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“By the time I realized I was in love, it was malignant. It was hopeless. There was no escaping, no negotiating with the feeling. No choice. It was my first love, it changed my life.” - Frank Ocean’s open letter.
“There’s a call for you,” Emma said, standing in the doorway of the studio and holding out his cellphone to him.
This was unusual enough that Erik actually looked up from his work, removing his goggles and setting down the hunk of copper that he had been moulding into shape. For one thing, Emma always delighted in every possible opportunity to barge into Erik’s mind and startle him, be it some banal reminder to pick up his grocery order, confirm a quote for the media or to announce the arrival of a visitor. She would never come to tell him - in person - that he had a phone call, not for love or money.
The uncharacteristically serious expression on her face was starting to set him on edge. “Who is it?” he asked, getting to his feet and walking over to where she stood. However, she simply shoved his phone at him, folding her arms across her chest and looking at him expectantly.
Erik frowned down at the lit screen. The call was already in progress, showing that a minute had passed. He didn’t recognise the number, which started with the ‘415’ area code. Not from anywhere nearby in Berkeley or Oakland, then.
You really should answer it, Emma thought at him. It was tinged with concern and the slightest touch of curiosity that he wasn’t sure she had meant to project.
Erik put the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Hi Erik, it’s me.”
Erik took in a sharp breath. Even five years later, that voice saying his name could still sucker-punch him in the gut.
Turning away from an increasingly curious Emma, Erik crossed the studio floor in slow, purposeless strides, past his latest work-in-progress. His throat was as dry as sandpaper. “Charles?”
“Hello, old friend.” The gladness in Charles’ voice was palpable even over the phone. “I was-- I do hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not really.” Erik was still in utter disbelief; why the hell was Charles calling him? “Are you-- it says you’re calling from San Fran?”
“I am.” There was a pause. “A colleague of mine is getting married in Napa this weekend. I thought I’d spend a few days here first before I drive up there.”
“I see.” Erik didn’t know what the implication of that was. Did Charles fly into town just to see him? Or was it because SFO was the nearest major airport?
“I really would like to meet up for dinner,” Charles said, sounding warm and friendly as though he hadn’t caused Erik five years of pain. “Or coffee, maybe, if your schedule doesn’t allow for dinner.” At least there was some tentativeness creeping into his tone now, and Erik was vindictively glad for it.
“Dinner would be good.” No point being petty, Erik thought. Besides, Charles had always harped on at him about being the better man. “Where are you staying?”
There was a slight whoosh of breath on Charles’ end, as though he’d sighed in relief. “At the Four Seasons,” Charles said, cheerier now that he was more sure of his welcome. “I’m sure we could find something around here.”
“Lots of places around there.” Erik hated how awkward he sounded, but it was difficult to speak around the lump in his throat. How the hell could Charles Xavier still affect him like this even after five years? “How’s tomorrow evening?”
“Marvellous. I’ll meet you at the hotel lobby at eight?”
“See you then.” Erik pressed the red ‘End Call’ button, staring at the now silent phone in an incredulous daze.
Emma was still hovering in the doorway. “That’s him, isn’t it?” Her gaze was steady and sure, her question only perfunctory. “The guy from New York.”
It was a testament to how shaken Erik was that he forgot to be angry with Emma for her blatant eavesdropping. “He’s in town,” he said at last. “Wants to meet up.”
“And you’re going to go, just like that?” The scorn in Emma’s tone wasn’t directed at Erik, he knew. She had first heard the whole sordid story about Charles when Erik had gotten embarrassingly drunk and maudlin after his first exhibition, selling almost all his sculptures. Shaw had paid for an open bar, so after all the guests and buyers had left, Erik had stayed behind with Emma and Janos to polish off the leftover bottles of wine.
Somewhere after the fourth bottle, Janos had asked ‘So who’s the one who broke your heart and inspired all those angry sculptures?’ Erik had been helpless to hold the words back, spilling every damn thing to his wide-eyed assistant and agent. Erik could barely remember what he’d said exactly, but it must have been bad; neither of them had ever brought it up again.
Still, it didn’t mean it had all been forgotten. Emma must have remembered enough, judging from the long, scrutinizing look she was giving Erik now. For some reason this was far more uncomfortable for Erik than having her root through his mind like a deck of cards.
“Well sugar, it’s your funeral,” she said at last, sounding oddly resigned. She eyed the misshapen metal lump on the studio mat before turning to leave, the click-clack of her heels echoing in the corridor.
