Work Text:
December, 1970
The first thing Charles registered as he fell back into consciousness was a searing pain that had nothing to do with cacophony in his head.
"What the bloody–"
"It's 2 o'clock in the afternoon, Charles," came Hank's voice over the screech of another set of curtain rings being forcefully yanked across a metal rod, sending yet one more painful stream of sunlight against his eyelids. "Time to get up."
Charles swore then, fingers scrabbling to yank his comforter back over his face. Before he could manage to cover himself, however, his blankets were ripped away entirely, an assault of chilly air attacking his exposed body.
"Hank!" Charles cried out, finally wrenching his eyes open. Against the powerful light of the sun, Charles could make out Hank's tall form standing over him, hands on his hips. "Have you gone mad?!"
"Of course I haven't," replied the man, pushing the last of the drawn curtains open to reveal the window. Clouds of dust floated through the air, a testament to how infrequently those curtains moved. "We have things to do today."
With his bedroom now bathed in a warm afternoon light, the evidence of Charles' neglect was painfully clear. There was hardly any space to walk without treading over clothes, liquor bottles, forgotten plates of food, books. A staleness hung in the air, still and empty around them.
And then, the noise started. As the murk of sleep began to slip away, echoing, bouncing voices sounded through his ears. Instantly, a searing, overwhelming pain filled his head, and Charles curled his fingers into the sheets around him. When he tried to scramble to his feet, his legs didn't move beneath him.
"Serum," Charles murmured, eyes clenched shut. Hank's own mind sang in protest.
"Charles–"
"Hank," Charles hissed sharply, slamming the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. "Please."
The reverberation of Hank's disapproval, laced with worry, rang through Charles' head, but he couldn't bother to protest. No, he merely remained where he was, clenched in bed, doing his damndest not to allow the ceaseless stream of thoughts do him in.
At long last, Charles felt Hank's cool fingers against his forearm. Moments later, the sharp twinge of a needle into his vein offered a sultry relief to the overbearing anguish knocking against his skull. The pressure deflated, melted, quieted until finally, the only voice remaining in his head was his own.
His body sagged against his mattress then, already exhausted. The familiar pins and needles sensation overtook his lower body as his nervous system reattached. It would be nearly ten minutes until he could walk with confidence, but any refractory period was a small price to pay considering the harsh bargain of his current arrangement
"Thank you," Charles remembered to say after a moment, glancing up at Hank's tall form. He was fully aware that his young companion took no joy in injecting Charles so often–it had been a massive point of contention between the two of them from the very first time Charles felt the dampening serum in his veins. Hank had concocted it out of desperation, as the headaches had gotten so horrific that for a spell, Charles could do little more than lie in bed and cry out in pain.
Somehow, his telepathy had become...magnified, over the past several years. Perhaps it had something to do with his paralysis, or maybe it was merely a side effect of an overstretched mind, but where Charles had once been able to keep other minds at a certain distance, he now felt unendingly ambushed by the pain, the suffering, the agony of every single person on the planet.
It was supposed to be a temporary fix, the serum–a serendipitous temporary fix, after discovering that it also, somehow, brought his legs back from the dead.
Two years later, Charles required an injection every six hours, as his body had become tolerant. He'd grown addicted to the silence in his head, the muscles in his legs. At this stage, he felt like he could never look back.
"Charles," Hank said again, his voice firm but inlaid with concern. He could see it on the man's face, too, behind his thick glasses, in the furrow of his brow. "We should talk about this," he said, raising the spent syringe just slightly.
"You take the same bloody thing every day, too," he grumbled, shaking greasy hair from his eyes. "Rather hypocritical of you to insist I don't."
"It it makes you feel better, I'll stop, too," the young man retorted. "I'm not addicted to it, but if you insist on it, I'll flush the whole lot of it down the toilet."
Charles didn't respond to that. The conversation would end up at the same murky end as it always did. "You said we have things to do today. I don't remember making plans."
