Fic: sparkle and fade
Dec. 21st, 2011 02:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabinetzinTitle: sparkle and fade
Summary: Erik has made his choice to stay; he'll stay until the end.
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Word Count: 6579
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, post-canon AU, partner betrayal, body image/disability issues, telepathic sex, bad sex, all the sadness that ever was sad, Hank cussing
Pairing: Charles/Erik, Erik/Raven
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: Oh my actual god I am so glad this story is done. TBH I only have maybe eight? hours in it (which is really, really fast for me, esp. because I started it YESTERDAY) but it felt like it took TEN FOREVERS partially because I WEPT COPIOUSLY while writing it. I hate you so much, sad story. Go away now. I have Erik/Armando to attend to.
Charles is on top tonight; he's pushed Erik down, almost flush with the mattress, and is driving into him, tight and hard and just like Erik wants. He rains light kisses over Erik's shoulder blades, down his back, even up into his hairline. There's nothing else that Erik wants; his dick is rubbing up against the sheets, but it barely even seems to matter, not as much as the press of Charles's cock inside him, not as much as the heat coming from Charles's body.
Charles can go for hours; there's no need for him to stop, not at all, and Erik thinks he can probably manage too, on a night like this. He doesn't even know how long they've been at it, lost all track of time. It's been so long that he doesn't feel like he even remembers how to do anything else, like the only thing that matters, the only thing that counts in the world is having Charles inside of him.
Erik is aware that he's talking, the way that he only can when it's like this, bypassing his mouth and straight into Charles's mind. He's babbling, he thinks, indistinct even to his own ears, just a medley of «please more want need»; the only strange thing about it is that Charles is silent above him, pressing in harder, the only sound coming from him a low grunt, like it's finally getting to him.
It's not awkward at all for Charles to flip him over, lay him out on his back and push into him again, spreading his thighs, opening him up wide. It feels even better like this; it feels like the good kind of dirty, being splayed out like that, ready for whatever Charles wants to do to him, totally at Charles's mercy.
He reaches down, taking himself into his hand; he's suddenly there, suddenly at the edge, doesn't think he can take it much longer. "Charles," he says, and this one feels like it's coming out of his mouth, not just his brain, like it's pushing all the way out of his head. "Charles, please-"
Charles drives into him hard, fast, biting his lip in concentration; Erik works his hand faster and then there it is, sweeping over him, his orgasm rushing through his entire body, spilling out.
«Ready,» Erik says, after a long, long moment, after he's stretched, luxuriated in it. Charles nods, and everything melts slowly around them, the bed, the walls, the clock on the nightstand. Erik rolls his neck; it's so strange, afterwards, no evidence of what's just happened except the light prickle of sweat on his brow and the come on his stomach.
"Good?" Charles says, and he looks perfectly normal, like he hasn't done anything at all.
Erik leans over, kissing him. "You know it was," he replies grinning. "For you?"
"Of course," Charles tells him, and there's something just a little too fast about it, a little too ready; Erik doesn't know what it means, decides not to spend his time on it this instant, filing it away.
They're settled in, later, after Erik has helped him bathe and lifted him carefully into the inconveniently high bed; Erik is smiling, looking at Charles's sleeping face, and what's bothering him suddenly comes up to the surface.
After all that- making love, Erik would have to call it, by the depth of it, what's behind it- Charles never got off. He can't, physically, and that's something they're both well aware of, but in his mind he can reach it, reach down and grab onto whatever's in his brain that makes it happen, do it just fine for himself. He's done it a dozen times, sometimes just to prove he can.
Erik doesn't get it, but for some reason it seems important that he didn't even try.
--
Things are very different at the house since Cuba, since they've begun in earnest, since Charles sent Moira away. They're harder, sadder, their mission clearer; the house is starting to feel a little less like a mansion and a little more like a fortress.
At least, that's how Erik feels about it. Charles never says anything like that out loud; Charles keeps saying that it's all about education, all about understanding, all about defense rather than preparation for battle. Erik doesn't really know how much of that he believes, especially not when Charles's idea of education consists of hours-long sessions in the Danger Room, fighting off every possible threat that Charles can think to throw.
They're still recruiting, but they're getting a little braver about it now, taking in students who are a little younger. Charles has Cerebro down to an art, figured how to pick and choose by more than power, search by categories that Erik can't quite understand.
Charles is handling it, though, and Erik can do little more than stand back; he can help, in certain ways, but this is very much Charles's show, and they both know that. Erik knew it before they even made it this far; he already knew it on the beach, the moment he made his choice.
But Charles is getting on, so far, regaining his momentum, keeping his spirits up; at least, that's how Erik thinks it is.
He wouldn't like to be wrong about that.
--
Nights later, they've just gotten into bed, and Erik rolls towards him, lacing his hand into Charles's hair, pulling his face towards him, kissing him softly, intently. Charles doesn't hesitate; it's been a while since they've done this, honestly, right in the here and now, without Charles's mind interfering. There's something to be said for it; something's not the same, a difference between the hot slide of their mouths together and the simulacrum of it.
Erik's hand trails down the side of Charles's face; he rests it lightly on his neck, finding that one spot right under his ear that makes Charles gasp. It's better than usual, tonight, because Charles moans a little, pushing back against his hand.
He leans up, bracing himself on an elbow so he has full access to Charles's mouth, the ability to kiss him more thoroughly, explore him gently, like he hasn't for a very long time. His hand is moving further still, down to Charles's shoulder, to his chest, grazing across his nipple.
"Just give me a moment," Charles says, breaking away from his mouth. "Just a moment and I'll-" He starts to raise his hand to his temple, but Erik catches it before he can.
"Don't," he says, kissing him again. "Just like this."
Charles pulls away, and Erik knows instantly that he's done something wrong, crossed a line. "You know we can't."
Erik leans back. "Just because you won't be able to-"
"I don't want to," Charles says, his face tense and so serious, and Erik very much hates that look. "I wouldn't-" He swallows. "It's a waste of time."
He looks at Charles in confusion. "Making you feel good is a waste of time?"
Charles shuts his eyes, and his face shuts down with it. "I don't want to talk about this. Look, if you want to-" he lets it drop, has never been good with crude euphemisms- "then just let me do it for you. It isn't a problem."
Erik is baffled, for a moment. "Charles," he says. "It isn't a requirement. You must know that I'm not trying to use you."
"It's the only way," Charles says, like there's nothing else he can possibly think of, like there's nothing else he'd even allow for. "I can't do anything else."
They're getting close to it, dancing around the thing they never speak of, the day they'll never, ever mention again; if Charles can't do this, can't control his body, if he thinks he's broken- well.
Everybody knows who broke him.
"Charles," Erik says quietly. "If you'd just let me show you-"
"I'm going to sleep," Charles says coldly. "Close the door on your way out."
Erik is taken aback, so much so that he actually does leave, not knowing what else to do, how to respond. There are other rooms, even one he used to call his, but there's no point, no way; he sleeps on the sofa outside Charles's room, just in case, maybe more than a little for his own sake.
Erik doesn't see him again until breakfast; Amelia is already in Charles's room by the time Erik wakes up, and he doesn't think she or Charles will appreciate it if he stands around getting in her way. As he sits at the end of the table, Charles's face is a perfect mask- the calm, loving professor, mentor, selfless and helpful, everyone's best friend.
Erik looks at Raven, because there's nobody else who knows him like her; without words, they know they both see it, what's really going on underneath, what Charles is masking so carefully.
