Fic: Let Freedom Ring 9/19

[apolesen]

Title Let Freedom Ring 9/19
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 9407
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?


The trees below were silent. No bird rose from the foliage. The sky was hers. There was frost in the air - the night would be unpleasant.

Angel dipped to let her foot brush the tree-tops, relishing the freedom of flying. These scouting-sessions were a rare chance to be alone, and she felt her mind clear even as she left the forest behind and turned back. As she approached the hill where they had made up camp, she spotted the regal figure waiting for her. Its helmet picked up the light of the moon and glinted red. As if it were a signal, she dived, and then straightened up to land on her feet beside him.

‘Well?’ Magneto asked, looking out over the woods with his arms resolutely crossed over his chest, like a king surveying his kingdom. It was a piteous dominion.

‘Not a soul in a fifteen-mile radius,’ Angel reported. ‘Barely any wildlife.’

‘We have provisions to last us another few days,’ he reflected. ‘Then we must stock up.’ She nodded, but said nothing. He turned to her, looking down with a rare smile.

‘It has begun,’ he announced. ‘Great things lie ahead.’

‘So we blow up one little gas works and then we wait for weeks?’ she wondered. ‘Shouldn’t we move quicker?’

‘We wait until they let their guard down again.’

‘Yes,’ she said, knowing it was expected of her. The attack had been exhilarating, but it had scared her too. Perhaps she must feed her resentment more, like Mystique had. Magneto must have noticed her hesitation.

‘What is it, Angel?’

‘I was just thinking about Mystique,’ she explained, shrugging with both wings and shoulders. It was possible to hear him tense. Still she knew that he was no threat to her - he had seen him punish some of the others for mentioning her, but Angel had been with the Brotherhood long enough to be safe. She turned to face him again. ‘It must get lonely, huh?’ He did not answer. ‘You know, Mystique and I were pals. We got on really well. I can’t see what made her go. She loved all this - she really believed in it.’

‘People can be deceptive,’ Magneto answered curtly and looked into the distance. She had obviously touched upon some old wound. It can’t have been easy to have Mystique say all those things in front of everyone. They had meant something for each other, after all, and Angel knew that things were more complicated than that. Momentarily, she remembered the events at her club, long ago. Even if they said that Professor X was a crippled recluse nowadays, he still exercised powers over them all. She wondered if he ever went into her mind with that machine of his. The thought of it made her shiver. Mistaking the reason for it to be cold, Magneto pulled her close, wrapping his cape around her. In surprise, she looked up at him, and for a moment, she thought that his eyes looked different.

The kiss came as a surprise. His lips were warm against hers, and the sharp edges of the helmet dug into her face. She grabbed at his shoulder to push him away - she did not want to become another notch on his bedpost. But then she realised that there was nothing seductive about this kiss. She recognised the way a desperate, lonely man kissed. He wanted comfort as much as pleasure. Going up on tiptoes, she kissed back.

Then, as soon as it had started, he broke away, and the moment passed.

‘How long are we going to live in a forest?’ she asked, trying to sound unaffected.

‘Soon it will be different,’ he said, promise in his voice. Briefly, he reached out and stroked her cheek. ‘You will live like a queen, Angel.’ Then with a sweep of his cape, he turned and stalked off. She stayed looking after him, wondering how he could have known of Shaw’s promise, when he had not even been there to hear it.

***

Charles had grown to believe that by now, they knew each other’s bodies off by heart. He would be able to draw a map of Erik’s body and plot every birthmark and scar onto it. Equally, Erik would be able to replicate the form of his chest and the curve of his neck in metal. Their embrace had become a refuge.

It was late November now, and apart from a certain tenseness in the air and two empty chairs, vacated by students whose parents had taken them away, there was nothing overt to witness of the attack on the gas works. The mansion was growing colder, and Hank fussed about that someone might catch a chill. Erik stopped sleeping on his own altogether - the cold made his insomnia worse, and sleeping pressed against Charles was the only thing which seemed to help. Charles’ worries for Erik and what they shared only added to his fears for the school and mutants beyond that frayed at his nerves. Even leaving aside the still-lingering shame, there was the way he doted on him (probably unhealthy in itself), and the risk of exposure, and the events in their common past.

The worry never truly let go. Sex dulled it, but now, when the time for sloppy kisses and biting and sucking, the part of their relationship which was so physical that it was almost animal, had passed, and Erik took to drawing his lips lightly over his chest, the unease returned. As Erik traced his fingers down his sternum and the light line of hair down his stomach, Charles already anticipated how he would stop, a little less than an inch over the navel, never straying beyond the point where the bullet had taken away sensation. He felt a sudden urge to scream. Touch me, goddammit! It’s not contagious. It’s still me, for Christ’s sake - what the hell is the difference? Here was the bitter seed of resentment, and however much Charles wanted it not to be true, Erik’s pausing fingers encouraged it to grow. How he wished that Erik would touch him without reservations, and do to him what he had fantasised about even before they had become involved. Charles would not mind it if he took out his aggressions on his body, although he supposed that part of it would be little point if he could not feel it. He was well aware that it was a stupid idea - it could so easily get out of hand, and if Erik inadvertently hurt him, the consequences might be dire. Imagine trying to talk yourself out of that one to Hank, Charlie-boy. There are better ways of being discovered. The impulse alone scared him - it was uncharacteristically self-destructive. The consequences would be well beyond harmless bite-marks. Had he become so entangled in his own emotions that he had given up on common sense? As so often, Charles realised how reckless they had become. Suddenly he was aware of the house around them, and sensed the other residents. So many ears which listened and minds which searched for connections. What an idiot I’ve become! he told himself. I’m risking all of this - all of them - for my own happiness. Is it so bad that I put my own wishes before the good of many...?

