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It’s always been a habit of his to observe Erik.
Back in the day, he wouldn’t even try to hide it. His eyes would always follow Erik, trying to commit to memory his every gesture and every expression. After Cuba, during Paris—he hated that his eyes would so easily fall into learned habits, hated the need to drive his gaze away from Erik, stopping himself from analyzing everything he ever did, trying to update his references on Erik, trying to reconcile what he knew back then with what he knows now. Until setting his eyes on him became warm again, it became a habit impossible to break.
Moving in with Erik means his eyes follow him around, often.
It means he's had a special realization.
These days, Erik smiles more easily.
Charles doesn't know why it hits him so… suddenly. By all means, it's a revelation that could have taken place during any other moment of the day.
But it's so small—the gesture is so incredibly small. By unspoken agreement, Erik decides to cook lunch for them, and Charles gets to handle dinner. As Charles wheels into the room, he's a little shocked, because there's music playing. He didn't even know they owned a radio, let alone that Erik enjoyed music.
He's chopping vegetables, a smile on his face, and Charles is entranced. His memories of Erik's smiles are nearly not as many as he expected them to be, and a genuine, happy smile was almost rare to come across.
It makes him stop and look. He's not even aware he's doing it, until Erik finally looks, not even a slight self-conscious.
“What is it?” he asks, looking up from the onions he's chopping. “Onions make you cry?”
Charles shakes his head, laughing a bit. “No, no, I'm just… Billy Joel?” he gestures at the radio playing the chorus of Uptown Girl. “I did not take you to be the kind to, um, enjoy that song.”
“You know, humans ought to be useful for something. At least they make good music,” Erik snickers a little, so light and easy, and good God—it is so hard to look away. “It's good, isn't it? Don't tell me you somehow manage to be picky about music.”
Charles' mock-offended look slips familiarly into his features, teasing good-heartedly for the first time in forever.
“I simply happen to have exquisite taste,” he explains. “See, my friend, you are too close-minded. Only having the hit songs while not enjoying possibly hidden gems. While I wouldn't call Scenes from an Italian Restaurant a hidden gem, more like a nicely appreciated track of his album, I am almost under the impression you neglect it to favor his popular singles.”
“Of course I'm familiar, Charles, do you take me for a fool?” Erik exclaims back, freezing his cutting of carrots to put a hand on his hip. The scene is so, so beautiful—Erik is so wonderful when he's at home. It's almost like they're different people altogether, just two men inside their home making lunch. “Come on, then. Change the song, since you are so snobby about it.”
“You'd think I'd skip Uptown Girl? Erik,” Charles shakes his head. “I'm an appreciator of all his songs, not a pretentious bastard.”
Erik barks out a laugh. “Please. You also are a pretentious bastard.”
His laugh is so special, so rare and so precious to Charles. So just this once, he allows a, “It appears I can't argue with that.”
Once more, Erik throws his head back and laughs, and so Charles saves it. He tucks the memory away into the deepest parts of his heart and holds it there. Nothing could possibly rip that memory away from him, ever.
He proposes himself to do this often, then. Happiness is a good look on Erik—and Erik's done so much for him. The least he could do is to give him one more reason to smile.
Charles finds that bringing happiness to people does not come as naturally as it used to.
He was great with words, once. He used to be able to reach into his lexicon and form sentences that would leave girls smiling at his silliness, speeches that would inspire people in positions of power to consider him, gentle words that would remind mutants just how special and wonderful they were. But now, there's a certain block between him and what he wants to say. The second a thought forms, the counter to it is ready to land—why would he say this? What good intentions could he have? And even if he had good intentions, would they be enough? Would he harm more than inspire, would he hurt more than heal?
But Erik is so…
Erik has always been his weakness. It's undeniable and there is no one left to fool, but there has never been a time where Charles' decisions or important moments in his life weren't affected by Erik. As much as Erik is his strength, his opposite, his equal, Erik is the biggest weakness of many he has. It would be easier to walk away instead of trying to chase the shadow of his old self; easier to forget the poetry that would slip out of his lips without even thinking about them. But Erik makes him want to try again, if only to see him smile.
If only to make him laugh.
Erik's got many CDs and, unsurprisingly, cassettes. Charles is not surprised in the slightest about this, but most of these CDs seem to be home-made ones, or at the very least, a little old and used. So much seventies.
Charles puts one of them on and cracks his knuckles. Right.
