Chapter Text
Believe it or not, he’s been forced to use some cans of tuna as makeshift dumbbells. They don’t weigh anything at all; 185 grams of food has hardly ever caused physical struggle in anyone. It’d be nice to believe that it’s not about the weight, that, actually, it’s about the repetitive motion of working his biceps that bring him some relief. He can’t fool himself on this—Charles certainly craves the strain a heavy dumbbell would cause.
The Genoshan night backdrop helps make his mind heavier. The second he lets his thoughts wander, the air begins to grow thicker and more asphyxiating. There is so much to do, and his plans are far more abstract and emotional than properly actionable. On a big scale, he knows what he wants to do, and he knows Erik agrees: they can rebuild life here again. The Genoshan chapter should not end here, and with the habitants in it…
Well, as long as one person needed him, Charles would not abandon them.
Still, the anticipation of knowing what’s to come and waiting to execute his plans is not enough to quell all this restless energy. If he dwells on the tragedy that happened—if he dwells on this, on New York, on Jean, on Xorn, and more—it’s going to be hard to recover from that. There has to be a middle point, a way to carry grief while moving forward. For now: dumbbells.
It’s somewhat pathetic.
“Certainly an innovative technique,” Erik comments from behind, but Charles has felt his presence an hour ago—it’s hard to not feel him in every room of this house. “I figure you did not pack a dumbbell alongside that corpse.”
“I might have prioritized weapons,” Charles laments.
“I could make you one, if you need so,” he says, but he doesn’t wait for Charles to respond. Debris flies easily to his hands, and without moving a finger, he watches as the material takes a familiar form. “How much are you lifting?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to strain myself,” Charles says. “Ten kilograms would be fine.”
Erik’s eyebrows shoot up. “Ten? And you talk of not straining?”
He can feel an involuntary smirk fighting its way to his face.
“What can I say? I do love a burn, and I’m not an amateur.”
The creation flies towards Charles and he catches them neatly. Testing it out, it’s clear that it’s perfectly balanced, and he still has no idea how Erik can perfectly know how much something weighs without even testing. His connection to metal still left so much to be studied, but for now, he’s happy with the dumbbells.
“I must warn you I’m no physiotherapist,” Erik watches his form, eyes following the flex of his bicep and the up-down repetition, “so I would be careful if I were you. I would not be able to rehabilitate you if you injured your arm.”
“I’m a professional, Erik. An injury like that would not happen to me, but the concern is noted—and appreciated.”
Erik raises his hands up in defeat. “Let the record show that I made that one thing clear.”
“Yes, and the record also shows that you provided these. I’m not sure our imaginary judge would still side with you.”
“Judges rarely do. Even fictional ones.”
Charles chuckles quietly, focusing back on his exercise. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Erik lean against the rail. His face falls immediately, and Charles doesn’t know why: is it his presence that did it? Is it the scenery? Is it, perhaps, the long day they had? He doesn’t dare ask yet. He’s had a lot to digest, thanks to Charles: he had been unaware of the New York massacre, and now, that was something that could weigh on his mind. It’s no wonder he’d be volatile, or perhaps, a bit sensitive.
He wouldn’t know how to ask, either. Charles is a hunter with prey, circling and not making a sound, trying not to make Erik run away.
Still, it’s probably not necessary. This defense mechanism is a recently adopted habit of his. Nothing about Erik lately has given him any indication that he wouldn’t be open for a conversation. In fact, it’s shocking how open Erik has been. He expected something different… He’s not even sure what. Perhaps a few awkward first steps between them, considering how little they have talked to each other lately. Not for lack of trying, no, but simply… Charles had been too busy. Erik was presumed dead, and before, he had been ruling a nation. How could they even begin to talk? Still, even as he recounts the reasons to himself, they come across as thinly veiled excuses. When has Charles ever been too busy for him?
It makes no sense. Why would Charles ever need excuses with him?
“You look…” Down, Charles swallows back. You wouldn't want to poke the bear, would you? A plethora of synonyms jump at the chance to shine. “... melancholic, for lack of a better word.”
That's better. Erik draws his eyes away from the statue that decorates their garden—if it could be called that. Charles himself has tried not to look at it, not after Lorna had erected a matching image of him to go with Magneto.
“My eyes play tricks on me,” says Erik, dejected. He watches as years of exhaustion sit on Erik's shoulders, always present, but now more than before. “I don't mean to dwell on the past. I suppose I'm reflecting on what Wicked said.”
“She's a child, Erik.” True to her namesake, the child was rather harsh towards Erik earlier—and perhaps not without reason. Still, Charles adds: “You cannot expect rationality from children.”
“No, I suppose not.” Erik meets his eyes now—they're heavy, tired, and with pain that Charles doesn't know how to alleviate. That vulnerability again. He’s unsure about what to do with everything Erik has given him. “You can expect honesty, though. Children have always seen the world as it is. And she is right—I should have done more.”
“There's no use in dwelling on should've and would’ve endlessly, Erik. What’s done is done. I am rather more concerned with what you said—your eyes are playing tricks?”
At least Charles wouldn't be alone in that—with his visions of a younger Moira McTaggert and telepathic attacks, it would be nice to have a fellow companion in delusions.
“For about five to ten seconds, every time I step out here, I see how it used to be. At least five minutes before the Sentinels struck, over and over. It feels so very real, every time. Anyway,” he waves his hand around, “I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m not dangerous.”
