The Game

Chess is an ancient game played around the world by many different cultures and peoples. The board consists of small dark and light squares interspersed with each other equally on an eight by eight total square. Both opponents have the same number and types of pieces when beginning the game, and no two playing pieces can occupy one square at a time in the course of play.

Before the first move, each has the same chance of winning.

"The Modern Defense, Charles?" Erik asked with less disbelief and more irony dripping from his words.

"Mmm-hmm," was Charles' only response as he leaned into the chess board, his fingers and thumb caressing the piece before directing it to its new location.

As Charles let go of the piece, it wobbled just slightly. He allowed this but did not watch it himself. His eyes had languidly crossed the board and strafed across Erik's lap up to his torso and then neck. When they rose to his face and finally his eyes, Charles was ready to let go of the piece and sit back into his high-backed chair. He smiled a very tight grin, no teeth, thin lips.

Erik held his gaze for a moment, remembering the whiteness of the fingers, how they paled even in comparison to the white of the chess pieces. The steel in Erik's bright blue eyes was met with the watery pools in Charles'.

Even when laughing, even in extreme smugness, those eyes still looked like they were on the verge of unleashing torrents of tears. Was that a function of his telepathy, Erik wondered. Charles could never fully express himself because he was bombarded by others so constantly? It could explain his extreme amounts of empathy with the pathetic human creatures.

After this moment passed with no words between them, Erik deliberately disengaged his eyes from his opponent's and surveyed the chessboard. He already knew what his first move would be.

"I know you can do this."

"I know I can too. I don't need your cheerleading. Look after yourself for a change."

"That's what I have you for."

Erik reached for one of his pawns to begin his defense. The Queen's Gambit was Erik's bit of visible traditionalism-hundreds of years old.

Everything else about Erik screamed nouveau, zeitgeist, 'boss' in the slang. He was not traditional, from his turtlenecks to his leather jackets. If revenge hadn't been his band of choice, he might have been one of those youths on the stage for Ed Sullivan. Swiveling his hips and making young women swoon. He would smoke and drink with the same dedication he gave to tracking Schmidt.

Nothing halfway. Nothing superfluous and useless. Like sympathy or forgiveness.

But Charles knew that Erik gave the appearance of the modern man to cover his ruthless pursuit of old fashioned vengeance. He was methodical, maniacal in his quest. In everything, really.

Erik grasped the pawn and moved it deliberately. The piece slammed down in its new position, occupying it as Erik occupied his chair-with strength and style. With purpose and decision.

Restraint, Charles reflected with a slightly upraised eyebrow, wasn't Erik's flaw. Erik put everything on the line, his anger and determination on his sleeve, no matter if he was discussing mutant rights or the weather.

Charles couldn't help being drawn to that flaring even as he tried to quell it.

"I never thought you'd show this soft side," he said as he cupped the other man's angled chin over his own shoulder.

An incredulous scoff. "I don't have a soft side. You're imagining things," was the reply.

Playing together had taught them how to anticipate the next move, when to expect the unexpected-although Charles was surprisingly better at the 'unexpected' than Erik. Years of systematic Nazi hunting had caused him to rely on methods that worked time and again without sparing the effort for creativity or innovation.

For now, the game continued sedately with each man leaning forward from his reclined position to reach the pieces. A sip of bourbon here, a clearing of a throat there. Each one seemed to be contemplating the game before him, forming a strategy. That's what it would look like to the outside observer. Any of the 'children,' as they called them, who wouldn't be caught dead in the library, Charles' study always, would see it as a tense competition over bragging rights.

But these two men knew different. They knew that the game was nearly on auto-pilot. They were devising the strategy for their conversation. They were planning their next verbal move.

"Does the President mean his threats, do you think?" Charles finally asked. First move.

"He thinks he does," Erik responded. "I think he's bluffing." Countermove.

"Why do you think that?" Charles pressed.

What's he getting at, Erik wondered. Their pieces continued their march toward each other and their mutual demise.

Sighing half dramatically, Erik lifted his glass and swirled the contents. "No one wants to be the author of the destruction of the human race. This is all a power play for political clout."

"Indeed," Charles half-heartedly agreed. "It's a good thing we know about Shaw and will be there to stop him." Charles used his d pawn to capture Erik's a c5. And, as usual, Erik countered in the same manner-as he always did. He found a way to perform the same action as Charles but make it completely different.

This level playing field of a chess board typically allowed them to see all of each other plainly enough. Move, countermove. Charles softly pushing his advantage; Erik deftly avoiding any traps no matter how insignificant or luxurious. Here they learned how the other saw. How the other was seeing. They pursued their agendas as if they would always remain parallel and not coming crashing into each other at some point in the future.

"Will we?" Erik asked casually.

"Are you asking will we be there, or will we stop him?" Charles asked in return, to clarify.

"Will we stop him? I've been chasing this man my whole life, Charles. He's slippery," Erik tried to keep his anger out of his voice. It wasn't Charles' fault that he had failed.

"I think the answer is-both. We will be there. We will stop him. We have to," he confirmed. For Charles, it is that simple. But Erik wasn't so sure about this motley crew of mutant teenagers.