***
There was nothing productive to be done for the rest of the day, because Erik’s heart just wasn’t in his work and the sculpture was turning out to be a mess. He always christened his works in progress; sometimes the names changed when the sculpture was complete and sometimes they didn’t. This one - the sculpture he’d been working on when Charles called - had been named ‘Self Control’. Sculpting required control - lots of it - just like Erik’s power, and this sculpture was supposed to represent how far he had come in manipulating metal to do his bidding. Charles had helped him with that.
Erik gave up and left the studio, ignoring the bite of the wind on his cheeks as he ran to catch the last Richmond-bound BART to Berkeley. Taking the trains home normally soothed Erik; being surrounded all in metal often left him in a womb-like trance. But tonight? Erik kept shifting in his seat, worrying at his lip and trying not to think about the dinner date looming over him.
Charles fucking Xavier. Talk about ghosts from the past, Erik thought.
How many people still thought about their first love on a daily basis? Erik was probably part of an embarrassingly small percentage. Granted, he’d learnt to channel it all into his sculptures when he first came out here, taken under Shaw’s wing. In return for his tutelage and influence, Shaw had wanted so much more in return, but he had been too late. Erik had already been hollowed out and left empty in the wake of one Charles Xavier.
It had been such a cliche too, falling for his best friend in high school. Against every instinct in his body, Erik had driven to Charles’ house and they’d sat outside in the driveway, Charles wide-eyed and wondering and eternally patient. There, Erik had told Charles what he couldn’t pretend to hide anymore, eyes fixed on the steering wheel while fear ate his insides. He had said the words aloud, then immediately wished he could have taken them back for safekeeping.
Charles’ eyes had been so, so soft. “Erik, I’m sorry. I don’t--”
“Get out,” Erik had said. The car had been rattling, he remembered that. “Please, Charles.”
Charles had gotten out, his figure in the rear view mirror rapidly shrinking as Erik had zoomed down the driveway in a blind daze, shrinking until Charles had disappeared entirely.
***
After getting the acceptance letter from UC Berkeley, Erik had left for their BFA programme, determined to never look back. He would have been able to keep his promise, except for a phone call from Raven six months later where she had been crying so hard that he hadn’t been able to hear what she was saying.
Once he had discerned the words ‘Charles’ and ‘accident’, he had dropped everything and jumped on the red-eye to JFK.
The rest of their friends - Raven, Hank, Armando, Alex, Sean, even a teary Moira - were already at Mount Sinai, hushed and sombre and completely unsurprised to see a wild-eyed Erik still in his sculpting overalls. Charles had been in a medically-induced coma, but the doctor had told Raven very gravely that Charles would probably not regain the use of his legs. Erik had felt like he was the one cleaved in half, not Charles.
He’d stayed by Charles’ bedside for four days, sleeping in a cramped chair and snarling at the nurses who’d been foolhardy enough to remind him about visiting hours. He had talked to Charles. Played all his favourite songs. Played all of Erik’s favourite songs. Cried into his hand when they had been alone in the quiet, chilly ward.
Charles had been due to wake up on the fifth day of the coma. “Why don’t you want to stay? He’ll want to see you,” Raven had begged, but by then Erik had been no longer besieged by grief, finally coming to his senses. He could still hear Charles in his head even without telepathy, saying he was sorry, asking Erik not to leave.
The flight back to San Francisco had been ten times harder. Erik had stared out into the window at the blackness, just wanting it all to swallow him whole.
***
After a sleepless night of tossing and turning, Erik still wasn’t sure if he was ready to meet Charles and dredge up the past again. Several times he almost called Charles to cancel, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. There were a slew of excuses at the ready: his show was next week, he had press interviews lined up the wazoo, he had correspondence to catch up with. Admittedly the last one wouldn’t fly, but Charles would respect Erik’s need to bail and wouldn’t press.
At least, the Charles he knew five years ago wouldn’t.
Erik talked himself into putting on his nicest jeans and, after some hesitation, his favourite turtleneck. A snipey comment from Emma - “You’re wearing that to the Four Seasons?” - made him throw on a sport coat before he left the studio for the day. Anything more formal would look like he was trying too hard to impress Charles.
When Erik arrived at the lobby of the Four Seasons, it was milling with people. He brushed past guests heading out to dinner, laughing as they wound scarves around their necks to battle the evening chill (thanks to the sudden fog that had rolled into the Bay). There was also a couple checking in at reception, the man patting his pockets apologetically for his passport. Sensing that their luggage contained a lot more metal than usual, Erik was quite amused to discover it was all bondage equipment: chains, cuffs, nipple clamps.
