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Charles took his first vacation in 1975. It was on Hank's orders.
"You've been working every day non-stop since January of '73," Hank told him on a quiet June afternoon. "We're up and running again. We have staff. We have money and support and a routine. You can take a few weeks off over the summer, when things are quiet. You should take a few weeks off. It's not healthy to push this hard for this long."
Charles waved him off at the time and promised to revisit the topic later, but Hank didn't let it go. He pushed and pushed and pushed. He got Alex and Armando and Moira in on it. He even mentioned it to Raven on one of her visits, and, when she said goodbye that evening, Hank overheard her insisting to Charles that a vacation was well-deserved.
They finally got him out of the house for three weeks--the last week of July and the first two weeks of August, when things were hottest and slowest and quietest. Hank all but shoved him out of the car at the train station and promised he'd be available if Charles needed anything. He tended to the school in Charles' absence and picked him up from the train station on Sunday, three weeks later. Charles looked relaxed and tanned and refreshed from his three weeks at an older Xavier property up in the mountains.
"This is going to be a yearly thing, you know," Hank told him as they drove back to the school. "We're not waiting another two and a half years for you to take time off."
"I think I'd like that," Charles admitted. "A yearly vacation, I mean. This trip was...enlightening."
Something about the way he said it left Hank positive that he didn't want to ask for details. He hoped whatever man Charles had chosen to spend his time with--or woman, Hank was relatively sure there had been women in Charles' past as well--had treated him well. Better than the last one, at any rate.
"I'm glad," Hank said. "You deserve a break."
True to his word, when July 1976 rolled around, Hank made sure Charles didn't forget to book his trip. He didn't--he did so eagerly, even, though he came back in more reserved spirits than he had the last time and talked of maybe going somewhere else in '77. By the time they reached summer again, however, Charles was over whatever had ruined his last trip and optimistic about returning. When Hank was once again retrieving him from the train station, it seemed that whatever had Charles so down the year before had changed. He was all smiles and chatted with Hank about the fresh mountain air and swimming in the lake the whole way home. The next year was much of the same, but last year, '79, he came home very nearly angry. He didn't speak at all on the drive back to the house. He didn't speak to anyone for a whole day after he returned, even.
Hank was surprised, then, to see the same itinerary as usual show up on top of his July memo before their monthly staff meeting.
"Something wrong, Hank?" Charles asked when he saw Hank's expression.
"No, no," Hank said. "I just thought--you didn't seem to have a very good time last year. I thought you might pick a new destination for your vacation this year."
"I have a good feeling about this summer," Charles said in response, which wasn't quite an answer, but the rest of the staff began to file in, and Hank didn't have a chance to speak further on the topic.
In fact, he didn't mention it at all for the next few weeks, unsure of how to broach the subject. Now he's facing his last chance--they're at the train station and Charles is staring down the train, enthusiastic, but with a hesitancy that Hank can read from nearly two decades of friendship.
"You know, I know we sort of forced you into this the first year," Hank says, "but if you're miserable again this year, you can call us. Someone can come get you."
"I appreciate the offer, Hank," Charles says, "but I honestly think this year will be very rewarding indeed."
"Whatever you say," Hank says, and helps Charles gather his belongings and load them on the train. He waves to Charles from the platform, side-stepping an affectionate couple, and pauses. He remembers his assumption that first summer, that Charles spent his vacation with a lover. He wonders if Charles has a secret vacation lover up in the mountains, if that's why his moods are so mercurial after each trip.
Well, if he does, good for him. In that regard, anyway, Charles is probably safe regardless of the uncertainty of each trip. After all, no one could be worse than the last person Charles gave his heart to. Whoever it is, any slight could have nothing on Erik.
***
Charles is reclining by the lake when he feels Erik slide into his awareness. He's still miles away, but Charles' mouth curls into an automatic smile and he tracks Erik's progress up through the winding roads and finally turning up the long driveway to Charles' cabin.
"Cabin" is a misnomer, really. The house would be large to anyone who didn't grow up in something resembling a castle. It was built years and years ago, when Charles was nothing more than a boy, a home away from home for his father, who was in negotiations to build a lab nearby. The lab project was squashed not long before Brian Xavier's death, but the cabin and the acres of land it was situated on remained in the Xavier family for years, collecting dust until Charles thought to visit for the first time five years ago. Since that first visit, it's been revamped and remodeled to be completely accessible to Charles' wheelchair, but surrounded as it is by thick woods, within sight of a large, beautiful lake, it's still a cabin in Charles' mind.
