Work Text:
Snow had started to fall before dusk, covering Westchester in a white blanket that muted the noise from the world. There wasn't a storm nor harsh wind— just that heavy, sacred silence that seemed to settle over everything.
Charles Xavier stood in his wheelchair near the large window in his office, a blanket draped over his legs and a cup of tea growing cold between his hands. The glass was icy and still he pressed his fingers against it, as if he might feel something on the other side. As if, in some impossible way, he could be there.
The institute was almost empty. Most of the students had left that morning, some smiling and happy to see their families again, and others carrying a straight face showing the fear of returning to a world that didn't want them. Charles said goodbye to all with kind words and promised that the school would be waiting for them.
Now the halls were silent.
Too silent.
The lights were dimmed, fireplaces lit, and the huge Christmas tree stood in the center of the main hall, decorated with handmade garlands, crooked paper stars and a few old ornaments that had survived generations in his family. It was beautiful, almost picture-perfect.
And yet, to him, it felt unbearably empty.
Because neither Erik nor Raven were there.
He never said it out loud. He didn't allow himself to. But ever since Cuba—ever since that day when everything shattered— the mansion hadn't felt like home again. It was a refuge, yes. But it was no longer the place where they shared all together.
With her, he shared his life, she was his family and best friend.
And he… he was more than a friend to him. In that place, the two young men shared laughter in the kitchen, endless debates in the library while playing chess, glasses of wine at the end of the day and sharing dreams about changing the world
Now it was just... a large building full of memories.
Charles closed his eyes for a moment.
It had been months since what happened on that beach. Since the gunshot. Since metal tore through the air as an extension of Erik's fury. Since the white-hot pain that had ripped through his body and taken more from him than just his legs.
The real blow had been Erik's eyes when it was over, when he said he wouldn't follow him.
It wasn't hatred. Not even rage. But something far worse.
It was just disappointment.
Charles swallowed and opened his eyes again. Snow kept falling outside, slow and hypnotic. He glanced down at the cup in his hands and realized it had gone cold without him noticing.
He sighed and turned his chair away from the window.
He was so exhausted. He'd spent the whole day doing what he did best: pretending he was fine. Overseeing the decorations, helping prepare small gifts and making sure the students who stayed had something warm to eat. Smiling, always smiling.
But now there was no one left to fool.
He rolled closer to the desk. On it, among scattered papers and books, stood the white phone. Old, heavy and its receiver resting perfectly in place.
Charles stared at it.
He knew the number by heart.
He learned it searching for him in Cerebro two months ago, and had repeated it in his mind so many times it was impossible to forget.
Some days he even caught himself thinking that and if he focused hard enough, he might hear Erik's voice without the phone at all. But that was just another lie made from his mind to make the loneliness easier to bear.
Because Erik was no longer in his mind.
That bond that had once felt as natural as breathing was gone. And that hurt more than any bullet ever could.
Charles reached out a hand, then stopped halfway.
No.
He wouldn't do it. He wouldn't call.
Because what was he supposed to say?
"Hello, Merry Christmas. By the way, I still think about you every single day, and I have no idea of how to live in a world where you're not here with me."
He rubbed a hand over his face, tired.
There was also pride. And the wound that still bled. Erik had left. Erik had chosen another path. Erik had decided that the dreams they shared together were worth nothing. He couldn't do anything about it.
But, what if he only...
Charles pressed his lips together. And yet he missed him with every part of his being.
He moved away from the desk, from that damn phone, and went closer to the fireplace, staring into the flames and letting the warmth dull his thoughts. He let the memories come.
Erik leaning against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed, watching him cook with that smirk.
Erik sitting across from him at the chessboard, brows furrowed in concentration, pretending he didn't care about losing.
Erik smiling when he showed him his lost memories about his mother.
Erik laughing—really laughing—when Charles said something foolish. That laugh that made everything feel possible.
"Merry Christmas, Erik," Charles murmured to the empty room.
Far away from there, on a lonely side road somewhere in the Northeast, an old motel fought against the winter with flickering neon lights. It wasn't a place one went by choice, it was a place one went when there was nowhere else to go.
