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The last thing he had seen before he had lost consciousness was the bright, white snow.
It had been peaceful, the embrace of the end of his life. He had been curious, even, of what would await him on the other side—if there was such a thing. It appears life had a different idea, as he blinks several times, and he’s not on the ground anymore. It appears as though he is floating.
He stirs a little. The person holding him is strong, warm, and exactly what he was needing when he was freezing. It’s familiar, in a way—familiar enough that he doesn’t question anything; doesn’t consider using the last of his telepathic skills to send a distress signal to Scott and Ororo. It’s comfortable and it’s safe. Familiar, again.
There are few people—if not just one —whom Charles is free to let go, to be this comfortable. So perhaps he has died, as this illusion could certainly not be true.
Ah…
He blinks again and succumbs to the warm body carrying him.
When he opens his eyes again, he’s no longer outside. He sits up, slowly, trying to remember how he’s here. No doubt, he’s been kidnapped, but his kidnapper is a benevolent one. Charles looks down—his clothes are gone, replaced by a warm robe and blankets. Fuzzy, warm, and the door to this room is closed; as if his kidnapper ensured the warmth wouldn’t escape this room.
Hello, he extends his greeting through the whole tower. His kidnapper’s mind is closed to him; completely shut-off. I don’t know who you are, but thank you for rescuing me.
No response. Charles turns his head to examine the room: there’s a folded wheelchair next to the door, too far for him to reach comfortably. To his right, there’s a hover-disk, and there are multiple pots of what appears to be tea, as well as a bunch of bread and other plates, the food covered. Despite the circumstances, it’s cozy. It’s definitely one of his nicest kidnapping experiences.
Kidnapping, or rescuing? It seemed to be both.
He would love the tea, though. There’s no danger, or there seems not to be one: fight-or-flight is a second skin to him, especially fight, but there’s nothing going off. Perhaps it’s his brain catching up to a normal body temperature, and when he’s done, he will feel the urge to flee. There’s something familiar about this, though. He can’t place his finger on it.
I think the hover-disk is a lovely little thing, Charles continues. If he couldn’t feel his kidnapper’s mind, it did not mean they were not there. Perhaps they could hear him. It’d be lovelier to have it closer to me, though.
The second the thought finishes, the hover-disk comes closer, as if he had controlled it. It couldn’t be—could it? Was that moving—was his kidnapper someone who could control metal or hear his calling, somehow—
Come closer, he orders. The hover-disk obeys, much to his disappointment—and much to his surprise, too. The hover-disk responds to telepathic commands. So whoever kidnapped him definitely knows him: the wheelchair, this telepathic design. It should be frightening, but he’s not reacting just yet. Perhaps he’s grown more used to these situations than he expected. When he reaches for the teapot, he grabs the cup and pours it in it, and the smell of green tea fills the air. Another point for definitely knowing him— few people knew his favorite tea. Some of his X-Men did. Some lovers of his did. And definitely—
Earlier, when he was carried away, he did not panic either. The sensation of familiarity had overridden his thoughts, just like right now. It couldn’t be, could it?
He watches the door, aware of the footsteps suddenly growing near him. So there was someone else in the tower, as he had suspected—simply immune to his telepathic sweeps. Charles holds his teacup with strength he does not possess. He holds his breath as the doorknob twists, and though he had hypothesized it was him, it’s been, what? How long since he had seen him last, leaving him to his fate? Carrying that guilt of not doing more, of not intervening earlier, of not saving him?
“This makes things easier,” Erik says, carrying a tray with more food. “If you had still been asleep, I would have been worried.”
“Erik,” Charles breathes out, somehow, because this situation has got to be an illusion. A dream, a fantasy. “Am I dead?”
“No, but if you were trying to kill yourself: congratulations, you almost succeeded,” he says, placing the food on the empty space in the hover disk. “What were you thinking?”