Erik stops briefly inside to drop off his bag and then comes out the back, standing first at the porch rail and then raising himself up with his powers and floating himself gently down to the ground and over the path to the lake until he lands neatly on the dock next to Charles' empty chair.
"It's about time," Charles says without opening his eyes. "If you didn't get here soon, I was going to have to call the caretaker to keep an eye on me while I swim and you know I hate that."
"I do," Erik says slowly, hesitantly. He's still nervous--Charles could tell the moment he drove into range, if he hadn't already known from the tenor of Erik's last few letters. He has reason, of course--last summer, they hardly parted on good terms. Erik left two days early, furious and returning to the abandoned house he was squatting a thousand miles away just to prove a point. Charles spent the last two days alternately angry, frustrated, and deeply depressed. It rained non-stop, as if a manifestation of Charles' mood, and for the first time since Erik first appeared at Charles' vacation home four years prior, Charles wondered what the hell he was doing.
The letters they've exchanged this year have cleared the air. More than that--they've exchanged more letters and longer letters than they ever have before. Beyond Erik's apology--Erik always apologizes for his misdeeds, to the point where the words mean next to nothing to Charles because Erik never seems to learn from them--it was the content and volume of the letters that made Charles sure this trip would be a good idea. The last few were so nostalgic, so romantic, that Charles has even begun to hope the end to this needless divide is near.
Not enough to say so to Erik, but enough to feel the beginning of the pleasant bubbling heat of love start to curl in his chest again, when for so many years it's been nothing more than a gently glowing ember. He'll always love Erik, yes, but he's abandoned the effusive, carefree love of his youth for something more cautious, more likely to save his heart from further abuse. Maybe, though, the time has come to embrace it again.
Charles pushes himself up and adjusts his body until he can slip on the dirty, stiff tennis shoes he wears in the water, the ones that provide just enough weight to keep him mostly upright. He eyes the flotation device next to them and then slides up his sunglasses and looks at Erik for the first time.
"Are you willing to hold me up if I need you?" he asks. He doesn't mean it to be a larger question, not really, not yet. But Erik goes pale, even in the sun, and has to swallow before he answers.
"I can be, if you'll have me," Erik says.
Charles forces himself not to read into that.
"Then I'll leave the vest," he says. "Come, now. Strip and help me get into the water."
Erik takes off his shirt, and Charles isn't ashamed to admit he follows the lines of Erik's muscles and the sharp taper of his waist as he does it. Erik's getting older--they both are--but he's still unfairly handsome and in top shape. Next come his shoes and socks and then he's left only in his swimming trunks and leaning over to lever Charles up to take the five steps to the edge of the dock.
"Ready?" Erik asks, sounding anything but.
"I am," Charles says, and they drop into the water of the lake.
***
The Saturday morning sun has only just risen, but Charles is already floating in the lake, lounging in an inner-tube. The day is warm and the water a nice, cool contrast. When he'd left the bed this morning, Erik was still sleeping, looking much less like the megalomaniac the media painted him ten years ago with his face smashed into the pillow and his hand resting on Charles' chest. Charles watched him for a few minutes, always greedy for moments of Erik at rest, before pulling himself out of bed and going through his normal morning routine, changing into his swim trunks, and rolling out to the dock.
He drifts slowly across the lake, head tilted back, eyes closed, occasionally dragging a hand through the water. He was skeptical the first time Hank and the rest of the staff forced him to go on vacation and, admittedly, chose this property as a destination entirely because he was only a train ride away from home if he found it unbearable. He's found, though, that he likes the quiet of the mountains. He likes having nothing pressing to do for three weeks. He likes taking time to relax, to think and to nap and to swim and to read. He likes being alone.
Well, nearly alone. He can't say he doesn't like his one chance a year to spend time with Erik, either.
