It doesn’t seem to hurt him,’ Erik answered.
‘It was certainly part of the reason to his father’s treatment of him.’
‘If we are to define anything which narrow-minded fools will persecute people for as “wrong”, we would end up with a very narrow definition of “right” - not to mention a very misleading one,’ Erik answered levelly. ‘It seems to me that the other children barely notice it, so it’s not hurting him here.’ Charles sighed, half in defeat and half in admiration. Perhaps all that training in psychology sometimes served to cloud his vision rather than open it up.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘What harm does it do? If he’s happy like that, then it’s just to our advantage.’ When he looked up, Erik smiled at him.
‘I’m glad we can agree on something,’ he said. Charles smiled back and, suddenly sick of the formality of the situation, rounded the desk.
‘How many times have we played chess since you came back, Erik? Surely not more than a handful?’
‘If that,’ Erik answered and rose. ‘Running this place must take time.’
‘Yes, too much time,’ Charles said. ‘We’re probably still understaffed... But Hank has stopped complaining about it since you got here. I don’t know what he imagines I’m going to do if he does - employ Emma Frost as a teacher or something.’ Erik barked a laugh. ‘It’s a horrific thought, isn’t it?’
‘Very - I wouldn’t want to know what she would teach the children.’ Then, changing the subject, he crossed to the piano at the far wall. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask. Has that piano just been left there, or do you play?’ As he spoke, he lifted the lid, almost reverently.
‘Well, I used to,’ Charles said and followed him. ‘Now... well, I don’t.’ Erik looked up from the keys, where his hand was resting.
‘Why?’
‘I can’t use the pedals,’ he explained, feeling resigned. ‘There’s no soul in the music without them. It just hasn’t felt worth keeping it up.’ A shadow passed over Erik’s face. Then his concentration returned to the piano, and he played a chord.
‘Not as out of tune as I’d expected,’ he said, listening to the lingering sound.
‘Well, I couldn’t let it fall into disrepair,’ Charles said, watching in delight how used Erik’s fingers seemed to the ivory. ‘You play?’
‘I’m probably a little rusty, but...’ He surveyed the keyboard once again, and then moved the piano stool to the side, sitting down on it. ‘Come on,’ he said.
‘What?’ Charles asked, confounded. Erik cocked his head.
‘Let’s play.’
‘But I said...’ He broke off as Erik put his feet on the pedals.
‘Technically, I could just control the metal in them, but when it comes to music, it feels like cheating,’ he said and smiled. Charles hesitated for another moment, then approached. The left edge of the stool grated against the hub of the right wheel, and in order to reach the pedals well, Erik sat so close that their arms almost touched. Experimentally, Charles played a few cords, trying to decide what to play.
‘How well do you know your Beethoven?’
‘Reasonably,’ Erik answered.
‘How about his Appassionata?’ he suggested, and Erik nodded his consent. Charles poised his fingers and breathed in, envisaging what he was about to play.
The first beats were hesitant, a frightened prey picking its way through the forest. The dark notes of the pursuer were only just present, but then, in a flurry of musical scampering feet, the prey took off down the piano keyboard, running straight into the net of the hunter. The scene repeated, high tones mirrored in the low, and then the landscape changed into the discordant minds of unhappy lovers. Closing his eyes, Charles let his fingers climb upwards to the very heights of strained nerves, down to the deep realms of despair. Up and down he moved, his body bending as he reached for the most extreme notes, and every time he leaned to the right, his shoulder brushed against Erik’s. The way he used the pedals was unlike how Charles would have - while he had been restrained with them, Erik combined and exchanged them, and the passion of the music deepened. Charles had the odd feeling of that they were not, as Erik had said when he first arrived, two whole men in each other’s presence, but one. Their cooperation verged on symbiosis - they were conjoined twins controlling different parts of a common body. At times, the piece ground almost to a complete stop before launching into another windswept frenzy, and during those stops, he became aware of how Erik had placed his hand on his armrest, as if to assert that connection between them. As though it were his own anxieties dictating the music rather than the notes he had memorised long ago, he threw himself into it one last time, playing with such force that his hair fell from behind his ear and he could feel the sinews of his hands strain. Then, as if the piece was thoroughly exhausted, it slowed down and disappeared. Charles let the keys rise under his fingers, and the notes only lingered as Erik kept them there. He waited for him to prompt him to play the second movement, but there was only silence, so intending to ask, he turned to him, and found him staring straight into Erik’s eyes.
The look in them made him fall silent, and suddenly he was the prey he had heard in the music, frozen and at another’s mercy. It felt as if something shifted - suddenly they slid into focus for each other. The wave of raw, abrupt perception bordered on the painful. Charles opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Erik acted first, leaning in. For the shortest of moments, they hovered in uncertainty, and then their lips met.
The first brush was soft and hesitant. Erik drew back and looked at him. Charles could not remember his eyes ever looking like that before, as if a door beyond them had opened. In them was written the question, are you going to push me away again, as you did last time, with your questions?
