[fic] xm: fc - everything about it is a love song - pg13 - charles/erik
Title: Everything About It Is a Love Song
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Characters: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG13
Length: ~20k
Summary: Erik's spent fifty years being a figurehead and he's ready to leave that behind. Luckily, so is Charles.
(aka Old Retired Dudes in Love)
Notes: This started off as commentfic for pearl_o. It would not be possible without her. She was inundated with emails about it when I started and then was kind enough to beta it while I was wailing about how it had taken over my life. This story would also not be possible without littledust who basically talked me out of every plot hole and made the entire structure stronger. While this takes place in the far future of XMFC and I kept Sirs Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart in mind while writing, it's not compliant with X1-X3 because I tend to look at XMFC as a reboot rather than a prequel. Title from the Paul Simon song of the same name, but sections of this story owe heavy inspiration to the Dar Williams' song "February."
***
Erik turns 79.
It's the start of August--brutal and sticky in Rio, where they're currently camped out in one of the Brotherhood's larger compounds. Mystique is the only one present who knows the significance of the date, but when she joins him on the porch, he waves her away absently as he stares out into the trees. The sweat is as cleansing as it is oppressive and he finds himself welcoming the heat, the burn.
He's tired. It goes beyond the humidity and the sun and the suffocating warmth.
He writes a letter and leaves it for Mystique. He doesn't pack a bag. There's nothing of this life that he wants to bring with him.
***
It's not hard getting into the school. He thinks it would be for anyone else, but he knows how Charles' mind works and knows that he's always been Charles' weakness. It's even easier to move through the house, to find Charles' bedroom in the dark and sit in the chair by the window as the sky turn grey, then purple, then pink.
Charles wakes before the sun and looks right at him.
"Are you here to kidnap me or because you're lonely?" Charles asks him.
"Both," Erik admits.
Charles pulls himself up and leans against the headboard. He still sleeps in blue pajamas, but instead of making him look like a child, he looks dignified. He wonders how it's taken him this long to notice that Charles' frumpy wardrobe no longer looks out of place. They really have gotten old. He remembers watching Charles rub the sleep out of his eyes in days long past, remembers that Charles looked like little more than a boy with his unruly hair and too-large pajamas and scrunched up nose. He makes the movement elegant now; he has gravitas even in this.
"Happy Birthday," Charles says. "I did send a card, though Italy obviously wasn't the correct place to send it."
"Brazil," Erik says.
"Brazil in August," Charles says. "You always were a masochist."
There's a softness to his eyes, even now. Whereas Erik has spent fifty years cursing his weakness, wishing he could shake the things that Charles inspires in him, he rather thinks Charles has cultivated his own. Regardless of how many times he and Erik clash on the battlefield, there's always a warmth in his smile when it's just the two of them.
"I have some land upstate," Erik says. "There's a house there. It's not very large."
"Is it accessible?" Charles asks.
Erik gives him a flat look. As if he hadn't kept Charles' chair in mind as he laid every plank of wood, as he painted every wall.
"I'll need to take care of some things," Charles says. "Hank should be able to handle most of it, but I'll need to make some phone calls to make sure he can access all the proper accounts."
Erik hums, sardonically amused. "Should I come back at dinner?"
"You should come here and kiss me," Charles says. "You should give me that ring in your pocket."
"I'll give you that ring when I feel like it, and not a moment sooner," Erik says, but he can't ignore the first request and once he has Charles in his arms, it's very hard to let him go long enough to get his affairs in order.
***
When they were young men, it was always Charles angling to stay in bed, Charles tugging on Erik's arm to pull him back into the covers, Charles pouting until Erik put down his trousers and leaned over for a kiss, Charles wheedling that they had some more time, they could just stay for a few more minutes, just hold each other a few minutes longer. He'd cling to Erik and hang off of him, all sly, pouty smiles until Erik gave in, feeling a sort of childish delight in their shifting relationship, in the hours they spent smiling at each other and touching and talking and taking up residence in each other's hearts and minds.
It still has been, to some degree--in their weekend trysts, their stolen afternoons, it's always been Charles following Erik's movements with sad, pleading eyes. It's never enough. He never wants their time together to end.
Maybe it doesn't have to, now.
He tries not to hope, tries not to dream. He learned not to dream a long time ago, not about this, at least. He spent six months spinning hopes and dreams, imagining the life he'd build with Erik, and not even the paralysis hurt quite as much as watching those dreams turn to ash on a Cuban beach. He tries not to hope that this means what he wants it to mean, that this is the reward they get for so many years of dedication to mutantkind. He tries not to hope that he's going to live out the rest of his days somewhere private and quiet with Erik by his side.
He doesn't know that he can let himself believe it, not just yet. If it's a trick or a farce or it somehow doesn't take, he doesn't know that he'll recover.
It means he's hesitant to leave, now, no matter how many times Erik promises he's not going anywhere. He glances over his shoulder constantly as he washes and dresses and he pauses at the door, staring. He knows it's foolish to think that this will disappear once he opens the door, but the fear is creeping up anyway and only Erik's hand waving him sleepily away spurs him into movement.
While he's never allowed himself to think of this, to dream of a proper retirement, there are certain contingency plans in place. Charles has been the target of at least eight assassination attempts that they know of and has been injured, threatened, and kidnapped with some frequency. He's able to take care of himself, for the most part--most people who come after him tend to underestimate him--but it means he understands how prudent it is to have a fallback in place should someone else need to take over the school.
It's too early to call the banks, so once he's done changing security protocols, he begins to write letters to Scott and Ororo and Jean and the rest of the staff, and when he's finished, he sends a polite mental request to Hank, awake in his lab.
"Is something wrong?" Hank asks when he arrives, and Charles is struck by how much he's changed in the last fifty years. Of all of that first group of children, Hank has probably changed the most. For the better, Charles thinks, but also so abruptly that it must have been awful, those first few months. Charles wouldn't know; he was too grief-stricken to be much good to any of them between Halloween and Christmas that year.
"Erik's come to see me," Charles says, and Hank tenses, but says nothing. The staff knows that there is history between their Professor X and Magneto. Only Hank is aware of the tragic story of Charles and Erik. "He's...retiring, I suppose."
"You're going with him." It's not a question.
"I am," Charles says.
Hank seems to consider this, and after a moment of somewhat thoughtful silence, he says, "Good. You deserve it."
It's a better answer than Charles expected, and he can't help his smile. "Excellent," he says. "I'm leaving you in charge of everything, like we've discussed in the past. Scott may give you some pushback, but there's a difference between running a school and leading a team. You should still defer to him in the field, but--"
"Wait a second," Hank says, frowning. "How long are you planning on being gone?"
Charles frowns as well. "Hank," he says. "I'm leaving. I'm--you said it. I'm going with Erik."
"I thought you meant--" Hank starts to say and then stops abruptly. He looks down at the desk, at the neatly labelled letters and the piles of papers with clear instructions on them. "I thought you meant for a vacation. I thought you meant for a week or two. Charles, I know he's your--" Hank struggles for a word. It's a different struggle than it would have been all those years ago, when Hank averted his eyes and said "friend" with a certain tone of voice. Now it's simply the inability to sum up their relationship in one word. Charles struggles with it, too. "I know how much you care about him," Hank finally says. "But this is--he's not--He's still Magneto, Charles. He's killed people. He's terrorized people. Everything he touches is destroyed."
"He's not Magneto any longer," Charles insists. "He's tired. He's leaving that behind. He's not even wearing the helmet."
That, at least, throws Hank just slightly.
"It's still a security concern," Hank says, but it's a weak protest. "What if something happens? What if we need to get to you? What if someone finds you out?"
"I'm still a powerful telepath, as it turns out," Charles says. "I'm rather good at protecting myself and I think you'll find Erik is very protective as well. We'll be alone in the middle of nowhere, but we'll still have telephones and email."
"What if," Hank says, and he won't meet Charles' eyes, "you get there and realize that spending six months together fifty years ago wasn't actually adequate grounds to form a relationship? What if you get there and it's not what you think?"
And that, of course, would be someone putting words to Charles' deepest fears. He's loved Erik for more than half his life. He's loved Erik more than twice as long as he's not loved him. But the majority of that love has been hidden away, precariously shielded and steadily growing miles and miles away from the man that inspired it. Aside from those turbulent few months when they first met, they haven't actually spent all that much time together and certainly nothing this long term. They should be starting with a weekend or a trip, not jumping right into cohabitation. There's always a chance that Charles has prescribed more meaning to their time together than Erik has, that they're not compatible, that the easy way they fit together when they were crisscrossing the country has faded and gone with the years.
But no. Erik came to him this morning. Erik came to him without weapons and costumes and helmets and theatrics. Erik came to him in jeans and a crisp linen shirt and not so much as a hat on his head and asked Charles to come with him. Erik came to him with a ring in his pocket and the clear intention to use it. Erik came to him with his mind full of nothing but tired and might need to decorate and kept up on the bills, the electric and plumbing should be on and Charles Charles Charles Charles.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Charles says, "but I honestly don't imagine it will be a problem, Hank."
Hank sighs and rubs his forehead, mussing his fur.
"Fine," he says. "You'll be back to visit, at least?"
Charles pauses. The words of course are on the tip of his tongue, but that doesn't seem entirely fair. Erik is cutting himself off from everything he's built, everyone he's known. He can't imagine Erik would be overly eager to see Charles running back to the school every few weeks. Charles can't imagine he'd be able to turn his mind off and let himself settle if visits and projects and coursework was constantly on his mind.
It will hurt to let the children go, but it won't be forever. Charles has been everything to everyone for a great many years. He'd like to be one thing to one person and see how that role fits.
"Give me a year, Hank," Charles says. "A year on my own with Erik. To prove to him and to all of you and to myself that I can do it." He pauses. "A school year, actually. I'll come back for graduation."
"A year," Hank says flatly.
"Ten months," Charles says. "I'll call and write. When we settle in, I'll give you a contact address."
"Charles," Hank starts to say, but Charles is tired and Erik is waiting in his bed. His glare is, perhaps, sharper than he intends, but it does its job and Hank closes his mouth.
"I'm a grown man, fully capable of making my own decisions, Henry," Charles says. "I'm giving you the explanation out of courtesy because you are my friend and because you've been a part of this saga since the start, but it is just that--a courtesy. I am going with Erik. I wish you the best of luck, and if any school-related matters need my attention, please don't hesitate to call, but I'm leaving, now, on my terms."
Hank's expression hardens, but he nods and quietly listens as Charles quickly goes over the accounts, the details of the east wing renovation, and the various ins and outs of the few aspects of running the school that Hank isn't familiar with. The sun has burned off the dawn when they finish, and Charles' eyes stray to the door. Hank's do, too.
"Be careful," Hank says, and leans forward for a rare hug.
"I will," Charles promises. "I'll call. I'll write. And I'll see you at graduation."