One of the few things he's realized since coming to Genosha is how much happiness he can find in sustaining himself. There are so many little triumphs to have. He had forgotten what it was like, to feel successful after making your bed, to do the dishes and find satisfaction at cleaning up your kitchen, and oddly he wonders if this is how he strayed away from who he was.
Wrapped up in privilege from head to toe, giddy with recognition from the people he's always wanted to be recognized by, Charles, I used to think it was going to be you and I against the world. But no matter how bad the world gets, you don't want to be against it, do you? Don't tell me it's your ego. It's funny, I can't remember the last time you were the one risking something.
Charles slams a brake on those thoughts. No.
He's not strong enough to revisit that. Not yet.
His hands shake as he tries to dust off the furniture. What was he thinking before? Small victories? Such a cruel way brains have to twist the small joys you find. He continues to clean, almost automatic, the music blending into the background until Erik comes back.
“I see you've grown used to music in the background,” Erik says in lieu of greeting. He's carrying bags, having gone shopping, and then some bags he knows are not from the store. Must be gifts—Erik usually comes home with gifts from other mutants, or him getting things from their established shops, always eager to support someone. “ABBA?”
Charles blinks, snapping back to reality. Take A Chance On Me is at its last minute, and that puts a smile back on his face. “Indeed. Quite a marvelous group, don't you think? You have quite a couple of ABBA CDs, I've noticed.”
“I can't say I don't enjoy them,” Erik quickly grins, getting to the kitchen and unloading. “The first few years here, mutants would bring back from their human houses things that meant something to them. They were happy to spread their joy, and soon, that became a little tradition here. Hence,” Erik gestures at their shelf piled up with CDs that Charles had been dusting off, “music.”
“How lovely. Makes me wonder what I'd bring, from my own old home.”
“You were never quite a musical person, were you?” Erik muses. He's starting to take out the fresh bread he just got, and God. Logically, Charles knows flour is bad for people with chronic pain like him, but— “Stop looking at it like that. It's gluten-free.”
“You remembered?” Charles asks in awe, grabbing the bread and taking out a bit. It's warm and delicious.
Erik chuckles. “Of course I did. Can you hold off eating it all? I brought tea and butter, and I intend to make toast for us.”
“Well, aren't you a dear,” Charles says, hoping that lands him a smile. It gives him a short laugh out of Erik, and it's a huge victory. “What were you saying about music and I?”
“Oh, right. It's just—even back in the mansion, it was quiet. I'm talking about the sixties. I don't know if you changed your ways since then, but I never remember you listening to music.”
Charles brushes over the mention of his old house, determined to focus on the other part of the sentence. He starts helping Erik to heat the water and turns on the toaster, falling into a rhythm that feels almost practiced.
The CD Charles put on was definitely a homemade one, no doubt gifted to Erik by a mutant in Genosha, because there is no reason for an ABBA song to be followed by Billy Joel's Piano Man. Billy Joel sings about sharing a drink called loneliness as Charles tries to think back of times he's listened to music willingly in the mansion.
“I don't believe I recall you being a music fan, either,” Charles answers.
“It's an acquired taste,” Erik says. “A habit, almost.”
“We talk about one of the world's greatest artistic gifts like it's nothing to us,” Charles chuckles. “We would not last a day in a music club.”
Erik laughs openly at that. “And you would not be wrong about that. How was your day?”
Charles tells him about his day, then, leaving out all his musings about Raven and instead focusing on the positive side. It's not like he hides the ugly parts from Erik, it simply is just… he doesn't want to bring it up. Maybe he would, at night, when it's easy to bring up traumas and mistakes and regrets. But now, sitting with Erik, having him pour tea on a mug and share something so mundane as toast and butter—glancing at him when the sun hits his face so gently, making him look unreal—it is not his place to do so.
A very familiar song begins after Billy Joel.
“I like that song,” Erik says after sipping his tea. Charles recognizes it, of course. Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here. “Very comforting, isn't it?”
Charles' memory offers him a perfect image of Peter, who grew up to be such a good, responsible young man, despite remaining with his cheerful and upbeat attitude. How was he doing? Had he been made a teacher, perhaps? Did he still think about Erik?
Did you exchange a walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
Charles swallows his tea, and it burns.
“It's a very nice song,” Charles says at last. “Is there any reason you like the seventies so much?”
“Not really. It's just what they had on store,” Erik answers. “I had to make do sometimes.”
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year. Maybe this is why Charles was never big on music.