It helped to calm the apprehension churning in his chest at the thought of seeing Charles again.
In one of the descending elevators, Erik froze when he could make out the frame of a wheelchair. It could be anybody, he told himself, except that it was now 8pm and he could also sense the tickings of a very familiar Philippe Patek.
The doors slid open, and Charles rolled out of the elevator, thanking a fellow guest who was holding the door for him.
Erik felt like the breath had been knocked out of his lungs. The years had been kind to Charles; although he still kept his hair long, it was now neatly trimmed in soft brown waves, brushed back and tucked behind his ears. The lilac v-neck he was wearing did a poor job of hiding his fantastic biceps, or the smooth dip of his collarbone.
Worst of all, Erik couldn’t miss that even from this distance, Charles’ eyes were still that particularly arresting shade of blue that had haunted Erik for so long.
Erik cursed himself. How could he have ever imagined that five years would have prepared him to deal with this?
“Erik!” The delight in Charles’ voice was infectious and so forceful that it made a few heads turn. He was grinning from ear to ear as he wheeled himself over, his gaze slowly taking in Erik from head to toe. “My word, you look fantastic.”
Erik didn’t know how to react, not when he felt flayed open like this under Charles’ scrutiny. “Thanks,” he said, before deciding to go for honesty, “you look great too.”
Charles’ smile softened, as though he’d heard the truth ringing through Erik’s words.
There was a moment of hesitation where Erik wasn’t sure whether to go in for a hug or a handshake, but Charles solved the problem for him by reaching upwards with outstretched arms, so Erik leant down and accepted the hug. Fuck, those arms were as strong as promised, all that corded muscle under the cover of lilac.
Charles released him with a pat on the back. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to eat elsewhere, but I thought we could eat here, if you didn’t mind?” He smiled apologetically. “I had a bad night-- back spasms and all that, so it’s been a pain. The hotel restaurant would be convenient for me.”
“Of course.” Erik stifled the concern rising in his chest. Charles would never appreciate pity or sympathy in any form.
The hotel restaurant was starting to fill up with dinner guests, as well as groups clad in business suits, their deals concluded for the day and ties loosened for happy hour. The hostess led Erik and Charles to an accessible table, and Charles refused a well-meaning waiter’s offer to help push his chair in.
“The steaks are good here,” Erik said as their server handed them the menus, which were designed like pre-war newspapers.
Charles only gave his a cursory glance before handing it back to the waiter. “Then that’s what I shall have.” Erik ordered his medium rare, Charles wanted his black and blue. Then, to Erik’s surprise, Charles asked the server to bring them a bottle of Glenlivet 18, along with two tumblers and a pitcher of filtered water with a straw.
It must show on Erik’s face, for Charles was smirking slightly at him now. “Surely a drink with an old friend is acceptable.”
“It’s not that,” Erik admitted. “It’s just-- I haven’t had a real sip in five years.”
They fell silent after that, and Erik could see Charles was doing the math in his head. The last time they’d gotten drunk together on whiskey was when they had broken into Kurt’s stash during a chess game; this had been about a month before Erik had left.
The whiskey came, and Erik let Charles pour him some before using the straw to shake in a few drops of water. “It opens up the flavours,” Charles explained. Erik just nodded and drank; it was quite a bit to take in this new sophisticated Charles, one who knew all about how to appreciate the notes of whiskey now, a world removed from that stupid kid - both of them, really - mixing his stepfather’s priceless scotch with soda water and ice and even Pepsi, once.
While waiting for the food, Charles got Erik caught up on how their friends from Kennedy High were doing. Raven was at Stanford and living with a woman named Irene, while Hank was already on his second doctorate at Harvard. Alex had been honorably discharged after his tour in Iraq, and he’d married Darwin the day after same-sex marriages were legalized in all 50 states. Erik didn’t mention the invitation from Darwin, still pinned on his fridge even after more than a year had passed.
Sean was now a successful DJ and recording engineer, and surprisingly he’d been the alumnus who had taken on the reins at the Mutant And Proud Society and helped Charles to mentor the new generation of young mutants. Erik sat back and listened as Charles listed a string of names, his eyes lit up with pride: Jean, Jubilee, Ororo, Scott (also a Summers)....Erik listened about their gifts and abilities, their personalities, their failings and their triumphs.
