Hey, guys. It's been a while. Not that anyone would remember me, but this is a little fanfic I've got started.
Warning: There will be homosexual men in this fic. Eventually. You'll see. If this offends you, I am terribly sorry for your loss. I warned you. I bold-faced it too. No complaining for a lack of warning.
Pairing: Erik/Charles, maybe some other ones as the plot develops more. I"ll let you know.
Theme: Dystopia, generally messed up government, and really just a bit strange if anything.
This is an on-going fic so stick around for new chapters.
I hope you like.
Spring, summer, fall, and winter all expressed their spirits through temperature and moisture levels.
At least here, on the ranch, everything seemed uncommonly perfect.
He was not particularly good at agriculture—not that he had at all considered becoming a farmer—but he had grown to enjoy some parts of it. It was not nearly as gruesome as toiling in the fields day after day; he had witnessed the hands of devoted workers growing tougher and more blistered under the sweltering sunlight. Instead, he opted to take on a more peaceful aspect that perhaps hunter-gatherers of history books had possibly experienced, not a glimmer of knowledge about capitalism and its drastic effects. Nature did as nature saw fit on the ranch, and he found nothing but harmony the moment he woke from the excited chirps of birds and the rays of light on his face just slightly softened by glowing foliage just outside his window. He found comfort in these aspects of living on a ranch.
He stirred his cup of tea, earl grey with a tiny bit of milk, absentmindedly.
Sometimes it got terribly cold, however, as winter approached. Every bit of his digits and toes seemed to freeze up quite unfortunately as he attempted to prepare hot soup for himself with garden vegetables that surrounded his ranch. His hands would shake uncontrollably due to the cold, and once, when the weather fell quite below zero degrees Celsius, he dropped the bowl of hot, scalding soup on his hand and the down the side of his right leg, the ceramic bowl crashing onto the floor and breaking into sharp, permanent pieces. He yelped briefly, the splash of boiling soup quite shocking him at once. He tsked sharply, and quickly grabbed a rag (which he had used in the morning to clean up some spilled cup of tea) and stooped down, wiping the floors in a sunken sense of failure. Which, of course, was ridiculous; how could he be judged in the eyes of nature? He was created. Naturally.
He had brought quite a few books from Oxford from whence he came. With a Ph.D. from Oxford University, he should have been quite successful in locating a job. However, he simply chose this lifestyle and brought his life with him and onto this ranch (he wished he could believe that, he truly did). He brushed his fingertips across the perfectly gold and glossy certificate bound in leather, thick and heavy, preserved in memory.
Charles Francis Xavier.
It was almost a deafening secret, a part of his past that he did not want anyone to know. His grip tightened against the document ever so slightly, slight with conviction and distanced anger. There was a part of him just underneath the surface wanting to remember nothing but this ranch. He placed the certificate down, firmly and gently at the same time.
He released the breath he did not know he was holding. Nothing mattered now, he thought, as he glanced outside the window. The clouds had merged into a canvas of white; dimensional nuances of gray discolored its stunning shade that was akin to snow. Traces of brooding in the skies were quite visible now; rain should be coming soon. He recalled the clothes he had left hanging outside to dry last night. Pulling himself out of his own mind, he stood up to gather his clothes.
Once outside it became more evident that it would rain soon, what with the clouds almost blackening, so he quickly collected his garments without another second of hesitation.
His usual attire consisted of a faded blue denim shirt (which he purchased at the flea market that usually came by every Sunday a mile or so away from the ranch) and a pair of dark denim that he had previously purchased during his school years in Oxford. Although his well-dressed-Oxford-man-mentality still bound him to his cardigans, coats, scarves, and the like, he found that he began to neglect his state of dress more frequently. He recalled the bars that he visited often back then, the absolutely stupid and horrific things he did at those bars, the uneven cobblestone, the chilly Monday mornings with a cup of hot tea in his hand, Raven—
His thoughts stopped short. Every molecule weighed down on him, especially the humid air that seeped onto his plain clothes. He was suddenly aware of his existence, about what had happened, and it truly stung him this time, wound cut fresh once more. He began wondering about his questionable existence. He dwelt on his contrite memories for a few more moments until the first drops of rain began falling on the side of his cheek. Cradling his dry clothes, he jogged back to his house and dropped them into a basket. In the mid-action of taking off his shoes, he remembered and froze. The horses. He cursed himself lightly and put his shoes back on properly before jogging back towards the expanse of grass where the horses usually roamed. The distance between his cottage to the stables was rather long, he found, as the rain began pouring harder. By the time he spotted them clearly, he was utterly drenched. The horses did not seem too horrified at being neglected until the little droplets turned into a complete downpour, but they also did not seem too dignified about it either.
He led them back the stables where he also fed them, apologizing for his lack of common sense. Petting their drenched hair with a smile on his face, he suddenly noted the chilling breeze that made it clear that he was not dry. The horses always managed to boost his mood despite his usual sense of calm and a pool of guilt that would never evaporate. The sound of rain echoed quite a bit even with the extensive roofing that he managed to create for such gloomy occasions. He remembered the stack of hay that lay in the corner, and quickly brought them something to eat. He always found that horses chewed with a quaintness that he couldn't quite put his finger on. One of them neighed briefly; out of content or spite, he was not sure. He sat at the bench he put there if he ever wanted to read in the stables which happened to be more frequent than he could have imagined. Thunder suddenly boomed outside and echoed loudly in the stables, the horses jolting and neighing anxiously at the sound. He peeked outside the door, the old wood creaking, and saw a thick downpour, a simple blurring of the landscape under an absolute pressure of heavy rain. Lightning flashed across the darkened sky, a crack of light that seemed almost god-like.
