A/N: Um, yeah, first C/E fic to be published here, hope everyone enjoys. Warning for self-harm and loathing, plus an ungodly amount of angst. Blatantly inspired by the Linkin Park song, it might be worth listening to in order to get into the appropriate mindset for this. Just a suggestion.
He's doing it again.
Sometimes he wishes he could stop himself, but what good would that do? It would still hurt just as much, if not more, and then he wouldn't even have a means for getting release, which would end up affecting everyone else badly in the long run, and Charles doesn't want anyone getting hurt because of him again.
He knows it isn't right, that if anyone finds out they ll make him stop, and try to tell him that it isn't his fault. All the more reason to make sure nobody finds out.
(He pauses in his usual ritual to wheel over to the door and checks that it is still securely locked [of course it is, though a small part of him that he doesn't dare acknowledge wishes that it somehow wasn't].)
It is his fault, the fact is undeniable, the others just don't want to admit it. But Charles does, for he knows that there is no hiding from the truth, from the facts, and every fact and every truth points to him, a dazzling spotlight that illuminates his guilt and leaves no space to hide. So he doesn't even try to hide, he accepts his faults and punishes himself accordingly.
It's because of him that Erik and Raven are gone, it's his fault that the Brotherhood exists, and he needs to pay for his crimes. He needs it, because punishment is justice, and he needs to be sure that there still is justice in the world. And even if it is self-inflicted, it doesn't matter, it still allows him to hope that there are people out there who believe in justice the way he does, because if a man as worthless as he can be a deliverer of justice, than anyone can be.
He watches as the blood drips, slowly twisting around his arm like a living ribbon, falling from his elbow and splashing onto the floor, creating a crystalline pool of ruby at his feet. (He sees the blood falling and notices that he is always the one to fall. He fell in love with Erik [and now he starts to wonder if that love ever was really reciprocated], he fell for it when he was told that the US and Russian fleets wouldn't attack them, he fell into the sand when the bullet hit him, and he's been falling ever since.) He stares into the glimmering pool, and he knows it s wrong, so very, very wrong that he should find it so disturbingly beautiful. He doesn't deserve it, he shouldn't be allowed to be a witness to such magnificence, and this thought alone is enough to make him put down the razor, at least for now.
He considers very briefly the possibility of finding an alternate method of punishment, but he knows that anything else won t be able to satisfy the need. It won't feel like enough, just scratching the surface of something infinitely deeper. It's easy with the razor, he knows exactly how deep to press and for how long (it has nothing to do with the thrill he gets from having smooth, rippling metal slide across his skin at the lightest of touches, nothing at all). No, this is the only penalty that will ever really suffice, his only known cure for the itch. He'll just have to avert his eyes from the mesmerizing beauty of his blood, that annoyingly wonderful by-product, because that is what punishment is about, being denied the things you love.
In a way it seems as though he's already received his fair share of punishment in the form of that fateful day on the beach, in losing not just the two people he cares most about in the world, but the use of his legs too, something he hadn't before realised was so important until it was torn out from underneath him. But he knows it isn't half of what he deserves. After all, it's his fault that all of that happened anyway, so it doesn't really count. This is also why he must inflict justice on himself, because it was he who was foolish enough to allow it all to happen.
He wonders now if there was any point to it, in being so stubborn about his beliefs that Erik had felt pressured to leave, for now that he has Charles no longer cares about whether mutants are equal or superior to humans in the slightest, he just wants his lover back. Had he known at the time just how painful being apart is he would have joined the Brotherhood in a heartbeat. But instead he let the opportunity slip through his fingers, and now he's left waiting to die alone, with only his shunned ideals and unending desire to be punished for company.
(He reaches out to pick up the razor again)
He wishes he could be with Erik again, Erik, who always knows exactly what he's fighting for, Erik, who doesn't find his morals wavering just because they caused a little heartache, Erik, who only seems to get more perfect, while Charles only gets worse with each slide of the razor, but he knows that he isn't worthy of being loved like that again, not the way he is now.
(How could anyone have ever loved a monster like him?)
He wants Erik to come home, he wants it more than anything, but he can't help but feel satisfied when he doesn't. If Erik were to return to Westchester, he would find it playing host to a shadow of the man he once called Charles Xavier, a pitiful creature that doesn't deserve the pity. It's really just as well that Erik has moved on so well (it's no surprise, he doesn't have Charles holding him back anymore), for he knows that Erik would be disappointed to see just how far Charles has fallen down, how little faith he really has in his values, and there would be no punishment harsh enough to make it up to him.
For that's why he does it, really. He slices at skin and tears at tissue for Erik. Because he was the one who forced Erik to leave, and he deserves punishment for it. Besides, it's what Erik wants, Charles sees it in his head when the helmet comes off (of course he can't keep it on all the time, the very notion is just foolish), he wants Charles to hurt, to be hurt, so Charles obliges. There are times when Charles looks into Erik's head and thinks he can hear things like 'I hope he realises how much this hurts me' and 'If only this pain could apply to us both, but he doesn't let things get to him as much as I do' , but Charles knows that it isn't what he's really thinking, that in actuality they're things that Charles has made up himself, wishful approximations of what he always hopes to see in Erik's mind.
He slashes the razor across his forearm with a bit too much vigour and he has to bite back a whimper of pain, but he deserves it of course, for trying to put words in Erik s mouth, words that he wouldn't want there. Then he remembers the words that Erik really had said, all too long ago, and scores another crimson trail across his arm. Erik had told him to stay out of his head, and Charles had disobeyed so, so many times.
(The next few minutes are a bit of a blur, pain and blood and guilt like never before)
By the time Charles is done, his arms are barely distinguishable from the now numerous pools of glittering scarlet that cover the floor. It takes a while to clean up properly, but it's well worth it. For now, justice is served. Charles estimates he'll have a good four days, maybe even a week, before the need arises again, as it inevitably will.
He knows that he shouldn't do it, that he ought to just forgive himself for what he's done and move on, as Erik (ever the better man) must have already, but he's a living testament that it's far easier said than done. And even if he manages to stop, it doesn't change anything, he'll still be the same broken man, just one that doesn't need to vent anymore, and venting is just so good, and that thought alone is enough to convince him that stopping himself is something he will never be able to do.
It's a habit he ll never break.