‘Charles?’ Roused from his thoughts, he looked up and realised that Erik was stopped his ministrations. Instead, he was propped up on his elbows, looking worries. ‘You’re not really enjoying this, are you?’

‘Of course I am, darling,’ Charles answered and raised a hand to rub his neck affectionately. ‘I’m just tired.’ Erik took hold of his arm and pulled away his hand. Disappointment. ‘Erik...’

‘You obviously have more important things on your mind,’ Erik said curtly and suddenly got out of bed, leaving the mattress rocking. Charles drew himself up against the bed-board.

‘Erik, come back to bed,’ he told him, but Erik was already finding his clothes. At the sight of it, his patience broke. ‘I know you’re glad about it, you know.’ Erik, shirt in hand, stopped and turned to stare at him. The clothing fell from his hand at he sat down on the bed, looking at him acutely. ‘The attack on the gas works,’ Charles explained. ‘You’re secretly glad it happened.’

‘Nothing is secret from you, my friend,’ he said, sounding resigned.

‘You may have changed your methods, but you have not changed your opinions,’ Charles continued. He did not want it to sound like an accusation, and forced himself to simply make a statement.

‘That is true,’ Erik conceded. It was difficult to tell how sincere this truce was. Despite fearing that Erik might suddenly storm out of the room, he felt a need to press on.

‘The reason is fairly evident. You want to deserve their hate.’ Now, Erik frowned.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s quite possible you’re doing it subconsciously,’ Charles explained and intertwined his fingers. The familiar task of analysis calmed him, and to his own surprise, he found his voice quite serene. ‘You are aware that all hate is irrational and illogical. That means that it is impossible to find actual reasons for it. The horrors you suffered as a child were a result of such an ideology of hate, and however much you ask, “why?”, you never find a satisfactory answer. The hate which you are now subject to, because of your being a mutant, is just as irrational as anti-Semitism. So you feel that if you give them a reason to hate you, if you can say that all this is because we pose an actual threat to humans, then that hate - and all the previous oppression you have witnessed - will make a little more sense.’ Erik looked at him, seeming unimpressed.

‘We do pose an actual threat to humans,’ he said finally.

‘Be that as it may,’ Charles answered, ‘but your reasons for taking that position is more complicated than you may want to admit.’ It only seemed to exasperate him further, because with a sigh, he found his undershirt, put it on and took his shirt off the floor again.

‘You know, I’m fascinated by the way it is impossible to have a conversation with you without your trying to psychoanalyse me - particularly as you said that it would be inappropriate for you to do just that.’ Charles shrugged.

‘I do it without thinking.’

‘As so many things,’ Erik added. ‘Have you ever considered that you might be the one who needs an analyst?’

‘Who doesn’t need an analyst?’ he snorted, but then decided that being tart about it was not really helpful, so he sighed and said: ‘You’re right, Erik. I’m sorry.’ Erik stopped and, after a moment of hesitation, sat down on the bedside again.

‘What is wrong?’ Erik asked, sounding concerned. ‘It’s obvious that something is disturbing you.’ Charles shrugged.

‘I don’t think I really know myself,’ he answered. ‘There’s so many things.’ Erik reached out to stroke his hair, and, prompted by that show of tenderness, Charles admitted: ‘I just feel inadequate, I guess.’

‘How can you feel inadequate?’ Erik asked incredulously and drew back his hand.

‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ Charles muttered. ‘What have I done to address this crisis? I’ve held an assembly and told the children a bunch of half-truths about you to protect you. I’ve told them to be careful in public, and preferably just stay inside the grounds.’ He sighed. ‘Over the past three weeks, we’ve lost two students because their parents think that we’re making them more mutant than they already are - because they don’t trust us. I wish I could do more, but I can’t think of a way to take a stand without endangering someone...’ Erik looked at him, disappointment returning.

‘You have grown completely spineless,’ he told him.

‘Not the best description, I’d say,’ Charles said in an undertone. ‘Thank you for having faith in me.’

‘I can’t see how you can be certain you are doing good when you’re around your students, and then suddenly when you’re only in my company, you simply stop believing in yourself.’ Charles hesitated before answering:

‘I dare to show that I am weak in front of you.’

‘You’re not weak,’ Erik said sharply, and his mind echoed: You are not weak. Charles looked away, not convinced. ‘For goodness’ sake, just do something about it, if it makes you feel like that,’ he snapped, punched his pillow and got into bed again. Charles remained sitting up, fighting a sudden urge to cry.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Stop apologising,’ Erik muttered over his shoulder. ‘Go to sleep.’

‘“It’ll all feel better in the morning,”’ Charles said ironically.

‘It’s probably true.’ Then he settled with his back towards him, trying to fall asleep. Charles tried to follow suit, but however much he tried, he could not seem to fall asleep. Even as Erik slipped off, he was still wide awake, their recent argument spinning in his head. What was it Erik had said to him the evening they had slept together for the first time? Self-pity doesn’t suit you. It is a refuge for lesser men. It was frustrating that he needed Erik to tell him this, but before he came back, Charles had been able to ignore all those feelings of inadequacy and drown them in work. Without Erik, he was an emotionless husk, for better or for worse. With Erik, he felt so much love, but also hated himself for countless reasons.

‘Utterly ridiculous,’ he muttered to himself. Would he rather go back to being the efficient loner? No, that was unimaginable. But there were so many ways things could be better - between him and Erik, in the school, in the world...

