Dedicated to my awesome friend, LittleNightDragon, who is a fellow drarry lover as well as a SimonxBaz and Cherik fan. Ash, you said you wanted a Erik and Charles-aka cherik-story. I hope you enjoy the final story to your Christmas fanfic package

To the readers, I hope you like it. I don't know that much about xmen so please bare with me.

Bounds and Bonds

When he was eleven, Erik fought. He snarled, he screamed, legs kicking, fists blindly swinging. He tried to tap into his ability, to make the mental move. To make it fight his battles. To become sharp daggers and fling them towards those cold, smiling pieces of ice attached to Sebastian Shaw, who brought him and his mother into his office.

For a moment, he thought they were saved. It took him a second to realize they replaced the hell of the concentration camp for another hell. A much worse hell.

He was previously targeted because of his faith. Now he was being targeted for his ability, power that came and went as it pleased, one of which he had no control over.

It didn't matter to Shaw. To him, the ability was a gift. One, "that makes you special, Erik." The curves of his smile were as sharp, as cold as his eyes. "One that makes you my special project."

He was already trembling as the words slipped from Shaw's mouth, but when the bastard's hand landed on Mama's bony shoulder, squeezing it so tightly she winced, that was when the trembling turned to fighting. It didn't stop, even after armed men came into the room, arms latching onto him, pulling him away. It didn't stop even as he was being dragged away from Mama, whose face was streaked with tears, her shoulder still being squeezed. It didn't stop even as Sebastian's sickening smile grew and he wanted nothing more than to smash that smile into pieces.

The fighting only stopped when he was thrown into a small, dark room and saw that he wasn't alone.

A boy was in the room, sitting on the bed that was pressing against the right wall, his face buried in a thick book. Erik saw the boy looked about his age, his skin pale as bone, hair a dark brown. He lowered his book when he heard the noise, his unusually blue-blue eyes staring at him intently almost as if Erik was an experiment.

Just like Shaw did.

Erik hated him almost instantly.

Fists clenched, he looked around the room. There was a titanium door locked from the outside, no windows, enough room only for two beds with buckets by the frame that were likely to be their bathrooms, and a small desk by the boy's desk that held a lantern. Underneath his bed, Erik saw stacks and stacks of books.

"Welcome."

By the time Erik turned around, the boy was reading again, bored with him.

Erik decided he hated him just as much as he hated Shaw.

When he was twelve, Erik's life went from being a daily struggle to surviving the hardships of the camp to surviving the hell created by the monster known as Shaw. His life became a routine revolved around testing, experimenting, trying and failing to tap into his power. All whilst harboring a deep hatred that grew every day with every failed test, every disgusting smile Shaw gave afterward, saying they'll just try again, every time he captured a glimpse of his mother and saw a bruise printed on her body. A swollen cheek, a broken wrist, a black eye.

The boy also became part of his routine. His silent partner in hell, one he refused to acknowledge and seemed happy to return the gesture. The boy hadn't given him anything since the first night he was brought to their room. Not a name, not a word, not even an acknowledgement. His attention was focused on the words of his books, a new one each day. Gifts from Shaw who were pleased with his progress.

Erik had no idea how the experiments were like for the boy. He knew given the large number of books, the boy was more successful than he was with his own ability. However he didn't know how the process was like. The boy's face never gave away anything. He left their room when it was his time for lessons, walking into the guards' open arms, his eyes steady and face cool. That coolness remained when he came back to the room, a new book in hand, crawling onto his bed and turning on the lantern to read it.

It was that calm, steady coolness Erik despised, along with his passiveness and silence. Sometimes Erik hated it much as he hated Shaw, sometimes even more.

He never hated the silence or the boy more than he did after returning from another failed experiment. Shaw placed metal rods in front of him, ordering him to curl it up. He tried over and over. He got to the point of crying, pleading for his powers to work, for the metal just to move.

But he couldn't do it. And because of that, Mama was brought in and he had to watch, restrained by his chair, as her knees were bashed in with those same rods by the soldiers.