Hank nods stiffly and Charles doesn't look back as he leaves the office and returns to his bedroom, where Erik is dozing peacefully curled up on the side of the bed that Charles normally finds himself sleeping on.
Charles can't bring himself to wake him. He glances at the clock and bites his lip before the realization hits him that he doesn't have to be anywhere. He's just handed Hank his resignation.
He pulls himself back into bed and wraps his arms around Erik, who blinks at him drowsily.
"We should go," Erik mumbles, even as he closes his eyes again and presses his nose against Charles' cheek.
"We have plenty of time," Charles says. "Sleep for a bit. We'll go this afternoon."
"Lazy," Erik says, but he presses his lips against Charles' jaw and doesn't protest further.
Charles unplugs his alarm clock and sleeps as well.
***
Age is a funny thing.
In his youth, Erik would have died for his cause, for their cause, the cause of all mutantkind. Erik would have gladly given his life in battle, would have considered it noble, even. He was not Erik, after all--he was Magneto. He was the figurehead of all mutants. He carried their burdens and he broadcast their message.
He understands the value of time, now. He's old and his joints creak. He has already given the cause more years of his life than he has left to live. When he looks forward, it seems like such a hassle, all of it. Even if every human bowed before their kind tomorrow, he doesn't think it would bring him the happiness he feels at the prospect of taking time for himself, catching up on his reading, learning to cook new things, and spending his days with Charles. There are others who will gladly take up the helm, who will more effectively step into his place.
Let someone else be Magneto for a time. He's going to be Erik again.
He thinks he'd like to get a cat.
***
They leave during the noon staff meeting, packing a few essentials into an SUV registered to Charles rather than the school. They squabble only briefly over who will drive--aside from the nap, Charles doesn't think Erik's slept much the past few days, but Erik insists and Charles doesn't want to start their journey off with an argument. He naps, on and off, as the highway rushes past, and wakes for good when road becomes more narrow and the trees become more dense.
"Are we almost there?" he asks.
"Maybe another hour," Erik says.
"Do you want me to drive for a bit?" Charles asks.
"You don't know where we're going," Erik says. Which is reasonable, but they both know he could easily pluck the information out of Erik's head, if needed. No, Charles chalks this up to a good old fashioned surprise. Erik wants it to be special. Erik's counting on Charles not to go snooping.
Charles doesn't snoop. He's learned, over the years, that a bit of patience makes the result that much sweeter.
It's odd, though, trying to wrap his brain around all of this. They're in a car headed towards a house where they'll live, together. A house that will be their home away from everyone else. A home that will contain a life made up of whatever it is retired people do. A life where Charles is only ever pulled in one direction at a time, where there aren't a dozen adults and teenagers scrambling for his attention with their problems, each more important than the last.
It feels a bit absurd, like a dream. He has dreamed about it, in fact. He's had too many dreams to count that ended with him and Erik together and even several lengthy daydreams during their various encounters, both kidnappings and rendezvouses. He's been ready for this for several years, now. He's glad Erik has finally caught up. It will be nice to put aside the fighting and the arguments, the sharp words that always seemed to end their time together on a sour note.
"How do you feel about cats?" Erik asks a few minutes later.
"As a species?" Charles says, blinking.
Erik snorts. "As a pet," he says.
"Why?" Charles asks, and some of his disdain must shine through, because Erik turns to look at him, both eyebrows raised.
"I would think that would be obvious," Erik says.
"Oh, no, Erik," Charles says. "Don't fall into their trap."
Erik says nothing, but his skeptical expression speaks for itself.
"Cats!" Charles clarifies. "And the way they somehow make people think they're desirable as pets. They're stubborn and they hold no loyalty. They constantly look smug. They do what they want, they think they're better than you are, they expect you to wait on them, and they're really just waiting for you to die so they can eat you."
"That's nonsense," Erik says.
"It's true!" Charles insists. "I read it somewhere. I don't understand pets at all, but cats especially. I just don't get the popularity."
Erik shakes his head. "You're a crazy old fool," he says. "You don't like animals because you can't read them."
"That's true," Charles admits. "But my issues with cats still stand. Please tell me there's not a cat waiting at this house." Perhaps Charles was a little hasty in thinking that they'd be living a life free of arguments and debate.
"No," Erik says, sighing. "And now there will never be, I suppose."
Charles feels guilty for a split second before the relief of not having to deal with a pet kicks in.
"I'll get you a plant," Charles says.
"Well, there's no need, really," Erik says. "I mean, I suppose I already have something that's stubborn, smug, thinks it's better than I am, expects me to wait on it, and does what it wants."
Charles glares. "Very funny," he says.
"At least I assume that you won't be waiting for me to die so you can eat me," Erik says.
Charles crosses his arm and frowns out the window. "Good to see your sense of humor hasn't changed in fifty years," he mutters.
Erik laughs, sharp and sudden and whole-heartedly. He laughs like he's surprised at the sound and he keeps laughing until he's out of breath, shaking his head and glancing over at Charles with sly, warm eyes.
Charles smiles just a little, and when Erik rests his elbow on the center console and offers Charles his hand, palm up, Charles takes it without a moment's hesitation.
***
Charles insists on the internet connection.
"I thought the point was to get away from the world," Erik mutters as the slouching young man installs the wires under the house.
"It is," Charles says. "But I'm in the midst of writing a book. My options are internet connection or driving back and forth between here and the city every few weeks."
Erik scowls, but allows it. As if Charles had doubted even for a second that he'd win the argument.
It's not so bad, though. There are some good recipes out there on the internet, and as long as Erik doesn't let himself get distracted by the news sites, it doesn't bother him much at all. As time passes, those first few weeks disappearing in a haze of decorating and cabinet stocking and making the house feel like home, Erik isn't even tempted by the news sites. His desire to maintain this level of tranquility wins out over the demons of his darker nature as well as his general pessimism. He sticks to some food blogs Charles finds for him, and even those he checks infrequently.
It's just as well, really. They've only got the one computer and Charles is going through a writing phase.
"I go in and out," he admits over breakfast. "I'd like to pretend that I'm dedicated to focusing on the task, but some chapters are easier than others, and there are so many wonderful things to distract me."
Erik rolls his eyes. Charles' lines have not gotten better with age.
He's writing now, though. He's spending hours a day hunched over the table he's set up on the porch, typing frantically at the laptop. There are long pauses, sometimes, and when Erik looks up, Charles is staring absently into the trees, his lips curled down into a thoughtful frown. Erik remembers the way Charles used to pace when he was thinking, wandering around the room, picking things up at random, muttering to himself the whole while. It's been a long time and Erik and Charles have both come to terms with what happened on the beach, but there are still moments when a fresh regret will bloom in Erik's chest.
They're few and far between, mostly because as soon as Charles gets wind of them, he waves them away.
"You're not allowed to feel sorry for yourself if I don't feel sorry for myself," he says.
He doesn't have to say it today. He looks up from his staring and catches sight of Erik in the open doorway between the living room and the porch. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head and beckons Erik forward.
It's too hot, really, for them to be this close in the sun, but Charles doesn't seem to mind. He wraps his arms around Erik's waist and urges him down until he's sitting half on the bench and half on Charles' lap. Charles presses his face against Erik's chest.
They don't talk.
They don't have to.
***
The nearest town is a half hour drive and "town" is, perhaps, a generous assessment of the size of the area, but Charles quite likes it. It's not exactly a college town--there's a university about two towns over--but it's close enough to have that feeling, minus the actual students. There's a small bookshop that deals mostly in used books and special orders, a diner with fantastic brunch specials, a grocery store, a hardware store, and a handful of other shops. Charles had wanted to explore it immediately, despite Erik's hesitance, but it took them two weeks to drive in and explore on the pretense of picking up groceries.
They drive into town about once every two weeks, after that. Charles likes the change in scenery, likes talking to people in general, but talking to the people in town in particular. Erik would say Charles likes the sound of his own voice, and while that's true, he also likes hearing other people's stories. He likes listening to Amy from the diner talk about her husband and daughter, he likes Sharon from the bookshop's political rants, he likes when Dan from the post office talks about what the town was like twenty-five years ago when he started working there.
There are all sorts of stories in the world. Not all of them are as epic as the tumultuous love story of Charles Francis Xavier and Erik Magnus Lehnsherr, but that doesn't make them any less important.
For his part, Charles keeps most of his stories to himself. He talks about silly domestic follies and vaguely about his work and his field, but by unspoken mutual agreement, neither of them advertise their past lives. Charles has been on television countless times and been both the focus of and the author of several articles in major news publications. There was a very flattering feature on him in Newsweek several years ago. Still, he introduces himself with his first name and without the suit and the entourage, many people don't make the connection.
There are some who do, of course. Sharon from the bookshop recognized him immediately. She didn't make a fuss, but shook his hand and told him she was a great fan of his work. Erik froze, ready to flee, but she launched into a series of questions about a bill that Charles had endorsed last year and Erik relaxed, incrementally, as it became clear she wasn't going to run through the streets shouting Charles' identity. Several of the librarians know as well, as Charles needed to fill out paperwork to obtain a library card, but mostly they use the knowledge to tell him about books that may be of interest and ask him, repeatedly, to do a lecture for their Science Saturday series.
If anyone recognizes Erik, whom, without the theatrical cape and trademark helmet, is slightly more camouflaged in button down shirts and cotton t-shirts with jeans and sneakers, they don't say a word or make a fuss. That, more than anything, leads Charles to believe that they haven't recognized him. Charles Xavier is a noted philanthropist, researcher, teacher, and mutant rights advocate. Magneto is a terrorist. Charles can't help but think that the reaction to Erik might be a bit different.
Some recognize Charles immediately, but for others, it's a longer process. They have a regular waitress at the diner, a sweet young woman named Amy. She talks frequently about her family, the town gossip, and what she's seen on television. She thinks of them, when Charles does a cursory scan of her mind, as a sweet old couple. She knows Charles is a former professor and assumes he retired from the university. She doesn't connect either of them to mutants or mutant rights, right up until one Sunday when there's something just slightly different in her eyes when she seats them at their usual table.
Erik warily meets Charles' eyes over the table. He's seen it too, then.
Charles enters her mind seamlessly as she pours them coffee. If she's going to make a scene, he'd like to know so they can leave now. He can feel the fork under his hand vibrating, just slightly. Erik's prepared too, always one for fight over flight.
should just ask him, do it quietly, no one else has to know, it has to be him, he looks just like the photo, he could help, he hasn't said anything, will it be awkward, he's a telepath does that mean he's reading this right now? no Janie's kid is a telepath he needs to look at you or touch you and--
Not a scene, then. Charles relaxes and catches Erik's eye, shaking his head minutely. The silverware stops vibrating, but Erik doesn't relax.
"You seem distracted this morning, my dear," Charles says, smiling benignly. "Is there something on your mind?"