“Erik,” Charles begins. Something about Erik's ease in his body language, the warmth that seems to radiate from him, his peace—Charles wants to soak up on it. To be held in his arms and to be washed away, to have everything around him melt away. He wants to tell him about the grief eating him up. About self-doubt. About everything, really. Erik looks back at him, expectant. “What would you say your favorite seventies song is?”
Erik leans back, clearly pondering. “I do like Copacabana a lot.”
Charles snickers. “Great song.”
“But if I had to choose,” Erik says, “Jim Croce's Time in a Bottle is a favorite.”
He wishes, wishes so badly he could reach out to Peter and tell him about this. Charles leans back into his chair, laughing. Erik can't help but smile. “What's so funny?”
“Nothing,” Charles smiles back, which makes Erik's turn wider. Despite the emotional ups and downs, he's still managed to make Erik smile. “I was simply thinking what a fitting song choice it was.”
Erik doesn't question him on why, simply leans back and takes his tea happily.
Among the things Erik brings whenever he goes to the store, Charles finds that Erik keeps bringing all sorts of plants and seeds, and it soon becomes evident he's trying to have his very own garden. Life is such that this is the best thing to happen to Charles.
Well, second best. Being back with Erik takes first spot for everything in the last decade.
They've been building it nicely together, with Erik leaning down to plant more and to keep the ground fertilized, getting his hands dirty, while Charles was being tasked with watering everything.
“You're too proper to do the dirty job,” Erik had explained, carrying one bag of fertilizer over his back. Charles might be a little desperate, these days, because somehow that was really attractive. So of course he hadn't argued and decided to stick with watering plants, thank you very much.
It's a morning task, the one they have tending to the garden. It's eight, at most, and Charles is dutifully doing his part when Erik comes out of their house with his handy music again, smiling all the while.
“Kids say this came out over a year ago,” he hands him an album titled Nevermind, and the cover is—
“Christ, a naked baby on the cover? Their parents agreed to this?” Charles asks. “The world is changing at a rapid pace.”
Erik bursts out laughing, and it's incredible. Charles' day is already made and it has barely started. “I knew you were going to say that. Age has really made you into such a nun, Charles.”
“No it has not.”
“Then you wouldn't act scandalized if I took off my shirt to work?”
“I—Erik,” Charles says, no doubt widening his eyes and sounding scandalized. Erik's laughter is contagious, delirious. He could hear it forever. “Fine, put the album on. See if I complain.”
“Sure thing.”
Charles glances at the album tracklist as the first two pass by, and reads that the song currently playing is called Come As You Are. Somehow, the vibe of the song fits Erik, so he finds himself immersed and turning to the plants again.
Something catches his eye—there's—
There's a small flower growing. He remembers; he planted it three weeks ago so it could be their first flower growing. And Charles has been dutifully watering it, and making Erik do his magic with his fertilizer, and waited and waited—
—and it's finally growing.
“Erik,” he calls, excited, and Erik looks up. “Come here, look.”
It's such a giddy feeling, he has to share it. He shows Erik the way the flower is beginning to grow, and Erik smiles at him, all soft edges and warmth. God, Charles could kiss him. It would be so easy.
“Good. That means we'll end up with a pretty garden,” Erik says. “I trust you'll take care of the rest of the flowers.”
“Yes, of course. I don't mean to be overly optimistic, but I fail to see why they wouldn't grow up,” Charles smiles at the flower, still so small yet so able to be much bigger than it can imagine.
It's so thrilling, to care for something and seeing it thrive, rather than ruining it. To pour love into something and nurturing it, without hurting it, without breaking it—just growing.
He could cry, almost.
It must show on his face, because Erik kneels down in front of him, hands coming to rest on his lap. “I'd cradle your face, but I'm afraid I'll dirty it all up with my hands. Is everything okay?”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose seeing something come to life does that to you,” Charles explains, squeezing his hands, not wanting to let go. They're rough and dirty, but they're perfect. Charles yearns for Erik so much, sometimes it feels like he'll explode. “I want to talk to you about something, later. Nothing to worry about—nothing bad. Just some thoughts I have.”
Erik tenses up, but smiles anyway. “I'll be all ears.”
Erik always does by his word, and as promised, he's all ears. He's such a darling, bringing out the chessboard and being kind enough to not offer any alcohol to him—Erik doesn't have to, but he serves them both tea, and then leans back to give Charles space. To talk.
“You have the first move,” Erik tells him, crossing his leg and staring at him, patient.