Back in the house, he can tell when Erik wakes to the empty bed and stretches his powers out to find Charles' wheelchair sitting on the dock. It's not long before Erik makes his way down from the house, nude and carrying towels, still only half awake as he pads barefoot down the path to the dock. He places the towels on the seat of Charles' chair and then slides into the water like a seal, barely sending out a ripple to where Charles is floating in the middle of the lake. The cold water invigorates him, and he's looking more awake when he surfaces near Charles' tube.
"Good morning," Charles says.
"Good morning," Erik says. He leans up for a kiss, which Charles grants before sliding himself into the water with less grace than he'd like. The water is bracing, but not unpleasant, and he propels himself up with his arms until he surfaces in front of Erik, whose arms automatically circle around him, holding him close partially from necessity and partially because it's early enough in the day and late enough in the week that Erik can't hide his affection and his need to be touched.
Charles is happy to revel in both, and he gently pushes Erik's wet hair out of his face. Charles keeps his own hair short, now--he's losing it faster by the day, and the last thing he wants is to be the old fool with long hair and a massive bald spot. His one consolation is that he's balding evenly, and while his hairline is now back halfway across the top of his head, it's uniform and doesn't look awful if his hair is trimmed close to his scalp.
Well, two consolations, maybe--that, and the way Erik leaves lingering kisses on the bare skin there.
They kiss for long minutes, arms locked around each other in the water, the sun still only just creeping over the trees. Eventually, Erik adjusts his grip, shifting Charles up, and they just drift in the enforced intimacy of the water, enjoying the morning and the closeness.
They've not talked yet, not really, not beyond pleasantries and the necessities of day to day living. Charles expects they will soon, maybe even today. Their letters this year have been full of personal revelation after personal revelation, pages and pages of secrets and admissions. It's hard, he thinks, to return to that now that they're face to face. Harder for Erik, who guards those things so closely.
Erik proves him right, a few moments later, when he looks up at Charles and licks his lips thoughtfully.
"Just because they've signed the Mutant Protection Act doesn't mean they're not going to come after us any longer," he finally says.
"I know that," Charles says. "In fact, I imagine for the next few months, the bigots will be out in droves to show their protest."
"Things aren't changing fast enough," Erik says, a firm edge to his voice that belies the sweetness of the way he holds Charles to his chest, the way the light catches in the lake water beading in his eyelashes.
"But they are changing," Charles says. He brushes Erik's wet hair back behind his ears, more touching for the sake of it than for any functional reason. It's so novel to stare down at Erik from above; even before the chair, Erik had nearly six inches on Charles. "You can stop running, Erik. You don't have to stop fighting, but there are different ways to fight, now."
He's nervous, saying the words out loud, despite the hope he's kept alive these past few months, reading the longing and exhaustion so clearly in Erik's letters. Erik wants this, Charles knows he does. Erik wants to have a life with Charles instead of the empty life on the run, cycling through followers with no one he can trust. Even from miles and miles away, Charles could feel it in every line he read: I can't stop dreaming of the day when I will finally be worthy of joining you once more from Brazil and I want to make the world better for you, but some days it's hard to find the energy when I know how far apart we still are from Chicago and, most telling of all, from Geneva, I'm so tired, Charles, and I never sleep as well as I do when I'm with you.
Erik doesn't recoil and he doesn't laugh and he doesn't get angry. He looks away, instead, somewhere over Charles' shoulder.
"I'm a wanted criminal," he says. "I'd only put you in danger."
"I can take care of myself, thank you very much," Charles says, but the levity doesn't catch. Erik looks back at him, face lined and serious.
"I'd put your children in danger," he says. "That was the rule, wasn't it? I wasn't to come to the house because I could put your children in danger. I wasn't to go near them."
Charles can tell he's thought about this, then, turned it over in his mind. He's probably only lingered on the reasons why it's impossible. He's probably only ever obsessed about the ways it could go horribly wrong. He'll have a million rebuttals to any argument Charles can make, but still Charles' heart soars, because it means Erik has thought about it. It means Erik has considered it.
"Magneto's not to go near them," Charles says. "They wouldn't be in danger from Erik. Things change. You've changed. In 1973, I hit you the moment I saw you and I would have done worse if circumstances were different. Now you're the only thing that's keeping me from drowning."
It's not entirely true, of course. Charles has considerable upper body strength and the lake isn't that large. He could make his way to shore, barring any entanglements. There's no helmet here, so even if he couldn't, it wouldn't be hard for him to slip into Erik's mind and make Erik save him.