He doesn't even get the chance to talk to Charles for several hours; Charles is in the Danger Room while Erik is exercising. He can't exactly interrupt Charles for something like this, can't break in on something that matters so much to Charles to discuss something that happened in their bed.
Erik finally finds him alone outside, sitting on the terrace; he's reading over something, a stack of papers, making marks on them from time to time. He looks up at Erik, and his face doesn't say anything in particular, nothing bad or good.
"About last night," Erik says, very carefully.
Charles smiles, as if there's nothing wrong, and that hurts, badly, when Erik knows there's so much bullshit behind it. "It's nothing. There's nothing to be upset about."
Erik has no idea who he's talking about, which one of them should be upset, even though he's pretty sure it should be both of them. "Of course," he agrees. "I didn't mean to-"
Charles puts his fingers to his temple. "Sorry to interrupt, but we're late for dinner," he says. "Sean is quite insistent about it."
"After you," Erik says, so that he won't have to see Charles's face, so that Charles can't see his.
--
Some days, Erik is fairly certain Raven is psychic; they have, at least, become very well attuned to each other. She brings it up before he can, all but cornering him in the garden, as much as one can be cornered in a garden. "We have to talk."
"Yes, of course we do," he says, rubbing his forehead.
"I have an idea," she tells him. "I don't know that it's a good idea, but I have an idea."
"That's more than I have," Erik admits.
"It's just- that day," she says, grimacing; not one of them likes to speak about that, unless it can't possibly be avoided. "It wasn't just- Charles isn't the only one who changed."
Erik wants so badly to shout how can you say that, we all did, we changed so much, but he knows exactly what she's talking about.
Hank is in the lab, which is just about as surprising as the fact that the sky is blue. He's hanging upside down from the ceiling, which has become his favorite position lately, reading a book. He's clearly engrossed in it, because he doesn't hear when Raven clears her throat; it takes Erik saying his name before he looks up.
"Oh," he says, looking at them curiously. "Let me just," he says, closing his book, and he does a little flip and ends up with his feet on the ground. "What can I help you with?"
Erik and Raven look at each other uneasily; Erik doesn't know what's going through her head, but he's suddenly thinking this was a very bad idea. There's no way to broach the subject, not that Erik can see, without sounding completely horrible.
"Why don't we have a seat?" Hank says, picking up on what's passing between them, obviously aware that something big is going on.
Erik offers Raven a chair before sitting, and Hank restrains himself from perching on something, which is somewhat comforting. "We-" Raven starts. "It's about Charles."
Hank gives her a confused look. "What about Charles? Is something wrong with him? Because I don't know how much help I would be, but I've been working on these new scanners-"
"It's not really that kind of problem," Erik says. "We're just- we're concerned about him, that-" He shakes his head. "He's not taking it well, Hank. Not as well as he was."
"It's getting worse," Raven says. "He's- he's folding up on himself, and we don't know what to do about it."
Hank looks at them, and there is suddenly no expression at all on his face; Erik knows a warning sign when he sees one, but Raven misses it. "We thought you could help- we just- we don't know how to help, Hank."
"Because there's something wrong with him," Hank says, very tightly. "Because he needs to be fixed. And you came to me why, exactly? Because there's something wrong with me? Because I'll tell you, you don't know the first thing about it. That's never happened to you, not like it has to me and him. You'll never, ever know what that's like. You can't."
Erik holds up his hands, he's seen a lot of things, but Hank McCoy really angry is not one of them. He's not entirely sure he needs to have that experience, quite honestly. "That's not what we meant at all."
"Yes, it is," Hank says. "You're upset because he's not doing what you thought he should do. You want to help him be what you think he should be. You know what?" He leans forward, and he suddenly looks very threatening, even for someone who looks rather like a wolf crossed with a bear on a good day. "He can decide that for himself. He doesn't need your fucking help."
Hank takes a deep breath, and he's suddenly himself again; Erik has, however, gained a whole new perspective, a new respect for him. "Leave him alone," Hank says, concern in his voice this time, not rage. "He'll be better. Just- just stay out of his way, okay? He probably needs that more than anything right now."
Erik looks over at Raven, and she still looks shaken up. "I made some cookies," Hank says, before Erik can say anything to her. "Snickerdoodles. There are plenty, if you wanted some. You might even take some to Charles- he likes them."
"That sounds nice," Raven says, uncertainly, like she's just getting her voice back. Erik puts a hand on her arm when she stands up; he doesn't know whether she needs the support or he does, but this has undoubtedly been one of the most intense experiences he's had in a house full of intense experiences.
Raven is still shaky when they leave, and maybe Erik is starting to be able to read her too; he guides her towards her room, taking the back way, where they won't have to run into anyone, make any explanations.
It's terrible of him, absolutely horrible, maybe the worst thing he's thought of in a long time, but there are stairs on the back way.
He shuts the door behind them and her mask drops. She's taken to wearing her skin around him; around the house, particularly around Charles, she's just as blond as ever, but she lets it down around Erik. He isn't entirely sure what that means, whether it's for her comfort or his, whether she's still showing off for him, making herself visible in hopes that he'll like it; either way, she barely seems to notice anymore, and he's starting to ignore it as well, let it become part of the background.
She sits down at the edge of her bed, and she's crying, her tears leaving shiny trails down the soft skin of her face. "I don't know, Erik," she says. "I don't- I know I shouldn't but I can't, I can't just sit by, not when it's Charles-"
He sits down next to her, taking her in his arms, wiping the tears off her face, smoothing back her slick hair. He sort of feels like crying himself, just letting it drop, opening up to her; something in him makes him stop, some sort of deeply ingrained masculine response.
She's kind of beautiful when she's crying, when she's like this. Her skin hasn't changed color at all, her eyes the same yellow; except for the tears glinting off her cheeks she looks just the same.
He only realizes he's been staring when she starts staring back at him. He doesn't know whether he should apologize, whether it's rude or suggestive or anything; before he can think about it too long, she takes him by the shirt, pulling him down to kiss him softly.
He shouldn't, but it's not like before; this isn't about sex, not about that kind of want. This is about comfort, the need for reassurance, the brief promise that it might, somehow, be okay.
They part, after a long moment. "We're not going to do this," Erik says gently.
"No, we're not," Raven tells him, her voice firm. "I just wish we could do something. This is killing me."
"It doesn't feel much better from this end," he tells her, wiping a stray tear off her face with his thumb.
In that moment, Erik has no idea, no clue who to blame for how miserable they all are; one of them must be doing something wrong, if it's this bad, something that can be pulled out, twisted around, set right.
The alternative is too much for him.
He presses his face into Raven's hair, holding her, and they anchor each other.
--
Sometimes Charles's nightmares bleed over; he seems to be able to keep in the good dreams, but the bad ones spill out and into Erik's head, waking him up, tugging at his mind until he does something about them.
Charles has nightmares about the usual things, sometimes. He's being chased, someone pushes him down an elevator shaft, his teeth are falling out. None of that bothers Erik, wouldn't even bear noticing if it didn't wake him up.
It would be so easy if that's all Charles dreamt about.
It's not, not by a long shot. There are so many times, so many ways that Erik wakes up to visions of himself, versions of him that attack and bite or just consume him entirely. He wants to shake Charles awake and tell him I wouldn't do that, you know I wouldn't, you must know; Charles wouldn't understand, probably wouldn't even remember what he'd been dreaming about if Erik woke him.