In one of the rooms, there was Erik Lehnsherr sitting on the edge of the bed, still wearing his coat, his boots on the floor. He'd been there for two months and yet he didn't bother to unpack. As if he planned to leave at any moment.
The room smelled of dust and damp. The walls were stained. Cold air seeped in through the closer window. Outside a glowing sign blinked without rhythm, painting everything red and green.
On the nightstand, a small portable radio whispered Christmas songs through weak static. Erik hadn't turned it off. The noise annoyed him, of course, but the silence annoyed him more.
Christmas... the world felt almost absurd.
A half-empty bottle of cheap liquor sat on the floor, and beside it, a black phone. He had stared at it so much that day he almost found it entertaining. He also felt it like an extension of himself. As if, at any moment, he might lift the receiver without even realising it.
He knew exactly who he wanted to call.
He knew the number and had known it since the day he left.
But he hadn't called.
Because calling meant admitting he still cared about him.
And he cared far too much.
Erik leaned back, staring at the yellowed ceiling. He dragged a hand over his face, over tired and red eyes. He was exhausted. From traveling. From being with people he didn't like at all. From running, and from thinking.
From feeling.
The months before had been nothing but movement—chasing rumors, old contacts, whispers of mutants. Anything that made his path feel like it meant something. But no matter how far he went, something always pulled him back.
That name.
That voice.
And those blue eyes... that always pulled him back.
He closed his eyes and, like a curse, Charles appeared in his mind.
Not the Charles from Cuba—wounded and distant, with that look that haunted his nightmares.
But the Charles from before. Elbows on the table, listening to him talk for hours.
That soft smile that seemed to understand him even when he said nothing.
That impossible faith that the world could be better.
Erik clenched his jaw until it hurt.
"Don't call me," he whispered to the ceiling. "Please... don't."
As if Charles could hear him.
Erik knew that if the phone rang, he would answer. Even if he had no idea what to say or even if it destroyed him.
He pushed himself up and paced the room. Each step echoed on the old wood floor. He passed a hand near the radiator, feeling the weak heat barely fighting the cold.
He immediately thought of Charles.
Of how he hated winter but pretended not to. Of how his hands were always warm even if it was freezing.
And of the way he looked at Erik when he thought Erik wasn't paying attention.
That look that said everything neither of them dared to name.
"Damn you, Charles..." Erik murmured.
Back in Westchester, as if his name had crossed the distance, Charles felt a sudden knot in his chest. He brought a hand to his heart, startled by how hard it was beating.
It was ridiculous.
Charles turned back towards the desk and the phone was still there, waiting for him.
He stared at it for a long moment. The fire cracked behind him, and the clock in the hall marked the passing of time, marking that it was almost midnight.
The night was moving on.
And with it came the certainty that if he didn't do it now, he never would.
He rolled closer, placed both hands on the wood and took a deep breath.
"Don't be a coward," he told himself softly.
He lifted the receiver and brought it to his ear.
The weight of it surprised him, as if all those months of silence were concentrated in that object. The low hum of the open line sent a shiver through him.
He closed his eyes and began to dial, hearing how the rotary clicked mechanically. It returned and he dialed the second number. Then the third.
Each sound was a blow.
Each turn of the dial felt like another step toward something he didn't know if he could survive.
He stopped halfway through the number and his heart was pounding so hard it almost hurt.
What was he doing? Why?
Because he needed to hear that voice again before forgetting it. To remember that, despite everything, he was still human.
Charles swallowed.
And hung up.
The receiver settled back into place with a soft, careful thud.
Charles stood there, unmoving and staring at the phone.
"It's for the best," he whispered to the air. "For both of us"
But he wasn't sure he believed it.
At that exact moment, hundreds of miles away, the phone in Erik's motel room began to ring.
The sound was sharp and cut the radio's murmur.
Erik froze.
The ringing filled the room, bouncing off the thin walls. Obviously it wasn't something he could ignore.
He didn't want to move.
He knew who it was.
The phone kept ringing.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Erik stepped closer, as if the thing might explode. He stood over the nightstand, staring deeply at the receiver.
"No..." he thought. "Not now."
But his hand involuntarily was already reaching.
He lifted it.
"Hello?" he said, his voice barely there.
There was only silence on the other end.
Erik frowned.
