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You offered me a home. I’d like to do the same for you.
When they’re done, when his drink is finished and the board is clear and the café is emptier than it had been before, Erik leans back against his chair and asks, “Will you come?”
His mouth is curled at one side: smug and satisfied, pleased that he’d won. Charles looks at him, thinks it over. The offer is tempting, he won’t lie. Even now, his feelings for Erik remain fond. More than fond. It’s a strange thing, he thinks. This relationship of theirs. Dubious and volatile, unconventional in every sense of the word, and yet…
And yet.
He remembers their younger years: flashes of laughter and camaraderie and long nights spent on the road with only each other. Remembers the intimacy of it all. Remembers having hopes and dreams and plans of a future better than anything anyone had dared to imagine: his certainty of its success naïve in retrospect. His heart aches when he thinks of it, now. Thinks of what a catastrophe it’d grown to be.
He sighs, soft and short. “I’m sorry, my friend,” he starts to say, and it rolls off his tongue easier than he thought it would. The rest remains unsaid as Erik’s smile fades, acceptance taking its place.
He doesn’t push the matter, and as they say their goodbyes for what feels like the thousandth time, Charles finds himself almost wishing he would.
-
He stays in Paris for a few weeks. Visits England, Oxford. Goes to places he used to frequent; places that are familiar in memories which feel foreign.
For a while, he fools himself into thinking that his retirement is legitimate and not just a poor attempt at escaping the mess he’d left behind. Tells himself he’s enjoying it even as he continues to see Raven in glimpses of strangers on the street.
A little girl waves at him on the curb outside a liquor store, her red hair shining softly in the sunlight, and Charles swallows around the Jean-shaped lump in his throat as he hurries back to his latest home: the bottle gone in hours even as the lump remains. When he lies down to sleep, he expands his powers as if maybe he could reach them both beyond the grave.
On his best days, he drinks at night to assuage the guilt, muddles his mind enough to sleep. On his worst, he wakes with the bottle and an abundance of blame: the feeling a force he’s still not grown familiar with.
By the time he arrives back in Westchester, worn-out and subdued enough to cause concern, Charles has accepted his state.
“Charles—” Hank tries, but Charles shakes his head. Stops the conversation before it can start.
“A jet,” he interrupts. “Preferably a small one.”
It’s all he says on the matter.
-
He expects it to feel like an admission of failure, an act of surrender: desolate and despondent, proof of everything he’d done wrong.
Somehow, it feels more like coming home.
Charles has seen Genosha before, but not since its earliest days, and rarely in the flesh. He’s far more used to glimpses: stray photos that had made the news, images from other people’s minds. It leaves him ill-prepared for the agricultural community he finds.
He lands the jet, and it’s with some difficulty that he makes it out, but he feels Erik, there, on the outskirts of his mind: his presence a familiarity that even decades’ worth of distance can’t diminish. It’s a comfort, in a strange sort of way. Always has been.
A mutant with long hair and a scarred face greets him, expression weary as she questions, “What are you doing here?”
Charles smiles, tries to be charming. It’s an act he’d had perfected, once. “Came to see an old friend,” he says, using Erik’s words. The mutant’s brow furrows, a question forming on her lips, but she quiets as another body joins them.
Erik lands in front of him with a dramatic flair that has a laugh itching at Charles’ throat, but he swallows it down as the others watch on, their thoughts and presence not going unnoticed.
“Charles,” Erik says with a tilt of his head. He looks around, and it’s enough for the others to scatter, heads turning and bodies moving as they pretend not to pay attention. Charles knows better.
He smiles, a little more genuine, now, and it’s with unspoken agreement that Erik assists him, his chair levitating as they make for Erik’s hut.
“Not exactly wheelchair friendly,” Charles comments as he settles on a seat, eyes trained on the muscles of Erik’s back as he leans over, a teapot set out in front of him.
“I’ll work on it,” Erik promises as he readies a cup, head turning so he can look at Charles over his shoulder. There’s a smile on his face: small, slight. Almost teasing. “But only if you stay.”
Charles laughs at that, the sound breathy and short-lived. It’s surreal, he thinks. Erik asking him. He takes a cup when it’s handed to him and tilts his head toward the exit, to those outside. “Would they want me here?”
“What they want doesn’t matter,” Erik tells him. He settles down across from Charles, his own cup held in hand. “Not on this. I built a safe heaven, for all mutants. So long as they keep the peace, they’re welcome here.” He sips at his tea and looks out at the greenery below, the teasing tilt back as he asks, “You’re not planning on causing trouble, now, are you?”
Charles’ mouth twitches, the thought no clear and bold in his mind. “If you can manage to behave,” he says, “I think I can do the same.” He puts his tea to the side, gaze trailing over what he can see from where they sit: the bright, earthy colours of the surrounding scenery emitting an air of long-desired tranquillity. Distantly, he thinks that perhaps Erik had the right idea. “Peace might just be what I need,” he adds, then, his voice softer than before. Almost as if he hadn’t meant to say it.
Erik’s expression gentles. He looks at Charles like he understands; as if he’s the one who can read minds. “There’s not much alcohol here,” he says, and the look he gives Charles is pointed. Knowing. “Not much of anything like it.”
The air hangs heavy with history. Charles feels a sigh press at his teeth.
“Am I that obvious?” he asks, and he tries to keep it casual. Lighthearted. Erik doesn’t look the least bit amused, though, and the joke dies on his tongue. He allows himself the sigh, thumb scratching across his forehead as a silence settles over them. “I think,” he says eventually, “I think that might be a good thing.”
Erik nods, but thankfully doesn’t press. “We’re still expanding,” he tells him. “Low on housing, but…” He trails off, gaze drifting to where his own bed rests before turning back to Charles. “If you wanted.”
It’s a proposition, clear as day, and it’s all he needs to hear, really. He’s lost enough family—they both have. Charles has no desire to pass up a chance at reconciliation.
“I think I’d like that,” he murmurs. Then, even softer, “I think I’d like that a lot.”