That's not the worst, though. The worst is when Charles's dreams are memories, not visions. It's always Cuba, couldn't be anywhere but Cuba; they're on that terrible beach, and Erik has to see it how Charles saw it, the whole world narrowed down to Erik's face, the sound of the bullet, the white hot non-pain in his spine. He dreams about what he said, what he wanted, what Erik wouldn't do, how much he wanted Erik to leave him.
There's nothing Erik can do, nothing, absolutely nothing. He can reassure Charles, when it's all a bleak fantasy, all Charles's mind playing dirty tricks on him, but there's nothing he can say, nothing he can do when it's all real.
He's already done it.
Those are the times that hurt the worst, but they're also the times Erik can't leave, won't, just stays there and takes it, makes himself sit through the pain over and over again.
--
This time, Charles is riding him, his ass squeezing Erik's cock just so, just perfect, just like he knows Erik wants it, needs it.
They've been at it for quite a while now, and Erik can tell by the look on Charles's face that he's frustrated; Charles is very, very good at covering it up, moaning instead, but Erik knows, Erik has always known how to read him.
Erik has already figured out what Charles isn't going to admit, not if he can possibly help it. Charles's control over his powers is very, very fine; he hasn't taken Erik over, not exactly. The sensations he's creating for Erik are entirely physical, lighting up his body, but he's not in Erik's mind, not in the part where he could be. They both know he could do it; he could reach right in and press the button, control Erik's pleasure right at the source, and Erik wouldn't have a choice.
He's not, and Erik knows he's not going to, not without Erik's permission, not unless Erik asks him to.
Nothing could possibly make Erik feel worse, more like he's using Charles.
He leans up, putting his hand around the back of Charles's neck and pulling him down to kiss him. "I'm just not feeling well," he says gently, trying his best to look embarrassed and not just tired.
"It's perfectly fine," Charles says, and he smiles; he looks disappointed, but he doesn't look surprised, and something about that makes Erik feel like his heart is being torn out.
They go to sleep; it's weeks before they try again.
--
It takes him a long time, far too long, to realize how stifled he feels.
There's so much more they could be doing; the students, as Charles is so insistent on calling them, are young, but they could be doing so much better. Charles is spoiling them, convincing them that they'll never have to fight. That's just awful of him, because Charles already knows that they will, they absolutely will.
Charles can tell; when Erik pushes it, Charles pushes back. He does it gently, kindly, and that starts to grate on Erik too, how much Charles feels like he needs to spare Erik. No matter what's happened to Charles, no matter what Erik has done to him, even, Charles will never understand the depth of it, what happened to him before, how little he's been able to live on. He'll never understand that Erik can do just fine for himself; he's been doing it for far longer than Charles has.
Erik grits his teeth and keeps his mouth shut. He doesn't care to talk about it, and he doubts Charles does either.
--
It's not often, with Raven, never very far, never as far as he could go, never as far as she would let him. There comes the point where he doesn't even feel as awful as he could afterwards; he should be remorseful, and he is, but not nearly as much as he deserves.
When it's the absolute worst, when neither of them can stand it any longer, when there are more tears than kisses, Erik thinks this is what we've done, Charles, this is how bad it's gotten, this is what we've come to, this is for you, not because you can't, never because you can't, only because you won't.
He thinks, out of all the things Erik is doing, all the ways they are sliding away from each other, this is the one that Charles might actually be able to understand. Sometimes he thinks Charles can hear, must be able to; he's promised, he's always promised, that they're the two, more than anyone, he'll stay well clear of, totally away from. He thinks, though, that it must be so obvious, the heat between them filling up her room, spreading through the house. Even if it's not that, even if they're not loud at all, he must be able to see it on them, every time he can't find them, every time they come to a meal together, every time Erik carefully doesn't touch her, doesn't move towards her, knowing he's overcautious and very obvious in his efforts to stay away from her. He just doesn't know how to stop that part, how to make it look like it should, like they're friendly, like he's not worried about how they appear.
Still, if you're going to cheat on a telepath in his own house, with his own sister, you'd better be careful about it, as careful as you can.
--
It wouldn't be so bad, it couldn't possibly be so bad if Charles had anything to give him, anything to replace what he lost. Things ended that day, but they weren't physical, not all of them; Erik lost something inside him, a fire within him, toxic and dangerous as it was.
And in the back of the closet, in the back of his mind, there's Shaw's helmet.
Erik took it, at the time, because there was no way he could possibly let it fall into the wrong hands, because risking it was incredibly stupid.
It stays there, and Erik can feel the metal of it, so different from the things around it, the coat hangers and the buttons and the zippers. He doesn't know what it's made of, only that he could destroy it if he wanted to.
He hasn't.
He's starting to think he might be the wrong hands.
Charles definitely knows that.
--
They try it one more time, one last shot; both of them know that everything is riding on this, but neither of them would possibly say, couldn't even begin to explain why.
There's a mutant in Connecticut, one with an interesting power concerning probability; Charles is particularly interested in seeing it for himself, and he fights Hank off for the opportunity.
"Come with me," he says to Erik.
"Like the old days?" Erik says.
Charles's smile is warm, familiar, conspiratorial, like Erik hasn't seen in a very long time. "Something like that."
As they drive, it really is almost like it was; it's summertime, and they ride with the windows down, the fresh air blowing in, the radio tuned to something unimportant, something that's barely audible under their conversation, the steady stream of words passing back and forth between them. Erik stretches himself out, feeling like he hasn't felt in what seems like a lifetime; it feels easy, effortless, like this could be it, like everything that's wrong could be stripped away, like they could be made whole again.
The meeting goes quite well. The prospective student is very intrigued by the whole idea, excited to be part of something, and won't they just come back in the fall? She's just got to finish her internship, but then she's more than willing to talk about it further. Erik knows without a doubt that she'll join them in the fall, and he and Charles smile at each other when she leaves.
Erik is in good spirits when they pull up to the hotel, which is only slightly more dilapidated than claimed, which is actually a step up from most places. Erik helps Charles down and into the chair; Charles makes his way to the front desk, and Erik wonders idly what it will be this time. They've made so many excuses over the years, in places where two men traveling together is frowned upon out of force of habit, always suspicious. They've been brothers, cousins, legal partners, tennis partners; once in Shreveport they were Bible salesmen, which amused both of them so much that they barely got to their room before they burst out laughing.
But then he looks at the face of the clerk, and she looks back at him with pity; without any hesitation, she's taken him for Charles's caregiver, and it's suddenly not funny anymore, not funny at all, maddening enough that it makes him want to turn around and leave.
These are the moments that are going to drive him away, the ones he can't control, the places where everyone disappoints him, over and over again. Charles has taken down his hatred so carefully, so thoroughly, replacing it with calm, serenity, the kind of drive that comes from within, not from the need to conquer outside forces.
But these moments are taking him apart again, undoing all of Charles's work. He hated humans when it happened, when he was on the verge of leaving, when he made his choice on that godforsaken beach. Charles took that away from him, tried to show him that it was different, that mutants could be different, that they could be better.
Moments like this are proving to him that they already are.
Charles smiles brightly at the clerk, taking the key, looking at her as if he has no idea in the world what's going on over his head. Charles is learning to love everyone, up to and including the people who hate him. Everything rolls away from Charles, and it doesn't even matter what side it's coming from. People who hate him because he's a mutant, people who hate him because he's in a wheelchair- it's all the same to him; it has to be the same to him, because that's what he's building himself on.
It's become the same thing to Erik, too, only the world has taught Erik to hate everyone, everyone who gives a look or raises a hand or says a word about Charles, about mutants, about anything that matters. It doesn't matter the direction, the impetus; it's the same, it must be, if Erik is going to go on at all.