As usual he fought. He wanted to help her. To make the bleeding stop, to make her tears stop. The soldiers dragged him away, kicking and screaming, cursing and crying. They threw him into his cell and shut the door in his face.

He charged at the door and banged at it until his knuckles were numbed with pain, until blood leaked from the wounds-

"You're doing exactly what he wants."

His bruised knuckles slide down the door. His breaths came out in soft, quiet gasps.

The boy's voice was different from his own. Somehow lighter but at the same time deeper, tinted with a slight accent he didn't recognize.

His nose was still buried in the book as more words poured out. "You've been here for a year now. You should know how this works. He feeds on your reaction. Your fight amuses him. And to make things more fun, he uses his mother to stir that fire in you. You might as well give him the knife so he can finish her off. It would be a mercy to her."

Bastard! Erik spat at him, proud to see some it landed on the top page of his book.

When he was thirteen, Erik learned that he should have looked more closely into words, especially ones that came from the boy. He wondered if the visions of the future were the boy's ability because his words came true.

For his birthday, instead of presenting him with piece of cake or even hard candy, Shaw brought in Mama to celebrate the day with another lesson. Only this time instead of rods, he placed a gun in front of him and ordered him to crumble it.

All whilst another gun was pressed against Mother's temple.

"No!"

"Sweetheart," Mama tried to comfort him. She was just as shaken, just as terrified as he was, but attempted to hide her fear. "It's alright. You can do it."

"No. I can't." He glanced down at the gun with tear-leaked eyes. He curled his hands into fists, as if the movement of his fingers would shape the gun. Still nothing.

"I am not a patient man, Erik." Shaw said, always oblivious to the tears.

He stared at the gun, putting all his energy, all his concentration into it. He tried to reach out to the mental. He tried to get it to move.

The gun lay on the table, unmoving.

"I-I can't." he sobbed.

Shaw shook his head and sighed. "How unfortunate."

The gun went off, and Mama dropped onto the floor, mouth agape, eyes wide with shock and fear.

The echo of the gun rang in his ear like a siren. He felt the weight of his mouth as it fell and yet no sounds came out. Screams, curses, cries were tangled into a ball that wedged itself in his throat. The ball grew bigger, became stronger as he watched the blood leak from the bullet-hole marked on her head.

"Such a waste." Shaw's voice broke through the haze of the ringing, bringing him back to reality.

Shock crumbled his heart, killed by the waves of anger that swept across his body, swirling around him like a tsunami. It freely flowed throughout his body just as his screams were freely released, surging through every vein, vibrating through every cell.

The gun finally moved, lifting itself off the desk and curling into a metal ball before it dropped to the ground.

Just as the soldiers did after their metal helmets squeezed their skulls.

It was when he heard clapping did his anger cease and the screaming stopped.

Shaw was smiling but this time it was a different smile. It wasn't feigned or disappointed or even amused. It was a smile forged from pure joy as if his pet had exceeded his expectations.

"Well done, Erik." Shaw's pride was as nauseating as his smiles, making his skin itch like it were being touched by leeches.

He lunged towards him to tear his throat out, to claw his eyes, to break that damn smile into millions of pieces.

More guards crept into the room, slipping behind him and pulling him back before he could accomplish the deed.

"Until then, Erik," Shaw waved as he was being pulled away. "Oh, and happy birthday."

Erik spat at his direction, and the guard by his left took a swing at him with his club, causing the world to go black. When he came through, he was back in his cell, tossed onto the floor like he was trash, his mouth caked with dry saliva and blood. It was when he was wiping away the bits of crimson that he remembered what happened.

He finally tapped into his powers. He commanded the metal. But not before Mama died first.

Killed by Shaw's order. Because he hadn't tapped into his powers sooner.

Emotion poured into him, filling every inch of his body. It wasn't fiery, explosive anger but sadness. Sadness that weighted heavily on his body like an elephant, crushing his bones, crushing his heart. Or the remnants of it. As heavy anguish was, it was also crippling, pinning him right on the ground. It was also cold, chilling every vein, freezing every cell, taking any trace of warmth he might have had.

