It was there that they had parted ways, that their views of the world had been deemed irreconcilable and they had become sworn enemies. But their fight was over, and the beach had long since become a popular touristic place. Rows of plastic lounge chair lay on the sand like dead bodies, and a boardwalk allowed Charles' wheelchair to almost reach the clear water of the ocean. Behind him, the bar was closed. It was winter, after all.
The ruins of palm trees – torn off some fifty years ago by the crash of a plane and a submarine – remained visible. Charles looked at the silver sky and shivered. The wind blew chilly and humid with salt water.
He was about to turn around when he felt it: a blank space, a terrible void in the world. Magneto, he thought. With his damned helmet. He waited for him to join him on the boardwalk, motionless.
"Hello, Charles," Erik said from his side.
"I see you're keeping track of my moves," Charles replied, avoiding eye contact.
"I had to come when I heard where you headed to."
Suddenly, a mind long forgotten reappeared in Charles' world. A seemingly dead rose blooming once again after years of hibernation. It smelled of regrets and lost love.
Charles turned to Erik to confirm his doubts. The helmet was gone and the man was looking at him, thin white hair on his head and a sad smile on his face.
"What do you say to a game of chess?"
Maybe it was time to put past rivalries to rest.
"My pleasure."
Erik walked behind Charles' wheelchair and pushed him. To the closed bar. And to a new brighter future.