He stopped; there was something there, just at the edge of his mind... And suddenly it was plain to him. Very carefully, so as not to wake Erik, he pulled himself up against the bed-board and took out a notebook and pen. As he closed the drawer in the bedside table, Erik stirred. Charles reached out and touched his mind. Sleep. When he was certain that he had listened to the incentive, he concentrated on the talk at hand. The first sentence came to him, and as he wrote it down, the rest of the paragraph manifested itself. In front of his eyes, under his pen, words formed almost before he had time to think them. The only thing which made him pause was when he felt a nightmare forming under Erik’s eyelids. Then, he would reach out and, stroking his hair, told him: You do not need to dream of that. It can hurt you no more. Do not heed it. Sleep. The dream would pass, and Charles would go back to his work. When he had filled up many pages of the notebook, he went back and read it through, making corrections. It was getting light when he finally fell asleep, pen still in his hand.

***

‘Charles?’

He jolted awake, not certain where he was. His back ached, and his neck was killing him - he had slept uncomfortably reclined against his pillows, head against the carvings on the bed-post. Erik was sitting by his side, the sheets pulled up just to his waist. Charles thought he looked a little different - content, somehow.

‘Good morning,’ Charles said slowly and leaned his head back. ‘How did you sleep?’ Erik looked almost embarrassed at the question.

‘Very well,’ he answered. ‘What about you? You...’ Look awful.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Charles admitted and rubbed his eyes.

‘Perhaps you should go back to sleep,’ Erik suggested. He shook his head, blinking to wake up.

‘No - I’ll be fine.’ Acknowledging it, his bedfellow nodded and started getting dressed to sneak back to his room to change properly. Charles decided to follow his example and pulled on his dressing-gown. He would feel much more awake after a bath and a few cups strong Earl Grey. He was still idly tying the sash of the gown when Erik came around the bed and sat down. There was a silent thank you written in his eyes. He knew that Charles had averted his nightmares - as a rule he did not have such calm nights. Charles was glad that he did not mind it, and he was also glad to see something apologetic along with the gratitude. To show him that there was no ill feeling between them, he leaned in to kiss him. Erik kissed back. As he edged closer to embrace him, his foot hit against something on the floor, which made him break the touch and look down. ‘What’s this?’ From the floor, he picked up Charles’ notebook.

‘Oh - something I wrote,’ Charles explained as Erik looked at the writing on the open page. ‘Would you read it for me?’

‘Of course,’ he said and looked at him for a moment with newfound respect.

‘Go get dressed,’ Charles told him and pushed his arm playfully. Erik stole a final kiss and left him to get ready for the day.

***

When Charles entered the dining-room, Erik looked up from the notebook, which he had been reading from.

‘Your handwriting is awful, Charles,’ he told him with a crooked smile.

‘I thought all doctors had awful handwriting,’ Sean said.

‘Yes, they teach us that kind of thing,’ Charles answered lightly and poured himself a cup of tea. Even the fumes made him feel more awake. ‘It’s an important part of medical training.’

‘Hank’s handwriting is impossible,’ Sean continued.

‘That’s because his hands are so big,’ Alex interjected, and Charles shot him a look. ‘Just joking, Professor X.’ When Charles noticed that Erik had put down the notebook, he asked:

‘Well, Erik? Apart from my handwriting?’

‘It’s inspired,’ he said, sounding impressed. ‘Well argued, just passionate enough.’

‘I didn’t want it to come across as polemical,’ Charles explained, glad of the praise.

‘Save it for the next one.’

‘What is it?’ Alex asked, looking from one to the other.

‘An article which, if the editors are intelligent at all, will end up in the New York Times Opinions section,’ Erik said, rose and went around the table. When he placed the notebook in front of Charles, he let his hand rest on his shoulder.

‘Thank you, Erik,’ he said and glanced up at him. A flicker of a smile passed over Erik’s face and he squeezed his shoulder before returning to his place.

‘What is it about?’ Sean asked between the bites of a banger.

‘Mutant rights, Sean,’ Charles said, mildly amused that he had not surmised that at once.

‘It wasn’t really likely to be about the preservation of the short-winged penguins of Antarctica,’ Erik added, and Charles laughed, almost choking on his tea. Alex stared at them both, as if they had gone mad. When Charles had recovered his bearings, Erik pointed out:

‘You’ll have to type it up.’

‘Well, of course,’ he said and looked at the squiggles he had written the previous night. ‘I just hate typewriters - I’m awful at them. Perhaps I can get Susanna to do it for me.’

Knowing that Susanna would have German that morning, after breakfast Charles followed Erik to his classroom.

‘How are the children treating you now?’ he asked on the way. After the Bedford attack, they had had no choice but to tell the children of their language teacher’s former career as a mutant terrorist, or at least agitator. Charles, not wanting to draw his sister into it, had not told them the whole truth about Magneto’s double, but they had all believed him that Mister Lehnsherr had nothing to do with the attack.

‘Well enough,’ Erik said. ‘Some of them are a little unsettled. But most of it seems to have worn off.’

‘There was really no way around it,’ Charles sighed, but was glad. It seemed like the most radical thing that had happened was that Susanna had shed her crush, even if the news had not changed his ranking on her and Betsy’s list of handsomest teachers.

The students were waiting in the corridor when they arrived. As Erik opened the door for them, Charles turned to Susanna.

‘Susanna, would you have time to type something up for me this afternoon?’ The girl blushed.

‘I - I can’t type, professor.’

‘Oh,’ he said. He had of some reason assumed that she could. Perhaps he had developed a disagreeable habit of thinking of her as a secretary - he would have to do something about that. He was just resigning himself to the fact that he probably had to type it out himself with his index fingers, when Erik tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Charles?’ Charles looked up at him and saw that he was pointing at something. ‘I think you have a volunteer.’ There in the corridor stood, Jason, one hand around his books and one raised in the air.

***

That afternoon after classes, Hank moved the typewriter to the table by the bay-windows, and Jason, seated on an extra cushion to reach properly, typed up the article, while Charles himself worked on end-of-term reports. Occasionally, he glanced up at Jason and could not help smiling at the concentration on his face. When Jason left his seat and crossed to hand over the article, Charles said:

‘Make an illusion for me.’