"Is anyone there?"
Nothing.
But it wasn't empty. It was a silence that, somehow, breathed.
Erik swallowed and then he knew. Because he'd learned to recognise his presence even without any word.
"Charles..." he said, with a broken voice. "Are you there, Charles?”
On the other end of the line, in the warm glow of the mansion's firelight, Charles was still standing at the desk, the receiver now in his hand because he noticed how he didn't place it right. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure Erik could hear it through the wire.
He hadn't meant this to happen.
And yet, here he was, listening to the faint sound of breathing on the line—and then his name, whispered like a prayer.
"Charles... please."
His chest tightened painfully and closed his eyes.
"Erik," he said at last, just as softly.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Miles of darkness and snow lay between them, but through that thin wire, it felt as if the distance had collapsed into nothing. All that existed was the sound of the other's breath.
Erik was the first to break the silence.
"You shouldn't have called," he said, his voice low and rough around the edges. "I asked you not to look for me."
Charles swallowed.
"I didn't mean to," he replied. "I started dialing, and then I stopped. I was sure I hung up. It's just that... I didn't place the receiver right."
A bitter huff of laughter came from Erik's side.
"You always did have a talent for doing the impossible."
Charles winced, but there wasn't real heat in Erik's voice. Just exhaustion.
"I suppose I do..." he said quietly. "I'm glad you answered."
There was another pause.
"I didn't want to," Erik admitted. "But I couldn't let it ring."
Charle's grip on the receiver tightened.
"I understand.."
"That's not what I meant," Erik replied immediately.
Charles knew what he really meant. Of course he did.
He closed his eyes again, leaning slightly against the desk as if the wood could keep him upright.
"How are you?" he asked.
The question sounded dumb the moment it left his mouth. How could Erik be? After everything?
There was a long and uncomfortable silence before Erik answered.
"I'm alive," he said. "That seems to be enough for the world."
Charles let out a slow breath.
"Where are you?" he asked, before he could stop himself.
"Somewhere cold, really cold," Erik said. "Somewhere I won't remember."
Charles almost smiled sadly.
"I can imagine you liking every second of it, because you really liked this season," he murmured. "I always hated it. The cold never agreed with me."
"I started to hate it thanks to you," Erik said softly. "You always complained about it and I started doing it."
Charles gave a quiet, humourless chuckle.
"I suppose some things never change and others do," he said. "You used to tease me for wearing too many layers."
Erik didn't laugh.
The memory hung between them, heavy and fragile.
"Why did you call, Charles?" Erik asked at last.
Charles hesitated.
Because I miss you.
Because I don't know how to do this without you.
Because tonight feels unbearable.
But he said none of that.
"I suppose," he said slowly, with obvious shame in his words. "I wanted to know if you were thinking of me too..."
Erik's breath caught audibly on the line.
"That's not fair," he said.
"I know," Charles replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."
Another unpleasant silence.
Then Erik spoke, quieter.
"You're never far from my thoughts," he admitted. "No matter how much I wish you were."
Charles closed his eyes, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe correctly.
"I hoped you'd said that," he confessed. "And I always hated myself for hoping."
"You were always selfish," Erik said, but there wasn't bite to it.
"Only with you," Charles replied.
Erik let out a soft, broken laugh. And felt how silent fell again.
The clock in the hall struck the hour, its chime echoing faintly through the office. Charles stared at it, realising how late it'd become.
"It's Christmas," he said.
"Yes," Erik answered. "I noticed."
Charles hesitated.
"I know you're jewish but..." he said slowly, knowing he might regret it later. "Merry Christmas, Erik."
The words felt too small. Too ordinary for everything they carried.
On the other hand, Erik closed his eyes, his free hand tightened into a fist at his side.
"Don't worry about that," he replied. "Merry Christmas, Charles."
For a moment, the bitterness faded, leaving only something raw and aching.
"I imagined this," Erik admitted quietly. "Hearing your voice tonight. I told myself not to, but I did."
Charle's throat tightened.
"So did I," he said. "More times than I care to admit."
"Then why didn't you call before?" Erik asked, scared of the answer.
Charle's voice wavered.
"Because I was afraid," he said simply. "Afraid that if I heard you, I wouldn't be able to let you go."