Hank sighed, retreating to the bureau in which he stored the supply of serum. "I made them on your behalf," said Hank as he dropped the syringe in the bin. "We'll be out for a few hours."
Charles grimaced. Out? He couldn't remember the last time he'd been out. "What if I refuse?"
The trying, tortured expression on his friend's face was enough to coax whatever empathy Charles had left back to life. "Fine," the older man frunted grunted, and then frowned down at his legs. "Give me twenty minutes."
"You've got it," Hank agreed, failing to mask the surprise in his tone. "Dress warm. It's snowing."
Before he could talk himself out of it, Charles managed to peel himself out of his bed on wobbly legs and pull on some clothing. He hadn't worn proper clothes in God knew how long, so the dark trousers and thick black coat felt rough on his skin as he traipsed down the spiral stairwell, twisting a woolen scarf around his neck. Hank stood bundled in the entryway as well, and, vaguely, Charles recognized how disheveled he had to look beside the clean cut scientist.
"Here." Hank extended a travel mug toward Charles, which was warm to the touch. Tea. His favorite variety.
"Mm. Thanks," Charles murmured as he accepted the tall mug between both of his palms, and then sipped. The scalding liquid warmed his body almost instantly. "Are you going to tell me where we're going?"
"You'll know soon enough," Hank promised. "Let's go."
As Charles sat in the passenger seat of his own 1962 Mercedes-Benz, he watched the snow-covered scenery dart by through the window. White, glistening powder covered everything from the trees to the cars that sat parked on the curb, the fresh dusting giving the atmosphere a rather dreamy glow. He couldn't help but to think of the day that he, Hank, Alex, and Sean all piled in to this very car eight years ago to cut down a Christmas tree. At that time, his injury had been so fresh–the outing had been his first since coming home from the hospital. Hank had urged him to stay home then, but Charles, so eager to get out and about again, to spend time with the boys, had insisted on coming along. In the end, his wheelchair had become stuck in the snow, and Alex ended up carrying him back to the car while Sean dragged his chair and Hank lugged their massive tree on his blue shoulders. They'd all had a brilliant laugh about it.
The ever-present pain in the pit of Charles' stomach ached even more fiercely then, throbbing as he thought about Sean. The boy he hadn't been able to protect, the boy who had so valiantly volunteered to serve a country that only wanted him dead.
"We're here." Hank's quiet voice shattered Charles' silent reverie. Blinking, he realized that Hank had driven them into the heart of some evergreen forest, an unending sea of green and white spread around them.
"Where's here?" Charles demanded.
"We're going to cut down a Christmas tree," Hank said, and then gestured to the backseat. On the bench, there was a saw and a small mountain of rope.
Charles gaped. "Are you bloody serious?"
Hank shrugged his narrow shoulders before exiting the car, and Charles found himself scrambling out of his own door. He couldn't believe Hank had driven them all the way out here for a Christmas tree. They'd gotten one for a few years, when there were still students and staff mulling about the mansion, but Charles had found it a bit difficult to get into any sort of holiday spirit in more recent years.
"Hank," Charles huffed as he stalked after his axe-wielding companion, his breath visible in the crisp winter air. "Why?"
Charles watched the man narrow his gaze a bit, slowing his long gait to allow Charles to keep pace. Even with the serum in full effect, Charles' legs were no match for Hank's gazelle-like limbs. "It's Christmastime," he said simply, shooting Charles a sidelong glance. "And I want to celebrate. Is that so strange?"
In their world, Charles supposed, it was. They'd been in some sort of limbo for quite some time. And, Charles knew that it was his doing. After the losses on the beach that day–the loss of his legs, the loss of his sister, the loss of Erik, Charles had thrown himself fully into trying to get his school off the ground. Hellbent he was on proving that he didn't need any of that to do so, that he could still have all that he dreamed of and more despite the physical and emotional anguish he'd found himself in.