Amy glances around, but everyone is involved in their own brunch and conversations and a gentle push from Charles guarantees it will stay that way.
"You--how does--how do kids get into that school?" Amy asks quietly. "The one you started downstate. For mutant kids."
Erik actually looks surprised, and Charles files that away for his own future amusement. For the moment, he focuses at smiling kindly at Amy.
"There's an application process," Charles says. "Scholarships are available, if money is an issue. We never turn away a child for financial reasons."
Amy licks her lips and looks around again.
"My niece...my sister's at the end of her rope about it, which is unfair because Nikki's a bright kid and she can't help how she was born and she's funny and sweet and pretty, but my sister's being a bitch about it and my brother-in-law can't keep her in line forever and--well, I was thinking maybe if she went to one of those schools, you know? It would be easier for her to be around other kids like her. And maybe it would give my sister some space to...come to terms with it all." She looks almost embarrassed. "I was looking on the internet last night and I recognized you."
Charles nods and takes out his wallet. He still has some business cards inside and when he holds out his hand for a pen, Erik hands him one. He crosses out his name and writes Hank's in its place, then circles the number.
"Henry McCoy is the current headmaster of the school," he says. "If you call him and tell him that I gave you this card and then tell him what you just told me, I promise he'll help your niece as much as he can."
"Thanks," Amy says. "I--thank you so much."
She won't let them pay for their brunch, waving away the money that Erik tries to put down. Charles still hides a tip under his plate when they leave to pick up tar from the hardware store and their usual groceries.
Erik is quiet for the rest of the afternoon, answering questions about what sort of coffee he'd like for the house and if they need milk, but keeping his words and his thoughts mostly to himself.
It's not until they're leaving the bakery, a warm loaf of bread on Charles' lap, that Erik speaks.
"You do that so easily," he says. "You interact with these people so easily. You offer help."
"Of course I do," Charles says. "I'll always be a teacher at heart, my love. I'll always want to help. Especially children." He glances up at Erik. "You do too, you know. All the rest of...our shared past aside, you've always had the betterment of our kind, especially future children, in your heart. But I think, perhaps, you've spent so much time on the battlefield, you haven't seen what the world is actually like."
Erik hums, staring off into the distance. This isn't something they talk about much. Again, by mutual, wordless understanding, they don't speak on these topics. Charles thinks it's one of the keys to their continued happiness. They may have enjoyed the debate fifty years ago, but the debate has nearly destroyed them and there are less volatile topics for them to argue over if they're craving the spark that conflict brings.
"It's not perfect, not yet," Charles continues. "But it's not a wasteland, either. There's good out there. There's good right here, in a town where the library begs me to do a guest lecture and a high school teacher wants my opinions on her syllabus and a waitress at the diner wants her mutant niece to grow up happy and accepted by her peers."
Erik is absorbed in thought, but Charles doesn't eavesdrop. Erik will come to his own conclusions, over time, and when he wants to share them, he will.
"You should push me for a bit," he says instead.
"What?" Erik asks, blinking back to the conversation and then looking down at Charles. "So you can tear into the bread before we get home?"
"Yes," Charles says. "If I wait until we get home, it won't be warm anymore."
Erik rolls his eyes, but dutifully moves to stand behind the chair.
And then he stops. And very deliberately sweeps his hand forward, propelling the chair with his ability alone. Charles startles, so surprised he nearly drops the bread. Erik hasn't been hiding, exactly, but he's been keeping a low profile. Keeping to himself, keeping quiet, blending in, and all for Charles' sake. All because of how very much he loves Charles.
Charles doesn't know that he's ever loved him more. It breaks his heart.
"Stop," he says, his voice cracking at the end of the word. "Stop and come here and kiss me."
"First you want me to push, now you want me to do this," Erik says. "You're very bossy, you know." He leans over, though, and kisses Charles, then does it again. His hand lingers on Charles' jaw. "Go ahead and eat while it's warm. Are we ready to head home?"
Charles had wanted to stop by the bookshop, but suddenly the need to be somewhere he can kiss every inch of Erik's skin seems more important.
"Yes," he says. "Let's go home."
Erik nods and waves a hand and directs them both back to where the car is waiting.
***
Erik's forgotten what people are like.
He doesn't mean fundamentally or as a species. For once, he doesn't care to think about how the strangers on the street feel about mutants. No, he's forgotten what it's like to have so many people in one place.
He's been on the run for years. Decades. He's moved from house to house, from derelict compound to grand mansion. He's spent time lying low on every continent in too many countries to count. But he hasn't lived a life like this, a normal life where you go out and you buy groceries and you talk to the man who works at the post office, since he was a very young boy.
It's exhausting, some days.
They have relationships with the people in town, Charles moreso than Erik. Everyone has a smile for them and a kind word.
"They think we're a precious old couple," Charles tells him one day. "I told Miranda at the bakery that we've been in love for nearly fifty years. I think she imagines we had a house in the suburbs prior to retirement."
Erik shakes his head and stops himself from asking Charles to go further into their minds, to see how things would change if all of the people in town knew they were mutants. There are people who know, of course--Charles is--was--a public figure. Scattered here and there throughout the town, Charles is recognized for his writing, his research, his school. All of the reactions have been positive bordering on ecstatic (Erik doesn't think many people have the patience to listen to Sharon from the bookshop pick apart mutant politics), but the law of large numbers means there are bound to be bigots lurking within the population and, for once in his life, Erik doesn't want to encourage them. It's hard to break old habits, but he sternly reminds himself several times a day that he's no longer a figurehead, he's merely an old man trying to live out his last years as happily as he can manage.
Everyone has a smile and a kind word, but some days it's too much. Erik's spent sixty-three years in his own near-solitude, first hunting down Shaw, then closed away with Charles and the children, then with his own followers. Now he spends his days in the near silence of their house, sitting next to Charles while they read, while Charles works on his book, while they play chess, while they live their quiet lives. It's difficult to go into town, to spend forty minutes going up and down the aisles of the bustling grocery store, to wait on line to pick up fresh bread at the bakery, to stop at the post office to get the mail from Charles' PO Box and the package that missed delivery because it needed a signature and they weren't decent to answer the door. It's too much noise, too many people, and by the time he pulls up outside the house, he barely has the strength to bring the bags inside.
"Your headache is so bad you're nearly giving it to me," Charles says. He's reclining on the couch, reading a book. He doesn't look up from the page, even as Erik finishes putting the groceries away and comes back into the living room.
"I apologize," Erik says. "There are days...."
"I know, my love," Charles says. "Come here."
There's much more shifting involved in sharing the couch than there was in their youth, but Erik tugs the ottoman over and helps Charles adjust, then lies on the couch with his head in Charles' lap, dignity be damned. The first brush of cool fingers in his hair is a welcome relief; he has a feeling that Charles is doing some mental soothing as well, but he doesn't mind as the pounding behind his eyes starts to dissipate.
"'I suppose one night hundreds of thousands of years ago in a cave by a night fire when one of those shaggy men wakened to gaze over the banked coals at his woman, his children, and thought of their being cold, dead, gone forever,'" Charles reads. His voice is calm and even, his accent slightly softer after so many years in New York.
"Bradbury, Charles?" Erik asks. He doesn't open his eyes. "Really?"
"Yes," Charles says. "Now be quiet or I won't read to you at all."
Erik hums at that, exhales as Charles' fingers rub his scalp and chase the last remnants of his headache away.
"'Then he must have wept,'" Charles continues. "'And he put out his hand in the night to the woman who must die some day and to the children who must follow her. And for a little bit next morning, he treated them somewhat better, for he saw that they, like himself, had the seed of night in them.'"
Erik falls asleep that way, his head in Charles' lap, the story of a boy who yearned for adulthood and a man who yearned for boyhood twisting through his brain in a soothing accent with a gentle touch.
***
Charles wakes up to a cold bed and the sound of pots and pans banging together. He sighs and shakes his head and after the usual routine of finding his robe and his socks and his reading glasses, he gets into his chair and makes his way to the kitchen.
The sight of pots and kitchen implements flying through the air is as charming as it was the first time, even if the result is going to make Charles wish they were within range of pizza delivery. He remembers those first days on their cross-country road trip all those years ago, remembers the delight Erik took in using his powers for mundane things, the way he'd smile, so thrilled to have someone for whom to show off. Charles loved it too, loved the obvious joy that Erik was feeling, loved the way Erik smiled. This, though, might be even better. That so many years have passed and Erik's mastery has become so complete that he can do all of this with the flick of his finger as he's reading....
Charles rolls up next to Erik, sitting at the table, pouring over a cookbook, and kisses his shoulder, his cheek, his temple.
"Good morning," Erik murmurs and reaches out a hand to grasp Charles' fingers, his attention not wavering. He raises Charles' hand to his mouth and presses a dry kiss to Charles' knuckles. "I've left you an omelet. It's in the oven to keep warm. I needed the space."
"I see that," Charles says. "Dare I ask?"
"Caramelized mango ravioli with spicy vinaigrette," Erik says.
Charles makes a pained noise. Not even the look Erik gives him over the tops of his glasses can make it better. (Though it helps. Erik glaring at Charles over the tops of his glasses is in the top five looks that get them into bed fastest.)
"Do you have an opinion you'd like to share, Charles?" Erik asks, mildly.
"Erik," Charles says. "My darling. I appreciate your dedication to world cuisine. I do. And I appreciate the lengths you go to both to better yourself through the acquisition of a new skill and to expand my culinary horizons. But, my god, can we please have a dinner that doesn't involve five courses, obscure ingredients, kitchen implements that look like torture devices, six hours of prep time, and anything infused with anything else?"
Erik blinks at Charles. Charles does his very best to hold his ground and not devolve into begging.
"I love you," Charles says. "I miss pizza."
Erik stares at him, unblinkingly, and Charles starts to feel as if he should have just kept his mouth closed and endured cuttlefish with watercress puree and stuffed lasagna that took three days to make and included spices that may have delighted a foodie, but which made Charles remark, Well, it's very good.
"Erik, love--" Charles starts to say, but Erik interrupts him.
By laughing.
"Oh, Charles," Erik says, gasping around his laughter. "For all your class and dignity, you've never had a very refined palate."
"If it makes you happy," Charles says weakly, "I want you to continue, of course, but--"
"There are a great many things here that make me happy," Erik says. "It won't be a bother to focus on some of the others for a time."
He kisses Charles, warm and familiar and tasting of mango.
"I'll make macaroni and cheese for dinner," Erik says, lips sliding against Charles' ear. "But not from a box."
"That's fine," Charles says, and tilts Erik's mouth back towards his.