No, Charles thought, sending the answer into his mind. Not this time, my friend. Surrendering, he leaned in again. As they kissed, slowly but deeply, he tried to memorise this moment - how the hairs which had grown since Erik shaved that morning scratched his skin, how he tasted of tea and cigarettes, how his hand brushed his neck to keep him there, how Erik tried to fasten the moment in his memory too.
Erik’s hand came up to rest on his cheek, and their lips slipped apart. They drew back a little, breathing heavily, looking at each other in surprise. Charles felt the hand on his cheek stroke his skin, a thumb tracing his lips experimentally, and then fall to his arm. He first thought that after that, Erik had drawn it back, but when he looked down, he saw that he had placed it on his knee. Desperate to feel his touch, he placed his hand above it and looked at him again. Slowly, as if his courage to keep away had failed him, Erik moved closer again.
A sharp knock was heard, and the door opened. Their hands drew back as if they had been burned, and Erik leapt from the stool, hands clasped behind his back.
‘Lunch,’ Alex said, poking his head around the door.
‘Thank you, Alex,’ Erik said and left the study. Charles did not heed him, but tried playing the start of the second movement, its tones andante. The music sounded flat without Erik at his side, helping him.
‘Coming, professor?’ Alex asked. Letting his hands fall, Charles looked at him.
‘Yes, of course.’ He followed a little behind the others. At one point he was aware that Erik looked over his shoulder at him, but he dared not meet his eye.
***
Charles’ unrest remained through the day. At dinner, Erik was not present, but ate with the children, which made him pity him, considering that Sean and Alex referred to that task as “avert-the-food-fights-duty”. Through the meal, the worry Charles felt started to crystallise, and after dinner, he excused himself, leaving the ground floor quickly when he sensed Erik’s thoughts straying to him. He retreated to his room, locking the door behind him. The metal would not keep Erik out, he knew, but he would respect it nevertheless.
Charles had been unwilling to address the issue ever since he met Erik, yet the attraction between them was unmistakable. He guessed that non-telepaths were given the benefit of the doubt when it came to whether or not one’s feelings were requited. Knowing probably saved an awful lot of time and worry; if someone had no interest, lingering on that infatuation was useless. However, feeling an answering attraction and affection did not necessarily mean that one simply acted on it. Now, it made him feel out of control - had this attachment was only present from his side, he could have kept it under wraps, but now, there was the potential that Erik would act, as he indeed had. Charles’ fear was not the common person’s worry of rejection, but the dread of having his own complexes revealed.
Moving over to his armchair to contemplate his problems, he tried to analyse his own responses. He, unlike Erik, had never been particularly comfortable with his bisexuality. Oxford was tolerant enough, but he remembered the McCarthy witch-hunts, where homophiles were as much a target as would-be communists. Fear was not stopped by water, and the American worries had spread across the Atlantic, to Britain where the harsh post-war years needed a scapegoat. Charles was pretty enough to be taken for queer even without doing anything; his first year in Oxford, a few townies had had a good mind to beat him up simply on account of his looks, and it was only after a fair bit of psychic dissuasion they let him go. After the incident, Raven had insisted on following him everywhere as a kind of inverted chaperone for the next few months, claiming that she was ready to snog him whenever trouble seemed near.
By that time, Raven had known about it all for years; when he was fourteen, Charles had confided in her about a crush on the gardener’s son. She had been delighted at the confidence, but had used it, as everything else, as a reason to amiably tease him. He had not minded, but now he thought that that extra reminder of that it could be seen as wrong, along with the reminders from priests and teachers, that it without doubt was wrong, not to mention his grim stepfather’s suspicions, managed to find growing-ground in him, against his better judgement. By the time he started university, he viewed his own tendencies with a combination of embarrassment and indistinct self-disgust. Raven had sometimes tried to discuss men with him, but he had refused, not wanting to acknowledge it. Now he could almost hear her hushed, excited voice as she dug her elbow into his side at the pub. What about him? Do you think he’s dishy? Go on, if you do, buy him a drink. She had meant well, but she had never understood how problematic his feelings about it were. It was only when Raven was not there that he acted on those desires, and it took quite a lot of liquid courage before he dared even then. He had never had a proper relationship with a man, only ill-defined flings where both were too scared of the law and of intolerance to become too invested.
His attempts at relationships with women had been marginally more successful, but in many ways more complicated. His psychoanalytic training made it glaringly apparent to him that it came down to his difficulties with his mother. He never seemed to be able to trust them completely, always awaiting that same betrayal that she had committed. Besides, there was something a little intimidating about the naked female body. The insight that here was a creature capable of creating life within herself made him feel oddly inadequate, and terrified that he might accidentally add to that cycle of generation which was a microversion of what he studied. At least there were French letters, but it did seem like a hassle, and he felt guilty when he reflected that with a man, there was no need for that worry.
Every one of those few relationships had left him feeling oddly out of place. People assumed complete honesty between lovers, but for him, that had never been possible. Only Raven had known about his mind-reading abilities, and he had never felt able to tell anyone else. How could he explain that power without being branded either a liar or a freak? That was where Erik was different. With him, there had never been any secrets. In return for learning everything about him from the moment they met, he had been completely honest towards him. Here was a man - a fascinating, passionate, handsome man - who knew him and was aware of what he was, and he still felt a burning affection from him. He felt that he had found his equal, someone who understood and accepted him.