Charles doesn't even know where to begin. He takes a sip of his tea and looks down at his game. Today's game isn't going to be as usual, this is more for something to do while they talk. Erik brought it so whatever Charles has to say doesn't sound so heavy, which is deeply appreciated.
Charles starts the game, anyway. He's aiming for castling, which is a dead giveaway of how this is almost a game in the background for him—he wouldn't start with something so predictable.
There's no way to dance around this.
“I remember them often,” Charles starts. “Raven. Jean. Hank. The X-Men. My students. People I've failed and will never have a chance to make up with. I just—”
Erik listens. His features are covered with sympathy, and despite the rain of emotions falling down on Charles, there is such a liberation in telling him. That he knows. He'd understand.
“I don't remember my last conversation with Raven,” Erik confesses. He's encouraging Charles to talk by sharing his own thoughts. Erik—Erik just gets him. “She was dear to me. My right hand woman. One of the most capable people I've ever met. A comrade. And yet—I have no idea, the last thing I said to her. Sometimes, knowing I never got to say goodbye to her haunts me.”
Charles doesn't say I'm so sorry or anything along those lines. He steels himself and tries to share his own haunts.
“My last talk with her was a fight,” and oh, the admission to that breaks his heart. “I never—I never got to tell her I was wrong, Erik. I never got to tell her that I loved her, even if we fought a lot during her last days. It…”
He gestures vaguely. “It feels so incomplete. I saw her die, Erik. I saw one of my most beloved students accidentally lead her to her death, and yet it feels like I did it myself.”
Erik is quiet as he takes it in. Then, “Jean had visited me after she killed Raven.”
“What?”
“I hadn't known, and her visit was confusing at the time. But Charles—her regret and anger were genuine. I don't believe you should make her actions your fault.”
“But I—” Charles begins, “It was my fault she even ended up on this path, anyway.”
“I'm not saying you weren't in the wrong for everything before that. You were. But with Jean killing Raven—” Erik takes a breath to continue. “Jean's regret over her actions were her own. She would have wanted to carry it on her own and find strength in her emotions, like she did at the very end. She wouldn't want you to shoulder that blame, Charles.”
Charles inhales deeply. He's right. And hearing it from Erik helps to lift the fog of guilt enveloping his brain.
“I miss them,” Charles says. “I miss Raven so, so much. How I wish to have five more minutes with her, only to apologize and to tell her I've always loved her. Five more minutes with Jean, as well, to apologize to her and to tell her she was the most brilliant student I've ever had. Life can be cruel, Erik.”
“I know,” Erik says. “I know first-hand.”
After a beat, Erik adds, “I can't say that time heals all wounds. I can't tell you how to grieve. It's a personal thing. So I'll tell you my experience, instead.
“I carry my losses near my heart, not for them to weigh me down, but to remember I am still here and this is something they would want for me. Charles,” and then he lowers his voice, “I will never be able to forget what it was like to watch my mother die. I will never forget how it felt to lose members of my own brotherhood I was supposed to protect. And for as long as I live, I will remember what it was like to hold my wife and my child in my arms, begging them to not be gone. There are days where I miss everyone I've ever lost and there are days where I look up to the sky and hope that wherever they are, they are happy. I look up and hope to make them proud. And that's… that's the strength I use to carry on. The point between missing them and cherishing them.”
Charles nods. It's so heartbreaking, hearing Erik talk about his losses, but he knows he's right: when Charles looks at him, he's soft underneath the hard lines of determination, he's gentle in spite of his commanding presence for everyone, he's loving when life has punished him for doing so again and again. Erik walks between gray areas, he takes the most from happiness and from pain and makes it work; he walks on a path where the first few rays of sunlight light up the sky at dawn.
“Between missing them and cherishing them,” Charles repeats. “You are wise, old friend. Thank you, Erik.”
Erik reaches over the table, hand extended, and Charles gratefully takes it. Erik's hand is warm, rubbing circles on his own, reminding him that he's here and not trapped in his memories of the times he's failed someone.
“You mentioned Hank and the X-Men,” Erik says, carefully. “If you ever wanted to settle things and get more closure with them, I could take you.”
“You would?” Charles asks. Erik nods. “Thank you. Not now, or anytime soon—I feel like I'll need a lifetime to prepare. But… thank you, Erik. You have been far too kind to me—kinder than I deserve. I don't—these aren't all the things I wanted to say, but it is a start.”
