This is my take on what should have happened after First Class. Expect a lot of angst and hurt/comfort, but eventually a happy ending. This is my first fic in the X-men fandom though, so the characters will be a bit OOC. But I'll try to write them as close to my interpretation of canon as possible. Also, fair waring; I am shit at updating regularly, so long breaks between the chapters are to be expected

Warnings: Implied sexual abuse, and implied self-harm. And Sebastian Shaw, because that man is a warning in himself.

Erik's nightmares had not disappeared. Or, in a way they had. He'd thought that killing Schmidt would help, that he'd no longer dream of being strapped down at that table, or watch his mother die over and over again without being able to do anything about it. If he killed the man causing him all that pain, then surely then pain too would disappear. But his nightmares were still there; they had just changed. He no longer woke up believing it was the forties, and that he was still on that table. He no longer woke up to realise that he'd unleashed his powers in sleep and twisted and destroyed all metal in the whole room.

Instead he dreamed of blood. The blood of his friends, of his enemies, of all those he killed, and all those he could have killed. It dripped from his hand to pool on the floor as the soulless eyes of the bodies lying by his feet stared up at him. He knew their faces; they were his friends (or were they really, a treacherous part of his mind whispered), and he knew that it was he who'd killed them. Murderer, their eyes seemed to say. And they would stare at him until he couldn't take it anymore and woke up screaming.

Sometimes he dreamed of the camps too, and that was almost worse, because his friends weren't dead then, they were prisoners. And for some reason he knew that he'd put them there himself. He sometimes saw himself as one of the guards, barking out orders in rapid German. When he woke up from those dreams, the guilt and urge to hurt himself were almost suffocating. It was not that he actively wanted to harm himself, or that he liked the pain in some way (Erik had felt enough pain in his life to know that he did not enjoy it at all). Maybe it was a way for him to punish himself, and maybe he deserved it. Once or twice he'd actually woken up bleeding from cuts all over his arms and chest, and it took him a while to figure out that he must have used his powers to make whatever metal there was to be found in the room hurt him. Yet he couldn't help feeling like he deserved it.

Other times Shaw was there, and in a way that was worse than seeing his friends dying. Because Shaw would talk to him, sometimes in German and sometimes in English. He told Erik of his dreams for the future, of how Erik would continue in his footsteps. And that made bile rise in his throat, because Erik didn't want to be Shaw, the man he'd hated for such a long time. He wanted freedom for all mutants from their oppressors, and in Erik's eyes Shaw was the oppressor. Sometimes Shaw touched him too; just small, innocent touches. A hand stroking his cheek, or ruffling his hair, or lips pressing lightly against his forehead. And then he was fourteen again; strapped down on the table while Shaw stood above him. "You are a good boy, little Erik. My good boy." He'd say, and his smile reminded Erik of an animal looking at his prey right before devouring it. When he woke up, he was never sure if what he'd seen was only a dream, or a memory, but it didn't matter because either way, the panic he felt still took his breath away, and made him sick to the stomach. He hated Shaw with a burning passion, even after killing him. Because it didn't matter that Shaw was dead, that it was Erik who had killed him; the man still haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

Then there was Charles, who frequented his dreams almost every night. And maybe that was the worst part, because while he knew his friends didn't blame him for anything, Charles did. His words that dreadful day on the beach had etched themselves in his mind, and sometimes it seemed as though every time he closed his eyes he heard him, heard that pained voice utter the words that forever condemned him to a life of guilt.

"She didn't do this, Erik. You did"

And he knew, he'd know even before Charles said it, that it was his fault. He suspected that in the back of his mind he'd always known that one day he would hurt Charles, and now that day had come. Charles had been shot, and even though it technically wasn't him who'd fired the bullet, it was his fault. So in his dreams Charles stared at him with sad and pained eyes, and told him how it was his fault that he was hurt; that he was dead. It was from those dreams Erik woke up with tears streaming down his cheeks, feeling more alone than ever.

His missed Charles, as much as it pained him to admit it, and even though he'd spent almost his whole life alone, he was now lonelier than ever. Charles had been his friend, his only friend in fact, and even though they'd only spent a few short months together he'd made Erik feel… He'd made him feel what exactly? Less lonely? Noticed? Cared for? Yes, that was it; Charles had made Erik feel cared for, for the first time since his mother had died. He had told Emma that he wanted her to fill the empty space Charles ha left by his side, but he knew she couldn't. Emma was nothing like Charles; she was cold and calculating while Charles was warm and idealistic. The name Frost really suited her, in the same way Charles's name suited him. Xavier; it sounded almost like Saviour. And Charles was a saviour, even though he'd failed to save Erik. But that wasn't Charles fault, he'd tried to save him but Erik was not made to be saved. He was broken, and anyone who got close would eventually cut themselves on his jagged edges. That's what had happened with Charles, and Erik had left him bleeding on the beach. But it was for the best, because if Erik was alone, then no one else would be hurt.