What then had made him stall that summer when they had recruited for the CIA? His discomfort with admitting his attraction to another man had certainly been part of it. He had also found Erik particularly hard to read; he was rather unhinged, and Charles worried that Erik’s trauma may have unforeseen consequences. Besides, their task had been important, and half of its importance to Charles was its importance to Erik. Finding Shaw would be impossible without the CIA, and to have the CIA on their side they needed to show themselves loyal to the cause. To be revealed as a bisexual would undermine that loyalty very effectively.
Now, the CIA was out of the picture, but he still had duties. Since his recovery, Charles had been completely committed to the school. There had been nothing on his mind but his dream of a better world for mutants. He had worked every waking minute for it, to the extent that Hank had made a habit of telling him that he (“a man in his condition”) should not overwork himself. Ignoring the implication that he was a shut-in and should act like one, he pressed on, pouring all his energy into his school. Then a month ago, Erik’s return had turned that world order upside-down. Even if he still spent most of his time on the school, there was suddenly something else craving his attention. For the first time in these two years, he felt once again that he had a friend. He was fond of Hank, Alex and Sean, but in reality, they were his students as much as the children were. He missed Raven, who, as she had been so keen on pointing out, had been his only friend most of his life, and Moira, who had been there for him when she would have been in her right to disappear. But most of all he had missed Erik. It had been a raw, grating longing, and having their young friendship so cruelly ripped away from him had hurt almost as much as losing the use of his legs had. He had made do by pushing it to the side for so long, but now Erik was back, and he had made his intentions perfectly clear today after their piano session.
But the school was still a fact. A headmaster should not be involved with his teachers, even if the teachers were female. What would people say if word came out that he had an indecent relationship with a fellow male teacher? The pupils would hate them both. The parents who cared about their sons and daughters would take them home and put them in usual schools, where their mutant abilities would make them the target of the bullies. The state would get wind of the scandal and close down the school, quite possibly bringing both him and Erik to court in the process. The orphans and the abandoned children would be taken into care, where their nightmare would start again. The other teachers would be left homeless, at the mercy of the government. The papers would find the story and use it as yet another point in their campaign against mutants. If the cost of his desires was his dream, it was not worth it.
Exhausted by considering such things, he maneuvered himself into his wheelchair again and started getting ready for bed. The routine was so mindless that it was not until he lay down he approached the last crucial point of the argument. Two years ago, so much had been different - not only their circumstances and their responsibilities, but the fact that the only thing which made Charles different from men his age was his telepathy. Now, it was not so. Experimentally he snaked in his hand under the pyjama jacket and starting at his sternum, drew his fingers downwards, over his chest and beyond the point where sensation stopped. His fingers traced the sharp curve of his hip-bone and the shape of his genitals, but it was like touching another person’s unresponsive body. Like this, surely he was not worthy of anyone’s attentions? What did he have to give? He had never sensed any repulsion from Erik’s side, only that flash of guilt every time he noticed the wheelchair. However, it had not escaped him that in Erik’s fantasies, he could still move his legs, and feel below the waist. The erotic scenarios he had thought up were thrilling, and Charles found himself wishing that they could happen, but it was impossible. Erik knew it as well, but only on a rational level. How would he react when he realised it? The affection between them had never been completely platonic, and it had reached the point where the tension required a physical manifestation, which Charles could not give. Sexual frustration rose with sudden force, but he could think of nothing to do about it. Even if he left the rest of the world out of it all, pursuing this romance would inevitably lead to the revelation of his inadequacy and the growth of Erik’s contempt towards him. Despair mingled with the frustration, and he covered his eyes. Who would ever love a cripple? he thought. He refused to answer, Erik, even if he wanted it to be true.
Next chapter
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 chapter 5714
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?
If there was one thing Sean could not stand, it was early mornings. He had thought he would get used to it - up at seven, shower and dress, get breakfast for the kids ready, wake them up, have breakfast himself. It was still a routine he abhorred. The only days he felt properly awake before ten o’clock were the days when he had breakfast with the kids, partly because half of them were just as tired, and partly because the other half may get into their head to throw cereals or something, and Hank would shout at him if he let that happen. All other days, he had breakfast with the adults. It was a grueling experience, for the most part; Hank never had sense not to discuss philosophy or science or world news that early, and the professor, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as always, happily joined in. Alex was not particularly fond of mornings either and knew not to talk to Sean before around nine, and as for Erik, his behaviour at breakfast was among the few things about him which was tolerable. He was mostly content to sit opposite the professor and read some book as he poked his eggs and tomatoes, always letting Sean have his helping of bacon. Extra bacon was certainly not enough to make him stop disliking him intensely, simply as a matter of principle, but it was enough to placate him until he had any reason to be suspicious about his motives.
Today had seemed at first to be a relatively good morning. Alex was keeping the kids company, Hank was busy looking out of the window, lost in thought, and Erik was lost in his book. When the professor turned up, obviously mulling over some concern, which made his eyes light up as if with fever, Sean knew that there was a deep conversation approaching. As he poured his tea, Professor Xavier said:
‘Help me understand something. Why are people so fascinated by war?’