“Enough thanking me,” Erik presses a kiss to his hand, then grins. Charles melts then and there. How did he get him to smile, even under these circumstances? “Whenever you feel like continuing to explore grief, I am here.”
“I thought we could have a picnic today,” Erik had explained when they finally reached the top of a hill.
That had been an hour and a half ago. After eating, some talks, they had simply opted for stargazing.
The stars are so bright. Charles can't remember the last time he saw them so intently, or the last time he even cared about looking up to the sky, but this is the best moment to have done it. This is the one time he wouldn't change anything. And how could he? They ended up sprawled on the floor on top of their picnic blanket, looking up at the stars, Erik's head on top of his chest.
Recent developments had led Charles to not be too surprised about this happening. He and Erik have never kept it strictly platonic, nor had he ever doubted his feelings for Erik differed from his own. It has always been this, just like this, but it's been hard to—escalate it. It's always been hand touches and hand squeezes, but lately it's grown into cuddles on the sofa and cradling each other's faces and—all the simple actions that had so much love in them, Charles wasn't sure how to even act.
He does rub some spots into Erik's skin as Erik puts an arm over his chest, and then presses a kiss to his hair. It is unbelievable, to have Erik so vulnerable and open to him right now. The gentle calm of his mind radiating to Charles', and how they are not anywhere near their house, but Charles still feels right at home.
“I take it you like it here,” Erik says, voice low. “It's one of my favorite places on the island.”
“It's beautiful, Erik. Thank you for showing me,” Charles answers, now opting to stroke his hair with his fingers. It's growing a little long again, soft and perfect, ideal for him to play with it. “I feel so—at peace.”
Erik chuckles, “That's why I like it here.”
He wanted to show him his favorite, most peaceful place? God. Every day, he tries to believe loving Erik more couldn't be done. Every day, he's proven wrong.
Erik sits up a little and Charles mourns the touch of his fingers against his hair immediately. He looks down at Charles with a fond smile, and God, if they ever kissed again it'd be the best moment to do so.
He must've thought about it too loudly, because next thing he knows Erik says, “I agree,” and leans back down.
The press of his lips against Charles' melts him down entirely. It's a good thing he's lying down, because the hard surface of the ground is a better support than anything he could be sitting on. Charles brings his hands up to Erik's neck, bringing him closer, kissing him like it's the only thing left to do in his life. Erik breaks away, grinning, and the moonlight hits him so perfectly that Charles is convinced this has to be a dream.
“I think that's been overdue for a long time now,” Erik says, tracing his cheek with his finger. Charles catches his hand, pressing a kiss to it and squeezing it. Erik laughs. “You've gotten softer.”
“You've brought me out for a date at night, on the most beautiful place on this island. I earned being soft,” he says, getting another laugh. Erik is so wonderful. He's going to give him reasons to laugh every day, every moment, may he always find the happiness he needs to walk his wonderful path in Charles. “I think…”
“Hm?”
Pressing another kiss to his hand, he says, “I've never loved anyone like I love you. It's baffling, truly.”
That smile. Erik leans down again, noses touching and not quite kissing yet. “We're not so different, then,” and closes the distance between them again, almost as if making up for all the lost years and all the lost moments.
He could spend his last night here and he would have died a happy man. His hand travels across Erik's body like learning a map, sneakily going under his shirt, making him pause and inhale.
“Is this okay?” Charles asks, even as Erik is closing his eyes and kissing down his jaw to his neck. Erik nods, enthusiastic, so he loses himself to the sensation of lips exploring his body and the warmth radiating from Erik.
“We should head back,” he says after dragging Erik up for another kiss. “This is lovely, but I'd love it more at home.”
“Home?” Erik stares down, a little shocked, but with a smile threatening to show.
“Yes, of course. Where else?” Charles answers back, and the next smile he receives could light up the whole world.
“Erik,” he says later, looking down at him, hand resting on his chest. “Are you happy?”
Because Erik—Erik, who is so wonderful and precious, but he knows he can be ruthless and merciless, and he knows Erik can be as kind as he can be terrible, and Erik who's always been too stubborn but never inconsiderate, Erik—Erik who was simply him, who life kept taking things away from and lesser men would have broken but not him, never him, should be happy. Must be happy.
Erik considers this. Then he answers simply, “With you? Happier than I've ever been.”
The lingering will and doubt that remained in his brain and heart slowly drift away with those simple words.
Charles has no other choice but to kiss him and swear to make him happy for the rest of their days.