Charles loves everyone, Erik hates them; Charles still loves Erik, and Erik has finally come to hate Charles.
He's realized that only recently, and he knows there's no going back from it, no way to settle it in his brain, no way to be forgiven; Charles must know, of course Charles knows, Erik doesn't even know that he's really trying to hide it anymore.
They were emptied that day, the day everything changed, and they're only just beginning to be refilled, reborn; they've chosen sides, and Erik can feel it more every day.
The curb in front of the door to their room, despite the manager's insistence and reassurances, is far too high to get the chair over; Erik just lets it go. The chair is mostly metal for exactly this reason, and it bothers him more than he can say that he's gotten used to it, gotten used to making allowances for other people's failures.
They call it an early night, and Erik lies down and lets Charles do whatever he wants, lets Charles push into his mind and have him, slow and so sweet, relentless, desperate.
In the half-darkness, staring at the ceiling, Erik knows, clearly, sharply, that it's over.
That doesn't mean it's the end.
--
It's not long, not long at all before he and Raven give up, stop trying to wait it out.
It's like it hasn't been for him in a very long time. Her body is soft and strong underneath him, and when he bends down to bite at her neck, her scales feel so good against his lips. She reaches up, her hands encircling him, her legs encircling him, her skin everywhere against him. It's so good, so good just to have this, so good to be able to, so good to let go and let it happen.
He drives into her again and again, and it's so easy; he doesn't even have to think about it, doesn't have to worry about pressing too hard, not when she's opening right up for him, giving him everything she's got. His hands fit over her curves just so, and she doesn't stop him from touching, arches up into it, wants him everywhere.
It's long and it's beautiful and it's perfect, just what he needs, just what he wanted, just what he knew she would be.
It's easy, alright; it's like it hasn't been, but that has nothing to do with their bodies, nothing to do with the physical. That part is nothing; that part he could have if he let himself, or at least something close enough that the difference is immaterial. What makes it easy is their minds; there's no trying, no bargaining, no refusal, nothing held back, nothing separating them.
Her eyes are bright and clear when they finish, after she's shaken and sighed underneath him, after he's pushed and grasped and called out her name. There's nothing to say about it, no apologies, no recriminations, no need for any of that.
Because what's between them isn't so goddamned fragile.
What's between them isn't dead.
It's what he's needed for so long; he's needed it to be simple again.
--
The end doesn't come for another month; the worst part about it, if Erik had to pick one, out of all the horrible things that happen, is that it's so very formal. Charles calls him into his office; he's sitting behind his desk, and Erik has the oddest urge to put his hands behind his back, present himself for what's to come.
"This has been coming for quite some time," Charles says, and his voice is flat, in a way that it never is, in a way that tells Erik he's been practicing this, getting ready to rip the two of them apart.
"I think we both know that," Erik responds.
They both know what Erik is waiting for, what he has to hear; no matter what happens, no matter how Erik feels about Charles, what passes between them, he made his choice that day in Cuba. He's with Charles right until the end, and it's entirely up to Charles when that is. Erik has been waiting to hear the right thing from him, to be released.
Charles takes a deep breath. "I need you to leave," he says. "You're not welcome here anymore."
Erik swallows hard. "If that's what you want, then I will."
"You can leave in the morning," Charles says, and the idea of walking around their bedroom, having to gather his things, years' worth of them, very nearly undoes everything, makes him beg for forgiveness, to get back into Charles's good graces no matter what the cost.
He shoves that feeling down hard, keeping it inside. "Of course."
"Take Raven with you," Charles says, and that part Erik wasn't expecting. He doesn't know what Charles knows, whether he's been watching or reading or just guessing, whether he knows about them or just knows that Raven wants to go. He wants so badly to tell Charles that it's not about him, not about his injuries at all, that this is about the two of them, him and Raven. There's just no way; either Charles knows that or he doesn't, and if he doesn't, nothing out of Erik's mouth will make it better, convince him otherwise.
"In the morning, then," Erik says.
Charles looks drawn, weary, suddenly much older than he is. "Erik, I-"
Erik shakes his head. "You don't have to say anything. I know already."
Charles's smile is weak. "I think that's supposed to be my line."
And then Erik is moving and Charles makes no attempt to stop him; he's at Charles's side, leaning down, pressing their lips together, his hand in Charles's hair to keep him close, stop him from moving an inch. Charles gives it back to him, as hard as he can, because this is the last, the very last, the last time they will even pretend.
In the morning, when he walks out of the doors, Shaw's helmet under his arm, Raven's hand in his, he knows he will never enter as a friend again.
--
Years pass.
--
The park is cold, but the sun is shining, beaming down on the last few leaves hanging on the trees. Charles can't be here, or Erik can't be here. They can't be here, not at the same time, not the purported leader of all the acceptable mutants, the one who's frequently assured that he's "one of the good ones", not with the representation of all mankind's problems, someone who even admits that he himself is a supremacist at best and a terrorist at worst.
But it doesn't matter to Charles, not right now. He can't send him away, wants this too much, owes them both this much, so he just changes things, gives the right people the right nudges in the right places.
Charles is feeling particularly masochistic today, because anyone who passes will see Erik as he was, exactly as he was the day he walked out, the day Charles let him leave, the day Charles made him go, the day all their mistakes evened out, the way they should have long before they did.
It is the way he will always see Erik.
"Charles," Erik says, and he doesn't remove the helmet- it's still Shaw's, in Charles's mind, will never be entirely Erik's, no matter what Erik thinks.
"Erik," Charles replies, gesturing to the chair across from him, on the other side of the chessboard.
Erik- it's Magneto now, has been for far longer than Charles likes to admit, but Charles can't think of him that way right now, not right this second, not when they're not actively trying to kill each other- takes his seat; the chess pieces are arranged already. "Black for me?" Erik says. "How very predictable of you, Charles."
"You wouldn't expect anything less," Charles tells him; he's not baiting him, just making a statement, pointing out something they both already know.
Erik's lip quirks up, and Charles can see that he understands; on some level, they will always understand each other. "Start whenever you're ready."
Charles's hand hovers over the pieces, and it's not even important which one he picks. There are things going on around them that are so much more critical; this is a game, but it spreads out, becoming more than that, becoming something real.
Charles has a particular chair, of course, one that he uses when Erik is expected, one with not a single piece of metal in it, every inch of it constructed of acrylic; there's even another one, one that's much less obvious, made almost entirely of wood, just in case he and Erik ever have to pretend to be civil for some reason. The one he's sitting in isn't either of those; it's just a chair, nothing special about it, bought somewhere ages ago, never modified. There's metal all through it, braces and spokes and hinges, surrounding Charles's body.
Erik has the helmet, of course, and since the day he left he's never taken it off in Charles's presence; Charles is fairly certain that he only takes it off at all when he has another telepath shielding him. But Erik isn't alone; Mystique- Raven- is a few blocks away. She can keep Charles out on a good day, some mysterious combination of devices and the skills gained from growing up so close to him, not always able to fully hide her whereabouts but easily keeping her thoughts to herself. Today, she's not even trying, almost doing the opposite; Charles can see her very clearly, very brightly, sitting in a coffee shop not too far down the street, dressed like he always remembers her, blond and pretty and so much younger than any of them are.
Charles looks over at Erik, and neither of them speaks; Erik makes no reach for the metal, and Charles, after all this time, honors his promise, stays out of Raven's head.
He picks up a chess piece and moves. It doesn't matter who wins, not on the board.
They both already know that, in the real game, no one does.
Summary: Erik has made his choice to stay; he'll stay until the end.