‘Like tin soldiers?’ Sean said, propping his head up with his hand. ‘It’s exciting, I guess. Tactics and stuff.’
‘I was rather thinking actual wars, not arbitrary representations of them on a table,’ the professor answered kindly.
‘A romanticised view on war is certainly not uncommon, historically speaking,’ Hank observed, growing animated. ‘In ancient times, it was a rite of passage. A man had not proved himself before he had been to war. War is said to bring out the best and the worst in people - bravery, strength, steadfastness, but also anger, destructiveness, cowardice...’
‘And we seldom speak of those worst traits,’ Charles finished, looking concerned. ‘A father who tells stories of war to his son will never speak of the horrors he had witnessed, only the comradeship and the excitement.’
‘Society does little to dissuade it,’ Hank replied. ‘There are still voices crying out for an attack of the Soviet Union, despite the fear of retaliation.’
‘People don’t think of nuclear war as war,’ Erik said, speaking up for the first time, but without looking up from his book. Sean felt like he had lost his only ally in his refusal to discuss serious matters during breakfast.
‘It’s so mechanised that it doesn’t count,’ Hank continued, ‘and that has removed the heroism of war...’
‘But it hasn’t been possible to be a hero since before the Great War,’ Charles interjected, something of that frenzied worry back in his eyes. ‘Then the world was presented with the reality of war. People realised that there was no heroism to be found in that.’ He paused, seeming to consider something. ‘But despite that, we still obsess about wars - past wars, ongoing wars, potential wars. There are pictures of children covered in napalm all over the front page of our papers, and we still do not condemn it, we still do not say it’s wrong...’ Sean stared at him, surprised at his sudden passion. Then he looked down at his plate of bacon. Appetite gone, he pushed it aside.
‘Mankind does not learn from her mistakes,’ Hank said diplomatically and passed the professor the plate with eggs, which was enough to make him drop the discussion.
***
When they broke up from breakfast, Erik lingered in the door, waiting for Charles.
‘Are you still coming to my German class?’ he asked, an expectant look in his eye.
‘Of course - if it’s alright with you,’ Charles answered. Well out in the corridor, Erik walked silently beside him, the book he had been reading securely clutched in his hand. Charles was just considering asking him to speak his mind, when he said:
‘People obsess about war because they feel they’ve missed out.’
‘Missed out?’ he repeated.
‘They wanted to have been there - to have fought for freedom or the country or whatever other bogus cause the politicians claimed the war was about,’ Erik answered, sounding suddenly disgusted. ‘They may have been too young, too old, or just unable to be there. They imagine that it was worth seeing. Even if they understand the true nature of war, they want to be able to be able to tell people about how it should have been.’ Charles considered this and asked:
‘Do you feel you missed out?’ Erik shook his head.
‘I got my fair share of action. You?’
‘Well...’ Charles thought it through, and realised that when he was younger, he had felt jealous at the older boys who had been drafted. He remembered how his stepbrother Cain had showed off his army uniform before he had gone overseas. The events on the Cuban beach had put the topic of war into a harsh context. ‘I did once,’ he admitted. ‘Now, I feel rather glad to be out of it all.’ Erik pressed his lips together, as if in a smile, but Charles sensed the spike of guilt within him. ‘Freedom isn’t a bogus cause, though, Erik,’ he observed.
‘It has been for a long time,’ Erik sighed and opening the classroom door for him. ‘Why this sudden contemplation on war?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ he told him sotto voce and entered the classroom. He nodded to the students who were already present and settled at the very back of the class, where he would not disturb the students. Still, Erik’s trepidation at his presence was noticeable. Even if he thought it would be unlike him to give into nerves, Charles reached out and touched his mind momentarily to calm him. Erik must have realised that the sudden peace was his doing, because he looked his way and smiled crookedly. Then, tearing his gaze off him, he cleared his throat, and the students, who had been chattering away happily a moment before, fell completely silent.
‘I hope you all remembered to bring your books,’ he said, sounding stern. ‘Turn to page 92.’ There was a rustle of paper as the class obeyed. As it died down, Erik started walking back and forth, each footstep measured, as he spoke. ‘I see no reason to start you off with anything less than the best piece of German poetry which has ever been penned,’ he explained. ‘The poem you see here, by Goethe, is often referred to as Wanderers Nachtlied, but its true title is Ein Gleiches.’ He looked over the class. Understanding the implicit question, a few uncertain hands were raised.
‘Yes - Ororo?’
‘Does it mean “A similar one”?’
‘Quite right,’ Erik said, nodding. ‘And the other title. Remy?’
‘Eum... “Wanderer’s...’
‘That’s the easy bit,’ the teacher said and looked at him piercingly. ‘Nacht?’
‘“Night”.. something.’
‘Lied,’ Erik said sharply. ‘It’s a difficult word. In fact, it was on your vocab list last week.’ When no-one answered, he slapped his hand in the book to indicate the piece they were about to read. ‘What is this, Remy?’
‘A poem.’
‘Or...?’
