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Erik Lehnsherr was never good with apologies. He had no reference of what to say because he hadn't bothered to make an effort to atone for his actions. With this knowledge bouncing off the walls of his mind, he stares past the gate of the Xavier mansion. It has been ten years since the last time he has seen Charles.
He'd escaped the police. Hidden from every authority. Run from so many things. Ignored all of his problems. Faced only what he needed to in order to find peace.
But he never found peace, and he's only now realised why.
Erik walks in through the gate, making his way down the overgrown pathways. Bushes reached out for him with thorns, catching his clothing ever now and again. The pebbled path was cracked and had moss growing over it. Once mowed grass was tall and ominous. Anything could be hiding in it.
He stops at the door, reaching his hand up to the wood. He hesitates because, of course, he does.
A few taps on the door with his knuckles sound the point of no return. It wasn't a case of whether he should anymore. He knew he should. Now, it was a case whether or not he could.
Could he? Could he look Charles in the eye after all these years and apologise?
The door opens, and he is greeted by Hank's familiar face. His form is human in appearance. He reaks of alcohol, though Erik can tell he is not drunk.
"Erik?" Hank forgoes any greeting. His eyebrows knit together carefully as he studies the man before him. He slides the door a little closer to the frame, threatening to shut it in Erik's face. "School's closed."
"I need to talk to Charles." Erik says, and Hanks tries to shut the door on him. He shoves his foot between the door and the frame, pushing against the wood. His powers were an option,
but he wasn't here to make enemies again.
"He's busy." Hank's nose wrinkles in disgust. He pushes back against the door. Not with all of his strength, Erik notices. If he did, Erik's foot would be broken.
"Doing what? Let me in." Erik pleads, sliding his fingers over the side of the door. He brushes them against Hank's arm by accident, and the man moves the limb away from the touch. "Please?"
The door gives way, pulling back with such suddenness that he stumbles in through the doorway. He catches himself before he falls, steadying himself on his feet.
"The world better be fucking ending." Hank growls. The door slams shut, cracking the frame due to sheer the force he pushes it with.
The world wasn't ending. Erik shrinks away from Hank as he storms past. He does not even find the will to be angry at the unnecessary shove he gets in the process. It was well-deserved. His gaze lingers on the lanky figure disappearing up the stairs.
"Charles!" He hears Hank call down the hallways, footsteps growing distant. And here he is, standing in the middle of a place he once called a home for a short time. He can feel every bit of metal in the room and knows the destruction he could cause with it.
No, not now. That's not why he came back.
He's all too surprised when Charles comes trodding down the stairs. On his feet. He's walking.
"You can use your legs!" Erik feels giddy excitement. He smiles in spite of the anxiety crawling between his ribs. Charles approaches with purpose. He realises, with much dismay, that Charles has seen him and hasn't greeted.
Charles jogs over to him, coming to a halt in front of him.
A sharp pain blossoms on his cheekbone, the force turning his head to one side. The sound of the slap echoes in his ears and reverberates in his tightening chest. Once again, well-deserved.
"No thanks to you." Charles snaps, not at all satisfied with the strike. He lips pull into a sneer, as though he wishes he hit him harder.
Erik has identified the source of the alcoholic smell on Hank. Charles is visibly drunk, barely standing upright. It breaks his heart to know that this was his fault. The well put-together gentleman he'd met so long ago now stood before him in shambles. His hair is a mess, and his face is unshaven. If Erik didn't know any better, he'd assume this man was homeless.
He glances up to the stairs where Hank is judging him openly. In all honesty, he's surprised he only got one slap.
"Yeah." He rubs a hand over the stinging area to sooth it. "I deserved that."
Charles's nose wrinkles as his teeth become barely visible in a silent snarl. Erik mentally braces himself for another strike. Just in case.
Erik smacks his lips together audibly.
"I was hoping we could..." He waves a hand with vague reference to Charles and himself. "Talk about some things?"
The "preferably while we're both sober" part remains on the tip of his tongue.
"Fuck you." Charles waves his hand in a dramatic fashion and turns on his heel.
