This is a repost because I am slightly pissed, damn it!
I just heard about the ff.n purge happening when my mind obviously went back to this fic, which has been deleted about a week ago for an inappropriate summary (which might have been partly my fault since it had the f-word in it but it was rated M anyway!) I am not pointing any fingers but a warning would have been nice, really.
The only thing that really saddens me is that I never had a habit of saving reviews, and now that it is all lost and with all my other fics in possible danger of being reported, I think I really should start. Still, really not cool to the one who reported me! (Because we all know ff.n's own admin would never have the time to find stuff like this.)
I don't own for the second time! /shakes head in disapproval
XXX
Breaking, Breaking, Broken
(You don't understand my feelings and I am the reason your soul is breaking, breaking, broken)
XXX
He is an upward spiral of damage.
He pulls in the world and distorts it into something he can actually begin to understand when all he should do is take a glimpse of what he is becoming. Because his reflection is not a pleasant one and his smiles are looking a lot more like a simple stretch of skin and flesh than genuine happiness.
Charles is making himself a cup of tea when Erik walks in. There are no sentimental touches or a gentle tender gaze. Charles has his back turned to the doorway and Erik is too busy looking through the fridge.
He is sweat drenched and there is only milk.
Letting out a sigh of expected exasperation, Erik walks over to where Charles is because the cups are in the cupboard above his head and the man is still looking out the window, just as Erik wonders whether he has had this all planned out, elaborately.
Charles laughs out loud, the first indication he is listening in before he is shaking his head as Erik reaches over for a glass.
You think too much, Erik.
He tilts his head back to reinforce himself but with the way he is dipping his tea bag absentmindedly into his mug, Erik thinks he is not thinking at all. It is all smoke and mirrors anyway and no one dwells on it any longer.
"Erik," Charles may have a bright smile playing innocently over his lips but it is still no less saddening than the next words that spill from tongue and teeth.
"I am glad you can't see what I can see."
Erik doesn't wrap Charles in his arms, even though he very well could, instead he is gulping down the milk before he takes a step back, pulling distance before comforting words he has never learnt to provide. "Give me a projection of what you are seeing."
But Charles only shakes his head as he finally turns away from the window to face him right side up. Bringing his mug to his mouth, Charles' faint laughter is engulfed by the steam that wafts up to meet his lips. "You can't possibly think I would do that."
The head shaking and quirking lips don't fade, not even as he takes a drink of his tea and it is with impatience and annoyance in his thin, thin scowl that brings Erik to stand straight to the challenge, a one-sided challenge Erik thinks Charles has initiated.
"Just show me."
He gestures at him to come closer.
"I can't, you would never let it go."
It is a kinder way of saying: I can't, you would never let the world burn on its own then.
He shakes his head insistently, like he is trying to prove a point no one else can see. But Erik doesn't give in to the all-knowing gleam in Charles' eyes, neither does he allow himself to sway with Charles' words.
"I still won't, you know."
Erik stares pointedly with a finality he doesn't even know he has possessed and downs the rest of that milk.
Charles smiles easily and looks as though he is reaching out for a hug.
"Yeah, I know, Erik. I always know."
Yet, seconds before his arms come to wrap around Erik's neck, he is patting him on the shoulder and turning to leave the kitchen, mug sitting abandoned on the countertop.
They aren't two broken hearts melding into one and there are no souls in need of healing because they are like two pieces of a different puzzle trying to fit together.
000
Watching Charles is a little like watching a clock tick backwards, Erik notes. Like the flushing of a toilet in the southern hemisphere, Charles is a spiral turning in the other direction.
"Let me play white?"
They have the chessboard set up and Charles' eyes shine.
"Does it matter?"
"It does to me."
The banter comes as easily as the rage and hate, Erik doesn't miss a beat unlike the record player set up in the corner of the downstairs library. The song skips a note but it continues on like nothing is wrong.
"And if I said no?"
Their lips quirk into their words.
"You wouldn't do that, Erik."
His eyes wane into blue crescent moons. But Erik doesn't really notice because Erik Lehnsherr isn't really all that of a sentimental man.
"Aren't you supposed to be courteous to your guests, Charles? I may have been waiting to play white all day long."
Charles laughs and it sounds a little child-like, a little too hopeful. He plays his first hand and looks up just as his fingers release his pawn, he is staring at Erik with belief blazing in those eyes.
"Don't be silly, Erik. This is your home too, how can you be a guest in your own house?"
And with that Charles dismisses their conversation like he always does and turns in his chair to pour them each a glass of whiskey. Erik plays the game, moving black pieces over squares of dark and light and thinks that the world would have easily been a better place if there weren't all those shades of grey in between.
Charles is keen to drinking but Erik has never seen him smoking pipes or hand-rolled cigarettes even though it is the sixties and little white pills are passed around like packages of cheap candies.
Maybe, it is the higher judgment or maybe, he doesn't even need the drugs to see things that aren't really there.