And when that finally crumbled, Charles did, too. He hadn't meant to drag Hank with him, but the man was so fiercely loyal that nothing Charles could ever say or do would turn him away, no matter how much he deserved to move on.
"I guess not," Charles conceded, stuffing his hands in his pockets. It was strange, to be there. In the middle of a forest, alone with Hank. Such a stark change from the dim, dusty halls of the manor. The reflective snow, the crisp air, the tingling pine scent. Everything around felt new and somewhat foreign to Charles, as if he'd never seen any of this before. "Why'd you drag me along?"
Hank's lips pressed into a thin line. "I need your help carrying the tree to the car," he said, and they both knew it was a lie, because Hank could turn big and blue and immensely strong in the blink of an eye. "Come on. Help me pick one."
After a healthy 45 minutes of searching, with Charles growing more and more interested in finding the perfect tree as the seconds ticked by, the two agreed on a plump fir whose top reached just above Hank's head. Hank put Charles in charge of keeping the tree from falling on top of him as he sawed at the trunk, and, after only just a bit of swearing on both of their parts, they managed to pry the tree away from its root, snow falling from the glistening needles as they heaved it in their hands.
"My hands are bloody freezing," Charles hissed through a quick laugh as he carried the top half of the tree, Hank bringing up the rear on the trek back to the car. "It's your fault if my fingers fall off."
Hank breathed out a laugh as well, and then held up one hand. It was large, blue, and covered with thick fur. "Mine feel kinda warm."
Charles gawked as he glanced back. "Since when can you choose which limbs get to be furry?"
A proper laugh escaped Hank's lips then, and Charles realized that he hadn't heard Hank laugh in quite some time. "Impressed, Professor?"
"Bothered, more like it. You're looking more and more like Frankenstein's monster each day, my friend."
"And you're looking more and more like a werewolf. When's the last time you shaved?"
They'd reached the car at that point, and, after glancing at his reflection in the window, Charles could see that his face had taken on a rather yeti-like appearance, too. The lower-third of his face was covered by a scraggly goatee, skin ashen beneath. His once coiffed head of hair had fallen lank, long, and ratty with absence of care. And rather than brimming with hope, his eyes were dull. Lifeless.
"Not sure," Charles answered honestly, and then frowned. "Are we going to get this on the roof or what, then?"
Later that evening, a breath of holiday spirit still propelling Charles further, he found himself in the attic on the hunt for the old box of Christmas decorations he'd purchased long ago. He finally found it in a long-abandoned corner, but before he could yank it away to tote back downstairs, his heart stopped.
Right beside the cardboard box sat a brass menorah, coated in a thick layer of dust. Unused, of course–Erik had left before Hanukkah came around the year he'd bought it. And although Charles rarely spoke of or even allowed himself to acknowledge Erik any longer, small reminders like this could sometimes send him into a downward tailspin.
After learning of Erik's warm memories of celebrating with his family, Charles had secretly purchased the menorah with the intention of surprising Erik with a traditional Hanukkah when it came round. He wanted Erik to realize that he could still enjoy these things all these years later, that he could separate the joy from the pain if he really wanted to. He deserved to have that.
Charles felt almost dizzy as he leaned to pick up the candelabra. It was heavy in his grip, modest but sturdy, like the man himself. Elegant and understated. Bereft without the adornment of candles. Vaguely, he wondered if Erik had been able to observe the holiday, wherever he was. Wondered if Raven joined him, too. She'd always loved any excuse to celebrate something, and his heart began to ache like an open wound.
Biting back tears, Charles tossed the menorah into the cardboard box and hauled it into his arms.
Once downstairs, he deposited the decorations beside Hank as he fought to get their tree standing straight. "This is the best it's going to get," huffed the young man at last, stepping back to observe.
"Good enough," Charles agreed, distracted as Hank flipped open the box. He could feel the other man's eyes dart to him upon observing the menorah, which glinted in the daylight as Hank pulled it from within.