***
When Erik was young, he thought Charles might be the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Objectively, Charles should have been a bit ridiculous looking, really--short and baby-faced and almost impossibly young, with eyes that sometimes seemed too large and bright for his face and floppy dark hair that made him look even younger. All of his features together, though, with that incredible smile and tremendous power, the miles of pale skin and freckles...Erik wanted him from almost the moment they met and he never stopped. He couldn't imagine not wanting Charles, looking at him and not being overcome by the urge to kiss and touch. Even when they were angry, even when they were fighting--sometimes that just made it worse. Sometimes he just wanted to kiss and kiss and kiss until Charles' lips were slick and bruised, as if he could pass his beliefs by touch. He didn't understand how someone so beautiful and so brilliant could be so foolish; he wanted to use his body to say, 'See, if we can work together so well like this, imagine what we could do for the world.'
After the split, he wondered if things would be different when he saw Charles again, if the reality of the injury or their divergent ideals would make Charles somehow repulsive, but the first time he crept into a lecture at Columbia to see Charles speak, the lust was like a punch to the chest. It sucked the air out of his lungs, sucked all the air out of the room altogether. They had dinner together afterwards, an invitation that Charles managed to get out while Erik was lingering for a last look, before he could tear himself away to run back to his followers. Dinner turned into drinks and drinks led back up to Charles' hotel room where Charles warned him, "It's not the same. It's--you might not--"
"You're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," Erik told him, and it was different, but only half as awkward as it could have been. Stripped bare and holding each other, they weren't two figureheads of battles yet to come, they were just Charles and Erik, dizzy and bowled over with the strength of their love, even then.
It answered the question, of course, of what he would think of Charles in the aftermath of Cuba. And they came together again and again, meeting for chess or dinner or just to shout at each other. They stole weekends when they could, when it was all too much, when the loss felt particularly sharp or the longing became overwhelming. Charles was still beautiful to him, even as his hair began to grey and then fall out, even as his wrinkles multiplied. He traced Charles' receding hairline in the first light of dawn, a morning many years ago. He wondered if Charles would still make his heart beat faster in ten years, in twenty. He wondered if it was possible to love a single person for that long. He wondered if he would have the strength to continue to set aside every other aspect of his life to steal this time with Charles. He wondered if he'd reach a day when it just wasn't worth it.
It's been nearly fifty years. It's been a lifetime. And, yes, Charles still makes his heart beat faster and yes, Erik still loves him just as much as he did in their youth. They didn't, as it turns out, have the strength to set aside their lives to steal time together, but he's rather sure that Erik-at-forty supposed that one day he'd leave Charles to dedicate himself fully to the cause rather than leave the cause to dedicate himself fully to Charles.
Best of all, though, is that Charles feels the same way. Erik's an old man, now. Grey and slower and sagging in places. Wrinkled. Dignified, he's been told, but certainly not as whipcord thin and sharply handsome as he was the night they met. But Charles still looks at him the same way, eyes gone hot and dark, hands eager to touch. Charles still kisses him like he's drowning, like they never left the Atlantic that first night. Charles still whimpers and moans when Erik touches him, still begs and pleads and curses and whispers filthy, hot things in Erik's head.
Charles is still the most beautiful thing that Erik's ever seen, every single day. Beautiful and wicked and impossible in a way that no one else has ever been able to match, if only because no one else can do the sort of things to Erik's heart that Charles Xavier can.
***
The autumn is warmer and brighter than it has been in years, or maybe it just feels that way. Maybe without the stress of running a school and spearheading a cause, Charles has time to appreciate the brightness of the sky and the way the sun filters through the leaves. He has time to lie in bed for as long as he'd like, listening to the birds singing and feeling the warm breeze curl in through the window that Erik must have left open.
He'll look back at this moment, in the future, and wonder how he didn't know immediately. How he didn't feel different, how he didn't notice the weight. He'll wonder how he didn't sense the pleased warmth emanating from Erik's mind the moment he woke up.
He doesn't notice, though. He doesn't notice any of it, until he raises his hand to rub his eyes, finally embracing the day.
There's a ring on the third finger of his left hand.
It's not just a ring--it's Erik's ring. It's the ring that Erik's had since the morning after his birthday, the morning he showed up in Charles' bedroom at the school and asked Charles to come away with him. It's the ring that's been sitting in the top drawer of Erik's desk for the past two months, right where Charles could see it just for a moment in the evenings when Erik put away his journal and watch.
He swallows against the sudden lump in his throat.
The shock wears off slowly. He can only find one sock. His robe isn't where he left it. He feels scattered and distant and closes his eyes to rein himself in, to breathe and breathe and finally pull himself into the chair and seek out Erik.
Erik is on the porch. He's drinking his coffee and reading the paper and smiling. That bastard.
"Good morning, Charles," Erik says.
"You are..."
Erik looks up at him, still smiling.
"You are..." Charles says again, but he's not any closer to ending the sentence. He's only wearing one sock and he's only half-dressed. He feels entirely out of sorts, and when he sees Erik fold the paper and put it on the table, sees the matching ring on Erik's finger, he gets a bit lightheaded.
This has been coming for fifty years. He shouldn't be surprised at all, except there were days he thought it would never happen, that they would both die bitter and alone and ruined, that everything they had, all of the potential between them, all of the magnificent emotion and overwhelming love would wither, would extinguish. He knows he shouldn't have doubted--he was the optimistic one. He was the one who held out hope. But it's never been easy, not since those first few months when they were buoyed by lust and discovery and pure wonder at all of the time they had in front of them. So much time, spiraling outwards, and they were so damn young.
He remembers putting his arms around Erik in the depths of the Atlantic. If he closes his eyes he can feel it, feel the suffocating heat of the warm water, the way Erik struggled against him, the way Charles' heart nearly stopped with the intensity of the feelings Erik's mind inspired in him. He remembers being so in love that nothing else mattered, remembers spending long afternoons kissing in motel rooms, learning each other's bodies, laughing and talking and making vague plans for the future. It feels like another lifetime, now, one that's been on pause for fifty years, one that they're just sliding back into, a world where he can guarantee a kiss from Erik every morning and night.
Fifty years full of history and suddenly Charles is twenty-four again, his heart in his throat, his eyes wet, his hands trembling.
God, he thought he'd be smug when it finally happened. He's been teasing Erik about it for weeks. He thought it would feel good, but he never imagined it would feel this good.
"You are..." he says for a third time. The words are tremulous and wet and something about Erik's smile softens around the edges. He reaches for Charles' hands and holds them tightly in his own.
"I am going to take you into town this afternoon and marry you, if that's all right," Erik says.
"That's fine," Charles manages to say. "I'd like that very much."
Erik leans forward, a shyness in his movements, a hesitance that belies his easy smile. He's very careful when he bends his head towards Charles, brushes their lips together. The first kiss is gentle and chaste, but it's hard to stay that way, even though they're both shaking with the tempest of emotions brewing between them.
When Erik pulls back, he wipes the tears from Charles' cheeks with his thumbs.
"Best to get the tears out of the way now," he murmurs, as if he's not crying as well. "We wouldn't want to show up at Town Hall like this, a pair of weepy old men."
"We are a pair of weepy old men, my dear," Charles reminds him. "And, frankly, after all that's happened, I believe we've earned the right."
"I suppose you're right," Erik says. He leans over again and kisses Charles' eyelids, just the barest brush of skin on skin, but accompanied by the sort of affection that does little to discourage Charles' tears. "I would have married you then. Fifty years ago. If I could, I would have done it."
"I'm glad you didn't," Charles admits. "It would have made the times in between so much harder." He opens his eyes and smiles at Erik, as old and grey and emotional as he is. "Let's go back to bed," he says. "We have a very limited amount of time to put our engagement to good use."
Erik laughs, but looks at Charles like he's the only thing in the world.
Charles knows that he's looking back the same way.
***
Charles had poor circulation before his paralysis. He used to press his feet up against Erik's calves at night, always cold, even in Arizona in the summer. Erik made the expected token protests, but he didn't mind it. He misses it now, misses Charles wrapping himself around Erik like an octopus. He does his best to compensate--he makes sure Charles wears socks to bed, he wraps himself around Charles even where Charles can't feel it--but he mostly hates that his precautions are necessary and that they're his fault.
"It's been fifty years," Charles murmurs into his hair one night in November. "I'd honestly appreciate it if you'd stop feeling guilty."
Erik pretends he's asleep, though it's pointless when you share a bed with a telepath.
The winter promises to be cold and snowy, though, and with nothing else to fill his days, Erik finds himself drawn more and more to craft books. To knitting books, in particular.
"It's all about the manipulation of metal," he says to Charles absently. "I can't imagine it's at all difficult."
"It's very charming that you think that," Charles says. "It will still require the same amount of precision as it would take to work by hand."
"I can be precise," Erik says. "I'm not the angry young man I was when we met."
"What I mean," Charles says, looking up from his own book, another pulpy science fiction novel from the used bookstore, "is that your ability to move the needles without touching them won't supersede the need to learn how they're supposed to move in the first place."
Erik rolls his eyes. He's a very intelligent man. He might not have Charles' degrees, but he knows he's bright. His mind is sharp, he learns new skills very quickly, and this is a hobby most frequently taken up by twenty-something girls and grandmothers. It will be simple.
Charles hums and smiles to himself knowingly, but Erik ignores him and fetches the laptop to order supplies.
Three weeks, four skeins of yarn, and five sets of knitting needles later, he has three twisted sculptures of yarn and metal and a long, uneven length of wool that might, charitably, be called a scarf.
He's glaring at it when Charles wheels in with two cups of tea on a tray on his lap.
"I can feel you thinking it," Erik mutters.
"I'm not thinking anything," Charles says. "And even if I were, you're not a telepath, my darling."
Erik glares at the yarn as if it can scare it into forming the shape he was aiming for. It doesn't so much as twitch and Erik sips his tea viciously.
"If I was thinking something," Charles says after a moment, and Erik groans. "Shush. If I was thinking something, I would say that you are a wonderfully talented and incredibly intelligent man and that with a bit of practice, I'm sure you'll get better."
"It's been three weeks and I've yet to master a straight line," Erik says, tossing his mockery of a scarf onto the coffee table. "At this rate it will be summer before I--"
He stops then, screeching to a halt and feeling the sort of embarrassment that may have bloomed into a blush in his youth. Charles is looking at him, eyebrows raised, and Erik realizes he's never actually explained his sudden interest in knitting. He assumed Charles would have rooted around for it ages ago, but apparently not.
He sighs.
"I wanted to knit you socks," he says, not quite meeting Charles' eyes. "It's going to be cold this winter. I thought it might be...prudent."
He's not looking at Charles but Erik can feel the way his expression softens; Charles projects it, gentle and clear and then reaches over and takes Erik's left hand with his right. His thumb rests over Erik's ring.
"I'll still need socks in the summer," he assures Erik. "And the spring and the fall and next winter, too. We're going to have many winters together, love."
"I suppose we are," Erik says, looking up again, still frequently gutted by the depth of affection on Charles' face when he looks at Erik.
"You'll have plenty of time to master knitting," Charles says and leans in for a kiss.
