Archive of Our Own

Erik thought—he was exhausted.

From where did it begin? He pondered as long as the time allowed him, but he could not easily find the root. Erik still kept the Nazi coin in his pocket, but it no longer represented the entirety of his loss and fury.

Erik no longer knew what he was fighting for. Machines possess neither emotion nor philosophy.

Amidst a desolate landscape where not a single blade of grass grew, Erik repelled a Sentinel flying toward him with a shard of scrap metal. The skeletal steel structures, long abandoned by humanity, became extensions of his own limbs. Two Sentinels nimbly shifted into their searing, molten forms, but Erik unleashed a tidal wave of magnetic force before they could pounce. The Sentinels braced themselves against the ground, their bodies vibrating, then turned back with thoroughly calculated precision. They leaped away, pursuing another mutant presence before Erik could even register it.

The veins on the back of Erik's hand bulged with the strain. The rebar that once formed the building's skeleton crushed the Sentinels under a massive weight of iron. Indifferent to the mass pinning them down, the machines reached out toward their objective until the very end.

Erik watched the twitching mechanical limbs with a hollow expression, then grabbed the collar of the fool who had charged at the Sentinels unarmed. The breath, the pupils, the frantic heartbeat of one who had just brushed against death revealed his terror without filter.

"Erik." It was a boy’s voice. Facing him up close, the face looked even younger. "I’ve been searching for you."

"Then you should also know that I prefer 'Magneto.'"

Erik grimaced. He had seen three such people this month alone. Knowing he always stood on the edge of a precipice, they sought him out like moths to a flame, shouting his name.

"Another one of 'Xavier’s children', I see."

Erik clicked his tongue, eyeing the 'X' marked on the boy's arm. He was so sick of it all he felt like retching. Noticing Erik’s gaze, the boy asked back:

"Is there any human left who isn't indebted to him?"

Erik answered honestly.

"He is standing right in front of you."

-

On July 15, 1977, thirteen minutes before the Sentinels initiated their global extermination protocols, a supernatural telepathic broadcast occurred. A man’s calm, steady voice resonated within the mind of every human being on Earth.

"To everyone who can hear my voice, remain calm. My name is Charles Xavier, the one you know as 'Professor X.'

You have already witnessed the truth. Those machines no longer hunt only mutants. They have categorized the human race itself as an error. And in a few minutes, they are about to launch an unprecedented assault.

Again, stay calm. Listen carefully to what I say.

Sentinels track heat signatures, electromagnetic signals, and mutant brainwaves. Destroy your transceivers and radios immediately. Every means of communication will become a target for their back-tracking. Move behind concrete layers at least thirty meters thick, or into mines and caves rich in metallic ores. The metallic composition of the Earth's crust will act as a natural shield to disperse your bio-signals.

The Sentinels' sensors scan individual DNA. Hide near radiation facilities or power plants that generate strong magnetic fields. Induce an 'uncertainty' in their scanning results.

To my mutant brothers and sisters: help those without power. And to the rest: be the eyes and ears for the mutants. Do not look away when they become targets. Machines calculate, but we cooperate. Create the 'variables' they cannot compute. Whether mutant or human, the one beside you is your only kin.

Above all, unite. Become one. Do not let go of each other's hands. Before them, we are indistinguishable. Division means extinction.

We will find a way. The past will be mended. We will endure this present together and find light within the darkness.

So, I beg you, please, please, please—

Keep your hope alive."

-

"Charles?"

While the rest of humanity was shrouded in a heavy silence, only a single mutant turned his head to look back.

-

Following that final message, Professor Charles Xavier passed away while seated before Cerebro.

The few surviving historians record that day in 1977 as "The Last Hymn." It was the final set of evacuation protocols and words of solace that Professor Xavier had etched directly into the minds of humanity through Cerebro. Upon hearing this anthem, mankind overcame their terror and retreated underground; this act later became the foundation for the Underground Alliance to rally the final human resistance, "Xavier’s Children."

On that single day, over two billion people owed their lives to him. Because of his intervention, a war that the Sentinels calculated would end in three years instead endured for more than eight.

It was a final act befitting the name "Professor X."

-

Erik always dreams of nightmares.

Their forms vary, but the one he loathes most is the dream where a voice echoing across the world tapers down into a single, tiny point. Erik knows what Cerebro looks like, how it functions, and how to operate it better than anyone else on Earth. Thus, his mind vividly reconstructs the view of Charles’s back. There is no sanctity there to be likened to a hymn. There is only a man, sitting alone in a wheelchair.

It is utterly farcical how humans deify the dead, prattling on about "Xavier’s Children" or "The Last Hymn." While they march about with 'X's on their arms as if they were sacred marks, what became of the man who owned that name?

-Erik.

The admonishing voice resonates in his head. Drenched in cold sweat, Erik kicked himself away from the dry ground.

The place he had followed the boy to was an underground bunker—calling it a base or even quarters would be an embarrassment. Even to Erik, a man who had never indulged in luxury, the conditions were wretched, yet this was considered one of the better sites. Erik watched the people huddled in groups, sharing meager rations and tending to wounds. To have something to share was, in this world, a luxury.

One of them looked at Erik and murmured his name.

"Erik!"

Soon, the people chanted his name like an echo. Erik could clearly read the reverence and hope in their eyes—the same people who, barely a decade ago, would have whispered 'Magneto' while trembling in fear. Cutting through the murmuring crowd, a blue-skinned mutant stepped forward.

"Erik Lehnsherr. You’re awake."

He extended a hand, but Erik did not take it. He no longer had any need for brothers.

"I came here to see the face of the man who throws children away like suicide bombs," Erik said, fixing his gaze firmly on the man’s face. "Don't ever send them to me again. If you're so eager to die, step out yourself. I’ll gladly watch you go without lifting a finger."

"Believe me. You have no idea how much I wished it could have been me instead."

That composure. It was one of the reasons Erik detested Xavier’s children. They worshipped Charles’s final message like dogma, and their every action bore a trace of something that reminded him of Charles.

"But Erik, my life is already pawned elsewhere." The man placed a hand over his heart and made a proposal. "What would you do... if there were a chance to set all of this right?"

-

His name was Hendrik Lorentz. He introduced himself as a mutant with the power to manipulate velocity. He led Erik to a space that appeared to be a command center and began explaining his theory.