“I didn’t—” Charles lets his eyes wander down to the food. Pumpkin soup, and he could still see the steam coming out of it—he must have just finished cooking it. “Thank you for this meal. I was not trying to kill myself.”
“Oh, my mistake. Who doesn’t want to wander around in such deadly, freezing weather? I am sure there were sights you just could not wait to see.”
“I am recovering from a possible case of hypothermia,” Charles says calmly. “You don’t have to be like that.”
“And who do you think is responsible for your recovery?” Erik snaps back. But then, without Charles saying anything, he takes a deep breath. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, next to Charles’ feet. “I… I was worried.”
That is an apology if he has ever heard one. Charles starts eating his soup, thankful for all the warmth entering his body. It had truly felt like the end of everything, back in the snow, and now that he’s comfortable, he doesn’t think he will be able to leave. Not to mention the company. The company of the man everyone has assumed to be dead—and so has Charles. Not because he believed the evidence, just—
It was simpler, even. Less painful. Easier for Charles to ignore his absence, to pretend every day like there wasn’t someone he was desperately missing.
At first, knowing Erik wasn’t dead had been quite comforting. Their link had never severed, not even when he had thought he lost him for good. It never hit him fully, then, because it was easier to hold onto that scrap of hope. It began to turn into resentment, just a little bit, over time. Everything kept falling apart. Erik wasn’t there. Erik chose to not be there.
“I’m fine,” Charles says, looking at Erik. “I didn’t go out with those intentions, truly. I had simply hoped to investigate. I was under the impression my vehicle had a lot more, ah, resistance to everything. It turned out to not be the case. That’s all.”
Erik hums his approval. “Then I am glad it was you being reckless accidentally, and not on purpose.”
Charles hums back. His mind is quiet, guarded. He knows he’s there—their link is vague enough to make out his very existence, but with Erik holding back his thoughts, it’s impossible to glimpse what he is up to.
“What are you doing out here?” he finally asks. “How did you find me?”
“Lying low,” Erik answers. There’s no elaboration after that. It’s incredible how easy it is to yearn for the depths of his mind the second he’s not inside it. “And I found you very easily.”
“Did you just so happen to be in the neighborhood?”
Erik gives him a flat look. It takes a moment for Charles to acknowledge he had also missed those looks, too.
“If anything, you were the one happening to be here,” Erik says. “This is my base.”
“Seems like a vacation home to me.”
Erik chuckles, “All right. One of my bases.”
He helps himself to a cup of tea, too, as if they are simply catching up with each other. His fingers hold the cup elegantly, the teapot moving on its own without a single bit of effort. Charles lets his eyes wander once more. His hair is even longer than before, and it might be the near-death experience, but Charles’ fingers yearn to run through it, play with the locks, untangle anything for him.
“As for how I found you, as I said—easily,” taking a sip of his tea, he adds, in what should be an accusation: “You never severed our link.”
Something about it makes it sound as if he caught Charles red-handed, like he has the upper hand. Charles puts down his spoon briefly.
“I didn’t,” Charles replies. He doesn’t add anything else. What was he supposed to do? Cut him out?
Erik notices his lack of elaboration. Charles refuses to give in under his scrutiny.
“Very well, then,” Erik continues. He gestures outside. “I felt you, dangerously weak, and simply went out. Who knows what would have happened if I hadn’t been there?”
“Thank you for saving me.”
“You could afford to sound more thankful.”
He’s right. He doesn't mean to be this cutting. He does owe Erik his life, as that was certain death awaiting him. It’s this caring, thoughtful side of his that manages to get under his skin, to irritate him. Was this the only time Erik could prove that he was a good man? Hidden from the world, only showing publicly the ugliest sides of his?
“Thank you,” he says again, trying to sound more thankful this time. “I owe you.”
Erik laughs for the first time. It shocks him a little, the sound, the laughter lines so faded in his face. He’s transfixed for a moment.