‘A, eum, song?’
‘Yes. A song - Lied means “song”.’ Leaning against the desk, he continued voice suddenly milder: ‘I will read it to you - make sure to follow in the text. After that you will have time to translate it, and then we will discuss it.’ He looked over the class, as if challenging anyone to interrupt his reading. Next moment, the sternness was completely gone, and he started reading in a calm, musical baritone.
‘Über allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruh,
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.’
The poem sounded like breathing; the longer verses a greedy inhalation, the shorter verses a calm exhalation. His reading of it was slow, and in Erik’s mind, Charles could feel the echo of those words. They meant something to him beyond the words itself. As he read the poem out loud, it was as if it were his own breath - it became a part of his essence. When he finished, the silence remained unbroken, until he closed the book and said, his voice still subdued:
‘Read through it again and make a translation, without talking amongst yourselves.’ The children obeyed slowly, but their reluctance did not seem to be because of having to do the work, but because they felt that there was something in the air which should not be disturbed by taking apart and translating that which what had sounded nigh magical. Charles watched their progress from the back of the classroom, and how Erik walked between the desks, inspecting their work and telling them words they did not know. Finally he returned to head of the classroom.
‘Let’s translate one line each, and the ones who don’t get a line to translate will start the discussion. Betty - you start.’
‘ “Over all the house tops...”’
‘... “There is peace”...’
‘ “Over all the tree tops...”’
‘ “...you notice...”’
‘“... barely a breeze.”
‘“The little birds are quiet in the forest.”’
‘“Just wait, soon”...’
‘“You too will rest.”’
Another silence fell, as the children felt the words of the poem settle. Then Ororo put her hand up.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s about dying,’ she said. Now Erik did smile.
‘Tell me why,’ he said and leaned against the desk.
Charles watched what followed with almost morbid fascination. Never had he seen children as young as these discuss death, or listen so readily to ideas of the awaited, welcome death, of how death was merely resting. Erik spoke of Sturm und Drang and Romanticism; one of the older students asked if the poet had been unhappy for real, or if it was just for show. They talked about how Hauch can mean “breeze”, but also “breath”, and the meaning of the titles. The discussion was still going on when the clock struck and Erik called off the lesson, obviously with some regret.
The oddly elated feeling the poetry had left Charles with still lingered after lunch, when, with a knock, Erik entered his study.
‘Is this a bad time?’ he asked, but Charles shook his head.
‘None better - do come in,’ he said. As Erik took his seat opposite him, he asked:
‘How did you enjoy the lesson?’
‘It was... different,’ Charles said slowly. Erik raised an eyebrow.
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘Good, I should think,’ he admitted. ‘You’re rather harsh on them sometimes, you know. They’ll do as you say without your being so...’
‘German?’ Erik suggested, and Charles laughed. ‘You’re right,’ he conceded. ‘And otherwise...?’ Charles joined his hands together and looked out of the window before meeting his eye again.
‘You’re very passionate about what you teach them,’ he observed. ‘That makes a true difference.’
‘And you and Hank aren’t passionate?’
‘Well...’ Charles tried to choose his words right. ‘It seems to me that your passion for the subject overrides everything else. You did give a poem about death to a group of children to analyse.’
‘Did you think that is inappropriate?’ Erik asked. Charles hesitated, not certain.
‘No, not really,’ he settled for. ‘I think that it’ll do them good to discuss difficult things too. As long as it’s done sensitively, and I think you did that very well.’ Erik smiled at him.
‘You don’t expect me to be sensitive?’
‘You’re full of surprises, my friend,’ he said, answering his smile. They looked at each other for a moment, until Erik looked away.
‘You were going to explain your questions at breakfast,’ he reminded him.
‘Yes,’ Charles said, sighing. He had almost managed to forget that, and did not feel keen to discuss it. ‘It’s Jason. I found him in the library last night, reading up on various wars. I understand part of his motivation, and I had hoped that some other part might throw better light on it.’
‘What part do you understand?’ Erik wondered.
‘He wants to find ways of scaring people with illusions,’ Charles explained, not trying to hide his worry. ‘So he reads about war. He claimed that he does it because he knows people are scared of war, but he claims he isn’t. And there’s something else too.’ Erik frowned. ‘I think I was wrong, when I said that he wasn’t a telepath. I think that he must have some degree of latent mind-reading skills.’
‘How come?’ Charles swallowed to compose himself. He had not thought about that he had to explain what he had seen until now.
‘He made me see a gas attack, from the Great War,’ he explained. ‘My father was blinded by mustard gas at Ypres. It feels like too much of a coincidence. Jason can’t have known that.’
‘He devised an illusion specifically to scare you, you mean?’ Erik asked.
‘Yes, that is precisely what he does,’ Charles said. ‘It may be that he’s not aware of doing it. Quite possibly, it rather manifests itself as a kind of empathy. Perhaps even specifically, so that he will know what will alarm someone particularly.’ Erik stroked his chin, thinking.
‘You’re saying he is dangerous?’