But isn't nature God in itself?
Charles found himself adding the question as an afterthought of his contemplations. As he continued his living on the ranch in proximity to nature, he further adopted the atheist conclusion to existence. He had never been religious in any sort of way though his parents had attempted to raise him in such a way; he only began to realize the harsher evidence in his own experience.
Another boom of thunder echoed and jolted him out of his thoughts, the restlessness of the horses also perpetuating due to the monstrous sound.
"It's all right, Thor; it's the lightning you should be worried about rather than the thunder. Although, the chance of you being struck by lightning is also negli—"
Before he could finish his last word, he felt it.
Charles' eyes went wide and panicked. They suddenly flooded him, the thoughts, the emotions, physical pain, anger—
He had not felt the presence of a mutant mind in a good while. He had always kept himself in check whenever he went to the weekly market, but the double-edged sword of the nearby mind caught him off guard. He was also not particularly prepared to encounter another mutant especially on this ranch that he picked out especially to escape everything. He tried to shut out the thoughts, but he only focused even more, to understand why he was there, only to feel the sudden rush of bottomless emotions—run, run wherever possible, God don't let them catch me—and Charles just concentrated harder. The man was being chased by the mutant-hunters no doubt. He pressed two fingers against his temple.
Over here. Go in between the trees, past the fences, and over to the pastures. There's a shed nearby. Yes. Go in. They can't find you there.
The emotions ran wilder than before, burning him as he directed the man to the shed.
Calm your mind, Erik.
Charles wasn't sure if he had consciously and literally calmed the man's mind, but he proceeded to do as Charles had directed. He then willed the mutant-hunters away giving false directions to the stranger, well, Erik's, whereabouts. Another roll of thunder echoed, rather suddenly it seemed. The horses didn't fail to become restless again; Thor especially, while Loki seemed to walk in circles a bit anxiously. A few short seconds later, the wooden door bust open.
The man (named Erik, apparently, Erik Magnus Lensherr, in fact) loomed at the entrance, tall and a bit intimidating to be honest. A glint of fear and shock reflected in the man's eyes, however dark it was at that moment. It was the raw fear that Charles knew far too well, the introversion of self, a desire to hide, to lick his own wounds in decadent silence and solitude. He saw all of this and so much more, and he opened his mouth to tell him some fraction of his thoughts, when, in a blink of a second, a damp, rough hand clamped over his mouth, Erik's breath heavy in his right ear.
Charles tried to yell, to tell him to let go right at this instance because what the hell is he doing—
"Shhhh." It was a sharp, cutting noise enough to do as the sound suggested.
So Charles waited it out, waiting until the man understood that the mutant-hunters won't be coming anywhere near here. His arms had unknowingly crossed in his almost childlike petulance. Seconds passed, then perhaps minutes. He vaguely saw in his peripherals the paranoid movement of the man listening carefully for any noise through the rain and thunder. He finally removed the hand, but in its place was a switchblade to his neck, just hovering and close to cutting near his jugular. Charles gulped, not out of fear but because he saw that this man could easily and simply employ his mutation to move the switchblade but refused to do so in caution.
Just in case I'm human.
He felt the man's pain of running and trying to hide from possible disclosure of his powers to the government.
"What are you doing here?" he breathed into his ear, now warmer compared to his the left ear. Charles remained rational. "Well, Erik, I live here. And," he took a breath, trying to eye the blade, "I can help you." The man's face seemed to slacken in shock, but tightened again with rage, the knife pressing closer. It felt absolutely freezing against his throat. A shiver ran down his spine. "How do you know my name? Did they tell you to look for me?" The fear in his eyes was all too honest and jagged. Charles couldn't help but feel so terribly sorry, so dismayed that this was still happening to mutants after all these years. A blatant cause for the good of humanity. For the good of order, structure, prevention of chaos. Charles opened his mouth to speak, only to remember a better way to demonstrate his alliance.
I'm like you, Erik.
The rain seemed to pick up its pace, louder and more frequent in its pitter-pattering dance. Erik's face softened this time though the hardness in his eyes still remained. His defenses melted in both mind and body, and Charles remembered that this was the first time he had spoken to someone through mental connection in years. He had forgotten how nice it was. How he had forgotten. Erik lowered his switchblade ever so slowly, as did his gaze, and he let it float and hover over his hand, twirling it slightly without ever touching it physically. He then spoke up again, eyes never leaving his switchblade. His voice had lowered in pitch, all the defensiveness of his previous rage exhausted and trickling away. "I thought I was alone."
"Erik?" Charles added a tone of inquiry, something akin to asking for permission. The man in question looked up from his floating switchblade. Charles offered a small smile and placed a hand on his shoulder in what he thought was a reassuring gesture. He didn't miss the way Erik tensed up at the touch, but he also did not retaliate in anger.
You're not alone.
Terrible? Good? Almost good? Want to beta me because I suck at syntax?
Let me know.