Lorentz could accelerate himself to the level of photons. That energy would scrape against the surface of space-time, creating microscopic fissures through which memories and physical information could slip. Then, at the point where the anchor of causality is dropped, he could effect change.

Erik stared at the documents cluttered across the desk—traces of fierce, calculated equations. While he wasn't erudite enough to grasp every detail like Hank or Charles, he was brilliant enough to understand the general principles.

Thus, Erik let out a derisive scoff toward Lorentz, who sat opposite him.

"And you expect me to believe this?" In Erik’s judgment, this plan was closer to a suicide mission. "If you have time to spout such nonsense, go find more drinking water. It would be far more beneficial for the survival of your kind."

"But Erik, we already traveled back here from a week ago. We accumulate the Sentinels' patrol routes through 'experience' and then return to the past to issue warnings."

"Bullshit—"

"And some of us even throw ourselves into the fray just to find you. You’ve already met him, haven’t you?"

Erik went silent, his mouth a thin line. He never stayed in one place for long to avoid Sentinel tracking. Yet, the frequency with which 'Xavier’s Children' found him was far too high. At times, they found him even more easily than the Sentinels did.

He rubbed his eyes with one hand before speaking.

"Fine. Let's say I buy your fairy tale. Then why don't you go back and change this hellish future already? Why not return to a past where those tin cans don't exist and save your precious Messiah?"

Sarcasm was thick in Erik’s voice, but Lorentz’s demeanor remained consistently, unnervingly calm.

"First, we are not sorcerers. My ability cannot drop a person into any era they desire. I merely discover the point in the past with the most 'room' for causality to be tuned. Second, we can jump back a week, perhaps a month. But years? That is a different matter. Using my power for such a feat will exhaust my energy and kill me. We have only one chance, and we must wait for the perfect moment."

"Then go back and kill me," Erik retorted. It was laced with mockery, but it wasn't a joke. When the early Sentinels emerged, Erik had bent their frames with iron and put a bullet through the forehead of Bolivar Trask, their creator. As a result, humanity felt a surge of alarm and developed nano-materials even faster than the original timeline.

Lorentz shook his head slowly.

"No, Erik. While it's true you accelerated the Sentinels' development, killing you won't solve the fundamental problem. Don't you know that best, having killed Trask yourself?"

Erik didn't deny it. Cutting out a single cancer cell doesn't strip the host of its toxicity. Humanity had been designing guns and blades throughout the entirety of history.

"We must solve the problem at its most fundamental level."

"Fundamental?"

"The reason we fear the Sentinels is their ability to create an antithesis to any power. And what makes that possible is their capacity for free transformation."

Erik caught on to their answer without difficulty and surged to his feet.

"I'm out."

"Erik!"

"Do you even know that Mystique is his sister?"

Lorentz’s expression remained serene. He had the transcendence of one who has staked his life, as if he had predicted this conversation dozens of times. The 'X' hanging on Lorentz's shoulder seemed to swallow Erik whole. The irony of his own children trying to kill his only family left Erik beyond even laughter.

"It doesn't matter. I don't care if you go back and kill a child or not. I simply don't believe in false hope. All I know is adaptation, survival, and struggle."

"My power resonates with magnetic fields. You are the only mutant powerful enough to remain intact without being shredded during the jump." Lorentz gripped the mark on his shoulder tightly. "We believed this... was why he chose you."

In an instant, Erik snatched Lorentz by the collar.

"Listen closely, and let me teach you something. First, he never 'chose' me. He abandoned me. Second, he isn't a damn Messiah; he's a professor. What happened to him after he gave his final lecture to all of humanity? Did he get resurrected? As far as I know, they couldn't even recover his body."

Erik’s rage shook the bunker, and the pillars supporting the ground began to groan. While the temporary light bulbs flickered and dust settled around them, these martyrs didn't so much as blink. Erik glared at Lorentz with a chilling intensity before sinking back into his seat.

"Do you know you are exactly the kind of people Xavier despised most?"

"Perhaps that is why we can never be like him," Lorentz admitted, straightening his collar. "But aren't you the one man who can weigh the life of a single girl against the entire world?"

-

Of course he was.Erik was pragmatic. His actions were guided by profit and loss rather than mere motive. If it meant ending this hell, he was capable of killing a young Mystic a hundred times over.

-Erik.

Get lost, Charles. Erik cursed inwardly at the admonishing echo of Charles's voice.

Magneto’s justice was heavy, cruel, and impartial. It was a covenant forged in blood through the sheer weight of his life's experiences. Erik would have taken Charles’s life himself, not just Mystique’s, if it were necessary. Otherwise, how could the young Erik Lehnsherr, still screaming in the camps, ever forgive him?

At the same time, Erik remained skeptical.With odds so infinitesimally low and only a single chance, Erik viewed this more as an opportunity for himself. An opportunity to terminate this relentless struggle. A chance to be liberated from the Nazis, the coin, the screams of the camps, the blood, the gunfire, the wheelchair, the comrades who had died before him, and the persistent voice of Charles. A chance to die without the burden of guilt.

And so, after piercing through a cataract of electromagnetic fields and enduring an eternity of time, Erik found himself truly, genuinely bewildered for the first time in years.

It was because the sensation against his cheek was soft.

It took a long moment for Erik to remember that the object was a bed. His ears picked up the creak of a wooden frame and the distant sound of laughter drifting through the window. With clumsy movements, he rose and picked up a newspaper resting on a stool.

The year printed on the page was 1956.

Erik let out a hollow, deflated sigh.

-

Erik stared at the faucet for a long time as clean water poured out. The water washed away layers of long-settled dust and dried blood scabs, and only then did Erik realize that blood had been caked under his fingernails. He picked up a bar of soap and scrubbed between his nails. It had been so long since he had forgotten how natural these things once were. Scented soap, warm water, and a secure building—these were luxuries he hadn't enjoyed in years.

In an instant, a realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. He truly could change it. It would be easier than wringing the neck of a kitten. If he went right now to find Raven—who would likely be at the Xavier Mansion—and ended the life of a girl who couldn't even resist—

Erik turned the tap back to the cold side. He stood perfectly still for a minute, catching his breath and keeping his head cool. It was a sensation similar to when he used to hunt Nazis long ago.

He could not afford to fail. Erik rapidly formulated a practical plan. He scrubbed the blood and grime from his body, trimmed his ragged beard and hair, and ransacked the room to steal spare cash. Securing a disguise and currency was essential, regardless of the era.

