Prompt: Hey, I know this is old stuff but I keep thinking about this thing: Erik comes to the school in a secret nightly visit for the first time after the Cuba-departure and finds Charles in bed, paralysed. What happens?
It had been too long since Erik had seen Charles. That's why he wanted to go back – why he had to go back. It had been too long since he'd seen his face, since he'd held him….Every night, nightmares plagued Erik. Nightmares filled with the echoing of thegunshot, the look of terror and pain plastered on Charles' face, the tears trailing out of his eyes, and the guilt, hatred, and pain that had filled every atom of Erik's body. And he kept wondering – was Charles having nightmares too? That's why he had to go back. Why he had to see him.
The school was quiet. Erik had snuck in through a window, and now the only movement was the slight ruffling of the curtain as the breeze swept in. He gestured behind him, and the window closed. Though it had been months since he had been in the school, he knew his way around just as well as he had before…before the beach.
He didn't know what had happened after. Despite all the digging he could do, the school had been locked down. Dark. The bullet hadn't given Charles any fatal injuries. He was confident of that. And Erik had taken the bullet out so fast…nothing could be wrong with Charles, right? He ought to have healed by now.
Charles' room was the third door on the left. Erik froze. The door was closed. He remembered countless nights when he was staying at the school, during which he would rise from his bed, sleepless, and creep down to Charles' room. Stare at the door, which was always open just a crack. Always welcoming. Sometimes, he got up the courage to go in. Charles would wake up, stare at him through bleary eyes, and then open his arms – always ready to talk, to comfort. And once, there had been a kiss. That night replayed over and over in Erik's head. He used to hope that he and Charles could be together. But that kiss had happened right before the beach. Now, everything was different.
He flicked his hand carefully at the doorknob. Silently, the lock shifted, and the door swung open slowly.
The first thing he saw was the bed. It was empty, the sheets tangled. Next, he saw the floor – covered in books, journals, tissues, crumpled and torn sheets of paper. Then he saw the wheelchair. It was positioned right by the window, facing away from him. And finally, he saw Charles. Sitting in the wheelchair, his hair overgrown and his chin hidden by a shaggy beard. His fingers running ceaselessly over his face. The entire top half of his body shaking, quivering – and his legs eerily still.
Erik couldn't breathe. He couldn't swallow the dry, cold lump in his throat. His ears were filled with Charles' screams and his own heartbeat. This was his fault. It was all his fault.
He closed the door silently and left the way he had come. There was nothing he could do.