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“What happened to you?” Moira cries, heartbreak, disbelief, reverberating through her voice. It coils around Charles’ spine like a noose, and he does his best to keep from lashing out.
She doesn’t understand, he knows that. This isn’t her fault.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, but tight fists form at his sides. When was it, he wonders, searching through his memory, when was it things started going so wrong? When her presence brought not reassurance, but disdain? When he’d started to wonder why - why he’d chosen life with her, and why on earth he’d thought it would bring him happiness?
Unable to find an answer, he turns away, silent.
Moira, too, says nothing for a time; when she next speaks, his heart tightens further.
“…do you hate me, Charles?”
It’s a question he’d never thought she’d ask. Years apart had changed them both; nonetheless, he’d never taken her to cry so easily.
She certainly never used to.
Again, silence, unable to look at her, still. When he finally finds his answer, he neglects to pull resentment back.
“…no.” He didn’t hate her. He’d … he’d simply grown to hate being with her.
As though sensing the afterthought, Moira meekly adds “what is it, then?”
What was it… a complicated question, but one so easy, too. He’d enjoyed her company, before. Enjoyed chatting, planning, even the occasional flirtation. Flirtation’s not enough, Charles.
No.. it wasn’t.
Nearly a year, they’d been together.
Nearly a year, he’d felt something wrong, between them.
Nearly a year spent trying to fill the hole left by another. He didn’t have it in him to try, anymore.
“… I don’t love you.” He says at last, turning back around.
No matter how hard he tries to move on, he’ll always, always come running right back.
Bookends of the same broken soul; what a wicked creature Erik is.