AN: This can be seen as a one-shot but really it's more of a preface to a series I'm writing over on AO3 because has a tendency to delete or not-save (despite saying it did save) my work so updates will be quicker there (I'm KirscheLeibling :P ) so just a few heads up: Assassin!AU, Amnesia, Erik's monologues, reads kind of like a movie XD
The harsh scrape of his heels against the pavement is drowned out by the grinding of bone-like branches, brittle and dry in the oppressing cold of the autumn gusts. The moon is shrouded by thick curtains of clouds, the stars are dull and lifeless and the sky is bleak and abysmal; a void of pure and utter darkness that devours the faint white of the weak and fragile stars. The pavement is smooth and slate, the buildings are a darker, richer gray; each small set of steps leading up to the same looking dark door, each window reflecting the darkness of the night.
Not a living soul is up to watch the storm roll by.
The man that walks down the vacant path considers the previous statement, a rueful smile playing on his lips. It's true, for he doesn't consider himself a living soul.
No, he is only a shell of a man, of a mutant, wearing the visage of the one the people call Magneto in rushed, low whispers, like a myth, a legend. His life is nothing but a series of stumbles and mistakes, one after another, trying to walk in the shoes of someone he isn't, of someone he once was. These powers are not new, this body is not foreign, the home he lives in is no aberrant domicile; there is nothing unbecoming of the life he lives, nothing out of the ordinary of who he was before and who he is today.
He is plagued by the desolate, agonizing despondency of having something, or someone, torn from his life, from his heart, leaving only a gaping, bleeding wound that never heals, never mends, leaving Erik Lehnsherr an empty man, living for all the world to see but dead inside, perished from the insatiable loss of what he can not recall.
He moves faster now, tiring of the various shades of gray that blend into a dreary, austere painting fresh from an unstable mind to a dark and somber canvas. The wind howls, a lonely wolf begging to find it's place, find it's pack to obliterate it's loneliness but there is no response, only the fast paced scrape of Erik's boots on the pavement, mashing a single retort of 'hush-hush' for no one will come, there is no one to quench the melancholy, the seclusion. His laugh echoes down the empty street, hollow and bitter.
Truly, there is no living soul in sight.
I.
He's walking with purpose, with a real smile, and the moon is a whimsical grin in the navy sky, the stars are twinkling and shining brightly, the air is brisk but not cold and the wind is a cool caress in the street. The trees are rattling and cavorting some ancient dance, their melody soft and gentle in the aging night. The apartments are a combination of auburn bricks and light gray cement wedging them together, some windows alight, shining with the constantly shifting vibrant colors from television sets, and others are dark with slumber.
He stops in front of a medium sized, cream colored building and the smile widens just a fraction. He walks past the threshold is is met with him, the one he's been missing, the one that's gone from his life. The room is sparsely furnished, just a small living room with a large bookcase full of multi-colored tomes of varying thickness, a long black couch, two one-person seats, a coffee table and what looks to be a wooden bench, but Erik's senses are stretching out, and there's much, much more to the wooden chattel than meets the bare eye.
The shadow is speaking to him, softly, gently, with the hint of an accent that he can't recall but is absolutely lovely.
"Erik...you-I mean...if you-no trouble...need to...talk."
But there's no time. No time for talking, because soon the beautiful shadow will be gone, and the warmth that surrounds them will turn to bitter frost and the wholeness he feels will become emptiness once more. No, they can't spare a moment to talk, no matter how much he wants to hear the other's voice speaking gently, whispering, muttering to Erik, beckoning like a siren's song but he would gladly fall to this stranger, this missing piece to the puzzle of his life.
So Erik surges forward, caresses the face, the cheeks, before bending his head down to plant a chaste kiss to those lips, the lips he can't see but can feel, the lips that speak so fluently but say nothing at all, the lips he claims but can never own.
