ficlet february 21: "late night phone call"
This is an idea that I had in my head in the lead-up to DoFP, but then didn't write immediately post-DoFP because it was hard to re-work it to fit the post-DoFP characterization implied by the end of the movie. I'm still not sure I've managed it exactly, yet, but I might take another swing at it next month when I sit down to edit these.
***
Ficlet February 21: "late night phone call"
Don't do this again, Charles had said to Erik after their last meeting.
It came from a place of anger--Erik was being smug again, because Erik is a bastard, because Erik knows how much those meetings tortured Charles, because Erik expresses his resentment by causing resentment in others--but mostly it was shame. These meetings always went the same way--Charles would arrive at a conference, check in, see lectures, give his own, aware all the while of the familiar presence wandering through the exhibitions. He'd bow out of the cocktail hour early, retire to his room, and spend the rest of the night and every other night that weekend in bed with Erik.
No one touched Charles the way Erik touched him, not before Cuba and not since. No one he took to bed knew his body half as well or was half as determined to drive him mad. Sex with Erik was incredible.
But like clockwork, Monday morning would arrive and the shame would return.
Deep in his stomach it would fester, with the same sharp voice as Erik when he's being cruel. It would mock him, berate him, remind him how many times Erik tried to hurt him, how many times he did hurt him, how many times he tried to hurt Charles' students.
The shame would last days, weeks, months. He couldn't look Hank or Raven in the eye for at least a week after his return. He couldn't think about what he'd done, over and over again, since releasing Erik from prison.
It was not a happy way to live, made worse by the sharp indifference in Erik's eyes. A calculated facade or not, Erik could pretend he didn't need it. Erik could pretend it didn't matter.
Charles had never been good at that.
One cold look too many on Sunday night and Charles ended it all.
Don't do this again.
He didn't clarify; he didn't have to. Erik shrugged and got dressed and opened the hotel window and vanished into the night.
Charles spent the rest of the night alternately angry at Erik and angry at himself. He spent the next few weeks fuming and furious, then empty and quiet. He spent far too much time thinking about a man who clearly never cared about Charles the way Charles cared about him.
And yet, months later, at the reception of another conference, he can't fucking get Erik out of his head.
He almost expected to see Erik here, to feel him lurking at the back of of the keynote ballroom or walking amid the tables in the poster session. Erik is nowhere to be found, however, and while Charles wants to feel triumphant, proud of himself for cutting out something so toxic from his life, he's sitting at a back table, listening to an obscenely attractive young man flirt with him, and all he can think about is Erik, still.
He drains his glass and it's enough to silence his drinking companion. His name is Darren or Darryl or something to that effect. He's handsome and brilliant and he wants Charles. He's read Charles' papers and he's admired him, but he didn't expect Charles to be so young or to flirt back. He's not sure what the wheelchair means, but he figures Charles wouldn't be flirting back if he couldn't follow through, and besides, it's Charles' mouth that's driving him to distraction. Darren-Darryl has never wanted to fuck someone's mouth this badly before.
Charles hasn't slept with anyone since he kicked Erik out of his room at the last conference. Darren-Darryl is tall, with the same sandy colored hair as Erik. He has Erik's small waist and angular face and Charles wishes he could think of anything other than how much Darren-Darryl and Erik look alike. He wishes he knew for sure that he was going to take Darren-Darryl upstairs and fuck him out of lust and not out of spite.
He's going to take him upstairs and fuck him regardless, but he would really like to know.
***
He tells Darren-Darryl he has some work to do with a partner overseas nearly as soon as they're done. He barely waits until Darren-Darryl has his shoes on before kicking him out into the hallway and falling on the minibar in a way that would make Hank raise an eyebrow. He's a problem drinker, he knows, and this is a problem. He shouldn't be seeing Erik's face when he's fucking someone else. He shouldn't be thinking about how much better it would be with Erik.
He shouldn't be thinking about Erik at all.
Charles is drunk, angry, heartbroken, and in possession of an eidetic memory, the kind of memory that holds onto random numbers like, say, the phone number of an ex-lover that was once written in the date book said ex-lover carries with him.
Charles makes the overseas phone call he kicked Darren-Darryl out for.
"How did you get this number?" Erik asks once the call has been connected, his voice thin and patchy and far away.
"Fuck you," Charles spits out.
Erik is quiet for a long moment.
"Aren't you scheduled to be at a conference?" Erik asks.
"It's none of your bloody business," Charles snaps.
"It is if you're calling from an unsecured line," Erik snaps back.
"Oh don't be so bloody fucking full of yourself," Charles says.
"That's rich," Erik mutters. "What do you want, Charles?"
Charles wants to shout. He has a whole list of things he wants to shout at Erik, obscenities and accusations and condemnations. He wants to lecture Erik on how all that he's doing is hurting the mutant cause. He wants to tells Erik he's despicable and a terrorist. He wants to lie and tell Erik he's never, ever loved him, he doesn't need him, and he certainly doesn't want him. He wants to scream until he can't any longer. He wants Erik to know how this feels, like he's broken and empty inside.