‘I hesitate to call a student dangerous,’ Charles answered. ‘But... he has no scruples about trying to scare me. He is... unreliable.’ He hesitated, realising suddenly that if Jason had the power to draw people’s fears out of their heads, Erik was in a very vulnerable position indeed. ‘Has he ever made you see anything?’
‘No - not that I’m aware of, at least, and by what you’ve said, it sounds like I would have,’ Erik said. ‘If he can do what you say he can, then he must be able to convince his victim that the illusion is true.’
‘In theory, yes,’ Charles said. ‘I think that with training he could do much more in terms of influencing people’s perceptions of themselves.’ He consciously did not mention that he had been able to walk in the illusion - he found that almost as unsettling as the gas attack, but in an altogether different way. ‘His powers aren’t particularly honed yet. He wouldn’t be able to keep an illusion together for longer than a few minutes, I think, so there’s no risk that he would “trap” anyone.’ Sighing, he admitted: ‘I’ve neglected him. I should have addressed many of these issues weeks ago. Perhaps I’ve been too lax.’
‘Are you planning to make him start dress as a boy, then?’ Erik asked, and Charles found his gaze oddly sharp. Suddenly realising it, he said:
‘All the others mentioned that as soon as they saw him, but not you. Doesn’t it bother you?’
‘Should it?’ Erik asked, the tone of his voice challenging him. Charles opened his mouth, trying to think of an answer.
‘It’s a medical condition,’ he finally said.
‘It doesn’t seem to hurt him,’ Erik answered.
‘It was certainly part of the reason to his father’s treatment of him.’
‘If we are to define anything which narrow-minded fools will persecute people for as “wrong”, we would end up with a very narrow definition of “right” - not to mention a very misleading one,’ Erik answered levelly. ‘It seems to me that the other children barely notice it, so it’s not hurting him here.’ Charles sighed, half in defeat and half in admiration. Perhaps all that training in psychology sometimes served to cloud his vision rather than open it up.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘What harm does it do? If he’s happy like that, then it’s just to our advantage.’ When he looked up, Erik smiled at him.
‘I’m glad we can agree on something,’ he said. Charles smiled back and, suddenly sick of the formality of the situation, rounded the desk.
‘How many times have we played chess since you came back, Erik? Surely not more than a handful?’
‘If that,’ Erik answered and rose. ‘Running this place must take time.’
‘Yes, too much time,’ Charles said. ‘We’re probably still understaffed... But Hank has stopped complaining about it since you got here. I don’t know what he imagines I’m going to do if he does - employ Emma Frost as a teacher or something.’ Erik barked a laugh. ‘It’s a horrific thought, isn’t it?’
‘Very - I wouldn’t want to know what she would teach the children.’ Then, changing the subject, he crossed to the piano at the far wall. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask. Has that piano just been left there, or do you play?’ As he spoke, he lifted the lid, almost reverently.
‘Well, I used to,’ Charles said and followed him. ‘Now... well, I don’t.’ Erik looked up from the keys, where his hand was resting.
‘Why?’
‘I can’t use the pedals,’ he explained, feeling resigned. ‘There’s no soul in the music without them. It just hasn’t felt worth keeping it up.’ A shadow passed over Erik’s face. Then his concentration returned to the piano, and he played a chord.
‘Not as out of tune as I’d expected,’ he said, listening to the lingering sound.
‘Well, I couldn’t let it fall into disrepair,’ Charles said, watching in delight how used Erik’s fingers seemed to the ivory. ‘You play?’
‘I’m probably a little rusty, but...’ He surveyed the keyboard once again, and then moved the piano stool to the side, sitting down on it. ‘Come on,’ he said.
‘What?’ Charles asked, confounded. Erik cocked his head.
‘Let’s play.’
‘But I said...’ He broke off as Erik put his feet on the pedals.
‘Technically, I could just control the metal in them, but when it comes to music, it feels like cheating,’ he said and smiled. Charles hesitated for another moment, then approached. The left edge of the stool grated against the hub of the right wheel, and in order to reach the pedals well, Erik sat so close that their arms almost touched. Experimentally, Charles played a few cords, trying to decide what to play.
‘How well do you know your Beethoven?’
‘Reasonably,’ Erik answered.
‘How about his Appassionata?’ he suggested, and Erik nodded his consent. Charles poised his fingers and breathed in, envisaging what he was about to play.
The first beats were hesitant, a frightened prey picking its way through the forest. The dark notes of the pursuer were only just present, but then, in a flurry of musical scampering feet, the prey took off down the piano keyboard, running straight into the net of the hunter. The scene repeated, high tones mirrored in the low, and then the landscape changed into the discordant minds of unhappy lovers. Closing his eyes, Charles let his fingers climb upwards to the very heights of strained nerves, down to the deep realms of despair. Up and down he moved, his body bending as he reached for the most extreme notes, and every time he leaned to the right, his shoulder brushed against Erik’s. The way he used the pedals was unlike how Charles would have - while he had been restrained with them, Erik combined and exchanged them, and the passion of the music deepened. Charles had the odd feeling of that they were not, as Erik had said when he first arrived, two whole men in each other’s presence, but one. Their cooperation verged on symbiosis - they were conjoined twins controlling different parts of a common body. At times, the piece ground almost to a complete stop before launching into another windswept frenzy, and during those stops, he became aware of how Erik had placed his hand on his armrest, as if to assert that connection between them. As though it were his own anxieties dictating the music rather than the notes he had memorised long ago, he threw himself into it one last time, playing with such force that his hair fell from behind his ear and he could feel the sinews of his hands strain. Then, as if the piece was thoroughly exhausted, it slowed down and disappeared. Charles let the keys rise under his fingers, and the notes only lingered as Erik kept them there. He waited for him to prompt him to play the second movement, but there was only silence, so intending to ask, he turned to him, and found him staring straight into Erik’s eyes.