The stranger responds heartily, and they stand in the center of this foreign place, devouring each other's mouth, promising with the silence of their voice and the emotion surging through their joint lips to never let go, never, nevernevernever-
But the promise is broken, and Erik is alone in a room that's in complete shambles, the coffee table shattered in half as if sawed from the center, the couch is tumbled over and the books are torn and splayed like loose-limbed corpses spewed across the forest-green carpet. There's blood on the carpet, blood on the blank pages that are littered about and it would be impossible for the victim to survive-there's so much blood- but the bench is there, it's intact. The magnificent stranger is gone, and the secret within the bench is rattling to be released, begging to be opened and Erik scrambles to it, swallowing the lump in his throat and wiping the cold sweat from his pale brow. His shaky arms extend, clumsy fingers reach for the clasps and, despite having the power to command the metal to simply open at his will, Erik grasps both sides of the freed lid and snatch it off, toss it over.
The warmth seeps from his body, from the building, and all the vivid colors of the world fade to black and white, the colors all bleed away until he's alone in a monochromatic hell.
Erik breaths slowly, in and out. Inhale, Exhale.
The dream slowly fades away, leaving behind an ominous nostalgia that chills his aching, freezing body.
He eyes the shadows for one that may detach itself, show it's true form, the beautiful stranger from his dreams, the one that's missing, but the darkness remains still, taunting, and the faded gray moon is jeering at the souless man that waits, night after night, for his soul to return to him.
II.
This really shouldn't be, but Erik's favorite color is blue.
Not sapphire, or azure, nor cerulean or indigo.
His favorite color is blue, soulful, insightful, kind and captivating, the kind of blue that...
...the kind of blue that's missing from his life.
III.
"Erik?"
It's a dream, he tells himself, plain and simple, because he will turn around and will find himself face to face with darkness, find himself wanting, yearning and failing to remember, failing to save because life can't let him remember, can't let him forget that it's his fault. The blood, the pain-what he lives through everyday is a shadow, a slight flick on the wrist of what he deserves because it's his fault, the mysterious stranger is the victim, victim to his old ways.
He feels a soft, comforting brush against his mind but it can't quench the never ending assault of guilt because there is no penance for his sins, there is no relief from the agony, from the shades of gray in what he saw as a black and white world.
No, Erik decides, he doesn't deserve to even glimpse the empty silhouette of the beautiful shadow. So he walks on, each step rigid and calculated, trying to get the most distance away from himself and the apparition, and can picture himself now, twisting and weeping pitifully in his bed, the night chastising him for his weakness, his inability to-to keep his promises.
The temptation is far, far too much. Erik crumbles and turns around, comes face to face with-with-
Floppy wavy brown hair, flushed cheeks, parted pink lips and-and-
Perfection He thinks, and a rush of warmth spreads through his body, a faint reminiscent tingle in the back of his mind, like deja vu but a thousand times stronger, and a thousand memories, a billion sensations are at the forefront of his mind but none of that matters as his own mossy green eyes lock onto those wide, shocked and dazzling blue eyes.
"Charles! Charles!"
Silence.
Blood on the floor, blood on the-
"Raven? Dammit-CHARLES"
-it's everywhere, on the walls, spelling out words Erik's frazzled mind can't understand-
"Ch-Charles!"
Tears, tears falling beside the crimson splatters, a chest that is humming at the back of his senses, and he ambles forward-
-A gasp, who-?
He pushes off the lid, shoves it aside-
"What did I tell you about leaving the door unlocked?" A teasing tone. He hasn't opened the door, hasn't seen the utter destruction.
-there's papers, all in different writing, but one-
"Game's Over -X" in blood, still wet and dribbling down the wall-
It has a photo, and Charles looks much younger than he does now. The age is written in red ink, bleeding through the old parchment, stating boldly: age 13. and it's fake, it's impossible because-
"I love you."
"No more secrets"
"I love you"
"I love you"
"I love you"
-because Charles isn't a mutant.
But these papers are all, undoubtedly, Mutant Registration Files from the first few roundups. He shudders, because it can't be true, can't be true.
A hand on his shoulder, a voice whispering in his ear.
"I love you, and I'm so, so sorry for this."
-A gasp. Who-?