And suddenly they were by the sea. It rose up and lapped at the rock under their feet. Overhead, gulls were screaming their melancholy song. Charles could taste the salt in the air. A spray of water, cold in the warmth of the sun, rained against his face.

‘Thank you,’ he said. The vision faded, and he was sitting by his desk again. ‘It’s funny,’ he observed. ‘You didn’t try to scare me this time.’ Jason shrugged. ‘I think your concentration is important to it - you were in control, not just your emotions. We’re making progress.’ For a split second, Charles was standing by the sea again, but now it had darkened and the waves were tipped with white. ‘What’s bothering you, Jason?’ he asked when it faded again. Jason looked away. ‘Your parents?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘You don’t want to go home at the end of term,’ he supplied. There was no need to make it a question. Jason shook his head, so that his long locks fell out of the bow he had it in. Charles had not thought about it before, but now he realised that it would probably be counterproductive for the boy to go home. Colonel Stryker seemed to have little understanding for his son, and there was no telling how they would react if they saw him dressed like he was now. ‘Would you like to stay here for Christmas?’ Jason’s face lit up.

‘Can I?’ he asked. ‘Will other children be here?’

‘Yes - Scott’s staying, and Ororo, Remy and Rahne.’ Jason nodded. ‘Wonderful.’

‘Can I keep the red barrette and the coat?’ he then asked. Charles smiled.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s your payment for this.’ He waved the article. ‘Thank you.’ Understanding he had been dismissed, Jason bobbed a courtesy and left, a spring in his step. Charles smiled to himself, pushed the student reports aside and set to work on his article.

***

The idea of an end-of-term treat for the children had actually Hank’s idea. He had made all the arrangements for the school-trip to the Met, and on the day of the excursion, he lingered by the van.

‘I would have loved to come,’ he told the professor, trying very hard not to seem downcast as he counted the children who were filing into the van. ‘I love the Met - I used to go there every time I was in New York.’

‘Next time,’ Charles told him kindly from the seat beside the driver’s, even if he as well as Beast knew that it was not true. The risks were simply too great. Just as he was trying to think of something to say to cheer him up, Erik came down the steps, fedora on and coat billowing after him.

‘Do we have everyone?’ he asked, and both Hank and Charles said:

‘Yes.’ Nodding, he took the driver’s seat, handed his hat to Charles to hold. ‘Keep the fort, will you?’

‘Will do,’ Hank said with an awkward grin and closed the door. Erik turned the key and called over his shoulder to the children:

‘Buckle up!’ There was a rustle of them trying to find their belts, and then Charles told off the ones who had only pretended to put them on. When they set off down the driveway, leaving Hank waving on the steps, Charles was glad at having reprimanded them, because Erik was not a gentle driver. He suddenly remembered how he had been somewhat terrified during their summer of recruitment every time Erik was at the wheel, because he drove very fast and cut corners very finely. The children did not notice any danger in it, but called out ‘ooooh’ or ‘wheee’ every time they felt the tilt of the van. After a while they grew tired of that and all started singing Beatles songs instead. The previous week, Betsy had cycled into town and bought the most recent album, and she and Susanna had had an improvised disco in the drawing room with the music so loud that probably even Beast knew the lyrics by now.

With the children occupied, Charles asked, fearing for his life:

‘Erik, where did you learn to drive?’

‘In Katowice, in Poland,’ he said, eyes at least not leaving the road. ‘I was in a holding camp there after the war, while the Russians were trying to figure out what to do with us. They were very kind - I guess part of it was guilt. One of the soldiers who knew German took a liking to me, so he taught me to smoke, drive and drink vodka.’

‘Not at the same time, I hope.’

‘Only occasionally,’ Erik answered with a wide grin. Despite himself, Charles laughed, and then considered plugging his ears when the children started a particularly discordant rendering of “When I Get Home”.

As they drove into New York City, Charles started to grow a little more uneasy, remembering childhood visits to the Met. Raven had thought that there was nothing quite as boring as art, so to entertain her, they would race the high steps up to the entrance three times before going inside. He hoped that Erik was not planning to lift him up them - that would be far too humiliating. That the children had to watch him carry him out of the van was bad enough.

‘Erik?’ Erik hummed in acknowledgement and then swore under his breath at the car in front of them. ‘I seem to remember that there is a stair up to the entrance...‘ Erik glanced over to him with a smile and dodged a car at the same time.

‘Do you really have such a low opinion of Hank, Charles?’

They parked the van nearby and then walked the short distance to the museum building, Erik pushing Charles along and the children following, holding hands, apart from Remy, who was trotting alongside his teachers and babbling in Cajun French. Erik occasionally answered, obviously amused. At the bottom of the steps by the museum, a spotty young man employed at the museum was waiting. Erik touched Charles’ shoulder, as if to communicate that this was Hank’s doing.

‘Professor Xavier, right?’ the attendant said. ‘There’s a side-door just around the corner, sir - I’ll take you, sir.’

‘Much obliged,’ Charles answered and straightened his blanket.

‘I’ll lead the children up,’ Erik said and stepped away from him. Charles nodded, then caught his eye briefly. Then he turned away and started coaxing the children up the stair in a mixture of English, German and French.

‘They’re not all his, I hope, sir?’ the young man said cheerily as he started pushing the wheelchair towards the side-entrance.

‘Goodness, no,’ Charles laughed. ‘They’re at my school.’

‘Must be a grand thing, sir,’ he answered. True to his apparent chattiness, he started speaking about different school-classes who came to visit. Charles did not listen, but looked around, hungry for the sights of the city. It was so seldom he left the grounds, or even the mansion, and being in the heart of New York city was thrilling.

When they entered the entrance hall, the children were just being lead away by a guide.