And Charles, well. He’d definitely flourished, even when he was keeping everything he told Erik about himself relatively modest. Teaching and mentoring clearly agreed with him, made him come alive in a way Erik had only ever seen when they were alone with a chessboard, talking about how they were going to change the world and reshape it in their ideals. For a moment Erik almost felt as if he were 19 again, simultaneously wanting to covet and argue with every word Charles spouted. How young they were, then. How silly and besotted Erik had been, throwing his feelings wholesale at someone who’d barely cared if they existed. Now he felt both ashamed and validated; Charles may not have reciprocated his feelings, but the man Charles had become now - strong, fiercely independent, endlessly generous - was a man worth loving, even at 25, 35, 75.
The food had come and gone, and now only the whiskey was left, the bottle at the halfway mark. It must have been the culprit for loosening Erik’s tongue, for he was telling Charles all about his work, his studio, his clients, even about Emma, Janos and Azazel. After a beat he told Charles about Shaw too, and the complete disaster that had followed.
“So there’s been no one serious?” Charles asked, swirling the last of his whiskey thoughtfully. Erik wondered if he was really asking: no one serious after me?
“No one.” There had been various dates, of course, and that six-month thing with Magda, but Erik hadn’t really been able to exorcise his demons. Maybe all his romantic prospects had sensed them too and decided Erik was beyond saving. “What about you?” Erik asked, willing away the lump in his throat as he imagined Charles being happy with someone else.
Charles’ smile was small and private then, almost confessional. “No one for me too, I’m afraid.”
***
Erik insisted on paying the bill, but Charles had deviously convinced their poor server otherwise when Erik had gone to the restroom, so he returned to Charles signing the credit card slip with an evil flourish. They’d argued a bit more, their tones fond enough that the server was smiling, then Erik demanded that they should meet again for brunch before Charles left town so that they’d be even.
They were still arguing when they left the restaurant, right up till Charles nodded towards the centre of the lobby and said, “That’s yours, isn’t it?”
The sculpture had been one of Erik’s first few works, back when he had been overflowing with all that anger and hurt and pain he’d brought with him from New York. It was a massive ten-foot hunk of iron and bronze, a wrathful phoenix rising from the ashes. The hotel had outbid three other buyers for it, claiming it was a perfect representation for their long overdue revamp. “Ladies and gentlemen, an embodiment of a renewed San Francisco,” the CEO had said to much applause at the unveiling ceremony, and Erik hadn’t mentioned that the sculpture had its roots somewhere across the country instead.
Charles was now wheeling his chair towards it, so Erik followed. The metal was slightly tarnished from three years of exposure, but otherwise the maintenance crew had followed Erik’s instructions and done a good job. Charles made an admiring noise as he stared up at it, and in turn Erik stared at him, thinking how unfair it was that his eyes were still so extraordinarily blue in this ridiculously dim lighting.
“It’s beautiful,” Charles said, and Erik knew it wasn’t just lip service. “The theme of rebirth, and if I’m not wrong…” here, Charles looked sly, “a touch of vengeance?”
Erik’s lips quirked in an effort not to smile. “Should I be worried that you still know me so well?” he said, keeping his tone droll.
“You shouldn’t be,” Charles said, and Erik inwardly sighed. Erik had only meant it as a quip; Charles could be so damn overly earnest sometimes.
Charles made a full circle around the statue, smiling at two tourists who wanted to take selfies with it and completely unaware the artist was standing right next to them. Erik said nothing, keeping his hands in his pockets as he wondered whether to lose the sport coat. It was getting a little too warm, and Erik didn’t know whether it was the whiskey or other reasons he didn’t want to examine.
Charles’ chair came to a stop before the plaque bearing the statue’s name. “‘Lazarus’”, he read aloud. He wasn’t looking at Erik, keeping his gaze fixed at the plaque as though it contained all the answers to the universe’s questions.
“Rebirth, like you said.” Erik thought about Charles pulling himself out of that car wreck, lying in hospital for weeks on end, learning to adjust to life in a wheelchair. It made his heart heavy with a sorrow that wasn’t his.
There was a piano tinkling in the background, accompanying a jazz singer’s soulful rendition of ‘I Left My Heart in San Francisco’. Charles wheeled past him, brushing Erik’s knuckles. “I have another bottle in my room, a 21-year-old Suntory Hibiki,” he said, sounding strangely determined. He glanced up at Erik, forehead creased with apprehension. Was he expecting to be rejected? Dinner in public at a restaurant was one thing, but being alone with Charles in a hotel room was quite another. 19-year-old Erik would have jumped at the chance, but the Erik of today knew to manage his expectations and regard it as the purely platonic invitation Charles had intended.