"He killed her." The words fell from his mouth in a strangled whisper.

He knew, the boy that is. He didn't say it in words but through the glare of his eyes that bore a hole through the back of Erik's head. His eyes were more powerful than words, much louder.

"And it's my fault." His fault for not being strong. Not saving his energy to fight later. Not taking the boy's warning into consideration.

His body was shaking, his eyes stinging. He clamped his mouth to keep the tears contained, to keep the sobs locked away. And yet…drops leaked from his eyes. Hot, fat drops. One after the other until he was drowning in his tears. He buried his face in his lap to hide his shame.

He lifted his head as he heard footsteps.

The boy looked down at him with those calm, knowing but sympathetic-sympathetic, not pitying-eyes and sat down beside him. The boy didn't speak. Neither did Erik. He didn't pull him into a hug or even pat his shoulder.

Still, he stayed beside, allowing him to mourn, not speaking out against the tears. And that was enough for him.

When he was fourteen, the hell that had become Erik's home worsened in some ways. Since his last birthday, Shaw increased the number of tests, the hours into their meets and lessons, amped the tactics of his experimentation that shocked and bleed him.

However, in the ways hell worsened, it also lightened. Thanks to the boy.

He stayed with Erik throughout the whole night, letting him mourn for his mother until the tears were done and his body was hollow and he fell asleep. Lying his head on the boy's shoulder and finding himself tucked into his bed the next morning.

Sometimes when the nightmares plagued his mind, the boy sat beside him on his head, grabbing his hand and wading through the darkness with him, always quiet but his calm presence cutting through the demons and cruel laughter like a blade. Sometimes the boy read to him, his steady and light voice lulling him to sleep like a lullaby, the words turning the demons into sweet things.

One night as he was reading to him, Erik noticed something peeking from his sleeve. He grabbed the boy's hand, interrupting his reading, and pulled back the sleeve. A deep, swollen bruise stared back at him, followed by several more running down his arm. They were old but given the swollen, the thickness of the cuts, he knew they must have been painful when they were received.

Shock slammed against Erik like a punch, knocking the wind out of him.

How-what-why? That was one question that stood out from the others. Why?

Almost as if he could read his mind, the boy answered his question, his composure never breaking. "Most times I pass his tests, and that's enough for him. Sometimes, though, it's not, and he decides to have fun with his special pet."

Erik looked at the wounds, tracing them with his fingers, as if he could erase them, trembling from the anger seeping in, and stirring inside him like a storm. "How long have you been here?"

"Since I was six. My mother and I were from London, and Shaw brought us here. He said I had a special gift, one that should be embraced and studied. He kept me down here and kept her locked up there. I was eight when I was able to bend a mind to my will, and he forced my mother to be my test subject. The first time I did it, I-I crippled her mind. I erased everything that made her my mother and left behind a ruined woman. Shaw was pleased. He gave me a book to congratulate me, and then killed my mother, deciding that she served her purpose."

That aloof, calm composure never broke once. He didn't stumble on a single word, almost as if he wasn't talking about himself but was reciting an unfortunate event that happened to one of the characters in his books.

Erik was stunned-stunned and furious. Furious as he was when Shaw smiled at him and said that he would be his special project. Furious as he was when he tasted the bite of the electric bolts when Shaw ordered him to be shocked. Furious as he was when Shaw killed Mama in front of him without a second thought. He knew he earned his bruises, the beatings. He fought and protested every step of the way. But the boy was different. He coolly responded to Shaw's taunts and did what was accepted of him. And still the bastard hurt him, and only because it was amusing to him.

"I hate him." he whispered.

"I hate him too."

For a second, Erik thought that he was hearing things. That the words were being spoken inside his head. Until he looked up, stunned by the fierce anger hardening those calm eyes.