‘Remember to behave!’ Erik called after them and then, drawing a sigh of relief, he steered his step towards Charles. Thanking the man and pressing a coin into his hand, Charles took the wheels himself and went to meet his friend.

‘Were they giving you a hard time?’ he asked.

‘You’d never think that leading fifteen children up a set of stairs would be difficult,’ Erik said, but smiled nevertheless. One again they locked eyes.

‘Where shall we start?’ Charles said when he could not bear the intensity of his stare anymore. After a moment of deliberation, Erik simply chose a direction. To both their pleasure, the section they ended up in was European nineteenth century. There was Renoir portraits of women in fancy hats and sketches of idyllic meadows, odd lively Chagals of flying lovers and crooked old men, and van Goghs, expressing all the joy and agony of the artist’s life, redressed in the shape of lone sunflowers and faces.

Then came the collection of Monets. Charles had seen them before, of course, and he had never felt particularly moved by them, but now, the whole world seemed enclosed within those paintings. He painted the sea - the grassy cliffs overlooking the bay, a stone arch rising over the waves - the mountains - where the peaks took on the same colour as the sky itself - and the winter - an intermarriage of white and grey and soft pink, which only became shapes after minutes of careful consideration. As they slowly passed around the room, Charles could feel the pleasant chill of the clouded sky and hear the wind rustling the flowers in the paintings. In The Green Wave, he sensed how the boats rocked on the disturbed sea, while at the same time, the water was so brilliantly emerald that it looked more like the flow of a lady’s evening gown than the ocean. They lingered there, and after a while, figures emerged in the boat, and something of the danger and exhilaration in the situation was evident. In The Parc Monceau, depicting a host of people sitting in the shade as the sun shone through the foliage, Charles was captivated by the greens in the light. Yes, that is how it looks, but also how it feels! The smell of spring was far away, but through that painting, he briefly experienced it. Erik leaned against the chair, his chin touching Charles’ hair, as he watched in equal fascination. Curiosity getting the better of him, reached out and touched his surface thoughts.

A girl, spinning on limber feet, laughing, red hair flying after her, skirts whirling...

He drew back, perplexed. There was no name connected to her face. It was as if he was thinking about a stranger, but how could he have a memory of someone whose name he did not know...?

‘Charles?’ Erik asked, noticing his silence.

‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ Charles said, returning his attention to the painting. ‘The light on the lawn.’

‘Yes,’ he answered and smiled, ‘and the children sitting on the ground.’ He pointed, drawing Charles’ attention to two toddlers sitting at the feet of their mothers. Charles laughed. It was a delightful sight.

‘What about the woman in the centre, though?’ The figures in the shade were all dressed in light colours, but the figure at the very middle of the arch of trees, shielding herself from the sun with a parasol, was dressed in black. ‘She’s in mourning.’

‘Perhaps the painting is about her,’ Erik suggested. ‘She looks lonely, in that crowd.’ Charles nodded.

‘Who has she lost, I wonder?’ he said, half to himself. Erik’s hand pressed his shoulder. ‘Extraordinary. Noticing her changed the whole painting.’ Suddenly the sunlight seemed like it was mocking the poor girl. The beautiful weather and the playing toddlers and the rustle of the trees had lost their beauty. Sensing Charles’ mood, Erik rubbed his shoulder and said: ‘Let’s move on.’

The next painting made Erik give an audible sigh of appreciation.

‘Bridge over a Pond of Water Lilies.’

‘Genius, isn’t it?’ Charles said. ‘All those greens! The bridge could be part of the vegetation...’

‘The reflection,’ Erik answered. Charles followed his gaze and took in the way that the reflection of the surrounding willows filled up the water mirror where it was not obscured by the water lilies. The flowers themselves - white, pink, yellow - seemed to bud in front of their eyes. They stayed silent, as if in the presence of something sacred. Their reverie was finally broken by the sound of feet beating against the floor.

‘Professor!’ Charles tore his eyes off the painting and turned to see Jason running towards them.

‘We don’t run in museums, Jason,’ he told him as the boy stopped at his side to regain his breath. Even when he stood still, it was obvious that he was very excited about something. ‘Have you escaped from the group?’

‘We’re just over there,’ Jason said and pointed at the door to the adjacent room. ‘Professor, watch this!’ Gleeful concentration changed his face and...

...Charles was standing.

‘Dear God in Heaven,’ Erik murmured and grabbed the green railing for support. The water beneath them was still, making a perfect surface. Brush-strokes of green formed the reflection. Charles laughed. ‘Are we...?’

‘...Inside the painting? Yes.’ Erik laughed too.

‘Extraordinary,’ he said, and they both looked down at the blur of water lilies under the bridge where they stood. Then Erik straightened up and looked at Charles, something between relief and apprehensiveness in his eye. ‘You’re standing up.’

‘It’s an illusion,’ he said with a shrug. ‘It’s just a picture in our minds.’ Erik smiled, pleased.

‘What would happen if we walked off the bridge?’ he asked. ‘You can’t see that bank on the painting.’ He pointed down at the bank of the pond.

‘He must have made it up, or possibly picked it out of another painting,‘ Charles answered. ‘As you see, it looks different from the trees behind us or the bridge. The brush-strokes aren’t as pronounced.’ Erik drew his hand over the wood experimentally and stopped only when his fingers almost touched Charles’.

‘But it feels like wood,’ he said. ‘And the smells - I can smell the flowers. This isn’t simply the painting...’

‘No, it’s a world created around the painting,’ Charles agreed. ‘It’s possible that we could walk through every single Monet painting of this garden. I don’t think we’d fall off the edge.’ Erik continued his scrutiny.

‘You’re not painted,’ he observed. ‘You look like you always do.’

‘So do you,’ Charles observed. ‘But neither of us ever sat for Monet.’