“Lead the way,” Erik said, and thought that his younger self would forgive him for it.
***
They were quiet in the elevator. When it stopped on the gym floor, two flushed women got in with them and nodded with smiles. One had her gaze lingering on Charles, taking in his arms and profile just like Erik had, and Erik was horrified at the spike of sick jealousy deep in his gut. How pathetic would it be if Charles discovered that it had been five long years and Erik still hadn’t moved on? True, neither of them had been involved in any serious relationships since their friendship fractured. Then again, they were both only 24 now. No one would look twice at them for being single and wanting to play the field a bit more.
Erik wondered what explanation he would have when he was 34 and still mooning over Charles, making complicated sculptures in his image.
The ‘ding’ of the elevator startled Erik from his brooding. He was surprised to find that Charles had somehow managed to maneuver himself a little closer to Erik, keeping his eyes on the numbers and pointedly not looking at the woman pointedly looking at him. The ladies waved as they got out, and Charles’ shoulders sagged with relief as he pressed the ‘Doors Close’ button. Erik couldn’t help frowning a little. Surely Charles would have been able to telepathically pick up on that woman’s interest? But he was acting as though no one had joined them in the elevator at all. This was so unlike the playful, flirtatious Charles of their youth that it left Erik a little off-balance.
At last they got off at Charles’ floor, which was reserved for the one-bedroom suites. Flashy, but nothing horribly ostentatious like the Presidential Suite, which frankly wasn’t out of Charles’ price range at all. Erik wouldn’t have faulted Charles for wanting more space to navigate his way around his living quarters.
Charles came to a stop outside a room that had a wheelchair logo on its sign. He was about to reach into his wallet - presumably for his key card - when Erik waved his hand and the light turned green, the door clicking open. “Very handy,” Charles said, clearly trying not to smile.
“Handy like your trick with the restaurant bill earlier?” Erik said dryly, making Charles burst out laughing.
The room was already messy, although Charles couldn’t have been here longer than 24 hours. Erik couldn’t help being overcome by fondness and nostalgia, like they’d neatly stepped back into 2011; Charles still had his same habits of hanging his shirts over the backs of chairs and leaving his toiletries uncapped. How many times had he nagged Charles for letting them dry out for no good reason and wasting money?
Shaking his head, Erik spotted a stack of books near Charles’ bed and trailed his fingers along their spines. These days Charles was apparently in a philosophical mood: Kant, Descartes, Kierkegaard...but there was also a battered copy of ‘Good Omens’. Erik’s heart plummeted when he recognised it as the copy he’d given to Charles on his eighteenth birthday.
“The best philosophy book of all,” he heard Charles say solemnly. When Erik looked over at him, there was something complicated in his eyes, like he had wanted to laugh but thought better of it.
Apparently Charles had managed to rummage out a chess set from his monogrammed Louis Vutton luggage, so they moved to the living room. By unspoken agreement, Erik cleared the table while Charles laid out the board and its pieces. When Erik returned from washing his hands, Charles had also fished out a sleek black box which had ‘HIBIKI 21’ stamped on its label in elegant gold letters.
“If you thought the Glenlivet earlier was smooth, just wait for this one,” a gleeful Charles said as he slid the bottle out of the box. “Smoother than a virgin’s thighs.”
Erik couldn’t help it. If Charles’ absurd comment hadn’t tickled him to mirth, the accompanying eyebrow waggling would have done the job. It was so him and so familiar that Erik burst out laughing. “I can’t believe you’re still saying this kind of shit.”
“What?” Charles was all wide eyes and pretend innocence, which only meant he was up to no good. “I’m just a harmless old pervert.”
“Hardly old,” Erik muttered, arranging his pieces. “And hardly harmless.”
“So just a pervert, then.” Charles’ smile had lost its wicked streak, softening into something Erik recognised as fond resignation. “Thank you very much for that.”
Erik wrenched his gaze away from the familiar, beloved lines of Charles’ face. He couldn’t fall into that trap again, not when he’d clawed himself free five years ago. If that was the case, then why the hell was he here? He blinked at the Japanese whiskey, the chess set, the calm blue of Charles’ searching eyes.
“What are we doing?” Erik blurted out, the words stuck in his throat like grit. It had been such a nice pleasant evening, but he couldn’t let himself fall into old ways again. How many years was he going to pine this time? “We-- Charles, what are we doing here?”