Because even when he is sober from the alcohol and clean of hallucinogens, he still hears voices in his head. Erik plays his next hand and is delighted when Charles smiles like he has been anticipating this move since the start of the game.
He really is quite out of this world, this Charles F. Xavier.
000
They are noisy when they have sex.
Because they don't try to hide or do they pay any heed to containing the voices that rip from their throats (at that moment, it is an out-of-body-experience and that isn't them, intertwined in those sweat-stained sheets.)
With the curtains pulled shut and the doors locked then bolted from both sides, they are sweating and there are tears in their eyes. But there is also a little blood when teeth bites too hard and nails dig a little too deep. There are banging against the walls and it isn't needy or desperate, just seemingly painful and sad.
And it is like they are no longer in tune to their pain receptors because those thrusts are horribly raw and their words are bitingly harsh.
There is none of that sentimental virtue that Charles holds in such high regard, not when he is touching Erik like their flesh is decaying off the bones. The heat burns lazy circles on their skin and it sounds as though they are tearing the other apart when they should be kissing.
They all but avoid the kitchen knifes because they are so well aware with what they can but should not do.
And they can be as tender and sweet as they want but when their backs hit the bed sheets, it is all animalistic loving.
They can't help it. It isn't only the sex (the teeth, the tongue, the fingers and skin with sweat) they are feeling, it is everything else (the tears in his eyes, the heart in his chest, the rage in his bites and the coin in his pocket) that makes them want to take the other apart.
Spent, breathless and a little too hot, they are sprawled across the bed, thin sheets draping over the contours of their bodies.
(It should have sounded romantic, and he could have been sweet and courteous but it was the thrill of digging into old wounds that excited him the most.)
"Is love supposed to hurt this much?"
Charles' voice is a feeble softness that reverberates in the bedroom for far longer than either of them liked.
"Where does it hurt?"
Turning over to his sides, Erik asks, looking over the man lying down by him.
"Here."
He doesn't put a hand to his back or where his heart should be, instead, Charles places a palm over his temple. Over the ache that pulses along with the organ in his chest.
Erik is gentle. "Let me see?"
Charles lifts his head from the pillows and Erik runs a hand over Charles' forehead to brush his stray locks back from his eyes. He tries to contain the pain, smiling reassuringly as he props himself up on his elbows. "I'm okay right now."
Erik isn't convinced but he never is, he is paranoia on repeat.
"But sometimes when the voices get too loud, I can barely think. And there are images too and they flash in my head…"
Charles puts a hand to his temple and confesses.
"I hear voices and see things no one should even know exist."
Charles rolls over and buries himself in Erik's arms.
They are breaking but not broken, hurting but not crying, and this, this is not sexual healing.
This is the only method they know where every physical fibre of their body is saying I love you, I love you, stay with me, I love you, I need you, a mantra that resonates far after the sex ends.
000
Charles has gotten better since he has met Erik. He is tuned into reality, the sort of reality that doesn't include textbooks with no reference pictures or fingers to the temple.
Or even whiskey at daybreak.
Raven doesn't comment when she catches Charles sipping from his favourite mug. She doesn't say anything, at least not until she is convinced Charles is drinking hot tea instead of cool scotch on ice.
"You are up early."
She takes a seat as they both glance at the clock, it is just past six. The sky is lighting up in blues and whites. Neither of them has ever been a light sleeper.
"Yes, Raven, it's rare but it does happen."
He takes another sip before putting it down on the kitchen table. He is smiling but the smile is tiring, even Raven wills him to stop, in the back of her mind, a soft thought that eventually pushes past the walls they have build up high.
He drops it and offers her a drink with a push of his cup. There are no malicious intents, just genuine concern that doesn't reach the other. She declines with a push back.
"Are you feeling alright?"
"What are you talking about, Raven?"
"With Erik."
She clarifies herself as she sits back with ease.
Perfection, he is really quite an exquisite man.
Just fine, he has been wonderful.
Erik is a very intriguing person, Raven.
Only, Charles falls silent when he sees her eyes flaring in shades of gold and blue.
(And then he remembers, she is mutation at its finest.)
He edits his thoughts and turns them into words.
"The voices have gotten quieter."
Charles admits.
Looking up, he is just in time to see gold eyes morphing into ambitious greens, copper red hair into a slick dark brown. Charles flinches when Raven becomes Erik.
"You are looking a little pale, Charles."
Raven points out with Erik's voice and he doesn't know what is making him think anymore.
"…Raven…"
"Close your eyes." He hears her voice instead of his but he feels his fingertips grazing over his cheekbone when it should be hers. He closes his eyes and lets her touch linger but the warmth of skin, a mixture of Erik and Raven, doesn't last long.
"You are up early."
Charles opens his eyes to the sight of Erik standing easily by the door, shoulder leaning casually into the elaborate wooden frame.
"I know… rare, isn't it?"
His smile is so wide his cheeks are hurting, a little.
Raven is long gone. (Or maybe, she has never even been here all along.)
"Erik, would you like some tea?"
000
Erik watches Charles and Charles lives like he is dying in slow motion.