The phone is silent, save for the sound of Charles' own heavy breathing.
"I want you to get out of my head," he finally whispers. "I want one moment's peace, free from the thought of you. I want to think of you without feeling sick."
Even across the phone line, he can hear Erik stop breathing.
"I want to hate you," Charles says, the anger drained out of him, replaced by a heaviness in his arms and a tight knot in his chest. He realizes, abruptly, that he's drunk at 3am and has a presentation to give tomorrow.
He realizes, abruptly, that he's dangerously close to tears.
"It would be easier, wouldn't it?" Erik asks. Charles almost doesn't hear him. More loudly, he adds, "Go to sleep, Charles."
Charles closes his eyes, the phone still pressed against his ear.
"When will you see sense, Erik?" he asks. "When will you--"
He quiets. Neither of them speak.
"When will you come home?" Charles finishes eventually.
"Go to sleep," Erik repeats. Even across the international call, Charles knows the smugness, the coldness, the sharp edges--they're all gone. This is as close as he's come to the Erik he remembers since that day on the beach, when Erik hurt him and then held him and begged Charles to come with him. Closer than on the plane to Paris, Erik walking on eggshells, just as quick to anger as Charles was and unsure how to talk to him. Far closer than the man who's shared Charles' bed on and off these past four years, a passionate lover who regarded Charles with open contempt.
Charles is afraid he'll break the handset of the phone with how tightly he's holding it in his fist.
"It shouldn't have to be this way," Charles says.
"I know," Erik says. He sighs. "Go to bed, Charles," he says for a third time.
This time, Charles listens. He's afraid if he doesn't, he'll say something he regrets, like, I hate you or I love you.
He hangs up the phone and stares at the bed, the sheets dirty and rumpled from his ill-advised evening with Darren-Darryl. In six hours, he has to speak to a ballroom full of people about mutation rates in the US population.
He pushes the dirty sheets aside as best as he can and pulls himself into bed. In the morning, he'll call home and have Hank cancel the rest of the conference schedule for the year. For the moment, he's going to cling to the memory of Erik's voice, just as desolate as his own, to take his advice one last time and get some sleep.
*
ficlet february!
Get some sleep
Five minutes away
Faint recognition
Half an hour before sunrise
Useless, but beautiful
Something’s broken
Surprise celebration
There were signs and signals
Rituals
Write about a postcard
What are you looking for?
You remind me of someone
A meeting, a beginning
Lasting impression
Long drive
Behind closed doors
Ask questions later
Six impossible things
Day off
Lost in a city
A door key
A late night phone call
Someone else’s mortification
Something from music
Something from a picture
***
Ficlet February 21: "late night phone call"
Don't do this again, Charles had said to Erik after their last meeting.
It came from a place of anger--Erik was being smug again, because Erik is a bastard, because Erik knows how much those meetings tortured Charles, because Erik expresses his resentment by causing resentment in others--but mostly it was shame. These meetings always went the same way--Charles would arrive at a conference, check in, see lectures, give his own, aware all the while of the familiar presence wandering through the exhibitions. He'd bow out of the cocktail hour early, retire to his room, and spend the rest of the night and every other night that weekend in bed with Erik.
No one touched Charles the way Erik touched him, not before Cuba and not since. No one he took to bed knew his body half as well or was half as determined to drive him mad. Sex with Erik was incredible.
But like clockwork, Monday morning would arrive and the shame would return.
Deep in his stomach it would fester, with the same sharp voice as Erik when he's being cruel. It would mock him, berate him, remind him how many times Erik tried to hurt him, how many times he did hurt him, how many times he tried to hurt Charles' students.
The shame would last days, weeks, months. He couldn't look Hank or Raven in the eye for at least a week after his return. He couldn't think about what he'd done, over and over again, since releasing Erik from prison.
It was not a happy way to live, made worse by the sharp indifference in Erik's eyes. A calculated facade or not, Erik could pretend he didn't need it. Erik could pretend it didn't matter.
Charles had never been good at that.
One cold look too many on Sunday night and Charles ended it all.
Don't do this again.
He didn't clarify; he didn't have to. Erik shrugged and got dressed and opened the hotel window and vanished into the night.
Charles spent the rest of the night alternately angry at Erik and angry at himself. He spent the next few weeks fuming and furious, then empty and quiet. He spent far too much time thinking about a man who clearly never cared about Charles the way Charles cared about him.
And yet, months later, at the reception of another conference, he can't fucking get Erik out of his head.
He almost expected to see Erik here, to feel him lurking at the back of of the keynote ballroom or walking amid the tables in the poster session. Erik is nowhere to be found, however, and while Charles wants to feel triumphant, proud of himself for cutting out something so toxic from his life, he's sitting at a back table, listening to an obscenely attractive young man flirt with him, and all he can think about is Erik, still.
