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Years spent alone in a cell, trying not to lose his mind. Devoid of the use of his powers, of human touch, of any kind of connection. He hadn't expected a heartfelt "welcome back" or a hug from anyone, of course not, least of all from Charles. The punch still caught him off guard. It knocked him to the floor, it knocked loose a part of his heart that broke with an embarrassing, deafening crash.
Charles had once been a grounding force, a safe haven, a gentle presence in the violence that was his life. For however briefly, he had been his home. Someone he allowed into his mind and heart. He had said, back then, that there was still good in him. Was there no more of it left? Had he finally reached the point where he truly was nothing more than a monster? A flurry of anger and vengeance. Irredeemable. No longer worth even a strained hello, a single word. Just violence.
Erik's eyes stung and he prayed to a God he didn't believe in that no one noticed the quick wipe with the back of his hand before he got up. Maybe the years of solitary confinement had made him weak. Maybe he had always been that way.
"You took my sister from me!"
"You left me to rot in prison for a crime I did not commit!" Erik yelled, eyes narrow. He had lost all sense of how long they had been at it, yelling the same things at each other over and over as if it would solve anything.
Charles glared at him, fury in his eyes, and got up from his seat to get closer to Erik, to scream at his face. He started yelling again, animated, hands rising up-
Erik flinched.
For a mortifying split second he lost the composure he usually wore like an armor. His head jerked back violently and he took a step away from Charles, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat. For a moment, the scared little boy he tried so hard not to be anymore.
The moment of weakness was gone as quickly as it came, Erik quickly schooling his face back to anger - though there was less fire in it now - and squaring his shoulders. Desperately, perhaps hopelessly, he wished Charles would just go back to screaming, ignore what just happened.
No such luck.
Charles stared at Erik, mouth open in shock. Slowly he lowered his arms, like one would do in front of a scared, feral animal and oh how Erik loathed it. Shame burned hot in his chest.
"Erik...", Charles finally started after a moment, eyes still locked into Erik's. He swallowed, couldn't find the right words to say.
He had seen Erik almost drowning, asking to be fucking shot in the head, facing enemies, hell, facing the man who had robbed him of a family, of a childhood, of humanity. All of that he did with his head held high, determination in his eyes, never wavering. Never scared.
Yet he flinched away from him, a flash of fear so clear in his eyes he did not need telepathy to sense it. He did wish for his powers, now, for the chance to look into his mind, to understand. To toe the lines of morality and remove from Erik's mind whatever it was that made him fear him, because Jesus Christ, it broke his heart. It stabbed him in the back and tied a noose around his neck and poured water into his lungs.
Despite everything, the years apart, the hurt, the anger, the resentment, he still cared. Under the layers of pain there was still a part of his soul that loved this man and wanted him to be well and safe. For him to not get hurt anymore. Yes, he was furious with him, wanted to scream at him, yearned for a proper apology. And yes, sometimes, when drunk and wallowing in the deepest pools of self-pity and anger, he wanted to fucking punch him in his-
Oh.
It had happened so quickly, the punch at the Pentagon. He hadn't planned it, as much as he had fantasized about it in the heights of his misery. Everything had just bubbled over when he saw Erik, the feelings and thoughts inside him too much to contain. It had been almost an instinct, a raw need to somehow make the man see how much he was hurting.
It was almost ironic, really, that he hurt more now than he had in ages. Revenge won't bring you peace, he thought, wondering when he had stopped adhering to his own moral principles. Which glass of whisky had been enough to tip him over the edge into the mess of a man he was now.
They were still staring at each other. Charles at a loss for words, Erik absolutely refusing to back down, to show any more weakness. The air between them was no longer full of righteous fury. The silence stretched over minutes, slowly breaking down the tension. Erik remained stiff postured, but his jaw and arms unclenched, body no longer prepared for the immediate threat of violence. Charles let his shoulders sag, stared at his old friend and searched his eyes for the answer to how to fix this, finding nothing.
They were both broken, had been for a long time. Once upon a time they had gathered the pieces of each other and slotted them together - not forming anything whole, but something solid enough. As they stood there now, it felt like they were exchanging the last pieces of one another that they had still stored in their hearts, giving them back, giving up on the idea of them.
Losing each other.
Many years later, when grief and violence have torn their shattered souls into even more pieces, they meet in Paris. The pieces are jagged and sharp, difficult to fit together, but they try. They have nothing else left but to try. And when Charles gathers the courage to gently touch Erik's cheek, he doesn't flinch.