This time, the unbidden tears fell before Charles could stop them. His vision blurred, but he could see the watery outline in Hank's hand. Sobs wracked his body then, and Charles sank down to the sofa as he cried.
The pain was cruel and overdue, ripping through the protective barrier he'd built as if it was made of straw. It tore through his chest and radiated against his sternum, stabbing and throbbing at the same time. The tears fell hot and fast down his cheeks, and his choked sobs echoed throughout the cavernous room.
Through his unadulterated weeping, Charles felt two strong arms wrap around his body, and then the press of torso against his own. The closeness fanned at Charles' needs, and like a desperate orphaned creature, he turned in to Hank's chest and cried. His sweater smelled of laundry detergent and pine, and his body was warm. Pure comfort amid his distress.
"Hank--" Charles choked, fingers fisting the thick fabric of the man's sweater as his tears stained the front. "I--God, I'm so-sorry--"
"It's alright," Hank murmured as he held Charles close, and his voice was low and steady. "I know, Charles. I know."
Charles remained like that for awhile longer, the sobs forcing their way out. He cried for all they'd lost, like the school, the students and staff, the dream of creating their safe haven. He cried for everyone who had been hurt along the way, like Sean and Darwin and Angel. And he cried for Erik and Raven, who he missed with every inch of his soul. He could have cried for more and for longer if the tears still came, but after several long minutes, Charles' body stopped producing anything other than ratcheting sighs against Hank's chest. His head throbbed, but, as he remained pressed into his companion, he felt strangely lighter, as if the release had taken a barrier off of his shoulders.
"It's just a silly menorah," Charles finally said with a groggy voice, but didn't pull away. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Really," Hank insisted as Charles rested against his chest, his arms still pulled tight. "You miss him."
"And I shouldn't," Charles said ruefully. "The twat shot me in the back and left, Hank. I could be dead, for all he knows. For all he cares."
"It doesn't mean that you don't miss him," Hank said quietly. "That's fine. You can't help it. He was your..."
"Yeah," Charles finished to spare Hank from having to delve into the details of what Erik really was to Charles. They'd all known, fairly quickly, what they were. And to everyone's credit, no one seemed to be too bothered by it. Not even when Hank caught Charles sneaking shirtless out of Erik's room in the small hours of the morning, chest covered in dark bruises from the metal-bender's lips. "But, now he's gone. And it's best I try to bloody accept it, at some point. It's been eight bloody years."
Hank's grip loosened, and Charles shifted a bit on the sofa so that he could remained leaned against the young scientist's chest while allowing him to shift into a more comfortable position. It had been so, so long since Charles had been at the receiving end of a tender touch, and his body drank it in, reveling in the physical closeness, the mental comfort. Silence fell between them and remained for a long while, both men allowing the delicacy of the moment to simply sit between them and be.
Finally, hours after the sky had turned dark, the familiar tingle began to spider within Charles' toes, slowly crawling up his feet, ankles. A low murmur buzzed in his ears as well, causing his vision to darken at the corners.
"Hank..." Charles said at last, his voice an unwelcome croak in their silent togetherness.
"I'll go get it," replied Hank, and Charles felt cold and empty after Hank had carefully dislodged himself from their hold. Upon his return, Charles wordlessly offered his left arm, and Hank quickly rubbed a sterile pad over his vein and plunged the needle in.
"Thank you," Charles murmured, eyes downcast as he rubbed over the injection site. "And not just for that. Thank you for...well. I hope you know."
Hank offered Charles a small, knowing smile. "It's alright. I do. Do you wanna finish decorating the tree? Looks a little sad without anything on it."
Charles glanced at their handsome pine, stood empty in the corner beside an unlit fireplace. "I suppose I do," he agreed, flexing his still-tingling toes in his boots. "Only if you let me try to teach you how to play chess again."
The scientist grimaced, and pushed his thick glasses up his nose. "You know I never really got the hang of it. I'm not Erik."
Charles nodded. "I know, Hank. And I wouldn't have it any other way."