None of that is the point, though.
"I could let you go," Erik says, his eyes scanning Charles' face for some sort of answer to a question he won't voice. "You shouldn't trust me."
"But you won't let me go," Charles counters. "So I do."
They stay poised in silence, the tension thick as Erik considers the challenge Charles knows he won't take. He's staring at Charles, looking for answers, and Charles remains still, waiting for Erik to make a decision.
He doesn't make a decision, but he does move, sharply and abruptly, but not to drop Charles. Instead, he pulls him closer and kisses him, hard and desperate.
"I want you, god, I want you," Erik says when he pulls away, just far enough to kiss Charles' jaw, his throat, to scrape his teeth across Charles' skin and make him squirm and pant, breathless. "I always want you. I run around the world, doing these things, but they're meaningless because I never stop wanting you so much it burns me up inside."
He's burning up now, his skin hot everywhere Charles touches him despite the cool water. Charles isn't surprised by this revelation, but he knows they're not words Erik admits lightly. He knows that even in Erik's letters, he holds the cause above all else, including his love for Charles. He knows what it costs to admit that isn't always true.
"Then have me," Charles says, his heart racing the way it always does when Erik puts his hands on Charles' body like this. Stay with me, he doesn't say, though he wants to. He lets the words hang between them, unspoken, as Erik loses himself in kisses and touches, until Erik gets them back to the house and into bed too long minutes later, until Erik is curled against him in the damp sheets, panting against his throat, spent and warm, his emotions bald and raw on his face.
"Stay," Charles says then. "Stay with me. Please...Erik, please come home."
Erik pretends to sleep, but the way his long fingers tighten around Charles' wrist gives Charles sharp, dangerous hope.
***
The next two weeks blend together the way they always do on vacation. They swim and wander around the property together, read in the sun and take the rowboat out onto the lake. On the days that it rains, they stay in and watch television or enjoy the stacks of books left around the house and each other's company. Charles gets some work done--lesson planning and expansion for the new year, some shifts in the budget that the board of directors will want to look at, a few notes on policy he'd like to take up with his friends in Washington the next time he goes on a lobbying trip. In the past, Erik has had work of his own--the sort of thing that made Charles uncomfortable, but wasn't outwardly illegal. He'd pay particular attention to the paper, perhaps, or disappear into the office for an hour or two and come back with several pages of notes in German. The guilt ate away at Charles, and though Erik promised the first year to never bring his business on vacation with them, Charles knew those afternoons couldn't be entirely above the board.
This year, though, there's none of that. When Erik disappears, Charles finds him reading on the porch, close enough to the house to avoid the rainfall. When he gets suddenly engrossed with the newspaper, he's looking at the Home and Lifestyle section, tearing out a recipe. When he stares into space and then quickly jots something down, it's the answer to a crossword puzzle.
Charles wants to ask him, What are you doing when you're not with me? What are your plans? What's your next move? Who do you depend on? though he's not sure what he would do if the answer isn't what he expects.
On the days it doesn't rain, though, the majority of their time is spent at the lake. Swimming is one of Charles' favorite things to do since his paralysis. He loves the weightlessness of the water and the ease with which he moves. It brings a kind of freedom he thought he'd given up, both the freedom of movement and the freedom of privacy. At the school, he swims alone on alternate mornings while the rest of the school sleeps. Here, at the lake, there are no minds for miles around, save for his wayward lover, another secret, another freedom, here.
Erik doesn't hold the same reverency for swimming and water, but he indulges Charles enough to join him. Or maybe it's more than that--they met in water, after all, and they parted on a beach. Even the first time they saw each other again after those turbulent eleven years apart, they stood soaking under sprinklers, a kind of baptism as they christened the new timeline--the better timeline, he hopes. Charles wonders if perhaps he's not reaching, looking for meaning that isn't there in something mundane, but he supposes nothing in life really has meaning unless someone ascribes it themselves.
Beyond that, this water, too, has begun to mean something more. They're more honest with each other here than they are anywhere else. Erik tells him things in the lake that he's never spoken out loud, the sorts of things that fill his letters, secrets that cost him dearly to reveal. The water is where they brokered this fragile peace five years ago, outlining the rules of their vacation and voicing for the first time the delicate hope that they could be more than strangers to each other once again.
