Notes

So. I have this playlist, you know. Of songs that make me cry, nostalgic, happy, sappy, sad, angry. Pretty sure we all have one.

And lately, they kinda made me think a lot of Cherik. A lot.

So I decided to do a fic based on this (self) prompt: I would write a cherik fic, though each chapter would have to be inspired by a song (some more loosely than others). This will not be a collection of one-shots, though. It will be a many-chaptered fic.

So here is the result! Hope you'll enjoy it. :)

This is my first attempt at Cherik! So, please, let me know what you think! Any constructive comment will be most welcome. :) Live long and prosper!


DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything in this universe, neither the characters, nor the settings or even some dialogues. I intend to make no profit out of this, as it is done out of pure love for this wonderful universe. I do not own any of the songs that inspired this work either. Any resemblance to any other story, song, poem, movie, real people or anything else is fortuitous and was by no mean intended as plagiarism or fraud.


Chapter 1. Hurt

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything

What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know goes away
In the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

- Nine Inch Nails


Charles chugged back yet another scotch. It was his third already.

The numbness was slowly creeping up his fingers, his chest, his throat.

As he sat on his worn-out couch, he let his body reel in the alcohol-induced sluggishness. The familiar torpidity was seizing his limbs, one after the other. He felt as though nothing could get to him, as though his body no longer existed. He relished this feeling – or lack thereof. It made him feel as though he was in limbo, as though everything around him was not real. He was floating amidst it all, his carnal envelope defying the laws of physics and nature. It made him feel less alive – and less dead.

His mind, however, remained impervious to it.

No matter how many drinks he had, the alcohol never really got to his head. That was unfortunate – but Charles was a stubborn man. He was trying all the same.

Every night. Every morning.

He didn't even read anymore. He didn't do anything anymore. It was too painful.

Maybe someday, his mind would finally snap. He almost hoped it would.

At first, he had tried to live on. He had tried to run the school and pretend that everything was going to be alright. He had almost started believing it, at some point.

But then, as an ineluctable law of nature, even the best-laid schemes tend to go awry, no matter how hard one tries, no matter how fiercely one wants them to work.

And things only went down from then on.

The war started, that bloody Vietnam War. Things went dire in an instant. Everybody was drafted, teachers and students alike. Charles had tried very hard to do something about all this. For obvious reasons, he was not recruited, of course.

He had attended a few pro-peace protests. He had stopped, however, when the protests became too violent. Bitterly, he watched, as humans were helplessly tearing themselves apart. He feared for his fellow mutants, who could very well become the next enemy.

He really hoped against everything that Erik would not be proven right. Not out of pride; Charles didn't care if he was wrong anymore, no matter what people thought.

He just truly didn't want anybody hurt, human or mutant. And even though he did believe in the inner goodness of mankind, a part of him knew that some people would always enjoy watching the world burn. He would admit it, though only reluctantly – but even he knew it was true. And that made Erik not completely wrong, on all accounts.

To be fair, mutants were not necessarily better, when you considered what Shaw had tried to do. Or how Erik was attempting to deal with the problem.

Erik.

Charles poured himself another drink. He closed his eyes as he drank it, quickly, without enjoying or tasting the liquid anymore. It hurt his throat, but at least, it made him focus away from him.

Charles could not blame Erik for his beliefs: he knew that the man had seen more than his fair share of suffering and hate. He understood why Erik was angry, why he could not believe in the goodness of men; yet, Charles couldn't help but condemn the ways of the Brotherhood. Hate and violence would only ever generate more hate, violence and suffering. They would never be a solution. It was a simple observation, though more often than not disregarded.

How Erik could possibly be missing the fact that he was creating more martyrs, more victims, more angry men and women that would seek revenge – just like Shaw did to him – Charles did not understand. No matter what had happened or what decisions he had made, Erik was an intelligent, cultivated, and passionate man.

He was certainly not as evil and corrupted as Shaw or the Nazis. And yet, he was perpetrating the same circle of violence. Who knew how many innocent orphans were already left behind while he was seeking justice and freedom…

It made Charles incredibly sad to think of it. Because he knew, deep down, that Erik was a good man. He knew that he wanted what was good for his people, just like Charles. That was one of the reasons that made it forever impossible for Charles to hate the man.

They just had very different ways of achieving the same goal.

And Charles believed in mercy and compassion. He used to, anyway. Acceptance would not happen overnight. It would take time, years, decades. Hell, homosexuality was still considered a disease and unnatural by most of the world. But Charles was – had been – hopeful; because things had started changing. Women were fighting for their rights. Black people were now allowed to attend university.

Of course, prejudices were still strong, and the United States were far from having a black or female president. But, in a few decades, who knew what could happen?

The Vietnam War had changed many things. It had made Charles incredibly bitter and angry. But deep down, he knew killing was not – and would never be – an option.

The day that Erik had been condemned and imprisoned for JFK's murder, despair had threatened to overwhelm him completely.