Erik brushed a hand against the vicious scars. He figured it was as good as any time to say, "I'm Erik."

A slight curl lifted the corner of the boy's face. It was so small, he barely saw it. It was so faint he was sure it would vanish if he blinked. "Charles."

When he was fifteen, Erik experienced warmth like he never had before.

His awful, painful day training with Shaw followed him into his dreams, filling his head with images of Mama being tortured, Shaw drawing bloody lines against Charles' body over and over again, smiling at his screams.

He woke up with a jolt, his clothes and sheets damp with sweat.

Charles heard him and wasted no time, climbing off his bed and climbing into his. He sat beside him, placing his hand on his shoulder.

Erik laid his hand over his and focused only on Charles. His calm composure that was as steady as a tree, his gentle touch that vanquished the fear that shook his body. He focused on all that was Charles until his breathing was even and his heartbeat was back at a normal pace.

"You're alright." Charles told him, brushing his sweat-damp hair back. "You're okay."

He looked into a familiar pair of calm eyes that stared down at him. He found himself falling under its spell, being reeled in closer and closer until lips were pressed against lips and he tasted sweetness, sweet and exhilarating warmth like nothing he ever experienced before.

Just from simple peck.

Stunned, he pulled back as heat transferred from Charles to him, surging into his system and shocking him like a thousand bolts. Charles was just as surprised. As much as it amused him that he managed to catch the boy off guard, he was also frightened because he was so quiet, more so than he usually was.

He swallowed nervously and made his way in. Charles didn't pull away when he placed his hand against his cheek. He didn't pull away as Erik leaned in closer. He didn't even shudder as Erik closed the distance between them, dropping a small kiss on his bottom lip before he kissed him properly. It was when he reconnected their lips that Charles moved again, leaning into him, pressing his face more into Erik's hand, opening his mouth for him so he can taste all of him.

Lips tasted lips. Tongues brushed against tongues. Breath exchanged breath.

It was all too beautiful, too wonderful, too warmth.

When he was sixteen, Erik experienced lightening in a different way.

After their kiss, Charles became not only his ally but his sanctuary. His piece of heaven that made living in hell tolerable. They slept in the same bed, arms wrapped around one another, giving each other the warmth their flimsy blankets couldn't provide. They talked more openly and freely. Charles talked more of his life in London, fragments of his childhood that he still remembered, like gazing up at the Big Ben and feeling its power echo through each chime, trying to catch the raindrops with his mouth while he ran errands with his mother. He talked about his dreams of mentoring others like them and closing the gap between their people and the humans. Erik in return told him of his dreams of escaping hell along with long, torturing Shaw the way he had with them, and then giving the unworthy a taste of the hell he suffered.

Charles was usually quiet when conversation turned to that direction, face unreadable. His facial mask crack when Erik pressed a soft kiss on his lips, causing a smile to spread.

That was another thing that they did more often. When they weren't talking or planning their escape, they were kissing. Sometimes it was soft kisses that were lazily dropped on the other boy's face, touching his eyelids, his nose, his lips, taking time with one another as if they had all the time in the world. Sometimes it was rough, fiery kisses that were fierce battles of clashing teeth and tongue, stealing away breathes and swallowing moans, fueled by an urgent desperation as if they had no time left.

One night they crossed a new path when Charles pulled his lips away from his and inserted them onto his neck, causing his protested groan to melt into a moan.

He clutched at Charles' night-shirt, balling the material with his fists, moans spilling from his lips as Charles feasted on his neck.

"I want you." he whispered. His voice was so low, so quiet he was sure that he wasn't heard. Charles, though, had and pulled away. For a moment, he was scared that he crossed a line, until the boy took his hands and placed them against the hem of his shirt.

Quickly catching onto the meaning of the gesture, Erik removed the shirt, tossing it carelessly. Charles smiled at him before he stripped him of his own shirt, undoing each button at a time, quickening the rapid beating of his heart. Erik rid him of his pants. Charles returned the gesture.