‘True,’ Erik conceded. ‘But if, say, Monet’s wife were to appear...?’

‘She would probably be a walking painting, yes.’

‘What an unsettling thought,’ he said and frowned. Charles remembered the sketched stormtroopers he had seen in the Dix illusion, and nodded in agreement. ‘But we still have free will inside the illusion?’

‘For now, we do,’ Charles said after thinking about it.

‘What does that mean?’

‘I think that eventually, as Jason becomes more proficient at controlling his ability, he will be able to start changing people’s perceptions of themselves, which will mean that he can influence their actions.’

‘Doesn’t he do that already?’ Erik asked and nodded down, indicating Charles’ legs. Experimentally, he shook his legs, each in turn.

‘I still conceive of myself as being able to walk,’ he said. ‘The reasons why I cannot are purely physical, after all. But in time, he will learn how to change people’s appearances, their thought patterns - he could make people believe the illusion, not just experience it.’ Erik nodded. It was obvious that he was thinking through the uses of such an ability. Charles found it rather unsettling. He was not sure it was a good idea to train Jason’s illusions to such an extent - what if he caught someone within an illusion which went on and on? That would be devastating. Suddenly eager to escape even this idyll, he called out:

‘Well done, Jason!’

Suddenly, they were back in the gallery, watching the bridge they had just recently stood on. Jason stood expectantly at his side.

‘That was impressive,’ Charles said.

‘Can I show the others?’ he asked alertly. Charles could not remember him ever looking so happy.

‘Alright, but you have to be careful, so that no one notices,’ he told him.

‘Go show off, Jason,’ Erik urged the child. ‘It’s an extraordinary gift.’ Jason grinned and then went back to the group, trying and failing not to run. Erik turned to Charles. ‘Perhaps we should avoid the group,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll be stuck with them otherwise.’

‘I’m glad Hank thought to give us some time on our own,’ Charles said, and considered it all for a moment. ‘Do you know what?’ he said and reached up, touching his arm. ‘I haven’t been in New York for ages. The paintings will be here later too - let’s go outside. Walk around - see the sights.’ Erik smiled.

‘The Apple is our oyster,’ he supplied.

‘Exactly!’ Charles glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got well over an hour.’

‘Let’s go then,’ Erik said but, as Charles drew back his hand, he caught it briefly and gave it a squeeze. A little embarrassed, Charles smiled at him, and then inclined his head to ask him to push the chair.

They found the way out of the side-entrance. As they came in line with the main entrance, Charles remembered his previous bad conscience and said:

‘Erik?’ He stopped and came around to face him. ‘I feel sorry about leaving Hank behind,’ he explained and took out his wallet. ‘Would you go and get him something? I was thinking a book with good pictures. He’s very fond of modernism.’

‘I’ve noticed,’ Erik smiled and took the notes Charles handed him. ‘I’ll be quick. Stay here.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,’ he promised. Erik doffed his hat at him and ascended the steps. Charles looked after him and smiled to himself. He could not remember having had such a fulfilling gallery visit since... He could not think of another time, and had to draw the conclusion that it had never happened. Why did he so seldom reflect on how fortunate he was to have a companion such as Erik? If he had been a man who believed in destiny, he would probably make some very romantic assertions about the two of them. But as things were now, he was just grateful that they had found each other, and that he had come back, and that despite everything, they were still close...

Something distracted him from his thoughts. On the other side of the road, two police cars were parked, several policemen standing by them, looking tense. One of them was speaking into the police radio. Suspense swelling inside him, Charles put his fingers to his temple.

The Met... Confirmed... Do you need backup? ...Negative, Control. He doesn’t seem armed. ...This son-of-a-bitch doesn’t need weapons. ... In that case, request backup. ... arrest ... shoot him ... Magneto...

Charles pushed himself out of their minds and into his own body again. His heart was beating a frenzied tattoo inside his chest. Once again he put his fingers to his temple and cast out for the right mind. Erik! Don’t come out of the main entrance - find some other way. Get out from the back and then get back to the mansion, but make sure to do it undetected. Do you understand me?

‘Charles?’ He looked over his shoulder, and saw Erik, walking down the stairs towards him with a parcel under his arm.

‘No,’ he whispered, but his voice was drowned by the screams of:

‘Police! Get down!’ One of the policemen jumped up and tackled Erik down onto the stairs. As he took hold of both his arms and pulled them backwards, Erik screamed. The parcel fell onto its edge and onto the damp pavement. The other policemen unlocked the safety catches on their pistols. Charles could not move. He was no longer a body, only a pair of eyes watching, unable to act, while his mind raced. Oh God, what do I do?

‘Gotcha, you mutant bastard,’ said one of the policemen and approached slowly, gun in both his hands. Erik stared up at it with wild eyes. His teeth gritted. But then they relaxed, and he said:

‘I don’t know what you mean!’

‘Yeah, try the other one when you’re at it!’

‘How about the thirty-four people you killed in Bedford - you know what that means, mutie scum?’ the policeman shouted at him. ‘They had wives and kids, you know. Do you care about them, huh? Jones, cuff him!’ The officer holding him down picked the manacles from his belt, snapped them around one of his wrists and then pulled at his other arm, making him scream in pain.

‘This is an unlawful arrest!’ Erik shouted. ‘You haven’t even stated the charges! I haven’t done anything wrong! I don’t know who you’re taking me for, but you’re making a mistake. My name is Max Eisenhardt - I’m a teacher - I’ve done nothing wrong, God damn you!’

Charles’ powerlessness suddenly snapped and, throwing up both hands to his head, thought: He’s telling the truth. Believe him. He’s telling the truth.

At once, the policemen stopped and stared at each other and the man on the stairs. Their guns sank; the safety catches clicked in place again. Finally, the man with the cuffs stuttered:

‘I-I’m so sorry, sir.’ Leaning down, he took his arm and helped Erik up to his feet. As he undid the manacle, he asked: ‘Are you hurt, sir?’