Erik hums in agreement, but he doesn't pick up the knitting again that night.
***
Part Two
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Characters: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG13
Length: ~20k
Summary: Erik's spent fifty years being a figurehead and he's ready to leave that behind. Luckily, so is Charles.
(aka Old Retired Dudes in Love)
Notes: This started off as commentfic for pearl_o. It would not be possible without her. She was inundated with emails about it when I started and then was kind enough to beta it while I was wailing about how it had taken over my life. This story would also not be possible without littledust who basically talked me out of every plot hole and made the entire structure stronger. While this takes place in the far future of XMFC and I kept Sirs Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart in mind while writing, it's not compliant with X1-X3 because I tend to look at XMFC as a reboot rather than a prequel. Title from the Paul Simon song of the same name, but sections of this story owe heavy inspiration to the Dar Williams' song "February."
***
Erik turns 79.
It's the start of August--brutal and sticky in Rio, where they're currently camped out in one of the Brotherhood's larger compounds. Mystique is the only one present who knows the significance of the date, but when she joins him on the porch, he waves her away absently as he stares out into the trees. The sweat is as cleansing as it is oppressive and he finds himself welcoming the heat, the burn.
He's tired. It goes beyond the humidity and the sun and the suffocating warmth.
He writes a letter and leaves it for Mystique. He doesn't pack a bag. There's nothing of this life that he wants to bring with him.
***
It's not hard getting into the school. He thinks it would be for anyone else, but he knows how Charles' mind works and knows that he's always been Charles' weakness. It's even easier to move through the house, to find Charles' bedroom in the dark and sit in the chair by the window as the sky turn grey, then purple, then pink.
Charles wakes before the sun and looks right at him.
"Are you here to kidnap me or because you're lonely?" Charles asks him.
"Both," Erik admits.
Charles pulls himself up and leans against the headboard. He still sleeps in blue pajamas, but instead of making him look like a child, he looks dignified. He wonders how it's taken him this long to notice that Charles' frumpy wardrobe no longer looks out of place. They really have gotten old. He remembers watching Charles rub the sleep out of his eyes in days long past, remembers that Charles looked like little more than a boy with his unruly hair and too-large pajamas and scrunched up nose. He makes the movement elegant now; he has gravitas even in this.
"Happy Birthday," Charles says. "I did send a card, though Italy obviously wasn't the correct place to send it."
"Brazil," Erik says.
"Brazil in August," Charles says. "You always were a masochist."
There's a softness to his eyes, even now. Whereas Erik has spent fifty years cursing his weakness, wishing he could shake the things that Charles inspires in him, he rather thinks Charles has cultivated his own. Regardless of how many times he and Erik clash on the battlefield, there's always a warmth in his smile when it's just the two of them.
"I have some land upstate," Erik says. "There's a house there. It's not very large."
"Is it accessible?" Charles asks.
Erik gives him a flat look. As if he hadn't kept Charles' chair in mind as he laid every plank of wood, as he painted every wall.
"I'll need to take care of some things," Charles says. "Hank should be able to handle most of it, but I'll need to make some phone calls to make sure he can access all the proper accounts."
Erik hums, sardonically amused. "Should I come back at dinner?"
"You should come here and kiss me," Charles says. "You should give me that ring in your pocket."
"I'll give you that ring when I feel like it, and not a moment sooner," Erik says, but he can't ignore the first request and once he has Charles in his arms, it's very hard to let him go long enough to get his affairs in order.
***
When they were young men, it was always Charles angling to stay in bed, Charles tugging on Erik's arm to pull him back into the covers, Charles pouting until Erik put down his trousers and leaned over for a kiss, Charles wheedling that they had some more time, they could just stay for a few more minutes, just hold each other a few minutes longer. He'd cling to Erik and hang off of him, all sly, pouty smiles until Erik gave in, feeling a sort of childish delight in their shifting relationship, in the hours they spent smiling at each other and touching and talking and taking up residence in each other's hearts and minds.
It still has been, to some degree--in their weekend trysts, their stolen afternoons, it's always been Charles following Erik's movements with sad, pleading eyes. It's never enough. He never wants their time together to end.
Maybe it doesn't have to, now.
He tries not to hope, tries not to dream. He learned not to dream a long time ago, not about this, at least. He spent six months spinning hopes and dreams, imagining the life he'd build with Erik, and not even the paralysis hurt quite as much as watching those dreams turn to ash on a Cuban beach. He tries not to hope that this means what he wants it to mean, that this is the reward they get for so many years of dedication to mutantkind. He tries not to hope that he's going to live out the rest of his days somewhere private and quiet with Erik by his side.
He doesn't know that he can let himself believe it, not just yet. If it's a trick or a farce or it somehow doesn't take, he doesn't know that he'll recover.
It means he's hesitant to leave, now, no matter how many times Erik promises he's not going anywhere. He glances over his shoulder constantly as he washes and dresses and he pauses at the door, staring. He knows it's foolish to think that this will disappear once he opens the door, but the fear is creeping up anyway and only Erik's hand waving him sleepily away spurs him into movement.
While he's never allowed himself to think of this, to dream of a proper retirement, there are certain contingency plans in place. Charles has been the target of at least eight assassination attempts that they know of and has been injured, threatened, and kidnapped with some frequency. He's able to take care of himself, for the most part--most people who come after him tend to underestimate him--but it means he understands how prudent it is to have a fallback in place should someone else need to take over the school.
It's too early to call the banks, so once he's done changing security protocols, he begins to write letters to Scott and Ororo and Jean and the rest of the staff, and when he's finished, he sends a polite mental request to Hank, awake in his lab.
"Is something wrong?" Hank asks when he arrives, and Charles is struck by how much he's changed in the last fifty years. Of all of that first group of children, Hank has probably changed the most. For the better, Charles thinks, but also so abruptly that it must have been awful, those first few months. Charles wouldn't know; he was too grief-stricken to be much good to any of them between Halloween and Christmas that year.
"Erik's come to see me," Charles says, and Hank tenses, but says nothing. The staff knows that there is history between their Professor X and Magneto. Only Hank is aware of the tragic story of Charles and Erik. "He's...retiring, I suppose."
"You're going with him." It's not a question.
"I am," Charles says.
Hank seems to consider this, and after a moment of somewhat thoughtful silence, he says, "Good. You deserve it."
It's a better answer than Charles expected, and he can't help his smile. "Excellent," he says. "I'm leaving you in charge of everything, like we've discussed in the past. Scott may give you some pushback, but there's a difference between running a school and leading a team. You should still defer to him in the field, but--"
"Wait a second," Hank says, frowning. "How long are you planning on being gone?"
Charles frowns as well. "Hank," he says. "I'm leaving. I'm--you said it. I'm going with Erik."
"I thought you meant--" Hank starts to say and then stops abruptly. He looks down at the desk, at the neatly labelled letters and the piles of papers with clear instructions on them. "I thought you meant for a vacation. I thought you meant for a week or two. Charles, I know he's your--" Hank struggles for a word. It's a different struggle than it would have been all those years ago, when Hank averted his eyes and said "friend" with a certain tone of voice. Now it's simply the inability to sum up their relationship in one word. Charles struggles with it, too. "I know how much you care about him," Hank finally says. "But this is--he's not--He's still Magneto, Charles. He's killed people. He's terrorized people. Everything he touches is destroyed."
"He's not Magneto any longer," Charles insists. "He's tired. He's leaving that behind. He's not even wearing the helmet."
That, at least, throws Hank just slightly.
"It's still a security concern," Hank says, but it's a weak protest. "What if something happens? What if we need to get to you? What if someone finds you out?"
"I'm still a powerful telepath, as it turns out," Charles says. "I'm rather good at protecting myself and I think you'll find Erik is very protective as well. We'll be alone in the middle of nowhere, but we'll still have telephones and email."
"What if," Hank says, and he won't meet Charles' eyes, "you get there and realize that spending six months together fifty years ago wasn't actually adequate grounds to form a relationship? What if you get there and it's not what you think?"
And that, of course, would be someone putting words to Charles' deepest fears. He's loved Erik for more than half his life. He's loved Erik more than twice as long as he's not loved him. But the majority of that love has been hidden away, precariously shielded and steadily growing miles and miles away from the man that inspired it. Aside from those turbulent few months when they first met, they haven't actually spent all that much time together and certainly nothing this long term. They should be starting with a weekend or a trip, not jumping right into cohabitation. There's always a chance that Charles has prescribed more meaning to their time together than Erik has, that they're not compatible, that the easy way they fit together when they were crisscrossing the country has faded and gone with the years.
But no. Erik came to him this morning. Erik came to him without weapons and costumes and helmets and theatrics. Erik came to him in jeans and a crisp linen shirt and not so much as a hat on his head and asked Charles to come with him. Erik came to him with a ring in his pocket and the clear intention to use it. Erik came to him with his mind full of nothing but tired and might need to decorate and kept up on the bills, the electric and plumbing should be on and Charles Charles Charles Charles.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Charles says, "but I honestly don't imagine it will be a problem, Hank."
Hank sighs and rubs his forehead, mussing his fur.
"Fine," he says. "You'll be back to visit, at least?"
Charles pauses. The words of course are on the tip of his tongue, but that doesn't seem entirely fair. Erik is cutting himself off from everything he's built, everyone he's known. He can't imagine Erik would be overly eager to see Charles running back to the school every few weeks. Charles can't imagine he'd be able to turn his mind off and let himself settle if visits and projects and coursework was constantly on his mind.
It will hurt to let the children go, but it won't be forever. Charles has been everything to everyone for a great many years. He'd like to be one thing to one person and see how that role fits.
"Give me a year, Hank," Charles says. "A year on my own with Erik. To prove to him and to all of you and to myself that I can do it." He pauses. "A school year, actually. I'll come back for graduation."
"A year," Hank says flatly.
"Ten months," Charles says. "I'll call and write. When we settle in, I'll give you a contact address."
"Charles," Hank starts to say, but Charles is tired and Erik is waiting in his bed. His glare is, perhaps, sharper than he intends, but it does its job and Hank closes his mouth.
"I'm a grown man, fully capable of making my own decisions, Henry," Charles says. "I'm giving you the explanation out of courtesy because you are my friend and because you've been a part of this saga since the start, but it is just that--a courtesy. I am going with Erik. I wish you the best of luck, and if any school-related matters need my attention, please don't hesitate to call, but I'm leaving, now, on my terms."
Hank's expression hardens, but he nods and quietly listens as Charles quickly goes over the accounts, the details of the east wing renovation, and the various ins and outs of the few aspects of running the school that Hank isn't familiar with. The sun has burned off the dawn when they finish, and Charles' eyes stray to the door. Hank's do, too.
"Be careful," Hank says, and leans forward for a rare hug.
"I will," Charles promises. "I'll call. I'll write. And I'll see you at graduation."