He drains his glass and it's enough to silence his drinking companion. His name is Darren or Darryl or something to that effect. He's handsome and brilliant and he wants Charles. He's read Charles' papers and he's admired him, but he didn't expect Charles to be so young or to flirt back. He's not sure what the wheelchair means, but he figures Charles wouldn't be flirting back if he couldn't follow through, and besides, it's Charles' mouth that's driving him to distraction. Darren-Darryl has never wanted to fuck someone's mouth this badly before.
Charles hasn't slept with anyone since he kicked Erik out of his room at the last conference. Darren-Darryl is tall, with the same sandy colored hair as Erik. He has Erik's small waist and angular face and Charles wishes he could think of anything other than how much Darren-Darryl and Erik look alike. He wishes he knew for sure that he was going to take Darren-Darryl upstairs and fuck him out of lust and not out of spite.
He's going to take him upstairs and fuck him regardless, but he would really like to know.
***
He tells Darren-Darryl he has some work to do with a partner overseas nearly as soon as they're done. He barely waits until Darren-Darryl has his shoes on before kicking him out into the hallway and falling on the minibar in a way that would make Hank raise an eyebrow. He's a problem drinker, he knows, and this is a problem. He shouldn't be seeing Erik's face when he's fucking someone else. He shouldn't be thinking about how much better it would be with Erik.
He shouldn't be thinking about Erik at all.
Charles is drunk, angry, heartbroken, and in possession of an eidetic memory, the kind of memory that holds onto random numbers like, say, the phone number of an ex-lover that was once written in the date book said ex-lover carries with him.
Charles makes the overseas phone call he kicked Darren-Darryl out for.
"How did you get this number?" Erik asks once the call has been connected, his voice thin and patchy and far away.
"Fuck you," Charles spits out.
Erik is quiet for a long moment.
"Aren't you scheduled to be at a conference?" Erik asks.
"It's none of your bloody business," Charles snaps.
"It is if you're calling from an unsecured line," Erik snaps back.
"Oh don't be so bloody fucking full of yourself," Charles says.
"That's rich," Erik mutters. "What do you want, Charles?"
Charles wants to shout. He has a whole list of things he wants to shout at Erik, obscenities and accusations and condemnations. He wants to lecture Erik on how all that he's doing is hurting the mutant cause. He wants to tells Erik he's despicable and a terrorist. He wants to lie and tell Erik he's never, ever loved him, he doesn't need him, and he certainly doesn't want him. He wants to scream until he can't any longer. He wants Erik to know how this feels, like he's broken and empty inside.
The phone is silent, save for the sound of Charles' own heavy breathing.
"I want you to get out of my head," he finally whispers. "I want one moment's peace, free from the thought of you. I want to think of you without feeling sick."
Even across the phone line, he can hear Erik stop breathing.
"I want to hate you," Charles says, the anger drained out of him, replaced by a heaviness in his arms and a tight knot in his chest. He realizes, abruptly, that he's drunk at 3am and has a presentation to give tomorrow.
He realizes, abruptly, that he's dangerously close to tears.
"It would be easier, wouldn't it?" Erik asks. Charles almost doesn't hear him. More loudly, he adds, "Go to sleep, Charles."
Charles closes his eyes, the phone still pressed against his ear.
"When will you see sense, Erik?" he asks. "When will you--"
He quiets. Neither of them speak.
"When will you come home?" Charles finishes eventually.
"Go to sleep," Erik repeats. Even across the international call, Charles knows the smugness, the coldness, the sharp edges--they're all gone. This is as close as he's come to the Erik he remembers since that day on the beach, when Erik hurt him and then held him and begged Charles to come with him. Closer than on the plane to Paris, Erik walking on eggshells, just as quick to anger as Charles was and unsure how to talk to him. Far closer than the man who's shared Charles' bed on and off these past four years, a passionate lover who regarded Charles with open contempt.
Charles is afraid he'll break the handset of the phone with how tightly he's holding it in his fist.
"It shouldn't have to be this way," Charles says.
"I know," Erik says. He sighs. "Go to bed, Charles," he says for a third time.
This time, Charles listens. He's afraid if he doesn't, he'll say something he regrets, like, I hate you or I love you.
He hangs up the phone and stares at the bed, the sheets dirty and rumpled from his ill-advised evening with Darren-Darryl. In six hours, he has to speak to a ballroom full of people about mutation rates in the US population.
He pushes the dirty sheets aside as best as he can and pulls himself into bed. In the morning, he'll call home and have Hank cancel the rest of the conference schedule for the year. For the moment, he's going to cling to the memory of Erik's voice, just as desolate as his own, to take his advice one last time and get some sleep.
*
ficlet february!
Get some sleep
Five minutes away
Faint recognition
Half an hour before sunrise
Useless, but beautiful
Something’s broken
Surprise celebration
There were signs and signals
Rituals
Write about a postcard
What are you looking for?
You remind me of someone
A meeting, a beginning
Lasting impression
Long drive
Behind closed doors
Ask questions later
Six impossible things
Day off
Lost in a city
A door key
A late night phone call
Someone else’s mortification
Something from music
Something from a picture