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Word Count: 6579
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, post-canon AU, partner betrayal, body image/disability issues, telepathic sex, bad sex, all the sadness that ever was sad, Hank cussing
Pairing: Charles/Erik, Erik/Raven
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: Oh my actual god I am so glad this story is done. TBH I only have maybe eight? hours in it (which is really, really fast for me, esp. because I started it YESTERDAY) but it felt like it took TEN FOREVERS partially because I WEPT COPIOUSLY while writing it. I hate you so much, sad story. Go away now. I have Erik/Armando to attend to.
Charles is on top tonight; he's pushed Erik down, almost flush with the mattress, and is driving into him, tight and hard and just like Erik wants. He rains light kisses over Erik's shoulder blades, down his back, even up into his hairline. There's nothing else that Erik wants; his dick is rubbing up against the sheets, but it barely even seems to matter, not as much as the press of Charles's cock inside him, not as much as the heat coming from Charles's body.
Charles can go for hours; there's no need for him to stop, not at all, and Erik thinks he can probably manage too, on a night like this. He doesn't even know how long they've been at it, lost all track of time. It's been so long that he doesn't feel like he even remembers how to do anything else, like the only thing that matters, the only thing that counts in the world is having Charles inside of him.
Erik is aware that he's talking, the way that he only can when it's like this, bypassing his mouth and straight into Charles's mind. He's babbling, he thinks, indistinct even to his own ears, just a medley of «please more want need»; the only strange thing about it is that Charles is silent above him, pressing in harder, the only sound coming from him a low grunt, like it's finally getting to him.
It's not awkward at all for Charles to flip him over, lay him out on his back and push into him again, spreading his thighs, opening him up wide. It feels even better like this; it feels like the good kind of dirty, being splayed out like that, ready for whatever Charles wants to do to him, totally at Charles's mercy.
He reaches down, taking himself into his hand; he's suddenly there, suddenly at the edge, doesn't think he can take it much longer. "Charles," he says, and this one feels like it's coming out of his mouth, not just his brain, like it's pushing all the way out of his head. "Charles, please-"
Charles drives into him hard, fast, biting his lip in concentration; Erik works his hand faster and then there it is, sweeping over him, his orgasm rushing through his entire body, spilling out.
«Ready,» Erik says, after a long, long moment, after he's stretched, luxuriated in it. Charles nods, and everything melts slowly around them, the bed, the walls, the clock on the nightstand. Erik rolls his neck; it's so strange, afterwards, no evidence of what's just happened except the light prickle of sweat on his brow and the come on his stomach.
"Good?" Charles says, and he looks perfectly normal, like he hasn't done anything at all.
Erik leans over, kissing him. "You know it was," he replies grinning. "For you?"
"Of course," Charles tells him, and there's something just a little too fast about it, a little too ready; Erik doesn't know what it means, decides not to spend his time on it this instant, filing it away.
They're settled in, later, after Erik has helped him bathe and lifted him carefully into the inconveniently high bed; Erik is smiling, looking at Charles's sleeping face, and what's bothering him suddenly comes up to the surface.
After all that- making love, Erik would have to call it, by the depth of it, what's behind it- Charles never got off. He can't, physically, and that's something they're both well aware of, but in his mind he can reach it, reach down and grab onto whatever's in his brain that makes it happen, do it just fine for himself. He's done it a dozen times, sometimes just to prove he can.
Erik doesn't get it, but for some reason it seems important that he didn't even try.
--
Things are very different at the house since Cuba, since they've begun in earnest, since Charles sent Moira away. They're harder, sadder, their mission clearer; the house is starting to feel a little less like a mansion and a little more like a fortress.
At least, that's how Erik feels about it. Charles never says anything like that out loud; Charles keeps saying that it's all about education, all about understanding, all about defense rather than preparation for battle. Erik doesn't really know how much of that he believes, especially not when Charles's idea of education consists of hours-long sessions in the Danger Room, fighting off every possible threat that Charles can think to throw.
They're still recruiting, but they're getting a little braver about it now, taking in students who are a little younger. Charles has Cerebro down to an art, figured how to pick and choose by more than power, search by categories that Erik can't quite understand.
Charles is handling it, though, and Erik can do little more than stand back; he can help, in certain ways, but this is very much Charles's show, and they both know that. Erik knew it before they even made it this far; he already knew it on the beach, the moment he made his choice.
But Charles is getting on, so far, regaining his momentum, keeping his spirits up; at least, that's how Erik thinks it is.
He wouldn't like to be wrong about that.
--
Nights later, they've just gotten into bed, and Erik rolls towards him, lacing his hand into Charles's hair, pulling his face towards him, kissing him softly, intently. Charles doesn't hesitate; it's been a while since they've done this, honestly, right in the here and now, without Charles's mind interfering. There's something to be said for it; something's not the same, a difference between the hot slide of their mouths together and the simulacrum of it.
Erik's hand trails down the side of Charles's face; he rests it lightly on his neck, finding that one spot right under his ear that makes Charles gasp. It's better than usual, tonight, because Charles moans a little, pushing back against his hand.
He leans up, bracing himself on an elbow so he has full access to Charles's mouth, the ability to kiss him more thoroughly, explore him gently, like he hasn't for a very long time. His hand is moving further still, down to Charles's shoulder, to his chest, grazing across his nipple.
"Just give me a moment," Charles says, breaking away from his mouth. "Just a moment and I'll-" He starts to raise his hand to his temple, but Erik catches it before he can.
"Don't," he says, kissing him again. "Just like this."
Charles pulls away, and Erik knows instantly that he's done something wrong, crossed a line. "You know we can't."
Erik leans back. "Just because you won't be able to-"
"I don't want to," Charles says, his face tense and so serious, and Erik very much hates that look. "I wouldn't-" He swallows. "It's a waste of time."
He looks at Charles in confusion. "Making you feel good is a waste of time?"
Charles shuts his eyes, and his face shuts down with it. "I don't want to talk about this. Look, if you want to-" he lets it drop, has never been good with crude euphemisms- "then just let me do it for you. It isn't a problem."
Erik is baffled, for a moment. "Charles," he says. "It isn't a requirement. You must know that I'm not trying to use you."
"It's the only way," Charles says, like there's nothing else he can possibly think of, like there's nothing else he'd even allow for. "I can't do anything else."
They're getting close to it, dancing around the thing they never speak of, the day they'll never, ever mention again; if Charles can't do this, can't control his body, if he thinks he's broken- well.
Everybody knows who broke him.
"Charles," Erik says quietly. "If you'd just let me show you-"
"I'm going to sleep," Charles says coldly. "Close the door on your way out."
Erik is taken aback, so much so that he actually does leave, not knowing what else to do, how to respond. There are other rooms, even one he used to call his, but there's no point, no way; he sleeps on the sofa outside Charles's room, just in case, maybe more than a little for his own sake.
Erik doesn't see him again until breakfast; Amelia is already in Charles's room by the time Erik wakes up, and he doesn't think she or Charles will appreciate it if he stands around getting in her way. As he sits at the end of the table, Charles's face is a perfect mask- the calm, loving professor, mentor, selfless and helpful, everyone's best friend.
Erik looks at Raven, because there's nobody else who knows him like her; without words, they know they both see it, what's really going on underneath, what Charles is masking so carefully.
He doesn't even get the chance to talk to Charles for several hours; Charles is in the Danger Room while Erik is exercising. He can't exactly interrupt Charles for something like this, can't break in on something that matters so much to Charles to discuss something that happened in their bed.