Erik agreed that they had to, but for different reasons than Charles. Charles meant, Erik knew, that they had to stop Shaw to help the humans and build goodwill toward mutants. Erik meant they had to stop him because this was the best chance he would have to do so, teenage help and all. He would at least not be alone this time.

They lapsed back into silence, drinking, thinking, and playing. They were also wondering who had won this latest verbal contest. Perhaps neither. Perhaps the opposition was what was important-not the victory.

"You're more verbal than I imagined you'd be," he whispered.

"And you are much less," came the firm reply.

"Perhaps we should adopt a policy of dropping our expectations at the door."

"Agreed. After you, Charles."

Glancing back to the board, Charles saw that Erik was proceeding in his predictable fashion despite his bravado and slicked-back hair. For all of Charles' traditional take on humanity, academics, family, and-god-clothing, he was non-traditional in his chess technique. Secretly, Erik had always wondered if there was a Charles that no one really knew-covered in yards of houndstooth. A man who craved chaos and power as much as he, Erik, did. Would Erik ever be introduced to this Charles who he glimpsed across the checkered squares?

For his part, Charles had known that he and Erik were equals in all ways that mattered to him. From the moment he had felt Erik in the ice cold Atlantic off of Miami, he had known that they were supposed to be-partners? Friends? Rivals? Whatever it turned out to be, they were meant to be-together. Their strengths were as well matched as their weaknesses.

Their backgrounds seemed as disparate as day and night on the surface, but the loneliness, the distance from others, and the need for acceptance were all the same. Erik and Charles had grown up in the same time, subject to the same world, feeling no more a part of it than the moon itself.

And then, they knew each other. It was just that instantaneous. The looks, the tones of voice, the smallest motions spoke as much as their words from the first moment. This communication had developed even before the verbal confrontations, before the first time they had sat down at opposite sides of Charles' old chessboard. Collectively, their psyches decided that if they had to be apart from this Earth, they would have their own world in return. Thus, they orbited each other.

Therefore, this game had become their own as well. They were equally matched from opposite sides.

When they traveled together, recruiting, they had played chess in lots of different places. Washington D.C., diners, balanced on the edge of a tub while one of them bathed, even once in the car. Erik had driven, and Charles had managed the board.

Charles liked to surprise Erik by suggesting a game at inappropriate moments. It was part of his approach to the game. Why play in parks or in a warm, fire-lit study? No, let's pull it out in the middle of a strip club and take our turns between lap dances.

"Honestly, these girls get paid for this," he remarked with exasperation.

"But you don't like any of these girls . . ." he replied pithily.

"You've just upset my rook."

"My apologies."

"We leave early in the morning. Perhaps we shouldn't play this out tonight," Charles suggested as they sat, ironically, in a fire-lit study in Charles' family home.

Erik's eyes snapped up. "Why not?" he asked, genuinely perplexed. Why did they start if they had no intention of finishing?

"Sleep and all," Charles said vaguely with a slight wave of his left hand-his 'telepathy' hand, as Erik thought of it. Charles was sitting with his right leg slung over his left knee and his chin resting in his hand, looking for all the world like a college student. His boyish looks lent to the illusion. But the deepening creases around his eyes belied the carefree existence anymore.

Erik considered his reply as he watched Charles make another move on the board.

"Overrated," Erik finally muttered and shifted in his chair to rest both elbows on his knees. "And besides," he continued as he made his own move swiftly and decisively. "You haven't answered my question from earlier properly."

Charles looked up with faint surprise on his face. "I haven't?" he asked.

Erik smiled with thin lips pressed together to show just how hard he was holding back from spilling anger between them. They had always been able to resolve anything that cropped up between them over the board.

Charles tried again. "It isn't enough to say that mutation occurs randomly? It can't be predicted, Erik." Charles tried for a breezy tone to diffuse the tension that had settled between them.

Erik shook his head slowly. "I wasn't asking about prediction. I was asking about impetus. What would prompt a mutation that wasn't beneficial to the individual?"

Erik had learned a lot about genetics from Charles in a short amount of time. But he still struggled with some of the less scientific aspects of natural selection and 'survival of the fittest'.

Charles resorted to his earlier arguments, even though he knew that it would pique Erik.

"Birth defects are hardly beneficial, although a great majority of them are genetic, not developmental," he lectured. "However, light colored eyes mutated from dark colors as Homo sapiens moved farther and farther away from the brightest sun at the equator." He was on a professorial roll now.

Erik held up both hands to stem the tide. "No!" he barked. "What is the benefit of Raven's mutation? What is she 'surviving' by developing her morphing ability?"

Charles folded his hands together in his lap, momentarily forgetting the chess game altogether. Discussing his sister with Erik was not his favorite pastime. They had a history of walking away from each other in the middle of these 'discussions.' She had been a type of 'off-limit' topic when they played chess.

The game required that they resolve the conflict.

Tilting his head to the side, Charles schooled his voice into neutrality and softness.

"Camouflage is always a beneficial adaptation," he intoned carefully.

There was no room for words. They were exposing themselves in ways they never had before. There was nowhere to hide, even if they wanted to hide from each other. Here, now, in this place, they were in the same space, equals and mirrors. This special space admitted the two of them at once, against all of their conventional adherence to cultural norms and dictates. And no one else would ever fit here the same way.

TBC