Erik makes a joke before common sense can stop him. "Is that a threat or a to-do list?"
His old friend stills, tilting his head back. His lips pull into a thin line, eyebrows furrowing. Unimpressed by the joke, he scoffs instead of laughing like he would have years ago.
"Sorry, bad timing. My fault." Erik cringes internally at the awkward finger guns he sends his friend's way. This is a very serious situation for such a childish gesture. He knows this. It makes him feel both dumb and emotionally constipated.
Hank chimes in, and much to Erik's shock, it's to his rescue. "Why don't go you sober up?"
Charles walks back up the stairs with a grimace. Halfway up, he stumbles into the wall, grasping his his hair with a yell.
"Hank--" He's already on it, whatever it is, pulling a box of syringes from his pocket. "Hank!"
"Charles. It's okay."
"I'm losing feeling." Charles continues, grabbing onto his thighs so hard that his knuckles turn white.
"Yes, I know." He lifts Charles arm with a gentle motion, sliding the needle into a vein and injecting the liquid. After a moment, he removes it, and Charles sinks down the wall, taking heavy breaths.
A minute passes before he gets up off the floor and continues upstairs. Hank looks over to Erik.
"You're a fuck up." He deadpans, scurrying down the steps to stand in front of Erik with a serious expression. It melts into a small smile before he has a chance to respond. "But you've piqued my interest."
Erik takes a step back. He rubs his nape with his fingers, kneading the skin with his nerves. A heavy sigh escapes his lungs in an effort to still his anxiety. It fails. "Charles isn't the only one I should talk to anyway."
Hank gives a noncommittal hum, leading Erik with a wave down one hallway. He knows it well, ending up in the common area. They take a seat on the couch. Both are on opposite ends of the furniture.
To Erik's surprise, Hank shifts closer, an arm's width away. "Why are you back?"
The question is almost accusatory. No, it is accusatory. It has every right to be. He abandoned them. He abandoned everyone.
And now he's crawled back here with only a little dignity to apologise.
"Well..." He's afraid Hank will laugh in his face. That his old friend will point out the obvious. What he did was unforgivable. Left them on the beach. Charles could have died there with such an injury.
Erik goes quiet, staring at his own shoes. His throat tightens. He doesn't deserve to feel like he's going to cry. Crying in front of Hank wasn't ideal either. So he blinks back the tears and takes a deep breath.
Hank wouldn't be impressed if Erik just broke down over something he did to himself.
"I made a mistake." He decides to throw out something. Something to get the ball rolling. To start a confession that sat coiled in his stomach, twisting hard at the admition. "I know that's not an excuse, but I was hoping to apologise. It won't undo what I've done to you.
To Charles." Erik swallowed. He couldn't bring himself to meet Hank's eyes.
"But at least I'd have apologised. So, I'm... sorry. I should never have abandoned you all. You're right, I am a fuck up, and I'm so, so sorry."
He looks away. There is a vase on the table to his right. It's got delicate roses and tulips in a bundle. The most vibrant thing in the room is a vase of flowers.
Erik is waiting for Hank to laugh at him. Yell at him, even.
Silence settles for an uncomfortable amount of time. He taps his foot.
There are twelve flowers in the vase. Each with two or three leaves on the stem. The roses bear no thorns.
Hank shifts next to him.
There's a small cloth under the vase. Some thread leaves stitched into the fabric.
Hanks sighs.
The table is made from pine. He can tell by the way the lines of the wood. The colour too.
A hand comes to rest on his shoulder.
He turns away from the vase to meet Hank's eyes.
"I don't forgive you," Hank says with a wrinkled nose, "but I'm willing to try."
It's like unwrapping an expensive gift you know you never deserved. As if finding out the wrapping paper was made from gold and the ribbon delicate silk. The gift itself is made from glittering diamonds.
And your hands are stained with coal and oil.
"Thank you." Is all Erik thinks to say. There are words on his tongue that he doesn't even know about. He's forgotten them. They evade him. As if eluding him on purpose. His tongue is heavy in his mouth. His throat is dry.
He could use some water.