He hopes the lake will be the birthplace of this next step as well, hopes that any day, now, he'll say the words and Erik will let the excuses die--he'll stop spouting what ifs and allow himself to give into Charles' plea. He hopes that by the time he leaves here, he won't be leaving alone.
They have plenty of time to talk about it, yet, so he's not worried when the Tuesday of their last week together dawns dark and rainy. Nor is he concerned when Wednesday's weather proves even worse. Sunday morning is still ages away, and sitting around the living room, reading in comfortable silence with Erik at his elbow is pleasant and relaxing in its own way, even if they're not yet having the conversation he'd like to have.
When they're woken Thursday morning by a roll of thunder loud enough to shake the house, Erik's fingers dig into Charles' shoulder hard enough to hurt and his heart starts to race. Charles manages some half-sensical comfort, words murmured under his breath and into Erik's hair until his hold relaxes, but it sets a tone for the rest of the day, a pall that they can't shake.
Erik fidgets. He's restless starting at breakfast, moving through the house ceaselessly, hardly sitting still. His thoughts--the surface impression that Charles allows himself to glimpse--are as stormy as the skies outside, rolling with the same nervous energy as his body.
"Why don't you sit and help me with the crossword?" Charles says, holding up the paper. It's an old puzzle--neither of them managed to get to the end of the half mile of driveway to fetch the paper this morning.
"In a bit," Erik replies, but he's distracted, still, and continues to wander aimlessly, his shoulders hunched and his body tense.
It's not just Erik who is tense--it's impossible for Charles to ignore that much free-floating anxiety, and it starts to leech into him as well. First it's just his psychic space that feels off, but before long he can feel his muscles tensing up as well, his movements becoming stiff. Erik's unease about whatever it is he's not talking about is making them both miserable, and Charles doesn't know how to address it without courting disaster.
This is how it started, last year. Rather, this is how it ended last year--an afternoon strained by the weather, Charles asking one question too many, and hours of arguments that ended in a slammed door and Erik leaving two days early. He doesn't want to do that again, not when they're so close to finally making things right between them.
Something heavy settles in Charles' stomach as he stares, unseeing, at the words on the page of his book. He can hear Erik upstairs, his footsteps only just audible over the sound of the relentless rain. He has to stop sometime. Something has to give eventually.
At least, Charles hopes so. There's always the chance that he's going to break before Erik does.
Erik reappears in early evening, dressed in running shorts and a tank top. The storm hasn't abated, and Charles can't help but raise his eyebrows as he takes in Erik's appearance.
"I won't melt," Erik says, but it's with determination rather than any irritation with Charles. In fact, Charles gets the impression it's not him that Erik is speaking to at all, even as he absently waves in Charles' direction and strides towards the door like he's going to face certain doom.
Charles doesn't mean to follow him. It's not that he's afraid that Erik's leaving--even Erik isn't crazy enough to literally run away without any of his belongings in the middle of a rainstorm with night approaching. But there's something off about the whole thing and Charles is restless, nervous, all thanks to Erik's free-floating anxiety. Being unable to jog until his nerves quiet the way Erik is, all he can do is distantly follow along, trying to focus again on his book and not on what all of this means, what Erik is doing, and what's going to happen when he comes back.
It's a long run.
It's dark when Erik returns. Charles is waiting at the door with a towel when he finally makes his way back to the house, soaked through and shivering. It may be summer, but the cool evening air, the wetness, and the wind have clearly left him with a chill, and Charles is quick to throw the towel around his shoulders.
"Go upstairs and take a hot shower," he tells Erik. "Dinner is waiting whenever you're done."
"I--" Erik starts to say. He stops, though, and stares at Charles. Charles waits as he drips onto the mat, but he doesn't say anything more. He looks pained as he turns back to the stairs and leaves to take a shower.
Not for the first time, Charles struggles not to betray Erik's trust. There's something on his mind, something that's enveloped the whole house and it would be so easy to sneak inside and see for himself. Erik would never know.
Except of course Erik would know. Charles has always been incapable of keeping his feelings off of his face.