Erik finally finds him alone outside, sitting on the terrace; he's reading over something, a stack of papers, making marks on them from time to time. He looks up at Erik, and his face doesn't say anything in particular, nothing bad or good.
"About last night," Erik says, very carefully.
Charles smiles, as if there's nothing wrong, and that hurts, badly, when Erik knows there's so much bullshit behind it. "It's nothing. There's nothing to be upset about."
Erik has no idea who he's talking about, which one of them should be upset, even though he's pretty sure it should be both of them. "Of course," he agrees. "I didn't mean to-"
Charles puts his fingers to his temple. "Sorry to interrupt, but we're late for dinner," he says. "Sean is quite insistent about it."
"After you," Erik says, so that he won't have to see Charles's face, so that Charles can't see his.
--
Some days, Erik is fairly certain Raven is psychic; they have, at least, become very well attuned to each other. She brings it up before he can, all but cornering him in the garden, as much as one can be cornered in a garden. "We have to talk."
"Yes, of course we do," he says, rubbing his forehead.
"I have an idea," she tells him. "I don't know that it's a good idea, but I have an idea."
"That's more than I have," Erik admits.
"It's just- that day," she says, grimacing; not one of them likes to speak about that, unless it can't possibly be avoided. "It wasn't just- Charles isn't the only one who changed."
Erik wants so badly to shout how can you say that, we all did, we changed so much, but he knows exactly what she's talking about.
Hank is in the lab, which is just about as surprising as the fact that the sky is blue. He's hanging upside down from the ceiling, which has become his favorite position lately, reading a book. He's clearly engrossed in it, because he doesn't hear when Raven clears her throat; it takes Erik saying his name before he looks up.
"Oh," he says, looking at them curiously. "Let me just," he says, closing his book, and he does a little flip and ends up with his feet on the ground. "What can I help you with?"
Erik and Raven look at each other uneasily; Erik doesn't know what's going through her head, but he's suddenly thinking this was a very bad idea. There's no way to broach the subject, not that Erik can see, without sounding completely horrible.
"Why don't we have a seat?" Hank says, picking up on what's passing between them, obviously aware that something big is going on.
Erik offers Raven a chair before sitting, and Hank restrains himself from perching on something, which is somewhat comforting. "We-" Raven starts. "It's about Charles."
Hank gives her a confused look. "What about Charles? Is something wrong with him? Because I don't know how much help I would be, but I've been working on these new scanners-"
"It's not really that kind of problem," Erik says. "We're just- we're concerned about him, that-" He shakes his head. "He's not taking it well, Hank. Not as well as he was."
"It's getting worse," Raven says. "He's- he's folding up on himself, and we don't know what to do about it."
Hank looks at them, and there is suddenly no expression at all on his face; Erik knows a warning sign when he sees one, but Raven misses it. "We thought you could help- we just- we don't know how to help, Hank."
"Because there's something wrong with him," Hank says, very tightly. "Because he needs to be fixed. And you came to me why, exactly? Because there's something wrong with me? Because I'll tell you, you don't know the first thing about it. That's never happened to you, not like it has to me and him. You'll never, ever know what that's like. You can't."
Erik holds up his hands, he's seen a lot of things, but Hank McCoy really angry is not one of them. He's not entirely sure he needs to have that experience, quite honestly. "That's not what we meant at all."
"Yes, it is," Hank says. "You're upset because he's not doing what you thought he should do. You want to help him be what you think he should be. You know what?" He leans forward, and he suddenly looks very threatening, even for someone who looks rather like a wolf crossed with a bear on a good day. "He can decide that for himself. He doesn't need your fucking help."
Hank takes a deep breath, and he's suddenly himself again; Erik has, however, gained a whole new perspective, a new respect for him. "Leave him alone," Hank says, concern in his voice this time, not rage. "He'll be better. Just- just stay out of his way, okay? He probably needs that more than anything right now."
Erik looks over at Raven, and she still looks shaken up. "I made some cookies," Hank says, before Erik can say anything to her. "Snickerdoodles. There are plenty, if you wanted some. You might even take some to Charles- he likes them."
"That sounds nice," Raven says, uncertainly, like she's just getting her voice back. Erik puts a hand on her arm when she stands up; he doesn't know whether she needs the support or he does, but this has undoubtedly been one of the most intense experiences he's had in a house full of intense experiences.
Raven is still shaky when they leave, and maybe Erik is starting to be able to read her too; he guides her towards her room, taking the back way, where they won't have to run into anyone, make any explanations.
It's terrible of him, absolutely horrible, maybe the worst thing he's thought of in a long time, but there are stairs on the back way.
He shuts the door behind them and her mask drops. She's taken to wearing her skin around him; around the house, particularly around Charles, she's just as blond as ever, but she lets it down around Erik. He isn't entirely sure what that means, whether it's for her comfort or his, whether she's still showing off for him, making herself visible in hopes that he'll like it; either way, she barely seems to notice anymore, and he's starting to ignore it as well, let it become part of the background.
She sits down at the edge of her bed, and she's crying, her tears leaving shiny trails down the soft skin of her face. "I don't know, Erik," she says. "I don't- I know I shouldn't but I can't, I can't just sit by, not when it's Charles-"
He sits down next to her, taking her in his arms, wiping the tears off her face, smoothing back her slick hair. He sort of feels like crying himself, just letting it drop, opening up to her; something in him makes him stop, some sort of deeply ingrained masculine response.
She's kind of beautiful when she's crying, when she's like this. Her skin hasn't changed color at all, her eyes the same yellow; except for the tears glinting off her cheeks she looks just the same.
He only realizes he's been staring when she starts staring back at him. He doesn't know whether he should apologize, whether it's rude or suggestive or anything; before he can think about it too long, she takes him by the shirt, pulling him down to kiss him softly.
He shouldn't, but it's not like before; this isn't about sex, not about that kind of want. This is about comfort, the need for reassurance, the brief promise that it might, somehow, be okay.
They part, after a long moment. "We're not going to do this," Erik says gently.
"No, we're not," Raven tells him, her voice firm. "I just wish we could do something. This is killing me."
"It doesn't feel much better from this end," he tells her, wiping a stray tear off her face with his thumb.
In that moment, Erik has no idea, no clue who to blame for how miserable they all are; one of them must be doing something wrong, if it's this bad, something that can be pulled out, twisted around, set right.
The alternative is too much for him.
He presses his face into Raven's hair, holding her, and they anchor each other.
--
Sometimes Charles's nightmares bleed over; he seems to be able to keep in the good dreams, but the bad ones spill out and into Erik's head, waking him up, tugging at his mind until he does something about them.
Charles has nightmares about the usual things, sometimes. He's being chased, someone pushes him down an elevator shaft, his teeth are falling out. None of that bothers Erik, wouldn't even bear noticing if it didn't wake him up.
It would be so easy if that's all Charles dreamt about.
It's not, not by a long shot. There are so many times, so many ways that Erik wakes up to visions of himself, versions of him that attack and bite or just consume him entirely. He wants to shake Charles awake and tell him I wouldn't do that, you know I wouldn't, you must know; Charles wouldn't understand, probably wouldn't even remember what he'd been dreaming about if Erik woke him.
That's not the worst, though. The worst is when Charles's dreams are memories, not visions. It's always Cuba, couldn't be anywhere but Cuba; they're on that terrible beach, and Erik has to see it how Charles saw it, the whole world narrowed down to Erik's face, the sound of the bullet, the white hot non-pain in his spine. He dreams about what he said, what he wanted, what Erik wouldn't do, how much he wanted Erik to leave him.