Charles had been there, in the courtroom, when the sentence had been pronounced. He still could not believe that Erik would have done such a thing, he could not – and yet, evidence was against him. He hadn't even tried to read Erik's thoughts, even though he was very tempted. He had learned his lesson the hard way the last time, after all.

The facts were there. The bullet had curved. The bullet had been metal. Erik was on the footage.

Therefore, Erik had killed the president.

And Charles had lost the last remnants of his hope in a better future. He had lost his illusions. He had lost his purpose.

And he had almost lost his mind.


At first, it had been unbearable. When Hank had come up with the serum that would allow him to walk, he tried it, not really because he wanted to, but there was little else to do. And being able to walk would at least improve his independence and mobility, Hank urged him, desperate to help in any way he could.

Surprisingly, the first injection had been bliss. Slowly, the despair, the voices, the thoughts – they had all dimmed, until becoming almost completely silent. Only his own remained, but that he could bear.

Feverishly, he had asked for the second dose. Hank had been a bit suspicious at first, troubled by the sudden change of behaviour. Charles had reassured him saying that he just felt much better because of the treatment; and indeed, the serum was working.

It was a white lie, really, because not entirely false. Charles did feel better, just not because he was able to walk again.

But soon, Hank had noticed something was amiss.

Really, Charles had not been walking all that much, even though he could – which Hank would have expected. The Professor was always either sleeping or sitting. It was odd, and at best out of character.

When Hank had realised how the serum was affecting Charles's abilities, he had tried to stop him from using it. But Charles didn't want to.

The young scientist had then threatened him to stop making it altogether.

Charles had begged him not to. He had actually begged Hank.

He was not that far gone in the addiction – yet – that he did not notice how it was affecting his rationality. He had tried going cold turkey for a day.

It had not been pretty.

In a fit of despair and pain, he had induced irrational fear in the nearby boroughs. Hank had been completely knocked out by the sheer force of the mental blow, being closest to its source.

Reluctantly, even Hank had to admit that Charles's unleashed telepathy had to be controlled, somehow. He had tried to find another way, but it was taking time. So he had continued to produce the serum. Though, he had made Charles promise to let him monitor the doses and keep them low.

Charles had agreed.

For the first time – maybe ever – he could no longer hear the thoughts of others in his head. It was paradise, and yet, soothing in a very uncanny way. Charles was so used to his ability that being deprived of it was oddly disquieting.

It was like suddenly losing his sight: when he woke up, he still expected to see, at times, and couldn't understand that he really wasn't. Wouldn't. But he didn't care, really.

It was a welcome blindness, even: like becoming blind shortly after being allowed to see the most beautiful colours – and losing them. It was easier not to see than being forever confronted to a world without brightness. What did it matter, to be able to see, when everything around you was painfully grey?

Losing Erik had had that effect on him; the helmet – that bloody and cursed thing – had had that effect on him. When the man had put it on, it was as though the most magnificent colours had gone from Charles's world. Not to see can be infinitely more bearable than noticing that everything everywhere has a dull quality, as though lacking brilliance.

It was an immense relief.

Everything – everyone – else was so unbearably dull.

So when Hank had found that miraculous serum, Charles had not just been happy because he could walk again. Being able to walk now was quite a useless perk. And he really had not been happy to start using the serum on a daily basis. He hated depending of something or somebody.

But he was just so very relieved, finally, to be completely blind. The price was high, but then, so was his ability's.

The thing is – he could still think, and worse: remember. And that still hurt, no matter how deaf and isolated he was from the rest of the world. After all, a blind man can still remember the many-coloured sun. And miss it.

Hence the drinking. Night after night. Day after day. Numb was the only state he wished to be in anymore.

Maybe someday, he would forget.

Maybe someday, the liquor would sink in for good. Maybe if he kept hurting himself, he would stop hurting altogether.

As he swallowed quickly his fifth glass, though, Charles knew it would not be today.

He could still feel the pain. He felt it in his bones.

Charles focused on it. It was the only thing still anchoring him to this world.

His scotch bottle was empty now, but he didn't really care at this point. Slowly, with some difficulty, he walked towards his desk.

The syringe was lying there, straight, shining, clean, undisturbed. Ironically, everything he was not brave enough to be anymore.

For he had lost hope.

The needle tore a hole in his left arm. The sting was familiar now, and twistedly, almost welcome. Almost.

As the serum quickly ran through his veins and numbed his growing awareness of the world, he threw away the glass syringe as hard as he could. He wished he could shoot it directly to his head, and try to kill it all away.

For he still remembered everything. And it still hurt as much as it ever did.

Erik. Oh, Erik.


Charles…

Erik woke up with a start. It had been a most vivid dream. At first, he couldn't even remember where he was or why. Everything was white. And Charles…

Odd. He didn't remember ever being in a white room in Westchester. Maybe he had been moved because he was ill or something.

Slowly, he turned on his back, rubbing his forehead to clear the fog that was clouding his mind. He felt as though he had slept for days.

When he opened his eyes, the familiar outline of the glass ceiling brought him back to reality. Abruptly.

He had been sleeping for days, then. He dimly remembered having an uncontrollable fit of rage, and then – darkness. And intense dreams.