It's a long time before he returns, wrapped in pajamas and a robe, his hair toweled dry. Instead of relaxing him, as Charles had hoped it might, Erik is even more tense. He doesn't say much as they eat and he doesn't even bother pretending to read afterward. When Charles announces he's going up to bed, he makes a vague sound of acknowledgement but doesn't move from the couch.
It feels strange going to sleep alone. Charles stares at the ceiling for what feels like hours, but Erik doesn't join him. His mind is still downstairs, racing along and distant. He has no intention of coming up anytime soon, and Charles forces himself to sleep with the promise that even if it means a fight, he's getting to the bottom of this in the morning. He can't stand the silence, but more than that, seeing Erik like this is tearing him up inside. He'd rather Erik leave than ignore him like this. He'd rather be truly alone than feel so helpless with Erik only a few yards away, keeping his own counsel.
He sleeps restlessly and wakes to find, thankfully, mercifully, Erik has come to bed after all.
The day is foggy and overcast, but the rain has stopped. Dawn hasn't quite broken yet and Charles doubts the sun will do more than peek out at any point during the day. Still, it's an improvement on the rest of the week, as is the presence of Erik curled up against his side.
The room is filled with the grey half-light of too-early morning, not quite dark but not yet light. Their breathing is loud in the stillness of the room, and Charles strokes Erik's hair methodically as he feels Erik transition from sleeping to waking.
Erik opens his eyes but he doesn't speak or move for another minute, five minutes, ten minutes, twenty.
"We're running out of time," is what he does say when he finally speaks.
"I know," Charles says. He doesn't stop petting Erik's hair.
"You don't," Erik murmurs. "You can't. I can't say it, not here. I don't know how."
It borders on nonsensical, but Charles keeps quiet, keeps his fingers moving steadily against Erik's scalp. Everything about him is soft and blurred this morning--the tension is gone, replaced by resignation or something like it, something that sits heavy in the slump of Erik's shoulders and the lines of his face. He's given something up, he's lost some sort of fight, he's defeated and wounded. Charles aches to know what's hurt him, but until Erik speaks, he can only offer his presence and hope that it's a comfort.
"You don't have to say anything," Charles says, and Erik closes his eyes and shakes his head.
He does have to say something. It leaps into Charles' vision out of nowhere, deduction more than telepathy. They are running out of time. Their vacation is nearly over. The promise of a year's worth of letters is balanced on the precipice of this holiday, which is fading fast, a conversation they need to have, words they need to say out loud, and Erik can't speak.
"Oh, my love," Charles says softly.
Erik pulls Charles to him and presses his face into Charles' bare shoulder, his breathing harsh against Charles' skin.
"I do have to say it," Erik says. "It needs to be said. And I wanted to--it's so much easier in the lake, in the water, it's easier when I have nowhere to hide and you're right there in my arms and I can't--I thought I was strong enough for anything. I thought after all I've lived through--the camps and Shaw and ten years alone--I thought I was a survivor. I thought nothing would be unbearable. But the thought of another year of this--it was easy to have nothing, to look forward to nothing when there was nothing to be had. But to have freedom and to choose nothing instead...."
"You are strong," Charles says, treading a delicate line. He wants to offer comfort, but he needs to be careful. He doesn't know that he can survive another year of this, either.
"The days, weeks--they last forever," Erik continues, as if Charles hadn't spoken. "Endless hours with fleeting options, fleeting plans, fleeting ideas. And then we're together and it's over so quickly. Already we're packing and the thought of another whole year of this--we're getting old. I'm getting old. I feel old, I feel tired, but this isn't the world I want for us and I can't stop, I can't rest until it's right and I don't know any longer. I don't know how to fix it. I don't know what else to do. Even if I were to cleanse the world of every human, there's still bigotry and hatred among our own people. It's impossible--a gargantuan task and I feel I'll never conquer it. I'll never deserve you. I'll never deserve to rest."
Charles' quiet, now, is of a different sort. His throat is thick and clogged with emotion, too wet to speak without trembling. He holds Erik fiercely, his fingers pressing into Erik's shoulders and back, holding him close where the world can't get to him.
"Erik," he finally says, but it's still too soon. His voice breaks on the name and then they're suspended in silence once more, the sounds of early morning broken only by their ragged breathing.