There's nothing Erik can do, nothing, absolutely nothing. He can reassure Charles, when it's all a bleak fantasy, all Charles's mind playing dirty tricks on him, but there's nothing he can say, nothing he can do when it's all real.
He's already done it.
Those are the times that hurt the worst, but they're also the times Erik can't leave, won't, just stays there and takes it, makes himself sit through the pain over and over again.
--
This time, Charles is riding him, his ass squeezing Erik's cock just so, just perfect, just like he knows Erik wants it, needs it.
They've been at it for quite a while now, and Erik can tell by the look on Charles's face that he's frustrated; Charles is very, very good at covering it up, moaning instead, but Erik knows, Erik has always known how to read him.
Erik has already figured out what Charles isn't going to admit, not if he can possibly help it. Charles's control over his powers is very, very fine; he hasn't taken Erik over, not exactly. The sensations he's creating for Erik are entirely physical, lighting up his body, but he's not in Erik's mind, not in the part where he could be. They both know he could do it; he could reach right in and press the button, control Erik's pleasure right at the source, and Erik wouldn't have a choice.
He's not, and Erik knows he's not going to, not without Erik's permission, not unless Erik asks him to.
Nothing could possibly make Erik feel worse, more like he's using Charles.
He leans up, putting his hand around the back of Charles's neck and pulling him down to kiss him. "I'm just not feeling well," he says gently, trying his best to look embarrassed and not just tired.
"It's perfectly fine," Charles says, and he smiles; he looks disappointed, but he doesn't look surprised, and something about that makes Erik feel like his heart is being torn out.
They go to sleep; it's weeks before they try again.
--
It takes him a long time, far too long, to realize how stifled he feels.
There's so much more they could be doing; the students, as Charles is so insistent on calling them, are young, but they could be doing so much better. Charles is spoiling them, convincing them that they'll never have to fight. That's just awful of him, because Charles already knows that they will, they absolutely will.
Charles can tell; when Erik pushes it, Charles pushes back. He does it gently, kindly, and that starts to grate on Erik too, how much Charles feels like he needs to spare Erik. No matter what's happened to Charles, no matter what Erik has done to him, even, Charles will never understand the depth of it, what happened to him before, how little he's been able to live on. He'll never understand that Erik can do just fine for himself; he's been doing it for far longer than Charles has.
Erik grits his teeth and keeps his mouth shut. He doesn't care to talk about it, and he doubts Charles does either.
--
It's not often, with Raven, never very far, never as far as he could go, never as far as she would let him. There comes the point where he doesn't even feel as awful as he could afterwards; he should be remorseful, and he is, but not nearly as much as he deserves.
When it's the absolute worst, when neither of them can stand it any longer, when there are more tears than kisses, Erik thinks this is what we've done, Charles, this is how bad it's gotten, this is what we've come to, this is for you, not because you can't, never because you can't, only because you won't.
He thinks, out of all the things Erik is doing, all the ways they are sliding away from each other, this is the one that Charles might actually be able to understand. Sometimes he thinks Charles can hear, must be able to; he's promised, he's always promised, that they're the two, more than anyone, he'll stay well clear of, totally away from. He thinks, though, that it must be so obvious, the heat between them filling up her room, spreading through the house. Even if it's not that, even if they're not loud at all, he must be able to see it on them, every time he can't find them, every time they come to a meal together, every time Erik carefully doesn't touch her, doesn't move towards her, knowing he's overcautious and very obvious in his efforts to stay away from her. He just doesn't know how to stop that part, how to make it look like it should, like they're friendly, like he's not worried about how they appear.
Still, if you're going to cheat on a telepath in his own house, with his own sister, you'd better be careful about it, as careful as you can.
--
It wouldn't be so bad, it couldn't possibly be so bad if Charles had anything to give him, anything to replace what he lost. Things ended that day, but they weren't physical, not all of them; Erik lost something inside him, a fire within him, toxic and dangerous as it was.
And in the back of the closet, in the back of his mind, there's Shaw's helmet.
Erik took it, at the time, because there was no way he could possibly let it fall into the wrong hands, because risking it was incredibly stupid.
It stays there, and Erik can feel the metal of it, so different from the things around it, the coat hangers and the buttons and the zippers. He doesn't know what it's made of, only that he could destroy it if he wanted to.
He hasn't.
He's starting to think he might be the wrong hands.
Charles definitely knows that.
--
They try it one more time, one last shot; both of them know that everything is riding on this, but neither of them would possibly say, couldn't even begin to explain why.
There's a mutant in Connecticut, one with an interesting power concerning probability; Charles is particularly interested in seeing it for himself, and he fights Hank off for the opportunity.
"Come with me," he says to Erik.
"Like the old days?" Erik says.
Charles's smile is warm, familiar, conspiratorial, like Erik hasn't seen in a very long time. "Something like that."
As they drive, it really is almost like it was; it's summertime, and they ride with the windows down, the fresh air blowing in, the radio tuned to something unimportant, something that's barely audible under their conversation, the steady stream of words passing back and forth between them. Erik stretches himself out, feeling like he hasn't felt in what seems like a lifetime; it feels easy, effortless, like this could be it, like everything that's wrong could be stripped away, like they could be made whole again.
The meeting goes quite well. The prospective student is very intrigued by the whole idea, excited to be part of something, and won't they just come back in the fall? She's just got to finish her internship, but then she's more than willing to talk about it further. Erik knows without a doubt that she'll join them in the fall, and he and Charles smile at each other when she leaves.
Erik is in good spirits when they pull up to the hotel, which is only slightly more dilapidated than claimed, which is actually a step up from most places. Erik helps Charles down and into the chair; Charles makes his way to the front desk, and Erik wonders idly what it will be this time. They've made so many excuses over the years, in places where two men traveling together is frowned upon out of force of habit, always suspicious. They've been brothers, cousins, legal partners, tennis partners; once in Shreveport they were Bible salesmen, which amused both of them so much that they barely got to their room before they burst out laughing.
But then he looks at the face of the clerk, and she looks back at him with pity; without any hesitation, she's taken him for Charles's caregiver, and it's suddenly not funny anymore, not funny at all, maddening enough that it makes him want to turn around and leave.
These are the moments that are going to drive him away, the ones he can't control, the places where everyone disappoints him, over and over again. Charles has taken down his hatred so carefully, so thoroughly, replacing it with calm, serenity, the kind of drive that comes from within, not from the need to conquer outside forces.
But these moments are taking him apart again, undoing all of Charles's work. He hated humans when it happened, when he was on the verge of leaving, when he made his choice on that godforsaken beach. Charles took that away from him, tried to show him that it was different, that mutants could be different, that they could be better.
Moments like this are proving to him that they already are.
Charles smiles brightly at the clerk, taking the key, looking at her as if he has no idea in the world what's going on over his head. Charles is learning to love everyone, up to and including the people who hate him. Everything rolls away from Charles, and it doesn't even matter what side it's coming from. People who hate him because he's a mutant, people who hate him because he's in a wheelchair- it's all the same to him; it has to be the same to him, because that's what he's building himself on.
It's become the same thing to Erik, too, only the world has taught Erik to hate everyone, everyone who gives a look or raises a hand or says a word about Charles, about mutants, about anything that matters. It doesn't matter the direction, the impetus; it's the same, it must be, if Erik is going to go on at all.
Charles loves everyone, Erik hates them; Charles still loves Erik, and Erik has finally come to hate Charles.