“I was not implying you were.” Although, now the possibility that Charles is more dangerous than him exists: Erik is clearly exhibiting symptoms of PTSD. With a massacre at that level, who wouldn’t? He’s seen how Lorna behaved—if anything, Erik is showing a remarkable level of coping. Now, him hallucinating Moira… If he does this, what else is he capable of? “I was simply curious. I wanted to help.”
Erik’s eyes widen, then he lets out a small breath. He edges closer to him, turning his back to the statue, leaning against the handrail of the balcony.
“You help plenty,” Erik says. “You’ve always been good at that.”
Charles scratches his neck. “I’m not sure I’m doing much.”
“You are,” he sounds convinced. Charles doesn’t know how to argue further with him. “You have a weakness for lost cases, and for once, I’m glad for it. Idiotic as it is.”
“I wouldn’t call it idiotic…” Charles can’t keep a smile off his face. This could be fun. Once upon a time, it was fun to be this open with him. “If anything, it’s a good deal for you.”
“Hence it being idiotic,” Erik’s voice is begging to laugh. He’s smiled a lot, but he’s rarely laughed.
On their earlier days, situations like these happened often. He’d end up with Erik in some place, usually a bar, and they would chat for hours. Dogged in his pursuit of Erik’s laughter, he’s sure he had made a fool of himself countless times. Does Erik think back on those days as often?
Did he care?
“It’s nice to be here like this. Despite everything.” At last, Erik takes a seat next to him, serving himself to another glass of wine. “Call me a sentimental fool—I think it comes with age—but the nights can be so very hard.”
He rests his hand against the side of his temple, his index and middle finger discreetly rubbing circles.
“I don’t suppose they treat you gently,” Charles carefully says. He doesn’t want to assume, nor overstep, but the way Erik freely shares his state of mind, his thoughts—it makes him gleeful. “And I suppose, as well, that it’s easier to keep your feelings out when your head hurts so much.”
“Ha!” Erik’s laugh is sardonic and short, but it should count for something, shouldn’t it? Charles tries to not look too cocky, because despite his efforts, he truly is worried about him. “You can tell, can’t you? I’m hoping another glass of wine can make it go away.”
“I don’t believe I brought any ibuprofen with me…”
“And if you did, I would not take it,” he replies after swallowing. “You know I don’t trust those things.”
“Ah, yes, how could I forget?” Charles laughs. “If you needed me to relieve a little, I could…”
Charles taps his own temple. A nice, easy trick: relieve the pain by messing a little with the pain receptors. Immediately, Erik shakes his head.
Something drops in his stomach. Maybe he’s been lifting these weights wrong, after all.
“There’s no need for that,” Erik says. “The conversation and the company are plenty. It’s a headache that comes and goes—I’m sure you know how it is.”
“Yes, for sure. I do hope it passes.”
All too fast for him to register it, Erik reaches out and gives his hand a squeeze, only to pat it as one would pat a dog on its belly afterwards. “You’ve done enough, Charles. Don’t fret.”
“Alright, I won’t.”
Erik stands up, an implicit good night between them, and the restless energy Charles had leaves with him. He won’t fret, then.
“Ye fucked it up, didn't ye, Chuck?” Moira asks out loud.
“At least try to sound less giddy," Charles sighs back.
“It’s still too early to go to bed,” Charles said, wildly aware of the moon hanging above them and shining brighter than it had at seven. “Is it that you cannot handle another beer?”
Magnus looked at him and took another drag of his cigarette. For a delirious, delicious moment, Charles wasn’t sure if he was going to put it out on him or not. It spoke of his level of drunkenness that he found himself not minding at all if he did; in fact, he was now incredibly curious about how much a human could withstand a cigarette burn for five seconds.
“I could handle plenty,” Magnus said. Charles couldn’t tell if he was amused by him or not, always walking around with that light frown, but he could swear he sounds almost fond. “It’s undignified to show up at work stinking of beer, especially in the one we have, is all I’m thinking about.”
“We don’t have to work until eight,” Charles helpfully replied.
“In three hours, yes.” Magnus devastatingly took out his cigarette and put it out somewhere that wasn’t Charles. He simply threw it on the ground and stepped on it. Unfortunate. “I’m not that drunk, I believe, but it’s unprofessional.”
“Alright, alright, I get it,” Charles waved his hands, “you cannot be caught seen as anything but pristine.”
His eyebrow cocked. “Can you?”
“Well.” Charles began eloquently. Magnus had said he wasn’t that drunk, but Charles must have been, because everything with Magnus always felt like he should read between the lines. This time, Charles tried, and failed. “You are seeing me now, are you not?”
It’s a nice way to deflect it. Magnus smiled.
“I suppose so.”
“And I’m a sight for sore eyes, you mean.”
“I suppose so,” Magnus replied, uncommitted, and it was enough for Charles to break out laughing.
He didn’t know what he expected when Magnus agreed to this invitation. He’d only ever talked to him during their shifts, crossing paths in hallways, and inexplicably being pulled towards him. Unreadable man with unreadable intentions, he haunted Charles’ every waking moment.
Magnus left him with no choice but to trail behind him, forced to call it a night. He could have kept going. Still, he couldn’t push. He couldn’t pry information out of him. Obviously, he could not read this man in one night, let alone someone who had impenetrable walls like him. Charles couldn’t imagine what vulnerability would look like on him, but he’d be damned if he did not try.
“Would you mind terribly if I stayed here?” Charles asked when they arrived at Magnus’ place. “We do have to work in three hours, and I stink of beer. I could take a shower.”
“So now you fret,” Magnus said. He lingered on his door, half-open, evaluating whether to let him in or not. At last, he stepped away, and let it wide open. “Make yourself at home.”
That was a start. You didn’t have to tell Charles twice.