"And now?"
"And now..." Charles said. "I realise I never actually did."
Erik inhaled sharply.
"That makes two of us," he murmured.
The radio in Erik's room crackled in the background, changing through different songs. A distant cheerful melody floated through the line, completely at odds with the heaviness between them.
"Even the universe is mocking us," Erik said.
That made Charles almost smile.
"It does have a cruel sense of humour," he responded.
Then his voice softened.
"Erik... do you ever regret it?"
There it was, the question that haunted him since Cuba.
Erik didn't answer right away. But, when he did, his voice was lower.
"Every day," he said. "And also not at all."
Charles closed his eyes tightly again.
"I don't understand..."
"I regret hurting you," Erik admitted. "I regret the look on your face. I regret that I was the one who took your future and shattered it."
Charle's hand trembled around the receiver.
"But I don't regret leaving," Erik continued. "And I don't regret choosing my path. If I had stayed, I would have destroyed both of us anyway"
"That's not true," Charles said, quickly and desperately, feeling how his voice started to break.
"It is," Erik replied, sharply. "You just refuse to see it."
Charles felt how his mouth went dry.
"I believe people can change, Erik," he said. "And I believed you could."
Erik's voice softened, but only slightly.
"And I believe the world will never stop trying to crush people like us. That's why we differ," he said. "That's why this was always going to end this way."
Charles felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes.
"So that's it?" he asked, knowing he would start to cry at any time. "That's all we are now? Two men on opposite sides of a war that hasn't even begun?"
Erik didn't answer immediately.
Then, quietly, he said, "No. We are more than just that. That's the problem."
Charles let out a shaky breath.
"Erik... I do not want to be your enemy."
"I don't either," he replied. "But wanting doesn't change what we are."
Silence fell again. Thick and heavy."
Charles stared at the dancing shadows of the fire on the white walls. And he started to cry.
"I miss you," he said suddenly.
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Erik's breath hitched.
"Don't," he whispered. "Please, don't say that."
"Why not?" Charles asked, trying to hide his sobbing. "It's true."
"Because if you say it..." Erik responded, "I'll say it too. And if I say it, I won't be able to hang up."
Charles closed his eyes and let the tears run through his face.
"Then don't hang up," he said.
On the other end, Erik pressed the receiver harder to his ear, as if it could press it through space itself.
"I can't stay," he murmured. "You know I can't."
"I know," Charles whispered, with his voice totally broken.
They both knew, but neither of them moved. Neither of them wanted to let go.
The truth hung between them, heavy as the snow falling outside both. Neither of them hang up. They stayed there, breathing into the line, as if the simple act of existing together in that thin connection could hold the world back for a little longer.
Charles was the one who spoke first.
"Do you remember last Christmas?" he asked softly. "The one before everything went wrong?"
Erik closed his eyes, feeling how all the memories came back.
"How could I forget? You burned the pudding."
"I didn't burn it," Charles protested weakly. "I merely... overcooked it."
Erik let out a quiet laugh, the sound breaking though the tension like glass.
"You were insufferably proud of it," he said. "And I ate it anyway."
"You complained the entire time..." he replied, a ghost of a smile in his voice.
"And yet I finished every bite," Erik said. " That should have told you something."
Charles swallowed.
"It did," he said. "I just chose not to see it."
Another pause.
"I miss that, you know?" Erik admitted. "Not the pudding, of course not. Us."
Charles breath hitched.
"So do I."
The fire crackled behind Charles, casting warm light across the empty room. In Erik's motel, the neon sign flickered again, bathing the walls in red and green.
“I used to think,” Charles said quietly, “that if I could just reach you, if I could stay close enough, I could keep you from falling.”
Erik’s voice softened when he answered. “You were never meant to be my anchor. You deserved better than that.”
“I wanted to be,” he replied. “And I still do.”
Erik’s jaw tightened.
“That’s why I had to leave,” he said. “Because if I had stayed, I would have broken you completely. And I couldn’t live with that.”
Charles shook his head, even though he couldn't see it.
“You already broke me,” he said, not accusing, just tired. “But you also repaired me. And I don’t know how to separate the two.”
Erik’s breathing grew uneven.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he said.