‘No, not really,’ Erik said gravely and rolled his right shoulder, wincing.

‘We’re so sorry, Mister Eisenhardt,’ said the man who only moments ago had hurled abuse at him. ‘We were mistaken. We understand if you want to make a complaint...’

‘That won’t be necessary...’

‘I really think you should,’ one of the policemen said. ‘This was absolutely unacceptable.’ Embarrassed, he leaned down and took up Erik’s hat, which had fallen off. Brushing it off, he offered it to him. Erik accepted it and said:

‘We’ll see. Thank you.’ The policemen all shook his hand and apologised again, and then crossed the street, discussing their mistake under their voices. Erik picked the parcel from the pavement and approached Charles.

‘You could have been quicker,’ he commented and gave him the book.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said with a deep sigh. ‘I froze up. Are you okay?’ Erik rubbed his shoulder, but nodded. ‘They had guns,’ he observed. ‘And the handcuffs. All that metal. You could have killed them.’ He answered with a joyless smile.

‘A few months ago, I would have.’

Charles knew little else to do than to smile compassionately and brush their hands together.

‘Let’s find a café or something - escape the attention,’ he suggested. Erik nodded his agreement and they left the museum.

***

Even this late in the year, Charles enjoyed being outside. After dinner, he had left the house, filled with the noise of children, and escaped out onto the terrace. The cold seeped through his clothes; he could smell the approaching rain. It may have been an attempt at finding a physical state which matched his mood, because he had not yet shaken off the shock of the attempted arrest. Even when it started raining in earnest, he stayed, looking into the night.

Then the smatter of rain against a surface was heard, and the drops were not falling on him anymore. Above him floated an umbrella, and when he looked over his shoulder, he saw Erik approaching, one hand casually raised.

‘Show-off,’ Charles said, smiling at him. He smiled back and the umbrella jumped into his hand.

‘Hank was very pleased with his gift,’ Erik explained. ‘Even if it had been dented.’

‘Good,’ Charles said. ‘Did you ask him to have a look at your shoulder?’ Erik shook his head and put his hand on it.

‘It’s probably nothing.’

‘But it’s still painful,’ Charles observed and turned around. ‘Come on, let’s go inside.’ Erik let go of the umbrella and let it float over them.

‘I made us some coffee - I thought we could need it.’

They settled in Charles’ study, and before Erik had a chance to start pouring the coffee, Charles said:

‘Let me see to your shoulder first.’ Erik rolled his eyes but undid his tie.

‘You just want me to take my shirt off,’ he said mockingly.

‘Oh, just sit down,’ Charles told him, unable not to smile.

Touching Erik like this, not with the hands of a lover, but the hands of a doctor, was strange. He reflected now that until that first burst of passion between them, the only kind of hand which had made contact with his own skin since his accident had been that bearing the clinical touch. Erik’s hands were always true to their purpose - they grabbed and they touched and they stroked - but Charles’ were fickle, able to take on different natures. Doctors’ hands were odd things - on the one hand, so salacious and intruding, on the hand, simply a tool, a way to gain information. As he tried to find damage with his fingertips and made him move his arm, he caught the eye of the man who was suddenly his patient and smiled apologetically. Erik answered his gaze, and in his eyes was assurance that he did not mind. To him, there was no difference - it was simply Charles touching him.

After not long, he broke the contact.

‘It’s just a pulled muscle. It’ll sort itself out within a week. No heavy lifting for a while, and if it hurts, rest it.’ Erik nodded in acknowledgement and pulled his shirt on again. Charles crossed to his liquor cabinet and extracted a bottle. ‘For the coffee,’ he explained.

‘Good idea,’ Erik agreed as the metal coffee pot was pouring coffee into the cups on its own. After adding the rum, they settled again, Erik still sitting on the consultation couch, not bothering to put his waistcoat and tie back on, and Charles sitting as close as he possibly could. They sipped their coffee in silence for a while, letting the heat and the alcohol work, until Erik spoke.

‘Uncle Erich used to make this for us, back in Düsseldorf,’ he said and indicated the cup. ‘My mother didn’t really approve, so he’d heat the rum a little first.’ Charles smiled at the reminiscence, briefly wondering why Erik had used a plural - arguably, he must be speaking of him and his father, but it did not quite make sense in the context.

‘Were you close to your uncle?’ he asked instead. Erik nodded.

‘He was quite a bit younger than my father,’ he explained, ‘so he became almost like an older brother to me.’

‘He lived with you?’

‘Yes - I think he could never choose which girl to marry,’ Erik admitted and smiled at the memory. ‘He was a very cheerful man. Reliable. He treated me like I had the right to know what happened. He was constantly trying to teach me things - he was a jeweller, and I think that he wanted me to become one too.’ His smile grew a little more bitter. ‘As it happens, I became quite proficient at metal.’

‘Do you...’ Charles hesitated to ask. ‘Do you know what happened to him?’ Erik shook his head.

‘I actually have no idea. He was involved with the resistance, and when it was our turn, he hid, so he never got on the train to Auschwitz with the rest of us. But what are the odds that he survived?’ He shrugged and sipped his coffee. ‘When I travelled around, before...’ He stopped himself from saying before I met you, and instead said: ‘...all this, I sometimes thought I spotted him, in crowded streets, on passing trams - things like that. But it was just wishful thinking, I guess.’ Charles caught his hand and pressed it, probably too hard. He felt bad about bringing it up. Searching for a new topic to discuss, he said:

‘The first time I drank coffee, it was spiked with rum. My father let me try some of his. I absolutely hated it.’ Erik chuckled.

‘Is it better now?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Charles answered and emptied his cup. Erik refilled it and observed:

‘You don’t often talk about your parents.’