An entity more powerful than any Sentinel, mutant, or human protected the mansion, but fate was on Erik’s side. Erik knew that the greatest variable in his plan—and the greatest variable of his life—was attending Oxford at this point in time. While a young Charles Xavier could read minds, Erik was one step ahead in terms of information.

More than five ways to disguise her death as an accident sprang to mind. A train derailment, a gas leak, or simply loosening a few bolts on a steel structure at a construction site—any of these would be enough to make it a fatal, unlucky day for young Raven.

He mentally retraced the map of Westchester, prioritizing the methods that came to him.

Erik did not let his guard down.

-

The moment Erik realized who was standing in the center of the campus, he understood the full extent of his own arrogance.

As he stepped outside, sunlight filtered through the gently swaying greenery, making him wince against the glare. To a man accustomed to years of monochromatic desolation, the scenery was so vibrant it was painful to the optic nerves. Ancient buildings of golden brick stood flanked by towering larches and chestnuts that formed a natural tunnel, while to one side, a lake shimmering with the scent of fresh water sparkled in the light.

Erik froze the instant his boot pressed into the damp autumn leaves.

-Erik.

Charles Xavier was perched atop a table by the lakeside, delivering a lecture with infectious passion. Surrounded by cheering students, he gestured theatrically with both arms to drive home his points. The academic gown in his hand danced and swayed with every turn he made.

Erik should have known. He should have expected this.

Life was overflowing here. The chest rising and falling lightly with each breath, the blue eyes looking at his audience with an enviable spark, the way his hair shifted when he tilted his head—it all filled Erik’s vision like a prism scattering light.

His legs moved forward mechanically. Erik couldn't tear his eyes away, and he eventually sank onto a bench just a few paces away.

"Professor Xavier!"

He flinched at the sound of the students calling his name. He looked more like a student himself than an instructor. Erik did the math in his head; this Charles was likely in his mid-twenties at most. Younger even than the Charles Erik had first met. Erik reflected on his own life in this era: he would have already finalized his revenge plot against Shaw and been hunting Nazi war criminals. He wasn't much different from the man he was now.

Charles, however, was his perfect antithesis. Bright, bursting with vitality, standing firm on two whole legs—

-Erik.

With a nimble leap, Charles hopped off the table and caught the gaze of the man who had been watching him. Wearing a mischievous smile, the professor cut through the crowd and came to a halt in front of Erik.

"You've been staring at me for twenty minutes already, darling."

Erik felt the air catch in his throat as a version of Charles Xavier who bore not a single scar of time smiled broadly at him.

"Either you're a very slow assassin, or I've finally met someone who appreciates my brilliant lectures as much as I do. I'm Charles Xavier. And you look like someone in need of a friend."

Professor Charles Xavier looked down at the man who seemed to be tilting a private dark cloud over himself on this sunny day. It wasn't just a metaphor; the inside of the man's mind truly looked that way.

"Your lecture was too loud to ignore," Erik remarked.

Look who's talking. To Charles, the man’s mind was like a piano keyboard where the keys were so out of tune they were screaming for his attention. Charles let out an inward scoff.

"And yet you were the most passionate student, listening from the furthest distance," Charles noted, shifting his focus from the man’s turbulent mind to his attire. An aviator jacket and jeans. Charles categorized him as an outlier—strictly by Oxford standards, of course. "You don't look like a professor. Are you interested in genetics, by any chance?"

"Of course I'm not a professor," Erik replied, studying the youthful face. "I thought you were a student."

Erik's murmur was tinged with the irritation one feels toward a once-in-a-century genius. Charles Xavier had so much to boast about that he hadn't even mentioned becoming a professor at such a young age; he had only ever humbly said, "I went to Oxford."

"I'm practically an undergrad, really. I'm a part-time lecturer. It'll probably take ten years to become a full professor. A precocious freak writing extremist papers isn't exactly welcomed."

"It won't be ten years," Erik said, doing the mental math and speaking before he could stop himself. "Teaching suits you. You seem like the type who would keep talking until the very moment you die."

"I'm usually good at reading intentions, but it's hard to tell if you're joking or not," Charles said, narrowing his eyes and playfully tapping his temple. "It's like a vault. I can't read your thoughts at all."

For five seconds, the young Charles Xavier stared intently at Erik. Erik feigned composure, but in those five seconds, he drew up twenty different scenarios to evade him. This Charles, with his soft cheeks, looked as though he would run for his life if Erik so much as clenched a fist.

But Charles saved himself from being struck or knocked unconscious in the middle of campus by uttering a sentence Erik hadn't anticipated.

"Do you have dinner plans?"

It was the second time since arriving in the past that Erik was truly bewildered.

"There's a decent pub near the main gate, and I need time to figure out if what you just said was a twisted joke or a compliment on my potential. Depending on that, I’ll decide whether to punch you in the face or grab you by the collar and kiss you."

"And if I refuse?"

"A dinner date. With my sister. Either way, I don't lose."

"Do you live with your sister?"

For the first time, Charles’s face darkened. He glared at Erik without hiding his furrowed brow.

"...Raven is easily the most beautiful girl in the world, but she's still a teenager."

'Appalled' wasn't a strong enough word. Erik looked into Charles’s eyes, which had narrowed with wariness, and threw out the very line the old Charles used to use.

"Sherry. Not too cold, just the right temperature for a good debate. How about that?"

"You have excellent taste, my friend."

Charles began to hum a tune, and Erik watched him, scoffing inwardly. I bet you think so. After all, it was the very first drink Charles had ever taught him.

-

There was no awkwardness between them, even with a glass of annoyingly crisp Pinot Noir sitting between them.

It was a result Erik had anticipated. Charles had always been a talker, and he was even more so when he set his mind on being charming. The practiced, effortless touches, the soft laughter, and the witty yet polite banter were elements that easily won people over. When he looked at someone with that expression of total understanding and uttered the word 'friend,' even eccentric telekinetics who could blast lasers from their eyes or savages with adamantium claws would find themselves melting.

"—So, are you aware that I still don't even know your name?"

Fortunately, Erik was immune. He set down his empty glass, meeting Charles's inquisitive gaze with a seasoned indifference.

"You can call me whatever you like."

Charles peered at him as if he were a particularly difficult but delightful riddle. "Alright then, Mr. Ghost. What exactly do I have to do to pry a name out of you?"