Hank nods stiffly and Charles doesn't look back as he leaves the office and returns to his bedroom, where Erik is dozing peacefully curled up on the side of the bed that Charles normally finds himself sleeping on.
Charles can't bring himself to wake him. He glances at the clock and bites his lip before the realization hits him that he doesn't have to be anywhere. He's just handed Hank his resignation.
He pulls himself back into bed and wraps his arms around Erik, who blinks at him drowsily.
"We should go," Erik mumbles, even as he closes his eyes again and presses his nose against Charles' cheek.
"We have plenty of time," Charles says. "Sleep for a bit. We'll go this afternoon."
"Lazy," Erik says, but he presses his lips against Charles' jaw and doesn't protest further.
Charles unplugs his alarm clock and sleeps as well.
***
Age is a funny thing.
In his youth, Erik would have died for his cause, for their cause, the cause of all mutantkind. Erik would have gladly given his life in battle, would have considered it noble, even. He was not Erik, after all--he was Magneto. He was the figurehead of all mutants. He carried their burdens and he broadcast their message.
He understands the value of time, now. He's old and his joints creak. He has already given the cause more years of his life than he has left to live. When he looks forward, it seems like such a hassle, all of it. Even if every human bowed before their kind tomorrow, he doesn't think it would bring him the happiness he feels at the prospect of taking time for himself, catching up on his reading, learning to cook new things, and spending his days with Charles. There are others who will gladly take up the helm, who will more effectively step into his place.
Let someone else be Magneto for a time. He's going to be Erik again.
He thinks he'd like to get a cat.
***
They leave during the noon staff meeting, packing a few essentials into an SUV registered to Charles rather than the school. They squabble only briefly over who will drive--aside from the nap, Charles doesn't think Erik's slept much the past few days, but Erik insists and Charles doesn't want to start their journey off with an argument. He naps, on and off, as the highway rushes past, and wakes for good when road becomes more narrow and the trees become more dense.
"Are we almost there?" he asks.
"Maybe another hour," Erik says.
"Do you want me to drive for a bit?" Charles asks.
"You don't know where we're going," Erik says. Which is reasonable, but they both know he could easily pluck the information out of Erik's head, if needed. No, Charles chalks this up to a good old fashioned surprise. Erik wants it to be special. Erik's counting on Charles not to go snooping.
Charles doesn't snoop. He's learned, over the years, that a bit of patience makes the result that much sweeter.
It's odd, though, trying to wrap his brain around all of this. They're in a car headed towards a house where they'll live, together. A house that will be their home away from everyone else. A home that will contain a life made up of whatever it is retired people do. A life where Charles is only ever pulled in one direction at a time, where there aren't a dozen adults and teenagers scrambling for his attention with their problems, each more important than the last.
It feels a bit absurd, like a dream. He has dreamed about it, in fact. He's had too many dreams to count that ended with him and Erik together and even several lengthy daydreams during their various encounters, both kidnappings and rendezvouses. He's been ready for this for several years, now. He's glad Erik has finally caught up. It will be nice to put aside the fighting and the arguments, the sharp words that always seemed to end their time together on a sour note.
"How do you feel about cats?" Erik asks a few minutes later.
"As a species?" Charles says, blinking.
Erik snorts. "As a pet," he says.
"Why?" Charles asks, and some of his disdain must shine through, because Erik turns to look at him, both eyebrows raised.
"I would think that would be obvious," Erik says.
"Oh, no, Erik," Charles says. "Don't fall into their trap."
Erik says nothing, but his skeptical expression speaks for itself.
"Cats!" Charles clarifies. "And the way they somehow make people think they're desirable as pets. They're stubborn and they hold no loyalty. They constantly look smug. They do what they want, they think they're better than you are, they expect you to wait on them, and they're really just waiting for you to die so they can eat you."
"That's nonsense," Erik says.
"It's true!" Charles insists. "I read it somewhere. I don't understand pets at all, but cats especially. I just don't get the popularity."
Erik shakes his head. "You're a crazy old fool," he says. "You don't like animals because you can't read them."
"That's true," Charles admits. "But my issues with cats still stand. Please tell me there's not a cat waiting at this house." Perhaps Charles was a little hasty in thinking that they'd be living a life free of arguments and debate.
"No," Erik says, sighing. "And now there will never be, I suppose."
Charles feels guilty for a split second before the relief of not having to deal with a pet kicks in.
"I'll get you a plant," Charles says.
"Well, there's no need, really," Erik says. "I mean, I suppose I already have something that's stubborn, smug, thinks it's better than I am, expects me to wait on it, and does what it wants."
Charles glares. "Very funny," he says.
"At least I assume that you won't be waiting for me to die so you can eat me," Erik says.
Charles crosses his arm and frowns out the window. "Good to see your sense of humor hasn't changed in fifty years," he mutters.
Erik laughs, sharp and sudden and whole-heartedly. He laughs like he's surprised at the sound and he keeps laughing until he's out of breath, shaking his head and glancing over at Charles with sly, warm eyes.
Charles smiles just a little, and when Erik rests his elbow on the center console and offers Charles his hand, palm up, Charles takes it without a moment's hesitation.
***
Charles insists on the internet connection.
"I thought the point was to get away from the world," Erik mutters as the slouching young man installs the wires under the house.
"It is," Charles says. "But I'm in the midst of writing a book. My options are internet connection or driving back and forth between here and the city every few weeks."
Erik scowls, but allows it. As if Charles had doubted even for a second that he'd win the argument.
It's not so bad, though. There are some good recipes out there on the internet, and as long as Erik doesn't let himself get distracted by the news sites, it doesn't bother him much at all. As time passes, those first few weeks disappearing in a haze of decorating and cabinet stocking and making the house feel like home, Erik isn't even tempted by the news sites. His desire to maintain this level of tranquility wins out over the demons of his darker nature as well as his general pessimism. He sticks to some food blogs Charles finds for him, and even those he checks infrequently.
It's just as well, really. They've only got the one computer and Charles is going through a writing phase.
"I go in and out," he admits over breakfast. "I'd like to pretend that I'm dedicated to focusing on the task, but some chapters are easier than others, and there are so many wonderful things to distract me."
Erik rolls his eyes. Charles' lines have not gotten better with age.
He's writing now, though. He's spending hours a day hunched over the table he's set up on the porch, typing frantically at the laptop. There are long pauses, sometimes, and when Erik looks up, Charles is staring absently into the trees, his lips curled down into a thoughtful frown. Erik remembers the way Charles used to pace when he was thinking, wandering around the room, picking things up at random, muttering to himself the whole while. It's been a long time and Erik and Charles have both come to terms with what happened on the beach, but there are still moments when a fresh regret will bloom in Erik's chest.
They're few and far between, mostly because as soon as Charles gets wind of them, he waves them away.
"You're not allowed to feel sorry for yourself if I don't feel sorry for myself," he says.
He doesn't have to say it today. He looks up from his staring and catches sight of Erik in the open doorway between the living room and the porch. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head and beckons Erik forward.
It's too hot, really, for them to be this close in the sun, but Charles doesn't seem to mind. He wraps his arms around Erik's waist and urges him down until he's sitting half on the bench and half on Charles' lap. Charles presses his face against Erik's chest.
They don't talk.
They don't have to.
***
The nearest town is a half hour drive and "town" is, perhaps, a generous assessment of the size of the area, but Charles quite likes it. It's not exactly a college town--there's a university about two towns over--but it's close enough to have that feeling, minus the actual students. There's a small bookshop that deals mostly in used books and special orders, a diner with fantastic brunch specials, a grocery store, a hardware store, and a handful of other shops. Charles had wanted to explore it immediately, despite Erik's hesitance, but it took them two weeks to drive in and explore on the pretense of picking up groceries.
They drive into town about once every two weeks, after that. Charles likes the change in scenery, likes talking to people in general, but talking to the people in town in particular. Erik would say Charles likes the sound of his own voice, and while that's true, he also likes hearing other people's stories. He likes listening to Amy from the diner talk about her husband and daughter, he likes Sharon from the bookshop's political rants, he likes when Dan from the post office talks about what the town was like twenty-five years ago when he started working there.
There are all sorts of stories in the world. Not all of them are as epic as the tumultuous love story of Charles Francis Xavier and Erik Magnus Lehnsherr, but that doesn't make them any less important.
For his part, Charles keeps most of his stories to himself. He talks about silly domestic follies and vaguely about his work and his field, but by unspoken mutual agreement, neither of them advertise their past lives. Charles has been on television countless times and been both the focus of and the author of several articles in major news publications. There was a very flattering feature on him in Newsweek several years ago. Still, he introduces himself with his first name and without the suit and the entourage, many people don't make the connection.
There are some who do, of course. Sharon from the bookshop recognized him immediately. She didn't make a fuss, but shook his hand and told him she was a great fan of his work. Erik froze, ready to flee, but she launched into a series of questions about a bill that Charles had endorsed last year and Erik relaxed, incrementally, as it became clear she wasn't going to run through the streets shouting Charles' identity. Several of the librarians know as well, as Charles needed to fill out paperwork to obtain a library card, but mostly they use the knowledge to tell him about books that may be of interest and ask him, repeatedly, to do a lecture for their Science Saturday series.
If anyone recognizes Erik, whom, without the theatrical cape and trademark helmet, is slightly more camouflaged in button down shirts and cotton t-shirts with jeans and sneakers, they don't say a word or make a fuss. That, more than anything, leads Charles to believe that they haven't recognized him. Charles Xavier is a noted philanthropist, researcher, teacher, and mutant rights advocate. Magneto is a terrorist. Charles can't help but think that the reaction to Erik might be a bit different.
Some recognize Charles immediately, but for others, it's a longer process. They have a regular waitress at the diner, a sweet young woman named Amy. She talks frequently about her family, the town gossip, and what she's seen on television. She thinks of them, when Charles does a cursory scan of her mind, as a sweet old couple. She knows Charles is a former professor and assumes he retired from the university. She doesn't connect either of them to mutants or mutant rights, right up until one Sunday when there's something just slightly different in her eyes when she seats them at their usual table.
Erik warily meets Charles' eyes over the table. He's seen it too, then.
Charles enters her mind seamlessly as she pours them coffee. If she's going to make a scene, he'd like to know so they can leave now. He can feel the fork under his hand vibrating, just slightly. Erik's prepared too, always one for fight over flight.
should just ask him, do it quietly, no one else has to know, it has to be him, he looks just like the photo, he could help, he hasn't said anything, will it be awkward, he's a telepath does that mean he's reading this right now? no Janie's kid is a telepath he needs to look at you or touch you and--
Not a scene, then. Charles relaxes and catches Erik's eye, shaking his head minutely. The silverware stops vibrating, but Erik doesn't relax.
"You seem distracted this morning, my dear," Charles says, smiling benignly. "Is there something on your mind?"
Amy glances around, but everyone is involved in their own brunch and conversations and a gentle push from Charles guarantees it will stay that way.