“We never owe each other, Charles,” he tells him. He inches closer, slightly, and raises his hand to Charles’ face. His hand is warm, very much so. “It seems you are returning to your normal temperature.”
“I am very warm,” he puts Erik’s hand down, refusing to give in to the urge of holding hands and keeping him there. “But I should probably head out.”
“Your brain must have frostbite if you think I am letting you leave,” Erik states seriously. “It’s been, what, two hours since I brought you in? You are staying until it is safe for you to go out.”
“My X-Men,” Charles replies. “I need to check on them.”
Erik leans back a little, crosses a leg over his other one. “Go ahead. Contact them.”
“... Right now?” he doesn't ask: With you here?
“Let them know you are fine,” Erik shrugs. “Tell them who you are with, even. If they are suffering the same circumstances as you, they can come over here, until the worst passes. I wouldn't want them to meet their fate so soon.”
It’s the casual kindness that angers him all over again. How can he expect everything to be so easy? That the X-Men will just accept him, his invitation, that their world will change knowing he never died? That the X-Men will accept that Charles always knew he never died—that everything would have been very different if Erik had?
“What is it, Charles?” Erik asks.
“I’m not doing that,” he says. “I’ll find them later.”
“Later,” Erik repeats. “You know you cannot lie to me.”
“But you can, apparently,” he snaps back. “How long has it been since I last saw you? You left me to believe you died.”
“Oh. Is that what this is about?”
“What else could it possibly be about?”
“Everything else, perhaps,” Erik helps himself again to a slice of toast, incredibly mundane over their otherwise horrifying conversation. The butter knife slides on his bread by itself as he continues, “You know I did not. Same way I knew you were about to die outside. You have never severed our ties.”
Erik offers him toast, too. Charles takes it with a small thanks before going back to his original point.
“But did you ever come back? You left me,” he continues, dipping the toast in the bit of soup he has left. This food is great, damn him. “You act worried now, you treat me with kindness, you—you save my life, but where were you when I needed you before?”
“I was—”
“Have you ever had someone shoot you in the head? Probably not—you could curve those bullets if you so wished. I couldn’t. Where was your worry then?”
“Charles, that’s not fair—”
“Oh, yes, sorry. I suppose I simply couldn’t help the curiosity—what is it like to die with a bullet in your brain? I simply had to find out.”
“Charles,” Erik interrupts again. The tone of voice that left no room for argument; when Charles is pressing too far. “I hadn’t known.”
Because you didn’t care, he wants to retort, but cannot. He feels like a hunter, ready to prance on Erik, tear every bit of him until the bare bones remain: the Erik he knows and loves, not the one that he had found strayed from his path. The one he departed from, not by dying, but by simply not being there. His stomach ties up in a knot—the anger begins to repulse him, and if he keeps going down this train of thought, he will throw up.
“Of course,” Charles settles for saying. “You couldn’t have known.”
“I’m sorry,” Erik says.
He should apologize for snapping, perhaps, especially given that he’s abusing Erik’s good graces. He is in his robe, in his bed, eating his food—as opposed to dying in the snowstorm outside. When it comes to Erik, it never felt right to apologize—way more used to using their thoughts to express the depth of it all. God, it’s unnerving, to not have his mind as open as he knows it could be. It would save them this petty argument, too.
“It’s all right, my friend,” Charles says, as if placating himself. “It was unfair of me.”
“I did not leave you because I did not care,” Erik refills his cup without him asking for it. “Quite the opposite, actually.”
“What, because you care too much?”
Erik smiles, bitterly. “We are at a crossroads, Charles. Someone has to do the things you—the X-Men—are not willing to. Somebody has to keep your dream afloat, Charles. If I have to do so via unsavory ways—ways you do not approve of—so be it.”
It’s not about approving his methods or not, it’s this—this artificial drift between them, where there should not be one. He has already spent a few decades without Erik, getting a bit of him via letters and newspaper glimpses and scattered visits. It’s never been enough. He could lie to himself—he could lie to Erik, too—but what has always hurt him most is being without him.