"You're assuming I have a name to give."

"Everyone has a name," Charles countered, undeterred. "The urge to define and categorize is a primal human instinct. We are a species that insists on naming planets, wild grass, emotions, and even time itself."

Charles was persistent, but Erik was confident in his own resolve.

Erik had moved the coin knowing it would cause Charles pain; he had left him, declared war on humanity, put a bullet in Trask’s head, jammed rebar into Sentinel frames, and now, he intended to take the life of this young Charles Xavier's sister. No matter what silver-tongued persuasion Charles used to win him over, Erik didn't believe this young version could achieve what the older Charles Xavier couldn't do in a lifetime.

But what Erik overlooked was that this man, too, was Charles—and regardless of his age, he would never let Erik walk the easy path.

"Oh, please. If I can't even get the name of a man I fancy, where on earth am I supposed to start today?"

Once again, Erik was genuinely taken aback.

Charles had often boasted of his heroic exploits at Oxford, but Erik had only ever assumed that Charles had simply benefited from having soulful blue eyes and a power that was practically cheating. Erik tended to look down on what a mere university academic could do (and given his past, wasn't that only natural? Erik had seen far filthier things).

Furthermore, his first meeting with Charles Xavier had been excessively solemn (the middle of the Atlantic, a submarine full of mutants, the CIA in pursuit). Charles had known too much about Erik for them to engage in age-appropriate banter, and the circumstances were never right (Nazis, childhood trauma, nuclear weapons, the mission to stop World War III). And before anything could truly begin, they were already walking different paths (a beach in Cuba, missiles, a bullet, a coin).

So, this was the first time Erik was witnessing Charles Xavier's actual 'moves.'

"Didn't we just meet?" 

Erik muttered, his voice sounding dazed even to his own ears.

"Oh, did I not mention it yet?" Charles said, taking another sip of wine. He even flicked his fingers like a Frenchman. "I like you. The rugged build, the handsome face. You're mysterious, somber, and the way you drink—like someone who's weathered all the world's storms—it's perfect."

"How old are you?" Erik muttered, glancing at Charles’s face. "Twenty-one?"

"Twenty-four," Charles replied with mock solemnity, as if insulted.

"I thought Oxford bred gentlemen," Erik continued slowly, wiping the wine from his lips. "Not such shameless scoundrels."

Charles only offered a radiant smile, showing no sign of repentance. "Oh, darling. If you wanted a gentleman, you should have gone to Cambridge." He leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. "We're much more fun."

Erik let out a sharp breath through his nose. A sense of humor, it seemed, was a universal currency in any era. "No sense of surrender or shame, I see."

"Tenacity, rather," Charles let out a rich, soft laugh. "Stubborn, reckless, persistent—I prefer to think of it as being 'determined.' I’ve been told I have a bit of a habit of clinging to hopeless causes."

Some things never change.

"I admire your self-awareness."

Erik couldn't help but smile.

-

Wow.

When the man smiled, Charles silently congratulated himself on his decision.

That Charles Xavier refrained from haphazardly reading the minds of others was the result of a complex blend of high morality, a sense of duty akin to noblesse oblige, and a touch of both arrogance and elitism.

Yet, he was also young and flexible enough to allow for a bit of "cheating" to better understand someone who piqued his interest. Had Charles truly set his mind to it—truly committed—stripping this man’s secrets bare would have been a mere matter of time. No matter how fortified a mind might be, to Charles, it was but a castle made of sand; without pride or false modesty, he likened his own telepathic power to the vastness of the ocean.

Instead, he chose to explore this man—a man who cracked twisted jokes and closed his eyes while drinking as if it were his first glass in an eternity. Some problems, after all, are only intriguing when the answer remains unknown.

"What brings you to Oxford?" Charles asked. "It was a lovely day for a stroll across the campus, but your expression suggested you were there for something else entirely."

"I have business to attend to," Erik replied curtly.

"What kind of business? You don't strike me as the type to work behind a desk."

"Not everyone had the luxury of your education," Erik remarked, his gaze pointedly sweeping over Charles’s attire from head to toe. "And my line of work wouldn't interest a young lord like you. It's... crude."

"Do you work at a street club?"

"Amusing," Erik said, though his tone was anything but amused.

"Well, if you don't tell me, there’s no telling how far my 'crude' imagination might wander."

Erik had no intention of being led around by this fledgling youth. He waved a hand as if to say Charles could think whatever he pleased.

"So, are you still 'on the clock' then? A rather flexible profession you have."

"You seem quite confident that you’ve distracted me." Charles offered a smile that conveyed more than a hundred words ever could, and Erik couldn't help but prick at that conceit. "Don't worry. I’ve never once forgotten my mission." Erik took another sip of the wine—though it did nothing to intoxicate him—and murmured as if to himself, "Never."

"And what secretive mission might you be on?"

"If you want to pry into others' lives, start with your own, Professor."

"Hmm." Charles suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "I hold a junior lectureship at Oxford. I give elective lectures three times a week. In my spare time, a bit of this and that—writing papers, conducting research."

"Fascinating."

Morse code would have been less monotonous than that tone. This time, Charles couldn't help but roll his eyes. Erik continued, his expression unmoving.

"I was asking about you."

For the first time, Charles fell silent.

"The things that actually define who you are."

Charles still couldn't find the words.

"Was that too difficult a question for a professor?"

Charles reflected that he might never get used to this man’s style of conversation. Even in the heat of a fierce debate, Charles was accustomed to a world of 'I'm terribly sorry, but...' Regardless of how much he knew of the ugliness within human minds, he had lived with both feet firmly planted in a world of overflowing refinement.

This man was like flint. Whether Charles wanted it or not, the man struck and sparked a fire.

"But we can never truly discuss who we are without mentioning our genes. DNA isn't just a cluster of molecules; it’s the most profound poetry ever written with only four letters of the alphabet."

Charles’s voice quickened with excitement. Erik arched an eyebrow, as if daring him to continue. It felt like both a permission and an encouragement. It wasn't easy for a person to be so insufferable and magnetic at the same time. Regardless, Charles pressed on.