Their eyes traced every inch of each other's bodies, every line and angle, every curve and scar. Their eyes were replaced their hands that left no spot untouched, which were quickly replaced with their lips that left no inch unmarked.

Charles was soon lying on his stomach, Erik over him, peppering every margin of skin with kisses, tracing over the faded scars with his tongue. When he reached the end, he lifted his head up.

"Do it," Charles said. "I trust you."

With shaky hands, Erik grabbed hold of his butt-cheeks and spread them wide, revealing a glistening puckering hole. He stared at it with hungry eyes, intrigued. He leaned in and pressed a small kiss against it, intoxicated by the musky and salty taste.

A moan escaped from Charles' lips as he melted into the bed. Followed by another, a half-sob, half-hissed sound, as he drew a line against the hole with his tongue. He played with it, kissing, sucking, ridding and fingering, addicted to its unique taste while Charles lost himself in the sensations.

"Erik," he begged. "Please."

After one last kiss, Erik angled himself at the right position before he slowly made his way in. Charles was tense the whole way through, hands clenching onto the pillow, biting down on his lip to hold in his pain. He released a shaky breath when Erik was fully inside him, along with tears that leaked from his eyes.

He kissed away each tear that fell, then kissed his lips to distract him from the pain.

Charles released him after what felt like forever. "Do it."

He pulled himself out slightly before making his way back in. A sharp breath hissed through Charles' lips, but still he ordered him to move. He did so, again and again, growing more confident with his movements as Charles was slowly falling into the rhythm, the pain dissolving into sheer pleasure that consumed them both. His breathing no longer pained but hard, as moans and pleas emerged from him.

Faster, harder, more. Erik obliged each wish, tightening his hold on the boys' hips as he Charles respond back to his movements, urgent thrust meeting urgent thrust. Hands glided over sweat-slick skin, hungry lips feasted on whatever skin was within reach, desperate thrust clashed with one another.

The fire between them grew, growing strong and wilder, until finally it exploded, and they along with it. Howling each other's names as they were being burnt to ashes.

He crashed back to planet earth, dropping onto the bed, spent and boneless.

Charles collected him, bringing him against his chest, enveloping him in his arms.

"Mine." he said.

Charles stroked his hair, his gentle fingers lulling his senses.

"Mine," he heard before he sank into darkness.

When he was seventeen, after years of torture and pain, Erik finally escaped hell alongside Charles.

Charles set the trap. When the guards came to collect him, they found him still in bed, entangled in Erik's hands.

"Filthy little shits!" One sneered in disgust, raising his club high.

The club stopped mid-high. The soldier's arm was frozen. His lips were frozen and his body tense. The other solider was slumped on the ground, unconscious.

Erik turned over to Charles, whose eyes were focused on the solider, his fingers pressed against his temple.

"Give Erik the keycard." Charles commanded, his voice quiet, tone stern.

The man's face was scarlet-red. He looked like he wanted to spit at them, but his mouth was sealed shut.

"Give Erik the keycard."

Almost as if he were a doll, the solider followed the command, taking one step after the other until he was standing in front of him, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a clear metal card with a thick blue line stamped on top.

Erik snatched the card. Charles dismissed the solider with a wave of his hand, dropping him onto the floor.

Charles grabbed his bag, filling it with a quarter of his library, and accepted Erik's hand, allowing himself to be taken away from their cell.

"Wait!" He said as they reached the stairs. "I just need to get something."

Get something? "This is not to the time to stop for an err-"

Charles was already running, taking off down the hall. Erik was hot on his heels, cursing him under his breath, watching him disappear into one of the rooms.

He expected Charles to come out of the room with a stack of books. Instead he came out with a girl clutching onto Charles' shirt, her skin dark-blue and shiny like scales, hair red as a flame. She looked about ten, but her small figure made her appear younger.

Another one.

"Erik, this is Raven. Raven, this is Erik."

She looked up at him, piercing him with her dark eyes. She still had innocence in her. "We're leaving?"

"Yes." Erik answered for Charles.

