frick, i need my own. cherik with 22 please~
22. things you said after it was over
Even though the room one of the smallest in the Xavier Manor, Charles insisted on making it his new bedroom once they opened the school back up in the late 70′s. While he had to give up most of his bedroom furniture, Charles finds it well worth it, for the room’s private patio offers a fantastic view of the night sky and of the grounds of the estate; from where Charles can see shooting stars streaking across the black canvas of night, can feel the soft breeze flicking across the blades of grass, hear the faint echoes of the city being carried over to him on the back of the breeze.
He sits there now, his favorite wool blanket draped over his legs to keep him warm in the crisp New York autumn night. The midnight wind carries the sounds of the city to him tonight, and it’s a pleasant change for him, to be able to hear people, but not be constantly barraged by their thoughts. He’s still adjusting to having all of their voices simultaneously getting back into his head. Sleep is still flighty, often slipping through his fingers like water and not returning for days on end. When he does dream, he dreams of eyes the color of the sea as clouds gather above it, of strong, harsh hands, of a mind that is either so vengeful and hateful that it alarms him, or so guarded and absolutely silent that it unnerves him.
Charles shakes his head, as if childishly assuming that doing so will get the man out of his head. But, it’s too late. He’s there now, and he’s not going anywhere. In fact, he seems to be getting more animated, more clear.
“Charles.”
He turns his wheelchair around to find Erik standing in the doorway that connects the bedroom to the patio. He isn’t wearing that damned helmet, but it’s tucked under his arm securely, gleaming in the moonlight, grinning in it.
“Still not in prison, I see,” Charles says flatly. “That’s got to be a record now, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t come here to argue with you, Charles,” Erik says, his voice carefully guarded against emotion.
There was a time when seeing Erik at his door would have made Charles’ night. When he would have smiled and gone to him and pulled him down to his level and kissed him and Erik would smile his surprised little smile and wrap his arms around Charles’ waist to support him. They would talk into the night, when late blurred with early and night softened into morning, feeling warm and comforted and content.
He hates that he still feels mildly happy to see Erik at his door. But his prison of a wheelchair keeps him from running to him, and the hurt at his abandonment still stings fiercely. Especially when he is alone.
Still, he gestures that Erik take a seat next to him. He does so. Charles looks at him and waits. The look in Erik’s eyes confuses him, and makes his chest ache a bit. That and the end-tails of the thoughts he’s getting from him convey one thing clearly: shame. Regret.
“Erik?” he says, voice now having lost it’s cutting edge. He sees so many lost people everyday, he hears them everyday, feels their fear and shame and isolation. Erik feels the same. “What do you have to say?”
“I don’t know,” he says after a long pause. He won’t meet Charles’ eyes.
Charles regards him a moment before he presses his fingers to his head. Erik’s hand twitches, as if to grab his helmet, but he relaxes as Charles enters his mind. His thoughts are dark clouds of shame, of apologies that got bottled up and lost on the way to his mouth, of lightning strikes that still hold so much anger and pain.
He rests his hand on Erik’s knee after a moment. The latter looks at him cautiously.
“It’s over, Charles,” Erik says quietly. “It’s been over for over ten years.”
“What was ten years ago is over, yes,” he says. “But when something is over, one just has to be able to start again.”
“And what if we can’t?”
Charles kisses Erik, soft and gentle, before he pulls back a little and brings his hand to his friend’s cheek.
“We can.”