And then darkness, darkness and it doesn't fade away, it simply disperses and he's dead, he knows it, because everything is black and white and shades of gray and he's empty, the world is meaningless and dull and the nights are lonely and the days are long. He's broken, empty and there's a gap from his memory and everything is wrong, so wrong-
When Erik finally speaks, his voice is weak and harsher than he'd ever expect, but the stranger is there, this is real and the night is still cold, but the moon is in it's rebirth, and the stars are shining like tears of sadness or relief, the buildings are a faded scarlet, like dried blood and Erik feels like his body is heavy, slumping forward but it's the first time he can really feel anything but there's something off, something wrong and he barely manages a word before the world turns to darkness.
"Charles?"
The light fades, the colors bleed away into a pitch black and the last thing he sees before he sees no more are those worried, apologetic blue eyes shining with unshed tears, still locked with his own until they close completely.
He's shrouded in warmth and comfort.
The world remains closed off, dark. Distant.
IV.
This really shouldn't be, but Erik's favorite color is blue.
Not sapphire, or azure, nor cerulean or indigo.
His favorite color is blue, soulful, insightful, kind and captivating, the kind of blue that...
...the kind of blue that's missing from his life.
V.
He wakes up in a strange home, trapped in a strange dream of something that happened-a memory perhaps? But there are no clues, and he can't remember who he saw, what he said. This isn't his house, this isn't his bed but there's a hint of familiarity, something that stirs his mind and piques his curiosity but nothing more comes forth. His jacket is folded neatly on a gray chair beside the darker gray bed he's sitting up on, and there's a dark carpet but nothing else in the compact room.
Is this a memory, or is this a dream?
Erik bites his lip and contemplates, but there's something..different, there is no window or night sky there to taunt him, there is no emptiness or anger but the guilt is still there, buzzing in the back of his mind and at the forefront if his chaotic thoughts there is only a big blank, like he's missing something but he shouldn't be.
There are flashes of blood.
Guilt.
Papers strewn about.
Murdered.
A picture.
Liar.
A voice.
"I love you."
Liar.
A name.
"Erik?"
No. His name.
"Charles."
The door opens.
A dream?
Beautiful stranger. Loneliness. Guilt. Killed him, my fault, my fault.
"I love you"
Lies. Photos, documents, laughing, taunting with the truth.
"I love you"
"Who... who are you?" Erik rasps out, unable to tear away from that tearful, anguished and completely entrancing blue gaze.
"I-I'm Charles." Says the beautiful stranger, and his voice is so smooth, so... soothing in reality. So much better than those memories. Nightmares.
Blood. Blood on the walls. Blood on the floor, on the books, smeared everywhere.
"Game over -X"
"Charles is dead."
"I'm not."
Documents. Lies. Secrets.
"I love you, and I am so, so sorry for this."
Darkness.
"Who are you?"
The beautiful stranger's brow furrows in confusion.
"I'm Charles." He repeats.
"No," Erik shakes his head and tears his gaze away. "I mean who are you?" Because after all this time, I still don't know.
"I..." The beautiful stranger stops, unable to form the right words or maybe they don't know how to lie correctly.
Because Charles Xavier loved Erik.
Erik is the reason why Charles is dead.
"I love you."
"Class A telepath and class C telekinetic; to be held in the Cells under ward 4a, in room 274. Maximum Security rooms. Brought in by his father Kurt Marko and deemed a danger to himself and society, will be locked away until-"
Cold blue eyes, a grimace, no warmth, no kindness there, just hatred, hatred and disgust.
"I'm Charles Xavier, and you-you where sent to kill me."
Guilt. Guilt and pain and anger because he led them here, he led them to Charles and it's his fault, all his fault-
"What did you do? Why do they want you dead?"
"Because I'm trying to change the world, and there are some people who want it just the way it is, right in the palm of their hands."
"I'll protect you, Charles. I promise."
-"I love you."-
-"I love you."-
-Blood. Blood. The writing on the wall.
-"Games over -X"
"I want to change the world."