“I know."
That was the worst part.
Silence fell again, stretching long enough that Charles wondered if the line had gone dead. But then Erik spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Tell me something,” he said. “Be honest.”
Charles straightened slightly.
“Anything.”
“Are you happy?” Erik asked.
The question struck harder than any accusation, and made Charles hesitate.
He could just simply lie. He had become very good at that.
But Erik had always deserved the truth.
“I’m… managing,” he said at last. “The students need me. The school needs me. That gives me purpose.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Erik said.
Charles closed his eyes.
“No,” he admitted. “I’m not happy. But I'll be. Someday. I have to believe that.”
Erik swallowed hard.
“I’m glad,” he said, even though his voice betrayed him. “You deserve that future you were always talking about.”
“And you?” he asked. “Are you happy, Erik?”
A bitter laugh escaped him.
“No,” Erik said. “But I don’t think I was ever meant to be.”
“That’s not true,” Charles said immediately. “You can be. You could be.”
“With you?” Erik asked.
The words were dangerous and Charles didn't answer right away.
“Yes,” he said finally. “With me, I think you could be.”
Erik felt his mouth go dry.
“That’s why I can’t come back,” he said. “Because if I did, I would want to stay. And if I stayed, I would start believing you. And that would destroy everything I’ve built.”
“And what have you built?” he asked, his voice breaking.
Erik didn't answer, because they both knew.
A path of war. Of anger and inevitability.
“I still believe in you,” Charles said softly. “Even now, even after everything. I still believe and feel there's good in you.”
Erik closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against his free hand.
“You always saw the best in me,” he murmured. “Even when I couldn’t.”
“That hasn’t changed,” he replied.
“It has to,” Erik said. “For both our sakes.”
The words felt like a blade.
Charles felt more tears coming down his cheeks. He didn't bother to wipe them away
“I don’t want this to be the last time,” he sobbed.
Erik’s voice shook when he heard Charles crying loudly.
“Neither do I,” he said. “But we both know it has to be.”
Charles’s chest tightened painfully.
“Can you promise me something?,” he asked.
“What?” Erik asked, simultaneously.
“Wherever you go,” Charles said, “whatever you become… don’t forget that once, someone loved you enough to believe you could change the world without burning it down.”
Erik’s breath caught.
“I could never forget you,” he responded. “Even if I wanted to.”
“Then don’t,” Charles replied. “That’s all I ask.”
Another silence, heavier than all the others. This one felt final.
Erik was the one to break it.
“You should hang up,” he murmured. “If I do it, I won’t be strong enough...”
Charles nodded slowly, even though Erik couldn't see him.
“I understand,” he whispered.
He tightened his grip on the receiver, as if trying to memorize its weight.
“Erik?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
The words were soft. He regretted saying that.
On the other end of the line, Erik froze and for a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, in a voice so quiet it almost disappeared into the static, he answered,
“I know.”
And after a breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob, he added,
“I love you too.”
Charles closed his eyes, pressing his lips together to keep from breaking apart again.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, one last time.
“Merry Christmas, Charles,” Erik replied.
Charles hesitated for just a second longer.
Then he slowly, carefully, placed the receiver back onto the cradle and the click echoed through the empty room like a gunshot.
The line finally went dead.
Charles sat there, staring at the phone, and let out a broken groan, the fire still crackling behind him as if nothing in the world had changed. But he knew everything had.
In the motel room, Erik remained standing, the receiver still pressed to his ear, listening to the hollow tone that told him it was over.
He didn't move. Didn't breathe.
He stood there until his hand began to shake, until the reality of the silence became unbearable.
Then, with a sharp inhale, he hung up and the room felt colder instantly.
Erik lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The radio kept playing, cheerful and almost cruel.
He reached up and shut it off.
Silence.
Outside, snow continued to fall.
Back at the mansion, Charles rolled away from the desk and toward the window once more. He pulled the blanket tighter around his legs and looked out at the white world beyond the glass.
He lifted a hand and pressed it to the window again.
As if Erik might feel it. As if, somewhere in the cold night, Erik might be doing the same.
They would go on. They would become what the world demanded of them: enemies, legends, opposites. But never lovers.