Summary: Erik comes back. This started as a 'ficlet based on prompt #211, "Rest," from 'slashthedrabble,' but then it kind of grew into something bigger. Set during "First Class." Warning: ANGST. Title is based on lyrics from the song "Your Eyes" from "RENT."
Distance Makes Us Wise
Charles hasn't slept well since the beach. He tells himself it's because his body is healing and he's restless and there's just so much to do now that he's gotten it in his head that the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters is going to be a reality. He tries sleeping pills, taking strolls in his chair, eating early, eating late, drinking different concoctions at different times, but in the end, he must concede his fate to permanent insomnia and hope that when he inevitably shifts out of focus for a bit for a cat nap, it won't be in the midst of anything truly important.
The nights are the worst. He's alone at night, without the swell of energy from the children or the draw to the laboratory to test out Hank's latest adjustments to the new Cerebro. He still retires to his study in the evenings, still sips scotch and stares at the chess board, willing himself not to scatter the pieces around the room with an angry swipe of his hand because, after all, there's nobody else there to pick them up. There's no Erik there anymore, no second pair of eyes flickering in the light of the fire, set in a thin, firm frame that's warm and inviting, with a mind that's both intricate and shyly trustful of Charles, who always did his damnedest to be as gentle as possible whenever Erik gave him permission to peer around for a bit.
He hasn't felt Erik's mind since that day, though not for lack of trying. He tries to pretend that said efforts have been incidental - perhaps Erik will have removed the helmet while Charles just happens to be using Cerebro - but it comes to naught. On this particular night, he's thinking about the other man even more than usual, the bitterness he still feels, even months later, at how Erik was just able to walk out of his life, as if their plans had meant nothing, as if Charles had meant nothing. On the other hand, Erik had meant absolutely everything to him.
He's not sure how it starts - maybe he stares for a bit too long at the black king on the chessboard and his vision starts to blur - but suddenly, Charles is hunched over in his wheelchair, his God-forsaken wheelchair, gasping for breath between sobs, hugging himself, as if it comes close to substituting for having Erik's arms around him, his large hands drawing Charles close. While he can usually convince himself that, in the long run, everything will be all right, that he doesn't need the other man to fulfill his goals, the plain truth is that his heart broke the day that Erik left, and he's not sure it can ever be mended.
He stays like that for several minutes, sobbing with abandon, not bothering to temper himself because, again, who would even hear him, and he doesn't hear the window of his study start to rattle right away, doesn't realize what's happening until there's a tall shadow in the corner of the room, the top adorned with a familiar dome shape. "God, Charles," the shadow rasps, and Charles peers blearily at it and gasps brokenly in recognition.
"Oh, how wonderful, I'm ... hallucinating, now," Charles hiccups, and covers his mouth with his hand as another sob wracks his shoulders. The shadow doesn't go away, though; on the contrary, it seems to move closer, its cape sweeping softly in its wake. When it gets close enough for eyes, a nose, a mouth to appear, Charles blinks miserably, his cheeks wet and stained with tears. "E-Erik?" he gasps. "Is it really you? How? Why?"
Erik kneels in front of Charles' chair, and even with the helmet affixed to his head, his eyes are as wonderfully expressive as they always have been, his mouth drawn in a thin, displeased frown. "I ... pass over the mansion sometimes; just ... because," he says vaguely, and if Charles weren't half-delirious, he would nudge Erik for more specific details. "I took my helmet off for a few minutes because the breeze was nice. I felt you, Charles. I felt your ... pain." Erik swallows; he hesitates, and then Charles' eyes widen as he slides his helmet up and off, and then sets it on the floor. "I hadn't known," Erik is saying. "If I had ... God, Charles, I didn't ... I wouldn't have ... I love ..."
"Erik!" Charles wails, because it's too much, the other man being there, and the angst and turmoil rolling off of him in waves, each one matching Charles' in its intensity; in its utter, desolate loneliness. "Erik, p-please, I can't ... this isn't how I usually ... Erik, please touch me," Charles begs, and Erik does, tugging Charles cleanly off of the chair, clutching him in his arms as they sink to the thickly padded rug in Charles' study, Erik's legs splayed in front of him and Charles writhing and shivering against him.