"You--how does--how do kids get into that school?" Amy asks quietly. "The one you started downstate. For mutant kids."
Erik actually looks surprised, and Charles files that away for his own future amusement. For the moment, he focuses at smiling kindly at Amy.
"There's an application process," Charles says. "Scholarships are available, if money is an issue. We never turn away a child for financial reasons."
Amy licks her lips and looks around again.
"My niece...my sister's at the end of her rope about it, which is unfair because Nikki's a bright kid and she can't help how she was born and she's funny and sweet and pretty, but my sister's being a bitch about it and my brother-in-law can't keep her in line forever and--well, I was thinking maybe if she went to one of those schools, you know? It would be easier for her to be around other kids like her. And maybe it would give my sister some space to...come to terms with it all." She looks almost embarrassed. "I was looking on the internet last night and I recognized you."
Charles nods and takes out his wallet. He still has some business cards inside and when he holds out his hand for a pen, Erik hands him one. He crosses out his name and writes Hank's in its place, then circles the number.
"Henry McCoy is the current headmaster of the school," he says. "If you call him and tell him that I gave you this card and then tell him what you just told me, I promise he'll help your niece as much as he can."
"Thanks," Amy says. "I--thank you so much."
She won't let them pay for their brunch, waving away the money that Erik tries to put down. Charles still hides a tip under his plate when they leave to pick up tar from the hardware store and their usual groceries.
Erik is quiet for the rest of the afternoon, answering questions about what sort of coffee he'd like for the house and if they need milk, but keeping his words and his thoughts mostly to himself.
It's not until they're leaving the bakery, a warm loaf of bread on Charles' lap, that Erik speaks.
"You do that so easily," he says. "You interact with these people so easily. You offer help."
"Of course I do," Charles says. "I'll always be a teacher at heart, my love. I'll always want to help. Especially children." He glances up at Erik. "You do too, you know. All the rest of...our shared past aside, you've always had the betterment of our kind, especially future children, in your heart. But I think, perhaps, you've spent so much time on the battlefield, you haven't seen what the world is actually like."
Erik hums, staring off into the distance. This isn't something they talk about much. Again, by mutual, wordless understanding, they don't speak on these topics. Charles thinks it's one of the keys to their continued happiness. They may have enjoyed the debate fifty years ago, but the debate has nearly destroyed them and there are less volatile topics for them to argue over if they're craving the spark that conflict brings.
"It's not perfect, not yet," Charles continues. "But it's not a wasteland, either. There's good out there. There's good right here, in a town where the library begs me to do a guest lecture and a high school teacher wants my opinions on her syllabus and a waitress at the diner wants her mutant niece to grow up happy and accepted by her peers."
Erik is absorbed in thought, but Charles doesn't eavesdrop. Erik will come to his own conclusions, over time, and when he wants to share them, he will.
"You should push me for a bit," he says instead.
"What?" Erik asks, blinking back to the conversation and then looking down at Charles. "So you can tear into the bread before we get home?"
"Yes," Charles says. "If I wait until we get home, it won't be warm anymore."
Erik rolls his eyes, but dutifully moves to stand behind the chair.
And then he stops. And very deliberately sweeps his hand forward, propelling the chair with his ability alone. Charles startles, so surprised he nearly drops the bread. Erik hasn't been hiding, exactly, but he's been keeping a low profile. Keeping to himself, keeping quiet, blending in, and all for Charles' sake. All because of how very much he loves Charles.
Charles doesn't know that he's ever loved him more. It breaks his heart.
"Stop," he says, his voice cracking at the end of the word. "Stop and come here and kiss me."
"First you want me to push, now you want me to do this," Erik says. "You're very bossy, you know." He leans over, though, and kisses Charles, then does it again. His hand lingers on Charles' jaw. "Go ahead and eat while it's warm. Are we ready to head home?"
Charles had wanted to stop by the bookshop, but suddenly the need to be somewhere he can kiss every inch of Erik's skin seems more important.
"Yes," he says. "Let's go home."
Erik nods and waves a hand and directs them both back to where the car is waiting.
***
Erik's forgotten what people are like.
He doesn't mean fundamentally or as a species. For once, he doesn't care to think about how the strangers on the street feel about mutants. No, he's forgotten what it's like to have so many people in one place.
He's been on the run for years. Decades. He's moved from house to house, from derelict compound to grand mansion. He's spent time lying low on every continent in too many countries to count. But he hasn't lived a life like this, a normal life where you go out and you buy groceries and you talk to the man who works at the post office, since he was a very young boy.
It's exhausting, some days.
They have relationships with the people in town, Charles moreso than Erik. Everyone has a smile for them and a kind word.
"They think we're a precious old couple," Charles tells him one day. "I told Miranda at the bakery that we've been in love for nearly fifty years. I think she imagines we had a house in the suburbs prior to retirement."
Erik shakes his head and stops himself from asking Charles to go further into their minds, to see how things would change if all of the people in town knew they were mutants. There are people who know, of course--Charles is--was--a public figure. Scattered here and there throughout the town, Charles is recognized for his writing, his research, his school. All of the reactions have been positive bordering on ecstatic (Erik doesn't think many people have the patience to listen to Sharon from the bookshop pick apart mutant politics), but the law of large numbers means there are bound to be bigots lurking within the population and, for once in his life, Erik doesn't want to encourage them. It's hard to break old habits, but he sternly reminds himself several times a day that he's no longer a figurehead, he's merely an old man trying to live out his last years as happily as he can manage.
Everyone has a smile and a kind word, but some days it's too much. Erik's spent sixty-three years in his own near-solitude, first hunting down Shaw, then closed away with Charles and the children, then with his own followers. Now he spends his days in the near silence of their house, sitting next to Charles while they read, while Charles works on his book, while they play chess, while they live their quiet lives. It's difficult to go into town, to spend forty minutes going up and down the aisles of the bustling grocery store, to wait on line to pick up fresh bread at the bakery, to stop at the post office to get the mail from Charles' PO Box and the package that missed delivery because it needed a signature and they weren't decent to answer the door. It's too much noise, too many people, and by the time he pulls up outside the house, he barely has the strength to bring the bags inside.
"Your headache is so bad you're nearly giving it to me," Charles says. He's reclining on the couch, reading a book. He doesn't look up from the page, even as Erik finishes putting the groceries away and comes back into the living room.
"I apologize," Erik says. "There are days...."
"I know, my love," Charles says. "Come here."
There's much more shifting involved in sharing the couch than there was in their youth, but Erik tugs the ottoman over and helps Charles adjust, then lies on the couch with his head in Charles' lap, dignity be damned. The first brush of cool fingers in his hair is a welcome relief; he has a feeling that Charles is doing some mental soothing as well, but he doesn't mind as the pounding behind his eyes starts to dissipate.
"'I suppose one night hundreds of thousands of years ago in a cave by a night fire when one of those shaggy men wakened to gaze over the banked coals at his woman, his children, and thought of their being cold, dead, gone forever,'" Charles reads. His voice is calm and even, his accent slightly softer after so many years in New York.
"Bradbury, Charles?" Erik asks. He doesn't open his eyes. "Really?"
"Yes," Charles says. "Now be quiet or I won't read to you at all."
Erik hums at that, exhales as Charles' fingers rub his scalp and chase the last remnants of his headache away.
"'Then he must have wept,'" Charles continues. "'And he put out his hand in the night to the woman who must die some day and to the children who must follow her. And for a little bit next morning, he treated them somewhat better, for he saw that they, like himself, had the seed of night in them.'"
Erik falls asleep that way, his head in Charles' lap, the story of a boy who yearned for adulthood and a man who yearned for boyhood twisting through his brain in a soothing accent with a gentle touch.
***
Charles wakes up to a cold bed and the sound of pots and pans banging together. He sighs and shakes his head and after the usual routine of finding his robe and his socks and his reading glasses, he gets into his chair and makes his way to the kitchen.
The sight of pots and kitchen implements flying through the air is as charming as it was the first time, even if the result is going to make Charles wish they were within range of pizza delivery. He remembers those first days on their cross-country road trip all those years ago, remembers the delight Erik took in using his powers for mundane things, the way he'd smile, so thrilled to have someone for whom to show off. Charles loved it too, loved the obvious joy that Erik was feeling, loved the way Erik smiled. This, though, might be even better. That so many years have passed and Erik's mastery has become so complete that he can do all of this with the flick of his finger as he's reading....
Charles rolls up next to Erik, sitting at the table, pouring over a cookbook, and kisses his shoulder, his cheek, his temple.
"Good morning," Erik murmurs and reaches out a hand to grasp Charles' fingers, his attention not wavering. He raises Charles' hand to his mouth and presses a dry kiss to Charles' knuckles. "I've left you an omelet. It's in the oven to keep warm. I needed the space."
"I see that," Charles says. "Dare I ask?"
"Caramelized mango ravioli with spicy vinaigrette," Erik says.
Charles makes a pained noise. Not even the look Erik gives him over the tops of his glasses can make it better. (Though it helps. Erik glaring at Charles over the tops of his glasses is in the top five looks that get them into bed fastest.)
"Do you have an opinion you'd like to share, Charles?" Erik asks, mildly.
"Erik," Charles says. "My darling. I appreciate your dedication to world cuisine. I do. And I appreciate the lengths you go to both to better yourself through the acquisition of a new skill and to expand my culinary horizons. But, my god, can we please have a dinner that doesn't involve five courses, obscure ingredients, kitchen implements that look like torture devices, six hours of prep time, and anything infused with anything else?"
Erik blinks at Charles. Charles does his very best to hold his ground and not devolve into begging.
"I love you," Charles says. "I miss pizza."
Erik stares at him, unblinkingly, and Charles starts to feel as if he should have just kept his mouth closed and endured cuttlefish with watercress puree and stuffed lasagna that took three days to make and included spices that may have delighted a foodie, but which made Charles remark, Well, it's very good.
"Erik, love--" Charles starts to say, but Erik interrupts him.
By laughing.
"Oh, Charles," Erik says, gasping around his laughter. "For all your class and dignity, you've never had a very refined palate."
"If it makes you happy," Charles says weakly, "I want you to continue, of course, but--"
"There are a great many things here that make me happy," Erik says. "It won't be a bother to focus on some of the others for a time."
He kisses Charles, warm and familiar and tasting of mango.
"I'll make macaroni and cheese for dinner," Erik says, lips sliding against Charles' ear. "But not from a box."
"That's fine," Charles says, and tilts Erik's mouth back towards his.