"I should... come back later. When Charles is sober."
"Actually, it might be better to stay here. He will just get drunk again before you get here if I'm to call you." Hank's smile is feigned. Erik can tell by the lack of lines near his eyes. There is no crease in his cheeks. No wrinkle of his nose. His eyes hold concern.
Not for Erik. No, never for Erik. Charles is not in a good place. He doesn't need to be a telepath to know that.
It's another gift he doesn't deserve.
A few hours have passed since then. He stands in the kitchen. He's got his glass of water after hours of mulling over whether or not it was rude to take it. The first sip is cold and refreshing.
It does nothing to quell his thirst. His throat remains as dry as an African desert.
Erik does not give in so easily. He pours himself more and continues to drink until he knows he should stop.
His throat is still dry.
Someone walks into the room. Not Hank. This is a lighter tread. Fast paced. They walk with purpose.
After all these years, he still recognises Charles's footsteps. Light and deliberate. Well-spaced, quick.
He chooses not to turn around. Another glass won't kill him.
"What do you want from me?" Charles breaks the silence with a hostile conversation starter. Erik does not respond. He expects Charles to rant at him. Yell at him.
"You just send a bullet through my spine and fuck off? Now you come crawling back here?" He's not breathing steady. One-two. One-two. Charles is going to pass out if he doesn't breathe.
"Do you have any idea what you did to me?" No.
"How you crippled me?"
Crippled?
He needs to breathe. Erik finishes his glass. There is an ache in his abdomen.
"And you want to walk in here? Like, none of that happened? Do you take me for a fool, Erik?"
He smells alcohol. Charles isn't sober, is he? Where's Hank? He pours another glass before he turns around.
Charles's eyes look wet.
Erik walks over to him. He offers him the glass.
"No, but if you don't breathe, I might." He expects the offence that flashes across Charles's features. The little snarl. The wrinkled nose. The furrowed brow.
His lips thin. Then his anger dissipates.
Charles takes the glass and empties it in one go.
"What do you want?" Charles shoves the glass at him. Erik takes it because if he doesn't, it will fall.
"I'll tell you when you're sober." Ah, the offended expression again. He knew that was coming. "Please?"
Charles storms out the kitchen.
Erik expects it.
Another few hours pass. Erik is in the library. He stands in front of the chess board, staring at it. Would it bite him if he touched it? Was it also angry with him? He wouldn't be surprised.
Someone enters the room. Slower this time. Timid, but also cautious.
"Hello." He greets this time. He doesn't smell alcohol. "Care for a game?"
He touches the board. It doesn't bite.
"I don't want to play games with you." Fair. Though Erik notes the lack of blatant hatred behind the words. Charles sounds exhausted.
When Erik turns, he sees the man leaning on the doorframe. The bags under his eyes worsened in the last few hours. When last did he sleep? Did he even sleep? Or did he just pass out? Erik never thought of Charles as an insomniac.
The eye contact holds. It's surprising that it does. Although he can almost feel the daggers that are glared into his skull. Would mind daggers hurt more if Charles used his telepathy on him?
"Are you going to stare at me all day?" Erik asks. He doesn't deserve to have an attitude, but it's been three minutes.
"What do you want from me?" Charles crosses the room. He sits in the chair opposite Erik. Charles is white. He moves one piece forward.
"Nothing." Erik sits down. The pieces don't bite him. He moves a piece manually despite it being a metal chess set.
"Then why are you here?" Charles tips his king over, losing interest in the game. It's been two moves. Erik wins by default.
"You sober?" He queries. The chess board is unhappy.
"Unfortunately." Charles is dead. His eyes are empty. His voice is monotone. His hair and face are a mess. He smells like he hasn't showered in a while. Erik can smell alcohol again, but more the residue than Charles's breath. Did this man brush his teeth? How far into depression did he go?
"I came here to apologise." He's more well put together than with Hank. Erik had mentally prepared this speech for hours. His nerves still bite him. "It doesn't excuse anything."
Charles doesn't look like he wants to respond.