He's realized that only recently, and he knows there's no going back from it, no way to settle it in his brain, no way to be forgiven; Charles must know, of course Charles knows, Erik doesn't even know that he's really trying to hide it anymore.
They were emptied that day, the day everything changed, and they're only just beginning to be refilled, reborn; they've chosen sides, and Erik can feel it more every day.
The curb in front of the door to their room, despite the manager's insistence and reassurances, is far too high to get the chair over; Erik just lets it go. The chair is mostly metal for exactly this reason, and it bothers him more than he can say that he's gotten used to it, gotten used to making allowances for other people's failures.
They call it an early night, and Erik lies down and lets Charles do whatever he wants, lets Charles push into his mind and have him, slow and so sweet, relentless, desperate.
In the half-darkness, staring at the ceiling, Erik knows, clearly, sharply, that it's over.
That doesn't mean it's the end.
--
It's not long, not long at all before he and Raven give up, stop trying to wait it out.
It's like it hasn't been for him in a very long time. Her body is soft and strong underneath him, and when he bends down to bite at her neck, her scales feel so good against his lips. She reaches up, her hands encircling him, her legs encircling him, her skin everywhere against him. It's so good, so good just to have this, so good to be able to, so good to let go and let it happen.
He drives into her again and again, and it's so easy; he doesn't even have to think about it, doesn't have to worry about pressing too hard, not when she's opening right up for him, giving him everything she's got. His hands fit over her curves just so, and she doesn't stop him from touching, arches up into it, wants him everywhere.
It's long and it's beautiful and it's perfect, just what he needs, just what he wanted, just what he knew she would be.
It's easy, alright; it's like it hasn't been, but that has nothing to do with their bodies, nothing to do with the physical. That part is nothing; that part he could have if he let himself, or at least something close enough that the difference is immaterial. What makes it easy is their minds; there's no trying, no bargaining, no refusal, nothing held back, nothing separating them.
Her eyes are bright and clear when they finish, after she's shaken and sighed underneath him, after he's pushed and grasped and called out her name. There's nothing to say about it, no apologies, no recriminations, no need for any of that.
Because what's between them isn't so goddamned fragile.
What's between them isn't dead.
It's what he's needed for so long; he's needed it to be simple again.
--
The end doesn't come for another month; the worst part about it, if Erik had to pick one, out of all the horrible things that happen, is that it's so very formal. Charles calls him into his office; he's sitting behind his desk, and Erik has the oddest urge to put his hands behind his back, present himself for what's to come.
"This has been coming for quite some time," Charles says, and his voice is flat, in a way that it never is, in a way that tells Erik he's been practicing this, getting ready to rip the two of them apart.
"I think we both know that," Erik responds.
They both know what Erik is waiting for, what he has to hear; no matter what happens, no matter how Erik feels about Charles, what passes between them, he made his choice that day in Cuba. He's with Charles right until the end, and it's entirely up to Charles when that is. Erik has been waiting to hear the right thing from him, to be released.
Charles takes a deep breath. "I need you to leave," he says. "You're not welcome here anymore."
Erik swallows hard. "If that's what you want, then I will."
"You can leave in the morning," Charles says, and the idea of walking around their bedroom, having to gather his things, years' worth of them, very nearly undoes everything, makes him beg for forgiveness, to get back into Charles's good graces no matter what the cost.
He shoves that feeling down hard, keeping it inside. "Of course."
"Take Raven with you," Charles says, and that part Erik wasn't expecting. He doesn't know what Charles knows, whether he's been watching or reading or just guessing, whether he knows about them or just knows that Raven wants to go. He wants so badly to tell Charles that it's not about him, not about his injuries at all, that this is about the two of them, him and Raven. There's just no way; either Charles knows that or he doesn't, and if he doesn't, nothing out of Erik's mouth will make it better, convince him otherwise.
"In the morning, then," Erik says.
Charles looks drawn, weary, suddenly much older than he is. "Erik, I-"
Erik shakes his head. "You don't have to say anything. I know already."
Charles's smile is weak. "I think that's supposed to be my line."
And then Erik is moving and Charles makes no attempt to stop him; he's at Charles's side, leaning down, pressing their lips together, his hand in Charles's hair to keep him close, stop him from moving an inch. Charles gives it back to him, as hard as he can, because this is the last, the very last, the last time they will even pretend.
In the morning, when he walks out of the doors, Shaw's helmet under his arm, Raven's hand in his, he knows he will never enter as a friend again.
--
Years pass.
--
The park is cold, but the sun is shining, beaming down on the last few leaves hanging on the trees. Charles can't be here, or Erik can't be here. They can't be here, not at the same time, not the purported leader of all the acceptable mutants, the one who's frequently assured that he's "one of the good ones", not with the representation of all mankind's problems, someone who even admits that he himself is a supremacist at best and a terrorist at worst.
But it doesn't matter to Charles, not right now. He can't send him away, wants this too much, owes them both this much, so he just changes things, gives the right people the right nudges in the right places.
Charles is feeling particularly masochistic today, because anyone who passes will see Erik as he was, exactly as he was the day he walked out, the day Charles let him leave, the day Charles made him go, the day all their mistakes evened out, the way they should have long before they did.
It is the way he will always see Erik.
"Charles," Erik says, and he doesn't remove the helmet- it's still Shaw's, in Charles's mind, will never be entirely Erik's, no matter what Erik thinks.
"Erik," Charles replies, gesturing to the chair across from him, on the other side of the chessboard.
Erik- it's Magneto now, has been for far longer than Charles likes to admit, but Charles can't think of him that way right now, not right this second, not when they're not actively trying to kill each other- takes his seat; the chess pieces are arranged already. "Black for me?" Erik says. "How very predictable of you, Charles."
"You wouldn't expect anything less," Charles tells him; he's not baiting him, just making a statement, pointing out something they both already know.
Erik's lip quirks up, and Charles can see that he understands; on some level, they will always understand each other. "Start whenever you're ready."
Charles's hand hovers over the pieces, and it's not even important which one he picks. There are things going on around them that are so much more critical; this is a game, but it spreads out, becoming more than that, becoming something real.
Charles has a particular chair, of course, one that he uses when Erik is expected, one with not a single piece of metal in it, every inch of it constructed of acrylic; there's even another one, one that's much less obvious, made almost entirely of wood, just in case he and Erik ever have to pretend to be civil for some reason. The one he's sitting in isn't either of those; it's just a chair, nothing special about it, bought somewhere ages ago, never modified. There's metal all through it, braces and spokes and hinges, surrounding Charles's body.
Erik has the helmet, of course, and since the day he left he's never taken it off in Charles's presence; Charles is fairly certain that he only takes it off at all when he has another telepath shielding him. But Erik isn't alone; Mystique- Raven- is a few blocks away. She can keep Charles out on a good day, some mysterious combination of devices and the skills gained from growing up so close to him, not always able to fully hide her whereabouts but easily keeping her thoughts to herself. Today, she's not even trying, almost doing the opposite; Charles can see her very clearly, very brightly, sitting in a coffee shop not too far down the street, dressed like he always remembers her, blond and pretty and so much younger than any of them are.
Charles looks over at Erik, and neither of them speaks; Erik makes no reach for the metal, and Charles, after all this time, honors his promise, stays out of Raven's head.
He picks up a chess piece and moves. It doesn't matter who wins, not on the board.
They both already know that, in the real game, no one does.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-12-21 03:03 pm (UTC)You were right. Goddamned feelings like a firehose. But the emotional tone is so accurate and I loved the story, despite how much I ached for everyone.
Thanks for writing and sharing!