“This martyr routine you want to implement does not impress anyone,” Charles mumbles around his cup. “I just want you to come home.”
“Martyr routine?” Erik asks with a laugh. “Does it hurt you to be so hypocritical?”
“I’ve no idea—”
Erik waves him off. “I will come home, eventually. When the time is right.”
“Or you could follow me now,” Charles proposes immediately. “Escort me to the jet, come back to the mansion.”
Erik doesn’t entertain the idea. He smiles at him and drinks his tea in silence.
The worst part of it all is that no amount of arguing with him can make Charles’ mind about him change. Even now, after everything they have said—and every single thing Charles left unsaid—all he really wants is to take Erik into his arms, run his hand through his hair, place a kiss on his forehead. Fall asleep like that, holding each other, as if their bodies were decades younger than they were now.
He can bear a few more minutes of silence until he asks, “And where are my clothes?”
That amuses Erik again. The tension slips away, bit by bit.
“It took you this long to ask?”
“I was quite comfortable, you see,” Charles tries for a genuine smile. Erik shakes his head, laughing.
“I agree. This is a lovely look on you,” he says. “I washed your clothes. I got them ironed, too, so you would not leave this place completely frozen. I suppose I cannot keep you to myself for longer, can I?”
“I need to get back to my students,” he hopes Erik doesn’t bring up their argument about this, earlier. “We have to get back home. There’s—”
He reaches for his hand. Erik takes it, mercifully, and the blankets and robes cannot compare to how warm he is.
“There’s room for you, too, if you want to come,” he says. He asks, as a habit, to let Erik know there’s no version of life in his head that is not prepared for him. Who was it that said that insanity is to do the same thing over and over again, expecting something different? Charles can sympathize with them.
“I will pass,” Erik stands up, and the seconds are starting to count in Charles’ mind. He has so few precious moments left with him, and he had used them all up arguing. “But let me get your clothes back.”
How is he going to go back to the X-Men, after this? It’d be all he could think of. His heart will want to crawl back here, hidden away in a snowstorm, warm inside a tower unknown by everyone else but them. It’s easier when Erik leaves, it’s easier when Erik is cruel, it’s easier when Erik cuts him off, because Charles can’t.
It’s his kindness. His gentleness. His inability to turn his back on Charles when he calls for him, because isn’t he always calling for him? Isn’t that how Erik found him, in the middle of a storm?
“Erik,” he calls out. Erik turns around, a question written on his face. “Come here.”
As always, he obliges. He comes back to Charles, sitting closer to him, and the hover-disk leaves to settle itself in the corner. Charles cradles his face, allows his fingers to meet his hair—soft, as it always is—and just as usual, Erik kisses him first. Sometimes it’s as though he could read Charles better without his telepathy, and it always makes him fall all over again.
He’d have to make himself forget this. How could he go back like nothing happened in this tower? He could not bear the pain. Erik’s hand goes inside his robe, warm against his skin, and Charles melts into him, unable to not do so. He breaks the kiss to breathe, and Erik uses it as a chance to lie him down, following him to do it again. He’d have to forget—there’s no other way. The way Erik mumbles his name against his neck, the way his lips trail down to kiss his chest, that hand of his making its way further down—Charles could not live with these memories.
“Are you in a hurry to leave?” Erik asks.
He is.
“I am sure I can spare half an hour,” Charles tells him. Erik places soft kisses on his stomach, and he takes his opportunity to put his hands in his hair, idly playing with it. “I don’t see why not.”
Erik laughs against his skin, precious as always. He takes note of the few wrinkles that had not been there the last time he saw him laugh, the new callouses that are felt whenever he touches Charles, all the little details.
There will come a day, perhaps, where this version of Erik is the one everyone knows. Where remembering this version of him isn’t painful. It could exist for the next thirty minutes until Charles washes him away, too.