The look in them made him fall silent, and suddenly he was the prey he had heard in the music, frozen and at another’s mercy. It felt as if something shifted - suddenly they slid into focus for each other. The wave of raw, abrupt perception bordered on the painful. Charles opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Erik acted first, leaning in. For the shortest of moments, they hovered in uncertainty, and then their lips met.
The first brush was soft and hesitant. Erik drew back and looked at him. Charles could not remember his eyes ever looking like that before, as if a door beyond them had opened. In them was written the question, are you going to push me away again, as you did last time, with your questions?
No, Charles thought, sending the answer into his mind. Not this time, my friend. Surrendering, he leaned in again. As they kissed, slowly but deeply, he tried to memorise this moment - how the hairs which had grown since Erik shaved that morning scratched his skin, how he tasted of tea and cigarettes, how his hand brushed his neck to keep him there, how Erik tried to fasten the moment in his memory too.
Erik’s hand came up to rest on his cheek, and their lips slipped apart. They drew back a little, breathing heavily, looking at each other in surprise. Charles felt the hand on his cheek stroke his skin, a thumb tracing his lips experimentally, and then fall to his arm. He first thought that after that, Erik had drawn it back, but when he looked down, he saw that he had placed it on his knee. Desperate to feel his touch, he placed his hand above it and looked at him again. Slowly, as if his courage to keep away had failed him, Erik moved closer again.
A sharp knock was heard, and the door opened. Their hands drew back as if they had been burned, and Erik leapt from the stool, hands clasped behind his back.
‘Lunch,’ Alex said, poking his head around the door.
‘Thank you, Alex,’ Erik said and left the study. Charles did not heed him, but tried playing the start of the second movement, its tones andante. The music sounded flat without Erik at his side, helping him.
‘Coming, professor?’ Alex asked. Letting his hands fall, Charles looked at him.
‘Yes, of course.’ He followed a little behind the others. At one point he was aware that Erik looked over his shoulder at him, but he dared not meet his eye.
***
Charles’ unrest remained through the day. At dinner, Erik was not present, but ate with the children, which made him pity him, considering that Sean and Alex referred to that task as “avert-the-food-fights-duty”. Through the meal, the worry Charles felt started to crystallise, and after dinner, he excused himself, leaving the ground floor quickly when he sensed Erik’s thoughts straying to him. He retreated to his room, locking the door behind him. The metal would not keep Erik out, he knew, but he would respect it nevertheless.
Charles had been unwilling to address the issue ever since he met Erik, yet the attraction between them was unmistakable. He guessed that non-telepaths were given the benefit of the doubt when it came to whether or not one’s feelings were requited. Knowing probably saved an awful lot of time and worry; if someone had no interest, lingering on that infatuation was useless. However, feeling an answering attraction and affection did not necessarily mean that one simply acted on it. Now, it made him feel out of control - had this attachment was only present from his side, he could have kept it under wraps, but now, there was the potential that Erik would act, as he indeed had. Charles’ fear was not the common person’s worry of rejection, but the dread of having his own complexes revealed.
Moving over to his armchair to contemplate his problems, he tried to analyse his own responses. He, unlike Erik, had never been particularly comfortable with his bisexuality. Oxford was tolerant enough, but he remembered the McCarthy witch-hunts, where homophiles were as much a target as would-be communists. Fear was not stopped by water, and the American worries had spread across the Atlantic, to Britain where the harsh post-war years needed a scapegoat. Charles was pretty enough to be taken for queer even without doing anything; his first year in Oxford, a few townies had had a good mind to beat him up simply on account of his looks, and it was only after a fair bit of psychic dissuasion they let him go. After the incident, Raven had insisted on following him everywhere as a kind of inverted chaperone for the next few months, claiming that she was ready to snog him whenever trouble seemed near.
By that time, Raven had known about it all for years; when he was fourteen, Charles had confided in her about a crush on the gardener’s son. She had been delighted at the confidence, but had used it, as everything else, as a reason to amiably tease him. He had not minded, but now he thought that that extra reminder of that it could be seen as wrong, along with the reminders from priests and teachers, that it without doubt was wrong, not to mention his grim stepfather’s suspicions, managed to find growing-ground in him, against his better judgement. By the time he started university, he viewed his own tendencies with a combination of embarrassment and indistinct self-disgust. Raven had sometimes tried to discuss men with him, but he had refused, not wanting to acknowledge it. Now he could almost hear her hushed, excited voice as she dug her elbow into his side at the pub. What about him? Do you think he’s dishy? Go on, if you do, buy him a drink. She had meant well, but she had never understood how problematic his feelings about it were. It was only when Raven was not there that he acted on those desires, and it took quite a lot of liquid courage before he dared even then. He had never had a proper relationship with a man, only ill-defined flings where both were too scared of the law and of intolerance to become too invested.