"So, I'm deeply sorry for what I did to you. My old friend. If you want me to leave, I will do so. I won't come back." Erik expects Charles to tell him to get out.
Charles blinks slowly. He shuts his eyes. He sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose. His head drops as his hands climb into his hair and pull him closer to his legs.
He doesn't tell Erik to get out.
His shoulders are shaking. Why are his shoulders...
"Damn it..." His voice wavers, raw. Drops fall. He can't see Charles's face fully, but the tears fall.
Erik stands up, moving around the board. He doesn't know what to do. Will Charles hit him if he touches him? He presses a hand to his shoulder.
Charles doesn't hit him.
A few minutes pass. Charles stops moving, leaning forward.
"This would probably be easier on the couch." Erik says, squeezing his shoulder. "We aren't playing."
"I'm not getting up." Charles hisses, wiping his eyes before looking at Erik. He flinches a little, leaning back in the chair with one hand pulling his own hair. "Where's Hank?"
"Went out to buy groceries."
He smacks Erik away.
"Charles?"
"Get out."
"What, you not going to storm out first?" His sarcasm is not appreciated. It earns him a glare.
"I can't."
"You can't?" Erik is confused. Does this have something to do with what happened when he got here? He still needs to ask about that. He should have asked Hank.
"Leave me alone."
If he leaves this mansion today. He's never going to come back. He doesn't want that. The idea leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
Charles's nose wrinkles as he sneers. Then it smooths as regret flashes across his expression. "You're serious?"
"Oh, now he reads my mind." Erik is surprised he didn't get a snarky comment about it to top it off. The cherry on top.
"Shut up."
"Fine." Charles does not want his company. So he can leave and live with the fact that he'll never see his old friend again. At least he apologized. No guilty conscious.
He gets in two steps before finding that he can't move.
"Actually..." Charles begins, and just like that, his movement returns to him. Why didn't he just get up and grab him? Was that really necessary?
"I can't stand up. So yes." He cuts himself off from whatever he was going to say.
"What? You walked in here just fine." Erik turns to face him.
"The serum wore off." The telepath says it as if it were some horrible thing. Then again, he has no idea what the serum even does. "Hank's serum allows me to walk. I can't use my powers, though."
"Oh." That's what he meant when he said Erik had crippled him. This man should be wheelchair bound. Hank found a workaround, but there was a price for it. Either his legs, or his powers, never both. "You... need help?"
"My wheelchair is in my room. Upstairs."
"What point is a wheelchair if it's upstairs..."
"We have a few ramps. Elevators... to accommodate me."
"For a guy so smart, you're really stupid." Erik says, stepping closer to Charles. He doesn't think about the next thing he does. His arms move on their own. One under his legs, the other around his back.
Charles instinctively grabs him as he is picked up. He was not expecting that. "I meant for you to get it."
"Too late now." Erik tries to shake off the embarrassment, though he knows Charles already felt it. There are no further complaints. If they are thought, he does not hear them.
He traversed the house, searching for the room he needed to find. Once located, he pushes the door open with his shoulder. Charles grunts in disapproval as he is unceremoniously plopped into his wheelchair.
"Thank you..." Charles mutters with a sigh. He turns his head away from Erik. His expression briefly flashed with guilt.
Erik doesn't know if he should ask what Charles wanted to say earlier.
He's got nice interior decorating. Red curtains around the bed, very classy.
"I don't know if I forgive you, Erik. If I can..." Charles whispers. Erik can hardly hear him.
The bedsheets match the theme. The rooms are a nice dark velvet colour. They look smooth. Erik wants to touch them. His anxiety wants to smooth out any crinkles in the wallpaper.
"But... if you're serious. Maybe... maybe we can try?" Charles turns back to Erik, who stops admiring the decor to return eye contact.
"I'll give you space for now." He decides is the best choice of words.
"That would be best." Charles agrees. A small smile graces his features for the first time since Erik got here. "Game of chess later?"
A suggestion pushes into his mind.
Tonight. Not now.
"You're on." Erik smiles, turning away from Charles and walking out the door.
It may not be the warmest welcome home, but it was a welcome nonetheless.