‘I guess not,’ he said and realised it was a prompting. ‘Would you like to hear?’

‘I seem to spend a lot of time discussing my childhood with you, so it only seems fair,’ Erik said and smiled at him. Charles smiled back, the hum of the spirit pleasant in the back of his head.

‘There’s a picture of them on the mantlepiece,’ he explained and pointed. Erik got up and moved his hands over them. ‘Yes, that one.’ He took it and returned to his seat to watch the two portraits. His mother looked so young, but the lace she wore seemed to trap her. His father looked like a true man of the Empire, his eyes staring out of the frame into the distance. ‘These were taken just before my father went to France,’ Charles explained. ‘They married only a month before it - they were very young. A little desperate, I think. There’s another photo from the same session, with both of them together.’

‘Why, then, the separate portraits in one frame?’ Erik asked. Charles looked away.

‘I don’t really like that picture of the two of them,’ he admitted. ‘It feels false, considering how much they ended up hating each other.’

‘You mentioned earlier that your father was in a gas attack,’ Erik said slowly, as if it was now he who was hesitant to speak of horrible things. Charles nodded, and explained:

‘It was at Passchendaele, in 1917. Mustard gas. He contracted the most horrible burns from it, here-’ he indicated his own throat and up on his jaw ‘-and on his hands. I remember those - they didn’t hurt then, but when he came back, my mother could not even hold his hand.’ He had to pause; he did not like to speak about the tragedies in his family, and on the other hand, he felt silly about calling them tragedies, considering what misfortunes Erik had had. After a gulp of coffee, he returned to the matter at hand. ‘It affected his sight too - he never really recovered. He had good days and he had bad days.’ Whereas I only have bad days. ‘When he came back... my mother hated him. She was young - only eighteen. She was in love. She was convinced that her husband was doing something great for his country, and he came back an invalid. Eventually, when she finally could touch him, she didn’t. She didn’t care that he learned to get by despite being practically blind - he became a brilliant physicist. She could not stand him.’ He looked down at his hand. ‘I guess that was why it took so long before they had me. They married in 1917, but no children until 1932. If it weren’t for the fact that... I know that he was, I would have doubts...’ He swallowed, feeling prudish.

‘You’d have doubts...?’ Erik prompted.

‘I would doubt if he were really my father,’ he explained. ‘But being a telepath makes it... rather easy to know these things, though.’

‘Oh.’ They sat in embarrassed silence for a while, then Erik turned to him and said: ‘“Children”?’ Charles frowned. ‘You said “no children until 1932”. I thought you were an only child.’ Charles looked away, but knew that if he had started explaining his relationship to his parents, he had to include this.

‘I am, but I wasn’t going to be.’ Upon seeing Erik’s nonplussed face, he explained: ‘I had a twin sister, but she died in the womb. And... my mother wanted a girl.’ He averted his eyes. Erik’s hand covered his. ‘She just had one too many reasons to dislike me, I guess,’ he said quietly. ‘I tried so hard to please her, but...’ He trailed off again, remembering how she had never had time with him, seeming to prefer even the company of her brutish new husband to his. ‘It’s an awful thing to think,’ he admitted, ‘but I’m glad my mother never had to see me like this. She spent so much time nursing her invalid husband - I don’t know what she’d have thought if she had seen her son crippled.’ Erik pressed his hand.

‘She ought to have been proud of you, no matter what.’ Charles shrugged; she never had been, but where was the surprise in that? Not wishing to seem grumpy, he turned back to him and looked at him. The look on his face touched something deep inside of him. It was a tenderness which felt almost alien. Charles reached up and touched his cheek; Erik moved into his hand like a cat would.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t intervene earlier,’ he said, his mind back at the arrest. ‘It just goes to show I’m no good in combat situations.’

‘You saved me,’ Erik said. ‘I’m grateful for that.’ Charles hand fell; Erik caught it between his two own.

‘Why didn’t you do anything?’ he asked, watching how Erik’s weathered hands handled his own soft. ‘You could have dealt with that yourself. Were you testing me?’

‘Not at all,’ Erik answered. ‘But I knew that as soon as I did anything, I would have to kill them all, because they would know I was who they thought I was. Then... I would have to leave you there, alone with the children and with no way to get back, and the police would probably interrogate you, and then...’ I would have to leave altogether. Charles swallowed.

‘Max Eisenhardt,’ he said suddenly and looked him in the eye. He had seen that name in Erik’s mind, buried deep along with childhood memories. ‘You told them your real name.’ He shook his head.

‘My birth name,’ he corrected him. ‘It’s not the same thing. It’s no longer my name.’

‘How did you become Erik Lehnsherr?’ Charles asked. Erik let his hand drop.

‘Lehnsherr was my mother’s maiden name,’ he explained slowly. ‘And Erik... after my uncle.’ They sat silent for a long while. Erik was lost in memories.

‘But... when...?’

‘It was the name I gave when I arrived in Auschwitz,’ he explained. ‘I have no idea why. I’ve often wondered... but I have found no answer. It was just an impulse, to try to be someone else, as if it would make some kind of difference. It did not. But in time, it was who I became. Max died, Erik survived.’ Charles nodded to show that he understood, silently promising to continue calling him Erik.

‘I would never want you to leave,’ he said outright. He had not planned to, but it needed to be said.

‘I would never want to leave,’ Erik answered. They looked at each other for a long time, and then Charles laughed and pulled him closer. They kissed, finding absolution in the closeness. Even when the kiss ended, they stayed close. He will never leave, Charles repeated. Forever together. It was not realistic, he told himself - not with things as they were. How was it possible to love, in a world as harsh as this one, where they were threatened from all sides? Yet they did love. No, the world would not change their love. It must not. Instead, it would have to be the other way around.

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