Chapter Text
A strip of sunlight on his face is what wakes Charles as the makeshift curtains in his window flutter in the breeze.
Window is probably quite a generous term for what is essentially a hole carved into the side of the metal container Charles currently calls home.
His eyes flutter open as awareness comes back to him along with the sounds of birds, trees and chatter. And then the steady background hum of mutant minds all going about their morning. The minds of mutants have always called more brightly to Charles than any others. And he feels that even more now that they are surrounding him in such concentration.
The island of Genosha is a haven for mutants. A place where they can feel welcome and at home… or so he has been told.
It is clear from the sounds outside that it is later in the morning, with the people of Genosha firmly awake and working. As a working island it is highly frowned upon if one is lazy. Sleeping in during the day when work can be done is selfish when they all work as one towards self-sufficiency.
Yet Charles has no work calling to him. No people expecting his presence. No task fit for him to complete.
He lays for a moment, allowing full wakefulness to come to him along with a new day. Day 26 of his time on Genosha. But Charles has always hated the feeling of being idle, the dulling feeling of nothingness reminding him too much of his darkest days.
He pulls himself up, swinging himself out of bed and into his waiting chair.
The space Charles has been provided on Genosha is no less sparse than the first day Erik had ushered him inside a month ago. The bare metal walls shine with a dull grey with a single window and open doorway to the front. There is just enough space for his chair to move from his bedside to the lavatory to the single table by the window.
He moves himself there now, setting the tea pot on the small hotplate in the corner and coming to sit at the table.
The curtain flutters in the wind and Charles reaches up, pulling the fabric back so he can look out over the fields beyond.
This is where he spends most of his days, staring out at the world passing him by.
The fabric of the curtain tugs in Charles’ hand. He looks up. The rough hole in the fabric of the curtain has caught on a splinter of wood on the makeshift curtain pole. He pulls again, trying and failing to lift the curtain ring up and over the splinter in the rod. It doesn’t budge. Frustration wells up in Charles’ chest but he takes a deep breath and gives anther tug.
With a crash the whole curtain rod and curtain give way, falling with a clatter on top of the haphazard stack of books Charles has started to accumulate. The piles give way, sliding every which way, spilling out over the wide expanse of empty flooring beneath the table.
Charles looks at the mess that surrounds him and then up at the ceiling, taking a long breath, smothering his wish to scream. ‘It is just a curtain’ he mutters to his own mind. ‘A bloody awful curtain. You hate that curtain’. The blank metal ceiling stares back at him and after a moment his jaw unclenches.
He takes a deep breath and the kettle starts to whistle.
The ritual of making tea had always soothed Charles. And on Genosha – with the lack of proper tea bags – Charles is forced to do this the old fashioned way – with a strainer and tea leaves.
He is sat back at the table with his tea and the mess of his life around him when he feels Erik approaching.
It is not uncommon for the man to visit Charles at lunch if he is working close to Charles’ remote cabin. It must be the case today as Erik’s mind is a clean stream of purpose and plans as he enters Charles’ little domain.
“Morning Erik,” Charles mutters, not glancing up from his book as he takes another sip of his tea.
Whatever Erik had been about to say is stalled when he takes in the room; the curtain, the rail, the books. Charles can see all that Erik is about to say, his confusion, his shock, his need to help and beneath it all the guilt.
“Leave it,” Charles says before Erik can do anything, lifting his eyes from his book.
Grey eyes stared back at him.
“But-“
“Erik.”
Silence hovers between them for a moment but Charles sees the moment that Erik gives in before his shoulders even sag with defeat.
“I brought you bread from the canteen,” Erik says, holding up the brown paper bag and throwing it onto the sideboard of Charles’ kitchen.
“Thank you my friend. But you didn’t have to come all the way out here to bring me that.”
“Really? So what had you planned to eat for lunch?”
Erik sends him a piercing look and it was a rhetorical question anyway, so Charles feels no guilt in ignoring it and focusing back on his book.
“And I am not working very far from here. A team and I are fixing the pathways to the centre.”
That has Charles looking up sharply. “Erik, it is hardly the most important thing-“
“You being able to freely move around the island is of upmost importance. Not only for you – I don’t particularly want to fetch and carry your things for all time. I am not your butler.”
“Are you sure? I am sure we had a butler called Erik in my youth. You would look fetching in a livery.”
“Shut up Charles”
Erik rolls his eyes but smiles at the same time. So Charles takes it as a win.
Erik potters at the side board for a moment, and then a plate with a slice of fresh bread and a pear is put in front of Charles. He looks up, seeing Erik sitting down in the solitary chair at the table with his own plate of bread and fruit.
The man takes a large bite of his pear and looks at the window. “Is there a reason you wont let me tidy up this mess?”
“Because you have better things to do with your day than tidy up my mess. And it is good for me to sit in the litter of my own existence.”
Erik sighs, rather dramatically in Charles’ opinion, and takes another bite of his fruit.