They ran down the hall, up the stairs, climbing multiple steps, navigating their ways through the tunnels, ears on high alert for any sound.

They had one more tunnel to go through before they were free. Shaw was already waiting for them with dozens of soldiers flagged by his sides, guns out and loaded.

Shaw didn't look surprised by the sight of them. If anything, he looked disappointed, as if his favorite toys were losing their appeal. "You three have approximately five seconds to return to your cells or things will not end well for you."

He was bluffing. He had to be. They were still valuable to him. They-

The clicks of the guns rang like thunder, cutting off his train of thought.

"Five."

A small whimper escaped Raven's lips. Her hold on Charles tightened but she didn't turn away.

"Four."

Without taking his eyes off Shaw, Charles took a step closer to him.

"Three."

Shaw's smile was as cold as his eyes.

"Two."

Mama's face flashed through his mind, blood spilling from the hole marked on her forehead.

"One."

The bullets boomed like canon-fire, setting off hundreds and hundreds of gunfire.

Erik stepped in front of them. He stopped the bullets with a wave of his hand, then sent them back with a forward thrust of his fist, piercing through the men's skin with their own weapons.

Each men fell, one right after the other, like dominoes. Shaw was the last one to fall, dropping down to his knees, blood spilling from the bullet-holes marked on his chest.

"Erik," Charles called for him. "Come on. Let's go."

He shook as he took slow steps towards the dying man, picking up a knife that fallen from one of the soldiers.

"I..." Blood was dripping down Shaw's chin. It was surreal to Erik seeing him like this. A man who made his life hell, someone he believed to be the devil's advocate so helpless and weak. "I made you strong."

"No," Erik corrected. "I was already strong."

Without hesitation, he drew the knife against the man's neck, breaking through skin and watching crimson flow from the wound. Shaw tried to speak, but all that came out of his mouth were breathless, wet sounds of nonsense and more blood. Erik swung back his foot and released, hitting the man right on the chest, knocking him to the ground. He didn't take his eyes away. Even when Shaw started shaking, even when bloodstream gushed like a waterfall, even as he watched the life fade from his eyes.

When it was over, he turned back to Charles, whose eyes shifted from the corpse over to him. He smiled at him and walked over, cupping his face with his blood-stained hand and kissing him right there.

"Now it's over."

When he was eighteen, Erik found himself in a moment-or rather time of contentment. When they managed to escape, he was almost scared of what was come afterward. He was so used to soldiers, to needles and shocks, pain and torture.

Thankfully he had Charles. They've taken refuge at Charles' childhood home that wasn't even a house, but an castle with a large estate around the large building. The house was slightly in shams from years of misuse but they managed to clean it up, making it home for them.

The days were devoted to exploring the unfamiliar world, enjoying the feel of sunshine warming their faces, the wind whipping their hair. Chasing little Raven around the estate or the playground, where she took on the form of a pale-skinned blonde that she seemed to enjoy. Helping Charles locate and reach out to other people of their kind. The nights, after they put the child to bed, after prying Charles away from his books and notes, was theirs in which Erik made sure to use every second of memorizing and worshiping every inch of Charles' body.

"Er-Erik…Oh god!" Balling his fists, Charles buried his face in the pillow, using it to muffle his cries.

Erik drew clean lines against Charles' sides with his nails, tightening his hold on the boy's hips as he felt the fire burst from within, smearing the boy's back in coats of white. Spent, he collapsed and as always Charles caught him.

He laughed, and Erik never ceased to be amazed by the rare sound. "I hope to God Raven didn't hear that."

He snorted. "The girl could sleep through a hurricane," Charles laughed in agreement. "Besides we could then just explain to her about the birds and bees."

Charles shoved him away, frowning. "Not that soon."

He smirked at him playfully. "She's growing, Charles. She's no longer a little girl."

A frown remained on his face, but it softened as Erik pulled him into his arms and stroked his hair.

"It's funny." Erik said.

"What is?"

