Work Text:
Charles awakens six months (half a lifetime) later, in the middle of the night. He's not alone.
He wonders if Erik expects him to startle, perhaps sound the alarm. After all, they are...what are they, now? Enemies is far too clean a word for it, far too simple.
He lays still, keeps his thoughts to himself. No one else in the mansion's ever-growing population would understand. Will ever understand.
Erik stands at the foot of the bed and stares at him, his face (what little can be seen of it, hidden under all that metal) set in hard lines, his eyes shuttered. Charles finds himself trying to read the thoughts behind those eyes despite himself, despite knowing how futile it is, and for a moment he lets himself mourn the touch of that mind, perhaps (assuredly) one of the greatest he's ever known. There are jewels among the darkness, there, likely now to be hidden away from the world forever. So much the worse for the world.
The rolling gravel of Erik's voice pulls Charles from his pondering, back to the present moment. “Is it true?” he asks, shaking words and harsh breath betraying what his thoughts do not.
Charles opens his mouth to answer, but the question is too vague, (mere language, so inefficient, such an inexact method of communication) and his lips drift together again, his head turning slightly on the pillow. He waits.
Erik turns away with a huff of frustration, obviously conflicted, and Charles wonders if it will be too much, if he will simply disappear back into the night on an invisible slipstream of magnetism. A gentle breeze floats in through the open window, warm, beckoning, and Charles turns to let it play over his face. It smells of fresh-turned soil and budding leaves and clean spring rain, and it occurs to him that perhaps he should start sleeping every night with the windows open (to him) to the air.
Two heavy steps and Erik is at his bedside. He reaches out, long fingers hovering over the bedclothes, not quite touching, staring at the lump in the blankets where Charles's legs are (were, should be). He swallows heavily before speaking again. “Is it...is it true?”
Charles takes a steadying breath. Acceptance is easy in front of the others, easy when he's playing at wisdom. Alone in his room at night, exiled on the pillowed island of his bed, it is far too easy to sink into (not fair, will never be fair) anger and despair. He looks at Erik, finally facing the consequences of his actions, and realizes that it is not Erik he is angry at. Not at all.
“Yes, my friend. It's true. The doctors thought at first, with treatment...but no. It seems now that I took my last steps a long time ago.”
Erik's face shatters, and he falls to sit heavily on the bed, his hands gripping at the muscles of Charles's thigh. He looks up at Charles, piercing, unbelieving, and Charles can see his knuckles go white as his grip goes tighter. But there is nothing (of course, always nothing), and he shakes his head, lets the sorrow show in his eyes.
“And yet you call me friend?” Erik says, too loud, and Charles can see the pain in those words as they force themselves out, the not-quite tears welling in the corners of Erik's bloodshot eyes.
Charles reaches down and lays a hand over Erik's, so-softly, waiting patiently for his fingers to relax. He'll have bruises on his leg tomorrow (the artist signing his work), but no one will see them. No one looks at his legs any more.
“Erik.” No response, just a hitch of breath, the near-audible grit of teeth, and Charles's heart breaks. It has always been too easy for Erik to lose himself in his own pain. “Erik, please. Let me in. I couldn't bring myself to hurt you, once. I think now I never will. I'll swear on it, give you my word, anything, just...please.”
Charles doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until Erik finally moves, cobra-quick, tearing the helmet from his head and throwing it to the floor. Breath and thought rush in all at once, overwhelming, and Charles has to close his eyes against the onslaught, blocking out the world until he can find his equilibrium once more.
Erik's hands are on him before he's ready, cradling his cheeks, words of worry rolling off his tongue, and when Charles opens his eyes again, Erik is right there, hovering mere inches away – all of Erik, not just the little his basic senses can reach but the whole of him, bodymindsoul in one inseparable being. Charles's hands bury themselves in Erik's hair and pull him closer, until they're forehead to forehead, as if he could crawl inside that mind, stowaway among dreams and memories and leave this broken body behind forever.
He senses the kiss coming only seconds before he feels it, warm lips playing surprisingly soft over his own, tiny presses interspersed with whispers of I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, and he can't tell if Erik is speaking or thinking, but it doesn't matter (nothing matters), because Erik is here, with him, open.
Deep into the night, Erik falls asleep wrapped around him, soothed by the calming influence of Charles's thoughts, the gentle touch of his fingers. Charles himself fights sleep as long as he can, not willing to lose a moment of this time, not knowing when (if) it will happen again. And when the first blush of dawn begins to bleed across the sky, Charles acts without a single thought, brings time to a standstill around them and doesn't bother asking why.
He holds the world in stasis until Erik begins to stir, eyes blinking slowly open in the light, faint tracks of tears still streaking salt down his face. And Charles already knows what's going to happen, knows that the closeness of the night is all but impossible in the light of day (choices made, and he can't coax time to reverse no matter how hard he tries).
Erik slips from his arms without a word, fetches his helmet (hiding place) from the floor and settles it back on his head. Everything goes suddenly a little quieter, a little darker, and Charles can't believe he's forgotten in the space of one night what a world without Erik feels like.
Erik turns just once, looks back at Charles over his shoulder with something in his eyes, something deep and powerful and indecipherable, and in that moment Charles would give anything, trade anything to be able to tear off his blankets and go to him, as if it would make a difference, as if the lost strength of his body could hold him here.
But the few feet of empty space between them are as impassible to Charles as the ocean, as the distance to the sun, and he can do nothing but watch as Erik steps over the window ledge and disappears, back to his plans and weapons and devoted followers, a world of his own making – a world that Charles has no choice but to oppose (and perhaps enemies is the right word).
The next night, Charles leaves his window open, but Erik does not (will never) return.