***
When Erik was young, he thought Charles might be the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Objectively, Charles should have been a bit ridiculous looking, really--short and baby-faced and almost impossibly young, with eyes that sometimes seemed too large and bright for his face and floppy dark hair that made him look even younger. All of his features together, though, with that incredible smile and tremendous power, the miles of pale skin and freckles...Erik wanted him from almost the moment they met and he never stopped. He couldn't imagine not wanting Charles, looking at him and not being overcome by the urge to kiss and touch. Even when they were angry, even when they were fighting--sometimes that just made it worse. Sometimes he just wanted to kiss and kiss and kiss until Charles' lips were slick and bruised, as if he could pass his beliefs by touch. He didn't understand how someone so beautiful and so brilliant could be so foolish; he wanted to use his body to say, 'See, if we can work together so well like this, imagine what we could do for the world.'
After the split, he wondered if things would be different when he saw Charles again, if the reality of the injury or their divergent ideals would make Charles somehow repulsive, but the first time he crept into a lecture at Columbia to see Charles speak, the lust was like a punch to the chest. It sucked the air out of his lungs, sucked all the air out of the room altogether. They had dinner together afterwards, an invitation that Charles managed to get out while Erik was lingering for a last look, before he could tear himself away to run back to his followers. Dinner turned into drinks and drinks led back up to Charles' hotel room where Charles warned him, "It's not the same. It's--you might not--"
"You're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," Erik told him, and it was different, but only half as awkward as it could have been. Stripped bare and holding each other, they weren't two figureheads of battles yet to come, they were just Charles and Erik, dizzy and bowled over with the strength of their love, even then.
It answered the question, of course, of what he would think of Charles in the aftermath of Cuba. And they came together again and again, meeting for chess or dinner or just to shout at each other. They stole weekends when they could, when it was all too much, when the loss felt particularly sharp or the longing became overwhelming. Charles was still beautiful to him, even as his hair began to grey and then fall out, even as his wrinkles multiplied. He traced Charles' receding hairline in the first light of dawn, a morning many years ago. He wondered if Charles would still make his heart beat faster in ten years, in twenty. He wondered if it was possible to love a single person for that long. He wondered if he would have the strength to continue to set aside every other aspect of his life to steal this time with Charles. He wondered if he'd reach a day when it just wasn't worth it.
It's been nearly fifty years. It's been a lifetime. And, yes, Charles still makes his heart beat faster and yes, Erik still loves him just as much as he did in their youth. They didn't, as it turns out, have the strength to set aside their lives to steal time together, but he's rather sure that Erik-at-forty supposed that one day he'd leave Charles to dedicate himself fully to the cause rather than leave the cause to dedicate himself fully to Charles.
Best of all, though, is that Charles feels the same way. Erik's an old man, now. Grey and slower and sagging in places. Wrinkled. Dignified, he's been told, but certainly not as whipcord thin and sharply handsome as he was the night they met. But Charles still looks at him the same way, eyes gone hot and dark, hands eager to touch. Charles still kisses him like he's drowning, like they never left the Atlantic that first night. Charles still whimpers and moans when Erik touches him, still begs and pleads and curses and whispers filthy, hot things in Erik's head.
Charles is still the most beautiful thing that Erik's ever seen, every single day. Beautiful and wicked and impossible in a way that no one else has ever been able to match, if only because no one else can do the sort of things to Erik's heart that Charles Xavier can.
***
The autumn is warmer and brighter than it has been in years, or maybe it just feels that way. Maybe without the stress of running a school and spearheading a cause, Charles has time to appreciate the brightness of the sky and the way the sun filters through the leaves. He has time to lie in bed for as long as he'd like, listening to the birds singing and feeling the warm breeze curl in through the window that Erik must have left open.
He'll look back at this moment, in the future, and wonder how he didn't know immediately. How he didn't feel different, how he didn't notice the weight. He'll wonder how he didn't sense the pleased warmth emanating from Erik's mind the moment he woke up.
He doesn't notice, though. He doesn't notice any of it, until he raises his hand to rub his eyes, finally embracing the day.
There's a ring on the third finger of his left hand.
It's not just a ring--it's Erik's ring. It's the ring that Erik's had since the morning after his birthday, the morning he showed up in Charles' bedroom at the school and asked Charles to come away with him. It's the ring that's been sitting in the top drawer of Erik's desk for the past two months, right where Charles could see it just for a moment in the evenings when Erik put away his journal and watch.
He swallows against the sudden lump in his throat.
The shock wears off slowly. He can only find one sock. His robe isn't where he left it. He feels scattered and distant and closes his eyes to rein himself in, to breathe and breathe and finally pull himself into the chair and seek out Erik.
Erik is on the porch. He's drinking his coffee and reading the paper and smiling. That bastard.
"Good morning, Charles," Erik says.
"You are..."
Erik looks up at him, still smiling.
"You are..." Charles says again, but he's not any closer to ending the sentence. He's only wearing one sock and he's only half-dressed. He feels entirely out of sorts, and when he sees Erik fold the paper and put it on the table, sees the matching ring on Erik's finger, he gets a bit lightheaded.
This has been coming for fifty years. He shouldn't be surprised at all, except there were days he thought it would never happen, that they would both die bitter and alone and ruined, that everything they had, all of the potential between them, all of the magnificent emotion and overwhelming love would wither, would extinguish. He knows he shouldn't have doubted--he was the optimistic one. He was the one who held out hope. But it's never been easy, not since those first few months when they were buoyed by lust and discovery and pure wonder at all of the time they had in front of them. So much time, spiraling outwards, and they were so damn young.
He remembers putting his arms around Erik in the depths of the Atlantic. If he closes his eyes he can feel it, feel the suffocating heat of the warm water, the way Erik struggled against him, the way Charles' heart nearly stopped with the intensity of the feelings Erik's mind inspired in him. He remembers being so in love that nothing else mattered, remembers spending long afternoons kissing in motel rooms, learning each other's bodies, laughing and talking and making vague plans for the future. It feels like another lifetime, now, one that's been on pause for fifty years, one that they're just sliding back into, a world where he can guarantee a kiss from Erik every morning and night.
Fifty years full of history and suddenly Charles is twenty-four again, his heart in his throat, his eyes wet, his hands trembling.
God, he thought he'd be smug when it finally happened. He's been teasing Erik about it for weeks. He thought it would feel good, but he never imagined it would feel this good.
"You are..." he says for a third time. The words are tremulous and wet and something about Erik's smile softens around the edges. He reaches for Charles' hands and holds them tightly in his own.
"I am going to take you into town this afternoon and marry you, if that's all right," Erik says.
"That's fine," Charles manages to say. "I'd like that very much."
Erik leans forward, a shyness in his movements, a hesitance that belies his easy smile. He's very careful when he bends his head towards Charles, brushes their lips together. The first kiss is gentle and chaste, but it's hard to stay that way, even though they're both shaking with the tempest of emotions brewing between them.
When Erik pulls back, he wipes the tears from Charles' cheeks with his thumbs.
"Best to get the tears out of the way now," he murmurs, as if he's not crying as well. "We wouldn't want to show up at Town Hall like this, a pair of weepy old men."
"We are a pair of weepy old men, my dear," Charles reminds him. "And, frankly, after all that's happened, I believe we've earned the right."
"I suppose you're right," Erik says. He leans over again and kisses Charles' eyelids, just the barest brush of skin on skin, but accompanied by the sort of affection that does little to discourage Charles' tears. "I would have married you then. Fifty years ago. If I could, I would have done it."
"I'm glad you didn't," Charles admits. "It would have made the times in between so much harder." He opens his eyes and smiles at Erik, as old and grey and emotional as he is. "Let's go back to bed," he says. "We have a very limited amount of time to put our engagement to good use."
Erik laughs, but looks at Charles like he's the only thing in the world.
Charles knows that he's looking back the same way.
***
Charles had poor circulation before his paralysis. He used to press his feet up against Erik's calves at night, always cold, even in Arizona in the summer. Erik made the expected token protests, but he didn't mind it. He misses it now, misses Charles wrapping himself around Erik like an octopus. He does his best to compensate--he makes sure Charles wears socks to bed, he wraps himself around Charles even where Charles can't feel it--but he mostly hates that his precautions are necessary and that they're his fault.
"It's been fifty years," Charles murmurs into his hair one night in November. "I'd honestly appreciate it if you'd stop feeling guilty."
Erik pretends he's asleep, though it's pointless when you share a bed with a telepath.
The winter promises to be cold and snowy, though, and with nothing else to fill his days, Erik finds himself drawn more and more to craft books. To knitting books, in particular.
"It's all about the manipulation of metal," he says to Charles absently. "I can't imagine it's at all difficult."
"It's very charming that you think that," Charles says. "It will still require the same amount of precision as it would take to work by hand."
"I can be precise," Erik says. "I'm not the angry young man I was when we met."
"What I mean," Charles says, looking up from his own book, another pulpy science fiction novel from the used bookstore, "is that your ability to move the needles without touching them won't supersede the need to learn how they're supposed to move in the first place."
Erik rolls his eyes. He's a very intelligent man. He might not have Charles' degrees, but he knows he's bright. His mind is sharp, he learns new skills very quickly, and this is a hobby most frequently taken up by twenty-something girls and grandmothers. It will be simple.
Charles hums and smiles to himself knowingly, but Erik ignores him and fetches the laptop to order supplies.
Three weeks, four skeins of yarn, and five sets of knitting needles later, he has three twisted sculptures of yarn and metal and a long, uneven length of wool that might, charitably, be called a scarf.
He's glaring at it when Charles wheels in with two cups of tea on a tray on his lap.
"I can feel you thinking it," Erik mutters.
"I'm not thinking anything," Charles says. "And even if I were, you're not a telepath, my darling."
Erik glares at the yarn as if it can scare it into forming the shape he was aiming for. It doesn't so much as twitch and Erik sips his tea viciously.
"If I was thinking something," Charles says after a moment, and Erik groans. "Shush. If I was thinking something, I would say that you are a wonderfully talented and incredibly intelligent man and that with a bit of practice, I'm sure you'll get better."
"It's been three weeks and I've yet to master a straight line," Erik says, tossing his mockery of a scarf onto the coffee table. "At this rate it will be summer before I--"
He stops then, screeching to a halt and feeling the sort of embarrassment that may have bloomed into a blush in his youth. Charles is looking at him, eyebrows raised, and Erik realizes he's never actually explained his sudden interest in knitting. He assumed Charles would have rooted around for it ages ago, but apparently not.
He sighs.
"I wanted to knit you socks," he says, not quite meeting Charles' eyes. "It's going to be cold this winter. I thought it might be...prudent."
He's not looking at Charles but Erik can feel the way his expression softens; Charles projects it, gentle and clear and then reaches over and takes Erik's left hand with his right. His thumb rests over Erik's ring.
"I'll still need socks in the summer," he assures Erik. "And the spring and the fall and next winter, too. We're going to have many winters together, love."
"I suppose we are," Erik says, looking up again, still frequently gutted by the depth of affection on Charles' face when he looks at Erik.
"You'll have plenty of time to master knitting," Charles says and leans in for a kiss.
Erik hums in agreement, but he doesn't pick up the knitting again that night.
***
Part Two