As he sat on his bed, he suddenly felt it.

The lack of metal. The gargantuan void in his very core.

He tried to reach as far as he could – nothing. Everything around him was made out of plastic and concrete. Everything around him was ugly, dead and colourless.

And it had been for years now.

Nauseous, Erik put his face in his hands, trying to calm the panic that was threatening to overflow.

He was so sick of it all. The pain, the void, the absence – it had never become easier, with the years.

In fact, every time he woke up, it was harder to go on.

If he was honest with himself, thought, the metal was not the only thing sorely missing from his life.

Erik stood up brusquely. It was never good to think of Charles when he woke up, when the last remnants of the morphine and sleeping injections were still making him extremely vulnerable.

But his dream had been so realistic… Erik laughed bitterly at himself.

"Oh, Charles. If you could see me now… How pathetic. What have I become, old friend?"

Shaking his head, he started pacing around his plastic prison, stretching and moving his lethargic limbs.

I'm in control, he was thinking. I will get out of here someday. I will be a free man again. And I will avenge them. I will avenge every single one of them.

Breathing steadily, he closed his eyes. The point between rage and serenity, had said Charles.

He tried summoning something serene. Rage, he had plenty, even too much. He had meditated a lot lately, though, which had slightly improved his control over himself. But it was not enough, it was not nearly enough.

Charles had believed in him, Erik remembered. Without his help, he would never have been able to unleash the most important part of his power that laid dormant in his mind.

He knew he could become even more powerful than he already was. There must be some metal somewhere. Not in the Pentagon obviously, not anymore. But surely there were cars, planes, utensils, something.

Erik tried thinking of his mother, but the few and dim memories he had left of her were not strong enough anymore. He tried thinking of how proud he had felt of the Brotherhood when they had successfully rescued a dozen of mutant children in a northern facility. He tried thinking of how satisfying it had been to see that particular facility burn down to the ground.

Surreptitiously, another memory invaded this one. Erik fought hard to suppress it, but it was too strong. Despair overflowed him as he saw for the umpteenth time his comrades from the Brotherhood fall, one after the other.

Only Mystique and Azazel had been able to escape that day – and only very narrowly.

Erik, him, had been captured. Tried. And put here.

Alone.

Everyone… Everyone was gone, taken away from him. Just like his mother had been. She was the first one he had lost.

There had been so many others after that. His father. His grandparents. His uncle.

And then, Darwin. Emma. Riptide. Angel. And Azazel too, as he had been told two or three years ago.

Everyone he knew always went away, in the end.

Maybe he was cursed.

His mind was on the edge of snapping. Erik had to regain control. He could be – was – in control of his emotions.

"I am in control of my emotions."

If only there were metal, around him. He felt like part of his soul had been ripped away from him. Not being able to sense even just a scrap, just a nut, just the tiniest piece – it felt like not being able to breathe properly.

Brutally, he slammed his hand on the evil plastic wall. He had always hated plastic.

Dammit, it had been ten years, since their deaths. It didn't diminish the pain, the unfairness of it all.

And he still couldn't control his pain.

And he was alone.

A little voice in his head he didn't want to hear was whispering that Charles – Charles – was not dead. Charles was still there, even though they were at odds (to say the least).

Charles had said that Erik would never be alone.

But Charles – Charles was not there at the moment. And he really was a fool.

But may he be damned – Erik still loved him. He loved him so much that thinking of him was even more painful than thinking of the Brotherhood.

"You could have had it all, you know", he whispered, though nobody was there to hear him.

He snorted at his own arrogance. Have what, exactly? There was nothing left. Only him. And even then, what was left of him?

Erik was just a shadow of his past-self now.

He still hoped that Charles would join him, someday. That he would come and rescue him. That he would just do something. Surely, Charles could not believe Erik had wanted to kill the president. He must have been able to pick his thoughts, though Erik had not noticed. But then, Charles could be sneaky.

It was silly really. If Charles had wanted to save him, wouldn't he have done it by now?

Would he?

Against all odds, a part of Erik still hoped he would.

"I know I have let you down, my friend. I know I have hurt you. But I swear, if you come for me…"

Erik didn't know what he was going to say. What, would he promise to be a good boy and not to hurt anybody ever? As if he could, after all that had happened. Deep down, he knew that if Charles asked him to give up his old ways, he wouldn't. He had made that decision a long time ago. Erik was utterly and forever broken, damaged, beyond repair.

Moreover, a whole species was at risk here. Would he sacrifice their well being for some silly love story? No. Of course not. The needs of the many always outweighed the needs of the few – or the one.

But if Charles's life was at stake, if he was dying, would you still believe that?, was saying the little voice in his head that he didn't want to hear.

The door brusquely opened, revealing a doctor all dressed in white that was approaching along with two strong guards. He had a blue syringe in his hand.

Morphine it is, then.

Nine years, ten months and twenty five days he had spent here, in this half-drugged state, asking himself the same old questions.

Nine years, ten months and twenty five days too much.

Please, Charles. Please. Come for me.


So, what did you think? :)