I have writing urges that I need to get out of my system. I had meant to write Erik being a bitch over Charles' possible mind-whammy that results in semi-hate sex. But obviously that didn't happen... orz I don't own.
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Going Under
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It always happens in the mansion he still can't quite manage to call home.
There are books lined up, molecular biology, developmental psychology, genetics. His fingers run along the spine and he pretends he can't hear the shouting in the halls, even when it is the loudest in his head. And it is the foulest when they speak inside his mind where their voices are ugly and their words aren't censored.
Sometimes, the unloved becomes the unloving.
He has long since buried the telltale signs of abuse, the bruises beneath the sweaters, the neglect behind years of indifference and loneliness. But he sees it in the reflection, a transparent Cain Marko that wavers on the glass window, and then he is pushed up against the wall with no ways of escape. He has read up on enough psychology textbooks and too many case studies to pass it off as the impossible.
Charles doesn't block out anything and instead of seeing himself in Cain's eyes, he sees Kurt's looming shadow and fists that leave marks.
Because abuse breeds abuse and this is a cycle of undefined horrors.
He doesn't move. He can't move.
His blues eyes close into green.
And he tries not to let the fear creep in. He tries to think that there is no leather binding him to an operating table, there are no rubber gloved hands touching where knifes will pierce. He can feel the metal, every molecule, he can even almost taste that particular mix of chromium and steel flat against his back.
But nothing moves with his command.
There is no control and he is either teetering on self-destruction or mass annihilation.
Listen to me carefully, Erik.
He feels sick, this is more than fear now, this is a betrayal of everything he has placed in Charles's hands. (And the man already has his heart, he can't have his mind too.) Erik asks, very quietly. Are you doing this to me, Charles? He thinks he means getting inside his head but he also might mean everything else as well.
There is something reluctant. The fear doesn't subside. Instead, it magnifies.
…Yes.
Everything falls away. Erik imagines opening his eyes to see a glinting knife in Charles' hands, already carving something across his skin. He wants to struggle.
I am holding you still, Erik! Please!
Let me g—He wants to throw him off but he still can't move a finger and he refuses to open his eyes. He doesn't want to see Charles twisting that knife deeper in.
You have to calm down first! You're going to hurt yourself!
The word hurt strikes at something in his mind. He sees guns and knifes, all still nothing he can control. His hands are small and his wrists are narrow, and he is still that child who couldn't save his mother. A ringing shot is fired, the black iron gate bends in the falling rain, and she crumbles to the ground. The rage falls apart and his eyes snap open with an overwhelming rush of sadness that clenches in his chest.
It is dark but he can make out Charles who has him pinned to the bed.
His eyes equally fearful.
And beyond that, metal screws, suspended in the air, jagged ends pointing right at them.
The furniture falls apart around them.
And the screws (meant for an invisible threat far from here) drop to the floor and the sheets pooling around their ankles.
"…Erik." Charles breathes out his name in relief, his body sagging from the tension that has them both taut. His hands release his wrists, and although Erik might be sporting bruises in the morning, there are no regrets.
Only then does Erik register Charles' weight pressing over him, fingers falling from their painful grip at his wrists.
Charles slumps forward to rest his head on Erik's chest and he murmurs when his lips are pressed against Erik's neck. "…Everything's going to be alright."
No one point out that the metal bars on the windows of the motel room is crooked beyond repair. Neither mentions the vents in the ceiling, the doorknobs or the screws still in the standing furniture are all bent out of shape.
"Don't do that again, Charles."
Erik closes his eyes and wills the pressure to go away. He doesn't think he can unravel that easily but he can and he does.
"I didn't want to."
"You could've—"
"Let you kill yourself in your sleep?" Charles sits up, still straddling him and his eyes are the same blue in the dark. "I'm not going to wake up to a bloody body of you of all people."
"I could've hurt you." Erik says.
"I could've hurt you too." Charles brushes a hand across Erik's temple and the plunge he has taken when desperation is grabbing at his throat to get to him is bone deep. He leans back down and the force behind his open-mouthed kiss is near bruising. "Maybe even more so."
His fingers linger, pressing even when Erik pulls him down again.
XXX Kuro
I meant for this to be a less than 200 words drabble as well...