The Charles he knew five years ago would have had a flippant answer, like “Playing chess, Erik, don’t be ridiculous,” or something equally dismissive. But the Charles before him now had a distant, rueful look in his eyes, the deepened lines around his mouth aging him ten years.
“I told myself I just wanted to meet you for dinner.” Charles’ voice was low and steady, but Erik didn’t miss the way he was playing with his watch, clasping and unclasping it. “Just to meet you, that’s all. See how you’re doing.”
Erik allowed the ensuing silence to unspool into heavy, angry tension. Here he was, thinking they were just having a nice evening when all along Charles had clearly had something up his sleeve. Erik kept his gaze hard, his lips thinned into a straight line.
Charles’ voice was softer now, but Erik could hear him clear as a bell. Maybe it was their mental connection. “The way we left things-- God, Erik, you left just like that, you didn’t give me a chance to think, to explain--”
“What was there to explain?” The harshness of Erik’s tone surprised even himself. “I had to leave, you knew I had to.”
Charles’ knuckles were white as he gripped the armrests of his chair. “Our friendship meant that little to you?”
The metal in the room hummed in a low, creaking groan as Erik shot to his feet. “Then maybe you should have fought harder for me!”
“I did!” Charles’ lip was trembling now, sweeping his hair back so haphazardly that it fell into disarray. “I looked bloody everywhere for six months, no one knew where you’d gone. I’m not proud of it, but I read Raven’s mind-- and everyone else’s, Erik. Unfortunately they weren’t lying. They didn’t know where you’d vanished to. Your mum refused to see me. And then--” Charles let out a bitter half-laugh, half-sob, tapping his knuckles against his wheelchair. “This impeded my search a bit, of course.”
Anger was still racing through Erik’s veins like fire, refusing to be doused or placated. “Why were you looking for me?” The words were jammed in his throat, but Erik forced them out. “You knew I couldn’t stay, not when….”
There was a glimmer of something strange in Charles’ eyes; they were far too bright. “Not when what, Erik?”
“Not when--” Erik swallowed. His hands were trembling, so Erik focused on the steel inner frame of the couch, the pewter legs of the coffee table. “Not when -- you didn’t love me back.”
Charles’ throat visibly tightened; he just kept staring at Erik, unblinking even when a tear tracked down his right cheek.
The voice in his head was so shockingly intimate and pure that Erik thought he must have been dreaming: oh Erik, of course I loved you.
Erik went very, very still.
Charles’ mouth was pursed in distress, his cheeks damp and his hair wild. But his gaze was direct and unafraid, confirming that Erik hadn’t dreamed those words. I loved you then, and I love you still.
“You’re a liar,” Erik rasped out, because the alternative didn’t bear thinking about.
“Yes,” Charles admitted. “When we were 19, sitting in your car. You opened your heart to me, and I lied then. I’m not lying now.”
There were hundreds of questions popping up in Erik’s head, all fighting and clamouring for attention. Confusion was making it even harder for him to sift through all of them, or to process what Charles had just told him. Charles…lied? In the end, Erik settled for the loudest, most insistent question in his head. “Why?” he asked, his heart aching.
“Oh, my friend.” Charles’ smile was stained with a profound sadness. “We were so different back then. And still are now, if I’m to be honest.” Another tear rolled out and slid down his cheek, which Charles quickly brushed aside with a thumb. “We would have just caused each other so much pain, at the cost of our friendship.”
“We lost our friendship anyway,” Erik shot back, desperate to fight, desperate to tear down the entire building and everyone in it. “Didn’t you think about me, Charles? My pain?”
“Every day I felt it,” Charles looked away, jaw tight with misery. “And every day I wished I could take it back. Especially when I was in the hospital.” Something in Charles’ voice broke. “I sensed you were there, you know. With me. I could feel you.”
There was no helping it then. Erik’s vision blurred, and he swiped fiercely at his eyes, wanting to wrap himself in the anger and pain he’d carried with him in the past five years. Instead they left him bereft, shaking on the hotel carpet when he saw Charles pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “You knew I was there?” Erik whispered.
Charles finally removed his hands, struggling to compose himself as he nodded. His eyes were reddened, his lips tight with barely held restraint.
Forgive me?
Once again Charles held his arms outstretched like he did in the lobby, but asking for so much more than a hug this time. Benediction. Letting the past five years between them burn away like ash, so they could remake something new in their image. Lazarus being reborn, Erik thought.
“Yes,” Erik said, and he went to Charles.
THE END