charles didn't need to be telepathic to notice as the days stretched into weeks that there was an imperceptable (OK, lie, a hugely, immediately perceptable) tension between erik and the rest of the settlement workers, most of whom avoided him or made snide comments behind his back.
to his credit, despite the fact that charles knew first-hand that erik could give as good as he got, and had a mouth on him like a razorblade-cutting, sharp, even cruel-he almost never engaged with it. in fact he wasn't particularly interested in defending himself at all, exclusively dedicated to the project, wherein he spent days at a time awake in the hot sun working with the tools needed to shape temporary housing structures where new immigrants would be staying.
(except in the case of daniel shomron, whom he routinely antagonized and goaded, possibly because shomron was one of the few people who openly disliked erik and wasn't afraid to verbalize his opinions-namely that erik didn't belong there, that he was there solely because it was diplomatic suicide to outright deport anyone who'd had the misfortune of serving in the 7th.)
not that-and daniel made sure to remind erik frequently of this-he had anyone who'd take his side if he were really backed up against the wall. charles was perhaps the only one who spoke more than two sentences to him at a time, who smiled at him, who tried to engage with him in any meaningful way, but apparently not even charles could have saved him if ben gurion got his head out of his ass and did something about those people.
not to mention that even though shomron didn't seem to have any sort of problem with erik taking a long walk off a short pier, he still came to the man's defense on more than one occasion-just as often as he did for charles-snapping irately at anyone who deigned to interrupt the smooth flow of construction by focusing on him. their understanding was uneasy, rivals bonded together from something more than heritage or blood.
but friendship it certainly doesn't make, so it's not surprising that erik ends up spending most of his time with charles. the construct is starting to take shape now, with small one-bedroom houses with kitchenettes and basic toiletries aligned in neat rows connected to one another, and erik's most at-home digging into the metal guts of pipework and wire circuits around the time he notices when charles starts to falter.
and he must have expected it, because charles's laid up in their tent with a cloth over his forehead and the shades drawn down, and erik merely pads in quietly, holding a glass of water. it's after he outed himself as a freak yesterday morning by boldly levitating a six meter pipeline from crushing charles's throat, casting it aside like crumpled paper and daring anyone to comment. they're already afraid of him. he has nothing to lose. (nothing changes.)
his mind is a soothing balm amidst the raging firestorm of swirled frustration-grief-pounding-screaming-loss-vortex-ulfaiate mizrach kadimah, ayin leTziyon tzofiyah hatikvah bat shnot alpayim, Eretz-Tziyon virushalayim-pride-vindication-glory-woe unto the man one of us here and there may die in faith at the sight of the promised land from the top of Pisgah into the good time coming-this is the land i promised on oath when i said 'i will give it to your descendants.' i have let you see it with your eyes, but you will not cross over into it-
"can you sit up?" he keeps his voice pitched low, and the bed creases under his weight as he sits down on its edge beside the prone man. this is a miserable place for a telepath, he can't help but think. for all that he had judged charles unfavorably, he has to wonder if telepathy and experience are comparable.
if you know the mind of grief as you know your own mind, do you not know grief? does charles lie awake at night, reciting shema yisrael adonai eloheinu adonai echad before his eyes close, when they open anew to greet the unforgiving sunlight, when the clear-loud pound of nails into wood echoes like gunshots and every bullet is a body?
does he know? it's in moments like this that erik sees him as something different, more akin to carmen prydeman than an interloper desperate to make a hero of himself on the frontlines, more-than just desperate to turn their pain (and when did he become so protective of their pain, anyway?) into his own personal accomplishment. occupying the liminal space between foreigner-and-one-of-our-own. at least to erik, that was something to fiercely guard against the swell of bleating, animal disease that is war and the aftermath of war.
maybe it's because charles is the only person there who smiles so brightly at him every breakfast across the picnic-bench table, whose eyes watch carmen prydeman as erik had asked of him that first day when he doesn't have to. he doesn't have to care about any of this. this isn't his home, but then, if you know a person's home the way you know your own, is that not yours?
they aren't friends only because erik never learned how to make friends, but he reaches under his shirt and unhooks the chain that carries his coin, the familiar touch of worthless pressed copper and its stamped in letters a reprieve in his hands, and he lays it on charles's chest, reaches out to curl charles's dirt-caked fingernails over it. "time for another lesson," he says simply, setting down the plastic container of warm water.
"this is hei," he started, tracing charles's finger over the grooves of foreign letters. this coin isn't a vengeance-spiel, not something charles would anticipate because erik's all harshness and his mind is singularly crafted for bitter justice (tzedek, tzedek, you shall seek winds the passage on the undercurrent of his thoughts)-but it's a root. a twine to tie you back. "yod, bet, alef, yod, raysh, taf, shin, chet. do you know what it means?"
sorry that so much of this is a bit obscure, so here are some references! the hope, novels, poems & letters, the promised land, shema yisrael, the letters: ה׳ בְּאִיָּר תש״ח