"When you read the sequence, you realize the staggering process it took for us to stand here. For instance, when I look at your grey-white eyes, I can see that your DNA instructed the protein density to be regulated with exquisite precision. In the place where melanin was cleared out, instead of trapping the light, it scatters it beautifully—"

Charles watched the way the man’s eyes reflected the lamplight. The pale lashes, the shadow beneath them, the irises that chose to reflect rather than absorb light, creating an immeasurable spectrum of color. And within them, that steadfast gaze.

Action and reaction, inertia, the first law of thermodynamics, total internal reflection. The man’s gaze resembled the simple yet core principles that govern the world. The telepath, who usually stood on the side of the observer, felt a sudden weight from this stark symmetry.

Charles’s throat went dry. Instead of continuing, he swallowed a mouthful of wine. The dry vintage did little to quench his thirst.

"…Aside from genetics, I’m fond of astronomy." Charles usually had enough confidence to speak for three hours on the same subject, but he uncharacteristically pivoted. "Stargazing with a telescope is a hobby of mine, though lately, the smog makes it difficult unless it’s a perfectly clear day. Now, tell me about yourself. Surely you aren't going to say you have no hobbies?"

"I don't have high-end hobbies like telescopes. If I had to pick one, I suppose it would be chess."

At the mention of a familiar subject, Charles was visibly relieved. "That’s the best news I've heard all day." He pushed the awareness of his own nerves to the back of his mind. "I’d love to test your skills. For you, I’ll even let you have the first move."

Erik let out a short laugh. "I can already see you crying for mercy by the third move."

"Do I need to mention I graduated from Oxford early?"

"Intelligence and strategy are two different things. Your playstyle is as predictable as they come. Conventional, polite, and so overly cautious with your pieces it’s almost tragic." Erik’s voice was brimming with certainty, bordering on cynical. "Please, tell me—I’m the type who would use my Queen as bait. How do you plan to win?"

"That sounds suspiciously like a fondness for cheating and gambling."

"Not much of a difference. Let me show you how I fight."

With a seamless motion, Erik signaled the waiter.

"Two Bourbons. Neat."

-

Erik grabbed the chin of Charles, who had his forehead resting on the table, and forced him to look up.

"Read my mind. Tell me what I’m thinking."

Charles staggered, pressing a hand to his temple as he murmured. His voice was utterly devoid of strength. 

"'kiss me?'"

"Fine. You're beyond reason."

He had held out better than Erik expected, but a subtle, stubborn competitive streak—one that flared up at the slightest provocation—had driven him to this brink.

Erik looked down at the nape of Charles's neck, flushed from the alcohol, and tucked several bills into his coat's inner pocket. He didn't want Charles to be picked clean by some street mugger on his way home; in Erik’s experience, a drunken, wealthy young man was a prime target.

"Oh, you won't find what you're looking for there." Charles giggled at Erik’s touch, then caught the look of disdain Erik was leveling at him and burst into a full belly laugh. He fumbled through his pocket, pulled out the money Erik had just placed there, and muttered with bleary eyes, "Ten pounds? Do you intend to buy half the spirits in this pub? You have as little sense of money as I do."

"Your tongue still seems to be working, but I’d suggest leaving only when you can walk straight."

Naturally, Charles couldn't move. The alcohol had surely doubled his body weight or perhaps recalibrated the constant of gravity. Still leaning one cheek against the table, Charles watched as Erik grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the chair.

"Are you running away?"

"The result has already been decided."

"No. It’s only just beginning."

Charles valiantly tried to pull himself up, only to sink back down immediately.

To Erik, it was nothing short of a comedy. Preferring that Charles simply fall asleep rather than break his nose doing something foolish, Erik covered Charles’s eyes with his hand.

"Drop the pride, Professor. You don't know how to admit defeat."

"I told you, it's... just beginning. I've been drinking since I was sixteen."

"Impressive."

"You think I'm joking?"

"Forgive me. I simply find it hard to believe a young lord like you would have engaged in such rebellion."

"It’s true. There were days when I spent more time drunk than sober. Or I wanted to be drunk all day, or I was drunk just so I could stay drunk. Because..." Charles’s eyes flickered as if searching through memories, and Erik felt the brush of eyelashes against his palm. "It was too loud."

"What was?"

Erik cursed himself for feeling curious, but the question had already escaped his lips.

"Everything. People. The voices."

It was even worse after Charles murmured this in a slurred voice, feeling as though he were sinking into a gutter.

Had Charles drunk even half a glass less of that Bourbon, he would have noticed how Erik’s hand stiffened and how his expression turned to stone. But the alcohol had robbed him of his discernment, and Erik was a performer well-versed in concealing the highs and lows of his emotions.

"Then why didn't you just turn away?"

Erik asked it with feigned indifference. Thus, Charles replied with the unfiltered honesty of the intoxicated.

"You think I haven't thought of that?" Charles let out a derisive snort. "But I could never do it. Because of Raven."

"Your sister?"

"Yes. She’s the loudest of them all." Charles smiled at the thought of her. "She always pulls me back. She constantly reminds me of the good things. Things that are strong, beautiful, and honest. Things worth protecting."

Charles traced a list in the air with his finger, his last stroke touching the back of Erik’s hand that was covering his eyes. Through his fingertips, Charles felt the array of scars marking Erik’s hand.

"And you think you can expect that from the rest of the world?"

If Erik’s voice hadn't been so cold, Charles might have caressed those scars on the back of his hand.

"Why, Charles?"

This second surge of anger was deeper, and this time, he had no intention of hiding it. It was cold enough for even a telepath's dulled senses to notice, and Charles snapped his eyes open as if doused with freezing water just before drifting off. Erik leaned both arms on the bar, looming over Charles provocatively.

"There's a limit to being optimistic. You walk around with your eyes open, yet you're blinder than most. Can't you see it? They see your expensive clothes and beg, and if that's not enough, they'll wring your neck—until eventually, they demand you hand over the thing most precious to you. Do you truly believe they are worth protecting?"

The man's tone, once again, directly ignited Charles’s fighting spirit.

"Of course they are worth protecting." 

Charles struggled to pull himself up. Wiping a stray drop of liquor with the back of his hand, he rose like a boxer getting back up after taking a heavy blow.

"I call that humanity."

A crimson flush lingered on Charles’s cheeks. It wasn’t the alcohol; it was a flare of adrenaline.

Erik let out a sharp laugh. It was a sound entirely different from the cool, composed smiles he had shown until now.