(It is a tragedy unfolding before their eyes and despite all the options they could have made, their consequences are lying in ruins now, or so they have convinced themselves.)
Erik doesn't know how come he can watch this form of suffering. Because even though Charles doesn't say a word and keeps it all in like a love letter in a glass bottle tossed out at sea, Charles knows the only way to break from this is a clean smash that leaves shards of pain, hurt and regret among the blood.
Erik knows this just as well, perhaps even better.
Their days seem to be a repeat of what looks to be subtle peace beneath the layers of misconceptions. Charles is drinking from his mug, the same one from all the other times. They are in the Westchester kitchen and the sun is still blazing in the skies.
Erik is craving for something he has no known word for.
It is something between escape and Charles. It isn't an action he can indulge in and neither is it a noun he can spell. But then he is looking up at Charles from his spot at the kitchen table and they are both craving for something, probably not the same thing at all.
Still, it is close enough.
Charles stands by the counters, right by the radio with a furrow in his brows, like he has a headache he can't control. Even though he can't understand what Erik is feeling, Charles knows it is fruitless to try to tune him out, especially with the way Erik is broadcasting his thoughts.
He has only ever been tuned in to the rage and serenity that roots itself to the core of Erik's well being but when those dissipate, Charles is at a loss as to what else he can hold on to.
Sympathy, sympathy, love and guilt. There is some worry mingling with the pity, and a subtle hint of longing and hurt. (It is almost like they are in bed once again.) But their lips don't find the other in the dark, neither do their warm hands lead them closer to each other.
Erik stands up from the table and he is barely paces from Charles.
He motions to step closer, green eyes bare and a little lonely. He knows he is doing damage but Erik only stops when Charles speaks out loud.
"I've gotten into a terrible habit."
Charles' announcement is nothing but unsettling and Erik doesn't know if Charles is just saying this to hurt him for all the times that he will do the same. But when Charles is close to tears, Erik's world cracks a little along the edges.
"I," he takes a heaving breath, "I've gotten used to the silence, Erik."
It is also a harsher way of saying: I can't live without you anymore.
The mug he clutches in his hand goes a little out of focus and the reminder of the life he has had before meeting Erik blurs a little more. He hasn't meant to hurt but when those arms come to embrace him, he stiffens against the hold and tries his hardest to keep in the sobs.
"An-and when you leave… do you know what will happen to me?"
He uses when and will (not if or can) because they both know, it is inevitable.
Charles buries his face into Erik's dark shirt, wounds his arms around his waist and he doesn't cry, he doesn't sob, they both wait until the tears disappear and Charles' voice is no longer hitching at each syllable.
It takes longer than both of them has wanted.
"Charles."
Erik wishes he can stop, stop Charles before the words are spoken out loud because even when it rings out in their heads, it is just a thought. But not anymore.
"You will break me."
He murmurs thickly into Erik's chest and he doesn't mention that the voices will return because by now, that goes without saying. Charles knows he can't be forgiven, for all the times he has entered without knocking and all the other times that he has knocked without entering.
Erik is the mistake he can't undo and Charles doesn't need to think to know.
Hey, Erik, I'm so sorry.
But his words echo in silence because they never leave his lips.
He is sorry but not sorry enough to take any of it back.
Lifting his head from the thick fabric of Erik's shirt, he is sure the other can't see any traces of tears or even the heartache that he shares.
Only Erik doesn't say the one thing Charles expects him to say, (doesn't state that Charles is broken beyond repair.)
"…Put your mug down."
Because Charles is still clutching on to the handle of that cup behind his back. And Erik is bent out on fixing that, if not anything else. Charles nods into the embrace but makes no move otherwise, Erik understands the signs.
"Let me then."
Smiling faintly, Erik twists an arm to grab at the cup behind his back but Charles lets go a moment too soon.
Their fingers brush just as it slips between their hold.
He doesn't flinch when his favourite mug breaks against the floor, Charles is a little stronger than that. But Erik is already demanding his well being as he pulls him back from his chest with a strong grip on his forearms.
"Are you alright?"
Erik breathes his worries into his words, fingers clenching into the fabric of the cardigan.
Charles wishes they would leave bruises but he isn't sure, he is only nodding with a smile that stretches easily over his lips. The reassurance doesn't come for Erik. Not even when Charles leans up to give him a chaste kiss on the lips, broken porcelain littering across the tiles.
"Just fine, Erik, I will go grab a broom to clean up the mess."
Because all Erik can taste is whiskey on his lips.
Erik stands still as Charles easily picks his way through the kitchen. His silhouette is black against the floors in the midday sun. And he doesn't know when it shines through but when they are together, there is no future, just a constant present they can't see pass.
It is already done.
Charles leaves the room.
Something is broken.
XXX Kuro
Because Charles is a psycho alcoholic who is thoroughly obsessed with Erik. (Run, Erik, run!) but likewise, Erik is just as in love. PS: So sorry for losing all those lovely reviews from my darling readers!