There might not be such things as happy endings for men like Erik, but there is the certainty that there will always be a new beginning. Erik opens his eyes and draws in a sharp, panicked breath
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Charles wakes with Erik's name on his lips, a cry of shock that would have been voiced by his younger self had the loop not ended in so dramatic a fashion. While Erik had implored him not to watch, that hadn't prevented Charles from monitoring the events in his own unique way, though he hadn't the slightest inclination that Erik was about to sacrifice himself in lieu of his mother. It had been to late to stop the bullet.
(A memory, unbidden, seizes Charles. That day on the grounds of his family home, Erik dressed in gray and Charles, reluctantly, holding a gun to his friend's head. Oh, come on. You know I can deflect it!But in the end, he hadn't been able to, had he? Breathless and not a little disoriented, Charles nearly tumbles out of bed, freeing his foot from the tangle of sheets as he bursts from his room and crosses the hall in a panic
( ... )
The weight has settled deep in his chest. Erik stares at the door with a quiet and panicked desperation as he raises his hand out of instinct, but nothing in the room responds to him -- not even the slightest rattle to soothe his singing nerves. He wonders at which is worse? Is it harder to be a child without any power and all the ability in the world or an adult with the strength to make his own decisions and without any actual power?
He breathes out raggedly when he realises it's only Charles, but he's unsure if he's ready to deal with this, now. He wishes, more than anything, that Charles could seek out the thoughts in his mind. Weary, Erik doesn't wish to waste time in trying to get them across when he an barely spare the time to define any of them singularly. "Charles," he responds with a terrible exhaustion sinking into each vowel and syllable -- his accent stronger than it's been in years.
There he is, then. Shaken, but otherwise unharmed. There is no plume of blood staining his bedclothes, no bullet to be found. No sign of the concentration camp at all, really, save for the one that was already there.
Still, that does not prevent Charles from hurrying into the room, fury and concern fighting over his features as he stares down at Erik.
"What-- What were you thinking?" he asks, as though he doesn't already know.
There are a thousand possible answers to that question and he stares up at Charles -- the bedsheets coiled around him in lazy disarray -- and wonders at what answer will tide over the other man. Nothing responds when he calls for it and so he knows Erik can no longer see into his mind as he wished he might. "Must you really ask me that?" Erik replies with exhaustion running bone-deep in his body.
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(A memory, unbidden, seizes Charles. That day on the grounds of his family home, Erik dressed in gray and Charles, reluctantly, holding a gun to his friend's head. Oh, come on. You know I can deflect it!But in the end, he hadn't been able to, had he? Breathless and not a little disoriented, Charles nearly tumbles out of bed, freeing his foot from the tangle of sheets as he bursts from his room and crosses the hall in a panic ( ... )
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He breathes out raggedly when he realises it's only Charles, but he's unsure if he's ready to deal with this, now. He wishes, more than anything, that Charles could seek out the thoughts in his mind. Weary, Erik doesn't wish to waste time in trying to get them across when he an barely spare the time to define any of them singularly. "Charles," he responds with a terrible exhaustion sinking into each vowel and syllable -- his accent stronger than it's been in years.
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Still, that does not prevent Charles from hurrying into the room, fury and concern fighting over his features as he stares down at Erik.
"What-- What were you thinking?" he asks, as though he doesn't already know.
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