"Tell me, Charles. If we are such noble beings, why hasn't the war ended? It hasn't even been ten years since World War II. Why are they still building nukes and missiles?"

"At the same time, we have the Geneva Convention and the UN Declaration of Peace," Charles countered. "Humanity is striving to be better. Look at the Suez Crisis. A massive empire like Britain laid down its arms not because of bayonets, but because of diplomatic pressure. It's proof that we are learning from our mistakes."

"It was utterly futile." A flood of refutations and proven historical facts surged within Erik. "Do you think such sugary talk of conventions exists in Vietnam or Algeria? The Third World is a proxy battlefield for the Great Powers, and the world looks away while knowing exactly what’s happening. Perhaps you, too, are looking away, Professor."

Erik stared at the flushed cheeks, the rapid pulse at the neck, and the pride burning hot behind those clever eyes. To Erik, that crimson glow was a badge of naivety—a luxury young Charles Xavier could afford, the kind of luxury Erik had been denied for decades.

Erik leaned back, intentionally creating distance between them. 

"Let’s stop. Some stories aren't suited for a bright young man sitting in a pub."

"And if I wish to continue?"

"Then I’ll have to tell you that your hands are clean only because you’ve done nothing."

"True rebellion isn't burning the world to the ground," Charles said firmly. "It’s protecting the things that make us human."

"Fine, Professor. Go ahead—keep rolling your stone up the mountain forever."

Erik’s dismissive gesture was lazier than someone swatting a fly. Charles felt a pang of humiliation, as if he were that very fly.

"It seems we have different perspectives on the same philosophy, my friend. If you stop at the fact that life is suffering, then you haven't truly understood Camus."

Erik was in no mood to hear more of Charles's philosophical lectures. He spoke with the most forced gentleness he could muster.

"I wonder if you’d say the same if someone slit your family’s throats in the middle of the night."

Charles stood up abruptly. "What you're saying is no longer a debate. I see no value in responding to that."

"Sit down, Professor," Erik commanded, his eyes fixed on the liquid trembling in his glass. "I was never debating you. That is war. Watching your home destroyed, your neighbors die, and a bullet put through your family’s head—that is war."

"You think I'm naive, don't you?"

Of course he did. Erik gave another dry snort. "A naive child, a hopeless idealist, an ignorant optimist. Take your pick."

Charles gripped his glass tightly. This man seemed designed to draw out the latent violence within him.

"That’s quite a lot to hear from a man who won’t even give me his name," Charles murmured, bringing a hand to his temple. "Shall I show you what this 'ignorant' man can do?"

But before Charles could even raise his hand, Erik snatched his wrist.

To Erik, hope was lighter than a single lead bullet. 

Yet Charles acted as if he commanded an entire arsenal.

At first, Erik thought it was the arrogance of an omnipotent being; later, he decided it was a naivety bordering on stupidity. He had seen the missiles flying toward him on a Cuban beach. He had watched his children being dragged into the Vietnam War. Even after experiencing the Mutant Registration Act and the birth of the Sentinels firsthand, Charles hadn't changed.

It made Erik livid. 

He couldn't hide the urge to crush, break, and destroy Charles's resolve. Gripping Charles’s wrist tight, he locked eyes with him.

"Listen well, Charles. You don't need to 'show' me who you are. You are defined by your actions. Not by the chemical reactions in that small brain of yours, nor by the words you spout incessantly. Only what you do proves who you are."

The Charles Erik knew had proven himself to the very end. The memory of that fact still left Erik feeling stunned.

"And right now, in my eyes, you just look like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum because he can't have what he wants."

Erik let go abruptly, causing Charles to stumble back.

Erik waited for Charles to set down his glass and leave like a wounded puppy. He was even prepared to hear a few curses or take a weak punch.

But Charles was someone who always defied Erik’s expectations.

"Well now," Charles let out a breathy laugh. "That was quite a blow."

The young genius of Oxford smiled brightly, conceding defeat in an argument for the first time in his life. His face held a light more genuine than any expression before it; he even looked relieved.

The moment Erik saw that smile, he felt as if his face had been slammed into the dirt. Even the taste of dust in his nose wouldn't have felt this foul.

Erik closed his eyes for a moment.

This Charles didn't know the cost yet. He seduced as naturally as breathing and smiled as if no effort were required. Erik felt a simultaneous urge to shake him awake and to preserve him exactly as he was.

But he said nothing. Instead, he lifted his glass and drained the rest of the liquor in one gulp.

The hand Erik used to set the glass down trembled slightly.

"...I should go," he muttered. "It's late."

Charles watched him for a moment, then nodded and stood up with him. "Will you walk me home?"

Erik knew it was a terrible idea. Nevertheless, he decided to do it.

-

Charles has no idea where he is leading Erik. This is more than just Erik’s plan. Erik will wait until Charles Xavier trusts him with that same naive, foolish devotion—as if he were in love—and then, without giving him a moment to react, he will end Raven's life.

The two walked in silence. The night air was cold and crisp. Erik had long been accustomed to walking without making a sound, so only the rhythmic clicking of Charles’s heels echoed through the empty street. With every streetlamp they passed, their shadows wavered, while a torrent of thoughts threatened to burst inside Erik’s mind.

Charles, Raven, the coin, Sentinels, Lorens, the plan, the voice, Charles, the children of Xavier, Cuba, Shaw.

The very person distracting him most kept stealing glances at Erik, blissfully unaware of the turmoil beside him. Erik tried to ignore it, but it was too obvious. Perhaps Charles had remained silent for as long as he could endure. Finally, unable to resist the urge to break the heavy stillness, he spoke. 

"I’ve been wanting to ask you something."

Erik didn’t slow his pace. "Do you have questions left?"

"Oh, but this one is truly important." Charles tucked his hands into his pockets, matching Erik's stride. "Why did you really watch me for twenty minutes?"

Erik kept his gaze fixed ahead. He could not afford to fail. "I believe I’ve already explained that."

Charles let out a soft, effortless laugh. "Not that. The real reason."

Erik finally spat out a half-truth. "You were standing on top of a table. It was hard to look away."

Charles hummed a skeptical tune. "Liar."

He was right. It was a lie. 

Erik watched because Charles was there.

Charles studied Erik from the corner of his eye, gauging the tension in his shoulders and the rigid line of his spine. "You know," he continued leisurely, as if discussing the weather, "you still haven't told me your name."

Erik nearly let out a hollow laugh. "You still haven't given up?"