"This…" How he could explain the lightness in his heart, the warmth that fired his body? Happiness seemed too much of an extreme. Enlightenment too sentimental. "Nice. Content. I never thought…"

"I know," Charles easily connected the dots to his thoughts. "Me too."

"I wish we could stay like this forever."

"Forever is an extraordinarily long time."

"Well, we are mutants. We're extraordinary people."

Charles rewarded him with another rare laugh. Erik, in return, laid him flat on the bed and worshiped his body once more.

When he was nineteen, Erik and Charles, thanks to the brilliant engineering work of their new friend, Hank, built the cerebral, a machine that would increase the magnitude of Charles' power by a thousand-fold, helping him locate mutants not only in the country but all over the globe.

Sometimes he and Hank went on trips to talk to them face-to-face. Sometimes Charles took Raven along. Most times it was just of the two of them, traveling through different methods, using different tactics to persuade the reluctant. Charles managed to persuade a taxi-driver who had insect-like powers with his charm, Erik an graffiti artist who was up to mastering his powers as well as his art, and Charles convinced an exotic dancer they found in a club to come back with them after using him as a gimmick to amuse her.

It wasn't long before their small family began to grew, first with three, then four, then five and continuing.

Charles' smile was so wide, he was sure that it would break. He was sure his own was just as big.

"It's happening," he grinned. "It's really happening."

"I know," Erik grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight. They watched from above as the others practiced their powers, marveling at their abilities and strength. "A whole new world is upon us."

"One of peace."

Peace? He looked over at Charles, who was still watching them. He was tempted to correct him, to tell him that peace would only be won after they took back what was theirs, give the people who have shamed and shunned them something to fear. But the lightness in Charles' eyes, the glow of his smile made him hold his tongue.

When he was twenty, Erik noticed cracks spreading through his domain, ruining the tranquility of his sanctuary. The cracks didn't appear in large ways, but small. Small enough that he didn't bat an eye to them at first until he noticed they were appearing more frequently.

He and Charles were once on the same page, sharing common dreams of escaping and building a life together. Now that they were free, their ideas were no longer in sync. Charles, the ever the diplomat, wanted peace and unity, believing with all his heart that there would be a day when mutants and humans could live together in harmony. He was different. He was more realistic. He knew no peace would never come, not as long hatred and ignorance still veiled the humans' eyes. The only way to wipe it was by sheer force.

"Violence isn't the answer!" Charles argued. "It resolves nothing."

"Neither does pretty words and speeches!" he snapped.

Some of the cracks were seeping into their family, the tension splitting it into two. Some believed in Charles' dream of peace, others were on his side, waiting the repay the world with their own brand of justice.

Raven was caught in the middle. Charles saw her as the little girl they rescued, one meant to be protected at all cost. Erik saw her as a warrior who could be more if she lost her fear and gained nerve. Charles believed there was nothing wrong with her choosing to live life like a normal girl, content with her blonde persona. Erik thought her choosing that over her true self was shame, a sign of weakness.

But the center around their arguments and tension, the subject that widened the gaps of the cracks, was Special Agent Maria MacTaggert.

Maria was someone who shared Charles' dream of peace, believed that the world knowing more about them would serve the greater good. Erik saw her as nothing more with a snake, one with agendas hidden her pretty smile. Agendas that shone through every smile she sent to Charles, every accidental brush of her hand that stroked against his shoulder or hand, every time she spoke of their plans saying they-meaning her and Charles-were becoming a force to be reckoned with.

At first Erik paid no mind to it or her until noticed that Charles-his Charles, his boy-was responding to her hidden agendas with smiles, not minding the accidental touches, not correcting her when she talked about "them" and "us", looking at her like…like he looked at him.

One night, after spending most of their day holed up in the library, Charles escorted MacTaggert to the door. Erik was passing through the hall, freezing on spot as he caught a glimpse of her lips pressing themselves against Charles' cheek, dangerously close to his lips, and saw nothing but red that flared inside his body like fire.

