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It had been months? Years possibly since Charles had seen Erik (he wasn't sure of dates, not anymore, not since then but that's, that's something else). Last time Charles had seen Erik he had been bright and powerful. And he had hated him with every fibre of his being and he had loved him.
Charles was strong, he knew this without a shadow of a doubt, he had to be, he had survived so much (he survived Erik walking out on him, so many times). Charles was charismatic, he was flirtatious, he was wise, he was respected. He was most definitely not weak So why couldn’t he wheel past Erik’s bedroom?
He was strong. He was he was he- was he?
Realistically it didn't matter whether he thought he was strong or not, the students needed him. Raven needed him. Moira needed him. But- But when he ran his hand along his bald head reminding him of what had happened, reminding him of his mistakes and his weaknesses and his monumental fuck ups he couldn’t help but drink.
He was not an alcoholic, that he was very sure of. He wasn't. He couldn't be. Not whilst so many people relied on him. Yes he liked a drink, yes it numbed everything just a bit, the voices quietened, his memories were dulled and he wasn't attacked with the same raw pain as before, so yes it helped but that did not mean he was an alcoholic it was just useful, it didn't cause any harm so why fix what's not broken?
(Hank had found him on the floor of his bathroom in a pool of his own vomit. Multiple times.)
He went out. He didn’t tell anyone where he went, he didn't tell people much any more to be honest. It was better this way, safer. It took him a few days after coming back to realise the shirt he had worn was covered with blood. He had no idea how it got there.
But Fuck. The voices were there, they were always there. No matter how much he drank, no matter how much he tried to ignore them, nothing he did could drown them out, not completely. It was the 1970’s again and the voices were there. But he coped, he survived because he knew, he knew he deserved them. he deserved everyone's pain and suffering and yes it hurt and he was never truly alone any more, and the migraines he got from the constant noise were extreme but it hardly mattered to him. He deserves this.
Charles, in his current state, stayed away from any form of news or media outlet, sure it was selfish, he's not naive he's aware that the world hasn't stopped whilst he works through his shit. He knows. But it also hurts too much and god he's already given the world everything, he's lost his family, his friends, his hair, his legs so maybe he's allowed to be a bit selfish. Maybe this is it, this is his break, (he deserves one right? He has to deserve one by now). All this meant that he was even more royally pissed off when he saw that someone had brought him a newspaper, this was his break goddamnit how dare they. So maybe his reaction was extreme, maybe the glass that litters the floor from him throwing his glass at seeing that was a bit of an overreaction but he doesn't- couldn't care, it takes to much from him. He couldn’t look at the paper though, even once he'd cooled down, once his mind was numb again he couldn't look, he didn’t want to see more suffering. He left it in the kitchen.
So Charles ignored it and he waited. He waited in case Erik ever came home back, every evening he sat in his study, the chess board out, ready for him. Maybe it was pathetic, maybe he should want a fight or something with Erik but in all honesty, he simply wanted to play chess with his old friend. (He still hadn’t read the news).
A year passed now, potentially two but at least he's sure that despite the blur and the haze he was in it was definitely in the year mark. He still taught, some days were harder than others but people depended on him, he couldn't let them down, not his students. Not again.
(He hallucinated. There was no one left to teach, they’d gone. Even Hank had left him. He had no idea.)
He can still hear the door squeaking ("We have to get that fixed, it's been like this as long as I can remember Charles! Honestly" Raven had sighed, taking a gulp of her coffee, Charles simply chuckled in response "Ah but then how would I annoy you so in the mornings?"-) Fuck no, he can't think about that, the memories are still too raw, he needs a drink, where the fuck is his drink? Except- Except someone was definitely calling his name now, and he knew that voice he knows that voice-
"I'm in here" he exclaims, finally, finally, all this waiting and he'd returned.
He'd stayed, after that. Erik had stayed with him. They'd started out slow unsurprisingly there was a lot to work through, but hidden under all the pain and the shit was the good times and those made it worth it. It all made it worth it. They were strong, stronger than they'd ever been before because they'd made it through and they were on the other side now and it was easier, so much easier than before. They started to plan their wedding. It wasn't much, simply going down the registry office, maybe once they'd have had a large wedding with all their friends, maybe once they'd have had the large romantic thing but now? Now all they needed was each other, neither had spoken to the others in years (this thought bothered Charles, something was wrong he just couldn't quite place what)
It was on April 27th. That was the day, the reward that Charles deserved after all these years, after all his suffering he'd made it through, it was going to be okay. The happiness Charles felt and Erik levitated his chair so they could walk side by side was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. This was it, this was happening. They were ready.
It was windy that day, unsurprising really for the middle of Spring. They took the scenic root or so Erik said. It didn’t seem particularly scenic as they walked past an old tip (Charles suspected that Erik was lost, too prideful to say anything but he didn't care, they had all the time in the world).
It was windy, paper blew at them. They laughed. The wind continued. They didn't care except- except an old piece of paper hit Charles right in the face. He chuckled going to throw it away hardly looking but it didn't matter, It was too late. He’d seen what was written on it. He'd glimpsed it, “Erik Lehnsherr AKA Magneto Dies Aged 53.” He couldn't help but laugh, this must be another one of Erik’s plots, it wasn’t the first time he’d faked his death and it would make sense as to why no one had bothered them for so long. He turned around to show Erik, to thank him for doing this for him. For letting them live together in peace, it was perfect but- he wasn’t there. Erik wasn't anywhere nearby. They weren’t outside. They were in the kitchen and Charles was holding onto the same newspaper that he'd ignored all those years ago. It felt like it was on fire, burning his hand off, he hastily dropped it. It wasn’t real. It couldn't be real, he had just been with Erik. He had, he had, he had. He wheeled outside his hands still shaking, still burning, he couldn't breathe.
The paper stayed on the floor.
Erik Lehnsherr, AKA MAGNETO, Dead.
The infamous ‘Magnetio’, known mutant terrorist died in the night. Currently, the cause of death is unclear, it looks as though his body simply gave up on him, perhaps after such a strenuous lifestyle this is the case, or maybe it was something more, another mutant perhaps? It's not unknown that several mutants weren't fond of his violent methods, could they have lashed out and done this? Perhaps one of his enemies? More of this story on Page 5.