Charles shrugged shamelessly. "I'm curious." Under the glow of the streetlamps, he watched Erik’s profile, noting how the shadows clung to the planes of his face. "And frankly, I’m getting tired of calling you 'the ghost' in my head."

Erik let out a sharp exhale—half-laugh, half-exasperated sigh.

"I’m serious. Since the moment I saw you, you’ve been all I can think about. It feels a bit odd for the protagonist of my thoughts to be a mere pronoun or 'the ghost.' For instance, thoughts like: 'Does this ghost realize I'm walking slowly on purpose?' or 'How much longer must I drag this out to earn a single kiss?'"

Erik came to a dead halt in the middle of the sidewalk.

Charles collided right into him, stumbling before catching his balance with a startled laugh. "Whoa, that was a bit dramatic—"

"You truly do not know how to stop talking."

"As you’ve already pointed out, I’ll likely keep chattering until the moment I die."

Erik knew. Charles was the most stubborn person he had ever met. Beneath that soft exterior lay a resolve more unyielding than rubber, a man who refused to compromise once his mind was set.

Erik stood still, looking down at the living, breathing, incessantly talking Charles.

Charles, Raven, the coin, Charles, Sentinels, Lorens, the plan, the voice, Charles, the children of Xavier, Cuba, Shaw, Charles.

Erik felt as though his brain might explode. This persistent child would surely haunt him until he got what he wanted.

"Erik." He exhaled the word like a man surfacing for air after a long dive.

"Just Erik?"

The brash young genius was never satisfied. Erik offered no reply and began striding forward again. Charles caught up with long steps, scattering smiles like starlight with every pace. "Erik," he repeated the syllables as if savoring a fine wine, his tongue brushing over every vowel and consonant. Then, with devastating casualness, he added, "Tell me, Erik—are you as good at kissing as you are at brooding?"

Erik groaned—a primal, animalistic sound rumbled deep in his throat—and quickened his pace, walking right past Charles.

Charles’s laughter chased him down the street."I'll take that as a yes!"

Erik hurried even more. He could not fail. With every step, he cursed himself. More accurately, he cursed Charles.

Damn Charles, damn that laugh, damn those questions, damn that voice.

- Erik.

Erik wanted Charles to call that name again. He wouldn't care if Charles shattered his helmet and tore through his mind. He would trade his very soul to hear that voice again.

- Erik.

Erik no longer dreamed of Shaw. All his nightmares had been replaced by Charles. He always woke up drenched in sweat, that voice ringing in his ears.

"Erik!"

Charles caught up to him in seconds. "Wait a moment!" he panted, a mix of exertion and laughter in his breath, as he caught Erik’s elbow. "Just wait, hold on—"

"Do you," Erik muttered in a dangerously low voice, "have no sense of fear?"

Charles didn't flinch. His fingers gripped Erik’s sleeve defiantly.

"You're the one who's running away right now."

Erik’s jaw tightened. Charles leaned in a little closer. Erik could feel the warmth of his breath.

"Are you afraid of me?"

The sound of Erik’s pulse hammered in his ears like a roar.

- Erik.

Yes. More than war. More than death. More than anything.

His power—an extension of his body more instinctual than reason—resonated before his mind could catch up. The professor's meddlesome belt buckle was jerked forward, and as Charles stumbled, Erik caught him by the waist and kissed him.

-

Erik Lehnsherr breaks. 

It is a familiar sensation. Charles was the only one who could dismantle everything Erik had built over a lifetime as easily as turning over a palm. He disassembled, melted, and reassembled Erik with effortless precision.

He scatters Erik’s sacrifice, his resolve, his rage, and his will to the winds, scraping out the viscous, lingering emotions from the very bottom of his soul.

Over and over, Erik finds himself back on that day, in that spot.

When Charles’s voice began to echo in his mind, Erik wanted to beg him to stop. No, he did beg, pleading for him to cease. He might have even uttered the words aloud. He wanted to claw back that stupid helmet just to block out the sound of his voice. If he could have, he truly would have. This was nothing short of Charles’s revenge. Like a coin piercing through a skull, Erik could only wait for the end, unable to offer even a shred of resistance.

Charles Xavier died before Cerebro. Alone, waiting for the Sentinels that descended upon him like executioners. Surrounded by machines that his powers couldn't even touch.

Erik should have been there.

When Charles lost his legs, Erik hadn't dared to pity him. He had inevitably weighed their pains against each other, believing that he himself would have fought until his very limbs were torn asunder.

But in this moment, Erik recants every thought, every value. A lifetime’s worth of "what ifs" and regrets flood into him.

If only I had destroyed that machine sooner. No—if only I hadn't built Cerebro at all. If only his legs had been free. If only I had stayed by his side. If only I could turn back those countless hours. At the very least, if only we hadn't spent that stupid, bickering time the way we did.

Erik wanted to be in that place.

"Damn it, Charles," "I—" "I just—" The kiss was less of a romance and more like the desperate CPR of a dying man. With every breath, Erik exhaled the stale, long-rotted regrets in a cracked voice.

I missed you. I want you to be alive. I can't bear this. I can't do this anymore. I missed you. I missed you so much.

-

Charles finally pulled away from Erik, only after his own face had become a damp, weeping mess. He cupped Erik’s cheeks in his hands, brushing away the wetness with his thumbs. Erik remained silent.

Charles let out a realization that sounded like a sigh. "You were right. Only actions prove who you are."

He then pulled the man, who couldn’t stop his tears amidst a whirlwind of complex emotions, into an embrace.

"I want to comfort you right now, but at the same time, I haven't the slightest idea what to say. I always thought I was good with words, yet in the most critical moment, I can't think of a single thing." Charles groaned, rubbing his cheek against Erik’s shoulder. "You make me feel like a fool in love. As if... I were ordinary."

As if he were ordinary.

Erik knows that longing, that loneliness. He knows Charles Xavier.What Erik lost that day was not 'Professor X.'

And that is why Erik hates the children of Xavier. He hates the people who made him a god-like figure until the very end. He hates the world that forced him to remain as 'Professor X.'

Erik has seen the end of this world.

‘The foolish world has already sacrificed the best thing it ever had; what more could it possibly take from him?’

That thought shook Erik’s rigid internal scales. Startled by his own revelation, he pushed Charles away with both arms.

"No."