His attempts at relationships with women had been marginally more successful, but in many ways more complicated. His psychoanalytic training made it glaringly apparent to him that it came down to his difficulties with his mother. He never seemed to be able to trust them completely, always awaiting that same betrayal that she had committed. Besides, there was something a little intimidating about the naked female body. The insight that here was a creature capable of creating life within herself made him feel oddly inadequate, and terrified that he might accidentally add to that cycle of generation which was a microversion of what he studied. At least there were French letters, but it did seem like a hassle, and he felt guilty when he reflected that with a man, there was no need for that worry.
Every one of those few relationships had left him feeling oddly out of place. People assumed complete honesty between lovers, but for him, that had never been possible. Only Raven had known about his mind-reading abilities, and he had never felt able to tell anyone else. How could he explain that power without being branded either a liar or a freak? That was where Erik was different. With him, there had never been any secrets. In return for learning everything about him from the moment they met, he had been completely honest towards him. Here was a man - a fascinating, passionate, handsome man - who knew him and was aware of what he was, and he still felt a burning affection from him. He felt that he had found his equal, someone who understood and accepted him.
What then had made him stall that summer when they had recruited for the CIA? His discomfort with admitting his attraction to another man had certainly been part of it. He had also found Erik particularly hard to read; he was rather unhinged, and Charles worried that Erik’s trauma may have unforeseen consequences. Besides, their task had been important, and half of its importance to Charles was its importance to Erik. Finding Shaw would be impossible without the CIA, and to have the CIA on their side they needed to show themselves loyal to the cause. To be revealed as a bisexual would undermine that loyalty very effectively.
Now, the CIA was out of the picture, but he still had duties. Since his recovery, Charles had been completely committed to the school. There had been nothing on his mind but his dream of a better world for mutants. He had worked every waking minute for it, to the extent that Hank had made a habit of telling him that he (“a man in his condition”) should not overwork himself. Ignoring the implication that he was a shut-in and should act like one, he pressed on, pouring all his energy into his school. Then a month ago, Erik’s return had turned that world order upside-down. Even if he still spent most of his time on the school, there was suddenly something else craving his attention. For the first time in these two years, he felt once again that he had a friend. He was fond of Hank, Alex and Sean, but in reality, they were his students as much as the children were. He missed Raven, who, as she had been so keen on pointing out, had been his only friend most of his life, and Moira, who had been there for him when she would have been in her right to disappear. But most of all he had missed Erik. It had been a raw, grating longing, and having their young friendship so cruelly ripped away from him had hurt almost as much as losing the use of his legs had. He had made do by pushing it to the side for so long, but now Erik was back, and he had made his intentions perfectly clear today after their piano session.
But the school was still a fact. A headmaster should not be involved with his teachers, even if the teachers were female. What would people say if word came out that he had an indecent relationship with a fellow male teacher? The pupils would hate them both. The parents who cared about their sons and daughters would take them home and put them in usual schools, where their mutant abilities would make them the target of the bullies. The state would get wind of the scandal and close down the school, quite possibly bringing both him and Erik to court in the process. The orphans and the abandoned children would be taken into care, where their nightmare would start again. The other teachers would be left homeless, at the mercy of the government. The papers would find the story and use it as yet another point in their campaign against mutants. If the cost of his desires was his dream, it was not worth it.
Exhausted by considering such things, he maneuvered himself into his wheelchair again and started getting ready for bed. The routine was so mindless that it was not until he lay down he approached the last crucial point of the argument. Two years ago, so much had been different - not only their circumstances and their responsibilities, but the fact that the only thing which made Charles different from men his age was his telepathy. Now, it was not so. Experimentally he snaked in his hand under the pyjama jacket and starting at his sternum, drew his fingers downwards, over his chest and beyond the point where sensation stopped. His fingers traced the sharp curve of his hip-bone and the shape of his genitals, but it was like touching another person’s unresponsive body. Like this, surely he was not worthy of anyone’s attentions? What did he have to give? He had never sensed any repulsion from Erik’s side, only that flash of guilt every time he noticed the wheelchair. However, it had not escaped him that in Erik’s fantasies, he could still move his legs, and feel below the waist. The erotic scenarios he had thought up were thrilling, and Charles found himself wishing that they could happen, but it was impossible. Erik knew it as well, but only on a rational level. How would he react when he realised it? The affection between them had never been completely platonic, and it had reached the point where the tension required a physical manifestation, which Charles could not give. Sexual frustration rose with sudden force, but he could think of nothing to do about it. Even if he left the rest of the world out of it all, pursuing this romance would inevitably lead to the revelation of his inadequacy and the growth of Erik’s contempt towards him. Despair mingled with the frustration, and he covered his eyes. Who would ever love a cripple? he thought. He refused to answer, Erik, even if he wanted it to be true.
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