Erik rubs the smaller man's back, runs large hands up his arms, cups the back of his head delicately like Charles is precious, 'because you are, you know. Charles,' Erik thinks, and Charles stops sniffling a bit and glances up at Erik. Rubbing a finger underneath Charles' eyes, wiping away some of the stray moisture, Erik meets his gaze, steel gray softening from the pull of watery blue. "That day, Charles," he says softly. "If I could do it all over again, ... if we could have found another way than separating ..."
Charles nods, but reaches out a shaking hand and lightly presses his fingers to Erik's lips. "Erik, I ... I've missed you," he says. "Right now, whatever the circumstances, can you just ... can you just be here?"
The smallest of smiles graces Erik's face, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and Charles thinks how much older he seems, how much more world-weary. "I can do that," he says, and rubs at the short hairs at the back of Charles' neck. He watches the smaller man lean into his touch and tilts his head, pondering. "You look positively exhausted, Charles."
As if on cue, a yawn overtakes Charles. "Haven't ... been sleeping terribly well," Charles says honestly. "I never do, but it's gotten worse since ... since ..."
"Oh, Charles." Erik strokes his cheek tenderly, and then, ignoring Charles' slight moue of protest, pulls himself slowly into a standing position, Charles still lying in his arms. He opens the door with a tendril of magnetic control and, peering out to ensure that he's not being watched ('everyone else is asleep,' Charles assures him), steps nimbly towards the door he knows to open into Charles' bedroom. The bed looks the same as he remembers it, and Erik groans with nostalgia when he deposits Charles onto the mattress and stares at the pillows he now vividly remembers resting his head on; he's tired, too.
Charles doesn't say anything, and in fact, he seems almost afraid to, in case this actually is a dream, after all, but he sighs audibly when Erik drops onto the bed beside him and swings his legs up and over the edge. Charles gratefully snuggles into his side, pillowing his head on Erik's firm chest, and he's close enough to be able to breathe in the scent of the other man. It makes Charles smile headily, and before he knows it, he's drifting off to sleep, his long-gone attempts to rest finding him again, at last. "Stay," he murmurs, clutching at a corner of the other man's cape and squirming closer, unable to get enough, not sure if he'll ever be able to get enough of Erik. "Don't ... leave me again ..."
"Go to bed, Charles," Erik murmurs into his ear, and Charles can't be sure whether the other man will still be there in the morning, whether they'll be able to work out their differences tomorrow, or in a week or a year or by the time they're old men together playing chess in the park, but right now, nothing matters except for the cocoon of Erik nestled around him, comforting him enough so that he can finally drift off to sleep.
I wrote a short sequel/TRAGIC ALTERNATE ENDING to this, also based on a 'slashthedrabble' prompt: 213. Twist; warning: Character death.
It's Hank who finds him, on an increasingly routine trip up to Charles' bedroom to drop off an afternoon cup of tea and attempt to rouse him. He recognizes the effects immediately, because he's not the only one who can mix up fatal concoctions in his laboratory, inasmuch as he has the supplies to do so, but Charles apparently had the initiative, the need, to actually carry out the task at hand.
"Professor," Hank calls, hoping in vain that his assumption is wrong. He presses two furry, blue fingers to the pulse point at Charles' throat, however, and knows that it's not to be. "Professor ... God, no, Charles," Hank breathes, and the backs of his eyes begin to feel prickly.
He finds the needle lying where it had last rolled, halfway under the bed, peeking out from beneath the bed skirt, with only the barest remnants of fluid remaining. The rest, Hank knows, is sitting thickly in Charles' veins.
Later, when he takes it upon himself to confess his findings to Alex and Sean, he will leave out the part where, in death, Charles looked almost happy, a ghost of a smile gracing his still face, his lips half-pursed with the name of his greatest love frozen forever on his mouth. At the funeral, Hank will weep, for Charles, of course, and also for himself, because he isn't sure whether he'll ever find that kind of love, and he can't help but be jealous that Charles did, even for but a short time.