Erik took another step back. The cold, sharp night air rushed into the empty space between them.

He let out a sharp, ragged breath. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as if to suppress the urge to reach out again.

"I should go," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together.

Charles blinked, looking dazed. His lips parted as if to protest or argue, but Erik cut him off with a shake of his head.

"Go."

This time, even Charles didn't persist. He nodded, adjusting his coat with his fingers. But before turning to leave, he spoke to Erik.

"Tomorrow," he said, his cheeks still flushed with heat but his gaze unwavering. "At the same bar. Eight o'clock."

Erik said nothing. Charles looked at him with that expression Erik knew all too well—the look of someone who understood everything—and smiled.

Erik watched him until he disappeared around the corner.

And just before turning that corner, the world’s most powerful telepath smiled and waved his hand.

"Goodbye, old friend!"

What?

At that moment, the world went black.

-

"So, I beg you, please, please, please—Keep your hope alive."

In his final moment, after uttering words that were no different from a last will and testament, Charles Xavier made a selfish choice: he sought out one particular mutant.

It was a flash of time, no longer than a single final breath. Charles gathered every ounce of his strength and extended the branches of his mind. There wasn't even time for a proper goodbye. He didn't even dare to crave that much. He simply looked into that presence and whispered a name.

- Erik.

"Charles?"

Erik turned back, knowing full well it was impossible. He turned as if Charles were standing right there, calling out to him.

As Erik faced the empty void, cursed his own momentary flicker of hope, and began to crumble, the Children of Xavier were—cruelly enough—granted a share of Charles’s final emotions.

Relief, pure joy, concern, heartfelt encouragement, and faith.

An overflowing, boundless loveliness.

A lantern that would never be extinguished, even in a torrential downpour.

The utterly trivial prayer of a cosmic being.

It was so deeply, profoundly personal that it ironically rekindled the dying embers within every individual soul...

-

'Erik.'

The voice echoed inside his head. Erik did not believe in God, but he thought that if the Divine had a voice, it would sound exactly like this. As the warmth filling his mind caused him to falter, a wind that had begun from a vast distance took on human form and lunged directly toward him. Into the ice-cold sea, without a shred of fear. And after stubbornly hauling out a man who had already resolved to die, the first thing he said was:

"I spent ages agonizing between 'Jaeger' and 'Schmidt.' But 'Lehnsherr'? How was I supposed to guess that?"

And so, the thirty-two-year-old Erik Lehnsherr thought this man was insane.

Reading even that very thought, the thirty-year-old Charles Xavier let out a burst of laughter like fireworks in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

-

Erik realized, for the first time in a very long while, that he had fallen asleep without dreaming. He knew it the moment his senses stirred. The chronic headache was gone, his vision was blurred, and it took him a few seconds to regain a sense of reality, as if his edges had been dulled.

Thus, it was with a delayed beat that Erik noticed Charles, who was sitting askew on the bed, glaring at him.

"Hello." Charles greeted him.

"...Hello?" Erik replied, simply because Charles had greeted him.

But the thought echoing in his mind was that he must be dead. He felt a flicker of embarrassment that heaven felt so predictably cliché.

"You were sleeping."

"Yes, I fell asleep."

His head felt light, the bedding behind him was soft, and his body felt weightless. Erik felt good, and he didn't feel like lying.

"You must have slept quite soundly, darling."

Charles, however, seemed to have a different opinion. Erik sensed that Charles disliked his answer. Not knowing why, and wanting to avoid provoking him further with another wrong response, Erik chose to keep his mouth shut. Reading this as a defensive move, Charles grabbed a pillow and hurled it at Erik’s face.

"I truly cannot believe you. You made me wait for two hours, and you were sleeping?"

The pillow didn't hurt at all, but the sensation was far too real. Perhaps his nose had turned red. Stroking the bridge of his nose, Erik asked, "Did you wait long?"

"The first thirty minutes by myself, and the next hour and a half spent cursing your name with Raven. After that, I spent three hours eating a multi-course meal while tearing you to shreds again. I think the Bordelaise sauce on the main course was exquisite, but I couldn't taste a thing. I was still fuming by the time the Paris-Brest came out."

There were too many words in Charles's speech that Erik didn't recognize. He wondered if Charles had started speaking French, or if he himself had lost the ability to understand English. Since he was 'Francis' Xavier, it made sense for him to have French blood.

"Just so you know, there are no leftovers. I know you're obsessed with the soufflés there, but Raven polished them off while I was finishing my coffee. Well, at least I managed to score plenty of points with her for once."

"I like soufflés?"

Another unknown word appeared. The only sweet dessert Erik knew was the oil-fried donuts eaten during Hanukkah.

"Oh, come on. I know you were always salivating while looking at my plate."

As if Erik were questioning the obvious, Charles snorted and rubbed the vivid pillow marks near Erik’s eyes with his thumb. The touch was irritable, rough, familiar, and steeped in affection.

Erik wasn't so foolish that he couldn't read the years embedded in that touch. 

His throat tightened for a moment, and he put all his effort into steadying his voice.

"You've had plenty of dates with Raven. Now, have one with me." 

Despite his efforts, his voice was low and cracked. Fortunately, Charles seemed to think it was just raspy from sleep and focused on vigorously rubbing the marks off Erik’s cheek.

"I’m sorry if you’ve forgotten, but do you realize that what we were supposed to do today was a date?"

As Charles’s rubbing began to feel a bit stingy, Erik caught his wrist and sat up.

"I’ll pay, as an apology. Are you free today? At the same bar, at eight."

"Erik Lehnsherr, if you think I'm going to let this slide so easily—" Charles picked up the pillow once more, then paused mid-air, narrowing his eyes. "Where did you say?"

The brilliant telepath nimbly combed through his own memories, then turned his gaze toward Erik’s mind, which was thrown wide open like an invitation.

While Charles invaded Erik’s head, Erik breathed in Charles’s vitality. He deeply engraved the sight of the torso rising and falling with every breath, the furrowed brow of concentration, and the blue eyes blinking steadily before turning moist, as he murmured, "My god, Erik."

"You weren't just two hours late."

Charles sniffled, looking at Erik as if he were an incomparable nuisance.

"—"Exactly, how late am I?"

Erik found it somewhat funny that he truly didn't know. But as Charles wore a helpless smile despite the tears clinging to his eyes, nothing else seemed to matter much anymore.