He waited until the door closed and MacTarggert was gone from sight to restate his claim.

The smile on Charles' face faded once he caught sight of him. His mouth opened but not sound came out, every word and protest swallowed by Erik who silenced him with a hard, bruising kiss. Charles tried to break free, to break the lock of their lip-contact, but Erik refused to go down without a fight. He bit down on his lip, tasting blood, and plunged his tongue inside, tasting every morsel and inch of his mouth. He pulled away for a moment, only to turn Charles around and slam him against the door. He pushed down his pants and then his own, impaling Charles with his hardened erection. He did so without warning or preparation, causing a sharp and long draw of breath to burst from Charles, thrusting deeply and brutally inside of him.

He dug in, going harder, faster, using the same fire he reserved for fighting for this moment to bring them to release. To erase Charles' mind of the pretty agent and her soft lips. To remind him that they were two pieces that made a puzzle, their puzzle. To remind him that he was his.

When climax reached its peak, Erik didn't bother muffling his screams, letting it out loud and proud. He dropped his head onto Charles' shoulder, kissing his shoulder blade.

"Mine." he whispered.

Nothing.

Not a sound.

Confused, he lifted his head. Charles didn't look at him. Didn't say anything. He waited until Erik pulled away from him to collect his pants that were pooled around his ankles, pulling them back up and retying his belt.

"Charles?" He moved forward to touch him, to kiss him, to remind him that they were two halves that made up one person. But Charles dodged from the touch and stepped around him.

"It's late," His voice was calm and cool, just as it always was, but this time there was something off about it. Something that made Erik's stomach tightened. "You should go to bed."

He walked away without a second glance, and Erik knew the cracks have lengthened.

When he was twenty-one, Erik who had survived the tortures of concentration camp, the hell Shaw put him through, was forced to endure the most experience of his life. Worse than looking into the devil's eyes as he was being probed and stabbed with needles. Worse than watching Mama die and seeing the blood spill from her head.

It was hearing a pained cry, one so loud it practically echoed throughout every inch of the beach, burst through Charles' lips as a bullet pierced through his back, slamming against his spine.

Put there by him.

It was an accident. The missiles were launching, the bullets were flying, their plan dissolving and failing. He tried to get control of the situation, tried to turn it around to his advantage, but there was too much metal. Too much to focus, too much explosions and chaos around him to fully focus.

He stopped the bullets with his mind and sent them back, scattering throughout the beach. One went flung to the side.

Blood was gushing from Charles' back, smearing his clothes, Hank's hands, the sand. Hank ripped off a piece of his sleeve and pressed it against the wound, trying to slow the blood-flow but it was persistent, continuing to spill.

"Charles, I-"

"What," the ice in his voice cut through him like a knife. His face was flushed not in contentment or happiness but anger. Pure, unflinching anger. "have you done?"

"I did what was right," he said. "I did what was best for our people."

"This?" Charles waved his hand around the beach, where death greeted them from every corner. The white sand painted crimson. Bodies slumped and still. "This is what's best for our people?"

Bile burnt his throat. He tried to swallow it down but was given no relief. "The world would never accept us."

Charles looked up at him, his eyes piercing him like bullets. He looked at Erik as if he wasn't a friend or ally who had been his side for a decade. As if he wasn't his lover who knew every scar, freckle, and curve of his body. He looked at Erik as if he were someone he didn't recognize, someone he couldn't possibly know, almost as if he were the enemy himself.

"I'm sorry, Charles," he told him. "But I'm doing what's right for our people."

Those familiar, calm eyes he knew better than he knew his own glistened, filled with tears, but he didn't let a single one fall.

"May we meet again." In happier times. In the not-so distant future in which he hoped Charles would look again like he used to.

He walked towards the ocean, hearing steps following behind him. He was not surprised to see his fraction of the broken family joining him. Nor was he surprised when Raven slipped her hand through his.

He looked over his shoulder once, seeing unreadable usual-blue eyes watching him. It was the last thing he saw before they disappeared from sight.