He used to read Erik's letters and think about what he would do if Erik was with him then, how he would kiss Erik's brow and unclench his fingers and tell him everything would be alright if he would just come home. He imagined soothing Erik into calmness, caring for him, holding him, giving him easy promises, easy answers.
Now that he has the chance to do those things, the easy promises don't come. He owes Erik more than that--Erik has torn himself open, laid himself bare and Charles knows it must hurt, he must be raw and bleeding, and none of Charles' words of comfort are good enough. What can he say to that? Erik deserves more than idle pleasantries and being soothed like a child, even if every bit of Charles longs to brush his hair back and hold him tightly and promise him whatever he desires.
"You'll never conquer it," is what Charles finally says. "Nor will I. None of us can fix the world on his own, Erik. There will never be a perfect world for us. Maybe for our children's children. Maybe, generations in the future, mutants will be entirely accepted, homosexuals will be entirely accepted, the races will be equal, no one will live in poverty--but we won't be there tomorrow or in ten years or even in twenty. And we can live apart and strive to fix these things on our own, but that's a life together wasted--no one to take comfort from at our losses, no one to celebrate our victories with. But god, Erik, we can do it together. I know we can. I've always known. There are other ways to fight. There are other ways to shape the world. I'm not a reward, Erik. Our love isn't a reward. You don't need to fix everything to deserve it. You deserve it right now and you're wasting it."
He pulls away, just enough to see Erik's face, his eyes red-rimmed though no tears have fallen, not yet.
"Come home," Charles says, and lets every emotion show on his face, lets everything his feels pour into his voice. "Please come home. I'm tired too."
When Erik kisses him--fierce and hard and desperate--his cheeks are wet. Or maybe it's Charles' cheeks that are wet. It doesn't matter--it's enough for another baptism, another phase change, another moment Charles will remember as laced with a warm wetness and the taste of salt.
***
Hank is early for the train and parks near the platform, doing a crossword puzzle to pass the time until it rolls in and Charles beckons for help with his bags. He wonders, distantly, what sort of mood this trip will find Charles in. He hopes Charles comes home happy--selfishly, because a happy boss is a benevolent boss, but also because Charles has endured enough stress in his life and, unless he makes an abrupt career change, is likely to continue to experience it for some time. Hank would like him to have one thing that's calming, if nothing else.
He's startled out of his puzzle by a mental tap from Charles. It seems the train arrived while Hank's thoughts were elsewhere. He places the paper on the passenger seat and quickly gets out of the car to assist Charles with his bags, only to find that Charles is already off the platform and crossing the parking lot, his bags carried by a man behind him.
No, his bags are being carried by Magneto.
The only thing that keeps Hank from attacking the man on the spot is his awareness of the civilians surrounding them, streaming out of the train station and into the parking lot. He fists his hands, but makes no further movement as they approach. Magneto's expression is blank, but there's a tension around his eyes. If Hank didn't know better, he'd think Erik was nervous. Charles, on the other hand, is smiling.
"Hello, Hank," Charles says once he's close enough to carry on a conversation.
"Charles," Hank says, tipping his head in acknowledgement. His eyes are still on Erik. He'd not wearing a helmet or any of the series of theatrical costumes he's donned over the years. He looks just like any other returning vacationer. "How was your trip?"
"Quite lovely," Charles says. "Very rewarding. As you may have noticed, I've done a bit of recruiting as well."
"Oh, I've noticed," Hank says. Erik's expression doesn't change, but it does twitch for a moment. "What's he doing here?"
"Erik is coming back to stay," Charles says. He glances up over his shoulder at Erik. Erik looks away from Hank and down at Charles and something passes between them, something complicated and private that makes Hank want to look away.
He clears his throat.
"For how long?" Hank asks.
Erik gazes down at Charles again and, yes, that tension around his eyes is definitely nerves. It's all over his face, now, digging into the lines around his eyes and mouth as he stares at Charles.
"For as long as you'll have me," Erik says quietly.
Hank has questions. He has demands. He has things he's been waiting for years to say to Erik and things he's now aching to say to Charles.
This isn't the time or the place, if only because he needs to do quite a bit of regrouping before he's ready to say any of it.
"Suitcases go in the back," is what he does say. "Charles will show you what to do with his chair. We can figure this all out later--let's go home."
"Yes," Charles says, smiling up at Erik still. "Let's."